The Man from Stone Creek

by Linda Lael Miller

  Ben swallowed audibly. Nodded. “Maddie said I could stay at the store, with her,” he said almost fearfully. Perhaps he was afraid she would rescind the offer.

  “That’ll be fine,” Sam said. He looked past them, to the cookstove, and once again, Maddie thought she saw some dark recollection move in his eyes. “Come along, now. There’s nothing more to be done here, for the time being.”

  Undine did not come out of the house to say goodbye, nor did Anna Deerhorn. Sam helped Maddie onto her waiting horse, then mounted his own, pulling Ben up behind him. The pitiful bundle tied behind Maddie’s saddle represented what little was left of Ben’s former life.

  They made the five-mile journey back to Haven mostly in silence, and Maddie was relieved to see that Mungo’s buckboard, along with its horrid load, had been removed.

  Charlie Wilcox’s patient old horse stood forlornly in front of the Rattlesnake Saloon, waiting to carry his master home, and folks had gone back to their usual pursuits. Only the smoke curling from the jailhouse chimney and the red splotches in the dirt, where Mungo’s wagon had stood, marked this as anything but an ordinary day.

  Maddie and Sam parted in front of the mercantile. He untied Ben’s bundle from the back of her horse, handed it to her and leaned to take her horse’s reins. It was understood that he would return the animal to its owner and she would see to her new charge.

  “Thanks, Maddie,” Sam said.

  She nodded, watched for a little too long as he rode away.

  THE COWBOY Sam had left in charge of the jailhouse in general and Mungo Donagher in particular sat back in the marshal’s chair, his feet on the desk.

  A squat man in a bowler hat stood nearby, looking consternated. His handlebar mustache twitched as he gave Sam a rapid up-and-down assessment.

  “Sam O’Ballivan,” Sam said.

  “Elias James,” came the reserved reply. “I run the Cattleman’s Bank.”

  Sam went to shut the jailhouse door, and almost closed it on the old yellow dog, which slunk across the threshold, pausing to stretch himself midway.

  “I manage Mungo Donagher’s affairs,” James announced, mustache wiggling again. Sure sign of a bluster building up. “I plan on sending to Tucson for a lawyer. In the meantime, I’d like to know by what legal authority—”

  Sam crossed to the cell, looked in at Mungo. He was sprawled facedown on the cot, snoring like a man with a clear conscience. The blood of his son, covering him like a mantle, certainly belied that impression.

  Banker James, cut off by Sam’s lack of attention, tried again. “I was speaking to you, sir,” he said icily.

  “I’m aware of that,” Sam said, turning away from Mungo. The cowpoke watched the scenario unfold with mild amusement and some curiosity.

  “You are a schoolmaster,” James pointed out.

  “And a citizen,” Sam replied. “As such, I can make an arrest.”

  James’s shrewd, piglike eyes bulged with affronted disbelief. “This is Mungo Donagher we’re talking about!”

  Sam progressed to the stove, examined it. The door was rusted shut, but a good pull got it open. There was no wood, and no coffeepot on hand anyhow, so it was a fruitless effort. “I don’t care,” he said calmly, “if it’s Ulysses S. Grant. The fact is, Donagher killed a man. And he’ll stay right in that cell until a circuit judge or a U.S. Marshal comes along to say otherwise.”

  The cowboy put a matchstick between his teeth and shifted it from one side of his mouth to the other, but he offered no comment. Nor did he show any sign of rising from the chair behind that desk, which obviously chapped the banker’s hide. Maybe he was used to people standing in his presence.

  “For all we know,” James said, gesturing impatiently in the cowboy’s direction, “this man is an outlaw.”

  “Could be,” Sam agreed. He glanced at the drifter. “You got a name, Cowboy?”

  A slow, easy smile. Not a man in a hurry to show up elsewhere, that was plain. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Is somebody gonna pay me a wage for ridin’ herd on that old man, or am I supposed to do it out of the goodness of my heart?”

  Banker James bristled at the mention of wages. “Your name?” he prodded, whittling a sharp little point on the end of the question.

  “Rowdy Rhodes,” the cowpoke answered with an insolent tug at the brim of his hat, which rested loosely on the back of his head.

