“I don’t even know how to dance.”
Snorting, Lorette leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. As she was drawing back, she seemed to realize what she had done and appeared as surprised as he was; she gave a slight start, and her eyes widened.
Sam tried to talk but his throat had a lump in it.
Lorette glance over at Harland again, and let out a breath. “Thank God he didn’t see. He’d tell Pa.” Abruptly, she stood and placed her hands on her hips. “We can’t go on like this. I can’t do all the work. You need to make up your mind one way or the other.”
“About what?”
“You’re plumb hopeless,” Lorette said, and flounced off.
For the life of him, Sam didn’t know what he had done to make her so mad. A suspicion dawned, and he chewed on it a bit, recollecting past comments she’d made, which he hadn’t taken entirely serious. He’d thought she was playing. But if she wasn’t? The answer struck him like a thunderclap. “Oh my, oh my,” he blurted.
A shadow fell over him.
Sam looked up, thinking Lorette had come back. But it was her big brother, and he didn’t appear happy.
“She must think I’m blind, deaf, and dumb.”
“Harland?” Sam said.
Bending at the waist so they were face-to-face, Harland said, “What are your intentions?”
“I didn’t know I had any,” Sam said.
“She does. And in case you’re the one she’s serious about, there’s a few things you should know.” Harland held up a finger. “One, me and my brothers won’t take kindly to her being trifled with.” Harland held up another finger. “Two, nor will my pa, and he’s worse than all the rest of us put together.” Harland held up a third. “Three, I can’t stop her from kissing you, but it better go no further than that unless you’re as serious as she is. Savvy?”
“Uh,” Sam said.
Harland straightened. “Don’t play me for a dolt, boy. I’ll be keeping my eye on you.”
“But . . .” Sam got out.
“Treat her right and I’ll stay out of it. Treat her wrong and our entire clan will come down on you like a Comanche war party. Savvy me?” And with that, Harland wheeled and stalked off.
“God help me,” Sam said.
Chapter 35
Owen Burnett couldn’t be more pleased. It had taken seven weeks, but they had rounded up more than two thousand longhorns. They had so many, the grassland along Comanche Creek was a sea of horns. He was excited for the drive to begin. First, though, there was something they must do.
Collecting a big herd wasn’t enough. They must be able to prove the cattle were theirs. Should the animals stampede, anyone could claim them.
The thing to do was brand them—each and every longhorn.
Owen knew next to nothing about branding. Fortunately, Gareth had learned enough, and even brought back a branding iron from his last visit to town. Gareth had the blacksmith make it. The brand consisted of a ‘K’ in the middle with what Gareth said were the letters ‘B’ and ‘W’ to either side. They stood for Kurst, Burnett, and Weaver. But to Owen the B and the W looked like squiggles. Someone who didn’t know any better might think the Kursts were the sole owners of the herd.
Owen didn’t say anything to Gareth but he did ask Jasper’s opinion. Jasper thought the branding iron was fine.
The next day they’d started the branding.
It involved roping the longhorns and holding them so the branding iron could be used. The rope had to be thrown just so, dallied just so. The branding iron had to be kept hot.
They worked in teams of six to reduce the risk. Even so, on the fifth day Jasper didn’t keep his rope tight and a cow nearly got loose, almost goring Thaxter. Thaxter wasn’t happy; he slapped his hand to his Colt and threatened to put windows in Jasper’s skull. If not for Gareth stepping between them and telling his son to simmer down, Wilda might have been a widow.
As new cattle were added, they were branded. They got so good at it, Reuben joked they should all become cowboys.
On a peaceful evening with the sun red on the horizon, Owen and Gareth stood admiring the fruits of their labors.
“Will you look at all those critters?” Gareth said with pride. “We did it, by God.”
“Another week and we should have the twenty-five hundred you were aiming for,” Owen said.
“I’d be happier with three thousand.” Gareth rubbed the stubble on his chin. “But twenty-five might be as many as we can handle. Seeing them all together like this”—he whistled in appreciation—“it’s a damn big herd.”
“And it’s all ours.”
Gareth blinked. “Yes,” he said. “Ours.”
“I hope we don’t lose many on the trail to Abilene,” Owen said. Especially after all they had gone through rounding them up.
Spurs jingled, and Sam and Harland approached. They had only just come down out of the hills, along with Lorette who was over talking to Iden.
“There you are,” Gareth said to his oldest. “What kept you today? You were the last to get back.”
It was Sam who answered, saying to Owen, “We found something, Pa. Something peculiar.”
“Such as?” Owen said when his son didn’t go on.
“A grave.”
“Did it have a tombstone?” Gareth said, and laughed.
“We’re serious, Pa,” Harland said. “I saw it, too. It’s the strangest thing. As if someone dug up a body and then dragged it off. We saw the drag marks.”
Owen swapped perplexed looks with Gareth.
“Lorette came across it, and hollered for us,” Harland went on. “The hole wasn’t that deep, but it was man-sized. And there was no mistaking the stink. A body had been there, sure enough.”
“Where was this?” Owen asked.
Sam pointed at a hill to the north. “Atop that hill yonder, Pa. Just on the other side.”
