Dorothy Garlock - [Colorado Wind 03] (3 page)

They had been in Dodge City three days; as far as Vanessa was concerned, it was three days too long. Never had she imagined a place so wicked. The farm home where she was born and had lived until just three short months before now seemed to be in some other world. At times she was so homesick she thought she would die from it. But there was no going back. The small farm outside Springfield had been sold, and the money hidden in the bottom of their wagon would help them get settled into a business when they reached their destination. In the meantime, they sold their pies and the quirts Henry made and bought supplies for the next leg of their journey in each town along the way.

Vanessa wasn’t sure she wanted to go back to her old home, now that she thought of it. The people there had been unkind to her father when he returned from the war. He had been a fine doctor when he left, but the memory of the bloody battlefields had caused him to turn to drink, and the only time a patient had gone to him was when there had been no one else available. And then, more often than not, they had sought help from Vanessa because she had picked up an amazing amount of medical knowledge from her father before he died.

Vanessa leaned against the wagon and watched her aunt. Men were coming to the wagon from across the tracks, and Ellie, gracious and smiling, was dispensing the pies and taking their money. The men doffed their hats, thanked her aunt repeatedly, paid their money, and went away eating their pie.

Ellie Hill was the only mother Vanessa had ever known. Her own mother had died when she was a baby, and Ellie, bringing her own small son, had moved in to take care of her. Henry’s father and Aunt Ellie had been married in Springfield, and he had gone back to Chicago saying he would send for her. Nothing was heard from him until several years after Henry was born. Ellie received a letter from her husband’s brother in Colorado saying he had been informed his brother had been killed saving a small child from being crushed by a runaway team. Ellie idolized her dead husband’s memory. She had a small tintype of his likeness that she looked at often. When she got out the picture, the letter, and her marriage paper, Vanessa knew she was suffering from a bout of melancholy and was thinking about the one short month of happiness she had had with the man she loved.

She watched Henry walk across the field carrying two buckets of water. Animals liked Henry; children liked Henry. Grown men had no tolerance for his slowness to understand. Henry was good help if someone told him what to do. But he had to be watched like a child whose curiosity outweighed his judgment. Aunt Ellie was right to worry about what would happen to her son when she wasn’t around to take care of him. She thought it would be unfair to saddle Vanessa with the responsibility. She was convinced that she and Henry had spoiled her niece’s chances with wealthy, handsome Martin McCann. He had stopped courting Vanessa because, as he put it, he wanted a wife, but not one tied to an old woman and a dummy. Vanessa sighed deeply. Aunt Ellie wouldn’t believe it, but Martin McCann made her want to throw up. She wouldn’t have married him if he were the only thing walking on two legs. Anyway, the relationship had ended, and the idea of going to Colorado to be near Henry’s uncle took root in her Aunt’s mind. And, Vanessa had to admit, her own adventurous spirit welcomed the idea.

The opportunity to make the trip fell into their laps much sooner than they expected when a traveling medicine man had stopped at the farm. He was dying, he explained, and if they would take care of him until the end and give him his pain-killing medicine, he would leave them his fine caravan and two strong mules. He had had the caravan specially built of light lumber. It was compact and neat, with two sleeping shelves attached to the sides. Every inch of space was utilized. A small wood stove heated it in the winter, and an opening in the ceiling cooled it in the summer. It was a marvelous vehicle and had served as his home for four years. The old man had lived for only six weeks after he arrived at the farm, and in the spring they had sold out and begun the journey.

Vanessa allowed herself a minute to think about the tall, well-dressed man who had spoken up for her earlier. She had no doubt at all that she could have handled the situation. More than likely he was a gambler or a railroad speculater, and she wanted no obligations to such as that. He was everything she disliked in a man, bold, insolent, much too confident. She had seen him standing on the hotel porch watching the Negroes lash each other with the bullwhips. Anyone, she thought, who could get pleasure out of seeing two men mutilate each other was little more than a barbarian. She had also seen him look at Henry and then away, as if Henry were an embarrassment. That had really set her teeth on edge. How could a man like that possibly know how confused and frightened Henry was?

