Dorothy Garlock (8 page)

“I think I’ll put my dress on and stay out here with you. I’d never get back to sleep now.”

Willa dressed quickly, and when she stepped from the wagon, she had an old leather jacket which she handed to Charlie and a blanket which she draped about her shoulders.

“What do you know about your Uncle Oliver, Charlie?” Willa asked after they had sat down on the ground cloth Charlie pulled from beneath the wagon.

“Not much.”

“Your father said he was refined, very much a gentleman.”

“I guess my mother was too. Folks said she was quality. Real pretty. Prettier than Jo Bell and nicer.”

“Life will be hard for Jo Bell unless she marries a man who spoils her like her father does. After a while a man will get tired of her sulks no matter how pretty she is.”

“Papa’s just always doted on her.” There was a wistful note in Charlie’s voice she hadn’t heard before. So he does care, she thought. He cares that his father ignores him.

“Look, ma’am. Someone’s comin’ with a lantern. Is it Pa?”

Willa got to her feet and grasped the thick hair on back of Buddy’s head. “I don’t know,” she said as she watched the bobbing, swaying light come toward them.

A dozen yards from the wagon the light stopped moving and a voice came out of the darkness.

“Hail the camp.”

“Whata you want?” Charlie replied.

“I’m Byers, the station keeper. I want to speak to Mrs. Frank.”

Charlie hesitated. “Is somethin’ wrong?”

“I mean no harm.” The lantern started moving again.

“We got a gun and a dog that’ll tear ya up if ya ain’t what ya say ya are.”

“It’s all right, Buddy.” Willa patted the dog’s head when he began to growl.

“Whata ya want, mister? Where’s Pa?” Charlie demanded.

“Mrs. Frank?” Byers held the lantern out at arm’s length and looked at the pretty young woman with the blond hair hanging down about her shoulders.

“I’m Willa Hammer. I’m traveling with Mr. Frank and his children.”

“Will you wake Mrs. Frank?”

“My ma passed on,” Charlie said. “Pa ain’t got no wife.”

“May be that I mistook the man,” Byers murmured and took a deep breath.

“What you want, mister?”

“There just ain’t no easy way to say it, folks. Mr. Frank got hisself shot . . . killed.”

It took a dozen heartbeats for the import of his words to sink in. Willa had suspected the station keeper was bringing bad news, but she had not dreamed it would be so bad, so
. . .
final.

“Oh! Oh, my goodness.” She reached for Charlie’s hand. The boy stood stone-still, staring at Mr. Byers.

“What happened?” Charlie asked in a strangled voice.

“Your pa’d been playin’ cards and winnin’. I reckon he wasn’t as slick a card-sharp as he thought. Feller by the name of Abel Coyle caught him dealin’ hisself aces off the bottom of the deck. It might not’ve come down to a killin’, but yore pa palmed a derringer that slid down his sleeve. He missed. The other feller didn’t.”

Charlie made a big to-do about leaning the rifle against the wagon. “You sure?”

“I’m sure, son. Lordy. I hate that it happened at my place. But it was fair. Yore pa shot first.”

“Don’t reckon it’s yore fault, mister. Where is . . . he? I’ll bring him home . . . ah . . . back here. My sister’ll take it mighty hard.”

Byers’s hand came down on Charlie’s shoulder and gripped. “Wake yore sister, boy. We’ll bring him here if that’s what ya want.”

“I’d be obliged.”

Byers turned to go, then turned back. “I’ll see that ya get what yore pa won fair ’n’ square.”

When they were alone, Willa put her arms around the boy. He pressed his cheek tightly to hers.

“I gotta tell . . . Jo Bell.” There were tears in his voice.

“Would you rather I do it, Charlie?”

“Guess it’s my place. Will ya come with me?”

“Of course.”

Charlie knelt down beside the bunk where his sister lay sleeping. Her back was to him. The blanket was pulled up over her ears. He gently shook her shoulder.

“Jo Bell, wake up.” When she didn’t move he shook her shoulder a little harder. “Wake up.”

“Get away!” She lashed out with her elbow.

“Jo Bell, I’ve got somethin’ to tell ya.”

“Get away and let me be, or I’ll tell Papa.”

“Turn over and listen—”

“I ain’t gettin’ up. So there!” She flipped the blanket up over her head.

“Jo Bell! Papa’s been killed,” Charlie yelled with a sob. “Get up or . . . or I’ll slap ya!”

“Don’t you dare—” Jo Bell rolled over and pulled the cover off her face. “What’d you say?”

“Papa’s been . . . killed.”

Jo Bell sprang up from the bunk swinging her fists. The blows landed on Charlie’s cheeks.

