His head rocked back a little, as if he'd just been slapped.
"Mr. Cain..."
"I noticed there was some tack out in your barn needs soaping," he said. He snatched off his hat, then slammed it back down again. "Reckon I'll get at it."
His boots rapped across the bare pine floorboards. He jerked open the door.
"Mr. Cain? Do you like shoofly pie?"
He kept his hand on the latch, though he did turn to look at her. The cold morning air blew in, stirring up the rich smell of fresh warm milk. "I don't know as how I've ever had any," he said.
"It's what I make for Benjo come Saturday nights, if he's been a real good boy about taking his bath."
A quiet spun out between them. And then she saw the brackets around his mouth deepen just a bit. "You make that poor boy take a bath every Saturday? Lord-a-mercy, no wonder he questions your affections."
Benjo Yoder wasn't thinking about baths as he walked later that morning through the jack pines and tamaracks that draped the lower slopes of Tobacco Reef. He was thinking that maybe he was almost as good at reading trail sign as any Indian scout ever was.
He squatted on his haunches to study the black droppings that lay scattered like lumps of coal over the pine straw. A bear had crossed over this deer trail not too long back, he thought. He pushed at one of the turds with his finger, rolling it over. It was still plenty fresh. Yes sirree he thought, a bear had sure enough passed this way, maybe as recently as this morning.
He looked up, squinting against the sunlight that splashed through the pine boughs. The trees were thick here but they thinned out further on up the slope of this butte, and there were plenty of caves in the rocks up there for a bear to snooze away the winter. It was just this time of year that bears first stuck their noses out their winter beds to get a whiff of spring—
The brush crackled behind him.
Benjo whirled, his fingers scrabbling for his sling. Ears straining, he stared hard at the tangled thicket of kinnikinnick bushes.
A breeze came up, stirring the leaves on the bushes and trees, rustling, whispering, crackling...
He let out a shaky breath. It was only the wind.
He sure hadn't wanted to meet up with any bear. He had no illusions that he could take down a grizzly, or even a black bear, with his sling—no matter what David was supposed to have done to Goliath. Just like he knew he really wasn't any Indian scout.
Benjo ambled on down the trail, looking for more signs of the bear. A squirrel scampered ahead of him, disappearing into the trees, tail and whiskers twitching. He spotted a downed log cushioned with yellow lichen, and he sat on it. He opened up his tin dinner pail and smiled to see that Mem had made his favorite, a Cornishman's letter-from-home. He took a big bite of the beef and potato pie, licking the gravy off his fingers. It was a little early in the day to be eating dinner, he supposed, but his belly sure didn't care.
Just about now, Benjo thought, old Rabbitface Gibson would be breaking out the drill books and arithmetic charts. She would be scratching row upon row of numbers across the blackboard. In a moment some poor Schussel would have to properly fill in the empty spaces after all those equal signs, or get his hand whacked with a ruler.
Actually Benjo didn't mind working out arithmetic problems up on the blackboard, so long as he didn't have to open his mouth and talk about them. It was reading and answering questions aloud that made Benjo Yoder's school day a misery. The other kids would laugh, while old Rabbitface stood over him, waiting, waiting, waiting, and when the words just wouldn't come out, Benjo would feel the sting of her ruler.
But mean as old Rabbitface Gibson was, she had nothing on the Mclver twins. It was supposed to be a sin to hate, Benjo knew, even to hate outsiders. But Benjo had trouble not hating the Mclver twins.
It was probably also a sin to allow his mind to dwell on such thoughts, but Benjo couldn't help wondering why God had chosen to afflict the Miawa Valley with such ornery specimens as those McIvers. They looked exactly alike, with the same fire-engine hair and freckle-mottled skin, and the same narrow-slotted pig eyes. The same big, knotty fists, too. The twins were two years older than he was, and twice his size. And with the way they kept pounding on him, Benjo figured he wasn't likely to grow any bigger.
