“Yep.”
I saw stars through the tall pines, winking as the branches swayed in a high-up breeze. Other than the two headache-makers in the cabin, the evening was as I always enjoyed with Maple Jack—quiet conversation around the campfire, rounded off with a hot meal, bubbling coffee, and a few pages in a book I’d not yet read.
I peeked over at my saddlebags, within reach, but somehow didn’t feel like cracking open my latest indulgence, a fine used copy of the book The Pathfinder, a sequel to James Fenimore Cooper’s excellent The Last of the Mohicans, a book I have enjoyed several times over the years. It would wait. I wanted to savor the words, not read them with half my attention.
Jack’s steady crosscut-saw snores threatened my eyelids with a weight I did not yet want. I had thinking to do. But I was quickly losing the fight. The last I thought I heard as I slipped into sleep—excepting Jack’s grizzly-rattle snores—was a sound from the cabin.
My eyes snapped open, and sudden clarity bloomed in my mind. I’d been a fool, lulled into believing the girl was more innocent than she really was. I’d left her shut in with Thomas, the whelp I’d vowed to protect. I stood and made my way up the path toward the cabin. It was slow going as I did not relish barking my knees on a stump or a rock. Some distance from the cabin I heard a muffled squeak as the door opened.
“Thomas?” I whispered, hoping it was him and not the girl. I repeated his name.
“Yes?” He walked a few steps down the path toward me. “Is that you, Scorfano?”
“Yes.” I saw him clearer, the moon lighting the cabin grounds well enough to get around without a lamp.
“I woke because I have . . . well, I have to relieve myself. Does your friend have an outhouse?”
“Not as such. Choose a tree.”
He didn’t move.
“It’s okay, Thomas. There’s no critter mean enough to trespass on Jack’s place. You’ll be safe.” I tried to keep the grin out of my voice.
He nodded, offered a weak smile, then ambled off in the dark, still obviously in pain from the long day in the saddle. He chose a Ponderosa not too far from the cabin. In daylight that would have been an awkward spot, but I didn’t bother him about it.
Greenhorns, I thought. Then a cascade of embarrassing memories washed through my mind and I realized I was being unfair. I had, after all, been greener than a spring sprig when I’d come out here. I reckoned I was still feeling surly.
He came back. “Well, good night again, Scorfano,” he said.
“Just a second,” I whispered, then beckoned him to follow me further away from the cabin.
We were halfway down the trail to the fire when I stopped. “I’m thinking, Thomas, that it might be best for all concerned if you bunk down by the fire with me and Jack, give the girl her privacy.”
He drew his head back as if I’d smacked him across the face. “Scorfano, I’m not sure what you think has been going on in there—”
“Keep your voice down, and your righteous rage tamped down, too. I only meant that it would be the gentlemanly way to behave, after all. And you are nothing if not a gentleman.” I figured stroking his silly strutting ego could round the edges off my suggestion.
“I know your intentions are nothing short of fully honorable, and I’m certain she feels the same.” I had no confidence in that little lie, but I plowed on ahead with my wobbly logic. “I’m thinking not only of her reputation, but yours as well. Imagine if it somehow got known that you had spent the evening with the girl in a dark cabin. All alone, the two of you. Hmm.” That set him pondering, alarm raising his eyebrows.
“Quite right, Scorfano,” he said, nodding with vigor as if it had been his idea.
I ushered him down to the fire, where Jack was still sawing big logs into small logs like the old pro he is. I handed Thomas my top blanket and he wrapped himself in it, unaware it had been mine. In his eyes it was nothing less than something he deserved.
“Look, call me Roamer, eh? I’ve gotten used to that. The Scorfano name is . . . that kid is no longer. I’m not that person, haven’t been for a long time. Okay?”
“But you’ll always be Scorfano to me.”
“Well, that’s fine, but call me something else, anything. Even ‘Hey, you’ would be better.” I tried to make my request sound casual, but the damn name annoyed me, still does. I wanted it good and dead.
“Okay, Scor—, I mean Roamer. Okay. Good night, then.”
“Good night, Thomas.”
