“But I might not be around long enough afterward to pay?”
“I have a wife and children, Ethan. I have to feed them.”
Ethan dug a handful of coins, most of them double eagles, from his poke and tossed them, one at a time, across the room.
Roy caught them deftly with one hand, then switched them to his other hand just as smoothly to snag the next coin out of the air. His eyes widened when the saw the amount.
“That’s for Pa and me and Vic and any other Wilder that doesn’t come through the next few days alive. You figure that’ll cover five funerals?”
His embarrassment deepening, Roy dropped the coins into the pocket of his canvas carpenter’s apron. “You can pick up your change anytime.”
Ethan inclined his head toward his father’s body. “How long?”
“I’ll need to fasten the lid on the coffin, then hitch a team. I store the hearse in one of Tim Palmer’s sheds. It’ll be covered with dust . . .”
“A little dust never hurt anyone,” Ethan interrupted, feeling a need to get this done as soon as possible and move on. “I’ll be back in an hour.” He spun on his heels and stalked through the heavy curtain to the front office.
Roy Manson’s voice trailed after him like a cringing pup. “I’m sorry for your loss, Ethan. Your father was a good . . .”
Ethan slammed the front door shut behind him, whatever else Roy had intended to say about Jacob Wilder lost in the bang.
* * * * *
Ethan stood on the boardwalk in front of Manson’s and took a deep breath. The rush of emotions that had nearly overwhelmed him inside the mortuary began to lessen in the warm, early afternoon sun. Standing there, staring south past empty, weed-choked lots, he suddenly realized he could see Lou Merrick’s house over on Cemetery Street. On impulse, he crossed in that direction.
The Merricks lived in a small, square building with a peaked roof and tiny porch out front. There was a barn in back, although Ethan knew Lou didn’t own a horse. In spite of Merrick’s reputation as the town’s handyman, both structures looked in bad shape. The roof was peeling at the eaves and the molding had come off above one of the windows on the house, leaving a slot large enough for a man to slip his hand through. If the house had ever been any other color than the wind-scoured and paintless gray it was today, Ethan couldn’t see any evidence of it.
Standing at the corner of a coal shed on the north side of Cemetery Street, Ethan studied the house for several minutes. He didn’t really know Merrick, wasn’t even sure if they’d ever spoken to one another, but his opinion of the man had never been very high. Lou Merrick was no stranger to the bottle, and was known to turn foul-mouthed and belligerent when drunk. He was considered lazy by most standards, although it was said that, when he was sober, he could hammer a hundred nails without bending one, and saw through oak in half the time it took another man.
As Ethan watched, an out-of-sight door screeched open on loose hinges. Moments later, Lou’s wife—he didn’t even know her name—appeared, heading for the barn with a woven egg basket hooked over one arm. Ethan waited until she’d disappeared inside, then crossed the street to the front porch. Lou must have seen him coming, because Ethan hadn’t even knocked when the door was yanked open and Lou stepped outside with a Whitney-Kennedy rifle leveled at Ethan’s belt buckle.
“Stay back, Wilder,” Merrick ordered sharply.
“Easy, boss,” Ethan said quickly, raising both hands part way. “I just came to talk.”
“Ain’t you Wilders done enough damage around here?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” Ethan said.
“There ain’t nothing more to find out,” Merrick snarled. “That crazy brother of yours tried to have his way with my little girl. When he saw he couldn’t get it, he beat the hell out of her.”
“That’s not the story I heard,” Ethan replied calmly.
“Yeah, from who? Your brother?” Merrick laughed, then spat off the porch.
Anger had been a constant companion of Ethan’s ever since returning to Sundance; it surged now, spilling over into his eyes.
Merrick saw it and took a step back, jabbing his elbow into the door frame. He howled and his arm jerked, and Ethan snatched the Whitney-Kennedy from his grasp.
“Jesus,” Merrick breathed, face going pale.
Ethan worked the lever rapidly, emptying the magazine, then tossed the rifle into the weeds beside the house. “I ought to bend that barrel over your damn’ head,” he said hotly.
