“We are a bank, Mr. Cavanaugh, not a realtor.”
“And yet, when you loan money on property, don’t you always run that risk?” Martin asked.
Folsom nodded. “We do.”
“Then I ask you again. If I sign the farm over to you, will it clear the books?”
“I hate to see you do that,” Folsom said.
“I don’t see as I have any choice,” Martin said. “Nor you either, for that matter. Because I’m either going to walk away from here after making a deal with you, or I’m simply going to walk away. In either case you are going to wind up owning the farm, but in the latter case you are going to be out the legal expenses of foreclosure.”
“I don’t like being put over a barrel like this, Cavanaugh,” Folsom said. Now, even the “Mr.” had been dropped.
“Believe me, Mr. Folsom, I don’t like this any more than you do. But I know that my farm, even without the house and barn, is worth almost a thousand dollars. I figure that, in the long run, you are making out on the deal.”
“All right,” Folsom finally said after a long moment of contemplation. “I’ll have Miss Steward draw up the papers for you to sign.”
“Thank you,” Martin said.
“Where are you going now?” Folsom asked.
Martin smiled.
“Out West,” he said.
“It’s a good wagon,” R. D. Clayton said. “It’s an old one, but it’s been well kept up.”
Martin put his hand on the front wheel and shook it back and forth. There was some play in the wheel, but it wasn’t excessive. He checked the tree and the thoroughbrace.
“This’ll do me,” he said. “I believe Matt said you wanted forty dollars for it?”
“Sixty,” Clayton said.
Martin looked up in surprise. “Sixty? Did Matt get it wrong?”
“No, I offered it for forty dollars, but that was two months ago,” Clayton said. “Turns out wagons is at a premium right now. I could prob’ly get eighty for it.”
“This is the same wagon you bought from Chris Downey, isn’t it? Back before the war?”
Clayton cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah, it is.”
“You gave him fifteen dollars for it, as I recall.”
“Well, I’ve done some work on it since then.”
Martin looked at the wagon for a long moment. He needed a wagon desperately, and he knew there was not another one anywhere around that he could buy this cheaply, and certainly not one that was as good as this one.
“Matt tells me that you were interested in buying my saddle.”
“You mean the one with the silver scroll?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a handsome saddle,” Clayton said. “Yeah, I’ve been interested in it.”
“What about forty dollars and my saddle?”
“I . . .” Clayton began. Then he stopped and ran his hand through his thinning hair. He sighed. “I tell you what, Mr. Cavanaugh. Your boy was a good worker, and I know that he sets a great store by that saddle, saving it from the fire and all. By rights, that saddle should go to him someday. You can have the wagon for forty dollars.”
Martin smiled broadly. “Are you serious?”
“I’m crazy,” Clayton said, returning the smile. “But yeah, I’m serious.”
“Thank you, Mr. Clayton!” Martin said, sticking out his hand. “Thank you, very much!”
“You want to know who to thank, thank your boy,” Clayton said. “He may only be eleven years old, but he is one of the finest young men I know.”
Martin laughed, and shook his head. “Eleven?” he said. “Did Matt tell you he was eleven?”
“You mean he isn’t?”
“He just turned ten,” Martin said.
Clayton laughed as well. “Well, however old he is, he is a fine young man, and you are very lucky to have a boy like that.”
“Yes, sir, I am lucky to have him,” Martin said. “You don’t have to convince me one bit. Fact is, I’m lucky to have my entire family.”
“We’re goin’ to miss you, Mr. Cavanaugh,” Clayton said. “There’s going to be a need for men like you, now that the war is over. We’re going to miss you.”
Chapter Three
With Smoke Jensen
As Matt Cavanaugh and his family prepared to start their trek West, another young man, some eight years older than Matt, was standing in front of a trading post, watching his own father ride away. When he and his father had come West a year earlier, they met up with an old mountain man known only as Preacher.
