The Last Cahill Cowboy

by Jenna Kernan

  Ellie looked at her father, the familiar lines of his face and the deep brown of his eyes, and tried to imagine him there as a young man, fighting the Yankees.

  “Only I was lucky. I had an enemy to fight, while Chance has been fighting himself. I don’t know how he’s survived it. He’s stronger than I was.”

  “Papa?”

  He tore himself from his thoughts, regarding her.

  “What did she do? Mama, I mean?”

  There was a fire in his eyes as he looked back, recalling something. A slow smile spread across his face.

  “She ran off with me. You understand the difference? I didn’t run off with her, she ran off with me. I went back to the Elizabeth and set sail and that night I found her in my cabin, dressed in a…” He motioned to his chest and then stopped himself. “Well, I’m only human.”

  Shock left her momentarily mute. Ellie could not get her mind around her mother’s daring. But then she realized she had done nearly the same thing and Chance had still set her aside. She flushed.

  “But she came from a good family.”

  “And her father was still alive then. He tried to shoot me, but she stopped him, too. She was having me and that was that. And look at me now, roots deep and strong.”

  Ellie didn’t want to broach her final concern but she did. “But you fight.”

  “Yes. That’s true. Your mother is not easy to live with and I do drive her to distraction. But that is because she is a passionate woman.” He gave Ellie’s chin a little squeeze between his thumb and the curve of his index finger. “Like you.”

  Ellie blinked at him, shocked at her father’s confidence.

  “Your ma settled me. You could do that for Chance Cahill.”

  “But how?”

  “Oh, you’ll think of something, something brave and bold and not at all safe. That’s what Minnie did.”

  She nodded. “He keeps pushing me away.”

  “Trying to keep you safe. Push back. If you don’t know how to run around a man’s blockades, then you’re no daughter of mine.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Ellen Louise, you’ve done the sensible thing all your life. Now’s the time to follow your heart.”

  “What if I do that and he still turns me down?”

  “What if you don’t and you never know?”

  “But, Papa, he doesn’t care about me.”

  “He does.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because he brought you back to me.”

  Chance was already in a bad mood when he left Ellie and it didn’t get any better when he ran into Glen Whitaker. Bowie had sent his deputy over with the wire for the five-hundred-dollar bounty he’d earned before leaving Deadwood. The money meant that he had no more excuse to stay at the Royale.

  Chance collected the bounty at the telegraph office and returned to the hotel to settle up with the desk clerk. He collected his things and headed out. He knew he needed to get out of this hotel. She was too damned accessible here and his need for her seemed to grow like a hunger the longer he was parted from her.

  It was past time to leave town because he was getting foolish notions. He was recalling the pleasures of having a home and being a part of a family, even when they drove him crazy most days. He had to clear out before Ellie did something foolish, like try to take up with a no-good bounty hunter who would break her heart as sure as he had broken everything else he loved.

  He moved down the street, away from the fashionable part of town, across the railroad tracks, and checked into the Hobart Hotel because he knew she couldn’t follow him here. From his second-floor room, he could see the new depot and, beyond it, the back of the Royale. When he realized he was staring at the kitchen entrance and hoping for a glimpse of Ellie, he turned away. Chance draped his saddlebags over the foot rail, pausing to consider that everything he owned fitted into those two pouches. What did he have to offer Ellie, anyway? Nothing—that was what. Even if he wanted to stay, which he didn’t, he had gained nothing in two years but a bad reputation.

  Chapter Nineteen

  It took Bowie a day to browbeat, cajole and otherwise wrangle up three proprietors willing to sign statements against the Fitzgerald boys. But today he had them.

  Bowie arrested Ira and Johny as soon as they dismounted, taking them to the jail only to find one of the two cells occupied by Muddy, who was sleeping one off yet again. He tried to rouse the old drunk but failing he ordered his deputy to take him over to the morgue.

  “His snoring won’t bother anyone over there.”

