This Calder Range

by Janet Dailey

  “Why don’t you give it up?” Zeke protested. “You said you was gonna make a first-rate roper out of him, Woolie. He sure can’t hurt a man’s ears with a rope.”

  “Wanta bet?” Woolie laughed. “Go get the rope I made ya, kid, and rope that critter over there.”

  The plaited rope was shorter and narrower than what the cowboys used. It was little-boy-sized, especially for Webb. The cowboys had been instructing him in the rudiments of the art of roping for over a year. He had the idea, although most of the time his coordination was not all that good.

  Encouraged by the rest of the cowboys, Webb got his rope and set out in pursuit of an unusually slow-running Zeke. The quiet scene was destroyed by shouts and laughter and misthrown loops. Arthur tried to join in the fun, but he kept tripping over cowboys’ legs.

  So much attention was focused on the little boy chasing the bowlegged cowboy that the restless stirrings from the remuda went unnoticed. With coffeecups in hand, Lorna and Benteen were standing to one side of the fire, laughing with everyone else at the antics of their sons.

  The vaquero Ramon shouted a warning, breaking across the laughter to bring the camp alert. Benteen heard the pounding of hooves and the snorting whicker of panicked horses an instant before the remuda plunged out of the gloaming and charged into camp. He felt Lorna’s instinctive movement toward the children and grabbed her, throwing her out of the path of the stampeding horses. Whipping off his hat, he waved it wildly at the herd and whistled shrilly between his teeth to divert them. The ones in front shied from him, but they were crowded by the others. It was a churning mass of horseflesh and dodging cowboys.

  “Indians!” someone shouted. “They’re running off the cattle!”

  Shots were being exchanged opposite Benteen’s position. It was the side closest to the herd, which meant the men were firing at the raiders and being fired on. The first rush of the horses had passed, leaving gaps that would allow him to cross to the fight.

  Stampeding the remuda had been a diversionary tactic to create chaos in the camp while the cattle were run off. Benteen sent one glance at Lorna, huddled tightly against a wagon wheel. Her gaze was frantically searching the confusion for Webb and Arthur. He was saying a silent prayer for them himself, but he knew his men. They would have put the boys’ safety over their own lives.

  “They got the boys out of the way. Don’t w about them!” he shouted to Lorna. “Just stay w you are.”

  Waving his hat at an oncoming horse, Benteen dodged forward when it shied. He managed to run through the tangle of bedrolls and saddles, trying to keep one eye on the loose horses and the other on the fight in progress.

  “Grab some of those horses!” he shouted to Vince Garvey. They couldn’t let all the horses scatter, or they wouldn’t be able to mount a pursuit.

  The camp was crossed. Benteen reached the four cowboys, returning the gunfire of a fleeing band of Indians. He was conscious of the weight of the pistol in his hand without being aware he’d drawn it. The hat was back on his head. The air was tainted with the smell of gunsmoke. He had time to snap off two shots before the raiders were out of range.

  Automatically he reached for more bullets to reload. “Start throwin’ saddles on those horses!” He threw the order at the camp, but a half-dozen cowboys were already doing that very thing. Benteen glanced to see who was with him as he pushed new bullets into the empty chambers. Barnie was nearest him. Both turned simultaneously, heading for the horses at a running trot. “What about the boys? Do you know if they’re okay?” Benteen asked as he shoved his pistol back in its holster.

  “Saw Zeke scoop up Webb. I think Rusty grabbed the little tyke,” Barnie answered. “One of them raiders with the Injuns had a beard and a buffalo coat.”

  Benteen cursed himself for exposing Lorna and the boys to this kind of danger, only there hadn’t been any reason to suspect the Indians would raid a manned herd. It had seemed logical to believe his family would be safer in the company of twenty armed cowboys than left alone at the cabin. But he hadn’t counted on the Indian raids being instigated by a white renegade, either.

  Only eight of the horses from the scattered remuda had been caught. No time was wasted sorting out saddles and owners. Zeke handed Benteen the reins to a big Roman-nosed chestnut the instant he entered the camp.

