Ralph Compton Phantom Hill Page 2

  “I reckon I’ll be staying down at the livery,” he said, “but I could do with that hot bath you mentioned.”

  “In that case, I’ll go out back and start heating up the water. While you’re waiting, feel free to help yourself to the coffee. No charge, since it’s likely getting a bit bitter. You’ll find the pot on the stove behind that door. I s’pose you’ll be wanting your clothes washed as well.”

  Jennings nodded.

  “Then plan to soak in your bath for a considerable time.”

  • • •

  Sitting in the tub of hot water did wonders for his tired and aching muscles, and he took another nap. The clean smell of his sunshine-dried clothes lifted his spirits almost as much as the doctor’s having said that Rodeo was going to be fine. He was hardly limping as he left Miss Mindy’s and decided on a walk through the town before returning to the livery.

  There’s wasn’t much to see and only a few people were moving about. A couple of wagons slowly passed, loaded with provisions, and one driver waved. When Jennings tipped his hat in return he realized that Miss Mindy had dusted it clean while he bathed.

  He briefly considered visiting the saloon for a beer but decided his dwindling finances spoke against such an indulgence. Instead he stopped in the general store and purchased a small pouch of tobacco to replace that he’d used doctoring his horse.

  The blacksmith was waving as he approached. “My, my, don’t you look a sight better? You could go courtin’, all cleaned up as you appear to be. Did Miss Mindy offer you some of that sweet-smelling lilac water to put in with your bath? If so, I’d better put out a warning to the womenfolk.”

  Coy responded with a slight smile.

  “Your horse is in the far stall, all mended and doing well,” Weatherby said. “I hung your saddle on the wall next to him.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  “Just part of the friendly service. Course, I must inform you that if you’re gonna be bedding down here tonight it’ll cost you another twenty-five cents.”

  Jennings paid him and walked inside to check on Rodeo.

  As he entered the dimly lit stable, he was aware of someone speaking in a low voice near his horse. He approached to find a young man combing burrs from Rodeo’s mane, talking gently as he did so.

  Jennings stood watching and listening awhile before he spoke. “Who might you be?”

  The young man jumped, then turned to face him. “My . . . my name’s Ira. Ira Dalton. I help Mr. Weatherby some. I been talking with your horse.”

  Jennings nodded. “And what is it you two have been talking about?”

  “Just things, you know. Gettin’-acquainted talk. Best I can figure, he’s right proud you doctored his leg and brung him to shelter. I’m of a mind that ’cause you treat him so kindly he must admire you greatly.”

  “He told you that, did he?”

  “In his way, yeah, he did. He’s a mighty handsome animal.”

  “His name’s Rodeo.”

  “Seems a fine name to me. Did I tell you I’m Ira . . . Ira Dalton?”

  Jennings extended his hand. “That you did,” he said. “Pleased to know you, Ira Dalton. My name’s Coy . . . Coy Jennings.”

  As they shook, Dalton smiled. “That seems a fine name too. I’m gonna be sure to remember it. Mr. Coy Jennin’s . . . Coy Jennin’s . . .”

  “Just Coy will do.”

  At the sound of his owner’s name, Rodeo lifted his head and placed his nuzzle beside Jennings’s face, causing his freshly cleaned hat to fall to the hay-strewn floor.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Coy Jennin’s,” the young man said, “I’d say he likes you a lot.”

  Chapter 2

  Well before sunup, Ira Dalton rose from his cot in the livery loft and groomed Rodeo. He then fed the horse and slowly walked him in a pasture out back. Jennings had just awakened and was shaking straw from his hair when they returned.

  “He’s doing better. Limp’s not nearly as bad,” Dalton said. “Gonna be good as new in a few days, though I’d suggest keeping the saddle off him for a bit.”

  It was the same advice Doc Matthews later gave when he stopped in. “Been helping Clara Beasley to birth her second boy most of the night,” he said as he gently removed the bandages to inspect Rodeo’s leg. “We’ll leave the stitches in a few days longer, but looks to me the infection’s clearing nicely. I suggest some exercise—but not too much, mind you. And see to it he gets a good dose of sunshine daily. You’ll not find it in the medical books, but it’s my opinion that there’s a good deal of healing power that comes from the warmth of the sun.”

