Trail Drive (The McCabes Book 5)
Page 22
Charles nodded. He flipped open the loading gate and dropped the empties to the ground and reloaded.
Carter said, “When someone’s shootin’ at you, you can’t afford to be off your game. You’re having a bad day, it can get you killed. Johnny McCabe can’t afford to have a bad day. And neither could I, back in the day.”
Charles slid the gun back into his holster and faced the fence. There were twelve more cans still standing. He drew, bringing his arm out to full extension and cocking the pistol as he did so, and began firing. Hauling the hammer back and pulling the trigger, again and again. Trying not to focus on marksmanship. Trying to just let the gun just be an extension of himself.
He got four of the six cans again.
“All right, boy,” Carter said. “Talk.”
Charles flipped the loading gate open and dropped more empties. He would have to ride into town soon for a couple more boxes of ammunition. It’s a good thing room and board were part of the deal at the McCabe ranch, or he would be going broke paying for cartridges.
He said, “This thing about a man trying to kill me. A man I never seen before. Have you ever had a man want to kill you, but you didn’t know why?”
Carter hesitated a moment, like he was searching his memories. It struck Charles as a little amusing and yet unsettling that Carter had to think about it before he could give an answer.
Carter said, “Nope. As I remember, everyone wanted to kill me, I knew why. Couldn’t blame most of ‘em.”
“Well, I’ve got to know why. Because if I don’t, then how do I know someone else won’t be coming to finish the job?”
Carter nodded. “Good point. All right, think about it. Do you have any enemies?”
“None that I know of. Except for Aloysius Randall.”
“Just about everyone around here could call him an enemy. But if he was gonna start hiring men to kill people, I don’t think you’d be his first target. Probably Johnny McCabe, then Dusty or Josh, or both of ‘em. And Victor Falcone. Maybe that preacher in town, Matt’s son. Get him out of the way, too.”
“Then, it has to be someone else.”
Carter nodded again. “That’s the way my line of thinkin’ would go. Where you from, boy?”
Bree knew, but she was about the only one. He said, “New York.”
Carter gave him a curious look. “Really?”
Charles nodded. “Brought up in the heart of Manhattan.”
“You sure don’t sound it. And you don’t act like no city feller I ever met. I figured you was from Virginia or some such place.”
“Well, I’ve been out west a long time.”
“All right. Anyone back there in New York want to kill you?”
Charles shrugged. “I can’t imagine who. I never caused trouble.”
“Think about it. Somewhere out there is someone who wants you dead. Who would benefit from your death?”
And then it occurred to him, but the thought gave him a chill that ran all the way to his bones. Could it be possible?
Carter was looking at him. He saw the look that came over Charles. Carter said, “Who?”
Charles looked at him. “My brother.”
52
Granny Tate spent three nights at the McCabe ranch, tending to Fred. She had expected him to die within hours, but he didn’t. His breathing was shallow and his heart beat was fast and weak. But he continued to breathe, and his heart continued to beat.
The next day, he seemed to be holding his ground.
Haley said, “Is that a good sign?”
Granny Tate shrugged. “It ain’t a bad one, child.”
Granny went downstairs, taking each step one at a time, using her cane and holding onto the railing with one hand. Then she joined Ginny in the kitchen.
“If I may be so bold,” Granny said, “I could surely use a cup of tea.”
“You may indeed be so bold,” Ginny said with a smile. “I was just fixing one, myself.”
Ginny fixed two cups of Earl Gray, while Granny sat at the table.
“My land, but that’s good tea,” Granny said.
“I have an unopened box of it. I would be pleased if you took it home with you.”
“Oh, I couldn’t.”
Ginny nodded. “Yes, Granny, you could. You never accept payment. At least let us do something for you, once in a while. It would mean a lot to me.”
Granny looked at her through spectacles with lenses that reminded Ginny of magnifying glasses. The old woman squinted and Ginny wasn’t sure just what she saw. And yet, Granny seemed to miss nothing.
Granny said, “Well, if you insist.”
Ginny smiled. “I insist.”
Granny Tate took another sip of tea. “That young man upstairs is still hanging onto life.”
Young man, Ginny thought with a smile. Fred was past fifty. But to Granny, probably everyone around here seemed young.
Ginny said, “This reminds me of when Johnny was shot. All we could do is sit and wait.”
“Fred took only one bullet, and Johnny took two, but in a way, Fred is hurt a lot worse. He lost a lot more blood. And he was layin’ outside for a long time. Even though the boys treated him for infection with corn whiskey, it might not be enough. His wound is deep and dirt can get inside. Dirt can cause infection, even in a wound that’s been cleaned good.”
Granny stayed on for another day. Fred’s breathing began to grow more even, and his heart rate became stronger.
On day three, he opened his eyes.
He said, “I’ve been shot.”
Granny was smiling. “That you have, child. Shot real good, too. Thought you weren’t gonna make it.”
“I feel weak as a kitten.” His voice was light and whispery.
She nodded. “It’s gonna be a while before you’re back to full strength. Maybe a long while. That bullet tore you up real bad inside. But I think you’re through the woods, now.”
