Dead Man's Ranch Page 6

  Could it be that Rory MacMawe’s son had truly come back? If so, it would be for the ranch, no doubt. He’d heard Wilf say often enough that though they both established roughly the same-sized ranches when they moved here as young men, Rory’s was the better of the two, mostly because he had better access to water, both from a spring-fed supply, and cutting through his acreage was a vast and lush river valley fed by Maligno Creek and several feeder braids of the main stream.

  And all this over the years, Mica knew, galled Wilf Grindle to no end. And then he stopped cold. Wilf couldn’t be trying to buy that land? It had to belong to Esperanza and Brandon. And even the newly returned son surely had a right to the land. Mica strained to hear more. The way the two of them were speaking, he felt sure that there was something bad about to happen. Perhaps it already had. Mica’s thoughts turned to Espy. It galled him that he’d only been able to offer her the small comforts of a friend, nothing more. Maybe in time, he thought. But that, old man, he told himself, is the one thing you don’t have endless amounts of anymore.

  Mica resolved to confront his old friend about this growing fear that was fast becoming a conviction. He reached out to push open the door, and then Wilf spoke, louder this time. Mica stayed his hand again and listened.

  “No, son,” said Wilf, facing the window, still looking west toward the Dancing M. “Much as I’d like to say that land was ours right now, and believe me, it’s worth it, we’ll bide our time and play the cards as they’ve been dealt to us.” He stood looking through the wavy glass panes, smoke curling up around his head from the cigarillo scissored in his fingers.

  Junior reached under his vest and, keeping his eyes on his father, raised a small bottle to his lips. A reddish liquid bubbled up, and the boy suckled at it as if he were nursing on a teat. Mica watched in disgust as the boy’s throat and jaw worked the liquid down, draining the bottle. Whiskey. So that’s what was giving him his unusual courageous edge in the conversation with his father.

  Junior pushed the cork back into the bottle and leaned forward, hands on his knees. He licked his lips and smiled. There was a strange glint in his eyes that Mica hadn’t seen there ever before.

  “But there’s no saying we can’t sweeten the pot a little,” he said around the little cigar gripped in his teeth. “Before we make them call their play, that is.”

  The older man cocked his head and regarded his son as if seeing him for the first time. He drew on his cigarillo, exhaled. “Why, Junior. I’m not sure I know you at all today. You are a boy—no, a man—of constant surprises.”

  A quick, broad smile spread across the boy’s face and he leaned back in the chair, one leg draped over the other. He puffed on the cigar.

  The older man grunted and smiled as he looked out the window toward the west, toward the Dancing M.

  Through the gap in the cracked door, Mica saw with one eye something up until two days before he had long hoped to see—father and son sharing a laugh, a drink, a moment of plain, unguarded enjoyment of each other’s company. But the conversation Mica had heard made him feel as if he didn’t even know these men, and he was less sure than ever about what he saw. He stretched his back. Don’t want to know what might come out of their mouths next, he thought. Not yet anyway. He rapped on the door and told them their lunch was colder than a well digger’s backside. Then he went out the front door and headed for the stable. He would not break bread with them today. Hell, he thought, the way I feel, I’d rather break their noses.

  Chapter 13

  “Don’t see how you’re going to do it, Mica.” The cowboy who spoke, Dilly Roberts, untied the stained apron and slipped it off over his head.

  “Don’t know how I’m going to do what, exactly?” Mica paused in slicing the onions.

  “You know,” said Dilly, balling up the apron and using it to wipe down the table.

  Mica frowned, but said nothing. The boy knew that Mica would make him wash the table down properly anyway. “No, I don’t know. If I did, I’d not have answered you. Now stop speaking in riddles and out with it.”

  The last round of hands had reluctantly departed to head into the heat of the afternoon and the rest of the day’s chores. Though it was spring, the sun had already staked its claim on the season, and all the tasks that faced the men ended with each of them covered in muck, reeking to high heaven of green manure, cow belches, mud, and sweat. From branding to castrating to gathering the loose stock and newborns that emerged from a long winter, and a million other chores, it was all hot, sticky work.

