“If he’s that powerful,” said Monte, “he could force us out of Denver; maybe even out of Colorado.”
They were nearing the same conclusion that McCaleb had already reached. What better way to widen the rift between Rebecca and McCaleb than to force them to trail the herd north to Wyoming or Montana? If they sold the herd in Denver, there would be no immediate need for them to move on. McCaleb could—and might—remain indefinitely. Wickliffe wouldn’t expect them, given a choice, to leave Colorado without Rebecca. When—if—she learned of this nefarious scheme, would she care? For the first time in his life Benton McCaleb felt himself at a disadvantage, as though he were headed for a showdown whose outcome was in doubt.
It was just as well they had not begun the drive to Denver sooner than they had planned. Four days after Rebecca had departed with Wickliffe, another blizzard laid almost two feet of new snow across the high plains, with drifts over a man’s head.
They rounded up their enlarged herd and headed it northwest on April 1. The ground was still frozen, snow remaining in shaded areas where the sun hadn’t reached it. Despite patches of blue sky and occasional sun, there was a chill north wind. They wore wool-lined gloves, heavy mackinaws over woolen shirts, and wool scarves to protect their ears. Even Goose, used to milder South Texas winters, wore a heavy white man’s coat over his buckskin shirt. Gradually the temperature crept higher, and as the snow began to melt, streams abounded. Every little gully, most always dry, now ran bank-full. The valleys where they bedded down the herd offered graze that was untouched. Creeks, lined with willow and box elder, boasted speckled trout aplenty.
“This is almighty fine country,” said Will, “but I miss Texas. Grass is greening there. I won’t ever forget the meadows with oceans of blue bonnets that just seem to roll on forever.”
“I wish you hadn’t said that.” Brazos grinned. “I never thought I’d miss Texas, but I reckon I do. Long as we was goin’ back for another herd, I didn’t think much about it, but this seems kind of…final.”
“I never had a state, or any place, I could miss,” said Monte. “The old man was always in trouble with somebody; usually the neighbors. We’d end up sneaking out of town during the night. Folks called us ‘them no-account Nances.’ ”
For McCaleb, already morose and silent, it brought to mind Rebecca and the things she had told him about her heart-breaking childhood. The talk had taken a negative turn and Will sought to change the subject.
“I wonder what Goose misses the most about Texas?”
Brazos caught the Apache’s eye and waved. Goose trotted his horse alongside and Brazos spoke to him. Suddenly the Indian grinned.
“Comanch’,” he said. “Comanch’ bastardos.”
They all laughed. Even McCaleb.
In mid-April they bedded down the herd ten miles south of Denver, on Cherry Creek.
“This is where they found the first gold,” said Will, “back in ’fifty-eight. If you got an early start and worked hard all day, you could clear seventy cents, easy.”
“I’m riding into town,” said McCaleb, “and I want Monte to go with me. I want some idea as to what we’re facing when it comes to selling the herd, and I need to know what Rebecca aims to do. Part of this herd is hers.”
Will and Brazos said nothing. While they doubted Monte could say or do anything to influence the girl, his riding with McCaleb was proof of McCaleb’s desperation.
They dismounted before the Tremont House, half-hitched their horses to the rail, and made their way into the lobby. To McCaleb’s disgust, the same stuffy, uncooperative clerk with whom he had tangled horns before was again at the front desk. He now wore a black and gold lapel pin that said his name was Wilkerson. McCaleb didn’t waste time on formalities.
“I have business with Jonathan Wickliffe. Is he in his usual room?”
“Mr. Wickliffe is not here, period.”
“Then where is he?” gritted McCaleb.
“I don’t interest myself in Mr. Wickliffe’s whereabouts or his business,” said Wilkerson stiffly. “However,” he continued with obvious relish, “I do not feel I’m intruding upon Mr. Wickliffe’s privacy or violating a confidence by telling you what seems to be common knowledge about the town. Mr. Wickliffe and his fiancée took the train to St. Louis last week. They planned to be married there, I believe.”
His smirk vanished and his face paled as McCaleb caught him by his red necktie and hoisted him halfway across the desk.
“What did you say?” shouted McCaleb.
Abruptly aware that he was choking the man, McCaleb released him. Wilkerson stumbled back against the wall. McCaleb stood there breathing hard, his fists clenched.