  “Sounds made-up,” the banker said huffily. “Mr. O’Ballivan here presumed to hire you. As far as I’m concerned, he can pay you.”

  Just then, the door opened and Oralee cannonballed across the threshold with a napkin-draped basket. The yellow dog sniffed hopefully and was ignored.

  “Supper for the prisoner,” Oralee announced.

  The dog lay down with a sigh. Sam imagined he’d have to take the poor critter back to the schoolhouse and feed it.

  “What are you doing here?” James asked, eyeing Oralee with clear disapproval.

  “I’m on the town council,” Oralee said. She sized up Rowdy Rhodes, who did not bother to rise from his chair. “Who are you?”

  “I’m the deputy,” Rhodes explained. “Do I get a badge?”

  “There’s probably one around here someplace,” Oralee replied, and headed for the cell. “That Mexican doctor must have give old Mungo a dose of laudanum,” she reflected, peering in. “If he wasn’t rattlin’ the cell door with them snores of his, I’d figure him for dead.”

  She backtracked and set the basket on one corner of the desk. Sam, Rowdy and the yellow dog all looked at it. Only Banker James did not seem interested.

  “This man,” James said, indicating Rhodes with a jabbing motion of his thumb, “expects to be paid.”

  “Reckon that’s fair,” Oralee decided. She opened her velvet handbag, took out a fifty-cent piece and slapped it down next to the basket.

  For a moment or two, it was a toss-up whether the cowpoke would go for the money or the food in that basket. Smelled like biscuits and fried meat.

  Even with all he’d seen that day, Sam’s stomach rumbled.

  “You’re paying this…this stranger out of your own pocket?” James demanded.

  “Hell, no,” Oralee replied. “I mean to take it out of the town treasury. Along with the cost of the vittles I’ll be sending over regular-like.”

  Oralee jabbed a plump and purposeful finger in Sam’s direction. “I’ll have a word with you, in private, Mr. O’Ballivan.”

  “This is ridiculous,” James protested.

  “Oh, go foreclose on something,” Oralee told him.

  James reddened. “You have not seen the last of me,” he told Sam and Rowdy and, presumably, the old yellow dog.

  No one responded, so he stalked out, taking care to slam the jailhouse door behind him. Mungo grunted from his cell, then lapsed into snores again, loud as a freight train on loose track.

  “I wouldn’t mind seeing to my horse,” Rhodes said. With a last, longing glance at the supper basket, he went out.

  “You’re playin’ with rattlesnakes,” Oralee informed Sam as soon as they were alone.

  Sam lifted the cloth off the basket, helped himself to a biscuit and tossed a slab of what was probably venison to the dog.

  “Somebody had to do something,” he said.

  “You got a take-charge way about you. That tells me there’s a badge tucked away in your gear somewhere.”

  “We’ve already discussed that,” Sam said, and took another biscuit.

  “Not to my satisfaction, we ain’t.”

  “Pardon my saying so, Miss Oralee, but your satisfaction is not one of my primary concerns.”

  To Sam’s surprise, she gave a grudging little smile. “There are still two Donaghers out there, not countin’ the kid. They’ll either want to lynch their old pappy back there or set him free, but one way or the other, they’ll come for him.”

  “Neither of them could find their ass with both hands,” Sam answered.

  “The stupid ones are the most dangerous,”
Oralee asserted. “They don’t think overmuch about consequences.”

  “I’d have to agree with you there,” Sam said, remembering the outhouse incident outside that cantina in Refugio.

  “Thanks for that, anyhow.” Oralee’s voice was wry and sour as clabbered milk on a hot day.

  “Good grub,” Sam said.

  “What happened to Bird?”

  Sam sighed. Oralee had paid Rhodes’s wages and brought supper. She deserved something in return for that. “She won’t be back,” he said.

  “Sent her to Denver, did you?” Oralee’s eyes flickered and she reached into her handbag. Brought out a folded sheet of yellow paper. “You didn’t do her any favors, Sam O’Ballivan. Her people don’t want her.”

  Sam felt a lurch at that, but he accepted the telegram with a steady hand, flipped it open. Sure enough, what Oralee said was true. The message was short and to the point. Do not send her to us. We cannot put her up.

