Black Wind Pass

by Rusty Davis

  Carrick’s fragile temper snapped. He grabbed the man’s shoulder. “A map of what?” he snarled.

  “Coal. Men came through a while back to take samples. There’s coal all through that valley. The map is pretty much where the most of it is. The railroad is negotiating,” the clerk stressed the word as though it somehow was important “with a major ranch owner to open up a mine there that would provide coal for the Union Pacific. Because property records here in Wyoming are so informal, the owner is in the process of clearing title to the land, proof that any court in the United States will accept, without which, of course, the Union Pacific cannot enter into a binding agreement.”

  “Who is the owner?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but business deals are confidential . . .”

  “That’s my range, mister, and nobody is digging it up for coal while I can run one cow or one horse on the land above it. Now who is telling you he can let you turn that range into a mine?” The clerk stammered. Carrick’s hand was now tightly gripping the butt of his gun, a fact not lost on the clerk. “Who?”

  “The man’s name is Francis Oliver,” said the clerk. “He will sell us all of the land he owns, but we won’t take it all for the mine. We will work with the ranchers in the valley, because we know they supply beef for our camps and trains. You should welcome progress and not fight against it. Mr. Oliver has been very accommodating. The Union Pacific was approached by this man months ago when he said he was sure there was coal on his land. If there is a problem in . . .” he squinted at the map “. . . the Buffalo Horn Valley, it has nothing to do with the railroad. We need coal and we will buy from those who can provide it. We have an agreement with Mr. Oliver that is good until the end of the month. If there is something you wish to discuss, I suggest you talk to him. That was the advice I gave the other man.”

  “What other man?”

  “A much nicer and more polite gentleman,” the clerk replied. “He was about your height, clean-shaven, and dressed nicely. He was asking about the kinds of deposits in the area. I think he was thinking about mining for iron, but I told him that the railroad has a very strong market for coal and that it would be very much to his advantage to supply us with it. He thanked me very much for my time. I did not see him again. That was, oh, perhaps a month ago. It was before Mr. Oliver’s agreement was prepared, but after our surveyors conducted their expedition to the valley.”

  Carrick roughly thanked the man for the information and left. He wondered about the identity of the “other man.” Was there someone in town who was speculating in land? One of these syndicates Jones had mentioned? It was possible. He tried to think of the men he had met in the valley. No one came to mind as a match.

  Coal! Oliver didn’t care about the range; he wanted to get rich in coal. Carrick guessed Oliver wanted title to the range; then he could either own a mine or sell the land to one of those syndicates. That made sense. If he did that, he would not care what the range said about him after he was gone. Carrick thought back. Oliver had known for months about the coal; he probably had lied to the railroad men who took samples that it was his range. That’s why he was trying so hard to grab the old Bar C range. He could try all he wanted, but, as long as Carrick was alive, and Reb was Reb, he’d never get it.

  Ranch life resumed what could have been normal except Carrick knew storms were brewing. The new hands didn’t mind work; Jess liked having a crew. Carrick tried telling Jess about Oliver’s plans for the land but she started crying when he mentioned Oliver’s name, then said a bunch of words ladies don’t usually say. He didn’t bring it up again. When it was over they could figure out what to do with the coal that could make the ladies rich. First, they had to protect it, something Carrick had grimly promised himself he would do, no matter what it cost.

  Jessie noticed a change in Carrick since the death of his friend. He spent more time with the widow and her children. He had carved toy horses and cows for them. They played roundup with the toys. At night, Carrick often went to the bunkhouse where all the families were living to tuck the children in. One day she commented on it to Reb.

  “As if he doesn’t have enough things to do!” the younger woman shot back. Jess did not raise the subject again.

  When Carrick was sleepy one morning after staying up through the night when one of the Ramsay children was ill, Reb had lost her temper. “Them kids are her business, not yours. Her kids always need something. Why are you the one that has to be there for ’em?” All she got by way of a reply was a mumble.

