The Curly Wolf
M. R. Kayser
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2010
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PROLOGUE
The three deputies hunkered down behind the big pine log and looked to each other. Bullets snapped the air overhead.
Down below their position sat the line shack--a wide cabin of rough-hewn timber. No light showed in the windows…save for the flash of rifle shots…but lanterns hung on each outside corner encasing the structure in a shield of dull yellow illumination.
Long-bearded Bill removed his hat, peeked around the side of the log, then spoke softly to his companions. "I figure there's a couple ways we can play this out."
John, the big one, spit into the dirt under the log and said, "We can charge down there like Pickett's brigades to bust that door down, a-hopin' they'll miss with every shot. Or we can wait 'em out 'til they run dry on cartridges."
Between the cabin and the log they used for cover lay some seventy-five yards of open ground--the last twenty yards lit by lantern glow. If the squatters inside could shoot better than a lick and a promise, nobody would survive the last thirty feet of such a charge. Their shots were mostly wild now because their best estimation of where the three deputies lurked was based on the general direction they’d heard their dog barking from--just before Bill killed it.
"I don't care much for waiting," the young one said. He went by the name "Arizona" and didn't speak much. Little was known about him besides his skill with a gun. "Maybe they got them enough water and cartridges to sit there just as long as they please. With the rain coming, we’ll be soaked through in an hour; shivering sick in a few more, while they stay nice and dry. Come daylight, they'll see this log sure as sunrise and take to shooting at it. May stop a couple rifle balls, but more than a few in the same spot…"
John was a veteran of Longstreet's infantry and Bill had ridden with Jeb Stuart. They knew the kid was right about the log, but neither wanted to directly admit as much. Both had seen men take cover behind tree trunks thicker than this log, thinking they were protected--and they were, from the initial enemy fire. But just as a sudden rain could wreak far more destruction than a few raindrops--like the ones starting to fall now--a volley of rifle fire would steadily chew through the same wood that could block the first few shots.
"Log'll stop bullets a lot better'n my shirt will," John said.
Bill cursed at the rain. "Now why did we leave our slickers back with the horses?"
"I wasn't through," the kid said. "Give me some cover fire and I'll head down there myself."
Bill chuckled and fixed his face into his most condescending grin. "You ever seen the flash a firearm makes in the dark, boy? We go settin' the night ablaze to cover your idiot notion and they'll have a good idea just where we be anyhow."
"This'll only take a few seconds, I suppose," the kid said. "If it works out right, they'll be too busy to place your shots..."
The kid seemed to have more to say, but gave up on words as lightning flashed. Their badges glinted dull reflections of the electric fireworks. Thunder cracked and the sky opened up. With a quick blink of his eyes and an almost imperceptible shake of the head the kid put rifle to shoulder, rested the barrel on the log and sighted downhill.
Three of the lanterns were plainly visible from their perspective. Ignoring the cold rain, he fired and the one on the corner closest to him was snuffed out.
"Now we coulda’ told you that would happen," John said. A bullet flying close by a burning wick would usually suck the air away from the flame, extinguishing it.
The kid rolled onto his back behind the log and worked the lever of his rifle. Reckless shots rang out from the cabin.
Making the outside of the cabin darker could be helpful, but giving the men inside a muzzle flash to shoot at was not.
“Well thank-you kindly,” Bill called out, over the sound of the gunfire and thunderstorm. “Now they’re aimin’ much better!”
Arizona waited for a moment, then rolled onto his belly and reassumed his shooting position. This time when he fired, the lantern on the corner closest to Bill fell with a crash, splattering burning kerosene along the wall, the porch and a stack of firewood. Fire glowed blue, spreading like a liquid stain over the wood.
John and Bill exchanged a look. The kid had cut the wire suspending the lantern with one shot from seventy-five yards. It didn't match Billy Dixon's famous shot at Adobe Walls, but it was the best shooting they had ever seen.
The kid waited on his back as before, then rolled over and fired. Nothing happened. He levered the action on his rifle and squeezed off another shot. The third lantern fell, proving the second had been no fluke.
Lead flew from the windows of the cabin now in a steady volume. Resting on his back again, the kid closed his eyes against the beating rain but spoke to his companions. "It's gonna get smoky inside there in a minute. Soon they'll be worried about the shack on fire more than anything else. If each of you shoot into one of them windows facing us, I should be able to reach that door without too much trouble."
John nodded. "It's your play, kid."
"Appreciate it. Soon as I get there, you can let up and reload. Once y'all are loaded, tear off down to either side, so you can watch in case somebody gets past me. "
"Reckon they could squeeze out the window in back?" Bill asked.
"Not accordin' to Judge Scanlon," John said. "Too small."
"If they could, they would have by now," the kid said.
"Alright, Arizona." John said. "We'll run past and watch the back just in case."
"Suppose I'm ready."
John grinned at Bill and nodded toward their companion. The kid couldn't have been even nineteen years old yet—between hay and grass. No chance he could know anything about war, but he seemed as comfortable in the midst of battle as he would be in a rocking chair by the stove.
The two older men opened fire on the windows of the cabin. Arizona sprang to his feet, a lean, wiry figure in the flash of chain lightning, the butts of twin revolvers protruding outward from the rig riding low on his narrow hips. He pitched forward into a flat-out run straight toward the front door.
Aside from the outhouse and water trough, the cabin's only neighboring structure was the corral down to the right. The downhill slope was fairly even terrain—dark clumps of buffalo grass spotted the smooth soil, but there was little yucca or cactus to trip over here—part of a shallow hill skirted by pine, pinon and juniper trees. It splayed off into open pasture on either side which, in the dark rain, might as well have been the black void of space.
When the kid reached the cabin he dove to earth just shy of the porch.
John and long-bearded Bill ceased fire.
Bill rolled on his side to face toward John. "Tell me somethin': Why we lettin' that little grasshopper give the orders, now?"