  “At least at my place, she had a bed and three meals a day,” Oralee pressed as Sam read and reread the carefully printed lines. Maybe he was hoping it would change in front of his eyes. “What’s Bird going to do when she gets to Denver and the home folks won’t take her in?”

  Sam didn’t answer. Just handed over the telegram.

  “She’ll come back here, that’s what she’ll do,” Oralee said. “It’ll be the worse for her, too.”

  “Maybe,” Sam allowed, and rubbed the back of his neck.

  Oralee trundled to the door, took hold of the latch. “I warned you about the Donaghers as best I could,” she reiterated. “From here on, you’re on your own.”

  With that, she departed, fairly running Rowdy down as he came back from tending to his horse.

  Sam indicated the basket. “Better have some supper,” he said. “It’s going to be a long night.”

  Rhodes nodded. “We’ll be all right,” he told Sam. “The old dog and me.” He hung up his hat, crossed the room and patted the mutt on the head. “You hungry, pardner?” he asked.

  Sam’s spirits rose a little. At least he didn’t have to worry about the dog. “I’ll be at the schoolhouse,” he said. “If there’s trouble, fire off a shot or two. I’ll hear it and get here quick.”

  Rhodes simply nodded. His .44 looked like it was part of him and the leather holster was well-worn. “That’s a good name for you,” he told the dog. “Pardner.”

  Pardner gazed up at the new deputy with adoration.

  Sam let himself out without a farewell.

  Standing alone on the plank sidewalk, he turned his gaze toward the general store. It pulled at him, that place, but not because he wanted to buy anything.

  Maddie was in there.

  Practical, take-hold, half-again-too-pretty Maddie.

  What would happen to the mercantile, and to her, now that Mungo Donagher was in jail?

  Sam shook his head, rubbed the back of his neck again, hard enough to take off some hide. There was no sense in pining after Maddie Chancelor. He had a woman waiting for him up at Stone Creek.

  Damn, but he wished he didn’t.

  CHAPTER

  TWELVE

  THREE THINGS happened on Wednesday.

  The stagecoach came in, empty except for the driver.

  Garrett Donagher was laid to rest in the churchyard, while Mungo stood by in handcuffs, his face expressionless. Undine wept prettily into a silk handkerchief, and Ben stayed close to Maddie, his eyes fixed warily on his pa the whole while. Oralee and her girls huddled together in a tight, defiant little cluster of brightly colored dresses and feathers that wafted in the warm breeze. The rest of the townspeople kept their distance, and there was no sign of Rex and Landry, a fact that both unsettled and relieved Sam.

  He waited for the words to be said, leaning against a cottonwood tree with his arms folded across his chest. Watched as Oralee and her flock departed and the church ladies closed around the weeping Undine to spirit her away.

  Mungo lingered, watching as the undertaker’s sons began shoveling dirt back into the grave they’d dug the day before. If he’d noticed Undine at all, he gave no sign of it, nor had he spared so much as a glance for Ben, which was probably a good thing.

  Finally, Rhodes took Mungo by one arm and ushered him back to jail.

  Sam looked on as Maddie sent Terran and Ben back to the store, then approached him with purposeful steps. Drawing up a few feet short of the toes of his boots, she reached into the pocket of her trim black skirt. Even in solemn garb, she looked pretty, with her snow-white bodice and the cameo broach pinned decorously at her throat.

  “There was a letter for you today,” she said, and presented a vellum envelope. The scent of Abigail’s rosewater perfume wafted up from it.

  Sam liked Abigail, though he couldn’t rightly say he loved her. Somehow, they’d fallen into an unspoken agreement, that was all. He usually welcomed her letters, which were generally lively and full of news, but this day he’d just as soon toss the missive into Garrett Donagher’s grave and pretend it hadn’t come.

  “Thanks,” he replied, and tucked the fat envelope into the inside pocket of his vest.

  Maddie’s eyes snapped with questions, but she was too much of a lady to ask any of them. At least, as far as Abigail’s letter was concerned.

  “How did you know Ben would hide behind the cookstove?” she asked.

