Dead Man's Ranch Page 14

  Chapter 27

  Junior doubted there would be anyone awake at this time of the night. The Driving D men worked, and they worked hard. And at night, they slept as hard as they worked—one ear cocked toward the bunkhouse when it was full would verify the fact—the snoring sounded as if a forest of trees were crashing down at a constant rate. There hadn’t been Apache attacks in years, not since Junior and Callie were young children, so the need for night guards had gradually diminished, then disappeared altogether.

  Besides, he thought, much of the crew was out on range duty, shuffling stock from one range to another. They wouldn’t be back to the main ranch proper for weeks yet. Still, as Junior led his horse into the long, low stable, a cold sweat stippled his skin. What if he had been seen? His hands trembled as he loosened the cinch on the horse’s girth.

  He’d just scooped an ample bait of oats in the trough when a low, rasping voice said, “Hey there, Mr. Junior. How’s the daily battle treating you?”

  Junior swung tight and fast, his pistol already in his hand as if it had been a live thing with a mind of its own. His mouth pulled wide and his lips stuck to his teeth.

  “Whoa, whoa there, boy! It’s me, Mica.” The large man stood a full eight inches taller than Junior and half again as wide, and his dark skin shone like burnished cherry wood in the glow of the low oil lamp. I may be a large man, thought Mica, but I am no match for a drawn six-gun.

  Junior didn’t move, kept the pistol aimed at the midsection of the ranch cook, his father’s oldest confidant. Could be a trick, thought the boy. Why was Mica here? And at this hour?

  “Junior, is this any way to treat a friend?”

  Junior eased the hammer down and holstered his sidearm. “I’m sorry, Mica. It being so late, I guess I’m just rabbity.”

  “You don’t say.” Mica stood in the doorway, his hands on his narrow hips, his bald head tilted. “Since when did you get so speedy with that silly thing anyway?”

  He stared at the young man long enough that Junior fidgeted and finally turned back to his horse, running a wad of sacking over the sweat-stained withers. “I said I was sorry.”

  The man didn’t leave. Junior knew he would want more of an explanation than that. It had felt at times growing up as though he had two fathers. And now Mica would probably tell his father of this incident too. Without turning around, Junior said, “What are you doing up anyway, Mica? It’s late.”

  “Early, you mean. My morning to get up before the roosters. Me and Dilly split the duty. Someone’s gotta make the biscuits, get the gravy and whistle berries poppin’ in the pans. They don’t do it by themselves, now, do they?”

  Junior half turned and smiled, sighed deeply for the first time in hours, and said, “No, I reckon not.”

  “You reckon right, sonny.” Mica returned the smile, turned to go, and said, “Everything working all right with you, Junior?”

  Junior’s teeth immediately came together. He turned back to the horse, who munched his feed, oblivious of the tensions around him. Junior smoothed at the coat with the sacking and said, “Would be if people would just leave me be.”

  Mica regarded him a moment longer, then said, “Suit yourself, boy. Suit yourself.” He walked from the stable and Junior heard the old man’s muttering mingle with the crunch of gravel under his boots on the path outside. He stood still until he heard the cook shack door clunk back into place. What was wrong with him lately? He’d snapped at everyone who meant anything to him, and all for what?

  Then as if he had been slugged hard in the gut, the jagged memory of what he’d done earlier that night overwhelmed him and he sagged against his horse. He’d killed a man, maybe even two. One of them he’d known his entire life. So this was what it felt like to know there was no returning to the way things had been. He couldn’t let tonight’s risk and danger and violence happen for nothing. He’d gone too far to change course. Was it worth it? Yes, he had to believe it was. His father always said that a man must make up his mind, believe in himself, and then bull ahead. He had to do everything he could to gain ownership of the Dancing M. Everything. And he must let nothing stop him.

  Junior rubbed down his horse mechanically, long after the sun’s first rays glinted over the far hills east of the Driving D. It was a day he knew would be filled with worry and questions. Questions he was not yet ready to answer.

