I wasn’t sure what that meant, but he was right. “I’m worried about Thomas.”
“Me, too, Roamer, but you go blustering on in there in daylight and they’ll pick you off, sure as winter’s cold, and where will the kid be then? And don’t think I’m going to hotfoot it across that pasture and yarn your hide back to safety. No, sir.”
“What’s the plan, then?” I said, doing my best to remain rational. Not always an easy task for me.
“Like I said, we have some grub, coffee, maybe a little shuteye. Then when it’s dark, we wind on down there. We stick to the edge, close by these trees, we can bring the critters with us and make it all the way around to that barn on the far side.”
I looked at the scene and shook my head. “No, too risky, too open, too close to the house.” I looked some more and smiled.
“Well, sounds like someone’s whistling a new tune. I take it you have a better plan, mister fancy book reader?”
“As a matter of fact, I think I do. Different, maybe. Better? Time will tell.” I pointed. “There’s the river below us. I figure if we angle southward a quarter mile or so, cut across the river, then head north on the opposite side, we can stay well away from the house. Then we can make our way to the barn and do as you said, hide Mossy and the bay there.”
He said nothing, but eyed the scene.
I kept on. “With luck we wouldn’t have to cross the river. But then again that fancy pasture fencing runs right down to that east bank in at least eight places. We’d spend most of the night dismantling it, and risk potshots from the house.”
I shut my mouth then and let Jack chew on the notion. I knew it was the only way. Coming up behind the house was more direct, but too close and far too risky.
“Well.” Jack scuffed gravel with his moccasin. “I reckon that’ll work, too. Take us more time, though. I only suggested the other way because it’d get us into the thick of it a mite faster. Figured you want to get in there as soon as possible.”
“I know it, and I appreciate it, Jack.” I turned to scan the river, and hid a smile. It doesn’t pay to let your friends know when you’re grinning at their expense.
There was still about an hour before full dark. We could have started then, but that hour is a tricky one. Much of it depended on where the sun’s rays struck. We would be well-hidden against the western shore of the river, but the trees weren’t as thick there as on the eastern slope that led down to the river. That was the side where the ranch buildings sat. It was possible we’d cast long shadows. Any ripple in the light at all might catch the attention of someone looking from the house.
Hell, we didn’t even know if it was them in the house, though my gut told me this was the place, and that was enough to go on for now. Like Jack said, if it wasn’t them, we’d plead our case as weary travelers—not a big stretch—and move on.
We didn’t know if it was just the two of them, the man and the woman, likely a couple, perhaps even married. Maybe they had henchmen waiting for them at the ranch. And where were they keeping Thomas? It was possible we’d passed him long ago, tied up and left to die, or already done away with. A single stroke or rock to the head, a knife to the chest, suffocation.
All these thoughts, coupled with the fact that I could think of no reason for them to keep him alive, made me one fidgety, sore-shouldered, woozy-headed, crack-ribbed fellow.
“Will you set down and finish your grub? Might be the last meal you ever have if half of what you’re spouting is true.” Jack snarled at me around a mouthful of food. “If we was to follow your dark trail of thought, we’ll end up in the middle of a circle of gunmen a-bangin’ away at us with all manner of weaponry.”
He set down his plate. “I, for one, choose to think we’ll muddle through it all somehow and come out smiling on the other end. Just now, I’m going to catch me a quick twenty minutes of downtime. My pins could use the rest, and so could my overused brain.” He tugged a kerchief over his face. “It’s the curse of a learned man such as myself, there ain’t hardly no rest for yer thinker.” In seconds he was snoring lightly, the faded red bandana fluttering with each breath.
I couldn’t help but smile. For all I’d unintentionally put him through, I was mighty glad he was along for the journey. It occurred to me he never once said he’d do otherwise. Oh, he complained about everything and then some, but never about pitching in and helping me. And with no look for gain on his part. That’s the mark of a true friend. I only hoped I could one day be as good to him.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Got to say, boy, all that mineral-rights palaver we got up to . . .”
