Silver Trail Christmas, page 11
His life was all different now. He knew that his father walked free and his mother lay in her grave, unavenged. That needed to be taken care of. The work on the ranch tired his body and occupied his mind, but it was a distraction from what he needed to do. He had no control over whether to face the wind or put his back to it. For the first time since he was a boy, he had his doubts if he’d even survive the coming storm.
One thing he was sure of, he wanted Sheila far from the danger that was looming ahead. Starr knew she was important to Caleb. He’d used her once before to try to get at him. Caleb couldn’t allow that to happen again.
He was still a mile from town, and the trail was following the river. Suddenly, Pirate’s ears flicked forward, and Caleb felt his hackles rise. Reining in the gelding, he listened carefully but heard only the sound of the river flowing over the rocks. Just ahead, the river widened out into a marshy area.
Scanning the forest around him, he saw nothing unusual. A squirrel was busily gathering nuts for the coming winter. Some black-capped chickadees were flitting about, as well as a pair of gray jays. But if he was heading into an ambush, he saw no sign of it yet.
Caleb unfastened the thong on one of his Colts and drew it slowly from its holster. Urging Pirate ahead, he kept his eyes in motion, scanning the shadows and dappled light coming through the trees.
When he passed a sapling, he saw it. It stood in the water on the far side of the marshy area, less than forty yards away. Way too close.
The moose raised his massive head and stared at Caleb. His majestic antlers spread close to seven feet across, and marsh grass hung from his muzzle. He wasn’t chewing. Just staring.
Caleb considered the chances of the beast charging. He knew from experience that there was no way of knowing how it would go.
Years ago, he and Old Jake had been leading a party up into the Montana gold fields. One night, they’d camped alongside the shallow end of a broad lake. The wise, old frontiersman had wanted to bed down for the night on a rise some distance from the water, telling his charges they’d be pestered by bloodthirsty insects of every variety. But the miners, exhausted from the trek, had simply thrown down their gear and set up camp close to the water. Jake and Caleb had retreated to the rise for the night.
Just before dawn, the two scouts arrived to gather the travelers, only to find a bull moose standing in the shallows. Some of the miners lay wide-eyed in their bedrolls. Others stood frozen with fear at the sight.
Even in the dim light, Caleb saw the eyes of the moose widen, showing the whites. His ears flattened back against his head, and the animal threw back his head like a horse. That should have been warning enough. When he charged, the closest men to the water couldn’t get away quickly enough. One was tossed a good six feet into the air, scooped aloft by the wide antlers. A second was knocked down and kicked. Before the moose could do any more damage, Old Jake took the animal down with a single shot from his .45–110 Sharps, a rifle designed for far greater distance but certainly lethal at this distance.
Caleb holstered his Colt. He’d never stop this one with it, and he’d only make him angry.
Slowly, he pulled Pirate’s head around and nudged him off the trail and into the trees. Working through the forest, he cut a wide arc around the marshy spot. When the man and horse finally returned to the trail, he saw from a safe distance that the moose had returned to his feeding.
Even though it was nearly midday when he rode into Elkhorn, Main Street showed far less activity than usual. A few wagons loaded with supplies and homesteaders still worked their way along, and the noon stage was loading up in preparation for the trip up the Denver road. A few urchins ran with dogs, drawing the ire of miners and shopkeepers. But the temperature was dropping, and a sharp wind whistled down from the hills. For the most part, folks on foot went about their business with purpose, coats and collars pulled snug, hats clung to tightly.
No one paid any attention to Caleb as he rode through town except for one of Zeke’s deputies, who stood in the door of the jail with a heavy blanket around him. The lawman signaled to two guards standing on the sidewalk in front of the judge’s courthouse and land office, but they shrugged, not caring.
Caleb figured Elijah Starr hadn’t yet returned to town.
Turning the corner, Caleb dismounted under the sign MALACHI ROGERS LIVERY. HORSES BOUGHT, SOLD, AND BOARDED.
