“Families. In-laws to be. Sometimes the man and the woman aren’t the same race. You wouldn’t think that would matter when two people are in love, but to some folks, it matters enough to make all those involved miserable.”
Was that experience speaking? Willis wondered as Laurella flowed toward him with her arms wide open.
“Will! Oh, Will! Where have you been?”
The feel of her, her warmth, the scent of her hair, the scent of her perfume—Willis drank her in as a man who had been out in a desert for forty days and forty nights would drink from a spring. Her veil brushed his cheek, and he felt her heart hammer in her chest. Or was it his?
“I can use some air,” Laurella said. “It was stuffy in the kitchen with the pot of hot water on to boil, and the smell of the blood.”
“Will Reverend Merford live?”
“Accordin’ to the doctor. The pastor is to rest here a few days before they take him to town.” Laurella clasped his fingers and pulled him out onto the porch. The light spilling from the windows was not to her liking. She pulled him farther, to a corner shrouded in shadow.
“I missed you. Isn’t it silly? You were only gone five hours and I missed you as if you had been gone five months.” Laurella nuzzled his ear and whispered, “Where is your pa?”
“How did you figure it out?” Willis marveled.
“He disappeared. You disappeared. You’re back, but you haven’t brought him up yet, which tells me you’re not worried how he is because you know.”
“I’m marryin’ the most brilliant gal in Texas.”
“I can add two plus two without my shoes off,” Laurella said. “Was he really shot? How bad is he? Will he live?”
“Unfortunately,” Willis said, and explained about the gully.
“So that’s how it is. But how will you look after him when you’re gone?”
“Gone?” Willis said, and remembered. “Damn.”
Chapter 18
The long ride to Buzzard’s Roost was a nightmare. The days were sunny and clear, the nights crisp and brisk. Game was abundant and there were a half dozen streams along the way. The ten of them, traveling steadily higher through vast stretches of pines and firs and cottonwoods and then aspens, never wanted for food or water.
It was a nightmare because Willis could not stop thinking about Laurella and his father. She had offered to take food to him while Willis was gone. Someone had to look after him, Laurella said, and there was no one else to do it. Willis would not hear of it; he refused to go after the rustlers until he had seen his father out of the territory. But Laurella pointed out that if he delayed the trip to Buzzard’s Roost it might arouse suspicion. It had been his idea, after all.
Willis still refused to give in. Then Laurella reminded him that the rustlers must be dealt with before she bought the Bar T. The sooner the Wilkes gang was eliminated, the sooner their future together started in earnest.
So the next morning, early, as Willis had arranged, ten grim cowhands headed for the high country with Willis in the lead. He was the grimmest of all.
Willis worried nearly every minute. He worried his father would get Laurella into trouble. Maybe she would be caught taking food to him. Or maybe his father would give her a hard time. The one thing he did not fear was that his father would harm her. Matthew had never raised a hand against a woman in his life.
Willis fretted, and fretted some more, and he was fretting the morning they came to a timbered switchback a mile below Buzzard’s Roost. Since he was in the lead, he saw the tracks before anyone else: dozens of cow tracks left by cattle that had no business being there unless they were the cows stolen from the Bar T.
“You were right, then,” Charlie Weaver said. “They are hidin’ out up here.”
“We should be near that meadow soon,” Sam Tinsdale said.
“And they’re bound to have lookouts,” Rafe mentioned.
Willis pulled his Winchester from his saddle scabbard and levered a round into the chamber. “Get set, boys.” He was eager to get it over with so he could return to the ranch and Laurella. As much as he worried about her, he missed her more. He had never known it was possible to miss someone so much.
“Shouldn’t one of us ride on ahead and scout around?” Sam Tinsdale asked.
“I’m fixin’ to do just that,” Willis said. At the top of the switchback, he guided them into some brush. “Wait here. No fires. No noise. I’ll be back as soon as I’ve made sure they’re there.”
“I’ll go with you,” Charlie offered.
“One rider makes less noise than two,” Willis said, and gigged the zebra dun toward Buzzard’s Roost. The meadow was a quarter mile from the peak. Dense forest masked his approach. Twice he stopped when he saw movement but each time it was an animal, the first time a mule deer, the second time a bull elk.
