A Wolf in the Fold Page 3

  His jaw muscles twitching, Hank looked at Calista and then at me. It was plain he was in the mood for a scrape, but he swallowed his resentment and touched his hat brim. “Sorry to have barged in like this, ma’am. I trust you won’t speak ill of me to Lloyd and Gerty.” Glowering at the Butchers, he backed out. Skeeter opened the door for him and they were gone.

  Calista let out a long breath. “See what I meant about ill will?” she asked me. “I shudder to think what would have happened if you weren’t here.”

  “Glad I could be of help.” I reclaimed my seat and went to pour coffee, but she snatched the coffeepot and did the honors.

  “Permit me, Reverend Storm. After you finish, give a yell and I will show you to your room.”

  “Why not join me?” I requested, indicating an empty chair. “I would very much enjoy the pleasure of your company.” Sometimes I surprised myself at how polite I could be.

  “Well, perhaps for a minute or two.” Calista fussed with her hair and smoothed her dress, and sat. “Normally I wouldn’t, but I’ll make an exception in your case.”

  “I’m honored.” I was also admiring the swell of her bosom, and once again had to tear my gaze away.

  “I must say, Reverend, that you are not at all what I would expect,” Calista commented. “You’re different from most parsons.”

  I couldn’t have that. In order to do what I was sent for, I must remain above suspicion. “In what regard?”

  “You don’t look like someone who spends most of their time indoors with their nose buried in Scripture,” Calista answered. “You’re as dark as an Indian. If I didn’t know better, I would take you for a cowboy or a scout or a mountain man.”

  “I travel a lot, my dear, and am often out under the sun,” I said, hoping to explain my bronzed hide.

  “There’s more to it. The way you move, the way you carry yourself, the way you fill out your coat.” Calista appraised me like I was a racehorse and she was a buyer. “I’m just not used to a parson being so”—she seemed to search for the right word and came out with—“manly.”

  Make of that what you will. I made it out to be that she found me attractive, which isn’t as far-fetched as it sounds. My wife must have thought I was halfway handsome or she never would have married me. That our marriage did not end well is irrelevant. The thought caused me to grimace.

  “Are you all right? You appeared to be in pain there for a moment?”

  “Just a twinge.” I was quick to change the subject. She was too observant, this one. “Tell me more about the bad blood between the LT and the Butchers.” It always paid to hear other points of view.

  Calista placed her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands. “The LT is run by Lloyd Tanner. He owns practically all the land between the two Sisters. About twenty hands ride for his brand, and as you just saw, they are a salty bunch. His wife, Gerty, is a friend of mine. They have a son named Phil who recently came home from back East, where he went to school.”

  “And the Butchers?”

  “Hannah and Everett Butcher moved here from Tennessee about five years ago. They staked a claim to land up on the Dark Sister. Everyone thought they were loco, but the Butchers are hill folk, and used to living by themselves.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw that Carson and Sam had stopped eating and were listening.

  “Eight months ago or so, Everett disappeared. Indians, everyone figured, although the Comanches haven’t acted up in a coon’s age.”

  “It weren’t no danged Comanche!” Carson Butcher interrupted. “Pa was too savvy to be caught by any mangy redskins.”

  “Be that as it may,” Calista said skeptically. “Now Hannah runs the clan. Sam is the baby of the bunch. Next oldest is Carson, there. After him is Kip. Then there is Jordy, Clell, and Ty. The two girls are Daisy and Sissy.”

  I had been counting them off on my fingers under the table. “Eight in all. That’s some brood.”

  “There was a ninth,” Sam mentioned. “But he died a few days after he was born. Something to do with his heart, the doc said. Ma wouldn’t leave her bed for two weeks, she was so sad.”

  I finally got around to the reason I had been sent for. “When did the trouble over the cows start?”

  “During the spring roundup,” Calista revealed. “A tally showed the LT was fifty head short. They scoured the countryside and someone found a hide with the LT brand up on Dark Sister. Since only the Butchers live up there . . .” She did not finish. She did not need to.