  One morning when Carrick had ridden to the south pasture to check with Randy on the cattle, Eileen Ramsay and Reb all but collided in the ranch house kitchen. Reb felt sorry for the woman, but, from what she could see, Eileen was trying to put a rope around a horse that already had another brand. She grumbled a greeting and hurried to finish her coffee so that she could get her own work done.

  “Rebecca?” Reb stopped. The woman must need something. Her kids always needed something. “When are you and Rory getting married?”

  Whether it was the coffee spilled all over the floor or the look on Reb’s face, Eileen was launched into a spasm of laughter to which even Reb was not immune. When they were through, they sat down at the table—one Carrick had recently made so more adults could sit together at a meal.

  “I guess I asked the wrong question,” Eileen began. “I’m sorry. I look at you two and I remember Colt and I when we were first married.”

  “Carrick hasn’t asked me about that,” Reb said. “Don’t know what he’s thinking. I got work to do.”

  “He probably never will,” Eileen replied, putting a hand on Reb’s arm to keep the high-strung young woman from darting off again. “He was never a talker. Before I married Colt, when I was a girl, I would have some wild times with Colton and Rory. Even when we were having fun, he was quiet. He was either listening or watching. He could spot adults before they got anywhere near. Now, he acts like a cat almost—looking whether there is anything there to see or not.”

  Reb didn’t know what to say. Social talk with other range women happened once a year and usually revolved around them asking her when she was going to get married or talking about sewing and things she didn’t know anything about.

  “You two are made for each other,” Eileen continued. “I . . . I know that it may sound odd to you after the way things worked out, but Colton was a good husband. I know it was not the life everyone would choose, but he was what he was from the day I met him until . . .”

  Reb hated tears. “Don’t cry, Eileen. You and your kids are safe here and . . . and you folks are welcome here. I know you know Carrick right well, but he ain’t the only one here that fights for what he wants. Aunt Jess and I, we’ve had people after us a long time and they haven’t gotten us yet.”

  “I only wanted to tell you, Rebecca, that men are funny animals. If you love a man and want to marry him, don’t wait forever. I don’t know that Colton and I lost a day. Maybe we knew from the start we wouldn’t have forever. One day, it ends.” Eileen Ramsay stood up and patted Reb softly on the shoulder. “You can lose a lifetime waiting, girl. Don’t.”

  Francis Oliver was drunk. He was so close to everything a man could ever want, but he had been blocked again. He’d known the day he arrived in the valley that it could be an empire. He’d come with nothing, and was making that into something when Jackson Jones appeared, better-heeled and able to move faster. Lucinda had been bought. She should have been his.

  He had been shrewd and skillful in seizing every opportunity that came along. He was a better businessman than Jones. The women who ran the old Bar C were teetering, and he was sure he was going to get their land. Then Carrick came back and ruined everything. Even having Jones out of the way didn’t make things easier. There wasn’t enough common border between Lazy F and Double J that he could grab what was now available because no woman could properly run a ranch. Ram-say had seen the price of crossing him. Pretty soon, Carrick and the women would learn that
lesson, too. It would need to be soon. Time was not on his side. He avoided direct confrontations because he knew the risks were higher. This time he might have to make an exception, or be relegated to an obscure ranch forever.

  His confrontation with Lucinda Jones at the funeral had been typical of his luck. After paying his respects, he turned the conversation to the future. That fancy ranch manager Jones had hired—Petersen—was glued to her side. When Petersen got called away, Oliver had broached the subject of marriage now that her husband was gone. Combining ranches would make them the king and queen of the valley, once the old Bar C was out of the way. She all but slapped him. “I am not that desperate,” she had snapped.

  “How desperate are you?” he shot back. She had blanched at that, eyes coals of hate staring back. There was more than anger. A nerve had been hit. He had ridden home from the funeral wondering what Lucinda Jones was hiding. Lucinda was only a woman, though. This Carrick was the problem. Unless his luck changed soon, he’d have to risk taking the old Bar C on. Then, anything could happen.

  Oliver was sitting in his usual chair by the fire, bottle on the table to his right. He didn’t bother with a glass. This night he had drunk more than usual. Instead of retiring to bed, he leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. As he slipped into a sleep, he slid lower and lower in the chair.