Preacher had befriended the boy and his father, taking a special interest in young Kirby Jensen, providing him with an education in survival that was the equal in intensity and thoroughness to a doctorate at any chartered university.
Kirby had already proven his worth in a short, but savage Indian battle and, though he was only eighteen years old, he could hold his own with anyone. Preacher had given him the nickname Smoke, and already Kirby thought of himself as Smoke.
“Where’s Pa goin’, Preacher?” Smoke asked the old mountain man.
Preacher squirted out a stream of tobacco juice, then swiped the back of his hand across his mouth before he answered.
“Your pa ever tell you about a man by the name of Casey? Ted Casey?”
“I’ve heard the name,” Smoke said. “And from the way he said it, I figured there was bad blood between them. But he never told me anything specific.”
“I reckon that’s because he still sees you as a boy, and not a man,” Preacher said. “Maybe a pa always looks at his son that way.”
“Pa’s goin’ to look Casey up?”
Preacher nodded. “He’s got some business to take care of with him,” the old man answered.
“Killing business?”
Preacher nodded. “I reckon so. Problem is, Casey ain’t likely to be alone.”
Smoke watched as his father stopped, turned his horse around, and waved. Smoke returned the wave. Then his pa was gone, dipping out of sight over the rise of a small hill.
Smoke’s pa had taken a few gold coins with him, but he left the bulk of his money with his son. Smoke felt the weight of the money in his pouch, then cleared his throat before he spoke. He had to, because he knew that he would have a catch in his throat if he didn’t, and he didn’t want to sound like a baby to Preacher.
“He won’t be coming back, will he, Preacher?”
“Like as not, he won’t,” Preacher said. “If you want to cry, Smoke, why, there ain’t no shame in it. You could step around behind the trading post and have yourself a good cry all alone.”
“I haven’t cried since my ma died,” Smoke said. “Don’t reckon I’ll be doin’ any cryin’ now.”
Smoke made a few purchases with the money his father had left him, and now, with a new pistol, knife, and Henry rifle in his saddle sheath, he rode with Preacher through the thick timber and up into the high country. It was their way to ride without talking, so Smoke saved all his questions for nighttime, when they were camped by a small fire that popped and snapped and sent up sparks as it cooked the bacon and warmed the coffee.
“How old were you when you come out here, Preacher?”
“Fourteen or so,” Preacher said. “I run away from home at twelve, fought in the Battle of New Orleans, went upriver to St. Louis, then found my way out here. Been here ever since.”
“You’ve never been back East?”
“Once, I went to Philadelphia to kill a man that needed killin’,” Preacher said matter-of-factly. “But for the most part, I been out here all along.”
“You never got married?”
“Injun married,” Preacher said.
“You got ’ny kids?”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“How’m I goin’ to learn if I don’t ask questions?” Smoke replied.
“You’ll learn what I want you to learn,” Preacher said. “Get some sleep now, we got us a lot of ridin’ to do yet.”
With Matt
Matt wondered if this was what it was like to be at sea. For the last two weeks they had been following a set of wagon tracks that stretched front and back from horizon to horizon, broken here and there by deeply cut gullies and rock outcroppings. The wagon tracks were from the days of the great wagon trains, two decades earlier. Now their wagon was all alone, its movement providing the only animation on the vast, open plain.
Matt and his father were walking alongside the wagon, which was being driven by Matt’s mother. Cassie had been walking as well, but a few minutes earlier had climbed up onto the seat to ride beside Mary.
“Pa, what was it like in the war?” Matt asked.
“It was like hell,” Martin answered.
“Really? You mean like it says in the Bible, with the Devil and a burning pit of fire?”
“You might say that,” Martin said. “There was fire, and there certainly was a Devil, though just who he was depends on the tellin’, I reckon.”
“Martin,” Mary said, calling down from the wagon seat. “Over there.”
Martin moved up to the front of the wagon so he could look to the other side, in the direction pointed out by Mary. He saw six riders coming toward them.