Benjo didn't know what he'd ever done to earn the twins' enmity. It seemed that the mere fact of his existence on this earth was enough to get them riled. Every Friday for the past three months, regular as an eight-day clock, the Mclver twins had stolen his Plain hat and run off with it to the boys' outhouse. There, they would threaten to drop his hat down the hole unless he begged them, saying, "Pretty please, don't." Once he hadn't been able to get the words past his tangled-up tongue. And once, pride had driven him to fight back. All that had gotten him, though, was beaten up, and his hat had wound up down the privy hole. He'd had to make up lies at home to explain away why his hats had gone missing.
The last time, he'd gotten caught out in the lie, and his mem had cried over his sin. He had hated that most of all. He would almost rather she'd given him a whipping. Which was why this Friday he'd decided to avoid the situation entirely by not even showing up at the schoolhouse.
Benjo figured those Mclvers would never dare to beat up on him if his father were still around to put a stop to it. And Benjamin Yoder wouldn't have bothered with saying "pretty please" either. Once, two summers ago, when Mem was coming out of the mercantile loaded down with supplies, one of the Hunter cowhands had tripped her up with his spur, ripping her skirt. Da had gone after that cowhand with his fists and beaten the man's face bloody.
Later, Deacon Weaver had made Da get down on his knees during the worship service and confess about how he'd lost his temper and succumbed to the sin of violence. But Benjo remembered his father and Mem talking together that Sunday night, in quiet voices he probably wasn't supposed to be hearing, and his father had said that, confession or not, he would do it again because there were some indignities a man just shouldn't have to suffer.
Benjo figured the Mclver twins were two such indignities.
He looked down the deer trail, his eyes suddenly blurring. Sometimes if he just held his breath and concentrated really hard, he could almost see his father. Almost see him bending over the ground to point out the bear droppings, almost hear him saying, "Look there, Benjo. This old she-bear's been feeding on huckleberries."
Benjo tried to swallow down the wad of tears that was building in his throat. It just hurt so much to think about his father being gone forever. It seemed like some days everything reminded him of Da, even his own name. His given name was really Joseph, but because there were three other Joes among the Plain People, folk had at first taken to calling him Ben's Joe, and before long it had gotten shortened to Benjo.
Even with Benjamin Yoder having been called home to God, Mem said he was still Ben's Joe. He would always be Ben's Joe.
Not like the outsider, who wasn't anybody's son. That's what he'd said just last night, out by the paddock gate, when Benjo had asked about his father. The outsider had said, "I ain't no man's son." Benjo knew, though, that you needed some kind of father just to get bom. And when Benjo had told the outsider that, he'd laughed. Then he'd said his father had probably just been some poor, dumb son of a bitch passing through east Texas, who for once had managed to leave behind a little something more than his dust.
Last night Benjo had almost asked the outsider to walk along to the schoolhouse with him this morning. He figured all the man would have to do would be to show up wearing that six-shooter of his, and all of Benjo's worries would be over. But he hadn't asked the outsider for the favor, and now here he was hiding out in the woods instead of facing his indignities like a man. Like his father would have done.
But all he had to do was think about what went on out by that outhouse, of what was done to him, and the fear would rise up in his throat to choke him. And following on the heels of his fear would be a bitter shame that burned. Burned just like the tears that w
ere now scalding his eyes.
He pounded his thigh, hard, with his fist. Don't you cry, Benjo Yoder. Don't you dare cry.
His mother had told him once that the fears and the sadness had a way of piling up inside a person until there was nothing for it but to cry them all back out again. But his mother was a female, and it was all right for her to cry. Men, like his father—they didn't cry.
The kinnikinnick bushes rustled again. Benjo looked up, blinking hard still against the tears.
But this time there wasn't any wind.
He tensed as the crackling, rustling noises came again, followed by a low whining whimper. It didn't sound at all like a bear, but more like a hurt dog.
Benjo took out his sling and dug in the dirt for a stone. Leaving the trail, he made his way cautiously through the thicket of trees and brush, and entered into a small clearing of bunchgrass choked with thistle and ironweed. The whimpers were growing steadily louder, breaking into an occasional mournful howl. Where the clearing blended back into the woods, he saw the caved-in edges of what looked to be a large pit. The whimpering was coming from down inside.
