The Chuckwagon Trail

by William W. Johnstone

  “Why, I’d have to be out on a trail drive most all the year.”

  “Oh, you,” Ruth said, playfully slapping at the hand clutching the wood spoon. “You’re pulling my leg. I know it.”

  “You want to take over stirring the beans while I tend to the brisket? It looks like we’re getting another ten or fifteen people coming to the social.”

  “I’d be honored . . . Mac.” Her hand lingered just a moment on his as she took the spoon.

  He didn’t quite run to take care of starting a new batch of barbeque, but it came close. Flirting with the pastor’s daughter was playing with fire. She had her cap set for him, and he wanted no part of it. She was pretty enough and certainly of marrying age—and that’s what spooked him. Pickings for a husband in this town might be slim. Her pa might not chase off would-be suitors, but he didn’t doubt her ma did. Mrs. Hunnicut bustled about like a queen bee, talking to the women and berating them for not getting their husbands and brothers to church more often. Her husband’s approach was gentler.

  Mac saw himself caught in this town, tied to Ruth’s apron strings, and browbeaten by her mother. It was a terrifying picture.

  As he worked on the beef, Flagg came over. The trail boss watched for a spell, then said, “I’ve got to hand it to you, Mac. This is one fine shindig.”

  “No dancing. Mrs. Hunnicut doesn’t believe in it.”

  “But I’ve watched the preacher. He’s enjoying himself. You think he’ll talk to them about letting the herd cross their farmland?”

  He glanced in the direction of the farmer and his two sons. A woman, undoubtedly the farmer’s wife, talked a blue streak with Mrs. Hunnicut.

  “I promised the preacher a couple more cows after we’re finished. That ought to convince him to have words with Slausen, his name is. For the good of the congregation.”

  “Slausen?” Flagg shook his head. “His boys stick close to him, like they’d get lost if they strayed too far.”

  “They want to see him shoot me between the eyes. They’re a nasty bunch.”

  “And that filly’s not so nasty. I saw how she was making cow eyes at you.”

  “I’d sooner juggle sticks of dynamite.” Mac began ladling out the sauce and pouring it over his cooking beef.

  “Good. It shows you haven’t lost your senses.”

  “I want to get back on the trail. Cooking for all these people is fine, but I’d rather it was just the riders.”

  “I don’t know, Mac. Cooking for that little girl’s likely to get you into her bed. I heard what she was saying.”

  Mac aimed a spoonful of sauce at Flagg, who dodged it. He made the rounds of several ladies and the potluck they had brought, praising them on such fine vittles. For his part, he wasn’t lying. Tasting anyone else’s cooking proved a real treat, and some of the women were mighty fine cooks. It was too bad the outfit remained with the cattle and had been ordered by Flagg to keep the longhorns ready for movement.

  Or maybe it wasn’t too bad, Mac reflected. Being on the trail for so long, away from both liquor and women, he didn’t trust them all to be on their best behavior, even at a church social. No liquor being served might make the men all the more insistent about forcing themselves on the women. That was a sure road to losing all the goodwill he had created with the pastor and, hopefully, his wife.

  He had to grin. Ruth Hunnicut certainly had goodwill to spare for him. He turned back to his work and tried to forget about Ruth.

  Slausen came over, his two sons trailing behind him like bad odors.

  “Give me some of that,” the farmer said with his usual dour expression.

  “My pleasure.” Mac served him, then the boys. He wanted to press the matter of driving the herd across his fields but held back. The man had the look of someone spoiling for a fight. Better to let the preacher approach him and do the convincing. The preacher and his wife had more influence than anyone else would, at least, though the man had the look of someone so pigheaded that nothing would change his mind.

  The Slausen family moved off in a tight knot, working on barbecue, beans, and a bit of peach cobbler one woman had brought. Mac’s scheme of making this a potluck took away the need for Flagg to figure out how to pay for any food that wasn’t on the hoof. He was talking to an elderly couple when he caught sight of a man riding up and looking around. Something about his attitude put Mac on alert.

  “Do either of you know the newcomer?” He pointed at the rider with his spoon.

  The man turned, adjusted his spectacles, and then made a sour face.