John rubbed his ear. "The kid volunteered to do the dirty work. You wanna go risk your hide the way he's doin', you can give the orders."
Bill wiped rain from his eyes, scowling. "I don't even know why Scanlon sent him with us. We might hafta' change his diapers in a minute."
John shook his head. "That kid's got sand, Bill. Could turn out we're lucky he came along."
Bill rolled back to his stomach and grunted derisively. "He acts like he's got sand now, but it's a whole 'nother deal when he thinks nobody's lookin'. The way he fusses over them horses, you'd think he's their mama."
A shot rang out and ricocheted off a rock somewhere in the dark.
"And one of 'em's a mare," Bill continued. "How many self respectin' riders you know of saddle a mare?"
John shrugged, sliding fresh cartridges into his rifle's tube magazine. "I don't figure he cares much what we think of him ridin' a mare…or talkin' to her." He peered over the log and readied himself to move. "I got bigger worries about them what insist on ridin' studs. That kinda' man thinks too much of himself. Winds up gettin' his partners killt." He slid his knees up under his stomach, coiling for sudden movement. "Let's just see which way the cat jumps."
Bill grumbled, but topped off his magazine and made ready to spring up and run.
Voices cursed and coughed back and forth inside the line shack while the shooting petered out. Distinguishable words boiled up out of the din, like "fire," "lanterns" and "trapped." A few more tentative shots roared out the windows.
The clouds dumped out a real frog-strangler. The kerosene-soaked wood smoked profusely, but the flames would probably lose the battle.
John and Bill sprinted downhill to flank the cabin. They heard each other's footfalls resounding across the flat slope, but dark and distance masked their movement from each other and, judging by the lack of enemy fire, from the squatters, too.
Arizona wiped rainwater from his brow, breathed deep and waited with eyes closed tight.
"Big John!" Called Bill's voice from the darkness beyond the line shack. "I'm set. You set?"
"Yup!" John answered somewhere on the left. "We're set, kid! "
Arizona laid down his rifle, rolled onto his back and spun around so his boots were against the porch. He slipped his pistols from the holsters and waited.
The yelling inside reached a crescendo, then somebody's boot slammed hard into the door, tearing the leather latch. The door swung outward with a high-pitched squeak and shadows reeled out like drunkards drowning in a sea of smoke.
Arizona sat up straight and both his guns swung up level, blazing. His thumbs pulled the hammers back before his index fingers squeezed triggers again. Over and over he fired, fingers and thumbs working together in a mechanical locomotion to sling death out at all comers.
Bill and John watched the line shack, but aside from the fire could make out no action—the kid was on the opposite side and blocked from view by the cabin itself. They listened to the shooting from the front of the shack, hearing no report but that of the kid's .44s. Then the shooting slowed, punctuated by footsteps across the wooden porch.
He's checking his victims, John thought, finishing off the wounded with point-blank shots to the head.
The shooting stopped completely and they heard more footsteps. "All finished in here," the kid called through the small back window, smoke pouring out with his words.
John rose to his feet, dusting himself off. "They get ya, kid?" he called out, in the direction of the smoke-belching window.
"Nope," the kid hollered back. "Suppose we can divvy the loot, now."
John and Bill found each other before walking to the cabin.
"Maybe you're right," Bill whispered. "I bet that boy ain't got a scratch. Not one squatter so much as got off a shot."
"Never know," John said, quietly. "One of 'em might've had a .44 like his."
Bill flexed his shoulders. "Either way, this was the easiest arrest I ever made."
John chuckled, nodding toward the last remaining lantern. "Fetch that light there and we'll have us a looky-see."
"Ya don't reckon we shoulda' brought some a' them fellers in alive?" Bill asked, as the outline of the corral appeared out of the darkness. The horses there shuffled around, nervous about the fire, all the shooting and yelling.
"We was supposed to make an example of 'em," John replied, adjusting to a course that would lead them between the corral and the burning line shack. "This'll be an example, sure enough."
When they reached the cabin's door, the kid was going through the pockets of the nine bodies strewn about, oblivious to the smoke and heat of the smoldering flames. He regarded them casually and nodded toward two stacks he had made of firearms.
"Suppose I had the biggest stake in this gamble," the kid said. "So I took the pick of the guns. That big stack there is mine. If you want them, that other stack has a Spencer carbine, a new-looking Remington, and some of the usual outfit."
John spat on the porch, rubbing his eyes. "Noticed you favor those Army-style Colts with the five inch barrels."
The kid nodded while rising to retrieve his rifle outside the door. "And big calibers."
John looked over the carnage at the front door. At close range like this, a man didn't waste time aiming. Just point and pull. All instinct. But the kid had also used his rifle with the finesse of a seasoned marksman. John was indeed thankful the kid was on his side; because that smooth, hairless baby face was the mask of an ice-blooded killer.
Bill coughed and swatted at the smoke that seemed to prefer his company best. "Yer bein' awful greedy, ain't ya?" He asked the kid, comparing the size of the piles.
An atmosphere of tension slithered over the cabin at the suddenness with which the kid stopped what he was doing. He stood straight and faced Bill square-on.
Bill held the lantern in his left hand, still coughing. His gun hand was free, but he made no threatening moves. Had the kid reloaded? Of course he had. It was instinct to reload at the first opportunity for those who lived by the gun. Was he willing to kill a fellow lawman? Bill suspected he would be, given the right circumstances.
The kid's eyes were hard and his lip curled into a sneer on one side of his mouth. "What all did you do here? You made some noise for me from behind a log, and complained beforehand like you weren't sure you wanted to do even that. Now you think you deserve most of the loot?"
"Now I didn't say I wanted most," Bill protested, standing very still. How would the kid fare in a shootout with Bill and John? Would two-to-one be enough advantage against this young devil? Bill honestly didn't want any of those questions answered.
"Way I see it," the kid continued, "the two of you didn't even take half the risk. So you don't deserve half the loot."