“Liar! You mean old liar! I always did know you were a mean old liar.”

Charlie caught his sister’s wrist when she drew back to hit him again.

“Stop it! Papa is dead. Mr. Byers said so.”

“He is not! You’re makin’ it up.”

“Get dressed, Jo Bell,” Willa said gently. “They’re bringing him here—”

“I ain’t believin’ anythin’
you
say,
ma’am.”

“It’s true. Mr. Byers was just here and told us.”

“Nooo . . .”

“Come on. I’ll help you—”

“Get away!” She kicked out at Willa. “Papa! Pa . . . pa!”

When she made for the back of the wagon, Charlie caught her around the waist and wrestled her down on the bunk.

“Please, Jo Bell—”

“I ain’t listenin’. I ain’t listenin’.”

“What’ll I do, Willa?” Charlie pleaded.

Willa sat down on the bunk and tried to put her arms around the distraught girl. Jo Bell struck out at her and Willa backed away.

“Leave her alone, Charlie. You’ve done all you can do.”

“I hate ya.” Jo Bell pounded on her brother with her fists. “I h-hate ya!”

Charlie stood and looked down at his sister. “Hate me all you want. But Papa is still dead and I’m all ya got.”

Willa followed Charlie out of the wagon. Jo Bell had thrown herself back down on her bunk.

“I don’t know what I ever did to make her hate me so much,” Charlie said with so much sadness in his voice that Willa wanted to cry for the young boy. “Guess it don’t matter now.”

“She didn’t mean it.” Willa said the words although she was not sure she believed them. “She’s hurting and lashing out at the person who brought the bad news.”

“Pa . . . pa— Pa . . . pa— Pa . . . pa—” A wail like that of a wounded animal came from inside the wagon, followed by hysterical sobbing.

*  *  *

In a small plot set aside by the army when the station was an outpost of Fort Kearny, Gilbert Frank was buried alongside drifters, soldiers, outlaws and pioneers who had died on their way west to settle the new land. Willa, Charlie and Jo Bell followed the two freighters who carried the blanket-wrapped body to the secluded area. Mr. Byers and his stock-tender, a whiskered old man named Rusty, were the only others present when Gil Frank was laid to rest. Willa recited
The Lord’s
Prayer
and then led Charlie and Jo Bell away while their father’s grave was filled, making him a part of this wild country forever.

Her father’s death had left Jo Bell in a strange state of shock. She had meekly put on the dark dress Willa found in her trunk: a dress that no doubt had belonged to her mother. She let Willa pin up her hair and put a black straw hat on her head. Her eyes were swollen, her face pale, but for once she looked more woman than child.

Charlie had not tried to talk to his sister. He had shown surprising maturity when his father’s body had been brought back to the wagon and placed on the ground cloth. With Willa beside him, he had gone through his father’s pockets, placed the contents in a small cloth sack, then folded his father’s hands across his chest. He and Willa had sat beside the body until Mr. Byers had come an hour after sunrise to tell them the grave was ready.

After the service Jo Bell climbed inside the wagon and lay
down on her bunk. It was clear to Willa and Charlie that any decisions regarding the future would be made without her.

For the graveside service, Willa had dressed herself as modestly as was possible in one of Starr’s dark dresses. She removed it now and put on the checked gingham dress. Overnight her situation had changed. She couldn’t abandon Gil Frank’s children after what he had done for her, even if his motives had been selfish. She would have to stay with them until they reached their uncle’s ranch.

She found Charlie sitting on a log, his back to the camp, Buddy sitting between his knees. His hands were buried in the dog’s fur. He sniffed and blinked away tears when Willa sat down beside him. She reached for his hand.

“Don’t be ashamed of crying, Charlie.”

“Papa said . . . men don’t cry.”

“Sometimes they do. If they don’t cry on the outside, they cry on the inside. Papa Igor said that tears had a way of building up inside you and making you bitter if you didn’t let them out.”

“Are you goin’ to . . . leave us?” Charlie blurted, trying to keep his voice from cracking.

“I had planned to ask Mr. Byers for work, but if you want me to stay with you and Jo Bell, I will.”

“Please, Willa. Please . . . stay. I don’t know what to do. Jo Bell ain’t goin’ to be no help at all.”

“The only thing you can do is go on to your uncle’s ranch.”

“I don’t even know where it is. Papa didn’t talk to me . . . much.”

“Your father told me it would take about a week to get there. The station is a post office. Maybe Mr. Byers knows. He may even know someone who can take you there.”

