by Lola Rebel
Lee Bridges, who told too many stories about his time prospecting out in California. He was the first, he claims, to have hit on the gold rush out there. If he had, then he wouldn't be at the tables.
Others he didn't know by name, but he'd seen them before. Over the years he got to know a lot of the folks who were out around the scene. An empty chair sat with a still-burning cigarette hanging off the edge. A sure-enough sign that whoever it was, he was coming back.
The cards came out, one at a time. None for the empty seat. Glen looked at his cards and grimaced. Nothing worth keeping. Might as well have dealt himself a new hand entirely.
When the betting started, he kept it slow. Lee was already working the table, anyways. They'd have to split the profits, but then again, Glen had never tried to show off. That was the key to winning—letting them think it was luck. That any minute, they'd turn it around.
Nothing flashy, never take a guy's last dollar, and always let the hand develop first. It helped to make folks think that he was just playing by ear. If Lee recognized him, it was only as another traveler. At least, that was what he hoped.
He kept the ace and drew four new cards. Still nothing. When the betting came around he tossed the cards back into the pile. Not worth losing any more money than he'd already bet. He could use a drink. There was something about sitting at the card table with a beer that made him seem relaxed, as if he were just playing to blow off some steam. That was what he hoped to look like, anyway.
He stood up, said he'd just be a minute, and headed to the bar. Asked to have a drink sent over to the table. After waiting a half a second to see if the bartender was listening, and still not entirely sure he would get his drink, he went back. They were just shuffling the cards for the next hand.
As he slid back into his seat, Glen checked the empty chair. A man had slipped into it. He had the cigarette between his teeth, and he was already talking animatedly about the Mexican women he'd been to bed with lately to the man next to him, who seemed not to hear it. It was Bill Howell, sure as the day he was born.
Glen frowned. What was he doing back in Wyoming? He had made it sound like he was heading south, down to Texas. That had only been a couple weeks back. He could have made it, maybe, before he came back. But only barely. Unless he'd just been going down to make a delivery, there was no way he'd be back already.
He tried to decide whether or not it would be smart to call him out. After all, the man was a scoundrel, and a fool, but more than that, he squelched on debts. Experience had already shown that Bill had no money, never mind any of the other things he'd done.
"Bill," he said finally. "Bill Howell!"
"Oh, hey, it's you," Bill said. His voice showed surprise. "How's the ranch going for you? Back to cards already?"
"It's going fine, I'm just here to blow off some steam." He paused a moment, trying to decide how deep into this he wanted to get himself. He should have left it well enough alone, but Glen never was good at making smart decisions. "Bill, you got money to cover your bets this time? I seem to recall back in Denver—"
Bill cut him off. As well he should, from the looks the others around the table had started to give the man. Glen might have felt bad if it were someone else.
"Yeah, I got money."
"Enough?"
"Plenty."
Glen thought that he could have backed off, but he didn't. "Show it to me."
Bill raised his eyebrows. He didn't like being called out, but he shouldn't have. Glen wasn't doing it for his amusement, or to win the man's friendship. Instead of answering with his words, though, he lifted up one hip, pulled out a billfold, and opened it up.
There wasn't time to count, but from the fanned out money in front of him, it looked like Bill had the better part of a thousand dollars in his pocket.
There were men out there who could make that kind of money in an afternoon, with the right crowds and some start-up money. There were men back east, making that kind of money every day.
But Bill Howell wasn't that good, and he wasn't that smart. And that meant that wherever he'd gotten that money, Glen thought, unable to keep his displeasure off his face, he wasn't going to like finding out.
Twenty
Cole and Grace were good children, and they were able to deal with a lot, but all the excitement this morning had them in a bad mood. It wasn't that Catherine couldn't understand why they were complaining, but her worries about Ada were overwhelming. So even though she understood, she was fighting the desire to snap at them.
Then she was feeling bad about it.
"I know your foot hurt, baby, but we just need to go into town, okay?"
Grace reached up, wanting her mother to carry her. Catherine wanted to, too. If she could have carried all of them, she would. But with Ada slipping in and out of consciousness… her arms were simply too full. So instead, she satisfied herself with a sad smile at her.
"Mommy needs you to be strong for her, okay?" She bent down and pressed a kiss into the girl's forehead. "Can you do that?"
The girl's voice did little to hide her disappointment. "Yes, ma'am."
"Good girl."
They were halfway there, but everyone was already tired. Well, she couldn't afford to let that stop her. Not when Ada was burning up, barely able to keep her eyes open more than a few minutes at a time. She needed a doctor, and she needed him fast. Catherine only had the hope that she wasn't already too late, and the knowledge that she couldn't have been any faster.
The return trip did little to convince Glen that trains were a good thing, or that he would want to take another. But he took it, all the same, because they were in a hurry.
The Deputy had left a message for him to come to the office when he got up, before Glen rose at the first sight of the sun over the horizon. The man had his bag packed, and was out the door before a minute had passed.