  Chapter 28

  The cool of the early morning was ideal for a brisk ride, though Callie preferred the danger and thrill of a full-out gallop in the moonlight. But that was a thrill for which she’d been reprimanded by her father and Mica more than a few times over the years. Wilf had one day finally shouted at her in a red-faced rage such as she’d never known, asked her how she’d like it if Butter broke a leg in a chuck hole. That had finally forced her to see the folly of such undertakings. But Callie had never really understood what Wilf had been so incensed about. At least not until Mica explained that it had been such a misstep years before by her mother’s filly that had caused the death of both her mother, Carla Grindle, and her prized filly.

  Mica also said that anyone who had ever known her mother was instantly reminded of her when they met Callie. She imagined it was most difficult of all on her father, who saw her every day. She couldn’t imagine such a constant ache.

  Callie pushed all that from her mind on this morning. She felt as if they were racing the sun. She was sure Butter felt it, the beast’s breath chuffing a steady rhythm as they covered mile after mile.

  If there was one thing she could use lately, it was a chance to get away from everything odd that had happened since Rory MacMawe died. It was as if a poison had wormed its way into their lives. Everything was coming to some sort of snapping point and she didn’t like it. It felt off, somehow, and other than Mica, no one else seemed aware of it or if they did they weren’t willing to talk about it.

  Everyone—her father, her brother, Esperanza, Brandon—all the people closest to her were acting strange. What she saw the day before in her brother’s eyes had shaken her to her roots. This wasn’t the Junior she knew. And then came Espy’s unfounded rejection. She’d wanted to talk with Mica about it all, but he was nowhere to be found. So after a sleepless night she’d slipped out of the house, saddled up before light, and hit the trail. She’d never failed to find some measure of solace alone with her horse.

  Callie reined up at the big old boulder that marked the junction of their road with that of the Dancing M. The massive gray rock always pulled a comment from her father whenever they passed it in the barouche on their way to town. Her mare, Butter, blew through her nose and wagged her head to let Callie know she had no intention of stopping for long. Callie laughed and said, “Let’s go, then!” and rapped heels to the horse’s barrel. She’d almost, though not quite, let Butter choose the route. And that just happened to be the Dancing M road. She knew then that the real purpose of her ride had been to see Espy. She had to try. Something had been very wrong with her old friend and she had to get to the bottom of it. Surely there was a bolder reason for the older woman’s anger of the other day.

  As she rode, her thoughts returned to her brother. Though he was but a year younger, they were practically twins. She knew how gentle a soul he was, that he craved their father’s attention in a way that she supposed only young men felt about their fathers. From the time he became, in their father’s eyes, a “young man,” Junior had spent every hour of his days trying to impress the old taskmaster. But she knew that Junior didn’t particularly like ranch work. He spent so much of his time second-guessing their father’s wishes that Callie suspected Junior never really explored exactly what he wanted to do with his own life. What did he do with himself in his own quiet hours?

  It had been a couple of years since she’d been in his room. Did he still read? What did he think about when he was alone? Did he harbor a love for one of the local girls? He used to be such a fun friend growing up—and now he was nothing more than an obsessed shell of the person she
used to know.

  And then there was Esperanza. She had made it plain that she thought Callie was just another Grindle. At the memory of their odd meeting, Callie’s jaw muscles tightened. It could only mean that her father had visited Esperanza, had made her an offer for the Dancing M. She wouldn’t put it past him. If he had a fault, it was a lust for land. He never seemed to have enough. She had tried to tell him once that she didn’t want it, and she doubted that Junior did. “Can you take it with you?” she’d asked. His response was a red-faced rage such as she’d never seen come over him before. Had her father paid a visit to the widow? She knew he wanted the entire Dancing M, and in her experience he never left the table hungry.

  The sight of a horse walking along the road not far ahead snapped Callie from her reverie. For a moment, her horse chomped and shook her head, fighting the interruption. The unexpected sight pulled Callie up short, and she patted her horse’s neck to quiet her. “Shhh, shhh, Butter,” she whispered. “There’s a good girl. Now, whose horse could that be…?”

