Once a Renegade

by Peter Brandvold

  "She will, too, Ben," Jody said, cutting his eyes at Stillman. "That girl doesn't have one ounce of modesty."

  "That's what childbirth does to a girl," Crystal carped.

  To Ben, Jody said, "I've known her all her life. She's never had a modest bone in her body."

  Crystal's eyes flashed boldly, with a hint of licentiousness. "I've never known you to complain." She grinned.

  Jody flushed and just shook his head. Stillman pegged his hat on the wall. Chuckling—he'd long ago grown accustomed to the couple's back-and-forth banter—he headed for Crystal and kissed her cheek.

  "How you doin', girl?"

  "Well, I'd tell you how I keep getting the crying fits for no reason and that my titties feel like I've been suckling bobcats, but my husband would chide me for bein' immodest"

  Jody snorted as he poured a cup of coffee from the big black percolator on the range. "Ben, you know Crystal's sister, Marie."

  Stillman turned from Crystal and the baby. He hadn't realized anyone else was in the room, but now he saw the blond woman, a few years older than Crystal, standing back by the well pump, a tin cup of oatmeal in her hand. Chin drooped toward her chest, she seemed to be hiding in the shadows. While Marie shared Crystal's blond hair and pretty, blue-eyed face, that was the extent of their resemblance.

  Marie was a mousy little thing—shy and always deferring. When she spoke to others besides Crystal, it was with a soft child's voice, as though she were afraid of something unseen or felt she never quite measured up.

  But that wasn't surprising in light of the man she'd married—a drunk, abusive cuss named Ivan Wheatly. It had taken Crystal a good long time, but she'd finally rescued Marie and her four kids away from the man. That's why she was here now, living with Jody and Crystal until she could figure out a new life for herself and her family.

  "Marie," Stillman said with a gracious smile and nod. "How are you?"

  "Oh, I'm... gettin' along," she said with a nervous little laugh, unable to meet Stillman's friendly gaze. Clipping off the opportunity for further conversation, she moved quickly to Crystal, to whom she handed the oatmeal.

  "Thanks, sis," Crystal said.

  "Is that hot enough?"

  "It's good."

  "Not too hot?"

  "No, it's perfect, Marie," Crystal said. "Why don't you pour yourself a cup of coffee and sit at the table with Ben and Jody?"

  "Oh, no," Marie said in her little girl's voice, moving toward little Luke, who sat chattering on the braided rug before the living room hearth. "Me and Luke'll just stay over here, out of everyone's way."

  She picked up the child and sat in the overstuffed chair in front of the popping, sizzling fire.

  "Where's the rest of your brood, Marie?" Stillman asked, trying to engage the woman in conversation.

  Her nervous eyes flitted to Jody's as if he could answer the question better than she. "Oh, they're ... outside with their guns, aren't they Jody?"

  "Rabbit hunting," Jody said with a smile. "They're gettin' to be quite the shots, those boys. They've taken over my job of puttin' meat on the table."

  "Yes, they're... good boys," Marie said, lowering her head to gently kiss Luke's cheek, effectively ending her involvement in the conversation. Jody sipped his coffee and turned to Stillman, who sat at one end of the long kitchen table, brooding into his own coffee mug. "Well, I can see in your face you have trouble, Ben."

  "I can, too," Crystal said with a sympathetic expression. "What's wrong? It isn't Fay, is it?"

  "No, Fay's well," Stillman said. "I have a professional problem, you might say." He looked at Jody. "I was wondering if I could steal you away from these ladies for a couple days—two or three, maybe more. I need your tracking skills."

  Jody looked at Crystal, who looked back at him. To Ben, Jody said, “Tell me about it, Sheriff."

  Stillman told him the story, beginning with Shambeau's rampage in the woodcutters' shack and ending with the trapper's escape the night before when he should have been sleeping off Doc Evans's ether.

  "You think he headed back to his cabins?" Jody asked.

  "All we know is he headed south into the Two-Bears," Stillman said. "Which makes me think yes, he probably headed back to one of his cabins—wherever in the hell that might be. I've heard he's pretty secretive about where he lives."

  Jody was rubbing his jaw and staring out the window, pondering the situation. "Probably headed for Timber Creek."

  "What's that?" Stillman said.