  Bowie locked away his prisoners and then helped Whitaker haul Muddy out and set him on a plank in the back of the morgue. Maybe he’d learn a lesson, because if he didn’t lay off the bug juice, this was sure where he’d end up.

  Bowie stepped onto the street and immediately saw a familiar bloodred bay at the hitching post. Cactus, his brother Quin’s horse, looked thin after the long cattle drive.

  He found Quin waiting in his office, filling the room, as he always did, without even trying. For more than half his life, Bowie had been trying to measure up to the high-water mark set by Quin. It had had them at odds most of their lives. Things had changed for the worse when Bowie had left the ranch and then for the better when Quin had got married. His wife, Addie K., was a firebrand, but it was by her request that Quin had called the family together when he discovered their parents’ deaths was no accident.

  Quin wore polished stovepipe black boots, a black suit with a waistcoat and a spotless white shirt collared with a lanyard tie. He reminded Bowie of their father, who would never be seen in town in work clothes, either. He was shaven, his hair well groomed, and holding his hat that sported a new band of silver conchas. Beside Quin stood a short, bald man with watery eyes and a weak chin that his full mustache did not completely obscure. He held a brown bowler derby in his pale hands with a briefcase. Bank examiner, Bowie decided.

  Bowie shook hands with his brother and welcomed him home. His big brother was more tanned than usual from his drive to Dodge. Big and broad, he now was nearly as thin as his horse.

  “Didn’t Addie K. feed you on that drive?”

  Quin gave him a rare smile. His new wife had insisted on going along, saying that half the cattle were hers and she wasn’t going to let Quin have all the fun.

  Bowie knew better. Drives were not fun. They were grueling, cold, wet, hot and dusty. And that was on a good day.

  “Heard Chance is back,” said Quin.

  Bowie nodded. “Broke Leanna’s big picture window.”

  He knew that, too, judging from the complete lack of surprise on Quin’s face.

  “Heard you arrested him.”

  Bowie nodded.

  “That must have been satisfying.”

  “Not as much as you would think.”

  Bowie knew the two had not spoken since the three of them had ridden from their childhood home. He didn’t expect it to go easy during their reunion and thought he might better sit this one out at the jail.

  “He also shot a gambler and bloodied some young hammer-fanner.”

  Quin rubbed the back of his neck. “I can’t decide if he finds trouble or it finds him.” He glanced back toward the hall leading to the cells. “I also heard that he’s here to get his share of the 4C.”

  Something about the way Quin said that, without the usual fire in his eye, confused Bowie. Of course Quin knew Leanna had left his telegram back in Deadwood. So he must also know why Chance had come home.

  Bowie glanced at the stranger beside Quin and played along. “I heard that.”

  “I’m not breaking up the ranch.”

  “Didn’t expect you to. Chance is talking about seeing an attorney.”

  “Let him.” He glanced toward the back. “You got prisoners?”

  Bowie nodded. He didn’t know this examiner so he said no more.

  “Thought I heard someone moving back there. Assumed it might just be Muddy.” He waited, fishing, his brow
s lifted expectantly, but Bowie said nothing.

  Quin turned to the examiner. “Could you give us a minute?”

  The man nodded and stepped out to the porch. “I’ll be waiting.”

  Quin turned to Glen Whitaker. “You, too.”

  Glen looked about to object, but instead glanced to his boss for help and got the signal to do as he was told.

  He stomped out like a child who didn’t get his way. Bowie closed the door leading to the jail cells, sealing off his prisoners.

  “Who you got back there?” asked Quin.

  “Johny and Ira Fitzgerald, charged with extortion for shaking down the businesses on the other side of the rails. Protection money, the owners called it.”

  Quin lifted his eyebrows. “Not really surprised.”

  “You talk to Chance?”

  Bowie nodded. “You know he isn’t back for his share.”

  “I know it.” Quin pressed his lips together in a gesture Bowie recognized spelled trouble.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Bowie.

  “Chance had Ellen Jenkins in his room at the Royale last night.”

  “What! How the hell do you know that?”