The greeting was far more cordial as Paddy ran out from the stable with a broad smile and took the reins from Caleb.
The livery establishment belonging to Gabe’s father was one of two in Elkhorn. A large, wood-plank barn with a good-sized loft space for hay, the business had a wagon yard and a fenced corral. Inside the wide entry doors, the left side of the building consisted of a small office space with a cot where Paddy slept, and beyond that was a row of enclosures for storing oats. The back wall had stalls for horses, and on the right side, Malachi’s forge and anvil sat under wide, overhanging eaves facing the corral.
“We didn’t know you was coming to town, Mr. Marlowe. Gabe and I are planning to come to the ranch tomorrow. But everyone says we got snow coming, and Miz Rogers says we can’t go if it’s bad.”
Malachi Rogers himself came out of the stable. “And you always listen to what Miz Rogers says. Don’t you, Paddy?”
“Yes, sir.” The ginger-haired boy hesitated and reddened. “Well, mostly.”
Caleb figured there was more to this than they were saying. He knew the twelve-year-old had his moments. And from what he could recall, not always following directions and leaving jobs half-done was not so unusual for a fella that age.
“Take Mr. Marlowe’s horse in and take care of him.”
“Yessir,” Paddy said, leading Pirate in.
“Trouble?” Caleb asked.
Malachi chuckled. “Nothing that a talking-to from Miz Rogers won’t fix.”
A former buffalo soldier, Rogers was clear-eyed, dark-skinned, and of medium height. He had the broad shoulders and massive arms of a man who’d put in his years muscling livestock and hammering hot iron into horseshoes and other necessities. He was wearing a well-brushed, black stovepipe hat and a gray wool coat over a black waistcoat and cotton shirt, buttoned at the neck. He was carrying the leather apron he wore when smithing.
The first time Caleb brought his horse in to be boarded, he spotted the blue cap of the Ninth Cavalry hanging from a peg on the wall of the tiny office. In the conversation that ensued, Malachi had been happy to talk about how he’d ended up settling with his family in Elkhorn.
Rogers had served as a corporal in a unit stationed at Fort Stockton. While he was there, he’d seen more action than he cared to. Luckily, his hitch was up around the time his regiment was sent to Fort Union in New Mexico in ’75. It hadn’t been a difficult decision. He’d hung up his spurs and made his way north to Colorado. At the time, Elkhorn was little more than a ragtag community of tents, log cabins, and mud. The son of a blacksmith himself, Malachi knew his trade, and the fledgling town needed him.
Caleb heard the boys’ laughter from inside the livery and thought of what Henry suggested before he’d left.
“You and Miz Rogers done real good by Paddy since taking him in last spring.”
Malachi looked over his shoulder and smiled. “Tough little varmint, but he’s a good boy.”
“I know I ain’t in any position to be making a decision right now, but sometime in the future, how’d you feel about him moving out to the ranch?”
Rogers glanced inside the barn again. “The way my wife thinks, the more is always the merrier at our table. And that table will be stretching soon.”
“Is the missus in a family way?”
“No.” Malachi shook his head. “I got two nephews coming out from Memphis, so it’ll be four of them running around here by spring.”
“Won’t things be a mite tight for you?”
“We’ll make do. We always have,” Malachi said. “But Paddy has a fondness for you. And although he and Gabe have become good friends, you ain’t so far away.”
“I still have a lot of sorting out to do.”
“I understand. But whenever the time comes that you’re ready for Paddy, we’ll be good with it. And of course, he’ll always be welcome here.”
“All right,” Caleb replied, looking into the barn. He had a few things to take care of right now, but it was good to know that Rogers would be fine with whatever decision was made.
“All this talk about the boys and I got distracted with telling you the news.”
“What news?”
Malachi tossed the apron onto his shoulder. “Three fellas arrived at the livery around dawn. Two of them were shot, one pretty bad. I sent them up to Doc’s house.”
