For his part, Christian started pushing himself harder than ever to pick up his boss’ slack. Morgan was a hard worker, but there were some tasks the old man was unable to do on his own. As he discovered what was needed, Christian continued working long after Morgan retired for the evening, even if it meant occasionally skipping a night of reading.
If Morgan noticed a change in Christian, he chose not to remark on it. He remained much the same as he had when they first became acquainted. His gruff manner was one of many constants on the ranch.
Mrs. Morgan grew much friendlier to Christian as she began to see past his unkempt appearance, though she begged Morgan to take him to the barber the next time they went to town.
The house was small, but with only three people it was far from crowded. Christian had certainly slept in smaller rooms. He remembered once stumbling into an abandoned cabin next to a creek after days without water. Drinking from the creek left him deathly ill, and for a while he thought he was done for. As he collapsed in pain, all he could think about was how despondent the cabin was, with its dirt floor and walls filled with holes. Rats scurried about without regarding him, inspecting an abandoned cabinet in search of food.
Christian survived the brush with death. The next morning, he found a few unspoiled cans of food. In all his years since the war, he had never come so close to dying. Christian believed God kept him alive for a reason. He just didn’t yet know what it was.
One night, when Christian returned from his chores, he found Morgan sitting alone on the porch, his eyes fixed on the pocket watch he’d been looking at on Christian’s first day on the ranch. There was a bottle of whiskey sitting on the porch and a glass in the farmer’s other hand. Christian found it odd, since Morgan had not consumed a drop of liquor since they’d met, but he said nothing. In any event, it wasn’t his place. He started to walk inside when Morgan spoke.
“Two months,” the old man whispered. He looked frailer than usual somehow, drained of the vitality that held his age in check. “It’s been two months since they took him from me.”
Christian hesitated and sat down next to Morgan. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“He was a good boy, Emerson,” Morgan said. “He never meant anyone harm. Where is the justice for my boy? And they sit up there in their fortress, living like kings.” He peered toward the mountains. “God has forsaken this town.”
Christian waited in silence for a long moment. “‘Then they will know that I am the Lord, when I lay my vengeance down upon them.’”
Morgan glanced over at Christian.
“It’s from the book of Ezekiel. I remember reading it during the war. There will come a time when those men face true justice.”
“Do you really believe that?” Morgan asked. He seemed uncertain.
Christian peered at the distant sunset beyond the porch. “I used to.”
The two men sat in silence for a long while. When Morgan spoke again, it was in his usual gruff manner.
“I reckon we’ll go to town soon, Emerson.”
Then he rose from the rocking chair and left Christian sitting alone with his thoughts.
Chapter Six
Carlos Ruiz knew his mother would be ashamed of him. The knowledge burned in his chest every night when he tried to sleep. Worse still, he was starting to realize he was ashamed of himself. He was beginning to understand the kind of man he had become, the kind of men he ran with, and it scared him.
As a boy, Carlos hated laboring in the fields alongside his brothers and sisters in Mexico. His disdain for work continued into adolescence, when he first took to thievery. It was much easier to take what he wanted, even if it belonged to someone else. This aspect of his personality never bothered him much. But he never considered himself a killer.
That was before he met Charlie Sheldon. The American’s gang was feared for miles, which was why Carlos joined up with Charlie’s outfit in New Mexico. In hindsight, that was the defining moment in his life. After that, there was no turning back. Not many men left the outfit―at least not of their own volition.
Carlos sat under the sparse shade of a Lodgepole pine, staring at the bronze crucifix in his palm. The crucifix once belonged to his mother, Juanita, a devout Roman Catholic. It was her most prized possession. Carlos had stolen it before leaving home, believing it would bring him good luck as he struck out on his own. These days, he found himself spending more time silently confessing his sins to the crucifix than expecting blessings from it.
He could see the town of Casper from his spot in the mountains. The pine sat a little over a half mile from Big Jim’s homestead; it was a brief refuge whenever he wanted privacy to dwell on his thoughts. Like the other men left behind by Charlie, who was likely on his way back from Stillwater by now, Carlos found himself with little to do in the absence of his boss. The outlaws mainly kept to themselves, occasionally going into town for cards and drinks, or to do Big Jim’s dirty work.
Carlos was always glad whenever Charlie went away. It was an unspoken truth that there was something wrong with Charlie. The man was completely unpredictable. His disposition changed on a whim. Everyone seemed to walk a little easier when Charlie wasn’t around.
Carlos saw Avery McCoy approaching on foot from the south. When Avery spotted him, he called out, “There you are. I’ve been looking for you.”
Carlos hastily returned the crucifix into his pocket and climbed to his feet. He feared this meant Charlie had returned early.
“What for?” he asked, trying not to sound anxious. Though McCoy was a hard man like all the others, he always treated Carlos with respect. Even so, Carlos didn’t want his friend aware of his confliction concerning his responsibilities to the gang.
“It’s almost lunch. You’d better get some grub, Ruiz, unless you want to go hungry.”
