Lost Mountain Pass, page 3
His father had a booming voice that echoed inside Sam’s head like a bullet looking for a place to exit. Markum Dawson was a towering behemoth of a man, wide in the shoulders, thick arms rippled from his daily work, his belly round from his nightly consumption of beer and food. “Big as an ox” didn’t suffice as a description, but that was always what came to Sam’s thinking when he pictured his father in his mind or had to face him. Sam had always thought his father looked like a giant beast of burden built of iron muscles and a heart made of steel. There was nothing small about Sam’s father. His hands were as big as black skillets, and his eyes were always wide open, making them seem larger than normal. Even now, there was no way to know what color his father’s eyes were; blue was the assumption, but everything in the shop was tinged with soot. Markum’s face was always smudged black, mixed with sweat; even with a good bath it was hard to get off. He always looked overbaked, nearly burnt to a crisp, as dark as the footman on a fancy coach. Blacksmithing had left Markum Dawson stained in more ways than one.
“Yes, sir,” Sam said. He lowered his head. His mother had suffered from consumption from the time Sam could remember. She was Mamie to everyone who knew her, but Meredith to her parents and the church. A bony woman, short in stature but tall in spirit, she was exactly the opposite of her husband: soft, pliable, comforting. She fought her way through every day, in the shadow of the blacksmith shop and the life it provided, doing her best to obey and serve her husband, even though she could barely stand to breathe the smoky fumes left in the big man’s wake. As much as Sam was a bag of failure made of flesh and bones according to his father, Sam was a rare jewel in his mother’s eyes. He was her one great contribution to the world, even though birthing him had nearly killed her. “She said she wasn’t hungry, so I left the bowl of porridge on the table next to her bed,” he said.
Markum Dawson stopped hammering and shot the boy an angry look. “Can’t you do anything right?” He shook his head, then turned away from Sam. “I told you to make sure she ate something. She’s never hungry.”
“Sorry,” Sam mumbled. He moved toward the door, saw his failure as a way to escape the shop.
“You best get to work and start turning those hanger eyes. I need a dozen of them.”
Sam stopped, knew it was useless to go any farther, nodded, and said, “Yes, sir,” then grabbed up an iron rod with a pair of oversized pliers out of a crate next to the blazing forge. He was angry, upset at being yelled at one more time, and didn’t measure the rod. He jammed the rod into the fire until it glowed red, then hurried it to the anvil and started hammering the bend.
“You’ve got a long heat,” Markum yelled. “You’re making more work for yourself and weakening the iron. Sizzle that damn rod and do another one like I’ve showed you a thousand times over.”
Sam kept on hammering, bending the rod until it snapped, ruining it, at least for the hanger it was intended for, and said to himself: I’ll show you. One of these days, I’ll show you that I can do everything right. I won’t give up until I do. You wait and see.
Kosoma, Indian Territory, May 1888
They rode toward the end of town, three horses abreast, Amelia Darby in the middle between Trusty and Judge Hadesworth. A few white people stopped on the boardwalks and glared at the trio. Indians, mostly Choctaws, dressed from the same shops that had denied Amelia credit, kept on walking without notice or care about the three riders. Some of those that took notice turned their backs, shunning Amelia Darby purposefully, leaving no question to what their hateful intention was. The sight of such disregard for the woman fortified Amelia’s story and made it seem true. Trusty was relieved more than he was appalled by the shuns even though he didn’t say so. He remained quiet, still uneasy about the new alliance and responsibility for the woman. There hadn’t been a chance to ask the judge when he had given Amelia Darby permission to ride with them, but that would come at the first chance. The two of them, the old man and young woman, seemed to have an easy, warm rapport and that concerned Trusty. Something he’d have to keep an eye on. He still wasn’t completely convinced that the Darby girl wasn’t up to something.
Amelia stared straight ahead, her eyes set on the horizon, not allowing one gaze that fell across her face to dent her attitude or touch her heart. At least that was what she showed on the outside from her reaction to the folks on the boardwalk. Trusty knew her insides were another matter from the conversation they’d had inside the livery. The shunning would be another wound, a final nail in her reasoning to flee the town. Good riddance, Trusty imagined her saying inside her head. Good riddance. All the while her eyes remained cold as January icicles.
