Gun Play at Cross Creek (3 page)

Chapter 4

MORGAN ATWATER WAS
at the livery stable before the sun had cleared the horizon. The old man who ran the place was already there, slogging out the stalls. He worked with a beat-up old broom that had more handle than straws, and it scraped at the hard-packed dirt as he shoved mounds of damp straw toward the back door.

Without missing a stroke of the poor excuse for a broom, he said, “Up early, ain't you, stranger?”

“Got some business to attend to.”

“I just bet you do.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means you been buffaloed by Brett Kinkaid, same as most folks around here.”

“You mean the marshal?”

“Could be I do. Then again, maybe you know another Brett Kinkaid in town. Course, I've only been here twenty-six years next month. Could be I don't know as many folks around these parts as you do. Could be that.”

“What's so special about Kinkaid?”

“To me, nothin'.” He shrugged, then leaned on the broom. “But to some folks, a man with a blur where his right hand's supposed to be seems like manna from heaven. Me, I ain't impressed.”

“You saying Kinkaid's a gunfighter?”

“Not me. That's what other folks are saying. Me, I'm saying nothing. Unless you ask.”

“I'm asking,” Atwater said.

“Well, then, since you asked, I'm saying he's a bully, sure enough. I seen his kind before. Hide behind a gun, throw a little weight around. And if a pack of damn fools wants to pin a badge on you and pay you to boot, well, hell, why not?”

“I don't think I'd go that far, Mr. Milton.”

“No. You're a younger man than I am. You got more life ahead of you than I got behind me. I can afford to speak my mind, in the right company.”

“Why didn't you say something before Kinkaid was hired?”

“Don't think I didn't, cowboy. I talked a blue streak to these iron heads. Not a one of 'em wanted to listen. I seen it before, and I guess I'll live to see this one play out, too. No reason to make me a notch on no gun butt. Kinkaid ain't likely to come lookin' for me, now, is he?”

Atwater shook his head. “You sayin' he'll come looking for me?”

“Look, I was there last night. I saw what happened. Lot of folks, me included, know you done the right thing. They think it took uncommon gumption to do it, too. Know it did. But I seen the look on Kinkaid's face. Hatred as pure as anything I ever seen. Plain as day, too. He ain't gonna forget you made him look the fool.”

“You think I ought to worry about him, is that it? Maybe back-shooting?”

“I don't know you. Don't know him, neither, for all of that. But he ain't above that sort of thing. It don't take a prognosticator to see that. It's in his face. But I don't know for sure what he'll do. All I'm saying is he'll look to make a little bigger name for hisself. He can have his pick of these grass green cowpokes. They're always half liquored up anyhow, so it's like shootin' fish in a barrel. You ever done that?”

“Done what, get liquored up?”

“Nope. Don't have to ask that. You got a few hogsheads under your belt, I reckon. Shoot fish in a barrel. You ever done that?”

“No, I can't say as I have.”

“You might try it sometime. Then you'll have some idea of what I'm talking about. You want your horse, I suppose?”

“If it's no trouble.”

“What if it was trouble?”

“Then I guess I'd come back when it wouldn't be.”

Milton laughed. “You're just too damn easy-goin' to be believed.”

“I wouldn't bank on that, old-timer.”

Milton looked him hard in the face. The old man's eyes seemed to grow bigger in the early morning light as he leaned toward Atwater. Finally, he shrugged. “No, I don't think I would. Give me five minutes. You can have your horse then. Wait in the office over there.” He cocked his head over one shoulder toward a tiny cubicle near the front door.

Atwater nodded, walked to the small room, and stepped inside. It featured a small table, one of its four legs balanced on a slab of wood to keep it from wobbling too much, and two ladderback chairs with the slats missing.

As Atwater lowered himself into the chair in front of the desk, it creaked alarmingly, swayed until he braced himself with one foot, then the whole precarious assembly settled down with a final groan.

Milton was as good as his word. Five minutes later he was standing in the office doorway. Atwater hadn't even heard him approach. When he became aware of the old man's gaze, he turned to see Milton looking at him oddly, his head tilted at an angle, like that of a curious bird.

“You do favor somebody I seen once,” Milton said. “I can't put a finger on it, but I know I seen you before. Never been through here, have you?”

“Nope.”

“It'll come to me. In the meantime, though, I'd steer clear of Marshal Kinkaid. You look to me like the kind of man he likes to memorialize with a notch. Maybe even two.”

“Tell me about Kinkaid.”

“Tell you what?”

“Whatever you know.”

