The Last Chance Ranch (14 page)

His old traveling satchel was under the bed. He dragged it out and yanked open a bureau drawer, dragging out clothes and stuffing them in the bag blindly. He packed everything, even took his grandfather's pocket watch from the nightstand drawer. When he stalked down the hall and out of the house, Ben was back to staring out the window.

The strange numbness holding him broke apart in the crisp night air, replaced by his old familiar companion, anger. He wasn't wanted. He knew what to do when he wore out his welcome. Bypassing the bunkhouse, he went straight to the barn.

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Obie dropped his satchel in the dust and made his way by feel to the correct stall. His mare greeted him with a snort and nibbled his hair while he opened the gate. All at once it was all too much, and Obie threw his arms around her neck and pressed his face hard against her chestnut coat. A sob slipped passed his lips before he gulped the rest down, releasing the horse with a pat and dashing a hand across his eyes. “Place was gettin’ boring, anyways,” he muttered, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “Should've moved on a long time ago.” He reached for a bridle and froze when he realized he could see what he was doing.

His heart jerked and started hammering like it hadn't beaten all night.
He changed his mind! He followed me down here, to tell me not to go

But when he turned, when the shadow behind him lifted up his lantern, it was only Larry. Obie staggered a step, the disappointment crushing down on him until he thought he might actually die.

Larry hung up the lamp and pulled Obie to him. Surrendering to the shelter of strong arms, Obie shook and clung to him, trying his damndest not to break down and bawl like a woman. “He don't want me no more,” he gasped, hiding his tears against Larry's shirt. “He went and made me love him, and now he don't want me no more.” The older hand made soothing, wordless sounds into his ear, holding him as tight as he could.

The sound of a door closing made him startle and look up. They weren't alone in the barn. Temper, moving like a ghost through the shadows, had put his mare back in her stall and closed her in. “Leave her out,” Obie protested, “I'm goin'."

"No you ain't,” Temper said, even as Larry shook his head with a sad smile. Temper laid a warm hand on Obie's shoulder, his skin glowing like roasted chestnuts in the lamplight. “I don't know what he said, but he don't mean it. He's all messed up right now, don't know if he's comin’ or goin'. You're gonna have to be the bigger man and wait him out. He'd do it for you."

Obie pressed the heels of both hands to his eyes. “He has,” he groaned, thinking back a year when he'd panicked and run. Ben had treated him carefully, let him run a bit, then calmly brought him back home. And here he was, running again, expecting Ben to come chasing after him when the man couldn't hardly get his boots on the right feet.
Time to grow up, Obediah,
he scolded himself.
Ben needs you to be the strong one for awhile.

Sniffing back the last of his misery, he picked up his satchel and gave the others a nod. Larry patted him on the back and took down the lantern, and the three walked together to the bunkhouse in silence.

No one was stirring when he undressed and settled in. He slept little, mostly laid on his back staring at the ceiling through the dark. In the morning, the hands must have been surprised to see him there but, other than exchanging a few glances, they let it go.

For a time, Ben's demand for privacy had the opposite effect. The Saturday after Snow's death, a single rider approached the ranch. The hands all tensed up and made nervous gestures toward their pistols. All except for Porter, who tossed a rifle over his shoulder and strode down the path to meet their guest. Obie only relaxed when he saw the two men shake hands and turn back toward the barn together. As they got closer, the mystery rider took on the familiar face of Sam Barstow.

"Obie,” he greeted in his gravelly baritone, sliding off his horse and slapping the reins over a fence. “I came up to pay my respects. Ben around?"

"No idea,” Obie replied. “He's around somewhere, I suppose.” In fact, the Bar J's owner had taken to leaving the house early, saddling that big stallion and riding off for parts unknown, not returning until near dark. He avoided everyone, Obie in particular. Obie let him run, for now.

Sam reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a bottle. “I guess it's you and me, then. Fetch us some glasses and let's drink to old Snow."

They walked up the hill to the house. Obie ducked in and grabbed two clean glasses from the den, doing his best not to think about the last time he'd been in that room. In the cemetery, they stood before Snow's grave and drank a toast to their friend.

