Untamed Journey (24 page)

Catherine took a sip of her rapidly cooling
coffee before finishing her tale. “Jackson thought it over for a
few minutes. Took in my kids and said, just like that, “It looks to
me like I’m in need of a school teacher to show all these young
ones how to be as useful as their mother. I was too shocked and
relieved to question anything. When he handed me over to Sue and
moved into the barn so we could all stay in his house, why, I just
kept moving along and never stopped to think I might be
dreaming.”

“That was a good thing he did.” Ruth gave
credit where it was due, knowing firsthand how badly Catherine’s
story could have ended if not for Jackson.

“That was an amazing thing he did, and I give
silent thanks every night that he came into our life. He even
introduced me to my husband,” Catherine laughed. “I guess I have to
give Jackson credit for fixing me up with my second man. He did a
better job than my own family, thank the Lord. Any woman would be
lucky to have him, you know. In case I was being too subtle, that
was my point in telling you my life story.”

Ruth smiled, but avoided answering directly.
“I suppose I’ll have to promise to do your laundry for a month of
Sundays if things don’t work out.”

Catherine fanned herself in mild chagrin.
“Don’t hold that against us, now. Sue and I both mean well. And
with no more than one or two visitors all year, we’ve become the
worst busy bodies imaginable.”

“Thank you for telling me this,” Ruth said.
“Although I think I already knew Jackson’s character, since he came
to my rescue on that train. Just don’t be too disappointed when you
lose that bet. I’ve got an intended, and I think you must
understand how many consequences there can be for breaking a
promise like that.”

Catherine nodded as her own consequences
started barreling in for supper.

W
ith his eyes closed,
and the skin of his face placid and grey after long weeks of
convalescence, Jasper Smith inspired a growing disgust in his
long-time boss. Frank Masterson could not abide weakness of any
sort. And without the usual meanness visible in his pale blue eyes,
Smith was growing weaker and weaker in Masterson’s opinion. His old
friend was taking too damned long to wake up from a single gunshot
wound for Masterson to stomach the sight of him much longer.

“Woman, get in here.” Masterson bellowed at
his newest housekeeper, impatient at being kept waiting. The tiny
woman had been in his employ for more than three weeks, but he
could not remember her name.

“Yes, sir,” the woman curtsied. “Does Mr.
Smith need something, sir?”

“The lazy good-for-nothing needs to wake the
hell up before I leave him out for the wolves. Bring some smelling
salts and a bucket of ice water. It’s long past time for him to
earn this warm bed.”

The housekeeper returned quickly with a
bucket of water and a supply of smelling salts. She placed the
bucket on the floor and waved the salts under the patient’s hooked,
pock-marked nose.

He didn’t stir, so she used the vial again.
When he only woke enough to turn to his side and burrow back into
the warm blankets, she barely had enough time to duck before
Masterson dumped the bucket of ice water on Smith’s head.

He sat up, cursing his mother and the son of
a bitch who’d doused him, until his drugged eyes focused on
Masterson. He immediately shut up and took stock of his
surroundings, not clear on where he was or what had happened.

“It’s about time, Smith. You’ve been lazing
around for near two weeks in my bed and on my payroll. Now wake the
hell up and tell me where my wife is!”

Smith grabbed his throbbing head as
everything came back to him – the train robbery, and that
ungrateful bitch shooting him. He thought fast, knowing he had
better come up with someone else to blame before Masterson started
pounding on him.

“I figure she ran off, boss,” Smith said.

At the look in Masterson’s eyes, Smith
quickly changed the direction of his story. “Not with a man or
nothing like that. She was just getting cold feet on the train,
see. Kept talking about how remote it was, passing for miles and
miles with no cities and no towns. I’ll bet the train robbers was
just too much for her to take, especially seeing them shoot me
right in front of her eyes. So she decided to turn around and head
back home. I’ll find her, boss, don’t worry.” Smith tossed his wet
blankets aside and made a show of swinging his legs over the side
of the bed.