“Ain't much to tell. Cross Creek was gettin' to be a hellhole. All them hands comin' in and kickin' up their heels of a payday. Got so ordinary folks didn't much want to come in town, much. Ain't good for business. Somebody, I think it was Tate Crimmins, heard Kinkaid was lookin' for work. He handled it pretty much by hisself.”

“What do you mean, looking for work?”

“I mean the same thing anybody means. He was out of a job. Course, Tate didn't much care why. He knew Kinkaid was quick, and that he didn't mind a little mess. That was his stock in trade, anyhow, accordin' to Tate. Supposed to have cleaned up three, four other towns. Someplace in Kansas. He was down in Colorado, last. Got hisself run out of a job, though. Too quick, some people said. Hair trigger. And when there wasn't no trouble, he went around lookin' to see could he scare some up. Least, that's the way I heard it.”

“You tell Crimmins that?”

“Hell, I told ever'body'd listen. Only nobody would. See, I do a good business on weekends. A lot of them hands board their mounts with me. The way Tate was lookin' at it, I didn't want a strong marshal 'cause it would scare them hands off. That it would hurt my business. Tate's wrong, though. Hands still got to drink, and they still got to leave their mounts someplace. Wasn't gonna make no difference to me.”

Atwater leaned back in the rickety chair. The old man tensed for a second, as if waiting for the chair to collapse, but Atwater was careful.

“Wish I could remember where I seen you before, though. Surely have. I know that much.”

“It'll come to you.”

“What'd you say your name was?”

“I didn't.”

“Ashamed of it?” Milton asked.

Atwater chewed at his lower lip. He took a long time answering, and when he did, he surprised both himself and Milton. “Of my name, no. Of my past, yeah, I reckon I am.”

“Uncommon honesty, Mr. . . .”

The blank hung in the air. Atwater declined to fill it, and Milton shrugged.

“What brings you to these parts?”

“Looking for someone. A woman, name of Kate Atwater. At least, that used to be her name. Now, I don't know.”

“You come to the right place. I know Katie. You kin?”

“Not exactly.”

Milton shook his head, as if trying to dislodge something. “I can tell you how to get to her place. Nice little spread, up in the Laramie foothills. About a ten-mile ride, maybe twelve. I . . .” He stopped suddenly. The gnarled fingers snapped without a sound, except for the wrinkled, parchment-like skin of Milton's right hand. “Atwater! That's where I seen you before. In the newspapers. That's your name, ain't it? Morgan Atwater. I'll be damned.” The old man cackled, and Atwater was wondering whether it was because the old man jogged his memory loose or for some other reason.

The liveryman's next words made it clear. “You best steer clear of Marshal Kinkaid, then. You surely should. He knows who you are, he's damn sure gonna look to git his own ugly face in the papers. Course, it'll just be a bad likeness. The paper here don't do nothing fancy, except them pencil drawings. Not like them big city papers. But he'd like to see his name in big letters. I know that. You could be just the ticket he needs, if you see what I mean.”

“Not if you don't tell him who I am.”

“Who, me? Shoot, I don't tell him the time of day if he asks. I ain't gonna tell him who you are. But somebody else will figure it out, you stay around long enough. And when they do, they will not be backward about sharing the news with some more of the empty heads live in this damn fool town. And, sooner or later, Kinkaid will know. When he does, you better be ready. The longer you stay, the more likely it is. You
are
gonna stay awhile, ain't you?”

“I don't know.”

“You Katie's brother?”

Atwater shook his head. Milton didn't take the hint though. Again, he snapped his ancient fingers. “That must be your boy. He does kinda favor you. Maybe that's where I seen your face. On Katie's boy.”

Atwater stood up. “Look, Mr. Milton, I didn't come here for trouble. I'd appreciate it if you'd keep this between us.”

“Don't worry about that. I won't say nothing to nobody. You want to know how to get to Katie's, I reckon I can point you right enough. Come on.”

Atwater followed him into the barn. Milton tugged the bay along in his wake, then on out the back door. Once outside, he handed the reins to Morgan. He climbed into the saddle and looked down at the old man, who looked rather solemn.

“You go on up the creek bottom about three miles. You come to a branch, and you follow it off to the left. Katie's three valleys over. Lazy M, she calls it. You can't miss it. There ain't no road, but you'll find it. The west fork runs right across her spread.”

“Thank you.”

“You comin' back tonight?”

“I expect. Why?”

“You and Katie ain't seen each other in a spell. I figger you got a lot to talk about. You know what I mean?” He chuckled. Then, to make certain Atwater didn't miss his meaning, he added, “That Katie's a mighty fine-lookin' woman. Even now.”

“It's not like that,” Atwater said.

“Maybe,” Milton answered. He was still chuckling when he disappeared back into the stable.

