Lost Mountain Pass, page 13
“I suppose that’s true. It seems to me that you’ve given up a lot to go after your sister, and for reasons I still don’t fully understand. I have a duty, a name to clear, redemption for the judge, who I respected as a friend and a man. I couldn’t walk away from that even if I didn’t wear a badge, or if it was taken away from me. I would still go after her. But what of you, giving up a calling? Even if you were judged? Aren’t there other churches in other territories, far from here, far from the Darby reputation, that would welcome you?”
“I suppose so, but I am seeking my own freedom. This land is my home and I’m obliged to it. Maybe things will be different for me if I could bring in Amelia. We both have a lot riding on this. You see that, don’t you?”
“I suppose I do. What will you do once this is finished? Can you go back to being a priest?”
“Sometimes situations change in life,” Darby said. “One phase ends and another begins. I was getting anxious inside the chapel, bored in the confession booth, and uncomfortable in my daily shoes. I was feeling confined in a way that I never thought possible. When word of my brothers’ deeds fell on my ears, I knew there was more trouble coming. I knew Amelia would retaliate. If I didn’t stop her, no one would. When I saw her riding with you and the judge, I was sure of her plans and I knew I had to lay down one cross and pick up another. That’s as clear as I can make it for you. You know where I’m heading and why. I know I’m a Darby and that would give any man cause for doubt and mistrust. Do as you will, but I’m going after my sister. I hope you’ll ride with me. I can promise you that I’ll cover your back, and I’ll hope that you’ll cover mine. I have no currency to offer you other than my word. You can take it or not. The choice is yours.”
Trusty studied Michael Darby’s face, digging into his dark blue eyes as deep as he could. There was nothing that set him to wonder inside, to doubt what he said, but Trusty reminded himself that he had fallen for Amelia’s story. He had believed her, to an extent, one that allowed her to ride alongside him and the judge. He had a choice to make, and he hoped he didn’t regret this like he had the last one. “I’ll take a chance on you, Darby. But you’re gonna have to earn my faith in you.”
“I’ve been doing that all of my life,” Michael Darby said with a nod, then nickered his gray mare and pointed her head west. “We best get going, the sun’s falling faster by the second, and Amelia will be closer to No Man’s Land, if we sit here and jaw all day.”
“Let’s ride,” Trusty said.
* * *
The two men traveled as darkness fell, forcing them to slow their horses. The night had become darker as a thick blanket of clouds covered the sky, obscuring the moon and stars. Michael knew the trail, had ridden it more than once, as they headed for a Choctaw town, Atoka, to spend the night in. Trusty was less familiar with the ride. He had only been to Atoka once or twice in his travels.
“We’ll take refuge at Saint Patrick’s once we arrive,” Michael said. They rode side by side at a lope, with both of them able to keep an eye out for holes in the ground or any threat that might present itself in the black of night. “Father Smyth will welcome us no matter the hour. It was the first Catholic church in Indian Territory and remains the heart of the faith for the area.”
“You’ll be welcomed even though you are no longer wearing the affiliation and collar?” Trusty said.
Michael’s skin was pale white, and his face easy enough to be seen from where Trusty sat atop Horse. The man flicked a smile. “I am a strayed sheep now. A challenge to the father. You and I are not so different in that way, are we?”
“I guess we’re not.”
“We will be welcome, but only if we lay low and don’t cause any trouble.”
Trusty shook his head. “No whiskey or women for me. Not until this is over. And maybe not then.”
“That’s a disappointment.”
“You sound like the judge.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Michael said, then urged his gray mare forward, leaving Trusty a few strides behind to consider what lay ahead, and what he had left behind.
Atoka, Indian Territory, May 1888
By the time Trusty and Michael reached Atoka all of the proper businesses had shut down for the day. Every building on the main street was dark, shades pulled, with CLOSED signs turned out for the world to see. There wasn’t a saloon to be seen, lit up with piano keys tinkling into the night air—those types of establishments didn’t exist in Indian Territory. The town was silent as midnight even though it was hours earlier.