"Maybe not," Bill said. "You sure got a bunch to carry, though." This was a lame inference that the kid needed them to take a larger share. He didn't think the kid was dumb enough to succumb to that kind of manipulation, but it allowed Bill to back down without losing face.
"I'll manage. Suppose I earned most of the horses, too."
Bill shrugged. "Reckon that's too fair for me to argue with. Just forget I said anything, and you take what you please." Some day, Bill thought, we might meet again when the odds are a lot better for me.
The kid examined him for a moment longer before dipping his chin with finality and resuming his grim work amidst the rolling smoke.
The two war veterans were too disciplined to sigh audibly.
1
Judge Scanlon dropped his feet off the desk and smiled up at the kid from Arizona. "Have a seat, young fellah."
The kid politely flashed a smile back and sat in the creaking wooden chair opposite the large, imported desk in the judge's high-roofed office. The walls were tastefully decorated with hunting trophies, various framed certificates and oil paintings.
"Heard you made out pretty well on saddles, horses, guns, and even the money those squatters had," Scanlon said.
The kid frowned. "That mean you ain't gonna pay me what we agreed to?"
Scanlon chuckled. "No, son, not at all. We had a deal and I keep my end." He slid open a desk drawer, produced a small linen pouch and tossed it to the kid, who caught it with a chinking sound. "There's twenty double eagles in there."
The kid opened the pouch and counted the coins inside.
"Got us a brand new roulette wheel down to the saloon," Scanlon said, biting the tip off a cigar.
"That so?" The kid replied, yawning.
"A young fellah could buy a lot of chips with what he sells all that booty for, plus that money there."
"That he could."
The kid seemed bored with the conversation.
Most people hung on Scanlon's every word and he liked it that way. He struggled not to let his irritation show as he lit the cigar and puffed thick, acrid smoke. "You fancy jobs like this?"
"There's parts I like."
Scanlon studied the young gunsharp. He couldn't be a pound over 130 soaking wet. His shoulder bones threatened to poke right through the top of his shirt. His hair was the color of desert sand and his eyes a dark blue, always half-closed and seemingly ready to weep.
According to Scanlon's other lawmen, the kid threw lead like a Gatling gun—with no more remorse than Richard J. Gatling's multi-barreled death machine. Yet there was nothing of the dandy in this boy as in so many gunfighters. He had no interest in jewelry or shiny pocketwatches, and eschewed the fancy eastern hats for a simple beige sombrero. He bore unostentatious blued pistols—no etching or nickel-plating. Neither his saddle, his belt, nor holsters were studded or otherwise decorated. The yellow checked bandana tied loosely around his neck proclaimed his only flash. He usually wore a beige flannel shirt and blue denim trousers with riding boots. Give him chaps and spurs and he'd look no different from a cowboy, Scanlon thought. But a mountain lion was more of a cowboy than this strange youngster.
"John and Bill said you got powerful wild out to the line shack."
The kid leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "Meaning just what, exactly?"
He thinks he's been insulted, Scanlon realized. His pride is threatened at the very hint of criticism. Those who saw him in action only spoke words any gunsharp would be pleased to accept, but the kid was ready to find an insult in anything. This from someone whose spare mount was a mare.
Scanlon's first instinct was to smooth over the burr, but instead he chose to milk it a bit. "Well, it sounds like you could've been shot full of holes last night."
"They wanted to wait the squatters out," the kid said through clenched teeth. "We'd still be there and some would've got away. All three of us might've been beefed, to boot."
"Those two fought in the war, young fellah. Don't you figure they maybe know a mite more about fighting than you do?"
The kid's face boiled red. "I hear tell their side lost."
Scanlon had served as a captain of artillery in Lee's army and didn't care for history lessons from smart-mouthed brats. "You've got your pay, boy. Thanks for your help."
The kid rose from the chair, ready to leave.
Someone knocked on the stained oak inner door. "What?" Scanlon barked.
The door opened and a frail woman poked her head in, blinking as if facing a sandstorm. Her nose was crooked and she had a fat lip with an ugly bruise haloing out from it. She wore a simple dress with an apron. "I'm sorry," she said. "It's Patrick—he found the tongs. They were down in the ice cellar."
"That little idiot!" Scanlon roared. The woman flinched from the outburst. "He's just like his mother. Neither of you would know the time of day in a room full of clocks! I'm going to hide him good."
She stared at the floor. "You already whipped him for losing it. Should you punish him again for finding them?"
"That will be all, Clara," Scanlon said, coldly. "And next time I see you, you better be wearing clothes appropriate for a magistrate's wife."
The woman glanced down at her apron, blushing, hastily ducked out and shut the door behind her.
The kid stood frozen for a moment, staring at the closed door. Then he turned his stare on Scanlon, squinting with hard, cold eyes and biting his lip.
Just before the judge inquired as to what he wanted, the kid's face softened to a blank expression and he ambled toward the outer door.
Scanlon frowned. There was too much town-taming in the territory to shoo off somebody with the kid's talents. "There's a man in town you might want to speak with," Scanlon said to his back.
The kid looked over his shoulder. "Oh?"
"Name's Lewis. Stovepipe hat, striped suit. Hiring folks for a job out in the Redbud."
"Thanks," the kid said.
"You can leave the star with me, boy."
The kid fully faced him, eyes widened slightly, fumbling to remove the deputy's badge from his shirt. He tossed it on the desk and left Judge Scanlon's office.
***
Clinton's Change was a well-established town with permanent buildings all along the main street. Most were wood frame, with fresh paint and shuttered windows. Wooden walkways linked the buildings. The train station was the most important fixture, having made most of the other structures possible—in an economic sense. There was also a post office, a barber shop, newspaper office, and, of course, smithies, stables, mercantiles, hotels and saloons interspersed with one and two-story residences.
The sun had already dried the street after last night's rain, so the kid led his horse on foot over to the gunsmith's shop. A few pedestrians strolled about. Some shopkeepers loitered on the walkway. Only a couple people nodded politely to the tall, rawboned loner--most just watched him curiously. A few women hurried to steer a path wide around him, avoiding his gaze as if their lives depended on it.