  “Where’s Webb?” Benteen stepped a foot into the stirrup.

  “Just returned him to his mamma,” Zeke answered.

  Benteen’s gaze swept the camp, a jumble of men on foot and on horseback. He was briefly torn by a desire to make certain his family was unharmed, yet each minute’s delay meant the cattle were being driven that much farther. If he wanted to recapture the bulk of his herd, immediate pursuit was imperative. It was halfdark now.

  The decision was made before his boot found the other stirrup. “Let’s go.” He gave the order, but it was his action the men followed, letting him take the lead on the big chestnut.

  When Benteen made that mad dash between horses to the other side of camp, Lorna scrambled to her feet and pressed herself flat against the chuck wagon. There was so much running, shouting, and shooting going on that she couldn’t separate it all.

  The worst of it was over in a flurry of moments that seemed eternally long. The confusion went on as cowboys snared the stragglers from the remuda and began swinging the big, heavy saddles like they were pillows.

  Lorna pushed into the chaos, frantic to find Webb and Arthur. Shoving the bunched haunches of nervous horses out of the way and ducking the tossing heads of others, she forced her way to the place where she had last seen the boys. Everyone was running, moving in and out of her vision. She was breathing in panicked breaths and struggling to control it.

  “Here, ma’am,” a voice said.

  She hardly had time to recognize Zeke before he was thrusting Webb into her arms. It was relief that collapsed her knees rather than the four-and-a-half-year-old’s weight. Her fingers gripped his arm while her hand trembled over his face and hair. He had a stunned, wide-eyed look at all this commotion of horses, riders, and gunshots.

  “Are you okay?” Her voice trembled, although she tried to appear very calm. There was a lump in her throat and the dampness of tears in her eyes. She kept them open wide.

  “Yeah.” He nodded. “I wasn’t scared, Mom. Honest.”

  “Of course you weren’t.” Her smile quivered.

  “Were you?” he wondered.

  “A little,” she admitted, and hugged him with a mother’s fierceness, then forced herself to draw back. “Where’s your brother? Do you know?”

  He shook his head. “I dropped my rope. Zeke said I could find it later.”

  “Yes, later.” Lorna nodded and began looking around. “First we have to find your brother.”

  The stampeding horses had scattered the campfire, taking away the light it would have afforded. Behind her, there was the digging of hooves, and Lorna glanced over her shoulder to see eight riders gallop into the graying night. She guessed Benteen was with them, although she couldn’t distinguish the riders.

  Their departure left a degree of quiet in the camp as the remaining cowboys attempted to restore some kind of order and search for horses that might have lingered nearby. Lorna gripped Webb’s hand tightly as she stood up. She took a step, not certain where to look first for Arthur.

  When she saw Rusty moving woodenly toward her carrying the child in his arms, a second wave of relief flooded through her. As he came closer, she sensed something wasn’t right. Rusty’s face was nearly as white as his whiskers. There was a sunken, hollow grief in his eyes. A pounding fear began to beat in her, growing louder and louder with each step that brought him nearer.

  Her glance fell to the boy-child lying so motionless in his arms. His eyes were closed, his face innocent with sleep, but he didn’t have his finger in his mouth. She tried to smile—tried to say his name and wake him up.

  “I’m sorry.” Rusty’s voice wavered hoarsely. “It was a stray shot … o
r a ricochet.” A tear slipped from his eye as he bowed his head, his shoulders shaking silently.

  “No.” Lorna shook her head, trying to be very firm. “He’s just …” But as she reached to lift Arthur from his arms, her fingers felt the sticky warmth of blood.

  A clawing, wild pain ripped her chest apart. She gathered his limp little body into her arms and pressed him close, as if to give him life again, as she had once before when she carried him inside her. With shattering disbelief she scanned his beautiful face for some small sign of life.

  “No. No.” She wasn’t conscious of murmuring the protest over and over again. Pressing her cheek against his, she closed her eyes and rocked back and forth.

  “God in heaven, but it isn’t right,” Rusty declared thickly.

  “What’s the matter with Arthur?” Webb tugged on her pants leg, but Lorna was beyond hearing him.