Then Willis smelled smoke from a campfire, and the aroma of coffee. It made him think of the food Laurella was taking to his father every day, and his worry blossomed anew. Shaking his head, he dispelled it. He must concentrate. He must stay alert. Varner Wilkes and Mason and the Nargent brothers were killers and would shoot without warning.
Willis rode slowly, stopping often to probe the shadows, and to listen. The trees did not thin out; they ended abruptly at the meadow’s edge. He heard the cows before he saw them: twenty-three, all with the Bar T brand.
The Wilkes gang was not camped in the meadow. They were beyond it, in the timber on the other side, their presence given away by the tendrils from their campfire.
Since Willis couldn’t very well cross in the open, he skirted the meadow and came up on them through the undergrowth. On horseback he would be easier to spot, so he dismounted, tied the reins to a low limb, and advanced on foot, barely conscious of his limp.
The smell of smoke grew stronger. Presently Willis glimpsed flames. Tote and Thatch Nargent were beside the fire. Four saddled mounts were nearby, kept saddled, no doubt so the gang could make a quick escape if they had to. Varner Wilkes was doing something with a pair of saddlebags.
Willis bent at the waist. He toyed with the notion of taking them alone, of making them drop their hardware and holding them at gunpoint until his friends joined him. Leaning against a fir, he fingered the Winchester’s trigger and wondered where Mason had gotten to. The Southerner had to be around somewhere, or why were there four horses and not just three? Willis looked right and he looked left and did not see him. He took another slow step, and a second, and something touched the nape of his neck.
“Hand the rifle back nice and slow,” the Southerner directed. “Stock first, if yuh don’t mind.”
To resist was suicide. In the time it would take Willis to turn and shoot, Mason could put three shots into him. Willis handed the rifle back and had to stand helpless as his revolver was plucked from its holster.
“Thank yuh, suh. Now walk. With your hands in the air.”
A pistol barrel nudged Willis in the spine. Raising his arms, he limped into the clearing. Immediately, the Nargent brothers leaped to their feet and clawed for their revolvers.
Varner Wilkes grinned. Shutting the saddlebag, he sauntered over. “What do we have here, Reb?”
“He was sneakin’ up on yuh.”
“Is that so?” Varner tilted his head and said to Willis. “I remember you. You’re that cripple from the Bar T.”
Willis thought of Laurella and how much he adored her.
Mason came around in front of him and tossed the Winchester to Tote Nargent, who set it on the ground. “He was the only one I saw.”
“But I doubt he came alone.” Varner stared up into Willis’ eyes. “How many are with you, cripple? And where are they?”
“Don’t call me that,” Willis said. He did not see the punch that caught him below the belt but he sure felt his groin explode with pain. Clutching himself, he grunted, sputtered, and nearly fell.
“Don’t tell me what to do, cripple,” Varner Wilkes said. “Answer my questions or I’ll cripple you worse.” His smile
was positively vicious. “Now let’s try again. What are you doin’ here?”
“Huntin’,” Willis said.
“You expect me to believe that?”
Willis remembered the bull elk. “This is prime elk country. I come up here every year after one.”
“Most folks hunt in the fall,” the runt observed.
“Usually I do, too,” Willis glibly informed him, “but I needed some time to myself so I came up now.”
“Let’s kill him,” Tote Nargent said.
“I’ll do it,” Thatch volunteered, and raised his revolver. “Smack between the eyes.”
Without looking at them, Varner said coldly, “That’s funny. I don’t recollect sayin’ we should buck him out. And I wouldn’t want to be you if you killed him before I’m ready.”
Thatch quickly said, “We’d never do a thing like that, cousin.”
“I hope not, or I’d be shy two kin.” Varner glanced at Mason. “Backtrack him. Make sure he’s alone like he claims.”
The Southerner didn’t move. “Yuh didn’t say please.”
“Damn it, this is no time for your shenanigans,” Varner growled. “Can’t you for once do somethin’ without givin’ me a hard time?” When the man in gray did not move, Varner swore and snapped, “Please. Happy now?”
