Black Wind Pass

by Rusty Davis

She was quiet a moment. “We were a Union family in Tennessee before the war. We lived not far from Nashville. We pretty much got run out of our home when Lincoln won in 1860. By 1861, there wasn’t any place that was really safe. We ended up on the run over to East Tennessee, where my Pa had some friends. They took us in but they didn’t really want to. When the Union army re-took Nashville, we thought we’d go back to the old house, but it had been ransacked and burned after we left. The army decided to use the land for some fort or other. We were in Nashville when Pa died at Shiloh.”

  “I was there,” he interjected.

  “Then you know,” she said. “Aunt Jess wanted us to come out here all along. She said that all the places we had ever seen were nothing compared to the wide open range out here. She said nobody here cared about the stupid war and we could start fresh. My parents wanted to stay in Tennessee. After Shiloh, there wasn’t much left to stay for, so Ma gave in to Aunt Jess and agreed to come out here, but she didn’t ever like it. She grew up in the woods, and all this wide open was like some foreign place to her. I thought it was the greatest place in the world, especially when the wind whips across the mountains and it blows away whatever is wrong inside your head. Watch a bear walk one of these meadows, you forget there’s a pack of people crying for more money or more something out there. I lost the first home I had; I got kicked around from place to place when no one in Tennessee wanted to take in a Union family; I had to leave there when the people who were supposed to protect me took over my home. I’m not getting pushed around and pushed out—not ever again. Not by Jackson Jones or Francis Oliver or anyone else. If I die here fighting for this, then I’ll take that, Carrick. Then I’ll haunt whoever kills me until the eagles stop flyin’. I’m not running ever again. Ever.”

  Carrick could feel the intensity of her dream. He recalled Jackson Jones. The same dream, different dreamers on a road bound for a collision. “It can’t be easy out here. You and your aunt taking on the world.”

  “ ’Cuz we’re women?”

  “That don’t make it easier.”

  She shrugged. “Not marryin’ some range rider who can’t do a day’s work without whining because tongues wag in town about two women livin’ alone out here. One of the Lincoln Springs gossips said something to Aunt Jess once she didn’t like; she never repeated it, and Aunt Jess dunked her in a horse trough.”

  Carrick grinned.

  “I don’t complain, Carrick. When it gets hard, I got all this to see and feel. It don’t get a lot better. People come out and talk about this city or that river. I thought Tennessee was perfect, Carrick, but then I came out here. Give me this, Carrick, until I die. It’s mine! I don’t know about ink and paper and laws. It’s part of me and I’m part of it. No one can tell someone where to go and where not to go. I don’t understand Jackson Jones. How can a man think he owns all of this for himself?”

  Whatever he was going to say was cut off by her exclamation of rage. “Look at that!”

  Carrick looked. One rider, by a small pond. He had a sack of something in his hands that he stopped dumping and dropped as he saw Reb and Carrick. A cloud of white was puffing up around him.

  “Our land!” she called. “Our pond. Somebody’s up to something!” She kicked her heels to the horse and was gone. “Stop, you!” she was screaming.

  Beast had not flat-out run in a long time. He was rested and well-fed. In a moment, he had caught up to Reb and Arthur. The rider up ahead had mounted, but he was losing the race. The man turned in his saddle to look back. He pulled a long gun from his saddle. Reb did not slow down or act like she saw the action. She was yelling. Carrick urged Beast forward faster, pulling his own rifle as he did.

  The rider was aiming at Reb. Carrick put the rifle to his shoulder and fired, as he had learned in the war. Five quick spaced shots. At this range, they might miss, but they would upset the aim of the man drawing a bead on Reb. He shoved the rifle back into the sheath and drew his pistol.

  The rider had lowered the rifle. If he fired, he had missed. Carrick called to him to drop the weapon. The rider didn’t respond. Then he slumped against the neck of his horse. The animal bucked. The rider limply flopped back and forth in the saddle as the horse tried to dislodge the burden on its back. Reb grabbed the frightened animal by the bridle. She saw three red holes in the man’s chest. Three hits out of five shots at fifty yards on horseback. She could do that on a good day at targets, but not on the back of a horse. Maybe there was something more to this Carrick than she had thought.