It was oddly refreshing to be taken seriously. Something about the entire experience with Sheriff Barnes had thrown him into a bad mood about law enforcement, least in Wyoming. It was refreshing to see that there was someone who was willing to at least make a showing of trying to do their jobs.
They got off, and while Glen went to retrieve his horse from the stable, Deputy Barrett talked over his plan. There had been some assumption, on Glen's part, that he might be going around alone. That the Deputy would take care of it.
But as things developed it was becoming clearer that in a certain sense the man was deputizing him—he was being recruited as an extra pair of hands, and to his displeasure, his advice seemed to be little more than a suggestion.
"We'll talk to the Sheriff first."
"You're wasting your time," Glen said. "He'll tell you whatever he thinks you want to hear. Just to get you gone."
"We'll see." Being ignored was frustrating. But the man was doing his job, or at least, he was near enough to doing it.
Making their way through town to the Sheriff's office. It was still early, and there was a question in Glen's mind whether or not they would find the place open. To his surprise, the place was lit up like a tree on Christmas. Apparently Sheriff Barnes was an earlier riser than Glen had given him credit for, or he'd had a very long night the night before.
Catherine's chest hurt. Why couldn't they have gotten here sooner? Why was it taking the Doc so long to figure out what was wrong?
She knew better than to think that she was getting anything other than his best service. He would go as fast as he could. But still, it burned to know that every moment that they weren't working on fixing her daughter, was a moment that she was getting worse. And that precious time was being eaten up while she lay there on Doctor Connelly's couch.
"Any news?" She knew right away she shouldn't have asked. If there was news, then she would have been told it. Asking wasn't going to help, and answering her was just going to waste time. But not knowing was too painful, and as long as she couldn't figure a way to help her girls, things were just going to get worse.
Gr
ace had climbed up into her mother's lap as soon as they'd all sat down, and then promptly fallen asleep. Catherine let herself look down at the girl. She looked alright. Catherine put a hand to her forehead, just to check. To make absolutely sure, as if she might be able to cure Ada by making sure that whatever ailed her wasn't spreading to her little brother and sister.
The girl's forehead was no warmer than normal. No tell-tale cough. As far as anyone could tell, Grace was in perfect health. Just the eldest child, it seemed.
Catherine tried to let herself calm down. They were doing everything they could. She raised her head, watched Doctor Connelly press his stethoscope against her daughter's chest. It was still rising and falling with each breath, more labored than Catherine liked. It was what it had to be, though. There was nothing anyone could do to change the reality.
She closed her eyes. No, she was wrong. There was something else that she could do.
Catherine lowered her head and folded her hands. She could feel Grace stirring, just a bit, in her arms. Go back to sleep, she thought.
Then, as unfamiliar as it felt, Catherine started to pray.
Lord, I know I haven't been praying like I should, and I know I haven't put your love into my children. I know that I've been leaving you behind in my life, and I know that I need to correct that before I deserve any of your favor. But please, Lord, save my daughter. I'll do anything, just don't take Ada away from me.
She raised her head and took a breath, unsure what else she should do. What else she could do. Her head shot back down into an image of quiet contemplation.
Amen.
She raised her head again. Catherine had never been sure that prayers were answered, not the way that they were asked anyway. But she had to hope. And that meant that she had to trust that everything was going to be alright, even though she didn't feel it. That was what faith was, and right up until she'd met Billy, that had been a big part of her life.
When she'd let it go, what had she lost? More than she realized, she thought. More than it was worth. She made a promise to herself. Whatever happened, she was going to church this Sunday. This Sunday, and every Sunday after it.
Ada coughed again, and again Catherine felt the pull to stand up, to go over and try to coo over her daughter, to get the girl to feel somewhat normal again. But it wasn't going to help. The doctor was doing his best, and anything she did was just going to get in the way.
But it sure didn't feel good, she thought. She wanted to be able to help, wanted to make the problem go away. The fact that she couldn't, just made her feel worse.
The doctor turned and pulled the stethoscope out of his ears. He seemed, for all the world, to be packing his kit back up, and then finally he turned to regard Catherine. At last, she hoped, she was going to get her answer.
Twenty One
"Well, I'd like to thank you at least for bringing the man along who brought the accusations. I can tell you that Mr. Riley in particular has been responsible for harassing several of my deputies in their duties, and he simply won't listen to reason on the subject of his supposed claims." Sheriff Barnes sat forward. "There simply isn't any basis to his claim that his cattle are being stolen. He brought up north a herd of barely fifty head of cattle, barely six months old. Who would want to steal those cattle?"
The Deputy's face remained neutral. "What do you say to his claim of a witness who says that he's been offered a deal on stolen cattle?"
"I'm sorry to say that there's simply nothing to those claims. I personally rode up to Caspar, and asked after the man. They say he's a drunk, nothing like a ranch owner."
Glen's face darkened. He didn't like any of this. In fact, it downright stunk. Something was going on, and as much as he had hoped to get his hands clean of the trouble that he'd faced so far, it seemed less and less likely that he was going to find anything without digging in deeper.
"That's very interesting news to me."