“Oh, for the love of petunia! You two shut your maws,” Jack piped in, his eyes still closed. “Or I’ll stopper ’em tight with hot cinders.”
In the dying firelight I saw Thomas’s eyes widen as big as hen’s eggs. I stifled a smile and rolled over.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The next morning found me up before Jack and Thomas, and from the sound—or lack of it—before the girl, too. I stalked into the woods toward the stream down below Jack’s place to relieve myself and freshen up for the day’s ride. There was a chill tang on the air, different than most autumn mornings, something to think about. Snow? Perhaps. We were in high country, after all. Snow certainly was due any time from then to late May, in my experience.
As promised I made flapjacks, using Maple Jack’s time-trusted recipe, something he held in high esteem, as it had been his mother’s. Jack cooked out of doors much of the time, all of it, I believe, save for deep winter storms when venturing out is an impractical matter. I followed suit and in no time had tin plates piled high with tasty sourdough flapjacks.
True to his word, Jack also had a supply of syrup on hand, though from what trees he procured the sap I know not. The man’s ways remain mysterious.
The meal and our cleanup was a quiet affair with little comment from anyone, least of all Jack. I had regretted bringing them there even before we had arrived the day before, and that hadn’t changed.
In an effort (paltry, I know, but I had to do something) to lessen my guilt over the entire odd brief visit, I spent the better part of an hour splitting wood for his fire. I tried to teach Thomas how to use the two-man bucksaw, but his own prejudices against sweat-raising effort in life prevented him from settling into the pleasing rhythm of the clean push-anddrag of sawing. It was painful watching him.
He stood and massaged his hands after a good five minutes of effort.
“Perhaps you could look to the horses, tie on loads,” I said, offering him an excuse to leave off the task.
“Yes, excellent. I see you have this well in hand.”
I nodded, rolled my eyes when he turned away, and set to the wood with renewed vigor. I took the opportunity to make the saw sing. I am as I am, a large man with a homely countenance. I had little to nothing to do with saddling myself with either of these. But that does not mean I don’t put this big body through its paces. I can muckle onto a two-man crosscut saw and use it alone. Such work feels good.
And though I am largely a traveler, and by dint of preference a solo adventurer, I put effort each day into keeping myself fit. On long stretches where gazing at the wonder and majesty of a hidden valley or the far-off peaks of a range of mountains may be fulfilling to the mind and soul, it does little to maintain one’s precious machine, the body.
So I do what I must, lugging rocks from one place to another, arranging fallen timber such that I have a cozy campsite for however long I choose. I spend much effort cutting and splitting wood. At such times on the trail, I do not have a saw but an ax, a fine single-bit head with a beefy hickory handle reinforced at the base with a collar of steel.
It is something of my own devising, and I was fortunate enough to have a blacksmith friend of mine down New Mexico way fashion it for me. As to another blade, I have a tomahawk for splitting kindling and for defense. It rides on my waist at all times, as does my Green River knife.
This little recollection has strayed me from my path, another trait I admit is a product of keeping to myself for much of the time. When given the chance I am a windy f
ellow. Or perhaps, on reflection, it is from spending so much time with Maple Jack in my formative years. If he is any indication, there are worse ways to be.
Jack had never protested when I set to a pile of wood. In fact, if he wasn’t right there with me, grunting and swinging an ax—his is a menacing double-headed tool more suitable for wielding by some unspeakable creature in an old Norse tale—he will sit down on a stump and criticize my sawing or splitting techniques. The man is not afraid to vocalize his thoughts.
On this morning, he kept to himself, tidied up the campsite, and acted odd somehow. It was noticeable only to me, as Thomas and Carla did not know him. Finally, there was little else to do but load up and head toward the vague destination Thomas had in mind. That was about to change.
“Before we continue this little game, Thomas, I need to know particulars of the journey. I’ll need to see your deed, something with a reference to a location. Otherwise we are wasting our time.”
Along about that time, Jack piped up. “That’s right,” he said, a horned old hand roughly patting the neck of Thomas’s horse. “How do you know where you’re going if you don’t know how to get there?”
