“Yes. She’s out in the sheriff’s office wanting to talk to you. Is it all right if I send her in, since I’m through?”
“Is it all right with you, Doc?”
Dr. Hershel Sinclair studied Sam a moment. “Thanks for asking, Fortune. The truth of the matter is, Rachel’s friends are my friends. I may not be the first man she ever loved, but I intend on being the last.”
“She’s a good woman. You’re a lucky man, Doc.”
“You’re right, Sam Fortune, but you’re lucky yourself. Most men who took on those two would have been knifed in the back. Maybe it was providential that axe handle was in the trash barrel. I’ll send Rachel in.” The doctor closed the jail cell door behind him.
Sam stared down the hall. It wasn’t providential . . . it was planned. I didn’t plan it; it was Talbert’s idea. Since when does God use a bartender to enact his will? Or help a man bent on vengeance?
Course, I suppose he can use anyone or do anythin’ he chooses.
Sam’s mind drifted, and he didn’t notice at first the well-dressed woman walking straight toward him.
“I really must say: This is the Sam Fortune I know and remember,” Rachel began.
“I almost made it out of town a gentleman, Rachel darlin’. I should have left wearin’ that suit. I don’t think I’d get in a fight if I wore a suit,” Sam said.
“Just what, exactly, did these men do to incur your wrath?” she interrogated.
“These are the two that beat up Piney Burleson, Rachel.”
Her white-gloved hand flew to her mouth. “No!”
“She isn’t well enough to testify against them. So there was no way of bringin’ them to Judge Parker’s court. I felt like I had to do something.”
“I understand they are still alive. I’d say you’ve mellowed, Sam Fortune.” She clutched the iron bars.
“I was ready to bash their heads in.” He inched closer, but kept his hands to his side. “It was Talbert that settled me down. Did you know he works over at the Long Branch?”
“Heavens yes. He and his wife sit behind us in church. Why do you think I’m over here? Talbert sent me word of your arrest. I spoke to the marshal, Sammy. He said if you paid a ten-dollar fine and left town immediately, he’d turn you out right now.”
“How about those two?” He nodded in the direction of the next cell.
“He said he would hold them until morning. They also have to pay the fine. But one has a broken leg, and the other a broken arm. He didn’t think they would be trying to trail you for a while, anyways. Do you have any money on you?”
“I got a lot of money on me, but it belongs to my boss. So no, I don’t have the ten dollars,” he admitted.
“That’s what I thought. I’ll pay the fine,” she announced.
“No, you won’t.” He reached over and took her gloved hand. “I’m not having a married woman bail me out.”
“Since when did that matter?” She squeezed his fingers, but pulled her hand back. “Sam, you really don’t have a choice. If you stay in jail, you’ll get out when these other two do, and they’ll shoot you in the back right here in Dodge City, just as sure as the wind blows in west Texas. Frankly, I’d like a nice, peaceful evening with my husband at home—instead of him traipsing around town patching up those left in your wake. It would be very good for us all if you left now.”
“And never came back?” he added.
She raised her pointed chin and frowned. “I didn’t say that.”
“But you meant it.”
“You are welcome at our house any day, Sam Fortune.”
“But you’re hoping that day won’t come along for quite a spell.”
She tugged off a long glove and reached into her handbag. “Perhaps, I am.”
“Thanks for bailing me out, Rachel, darlin’. I’ll send you back the money.”
“No—I don’t want you to do that. Just ride out. Don’t go back to the Territory, Sam. Go someplace new. Start all over. Go up to Montana . . . or Wyoming . . . or . . .”
“Or Dakota? Go ahead and say it, Rachel.”
“Sammy, I’m saying this because I care about you. Don’t get yourself killed.”
“I know, Rachel. Thanks for caring.”
She strolled toward the door then turned. “And thank you, Sammy, for bringing a little justice for Piney Burleson.”
The sun hung low when Sam finally left Dodge City. It was July-hot and humid. His shirt was stitched. Sweat rolled down his side and burned into his wound.
