A Tale Out of Luck (17 page)

“What?”

Skeeter stormed across camp to pick up the empty tin can. “The son of a bitch ate my peaches!”

Jay Blue started chuckling.

“He ate every doggone one!”

Jay Blue laughed out loud.

“He drank all the juice!”

Jay Blue slapped his thigh and guffawed.

“It ain’t funny!”

Hank had left Fort Jennings about sundown and had ridden back to the east. The going was slow until the moon rose, then he quickened his pace to a trot. He was entertaining visions of sleeping in his own bed, but he still had one more call to make before heading home.

He approached Jack Brennan’s Double Horn Ranch headquarters with caution. The gang of cowboys who worked for Jack were a trigger-happy lot, and he didn’t intend to provide them with any target practice if he could help it. So he held back in the brush for a good while, looking over the rattletrap buildings and sagging corrals. The bunkhouse was dark, and all seemed quiet. A lantern light glowed from a cracked window in Brennan’s adobe house.

Brennan had bought this place years ago from a Mexican rancher who some said had been bullied into selling cheap. That old ranchero had built the adobe walls thick for protection against Indian and outlaw raids. Brennan had let the place run down, but the thick adobe walls would still stop a bullet. At length Hank noticed an orange speck glowing on the front porch of the adobe, and knew that Brennan was having a smoke in the fresh night air.

“Hello, Jack!” he shouted.

A mean dog scrambled off the porch and started barking and growling all the way out to Hank’s position in the brush.

“Who’s that?” Brennan demanded.

“Hank Tomlinson.”

“What do you want?”

“Just a visit.” The dog was now nipping at the hooves of Hank’s mount, making the horse dance.

“Shut up, dog!” Brennan shouted. The cur backed off, its complaints tapering off to a low growl. There was a pause, then Brennan shouted, “Well, ride on in, I guess.”

Hank rode to the porch, but stayed on his horse as the dog was still growling and Jack didn’t see fit to call it off. By the glow of moonlight, the retired Ranger’s alert eyes noticed a Colt revolver lying across Brennan’s thigh. The weapon was already cocked.

“Expecting trouble?” Hank said.

“Always. You’re too late for supper, or I’d invite you to git down.” Brennan picked up a jug of whiskey and took a long pull from it.

“I’m not hungry,” Hank said.

“Drink?”

“No, thanks. Where are all your hands?”

“In town gettin’ drunk, most likely. What did you come here for, Hank? It ain’t like you to visit.”

“I wanted to talk to you about Wes James.”

“Who?”

“The dead man you found.”

“Oh. Is he still dead?” He took a draw on the cigar, the ember briefly illuminating a dangerous glare in his eyes.

“What do you reckon he was doin’ up there on Shovel Mountain?”

“He was lookin’ at the inside of a buzzard’s beak when I found him.”

“Did you notice the fire?”

Brennan looked to his right, then his left, as if he might see a flame somewhere. “I thought we were talkin’ about Wes James.”

“I found a burnt-out fire near the spot where his body fell. A brandin’ fire.”

Jack shrugged. “I didn’t notice. I guess I was just a little distracted by the maggots crawlin’ around the part in his hair.”

“Yeah, that was some part, alright,” Hank had to agree.

“What’s your point, Hank? And why the hell do you even give a shit?”

“Wes James was a mavericker, at best. Most likely a rustler. The sign showed that he was branding a long yearling when the murderer killed him.”

“Then the son of a bitch deserved to die.”

“Whoever killed Wes didn’t kill the yearling he was brandin’.”

“So what?”

“Those Comanches on Flat Rock Creek were starvin’. They would have killed and butchered the beef. They didn’t kill Wes James. Somebody else did.”

Jack laughed and picked up the whiskey jug again. “You’ve taken some loco notions in your time, Hank, but that one beats all.”

Hank mulled that last statement over a moment. “What kind of loco notions have I taken, Jack?”

“Spendin’ all your money buyin’ up land on a free-range frontier. That’s crazy. How ’bout adoptin’ that half-breed boy, when you already had your hands full raisin’ your own? Or sleepin’ alone in that big rock house, when you know you could have that fine piece of woman flesh in your bed.”

“Go easy there,” Hank warned.

Brennan laughed. “Now, don’t Ranger-up on me. My point is you have a funny way of lookin’ at the obvious, that’s all.”

