A Tale Out of Luck (2 page)

2

S
KEETER RODRIGUEZ
stepped out of the bunkhouse and into the cool autumn evening.

“Mind them Injuns, Skeeter,” came a voice from the bunkhouse, followed by a chorus of chuckles from the grown men inside. Skeeter smirked and slammed the door behind him. Already, he was regretting covering guard duty for Jay Blue. It was Jay Blue’s night. Skeeter had gotten talked into taking the night guard in his stead so Jay Blue could ride into Luck and flirt with some barmaid who scarcely knew he existed. Agreeing to the favor had made Skeeter feel like a good friend at the time, but now it seemed like a bad decision, for the Winchester was heavy in his grasp, and he was already tired from a long day’s toil around the ranch.

The headquarters of the Broken Arrow Ranch overlooked a broad bend in the Pedernales River, the pretty stream named a couple of centuries earlier, most probably for the remarkable flint arrowheads—
pedernales
—that the conquistadors had found and admired. Most of the Anglos who had since moved into the frontier region could not even pronounce the name correctly, and had bastardized it into a thing that sounded like “Perd ’n’ Alice.”

And so, the river enjoyed two pronunciations at the Broken Arrow Ranch, for the spread employed white cowboys as well as Mexican vaqueros. Skeeter Rodriguez was caught in the middle of it all, a little confused as to exactly where he fit in. He didn’t remember his mother, a Mexican woman about whom no one would give him many details. He remembered his grandfather. His a
buelo
, a kind but strict old goat herder, had raised him to the age of six, dubbing him Izquierdo, meaning “lefty.” Finding his grandfather dead in the pasture one day, little Izquierdo Rodriguez had walked to the newly founded town of Luck, Texas, not knowing what else to do.

Captain Hank Tomlinson, owner of the Broken Arrow Ranch, retired Texas Ranger, founder of Luck, and the most respected citizen of the Pedernales River valley, happened to hear of the orphan’s plight and took Izquierdo in, giving him a home at the Broken Arrow Ranch and raising him alongside his own son, Jay Blue, who was only a year older than Izquierdo. The cowboys on the ranch—the Anglos, that is—could no more pronounce Izquierdo than they could Pedernales, so Izquierdo became “Skeeter.” Skeeter Rodriguez.

Now, eleven years later, he spoke both Spanish and English with equal facility. It was as if he had half a dozen fathers, some Mexican, some white, for all the hands on the ranch liked Skeeter and looked after him. Yet, he had no father at all, and in fact had no clue as to the identity of the man who had sired him. Well, he had one clue. Skeeter’s eyes were blue. That didn’t exactly narrow it down a whole lot. Skeeter was just an orphan, and that’s all there was to it. It lurked in the back of his mind as he trudged away from the warm bunkhouse.

He took a moment to admire the full moon rising across the river. It was the color of cream skimmed from the top of a milk pail. Its brightness almost hurt his eyes. He looked across the neatly organized grounds of the ranch headquarters. The road to town stretched downstream, along the rim of the bluffs overlooking the river, running under the sign reading Broken Arrow Ranch, suspended high between two tall, straight cedar timbers. His eyes swept across the wagon yard, blacksmith shop, toolshed, smokehouse, barn, and springhouse, to the two-story limestone home rising among venerable live oaks. There was one light on in a window upstairs, and Skeeter knew the captain was reading. Maybe the Bible, the mail, the Austin
Daily Statesman
, or a book of poems. Skeeter reckoned he, himself, ought to learn to read better if he wanted to be more like the captain. And he did.

He wandered to the circular corral where the ranch hands busted broncs. The captain’s new Thoroughbred mare stood alone in this enclosure. Captain Tomlinson had traveled all the way to Kentucky to find and purchase this mare, hauling her back to Houston in a railroad stock car and leading her the rest of the way to his ranch on the frontier. Having gone into heat yesterday, she had been segregated here alone, out of reach of the studhorses. The captain had yet to choose and purchase the stallion who would enjoy the charms of this Kentucky mare, and in fact intended to race her a year to establish her fame before he let her breed.

