Dorothy Garlock - [Colorado Wind 03] (33 page)

“Why, that’d be grand! I couldn’t even cut the strips straight. Mine’d be all katty wampus.”

“Sometime I’ll show you how to plait. I got a whole sack full of strips already cut.”

“I’m just so proud of ya fer knowin’ how to do that.” She slipped her hand through his arm and hugged it to her.

“Are you, Mary Ben? My land! It’s nothing.”

“It is too somethin’,” she protested. “Not ever’body can take a ole cowhide ’n make a whip.”

“We sold some at stores on the way out here,” he said proudly. “Van said I was helping to pay the way.”

“’N ya was. Lordee, ya was jist doin’ ever’thin’ when I saw ya. They’d never got to Dodge without ya.”

“You’re just saying that.” He covered her hand with his and squeezed it. “If Ma and Van don’t need you, why don’t we go out and see the sights?”

“I’ll tell ’em we’re goin’.”

They walked past the land office and stepped off the boardwalk into the rutted street, crossing it to walk in front of the tall and gaunt feed store. Between the livery and the feed store a barbed wire was stretched and a cow with a bell around her neck grazed contentedly.

“Is that there a telegram wire, Henry?”

“Yup. That building is the telegraph office. It’s not nothing like the one in Springfield, though.”

“Can we cross over ’n go up the other side? This be the first time I ever did jist walk up ’n down the street of a town.”

“Didn’t you in Dodge?”

“No. I was scared. I’m not scared with you, Henry.”

They walked the length of the other side of the street, crossed and started back down the boardwalk. They strolled past the barber shop, and the barber sitting in his chair waiting for a customer nodded a greeting. They looked down a side street and saw a Negro man wiping the dust from a fancy buggy.

“Look at that, Henry. Oh, my! He must be richer ’n Mr. DeBolt.”

“He don’t own it. He’s the driver. There’s a lot of nigger drivers in Springfield.”

A group of riders came down the street and stopped at an empty hitching post. They tied their horses to the rail and stepped up onto the walk. The jingle of spurs could be heard over the loud thumping sounds of their boot heels on the boards.

“There’s one of ’em that tole me The House was openin’.” The cowboy that pointed the accusing finger toward Henry had a split lip, a cut on his cheekbone and a black circle around an eye that was almost swollen shut. He stood on bowed legs in the middle of the walk and confronted Henry and Mary Ben. “Ain’t you one of them fellers that came through here with the fancy outfit sayin’ ya was openin’ The House?” he demanded.

“Ah . . . Are you talking to me?” Henry saw the anger and the hostility in the man’s eyes and was utterly confused.

“I don’t see nobody else. Ya ’n that other feller said The House was openin’. Ain’t that what ya told me? Looky at what I got fer tellin’ it.” He gestured toward his face. “I got me a notion to do to you what was done to me.”

“I never told you anything, mister.”

Mary Ben tugged on his arm. “C’mon, Henry.”

“Jist stay where ya are!” The belligerent cowboy grabbed Henry’s arm and spun him around. “Ya ain’t gettin’ off that easy, ya lyin’ son of a bitch!”

“Let go of me. I don’t—I didn’t—”

“He didn’t do nothin’!” Mary Ben pulled on Henry’s arm.

“I’m sayin’ he lied!”

“He never—”

“He ain’t even wearin’ a gun! What we got us here is a plowboy.” He shoved Henry up against the side of the building and held him there with his hands against his chest. “Ya tell ’em what ya told me. Nobody’s brandin’ Stan Taylor a liar.”

“I . . . never told you nothing—”

“Tell ’em!” Stan slapped Henry across the face.

“Stop that! I never—”

Stan cut Henry’s words off with another slap.

“Ya ort a be careful, Stan. Ya’ll hurt him.” After one of the watchers spoke the others began to laugh.

Mary Ben stood on the edge of the porch and looked frantically up and down the street for help. There was no sign of John or Kain. She heard Henry trying to explain, but the cowboy kept hitting him and she knew she had to do something.

Wild with fear, she jumped off the porch and ran to the horses tied to the rail. She slipped between them and snatched a rifle out of a saddle scabbard. It was cocked and ready by the time she reached the front of the eatery. She pointed the barrel upward and pulled the trigger. The sound of the shot vibrated up and down the street. The men on the porch turned in a body to see a small girl in a bonnet holding the rifle as if she knew how to use it, the barrel pointed at them.

“Get away from him!” Her voice was high and shrill.

“What the hell?”

“That’s my rifle!” A lanky drover moved to the edge of the porch.

“If’n you hit him agin, I’ll shoot ya!”