“You’d better,” Masterson agreed, recalling
that the quiet maid was still skulking about the room. “I don’t
want my new beloved in any danger,” he added for the woman’s
benefit before ordering her to leave the room.

After he listened to the maid’s footsteps
retreat down the stairs, Masterson continued with his
interrogation. “And how the hell did you manage to get shot by our
own men? And what were you doing on the wrong damn train to begin
with? You should have come through the day before.”

Masterson fired off his questions, growing
more and more agitated at the lack of answers.

“It wasn’t my fault, boss. Honest. The damn
preacher was sick-drunk. We had to sober him up to say the words
and watch us sign the proxy papers. We lost a day messing with the
fool, but you told me to do everything extra-legal, like. So we
waited. There weren’t no other preacher for a hundred miles that
would rush a proxy marriage for us. So I took a chance we could
just stay hidden during the robbery.”

Smith started warming to his lie. “Miss Ruth
got panicked when all the shooting started, and ran out of her
cabin instead of staying put like I told her. I had to go after
her, boss. And in the chaos of passengers running and screaming,
someone shot me. Could’ve been the Marshals, for all I know. I was
chasing after your wife, you know, with no concern for my own
safety.” Smith forced himself to stop short of babbling. It was
Masterson himself who had taught him not to add unneeded details
when concocting a lie. It was too easy to get caught.

Masterson narrowed his eyes at Smith, not
believing but half of his tale. “It doesn’t concern me what
happened, or how much of a fool you’ve been. As long as you find my
wife, you’ll live. Don’t disappoint me this time. I need that
woman.” Satisfied his threat was believed, Masterson left the room.
When he got downstairs, he sent the skittish maid up to help get
Smith’s lazy ass back on the road.

As soon as she re-entered the room, Smith was
barking orders at her.

“Get me some clothes, girl,” he demanded as
he struggled to maintain his sitting position.

The housekeeper quickly left the room, giving
him a wide berth as she did so.

Smith let his weary body sag back onto the
bed now that the room was empty. His side ached like a son of
bitch, and he didn’t know how he was going to stand, much less
mount a horse at the edge of winter. But he knew Masterson. Any
suggestion of waiting out the snow to start the search in spring
would likely get him a second bullet. He’d have to get himself
somewhere safer to lay low, at the very least. Maybe he could hire
someone to do the looking for him, Smith thought.

The housekeeper came back into the room and
handed Smith his cleaned riding clothes and a bottle of whiskey.
“It’s to keep the wound clean,” she explained.

He grabbed the alcohol with a grunt and
emptied half the bottle in three good swallows. “Get me another,
and some food for the trail.”

The woman nodded and went in search of
supplies.

Smith took one last swallow of courage, then
put his pants and shirt on with no small amount of pain. He’d
search for that bitch himself. If she weren’t dead yet, he needed
to make sure they came to an understanding–and she kept her mouth
shut. He couldn’t risk sending anyone else and having her start
telling stories Masterson just might believe.

J
asper Smith yanked
impatiently on the reins of his rented nag as he caught sight of
the train depot ahead. He tugged his nearly empty canteen from the
saddle – also rented – and took a long swallow, grateful he’d soon
be mounted on his own horse. This beast was already dragging, and
they’d only been on the trail four days.

He’d like to see this nag haul himself around
for one hundred miles with a half-healed bullet wound, and then
talk to him about being tired, Smith thought, as he dug his spurs
in to move the horse forward. He had been following the train
tracks the entire way from Masterson’s place. He was so exhausted
he’d nearly ridden past this sorry excuse for a train depot, asleep
in the saddle.

Smith dumped the last bit of water in his
canteen over his head, knowing he could get more up ahead. He
checked the load on his revolver, and put spurs to his horse even
harder than before. A careful man would have walked his weary mount
the last fifty yards, but Smith figured he’d be leaving the animal
behind once he had his own horse again.

He rode up slowly, approaching from the side
of the building. There was only one excuse for a window in the
place, and if there had ever been glass, it was shattered long ago
and replaced with a burlap sack.