  Mica’s meals were about the only thing the men looked forward to during the long, hard days before the drives splintered the ranch hands into several groups, some taking to the trails, some staying at the ranch to prep fences, repair corrals, lay in firewood for the coming year.

  Dilly didn’t respond, just kept wiping the table.

  “You pumping me for information, boy?” Mica wagged his paring knife at his junior cook and sometime cowboy. Dilly had come to them halfway through the summer last year, an odd time for a hand to show up looking for work. Eventually, he reluctantly admitted that he’d just gotten out of prison. Seemed as though years before, he’d been convicted of killing a man. There had been enough doubt about the crime that though he ended up incarcerated, he had been given lax treatment. While serving his sentence, he found that he not only enjoyed working in the kitchens of the prison, but was good at it. Soon he was eligible for early release, having served four of his six years.

  When he’d showed up at the Driving D, Dilly Roberts was dismissed out of hand by Wilf as a troublemaker and rabble-rouser. As a last-second plea, the thin out-of-work man said that he also had experience as a cook. “Mica does our cookin’,” Wilf had said, turning away from the hopeful young man.

  Luckily for them all, Mica happened to be within earshot. He’d walked over, introduced himself, and turned to Wilf. “I have been telling you since last fall that I could use a hand in the kitchen.”

  “You get help. All the boys pitch in.”

  “Wilf, you know and I know them boys mean well, but they don’t know a whistle berry from a tick, nor a ladle from their elbow.” He’d turned back to Dilly. “Now, tell me what all you can cook, and if you are used to cooking for groups of hungry men.”

  Dilly had smiled. “I reckon I have that experience.” His face grew serious. “I picked it up in prison. Lots of folks to cook for there.”

  “I hear you. Come on back to the cook shack, see what’s what. Maybe I’ll take you on, a trial of sorts.”

  Behind Mica, Wilf had grown red-faced and shook his head. “Last time I looked, the Driving D was in my name, not yours, Mica.”

  “Wilf, ’less you want to spend the rest of the summer fixing your own food—and I’ve tasted your efforts and it isn’t something I want to do again—then you ought to leave well enough alone. Let me run my kitchens, you dally with your cattle, and as long as you and your men get a full belly three times a day, well, that’s all I’m going to say on the matter. Now come on to the cook shack, Dilly. Show me how you use a ladle.”

  They had left Wilf standing in the middle of the dooryard, shaking his head but saying nothing. And it wasn’t long afterward that even Wilf had, though reluctantly, admitted that hiring Dilly Roberts was a damn good idea. He’d even tried to take credit for hiring him, until Mica smiled and stared Wilf down one midday meal when he was eating with the boys.

  Now as Mica watched the young man finish wiping the table, he was secretly pleased with how well hiring him had turned out for them all. And he was not a little proud, as Dilly had learned much of what he knew about the kitchen from Mica.

  “You get help with that chuck box for the short work wagon?” he said to Dilly, changing topics. “You’ll need at least two other men to help lift her in there. Wilf’s too cheap to let us have our own wagon for day work, but that should do you fine, while you’re still close to the Driving D. You’ll take the full chuck wagon for the drive.”

&n
bsp; Dilly shook the soiled apron out the door. “I guess I thought you’d know what I was talking about.”

  “Damn, boy, you’re flopping like a banked fish. It’s been some long time since I could read minds. Wait a minute….” Mica poked the brim of his hat backward on his head and stared at the rafters as if in deep thought. “That’s right. It’s been…never. Now out with it, or I’ll leave all the slicing to you.”

  Dilly smiled. “It’s just that there’s talk amongst the boys that Mr. Grindle is planning on buying the Dancing M. And they’re excited, but wondering if he’ll bring on more men, or just make the ones who are here work longer hours for the same pay. That sort of thing.”

  “So that’s what you bunch of mother hens are clacking and clucking about every time I leave the room. And here I thought you were going to buy me a nice birthday present.”