  Carson did it for her. “Since only my family lives up there, naturally everyone blames us. But we had nothing to do with that hide, and we sure as blazes didn’t steal no fifty head.”

  “So far it’s been a lot of finger-pointing,” Calista said. “But it won’t be long before lead starts to fly.” She extended an arm across the table and lightly clasped mine. “Your arrival is a godsend.”

  “In what way?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? You can do what no one else can. That collar gives you the right. You can stop the bloodshed before it begins.”

  Little did she realize I was there to do the opposite. “Blessed are the peacemakers.” I was rather proud of that one. There was more to the quote, but I’d be dipped in gold if I could remember it.

  Calista warmly squeezed my hand. “I knew you would understand. Now if you will excuse me, I have breakfast dishes to attend to.”

  I pondered the situation over my coffee. The letter had been short and to the point, merely stating that I was needed to regulate rustlers. My standard fee of a thousand dollars was acceptable, half on arrival, half when the job was done.

  I often marveled at how far and wide word of my services had spread. I did not advertise. I did not mail flyers. I couldn’t. In some jurisdictions what I did was out and out illegal and would earn me the privilege of being the guest of honor at a hemp social as quick as you can spit. In others, such as the recent business in Wyoming, Regulators were tolerated so long as they did not make a spectacle of themselves. Secrecy was my byword.

  Yet despite that, word spread. From town to town and territory to territory, until now there probably wasn’t a soul anywhere west of the Mississippi who had not heard of Lucius Stark the Regulator. That might be an exaggeration but not by much.

  I knew I was playing with fire. Those who lived by the gun died by the gun. Eventually, if I stayed at it, someone would put a slug in my back or prove quicker or cleverer. But I didn’t intend to stay at it forever. I had a plan. Or rather, a dream.

  I saved nearly all the money I made. To date I had over twenty thousand dollars. That might not sound like a lot, but I was almost halfway to my goal. As soon as I had fifty thousand, I aimed to call the regulating quits. I would take my money and buy a small but comfortable place in New Mexico and spend the rest of my days lazing on a rocking chair.

  I admit I was growing impatient. I wanted that fifty thousand. I wanted my life of ease right that second. So I was taking jobs as fast as they were thrown at me, with little regard for anything other than how fast I could get each job done and be paid.

  This one looked to be no different from the rest. Cattle were being rustled. The letter had not pointed the finger of blame, but apparently the Butchers were believed to be the culprits. Without their being aware, I studied the two brothers. Carson was a hothead, that was for sure, but he had sounded sincere when he claimed his family had nothing to do with the missing cattle. And there was no doubting Sam’s honesty. The boy was hardly an accomplished liar.

  I shrugged and drained my cup in two gulps. It wasn’t for me to decide guilt or innocence. I was paid to do a job and I always did it.

  Just then the front door opened and in swirled a stiff-backed woman dressed in the height of fashion. Her hat, her dress, everything looked as if she had just bought it, and paid top dollar. She had a sharp, flinty face, and dark, brooding eyes that flicked over me and then fixed on the Butcher boys. Without hesitation she strode up to their table and snappe
d in a voice as hard as her features, “You have your nerve.”

  Sam rose and doffed his hat, saying nervously, “Mrs. Tanner! This is a pleasure.”

  So here was Gertrude Tanner, wife of Lloyd Tanner, Gerty, as Calista called her. She impressed me as being the kind of woman who would never stoop to nagging a man to death. She would not nag, she would command. She would tell her man what to do, and he had damn well better do it.

  “Don’t patronize me,” Gertrude rasped. “The gall! Showing yourselves in public after killing more of my cattle.”

  Carson wiped a sleeve across his mouth and jabbed a finger at her. “A couple of your cowboys were in here a while ago accusing us of the same thing, and I’ll say to you what I said to them.” He paused. “We didn’t do it. We’ve never killed any of your stinking cows, never stole a single head.”

  “So you claim.”

  “Now look, lady,” Carson said. “My family is sick and tired of you blaming us if one of your cows so much as comes up lame.”

  “We’re not rustlers, ma’am,” Sam added.