Carlos breathed a sigh of relief. He smiled, revealing two missing teeth. “Of course, Señor McCoy. I was starting to get hungry.”
McCoy chuckled. “Doing what? Bird watching? Why do you come out here anyway? The others think it’s odd.”
“As you say, I was watching the birds.” He surreptitiously tucked the crucifix farther down in his pocket. The others wouldn’t understand. None of them were God-fearing men, to say the least. Carlos wasn’t even sure he was one. Not after the things he’d done for Charlie. He thought back to the picnic where Abel Morgan was gunned down in cold blood.
Such things should not be done near a church, he thought. From time to time, Carlos considered trying to find a way to leave the gang. He’d seen enough death to last a lifetime. But he didn’t know any other life.
The two men walked toward the ranch in relative silence. Neither had much to say. McCoy was by nature a quiet man, and Carlos sometimes had trouble with English. He found it was safer to keep his thoughts to himself anyway.
“Looks like the hands are busy as ever,” McCoy mused as they neared the homestead. Carlos nodded in agreement. Big Jim worked his men notoriously hard, though he largely gave the rustlers free rein. There was a distinct division of labor between the farmhands and the gunmen. The two groups mainly stuck to themselves. Nevertheless, everyone who stayed on the ranch felt a sense of separation from the people in the town below, along with a sense of superiority.
The lunch bell rang loud and clear. The two men strolled down a gravel path surrounded on either side by wooden fences as they neared the homestead. Herds grazed on green pastures surrounded by fields of hay. The scope of the ranch was enormous. There were five barns, two separate living quarters for the hands and servants, stables, and farm animals. This was in addition to the main house where Big Jim resided.
The two men reached the homestead and made their way to the large kitchen. The rustlers stayed in the farmhouse, a sign of their place in the order of things.
“About time you got here, Avery,” Heath Pennington said.
“Quinn’s been looking for y’all.”
McCoy nodded and went to get some food. Carlos felt himself fall under the watchful gaze of Kane Pennington, Heath’s brother, as he followed McCoy. Kane silently smirked as Carlos passed him by. The Pennington brothers were dangerous killers. Both men were lean and muscular, always wearing angry, brooding faces. Carlos tried to stay clear of them whenever he could, as Kane didn’t bother hiding his disdain for any race that wasn’t his own. Keeping his distance, Carlos collected a bowl of soup from a kitchen worker and sat down at a table across from McCoy, who eagerly devoured a sandwich of salted beef, a bowl of beans, and some cornbread.
“I tell you I won’t have it, Quinn.”
Carlos recognized the man’s voice before he saw him. It belonged to Big Jim. The rancher was speaking in a raised tone with Quinn Blackwell, Charlie’s right-hand man. With Charlie gone, Quinn was in charge of the gang.
“Trust me, Mr. Markham, Brock is one of us. I understand.”
“I don’t think you do. We have to feed the man through a straw. It’ll take weeks for his ribs to heal, during which he’s completely useless to me. Time is money, Quinn.”
Brock, the individual in question, was sitting alone at table near the back of the room. He looked bad. But Carlos didn’t feel sorry for Brock. The man was a nasty piece of work. Carlos found himself wondering about whoever it was that inflicted such a beating onto Brock. Surely the individual had to be built like an ox. Carlos suspected Brock had it coming. He had caused more than his share of trouble over the years.
Carlos turned his eyes back to Big Jim and Quinn. Despite only being in his early thirties, Quinn was a natural leader. His cool and steady disposition was the complete opposite of Charlie, who waxed hot and cold from moment to moment. It constantly surprised Carlos that the two men got along so well, but Quinn always seemed to know just what to say to handle Charlie’s moods.
“What are you asking me to do about it, sir?” Quinn asked.
“I’m asking you to teach this Emerson person a lesson,” Big Jim said, sweating profusely. His wide girth threatened to spill out of the fancy dress shirt he was wearing.
“With all due respect, he’s just a stranger. He’ll probably be moving on soon anyway. Why not let sleeping dogs lie?”
Big Jim’s eyes narrowed. He did not take kindly to being disagreed with. “Because the people need to be reminded what happens when they cross me.”
“I seem to remember an incident in May when Charlie reminded them of just that,” Quinn said. “As I recall, you weren’t exactly too fond of what happened to that boy, Mr. Markham.”
“That was different,” Big Jim insisted. “What happened to the Morgan boy was unfortunate. It gained us nothing. This Emerson man beat Brock brutally, in public. It was a direct challenge to me, intended or not.”
“If that’s how you see it, sir. You can see how I’m reluctant to get involved, especially with Charlie not here.”
Big Jim leaned in closely so only Quinn could hear him, but Carlos was able to read his lips. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
Quinn’s mouth curled upwards in a smile. He tipped his hat. “I’ll take care of it gladly, sir.”
“I expected no less.”
“Where can I find him?”
“I hear he’s working for Landon Morgan now, but I want it done in town for everyone to see. Morgan usually rides into town for supplies on Thursdays—that’s tomorrow.”