The kid tied his mount to the hitching post and stepped inside. He emerged an hour later with cash money for the captured guns he'd dropped off earlier for appraisal. He stopped by the livery for a similar transaction with a local rancher interested in the recently acquired horseflesh. Then he paid the blacksmith a visit.
***
Lewis found the kid under the log-and-tin overhang attached to the small barn where the blacksmith plied his business on a back street of Clinton's Change.
The kid looked no more dangerous than any other boy his age, the two-gun rig notwithstanding. Lewis wondered about his intelligence. Most of the talented gunsharps he'd met were rather dull-witted. The surly loners were quiet, he believed, because their mouths merely echoed what went on in their minds—not much at all.
Usually the local town boss paid Lewis for his recruiting efforts, with some supplemental money from the railroad, but he normally received tips from the gunsharps, too, as sort of a job finder's fee. This kid had accumulated a small fortune, if the speculations of some other hired men were true. He could likely be manipulated into giving a generous tip. Also, someone with his reputation would be recruited for many jobs. If Lewis developed a working relationship with him, the kid could keep silver rolling Lewis' way for years to come.
The short, muscular blacksmith dipped something in a water barrel as Lewis approached from the street. The smith handed the object to the kid through the resulting cloud of steam. The kid took a few moments to examine it. At first Lewis thought it was a poker or fireplace shovel. As he drew closer, he made out the perpendicular shape on the end of the long iron rod. It resembled the letter "A," but inside a circle.
Lewis halted a few feet from them. The kid didn't lift his gaze from the object, but said, "You must be Lewis."
Lewis tipped his top hat. "And you're the Arizona Kid?"
The kid handed a coin to the blacksmith. "Suppose some call me that."
Lewis extended his hand. "Judge Scanlon says the trouble here is cleared up for now. I have more work for you, if you're looking."
The kid shook hands tentatively, finally looking directly at Lewis, searching his face with eyes not so sleepy as they had initially appeared. He nodded thanks to the smith, then turned and strode toward his horses.
Lewis wondered at the kid's rudeness—not even waiting for an explanation of why Lewis took the pains to locate him. He caught up and measured his stride to keep pace with the kid.
"There's a town north and west of here that needs good deputies," Lewis said. "Right on the edge of the Redbud River Valley."
The kid reached his horses—a pretty brown-on-white pinto and a fierce-eyed chestnut mustang—and stopped, using a leather lanyard to secure the metal object across a saddlebag on the paint mare. "More land disputes?" the kid asked.
Lewis nodded. "The squatters in the Redbud are encroaching on railroad land."
The kid's gaze remained fixed on what his hands were doing as he said, to nobody in particular, "And the squatters we just took care of were infringing on water rights."
The kid's attitude perplexed Lewis. He lacked any modicum of social graces, and his tone was cynical. Did he not believe in the cause he'd just fought for?
Lewis pointed at the iron rod. "Why did you have a brand made?"
The kid frowned, saying nothing.
Lewis touched the circle-A. "Are you planning on doing some squatting, yourself?"
The kid faced Lewis and locked eyes with him, but only for a moment. "Suppose that's my own business."
Lewis shook his head, not believing this young gunsharp actually had ambitions for a spread of his own. The situation warranted candor. "Somebody's always going to want what's yours, kid. Eventually somebody will figure out how to take it. If they can't match you with gunplay, they'll get somebody like Judge Scanlon to work the law and take it that way."
"This is a big country," the kid said. "A party could die of old age before somebody corners him. Depending on where he settles."
Lewis stepped away from the pinto and leaned on the lower beam of the hitching rail the horses were tied to. "You ever hear the story how Clinton's Change got its name?"
The kid cinched down the saddle on the mustang. "Heard different stories. Some say this is where Clinton stopped to change horses. Some say this is where he found change for his last gold piece. Suppose there's as many stories as there are townsfolk living here."
"Bartholomew Clinton," Lewis said. "Another tinhorn carpetbagger from back East, was all he was. This town wasn't much more than a watering hole when he came through. General store, jail, boarding house. He had a mind to push on toward the Rockies, set up a trading post and cheat the Indians out of whatever they had. Only he got on the wrong side of the local law and landed in the jail. It was almost winter and he had lots of time to think. He started thinking: 'now why would I want to go up in those cold mountains to work like some fool beaver where I could freeze to death or lose my scalp, when I could just sit the winter out in this nice warm hoosegow for free?'"
Lewis swept his gaze over the buildings in town, as if watching twenty years of history play out before him. "So the original name was 'Clinton's Change of Heart,' but somebody shortened it. And you know, he got smart and figured out by opening a bank, he could make a bigger profit than with any game of chance—all using other folks' money. Well, it worked out just that way. He went from jailbird to owning the whole town, including the law that once didn't care much for his kind."
"Interesting story," the kid said, joining Lewis in staring down the street.
"It's the gospel truth," Lewis said. "But it's not the only story of its kind. Now you could save up a bunch of loot and buy your own spread. You'd work like the devil trying to keep it going. Hot in the summer, cold in the winter, hungry, thirsty, blisters on top of blisters...all so you could say you own something. At any time rustlers or Indians or somebody like Judge Scanlon could show up and you lose everything."
The kid untied the reins from the hitch rail, then swung up into the saddle.
"Then again, you could work for somebody who's well-connected and big enough to handle rustlers or Indians," Lewis said. "Meanwhile never miss a meal or spend a night shivering in the weather."
The kid pursed his lips and pulled leather gloves onto his hands.
"The railroad means big money, kid," Lewis said. He patted the pocket of his striped jacket. "I've got a letter of recommendation right here."
The kid held his hand out.
Lewis smiled. "Most fellows pay me about twenty dollars for my services."
The kid snorted. It might have been a laugh, though his hard expression was hardly one of good humor. His hand went back to the saddle pommel. "You're not getting paid by the town boss?"