  “Spare me your shammed innocence. I was not born yesterday. Of course you deny it. Your ilk always do.”

  Sam glanced at Carson. “What’s an ilk?”

  “I reckon she means an elk. But that makes no kind of sense. We don’t have antlers or four legs.”

  Gertrude stood with her hands folded and her chin high and sheer scorn on her features, as a queen might regard disloyal subjects. “Have your fun. But we won’t abide your shenanigans forever. My husband has reached the end of his tether.”

  “Send him over to talk to Ma,” Sam proposed. “She would love to sit down with him and hash this out.”

  “That will be the day,” Gertrude replied. “I will not have my husband associate with the likes of you or that liquor-guzzling mother of yours.”

  “Be careful, lady,” Carson said.

  “No, you be careful. You and your entire wretched family. If you do not cease and desist, I will not be held accountable for the consequences. Consider this your final warning.”

  “I don’t much like being threatened, even by a female.”

  “And I don’t much care what you like or do not like. As for my gender, don’t let that hamper you. I am the equal of anything in britches.”

  I had met some tough women, but this one was at the top of the ladder. She could whittle most men down to size with her tongue alone.

  Carson was plunking coins on the table. “Let’s head out. I can’t take much more of this shrew.”

  “Be nice,” Sam said.

  “To her?”

  Carson shouldered past Gertrude, and I swear she almost took a swing at him. Sam smiled and bowed and said, “Sorry about the misunderstanding, ma’am. I sure do wish we could be friends.”

  “When hell freezes over, boy.”

  They left, and Gertrude Tanner turned. The change that came over her was something to see. She went from hard to soft in the blink of an eye, from a fierce she-cat to a kitten. “Do my eyes deceive me, or are you a man of the cloth?”

  “Reverend Storm, ma’am,” I said, rising. We were alone, so I felt safe in revealing the truth. “Or Lucius Stark, although you might to keep that to yourself. We need to sit down and hash things over. Your letter didn’t give a whole lot of details.”

  Gertrude did not hide her surprise. “Can it be? You’re him? I must say, you chose a marvelous disguise.” Lowering her voice, she leaned toward me. “Yes, by all means, we must talk. But not here. Later.” She smiled thinly. “Then you can start the killing.”

  Chapter 3

  The Tanner ranch was in the shadow of the Fair Sister. Besides the main house, there was a bunkhouse, a cookhouse, a blacksmith shop, the stable, a chicken coop, six or seven sheds, and the inevitable outhouse. Make that two. Gertrude Tanner insisted on having her own, and as I had guessed, whatever Gertrude Tanner wanted, Gertrude Tanner got.

  Supper was to be served at seven. I arrived at six in a buckboard I rented from the livery in Whiskey Flats. I had to be careful to keep my black coat buttoned. Otherwise, someone might wonder why a parson wore a shoulder holster. The Remington was the same model as my hip iron except I’d had the barrel sawed down to two inches and the ejector rod removed so it was less likely to snag.

  Calista Modine wore a Sunday-go-to-meeting dress that clung to her in all the places a dress should cling. It was all I could do not to let my appreciation show. Fortunately, she didn’t notice me squirm and fidget. At least, I don’t think she did.

  The buildings were in sight when she straightened and commented, “It was nice of Gerty to invite us, don’t you think?”

  I forgot myself and grunted. Calista had not said much on the way out. Whether she was shy because I was supposed to be a parson or shy around men or just plain shy, I couldn’t say.

  “Don’t let her manner put you off. She can be brusque, but deep down she has a heart of gold.”

  I tried to imagine Gertrude Tanner as kindly and considerate. It was like trying to imagine a wolf on a leash.

  “It hasn’t been easy for her,” Calista went on. “Running a ranch is hard work. And don’t let anyone tell you she doesn’t do her share. Fact is, I’d wager she does more of the actual running than her husband.”

  “Lloyd is timid, is he?” I played my part.

  “Gracious, no. He has enough sand for five men. But he doesn’t boss her around like some husbands do. He lets her have an equal say in everything.” Calista winked. “Or more than an equal say.”