  "He had a place on Timber Creek. Just a dugout"

  Stillman raised a surprised brow. "You know that?"

  "I stumbled onto it one time when me and Pa were hunting that way. Saw Louis out stretching hides. I don't think he saw us, and we left him alone. We both knew what a loner he was even back then—ten years ago, at least"

  "You think the cabin's still there?"

  "I don't know, but it's worth a shot. It's probably the closest one to town. I think the other two or three are farther out in the Missouri river breaks. They'd be damn near impossible to find. Like lookin' for a needle in a haystack. That's a big, woolly country out there."

  "Do you think you could find this place?"

  Jody looked at Crystal as if for permission. "I could try."

  Crystal did not look pleased. She frowned at her husband fearfully.

  "Crystal, Ben needs my help," Jody said.

  "Crystal," Stillman said, "you say the word and I'll hightail it out of here—alone. I know you have the baby and all, an'—"

  "Oh, he'll be restless as a tomcat if he doesn't go," Crystal groused. To Stillman, she said, "But you have to promise me, Sheriff, you won't let him get hurt."

  "You have my promise," Stillman said. "I just need him to get me to Louis's first cabin. The arrest I'll handle myself."

  Jody was already on his feet He pecked his wife and baby on their cheeks and said, "Thanks, honey," and hurried off for his gear.

  Stillman sat at the table and sipped his coffee. Crystal was staring at him with pursed lips and knit brows. Feeling cowed, Stillman winced and turned his gaze to the window.

  Chapter Eleven

  TOMMY FALK WOKE that morning with a brain-splitting headache that began with the burn at the top of his head—oh, it felt like he'd been doused with kerosene and set aflame!—and that hammered rail spikes deep within his skull, all the way to his jaw.

  It hurt so bad that as he lay on his bunk grinding his teeth, he almost felt like calling out for his mother; that needling, teetotaler devil he'd left with his worthless lout of a so-called father in Silver Springs, Iowa. He wasn't in that bad of a shape, though. Hell, just the image of her wooden smile and cow-stupid eyes that had always been buried in her ten-pound Bible, even when Tommy came home sucking on candy he'd stolen from the crossroads mercantile, made his head hurt even worse.

  "Get up, kid," a voice said, breaking into his misery. "Your turn for woodsplittin', and I need some pronto."

  It was the cook. Jack Hanson, who stood at the big Circle range slicing sidepork into a pan.

  "Send someone else out to do it. Can't you see I'm hurtin'?"

  "You weren't hurtin' too bad to ride into town yesterday and drink your fill of whiskey, so get out there."

  "That's about all I can do is drink whiskey," the kid grouched, throwing his legs to the floor and squeezing his eyes shut against the Apache war clubs thumping his brain. "It takes the pain away... sort of."

  "What's the problem, kid?" Donny Olnan called from the back of the bunkhouse, shaving at one of the two mirrors tacked to the wall. The other ten men were either shaving or dressing or scrubbing out their armpits, cigarettes or cigars drooping from their lips. "You got a headache?"

  "That's real funny," Falk groaned as he stepped into his pants. "You're a real cutup, Donny. You just wait till I'm feelin' well again. Then let's you and me take a walk

  out to the trash heap with our six-shooters strapped to our thighs." The kid cursed and buckled his belt, his n
ose wrinkled with pure disdain, the kind of anger he normally would have acted on had his head not felt like shattered glass. "Then we'll see who's so funny.”

  Squeals and laughter.

  "Take it easy, kid. Remember what the deputy said in town yesterday. There's folks back East makin' real nice head rugs." Aver Wilkinson elbowed Bernie Phipps standing beside him gargling whiskey. "Why, one o' those fine young lassies over at Mrs. Lee's place could run her titties through it all day and never know it belonged to a horse!"

  Wilkinson guffawed and Bernie Phipps sprayed his mouthful of whiskey at the window.

  "That’s real damn funny," the kid said, mooning as he pulled on his sheepskin and hat and headed for the door.

  "Oh, come on, Tommy, don't get your hair all in a kink!" someone else quipped as Falk slammed the door on the ensuing laughter.