  “That good-for-nothing has no place here. That’s Lucas Langdon. His pa used to be a rich man but lost it all in the war. Everyone thought Lucas had gone off and joined the army, but chances are good he was off hiding somewhere. He comes into town to make trouble every month or two.”

  Mac didn’t ask which army. That didn’t matter. Lucas Langdon dismounted and swaggered over to a table, sampling things with his dirty fingers as he went from one end to the other. The congregation parted in front of him, not wanting to tangle. Mac stepped out, wooden cooking spoon in his hand. He was all too aware that he had left his S&W in his saddlebags, and his horse was corralled out back of the church.

  He blocked Langdon’s path and said, “Why don’t you grab yourself a plate?”

  With a sneer, the man said, “Now why would I want to do that? I can get what I want just fine.” Langdon reached out and plucked an ear of corn off a platter, took a bite, and tossed it over his shoulder.

  Mac stepped up, poking the bowl of the spoon into the man’s solar plexus. He got a grunt of pain from him.

  “Now that was perfectly fine corn you threw away. Pick it up before the ants get it.”

  “Who the hell are you, little man?” Langdon pushed Mac back. His hand drifted down to the big iron swinging on his hip. The move looked practiced and intended to cow anybody facing him.

  Mac wasn’t inclined to be intimidated.

  He whacked Langdon’s knuckles with his spoon. The gunman yelped and took his right hand away to suck on his bruised knuckles.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” Langdon said ominously.

  “Behave yourself or leave. The saloon’s still open. I think they’re serving pigs’ knuckles for lunch. That’d suit you better than food for people.”

  Langdon reared back to punch Mac, but the cook didn’t retreat. He stepped up and drove the spoon into the man’s gut again. This pushed him off balance, so he staggered and failed to deliver the blow. Mac never gave him a chance to recover. He kept walking and poking with his spoon. When the chance presented itself, he whacked Langdon on the side of the head with the spoon, causing him to drop to one knee. Mac towered over him now.

  “It’s about time you left. Now.”

  Mac felt someone at his elbow, taking hold of it. He glanced back and saw Ruth Hunnicut. Her eyes glowed—and it was in adoration for him. Everything he did from cooking to facing down a bully made him even bigger in her eyes.

  “Don’t even think on it.” The cold words came from Mac’s right.

  Flagg had pushed back his coat so he could grab for his Colt. Lucas Langdon was getting his balance back, although still on his knees, so he could draw and gun down Mac.

  “That’s all right, Mr. Flagg. This gentleman was just leaving. He was just leaving without causing any more trouble.” Mac lifted the spoon and held it as if he wanted to lay it alongside Langdon’s head again.

  “We ain’t done, you and me,” Langdon blustered. “When you don’t have a gunslick protecting you, it’ll be just you and me.” Langdon got to his feet and backed away.

  Every inch of the way, Mac thought he would slap leather. A step to the side interposed his body to protect Ruth Hunnicut if lead should fly. It didn’t. Langdon backed down, turned, and almost ran to his horse.

  “Oh, Mac, you’re about the bravest man I ever did see.” Ruth clung to his arm and pressed her cheek against his shoulder. If the situation had been different,
he would have liked that. As it was, the commotion had caused everyone to notice, and that included the preacher and his wife.

  “Are you all right, dear?” Mrs. Hunnicut came over and pried her daughter’s hand loose from Mac’s arm. “You must have been so frightened by that bully.”

  “Oh, no, Ma, not with Mac here to protect me. Not only does he cook, he’s a hero!”

  “That’s not what happened,” Mac said hastily. “I mean, I can cook, but it was Flagg who ran off Langdon.”

  “The ruffian.” Mrs. Hunnicut swung her daughter around and marched her away. Ruth looked back at Mac and smiled. He wasn’t sure who her mother meant when she spoke of a “ruffian.”

  “Mr. Flagg, you should take off that sidearm. It is not appropriate for this gathering.” The preacher looked pained having to say that. It made clear who his wife thought was the barbarian at the party.

  “That’s all right. I’ve got to be getting back to the herd. The sooner we move out, the better.”