The air of command was typical of Big Jim, who was always in an unpleasant mood. Carlos supposed this was because the rancher always wanted more. Big Jim was never happy with something once he had it. Instead, he always moved on to the next conquest. In this respect, Big Jim was like Charlie. It was probably one of the things that brought the two men together in the first place. Lately, however, Carlos had noticed their relationship deteriorating. Big Jim was growing too accustomed to ordering Charlie around, and Charlie wanted to be rewarded more handsomely by the notoriously thrifty rancher.
“Consider it done,” Quinn said simply.
Satisfied, Big Jim strode away, no doubt to attend to some new business. Quinn’s smile faded as he watched his employer leave. Then he turned to the kitchen tables, and his gaze settled on Carlos.
“Haven’t seen much of you this morning, Ruiz,” Quinn said. “How was the bird watching?”
Carlos wasn’t shocked that Quinn was aware of his secret place. There wasn’t much that the man didn’t know.
“Good, Señor Blackwell. The sky was clear for miles.” Carlos trusted Quinn, who was much easier to get along with than Charlie. Carlos wasn’t the only one who preferred Quinn over the boss. So did Lester and both Pennington brothers.
Quinn clapped Carlos on the back. “Excellent. I want you in on something, so eat up. Avery—ready to stretch your legs?”
“Yes sir,” McCoy answered.
“Good.” Quinn looked to another table. “Blake, get over here.” An average-sized rider in his early fifties joined the group. Quinn looked the three men over for a few moments, deep in thought.
“Boys, we’re going to town,” he said. “Bring your guns. Big Jim needs us to tend to a little problem for him.”
“What about Charlie?” Blake asked. The oldest member of the gang, he’d been with Charlie from the beginning and was one of the most loyal to the boss.
“Don’t worry about Charlie,” Quinn said, unconcerned. “I’ll handle him.”
With that, Blake fell silent.
The four men finished their meals and packed, then made for the barn. They unhitched their horses and sped down the mountain, heading north for Casper. Quinn wanted to reach town before Emerson arrived with Landon Morgan the following day.
They entered Casper not long before evening. The men stopped off at the stables, where they left the horses. On the way out, Quinn spotted the stable boy.
“You’re Finley, right?” he asked.
The young man looked them over carefully. “Yes sir,” Finley said. “Can I help you, mister?”
“We’re looking for the man called Emerson. You know him?”
“I’ve heard of him.”
Carlos saw an anxious look in the young man’s eyes. Finley knew more than he was saying.
“Has he dropped by here recently?”
“No sir,” Finley answered firmly.
Quinn shook his head. “That’s what I thought. Do let us know if he passes through. We’ll tell Big Jim that you were a big help.”
Finley just nodded. Carlos started to interject, but Quinn cut him off.
“Come on, boys, let’s go to the saloon.”
As they went on their way, Carlos glanced back and saw Finley watching, an uneasy look on his face.
* * * * *
The rustlers settled into the saloon for the evening at the poker table. Quinn ordered several rounds of drinks on Big Jim’s tab.
“Tomorrow,” he said casually, “you’ll wait outside in the alley for Morgan and Emerson to pass by.”
“What about you?” Blake asked.
“I’ll be watching from in here,” Quinn said simply. He’d seen the results of what Emerson did to Brock. He wanted to see what this man was capable of for himself. The stranger intrigued him, and he planned to explore this curiosity in Charlie’s absence.
“Make sure he knows that he’s getting what’s coming to him,” Quinn said. “Then fill him up with lead.”
* * * * *
When Morgan told him to hitch the wagon, Christian knew it meant they were going to town. He did as he was told, though he didn’t relish the prospect of returning to Casper so soon. Little more than a week had passed since he delivered the beating to the rustler in the saloon, and he doubted the gossip had died down.
Despite himself, Christian enjoyed wo
rking alongside his boss. Like Christian, Morgan hid his emotions well, but it wasn’t that hard to see the old man was still trying to come to terms with the death of his sons. Neither spoke again about Abel’s death directly. It wasn’t the sort of matter that could be solved by a few well-placed words; Christian knew that from the war. Still, there were times when Morgan or his wife would make a reference to one of their sons, often accompanied by a period of prolonged silence or absent expressions.
Likewise, Christian changed the subject on the few occasions when Morgan attempted to ask him about where he came from. On one hand, working on the ranch kept him out of town, which meant fewer people prying into his past. On the other, he spent enough time around Morgan for his boss to occasionally catch a glimpse behind his mask of indifference. Christian kept his mouth shut, but he suspected Morgan pieced together more than he let on.
Christian stepped into the musty old barn and led one of Morgan’s palomino horses out of his stall. Galahad peered at him from his pen, clearly expecting Christian to let him out.
“Sorry, my friend. You’re not coming with us this time.”
Galahad wasn’t accustomed to the wagon, and Morgan preferred to use his own horses. Other than his pistols, Galahad was the last link to Christian’s former life. The horse shook his mane to get rid of some flies and turned his attention to the hay lining the stall.
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