“There’s enough daylight left, we should go have a look-see,” Gareth suggested.
Owen agreed. The idea of a grave so close to their camp was disquieting. “It bears investigating.”
The four of them mounted and crossed to the hill at a gallop. A swift climb brought them to the crest. The cedar scrub was heavy, and Sam and Harland weren’t sure exactly where the hole had been. They spent ten minutes looking, and finally Sam yelled, “Here it is!”
Owen gigged his chestnut over. It wasn’t so much a hole as a shallow trench, but it was long enough and wide enough to have held a body.
“I’ll be damned,” Gareth said.
Owen swung down. The drag marks Harland had alluded to were easy to follow. They led to a cleft halfway down the hill, where torn brush and a pile of rocks suggested the body had been placed in the cleft and covered.
“What the hell?” Harland said. “Whoever it was took the body out of the grave and brought it here to bury again? What was the point?”
“I’d like to see,” Owen said, and stooped over the rocks.
“Maybe you shouldn’t, Burnett,” Gareth Kurst said.
“We have to know,” Owen insisted. “This close to our camp, it could be important.” As he removed the rocks, a foul odor assailed him. The smell grew stronger the deeper he went. He didn’t have to dig far.
The body had been wrapped in a blanket.
“Pa,” Sam gasped. “That there is the one Reuben couldn’t find.”
“What?” Owen said, placing a hand over his nose.
“Don’t you remember? Reuben said one of his blankets went missing. Him and his pa were looking all over for it.”
“I remember,” Gareth said.
“Someone stole a blanket from the Weavers just for this?” Harland said, pointing at the body. “Who’d do such a thing?”
“Someone who didn’t have a blanket of their own,” Owen guessed. He continue
d to remove the rocks.
The body had been wedged tight into the cleft. To see it, Owen had to tug and pull at the blanket to loosen it. After a while he exposed an arm. A lot of the flesh was gone from the hand, and white bone gleamed. But the buckskin sleeve was intact. He removed more rocks, revealing part of a shoulder and long black hair.
“An Injun, by God!” Harland exclaimed.
Gareth swore. “I’ve heard they like to bury their dead in spots like this. Clefts and ravines and such.”
“Who does?” Sam said.
“The Comanches.”
Owen lifted more rocks, and shuddered.
The face was partially rotted, the eyes gone, the mouth agape. A maggot wriggled in an eye socket.
“What do you think killed him?” Sam said.
“No telling,” Owen said.
“Who cares?” Harland said. “It’s just a dead Injun. Nothing will come of it.”
“I hope to God you’re right,” Owen said.
Chapter 36
The sun was setting when they got back. Owen had covered the body back over with the rocks, leaving it as they found it. A feeling of unease came over him as he worked, a feeling that grew stronger on the ride down.
The campfire was crackling and the cooking pot was on. Everyone else was relaxing after a hard day’s work. After their meal, they would take turns riding herd. The longhorns were settling in for the night, and largely quiet.
Lorette was stirring the stew. She raised the dripping wooden spoon, took a taste, and announced, “Supper will be ready in a couple of minutes.”
Raising his arms, Owen said loudly, “Everyone, I need your attention, please.” He related the finding of the grave, and the body wrapped in the Weavers’ blanket, and ended with, “We need to talk about what to do.”
“You’re worried over nothing,” Harland said.
“Hush, boy,” Gareth growled.
Owen continued. “It raises all kinds of questions. How did it get there? Who killed him? Why bury him so close to us? I’m no real judge, but I’d say the body hasn’t been in the ground all that long. A few weeks to a month would be my guess.”
“Harland is right,” Jasper Weaver said. “It has nothing to do with us.”
“Didn’t you hear the part about the blanket?” Owen said. “Whoever reburied the body snuck down into our camp and helped themselves to one of yours. They took it from right under our very noses.”
“Had to be other Comanches,” Wylie said. “They’re as sneaky as anything.”
“So let them keep it,” Jasper said. “I don’t mind.”
“You’re missing the point,” Owen said.
“They didn’t attack any of us,” Reuben said. “That shows they’re friendly.”
“Comanches?” Thaxter said, and laughed.
“All it shows,” Owen said, “is that they needed something to wrap the body in, and our blankets were handy. They might not have attacked because there were only a few of them. By now they could have gone to their village for more warriors.”
“Might and could have,” Harland said. “You don’t know for sure.”
“Why should they come after us?” Jasper said. “We didn’t kill that one you found.”
“They don’t know that.”
“You think they might attack us, Pa?” Luke asked.
“I think it’s a very real danger, son,” Owen said.
“They haven’t bothered us this whole time,” Jasper persisted. “Why would they start now?”
“Get your head out of your flask, Weaver,” Gareth said. “Burnett is right. This could be serious.”
“Don’t talk to my pa that way,” Reuben said.
“Or what, boy?” Thaxter said. “You’ll go for your six-gun?”
Some of the others laughed.
“Enough,” Owen stepped in. “Save your bickering. From here on out, we have to be on our guard more than ever. It was luck we found that body. More than luck, I’d say. It was the hand of Providence, warning us.”
