Fifteen hard-ridden miles later, Jacob reined in his horse. The few lights of the slumbering Triple P Ranch shown through the chilled desert air. He was less than a mile away from his destination. Not sure what to expect after the outpost ambush, Jacob checked the load on his revolvers and Winchester. Satisfied, he spurred the horse into a light canter.
Ears open for any out of place sounds, he slowed his mount to a walk as he neared the yard’s wooden gate. The horse whinnied softly and began to show clear signs of reluctance the closer they came to the two-story ranch house. Jacob wondered if it was a sign that Father Ryan was correct in his examination of the subject. Jacob dismounted, tethered the horse’s reins to the gatepost, then stepped inside the yard. He peered through the darkness at the house. Nothing. He held his breath, listening for signs of danger. No sound but the whistling of wind and the nervous shuffling of hoofs. The Templar approached cautiously, his right hand still hovering at the six-gun.
Ten feet from the slumbering homestead’s front porch a voice called out from inside, “Stop right there, mister.” Jacob stopped dead in his tracks. “Hands up where I can see.” Jacob put his hands up. The voice was gruff and masculine but Jacob could sense the uneasiness in it. “State your name and business, mister, or so help me God, I’ll pull this trigger.”
Jacob sighed and said, “My name’s Jacob Smith of the Santa Fe Diocese. I’m the Templar Father Ryan Comisky sent for. He wrote to the Bishop that he thought there was some trouble brewing and I’d be needed. If you’re up this late keeping watch, I assume he was correct in that thought.”
“You say you’re Jacob Smith?” the voice said. There was a pregnant pause. “Lemme check with the Father to see if your story checks out,” the voice continued. “You stay right there, now, don’t budge none.”
“Yes sir,” Jacob replied, hands still raised. The priest must have given him an all clear, because a few moments later the front door was unlatched and a wizened, goateed old man stepped out onto the porch.
“Sorry about that, Mister Smith,” he said apologetically. “Ranches ‘round here have been giving us some bit of trouble since my hands ran off.” He leaned the shotgun against the door frame and walked out to Jacob with hand outstretched. “Name’s Charles Goodnight.”
“Don’t think on it, Mr. Goodnight,” Jacob replied easily and went to meet him. “I think I’ve had a touch of that trouble you’re speaking of, and can understand your being careful. Three men tried to get the drop on me at the last stagecoach outpost before Lincoln. Luckily, Jorge, whom I take to be your man, was there to give me the tip-off. And call me Jacob, sir, mister is certainly not in order.”
The old man smiled warmly as they shook hands. “Then you sure better not call me Mr. Goodnight. Jorge came through all right? Good. And I do sincerely apologize for you being drug into this here mess, Jacob. Since my girl,” he paused despite himself, licked his lips, searched for the right words, “took ill, all my hands done taken off and left me holding the reins on this here stretch of range. That your horse tied out there? Then we better get her stabled for the night. You look like you can use a good bit of shuteye. I’ll see what we can scramble up for food, too. I’m not sure of the larder stock since I’m out herding from sunup nowadays. Like I said before, the help done turned yellow on me.”
Jacob unlashed his horse’s reins and followed Goodnight around the corner of the fence, towards the back of the homestead. “You’ve been running this whole place the past few weeks?” Jacob said as they walked through the cool New Mexican night.
“That’s been my aim, yes sir. Jorge was around for most of it, and Sarah, my housekeeper. I doubted she’d ever leave, to be honest. Was my worker before the war, still my worker since. She’s holed up in Lincoln, weathering this here storm, yes sir.”
They went into the stables. Jacob looked around at the expansive building full of empty stalls. It smelled of old horse and disuse. “She your old slave woman then?”
“Yes sir.” Goodnight replied, cutting it off there.
“One last question, Charles,” Jacob said as he unsaddled his horse. “Do you have a washtub? I’m saddle sore enough for five men and in dire need of a bath.”
Charles Goodnight just smiled and said, “We’ll see what we can rustle up, Jacob.”
A Knight Templar in Lincoln County (A Jacob Smith Story #1) Page 2