*  *  *

By evening Dodge City was in its hip-hip-hurrah stage, and by ten o’clock the hell raising had just begun. Vanessa and Henry brought their four mules and one saddle horse close to the caravan and staked them for the night. They doused the campfire, not wanting to call attention to themselves, and settled down in their chairs near the back of the wagon for an hour of rest before going to bed. The double-barreled shotgun was within Vanessa’s reach.

“I liked that man who was here today,” Ellie said.

“Which one?” Vanessa asked, although she was sure she knew which man her aunt meant.

“The one that faced up to that little . . . weasel.”

“Oh, him.” Vanessa had removed the pins from her hair and was massaging her scalp with her fingertips. What a heavenly feeling! While they were in town she never took off her bonnet until after dark, and on the trail she wore one of Henry’s old hats. Her fiery, copper colored hair drew too much attention. The thick, curly and often unruly mass covered her shoulders and spilled down her back. She was resigned to its contrariness in the same way she was resigned to the fact that God had given her pale, fine skin that had no resistance whatsoever to sun and wind. She had learned to protect herself from burning by wearing a stiff-brimmed bonnet while in the hot sun. But on this trip the bonnet had served two purposes, the most important one being to cover the mass of hair that shone in the sun like a red-hot flame and brought unwanted attention.

“I liked him.”

“You liked him? Oh, Aunt Ellie, I swear. You like anyone who’s polite and clean. Those duded-up, smooth talking galoots are the worst kind. That’s how they make their living—smooth talking people into doing what they want. I bet he has two horns under his hat.”

“Who has horns under their hat?” Henry sat on the ground between the two women with his back against a wheel.

“Vanessa is just funning, son. What she meant was the man wasn’t what he seemed to be.”

“I wonder if those people plowed the corn.” Henry’s mind was always forging ahead, flushing out one notion after the other as they came to mind.

“I imagine so,” Vanessa said

“Sometimes I wish we’d stayed home.” His face twisted as he tried to puzzle through an idea. “I’d be plowing the corn and old Shep wouldn’t have got killed.”

“Maybe we can get another dog before we leave Dodge City.” Vanessa knew her cousin was still grieving over the loss of his dog, which had been kicked to death by a stallion in Wichita.

“When’s that going to be? I don’t like it here.”

“I don’t either. I’ll be glad to leave. I’m thinking we can go the day after tomorrow. I’ll go back to the store in the morning and pick up the quirts that haven’t sold, unless the man wants to buy them. I told him we’d take some of the money in trade.”

“I kind of hate striking out by ourselves,” Ellie said. “I wish we could join up with some other folk going west.”

“I’ve not found anyone ready to leave just yet. They say a group left two or three days ago, and another one before that. Maybe we’ll meet up with someone, but if we don’t we’ll do just fine by ourselves.”

“I know, but this country seems so wild—”

“I figure we’ll take the Sante Fe Trail west, and when we get to the point where it turns south, we’ll go north to Denver and from there up to Greeley then over to Junction City. The roads are supposed to be passable, if not good. We’ve got four strong mules, a solid wagon, and Henry to take care of us.”

“It’ll be all right, Ma. Me and Van’ll take care of you.”

After a while Ellie’s voice came softly out of the darkness. “I thank God every day for you, Vanessa.”

Kain opened the first of the two telegrams the operator handed him and read it several times. It took a moment or two for the message to take root in his mind. He had expected the news to be bad, but not as bad as this. The fortune his father had left him had been wiped out when the New York Stock Market took a sudden plunge down. He was broke—flat broke. All he owned was in his pocket, in the suitcase at the Dodge House, and in the stable at the hotel.

One thought stood out above all the others: Why wasn’t he feeling something? Why wasn’t he feeling as if the world had dropped out from under him? All his life he had had only to wire his friend and broker, Alexander Fairfield, and money would be waiting at the next town. He couldn’t remember a time when it had been necessary for him to earn his living. Without that incentive he had drifted from one challenge to another, trying his hand at whatever relieved the boredom at the time: mining, riding shotgun on a stage, rounding up wild horses or gambling when the notion struck. He had hired on to make a cattle drive and had even been a deputy sheriff for a short time in a wild town in Arizona. If he was feeling anything, he decided, it was as if he had been dangling at the end of a string and suddenly the string had been cut. But he wasn’t as devastated as he had once imagined he would be if such a thing should happen. He was just dispassionate about the whole situation.