He rode the buckskin at a slow trot; the roan mare followed behind. The road out of town had a little traffic, most of which he ignored. He surveyed the endless plains of short brown grass that had been overgrazed by the big herds moving north.
I keep tryin’ to be the same, but everything’s changin’ around me. It’s like the world is spinnin’, and I’m standin’ still. Rachel’s settled down. Talbert’s gone honest. I end up lookin’ more like Burns and McDermitt than I do anyone else.
You’re messin’ with my mind, Lord. I know what you’re doing. A month ago I would have ridden away from Dodge, regrettin’ that I didn’t kill those two. Now, I keep havin’ regrets for whippin’ ’em like that. What’s wrong with me? They deserved what they got. They’ll heal up. They’ll still be able to find their way home. That’s a lot better than Piney.
But . . . still . . . I should’ve had more self-control. I do believe I would have bashed their heads in, if it hadn’t been for Talbert. What was that verse Mama was readin’ in that dream? “Have mercy upon me, O God, according to thy lovingkindness.” . . . then something about tender mercies . . .
Rachel’s right. I need to go far away. Maybe California. I think some of the Dalton brothers are out there. I could go stay with them and—that’s exactly what I need to get away from.
We have the horses broke. Kiowa and I will get our money and head somewhere we’ve never been before.
Sam planned to ride all night, but when he reached the Cimarron, he felt too tired to continue. He crossed the river and rode west along it for a couple of miles. Then he picketed the horses, rolled out his bedroll, and promptly fell asleep.
When Sam woke up he saw horse lips.
Then yellowed teeth.
Coal black eyes.
And short, pointed ears.
The buckskin stood next to the bedroll, his head only inches from Sam’s. Daylight had broken. The sun cracked over the eastern plains. To his surprise, his back did not hurt, nor his ribs. The burn in his side was mild, and if it hadn’t been for eight hundred and seventy-five pounds of horseflesh hovering over him, he would have gone back to sleep.
He shoved the horse’s head aside and sat up. “So you pulled your picket pin, did you? You know, that’s not a bad name. I’ll call you Picket.”
Sam carefully examined inside his boots before he pulled them on. The crown of the new Stetson was still stiff, but the brim was dirty and creased after the fight. The red roan waited where she’d been staked and seemed visibly relieved to have the buckskin return to her side.
“He went off and left you, did he? But he didn’t go very far. For the life of me, I thought he’d head for the remuda. He must have smelled that tonic water the barber drowned me with.”
Sam didn’t bother building a campfire. He watered the horses, saddled up, and rode west. Breakfast consisted of cheese, jerky, crackers, and a few swigs from the canteen.
A good night’s rest always clears my mind. A man should never make decisions when he’s tired. I’m not goin’ to California. I’m not going to Montana. I’m not going to Dakota. And I’m not going back into Indian Territory. I’m going to stay right out here in these public lands. I’ll work for Rocklin. He’ll have to hunt for a crew, now that his boys drifted back to south Texas.
&nbs
p; This land is too barren for bounty hunters, too desolate for horse thieves, too hot for lawmen. I can see someone approach for fifty miles. Times are changin’. If this land does open up, I’ll already be established. Maybe Kiowa wants to stay, too. But he’ll get restless. He’ll miss some action. He’ll miss the women.
I’ll . . . I’ll miss ’em, too . . . but I’m not sure any gal is better off havin’ known me. Maybe I’ll stake off a little place of my own. Five, six years from now, when they move in here to take this land, some pretty, young farmer’s daughter will . . . will not want to marry a forty-year-old man.
He followed the trail by the river and gazed out across the prairie.
I can’t believe this. Lord, you’re playin’ with my mind, again. I haven’t shed a tear in years. I’m not goin’ to start now. But then, I haven’t mentioned marriage to anyone in years either. Of course, I didn’t mention it to anyone just now.
Only you, Lord.
And you don’t count.