John Burnett’s medical skills were sought after from here to Denver. The man’s value on the Colorado frontier was without measure. And since Sheila’s arrival in Elkhorn, she’d started helping her father at the house with his patients. This worried Caleb some. Not everyone that showed up at their door was bound to be an entirely upstanding citizen.
“One of them knew you.”
Caleb felt a bad taste rise into his throat.
“A lean, tough Mexican cowboy. Stands about this high.” Malachi held up a hand, indicating the man’s height. “Talks like a Texan, and he’s near as dark as me. Said his name’s Ortiz.”
Damn.
Duke Ortiz, the fella driving Caleb’s thousand head of longhorns up from Texas.
Chapter Fourteen
Caleb climbed the steps to Doc Burnett’s porch and rapped on the door.
This was not good. He’d sent nearly every last dollar he and Henry had for the herd of longhorns Duke Ortiz was supposed to drive up from Texas. Now, from the looks of things, he had a couple of wounded cowpunchers and no cattle. He hoped the rest of Duke’s men were off watching the herd somewhere close. Winter was about to roll in and bury them all.
Hearing no one coming to the door, he knocked again and then went and peered in the front parlor window. Through the glass, he saw Mrs. Lewis hurrying toward him from the back of the house. The woman always reminded Caleb of a prairie dog—small and wiry and quick, with a pinched face and a nervous way about her. She was the wife of the hardware store owner and had been helping keep house for Doc since before Sheila arrived.
Mrs. Lewis pulled open the door and ushered him in. “Come on through, Mr. Marlowe. It’s fortunate that you’ve come. I heard the cowboys talking about you.”
“They hurt, ma’am?”
“Two of them are. Doc is working on the one who’s hurt the worst. Miss Sheila is helping him. The other two are sitting outside the surgery door in the back hallway.” She shook her head. “They refused to wait in the back parlor or the kitchen, even. Said they wouldn’t muddy up the place with blood and trail dust.”
Caleb went past her along the wide central hallway. An open stairway to the second floor was ahead of him and to the right. The steps turned at a landing and formed an arch over the downstairs hallway. Beyond the arch, at the end of the narrower passageway, he could see the trail boss and his companion sitting on kitchen chairs outside the closed door to the surgery.
The two men stood up as soon as they spotted Caleb and waited until Mrs. Lewis disappeared into the kitchen.
“Marlowe,” Ortiz said grimly.
“Duke.”
Ortiz hadn’t changed much since Caleb last saw him. That was at Duke’s Texas ranch, five years ago. A couple of inches under six feet, he was—as Malachi described him—lean and tough. His complexion was not as dark as his companion—a blend of a Mexican father and a Black mother—but his face had developed the deep lines of a man who’d spent a great deal of time in the sun and as much time worrying.
Caleb saw how bone-weary both men looked. They’d shed filthy trail coats that hung on the backs of their chairs. Their wide-brimmed, sweat-stained hats lay on the floor, and the man with Ortiz was wearing a bloody sling on his left arm.
Both men wore the clothing of their trade. Bandanas, heavy woolen shirts under leather vests, scarred cowhide chaps over the pants, and sturdy boots that showed the dirt and the wear of the trail. Duke had given up wearing the sash of the vaquero, but his bandana was still the traditional bright-red silk of his Mexican forebears.
“What happened to you? What are you doing here? Where’s the herd?”
“We lost it,” Ortiz said straight out.
“What do you mean you lost it? Lost it how? I trusted you, Duke.”
“We was bushwhacked. They took the herd. Killed nine good men. These two are all I got left.”
Caleb tried to take this in. A thousand head of cattle lost. Nine dead.
How was that possible? A hundred questions exploded in his head.
“This is bullshit, Duke.” Caleb’s temper boiled over. Everything he had, everything he’d put into their future was gone. “You’ve done this a hundred times. You never lost a damn herd in your life.”
“Damn right.” Duke was fired up, as well. “Don’t think I just handed them critters over.”
“You sure as hell don’t have them now.” Caleb slammed his hat on the floor. “Damn it. I thought you were good.”