"We spoke to the man anyways—he doesn't tell the story anything like Mr. Riley here tells it. Mr. Beck said that he, Mr. Riley, and the hussy he's living in sin with, were going around asking anyone who would tell them to name Mr. Rod Dawson as the man who had stolen their cattle, even offering to pay."
Glen grit his teeth but remained silent.
The conversation continued, but he stopped listening. Each bit a lie, compounded on the last part, with just enough of a ring of truth that Glen would be lucky if the deputy didn't walk right out now.
He stayed, though. It was infuriating, but he stayed. There was nothing else to do, after all. If he left, then he wouldn't even be able to hear the lies that Barnes told, and he would be totally unprepared to respond to them afterward.
Glen let out an unsteady breath. The remark about Catherine was uncalled for. Let the criticism of him, of his lifestyle—things that Jim Barnes couldn't possibly have known about Glen's history with gambling, mixed into absurd tales of gambling debts to men he'd never had the displeasure to meet—all of it could come and he would deal with it gladly.
But it was only the star on Barnes's chest that kept Glen from putting a fist through the man's nose. After what the man was saying now, right in front of his face, he wouldn't piss on the man if he was on fire. And what made it worse, was from the look on the Sheriff's face, he knew it, too, and it didn't make one lick of difference.
Catherine sat back against the chair.
"Flu?"
"Yes, ma'am. Sounds like perhaps a bit of bronchitis, as well."
"Should we be worried, Doctor?"
She didn't like the look he made, while he was thinking about it. She didn't like that he had to think about it at all. The answer should have been obvious. She hoped it was obvious. The answer should have just been, 'no, ma'am, it'll be just fine.'
From the man's face, it was obvious that it wasn't.
"If you can keep her here, I can treat her. The danger will pass in a day or so, and I can release her after a week or so—does that sound fair?"
"Thank you, Doctor." Catherine could feel tears welling up in her eyes, and she willed them away.
"Now—about the matter of payment."
Catherine had been dreading this. But it wasn't unexpected. The Doctor seemed to fidget, all of a sudden, from one foot to the other.
"I can pay, of course. What do I owe you?"
"Well," he took a moment, adjusted the spectacles on the bridge of his nose. "Give me a moment."
He settled into a chair at his desk, pulled out a piece of paper, and started writing numbers down. She could already see from the distance she was at, she wasn't going to like the number he came up with. But she was already sure that would happen. She wasn't going to like any number that he said, and that didn't change the fact that she would have to pay it.
If she had to sell her cattle at a loss, it didn't matter. Ada, Cole, and Grace were all she had, and she couldn't give them up.
She swallowed when he stood back up. Pressed his spectacles back up his nose.
"The total, once we account for the time she will spend in my care, will come to Eighty-eight dollars."
She was right. That was a month's expenses. But that didn't change the fact that if it was for Ada's health, then she would pay it regardless. She couldn't afford to be stingy, not now. She pulled a thick wad of bills out of her pocket and started counting.
They rode north in silence. The Deputy might have believed the story that Barnes fed him, or he might not have. It was hard to say, but Glen didn't like how well the story had been told. Practically as if it was rehearsed. He knew the truth himself, and Glen considered himself good at reading other people, but without knowing to a certainty, he wasn't sure he could have called the man out as a liar.
So Glen had given his own account after, denied the accusations that the Sheriff had thrown his way, and the Deputy, as quiet as he had ever been, just nodded. They would keep going. If he was already out this far, there was no reason not to ride a few hours north and ask Avery Beck themselves.<
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The sun had already reached its highest point, and was well on its way to making its descent when they finally managed to reach Caspar. Finding Avery Beck, on the other hand, didn't seem like too much of a stretch.
They asked the first person they saw, described him, and they were given about the response that Glen was starting to be afraid of. He lived in town. Claimed to own a ranch, but no one had ever seen it.
Instead, he seemed not to do a whole hell of a lot of anything. Didn't work, per se. The story about him being a drunk, though—in asking four separate people, they'd never seen the man drink to excess.
He was just a strange old man. Kept to himself. They could find him in his room, over the general store. He helped out there, too, sometimes, if they wanted to check.
"I know what this looks like, Deputy. I swear, he presented himself to me as—"
The Deputy cut him off with a look.
"We'll go talk to him. If he goes along with your story, then we'll talk some more. It's looking, though, like there's not much story to tell. An old man told you a tall tale. I'm sorry if you're having a cattle rustling problem—but this is a bigger investigation than I'm prepared to take on by myself. I'll need to talk to the Marshall to see if we can spare the manpower."
"But we'll talk to Avery Beck first?"
"Yessir."
The General store wasn't hard to find. Same as everything in Caspar, it was painted in big red letters. GENERAL SUPPLIES.
They asked the man at the counter, who agreed that yes, Avery Beck lived in the apartment above, and yes, for a law-man it would be fine to go up and see him. Another had just come around asking after him, was this related?
Deputy Barrett said it was.
As easy a time as they had found him, though, Glen realized with a sickening twist in his stomach, they would have a hard time getting his story.