  Ira nodded, as if the physician were speaking to him instead of the horse’s owner. “I’ll gladly see to it,” he said.

  The doctor smiled, patted Dalton on the shoulder, then turned to Jennings. “Got yourself a fine helper here,” he said.

  “Reckon so.”

  And with that a routine developed. Ira gently tended the healing horse while Jennings mostly watched. He saw that the responsibility seemed to please the young man and didn’t interfere with his regular chores of mucking stalls, seeing that the watering trough was kept filled, or stoking the fire when Weatherby was preparing to shoe a farmer’s horse or mend a broken wagon wheel. He even soaped and polished Jennings’s saddle. “You’ll be needing it soon,” Ira said.

  As the aching of his own leg eased, Coy began accompanying Rodeo and Ira on their short, slow walk each morning. On most occasions, the young man holding the rope loosely in front of the horse said not a word. It was as if he was so concentrating on his task that talking would only be a distraction. Even when they stopped to sit in the sun, Rodeo tethered to a post, the two men remained silent. It seemed to satisfy them both.

  Then, in the early evenings, after his work was done and Rodeo was settled in his stall, Ira would climb onto his mule and ride in the direction of a distant stand of mesquites on the edge of town. One day, Jennings watched from the doorway of the livery as the strange young man bounced away to the gait of his lumbering mount.

  • • •

  “I’d say he ain’t got the most comfortable ride a man can find, especially traveling bareback.” Jennings turned to see Giles Weatherby standing next to him. “He takes that ol’ mule for a ride every evenin’. Treats him with the same kindness he’s been showing your horse.

  “Most days I give him a penny and he goes down to the general store and buys one of them sticks of peppermint candy. Whenever they get to where it is they’re heading, I ’spect he’ll give it to the mule.”

  The two men stood silently for a time, looking toward the horizon as the sky began to turn gray. Then the blacksmith said, “He just showed up here almost a year ago, riding that mule with a mangy ol’ black dog he called Rip trailing along. I told him I’d give ’em boarding for a time in exchange for doing chores. That’s the arrangement we’ve had ever since.”

  “He don’t talk much.”

  “Never has, though he seems to have had a good deal of conversation with you lately.”

  “You don’t know his history?”

  “Not where he’s from or where he might be headed. If he’s got family, he’s not mentioned it.”

  “Where is it he rides off to of an evening?”

  “I ain’t real sure and never asked. All I can tell you is his dog fell ill and died not long after they came. If I was to guess I’d say he most likely buried him somewhere out yonder and is inclined to pay him a visit at the end of the day.”

  “How’d the dog die?”

  “It’s my recollection he also got himself bit by a rattlesnake.”

  Coy nodded. He had a good idea what it was Ira Dalton had spoken about to his horse.

  Weatherby continued to talk as the two men moved inside to put tools away. “Now that we’re sharing ourselves a conversation,” he said, “I understand from the go
ssiping down at the eatery that it’s your plan to try hiring on with Lester Sinclair’s crew.”

  Jennings nodded. “Once my horse is healthy, I’m gonna pay a visit out to his ranch.”

  “Could be you won’t be needing to wait until your horse is able.” Weatherby explained that Sinclair and several of his hands regularly came into town on Saturday to socialize at the Phantom Hill Saloon. “Late of a night, things tend to get a bit rowdy, but if you was to stop in before everyone’s drunk and looking to fight, you might get a word with the old man.”

  “Am I likely to find him cordial?”

  “Mister,” Weatherby replied, “Lester Sinclair ain’t never cordial.” There was no laughter in his voice.

  “I was wondering how this town got the name it has,” Jennings said, “since I see nothing around I’d call a hill.”