  Rusty sniffed loudly and wiped briskly at his nose. “Come with me, son.” His voice was gruff, but not unkind.

  Slowly she sank to her knees and cried softly, barely making any sound. She just sat there, holding him tightly and rocking, unaware of the hush in camp, the soft-walking cowboys with pain in their eyes, and the darkness that filled the sky.

  It was left to Rusty to answer Webb’s questions and put him to bed. “Why is Mommy holding Arthur and crying?”

  “Because he’s going away.” He tucked the quilt around the little shoulders.

  “Am I going too?”

  “No, you gotta stay here and take care of your mother.”

  “But where’s Arthur going?”

  “Away. Far away. But you’ll see him by and by,” Rusty said. “Now, close your eyes.”

  “Can we look for my rope in the morning?”

  “Yes. In the morning, but first you have to sleep.” He sat with the boy until sleep came, then stole quietly out of the tent.

  A fire was burning brightly, keeping a lone vigil with the woman holding her child for the last night. Rusty gathered up a quilt and walked over to put it around her shoulders. She gave no sign of being aware of him. Rusty felt very old. He’d seen too much. He lifted his eyes to the night sky. The endless sky. Cowboys and sailors saw too much of it, whether it was the rolling plains or the sea they rode. He’d seen too much of it.

  It was early dawn when Benteen approached the camp. They’d finally caught up with the main herd being chased north by the Indians. There had been a brief running gun battle before the raiders gave up their prize. Outside of two minor crease wounds, none of his men had been hurt. It had taken them another two hours to get the cattle bunched and quieted down. He’d left the rest of the men with the herd in case another try was made for them.

  At first, it was the uncanny silence of the camp that struck him. There was no grumbling among the riders as they drank their morning coffee. Then it was the way their eyes shifted away from meeting his.

  When he spied Lorna wrapped in a quilt and rocking little Arthur, his tiredness lifted. He swung down from his horse at the chuck wagon and let the reins drag the ground. As he took a step toward Lorna, Rusty moved into his path. A frown flickered across his face at the old cook’s rheumy-looking eyes.

  “Ain’t no easy way to say it,” Rusty began. “One minute I had him safe …” His shoulders lifted. “A stray shot …” Then he glanced in Lorna’s direction. “She’s been sittin’ with him like that all night.”

  There was a roar of pain inside him. Benteen pushed Rusty out of the way and covered the ground to Lorna with long, reaching strides. When he stopped in front of her kneeling form, his breathing was labored and deep. His eyes burned from the vision of his lifeless son. He swayed, undermined by an agonizing grief.

  When he felt her gaze lift to him, his mouth opened, but no words came out. He lowered himself into a crouch before her. His hands and arms felt so empty.

  “You can cry, Benteen,” Lorna murmured. “It’s all right.”

  He pressed a hand across the front of his eyes and gritted his teeth together. “I’m sorry.” Guilt weighed on him—for unknowingly putting them in danger, for not being with her.

  “Did you get the cattle?” she asked.

  “Yes.” It was a brutally painful admission.

  “You had to go after them, Benteen,” she said in a calm voice. “There was nothing you could have done for him if you had stayed. You had to go.”

  When he finally lowered his hand, there were tears in his eyes. He looked at her for a long minute, then reached for their son. “I’ll take him now, Lorna.” His voice was thick.

  Reluctantly she relinquished him into Benteen’s keeping and watched as he carried him to the chuck wagon. She knew Benteen was saying his last good-bye to Arthur.

  It was a sad and solemn procession that set out for the headquarters with the body of the small boy wrapped in a quilt and carefully laid in the back of the chuck wagon.

  28

  Lumber from the new house was used to make little Arthur’s coffin. The carpenters would have done it, but Zeke insisted it was his right. He’d made the cradle Arthur slept in as a baby and nailed together the cot that had been the boy’s bed. He’d make Arthur’s final resting place, too.

  The grave was dug under the shade of the cottonwood trees by the river where he had played so many hours. Galloping Triple C riders had located a traveling preacher trying to save some sinners at Frank Fitzsimmons’ place in Blue Moon. They hadn’t wasted time with explanations—just dragged him out of the saloon and shoved him onto his horse.