  “Know him?” asked Carrick.

  “Larry Gordon. Rode for us; went to Double J when the ranch started having tough times.”

  “Sure this is your land?”

  “Beyond the trees and that hill, we can’t keep an eye on everything. Not enough stock to fill up all the land any more, Carrick. It’s ours but Double J uses it. We don’t even try any more, Carrick, without riders willing to stand up for themselves. This, this is ours, Carrick. Double J never tried to push us out all at once; they gnaw off a piece at a time. We got maybe thirty, forty horses running out here. There are about twenty-five cattle in the southern pasture below the creek that borders Lazy F; that is, unless Oliver stole them all. Aunt Jess feels different but I hate that man! Crazy fool that still rides for us must be down there today. Half-breed Cheyenne; about the only one not scared of Double J. What was Larry doing here?”

  Carrick went to the sack. Salt. Simple enough. Dump enough into any standing water and it would ruin the pond until nature flushed the salt away. Nothing permanent; only a water hole out of commission as the hot season of Wyoming was starting. Clever. Devious. Double J meant Jackson Jones, but ruining water holes didn’t strike him as Jones’s style. One way to find out. He looked over the land as he tried to plan the next move. The man appeared to have been out on his own. He had killed another Double J rider. If the ball was going to be opened, he had done it. Better play out what had to happen next.

  Carrick unhooked the dead rider’s legs from the stirrups and tossed the man limply across the saddle. The horse was unhappy, but Reb had it under control. “You ready to go callin’ or you want to sit this dance out?”

  “What are you talkin’ about?”

  “Time to tell Jackson Jones that what he says and what his riders do are two different things.”

  Reb spent half the ride to Double J explaining to Carrick that he was crazy and that they were on their way to be killed. The rest of it was in silence after he told her if she had nothing better to say to be quiet and let him alone. After he lost his temper with her, she was quiet so long riding behind him that he half wondered what the odds were that she would shoot him if Double J didn’t.

  “They guard the gate, so ride hard behind me when we go in,” he told her when they stopped out of sight behind a rise. “I got words to say with Jackson Jones, and I don’t want some rider with a gun to get in the way.” He looked her over. Fear and resolution were both plain. “You don’t have to join the party, Miss Reb. You can wait here.”

  “ ’Fraid to find out you shoot second-best to a girl if it comes to that?”

  “Nope. Man has to protect his biscuit supply.” He grinned. Grit and spark were good things to have on your side. “Watch my back, Reb.”

  “Someone has to and this is my lucky day.”

  With a whoop he was off, leading the reins of the dead rider’s horse. She galloped to catch up. Soon they were at the Double J gate. A man under the tree moved to bar their way, but three running horses coming straight at him convinced him that it was not the best idea he’d had that day.

  When they reached the ranch’s yard, in front of the stone house, Carrick fired once in the air and called out for Jackson Jones. In a moment, the Double J owner filled the doorway, almost having to stoop to walk through.

  “Miss Lewis,” he said, lifting his hat. The tone hardened. “Carrick. Again. Something that can’t wait?”

  “Want to talk to you about men who make war on women,
Jones. Men who send men to poison waterholes, Jones. Men who push too hard too often. Men like you.”

  Jones, limping, stalked closer with a face contorted by anger. “No man talks to me that way,” he called. “Not in private, not with my men listening, and above all not on my ranch. Get down, Carrick. Man to man.”

  Carrick got down, but turned his back on Jones to cut the leather strips that bound Larry Gordon to his horse. He all but threw the man at Jones’s feet.

  “Explain why you sent a rider with a twenty-pound bag of salt to the water hole on Bar C range,” Carrick accused. “That’s not a man who’s about buildin’ dreams. That’s a sneak coward who deserves to get his face slapped hard and maybe that’s what I ought to do.” He took a step toward Jones, who stood tall and held up a hand. Carrick stopped.

  “Miss Lewis, is this story true?”