“I should check in with the Union Agency,” Trusty said. “And let them know I’m in town.”
“You think that’s a wise idea?” Michael stopped his gray mare and Trusty followed suit.
“The Agency and the marshals have an agreement of assistance. It’s the right thing to do to seek out the Indian police.”
“And if they are also aware of the price on your head?”
“You don’t trust the Choctaw or the Agency?”
“I’m just wondering why you should. You don’t know who wants you dead, or why. Not that you’ve mentioned it to me. If I were you, I wouldn’t be too trusting of anyone right now.”
Trusty shot Michael a surprised look and said, “You included?”
“That goes without saying. I wouldn’t trust anyone named Darby if I were you. But here I am.”
“I’ve been thinking about that, about who’s after me,” Trusty said. “It could be anybody that I’ve sent to jail. Maybe even a family member. That’s all I can think of. I don’t go out and wrong folks without any regard.”
“You don’t seem the bullying type to me.”
“I guess I should be happy about that.”
“A thousand dollars in silver is a hefty price. That rules out a lot of men.”
“I suppose it does. I’ll think on it some more, but until then, I’m going to let the Agency know I’m in town.”
The Union Agency had been created in 1874 after individual agents for the Five Civilized Tribes had been eliminated. Trusty, and the rest of the marshal service, worked with the Agency from time to time expelling intruders, settling land disputes, and helping out with crimes committed in the nations when they were asked. But Trusty had no relationship with the Agency or its members in Atoka.
“The hour is late,” Michael said. “Wouldn’t it be best if you waited until morning?”
Trusty looked up and down Atoka’s dark and deserted main street again. Nothing moved. Not even a rat. He wondered for a moment if there was anyone alive in the town at all. But he knew better. There was enough fresh horseshit in the street to confirm the day held some movement and traffic for one reason or another. “All right, it’s late. I can wait until tomorrow.”
Michael nodded, then urged his gray mare to move ahead.
Trusty followed along, keeping his eyes and ears open along the way. He had no idea where they were going but didn’t expect the church to be too far once they crossed the railroad tracks that belonged to the M-K-T Railway. The Missouri-Kansas-Texas Railway had put the small town on the map, bringing with it the headquarters for the Choctaw and Chickasaw tribal grounds.
The town remained eerily quiet. Not even a dog barked. A cool breeze, gentle in its touch and intent, pushed down from the north, and the clouds remained overhead, prohibiting any light of any kind, star or moon, to fall to the earth. Michael was almost impossible to see, dressed in all black and riding his gray horse. He looked like a shadow moving ahead of Trusty instead of riding beside him.
As they turned a corner, Trusty laid eyes on a white clapboard church with a tall bell tower jutting into the darkness. The glow of a lamp burned behind a stained-glass window; shimmering blues, reds, greens, and whites, all combining into a scene that depicted lambs on a hillside.
Michael rode up to the church, reined in his mare, and dismounted. Trusty pulled up alongside him but hesitated before he moved off the saddle. A shiver ran up his back, curled around his neck, then exited the top of his hat-covered head. He had no fear of hallowed ground, but he had no pull to it either. The law and the natural order of right and wrong had always been enough for him. Especially after his time in the army, and even now, most recently with the killing of Judge Hadesworth. It was hard for him to believe that a man like the judge who had lived a righteous and productive life deserved to die at the hand of an angry woman seeking revenge. Where was the redemption or the salvation in that?
Chapter 13
Paris, Texas, May 1888
Vance Calhoun stared out over the emerald-green paddock, leaning forward on the cross-cut fence, watching the rising sun lay golden fingers on his land. No matter the direction he turned, he owned everything he saw. The grass, the trees, the mountains, and in the distance, the herd of mooing cows that worried over their young; only the sun belonged to someone else. The ranch had been full of promise, everything he had ever wanted, until he had it, and then it wasn’t enough. Then he wanted more. A bigger house. More gold. A beautiful wife. Ownership in her family’s railroad. Even a child or two, an heir to pass his riches on to after he was worn out and had left this world once and for all. His ambition to make a name for himself, to see men cower to his presence when he walked into a room, could never be satisfied. He never dreamed someone would come along, burn down his house, and kill the only surviving family member he had. He could hardly believe that Sally was dead. He rubbed his pocket where he kept his sister’s handkerchief as a keepsake. It was all that was left of her. It seemed like his whole life had been burned to the ground in the blink of an eye.
