The Rustler (25 page)

The prospect made Sarah's sore throat worse. Was she coming down with something? It wasn't an unfounded fear; she knew, from working with Doc, that people could take sick in the morning and be dead by nightfall. She'd seen diphtheria kill that fast, and milk fever, too.

“I'm sure he loves you,” she managed to say. “Charles
is
your father, Owen.”

“I wish Wyatt was,” Owen said. “Father doesn't love anybody but himself. That's what Mother says.”

Sarah offered no comment.

Wyatt shifted in his chair, rose. “I've got things to do,” he said. “Walk you to the bank, Sarah?”

She nodded and stood, finished with her breakfast. She'd been so hungry at first, but the conversation with Owen had turned her stomach into a churning knot.

“I'm coming, too,” Owen said. “Once I've got Lonesome settled down for his nap, anyhow.” Then, quite unnecessarily, he added, “The medicine makes him sleep.”

Recalling the ruffians who'd come into the Stockman's Bank, intending to rob it at gunpoint if Wyatt's suspicions were founded, Sarah felt a stab of dread. “You'd be bored at the bank,” she said. The word
medicine
had reminded her of the mixture of herbs Hon Sing had left. She was supposed to make a tea from them, and give it to her father three times a day. She would brew a cup before she left for the bank, and pass the instructions on to Kitty.

“You can make rounds with me,” Wyatt told Owen.

Owen brightened instantly. “Do I get to go inside
saloons
and everything?”

“No,” Wyatt said. “I won't be going in myself unless I have reason to believe there's trouble. If that happens, you'll have to come back here, pronto.”

Owen sagged.
“All right,”
he said tragically.

Sarah found the little sachets Hon Sing had given her, put one into a cup, and poured in water from the kettle. Owen was clearing the table when she started up the stairs, and Wyatt was putting on his hat beside the door.

Kitty took the tea from Sarah's hands, her grip reassuringly steady, where Sarah had made the cup rattle in its saucer, and listened carefully to the instructions Hon Sing had left.

Ephriam was half-awake, pillows propped behind him, and there was a book open on the sheet, within reach of Kitty's chair. Evidently, she'd been reading to him.

Sarah watched as Kitty gave Ephriam the tea, holding the cup to his lips, encouraging him, soft-voiced and patient, to drink. She was so intent on the scene that she didn't hear Doc coming up the back stairs. He was beside her before she knew he was in the house, and she started.

“What have we here?” he asked, seeing Kitty in the role of devoted nurse. Going by the look on his face, he, like Sarah, hadn't recognized the woman for a few moments.

“Kitty will explain,” Sarah said. “I'm due at the bank.”

With that, she left the house.

 

W
YATT WAS WAITING
on the spanking new platform at the depot when the train rolled in at midmorning. Folks leaving, folks coming in. Owen, who'd stayed behind at the house when he and Sarah left, sprang up like a bean shoot at his side.

“Guess you must have seen to Lonesome,” Wyatt said easily.

“Yep,” Owen confirmed cheerfully.

“How'd you track me here?”

“Most everybody comes to meet the train,” Owen said, shouting to be heard over the rattling, screeching din of the arriving locomotive, pulling no less than ten cars behind it. “I figured you'd be no different.”

Wyatt chuckled, even though he was both dreading Rowdy's return and eagerly awaiting it. If his brother didn't get off this train, he was going to be mightily disappointed, and about equally relieved. “Good thinking,” he said. He recalled the boy saying he wished Wyatt was his father, back in Sarah's kitchen, and felt a little choked up. He ruffled the boy's hair just to have something to do.

The train stopped, huffing steam, and folks dragged their bags and trunks up close, anxious to board. It was one of the curiosities of folks who rode such conveyances, to Wyatt's mind, that they never wanted to wait and let the other people off first, so there'd be room for them.

The conductor got off first, but Rowdy was right behind him, and then Sam. There was no sign of the women and babies, or Gideon, either.

Wyatt drew a deep breath and waited to see what places things fell into.

Owen stared up at the two men, big-eyed with admiration.

Rowdy's expression was unreadable, and so was Sam's.

They both nodded to Wyatt, then went to see to unloading their horses from a freight car down the line a ways. If they had trunks or valises, they must have meant to have them delivered or come back for them, because they didn't slow their pace.

“Was that the
real
marshal?” Owen asked, breathless.

Wyatt felt a little jealous, what with Owen being so clearly taken with Rowdy. “Yes,” he said. “That's the
real
marshal. He isn't wearing a badge, so how did you know who he was?”

“He's famous,” Owen said. “I read all about him in a dime novel. There was a picture of him in the front.”

So now Rowdy wasn't just married to a beautiful woman who clearly adored him, wasn't just the father of a handsome baby boy and the marshal of Stone Creek. He was
famous.

“You can't believe everything you read,” Wyatt said. “Especially in those books.”

“Are you in any of them?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Wyatt said. The comparisons just kept on coming, and he fell short in every one of them. Not that he wanted to be immortalized in a dime novel, because he surely didn't. Most of them belonged in outhouses, not libraries, along with last year's mail-order catalog.

He crossed the platform, descended the stairs at the side, and went to look on as Rowdy and Sam led their horses, already saddled, down a ramp from the freight car.

When Rowdy finally broke down and spared a grin, Wyatt remembered how glad he was to see his brother.

“What the hell happened to the jail?” Rowdy asked, affably enough.

Wyatt explained how he'd locked up Paddy Paudeen's gun, along with those of his cohorts, and they'd dynamited the place to get them back.

Sam, already mounted, actually laughed. “Damn fools,” he said.

“Where's Lark?” Wyatt asked Rowdy.