  “It’s your birthday?”

  “No, as it happens, it ain’t. But that’s not the point. Point is, no one, not even Mr. Wilf Grindle, should concern themselves with the Dancing M right now. Mr. MacMawe just passed on. I’m sure something will happen with that ranch, but it ain’t nothing you cowhands need concern yourselves with. Besides, there are other people who are closer in line than Wilf Grindle for consideration where the Dancing M is concerned.”

  “Yeah,” said Dilly. “I heard that MacMawe’s long-lost son is back and looking none too like a rancher. Word is that he is looking to sell up and get back to the East as fast as next week’s train will take him.” He stared at Mica for a moment, but the older man showed no emotion, no sign he’d even listened to Dilly’s gossip.

  The two men were silent for a few minutes, each busy with his respective tasks. Then Dilly cleared his throat. Mica smiled, knew more chatter was coming, and kept slicing hunks of beef for the stew.

  “So, how would you do it…if Mr. Grindle was to somehow buy the Dancing M? And I’m not saying he will, just making conversation, is all.”

  “Again, Dilly, I told you I ain’t no mind reader.”

  “What I mean is…you already have your hands full with two kitchens here, let alone a third over to the Dancing M.”

  “You worried about work, Dilly? ’Cause I’m here to tell you that everybody likes your cooking. I’d guess your work is safe. People got to eat, right?”

  “Well, I will admit I was concerned, but that sets my mind to rest. Though when you put it that way, I guess I should be worried that there might be too much work to be had.”

  Mica sighed. “I swear, Dilly. You’d gripe if you was hung with a new rope.”

  “All right, all right, but riddle me one more thing: Why maintain two kitchens here? That don’t make no sense to me.”

  “Now, what part of it confuses you? I got a kitchen here in the cook shack, and then there’s one in the main house.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about, Mica. Why two?”

  “Because a long time ago, before Mrs. Grindle, that’d be Wilf’s wife, before she passed on, when Callie and Junior were just young sprouts, she did all the cooking for her family. I did the cooking for the boys. Then when she passed on, why, Wilf had his hands full with running the ranch, making sure the children were kept in line—a full-time job. If you’d seen them kids, you’d know what I mean.” He shook his head at the memory. “He didn’t want them to have to traipse on out here three times a day to eat around a table full of cowboys. Can you imagine the language they’d’a learned? Mr. Grindle’s a wise man. He knew that the cowboys wouldn’t be comfortable with such an arrangement, and he knew the kids might not benefit from it either, so he had me working double time. Just natural that I also helped out with the children. My mama raised a pile of us, and I was one of the oldest, so tending youngsters just comes natural to me.”

  Dilly drizzled salt into a big stewpot, said nothing. But Mica knew the young man had heard. Anything remotely sounding like gossip slipped right into that head of his.

  “That give you enough information to report to the boys when I’m back at the big house, cooking tonight’s supper?” Mica smiled.

  Most men would blush, deny the very idea of the suggestion. But Dilly Roberts said, “Well, it’s not much information, but it will have to do me, I suspect.”

  “Well, I’m glad I could help. I think.”

  “Well, in truth, Mica, you didn’t tell me a whole hell of a lot that I can tell the boys.”

  Mica laughed as he set down his knife and wiped his hands on the towel hanging over his shoulder. “You take the cake, Dilly Roberts. I guess I know now how you got that name. You’re a doozy of a dilly, no mistake.”

  Chapter 14

  It was late afternoon before Junior Grindle, riding Spunk, his dapple gray gelding, at a steady gallop, saw his target in the distance. Junior had dismounted twice in the past three hours, and then only walking for short distances.

  His horse was good and lathered by the time he saw what he hoped was the man his father had sent him out to track down. It had taken him longer than he thought to find the stranger. How the man could have made so little progress and gotten so far off the road from town was beyond him. Had to be the stranger, he thought as he galloped forward. Who else but a citified greenhorn would ride in such a manner? Even at this distance, Junior swore he could see daylight between the man’s britches and his saddle. And that horse looked none too game either. One of Silver Haskell’s beauties, he’d bet. Must have been a long time since the nag had seen such a poorly skilled rider.