When Calhoun turned and saw the reality of what was left of his dream and hard work, that it was nothing more than a pile of ashes and three fresh graves, he could see nothing but gray ashes strewn like a tornado had tossed them about—touched with the same golden sunlight that made the paddock glow green.
Calhoun’s head screamed with pain so badly that it felt like he was being hit in the head with a hammer. He had never been so mad, but even with that, he knew that striking out, moving quickly, was the worst thing he could do. He kept his boots firmly planted on the ground even though that was not his nature, his inclination. He wanted to finish the fight that Theodore Marberry had started.
“Mornin’, boss,” Gladdy said as he walked up next to Calhoun. The Mick propped his elbows on the fence and looked out at the land with the same look of ownership that Calhoun had on his ash-smudged face.
Calhoun hadn’t heard Gladdy come up behind him. He didn’t have time to prepare himself for his least-favorite O’Connor. “What do you want?” He was as startled as he was annoyed by Gladdy’s appearance.
A slight breeze pushed across the paddock, depositing the acrid smell of ash and burned timbers on Calhoun’s upper lip. He licked it off, tasted defeat and death one more time. It didn’t improve his state of mind at all.
“The boys want to know what to do,” Gladdy said.
“Cows don’t care what happened here. You go tell Hobbs he’s the lead man now and get back to work. This is just another day on the ranch, you hear?”
“Yeah, boss, I hear you. I’ll tell Hobbs. But what about me? I don’t know what to do without Haden tellin’ me what to do neither. He’s always done that. I woke up this mornin’ and he wasn’t there to wake me up, to rustle me out of bed, and tell me to cook his breakfast. I had to put the coffee on without bein’ told. There’s half of it left ’cause I made some for him. You want some coffee, boss?”
Calhoun clenched his fist and fought off the urge to backhand Gladdy O’Connor. He’d had his own unsettled morning, waking up in the barn instead of his own bed. Maria had been wrapped up in a blanket, whimpering, hugging herself to hold in her grief, in the next stall. Sally wasn’t there to snap Maria out of it, to put her boots on the floor, and get things moving in the house. The house didn’t exist anymore and neither did Sally. Another lick of the lips reminded Calhoun of what had been taken from him. Things he could see and things he couldn’t imagine being gone. He didn’t know what all had been taken from him yet.
“No, I don’t want any goddamned coffee,” Calhoun said. “I want to be left alone. I need to think things through, build a plan, and try to anticipate Theodore Marberry’s next move. Surely there will be something else comin’. He’ll know that I’ve survived the attack on the road, and that I wasn’t in the house when it was burned to the ground. He meant to kill me. To keep the ownership of the railroad to himself. To raise Jessica’s girl without the threat of me comin’ after her. He meant to kill me is what he meant to do. Marberry started a war. I just have to figure out what to do next so I can win that war.”
Gladdy stood back and wiped his chin with his right hand, leaving a streak of black ash across his smooth face. “Well, why don’t you burn down his house and show him how it feels?”
* * *
Three recently closed graves sat in a small cemetery overlooking the Red River. The spot was on a rise free of floods in the spring, dotted with enough cottonwoods, oak, and hickory trees to provide a shady, peaceful resting place for the dead. Squirrels were plentiful, and the outskirts of the family plot had provided dinner to the ranch more than once. The cemetery had been there when Calhoun had taken ownership of the land, and it seemed as decent a place as any to bury Sally, Haden O’Connor, and Miguel.
