“Eat, you two,” Rosa said, delivering two plates of food and going back in the kitchen.
Unita laughed. “Mother has spoken.”
He couldn’t swear to it, but it looked like there were some tiny diamonds of moisture on Unita’s eyelashes. She ducked her head when he released her hands, then blew her nose in a kerchief from her dress pocket.
“You better eat.” She managed to smile, bringing her chin up.
He agreed. “I know how bad that stagecoach food is.”
“You will send us letters about your progress?”
“I guess I could. I never planned to, but I will if that would suit you.”
She nodded real quickly. “It would.”
After lunch, he lingered as long as he dared, then rose and nodded. “I’ll be going now.”
She trailed him to the front door and caught his sleeve. To check that Rosa wasn’t spying on them, she rose on her toes to look back. Satisfied they were alone, she put her arms around his neck and kissed him. He woke up from his absent thoughts about the trip north with her in his arms, then realized where he was and what was happening. Damn, this couldn’t be happening to him.
“Here,” Rosa said, coming from the kitchen with a poke. “I fixed some things for you to eat on the way.”
They broke apart with a longing look of regret in her eyes. He wet his lips and nodded to her. “Christmas.”
“Christmas.”
He took his hat off the hook, then hugged Rosa’s shoulder and kissed her on the forehead. “Thanks for putting up with me.”
She gave him a friendly push and blushed under her olive skin. Then she unstrung the small silver cross from around her neck and made him bend over.
The crucifix in place, he nodded to her. “That was very kind of you.”
“May God ride with you.”
He replaced his hat and went out the door to join Unita. With her arm wrapped around his waist, they went to his horse.
“The roan and I’ll be in San Antone tomorrow. I hope in time to catch a northbound coach.”
“What’ll you do with the roan?”
“Board him with Joe Nichols. He’s an ex-ranger. He’ll take good care of him.”
She buried her face in his shoulder. “I should go along.”
“You have the ranch to run. I’ll be fine.”
“I’ll worry about you.”
“Besides my bad habits, why didn’t our trails ever cross before?”
“They did. You never noticed me.”
He chuckled. “I noticed you. Who don’t?”
“Oh—”
He kissed her quickly, knowing he’d never get away at the rate they were going. Her fingers slipped off him as he backed to the roan and mounted. With a big knot in his throat, he mounted and eased the horse around. A salute off his hat brim to her, and he set out for San Antone. Damn, this parting with her was harder than he ever imagined.
The uneventful thirty-six-hour stagecoach ride to Fort Worth left him sore and stiff. The wire he’d sent to Marshal Conway before he left San Antone should have reached him by then. Ed dismounted and went to find a decent meal. Then, two hours later, he climbed on the Fort Smith-bound coach. He shared his back-facing seat with a woman of ample proportions in her twenties, whose cheap perfume and strong musk irritated his nostrils. Wrapped against the cool air in a blanket, he tried to sleep. His seat companion ate.
She used a sharp paring knife to cut thin slices off a thick stick of dry sausage that reeked of strong garlic, and she ate it on soda crackers. He swore she must have eaten a couple of sticks of it before they reached the Red River ferry that night.
“I hate ferries,” she confided to Ed.
Just awake, Ed sat up and nodded. The coach was halted and he could hear men outside talking. The two drummers opposite them were sound asleep, snoring on the back bench. The cold north wind came in around the loose-fitting canvas curtains.
“It won’t sink on us will it?” she asked, wringing her short, pudgy fingers and her entire huge body shuddering.
“No, it’s safe enough. Just lots of folks crossing right now from the looks of things.”
She took a slice of the sausage off the blade of her knife and, chewing on it, appraised him in the dim light. “You married?”
“No.”
“Shame. You ain’t bad-looking.”
“You married?”
“Widow.”
“Sorry.”
“No need to be. He wasn’t too valuable.”
“Oh,” he said, anxious to get out from under the confinement of her huge butt, which wedged him in, to stretch his stiff muscles.
The driver opened the door and nodded to them. “We’ll be a few minutes, folks. You can get down, but be ready to get back on.”