  Pine and aspen logs were stacked along the bunkhouse wall near the door. Falk grabbed one off the stack, set it on the chopping block, and picked up the splitter. As he brought the iron maul down through the stout aspen chunk, he imagined doing the same thing to the face of Louis Shambeau. He'd never seen the man's face close up before—things had happened too fast that night in the cabin for the kid to even have glanced at the trapper's mug—but he imagined what it would look like just before the wedge hit. He imagined the man drawing thick, wet lips back and begging for his life.

  "No, Tommy, no! Please! I didn't mean—!"

  The wedge came down again with a thunk, the log splitting cleanly, the two halves flying in opposite directions, and the splitter sinking a good two inches into the chopping block.

  "Sorry, half-breed," Falk muttered, inhaling loudly as the tender nerve endings in his scalp—or what remained of it—wailed like wounded wolves. "Just a little dose of Falk's justice—frontier style!"

  "Hey, Tommy, can we see it?"

  The voice seemed to come out of nowhere. Falk stopped what he was doing and turned to see three horseback drovers grinning down at him. Tommy had been so wrapped up in his vengeance fantasy he hadn't heard them ride up—Lazy R riders from over east

  Falk scowled. "What the hell do you boys want?"

  "We were just riding back from town—had the day off yesterday so we spent it over at Mrs. Lee's," Roy Long explained with a grin, "and we were wonderin' if we could see it"

  Falk's scowl lines deepened beneath the red bandanna stretched taut across his skull. "See it?"

  "Your head," one of the other men said. "Ain't none of us ever seen a scalped noggin before."

  "I heard of a man scalped by Comanch down in Texas, but no, I ain't never seen one alive," another said.

  Falk was exasperated. "What the hell do you think I am?" he spat his face turning as red as the bandanna. "A damn circus show!”

  "Well, hell, you could just give us a peek," the third man said, his face scrunched imploringly around a big, brushy mustache and ragged goatee. “The trapper make all them bumps on your face, too?"

  Tommy just stared at the men, so angry his blood was steaming in his veins and threatening to burst through his pores. He stepped forward, wielding the splitter in both hands. "Get the heck out of here, you—!"

  His tirade was cut off by the bunkhouse door opening behind him and several of his comrades pouring out with grins on their faces.

  "Hey, if it ain't the lazy Lazy R boys!" the cook, Jack Hanson, bellowed. "Hidee, Slim, Roy, Mike! Light an' sit a spell. I'd offer you a cup of coffee if young Falk here would quit draggin' his ass and split me some wood!"

  "Ah, that's okay, Jack," Roy said. "We were just stoppin' by to see if the kid'd show us his noggin, but he's just plain owly this mornin'."

  "Oh, come on, Tom"—one of the other Bar 7 riders nudged Falk's side—"take your bandanna off and show the boys."

  "Diddle yourself, Milt!"

  Laughs all around. Tommy stood there wielding the maul like he was about to take it to each man in turn.

  "Yeah, he's just plain ornery till he's had his red eye," Jack Hanson explained. "Best just to leave him alone. You sure you boys won't come on inside? We could sure use some fresh conversation around here."

  "Nah, we best get on back to the Lazy R," Slim Wilbur said. "Like we told Tommy, we had yesterday off, so we spent it in town at Mrs. Lee's." He gave a coyote hoot, his wide mouth slashing his face practically in two. "But we're due back this mornin' to bring the herd down close to the headquarters—for calvin' and brandin' and all."

  "Well, stop back when you can stay."

  "We'll sure do that," Slim said as he and the others touched their hatbrims and reined their mounts away. Slim stopped, frowning, and turned back. "Oh, say, did you boys hear the news about Shambeau?"

  "What news?" Tommy snarled.

  "He got away from the deputy up at the doc's place last night."

  "Say what!"

  "Sure enough." Slim nodded seriously. "He went and slipped out the doc's window in the middle of the night. Stillman's after him now. Auld over at the livery said the man broke in and stole his horse out, then headed south into the Two-Bears."

  "Damn!" carped the Bar 7 rider called Condor Dave because his face owned a distinctly raptorial nose and eyes.

  Falk just stood there, eyes slitted, not saying anything, wielding the splitter as though he were still wanting to use it on the visitors.

  "I can't believe those morons let him get away," the Bar 7 foreman said through gritted teeth. "After what he done to Jackson and Mueller!"

  "Those two tin-plated jailers couldn't keep a baby in a bassinet!" Roy Long exclaimed.