  He snapped awake as the chair pitched forward and wood splinters dug into his face. He rolled onto the floor. More splinters flew as he saw a chunk of the chair fly up. He heard the distant sound of voices yelling.

  “Boss?” Harvey Edwards, his foreman, rushed through the door. He saw Oliver on the floor, blood from cuts on his face and holes in the chair he sat in every night by the fire. “Boss is shot! Get help!”

  Edwards ran to Oliver, who was sobering up rapidly. “What happened?” said Oliver.

  “Somebody took a shot at you, Boss,” Edwards replied. “Sniper from up the hill. We heard the buffalo gun. Didn’t think about the first shot much. Second one didn’t sound right. Too close. You hit?”

  Oliver explained it was splinters and sent Edwards and the crew to chase whoever had taken the shots. Edwards returned after a while, crestfallen.

  “No luck, Boss. Whoever it was knows his way around. Horse was saddled over the hill; sniper must have walked down on foot and then rode away.”

  “Ride into town. I want Dan Hill and the law arresting Carrick. Had to be him. Hill needs to arrest him, and if he won’t ride out there and do his job I’ll find a sheriff who will. Tell him that!”

  Dan Hill rode slowly and reluctantly to the gate of the Lewis ranch. Reb Lewis’s temper and affinity for guns were legendary. Carrick had proven himself a killer. Only the prodding of the town’s council had pushed him to make the trip at all. He was sure it was a fool’s errand. Whether Carrick was guilty or innocent, he was hardly going to admit trying to kill Oliver.

  Jessie Lewis ushered Hill inside with as much respect as she thought the law was entitled to, no matter who wore the badge. He stumbled through a recitation of his mission, while staring at Jesse. He did not want to antagonize Carrick or Reb, both of whom had been waiting when Hill rode up—armed as always. It was silent for a while after he finished talking.

  “Didn’t shoot at him,” Carrick said. “Wouldn’t miss if I did.”

  “Me, neither,” said Reb. “What makes you think Oliver didn’t make up this story?”

  Hill explained that there were witnesses, and the town was worried that there were too many shootings on the range. If the army and the territory had to step in, it would be bad for everyone, he told them.

  “Sheriff,” said Jessie, “none of us want anything from Francis Oliver except to be left alone. We have one buffalo gun at our ranch. It’s too big for me, with too much of a kick. Reb doesn’t use it. It probably has so much dust on it that you can tell from looking at it, assuming I can find it, that it hasn’t been fired. Would it help you if we showed you that?”

  “It would, Miz Lewis,” Hill replied. “I got to answer to the town.”

  “Well, tell them Carrick was with me,” exclaimed Reb.

  “Rebecca Lewis!” interjected Jess.

  “We were sitting in the front yard of this house with rifles waiting for Francis Oliver to ride in so we could shoot his fool head off,” she said, turning red and stammering. “That’s where we were! Taking turns sleeping by the fire and guarding. Anyone doesn’t believe that, they can come here and tell me to my face!”

  Carrick nodded regretfully. He had not wanted anyone to know he was keeping watch. “I’m not taking chances, Sheriff. Nobody left here that night. Oliver leaves us alone, I’ll do the same.”

  Hill still asked to be shown the gun. The range was starting to believe that between the two of them, Reb and Carrick might be the most deadly shooters in all of Wyoming. Taking their word to the town on a subject that involved guns was like a promise from a snake not to bite. Jessie showed him the weapon, which not only had dust, but cobwebs. Hill sputtered apologies and fled, moving more quickly leaving than he did arriving.

  “What do you think this is all about, Carrick?” asked Reb.

  “Oliver trying to get to us through the law, Reb,” said Carrick. “No better way for him to pretend that someone is after him than to have a hand shoot his chair and then use that to get me arrested. Man’s got a million angles; none of them work. Sooner or later, though, the man is going to have to do his own dirty work, Reb. That’s the day that worries me, because it can’t be much farther away.”

