Lost Mountain Pass, page 14
Fielding took the money, tucked it inside his coat, and said, “I’m sorry for the loss of your sister, Mister Calhoun. If there is anything else that I can do for you, don’t hesitate to stop by the church and ask.”
Calhoun nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind. I never know when I’ll need a favor from a man like you.”
It was Fielding’s turn to look a little stunned, like he didn’t understand what had been said. He shook his head and walked off toward his horse and buggy.
Hobbs walked over to the grullo, taking the preacher’s place. “I suppose you’re off now, boss,” he said.
“We are. You need to get a crew to clean up the remains of the house while I’m away.”
“What’ll I pay them with?”
“The banker in Paris has been given instructions that you are in charge. He will keep track of every bit of what’s withdrawn from my account and you will have to answer for all that you take. You understand what I’m sayin’, Hobbs?”
“Yes, boss, I think I do.”
Calhoun nodded, then looked over to Maria who was still crumpled at the foot of Miguel’s grave. “Take Maria back with you. Put her to work as soon as you can. She needs something to do. It’s the only way she’ll stop that incessant sniffling.”
Hobbs didn’t answer straightaway. A concerned, conflicted look fell across his face. He started to say something but obviously thought better of it and nodded instead.
“I’m hopin’ to be back in a week, Hobbs,” Calhoun said. “I don’t want to see sight of a piece of charred wood on my return.” Calhoun squared his shoulders and didn’t wait for an answer. He pulled in the grullo’s reins, nickered, punched the horse in the side with his boot heels, and headed away from the cemetery as fast as he could.
It took Gladdy a long second to realize what was happening. He looked to Hobbs, shrugged his shoulders, then took off after Calhoun and doing his best to catch up, settling himself into Haden’s saddle, which from the looks of things was a little too big for him.
* * *
The best way to get to St. Louis from Paris, Texas, was north through Indian Territory, then all the way east from one corner of Missouri to the other. By horse, it would be a long, treacherous ride. One that would require Calhoun and Gladdy to be on a constant lookout for Marberry’s men and other trouble that showed itself in Indian Territory. The alternative to the trail ride, and all that came with it, was to take the trip by train. The only problem with that was Marberry again. The St. Louis businessman still maintained a portion of the Frisco line from Paris to Fort Gibson—it was likely Marberry would have eyes out for Calhoun in Paris and on the railroad. Up the line? Maybe not so much. That was the plan. Ride north and catch the train in one of the small stops, in a town like Kosoma. No one knew who he was there.
Kosoma was about fifty-five miles north of Paris, and with good weather and some luck, Calhoun figured they could get there by nightfall. His plan was to stable the horses, spend the night in a decent hotel, then catch the train the next day and head north. He expected to be in St. Louis a few days beyond the trip to Kosoma. That was if he and Gladdy could travel undetected by Marberry’s men along the way. Calhoun was prepared for trouble at every stretch, but for once, he hoped for a quiet ride to his destination. All hell could wait to break loose until then.
Gladdy kept a couple of lengths of distance between his horse and Calhoun’s horse, and that was just fine with Calhoun. He was in no mood for conversation of any kind with the younger O’Connor. Any word from Gladdy would only bring home the truth of Haden’s demise. Calhoun still couldn’t believe that Haden was dead. Or Sally for that matter. Both had been trusted companions in one way or the other. Now he had no one to rely on.
The silence of the ride and the wind rushing at Calhoun’s face appealed to his glum mood. No matter that the ride north was for revenge; it was what the revenge was for that rubbed Calhoun’s craw. It was one thing to try and kill him. More men besides Marberry had tried that and failed before. But to burn down his house and kill his sister and his lead man, well, that was something else. That act required retribution. To his surprise, Gladdy’s suggestion of burning down Marberry’s house hadn’t been a bad one. It wasn’t the end though. It was only the start. In Calhoun’s mind, the only way to satisfy the feud was to kill Marberry himself, as slowly and painfully as possible. He knew that wasn’t going to be an easy thing to do. Every mile that was ticked off gave Calhoun the opportunity to consider ways to make sure that Marberry suffered painfully and slowly before he died.