“Oh, please,” Wylie said.
“What’s Providence, Pa?” Iden said to Gareth.
“The Almighty.”
“I thought that was God,” Iden said. “Or is Providence His last name?”
“Shut up, little brother,” Lorette said.
“Let’s stay focused on the Comanches,” Owen said. “They might take it into their heads to stampede our cattle, undoing all the work we’ve done.”
“To say nothing of lifting our scalps,” Luke said.
“What can we do?” Silsby Kurst anxiously asked. “Comanches spook me something awful.”
“They spook everybody,” Sam said.
Owen raised his arms again so they would focus on him. “I propose we stay close to the herd until we’re ready to start the drive. Don’t go anywhere alone, and keep your guns handy.”
“You heard the man,” Gareth said, giving each of his brood a sharp glance. “This is no time to get sloppy. Too much is at stake.”
“All that money,” Harland said.
“All that money,” Gareth echoed.
Lorette had been hunkered by the pot, but now she stood and wagged the big spoon. “Seems to me the most important thing is the one question we can’t answer.”
“Who killed that Comanche,” Wylie said, “and buried him up on the hill?”
“Exactly,” Lorette said.
“You’d think we’d have heard it if he was shot,” Harland said. “It’s not that far away.”
“Maybe it was another Comanche,” Reuben Weaver said.
“Comanches hardly ever kill other Comanches,” Gareth said. “And none would have stuck him in that hole, then come back to bury him again.”
“An Injun from another tribe, maybe?” Reuben said.
“There aren’t any other Injuns hereabouts,” Gareth said.
“Apaches?” Jasper said.
Gareth shook his head. “The Comanches drove them out of these parts years ago.”
“Kiowas, then?” Jasper wouldn’t let it drop. “Aren’t they and the Comanches supposed to be friendly?”
“They are,” Gareth said. “But I never heard of any Kiowas this far south.”
“How is it you know so much about Injuns?” Reuben asked.
“It pays to learn all you can about anyone who might be out to kill you,” Gareth said.
The youngest of the Kursts, Iden, looked utterly confused. “Well, if it wasn’t another Comanche and it wasn’t the Apaches and it wasn’t the Kiowas, who in the world was it?”
“A white man, maybe,” Harland said.
“You could be right,” Luke said. “The grave that was dug is something a white man would do.”
Owen followed their line of reasoning aloud. “A white man killed him and buried him, and then other Comanches came looking for the one who was missing, found him in the grave, and reburied him their own way.”
“That fits,” Gareth said.
“Except that we’re the only white folks here,” Reuben said. “We haven’t seen another soul since—” He abruptly stopped.
“Oh, hell,” Harland said.
“Surely not!” Jasper said.
“That old trapper!” Lorette said.
“We don’t know it was him,” Luke said.
“Surely Ebidiah would have told us if he did it,” Owen said. “Something that important, he wouldn’t keep to himself.”
“Could be he thought the body would never be found,” Gareth said. “Could be he didn’t think it worth mentioning.”
“It had to have been him,” Harland said.
“We should go find him,” Lorette said. “Ask him to his face.”
Gareth shook his head. “No one is going anywhere. The cattle are more important. If that old coot w
as to blame, we’ll wring it out of him the next time we see him.”
“I’d give anything to know where Mr. Troutman is right now,” Luke remarked.
“So would I,” Owen said.
Chapter 37
Ebidiah Troutman was near giddy with delight. It wasn’t often fortune favored him with so rare a pelt. He sat cross-legged by his small fire in a gully and fingered the smooth fur, and laughed.
“A white fox, by God!”
Albino foxes were rare. Ebidiah had only ever seen one other albino fox in all his years, and that was back in the early days, and up in the northern Rockies. To trap one here, in the Texas hill country, was tantamount to a miracle. He smoothed the fur and laughed some more.
A white fox was special. People would pay good money. Mrs. Burnett or Mrs. Weaver might be interested, but he doubted they could afford the price he’d ask. He wasn’t letting this one go cheap.
Placing the pelt across his legs, Ebidiah carefully rolled it up, then rose and just as carefully placed it in a pack on Sarabell.
The sun had been up an hour. Normally, Ebidiah would have been on his way by now, but he’d been savoring the miracle. He hadn’t been this excited about a pelt in ages. In the old days, every pelt brought a flush of accomplishment. Not so much, anymore. Maybe he had just gotten used to it.
Back then he’d felt more pride in his work. The trapping was hard. Then came the skinning. It had to be done just right or a fur would be ruined. No one wanted a shabby or stiff fur, or a fur with holes in it. Truth be told, preparing the hide was more important than the actual laying of the trap. And he was good at it. One of the best, folks always said.
Grinning at the memories, Ebidiah kicked dirt onto the fire until only a few plumes of smoke rose. Taking hold of Sarabell’s rope, he climbed out of the gully and made to the southeast.
“Yes, sir, old girl,” Ebidiah declared. “When I sell the fox, I might even put you up at the stable for a night. How would that be? You could have your own stall and a feed bag.”
Sarabell plodded along with her head down, showing no interest in his prattle.
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