"That's a fine marker,” Sam remarked, and indeed it was. Ben had spent the better part of a day carving the wood grave marker, engraving Snow's name and the dates of his life. Beneath that, Ben had carved, “Friend and Brother."

Sam poured another measure of fine whiskey, held it out in silence a moment, and then poured it on the grave. “How's Ben taking it?"

"'Bout as well as you'd expect.” Obie was torn between wanting to talk to someone about his frustrations and wanting to keep the ranch's private business private. Sam was a friend, but talking about his problems with Ben seemed like a betrayal. “He's hurtin',” he finally settled on.

"And he won't talk to nobody or let nobody help him. Damn stubborn fool, all the years I've known him."

Obie's gaze wandered to another marker, right next to Snow's. “Did you know Robert?"

"I did. Good man. Steady, good sense of humor. Used to play jokes on everybody: crack eggs in their boots, shaving foam in their hats, that sort of thing. Made everybody crazy, but he'd do damn near anything to make Ben grin."

Guess Snow's not the only one I'm a poor substitute for,
Obie thought with a little sigh. Sam gave him a sharp, knowing look.

"You've been good for him, Obie. After Robert passed, I thought the man might never smile again. He was gettin’ downright cantankerous before you came. Old before his time. You changed that."

"That's just it, Sam,” Obie admitted, accepting another glass of whiskey. “I don't believe I have. With Snow gone, he's just like you said, and I can't do a damn thing about it."

Sam's big, callused hand clapped him on the shoulder. “Time, Obie, give it time. Just don't give up on him. He's a stubborn old cuss, but he's worth the trouble."

Gus, the cheerful Australian who owned the sheep spread, was the next to turn up. Once again Ben was nowhere to be found, so this time it was Obie and Lonnie both who shared in the drinking ritual. Afterward, they sat in the shade on the porch and caught up on the town gossip.

"Christ, what a ruckus.” Gus topped off their glasses and gave the porch swing a little shove with the heels of his boots. “The whole town's taking sides. A few are still pushing for Henry to come out and throw Ben in jail, but as you can imagine, Henry's in no hurry to try his luck."

"Temper said last time was quite a scene,” Obie remarked.

"Wish I'd been there. Nobody much cares that Ben near killed that Mexican bastard, not with what he did to poor Snow. Town's pretty much hollering for his head on a plate. Somebody's hiding him away but good, or I'd take my boys around to lump him up proper."

"Appreciate it, Gus, but best you stay out of it,” Obie said, and Lonnie nodded in agreement. “The whole mess is liable to get uglier still before it's all said and done."

"Bugger that. A man ought to stick up for his friends and neighbors. Nothing about this sits right with me, lads. Oh, there's something you should know, and I'd appreciate it if you'd pass it on to Ben. Sam and I have agreed not to buy lumber from Arne de Groot anymore."

Obie stared, his mouth open, and Lonnie was no better. The foreman recovered first. “Gus, you can't! There isn't another mill around, not for two hundred miles."

"I'm aware.” The Australian smiled, the lines around his eyes crinkling. “We gave it a good long think, and reckoned that if you boys can do without, so can we. I may have to steal your man Free to come over and teach us how to plane boards properly, but it's decided. Until Arne stops harboring that murderer, until he stops behaving like a fool where Ben's concerned, we'll neither of us give him another penny. Since we're the biggest customers he's got left, I'm hopeful it won't take long for him to come to his senses."

Tossing back the contents of his glass, Obie mumbled, “Swear to God, Gus, that's all I want in this world right now. For everybody to just come to their damn senses."

Obie filled his days with as much hard work as possible and fell into an exhausted sleep each night, alone in his narrow bed in the bunkhouse. In the evenings he tutored Lonnie in sums. The big man was a slow learner, but he was patient and determined to do well in his new position. He was twisted up with nerves, desperate to do a good job and earn Ben's approval, while still feeling guilty at replacing his old friend. What's more, the new foreman knew about the change in Ben and Obie's relationship and had taken to fretting and fussing over that too.