  “I . . . I’ll speak with Mr. Mackenzie about that later.” The preacher looked around to see if his wife was out of earshot. She was, but he thought better of delivering the permission Flagg needed to send the herd tromping across Slausen’s field.

  “We’re getting more folks in to serve all the time, sir,” Mac said to distract the preacher. “Now might be a good time to let everyone know of the Lord’s bounty.”

  Setting the man on the path he understood proved a good thing. Mac kept cooking and serving until the preacher got onto a stepladder and began his sermon. Mac found himself caught up in the flow of the man’s words and even let some of the important ideas creep in. It had been a long time since he’d been in church.

  He turned somber as he recalled that the last time had been for his parents’ funeral. And the next time he had expected was for his wedding with Evangeline Holdstock.

  Reverend Hunnicut got fired up, and when he got a second wind, he gave every indication of taking the rest of the afternoon to say his piece. Mac cleaned up and put his kettles aside, making sure to stash away some of the best food remaining on the tables so the Rolling J hands could have a feast of their own when he got back.

  As he heaved a pot around to put it in the back of a wagon he had borrowed to move his gear, he heard a shrill scream that died abruptly, as if smothered by a gag. He ran around the side of the church and saw Ruth Hunnicut struggling against Lucas Langdon’s overpowering strength. He had tied his bandana over her mouth to prevent her outcries and held both her wrists in one big hand.

  “Let her go!” Mac charged toward them, then dug in his heels and stopped dead in his tracks.

  Langdon had his revolver out and pointed directly at him. The smirk on the gunman’s lips made anger boil up inside Mac. Bullet or no bullet, he was going to wipe that look off Langdon’s face. Seeing the change in his attacker’s demeanor, Langdon shifted the gun to Ruth’s temple.

  “Come any closer and I’ll splatter her brains all over the back of her daddy’s church. No amount of whitewash will ever get the stains off.”

  “Let her go. This is between you and me.”

  “I hated you the second I laid eyes on you, you little son of a bitch,” Langdon said. “That’s true enough, but I’ve had my eye on this one for a long time. Her and me, we’re riding out of here and gonna enjoy ourselves. At least I am until she wears out.”

  He cocked the gun when Mac started forward again. Ruth struggled in his grip, then let out a tiny “oh!” He smacked the gun barrel alongside her head, knocking her out. With a heave, he lifted her belly down over his saddle. Never moving the pistol from her head, he mounted. Mac knew what was going to happen then.

  He was already diving for cover as Langdon rode out, spraying lead all over the place. As the swift rataplan of hoofbeats faded, Mac came up dirty but unscathed.

  Several members of the crowd that had attended the social rushed around the church, drawn by the shots. Mac called to them, “That was Lucas Langdon! He kidnapped Ruth!”

  The preacher stopped short with a look of horror on his face. That lasted only for a second. Then a fierce expression that belied his normally mild appearance came over him. He turned and exclaimed, “I’ll get my horse!”

  Mac stopped him. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “The marshal, he—”

  “Really?” Mac had nothing against the marshal, but he hardly looked up to the task of facing down a gunman like Langdon.

  “He . . . he’s in town. It would take him forever to get after them. By then—”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Mac repeated. He didn’t wait for the reverend to contradict him. He ran to his horse, opened the saddlebags, and strapped on his gun belt. The heavy weight at his hip didn’t slow him at all as he vaulted into the saddle and galloped after Langdon and his hostage.

  For the first time, he appreciated the time he had spent scouting for the herd. His sharp eyes picked up details as he rode along that he might have missed with less experience hunting for a trail. Here and there he saw a hoofprint, but the crushed grass and broken limbs made the trail easy to follow. Langdon had only a few minutes’ head start on him, but the man galloped full speed while Mac had to track more slowly. It still proved easy enough because Langdon arrogantly thought no one would come after him.

  Mac had to admit that no one at the church social was likely to, not after Patrick Flagg had left to tend to the Rolling J herd. They were all churchgoing men, and not one of them had worn a gun. Life in this town had been too easy, and outlaws like Langdon ran out of control against a marshal who barely fit through a normal-sized doorway.