Wilkerson straightened his tie. Finally, regaining some of his old arrogance, he spoke. “Get a copy of the newspaper and read it for yourself; if you can read.”
Ignoring the insult, McCaleb made his way outside and stood on the boardwalk staring dumbly at the toes of his boots.
Shaken, Monte said, “Damn her, McCaleb, if she’s gone and done that, I’d as soon kill her as him! Why, he’s old enough to be her daddy!”
McCaleb’s initial fury had begun to subside, and Monte’s anger reached him. He spoke with far more calmness than he felt.
“We don’t know for sure, kid. Before we kill anybody, I reckon we ought to get a newspaper and see if what we’ve been told is anything more than a nasty rumor. She’s done some fool things, but surely not this.”
They bought two papers, seated themselves in a café and ordered coffee. They eventually found eight lines that neither confirmed or denied what Wilkerson had told them. The writer hadn’t mentioned Rebecca by name, referring to her with tongue-in-cheek style as Wickliffe’s “current fiancée.” He had merely posed a question regarding the trip to St. Louis. Would a single lady accompany a single gentleman on a journey as far as St. Louis for anything less serious than marriage?
“Current fiancée?” said McCaleb. “No newspaper would dare print that without a reason. Wickliffe’s planted this story and encouraged the gossip. He aims for us to bog down in this up to our ears. Suppose we take this for the truth and give Rebecca hell; what do you reckon she’ll do?”
“Marry the sonofabitch,” said Monte, “just to prove she can.”
“That’s why we’re not goin’ to let this light our fuse,” said McCaleb. “We’ll congratulate her and smile, if it kills us.”
Feeling a little better, they left the café. Despite his misgivings as to their prospects, McCaleb intended to try and sell their main herd. Then, just ahead of them, Dobie Hobbs stepped out of a saloon and stood on the boardwalk, waiting. His thumbs were hooked in his belt near the butts of his twin Colts. With a sneer he spoke.
“Soon as Mr. Wickliffe gits back, bucko, I aim to kill you. I want his new bride to have a front-row seat when I gut-shoot you. Nobody does what you done to Dobie Hobbs and goes on livin’. Nobody!”
CHAPTER 22
Word of the enmity between McCaleb and Hobbs had obviously spread, and as though by magic, men appeared in doorways and at windows. The boardwalk cleared as passersby removed themselves from a possible line of fire. Relaxed and ready, McCaleb said nothing. But Hobbs grinned, and apparently for the benefit of the spectators, swaggered back into the saloon from which he had come. A thin young man with a tablet under his arm and a pencil behind his ear approached McCaleb. He wore wire-rimmed spectacles, an old blue serge suit, string tie, and a white shirt that had seen too many washings. But none recently. He halted a dozen feet from McCaleb, as though uncertain of his welcome.
“I’m Bascom, with the Rocky Mountain News. You’re McCaleb?”
McCaleb nodded.
“What can you tell me about this, ah, feud between you and Hobbs?”
“Nothing,” said McCaleb.
“Hobbs claims it started over a woman; to be specific, the young woman who is the current companion of Jonathan Wickliffe. Hobbs says he’s been forced into this running fight with you because of yo
ur vendetta against Wickliffe. Have you anything to say in your own defense?”
“No,” said McCaleb. Without another word, he continued along the boardwalk, Monte following.
“That Hobbs is a lyin’ bastard,” said Monte. “Why didn’t you say so?”
“This is Wickliffe’s town, and Hobbs is Wickliffe’s man. Nothing I could say would make two bits worth of difference. Hobbs aims to bring this to a head when Wickliffe returns, and I reckon I’ll have to kill him. Or he’ll kill me.”
They had reached the Tremont House. Wilkerson was still on duty and exhibited little enthusiasm for another encounter with McCaleb.
“I want a room on the first floor,” said McCaleb.
“I told you I don’t have—”
“You also told me Jonathan Wickliffe’s out of town,” said McCaleb. “You have at least two rooms reserved for him. I want one of them; I’ll give it up when he returns.”
McCaleb didn’t offer to pay in advance, and so perturbed was Wilkerson that he failed to demand it. Sullenly he produced a key, and McCaleb took it. He unlocked the door to the room Rebecca had occupied and handed the key to Monte.