“Huh?” I was paying more attention to the terrain than to Jack’s chatter.
“You know . . . about these desperadoes being after the property for gold or some such useless gewgaw.”
“What about it?”
“We might have been . . . oh, what’s the word?”
“Premature?”
“Yeah, that.”
Our whispered conversation continued sporadically like that as we picked our way toward the river. Then it took us nearly two hours to make our way across the river and northward along the far side of the bank. The icy water lapped chest-high on the animals and soaked me and Jack above our knees.
“Did I mention our cause was noble?” That was my weak attempt to smile at the dismal situation we found ourselves in.
“Noble cause or no,” said Jack, spitting a mouthful of river water. It splashed into his face as the bay dug hard on the far bank to climb out. “We are long weary, wet as fish, sore as men can be and still be stumbling along, cold as blizzard babies, mind-numbed and bone-tired, and a hundred other ailments.”
I thought he was done griping and was about to make another limp joke, when he sputtered and continued his hoarse-whispered tirade.
“And it ain’t going to take much prodding for me to shoot someone, especially if that someone recently done me wrong.”
I nodded in agreement, as I felt the same way. We spent the rest of the journey northward along the river in silence. It didn’t much help that we knew we’d have to cross the river again to get back on the east side, where the ranch buildings sat all-butinvisible in the dark. Dim lamplight glowed in one window of the house. Somebody was still awake, doing something. It was too late and too dark for most folks to get up to much more than read or doze by a fire.
The air was cold and still, save for sudden gusts from the northeast. When the wind whipped across the pastures, crossed the river, and hit us it felt like the slap of a scorned woman, and it left us shivering.
I was hoping, with luck, we’d be able to make it all the way to the barn, spend the night in there, cold but out of the wind. Maybe warm up close to the animals, then get the drop on whoever might wander out of the house at cock’s crow in the morning to tend the animals. It wasn’t much of a plan, but then neither Jack nor I are much for planning.
We tend to bluster on in and deal with the situation as it arises. I don’t think I picked up that trait from him. I have always been that way, but knowing he is of the same ilk has justified my own seat-of-the-trousers approach with much in life. I will admit it has not always proven to be the most fruitful nor wisest approach. But then again I am still alive, so it has worked so far. Never mind the various scars I sport on my homely hide.
“Remind me to throw you a beating when this is all said and done,” Jack whispered.
We were close to the river again. Once we crossed, we’d have to cut the chatter.
“Oh,” I said, “and here I was about to give you good news.”
“What’s that, river man? You going to tell me an ice floe’s coming along to really seize up my joints?”
“No, but it looks like we won’t have to get wet at all. Look.” I nodded in the dark toward a wide, grassy hump stretched across the river. Wide enough for us to walk on, single file. They’d built a dam with what looked in the shadows to be an irrigation setup in the midst of it. This ranch was
more impressive with each new discovery. Someone with a whole lot of money had dumped it all right here.
It was a pretty valley, to be sure, and it had to be close to an over-mountain road from the west. I was certain whoever built it didn’t haul in their goods along the knobby, thin trail we took. It was also as obvious to me and to Jack that the place wasn’t the mineral-rich wonderland Thomas was likely yearning for.
But it was a mighty promising ranch in a mighty pretty spot. A man could almost settle down in such a spot. Almost.
We made a whole lot more noise making our way up to the barn than I would have liked. But that’s always the way when you’re trying to be as quiet as a mouse in a house filled with cats. It didn’t help that we ran out of soft grass and earth to walk on.
Somewhere along our path to the barn we did our best to stomp on every nugget of grating gravel as possible. Between the two of us and our two mounts, that was twelve feet menacing the still night.
The shadowed bulk of the barn, a broad, two-story affair with a handful of doors on the river side that opened into a paddock, blocked our view of the log house. The one dim glow from a lantern inside worried me. Who was still awake? Were they torturing him at that moment?