Chapter 5

MORGAN ATWATER SAT
on his horse for a long time, staring down at the small ranch below him. The place was neat and well cared for, almost perfect. It had a view of the Laramies behind it, lush grass for the livestock, and plenty of clear, cold water. It looked like the place he had dreamed of so many years ago, still slopping hogs on his father's farm in Illinois. When he had left, it was nothing but a rude house in the wilderness, a small corral, and a shed. Now it was a real ranch. Katie's ranch.

All the way up from Texas, he had tried to imagine what it would look like. Now he was looking at it, and he couldn't believe it. He climbed down from his horse and curled the reins in his hand. Dropping to the ground, he leaned back and watched the clouds overhead. They were so high up, almost as distant as that dream and the time in which he dreamed it. So much had happened since then.

Part of him wanted to mount up and ride away, to leave the dream behind. The urge to bolt was so powerful, he was afraid to get up, for fear he would act on it. Watching the clouds did little to calm him. He could hear his heart thumping in his chest, a huge, distant drum. It seemed like the ground beneath him vibrated with every beat, rattling his bones and threatening to tear them joint from joint.

He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he reopened them, a solitary hawk sailed across the sky, its great wings beating twice as it found an air current and started to climb. Then, spotting something, it tucked its wings and fell like a stone. Atwater sat up to watch as the bird plummeted, fanning its wings at the last moment, still falling, talons extended. There was a brief flutter of the great wings, then they settled into a steady stroke as the bird began to climb. Atwater watched the struggle of a small rabbit for a few seconds, then turned away.

It was the order of things, the way of the world, really, but he didn't want to watch. When he turned back, the hawk was a small speck far across the valley. He sighed and got to his feet. Keeping a tight grip on the reins, he started to walk downhill. At first, every step was slow, deliberate. He was stalling and he knew it. But he didn't know any other way to do what he had to do.

When the land bottomed out, he felt more in control of himself. He steeled into a steady gait, the horse matching him stride for stride, barely tugging on the reins. He angled across the meadow studded with Indian paintbrush and columbine. Bees swarmed around him, diving in toward his face, and he batted them away with his free hand. He was grinning, and it made him feel foolish, but the place was so pretty, he couldn't help himself, and wouldn't if he could.

The tall grass was lush and green, and the fragrance of the blades crushed under his boots swirled in the air around him. At first, he wondered if anyone else felt this way, surrounded by so much beauty and so much vibrant life. Then, realizing how selfish he was being, he wondered that not everyone did feel that way. It was what life was supposed to be, what he had dreamed it could be, before he grew up. Before he knew better. And he was amazed that something deep inside him could still respond so powerfully to something so simple.

And other memories kept crowding in on him. He remembered back before his son was born, they had just finished the first house. Katie wanted a bath, to celebrate, she said. It was near nightfall, but it was warm, and he had filled a huge cauldron with water from the creek. Then he added a halfdozen pails of hot water heated one by one over the fire.

He could still see her now, her skin picking up a metallic tint from the sun as it began to set. Her body was perfect, so much softer than the other women he had known, but stronger, too, as if she had bones of steel. And the curves were right where they were supposed to be.

Standing there naked, her red hair almost a cloak all the way down to the backs of her thighs, turned, one leg bent at the knee as she stepped into the bath, she looked like a golden statue. That moment had frozen in time somehow. It was how he always saw her, all golden and round . . . and perfect. It was how he still saw her.

Morgan moved toward a broad, shallow stream, stepped in, and, instead of crossing, decided to follow it a way. The water wet his cuffs, but he didn't care. It was so clear it hurt his eyes to look at the reflected sunlight and the fine white quartz sand glittering under the ripples kicked up by an occasional rock. He could see the front of the house, and a small curl of smoke suddenly puffed up through the chimney. It was almost eight o'clock now, probably breakfast being made, maybe a pot of coffee. Katie had always made good coffee.

The front door opened as he reached a small, raw timber bridge over the creek, and he climbed up the shallow bank and onto the dirt road. A figure appeared on the front porch, but he was too far away to recognize it. Whoever it was noticed him. The figure curled a hand over its eyes and leaned toward him. A moment later the door opened again and the figure vanished inside, only to reappear with a carbine in hand.

He started to walk a little faster now, tugging on the reins to get the horse to move. When he reached a gate in the split rail fence, he slowed again. The figure stepped off the porch. He could tell now that it was a woman.

The woman moved gracefully, but cautiously. Not walking, exactly, but not running either. The carbine was cradled across her arms, comfortably, even naturally, the way a woman carries an infant. There was no longer any doubt in his mind. It was Kate.