  Dead ahead, the strange horse came to a standstill. Even from this distance Callie noticed it favoring a foreleg, saw scratches and streaks of blood caked on its flanks. They caught up to it and she recognized the distinctive Dancing M brand. As they walked closer, she felt sure it was Brandon’s gelding. The horse stood tired and quivering. Her horse nosed the other, and Brandon’s horse lowered its head in a passive stance.

  “What’s the matter, boy? Huh?” Callie dismounted and walked around in front of both horses. She held the reins of her mare and knew something was wrong when Brandon’s horse didn’t so much as twitch. “You’ve run straight through mesquite, torn yourself to pieces.” She slid a hand down the horse’s neck, stroking and patting, talking softly. “Where’s Brandon, boy?”

  Callie looked northward, but saw nothing. It seemed the horse had probably traveled from town, the most likely place for Brandon to have been. Perhaps something had happened to him, and the horse had wandered through the night, heading for its home stable. But that didn’t explain why the horse was unsaddled. Since his father’s death, Brandon had spent all his time in the saloon in town, or holed up somewhere with his hands wrapped around a whiskey bottle. But he was a fine horseman, one of the best in the area. Her father had even said so.

  Brandon must be camped somewhere, sleeping off a drunk. His horse probably spooked at something in the night, or just wandered off. Maybe, she thought. But it didn’t quite sit right with her. What’s Brandon running from? What’s in store for him?

  Unbidden came the memory of a saying Mica had told them when she and Junior sat in his kitchen one afternoon many years before: “You got to watch out for a man who’s running from something. ’Cause that’s a sign that something bad has happened—or will soon.” The old man had leaned against the carving board, drying his hands on his smeared apron, then said, as much to the ceiling rafters as to them, “Now, I can think of three things a man ought to run to.” Then he’d smiled.

  “What are they, Mica?” she and Junior had said in tandem.

  “Well, let’s see. Firstly, I guess the loving arms of a fine wife. Nextly, someone wanting to give him all kind of money.”

  “What’s third, Mica?” Callie had asked.

  “Third, you see, is the most important.” He’d leaned in close to them, over the table, and said, “Third thing is a man ought to always run fast and hard straight toward a hot meal. Now we’re talking!” Mica’s laugh boomed in the warm kitchen.

  The memory brought a brief smile to her face. She mounted up and said, “We’d better get to Espy’s, see if she’s missing a horse.” She felt sure that she’d not find Brandon at the ranch. Why else would his horse be in such a state? The horse led easily enough, though she didn’t dare move any faster than a walk. She was thankful they were about a half mile from the ranch house, but if it had been any longer, she would have left the horse there and ridden on ahead.

  By the time they arrived at the dooryard, the sun had cracked open the day. Looks like you won the race, thought Callie as she looked up at the orange glow. She was still a hundred yards from the little ranch house when she shouted, “Esperanza! Esperanza!”

  It didn’t take long for the squat woman to emerge from the house, wiping her hands on her apron. It seemed to Callie as if that was how she’d always seen her answer the door. Except she used to wear a smile for her. But like everything else in this crazy life now, those days seemed to be gone forever.

  “Espy!” Callie slid from the horse.

  “What is it, Callie?” Esperanza rushed up to grab the horse’s reins from the girl. “What are you doing with Brandon’s horse?” Her look was more of concern than suspicion.

  “I found him like this. I think we should hitch your team, Espy. Brandon would never let his horse wander off—not unless something’s wrong.”

  “That stranger,” said Espy in a low voice.

  “Which stranger, Espy?”

  “Middleton. He was here. They fought—Brandon hit him.” Espy turned to Callie. “Do you think he did something to Brandon…out of anger?”

  “I don’t know, Espy.” Callie squeezed her friend’s shoulder. As she rushed to the barn, where the draped tack hung on the rail of an empty stall, she thought about Middleton. He’s certainly rude enough—and big enough—to hurt Brandon.

  Espy stood stroking the blowing gelding’s nose, looking over the beast’s cocked leg and bloodied flanks, then led him to the water trough and tied him there. She turned to the barn.

  “Our team is in the close pasture. There, you see them?” She paused, a hand on Callie’s sleeve, and said, “Do you think Brandon is…?”