The day was early and light, and both Calhoun and Gladdy sat on their horses—Calhoun on his grullo and Gladdy on Haden’s mount, a tall black gelding called Ben. The black horse looked oversized with Gladdy atop it, skinny and short as he was, but the rider didn’t seem intimidated by the horse or the fierceness it bore in his eyes. Both men were ready to ride, saddlebags packed, black dusters on even though the weather didn’t call for them. Their weapons were polished and loaded with enough ammunition to shoot through any kind of trouble that showed itself. All they were waiting on was the preacher to finish up his duties, say his peace, offer whatever grace he could, and talk the deceased through St. Peter’s gate if that was possible.
The preacher, a man named Abel Fielding who Calhoun did not know but Denton Hobbs did, was a Methodist man from Paris, Texas, who had offered his services. Fielding had a booming bass voice and wore shoulders that looked broad enough to carry a barrel of beer. Calhoun had never set foot in the man’s church but offered him twenty dollars to say the necessary final words needed.
Maria, dressed in black weeds with a veil to cover her face, clutched a rosary of old beads and kneeled at the foot of Miguel’s grave, not objecting to the sermon or the difference in religion from hers to the Methodist preacher’s. A few of the men, including Hobbs, had come from the ranch for the funerals, while the rest continued to work the cattle. There was no one else. No society of women from Paris. No men of equal to Calhoun, because there weren’t any—at least in his eyes—or town officials come to offer their condolences and be a party of mourners. If Calhoun had friends or family other than Sally, they either hadn’t been notified of the tragedy or had been made enemies like everyone else left in Calhoun’s wake.
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust . . .” Abel Fielding said, his words disappearing on the breeze. He looked more like a hunchbacked undertaker than a preacher. A cap of thin snow-white hair topped his bare head, and a drift of flakes of dried skin sat on his shoulders.
A cardinal sang in a tree branch high above the funeral, the red bird’s song happy and boastful, contradicting the human mood underneath it. The day belonged to the bird and he was letting everyone know it.
The grullo danced back and forth, anxious to make a run on the trail that led away from the cemetery. Calhoun let the horse do what it wanted to within reason, holding the reins lightly in his hands. He was just as anxious to get on with the ride as his horse was.
Gladdy sat solemn in his saddle, his hat held to his chest and his back straight as an arrow, his eyes glazed with wetness that took a twist of his chin and some effort to fight away tears. “I guess I’m really all alone now,” he said under his breath, staring at Haden’s grave.
“You’ve always been alone.” Calhoun urged the grullo to stop fidgeting. He was head to head with Gladdy’s horse. They looked like they were about to start a race. “We’re all alone from the day we’re born till the day we die.”
“What about afterwards?”
“Dead is dead.”
“I hope you’re wrong.”
Calhoun turned his head to Gladdy with a quick snap, like he’d been punched unawares. It was a reaction to being countered, to being questioned, especially from a man like Gladdy O’Connor, slight and stupid as he was in Calhoun’s eyes. Under normal circumstances, Calhoun would have taken Gladdy off his horse and beat him until he begged for forgiveness. But this day required restraint not only because of where he was—on hallowed ground of sorts—but in a small crowd of people who probably would have interfered. Even Calhoun had some respect for the dead and the natural order of things, funerals and such, but he was beyond antsy. He had waited long enough to get on with his plan for revenge.
“That is all,” Fielding said. “You are all free to leave and live your life with the blessings you have.”
Calhoun rolled his eyes, and thought, Finally.
The preacher walked over to Calhoun’s horse, stopped at the grullo’s side, and looked up. “Thank you for sending word for me, Mister Calhoun. I appreciate your generous patronage of my church.”
Calhoun sat in the saddle unmoved and stared down at the preacher, trying to figure out what the man had just said. It took him a second longer to realize that what Fielding really wanted was payment for his services. The man of God was a businessman just like any other that Calhoun had encountered. In the end, all that concerned Fielding was the jingle of coins in his pocket. A smile came to Calhoun’s face at the realization. He dug into his pocket then and paid the preacher what he had been promised. He hadn’t expected to find a kinship with the Methodist.
