by Chuck Tyrell
“Won’t you step down, Mr. Stryker? I have hot coffee on the stove. My husband always likes hot coffee when he comes in, so I try to keep some ready.”
Stryker dismounted and dropped the reins. “Stay, Saif,” he said. The big Arabian tossed his head, but didn’t move. “I’d admire to have a cup of your coffee, Mrs. Wilder.”
“Come. The sun’s going down, but it’s still cooler in the dog run. A breeze comes through it most of the time.”
“Much obliged.” Stryker took a seat on one of the benches in the dog run. Blessing brought him strong black coffee in a tin cup. He blew on the coffee and sucked in some, along with a mouthful of air. His mouth filled with the rich flavor of well-roasted beans and something else. Something nutty and wild. He became aware of the tears running down his ruined cheek.
“Mighty tasty coffee.” He fished for a pocket kerchief and wiped the tears away. “Something extra here, too,” he said, peering into the cup. “Can’t quite place what it is, though.”
Blessing gave him a smile that highlighted the dimples in her cheeks. Stryker returned her smile, again aware of the grimace on his face. My lord but Wolf Wilder is one lucky man.
“It’s roast acorns,” she said. “Adds a nice nutty flavor, I think. Wolf likes it and Sparrow does not complain, so that’s how I fix it.”
“Delicious.”
Sparrow and the boy were at the edge of the creek, inspecting something only toddlers could understand.
“Fine boy,” Stryker said.
“Yes. We named him Darragh, after Falan’s foster father.”
Conversation died. Stryker couldn’t think of anything to say. He kept his face down over the tin cup of coffee, taking gulps of it now and again.
Whenever he peeked at Blessing from under the brim of his black Stetson, she was watching him with a little half smile on her lips.
Then she said, “They’re not so bad, Mr. Stryker.”
“Ma’am?”
“The scars.”
Stryker’s hand went immediately to his mouth, covering the scar that drew his lips into a sneer.
“Mr. Stryker?”
He said nothing, but used his kerchief to wipe the tears from his face.
“Mr. Stryker? Please look at me.”
Stryker raised his face, mouth covered by one hand, kerchief in position to swipe moisture from his cheek.
Blessing smiled. “We all have scars,” she said. “Some that people can see, like yours, some that they can’t see, like those left on a woman when men have their way with her by force. Then there are the scars a person knows nothing of. The scar of being born between two worlds, like my wolfman.”
The tender smile showed on her face again. “Wolf is a man they call ‘breed.’ And even though he is a good man, honest and true, others often think him less because his mother was Cheyenne. He has scars. But he hides them well. I have scars, not as well hidden. Your scars are plain on your face and not difficult to look at. I hope there are none on your heart.”
She laughed, a sound like tinkling bells. “I have no idea what that means. I became a daughter of a Jicarilla Apache chief when I was very small. He sent me back to the white man when I was twelve. Townspeople decided I was only good enough to be a servant girl. Then my Wolfman found me. Now I am here, and I am his . . . and he is mine.”
Stryker grimaced his smile and held out the tin cup. “Sure would like another cup of that fine coffee, Mrs. Wilder. Surely would.”
Blessing giggled. “Oh, my, Mr. Stryker. You must know that the quickest way to a woman’s heart is to praise her coffee.” She took his cup and disappeared into the cabin.
The sound of galloping horses came through the twilight. Stryker watched Sparrow and Darragh at the creek’s edge. Sparrow stood still for a moment, his eyes seeking the source of the sound. Then he relaxed and thumped Darragh on the head. The boy swatted angrily at Sparrow’s hand.
Sparrow pointed.
Darragh squinted, then let out a screech. He scrambled up the creek bank and started running. Sparrow watched him go.
“Your coffee, Mr. Stryker,” Blessing said. “I think my husband comes.”
“Thank you,” Stryker said. He stood to take the cup.
The horses stopped and Stryker stepped to the front of the dog run. Wilder lifted the boy high over his head, gave him a hug, then set him down. “Off to play now,” he said, and turned his attention to the dog run.
“Matt Stryker? That you?”
“It is, Wolf Wilder. And yourself? You’ve done well since leaving the Army, I see.”