“If I hadn’t hit my funny bone, you wouldn’t have taken it away from me. We’d’ve seen then how tough you were.”
“I’ll tell you what, Lou,” Ethan said so quietly Merrick unconsciously leaned forward to hear him better. “It’s even now, just you and me, so let’s see how tough I am.”
Merrick shook his head. “I ain’t fightin’ you, Wilder. That’d just give you an excuse to stick a knife in me, or shoot me when my back was turned.”
Ethan’s eyes blazed. “You may not like us, Merrick, but I’ll guarantee you that, if any Wilder ever decides to shoot you, it won’t be in the back, and it won’t be when you’re unarmed.”
“You Wilders ain’t nothing but Indian lovers and horse thieves,” Merrick said, but he was shrinking back as he said it, raising an arm defensively.
Ethan’s fist clenched. He wanted to slam it into Merrick’s face, smash the hateful leer into the flooring. Then someone came around the corner of the house and Ethan shook his head as if coming out of a deep sleep.
Merrick’s wife stopped when she saw Ethan towering over her husband, cupping both hands over her mouth as if to stifle a scream. Her obvious terror triggered quick embarrassment in Ethan, and he stepped back, then plunged off the porch.
“You gonna run now, Wilder?” Lou shouted after him. “Afraid of having a witness to your trickery?”
Ethan kept walking. It galled him that he’d nearly allowed Merrick’s words to goad him into doing something stupid, risking not only his own freedom, but perhaps the lives of Ben and Joel. He would have to watch himself, he realized, keep a lid on his temper, else he would play right into the hands of the unknown element trying so hard to have him, to have all the Wilders, removed from the territory.
Chapter Eleven
It was midafternoon when they laid Jacob Wilder to rest in the Sundance Cemetery, on the knoll southwest of town. Besides Ethan, there was Roy Manson, a couple of maintenance men with shovels standing well back from the service, and Claudia Carver, who had driven up in her buggy.
Had there been more time to get the word out, Ethan figured there would have been a larger crowd, but he had to wonder just how much larger. Ira Webb surely would have come if not for the unusual number of customers who seemed to have taken up residence in the Bullshead recently, but Ethan wasn’t as certain about men like Sam Davidson and Tim Palmer and their families. Would they have closed their shops for an hour or so to pay respects to a man whose generosity that first harsh winter had kept them alive? Or would they have shunned the funeral in favor of the current attitude, that the old-timers—the hunters and traders who had come West while the land was still raw and wild—were an embarrassment to the senses of a modern civilization spreading swiftly, irreversibly, across the continent?
The last few days had been eye-opening ones for Ethan, who’d gradually come to realize that the animosity he was receiving from the townspeople had actually been there for a long time, a festering wound finally scratched open by Joel’s alleged mistreatment of Suzie Merrick, and the charge that it had been Ben who’d killed Jacob. Standing at the foot of his father’s grave, listening to Roy Manson read from the Bible, Ethan felt an incredible sadness creep over him, a feeling of isolation and vulnerability. Then he heard his name spoken, and looked up to find Roy watching him, Bible closed.
“Would you like to toss in the first handful of earth, Ethan?”
Nodding dutifully, Ethan picked up a handful of soil that he tossed in on to
p of Jacob’s flat-topped coffin, the rattle of dirt on wood like shot peppering his soul.
Claudia Carver came over afterward to lay a hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry, Ethan. For your loss here, and for Victor and the troubles that plague Joel and Ben. Mister Carver would have come, if not for the need to stay at your brother’s side. He asked me to extend his condolences, and to invite you to supper tonight. You will come, won’t you?”
Ethan took a deep breath, expelled it shakily. “Yes, ma’am, I’d be honored.”
“We’ll eat at six, but come early. Victor is showing signs of improvement. I know he’d like to see you if he regains consciousness.”
“Is he getting better?” Ethan asked, then wished he hadn’t when he saw the look on her face.
“We can only pray that he does,” Claudia said. She gave his arm a friendly squeeze. “I’d best get back, but know that we’re keeping you in our prayers, Ethan. All of you.”