  “It is,” she called out. “Your rider was near the watering hole by where those three red oaks grow. You never graze there—ever. We caught him. I was showing Carrick here the range limits and we were barely a mile from our house. He tried to run and he tried to kill me. Carrick got him first.”

  “She doesn’t lie, Jones. You know that.”

  “I didn’t send him,” Jones declared, chin outthrust, cords of his neck standing out in anger. He turned to Petersen, the ranch manager having scurried over when the fuss was building. “Where’s Easy Thompson?”

  “The main crew went north because there were reports of Indians coming down from the Powder River country. He won’t be back for a few days.”

  “What do you know about this?” Jones’s voice took on a threatening edge. “Did you send this rider to salt a water hole?”

  “No. Never. I know nothing,” said Petersen, visibly shaken by the rage Jones was radiating. He stopped fidgeting with the boiled collar and cuffs he wore under his Eastern-style jacket and looked down at the ground. “I don’t know anything.” At that minute, Jones reminded Carrick of ancient kings of legend whose rages tore their own clothes and rent their own skin in their savagery. When Petersen spoke again, his oily tone was very subservient. “I never order the men without your approval. You know that.”

  Jones swung back to Carrick. “I gave no orders. Last I saw you, I told you I’d pay them women more than their place was worth. If they’d come right back and said they’d sell, the way they should have, nobody would have no trouble, Carrick! Guess they’re thinkin’ it over. When they stop eating, maybe they’ll start thinkin’ straight. This is the kind of trouble that happens when people don’t do what they ought!”

  “I am thinking straight,” Rebecca Lewis shot back, leaning down from horseback and glaring into Jones’s eyes. “I am doing what I should. I am protecting what is mine and you had better get used to it!” In the return glare that followed, Reb felt herself very thoroughly assayed and weighed. “No one takes what is mine,” she added, flicking back the hair that blew past her face and staring straight back into Jones’s angry face.

  The wind gusted and dust swirled, but no one moved. Carrick looked for one twitch that would signal a fight. He wanted to move his hand to his gun. Get Jones first. Reb’s eyes bored into the big man. Carrick waited. After a long silence, Jones turned back to Carrick. His face was unreadable. His tone was lower; the words barely carried to Carrick through the wind. “You come back here in a week, Carrick. I’ll get Easy and the crew back from the north ranges. We’ll get this figured.”

  Jones focused up at Reb. “Miss Lewis, you have my word that I have never ordered anything like this. I made no secret that I want your range. It’s business. Nothing personal. You ladies want to live your lives, you can have the house. I want the land. I need the land! You are not using this range to its full potential and I can. I will!” Jones stopped and made an effort to control himself. “I apologize that anyone from Double J acted in a way that is not worthy of this range. When I know more about this—and you can trust me that I will determine why this man was acting without my orders—I will inform you and your Aunt Jess. I wish you a good day. Do you need protection on your ride home?”

  Reb’s snappish manner had been blunted; she was clearly awed by Jones’s fervor and intensity. “Thank you, Mr. Jones,” she said, sounding to Carrick like she was dragging out manners learned for receiving company but not used very much since. “I, um, I appreciate your saying you had nothing to do with it, but it would be a sight easier to believe if Double J was not practically in my house every day. And I got all the protection I need with Carrick here and my Winchester. Your rider got what he deserved, and I guess it’s high time to put you on notice that I’m not going to warn the next Double J rider who trespasses on my land. I’m going to kill him—whoever he is.” Her eyes made the threat very clear and very personal.

  Jones frowned. Carrick again made ready to go for his gun. Jones had clearly been holding on to his temper. Reb’s final outburst may have pushed him over the boundary. Jones had a very odd look on his face. It was a moment before Carrick recognized it as a smile.

  “Miss Lewis, I commend your Aunt Jess for her efforts. I hope that when the day comes and I have a son, that he is as devoted to this land as you are. Perhaps we can come to an agreement based upon mutual respect. When Easy returns, we will all sit down together—you, me, your Aunt Jess, and Easy—and we will talk about the future of this valley. I believe that it is the responsibility of the strong to be wise. Perhaps—no, I say, as sure as the rocks below us—I need to know you and your aunt better.”

  “Mr. Jones . . .”