“Indians, do you think?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Martin said. “Not from the way they’re riding.”
The riders, still about a half mile away, turned toward the wagon, approaching it at a leisurely gait.
“What do you think they want?” Mary asked.
“I don’t know,” Martin answered.
“Should I stop?” Mary asked.
“I see no need to stop,” Martin said. “Just keep on going. I reckon we’ll find out what they want when they get here.”
The wagon continued to roll across the plains, the wheels creaking, the pots and pans banging back and forth, the tree chains clinking, the horse hooves rising and falling. All the while, Martin kept an eye on the riders, who were coming closer and closer.
“Matt,” Martin said. “Move the rifle over to where I can get to it.”
“Martin, no,” Mary said. “You are just one man, you know you can’t take them all on. And if they see you with a rifle, it might provoke them.”
Martin ran his hand over his cheek, then nodded. “You may be right,” he said.
The riders, all of whom were wearing long, tan dusters, came up to the wagon. Martin recognized two of them. One was the man with the puffy scar that disfigured his left eye, then streaked down his cheek and jaw like a purple flash of lightning, twisting the left side of his mouth into a sneer. One of the others was the man with half an ear.
“Payson, isn’t it?” Martin said as the riders stopped. “Sergeant Payson?”
“You’ve got a good memory, Cap’n,” Payson said, stretching his mouth into what might have been a smile.
“What are you boys doing out here?” Martin asked.
“Just sort of ridin’ around, lookin’ at the countryside,” Payson replied. He nodded toward the wagon. “Movin’, are you?”
“Yeah,” Martin said. “Wasn’t much left for me when I got home, I’m afraid.”
“So, you’re startin’ over, are you?”
“You might say that.”
“You got ’ny money?” Payson asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Money,” Payson repeated. “You don’t really think you’re goin’ to be able to get a fresh start if you don’t have no money, do you?”
Martin didn’t like the way the conversation was going. “We don’t have any money,” he said. “I spent everything I had on the wagon and things we’d need to make a new start.”
Payson turned to the others. “What do you think about this?” he said. “Here’s a man who was smart enough to be a captain in the Yankee army, but is so dumb that he comes out here with no money.”
“Well, hell, Payson, how smart do you have to be to be a cap’n in the Yankee army?” one of the others asked, and all laughed.
“You!” Mary said to Payson. “You were one of them. And so were you.” She pointed to the man with the half-ear.
“We was one of who?” Payson asked.
“You were one of the ones who burned our house and barn.”
“Could be,” Payson agreed with a chuckle. “I rode with Bloody Bill Anderson and we burned us up a lot of Yankee houses and barns. But that was war. You see that, don’t you, Cap’n?”
“Yes,” Martin agreed. “The war’s over now, and I figure a lot of us have done things we’d just as soon not remember.”
“You don’t have any money, huh?”
“No, I don’t. And I’d feel a lot better if you folks would just ride on and leave us be.”
“What if we don’t want to ride on?” Payson asked.
“Then I’d be obliged to make you move on.”
“How you goin’ to do that? There’s only one of you and there are six of us.”
“You seem to be the one in charge,” Martin said. “I’ll kill you.”
Payson threw his duster to one side and raised a double-barrel shotgun. Martin snaked his pistol from his holster in a lightning-fast draw. Before Payson could shoot, Martin pulled the trigger. But the hammer made a distinct clicking noise as it misfired.
Payson pulled the trigger on his shotgun and the blast, at nearly point-blank range, opened up Martin’s chest, cutting his heart to shreds. He was dead before he hit the ground.
“Martin!” Mary screamed.
“Get the two women down here!” Payson ordered. “If they ain’t got no money, we may as well have us some fun.”
“Matt, run!” Mary shouted.
Earlier, Matt had moved his father’s rifle closer to the edge of the wagon. Now he grabbed the rifle and darted into the rocks alongside the wagon trail.
“What about the boy?” one of the men shouted.