“Very,” Mason said. “I admire a man with manners.” He grinned and melted into the timber.
“Contrary son of a bitch,” Varner Wilkes muttered, and pointed toward the fire. “Have a seat while we wait, cripple. Tote, give the gent some coffee. Never let it be said we’re not hospitable.”
“Coffee? I don’t understand you sometimes, cousin,” Tote said, but he bent to do as he had been told.
“That’s because you have half a brain and I have a whole one.” Varner poured a cup for himself and stood blowing on it and taking little sips.
Willis wondered how long it would be before Charlie and the others realized something was wrong and came after him. The pain below his belt had subsided enough for him to say, “I’m surprised you haven’t left the territory yet. You havin’ a brain and all.”
“Another twenty head or so and we’ll be on our way,” Varner said. “I’ve got a buyer lined up.”
“Who?” Willis asked. Buying stolen cattle was itself a crime, and those who did so did so at their peril.
“Marshal Keever,” Varner said, and laughed.
Thatch had been studying Willis closely. “Say, this is one of the hombres who jumped Tote and me the other day.” He touched his shoulder. “I’m still sore from where they nicked me.”
“Is that so?” Varner smirked at Willis. “You get around for a cripple. When the reb gets back, I’ll let my cousins do what they want with you. It should be amusin’.”
“Do you gun down helpless old ladies, too?” Varner took the insult without a hint of anger. “Mister, I’ll gun down anyone, anywhere, anytime. Men, women, kids—I’ve killed them all, even old ladies. The last was a hag with a withered arm. We stopped at her farm and she invited us in for tea and said her husband was away and wouldn’t be back for a few days.”
“I remember her!” Tote chortled. “She’s the one you nailed to the floor and skinned alive.”
“She sure could scream,” Thatch said. “It hurt my ears, how she carried on.”
Willis had heard of men like this: men who killed and thought nothing of the killing; men who snuffed out lives as casually as other men snuffed out candles. He had never met any until now, and until now he had thought that maybe men who did such terrible things were made up. Now he believed.
Suddenly Willis realized that Varner was speaking to him.
“—ears plugged with wax? I asked you a question and you damn well better answer me.”
“Sorry.”
“Maybe his ears are crippled, too,” Tote Nargent said, and he and his brother cackled.
Varner cast an annoyed glance their way, then said, “I asked if the good people of Cottonwood have got around to pinnin’ a star on a new lawman?”
“Not yet,” Willis said. “They want me to be the new marshal but I haven’t given them an answer.”
“You?” Varner Wilkes slapped his side and laughed as loud as his cousins. “You’d be plumb worthless! You can’t hardly walk. And you sure don’t strike me as bein’ a gun hand.”
“I’m not,” Willis admitted. “All I’ve ever shot are snakes and such.”
“And elk,” Varner said. “Don’t forget the elk.” He scratched his head and sipped more coffee. “I don’t rightly know what to make of you, mister. You should be tremblin’ in your boots along about now.”
“We all die,” Willis said. Inwardly, though, he was scared as scared could be, but not of dying. He had thought about killing himself too many times to ever be scared of that. No, he was mortally afraid of being denied the years he had hoped to spend with Laurella. At long last he had a chance at genuine happiness and he would never get to experience it.
“What’s keepin’ Mason?” Varner asked, gazing into the trees.
Willis was glad he had left the zebra dun so far from the clearing. It would be a while before the Southerner found it. “You should leave while you can. Your days in Wyomin’ are numbered.”
“Says you,” Varner replied. “Wyomin’ is no different than anywhere else. Sheep everywhere you look, and I don’t mean the four-legged kind.”
“Is that all people are to you?”
“No, some are wolves. I’m a wolf. My cousins are wolves. Mason is a wolf but a wolf with a conscience, which is no wolf at all.” Varner squatted with his elbows on his knees. “You’re one of the sheep—you and all the other yacks who ride their asses to the bone for forty dollars a month.”
“You have it all worked out,” Willis said.
“The world is a lot simpler place than most think,” Varner responded. “It’s take or be taken. I’m one of the takers.”