“How long a delay?” she asked, leaning forward to try to look outside.
“Oh, fifteen minutes I imagine, ma’am.”
“It never mentioned this on the schedule.” She began to rise.
“Sorry, ma’am. Guy that makes them out never got here when the ferry had this much business.”
She rose, with her large posterior stuck in Ed’s face and, with her head out the door, peered at the line of vehicles ahead of them. “We should have priority.”
“Yes, ma’am, but we don’t,” the driver said.
Settling back, she pointed her paring knife at Ed in the starlight. “There should be a law.”
“Excuse me,” Ed said, and climbed out, anxious to escape her. He smiled at the driver, who was going off in the night shaking his head. Mrs. Fatso was the demanding sort.
He took his blanket with him, resting on his shoulders, and it helped ward off some of the cold air, but he’d need more layers. The wind went through his britches. A pair of wool long handles would be the thing. In Fort Smith he’d buy a set, if he didn’t freeze to death before then.
Over an hour later the stage and team rattled onto the ferry. Ed decided that the woman held her breath the whole time, including the entire time while the barge was winched across the river.
When the coach rocked around while going up the bank, she finally exhaled and her chubby hand clamped on Ed’s leg. “Oh, thank God.”
He was grateful it wasn’t the one holding the knife.
In Fort Smith, he parted with Trudy Stanton, whose entire life story he had heard without any emotions except relief to have gotten rid of her dead husband. She’d come to Arkansas to claim some farm her late husband had inherited.
It was early evening and, after stowing his saddle and gear at the stage company office, he found a store open on Garrison Avenue. Aided by a clerk, he bought some red woolen underwear, a new wool shirt, and a waist-length lined duck coat to replace his unlined jumper.
The blanket rolled up under his arm, he headed for a Chinese bathhouse that the clerk pointed out for him and soon was clean, clothes washed, dried, and pressed, as well as dressed for the bitter cold and on his way to find a meal and a good night’s sleep in a bed that he savored despite the thin walls and a very loud, talkative couple in the adjoining room who, when they weren’t talking loudly, were busy making noisy love.
He woke the next morning, dressed in the new underwear he’d slept in because the room was unheated. Frost had painted the smudged windowpanes. Moping with his fresh-shaven face in his callused palms, he considered having a drink to warm his blood up. Damn! He might freeze to death before he ever found the Bradys. Instead he had a fried-pork-and-eggs breakfast, then walked the few blocks to the federal courthouse on the river. Smoke from the stacks of paddle wheelers on the close-by Arkansas River streaked the sky, mixed with all the wood smoke from heaters and fireplaces.
The marshal’s office clerk said that Conway was in town, and for him to check the Lucky Owl Saloon, because he sometimes played poker there, but that he’d give Conway the message that Ed Wright was staying at the Grand Hotel. Ed thanked him and left, amused at the notion of the three-story building being called the Gr
and Hotel. From his past night’s experience, and the ice in the washbasin pitcher, it could better have been better called the Arctic Circle.
The Lucky Owl looked empty when he managed to get inside and closed a door with a loose doorknob behind himself. Not overly warm, but it was out of the wind.
“Can I help you, sir?” the bartender asked from behind the luxurious, polished wooden bar.
“Marshal Bruce Conway here?”
The bartender nodded and pointed to the rear with a white rag in his hand. “Back room. Not necessary to knock.”
Headed for the door, Ed considered ordering himself a drink, but the notion soon passed. He found the room filled with cigar smoke and heated by a coal-burning stove. Grateful for the first real heat he’d found since the Chinese bathhouse the night before, he nodded to the four players who looked up at his entry.
A short man behind a large mustache nodded back. “You must be Ed Wright.”
“Yes. Are you Conway?”
“Yes, I am. But I’m right into this hand now, and about to clean these scallywags out of their life savings,” he explained, drawing some gruff laughter.
A taller, thin man with a white beard scoffed at the words. “Like hell you are.”
“I’ve got a hand that’ll make you shiver like a wet calf out in this cold.”