Granny headed home that afternoon. Ginny drove her in her buggy.
As they rode along, Granny said, “You keep an eye on him. He might be through the woods, but he ain’t all the way through. I’ll be out to check on him every day. But you watch out for fever. Any sign of it, you send someone for me right away.”
Ginny nodded. “I won’t hesitate.”
When Ginny got back, she found Haley standing in the bedroom doorway.
Haley said, “Fred’s sleeping again. Do you think Granny’s right? He’s really going to make it?”
Ginny said, “I would put Granny Tate’s medical knowledge up against any doctor I have ever met.”
“She’s really old.”
Ginny nodded. “Yes, that she is.”
“Have you ever thought about what we’ll do when she’s gone?”
Ginny had to admit, she never had. Granny Tate was one of these people who seemed to be so implanted in the lives of those around her that it was difficult to imagine life without her.
Haley said, “I want her to teach me.”
53
In the morning, Aunt Ginny asked Charles to hitch a team to the buggy for her.
She had said, “I’ll be going into town to check on Hunter, then I’ll pick up Granny Tate and bring her out so she can have a look at Fred.”
Charles said, “You want me to come along?”
Ginny shook her head. “Thank you, but no. I won’t be alone. Haley’s coming along.”
Charles was in jeans and a white shirt, and his pistol was at his belt, but now worn toward the front of his left side and turned for a cross-draw. Something Mister Carter had said some men did. Charles found this method of drawing a gun was working fine for him.
Bree was outside with him, holding a cup of coffee in one hand. She was in an ankle-length skirt, but her pistol was buckled about her hips. Charles doubted she would be comfortable going without it for a while, after being held hostage by that man Moody.
Charles had never seen Bree look afraid until that day. The memory stayed with him, and maybe it
was what drove him strongest in his sessions with Harlan Carter.
As he worked on hitching the team, he said, “I wonder how long it’ll be before Fred can take over wrangling duties.”
Bree shrugged. “He’s lucky to be alive at all. Granny Tate said she’s seen men shot not nearly as bad, but who died. He’s worse-off even than Pa was, after that raid three summers ago.”
Once the rig was ready, Aunt Ginny and Haley climbed in. Aunt Ginny had a hat pinned to her hair and a shawl about her shoulders.
Charles said, “You sure you don’t want me to come along? I could saddle a horse right quick. It would be no trouble at all.”
Aunt Ginny said, “Charles, that man is dead. He’s no more danger to us. We’ll be fine.”
Haley took the reins. She gave them a snap and made a clucking sound with her mouth, and the team started forward.
Charles and Bree stood and watched the buggy make its way down the trail toward the wooden bridge.
“I wish you would tell me what’s going on at the Carter house,” Bree said. “You’ve been there almost every morning for a week.”
Charles said, “I could go for a cup of coffee.”
He started for the kitchen door.
Bree said, “Now you hold on, Charles Cole. You’re not getting away that easy. I asked you a simple question.”
Charles climbed the back steps and was into the kitchen. Temperence was cutting up some chicken that had been killed that morning. She was going to watch Jonathan while Haley was off with Aunt Ginny. The boy was on the kitchen floor, in the wicker playpen Johnny had made.
Temperence said, “I’m gonna bake up some chicken for dinner. That all right with you two?”
Bree was right behind Charles and said nothing, but Charles said, “That’d be right fine.”
“Charles,” Bree said.
She reached up to grab his shoulder. She had to really reach up to do this.
She said, “I know you’re doing something that involves guns. You come back smelling like gun smoke. And I see you wearing you’re gun different now.”
He said, “Bree. I don’t really want to talk about it.”
“Why are you here this morning?”
“With Fred shot, there’s one less man here to do the work. I have to do the work I had been planning on doing, and the wrangler work, too.”
“So you’re not going over to the Carter house today?”
“No, ma’am.” Then he said a little more quietly, “Mister Carter’s comin’ over here this afternoon.”
“Fine,” Bree said, in the way a woman does that lets a man know it’s really not fine. “You don’t want to talk about it.”
“No, I don’t. I guess I just ain’t ready, yet.”
“Then let’s talk about that man who was here, holding us prisoner and wanting to shoot you.”
Temperence visibly shuddered. She said, “That’s something I never want to think about again.”
Charles had been putting some thought into who might have sent that men. Who could possibly want him dead. Then one name occurred to him, and the thought chilled him. He had talked to Carter about it, but to no one else.
But now Bree was asking. He didn’t want to lie to her about anything at all. He believed marriage was in the future for them, and he wanted to build the kind of marriage Mister McCabe and Miss Jessica seemed to have. A love like they had was rooted in honesty.
He figured he could say he didn’t know who sent the man, because he didn’t really know for fact. But in reality, he knew he could get away with this kind of thing for only so long, and by the way Bree was looking at him, he thought maybe he wasn’t going to get away with it much longer.
She said, “Charles, I see how nervous you are about any of us going to town. Whatever it was that man was here for, you know fully well what he wanted, and you know it’s not over.
Bree slid a kitchen chair out for him, and pulled out another chair for herself.
He sighed with resignation. He wasn’t getting out of this. He went to the stove and poured himself a cup of coffee, and then took the chair.