We succeeded in getting tight to the barn, though the house was the obvious spot for them to hold Thomas. Whether he was alive or dead was still a mystery—one I itched to solve. But it would have to wait until dawn drew closer.
“Reckon we can get in the barn?” Jack’s whisper was low, but even at that it sounded like a shout in an echo-filled canyon.
I said nothing, but handed him Mossback’s reins. That was my way of letting him know he was to wait there, in the trees to the north of the barn. Before he could shout a volley of whispers at me I crept forward.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Well, creeping might be what thin, small people do when they want to avoid detection. I have never been small nor thin. Then there was my wounded wing, still held in a sling, though I could use my hand pretty well. Toss in my ailing head that, though it was healing, I hoped, from the inside out, continued to be prone to quick bouts of unexpected dizziness. Mix all that up and you have a man who was doing his best to remain upright and not walk into great stacks of tin cans or step on a barn cat’s tail. Neither happened on my way to the near side of the barn, thankfully.
I pressed one ear to the planking, heard nothing within, and groped the wall with a flat hand. The wood smelled good, dry and husky, like a fall campfire blended with the aroma of a fine pipe tobacco and maybe a cup of hot, spiced tea. I wondered briefly as I felt for a door handle what the inside of a tree smelled like to a tree. That led to comparisons with humans, and that bore quick abandonment. Funny what odd tangents the mind will follow, and at the oddest moments, too.
It was no time to wax philosophical. Fortunately I was saved from further flights of foolish thought by the familiar shape of a wooden slide latch. It felt about like all the others I’d encountered. A nub of worn wood no bigger around than a small finger jutted outward. I grasped it and slid to the right the small wooden bar it was attached to. Then I moved to the side, sliding my revolver from the holster, then nudged the door inward. It swung, the wood popping and squeaking softly.
No sunset-colored shotgun blasts bloomed in the night, no voices hissed a “Who’s there?” at me. But I did hear a familiar low whicker. Tiny Boy. There would be other horses in there as well. Whatever beasts the man and woman had, plus Tiny Boy and Thomas’s horse, and maybe the girl’s horse, too. That made at least five.
In my experience, unless they’re high-strung, horses are generally wary, but somewhat quiet if disturbed in the night. At least for a time. They’re more apt to make a determination with their noses first. Sort of sniff the situation, as Jack might say.
I must not have smelled too threatening. Maybe Tiny Boy recognized me and somehow told the rest I was harmless. I don’t know and at that point I didn’t much care. I only wanted to get through the night, warm up as much as we could, and find out about Thomas.
I walked forward, my hand outstretched, and I stepped on something hard and flat. I bent down and my fingertips knew it for what it was—a book. It lay spine up, spread wide, mashed into the chaff-and-dung-covered floor. I suspected it was mine, but even if not, it should not be treated that way. Books mean too much to me. Of all the shifting earth under my feet at any given time, my fondness for books will not change.
If it was one of mine, I wondered, retrieving it in the dark and closing it gently, which might it be? The Odyssey? My new James Fenimore Cooper novel? That Dickens work I had reread numerous times? The Holy Bible?
I crossed the barn slowly, hoping it would resemble other stables with a main alley down the length of the middle and stalls to either side. So far, so good, I stepped again and again, felt something else hard and flat under my boot. Bent to it and yes, another book. Had to be mine. What had they done? Rummage through my belongings and toss away whatever they didn’t want? My blood rose, but I kept on and reached the far end. Judging from the way this wall felt, it was a big double door with a smaller door set in it. That’s probably what I had passed through on coming in.
I reached for the smaller door and found it after a few seconds of fumbling, right where I hoped it would be. I opened it a crack, looked toward the house, and saw no dim glow from the lamp. That bothered me more than seeing the lamp lit so late not long before.
