A Tale Out of Luck (22 page)

As he stepped up on the boardwalk, he heard banjo and guitar strings plucking random notes, and a bow testing the tuning of a fiddle. Then Captain Hank Tomlinson’s voice rose above the others:

“Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the man who rode the Steel Dust Gray! Jason Blumenthal Tomlinson!”

A great roar of cheering voices and applause seemed apt to blast the swinging doors outward as it burst from the saloon. Skeeter stepped up to the doors and peered in over them. Jay Blue was sitting on a table with a banjo in his lap. His father stood to one side, Jubal Hayes to the other. As the cheer died down, Jay Blue lit into a rollicking breakdown on the banjo, and the other pickers quickly piled in with him. What was left of the applause organized itself into a steady beat as listeners clapped along and stomped their feet.

As Jay Blue played full-tilt on the banjo, he kept his eye on that pretty girl, Jane. She finally looked up at him and smiled, though she also rolled her eyes as if that would discourage him.

Well, danged if it didn’t look like a load of fun being a Tomlinson right now!
Jay Blue hadn’t been in such an all-fired hurry to get to town to meet with his daddy. He wanted to spark with that girl. That was the one thing on his mind. And, in the process, he had stabbed his old buddy, Skeeter, right between the shoulder blades and taken all the credit for breaking El Grullo.

“Where the hell were you?”

The gruff voice startled Skeeter so that he whirled, wild-eyed, and found Jack Brennan looming behind him.

“What do you mean?” His heart was pounding at the start the voice had given him. Brennan must have been standing at the hitching rail all along, watching.

“When your amigo broke that stallion.”

“I did half the ridin’. It just so happens Jay Blue was on him when he finally quit buckin’. Hell, I was the one who put the first rope on him a couple of weeks ago.”

Brennan grunted. “You don’t get a whole lot of credit around here unless your name is Tomlinson, do you?”

Skeeter shrugged.

“Well, let’s go in anyway. I’ll buy you a beer.”

All the men in the band looked up when he walked in with Jack Brennan, but the rest of the eyes in the saloon remained trained on the musicians. The Tomlinsons seemed a little puzzled to see him in company with Brennan, but Skeeter just ignored them and angled to the bar.

“A couple of beers,” Brennan said to Harry, the bartender.

Skeeter waited for his mug and took it, nodding his thanks at Brennan. He gulped about a third of it—that was the only way he could stand to drink the stuff. When he turned back around, he saw that the Tomlinsons had already forgotten about him. They were watching Gotch Dunnsworth clog furiously on the pine flooring. Jay Blue was only watching with one eye, because the other one stayed glued to Jane Catlett’s ass like a fly on a big, round horse’s butt.

Good God, he looks ridiculous. He can play the snot out of the banjo, but that ain’t enough, is it?

“To hell with them,” Jack Brennan said.

“Huh?”

“All high and mighty. You ought to come work for me, kid.”

Skeeter took another gulp of beer. “I’ve got a good job.”

“That’s all you’ll ever have there is a job. You’re a hired hand. You think they’ll cut you in on their pie?”

“I ain’t worried about it.” He downed the rest of the beer and handed the mug to Harry.

“You might be straw boss some day, but that’s the best you can hope for. You’ll never move out of that bunkhouse.”

“I ain’t got much choice.”

“You ain’t listenin’. I’m
givin’
you a choice. I don’t offer a job to just anybody, and it’s a one-time offer, so you better think about it. You come work for me, and I’ll guarantee you more than a wage. All my hands have a stake in the operation.”

Skeeter felt bloated with all sorts of pressure. He belched, and that helped a little. He took the refilled mug Harry had slid to him on the bar. “I never worked anywhere else.”

“And you never will if you don’t take my offer.”

“I don’t know, Mr. Brennan.”

“Listen. Tomorrow, while these Tomlinsons are doing whatever they do—struttin’ around pattin’ each other on the back most likely—you ride out to my place. I want to talk to you about it. It ain’t just the job, either. There’s somethin’ else.”

“What else?”

“Come out mañana and I’ll tell you.”

Skeeter shook his head. “That’s a long way to ride.”

“Listen, kid. I know somethin’ I should have told you a long time ago.”

Now Skeeter looked up at the big man’s face. “About what?”

“I know who your daddy is.”

“Who?” Skeeter demanded.