She seemed to sense something and stopped in her tracks. She leaned back on her heels, the carbine, he could tell it was a Winchester now, crooked in one elbow.

She looked at him for a long time without speaking. He slowed a bit, then stopped altogether. He took off his hat and ran one hand through his hair.

“Is it you, then?” she asked.

“Hello, Katie.”

“It's been a long time,” she said. It wasn't bitter, just sort of distant, the way you might say it to someone you had known in school and not particularly liked.

“Fifteen years.”

“That long?”

Atwater nodded. “That long.”

“What do you want?”

Atwater heaved a sigh. He shifted his feet, unable to get comfortable. He glanced down at them as if to reprimand them, and for the first time realized he had gotten wet. “I thought I ought to set a few things in order. It seemed like time, I guess.”

She nodded. Her free hand went to her cheek, fussed with a few strands of red hair, then fell to her side. “You want some coffee?”

“You still put egg shells in it?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Then I'd like a cup, if it's no trouble.”

“I've had trouble from you all my life, Morgan. A cup of coffee is nothing at all, compared to that.”

“We'll talk about it,” he said.

“Not likely,” she said, turning on her heel and heading back toward the house. She moved quickly now, gradually widening the distance between them until she stood on the porch. Then she turned and nodded her head toward the corral. “You can put your horse in there, if you want,” she said.

Her cheeks were glistening, but he didn't realize it was from tears until she reached up to wipe them away. “I'm sorry if I upset you,” he said. “I mean, showing up this way.”

She nodded. “Come on inside. Clean your boots first, though.”

He laughed, and she gave him a look. Then she laughed, too. “You're right. Some things don't ever change.”

It looked the way he expected it to look. Everything was in its place. In Katie Atwater's world, if something didn't have a place, it didn't belong at all. A small fire crackled in the fireplace, a black iron coffeepot suspended over it from a hook.

Morgan sat down at a rough but sturdy table. The tablecloth was spotless and showed not a single wrinkle.

“It looks better than I remember,” he said.

Kate turned to him from a cabinet, a pair of thick mugs in her hands, “It
is
better than you remember,” she said. Then, setting the mugs on the table, she backed away a step. “Sorry, I didn't mean that the way it sounded.”

“Yes, you did. But it's alright. You're entitled. You don't owe me any apologies.”

She laughed again. “Is that what I was doing? Apologizing? God knows, I didn't mean to.”

“How's the boy?”

“You remember what this place looked like but you don't remember his name? Is that it?”

Morgan shook his head. “Of course not. It's just that I . . . well, it seemed too personal. I don't have . . .” He let his hands flutter helplessly.

“Too personal? He's your son, for God's sake. Too personal? You don't remember his name, do you?”

It was a challenge, and something welled up inside of him. He wasn't going to knuckle under. Not this time. “Yes, I do.”

“Then what is it? Tell me. Use it, for Christ's sake.”

“I don't remember you cussing like that.”

“You don't know me at all, Morgan Atwater. Don't you be telling me what I am or what I was or what you think I should be. Just don't you dare.”

“I wouldn't. I don't have the right. I know that.”

“The right? Is that what this is all about? Do you have the right to show up here after fifteen years? Do you have that right? Do you? Answer me, dammit!” She turned away from him.

“Sit down, Katie. Please.”

Instead, she took the coffeepot and lugged it to the table. She used a thick handmade potholder in either hand. When she poured the coffee, he noticed that her hands were trembling. A small spot of coffee splashed on the tablecloth, quickly spread out, and she slammed the pot down.

Katie covered her face with her hands. The hot pot scorched the tablecloth, filling the room with the smell of burnt cotton. Morgan pushed his chair back, got up, and retrieved the pot. He hung it back over the fire. She still hadn't said anything, and he couldn't bring himself to look at her. But he knew she was watching him now. He shifted the mugs and the small sugar bowl, rolled the scorched cloth into a neat cylinder, and turned to her.

“What do you want me to do with this?”

“Take it and get out. That's what I want you to do. But you won't.” She glared at him. “Will you?”

“Not till I've done what I came for.”

“And what might that be?”

“I got a lot to make up to you and the boy.”

“Stop calling him that. He has a name. Why don't you use it?”

Atwater took a sip of his coffee. It was hot, but he didn't react. He set the mug down again. And got to his feet. “Maybe you're right. Maybe I shouldn't have come here.”

“Morgan, wait. You're here now, stay.”

Atwater turned. Kate was moving toward the table. She sat down, never taking her eyes off him. “You sure?” he asked.

She nodded. “It's just . . . it's been . . .”

“I know,” he said.

He sat down again. “Where's Tommy?”

“It's Tom,” she said. “He outgrew Tommy a long time ago.”