That said it about as good as I could. Unlike Thomas and the girl, I hadn’t yet mounted up. I stood beside Thomas’s horse and held out a hand. All was still for a few moments, then Carla said, “It seems a reasonable request, Tommy.”
He sighed, slumped in his saddle, and reached into an inner coat pocket. It was buttoned and took him a few moments to undo. At long last he retrieved a thick sheaf of papers, the color of fresh cream. The outermost sheet bore elaborate scrolled writing of a fine hand, and a narrow wine-colored ribbon encircled the lot. A blue wax seal, stamped with a signet, had been lifted off instead of broken. I saw it had taken a bit of the paper with it.
The documents were of the legal sort, and certainly looked as if they could be the deed he had mentioned. Until that moment, I had doubted the kid was playing straight with me.
Before he laid the papers in my hand, he hesitated, looked into my eyes as if he wasn’t sure he could trust me. What was the root of this suspicion, this fear? As obvious and juvenile and confounding as he could be, Thomas could also be inscrutable. Dumb like a fox, Jack had said about him the night before.
I doubted Thomas heard Jack and I talking, but did the young man have his own suspicions of our relationship? None of it mattered much to me then. I only wanted to get down to the business at hand, that of determining our direction and destination.
As soon as he laid the papers in my hand I folded a thumb over them and slid them free of his grasp. “Thank you, Thomas.”
He made to speak, and I cut him off. “I need this only to determine our direction.”
“I was merely going to tell you,” he said, adopting his nasal tone of superiority, “that the map, such as it is, is the third or fourth sheet in the stack.”
“Okay, thank you.”
And he was right—there was a map, such as it was, boldly drawn with remarkably little detail. But it did offer a series of north-south jags in black ink, labeled in red ink as “bitter roots”—a mangled spelling of the range along which we were traveling. Good. To the west spidered blue scattered threads I took to be rivers.
Jack crowded close and I lowered the map so we both might inspect it. In silence I dared Thomas to protest. The only sound I heard was the girl fidget, offer a slight sigh as if the entire affair was boring her to no end. Two peas in a pod, I thought. Perhaps they were destined for each other.
“There,” said Jack, tapping a grimy finger on the map. “That there’s the Salmon River. Recognize that pointy bit anywheres. I was nearly killed by a mama grizz and her three cubs one fall, oh, about this time, must have been a dozen years back.”
The girl gasped, put a hand to her chest. It seemed a genuine reaction. I’d heard the story, though when he told it to me the first time, the mama grizzly had been a black bear with two cubs. Richer with age is how Jack liked to describe most anything in life. Said everything worth knowing or doing or hearing should get richer with age. I can’t argue that point.
Thomas and the girl both stared wide-eyed at Jack. Perfect for him. I resumed studying the map while Jack spun a windy. Soon enough he got his arms into it, proceeded to dance around in a circle, mimicking the attack, the growls, the screams of agony, and generally described the tussle with as much color as he is able—which is saying something. The man can tell a story.
“Grabbed me right here, by the back of my neck, hadn’t been wearing buckskins I might have lost my head right then and there.”
I suppressed a snort.
“Something you need to add, Roamer? I don’t recall seeing you in that river valley, do I?”
“No, sir. I was nowhere to be found.”
“That’s right, you were a squallerin’ bairn, I reckon.”
Thomas spoke up. “But Mister Jack, I thought you said this took place a dozen years ago, surely Scorf—, ah, Roamer, was around these parts then?”
“A dozen, two dozen, I don’t rightly recall, young man. You see, when you’re being dragged in your buckskins by a brute of a silvertip sow, and her half-growed cubs are gnawing your toes and fingers off, you don’t think to consult a calendar! Now, where was I?”
It was Carla’s chance to pipe in. “You were being dragged.”
“Yes, that’s right. Thither and yon, as the fancy men say, thither and yon.”
Again I chuckled, to myself. I’d not heard Jack use those particular words. Could be he’d been saving them for a special occasion.
“Why, whatever did you do, Mister Jack?” It was the girl again, following Thomas’s lead and calling Maple Jack mister. I knew I would have fun with that at a later date.