  Just like that, Sam was wrenched back to his boyhood. Crouched behind his ma’s stove, every bit as scared as Ben Donagher had been the day of the shooting, but too curious not to look on from his hiding place.

  “You knew right where he’d be,” Maddie insisted quietly. Clearly she wasn’t going to leave go of the subject until she had an answer, and one that suited her.

  He sighed, thrust a hand through his hair. “Stoves,” he said, “deflect bullets.”

  She raised an eyebrow. Waited.

  Sam looked away, looked back. “My ma was a widow,” he told her. “She was pretty, and had her share of gentlemen callers. One day, two of them showed up at our place at the same time, and they were packing guns. They argued, each of them wanting the other to go, and neither one willing to give in. Ma told me to get behind the stove, quick, since they were blocking the door.”

  Maddie raised her chin. Swallowed.

  “They drew and fired.” Sam could see the whole thing playing out in his mind. Smell the gunpowder and the blood. He heard his ma scream, as clearly as if he were back there on that lonely homestead.

  Maddie flinched, but she wanted the whole story and she was ready to wait for it. “How old were you?” she asked.

  “Ten,” Sam replied, and drew a deep breath to force the memory back into its proper place. “They killed each other, and my mother, too.”

  She put out a hand, rested it tentatively on his upper arm. She might have been laying it flat on a hot griddle, for the pain in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  He didn’t know if she was apologizing for asking, or expressing sympathy for the tragedy. In the end, it didn’t matter. “It was a long time ago,” he told her, but his throat was raw with the recollection and the words came out hoarse.

  “Will you come to supper?” She wanted to know.

  She sure had a way of rounding sudden bends in the conversation.

  “I’d like that,” Sam heard himself say.

  “Six o’clock,” she replied, and turned to go.

  Sam went home, tended to the dog and the horse, took a hasty bath in the chilly river and shaved. For all of that, he arrived right on time, tapping on the back door of the mercantile and wishing he’d thought to gather a few wildflowers.

  That was when the third thing happened.

  Esteban Vierra opened the door, easy in his skin and grinning.

  “Supper’s almost ready,” he said, just as if he’d cooked it himself. Just as though he had every right to be admitting folks to Maddie Chancelor’s kitchen.

  MADDIE, WORKING DILIGENTLY at the stove, took a brief, secret and quit
e unbecoming satisfaction in the look on Sam’s face as he entered her kitchen, having to pass by Mr. Vierra to do so. He’d received a perfumed letter from a woman that very day, after all. What right did he have to be disgruntled?

  She sighed to herself, opening the warming oven to peer in at the biscuits she’d baked earlier. Sam O’Ballivan had plenty of things to be disgruntled about, she reminded herself, and it was vain to assume he cared one whit who her other supper guest was.

  Ben and Terran were in the field behind the store, playing some boyish game, and Maddie was glad of that when Sam spoke right up.

  “Oralee Pringle showed me a telegram from Bird’s sister a few days ago,” he said, hanging his hat on the peg next to the door, just like Warren used to do when he came visiting. “She isn’t receiving, it seems.”

  Mr. Vierra’s smile remained steady. “We didn’t get ten miles before Bird took up with a bearded peddler, old enough to be her papa, bound for other parts. The last time I saw her, she was wearing a yellow cotton dress and waving goodbye from the box of a painted wagon.”

  Of course, Maddie had inquired after Bird the moment Mr. Vierra had presented himself at her back door, just under an hour ago, but he’d said only that the girl was “all right.” She felt the back of her neck warm, and stirred the sausage gravy with unnecessary industry.

  “Maybe she’ll write,” Sam said, coming up alongside Maddie, all of a sudden, and giving her a start.

  “Miss Abigail Blackstone?” Maddie asked tersely. “If I remember correctly, she’s already written.”

  The moment the words were out of Maddie’s mouth, she could have stuck her head in the gravy skillet, she was so mortified. Too late, it came to her that Sam meant Bird might write, not the woman who’d sent him a letter from someplace called Stone Creek.

  “You noticed her name, did you?” Sam asked, and even though Maddie couldn’t bring herself to look at him, she knew he was smiling that spare smile of his.

  “I sort the mail,” she said stiffly, whipping the gravy still harder. “I can’t help noticing the occasional name.”