A Gown of Spanish Lace (29 page)

Laramie rapped loudly on the ranch house door and was admitted by the owner himself. The young man felt awkward and self-conscious as he stepped inside.

“Russell,” the boss welcomed him and stepped aside for him to enter. “Foreman says he’s pleased with yer work. Know how to git the task done—without gripin’ none. Been meanin’ to have a chat.”

Laramie removed his dust-covered hat.

“Jest came to thank ya for the opportunity of ridin’ fer ya,” he began. “I’ve appreciated it—but I have to be movin’ on.”

The older man looked puzzled.

“Somethin’ happen?” he asked.

“Reckon it did,” replied Laramie in his easy drawl. “Only—not here. Happened a long time ago.”

The man waited.

“Ya see, sir,” went on Laramie, fingering the hat in his hands, “I been ridin’ under false colors. I…I’m wanted by the law.”

The man shrugged careless shoulders. “So—” he said. “I don’t ask no questions.”

“No. No,” agreed Laramie. “An’ I appreciate it.”

“Look,” said the big man and took Laramie’s arm to draw him farther into the room and toward a chair. “Likely ain’t a cowpoke on the place thet ain’t had a little run-in here or there. Thet doesn’t mean the law’s gonna catch up.”

Laramie reluctantly took the seat, still twisting his Stetson in his hands.

“Ya heard somethin’? Somebody on yer tail?” the big man went on.

“No. Not thet I know of.”

“There—ya see,” said the rancher, looking relieved. “Likely no need to panic.”

“Oh, I’m not panicky,” said Laramie. “I jest want it cleared up. You see—I’ve been going to the little church—straightened out my life. Now—if I read my Bible right—I’ve got to do what I can to set the past straight. So—I’ve got to go back.”

The big man looked shocked. “Ya mean yer walkin’ right back into the hangman’s noose?” he asked incredulously.

Laramie smiled and reached a hand up to the hat brim that wasn’t there. He scratched his head instead, feeling the scar that began on his forehead and stretched into the hairline.

“Well…now I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’ve no idea what my future holds. If I’ve got the hangman’s noose to face…then I guess—”

“Don’t do it, boy,” the rancher said with great feeling. “It’s a foolhardy thing. You’ll never git a fair trial an’ ya know it. It’s good enough thet ya quit whatever it was ya was doin’. Thet’s good enough.” He put a hand up in some alarm. “Didn’t kill a sheriff—or a marshal, did ya?”

“No,” replied Laramie simply.

The rancher looked relieved. “There—ya see,” he said, “likely nobody will even bother lookin’ fer ya.”

“You don’t understand,” said Laramie, and he stood to his feet. “The One who was looking fer me—the One thet really matters—He’s already found me. An’ He says yer sins will find ya out. He says, ya own up to ’em—make restitution, they call it—if it’s possible. I plan to do that. An’ I reckon what happens—well, thet’s up to Him.”

The rancher reached up to push back his thinning hair. He opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again, shaking his head.

He took a pace away from Laramie, then turned back to face him. “I think yer makin’ a big mistake, boy,” he said bluntly, then went on carefully. “But—iffen ya ever want to ride fer me agin—well you jest come on by.”

“Thank you,” said Laramie and he stretched out his hand.

“See the foreman. He’ll settle yer wage.” The two shook hands.

“I’ll do thet, sir,” replied Laramie. “I plan to leave before sunup.”

All during the long ride back over the country that Laramie had covered with Ariana, he thought and rethought his situation. How could he get into camp without being seen by the sentry from the ledge? Would he be gunned down before he even made it through the chasm in the rock walls? How would his father respond when he came with his apology? If it was accepted, would he expect Laramie to become part of the gang again? No, he couldn’t do that. Not even if it meant his death.

Should he go to the law first? No, he might spend the rest of his days in prison. First he had to talk with his father. Had to ask his forgiveness. Had to tell him about the truths he had learned from his mother’s Bible—if indeed it had been his mother’s. His father needed to hear.

In the end it was White Eagle whom Laramie first contacted. The young brave seemed excited to see him.

“Thought you die,” he said, thrusting out his hand to shake Laramie’s, white-man fashion.

Laramie smiled. “Thought you would have moved,” he responded. “It’s been a long time.”

“Move village many times. Back again,” said White Eagle.

“What happened after we left?” Laramie had to know.

White Eagle laughed. “Like ants,” he said. “Then—long walk. Mad.” He laughed again, remembering.

“Your father’s black, good horse,” he said seriously. “Carry squaw.”

Laramie spun around. “Whose squaw? Yours?” he asked.

White Eagle beamed his pleasure. Laramie could tell that his friend was now a family man.

“Naw,” he said, slapping the young Pawnee on the shoulder. “Ya don’t say? Any papoose?”

“Soon,” said White Eagle. His eyes shone.

Laramie nodded, acknowledging the man’s good fortune.

“How’s everything?” Laramie asked, changing the tone of the conversation.

“Bad year,” said White Eagle seriously. “Much sick. Little food. Bad year.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” replied Laramie. “Anything I can do to help?”

“Pawnee do not need help,” he said simply.

Laramie nodded.

“Still the same chief?”