* * *
Night had already arrived by the time that Calhoun and Gladdy rode into Kosoma. Most of the businesses had gone dark, and the boardwalks were clear of people. All that mattered to Calhoun was finding a decent stable, then a soft bed to fall into. He hadn’t had a bath or a good night’s sleep in days.
“Boy howdy, boss, it sure does stink here, don’t it?” Gladdy said. “Smells like rotten eggs. You think it’s like this all of the time? I don’t know how people live here. I know I sure wouldn’t want to.”
Calhoun shot Gladdy a look that clearly said shut up, but he didn’t say it. He had been through Kosoma a few times but had never stayed there for a length of time. He knew the smell, and didn’t like it, either, but that didn’t matter to him. It was a stop along the way. Calhoun remained silent, and surprisingly, Gladdy took the hint and didn’t pursue the conversation any further.
The two men rode silently down the middle of the main street in Kosoma at an easy pace. Calhoun watched the shadows, looked to the rooftops for a sight of a rifle barrel or a man on watch. He was relieved not to see anything out of the ordinary.
The livery was easy enough to find, and after rousing the stable boy, Calhoun and Gladdy dismounted their horses. Both men tried to get their bearings.
The boy carted off the horses, and an older man appeared out of nowhere to settle on terms. He was older than Calhoun, with gray frizzled hair and had whiskey breath that smelled more fresh than foul. “I’m Amos Parker. I run this establishment,” the man said, extending his hand to Calhoun. “How long you in town for?”
Calhoun shook Parker’s hand quickly. Gladdy stood shoulder to shoulder with him, quiet, his hands stuffed in his pockets and his mouth sealed shut, fully aware of his place.
“We’re leaving tomorrow by train. I’ll need to board these two horses for a week, maybe more. It depends on how long my business takes me.”
“And what kind of business would that be?”
“Personal business.”
“I see,” Parker said. “I can make you a fair deal.” He hesitated and looked past Calhoun into an empty stall. “You’re lucky you got here when you did. Any earlier, there wouldn’t have been room for you anywhere in town.”
“Why’s that?” Calhoun asked.
“There was a hangin’ in town. Three Darby brothers met their much-deserved fate, God rest their souls. Folks came from all over to see that through. Hangin’s is good for business, I can tell you that. I’ve been celebratin’ my good fortune a little more than I should have.” Parker’s words were a little slurred, and he smiled.
Calhoun was starting to get impatient. He wanted a meal, a bath, and a good night’s sleep. He wasn’t in the mood to have a conversation with a half-drunk stable man. He started to ask how much boarding the horses was going to cost him, but Parker didn’t seem interested in concluding the business deal. He kept on talking.
“And then there was that bad trouble up on Lost Mountain,” Parker said.
The word trouble got Calhoun’s attention. He had to wonder if it had something to do with Marberry’s men. If so, that would change his plans. “Trouble?” He tapped his pocket, felt for Sally’s handkerchief. It was still there.
Parker leaned into Calhoun, was about six inches from him. Good thing the man was shorter than he was, or his breath would have been intolerable. “Bad trouble. The Tenth Cavalry rode through.”
“Buffalo Soldiers. The army?”
Gladdy stood still next to Calhoun, silent but intrigued, just like his boss.
Parker nodded. “Yes, sir. That’s what happens when a federal judge gets killed. In comes the army to clean things up.”
Calhoun had been immersed in his own troubles and hadn’t heard a word about a judge being killed. In normal times, he was sure he would have been made aware of such a thing. That was big news and would spread fast. “How’d that happen?”
“It was Judge Hadesworth. He presided over the trial of the Darbys. Word is it was retribution for the hangin’. Not unexpected, and we was all surprised that there was only one deputy marshal to escort the judge back to Muskogee, even if it was Trusty Dawson.”
Calhoun’s mouth went dry. “Dawson? Sam Dawson?”
“Yup. Most folks call him Trusty though.”