Trusty shifted the Winchester rifle that lay comfortably across his lap, and one hand dangled inches from his Colt, signaling to those who stood in watch that Amelia was under his protection. Horse had his ears erect, alert, sensing the tension in the air. One ear was white, the other red, or strawberry roan, depending on who was doing the describing. Trusty liked to think Horse’s ear was red. Like a sunset falling behind a snow-covered mountain. Strawberry sounded sissified, and there was nothing about Horse that suggested he was sissified in any way.
Just as they were about to cross the last street before leaving Kosoma, a wagon passed in front of them, causing all three horses to come to a stop and wait. Trusty surveyed the crowd on both sides of the street, searching for the two men—the bulldog and the boxer—that he had seen earlier, but there was no sign of them or any other outward-looking toughs. Just normal folks in town for the hanging, making a trip out of it, a reason to shop and stock up before heading home.
The wagon was loaded with the Darby brothers’ coffins, heading toward a cemetery on the opposite end of town, the place Amelia had called Poor Man’s Hill. There was no parade of mourners following along with the wagon. The preacher sat shotgun, next to a glum Teamster, both of them stiff and on tenterhooks as if they expected something to happen at any second. They weren’t alone. Trusty had an itch in his trigger finger, a sure sign that trouble was lurking about.
Judge Hadesworth leaned toward Amelia in his comfortable, well-worn saddle. “You sure you don’t want to attend the funeral of your brothers, Miss Darby?”
“No, sir. I have no more tears left to shed for those three. Rascal held the greatest amount of promise and I will miss him the most. But in the end, his deeds were influenced by the other two, competing to be noticed and accepted, so they wouldn’t treat him as a dunce or a punching bag. It never happened. Rascal died trying to impress Cleatus and Horace. Whatever awaits them on the other side of this life will be no different, I imagine. If there is such a thing.”
“You are not a believer, then?” the judge asked.
Amelia turned her attention away from the coffins and stared Judge Hadesworth directly in the eye. “Let’s just say I have questions. And you, Judge?”
Trusty stayed out of the conversation, his eyes darting to the rooftops and to the shadows of the alleyway that cut alongside a mercantile and an empty storefront with a FOR RENT sign in the front window. He felt the same tension in the air Horse did. The air smelled faintly of gunpowder and lead, but that could have been his imagination playing tricks on him, all things considered.
“My father was a Methodist minister,” the judge continued. “I was raised in the ways of the Lord. But I am not one to proselytize, so you have no need to worry of my pestering you for a conversion or deep conversation based on verses put to memory as a child.”
Trusty remained stiff in his saddle, listening to a story he’d heard from the judge about ten times over. One way or the other the Lord always worked His way into a conversation with the judge—whether He was welcome or not.
“Being pestered by you is the least of my worries on this journey, Judge Hadesworth,” Amelia said. “I’m just grateful to be in your company and have the protection of Trusty Dawson. I fear I wouldn’t have made it out of this town alive.” She turned her attention to the wagon and the coffins as it moved on and cleared her throat. Trusty thought her eyes were glazed with a tear or two, but he couldn’t be sure. It could have been the dust raised by the wagon and team of bored horses that were pulling it.
A wavering cloud of flies chased after the makeshift hearse, drawn by the smell of death and the opportunity that three rotting human bodies provided. The dead brothers were a jackpot of food and a virgin breeding ground. Flies obviously knew a boomtown when they saw it too.
“Your decision is final then, ma’am?” Trusty asked. “You’re sure you want to leave today and not pay your respects to your brothers?”
“Yes, Trusty, my decision is final. The sooner I’m out of this town, the sooner my new life begins.” Amelia started to nicker her horse, a skinny chestnut mare that needed a good brushing, but the judge reached over and grabbed her by the arm in a gentle, but forceful way to stop her from moving on.
“I understand your reluctance, Miss Darby,” Judge Hadesworth said, “but I would implore you to reconsider your decision. Regret adds to the venom of bitterness at unknown and unwelcome times. Those men are your brothers. Blood kin. No matter their vile actions on this good earth, you need to pay your respects. It is not our burden to open or close St. Peter’s Gates, and I would suggest that not making a condemnation might lighten your ride, and the rest of your own journey going forward. Leave your anger and grief in Kosoma where it belongs instead of carrying it with you wherever you go.”