“Picket, did you know a person can spend too much time thinkin’? It’s true. A person ought to keep busy doin’ what they want to do, or at least what they have to do. Let’s trot to the ranch and tell Rocklin the news. He can do the ponderin’.”
Sam yanked the folded bank note out of his old leather vest and opened it up. Twenty-two thousand four hundred dollars . . . I’ve never seen that big a sum in my life. I wonder how Rocklin saved up enough to buy that herd in the first place? Maybe he sold a ranch down in Texas. Maybe he’s been savin’ all his life. I’ve spent the better part of fifteen years wishin’ I could get my hands on that much money, and now I can’t wait to give it to Rocklin and get rid of the burden of it.
What would you do, Sam Fortune, if this was yours? I’d go back to Texas and buy the home ranch. Fix it all up nice . . . then write to Dacee June . . . Robert . . . Todd—if he’s still alive—and say, “Come on home.”
I wonder if they buried Daddy in the Black Hills? Maybe I’d just dig up his bones and tote them all the way to Coryell County . . . that is, if I had twenty-two thousand four hundred dollars.
Which I don’t.
It was almost noon when he saw the July sun reflect off the three white tents at Rocklin’s ranch. Then the cottonwoods came up on the horizon. Then the barn frame appeared and, finally, the corrals.
The empty corrals.
“Where are all your pals, Picket? Maybe Kiowa took them all down to the creek, but I don’t know why.”
He spurred the buckskin into a canter and studied the horizon. There was absolutely no movement anywhere on the plains. No horses. No people. No coyotes. No birds. Even the pointed tips of the scalloped cottonwood leaves hung straight down without movement.
He had pulled out the Sharps carbine by the time he reached the corral. He tied off the horses, loosened the cinch, then walked to the tents.
“Kiowa?” he called. “Mr. Rocklin?”
He cocked the hammer on the carbine.
There was no sound of movement.
No shout of response.
No howl of wind.
Nothing but the crunch of his boot heel in the dry, yellow dirt and the jingle of his spurs.
The bunkhouse tent was completely bare.
Wherever you went, Kiowa, you took your bedroll, saddle, and gear. This isn’t sittin’ good. . . . I don’t like the way this feels. . . .
“Mr. Rocklin?” he repeated as he stepped back out into the heat of a July noon.
Some of the supplies seemed to be missing from the cook tent.
Sam paused before he tugged open the flap on Rocklin’s tent. Lord, I know I’ve rebelled against you for so long, I don’t even have the right to pray. But I’d like to ask you anyway . . . that this tent might be empty too.
Even before he threw open the flap, he could smell the answer. His shoulders slumped. His chin dropped. He eased the hammer down on the carbine.
“No!” he shouted. “No, Kiowa, no!”
Rocklin’s body was fully clothed and lying on top of his blanket-covered cot. A tiny spot of dried blood marked his chest, and Sam could see the indentions of two bullet holes. The body was stiff, but Fortune, stunned, searched the neck for a pulse anyway.
There wasn’t any.
He spun around and marched out of the tent. He sat down on the edge of the tent’s wooden platform and lowered his head between his knees.
“This is exactly what I prayed wouldn’t happen, Lord! All the way along the trail this morning I had it in my heart to change my life around. I wanted to get a fresh start. I wanted to walk away from the past. Now, look at this—look at this mess. Rocklin’s dead. Kiowa shot him and stole the horses. Rocklin didn’t even put up a fight. He let someone come right into the tent and pull a gun. He was too tough to let that happen, unless it was someone he trusted . . . like me . . . or Kiowa!”
I prayed, but I can’t trust you, Lord. You’ve given up on me and turned a deaf ear. I can’t get out of it. I can never escape. It’s like a bear trap. It gnaws the life out of me. My God, what I am going to do? Do I track down the only friend I have left? Do I shoot Kiowa? For what? So that I can have the horses? I can’t bring them back to Rocklin. Lord, my life might not be very important to you, but it’s the only one I have—and right now, it’s a bewilderment.
A quick hike around the perimeter of the corral revealed that the remuda of horses had been kept bunched and driven straight due west, even though the windswept tracks were difficult to read, at least a day old.