  A small shed off to the side of the road drew Mac’s attention. He reined in and sat watching the shed, not sure what made him do so. Then he heard a horse nickering. Rather than keep on what looked like the trail, he rode around the shed and recognized Langdon’s horse tied to a sapling. He had run the man to ground.

  From inside the cabin came tiny sounds that turned him cold inside.

  “Langdon! Get your ass out here right now!”

  Mac knew better than to believe the man would do any such thing. He rode closer to the ramshackle shed and jumped onto the roof. One boot went through the old, rotten wood. The other failed to find purchase. Flopping down, he slid a few inches, caught himself, and looked over the edge.

  Langdon fired a few shots through the roof, tearing holes inches away from where Mac lay.

  “Ruth!” he shouted. “Are you hurt?”

  “Mac? Is that you, Mac?” She sounded terrified, as well she might. “He . . . he’s tied my hands. He—”

  The woman’s words cut off abruptly. Mac imagined the owlhoot clamping his hand over her mouth. He counted to three and then almost laughed out loud. Langdon let out a howl of pain. She had bitten him.

  Since jumping onto the roof hadn’t really worked, he swung off and dropped to the ground. One step forward let him kick the door in. It slammed back and pulled off its hinges. Ruth knelt on the floor with her hands bound behind her back. She looked up at Langdon, who clutched his left hand. Blood dripped between the fingers on his right hand.

  “You can’t even handle a woman,” Mac told the kidnapper. “I’m nothing but a drover, but I’m going to put you in your grave.”

  Langdon wiped his bloody hand on his shirt, then reached for his pistol. Ruth surged up and slammed into him, knocking him against the far wall. Again the old wood gave way. Langdon toppled through it.

  “Out, get out. Run!” Mac grabbed her and shoved her behind him in the direction of the road.

  He kicked away more of the rotted wood wall and stepped out. Lucas Langdon scrambled to his feet and squared off, his hand hovering over his gun.

  “Come on, let’s see what you’re made of,” he jeered. “I’ve killed more men than you got fingers and toes.” He turned slightly to reduce the distance he had to move to get his gun out and pointed in Mac’s direction with his left hand, a move intended to distract his opponen
t.

  “I doubt that. But maybe you believe it because you’re too dumb to have ever learned how to count.”

  The world moved in slow motion for Mac. Fingers curled around the butt of his Model 3, closed. He drew and used his left hand to fan off a round. Another and another. Somewhere he realized that Langdon hadn’t even cleared leather as the third round drove through his chest.

  As slow as the world had become, it just as suddenly sped up. Mac saw Langdon straighten. His limp fingers released his hold on the gun. As if coming to attention, Langdon’s knees stiffened. He toppled backward like a tree cut in the forest and crashed to the ground, dead before he hit.

  Mac had not only outdrawn him, he had outshot a gunman. All three of his rounds had found deadly targets in the man’s chest. He heard a gasp and looked up to see Ruth Hunnicut staring at him. Her brown eyes were wide, and her mouth gaped.

  “You killed him,” she finally got out. “You killed him and saved me!”

  “Reckon so,” was all Mac could say.

  CHAPTER 22

  Mac rode slowly, uncomfortable with Ruth Hunnicut’s arms around his waist. Her hands kept moving down too low. Finally, she settled for gripping his gun belt and resting her cheek against his back.

  “Nobody’s ever had anything so terrible happen to them in town,” she said.

  “I’m sorry you were the victim,” he said.

  “I . . . I like it that you saved me.” She clung to him a little tighter, making him even more uneasy. Such behavior, especially involving the preacher’s daughter, would get him strung up amid the cheers and jeers of the congregation. Her ma would be the one putting the noose around his neck.

  “Anyone would have done it.” The words sounded hollow to him. No one he had seen in this town was likely to ride to her rescue the way he had. The marshal might be good for dealing with drunks, but facing down a desperado like Lucas Langdon stretched far beyond his capabilities as a lawman.

  “But it was you, Mac. You did it.”

  He saw the church steeple and slowed a little more. He should have enjoyed the ride back with a pretty girl clinging so intimately to him, but dealing with her pa, and especially her ma, occupied his thoughts almost completely now.