  “Everyone knows. It’s all over town. I wasn’t even off my horse when Sam Brody trotted up to tell me and then Ace Keating over at the saddle shop told me.”

  “Her father finds out and there’ll be hell to pay,” said Bowie.

  “Her mother scares me more. That woman runs Oscar like I run cattle.”

  “What are we going to do?” asked Bowie.

  Quin clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t know about you, brother. But I plan to hunker down.”

  “Easy for you. You’re not marshal.”

  “Might think on resigning before you have to arrest him again.”

  “One more thing,” said Bowie, telling Quin that he’d been to visit their attorney, Slocum. “I pressed him and got a bad feeling he’s hiding something. He seemed scared clean through.”

  “Of what?”

  “Not sure yet.” Bowie retrieved his hat. “You ready?”

  Quin nodded. They headed out, pausing on the porch to find Glen and the examiner in conversation. It seemed Glen was doing his level-best to discover the man’s business.

  “Glen?” Bowie spoke to his deputy. “Stay here. I expect Don Fitzgerald to come for his boys. Tell him I can’t release them until they see the judge and bail is set. Might be later this afternoon.”

  Glen looked nervous, but he nodded his understanding. “I’ll come get you when he turns up.”

  “No. Don’t leave him alone with the prisoners. Send someone for me or wait until I get back.”

  “Oh, right. I’ll send someone for you, then.”

  Quin gave Bowie a look of concern and Bowie shook his head.

  They only made it to the front porch when Muddy, the ferryman, staggered out of the morgue and onto the street, looking pale and wide-eyed. His gaze darted frantically about and landed on the marshal.

  “Oh, hell,” muttered Bowie.

  “Marshal, I’m risen from the dead!”

  “You look it,” said Quin.

  “I seen the light, Marshal. I turned myself over a new leaf and I got something to say to you both.”

  Bowie gave him a vexed look. Muddy took up too damn much of his time. And if he didn’t quit sleeping in the jail, Bowie would have to start charging him rent. “You can’t sleep here. I got the Fitzgerald boys in there. One in each cell.”

  Muddy’s mouth snapped shut. He hunkered down, seeming to shrink back to his usual height.

  “Who you got in there?”

  “Ira and Johny.”

  Muddy held his dirty hands in twin fists before his mouth.

  “What is it you got to say, Newt?” asked Quin.

  He glanced at them and then back down the street. “I need a drink.”

  Bowie snorted, watching the man hustle in the opposite direction. “So much for his new leaf.”

  “The man is a public menace. I don’t know how he gets that ferry across the river.”

  “It’s tied to the other side.”

  “Right.”

  “Pa liked him,” said Bowie. “And he wasn’t always like this.”

  The two headed in the opposite direction, falling into step, leaving the bank examiner to scurry after them. Bowie told Quin everything he could squeeze into the time they had during the short walk from his jail to the bank.

  Halfway down the street Bowie spotted Ellie Jenkins, walking beside the tanner, Jose Martinez, both hustling straight for him. He and Quin exchanged looks.

  “Two of his girls work as maids at the Royale,” said Bowie.

  “Still an odd pair,” said Quin.

  Ellie paused before them, her cheeks flushed from her haste.

  “Hello, Ellie,” said Bowie, tipping his hat.

  “Ellen,” said Quin, doing the same.

  “Welcome back, Quin. How is Addie K.?”

  “Fine.”

  Ellie made a face and Bowie knew she never liked Quin’s version of conversation. Quin was stingy with words, as if they were in limited supply. Except around Addie K. and then Bowie had seen him gush like a fountain.

  “Please send her my regards.”

  He nodded for answer, and Ellie dismissed him, pinning her unusual eyes on him.

  “Marshal, Jose tells me that you have arrested Johny and Ira Fitzgerald. Is this true?”

  Bowie gave a nod. Perhaps Chance had brought him another witness and sent Ellie because he and Chance were supposed to appear at odds.