“Ah, bid and get on with it,” a bald man said.
“That’s Ed Wright, boys, from south Texas. That’s H. T.” He pointed to the bald man. “John Shanks.” He nodded to the white-bearded player. “And Rumples, he’s the captain of the Lady Belle.” He indicated a man with a wide grin and a bowler on the back of his head. “Raise you boys fifty cents.”
“Aw, hell, I thought you had four aces,” H.T. said, and the others grumbled too.
“Go ahead,” Ed said. “I ain’t in no hurry to leave this stove.”
“That’s so for the four of us,” Conway said, looking confidently at his hand.
“Damn cold enough,” Rumples said. “May freeze my vessel in.”
Conway won the hand and raked in the money. “Me and Ed here’s got business, boys. Give you a chance to win this back later.”
He put the money in the pocket of his brown business suit and then smiled at them. “See you all.”
“Less we see you coming,” H. T. said, and Conway led Ed out in the hall.
“I guess we’ll ride horses up there,” Conway said. “Better go find you one.”
Ed agreed, and they made small talk about his stage trip while walking up Garrison in the bitter wind. He had no great desire to set out in the cold, but he wanted this business over. At the livery he bought a solid bald-faced chestnut horse with the ranch brand 86 on his right shoulder for twenty dollars. The six-year-old had probably come up from Texas on a drive to fill some of the Indian beef contracts.
Conway then took Ed to a diner in a basement off Garrison and they had lunch.
“I can’t guarantee they are still up there, but last I got word they were operating near Sand Springs,” Conway explained.
“I chased them plumb across Arkansas once,” Ed said, seated and waiting the order some boy had taken. “I guess the nation isn’t bigger than that.”
“Them two are the scourge of the earth,” Conway said, smoothing his mustache. “My boss sure wants them rounded up, too. They’ve been stealing cattle, hogs, and horses. Selling moonshine. And no doubt they’re in on some murders and robberies out west on the drover trail.”
The boy brought them coffee, and Ed cupped the mug in his hands. He dreaded the weather outside, but wanted this matter over regardless of the temperature. For the first time since he could recall, drinking had taken a backseat to getting back to Unita. Funny how it had been years since any woman had really struck him.
Conway talked like he knew the law business. Acting tough enough, but dressed a little fancy for a man who tracked down criminals: white shirt, tie, suit but for himself Ed never dressed up except for funerals. He looked up when Conway asked, “When you want to leave?”
“As soon as we can.”
“Meet you at the stables at six in the morning?”
“We need some supplies?”
“Naw. I think we can find enough places to stay and eat up there. Besides the roadhouses, most farmers welcome a little income.” Conway sat back for the waiter to put down his plate of food before him.
“I’ll be there and saddled, ready to go.”
“Good. You married?”
“No.” He might as well be, but that was beside the point. “Are you?”
Conway shook his head. “My wife left me for a much better deal.”
“Oh?” The food on his plate looked good and smelled better. Roast beef, thin-sliced, piled high, mashed potatoes, gravy, and fresh-baked bread.
“She divorced me and married a lawyer here in town who makes real money, so she can go to fancy balls.”
“I guess you can’t please them all.”
Conway bobbed his head, busy forking in food. “A marshal is never home, makes little money, and has no prestige.”
“Sounds like me. I’ve been driving cattle up the trail ever since the war, and been gone from home so much I had no time for one.”
Conway looked up. “I kinda regret it now. I’d like to have a son to go fishing and squirrel hunting with. But I don’t know—” He shook his head. “Guess it ain’t to be.”
“Aw. Maybe you’ll find someone.”
With a head shake, Conway dismissed it. “You have a ranch, huh?”
“Yes. A good man runs it for me.”
“Boy, what kind a pie you got today?” Conway asked the waiter.
“Apples and peach.”
“Peach. You want some?” he asked Ed.
“Sounds good. I’ll have peach too.” He might as well, since he figured he was paying for it all.
“Driving cattle herds to Kansas sounds exciting.”
“I bet it’s a lot like being a marshal. Folks think it’s exciting too.” Ed smiled at him.