“You’ll be staying in town the rest of today and tonight,” said McCaleb. “I’ll send Will or Brazos to take over tomorrow. Stay out of the saloons. Be there in the morning when the train arrives from the east. Should Wickliffe and Rebecca be on it, ride back to the herd and get me.”
“She’s my sister and I—”
“You’ll have your say. Just don’t start anything on your own. This is Wickliffe’s town. You start a ruckus, sister or not, and you’ll end up in the juzgado. Wickliffe’s likely countin’ on us making fools of ourselves, so don’t do anything foolish.”
“But if she’s married that—”
“Then gettin’ yourself jailed or killed won’t change a thing. If she steps off that train wearin’ a diamond big as a horse apple, then you hightail it to camp and get me. Comprender?”
Monte nodded and McCaleb left the hotel. He walked to the outskirts of town, to the Kansas Pacific railroad tracks, along which a dozen stock pens had been built. He entered a barnlike building with a single word in foot-high block letters across its front: LIVESTOCK. A fat man, his booted feet on a scarred desk, sat tilted back in an old swivel chair. With agonized creaking of the chair, he dragged his feet off the desk and stubbed out his cigar in a coffee mug before him. He was blunt and his response was not unexpected.
“Wouldn’t be interested. I understand Mr. Wickliffe’s got an option.”
“Wickliffe made an offer,” said McCaleb, “which has been refused.”
“In that case, ten dollars a head.”
McCaleb didn’t even dignify that with a refusal. He rode past whorehouses on Market and Larimer streets and met an approaching column of heavy freight wagons arriving from the south.
“Hey, Texas!”
The whacker slowed one of the wagons and the little man who had been riding with him scrambled down. It was Salty, the stove-up ex-cowboy cook from Santa Fe. McCaleb reined up and waited for the limping old fellow to reach him.
“Salty, what’n tarnation are you doin’ here?”
“Things was gittin’ a mite too civilized in Santa Fe. Th’ railroad’s comin’ through fer shore. Th’ town’s come up with what they calls a Chamber of Commerce, an’ it’s sendin’ letters back East, invitin’ folks t’ settle in an’ around Santa Fe. Nex’ thing you know, they’ll be sodbusters a-plowin’ an’ a-plantin’, with not a longhorn cow in a hunnert mile. Some jasper done brung in a mess o’ sheep—ten thousant of th’ woolly bastards—an’ set up a sheep ranch in th’ north o’ Lincoln County. Some ranchers rimrocked ’bout a thousant woollies, an’ th’ sheepmen gunned down two cowboys. I might not be aroun’ t’ see it, but they’s gonna be war betwixt cattlemen an’ sheepmen. I tell you, th’ territory’s just gone plumb t’ hell, an’ I got out whilst I could.”
“What are you aimin’ to do here?”
“I dunno. I jist hitched on with th’ freight outfit ’cause I knew some of th’ whackers that’d come in th’ café. Reckoned I might tie in with some cow outfit needin’ a cook. I ain’t wuth a damn on a hoss, but I c’n cook an’ drive a chuck wagon. Jist t’ be part of a honest-t’-God cow outfit, I’d near ’bout hire on fer grub an’ a bunk. Ain’t needin’ a cook, are ye?”
“Got no chuck wagon,” said McCaleb. “Usin’ pack mules.”
“How many mules?” he asked, a calculating gleam in his eyes.
McCaleb grinned. “Enough to pull a chuck wagon, if we had one.”
“S’pose I could dicker fer one?”
“Then I reckon the outfit would welcome you,” said McCaleb. “The herd’s bedded down on Cherry Creek, south of here. We’ll be in these parts for a few days. We have Room 10 at Tremont House. If I’m not there, one of my outfit will be. We’re the Bar Six outfit; I’m Benton McCaleb.”
“Reynolds,” he said. “Salty Reynolds. Gran’ pappy fought in th’ Revolution, an’ whilst I was too little t’ object, they named me George Washington Reynolds. Y’ever call me anything but Salty, I’ll pizen yer grub!”