Thatch was gnawing on his lower lip and shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Why are we doin’ all this jawin’? Can’t we shoot him and be done with it?”
“Not until we find out if he’s alone,” Varner said. “He might come in handy as a hostage.”
“Like the time we robbed that bank in Elliston,” Tote said, “and you used the bank clerk as a hostage when they surrounded the bank. We waltzed out of that town as pretty as you please.”
“And you shot the clerk anyway later,” Thatch said, and giggled.
Varner smiled at the memory. “Now you see why we haven’t killed this cowpoke yet. Never burn your bridges until you’ve crossed them.”
“He’s a bridge?” Thatch asked in befuddlement. “How can that be?”
Varner sighed. “Never you mind. The important thing is to do as I tell you and we’ll get out of this in one piece. I haven’t let you down yet, have I?”
“Not once,” Tote said. “You’ve outfoxed everyone who’s tried to put windows in our skulls.”
“We’d have been caught and hung long ago if not for you, cousin,” Thatch concurred. “You’re the smartest hombre I know.”
A tiny voice deep in Willis warned him not to say anything but he did anyway. “How smart is it to rob and kill?”
“It beats smellin’ cow piss for a livin’,” said Varner. “We do what we want, when we want, and we’re beholden to no one.”
“Except the ghosts of all those whose toes you’ve curled up,” Willis said.
Varner’s eyes narrowed. “That galls you, doesn’t it? The killin’?”
“I wouldn’t do it but I’m not like you.”
“And do you know why you can never be like me? Because you’re soft inside. A man has to be hard as iron to do what I did to that old woman.” Varner paused. “I’ve never had nightmares, not one. That should tell you somethin’.”
Willis said, “It tells me you’re as dead inside as the people you kill.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. I never feel more alive than I do when I squeeze
the trigger or stick a knife into someone. I’ve always been that way. From the time I stomped a frog to death when I was seven or eight.” Varner set down his tin cup. “Where in the hell is Mason? He should have been back by now.”
Willis was thinking the same thing. The zebra dun wasn’t that far, and Mason would ride it back rather than walk.
“Want me to go see?” Thatch asked.
Tote had risen on the toes of his boots and was peering intently into the timber. “Say, I think I see someone movin’ around in there. A whole bunch of someones.”
“A whole bunch?” Varner shot erect, his hand swooping to his revolver.
Willis looked, and Tote was right—six or seven shadowy silhouettes were converging on the clearing. He had never been so glad to hear Charlie Weaver’s voice as he was the next moment.
“Drop your guns, you polecats, or we’ll fill you with lead!”
Tote and Thatch Nargent glanced at their cousin. For a span of heartbeats, Varner Wilkes was frozen in surprise, but to his credit, he was swift to recover and grab Willis by the shirt and spin him around. Jamming the muzzle of his revolver against Willis’ temple, Varner backed toward the horses while hollering, “Do you see this cripple? Try to stop us, and I swear to God he’s the first to die!”
The silhouettes stopped their advance. Tote and Thatch laughed and backpedaled, confident their cousin held the top card.
“Let Will go!” Sam Tinsdale shouted. “We’ll let you ride out if you don’t harm him!”
Varner’s features twisted in a sneer of contempt. “You expect me to believe that? He’s comin’ with us! Any sign of any of you doggin’ our trail and you’ll never see him again—alive, that is.”
Willis thought of the bank clerk. “Don’t believe him!” he yelled. “He’ll kill me anyway!” He dug in his bootheels. Without warning, a tremendous blow to the side of his head nearly buckled his legs. The world blurred, and Willis felt a warm sticky sensation above his ear.
“Not another peep out of you!” Varner snarled. He moved faster, hauling Willis after him. “I can kill you here as well as anywhere.”
Willis could not let them get him on a horse. Once the rustlers were in the clear, they would leave him lying in a pool of blood. He tried to turn but his body would not do what he wanted it to do. His ears were ringing and he was half queasy to his stomach. Varner gave a maddened tug and his left leg gave way. Too late, he braced his right leg but it would not support his weight. Down he sprawled.
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