Temperence was at the counter, working a knife through the chicken on a stone cutting board Johnny had made years ago. She looked over her shoulder at them and said, “Maybe you two would be more comfortable in the parlor. Have some privacy.”
Charles shook his head. “No. We’re all family here. Maybe it’s high time I told you all.”
Bree sat and waited. And it was all Temperence could do not to abandon the chicken and scurry over to the table and grab a chair.
Charles said, “You all know I’m from New York.”
Bree nodded.
But Temperence said, “I didn’t know that. You don’t talk alike anyone I ever met from New York.”
He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Well, I’ve been in the West a long time. Spent a lot of time with drovers from Texas, at one time. But I originally come from New York.”
“Where about?”
“The city itself.” He looked at Bree. “And I told you how my father was mean and more than willing to take the back of his hand to my brother and me.”
Bree nodded.
“There’s a lot more to my background than that.”
Charles took a long sip of coffee and then he began talking about his life in New York, and why he had left it behind. And how when he left it behind, he had left behind enough money to buy the entire town of Jubilee two or three times over.
Bree’s mouth was hanging open. So was Temperance’s.
“Why didn’t you tell me any of this before?” Bree said.
“I told you about my father.”
“But you didn’t tell us about the money. How rich you are.”
“Was. How rich I was. And the reason I didn’t was because look at the two of you. You don’t see me as the same. I’m still the same man I was, but you’re looking at me like I’m someone totally different.”
“No,” Bree said, embarrassed at herself. “I don’t mean to, at least. It’s just that...”
Temperance said, “It’s not every day you meet someone who’s rich. You must make Aloysius Randall look like a beggar.”
“You don’t understand,” Charles said. “When I walked away from that life, I left behind the money, too. None of it’s mine. I don’t want it. All I have is the money in my pocket that’s left over from the last payday. I want to make it in this world by the sweat of my brow and the strength in my back.”
Bree said, “You mentioned that man in town who was looking for you told you your parents had died.”
Temperance said, “How does any of this tie into the man who tried to kill you?”
“Legally, the money belongs to both my brother and me. This man Wellington—he’s the family attorney, apparently. I told him I was willing to sign it all over to my brother, but Wellington said there was nothing I could sign that could prevent me from showing up years later and trying to claim it. The only way my brother could have full, clear, undisputable claim to the entire family fortune would be if he was the only heir.”
Bree sat for a moment, looking at him. Digesting all of this. Then she said, “Do you mean you think your brother is trying to have you killed?”
He shrugged. “It would solve a lot of problems for him.”
Temperance said, “But he’s your brother. You grew up with him. Could he really be capable of that?”
Charles looked at her, and said, “My brother? Considering the family I come from? I would say, yes.”
54
Carter said to Charles, “You ever know why I didn’t want Nina marrying Jack?”
Charles had no idea Carter had ever been against Nina’s marriage to Jack. But he said nothing.
Carter said, “It weren’t that I didn’t think he was a good man. I think he thought that, at least for a while, but it wasn’t true. It was that I wanted her marrying a man who was just a farmer. A man who worked hard sun-up to sundown and could be a good husb
and to her and a good father to their children. I didn’t want her marrying a man who knew how to kill five different ways with his bare hands. Someone who was too good with his gun. I didn’t want her marrying someone like me. I could see it in his eyes, the first time I met him. You ain’t like that. You’re just a regular man. I wish I could have been like you. But when I’m done with you, you’ll be like me. Like Jack.”
They were leaning against the rail fence. They had just got done shooting a line of cans from it, then standing up more cans on it and reloading and doing it again. And again. Charles could still smell gunsmoke in the air.
Charles said, “Was I wrong in asking this of you?”
Carter shook his head. “That man who was holding the McCabe women hostage—he was a killer. And he was looking to kill you. More are gonna come, especially if you’re right about your brother. You have to be ready.”
Charles nodded.
“Break time’s over. Reload.”
Charles began thumbing cartridges into his pistol. He said, “Do you really know five different ways to kill a man with your bare hands?”
Carter gave a little chuckle. “Well, maybe only two or three.”
55
They needed to take some time off from training. Carter had work waiting for him at the farm, and Charles was now not only the acting ramrod of the ranch, but now he was also the wrangler. Carter also wanted to go into town and check on Tom McCabe. Turned out Falcone had taken a bullet the Saturday before, and Tom was wearing the marshal’s badge while Falcone recovered.
Tom McCabe was a man who puzzled Charles a little. He was pastor of the Methodist church, and yet he often wore a gun, and he wore it like he knew how to use it. Low and tied down. And the look in his eye was the same look he saw in the eyes of Josh and Dusty. The look of a gunhawk. And Carter spoke of him as an equal, the way he did Marshal Falcone or Johnny McCabe.
“I’m sure Tom can handle things,” Carter said. “But I’m gonna go in and make sure he’s all right, anyway.”
They had a thunderstorm one night, the kind that can descend on you from out of the mountains as though with the holy wrath of God himself. Rain pounding the house like it wanted to break in the roof. Wind that rattled the windows. At one point, hail started falling.