  “Nor is it likely you’ll be seeing any phantoms,” Weatherby said. “Here’s the story that got started long before there was even a town: Some trappers was ridin’ near here and apparently one was certain he seen an Indian in the distance, sitting on a pony atop what he later described as a hill. He fired off a shot, and then him and his fellow trappers rode to see if he’d hit anything. “They never found hide nor hair of any Indian. So the story goes that this man’s friends took to chidin’ him for shootin’ at a ghost, a phantom.

  “Truth is, it ain’t much of a story. But you asked. That’s how we come to be Phantom Hill—without having us a real phantom or even a respectable hill.”

  • • •

  A near-full moon was peeking over the horizon by the time Ira returned. He was grooming his mule when Jennings approached. “Mighty fine evening for a ride,” he said.

  It was as if the young man didn’t hear him. Latching the door to the stall, he turned and silently climbed the ladder toward the loft.

  Jennings shook his head. “Reckon Lester Sinclair ain’t alone when it comes to not being cordial,” he said.

  Before bedding down himself, he checked on Rodeo and was pleased to find him resting peacefully. Only then did he hear a voice softly call out from the loft.

  “G’night, Coy Jennin’s.”

  Chapter 3

  Lester Sinclair sat alone at a corner table in the back of the dimly lit saloon, puffing on a pipe as his eyes roamed the crowded room. A half-full bottle of whiskey was at arm’s reach. Occasionally a man would nod in recognition, but none approached for conversation or so much as a handshake. Even his two sons, Pete and Repete, leaning against the bar, kept their distance.

  Lester Sinclair was a short, portly man with a coal black beard that was neatly kept. There was nothing about his appearance to suggest he was the region’s wealthiest landowner. Everyone knew of his success, but few had any real idea how it had been achieved. All most knew was he was to be avoided lest they found themselves pressured into selling their small farms so they might be added to his ever-expanding Bend of the River Ranch.

  In years past he had managed to avoid Indian raids and survive the War Between the States—which he viewed as a foolish exercise—by befriending all who might threaten his growing empire. To the roaming Kiowas and Comanches, he made a pact allowing them to occasionally cut a few cattle from his herd when food was scarce. Same with the soldiers, regardless of the uniforms they wore. To some soldiers his offer of employment was often viewed as an appealing alternative to fighting winless battles. In exchange for shelter and regular meals, they cleared pasture brush, dug his wells, helped tend his herd, and rode sentry to protect his land against those they’d once ridden alongside.

  Lester Sinclair viewed it as a small price to pay for not having his house and barns burned, his cattle stampeded, or physical harm coming to him and his family. He was a businessman, a survivor, and if it occasionally meant making a pact with the Devil, so be it.

  Once the Indians were mostly gone, driven onto reservations up North, and the war had ended, the peace should have made him more at ease, a happier man who could relax and enjoy his good fortune. That never happened, and at times it troubled him that he’d not achieved any real degree of contentment. In truth, the answer he never considered was simple: The demon that constantly whispered to the wealthy rancher, relentlessly urging him on, was his insatiable greed.

  Jennings waited until nightfall to make the short walk down to the saloon. He’d assisted Weatherby with a few end-of-the-day chores and stacked wood for the next morning’s fire before Ira returned from his ride. Then he washed at the horse trough, smoothed his dampened hair, and brushed straw from his hat. He unbuckled his belt and removed his Colt and the holster that still bore the faint letters CSA on its flap and hung it next to his saddle.

  He was ready to go speak to a man about a job.

  Even before reaching the open doorway, he could hear sounds of boisterous laughter and loud talk. Someone was playing a banjo. As he made his way into the crowd, it was not difficult to spot the man he’d come to see. Lester Sinclair was the only man in the place without a smile on his face.

  As Coy approached the corner table, several eyes followed him and much of the laughter subsided. Pete and Repete moved from the bar toward their father’s table.

  Sinclair waited until the stranger was standing in front of him to speak. “You ain’t drinking?”

  “I was hoping I might have a word with you before partaking,” Jennings said. He removed his hat and held it at his side before taking a seat. The man with the banjo quit playing.