He folded the paper, put it in his pocket and opened the second telegram. He read it quickly and crushed the paper in his hand. Now he did feel something. Alex, his friend of many years, had lost his own fortune and had killed himself.

“Oh, Christ!” Kain spoke aloud in a breathless, regretful voice. Why would a man kill himself over money? Alex had everything, a beautiful wife who loved him, children. He could have started over.

Kain smoothed out the paper so he could read the words again. He reviewed the first part slowly, sorrowfully, then moved on to the last line. SEE RANDOLPH IN DENVER STOP PROPERTY NEAR JUNCTION CITY NOT AFFECTED. The telegram was signed by Alex’s assistant.

On the way back to the hotel, Kain felt the full pain of sorrow. Poor Alex. Poor son of a bitch! He wondered if there was anything he could do for Ruth and the kids. He decided not. She had her family, and besides that Kain was flat broke. No, not flat broke. He owned a whorehouse. If he hadn’t felt such sorrow over Alex’s death he would have smiled.

The year before he had bought the property from Mary Malone when she and Case had decided to go back to Texas. For years the place, located about five miles from town, had been simply known as The House. It was a quiet place and men went there from miles around for an evening of pleasure with one of the three whores in residence. Mary served drinks or tended the sick or wounded. A man was never turned away unless he was drunk or abusive. Mary’s husband had died after Adam Clayhill, a powerful, land-hungry rancher, brought in gunfighters and had run them off their claim along with a half dozen other settlers. Mary had bought The House and had run it until she married Case Malone. Then a woman named Bessie Wilhite took over. Last year Bessie herself had married and had moved to Cheyenne. Since that time the place had been boarded up.

Kain wondered what had happened to the skinny, mouthy whore named Minnie who had been at the house for five or more years. Wherever she was, he decided, she would make out all right, she was a survivor. His lips quirked in a half grin when he thought of how she hated that greedy Adam Clayhill and how she had taunted him whenever she got the chance.

Kain went straight to his room when he reached the hotel. It was ironic, he thought, that everything he owned was right back there in Adam Clayhill’s territory. Clayhill had gone East, married Kain’s widowed mother and brought her, his sister Della, and him to the Colorado Territory. Kain had been fifteen at the time, but he realized right away that his mother had made a dreadful mistake. He and Adam despised each other, so after a few months, Kain had gone back East to where his uncle lived and finished his education. He had kept in touch with his mother until she died, but after that he had made only two trips to Junction City. He tried not to think about Della. There had never been anyone in their family to equal Della. She had been a beautiful, completely unscrupulous girl, and now she was the madam of the most expensive brothel in Denver. He suspected that she had also been old Clayhill’s mistress at some time. Long ago Kain had relegated his sister Della to a special place in his mind—the place where he put unpleasant things he didn’t like to think about.

Clayhill, that wicked old bastard. Kain wouldn’t be surprised if someone had killed him by now. Kain’s thoughts turned to Logan Horn, the old man’s son by an Indian woman. A few years back the old man had hired gunfighters to kill Logan. When that didn’t work Adam had trumped up a charge and tried to get Logan hanged for raping Della. Now Logan was a prosperous, if not well-liked rancher. If he hadn’t had Indian blood in him, he would more than likely be a candidate for territorial governor. And then there was Cooper Parnell, the old man’s other bastard son by sweet, gentle Sylvia Parnell. Cooper was the spitting image of the old man, but there the resemblance ended. Cooper despised Clayhill for the way he had left Sylvia pregnant and alone. If old Clayhill provoked him, Cooper wouldn’t think twice before killing him.

Kain remembered the last time he had seen Adam Clayhill. He and a young friend, a spunky kid named Fort Griffin, had dumped the dead bodies of two of Clayhill’s henchmen on his doorstep. The old man had sent those roughnecks to kill Griffin because Griff refused to be run off the range. The old son of a bitch hadn’t batted an eyelash when he saw the corpses. He even acted as if he were glad to see Kain and had the gall to ask him to come work for him. Kain shook his head at the memory. The old man was rotten through and through, but he had guts.