“What about him? Is he dead or alive?” Calhoun said, rummaging through his memory back to the moment that Sally had told him that she had found letters from a man named Sam Dawson in Jessica’s things. This was the same man he had heard of, womanizer, good shot, a reliable deputy. But maybe not so much anymore.
“Last I heard,” Parker said, “Trusty’s still alive. Wounded, but on the trail of the person who killed Judge Hadesworth. That’s all I know. Like I said, big trouble. The judge’s body is at the undertaker’s now and will be transported back to Muskogee on tomorrow’s train. You might have a problem gettin’ a seat north, now that I think about it.”
“Well, that’s all right,” Calhoun said. “I think our plans just changed.”
Chapter 14
Atoka, Indian Territory, May 1888
Trusty and Michael arrived at St. Patrick’s well past dark. The sky was black as coal and all the lamps in town were extinguished. If Trusty were a hard-drinking man, he would have found himself a bootlegger, but he was on a mission not a pleasure trip. He shied away from bootleggers, who were usually able to easily outwit the Indian police but not the marshals. Deputy U.S. Marshals like Trusty were paid a fee per arrest, and it was easier to arrest a drunk Indian than it was a white bootlegger. Trusty preferred escort duties over alcohol arrests—at least until now. Most towns like Atoka were usually quiet after dark.
The front door to the church was unlocked and a candle burned in the window. Instead of walking inside, Michael knocked loudly, banging a patinaed brass knocker with a rare display of urgency. The bang echoed up and down the empty street. Both men had tied their horses to a hitching post and were the only rides in sight. Horse and Michael’s gray mare seemed to tolerate each other. Both beasts were good natured, which had made the trip to Atoka easier than it might have been.
Trusty stood back, weakened by the ride from Lost Mountain Pass to Atoka. His entire body ached, and pain pulsed at the site of the bullet wound. He couldn’t forget what Amelia Darby had done to him—or the judge—if he wanted to. “Maybe there’s no one here,” he said, clutching his shoulder. He felt paled, hungry, like his body would shatter into pieces if he took another step. Even breathing hurt.
Michael turned away from the door. “Father Smyth is here. He is always here. Are you going to be all right?”
“All right as I can be. Don’t worry about me.”
“You should have gone back to Muskogee with the Tenth and put yourself in the care of a doctor. I’m capable of bringing in Amelia on my own.”
“It’s my job.”
“I’ll remember to say that you were dutiful at your funeral.”
“I would appreciate that, but I’m determined to bring in your sister.”
“You’re in no shape to travel. You need to rest and regain your strength.”
“I appreciate your concern, but I’ll be ready to continue on in the morning.” Trusty coughed and an avalanche of pain cascaded from his shoulder to his toes.
Michael nodded and sighed, was about to knock again, when the door opened. A tall, thin bald man with a chest-deep frazzled gray beard stood hunched in the doorway. Dim light wrapped around him, making his black cassock look even blacker than it was. The man’s eyes were hard and gray as granite, tinged with a little annoyance. He looked to be in his mid-seventies, maybe older. “The hour is past respectable.” If his voice had been any sterner it would have broken into an angry yell. Even the horses looked up, paid attention to the man. Trusty didn’t want to get on his bad side.
“Hello, Father Smyth,” Michael said as calmly as he could. There had never been any sweetness in Michael Darby’s voice, just the opposite; his tone was hard and direct. But in this instance, his voice was smooth, a combination of butter and honey. Even Michael’s face looked different to Trusty. His jaw had softened and his eyes twinkled, though that could have been caused by the flickering candlelight.
“Is that you, Michael Darby?” Father Smyth said.
“’Tis.”
“I heard you walked away from your calling. I didn’t expect to see you again anytime soon.”
Trusty remained quiet, fighting off pain, thirst, and the hunger he felt.
“News travels fast,” Michael said.
“You know it does.” Father Smyth eyed Michael as if he were seeing him for the first time, head to toe, from the top of his cowboy hat to the soles of his shiny new boots. “I wouldn’t have recognized you if I saw you walking down the street.” His eyes stopped on Michael’s gun belt. Father Smyth shook his head, then looked to Trusty. The air was thick with disapproval. “And who is this man?”