“I am good, cabron. Give me a damn minute to explain. I’m here, ain’t I? I didn’t hightail it back to Texas, did I?”
“Texas ain’t big enough for you to hide from me.”
“You know me, Marlowe. Say what you will, but I know you trust me. Just listen to me.”
If he didn’t know this man, if he didn’t trust him, he’d be painting these walls with Texan blood. And when he was done, there wouldn’t be enough of him left for Doc to piece together.
Caleb reminded himself that he was standing in Doc’s house. Beyond the door, Sheila and Doc Burnett were trying to patch a man up.
“How?” he managed to get out through clenched teeth.
“We was ambushed. By rustlers.”
“Rustlers.” Caleb glared at him. “You ain’t no greenhorn.”
The trail boss’s eyes darted fire. “No, I ain’t no greenhorn, and neither were my men.”
Mrs. Lewis poked her head out of the kitchen for the tenth time since the argument started. She was trying to catch Caleb’s eye.
“I’m putting on coffee,” she chirped as brightly as she could manage. “Would you fellows care for a cup?”
The cowboy standing behind Ortiz answered, “No, ma’am. But thankee.”
Ortiz shook his head, and Caleb declined, as well.
Caleb waited until the woman went back into the kitchen before speaking again. “That thousand head cost me everything I got. This’ll ruin me.”
Duke shook his head. “You know better. Marlowe. I’ll make good on this.”
“How?”
“I’m going after the rustlers.”
“And what if you can’t find ’em? What if you can’t get the cattle back?”
“I’ll go down home to Texas and gather another herd. I’ll drive them up here next spring. I’ll start early and deliver by late summer. I’ll eat half the cost. And you don’t pay till I deliver.”
Caleb considered the offer. The money had already changed hands. Any other rancher would just call it tough luck and move on. But Ortiz was trying to do the right thing.
“You are being decent.”
Ortiz slapped Caleb on the shoulder. “Them dirty pendejos won’t think so when I find them.”
“We’ll make ’em pay, boss.”
Caleb looked at the wounded man standing behind Ortiz. He had a blood-soaked cloth wrapped around his upper arm.
“This here is Bass Dart, Marlowe.” Duke gestured to the surgery door. “Tex Washington is in with the doc right now.”
Caleb nodded to the cowboy. “Doc’ll fix you up.”
“First time being shot by rustlers, but I’ll live.”
Rustlers were a problem everywhere, but cattlemen had been driving longhorns up from Texas for over a decade. The three main cattle routes—the Shawnee Trail, the Chisholm Trail, and the Goodnight-Loving Trail—were well known to men like Duke Ortiz. When Caleb had been up in Greeley, he heard a fella say that he figured over a million head had already traveled those trails.
The westernmost route, the Goodnight-Loving Trail, was the only one that passed through Colorado. Starting near Fort Concho in Texas, it ran west until it picked up the Pecos River then north all the way to Denver. From there, Texas cattle often went as far as Cheyenne. All told, the drive north could cover two thousand miles. Duke wasn’t going all the way to Wyoming this trip, but that route from Texas was the way he’d planned on coming.
A cattle drive was hard going, and it always had its dangers, but Ortiz knew what he was doing. Or should have.
“No one ever got the drop on you before, Duke. What happened?”
“Do you want the short version or long?”
“Start from the beginning.”
“We left my ranch figuring, with a little luck, we’d make it up here before the snow shut us down. It was a good herd, Marlowe. ’Course, we hit a few snags along the way. We were still in Texas when a prairie fire burned out everything west of Horsehead Crossing for fifty miles. We had to go south to get around the charred grass. Then we lost two weeks rounding up the herd after a pinche perra of a hailstorm hit us south of Fort Sumner. Even so, I thought we’d beat the winter snows.”
“Did you cross the Arkansas River west of Pueblo?” Caleb asked.
“We did. We left Goodnight there. Followed the river where we could. We’d driven the herd north around a place called Charlotte Falls. We had the mountains ahead of us, and we knew we were at the beginning of the difficult part of the drive.”