Wilder dismounted and strode toward Stryker with his hand out.
Stryker met the hand with his own, and their shake was strong and sure, but held no hint of rivalry.
“Heard you got rid of the Cahill bunch in Ponderosa,” Wilder said.
“Tom Hall got Jake,” Stryker said. “His loco brother Wynn got shot down by a half-breed. Cousin to Garet Havelock.”
“I’ll be damned.”
“Coffee, Wolfman?” Blessing’s voice carried her smile before she even showed her face.
“What do you think, my Blessing?”
She stepped out with a steaming tin cup in her hand. “It is ready Yudhasthir.”
He took it with a smile of thanks. He patted her on the head. She blushed and retreated into the cabin.
Wilder waved Stryker to a seat and took the bench opposite. “And what brings you here all the way from Ponderosa, Matt?”
“Ness Havelock gave me a manhunt to do. It ain’t gonna be easy. I figured on trying to get some good help. Heard you weren’t scouting for the Army no more. Thought you might want to earn some cash money.”
“Got me a boy, Matt.”
“See ‘im. Darragh, your wife tells me. Quite a name to hang on a little tyke.”
“We call him Darry. Doesn’t seem to cause him any pain from the weight. What’s the job?”
“Helping me run down Alfredo McLaws.”
“McLaws? What’d he do?”
“Federal people say he shot down passengers on a stage in cold blood ‘n made off with the strongbox.”
“They want him? Who seen him?”
“Nobody alive.”
Wilder kicked at the dirt of the dog run. “Shit.”
“Yeah.”
“Makes a man wonder what’s going on, don’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“And you took the job?”
“Yeah.”
“That don’t sound like something you’d do.”
“Wouldn’t, ordinarily. But Havelock wants Alfredo McLaws alive. I signed on to keep him from getting killed, sort of.”
Wilder nodded like he was in a rocking chair. His eyes were on Sparrow and Darragh, who were back to exploring the creek bank. “Last time I left my Blessing alone, a troop of men came here, Matt. They treated her rough. Did things to her that men ought not to. She’s just a mite, Matt, but she’s tough as whang leather.”
Wilder pulled a knife from the small of his back. It looked heavy. A good fourteen inches long from hilt to point, with a downward curving blade. He held it up in front of Stryker. “This here’s a kukri knife,” he said, “from some place called Assam. Blessing cut off Reed Fowley’s nose with this knife. I’d not want her to have to do that again. And there’s Darry . . . .”
“Jayzus,” Stryker said.
“That ‘n more.”
Stryker heaved a sigh. He’d counted on Wilder coming along. “I’d figured on paying three hundred up front and another three when we got Al McLaws safely into Ness Havelock’s custody.”
Wilder chewed on his lip, rubbed his hands up and down his legs. “Cash money’s awful short,” he said.
“I know.”
Wilder looked Stryker straight in the eye. “I won’t jiggle you around, Matt. I can’t go. I won’t go, I should say. But I suggest you talk to Jaime Sparrow. He knows just about all I know, and then some. He counted coup on me out in the Mojave. He’s mighty good f
or a youngster.”
“Sixteen?”
“Closer to twenty.”
“Looks an awful lot like a redskin.”
“He is.”
Stryker raised an eyebrow.
“Jicarilla,” Wilder said. “Son to Chief Puma.”
“What’s he doing here?”
“Long story. Not important. But he’s as good as they come on the trail.”
Stryker considered. He thought and he pondered. Wolf Wilder won a Medal of Honor as a scout out of Camp Verde. Some said he could track a lizard across solid rock. And he said Jaime Sparrow was good. “I’ll take your suggestion,” Stryker said. “I’ll talk the boy.”
“Don’t you ever call him ‘boy’ to his face,” Wilder said. “Not if you value your hair.” His grin said he was speaking half in jest . . . maybe. “Hang on. I’ll get him.”