  Now that the custom of keeping watch at night was no longer a secret, Carrick adopted the Double J habit of stationing someone armed by the ranch house every day, as well as standing guard at night. He had no idea where, when, or how trouble would strike; only that it would. He cleared the ranch yard of anything that could be used by an attacker as a place to hide if they were forced to defend the house. If Oliver was up against a deadline, he was going to have to either act or throw away his dreams.

  It was a clear cloudless night, with the summer heat fading as the sky darkened into a blue-black backdrop for the stars. Carrick was standing by the gate to the ranch yard. He could smell the coffee before he heard the footsteps.

  “Gonna stand guard every night if I get coffee.”

  Reb smiled. “I couldn’t sleep. I don’t think Aunt Jess sleeps much these days, either. It’s odd, Carrick. We got the biggest crew I think I’ve seen in years. Eileen drives them harder than I do. Double J isn’t always pushing the way they were. That snake Francis Oliver knows he can’t do something sly to get his hands on our land. We’re stronger than ever but I feel more nervous than ever.”

  “You know with livestock what you got,” he told her. “Disease, weather, they get hurt. People? You don’t know with them. It goes back to Jones. His power, his ambition ruled the whole valley. Now there’s no one in charge; no one controls all the rest. By the nature of things, this place will grow stronger. Double J is going to stay strong. Lazy F ended up the odd one out. He did everything he could on the sly to get rich. He reached for what wasn’t his and got his hand slapped. Sooner or later, and my bet is on sooner, he’s got to come out in the open. When he does, Reb, the man pays.”

  “Keep your voice down and watch what you say about shooting people around Aunt Jess,” Reb chided. “Or do you want another scolding?”

  “Think she’ll scold me for pointing a gun at Oliver the same as she would with Easy Thompson?”

  She laughed. “Easy is such a big old bear. I think he read his manners in a book somewhere, about the only one he ever read, but he is so nice to her. A woman likes a well-mannered man, especially if a woman thinks she might want to get married to said well-mannered man.”

  Carrick tried to fathom Reb’s expression in the darkness. “Somebody tryin’ to tell me something?”

  “Somebody ever gonna ask me something? Girl keeps waitin’. Girl gets impatient. Impatient girls have itchy trigger fingers, Carrick. Read that in a book,
once, I think. A book of manners for frontier girls.”

  Carrick drew in the dirt with the toe of his boot for what seemed to Reb like forever. “Reb Lewis, I don’t have the slightest idea if either of us is gonna be alive tomorrow. I don’t know anything but living with a gun in my hand. I’ve ridden from Kansas and Texas here, and I see men settling down. I don’t know if I know how to plant and plow and sell and buy. I still wake up and see that Abilene street. I dream about Uriah’s brother. Forever is a long time, Reb, and it scares the life out of me. You need a man who is everything you deserve, not the nearest cowboy who doesn’t think he can live without you.”

  “Oh, Carrick! What if a girl knows better than some cowboy does? Ever think about that? Ever just plain think, period? If I waited for you to tell me what I wanted I’d be waitin’ forever. Girl knows what a girl needs.”

  “In that case, come here!” He set the coffee on a fence post and opened his arms. She came into them. In time, they sat on the fence and held each other’s hands underneath a black sky dotted with stars, a map of heaven bigger than any words. They sat closer. She put her head on his shoulder. And underneath a sky filled with the silent wonders of a Wyoming night, she drifted and dreamed.

  She awoke with a start. Carrick had lifted her to her feet and was moving toward the sound of hooves. He chambered a round.

  “Gonna shoot if you don’t stop and tell me who you are.”

  Randy’s voice emerged from the dark. “It’s me. I rode to warn you. We may be having company soon.”

  A small fire, for warmth, was flickering by the house. Carrick led Randy to it, holding Reb’s hand as they walked. Carrick saw Randy notice and returned the questioning glance with a tight smile. His friend knew better than to say anything.

  They sat down by the fire. Randy spoke at last. “Remember Will Greene?”

  Reb flushed. “He wanted to marry me when I was fourteen and sang to me and I threw mud on him. Poor man. I think he ended up singing to Aunt Jess mostly because I hid whenever I saw his horse. Didn’t he get married to that Anne Williams girl?”