  A cowboy could be put under the earth with a simple spoken introduction to his Maker. But in their thinking, the little boy—Mrs. Calder’s little boy—needed some proper words said. It was a way of showing their deep respect and loyalty for Benteen, too.

  Word of the tragedy had spread beyond the boundaries of the Triple C. Besides Mary and Ely and the cowboys, there were a couple of neighboring ranchers, Frank Fitzsimmons, Lady Crawford, and Bull Giles among the throng of mourners at the grave site.

  It was a crisp, tart morning with a stiff breeze rustling the dried brown leaves of the cottonwood trees. There was more than grief and the mourning of a loved one in the air. The cold breath of revenge had brought its scent, visible in the guns strapped to Benteen’s hip and to the hips of his men. Saddled horses with rifle scabbards filled stood waiting at the corral.

  The minister took note of this when he finished his prayers, with a request for forgiveness. “And may God have mercy on the souls of those who perpetrated this deed. Amen.”

  First Benteen, then Lorna stepped forward to throw a handful of dirt into the grave. One by one, the cowboys began filing past. Lorna’s eyes were bright with tears, but she kept her shoulders squared. Benteen stood straight and tall beside her. The minister came quietly over to offer his condolences.

  “My deepest sympathies to both of you,” he murmured.

  “Thank you, Reverend Worth,” Lorna replied with a faint nod of her head. “My husband and I are extremely grateful that you are here.”

  “It is my work,” he insisted.

  “We would like to build you a church as … as soon as all this is over …” She faltered slightly. “This country is in need of churches … and schools. I’m sure Mr. Fitzsimmons will be happy to help you choose a site.”

  “You are most generous, Mrs. Calder,” the reverend declared. “And you, Mr. Calder.”

  Benteen acknowledged the remark with a short nod of his head. The vaquero Ramon approached the grave and hesitated, glancing at Benteen and Lorna. After a moment’s indecision he approached them and bowed slightly with quiet dignity and respect. Reaching inside his jacket, he took out the little wooden horse he had carved for Arthur and presented it to Lorna.

  “I found eet, señora,” he said. “You would wish to keep eet, no?”

  “Yes.” She accepted the return of Arthur’s toy, gripping it tightly for a moment. “Gracias, Ramon.”

  The vaquero bowed again and moved away. Benteen’s
arm tightened around her waist. She stood a little taller, strengthened by his silent support. Mary hugged her and cried. Then Benteen’s mother, Lady Crawford, came, a black veil covering her face. She embraced Lorna in a gesture of sympathy and turned to Benteen.

  “You can’t really mean to go after them.” She sounded impatient, but the veil concealed her expression. “What will you prove? It won’t bring back your son, Benteen.”

  “No.” Even though he agreed, it didn’t change his decision.

  “You are being foolish,” Elaine insisted. “Send your men after them, if you must, but don’t risk your own life. What if you are shot and killed? You should be thinking of your wife and your other son—of this ranch and what will happen to it if you die, instead of following this stupid code of a man’s honor and pride.”

  “You don’t lead men by staying behind where it’s safe,” he said grimly. “And you don’t stand by while cattle are stolen and your son is killed and do nothing about it.”

  “Let someone else do it.” Her agitation was apparent. “It’s a matter for the law to handle.”

  “There isn’t any law out here. You’re looking at the only justice there is. ‘Just-us.’”

  “Lorna …” She turned to appeal to her.

  “Benteen’s right,” Lorna said with an unsteady voice. “If he doesn’t stop them, who will? Maybe someday that won’t be true, but it is now.”

  With a quick turn, Lady Crawford moved stiffly away. Bull Giles paused in front of Benteen. His eyes were red-rimmed with grief, but they burned, too, with a dark anger. Bull worked his jaw for a silent minute, trying to find the right words.

  “If you’d see clear to loan me a horse, Benteen,” he said, “I’d like to ride with you.”

  “We’re not going after Indians,” Benteen said. “We’re going after Big Ed Sallie and his bunch.”