“My God! Do ya reckon she means it?”

“Wal, I’ll be hornswoggled! Ain’t this somethin’? Ya shore stirred up a hornet’s nest, Stan. This little gal’s a fighter even if her man ain’t.”

“Yo’re shore enuff gettin’ bested by a petticoat, Stan. The fellers’ll roast ya alive!”

Henry moved around and hurried to the street to stand beside Mary Ben. “Where did you get that gun? What are we going to do?”

“Ya got to do what Kain taught ya,” she hissed. “Ya got to fight that cocky little bastard or ya can’t show yore face in this town no more.”

“I can’t fight,” he whispered hoarsely. “I know, I can’t—”

“Ya can too. When he comes over here jist spin ’round an’ kick his balls like Kain showed ya. Ya got to do it fast ’n hard. Don’t pay no mind to none a the rest of ’em. Jist spin ’n kick like Kain showed ya.”

“It’ll hurt him something awful!”

“If ’n ya don’t, they’ll hurt us. There ain’t nobody to help. We got to stand ’em off, jist you ’n me.”

“I’ll . . . try, if you want me to—”

“Stan Taylor, are you ’fraid to fight by yoreself?” Mary Bent threw out the challenge. “Henry’ll fight ya man to man. Step out if ’n ya ain’t scared.”

“Scared of a bush-bottom plow-pusher?” Surprised by the challenge, Stan glanced at his friends and grinned. “This’ll take ’bout as long as it’ll take to spit.” He unbuckled his gun belt, hung it on a nail and stepped off the porch. “I’ll clean yore plow, boy, ’n I’ll get yore gal to boot. She’s a mite too feisty fer the likes a you, nohow.” He strolled cockily toward Mary Ben. “I reckon I’ll get me a kiss first.”

“I reckon you won’t!” The words burst from Henry when Stan moved toward Mary Ben.

“What’ll you do ’bout it?” Stan taunted.

Henry whirled, his arms flung wide so his opponent would be watching them, just as Kain had taught him. His right foot swung around and the toe of his boot landed in Stan’s crotch. The air went out of Stan’s lungs with a loud grunt, and as he doubled over, Henry struck him on the back of the head. His other looping fist caught Stan on the chin with all the weight of his body behind it, knocking him to the ground. He lay there moaning and writhing with pain.

“I didn’t want to hurt you, mister.” Henry stood over him, his fists still clenched. “But I will again if you bother Mary Ben.”

“I knew ya could! Oh, I knew ya could!” Mary Ben rushed to him and hugged his arm.

The surprised drovers stepped off the porch. The tall lanky cowboy came to Mary Ben and held out his hand for his gun.

“Thanky,” she said shyly and handed it to him.

“Anytime, ma’am. Jist anytime, a’tall. Yo’re a woman to ride the trail with, ma’am. My hat’s off to ya fer takin’ up fer yore man.”

“Ya shore cleaned old Stan’s clock.” One of the men held out his hand to Henry. “Name’s Bill Cooney, late of Iowa. My pa farmed. It warn’t fer me, though.”

“Henry Hill, and I’m glad to know you.”

“What the gawdamn hell is going on here!” A white-haired man in a black serge suit stood on the boardwalk in front of the eatery and glared at them from beneath the brim of his black hat. “You’re Clayhill men, goddammit! I’ll not have Clayhill riders brawling in the street, by Gawd! Do your brawling in the back alley, hear?”

“Yes, sir.” Bill Cooney and the lanky drover helped Stan to his feet. “We was just goin’.”

“Get back to the stockpens. If you’re finished there get back to the ranch. I’m not paying you to hang around town.”

“Yes, sir.”

Stan Taylor was helped into the saddle and they left hurriedly.

Adam Clayhill’s angry gaze passed over the girl and the tall blond man beside her, then returned to the man. His head was tilted down toward the girl in such a way that Adam didn’t have a full view of his face, but he looked somehow familiar.

“Do you work for me?” he demanded, his brows beetled questioningly.

“No, sir. I’m sorry for—

“Henry! Mary Ben! What in the world?”

Vanessa was almost running in her haste to get to her cousin, and Ellie was not far behind. They had been in the store when they heard the shot fired, and Mr. McCloud had said it was not unusual for a rowdy to discharge a weapon. When they left the store, they had seen Henry and Mary Ben standing in the street surrounded by men.

“Van! Wait’ll you hear what I did.” Henry and Mary Ben stepped onto the walk. “I did what Kain told me. He was going to kiss Mary Ben and . . . Kain said kick ’em where it hurts most, and I did.” Ellie reached them and he put his arm about her shoulders and hugged her. “I did it, Ma,” he exclaimed happily.