“What is the obvious, from your point of view?”

“That’s simple. The convenient murder of good ol’ Wes James gives us all the reason we need to kill every goddamn Comanche between here and Indian Territory. Those Indians had the dead man’s horse! They killed him, and they got what they deserved in return on Flat Rock Creek.”

“Did Major Quitman get what he deserved?”

“Quitman was an idiot.”

“Word is you started the killin’ at Flat Rock Creek by shooting an unarmed Indian boy.”

Brennan eased his hand along his thigh until his finger touched the grip of his cocked pistol. “That’s a goddamned lie.” His voice sounded cold as a spade digging a grave. “I shot in self-defense.”

“The Comanches won’t see it that way. They’re liable to be coming back for you, Jack.”

“Any flea-bit Comanches come for me, I’ll give ’em some of their own medicine.”

Hank had listened to all he needed to hear for right now. “The next light moon’s liable to tell the tale, Jack. You take care.”

Brennan only grunted, but as Hank reined away, he said, “Hey, Ranger. I hear your boy and that half-breed kid, Skeeter, went out huntin’ the mare you lost. You sure they’re not scalped by now?”

“I found ’em. They’re alright.”

Jack shook his head. “You shouldn’t ought to let a couple of runts like that go stumblin’ around in the wilderness.”

“I taught them well. They’ll be fine.”

“You hope.”

Hank ignored the belligerent tone. He urged his pony to a trot and got the hell out of there, with the dog snarling at his mount’s heels.

Hank arrived at the Broken Arrow before midnight and whistled the descending notes of the screech owl to signal the night guard, Long Tom Merrick, who answered the quavering call. Hank met Long Tom at the corner of the smokehouse. He knew Tom liked to sit there on guard because of the view of the grounds the spot afforded. The moon, three nights past full now, was still plenty big enough to illuminate the grin on Tom’s face.

“You got company,” he said. “She’s up at the big house, waitin’ for you in the parlor.”

“Flora?”

Tom nodded.

“Must be news from town,” Hank said in a businesslike tone.

“She looks like good news to me.”

“Quit grinnin’ like a possum, and see to my horse for me, will you?”

“Yes, sir.”

When Hank opened the door, he smelled the flowery scent that always gave him a hint of thrills to come. But, this time, the aroma made him uneasy. Flora had never visited the Broken Arrow Ranch. No woman, in fact, had set foot in this house since the death of his wife eighteen years ago. When he stepped into the parlor, he saw the lamplight illuminating the shapely curves of Flora Barlow as she stood to greet him. She could take a man’s breath away. But, with the next blink, he saw the portrait of his departed Emilie hanging on the parlor wall, and suddenly felt very uncomfortable having both women in the same room.

Flora read his eyes. “She was an extraordinarily beautiful woman, Hank.”

Hank’s eyes darted from the portrait, to Flora. “Thanks. I mean, not that I deserve the credit.” He tried to regain his composure. Rationally, he knew there was nothing wrong with Flora’s being here. In fact, he should have invited her out here long ago. That made this meeting doubly awkward. He felt as if he were failing both women somehow.

“She was from Germany?”

Hank nodded. “She was a countess over there, but she renounced her title when she immigrated here. She chose democracy over royalty.”

“I’m sure you miss her.”

Hank pulled his hat from his head. “It was a long time ago.”

“I’ve heard that you rescued her.”

Hank shrugged. “She was married. Her husband was killed, and she was carried off by some renegade Wacos and Kickapoos. I tracked ’em down, killed ’em all, and rescued Emilie. We were married not long after that. Her maiden name was Blumenthal, so we named our first born Jason Blumenthal Tomlinson.”

“Jay Blue.”

Hank nodded. “She died in childbirth with our second. The baby didn’t make it, either.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Like I said, it was a long time ago.”

Flora picked up a crystal tumbler of whiskey and glided across the parlor to place it in Hank’s hand. “I found the bourbon,” she said, almost apologetically. “I know this is a surprise, Hank, but I felt I had to come here.”

“What’s happened?”

“The ranch hands from the Double Horn came into town. They had one of your beeves with them.”

“One of mine?”

“Yes. The brand had been altered. Your Broken Arrow had been changed to a W J.”

Hank’s eyes shifted. “As in Wes James.”

She nodded. “That newspaperman was in the saloon asking questions when the Double Horn crew drove the steer in.”