  "I always thought they were good lawmen," Hanson said wonderingly. "I mean, they tamed Clantick. And Stillman, hell, he was one of the best marshals the frontier ever seen!"

  "Maybe he's gettin' old and losin' his touch," one of the Bar 7 men opined.

  Roy Long said, "I don't know—if I was you boys, I'd give ole Stillman a hand. He ain't never gonna find Shambeau. Hell, Louis's probably already back on the Missouri by now, planning his next kill."

  Roy jerked his horse around to follow the other riders through the gate. "Be seein' you boys. If Stillman don't catch that maniac, let me know, will you—so's I can get my hair cropped good and close!"

  With that, Roy Long galloped his horse through the gate and back onto the trail, heading east.

  Falk turned to the tall foreman, Dave Groom, who stood staring after the Lazy R riders in his denim shirt and suspenders, thoughtfully sucking a cigarette with his Stetson tipped back on his head.

  "Did you hear that, Dave?” Falk said. "Shambeau's on the loose. I don't know about you, but—"

  "Hold on, hold on, kid," Groom growled. “I’ll go talk to the old man." Groom started toward the main house. Over his shoulder, he called, "You boys get back inside and pad out your bellies."

  "We gotta go after him, Dave!" Falk yelled. "He took my hair!"

  Groom mounted the veranda and knocked on the door. When a man yelled, "Come!" Groom removed his hat and opened the door.

  In the kitchen to his left, the Hendricks family—Mr. and Mrs. and the two daughters—were sitting at the table, working on breakfast, a big speckled coffeepot sitting on a wood trivet before them. Seeing the pot, Groom's mouth watered, for Hanson's lack of stove wood had prevented him from brewing coffee.

  Hendricks's back was to Groom, and he craned his neck around to see behind him. "What is it, Dave?"

  "A couple of Lazy R riders were just here and left," Groom said.

  "Oh? Come on in and pour a cup of coffee."

  "Don't mind if I do," Groom said.

  As he moved toward the table, one of the girls, with whom Groom had shared several private moments in the lean-to shack off the south barn, gave him a lascivious wink. Blushing, Groom quickly turned his eyes to Mrs. Hendricks and nodded an affable greeting.

  "Megan, get Mr. Groom a cup," Mrs. Hendricks told the daughter.

  "Certainly, Mother."

  While the girl went to the cupboard for a cup, Hendricks sai
d, "So, what is it, Dave? Our beeves been mixing with theirs again?"

  "No, sir, that's not it," Groom said.

  He paused as Megan came around behind him and, brushing against his arm, handed him the cup. Groom glanced quickly at the parents, but the eyes of both were on their plates. The other daughter, however, saw it all, and snickered into her hand.

  Groom jerked an angry look at Megan, who gave him a wink and returned to her chair.

  "What is it, Rachel?" Mrs. Hendricks asked the snickering daughter.

  "Oh, nothing, Mother."

  "These girls do not know how to behave around men, Walt," Mrs. Hendricks chided her husband. "In the future, I hope you'll meet your foreman out on the veranda. The house must be off-limits to the help."

  "Yes, of course, dear," Hendricks said with an air of impatience. He turned to Groom. "So, Dave, what's the problem?"

  Groom sipped his coffee to cover his embarrassment. "It's Shambeau, Mr. Hendricks. The Lazy R boys say he got away from Stillman and McMannigle, and he's heading back into the mountains."

  Mrs. Hendricks looked sharply at her husband. "Walt!"

  With a weary sigh, Hendricks threw his napkin on his half-empty plate and shoved his chair back. Standing, he said, "Guess this ain't for the females, Dave. Let's continue this discussion on the porch," and headed for the door.

  Outside. Groom, who had held on to his coffee cup, sidled up to his boss. Hendricks was staring off toward the corrals and blacksmith shop. "So, he's on the loose, eh?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "And I suppose the rest of the men heard about it."

  "Yes, sir."

  "I suppose Falk heard about it."

  "Yes, sir, he did at that."

  "And I suppose they're wanting to go after him themselves, that it?"

  Groom nodded. "Well, sir, that maniac did make off with the kid's hair, and he did kill poor ole Jackson and Mueller. If we don't stick up for our own boys, boss, you know—"

  "Yeah, I know, I know," Hendricks groused, nodding angrily. "If we don't stick up for our own men, it can be damn hard on morale."