“I’m jist so proud of him,” Mary Ben held tightly to Henry’s arm.

“Oh, son! Taking up for yourself is one thing, but—”

“I didn’t start it, Ma. Honest I didn’t.”

Adam Clayhill felt as if the wind had suddenly been knocked out of him. The boy was a simpleton, a dummy, but his face was Cooper’s face, his voice Cooper’s voice. Was he losing his mind? The woman and the boy turned to look at him. The woman’s face went white. A wordless cry broke from her as if her senses were shocked by what she was seeing.

“Who the hell are you?” Adam spoke clearly, urgently, and he raked her with sharp, unkind eyes.

Hearing the sound of a voice that had echoed in her dreams, Ellie’s vision blurred and her heart leaped to pound in her throat. She blinked her eyes rapidly so she could see, and her hands reached blindly for Vanessa’s arm. In a near state of devastation her mind sped back through the years. She looked into the face of the man before her. It was an older face, but yet the same as the one she saw in her dreams and in the tintype she cherished.

“Henry,” she gasped in a barely audible voice. “Henry,” she said again. His face floated in and out of her vision as she sagged on Vanessa’s arm.

“Aunt Ellie! What’s the matter?” Vanessa looked up to see Kain swinging from his horse. “Kain, come quick. Aunt Ellie is going to faint.”

Kain realized what had happened the instant he saw Adam Clayhill standing on the boardwalk, and he cursed himself for taking the chance Clayhill would not be in town today. Poor Ellie!

“Henry, get your mother’s arm. We’ll take her down to the barbershop where she can sit down.”

“No!” The gray mist floated from Ellie’s mind and she pushed the hands away from her. “I’ve got to know!” She stiffened her legs, lifted her head and looked pleadingly at Kain. “Who is he?” Her raw voice thinned to a wail.

“Adam Clayhill. Ellie, I wanted to tell you before you saw him—”

“It’s Henry. I know he’s Henry!” Her eyes moved from Kain’s to Adam’s face. “It’s not Henry’s brother. It’s Henry!”

“His name is Adam Clayhill. But I think he’s also Henry Hill, your
late
husband,” Kain said bluntly. He put his hand beneath her elbow to steady her.

“Yes,” she whispered, and staring unblinkingly at the man who returned her look with fixed intensity. “Oh, dear God! It is you!”

Adam shifted his gaze to Kain. “What are you up to now, DeBolt?”

“I think another of your sins has caught up with you. We can discuss it out here on the street or in privacy over there at the barbershop. The choice is yours. But this woman is going to know before she leaves here if you’re the bastard that married her in Missouri under the name of Henry Hill, sired a son, then deserted her.”

Adam started to answer, choked, and swallowed. Finally his voice came, and he stridently shouted, “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!”

“I think you do.”

Kain watched the red flush that started at the neck of Adam’s white shirt and rose to cover his whole face. He realized the man was suddenly possessed by an almost overpowering fear.

“What’s the matter, Ma?” Henry’s anxious voice brought Ellie’s attention to him. “What does Kain mean? Henry Hill was my pa.”

“We’re about to find out, son,” she said, her voice unnaturally quiet.

“Move, Clayhill.”

Adam’s face was gray when he turned and led the way to the barbershop. His incredible self-possession had never failed him, and he was determined it would not fail him now. Thank God he had sent the ranch hands scurrying out of the street. His mind searched frantically for a way out of this dilemma without the entire town knowing about it.

“Get out,” he said to the barber, who stood when he walked through the door.

“But Mr. Clayhill—”

“He’ll pay for the use of your shop for a private conversation,” Kain said, entering behind Vanessa and Ellie.

The man took off his apron and hung it on the chair. Something was going on here, he thought. Something big! He left the shop hurriedly.

“Close the door, Henry. Do you want to sit down, Ellie?” Kain asked.

Ellie seemed not to have heard him. Her eyes were glued to Adam Clayhill. He had the same thick hair, gray now where once it had been blond like her son’s. Even his mustache was the same as in the picture made on their wedding day. He had the erect carriage of Henry Hill, and held his head at the same angle. He was dressed as fashionably as Henry had been dressed twenty years before.

“You are Henry Hill.” Her flat, unequivocal statement brought an even deeper frown to Adam’s face.

“I’m Adam Clayhill. I’ve never seen you before in my life. What game is this? Are you trying to get money out of me?” There was a fleeting trace of desperation in his voice.

Ellie rejected this with a slow shake of her head. “You lie. Let me see your hands. The forefinger on my husband’s right hand was crooked. My son has that same crooked finger.”