“Do? Do? Why, I didn’t do a damn thing, you’ll pardon my vocabulary, dearie. Ain’t much a man can do when he’s being dragged by a brute of a bear—one of the biggest in the northern range.”
“But how did you escape?” said Thomas.
“Didn’t,” said Jack, looking back to the map. After a few beats, he said, “Died right there.” He tapped the map, didn’t crack a smile, didn’t look up, but ran his finger along the blue line.
I certainly didn’t smile—Jack can deliver a quick shot to the shoulder that would fell a strong man. Experience is a harsh teacher.
Well north of the blue line that held his interest, though south of Coeur d’Alene, sat a star with the words Rawlins Hall beneath, in neat black hand, scripted small. I flipped over the stack, looked at the outer, thicker sheet of paper that acted as a cover for the rest. There were the same two words, though in that elaborate scroll, and followed with the word “Holdings.”
Neither Thomas nor the girl spoke. They sat stunned, eyes wide, unsure what to think of the story or the man who told it.
“About like we thought last night. If that star is your ranch, laddie?” Jack looked up at Thomas.
“Yes, the other papers indicate that Rawlins Hall is the name of the estate.”
“Estate?” Jack and I said the word at the same time.
Estate is a word rarely heard in the west. Usually it’s ranch or tract or some such. “Exactly how big is this ‘ranch’ you’ve inherited, Thomas?” I said.
He glanced at the girl, then down at us, and he blushed. I didn’t think it was a possibility, but the kid blushed. “I . . . I was only trying to use the parlance of the West, Scorfano.”
“How big?”
“If the deed is correct, and I have little reason to doubt it, then it is substantial. But as to how many hectares or how much acreage is involved, I do not know specifically. It’s only given in measurements that are tricky to decipher. They are in miles and sometimes in feet, sometimes in rods, sometimes measured in days’ rides. It is all rather confusing. But it seems large.”
“Sounds like you got yourself quite a mystery to solve, boy!” This Jack said to me, then slapped me on the shoulder and walked over to the campfire to refill
his cup. “You best get to it—I’ll be thinking of you when I’m snug and warm in my winter wickiup alongside Salish Lake. Heh heh heh.”
I scowled, and didn’t try to suppress it. I tucked the sheets back in on themselves into their accustomed folds. As I tied the ribbon, I said, “Do the papers offer more clues as to the location of this . . . estate?”
“Yes,” said Thomas, looking slightly less red about the face.
I handed them back to him. “Good. We’ll consult more later, once we’ve gotten some miles underfoot.” I mounted up and looked at the girl. “With any luck we’ll make it to your father’s ranch today. Be sure to let me know when we get close, eh?” I winked at her and nudged Tiny Boy into a walk.
“Jack.” I nodded toward my old mentor.
He did the same, said, “Roamer.” That was about all we ever did by way of farewell or greeting.
Little did I know all our lives were, in short order, about to become a ball of woolly yarn all but impossible to untangle.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The morning’s promise evaporated as the sun rose and the trail took its toll on Thomas’s constitution, notably his sore backside. There was little I could do for him save call an end to the cause of his misery, but I was not about to slow our progress, let alone stop, not before dark neared. Autumn has an annoying habit of filching hours of daylight from us and I wasn’t ready to surrender them without a fight.
And that made hearing the youngster’s occasional mumbles, which increased to a near-steady burble of whimpers, all the more annoying. I could take no more. I halted the paltry little train of trail travelers and turned Tiny Boy to the side. He tossed his massive head and I did the same, a masculine nod of sympathetic agreement.
“Thomas, if you are in that much pain riding, perhaps you should hop down and walk a spell. I am afraid I cannot slow our pace. Weather in autumn in the high country is fickle, and we don’t want to tempt fate by dragging our toes.”
His look of annoyance and pain struggled on the edge of anger as he gazed at me. That was not his usual state, I knew. If anything, Thomas was perpetually gleeful to a fault. And too willing to trust, no different than a puppy in that respect. But that point is neither here nor there.
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