“Goddamn it, I can’t tell you here. I hate music. I can’t stand to listen to these sons of bitches make that racket. Only came for a game of poker. Think I’ll ride out to the Mexican whorehouse instead. You want to go?”

Skeeter shook his head. “This is supposed to be my celebration.”

Brennan threw a coin on the bar. “They didn’t ask you into the middle of it, did they? Suckin’ hind tit, as usual, aren’t you?” He stepped away from the bar.

“But, Mr. Brennan, I got a right to know.”

“Ride out to my ranch tomorrow. We can talk there.”

“But . . .”

The big man stomped off toward the swinging doors, leaving Skeeter’s head swimming with all sorts of thoughts, good and terrible. Nobody had ever told him anything about who his father was. And Mr. Brennan had said, “I know who your daddy
is
,” not
was
,
as if his father might still be alive. Nobody had ever offered him a job, either. Not just a job, but a stake in the outfit.

He took another gulp of beer. This second mug didn’t taste as bad as the first one. The trio had finished playing whatever that first song was, and Jubal Hayes had lit into a lively rendition of something else—one of those fiddle standards, maybe “Whiskey for Breakfast” or “Hell Among the Yearlings.” They all sounded alike to Skeeter.

He stood there, an outcast at his own celebration. Over the rim of the beer mug, Skeeter saw Sam Collins step into the saloon with a handful of Western Union telegram slips in his right hand. The hat and wool coat he wore glistened with raindrops and sleet. The norther had struck. Skeeter thanked God that he wasn’t still out there sleeping on the ground tonight. Sam waited at the door until Captain Tomlinson looked his way, then he waved the telegrams. Skeeter saw the captain return the wave with a jut of his bearded chin, but he had never known Hank Tomlinson to quit playing right in the middle of a song. Sam tilted his head toward the bar.

“Beer, Harry,” Sam said, stepping up next to Skeeter and giving him a familiar jab with his elbow.

“What have you got there, Mr. Collins?” Skeeter asked.

“Telegrams for the captain.”

“What do they say?”

“You know I can’t tell you that, Skeeter.”

“Oh, yeah.”

Sam got his beer about the time the song ended, so he started across the room with his mug in one hand and Hank’s telegrams in the other. Skeeter chugged his brew and found Harry already had another waiting for him. He grabbed it and followed Sam, intent on insinuating himself into the middle of the celebration whether they wanted him there or not. Captain Tomlinson was leaning his guitar against the wall.

After two songs, the crowd inside the saloon had deigned to forgive the weird appearance of the fiddler, Jubal Hayes, and someone shouted out, “Bear Creek Hop!” Jubal knew that one, so he began sawing away, with Jay Blue accompanying on the banjo while he cast his lustful eyes on Jane. Sam handed the telegrams to the captain.

“What have we got to work with?” Captain Tomlinson asked, feeling his vest pocket for spectacles that weren’t there.

Sam shrugged. “I was writing too fast to take it all in, but I think there are a couple of leads in there.”

Skeeter sensed that the captain was torn between looking through the telegrams and picking his guitar back up. He gathered that the telegrams were about the murder of Wes James. In all the excitement about Steel Dust, he had almost forgotten about all that. The recollection of it shook him. He started thinking about the dead man, and the probability that the Wolf was going to lead a revenge raid back to these parts. It looked like recovering that Thoroughbred and breaking Steel Dust had not solved all his problems, and in fact had quite possibly led to new ones. He took a deep pull from his third mug of beer. He guessed life would just always be this way.

“Well,” Hank finally said, “it’s time to celebrate right now. I don’t have my glasses with me anyway. I’ll look these over in the morning.” He picked up his guitar and somehow, with the magical know-how of musicians, jumped into the exact right part of the song.

Gotch Dunnsworth had caught his breath from his previous jig-dancing episode. He threw a shot of whiskey back and offered his hand to Luz, who had been sitting near Jubal the whole time, clapping her hands, watching her man fiddle. She looked at Jubal for approval, and he nodded. Gotch grabbed her by both hands and started circling, then switched to a hook-in-wing and some other square dance moves he invented on the spot. The whiskey seemed to be kicking in, and Gotch’s antics began to whirl out of control as the crowd egged him on. He grabbed Luz’s hand and spun her like a pirouetting ballerina, but in the process he lost his own balance and stumbled hard onto a table holding the open fiddle case.