“Sam Dawson,” Trusty said, hoping to lose the nickname now that he had failed to live up to it. “I’m a Deputy U.S. Marshal in pursuit of a woman who killed Judge Gordon Hadesworth.”
“My sister,” Michael said.
“We’ve always worried about the state of your soul, Michael, and that of your family. I assume your sister’s crime is what prompted your departure from our brotherhood and caused you to pick up a gun?” Father Smyth said.
“I tried to stop her, but I was too late,” Michael said. “Words wouldn’t have convinced her.”
“I heard of the judge’s demise. A sad day for the Territory. I have lit a candle for him.” Father Smyth looked past Michael again and made direct eye contact with Trusty. “Nice to meet you, Deputy. Aren’t you the one called Trusty?”
Trusty’s shoulders sagged and he lowered his head. “I am.”
“I see,” Father Smyth said. “Well, I assume that you both are in need of lodgings. I can’t imagine that either of you have come to pray at this hour.”
“Yes, Father,” Michael said. “I was hoping we could rest here for the night. Trusty was injured in the melee and needs to regain his strength before we move on.”
The elder priest stiffened and took hold of the door handle. “You are welcome to the barn. The both of you. I’m sorry to say that you’ve lost any privileges, Michael, since giving up the collar. We do not welcome weapons of any kind in our house. Please be mindful of where you are. Have a good evening.” And with that, Father Smyth closed the door to St. Patrick’s. It wasn’t a slam, but there was a finality to the close that suggested neither man knock again and argue with the decision that the old priest had made.
“Sorry,” Michael said, “I had counted on a kinder reception, but I should have known better. Come on, we can be comfortable in the barn. It’s not the first time I’ve slept there.” He walked past Trusty, untied his mare, Spirit, and headed toward the barn.
Trusty had little choice but to follow Michael. He didn’t like that fact, but it was where he was. Dependent on a Darby for a roof over his head and food in his belly. There was no way that he couldn’t wonder if he would wake up alive in the morning.
St. Louis, Missouri, fall 1874
Eight years had passed since Sam’s mother had died. Somedays the moment she died felt like yesterday to him, and then other days, it felt like she had been gone for a hundred years. Not much had changed in the meantime. Sam and his father still lived in the shack behind the blacksmith shop, spending day after day in hot toil over the forge and quench, bending iron and seeing to every customer’s needs. The work lasted from sunup to well past sundown. There was always a demand for a blacksmith in St. Louis. At least, when Sam wasn’t in school. That was about to end. He was going to graduate from eighth grade, and his father had already made it clear to Sam that a further education wasn’t required. He was needed full-time in the shop. Business was increasing and Markum Dawson had no intention of hiring a man that needed to be paid.
Sam liked school. It was time spent away from his father and the shop. And he was good at it. Numbers came easier to him than letters, but he was a capable reader when it was required of him. He could memorize poetry and sonnets, and his marks were always good. His teachers encouraged him to work harder, to think about continuing his education, going to college someday, but Sam knew that would never happen. There was no use trying. He did what he had to to survive in school so he wouldn’t get sent home. His father believed that the blacksmith shop offered the only education Sam would ever need. There was no arguing the point. His father’s mind was made of will forged from iron and money. Markum Dawson couldn’t be broken. Sam knew that. He had tried and paid the price for the attempt.
It was on a cool fall day, toward the end of school and after passing a final test, that Sam found himself in the midst of standing up for what he really wanted. As he walked home from school, he was working up the courage to tell his father that he wanted to go on to high school, that he wanted to continue his learning. He hurried home, noting the familiar smell of smoke chugging out of the smithy chimney as he rounded the corner, not paying too much attention to anything else, just focused on getting home. Sweat beaded on the back of Sam’s neck, and the tips of his fingers trembled as he rehearsed the speech to his father over and over in his head. I want to go on to the ninth grade, Pa. Mrs. Abernathy says I’m smart, that I can handle it, go on to college if I apply myself. I want to do this, Pa.