“Thank you. I reckon I could use all the help I can get.” He walked her to the buggy and helped her inside, then freed the tether weight from the horse’s bit and dropped it on the floorboard.
“I’ll see you at six, if not before,” he promised.
Ethan had ridden up Cemetery Hill on the hearse with Roy Manson, but he declined a lift back into town, preferring some time alone to sort through his thoughts. Everything had been happening so fast lately that he was beginning to feel like a drunk on a runaway horse, barely hanging onto his hat.
The road was dusty, the sun warm on his back. Meadowlarks skimmed along in the grass beside him, singing their warning of a stranger in their midst. Like the meadowlarks, Ethan’s mind flitted rapidly. What was going on, not just with his own family, but with the whole region? So many men missing or murdered in the breaks, yet hardly a mention of it up here. And what did they have, those woolly, unwashed sons of the frontier, that was worth killing for? Land might have been a common factor, and easy enough to understand with the Bar-Five’s homesteaded water holes, but old Emile Rodale and Ian McMillan had never filed a claim in their lives. And why would someone want to hang Ian’s woman, who couldn’t have claimed the land even if she’d wanted to, being Blackfoot.
What else made sense? Water? There was the whole of the Marias for that. Gold? Ethan had never heard of any precious metals being found this far out on the plains; gold was a mountain commodity, a lure of the high country. Grass? Except for the Bar-Five—which had never exercised its rights anyway—there was no impediment to running cattle on the open range anywhere along the Marias, and certainly none that would require the systematic extermination of a bunch of ex-hunters and their Indian and mixed-blood families.
It has to be something else, Ethan thought. It has to.
His gaze strayed to Palmer’s Livery, and his pace slowed. He knew there were people around town who rented out extra stable space to local residents who didn’t have their own facilities, but only Tim Palmer made a business of it. He owned the livery, ran a blacksmith shop, and bought and sold hay on the side. Seen from the rear as he hiked down from Cemetery Hill, Ethan was struck by the size of Palmer’s sprawling complex of barn, sheds, and corrals. He hadn’t realized it was so extensive, taking up several acres behind the red-painted, street-front entrance of his main stables. A man could board a horse overnight in that big barn if he wanted to have it fed and watered, even curried. But if he planned on staying long, or had several head to care for, most men would rent one of the corrals out back.
Abruptly Ethan veered off the road to follow a wagon lane into the heart of holding pens and corrals. As he made his way down the central aisle, he occasionally allowed the inside of his forearm to brush the butt of his revolver. There was no reason to expect trouble, yet he felt unaccountably nervous, his throat dry and scratchy.
Rough count, Ethan estimated sixty-plus head of livestock scattered throughout the pens. The largest corral was occupied by mules carrying the Diamond T Freight company’s brand, but he recognized several animals belonging to some of Sundance’s wealthier citizens—Sam Davidson’s tall bay and Ray Manson’s sorrel among them. Others carried local brands, including a trio of cow ponies sporting Kestler’s Lazy-K. It was in one of the smaller corrals close to the main stables that Ethan finally found what he was looking for—eight head of quality horses, all with unfamiliar and unmatching brands.
Ethan’s brows furrowed in thought. There had been six men sitting in back of the Bullshead that morning, including the one with a recently bloodied cheek. He was certain he’d killed one of the ambushers in the shallow creek behind the house yesterday, then wounded a second one minutes later, probably the man Doc Carver had treated. He was also pretty sure he’d drawn blood on a third man, too, judging from the shrill cursing from the barn after firing several rounds at the empty water barrel in the entryway. That brought him back to the Bullshead, and the man with the torn cheek.
Eight horses . . . eight men.
Ethan’s pulse quickened as he entered a side door to Palmer’s Livery. He came to a wide entryway, cool and dim. He saw no one, but heard movement in the office near the front door, and headed in that direction.
Tim Palmer looked up from his desk when Ethan entered the cramped room, an alarmed expression coming over his face. He pushed his chair back even as he yanked open a top drawer. Catching a glimpse of a nickel-plated pocket revolver inside, Ethan instinctively kicked the drawer closed, barely avoiding smashing Palmer’s fingers. The liveryman jumped to his feet, cursing, and tried to back away, but Ethan grabbed a fistful of shirt and jerked him close.