Stryker nodded and sat back to finish the acorn-flavored coffee Blessing was so good at making. For a moment, a flash of jealousy sped across Stryker’s mind. Wolf Wilder had made the Flying W out of nothing. So it was still a rawhide outfit. But it had a good start and Wilder had him a boy to raise along with his horses. A man couldn’t ask for much more. He wondered where Katherine was. She’d gone to San Francisco with April Ruggart, chaperone and mentor rolled into one. “I shall return, Matthew Stryker,” she’d said. But that was before Jake Cahill had rearranged Stryker’s face with lead-filled fists. He used the kerchief to wipe away the tears that leaked from his left eye.
Blessing came as he finished the coffee.
“More?”
He raised his eyes to her face, open and simple with a smattering of freckles sprinkled across her nose and cheeks. He thought of Katherine’s majestic well-bred air. He wondered if she could ever exude satisfaction in the way Blessing did. Damn. He shook his head.
“All right. Just raise your voice if you want another cup. I just started a new pot. Blessing didn’t bother with the tucks and frills so many women preferred. Her dress was plain and straight. It hung from her shoulders to her knees in a straight line. Stryker guessed it was flour sacking, but some how Blessing made it look like fine muslin. Katherine always wore clothing tailored in San Francisco and sometimes as far away as Belgium. They have my size on file, she would say, and go off to practice savate or whatever else kept her as slim as a woman in her teens.
“Matt Stryker.”
Sparrow stood not three yards away. Stryker berated himself for not being aware of the young man’s approach.
“Yudhasthir asked me to talk with you,” Sparrow said.
There was that name again. Blessing had called Wilder Yudhasthir when she asked if he wanted coffee. “Yudhasthir?”
“Yes,” Sparrow said. “Apaches call Wolf Wilder Yudhasthir. It means ‘firm in battle’.”
Stryker decided to attack head on. “I must find a man whose name is Alfredo McLaws. Some people say he robbed a stagecoach of important government papers and some money. They say he killed all who rode the coach.”
“Why do you need me?”
“I must capture Alfredo McLaws and bring him back to Ness Havelock.”
Sparrow gave a half smile at the familiar name. “Havelock’s mother is Cherokee, but he is a lawman.”
“True. Alfredo McLaws also has an Indian mother. Yaqui.”
Sparrow’s eyes took on a sparkle. “Yaqui?”
“Yes. That’s what Havelock said.”
“Yaqui warriors fight very good.”
“Very. That’s why I need you. I don’t think I can take him alive by myself.”
Sparrow took the bench where Wolf Wilder had sat. He folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the cabin wall. His chin high and his eyes mere slits, he studied Stryker for some moments. “I counted coup on Yudhasthir,” he said.
“Wolf told me.”
“He has been my teacher for three winters.”
Stryker nodded. “He said you’re good.”
“How much am I worth?”
“Same as I’d pay Wolf. Three hundred now, three hundred when Alfredo McLaws is delivered to Ness Havelock.”
Sparrow stuck out his hand. “Shake.”
Stryker shook.
“Blessing,” Sparrow called.
She glided around the corner in the graceful way she had of walking. “Yes, Sparrow?”
“Matt Stryker has hired me. He will give me three hundred dollars.” He held out his hand. “Now.”
Puzzled, Stryker did not move.
“Now,” Sparrow repeated, shaking his hand for emphasis.
Stryker dug three hundred in bills from the money belt he wore inside his loose-fitting shirt. He laid the bills on Sparrow’s open palm.
“Three hundred?” Sparrow’s eyes sparked sharp and hard.
“Yes.”
Sparrow gingerly took Blessing’s hand, put the folded bills in it, and closed her fingers over the money. “There,” he said.
Chapter Four
“Can I talk you out of riding that big black horse?” Wolf Wilder posed the question as he and Sparrow and Matt Stryker sat in the dog run, cooled by the evening breeze off the creek and lighted by a coal-oil lantern that dangled by a hook hung from a rafter.
Stryker didn’t answer for some moments. “We’ve been a bundle of miles together,” he said.
“Most of ‘em in town or on the way to a town or coming from a town,” Wilder said.
“True.”
“Out there in the desert, he’ll stick out like a Jeff Morgan’s black heel in a snow bank.”
“True.”
“And he’s getting long in the tooth.”
“True, but so am I.”
Wilder grinned. “Getting old just makes a man careful. And chasing Alfredo McLaws, you’re gonna have to be mighty careful.”