  Callie looked into those eyes she’d come to regard as those of a second mother. “I don’t know. But he wouldn’t leave his horse like this—” They both looked at the drinking horse.

  As Espy hustled to the house for water and medical supplies, just in case, Callie heard her say, “That drunk boy will be the death of me.”

  Callie turned her attention back to calling in the horses. Within a minute of banging a dented pail against the fence rail by the barn, just as she’d seen Rory do a hundred times over the years, the cantankerous Scot’s old, graying matched team were at the barn, nosing for a feed.

  Espy soon emerged with blankets, a satchel laden with her own herbs, liniments, and tinctures—all accumulated and put into heavy use over the years by Esperanza in her role as family doctor. Her kind face was set hard as if carved, determined and steadfast in her new mission.

  She tossed these items in the worn work wagon and helped Callie coax the horses into the traces and buckle on the harnesses. Despite the years of practice they each had at such tasks, their hands wouldn’t work fast enough to suit them. Callie uttered oaths of anger that she normally wouldn’t dare to give voice to in front of Espy, and Espy just gritted her teeth and worked through the harnesses, buckle by buckle. Callie was relieved that Espy, while not smiling at her, didn’t let their harsh conversation of the day before interfere with Callie’s concern for Brandon.

  Callie finished buckling Nan’s rig as Espy did the same with Dan’s. “You finish rigging up the wagon, Espy. I’ll go on ahead and start on the back trail, see what spooked him.” Callie headed toward her horse. “It seems like his horse would have come from town.”

  The older woman didn’t look up, merely nodded as she tossed the blankets in the wagon.

  Callie swung into the saddle and headed back the way she’d come, forcing down the growing fear that she’d find something very wrong with Brandon. They’d all known it would be a matter of time before his drinking hurt himself or someone else. Now that it was just her and her horse, they made it back to the crossroads within minutes. Callie bent low in the saddle and nudged the horse forward at a walk, urging it to meander along the narrow road from side to side.

  After the better part of an hour of searching in vain to find where the tracks began or ended—she still wasn’t sure wh
ich she was looking for—Butter perked her ears forward and snorted at something off to the left of the road. Callie reined up and they stood still, horse and rider, heads canted in the same direction. There was a noise. Callie leaned that way. What was it? And where? It sounded like wind through ancient rocks from a far-off place….Or a groan? There it was again. And it was a groan.

  Though the morning was warming, a chill trailed up her spine. Whatever made the noise didn’t sound earthly. She urged the horse from the road to step cautiously through snarls of brush and clumps of boulders. Then she heard it again, closer now and to her right, from the north. Not much farther, she slipped down from the saddle and slid her Winchester from its boot.

  She had never had to draw it save for that one time when the coyote came out of nowhere, snarling and flashing its teeth in broad daylight. But that was a year or more ago. She’d dispatched the slavering beast with three rapid shots, one to the head, dead between the eyes, and two more to its chest. Her father had taught them early on of the dangers of hydrophobia.

  She tugged the reins and led the horse a few yards more before stopping. There was the groan again—and what sounded like someone speaking. Callie tied off her horse around a thick branch of a spidery bush and carried the rifle high across her chest, gripped in both hands. It would not do to be too surprised by this unknown situation. Could be someone was hurt, could be they were drunk; she didn’t know. She walked forward another few feet and smelled the faintest whisper of wood smoke. She made her slow way up a small rise and there, just below her, a man’s legs poked out from behind a knob of rock. Brown leather ankle boots, brass buckled, and brown wool pants, but a fine cloth, not the coarse weave of a rancher. The boots and legs were far too big to be Brandon. Whoever it might be was lying facedown.

  Her first thought was that she had stumbled into the camp of a sleeping man, and just as quickly dismissed it as a foolish notion. Of course it was Brandon’s camp—but doubt nagged her. With as much care as she could muster, Callie backed in the direction from which she’d come. A groan, the same as those she’d heard from the road, sounded just to the right of the prone man and stopped her in her tracks. And again words followed the shapeless sound. She crouched and reached out with the rifle in her trembling hands. Her barrel tip nudged the leather sole. Nothing.