  The ranch manager was stopped in his tracks by a baleful stare. “Petersen, I do not need interference! I am running this range, and that means it will be run as it should be, not—as it seems today—as it is. Until we meet again, Miss Lewis. Please send my warmest regards to your aunt. You have my word your passage and your home range will be unmolested.” Jones raised his hat.

  His eyes locked with Carrick’s. “You are a stone that has rippled the waters, Mr. Carrick,” he said. “May I remind you that no matter how great the ripples, they dash themselves against the rocks and fade away. The stone, inevitably, ends up sinking to the bottom to be forgotten. You may be passing through; you may be from one of those syndicates trying to get a foothold in this range for some other purpose. I shot one of those men who came around last year, but I know there are more. You may even have told me the truth. In any case, Carrick, tread softly. I respect a fighter, but those who fight without honor deserve the punishment that shall fall to them. If you have misled the Lewis women, woe betide you. Good day, Mr. Carrick.”

  With that troubling valediction, Jones limped back to the stone lair where he dreamed his dreams of empire. “Petersen!” he bellowed. The ranch manager scurried to follow. The door slammed shut like a cannon’s blast.

  “Probably time to leave,” Carrick told Reb as he swung up into the saddle. “Follow close. Eyes front. They’re looking for an excuse.”

  “I’ll lead,” she said. Up close he could see tiny cracks in the mask of her pride, but she would show defiance to the world. He let her. Carrick mounted and rode behind her as they left the crowded farmyard amid a few whispers and mutterings, but without anything that resembled a challenge.

  They were out of sight of the Double J when Reb pulled her mount to the right by a small stand of pines. Carrick waited a minute, then followed. The interaction at the ranch was nagging at him, but he could not put his finger on what was bothering him. Jones was Jones. Reb was Reb. Strong people don’t get along until they yell a lot first. Something else. He’d seen curtains move inside the big house and knew they were being watched. Petersen had been glancing toward the house a few times, but the man was a nervous wreck trying to escape Jones’s wrath. He set that aside. Something was wrong with Reb, and that’s what mattered. The girl was pale when he reached her.

  “Carrick, what happened? Did I say what I think I said to that man?”

  “You did. Surprised a man who guards against surprises. T
hat you did. We stuck our heads in the lion’s mouth, Reb, and lived to tell about it,” he replied calmly. “Don’t you folks have this kind of fun without me?”

  “Did I really threaten Jones?”

  “All you did was talk plain talk to a man who doesn’t understand anything else,” he replied. “Seemed to work well. Had you ever met the man before?”

  “We met a couple of times at places where we nodded and said nothing more than what Aunt Jess says are pleasantries and I think are nothing but a waste of hot air.”

  “So Jones never knew who he was really dealing with. He thought he was dealing with two women running a ranch that was more than they could handle. That’s interesting,” remarked Carrick.

  “I thought they were going to kill us.”

  “No,” he said with calm authority, drawing a look. “Nobody is going to hurt you, Reb. Nobody is going to push you off your home. Not today; not any time soon. Not while I’m here and breathin’. Anyone who wants to get at you has to come through me, first.”

  “You expect me to believe it’s that simple, cowboy?”

  “Long as you talk like that and shoot like I hear tell you do, it’s that simple, Reb.”

  “Carrick, who are you? You ride in here, tell us you’re kin from the folks who had the ranch before us, but you barely took five minutes to look around the house. That doesn’t set right with me. You find trouble like a hound on a scent, and when you don’t find it you make it. And if it is there, you mix it up and make it worse. What are you doing here? What are you really doing? Jones talked about syndicates buying land; are you with one of them? And don’t give me this story about a wounded soldier who took six years to ride home after the war. Other men came back from the war. I’ve seen a few who moved out here after the war. They talk about the old days and the war like it was an adventure they’re glad they survived. They’re settled. You are different. I can see it in your eyes. They’re done fighting and you’re not. And you let me do it! You let me threaten a man who could wipe us off the earth if he chose. Oh, what have I gotten myself into?” Her voice was breaking as the strong front she put forth to face the world started to dissolve and tremble.