“I’m so glad you’re here, Willa—you and Buddy. Stay with us until we get to Uncle Oliver’s. He might not want us there without Pa.”

“He will! You and Jo Bell are his sister’s children. Remember what you told me the other night? You said things have a way of working out.”

“Jo Bell is actin’ strange—for her.”

“I know. She needs time to come to terms with what has happened. We can leave Buddy with her while we go down and talk to Mr. Byers.”

“I’ll take Pa’s rifle. We’re alone now, Willa. You’d better put that little derringer in your pocket. Do you know how to shoot?”

“Papa Igor taught me to load and shoot a rifle and a pistol. I’ve never shot at anything but a target. He told me never to take a gun in hand unless I meant to use it. So far I’ve not had to, but I know I could.”

*  *  *

Only one freight wagon remained at the station. The teamsters, swearing viciously, were harnessing the mules and backing them into the traces. Chickens picked, scratched in the dirt, and fought each other over a morsel. A mule brayed, a mare in the corral nickered softly. This day was like any other day, yet overnight a man had lost his life here.

Charlie looked back to see Buddy sitting at the end of the wagon watching them. “Buddy didn’t want to stay.”

“No, but he will. If anyone goes near the wagon, he’ll let us know.”

Mr. Byers came out the door as they approached the station and came to meet them.

“I’d just as soon ya didn’t go inside, miss. There’s a couple of fellers in there that ain’t fit company fer a lady.” He motioned them toward the corner of the building. “I thought they’d be gone by now, but they ain’t.”

“Sir,” Charlie said. “We wanted to talk to ya . . . if ya’ve the time.”

“What’s on yore mind?”

“Did my Pa ask ya if ya knew the whereabouts of my Uncle Oliver’s place up on Clear Creek?”

“No.” Byers scratched his nearly bald head. “He et ’n’ seemed anxious to get in on a poker game. I had chores to do. Never paid him no mind till the trouble started.”

“Pa was figurin’ on trailin’ along behind a freighter goin’ into the Bighorns—”

“I ain’t heard of any Franks in these parts.”

“Name ain’t Frank. It’s Eastwood. Oliver Eastwood.”

“Eastwood. Well, I’ll be doggone.”

“Ya know him?”

“Did. Oliver Eastwood died six, seven years ago.”

Willa saw Charlie’s shoulders slump. He looked off toward the wagon where his sister slept and tried hard not to show his disappointment.

“Mr. Byers,” Willa said. “Do you know if Gil Frank’s children would be made welcome at the Eastwood Ranch?”

“I not be knowin’, ma’am. Mrs. Eastwood lives there. They had a girl, but she ain’t been around for a long time.”

“Is Mrs. Eastwood alone?”

“Well . . . not exactly. She’s got hired hands.”

“How far is the ranch from here?”

“Maybe seventy miles. That ain’t far in this country.”

“Sir, could ya draw us a map?”

“Well, now, son—” Mr. Byers scratched his head. “You ain’t ort to be strikin’ out on yore own—two women and a boy.”

“We won’t do anything foolish, will we, Charlie? We’ll wait here, if you don’t mind, until we find someone to guide us.”

“Well, now—” Byers scratched his head again. “Course
ya can wait here. But happens there’s a feller here now that knows the way like the back of his hand.”

“See there, Charlie. I told you things would work out.”

Charlie’s serious young face didn’t return Willa’s smile. “Is he a man we can trust?”

“Son, this man’s straight as a string ’bout women folk. His word’s as good as gold. If he says he’ll do somethin’, he’d do it come hell or high water. Thin’ is, he’s in bad shape right now. He’s on a drinkin’ spree—has been fer a couple a days.”

“A drunkard!” Willa remembered the many times she had seen families on the verge of starvation because of drink. Papa Igor had explained that some men had such a craving for liquor that they could not help themselves. She had no such compassion for a man who drank until he was senseless. “Charlie, we’d be better off going alone than with a fall-down drunk. Mr. Byers, could we follow the freighters?”

“Ya’d not be on the same trail but a day. Then ya’d be wanderin’ round out there by yoreself. Don’t think I’d do it, ma’am. Them two fellers in there”—he jerked his head toward the station door—“know ya ain’t got no man now.”

“They might get a surprise.” Willa smiled proudly at the boy. “What do you think, Charlie? Shall we chance it alone or with the drunk?”

“Hold on, ma’am. I ain’t sure Smith’ll take ya. He’s a touchy bast—feller. At times he’s meaner than a steer with a crooked horn. Ain’t no man I know’ll take him on in a fight if he can’t stand up a’tall. He don’t fight by no rules and he ain’t got no quit in him oncet he gets wound up.”