  Junior was still a few hundred yards off and coming in from the east, before the stranger, a big fellow, from what he could tell, took notice of him.

  “Ho, there!” Junior yelled, a hand up in a friendly wave. He slowed as he approached and reined up within thirty feet of the stranger. For a moment, Junior could think of nothing to say, so odd did the scene strike him. Here was a man who couldn’t look more odd on horseback, and who capped it off with a dandy hat that had seen better days. It looked more like a cow pie puffed with air than a topper.

  And the fellow’s clothes, a fine suit by the looks of it, or once had been, now sported more dust than fabric, all manner of thistle, and a few stalks of dried grasses swung with the man’s movements.

  “Hello.”

  The stranger sounded to Junior as if he would flop from the saddle if poked with a stiff finger. “You lost, mister?” Junior rested his hands atop his saddle horn and smiled.

  “No, I don’t believe so. That is to say, no, I am not lost. Not if this is the direction of the Dancing M Ranch.”

  Junior heard the sound of a carnival bell ringing in his head, telling him that he was indeed a winner. Here’s the man dear old Papa sent me to find.

  “Why, fella, you’re headed in the general direction, for sure. Though if you’ve come from Turnbull, it appears you’ve strayed from the road a mite.”

  The big man turned in the saddle, looked about him as if he knew what he was looking for, then turned back to Junior, his brow furrowed.

  “No worries. I can get you back on track. But, and if you’ll pardon me for saying so, that beast of yours is played out.” Junior nudged Spunk forward until he was abreast of the stranger’s horse. “Uh-huh, as I thought. That’s a Haskell nag. Can spot ’em a mile off. Why, fella, you’re lucky you’re not afoot. Or worse, carrying that thing on your back.” He laughed.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” said the stranger. Junior noticed the man’s jaw muscles working as if he were chewing gristle. Madder’n a starved billy goat, he thought. Plumb angry with me, and for doing nothing more than pointing out the obvious.

  The stranger drummed with his boot heels at the old brown horse. Now that it had stopped, it had no intention of moving forward. That much was plain to Junior from the locked knees and flattened ears on the thing. The stranger didn’t seem to notice these signs and kicked with more resolve at the beast’s gut.

  With no warning, the brown nag pitched straight up in the air, and came down off-kilter enough to unseat its rid
er. Junior guessed this was a common occurrence, judging from the poor state of the man’s suit of clothes.

  As he plunked to earth, the big man’s odd little hat popped off and landed beside him in the dust. As if I needed more proof, thought Junior. There was that red hair, sure as night followed day. And that face, now without the hat, he could see it full-on. There was the bruised and swollen cheekbone—Brandon must have taken a mighty swing to cause that one. Yes, sir, the rest of the face and the hair and the man’s height all added up to one thing—this was old Rory MacMawe’s long-lost son. So the old man was right. Had to be. What a guess. But then, Junior admitted, being able to put such bits of information together was probably why his father was such a successful rancher.

  “No offense, mister, but as I said, that horse is plumb tuckered, and unless you want to repeat what you just did—and it looks like you’ve been through that procedure a few times already today—you might want to consider callin’ it quits for the day. I’m fixin’ to do that myself. Share a camp, if you’ve a mind to.”

  The big man stood with his arms resting on the saddle, breathing hard. “What are you doing out here?”

  The question was straightforward and caught Junior off guard. “Well…” He pushed his hat back on his head. “I’m out checking herd. I’m from the Driving D. Name’s Grindle. Wilf Grindle, the second. Folks call me Junior.”

  The man narrowed his eyes and said, “I believe last night I met your sister.”

  This was something Junior was not prepared for. The man was quick, making connections between things he hadn’t expected. Like the old man, thought Junior. He played along. “Why, now I think you have me at a disadvantage, mister. I don’t even know your name, let alone how you happen to know my sister.”