Lewis licked his lips, maintaining the smile. "The hiring parties pay fellows like me, and fellows like you. But you get additional payment from each job in the form of guns, saddles, horseflesh…don't you?"
"Suppose that's my business, Lewis."
Lewis waved the letter in a seemingly unconscious manner. "So it's only fair that I get my share, too. Right?"
The kid doffed his sombrero and, not bothering to remove his glove, poked his fingers through dirty blond hair to massage his scalp. "I don't need your letter to get hired. You ain't the one recruited me for Judge Scanlon. Way I figure it, you only get paid for recruiting me into this Redbud job if I show that letter to the town boss. Otherwise, they can just hire me based on reputation and save themselves the money. If I want the job, Lewis, I can get it. You want me to take the letter or not?"
Lewis extended the letter toward him, feeling hot in the face. "Follow the north trail. Blue Stone is the name of the town. Ask for Mayor Joe Brody or Marshal Burt Raines."
The kid nodded, took the letter, tucked it inside his shirt and clucked to the mustang. The gelding tossed his head and started off. The mare followed, her lead wrapped around the saddlehorn.
Lewis shook his head and chewed on his lip. Most hired guns were simple enough fellows, but this close-mouthed loner had a lot going on behind those sleepy eyes.
The kid made his living running ranchers off their spreads, impounding their herds, or simply killing them. But evidently he meant to spend his loot on a ranch of his own. Was he oblivious to the irony?
Lewis watched the kid ride out. He didn't stop staring after him until horse and rider shrunk to a speck indistinguishable from the clusters of sagebrush, cactus and yucca on the flats outside town.
2
The log house sat on a shallow hill stretching down through thickening trees to Skinny Leg Creek. Just north of it stood the barn and tack shed; east were the chicken coop and pig pen.
Roy Bennett measured again, set the four boards across the two sawhorses and plucked a nail from the three dozen he'd just made, piled up on his anvil. With two expert blows of the hammer, he nailed two boards together. He rotated the assembly slightly, positioned a third board and nailed a second joint. Soon all four boards were connected to form a square frame. He set the frame down and pondered the pointy ends of his homemade nails protruding through the wood. It seemed to him a waste to just bend them over with the hammer.
"Pa! Hey Pa!"
Roy looked up to see his boy cresting the hill between his wooden house and the creek, with the dogs running alongside. Robby appeared excited, maybe a bit scared.
Roy laid the hammer down. A twelve-year-old could be easily excited, but fear wasn't quite as common. He watched his son close the distance and skid to a stop, short of breath, in front of him.
"Somebody's camped over the hill, Pa."
Roy hadn't noticed the animals acting strangely of late. The wind wasn't right to catch scents from that direction, but sounds of a visitor should have carried.
"That so?"
Robby's eyes were round and wide. "Down by the crick. I thought the man wouldn't see me, but he looked straight at me." He gestured violently at one of the dogs. "It was prob'ly Bones movin' around so much, gave me away."
"On foot?" Roy asked.
"He's got two horses."
Roy hadn't heard so much as a nicker. "This man say anything to you?"
Robby shook his head.
"Okay. Get yourself cleaned up, get inside and stay inside 'til I get back. Don't give your mother any trouble, hear?"
He snatched the double-barreled shotgun from inside his front door and marched down toward the creek.
Roy approached the campsite at a decelerating pace, shotgun politely breach-broken, hanging bent. "Hello the camp!" he called.
"Come on," a young voice answered.
Robby had called the stranger a man, but only because of his own youth. The stranger was as tall as a man, but a long way from maturity, Roy figured.
The kid stood watching Roy unblinkingly as he walked into the little clearing.
Trees were sparse throughout most of the territory, but thrived along every body of water. The kid had pitched camp in a tight little copse just inside Roy's property at the bottom of the hill adjacent to the creek, big enough to conceal a man and two horses but not much else. There was a circle of rocks next to the bedroll and saddlebags, with a stack of wood close by. The wood was staged according to size, with the kindling closest to the fire pit and the large chunks of dead wood composing the biggest stack.
The burbling of the creek had masked any sound the kid had been careless enough to make, just as now it was masking all noise that might otherwise indicate a farm was over the hill. Roy chose the location of his farm two years ago partially because of its proximity to fresh water. He felt stupid now for never considering these other factors.
Having seen Robby and the dogs, this stranger now knew Roy's home was nearby.
"Had no intent to trespass," the kid said, casually. "Needed to rest the horses and thought this was a nice spot."
"My land stops right there at the crick," Roy said, waving his hand in that direction. "Free graze on t'other side."
"My apologies. That your boy was down here a minute ago?"
Roy nodded. Even as the kid spoke, he seemed overly aware of Roy's shotgun. He didn't look directly at it, so much as just keep his body carefully positioned so that it was always in plain view. Roy studied the kid's gun rig.
The belt hung quite low on the kid's hips—a wide leather affair surrounded by loops to hold bullets, similar to what the Mexican pistoleros favored. The holsters must have been custom made, for Roy had never seen the like. They had no flaps, and only about half the material of a normal holster, though the leather was thick and stiff. The bottom of each holster had a long, thin lanyard affixed, tied around the thigh. Whoever made them hadn't been the least bit concerned about a pistol falling out by accident.
Roy guessed these guns could be shucked with little fuss, and that the kid practiced regularly to make sure—the leather he could see on the inside of the holsters was worn to a glossy sheen. The revolvers were the six-shot single-action Army style so popular these days for their accuracy and ruggedness. Roy himself owned a .45 version and planned to buy Robby a .22 for his birthday. The kid's Colts were recently cleaned and oiled. The trigger guards—protruding from the cut-down holsters—gleamed silver where friction of leather and flesh had rubbed the bluing off over time and prolific handling.