Sparrow said nothing, but he listened, his eyes hooded like he was already on the desert trail after a Yaqui warrior, his born enemy.
Wilder said, “I’ve got a good zebra dun I’ll swap you for the Arabian. He can stay here, have a mare or two, and up the quality of my herd while he’s waiting for you to get back in one piece. The dun’s a good horse, needs a bit of training, but that shouldn’t be a problem for you.”
“Never heard you talk so much at one time,” Stryker said.
“I’d just like to see you again some time, Matt. Trade horses with me. Just ‘til you get back.”
Stryker didn’t like the idea of leaving Saif behind, but he also understood the liability the big black stallion would be in open country. He knew they’d more than likely end up in Mexico, and he’d just as soon not lose Saif to the Federales. “Thanks for the offer, Wolf,” he said. “Let me sleep on it.”
“Wolfman? Matt Stryker. Sparrow. Please come in and eat,” Blessing called.
“She sets a decent table,” Wilder said. “I suggest we go eat.”
Blessing did set a good table. Nothing fancy, but good. The table itself was native juniper, cut and planed and joined with care. Wiping it with a wet cloth after every meal had burnished the juniper to a dark sheen. It felt like home. Matt Stryker had not seen home for so long that he could not help but run his fingers over the smooth tabletop. He swiped the tears from his leaky eye with the blue bandana, and he’d never admit they were due to anything other than his old injury.
Chinaware plates marked the places, two on each side of the table. The plates did not match, and two had chipped edges. Three platters acted as centerpieces. One with slices of beef dredged in flour and fried in lard. One with a mound of mashed potatoes rich with butter. And one with a pile of corn on the cob, steamed and fragrant. The whole house smelled of food and people and wood smoke. It smelled like home. Stryker wiped his face again.
Blessing ladled beans into a crock and put it on the table, then took the seat nearest the stove. She looked expectantly at Wolf Wilder.
Wilder stood and went to the stove. He took something rolled into a corn husk and lit it in the stove. It gave off smoke like a cigar.
Wilder lifted it toward the ceiling. “Father,” he said. Then lowered it toward the floor. “Mother.” He waved the smoking husk-wrapped roll north and south, east and west, then blew the smoke across the table. Sparrow and Blessing waved the smoke towards themselves. Stryker did the same. “Give thanks,” Wilder said. “Give thanks, and eat.”
He tossed the remainder of the husk-wrapped roll into the stove, then took his seat. “We eat,” he said, and reached for the platter of meat.
The beef was salted right, the potatoes tasted good smothered in milk gravy made from the grease and leavings left from frying the meat, and the corn was firm and sweet, eaten with fresh butter.
“Never realized how much a good milk cow means to supper,” Stryker said. His plate lay clean as if newly washed, except for two corn cobs.
“Pie?” Blessing asked, looking around at the men.
Their grins were answer enough. “Some currants down the creek near the cut,” she said, “and wild grapes in the malapai cliffs. Sparrow found a bee’s nest in an old alligator juniper back up toward the rim.” Blessing placed a fourth of a pie on each plate and poured new cream on top of each. “Not often we get visitors, Matt Stryker. Wouldn’t want you to think we eat like this every night.”
Little Darragh, who’d been worrying a beef bone while the adults ate, let out a howl when he saw the pie.
“You hang on, Darry,” Blessing said. “You and me, we’ll eat pie together.” She cut the remaining fourth in two and put one of the slices on a small plate. She poured the last of the cream over it and slid her chair over to Darragh’s special one.
The boy turned a spoonful of potatoes and gravy upside down on his head. Blessing laughed. “Goodness. Food is for your tummy, young man, not to make your hair grow.”
“Pie,” Darragh said, reaching for the plate.
“You can’t handle this by yourself, young man.” Blessing cut a spoonful of pie and cream and held it out toward Darragh. “Say a-a-a-ah.” She mimed opening her mouth wide. Darragh did the same, and she popped in the pie and cream.
Stryker glanced at Wilder. His attention seemed to be on his own plate, but the laugh crinkles around his eyes were plain to see. A family’d be a good thing. A mighty good thing.