He approached slowly, his brogans crunching through the winter-killed grass. The whimpers deepened into a low growling. He peered over the edge.
A snoutful of snarling teeth lunged at his face. He yelped, and fell backward onto his rump.
He sat there a moment while the breath sawed in his throat and his heart jumped. He'd only gotten a glimpse of the animal in the pit, but he thought maybe it was a coyote.
He edged up to the lip again. He could feel his heart pounding, and there was a salty, bitter taste in his mouth that he knew was fear, because he had tasted it before. He made himself look down into the pit. This time the coyote didn't leap up at him, although it made snarling noises deep in its throat.
Dirt and leaves and pine needles slithered over the edge of the pit, raining down on the coyote and on a rotting log that lay next to it. The pit appeared to be at least eight feet deep. Too deep, Benjo saw with relief, and too steep-sided for the coyote to climb out, even if it hadn't been hurt. But one of its legs was twisted in a funny way. Its tawny gray pelt was wet and dark with blood from a deep gash in its side.
The coyote was a female and she looked to be growing pups in her belly. She stared up at Benjo, yellow eyes glowing wild, black lips peeled back over sharp canine teeth, bushy tail stiff and the hair of her white throat roached up in fear and anger.
Benjo thought the pit was probably some old deadfall trap, left over from when the Blackfeet used to hunt in these woods. The coyote's leg must have gotten broken and her side cut by the log that had been set to come crashing down on whatever prey stumbled into it.
Which was only good riddance, Benjo thought. Coyotes were sheep killers. In the summer they taught their young how to go after the lambs, and this one was going to have herself a full litter of pups to teach. Would've had herself a litter if she hadn't...
The coyote and the boy exchanged a long look, underscored by the coyote's low, rumbling growling and the boy's harsh breathing. Then the coyote's large pointed ears flattened back against her head, and her mouth snapped shut on a yelp of pain. She twisted her head around, trying to lick at the gash in her side.
Benjo sat back on his heels. It made him sad and slightly queasy to think of the coyote's suffering. She would die a bad death down in that deadfall trap. Unless a mountain lion got to her first. Or maybe the bear.
He pushed himself to his feet and ran back to the lichen-covered log where he'd left his dinner pail. He tossed what was left of his letter-from-home down to the coyote, who gobbled it up with a whimpering snarl. He killed a couple of squirrels with his sling and brought them back to her as well. He'd have to figure a way to sneak a bucket of water out here later, he thought, and a rope to lower it with.
He realized he was probably only prolonging her agony, though. Even if she didn't starve or some other wild animal didn't get her, she'd never manage a way out of the trap, not even if her busted leg somehow got healed.
It was funny, but he thought that if his father were here, he'd probably go get that old Sharp's rifle he kept hidden out in the barn and shoot the coyote with it, if for nothing else than to rid the valley of another sheep killer. But not Mem. Instead, Mem would be wanting to feed her and give her water, just like he was doing. She'd be all worried about the coyote's babies, just like he was worried.
He scrubbed at his face with his coat sleeve, shaking his head. Judas. A moment ago he was all but bawling his eyes out, and now here he was fretting over some dumb coyote. He was scared of the Mclver twins, and he was scared of old Rabbitface's ruler. He was even scared of a bear that probably didn't exist except in his own head.
He was worse than some disgusting girl.
He'd go back to the barn and get the rifle and he'd shoot that coyote—that's what he would do. It would be the merciful thing, he told himself. The manly thing.
He took off for home at a fast run, holding onto his hat. He broke out of the pine woods and descended into a coulee, his feet nearly skidding out from beneath him as he scrambled down the steep slope. Patches of snow still clung to the ground in the shady parts, and the mud sucked at his brogans.
He didn't see the two men on horseback until he'd nearly run right into them. He slewed to a stop, his knees loose, his belly quaking, and his heart thumping wildly in his chest.
The horse that was in the lead, a sorrel gelding, shied in fright. The sorrel's rider checked him with a soft curse. Benjo saw that the rider was a young man, not much older than Mose but with a hawklike face, thin-boned and high- nosed. Just then the other rider nudged his horse forward a couple of steps. He pushed his hat back to reveal a long face with droopy eyes and a beard like a billy goat's. His mouth was puckered around a thick wad of chewing tobacco.