Sam searched the tents three times but could not locate the shovel. He stepped off a grave, anyhow, fifty feet north of the largest of the cottonwoods. He dug it with a two-by-four six feet long and a large cast-iron frying pan. He lowered Rocklin’s blanket-clad body and smoothed dirt over it, blending the grave site with the high plains.
With his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbow and sweat burning a track into his knife wound, he marched back to Rocklin’s tent. In a small, black leather case he found papers, letters, and personal items that included a small, leather-bound Bible. Sam tramped back down to the camouflaged grave site. After reading aloud Psalm 23 and Revelation 21, he stared down at the dirt.
“Lord, I don’t feel like praying. I don’t think you want to listen to me, and I can’t complain about that, because I haven’t listened to you for years. But Mr. Rocklin treated me square, and I treated him square. Have mercy on his soul. In Jesus’ name, amen.”
And have mercy on me and Kiowa, ’cause when I catch up with him, I don’t think I’m goin’ to want to pray.
He spent the remaining hours sorting through supplies and remodeling the old McClellan saddle into a packsaddle for the red roan mare. He built a small fire and cooked a little supper. He watched the stars come out, then disappear as a stiff wind whipped in from the west and storm clouds blew in.
Although he had spread his bedroll outside, the crashing thunder and vertical lightening strikes sent him to the bunkhouse tent. About midnight, the skies opened up and a deluge of rain blasted the tents and the dry, panhandle dirt. Then it hailed. For over a half-hour the roar of the storm sounded to Sam like a choir of angry knife blades dancing on the tent. When they began to slice through the canvas, he sat up, put on his hat, and wrapped the bedroll around his shoulders.
The hail turned back to rain, and—like a flash flood—the deluge melted the hail, except that inside the tent. Finally, as if taking its cue from a heavenly signal, all rain ceased at once.
The west winds picked up, and within minutes the clouds broke, the stars blinked on, and a half-moon appeared overhead. The wind died, leaving the air clean, fresh, almost cool. Sam opened both ends of the wall tent, tried to find a dry spot on his bedroll, and fell asleep with one hand on the receiver of the .50-caliber carbine.
It was a bright, beautiful, refreshing morning.
And Sam Fortune was depressed.
Extremely depressed.
He packed a hundred pounds of supplies on the back of the red roan, mounted Picket, then circled the horses by the recently dug grave.
“Well, Mr. Rocklin . . . ,” he tipped his still damp Stetson, “I trust the coyotes can’t dig your bones, and others will let you lie in peace. I’m sorry about this place not workin’ for you. I really wanted it to work. I prayed for it to work. The Bible says, ‘The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much,’ but I’m afraid the prayers of an Indian Territory outlaw aren’t worth much. You should have picked better friends.”
Fortune looked to the west.
“I guess . . . I ought to pick better friends too. I don’t know what happened here, but I’m going to find out. I pledge you that, Mr. Rocklin. I won’t rest until I figure it out.”
And I probably won’t rest then, either.
Six miles west of the ranch, Sam lost all trace of the remuda. The combination of steady wind, followed by the deluge of summer rain and hail, returned the desertlike plains to a virgin condition.
OK, Kiowa Fox. Where did you take those ponies? Somewhere to sell them? Somewhere to sell them where you wouldn’t be arrested?
That eliminates the I.T., Kansas, and most of Texas.
Black Mesa . . . they don’t care where the goods come from. But, they wouldn’t buy the horses. They’d shoot Kiowa in the back and take them. He knows that.
He’d go somewhere where he wouldn’t get arrested . . . or shot in the back.
And someplace where the women are real friendly.
“New Mexico!”
Tramperas . . . Cimarron . . . someplace along the Santa Fe tracks . . . he’ll sell the horses and chase the women until the money is gone.
Or until I catch up with him.
Someday you will have to answer to God, Kiowa Fox. But until then, you’ll answer to Sam Fortune.
The Long Trail Home Page 10