A collective “Oh!” spontaneously burst from the crowd as the table toppled. Gotch and the fiddle case slammed to the floor. The fiddle case splintered, and a dusty old arrow shaft with crumpled feathers rattled out into view at Luz’s feet.

32

L
UZ SPRANG BACK
as if someone had thrown a rattlesnake at her feet. The trio quit playing, and everyone in the crowd leaned forward for a closer look at the artifact on the floor. Seconds passed in silence.

“Gotch,” Hank finally said, “are you sure I gave you that fiddle—in that case?”

“I swear, Captain.”

“And you never noticed the arrow in there?” He leaned his guitar against the wall, and got up to stand over the arrow.

“I had no idea!”

“It flew out of the compartment in the lid of the case where you stow the bow,” Sam Collins said. “I saw it come out of there when it hit the floor.”

“It must have been tucked deep down in there,” Gotch insisted. “To tell you the truth, I only got that fiddle out once’t and tried to play it. Made such a god-awful noise I never tried it again. I didn’t know that arrow was in there under the bow.”

“No wonder we couldn’t find it at home,” Hank said, glancing at Flora. He felt a stabbing pain in his left shoulder, and caught himself rubbing it. He bent at the knee to crouch over the arrow. Old memories, terrors, and stomach-turning worries engulfed him. He shoved them all aside, jutted his chin, and picked up the projectile. “Sam, where did you put those arrows you pulled out of Wes James?”

“I stashed them in the store.”

“Let’s go take a look.”

Hank rose and strode for the swinging doors, the painted dogwood shaft in his hand. The crowd parted to let him through. Jay Blue scrambled off the table he had been sitting on, caught Jane’s eye, and urged her to follow with a toss of his head. Flora grabbed the telegrams from the table, folded them, tucked them into the front of her low-cut dress, and followed Hank. Sam went behind her. Skeeter put his beer mug down and fell in line, with Jubal right behind, pulling Luz by her hand.

“Come on, honey, let’s stick with the Tomlinsons,” Jubal said.

Hank stepped outside into the freezing air, oblivious to the sleet that pelted his face under his hat brim on a hard-driving north wind. A rumble of thunder came from some distant hills. Half the crowd in the bar followed the procession outside, but stopped short of stepping into the fresh mud of Main Street. Gotch Dunnsworth grumbled at the cold, the wind, and the freezing rain, but slogged through the deepening mire and angled across to the general store.

The lanterns were still burning in the store. Sam lengthened the wicks, giving more light, and dug around behind some crates under the counter until he produced one of the arrows removed from Wes James.

Hank lay the arrow shaft from Gotch’s fiddle case next to the one from under the counter. “Well, that settles that,” he said. “That’s Black Cloud’s signature, alright. He’s back.”

“What happened to the point that went with the one from the fiddle case?” Gotch asked, studying the evidence with his one eye.

“Oh, I’ve still got it,” Hank said.

“We should compare that, too. Where is it?”

Hank pointed at his left shoulder. “Lodged somewhere between my clavicle and my scapula.”

“Oh,” Gotch said.

Sam had put on his glasses and was studying the arrow shafts. “No need for it, anyway. Like Hank said, the markings on these arrows are as good as a signature. No two different hands could have possibly created both of these.”

“What’s goin’ on, Daddy?” Jay Blue said. “You never told me you had an arrowhead embedded in your shoulder. And who’s Black Cloud?”

“Just a nickname,” Hank said. “Never knew his real Comanche name. His white name was John Rafferty.”

“White name?” Flora said.

“I didn’t tell you that part yet,” Hank admitted.

“Daddy, you’ve got to tell us what this is about. We’ve got to know what we’re up against.”

Hank sighed and quieted the gathering with gestures of his hands, as a preacher would bid a congregation to sit for a sermon. “I never thought I’d have to bring this up again.” He took off his hat and rubbed his brow.

“I had three friends. Rangers. Good men you could trust. During the days of the Texas Republic, the four of us scouted together as a routine. Their names were Hornsby, Rogers, and Kenyon.”

“Kenyon?” Sam said. “Like the State Policeman, Matt Kenyon?”

“It was his father. But slow down, Sam. Don’t get ahead of me.”

“Sorry. Go ahead.”

“The four of us rode a more-or-less regular route among the settlers along our stretch of the frontier. That included a farm settled by a family named Rafferty up on the Lampasas River. There were three boys in the family. The youngest was named John. He was probably twelve or thirteen.