Benjo's throat locked around a scream.
He was Mr. Hunter's stock inspector. The man who had hanged his father.
Benjo watched now, his eyes wide and dry, his breath whining through his throat, as the man unhooked a coiled braided rawhide rope from off his saddle.
"Well, now, what do we have here?" the man said. He spewed a thick glob of tobacco juice onto Benjo's brogans. "I'll be damned if we didn't just catch ourselves a cattle rustler."
CHAPTER 9
Quinten Hunter grabbed the man's arm, his fingers digging into fringed buckskin that was slick with old sweat and grease.
"Put it up, Wharton." He narrowed his eyes and made his voice smooth and slick as coal oil, a trick of intimidation he'd learned from his father. "Put up the rope."
For a moment longer the arm beneath Quinten's fingers stayed rigid, and a wildness flared deep in the man's pale eyes. Then Woodrow Wharton blinked and smiled, and hooked the rope back on his saddle.
Quinten's sorrel gelding danced sideways, its hind hooves sliding in the mud. The horse pricked its ears and tossed its head toward the stand of jack pines and tamaracks that climbed up the ravine. Quinten wondered if the boy was alone.
The boy certainly was terrified. Quinten could hear his breath scraping in his throat. The kid was skinny as a broom straw and he stood so rigid, he looked as if he would break in a stiff wind. He wore that old-fangled garb that marked him as one of the Plain folk who sheep-farmed the north end of the valley.
"You there, boy. What're you doing straying so far from home?"
The boy opened his mouth. He opened his mouth wide as if he would scream, but nothing came out of it but strange sucking noises.
Woodrow Wharton sent a thick stream of tobacco juice splatting into the grass and smiled. It was a wolf's smile, Quinten thought. Nothing behind it but teeth.
"Let's go ahead and string him up, Quin. Have ourselves a necktie sociable."
Quinten's gelding edged sideways again, jingling his bit chains. Quinten looked up into the empty pines. He heard only the sough of the wind, and the boy's harsh breathing. The boy's throat and jaw muscles were working hard, like bel
lows.
"Do you know this is Circle H land you're on, boy?"
The boy fisted his hands behind his back as if he needed to brace himself. "Muh!" he shouted with such force that Quinten saw his spit spray through the air. "Muh—muh—muh—"
"He thinks he's a woolly monster," Wharton said. His eyes were getting that crazed look again. "Are you a woolly monster, boy? Baaaa! Baaa!"
"Muh—m-my friend... huh—huh—he'll sh-shoot you all s-stone d-d-dead!"
The boy whirled and broke into an all-out run, scrambling back up the slope of the coulee toward the stand of jack pines. He ran awkwardly, with his coat flapping and his thin arms splayed out from his sides.
Quinten thrust his gelding into the path of Wharton's horse and leaned over, grabbing the shank of the bit to keep him from bolting after the boy.
Wharton stared at him, still wearing that wild smile. "Scare him, Quin. I was only going to scare him."
Quinten looked up into the trees where the boy had disappeared. He shook his head. "You scared him. Half out of what little wits he seems to have."
Wharton wiped the wet tobacco flakes off the ends of his goatee. "I always knew Injun blood made a man's hide go red. I didn't know it also tamed his guts yellow."
He dug his spurs cruelly into his horse, jerking its head around hard, and sending it back down the coulee in a spray of mud and chewed-up grass.
Quinten stared after him, frowning. It wasn't the insult; his hide might be red, but it had also grown thick over the years. Rather, it was Woodrow Wharton himself, and the wild unpredictability Quinten had seen in those spit-colored eyes. He'd known animals with eyes like that, eyes that couldn't be tamed, but he'd never seen them on a man before.
He wondered what had motivated the Baron to take on a man like Woodrow Wharton at the Circle H. No real hand would ever dude himself up in Wild West clothes, like chaps with silver conchas and fifty-dollar boots so skintight the man's feet were starting to curl like a ram's horns. No real ranch hand packed a pair of pearl-handled Colts rigged up for a quick draw.
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