  “And what is it we might have to talk about?”

  “Name’s Coy Jennings. I just come from down South on account I got word that you might be hiring. Should that be the case, I can make you a good hand. I’ve got ranch work experience, everything from rounding up to branding. I’ve helped raise barns, mended fences, even slopped hogs. And working long days don’t bother me.” He explained that the only reason he hadn’t already visited the ranch was the problem with his horse.

  “What was it that caused you to travel up this way? You on the run from some kind of trouble?”

  Jennings explained that his former boss’s wife had passed away suddenly, causing him to sell his small spread and return to his home somewhere back East.

  Coy added, “It’s my opinion he decided he wasn’t all that taken with the notion of being a rancher.”

  Sinclair pointed toward the chair across from him. “Sit.” He lifted his glass, signaling one of his boys to bring another to the table.

  The whiskey was better than any Coy had ever tasted as it warmed his throat, then his stomach. He rose. “I thank you for your time and the drink,” he said. “Now I’ll be letting you get back to your business.”

  “When your horse is fit for travel,” Sinclair said, “come out to the Bend and we’ll see if we might have need for your services.”

  “That I’ll do.”

  “I wouldn’t be rushing out. You ought to stay a bit and get better acquainted with some of the local folk.” The slightest hint of a smile crossed his face for the first time all evening. “’Fore long there’ll be fighting.”

  Weatherby was at the bar, drinking beer, as Coy approached. “I see you succeeded in making contact with Sinclair,” he said.

  Jennings nodded. “We spoke, yes. And now I reckon I’ll be gettin’ on back to the livery.”

  “You can’t be leaving ’fore the fighting.”

  “Mr. Sinclair made mention of the same thing. What fighting is it you’re talking about?”

  Weatherby explained, “Soon now, the ol’ man will walk up this way and place a ten-dollar gold piece on the bar. That means it’s time everybody takes their places along the sidewalk outside. Sinclair’s older boy, the big one they call Pete, will take on anyone who’s dumb enough or drunk enough to step forward and try to win the coin on the bar. All they got to do is still be standing after two minutes have passed on the old man’s pocket watch.” r />
  “How often is it someone wins the money?”

  “Never seen it happen. Closest anyone ever came was his own brother, Repete, and that was only after he fetched a branding iron from his wagon. He got in one pretty good blow before Pete grabbed the iron away, bent it double, and tossed it into the street. That done, he continued pounding on his own kin. A few weeks later Repete showed up in town with the LS brand burned into his shoulder.”

  Jennings shook his head. “I don’t recollect seeing that kind of meanness even during the war.”

  “Mad-dog mean is what he is,” Weatherby said.

  “Well, I’ve seen enough fightin’ to last me a lifetime.” He pulled his hat tight onto his head and walked toward the door.

  Weatherby watched him go and wondered if he should have mentioned that Pete Sinclair, now bare-chested and standing in the middle of the street awaiting his first challenger, was the foreman of his father’s ranch.

  Chapter 4

  The troubling memory, which often returned in a dream, was always the same, beginning on a warm blue-sky day in the spring of 1865.

  Jennings and a fellow Confederate soldier were standing on the bank of the Rio Grande while their horses drank. Two miles away was the outline of Fort Brown where their Second Texas Cavalry Regiment was headquartered. With rumors that the war was over and a truce declared, there was a sense of relief among the weary troops.

  For the past few weeks Jennings had been part of a small party assigned to patrol the river, watching for Mexican banditos who might try to rustle cattle from the nearby Palmito Ranch. Others in the regiment guarded the seaport of Los Brazos de Santiago, seeing to it that bales of Texas cotton were safely loaded and on their way to European markets. The assignments were made more to pass time than because of any real threats.

  All that remained of the North-South battle was for the Confederacy to officially surrender.

  Throughout the ranks there seemed little, if any, remorse over the defeat. The soldiers, even their leader, Colonel John Salmon Ford, had grown tired of the death and destruction that had played out over the past four years and were ready to lay down their arms and go home.