In his new role as “grown-up,” Obie did his best to not only reassure Lonnie, but to help him manage the other hands. Billy and Dex took to scuffling at the drop of a hat, and on one memorable episode, Lonnie had physically picked Dex up and dropped him in a horse trough. Porter was more surly and withdrawn than usual, barely speaking a word to anyone outside of shooting lessons. Even Miguel—steady, easygoing Miguel—kept to himself and spent a lot of time staring at the horizon. Only Temper and Larry seemed stable, spending their days together clearing the overgrown lot. Obie thought it was just fine that they were growing closer, especially as they were the only steady thing on the ranch these days. He just couldn't help but feel a little jealous.

Three long weeks passed before Lonnie put his foot down. He sought Obie out and called him out of the barn with a twitch of his head. They walked the path between the big pasture and the training corral, which wasn't seeing much use since Ben had taken himself off. Lonnie kept taking off his hat, running his hand through his short curls and jamming his hat back on. “I don't know what the hell to do,” he finally blurted. “Everybody on this damned ranch has gone and lost his mind, all at once."

Obie might have laughed if it wasn't close to true. “I know it,” he said. “They're all still sideways over Snow, with nothin’ to take their anger out on but each other."

"Still no sign of the Mexican?” By unspoken agreement, no one referred to Snow's killer by his name or his so-called rank.

"Not that I've heard, and Gus is keepin’ an ear out."

Obie knew what the men needed. They trusted Ben to a man and would fall in line as soon as he told them to. But Ben spent his days roaming who-knows-where, armed with pistol and rifle, not seeming to care much at all about the men or the ranch he'd built up from nothing. Some of the men speculated that he was out hunting for the Mexican, looking to shoot him down like a mad dog, but Obie thought it was as least as likely that Ben just needed time alone with his thoughts. Whatever the case, the man disappeared before dawn, returning at dusk and shutting himself up in the main house. According to Juanita, he sat in the den sipping whiskey into the night, only eating when Rosie asked him to.

Something had to change, and despite his own uncertain position at the moment, Obie knew he'd have to be the one to make it happen. “Lonnie,” he said, forcing a note of cheer into his voice, “tomorrow is Saturday, ain't it?"

"Yeah, what of it?"

"I'm thinkin’ the boys need a night in town."

Lonnie gave him a doubtful look. About the only order Ben had given since arming the hands had been to cancel the weekly trip into town. Only Lonnie, with Porter riding beside him with his rifle, had ridden in to fetch needed supplies. Everyone else had been restricted to the ranch, and Obie thought it was starting to make them all twitchy.

"I know, Lonnie, but enough is enough. If Ben wants to shut himself away from the world, I'm not sure there's a force on earth could budge him. For the rest of us though, the sooner we can get things back to normal, the better. Normal as we can manage, anyways."

The big man tugged on the brim of his hat and frowned. All around them, the Bar J spread out green and beautiful like a slice of Eden. It was no doubt the prettiest prison any of them had ever been stuck in. “All right. I'll go and tell Ben tonight."

"I'll do it."

"Now, Obie, it's my job. The men are my responsibility."

"I know. You're a good foreman, Lonnie. Truth is, I've got a few other things that need sayin'. He ain't gonna want to hear ‘em, but I won't leave ‘em unsaid no longer."

Lonnie kicked a rock, sent it skittering down the path. “I swear, Obie. I never would have thought this place could change so much so quick. Feels like it's all slippin’ away."

"That's exactly what I'm gonna tell him. Go on and tell the boys. Tomorrow we're goin’ to town like usual, with or without the boss."

Lonnie still had his doubts, but he looked a bit calmer now that they had a plan of sorts. “All right. Hey, hang in there, Obie. He'll come to his senses sooner or later."

"Sure hope it's sooner,” Obie muttered to his broad retreating back.

That night, Obie watched from the bunkhouse door as Ben trotted the big black stallion into the barn. He waited patiently while his lover bedded down his demon horse, then watched him walk up the hill in the bright full moon's light. Obie strolled to the far side of the corral, smoked a cigarette he'd filched from Porter, and waited some more. If he timed it right, Ben would have had at least one drink, maybe two, and it might be a little easier to get through to him.

There was a fine line between planning and stalling, so he finally had to bite the bullet and head up to the house. Rather than heading straight for the den when he stepped in the front door, he turned left and went into the kitchen.