The kid looked too young to be a discharged soldier. Besides, the soldiers who saw action relied on the repeating rifle, more than any side arm. Nor was he a cowboy, despite the outfit. A cowboy could go for almost a year sometimes without cause to draw his gun. Most of them only packed a firearm just in case—the same reason Roy always kept one close at hand. And Roy had never seen a cowboy packing two. Roy knew only one profession would necessitate such repetitive brandishing of shooting iron, much less a two-gun rig.
Now it occurred to Roy why the kid was worried about the shotgun: no doubt a practiced gunsharp could lock the breach with a flick of the wrist and be ready to fire. Robby's fear of the stranger was more justified than Roy initially guessed.
Very slowly and deliberately, keeping his hands well away from the trigger, Roy lifted the shotgun and hung it over his shoulder so that the crux rested on his collar and the muzzle pointed earthward behind his back. The kid's sleepy eyes locked on all this without blinking.
"I'm Roy Bennett. "
"Folks call me Arizona," the kid said.
"That where ya from?"
"Yup." He sat down beside the circle of stones and motioned for Roy to have a seat.
"Headin' back that way?" Roy asked, squatting.
"Not just yet. There's a town called Blue Stone I might visit."
Roy nodded. "That's over a half day's ride from here."
"Yup. "
Roy studied the kid's horses. They seemed to shape up okay.
"Mare got a stone bruise," the kid said, following Roy's glance.
Roy stood. "How 'bout I take a look?"
"You can doctor horses?"
"I've done some, from time to time."
The kid nodded.
Roy stepped over to the pinto. She was pretty, and amicable. After making friends with her, he asked, over his shoulder, "Which hoof is it?"
The kid pointed at the left front leg, watching closely as if Roy might have something up his sleeve.
Roy had a look. It wasn't much of an injury--most men would have kept riding and, chances were, the hoof would heal just fine anyway.
The picnic at the Crown S ranch was only two days away, but Roy couldn't leave his place with this character roosted here. He might steal anything while Roy was gone, or worse: stick around until Roy's return, and threaten his family somehow. Roy had never seen him before…in Blue Stone or anywhere else…so perhaps he was just drifting through. But drifters were often dangerous and unpredictable.
Dear Lord, Roy thought, I don't know why you brought this young fellow here. Please watch over me and help me not to do or say anything foolish.
Roy chewed his lip, then said, "Well look: it's still gettin' cold at night out here. We got us a new stove that heats our place up real good, and we'd be pleased if you'd stay the night with us."
A shadow of suspicion flickered in the boy's eyes, as if hospitality were some sort of threat.
***
Virgil Reinhardt had been known simply as "Arizona" even before the job at Clinton's Change...almost since leaving the territory of his birth. He rather liked the title—it sounded much better than his first name, and was less conspicuous than his last. With a new name, a person wiped his slate clean; but he liked how the name connected him to the rugged country he'd come to appreciate so much after witnessing the Godforsaken desolation of west Texas and the noisy chaos of Kansas City. Had he come here from Massachusetts, Connecticut or maybe Rhode Island, he might not appreciate a geographical nickname so much.
There were no infamous outlaws named Reinhardt. He just didn't want to be associated with his family in any way; or even reminded of them.
This Roy Bennett's invitation to sleep in the house was a surprise. Perhaps he figured Arizona for a harmless drifter in between jobs. Maybe Bennett planned to charge him room and board, or kill him to steal his horses and outfit. He could reckon the motives of most people within a few seconds, but Bennett's eluded him so far.
Arizona could have pushed on a few miles and found a campsite across the creek, but he wanted Smudge to rest and heal. He was in no hurry, and Smudge was far more important than Blue Stone or any job in any town.
A human with a twisted ankle would whine, complain and carry on, letting everyone within earshot know how much it hurt. Smudge's gait went kittywumpus, but otherwise she couldn't communicate how much pain she was in. A horse like her could be mortally wounded, but would probably keep going for him. She had a loyalty that couldn't be found in human beings and Arizona wasn't going to ride on while she was in pain, however minor that pain might be.
"Suppose I'll be fine out here," Arizona said.
Roy Bennett let go of Smudge's leg, straightened and adjusted his hat. "This is the rainy season."
"I'll stay here," Arizona said. "And should anybody get ideas about sneaking up on me at night, I promise to show that idea for stupid."
Bennett reddened. "I didn't threaten you, young fellah. You have no call to make threats against me."
"It ain't a threat. I'm just saying what would happen if."
Bennett's gaze swept up and down Arizona, then he shook his head and left the way he came in.
Arizona watched him go until he was no longer visible, then watched a few more minutes in case Bennett doubled back.
Nobody tried to sneak up on him that night, and it didn't rain. He awoke a couple times when the horses stirred due to an owl and a coyote. Watching the stars appear through partings in the clouds hypnotized him back to sleep.
At daybreak he built a fire to cook beans, which he ate with jerky and hardtack. City folks wouldn't brag about the accommodations, but he treasured the smell of cedar boughs and pine needles mixed with wood smoke from his own fire. The horses stopped grazing and watched his breakfast as if expecting him to share.
He dug in one of the mochillas on the ground at his side, pulled out a handful of grain, rose and approached his horses. He stopped halfway in between them, divided the grain into both hands and extended them.
Breeze knew this routine, but hesitated, yanking leaves off a branch with his teeth while eyeing his handful of grain. Smudge came over for hers immediately.
Smudge nibbled it right out of Arizona's hand, barely grazing his skin with her teeth. When his hand was empty, he stroked her jaw and neck.
"That's my smart girl. You're gonna give me some smart, pretty colts one day, ain'tcha?"
Arizona locked eyes with her and nodded his head in exaggerated fashion. Smudge nodded back. He grinned. "That's my smart girl."
Arizona turned his attention on the chestnut mustang. "You best come on, Breeze, or I'll give yours to her."
Breeze snorted and took a few tentative steps his way.
"Stubborn hoss. I'm not gonna bring it to you. You know how this works."
Breeze closed the distance. Arizona held his hand out as flat as he could, and the mustang lowered his thick muzzle to the treat.