Conway’s shoulder shook as he laughed softly. “Ain’t that the damn truth. The Elevator, the local paper, carries all these exciting stories about U.S. deputy marshals going off in the Indian Territory and arresting murderers, pig thieves, and counterfeiters.”
Ed nodded. He’d read Texas papers with accounts of cattle drives. Being a damn “hero” wasn’t all it was cracked up to be in his book, either.
Conway stopped eating and drummed his fork on the plate as if in deep thought. “Been three marshals shot in the past three months.”
“Goes with the job, huh?”
“I guess. Do folks get killed on cattle drives?”
“Way too many.” Ed wiped his mouth on his cloth napkin. His appetite was gone. “I’ve lost more than my share of good men.”
“I need to tend to some business before we leave. Tell the boss where I’m going. We talked about it before I sent you the letter. He approves, but I’m still going to make this official business. That way I can collect the small fee they pay for arrests that the grand jury’s put out warrants for.”
“Fine. Six a.m. at the livery.”
“Wear your warmest clothes. This cold’s unusual. We usually get a break after a day or so.” Conway shook his head as if he couldn’t understand Mother Nature’s turn to the frigid.
Ed wrote Unita a short note and mailed it. I made the long trip fine. Hate stages. Met Marshal Conway. He’s short, thirty-five, big mustache, and dresses like a banker. Bought a bald-faced horse. We leave out for the country north of here in the morning. Very cold. Write more later. Ed
Dawn came with light snow, like tiny chicken feathers, dancing in the sharp wind. Their collars turned up, huddled over their saddle horns, they had crossed the Arkansas River on the steam ferry and trotted past a junk town of derelicts, breeds, and Indians that squatted among the bare white sycamores and walnut trees that lined the sandy west riverbank opposite Fort Smith on the Nation side. Cur dogs barked at them. C
ooking-fire smoke swirled around the womens’ blanket-wrapped waists and several dark-eyed children followed their passing with suspicion. In the light snowfall, they looked like a blurry painting to him.
By late afternoon the short day’s sun was an orange ball in the west. Conway had mentioned a place he wanted to reach and they rode up a narrow lane through the stubby remains of a large cotton field. Bits of the white fiber still clung to the open bolls and flagged in the wind.
“This will be the best stop on the trip.” Conway motioned to a large, two-story house.
They dismounted at a rack and Ed found his sea legs. Then he followed Conway up the walk to double white doors. The two-story house was painted red with white trim, and columns rose to the top of the second floor to support a porch. It was a massive home like he’d seen in Mississippi during the war. Great pecan trees surrounded the well-kept yard.
A black man answered the door, obviously a servant.
“Ah, Marshal Conway, come in. And good day to you, sir.” The man was old, but still sturdy-looking, despite the frosty fringe of hair around his bald head.
“Ed Wright.” He stuck out his hand and saw a small smile in the corner of the man’s wide mouth. “From Banty, Texas.”
“Very good to meet you, sah. I be Adam.”
“She home?” Conway asked as they stood in the entry room, holding their hats and unbuttoning their coats.
“Miss Ellie be right down. She done send word for the boys to put dem horses of youse up, rub them down, and grain them.”
They thanked him and waited at the bottom of the staircase for her appearance after Adam took their hats and coats. Ed considered the house warm with his wind-burned face heated from the exposure.
Ellie Schaffer appeared at the head of the stairs and smiled at her guests. In a bright red gown with a low neck that exposed her cleavage, she appeared ready for the governor’s ball. Her light brown hair pinned up and her face powdered, the thirtysh lady looked elegant. Her nose was a little pointed, and her blue eyes danced with excitement.
“My, my, two marshals have come by to see me,” she drawled.
“One, and my friend from Texas,” Conway said, and held out his arms to hug her. “Meet Ed Wright.”
She nodded and then bent over slightly and hugged Conway’s back, with a few pats on the shoulder. She turned her attention to Ed. “Welcome, Mister Wright, to the Indian Territory and my humble farm.”
Trail to Cottonwood Falls Page 9