  Ellie translated for Jose. The tanner began speaking, looking at Bowie, whose Spanish was not as good as it might be. Bowie caught his son’s name and Fitzgerald, but Jose was in a hurry and his words strung together like laundry flapping on a clothesline.

  Ellie translated. “He wishes me to tell you that he witnessed Johny Fitzgerald kill his son. He stabbed him in the back with a knife.”

  Jose burst into tears and began to speak again. Ellie repeated his words. “He says that when he threatened to stop tanning the stolen cattle, they killed his little girl and now they have killed his eldest son. He’s already sent his entire family to Mexico for their safety and says he wants justice more than he wants life.”

  Ellie offered Jose the handkerchief tucked in her sleeve.

  “He’ll have to testify,” said Bowie.

  She nodded. “He knows that.”

  “I’ll need him to make a written statement, but I’m on business now and my deputy doesn’t speak Spanish any better than I do.”

  “I can do it,” said Ellie. “I’ll write what he tells me and he can sign it. Would you like it in Spanish or English?”

  The men exchanged a look.

  “English,” said Bowie. “Glen will show you what to do and he’ll help with the statement.”

  “When we’ve finished, can we go?”

  “Best ask him to wait. But you’re free to leave.”

  Ellie nodded. “Fine.”

  Bowie offered his hand to the tanner. “Thank you, Mr. Martinez. I’ll see you get justice.”

  The men shook hands. Bowie had just turned to go when she stopped him again.

  “Chance has moved out of the Château Royale. Do you know where he has gone?”

  Bowie knew but he wasn’t inclined to tell her. He loved his brother, but Chance was all wrong for Ellie. He made a stab at talking sense into her, but she shut him down. If what Quin heard was right, might be too late to help either one of them.

  Bowie debated and then said, “He’s at Hobart’s.”

  He wondered if she had the backbone to go after him. Proper ladies did not venture into that side of town, even in broad daylight.

  “Thank you,” she said, and guided Jose, still wiping his streaming eyes, into the jail.

  Quin watched her go. “I think I underestimated that gal.”

  Chance watched the exchange between Bowie and Ellie from a safe distance. It had been a rough
morning. He’d already blackened a man’s eye for mentioning Ellie to him. His question left no doubt that the clerk who’d seen Ellie in his room had, indeed, flapped his gums to the entire town. His return of Ellie to her father had been too little, too late to protect her reputation and had merely added grist for the mill. Poor Ellie.

  He’d ruined her, after all. Now that his daughter’s name was being dragged through the mud, Oscar Jenkins would come after him. Whether sooner or later, he doubted that Mr. Jenkins would have a shotgun, unless he wanted to use it to run him off.

  But he wasn’t going just yet.

  He watched his brothers approach with the short dandy clutching his bowler and briefcase as he trotted to keep stride with Quin and Bowie. This could only be the bank examiner. Chance’s gaze flicked to his oldest brother. Quin looked tough as rawhide and forbidding as the badlands, just as he remembered him. Bowie held the expression of a man dragging a wagonload of responsibilities. Damn, his brothers made a menacing duo. He almost felt sorry for Van Slyck.

  Chance stepped out and both brothers pulled up short. Judging by the looks on their faces, he was as welcome as a spring blizzard.

  “Sleep well?” asked Quin.

  Chance screwed his mouth up and glared.

  “You know there are a good deal of available women over yonder. So it is inconceivable to me that you would do something so brainless as sleep with Ellen Jenkins.”

  “When you going to stop trying to run my life?”

  “When you do just one thing that isn’t boneheaded.”

  Chance stepped forward and Quin leaned in. Chance wanted nothing better than to knock Quin down, a feat at which he’d never succeeded. Bloodying his brother’s lip would sure feel satisfying, though he knew full well that he’d be bloodied himself in the process. But hurting someone, especially himself, seemed for the moment like just the right thing to do. He clenched his fist. Quin’s mouth lifted in a grim smile. Oh, he’d been looking forward to this, too.

  Bowie stepped between them.

  “We got business.” He motioned with his head toward the examiner, now clutching his briefcase before him like a barricade.