A sickening realization told Hank that he had all but tightened a noose around his own neck. He had led the reporter right to the scene of the murder and told him details of the crime that, in the mind of the typical citizen, only the murderer would know. Now he had a motive to kill Wes. “Let me guess. I’m his prime suspect now.”

Flora grimaced, as if in apology. “I poured him a few drinks and acted friendly. I got him to talk a little. He’s taken it into his head that you killed Wes James for rustling your stock, and made it look as if the Indians did it to put the blame on them.”

Hank rolled his eyes. “Not an altogether ridiculous scenario—I mean, for a greenhorn newspaper hack.”

“I’m afraid it gets worse, Hank. You better have a drink.”

Hank took an ample draught of the whiskey. “You might as well tell me.”

“He asked me to deliver a message to you. He says he knows all about your past, and has known for a long time. His newspaper career is just a sideline, Hank. Max Cooper is only a pen name. He’s a lieutenant in the State Police. His real name is Matt Kenyon.”

Hank’s heart quavered. “Kenyon?”

“He said the name would mean something to you.”

“That it does. It surely does.”

“He intends to arrest you, believe it or not.”

“Now,
that’s
a ridiculous scenario.”

“He says he’s going back to Austin to gather his evidence and get a warrant. We’ve got some time. Maybe a couple of weeks.”

With his past rushing up from behind to bite him in the ass, Hank was suddenly grateful for at least one thing: this beautiful woman who had come to warn him. His hand reached out to embrace Flora’s arm, and, to his surprise, he felt no scathing disapproval from the portrait of Emilie. “You did the right thing, Flora—coming here.”

Her smile did more to light up the room than the lantern. “I thought while I was here, I could help you look for that old arrow you’ve lost. It’s evidence that could help you clear yourself, right?”

“I need to find that arrow for my own purposes, but it can’t clear me. In fact, Kenyon might use it against me. There’s a lot you don’t know about this deal, Flora. All that arrow can do is tell me whether or not Black Cloud is back.”

“Tell me what’s going on, Hank. What’s this all about?”

“It’s complicated, but I’ll tell you the short version for now. There were those who thought, all those years ago, that
I
was Black Cloud.”

Flora let the thought sink in. “But why would you kill your fellow Rangers?”

“I wouldn’t, and I didn’t. Like I said, it’s complicated.”

“What about that policeman’s name? Kenyon. What does that mean to you?”

“I rode with his father, Jim Kenyon. He was one of the Rangers Black Cloud killed.”

Flora gasped in realization. “Matt Kenyon thinks you killed his father.”

“It’s a long story and I’d rather not dredge up the past if we can just solve this business without it.”

“Let’s start in the morning, Hank. I’ll help you turn this place upside down until we find that old arrow.”

He nodded, then gulped the rest of his whiskey. The lantern light was dying, but he saw no reason to adjust the wick. “Yes, first thing in the morning. Right now, it’s past my bedtime.”

Flora took the whiskey glass and put it on a shelf. She grabbed his hand and led him out of the parlor and toward the staircase as the light faded on Emilie’s beautiful smile.

“Come on,” Flora said. “I’ll tuck you in.”

24

W
HATEVER THAT MEDICINE
was that the cowboy gave him certainly worked well enough at first. The pain went away, as if by magic, until about the time the moon came out. By then, the Wolf knew that he had made a clean escape, but the pain came back worse than ever, and he felt as if he had torn something apart inside that bullet wound given to him by the leader of the cowboys. The wound was bleeding again, too. He was lucky to have stolen that can of sweet fruit, though, for it had given him enough strength to stay mounted.

But the medicine had made other things happen. Strange things. Visions of ghosts. Dreams of horrible storms. He was having trouble differentiating between what had happened in the real world and what he had seen in his dream world. He had always been told that the two were not completely separate anyway.

Now dawn was approaching, and he found himself riding down into the valley of the big river the Spaniards had long ago named the Colorado. He spent most of his time lying across the neck of the horse, gripping the mane to keep from falling off. He would look up every now and then, wincing through pain that racked him with every jolting step of the pony, to make sure that he was heading in the right direction. Now that the sky had begun to brighten, he could see that he was getting close to the place where the smaller river, called the Llano, joined the larger Colorado. A high bluff overlooked that confluence and served as an easily recognizable landmark that could be seen miles away, even in the moonlight.