"It's lucky you belong to me," he told the tough gelding. "Anybody else would--"
He forgot all about finishing the sentence when Breeze's teeth clamped down on him. His hand recoiled away; he shook it and brought it close to his face for examination. He saw no evidence of damage from the bite, but tested his thumb and trigger finger just to be sure. "You knothead! I'd like to keep that hand, if it's all the same to you!"
Both horse's ears twitched, and they craned their necks around to look behind them. Arizona stepped away, wiped his hands on his pants and rested palms on his gun butts.
"Hello the camp! It's Roy Bennett."
"Come on, then."
Bennett reappeared, not with his shotgun, but two cups of steaming Arbuckle's.
"Figured you might want one of these," Bennett said, as if their heated words from the previous day had never been spoken.
"I'll take that one, and thanks." Arizona didn't bring coffee with him on the trail, but did appreciate it when someone else took the trouble to brew it.
Bennett handed him the indicated cup. "Welcome."
"Have a sit," Arizona offered, folding limber legs until he was perched sideways on the saddle he had used for a pillow.
Bennett squatted and took a sip from his coffee. "Looks like you ate. I was gonna offer you to sit down with us."
"I appreciate the thought."
The smell of beans still hung in the air.
"We got eggs and bacon," Bennett said. "Fresh bread and grits."
Despite having just eaten, these words made Arizona's stomach wake up and take notice. "Maybe I'll take you up on that tomorrow."
"You gonna stay another night?"
Arizona studied Smudge, thoughtfully. "Suppose I will."
"Looks like rain later," Bennett said, gazing skyward. "I been watchin' them clouds this mornin'. You're liable to get soaked through."
Arizona considered the darkening clouds. Bennett was probably right. He glanced around his campsite. The place would become a miserable mess in a hard rain. The wood would be too wet to start a fire afterward to dry his duds, blankets and such.
"You got a stable?" Arizona asked. "With a roof?"
Bennett nodded. "I could make room for your horses."
Arizona had been caught out in the rain too many times, and decided he wasn't fool enough to go through it again with shelter and hot food being offered.
"You sold me, Mr. Bennett."
Roy put Arizona's horses in the barn with his own, with access to hay. He showed the kid around the place and introduced his family. Hannah, his short, plumpish wife, smiled a lot and spoke to Arizona as if she'd known him all her life.
Homesteaders were lonely folk and might welcome Chief Crazy Horse himself into their hearth for dinner and a chat about the Little Bighorn. But once a visitor's novelty wore thin their true faces would show.
The daughter, Ruthie, seemed a bit aloof but still polite. She was at least seventeen years old, maybe more. Rare to be unmarried. She was tall and trim, but developing just as a young woman should, so far as Arizona could tell. She had long arms, long fingers, tiny wrists. A long neck..."graceful" is how other women might describe it. Yeah. Her bosom was graceful, too. The sun had given her skin a nice color. She seemed a nice mixture of delicate and sturdy. Some might call her "horse-faced," but Arizona found her pretty enough, even with her brown hair pulled back so tight.
In the center of the house was a pot-bellied stove. The kitchen sat behind it. Two small bedrooms were partitioned off on the left, one large room to the right. None of the rooms had doors. Six simple chairs surrounded a rectangular, stained wooden table in front of the large bedroom. Two fancier, sloping chairs faced the door and front window, with a thick rug in between.
Arizona wondered about the extra two chairs at the table. Were there more people about?
Hannah followed his gaze and said, "We try to be ready for company. Roy's gonna build me a bigger table and more chairs so more than two guests can sit down to supper, if need be."
Robby stared up at him with a studious expression. "Do your horses have names?"
Hannah kept smiling, while peering into his eyes with unnerving intensity. "So do you have family in Arizona?"
Arizona opened his mouth to reply…
"I reckon you can sleep right over there," Roy said, pointing to a section of the sturdy wooden floor between the stove and the wall.
Robby circled, then set his foot down right beside Arizona's to compare boot sizes. "Did you train those horses yourself?"
Again he began to speak…
"I'll bring out some blankets," Hannah said.
"Do ya want me to rub 'em down for ya?" Robby asked.
Ruthie remained a few paces back, staring at the two-gun rig. "Would you like something to drink?"
"You can put your saddlebags wherever you want," Roy said, gently pulling Robby away from Arizona.
Arizona's head spun from all the chatter. He had no idea what question by whom to answer in what order. The talk was innocent enough, but his frustration brought heat to his face.
As naturally as if she were shooing a fly away, Hannah placed a comforting hand on Arizona's shoulder. This startled him.
"We're sorry, Arizona," she said. "Maybe you're not used to so many folks talking at once."
Arizona laughed nervously, then puffed his cheeks for a moment. "I call the chestnut 'Breeze'," he told Robby. "The pinto's name is 'Smudge.' I trained Breeze, but not her. You're welcome to rub them down...just make sure to bear down kinda' rough on Smudge. She tickles easy sometimes, and that'll get her to dancing around. Now Breeze—just don't do anything to make him think you wanna mount him." He turned to Ruthie. "Thanks. Anything you got to drink is fine." Then, to Roy and Hannah, "That sounds ace high."
The house fell silent for a moment. Roy and Hannah exchanged looks, then chuckled together. "He keeps track pretty good!" Roy said.
When Ruthie brought Arizona another cup of hot coffee, he paused to ponder. It was the first time he could remember a female doing him any favor. Saloon girls didn't count—they got paid for everything, directly or indirectly. He studied her face while thanking her again. After just a moment of direct eye contact, a hint of annoyance flashed across her countenance. She mumbled acknowledgement, then turned away and found something else to do.
Well, that's normal enough. It was the reaction he got from every unmarried woman. But she had shown him a kindness first, and that was novel.
You any good with your hands?" Roy asked. "I could use some help outside."
"Suppose I can learn quick, sometimes."
He followed his host outside to the sawhorses.