“Father, Half Moon, die. New chief. Brother, Broken Tooth. Maybe trouble,” said White Eagle.

Laramie let his gaze drift out over the valley that lay beneath them. Miles of timbered hills stretched all the way to vast prairies. But the scene included small farmsteads—ranches—even a couple of tiny towns. Many more campfires than the Indians’ lifted smoke to the sky. What would be happening in the years to come? Could the white settlers and the Indian tribes live in peace?

“Have ya heard anythin’ about…my pa?” asked Laramie, shifting his attention back to the man beside him.

White Eagle’s eyes darkened.

“Not good news,” he said.

Laramie turned toward him. “What do you mean?”

“They raid. Bank. Not good.”

“You mean…some of them…didn’t make it?”

White Eagle nodded.

“My pa?”

“I not know. Only know not good. Only two horse come back. Funny little man.”

“Sam?”

“Man makes much spit.” White Eagle spit in the dust to demonstrate.

“Sam,” said Laramie.

“One more. Hurt bad. Not new horse of father.”

Laramie felt a lump come into his throat. He knew with a certainty that he had to get to his father’s camp—quickly. He began to gather the reins of the buckskin.

“How long ago?” he asked as he mounted.

“Two—maybe three moons,” said White Eagle.

Laramie reached down to clasp the hand of his old friend one last time. He might never see him again. They looked at each other steadily, then without exchanging words, they both turned to go.

There was no man on the ledge that guarded the entrance to the camp. Laramie carefully studied the position before urging his mount forward.

As he rode into the little settlement he noticed how dilapidated the buildings all were. Bad before, they were even worse now. Everything seemed strangely deserted. Maybe there was no one around.

Then he noticed there were two horses in the corral. Someone must still live here.

He was dismounting when a shot rang out and splintered a pine bough just above his head. He dived for cover at the same moment that the buckskin reared and spun around, fear making the animal’s nostrils flare.

Another shot. This one thumped into the tree behind which Laramie crouched. In the instant before Laramie ducked, he saw the shooter. It was Sam who leveled the rifle and was taking careful aim.

As soon as the echo stopped resounding off the rock walls of the valley, Laramie bellowed, “Sam. Sam, it’s me. Laramie.”

He waited.

“Show yerself,” came a raspy voice.

Laramie wondered at the wisdom of obeying the command, but at last he eased out from behind the pine.

“Well, I’ll be,” said Sam, his rifle barrel gradually lowering. “It
is
Laramie.”

Laramie looked around for his buckskin. The animal stood a few feet away, still appearing skitterish. The pack horse had run off several yards and was now feeding on the thick grass beneath a clump of birch.

Sam was walking toward him, his rifle lowered but still in his hand. His whiskered face was gaunt and his eyes dark and angry. “Ya got a nerve showin’ up here,” he growled.

It was not much different than Laramie had expected.

“I came back to see my pa,” he said in explanation as he stooped to pick up his hat, which had landed in the dust.

“Yer pa,” said Sam, and he spit in the dirt.

Laramie nodded and whipped the dust from his Stetson before putting it back on his head.

“Well—I’d say you were about three months too late,” snapped Sam.

Laramie stared. “Ya mean—?”

“Dead! Like the rest of ’em. I’m the only one left.” He spit again, his eyes glaring at Laramie.

The sudden pain in Laramie’s heart was like a huge fist squeezing the life out of it. If only—

He turned away for a moment.

He turned back to Sam, swallowing hard. “Buried here?” he managed to ask.

Sam nodded. The gun had finally dropped down to his side. “Ya ain’t brung a posse in here, have ya?” he asked gruffly.

Laramie’s shock showed on his face. “Ya know better,” he threw back at the old man.

Sam nodded his head toward one of the falling-down buildings. “Well—come in, then,” he offered.

“I’ll not be stoppin’,” Laramie replied. “Just long enough to…pay my respects….”

He gathered the reins of his mount and led him to a hitching post. The pack horse wouldn’t wander far, he reasoned. Not with the other horses nearby.

“Now thet yer here, ya might as well come in,” Sam said, spitting. Then he nodded toward the trees to their right. Laramie understood that his father had been buried there.

He found the grave. It was marked by a small homemade cross. On it had been written one word. “Boss.” Laramie reached up and removed his hat. He felt choked. Saddened. He had wanted to talk to this man. To ask his forgiveness. To tell of his newfound faith. And now he was gone. It was too late. Too late.

It was some time before Laramie felt ready to talk to Sam. He knew now that he would have to talk with him. He had so many questions. He needed some answers.

Sam had brewed an awful pot of weak coffee. They sat sipping it slowly, each deep in thought. Sam chewed on his dirty mustache and spit frequently into the corner, and Laramie toyed with his Stetson and rubbed unconsciously at the scar on his forehead.

At last Laramie spoke. “How’d it happen?”

Sam spit again. “Robbery went sour,” he said simply.

“Where?”

“Over to Elk River. Bank there.”

“What happened?”

“Yer pa figured Skidder sold us out.”

“Skidder?”

There was silence for some time.

“Skidder—is he—?” Laramie began to ask.

“Yer pa shot ’im. He’d turned sides.”