Something flickered across Amelia’s face that Trusty couldn’t read. At first he thought she was angry, enraged by the judge’s touch and suggestion, but the harsh look in her eyes melted away into something else. Surrender or admiration, he wasn’t sure which it was. A confusing mix, at least to Trusty, if there was one.
“Your years as a litigator have served you well, Judge Hadesworth,” Amelia said. “I suppose you are right. I owe it to my brothers and my parents, may they rest in peace, to attend their funeral. Especially Rascal’s. We were friends once, along with being brother and sister. He looked out for me when he could, when he still had a pinch of goodness on the surface of his heart.” With that she gently urged her skinny horse forward, taking lead of the trio, following after the wagon full of coffins with her face void of any further emotion and her head down, in shame or prayer, it was hard to tell.
Trusty had no choice but to follow after Amelia Darby, even though he was concerned about the delay in leaving town. It still stank, and something told him that the threat he’d felt earlier in the day hadn’t been left behind at the hanging. The back of his neck tingled with eyes on it, even though no one seemed to be paying him any mind at all. Everyone’s attention was on Amelia Darby.
Chapter 3
Paris, Texas, May 1888
Vance Calhoun dodged a punch, then retaliated with a double-fisted attack that came as fast as a poisonous snake lurching forward, fangs drawn, from a hidden stand of grass. A straight hit to the nose was quickly followed up by a blasting uppercut to the surprised chin of the man who had insulted Calhoun. The crunch of bone reached over the spew of blood, and the fragility and slap of flesh echoed inside the silent saloon in a chorus of shuddering pain. Piano keys had gone silent at the first suggestion of a fight. Conversations ceased; breaths drew in and held. The air inside the dingy saloon smelled of yeast and sweat from ten men and one woman looking for respite against a warming sun and the demand of spring labor. The poor sap on the receiving end of Calhoun’s fists, an unknown rider off the most recent stagecoach stop, had no clue who he was dealing with until it had been too late to take back the innocent words that had come out of his mouth: Well, don’t you think you’re something.
Everyone in Paris, Texas, knew that Vance Calhoun had the temperament of a thin-skinned rattlesnake; he was that snake in the grass, quick to strike, slow to retreat, always protecting his territory whether the threat was perceived or the boundaries were crossed accidentally. Any man with one good eye could have seen that Calhoun had been spoiling for a fight the second he’d pushed through the batwings of Dottie Lynn’s Silver Sargent Saloon.
“Let that be a lesson to you. Maybe you’ll think of this meetin’ the next time you elbow your way into a conversation you don’t ken nothin’ about,” Calhoun said, as the battered man, skinny as a broom handle, dressed in a ten-year-old natty gray pin-striped suit, stumbled against the wall and slid down, eyes closed to the heavens. The stranger’s nose had twisted sideways as he was knocked out by the assault, and his face was covered in bright red blood that looked like it might make a permanent stain on his pasty white skin.
No one came to the victim’s aid. They knew better, even Dottie Lynn, who stood back in the shadow of the bar, frozen like the statue of a renowned opera singer from Paris, France, who was fully aware of who she was dealing with. Calhoun stood over the injured man waiting for a sign of resistance, another chance to strike, another bone to break—something deep inside of him liked the sound of snapping bones and the presence of pain that followed—with his fists still curled in a snake head pose. When there wasn’t any opportunity for more of a fight to be had, Calhoun relaxed his hands, stalked back to the bar, sat down with an open seat on each side of him, and took a swig of beer from his waiting mug, unconcerned about any repercussions from his actions. He was something. And everybody within a hundred miles knew it.
Vance Calhoun was a regular in every saloon in Paris, Texas, and carried with him an entitled seat at the bar and the first order of anything he wanted—drink, woman, fight, or otherwise. If somebody had something he wanted, he took it. He owned a four-thousand-acre spread with as many cattle as there were stars in the sky, or so it seemed, and hoped to be a minority owner in a railroad soon, St. Louis–San Francisco Railroad, the “Frisco” that ran to Fort Smith. His wife Jessica was the daughter of one of the railroad owners, Theodore Marberry, and Calhoun knew if he played his cards right, he could become richer and more powerful than he ever thought he could be. Ranching was one thing, owning a railroad was another.