Smith could see two horses lazily swatting a
swarm of energetic flies, but neither was his horse. There was a
barn out back, so for the sake of his aching side, he hoped his
mount was there. He lacked the energy to shoot anyone today.

There was no one occupying the half-dozen
rockers on the front porch, so the train must not be due for some
time, he thought. Although the place looked deserted now, he knew
folks could come out from miles around just to watch the train
arrive. He’d known men that would ride for two days, just to catch
a glimpse of the faces coming and going. There would be Southerners
heading west to get rich. And there’d always be one or two heading
back in the other direction. More often than not, they were empty
handed, longing for family, friends and the illusion of
civilization that a proper city promised.

Smith didn’t hear a sound as he approached
the front porch. He dismounted and carelessly looped the reins of
his rented mount around one of the hitching posts. The parched
horse immediately ducked his head in the nearby trough and drank
his fill of the rank water. Smith didn’t bother to toss any grain
to the animal. He figured the railroad owed him for his troubles,
so they could pay to feed the nag.

Smith grabbed his rifle and headed through
the front door, immediately taking in the nearly empty room. There
were only two bodies in the whole place – a fiftyish, balding
fellow manning the bar, and a young kid lazily sweeping the floor
of the never-ending dust.

“Train’s not due ‘til tomorrow and we don’t
rent beds,” the balding man informed Smith, before pulling out a
half-empty bottle of whiskey. “I can sell you whiskey for two bits,
though. And you can sleep in the barn.”

Smith held onto the shreds of his temper,
mostly because the look in the big man’s eyes told the new arrival
he would not be intimidated. Large and stocky, the man had the arms
of a prize fighter, and only showed his age in the ragged crevices
surrounding his weathered lips. Smith tried his best not to scowl.
“I’m here for my horse – a paint gelding, about fifteen hands. I’ll
take you up on the whiskey, too.” Smith fished around in his dusty
pants pocket for the outrageous amount, as the surly fellow had a
tight hold on the whiskey bottle and a pay-first look about the
eyes.

Smith tossed the coins on the counter and
raised his scraggly brows. “Where’s my horse?” He demanded,
snatching the dirty whiskey glass and emptying it in one gulp.

The burly clerk poured Smith another drink,
before answering. “We don’t rent horses, either.”

“I’m not looking to rent a horse. I’ve
already got me one of them rentable horses out front. What I want
is my own damn horse, last seen on your train car before we were
robbed.”

“Ain’t got no horse, Paint or otherwise. And
you owe me another two bits.”

“I’ll take the bottle,” Smith said, setting a
silver dollar on the bar.

The bald man examined the coin carefully
before releasing his hold on the half-empty whiskey bottle and
turning his back on Smith, assuming their business was done.

“Mister, I left my horse with this railroad,
and now you’re telling me you’ve lost it?” Smith raised his voice
as his side started to throb along with his temper.

The bald man slowly turned around to face
Smith, placing a lethal looking Billy Club on the bar in front of
him, both hands lightly grasping the weapon.

“I’ve already told you, mister, I ain’t got
your horse. If you were on the train that was robbed a few weeks
past, then your horse must have been stolen by the same bastards
that held up the train. Count yourself lucky they only got your
horse and not your life. Six folks died, you know. Now drink your
whiskey and be on your way.”

Smith was in no condition to challenge the
man. He’d have his skull crushed against the stone floor long
before he could pull his gun. Smith tossed back the cheap whiskey
and tried again.

“Who was killed on the train?” he asked,
hoping he might at least get some information that would lead to
his horse or that damned girl.

“Don’t know their names. Don’t know their
business.” The clerk replied curtly, not offering any more
information than was required.

“I’m looking for a woman – my new bride. I
got hit on the head and caught a bullet too during the robbery. I
was out cold for near two weeks before I came to.”

“Your wife, you say?” The clerk’s brows rose
slowly. “Weren’t no love match if a man asks about his horse before
his new bride, that’s for sure.”