McCaleb rode on, strangely elated over his encounter with the old cook. He knew the outfit would welcome Salty, especially after Rebecca’s departure. They had come to depend as much on the girl’s cooking as they had on Charles Goodnight’s innovative chuck wagon. With or without Rebecca, the addition of a chuck wagon and a gifted, willing, full-time cook would be welcome. He had been touched by the wistfulness in Salty’s eyes, his longing for the open range, and his determination to return to it. Even if the old man had to swap his Texas saddle for the hard seat of a jouncing wagon…
The following morning, McCaleb sent Will Elliot to town. When Monte returned to camp, he brought some welcome news.
“The old-timer from Santa Fe—Salty—wants a couple teams of mules. Some outfit in St. Louis is buildin’ chuck wagons copied after Goodnight’s. One of the wagon yards in town’s got a couple of ’em. Salty says they’re seventy-five dollars.”
“That’s a powerful lot for a wagon,” said McCaleb innocently. “Can we afford it?”
“My God, yes!” said Brazos. “If it’s even close to Goodnight’s, it’ll be cheap at twice that. Especially when we got a cook that’s chompin’ at the bit to throw in with us. Take the money out of my share of the stake.”
When Brazos rode to town to relieve Will, Monte accompanied him, each of them leading a pair of mules. Brazos took with him money to pay for the new wagon, harness for the mules, and sufficient supplies to stock the chuck wagon. Monte and Will would return to camp with Salty. But Brazos and Monte had been gone less than an hour when Will rode in. He swung out of the saddle, his lathered horse attesting to a hard ride. He didn’t waste words.
“You’d better saddle and ride. Wickliffe and Rebecca came in on the morning train. I turned in the key at the desk and paid for the room. This may be tough on the kid; her bein’ his sister, he’s likely to do something foolish.”
“Is she…?” McCaleb couldn’t say the word, but Will understood.
“I didn’t like what I saw. When they stepped off the train…my God, I wouldn’t have known her but for Wickliffe struttin’ along. She’s done somethin’ with her hair; it’s different. She wore a long green dress that’s just about the color of her eyes. I swear, Bent, the Queen of England couldn’t have looked better….”
His voice trailed off, but he had said enough. No decent woman allowed a man to dress her in finery unless she was married to him. Or about to be. McCaleb hurriedly saddled his horse. It was Sunday afternoon, April 24, 1868.
Two or three miles south of town, McCaleb encountered Salty with the chuck wagon. Only Brazos accompanied him. It came as no surprise; McCaleb only hoped he reached town before Monte said or did the wrong thing.
McCaleb reined up before Tremont House, swung down and half-hitched his reins to the rail. The only other horse, a buckskin, bore the 6 brand on its left h
ip. Monte’s horse. McCaleb half expected to hear shots—or some kind of commotion—from the hotel, but again the kid surprised him. Monte came out of a café on the corner; he had been watching for McCaleb. But so had others. Some stood in doorways, and faces appeared at windows.
“Look at them,” growled Monte. “A flock of buzzards. Dobie Hobbs has been buyin’ the drinks, tellin’ everybody he’ll kill you before sundown.”
“What about…Rebecca?”
“I kept out of sight when the train come in,” said Monte. “Damn him, McCaleb, he’s got her all gussied up like he owns her. But that ain’t the worst of it; she’s prancing around like a high-steppin’ filly. I heard men sayin’ she ain’t no better’n a whore, running off with him like that. I’d gut-shoot a man for sayin’ that about her if it wasn’t the God’s truth. I waited for you, like you said. Now what are we goin’ to do?”
“Talk to her, I reckon. We’re leaving tomorrow, with her or without her. But she’s part owner of the herd; we can’t just leave without talking to her. It’s only fair to reach a settlement of some kind.”
They entered the lobby of the Tremont House and, ignoring the front desk, went directly to the room Rebecca had occupied before. McCaleb was not prepared for the vision that answered his knock. It was Rebecca as he’d never seen her before. Her dark hair hung in curls to her shoulders. Her flowing green gown had white lace at the wrists and about the collar. It was everything Will had said it was. And more. She was more beautiful, more desirable, than McCaleb had ever seen her. He drank her in, from her shining hair to the white slippers she wore. She clasped her hands in front of her as though to prevent their trembling, and even in the dim light from the hall there was the unmistakable twinkle of a diamond on her left hand.
The Goodnight Trail Page 34