“You can have ’im if that’s your taste,” Payson said. “But for me, I’m goin’ to have me one of these women.”
The others laughed at Payson’s comment. Then they grabbed Mary and Cassie and jerked them down from the wagon seat. Mother and daughter fought hard, biting and scratching.
“Damn you!” Payson said, jerking back from Mary. “Be still!”
Mary and Cassie continued to struggle, putting up such a fight that Payson and the half-eared man, who had taken first dibs, couldn’t get the job done.
“To hell with it!” Payson said. He took a knife from his belt, then slashed it across Mary’s throat. Mary began gurgling as blood spilled onto the dirt.
“Mama!” Cassie shouted.
“Cut the bitch, Garvey!” Payson said, and the half-eared man silenced Cassie.
Payson stood up then, and looked down at the bodies of Mary and Cassie.
“Damn,” he said. “Why’d they make us do that? Hell, I don’t want ’em now.”
“I’ll do it,” one of the other men said.
“What are you talkin’ about, Cooper? They’re both dead,” Payson said.
“What the hell difference does that make?” Cooper asked. “Hell, all I wanted was a poke. She don’t have to be alive for me to get a poke. Wasn’t aimin’ to make her fall in love with me.”
The others laughed nervously.
“Anyone else goin’ to join in the fun?” Cooper asked as he began unbuttoning his pants.
By the time Matt found a place in the rocks that would let him see what was going on, his mother and sister were already dead. Matt was less than twenty-five yards away from the six men who were standing around his mother and sister. He aimed the rifle at Cooper’s head, and pulled the trigger.
The sudden gunshot startled everyone.
“What the hell?” Payson shouted, spinning around. Behind him, Cooper was pitching back with blood and brain matter oozing from the top of his head.
The moment Matt shot, he pulled back from the rock where he had been, and slipped into a very narrow fissure between two large rocks. As a result, Payson didn’t see M
att, but he did see a wisp of gun smoke hanging in the air from where Matt had fired.
“It’s the kid!” Garvey shouted. “Somehow he’s got hold of a rifle.”
“Get him!” Payson ordered.
“He went in between them rocks,” Garvey said.
“Lucas, you’re the smallest one of us, see if you can get in there and pull him out,” Payson ordered.
Nodding, Lucas ran over to the two rocks, then started squeezing through the narrow opening between them.
“Can you get through?” Payson called.
“Yeah, it’s tight but I can do it,” Lucas called back as he struggled to work through.
From his position behind another rock, about ten yards beyond the fissure, Matt watched Lucas working hard to squeeze through. He was in a very contorted position when Matt noticed that, while both arms were through, his waist, and consequently his gun, was not.
Matt stood up then and stared, pointedly, at Lucas.
“Ha!” Lucas called. “Payson, Garvey, come on. We’ve got his ass now.”
“No,” Matt said as he raised the rifle to his shoulder. “I’ve got yours.”
“What?” Lucas shouted. In an instant his sense of triumph turned to terror. “No, kid, no!” he shouted.
Matt pulled the trigger and felt the rifle kick back against his shoulder, watching as a black hole appeared in Lucas’s forehead.
Matt had now killed two men in as many minutes.
“What are we going to do, Payson? Just stay around here until the little brat shoots us all, one at a time?” Garvey asked.
“Corey, Taggart, you find anything in the wagon?”
“No money, Payson,” one of the men said. “Found this here silver saddle, though.”
“Take it,” Payson ordered. “And any vittles you might find, then let’s get out of here.”
“What about the brat?”
“Leave him,” Payson said. “He’s out here in the middle of nowhere, all by himself. If Injuns or wolves don’t get him, he’ll likely starve to death or . . .” Payson took an ax from the side of the wagon and smashed the water barrel. The water that Matt and his family had been so cautiously hoarding spilled to the ground in one quick splash. “Die of thirst,” Payson concluded.
Crusade of Eagles Page 24