"Gonna be a fancy coolin' pantry if I do it right," Roy said, gesticulating with hands and boards to show Arizona what to do.
Arizona did as he was told, mostly fetching this, marking that, holding two objects together when needed, while Roy measured, sawed, nailed and re-measured. As they worked and Roy talked, his concept of the cooling pantry took shape in Arizona's mind.
"If I'm right about this," Roy explained, "this'll let us keep meat, maybe even milk an' such, a little longer this summer."
"By keeping it outside in the shade?" Arizona asked.
Roy held up a piece of latticework he'd woven out of rolled bark strips. "The shade'll help, of course. But I'm buildin' it so the wind can pass through. The front 'door,' so-to-speak, will just be a curtain. That tin pan there will sit on top. If I can get the water to trickle right, it'll keep that curtain wet, so the air passin' through should get mighty cool. 'Course we won't even need water come winter again."
"The wind shifts a lot in this country," Arizona said.
Roy grinned and asked, "You ever seen a weather vane?"
Arizona couldn't help but admire Roy's ideas, as well as the craftsmanship which brought them to fruition. The Bennett place was built by nothing less than an expert carpenter. He'd noticed the clever efficiency of the design, the lock of the joints and the tight fit of the boards both in the walls and floors.
Arizona was glad he'd seen the place. It gave him ideas for the spread he hoped to have one day.
Other things gave him ideas, too, though with not so much optimism. Ruthie most of all.
He wondered how many suitors she must have, what sort of man the lucky one would be, and why that man hadn't taken her from her parents already. Maybe fixing up a house to have ready for the honeymoon. Maybe arranging travel farther west—out to California or some place in between.
When the rain came, it fell thick and cold. Roy herded his kids inside the house, while Arizona made for the barn, glancing warily over his shoulder.
Roy turned at the doorway and called back, "You can come in the house with us, Arizona!"
Arizona waved dismissively, ducking inside the barn. After spending most of the day with him, Arizona had to admit Bennett seemed harmless enough, with no ulterior motives he could discern. Still, Arizona felt more comfortable waiting out the rain with Breeze and Smudge while the farmer kept with his own.
The downpour petered out after dark. Both Bennett and his wife invited Arizona to the house for supper. His stomach trumped his better judgment and he accompanied them across the muddy farm to the warm little house with the enticing smells wafting out into the chilly evening.
After a satisfying meal of roast beef, baked potatoes and squash, the Bennett family settled into the front room. Arizona wouldn't have believed a small collection of people living on this little farm day in, day out would have much to discuss, but they talked for hours. Robby and Ruthie shared anecdotes, mostly concerning livestock or the dogs, which they obviously thought amusing. This brought up recollections Hannah had from growing up on her parents' farm. Roy added some stories of his own, and on more than one occasion he read passages from the family Bible.
Arizona marveled at how these people seemed to enjoy each other's company, and that Robby, the youngest, was a welcome part of the conversation.
When they turned in for the night, Arizona returned to the barn. He gave Breeze and Smudge a treat, and talked to them a little. He considered sleeping here, but it was chilly and damp. Memory of the warm stove drew him back to the house, where he bedded down in the corner and had surprisingly little trouble drifting off to sleep.
While the Bennetts attended to chores at daybreak, Arizona led Breeze and Smudge down to the creek to graze and drink. Smudge seemed to be walking fine. He would rest her for one more day, then head out the following morning.
He helped Bennett work on the cooling pantry some more.
There was an atmosphere of anticipation hanging over the farm. Robby was especially excited, and the others seemed more animated than normal.
Arizona wasn't sure what to expect, and finally just asked Roy what was amiss.
"We're havin' a little shindig with some of the neighbors later today," Bennett said. "There's gonna be steak, roasted pig...and plenty of pies and cakes for dessert. If you come along, it might be the best eatin' you ever had."
Arizona never got invitations like this.
He also had never known anyone like the Bennetts. The way they interacted with each other was fascinating. Robby had given his father more than one excuse to belt him during the time Arizona had been there to observe, but Roy only chastised him verbally most of the time. The boy got one mild spanking when he got caught falsely claiming to have fed the chickens, but Roy never punched him in the face, backhanded him or beat his head against the ground.
He would be powerful interested to see if their neighbors shaped up this peculiar. In a few days he would be arresting them…maybe shooting some. He'd never encountered squatters unaware they should fear him.
"Maybe I will go along," he muttered absently, not understanding why he even cared; but caring nonetheless.
"Cake's done, Roy!"
Hannah's cheerful announcement yanked Arizona out of his thoughts. She stood fanning herself at the front door, looking on her husband in pleasant appraisal.
Roy put down his work and grinned at Hannah, taking in an exaggerated breath. "Mmm-mmm!" He grunted. "And it smells so good I'm ready to bite into that anvil, there."
"Go right ahead," she said, "but that's all you'll bite into before we get to the Stoddard place."
"If that be true, we best get movin'," Roy said. "Lookee what me an' Arizona done—we plum near got the pantry finished."
"So I see," she said, with some admiration.
The box they'd built rested on a pole sticking up vertical from the ground. Roy had carved a conical bearing out of a pine slab, slathered wagon axle grease over it, and that allowed the structure to pivot smoothly atop the supporting pole. A thin board, not yet attached, would serve as a rudder--if Roy was right--keeping the pantry turned so that the wind would blow through it at all times.
It struck Arizona that Hannah was admiring Roy more than what he'd built. Then Roy walked up to her, plucked her up into his arms and spun her around twice before setting her down. She giggled, hugged him and planted a kiss on his cheek.
It was a good bet Roy would go to mush for Hannah even if the cake smelled like a cow pie. Arizona found it difficult to tear his eyes away from the couple. They seemed to glow when they gazed at each other. "Cows in heat," his brother would say. "Half-full of stupid."
A peculiar warm sensation quickly gave way to an unexplainable anger churning in Arizona's belly. He turned away and went to check on his horses.
3