“She and Maddie are visiting friends in Phoenix for a day or so,” Rowdy said. “Gideon stayed to buy some duds for college. He'll be along tomorrow, with Pardner.”

“You still want work on my place?” Sam asked Wyatt.

Apparently, they hadn't found Billy Justice, or heard that Wyatt had been a part of the gang, however briefly.

“Yes, sir,” Wyatt said. “I do.”

“Ride out, when you're ready, and I'll show you around. And don't call me ‘sir' again. Name's Sam.”

Wyatt nodded, so relieved he couldn't speak. He still had a job, a way to earn his keep, and Sarah's, too, if she chose to marry him, until he had his own place ready. Like as not, she'd be reluctant, with her father so sick and the bank to run and the whole situation with Owen.

He'd wait. Wait a thousand years if he had to.

Sam said he'd better get on home and see if the place was still standing, and rode out.

Rowdy led his horse, so he could walk alongside Wyatt and a still-gaping Owen.

Wyatt introduced the boy.

Rowdy grinned and they exchanged a handshake. “You mind taking my horse over to the livery stable for me?” he asked Owen. Most likely, he thought the barn had gone up in the blaze, too, being so close. He didn't seem concerned about the house, though. Someone else, probably Doc, must have wired a little more information than Wyatt had given. “They'll know what to do with him.”

Owen was eager to comply. “Can I ride him?”

Wyatt frowned. “Do you know how?” he asked.

“Sure,” Owen said, proving his point by mounting Rowdy's gelding. “I was on the polo team at one of my schools.”

“I'll be damned,” Wyatt muttered. “And here I thought you'd be more inclined to croquet.”

“That's a
girl's
game,” Owen scoffed, from the saddle.

Then he clicked his tongue and he and the gelding took off for the livery stable at a handsome trot.

“Who is that kid?” Rowdy asked, amused. “He sure is a hand with a horse.”

“He's visiting Sarah Tamlin and her father,” Wyatt said. The news of Owen's real relationship to the Tamlins wasn't his to spread. “I've—” he stopped, cleared his throat. “I've been boarding over there, since the jail blew up.”

Rowdy's light blue eyes twinkled. “Is that so? Guess you meant what you said about courting Sarah.”

“I meant it,” Wyatt affirmed seriously. “I bought a place, Rowdy. It used to belong to some folks named Henson.”

Rowdy looked surprised, but pleased, too. “Hell of a wreck,” he said. “You'll need some help fixing it up.”

“I'll be hard up for time, once I go to work for Sam O'Ballivan, which I mean to do, right away.”

“I was hoping you'd stay,” Rowdy said, as they walked, heading by tacit agreement for what was left of the jailhouse. “If things went sour between you and Sarah, though, I figured you'd take to the trail. Now that you've bought land, well, that puts a different light on the matter.”

“Did you catch up to those vigilantes?” Wyatt asked, then held his breath while he waited for his brother's answer.

Rowdy nodded. “Sam and I hauled them across from the Mexican side. They're in jail in Tombstone. Lots of folks would just as soon see them turned loose, given that they hanged two members of the Justice gang and some saw that as a public service, but the law's the law. Men can't be taking it into their own hands.”

“There was a gunfight here, Rowdy,” Wyatt said. “Three men died, and one of them was Carl Justice. I figure his older brother Billy will be along one of these days.”

“Doc sent me a telegram right after it happened,” Rowdy said, confirming Wyatt's earlier suspicion. Then his expression turned thoughtful. “You knew one of the Justice boys?” he asked.

It was uncertain ground. Wyatt trod it carefully. “I was on the wrong side of the law most of my life, Rowdy,” he said. “I know a lot of outlaws.”

“I was, too,” Rowdy reminded him. “But I never crossed paths with Billy Justice and his bunch. You think Billy will be drawn to Stone Creek because his brother died here?”

“No doubt in my mind,” Wyatt said grimly.

They'd reached the jailhouse now. Rowdy surveyed the ruins and gave a low whistle of exclamation.

“I guess I shouldn't have locked up those guns,” Wyatt said.

“I would have done the same thing,” Rowdy told him, raising his eyes to the little house behind the burned-out jail. “At least the house and barn didn't go. Lark would be plenty riled if she lost that big-city bathtub of hers.”

Wyatt chuckled. “It's a fine piece of equipment,” he said. “I used it once.” That was the extent of his confiding; he wasn't about to add that Sarah had bathed there, too. She'd already laundered the dress she'd borrowed from Lark, and Wyatt had returned it to its place in the wardrobe.

“You're welcome to the tub, Wyatt,” Rowdy said.

“I owe you for groceries,” Wyatt answered. “You going after Paudeen and the others? Because I'll go with you if you do.”

Rowdy shook his head. “If they come back on their own, we'll deal with them. If they stay clear, so much the better.”

They went inside the house, Rowdy in the lead. Rowdy hung his hat on a peg next to the door, and Wyatt followed suit.

“If I could have the use of Sugarfoot until I get another horse,” he said, “I'd be obliged.”

Rowdy nodded, took the coffeepot off the stove, and carried it to the sink to rinse and fill. After adding ground beans to the basket, he set the works on the stove and built a fire under it.

They left the door open, on account of the heat.

“Tell me what you know about the Justice boys,” Rowdy said.

“Not much,” Wyatt answered, and that was true as far as it went. He'd ridden with them for less than a month, helped them set up the rustling of those five hundred cattle, but neither he nor Billy were the sort to exchange confidences around a campfire. “They've done some rustling, and Billy's got a reputation for being hotheaded and vengeful as a wildcat caught in a swarm of bees.” He paused, cleared his throat again. “Rowdy, if a man was with somebody when they were fixing to steal cattle, but hadn't gotten around to doing it yet, would he be guilty of a crime?”