“What’s the matter, Timmy? Has something got you spooked?”
“Let go of me, Wilder.”
“Not until you tell me what happened to the missing man who rode in here yesterday?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do.” He pulled the drawer open and grabbed the revolver. “You wouldn’t think you needed this if you didn’t.” He tossed the small handgun behind the desk. “You’ve got eight horses out there with brands I’ve never seen before. Where are the men who ride them?” Palmer clamped his mouth shut, and Ethan gave him a quick but violent shake. “Don’t take that trail, Timmy. I don’t have the patience for it today.”
“All right!” Palmer cried, throwing his hands up in surrender. “I don’t know where they are . . .”
“I told you I don’t . . .”
“Wait, dammit, I’ll tell you.” He took a deep breath. “Let me go first.”
Ethan released his grip, giving the hostler a little backward shove to keep him off balance. “All right, talk.”
“Geez, Ethan, are you insane? You can’t just come in here . . .”
“I warned you about wasting my time.”
“You can’t come in here and treat me like this in my own business. I’ve got rights in this town.”
Ethan moved forward. Palmer tried to dodge out of reach, but he was too slow. Catching the liveryman’s collar and taking a firm hold on the seat of his trousers, Ethan threw him out the door.
Palmer slammed into the stall across the aisle, then stumbled back, blood smeared across his upper lip. There was a pitchfork leaning against the wall beside him and he grabbed it, but Ethan had already picked up a twitch—made from an axe handle, used to calm unruly horses during shoeing or doctoring—and batted the pitchfork out of Palmer’s hands. Palmer stumbled backward, tripped over his own feet, and fell with an explosive grunt. Ethan stood over him, the solid oak twitch ready to swing again.
“I’ll tell you what,” he said dangerously. “You tell me what I want to know, then you can run over and complain to Jeff Burke about what a mean son-of-a-bitch I am.”
“This isn’t right,” Palmer mumbled indignantly. “I would’ve told you what you wanted to know. All you had to do was ask.”
“You’re going to tell me this way, too, and I’ll get a straight answer without a lot of smug opinions.”
Palmer’s lips thinned
at the injustice of his predicament, but he didn’t argue further. “I don’t know who they are. They pay their bill, I take care of their horses.”
“You know the name of the man who pays you?”
Palmer hesitated, then shrugged. “Fact is, Nolan Andrews pays their bill.”
No surprise there, Ethan thought grimly. “What’s Andrews’s connection to them?”
“You’d have to ask them that,” Palmer replied. “In case you haven’t noticed, they aren’t a talkative bunch.”
Ethan lowered the twitch. “There are eight horses out there. Where is Andrews’s mount?”
“Andrews keeps his horse stabled inside.”
“There were only six men in the Bullshead this morning. Where are the other two?”
“It isn’t my job to keep track of customers,” Palmer replied testily. After a pause, he added: “If you let me get up, I’ll show you something.”
Ethan stepped back, tossed the twitch into the office. “Show me.”
Palmer led him to the large tack room behind the office. “Andrews’s men have those saddle racks near the back,” he said, pointing. “Take a look at those two farthest saddles.”
Ethan gave Palmer a measured glance. “Don’t wander off, Timmy.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Ethan went over to the saddles. It didn’t take long to spot what had caught the hostler’s eyes. Both hulks were tracked with rust-colored stains over the horns and pommels, and Ethan’s eyes narrowed in recognition. “Blood,” he murmured, and turned just in time to see the heel of a scoop shovel descending from above.
Chapter Twelve
There was an ache in his neck and shoulders, and the back of his head throbbed painfully. Opening his eyes, Ethan squinted at his surroundings. He knew where he was almost immediately, and turned his head toward the door, wincing at the quick stabbing in his skull. Jeff Burke stood in the opening, leaned wearily against its frame.
“Just like old times, huh, Ethan?” Jeff asked without humor.
Wild Side of the River Page 11