Calhoun didn’t look rich and wealthy most of the time. He worked the land, ran his ranch with an iron fist, and took to wearing suits like a lizard dancing on ice. It didn’t happen. He was tall enough that he had to shy forward when he walked inside a door with his boots and hat on, and was well-muscled from the daily work he did because he wanted to, not because he had to. Scottish by descent and attitude, quick to anger, a relentless Texas fighter, the War Between the States had set him off on a tirade that had continued long after he returned home, battered, broken, and angry by the defeat. He wore a battle glaze in his eyes at certain times of the day, torment from the past that refused to die with the setting sun. He didn’t speak of the loss and time in battle unless he was drunk enough to wipe away the barriers he had set up for himself. The man on the floor most likely indicated in one way or the other, true or not, that he was a Yankee, and that would have been enough to load Calhoun’s fists into the deadly weapons that they were. Or it was an insult spoken unawares like so many in the past had done. Saying Calhoun thought highly of himself could have been taken as a compliment, but this time it wasn’t.
Calhoun, originally Colquhoun, but changed on the shores of New York so most Americans could pronounce the name, had come to the country as a boy from Aberdeenshire. He worked hard, went to war, fought for the cause that he believed in, then headed west with ambition, a head for numbers, an unquenchable appetite for success, and a secret load of cash stolen from a Union train in the final days of the war. Success, real or filched, was the only way he knew how to get revenge, other than go on a killing spree, which he restrained himself from doing unless there was reason and the high chance of getting away with it. Calhoun couldn’t bear the thought of sacrificing the empire he had worked so hard to build or spending another day—or night—in prison. He’d spent six months at Camp Morton in Indianapolis after being captured at Shiloh. His experience as a prisoner of war remained shuttered in the shadows of his mind, adding to his bouts of melancholy and unquenching thirst for whiskey. When the lights went off, blue-hatted demons kept him awake, which is why there was always a lamp burning next to his bed. He hadn’t slept in the dark since he had returned to Texas.
Calhoun set down the mug after emptying it of beer and looked over his shoulder as a pair of men walked into the saloon. Spurs jangled. Boots thudded on the wood plank floor. They walked past the battered stagecoach rider without acknowledging him or showing any concern about the state of his health or life. No one in the saloon did. They knew better.
“Get you another, sir?” the barkeep said with a tremble in his voice. He stood back, out of arm’s reach so he couldn’t be dragged across the bar and beaten to a pulp. It had happened before.
“No. Looks like the posse has been set upon me to come and drag me home,” Calhoun answered, spiraling the perfect gold ring on his wedding finger, his brogue lighter, easier to understand. He dug into his pants pocket, pulled out a couple of silver bits, and tossed them to the barkeep. “Buy that fella there a drink when he comes around and tell him it was compliments of Vance Calhoun.”
The barkeep snatched the coins out of the air and cupped them into his sweaty palms. “And if he don’t wake up?”
“Well, I suppose you’ll have to call after the undertaker, now won’t you?” Calhoun stood up and met the two men who had walked into the saloon. One, Haden O’Connor, was his right-hand man and overseer of the day-to-day chores on the ranch. Calhoun trusted Haden as much as he could trust any man—which was very little. The other man, Haden’s younger brother, Gladnal—that everybody called Gladdy—Calhoun didn’t care for or trust at all, but the O’Connor brothers came as a package deal. They had ever since they had all served in the same regiment, the 9th Texas Infantry, in pretty much the same power structure that still existed, with Gladdy bringing up the rear. Gladdy had his uses, maniacal, cold-blooded, but Calhoun didn’t like it that the man thought he owned more power around the ranch than he actually did. Gladdy O’Connor had a high opinion of himself that he hadn’t earned and didn’t deserve. But having Haden at Vance’s side was worth the discomfort of Gladdy’s bad attitude and smelly breath. Haden O’Connor was well equipped to follow the same kind of orders he had in the past. Haden wasn’t a thinking man—he was good at doing what he was told and more grounded than his brother, but Calhoun knew better than to give the Mick an opening to steal or lie to him. He didn’t trust Haden that much. He didn’t trust anybody that much—except for one person. The only person of his own blood on the ranch, his older sister, Sally, the true overseer in his absence of the ranch.