I closed the door and hugging the wall on the river side of the barn, I felt along the front of the stalls. Something shuffled in the first stall, breathed roughly through its nose. A horse, but not mine. The same with the second and third, then in the fourth. I patted the air and was rewarded with a quick touch of a big, soft nose.
“Tiny,” I whispered. He whickered and withdrew. We’d been together long enough to know each other’s foibles. His was annoyance at being inconvenienced. It occurred to me in time that though he might be pleased to see me again, he was apt to show it as dismay. And that usually meant a bite. I pulled my hand away in time. There was a rush of air and I heard a quick, sharp click as his teeth came together.
“You big lummox,” I whispered. “I’m here to rescue you.” I didn’t mention Thomas, as I was sure the horse felt the same way toward the greenhorn as everyone else did.
It didn’t take Jack long to get fidgety and poke his head through the door I’d entered. “Boy? You alive?”
“Yep,” I whispered back. “Chatting with Tiny.”
“Well get the conversation over with. Time for us to lay low for a spell. I’m stiffening in this chill night air.”
We led the bay and the mule in through half of the big door and decided to leave them loaded up, should we have to make a quick escape. Soon enough they dozed upright, and we all but did the same, so tired were we. I fought the alluring thought of sleep, insisting I take the first watch, but Jack waited me out and I fell asleep faster than I care to say. I don’t know how long I was out, but it was still dark when Jack nudged me.
I rose silently, my joints popping and cracking as I stood. Jack dropped to his backside and leaned against the leg of a saddle rack. Within seconds I heard his rattle of soft snores.
It was warm in the stable, at least warmer than it had been dunking half our bodies in the river and then seizing up in the random breezes whistling through our holey clothes. I pulled in deep draughts of air through my nose to help clear the cobwebs of sleep from my head.
It worked about as it always did, which is to say not well. Nothing ever does when you’re bone tired. But I managed to keep from dozing as I paced quietly, keeping an eye on the door at the far side of the barn that faced the house.
For their part, the animals were all quiet, dozing in the still air. I knew better than to pester Tiny Boy while he was still in a snit over what he no doubt was convinced was my abandonment of him.
As the barest light from sunrise slowly leaked into the barn, the shapes of walls, stall doors, a mound of old h
ay, a leaning shovel, and one broken-tined fork all became more distinct. I found another book—that made three. And they were all mine. Holding them close to my face I made out the titles: The Odyssey, the Bible, The Last of the Mohicans.
The spines had been snapped and the pages sagged, but they were in remarkably good condition for the treatment they’d received. I stuffed them inside the saddlebag on the horse. Then I toed Jack’s foot and watched him wake as he always did—one eyelid popped open, the eye swiveling, confirming his situation before committing to full wakefulness.
He sat up, yawned, and stretched. “I don’t think we ought to wait for someone to come on down here. These critters don’t look all that well tended. Might be wiser for us to use early dawn to get to the house.”
“Jack. I think I ought to go on up there alone while it’s still dark, scout the place. I don’t know what sort of condition he’s going to be in. And besides—”
Jack interrupted with a horned hand. “I know, I know. He’s your kin.” He sighed, scratched his chin through his beard. “Be careful. We know what these folks get up to—they’re evil and no mistakin’ it. Now, check that revolver and get going while it’s still mostly dark. I’ll have the critters ready and I’ll be covering you anyway with the rifle. It ain’t that far and I’m still a fair hand with a long gun.”
Even under cover of early morning, my creeping walk to the cabin was one of the longest I’ve ever taken. Each step uphill across the bare brown meadow—I avoided the graveled lane for fear of too much underfoot crunching—made me think of a story an old Irishman told me years before. I forget the nuances of the tale, but the gist was that only fools and heroes walk into their enemy’s castle. I wasn’t convinced I was the latter. On I blundered.
I saw no sign of movement, no slight shadows cross behind the windows, though it was still so early the sun had not yet crested the east ridge. My breath plumed from my mouth and I worked to keep it steady.
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