  “How is it there isn’t a man in your life?”

  Calista flushed and looked away. “Some questions, Parson, are too personal. They should never be asked.”

  “I was curious, is all,” I said, justifying the snooping.

  Calista was quiet a while. Her shawl had slipped from her shoulders, but she did not pull it back up. “Gertrude says I’m too finicky. That I’ll never meet the man of my dreams because I set my sights too high.”

  “We are none of us perfect,” I remembered a real parson saying once.

  “True. And if I have set my standards too high, it’s only because I’ve seen what happens to women who set their standards too low.”

  Before I could stop myself, I heard my mouth spout, “My own ma set her sights too low. My pa was lazy and worthless and came home most nights drunk. On good nights he fell into bed and passed out. On bad nights he slapped her around. She would cry and beg him not to, but he would go on beating her anyway.”

  “How terrible,” Calista said. “Did he beat you, too?”

  “No. Only my ma. I almost wish he had, to spare her some misery. How she put up with it, I will never know.”

  “Are they still together?”

  “My pa died when I was twelve. He was on his way home one night, drunk as usual, and someone stabbed him to death in the alley behind our house. Stabbed him twenty-seven times.”

  “Mercy me. Did they catch who did it?”

  “No.” If they had, I wouldn’t be sitting there. I’d warned him to leave Ma lone. I’d told him that I could not stand him hurting her. And what did he do? Pa had ruffled my hair and said I had it backwards, that kids did not tell their parents what to do, that the parents tell the kids. He went on and on about how I was too young to understand, and how I should not meddle in what grown-ups did. The very next night, he beat her. The worst beating ever. He split her ear and broke her nose and knocked a tooth out. Afterward, I could hear him snore, and her cry and cry and cry until she cried herself to sleep. I made myself a promise it would never happen again.

  Pa always came by the alley. His favorite watering hole was at the end of the block, and he would cut through to our back door. I had taken the big carving knife from our kitchen and waited for him behind some barrels. He came staggering along, muttering to himself. When I jumped out, it startled him. “I don’t have any money!” he cried. Then he saw it was me.

  “What the hell are you doing out here, boy?�
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  “You’re not to hurt Ma anymore” was my reply. I can still remember the smooth feel of the knife handle, and how the blood roared in my veins.

  “We’ve been all through that. Get home.” Pa lumbered forward and swatted at me with the back of his hand.

  Skipping aside, I crouched and held the knife out. “Stop where you are, Pa.”

  “What’s that you’ve got there?” he demanded. In his befuddled state it was a few seconds before he swore and snarled, “You dare pull a knife on me? On your own flesh and blood?”

  “One of these days you could kill her.”

  Pa’s cheeks puffed out and he sputtered, “She put you up to this, didn’t she? Sending my own son against me.”

  “It was my idea, not hers.”

  But Pa was not listening. He was working himself into a rage. “It’s just like her. The bitch! I try and try, but all she does is nag and gripe and wear me down. But even that’s not enough.”

  “She didn’t send me, Pa.”

  “Don’t lie. It won’t do any good trying to protect her. You think I’ve hurt her before? You haven’t seen nothing yet.”

  “Don’t talk that way. Please.”

  Pa swatted at me again, but I was too nimble. “Stand still, you blamed grasshopper. Take your medicine like a man.”

  “I mean it, Pa.”

  “Out of my way, I say!”

  I skipped backward and tripped over my own feet. The next I knew, he had me by the front of the shirt and shook me so hard, my teeth crunched. He cast me down like a used rag and stepped over me, his big fists clenched.

  “Now for your ma.”

  To this day I do not remember jumping on his back. I vaguely recollect having one arm around his neck and stabbing with the other, again and again and again and again, until I was so exhausted I could not lift my arm. I became aware of him on his belly, of me on top, of the damp, sticky feel of his blood on my hands and my clothes. I don’t recall how I got home. Ma undressed me and threw my clothes in the fireplace; that part I do remember. I remember her putting me in bed, and later, the knock on the door and the voices.