The Thoroughbred saw Skeeter coming. She raised her head in a greeting. He leaned on a corral rail, and she came right to him, in contrast to the wilder ranch ponies of mixed mustang blood, who would usually shy away from a man afoot. Skeeter liked this mare for this reason. Her big doe eyes sought his face with curiosity, her long neck extending gracefully, her soft muzzle reaching between corral rails as if to kiss Skeeter on the cheek.

He smelled her sweet, warm breath; let her smell his. She nudged his face, with more anxious purpose now. He read her mind.
Where have you been? Let me out!

The lantern light in the window shrank into darkness. Skeeter thought he saw the curtains move. He stood straighter, propping the Winchester on his shoulder. He felt the captain looking down at him.

“Guard what?” he said to the mare. “Guard
you
?” There hadn’t been trouble around the ranch in years. Indians—Comanches, Kiowas, Lipan Apaches, and others—still passed through the valley on the way to Mexico, but they knew Hank Tomlinson’s reputation as well as anyone, and stayed clear. The captain had a wild notion that rustlers were working the outlying extremes of his ranges, chiseling away at his ample herd, but Skeeter attributed that to the old Ranger’s longing for the old days, when he had ridden roughshod through the haunts of outlaws, Mexican bandits, and renegade Indians, helping to wrest this whole broad swath of the frontier out of the grasp of the lawless wilderness. As far as Skeeter was concerned, he and this mare were as safe from depredations here on the ranch as Jay Blue was in town at this moment.

Jay Blue, who by all rights, should have been standing guard over the Broken Arrow Ranch precisely now, as a matter of fact. He heard a roar of laughter in the bunkhouse and knew he was missing out on a joke that nobody would remember in the morning. “Night guard, my
foot
,” Skeeter said. Then he grew even more morose, considering how Jay Blue, the rancher’s son, had talked him into this nonsense. “Your
ass
!” he said to the mare.

3

J
AY BLUE
could hardly wait to get inside Flora’s Saloon, feeling quite sure that he was already missing out on an opportunity at this very instant. But his father, Captain Hank Tomlinson, had taught him to always take care of his horses before entertaining himself, so he let a few inches out on the latigo, loosening the cinch and allowing the dun to breathe deep while he stood tied at the hitching rail.

Thank goodness he had talked Skeeter into taking his watch. Jay Blue knew he wouldn’t get much sleep tonight, but hadn’t his father often ridden days without sleep in the old times? Jay Blue considered himself pure Tomlinson, as much so as his daddy. More importantly, it had been over a week since he had been to town, and he could feel his chances slipping away. He had to put in an appearance tonight or forever lose any hope of winning that girl.

He leapt to the top step of the boardwalk, his jinglebobs ringing merrily against his spur rowels, and shoved the double swinging doors aside, entering the saloon with something of a flourish. Those swinging doors squeaked to good purpose. Nobody stood anything to gain in a frontier town by letting anybody slip into a saloon unnoticed. Every eye turned to look at the new arrival.

There were an odd number of eyes, for old Gotch Dunnsworth was at the bar, and Gotch had lost an eye in the war. Dunnsworth owned the livery stable next door, and spent as much time in the saloon as anyone. But Jay Blue had not come here to see Gotch Dunnsworth.

Within a fraction of a second, he located the object of his sleepless nights of longing. Her name was Jane Catlett. She was the prettiest thing in this saloon, and perhaps in the state of Texas, as far as Jay Blue knew. Like everyone else, Jane glanced toward Jay Blue as he stood in front of the still-swinging doors. For a moment her indifferent stare brightened. But then she clearly smirked and rolled her eyes in such a lazy way that their gaze took some time landing elsewhere, and not anywhere near Jay Blue.

He smelled lilacs, or maybe it was lavender—one of those feminine fragrances. He glanced back over his shoulder to see Flora Barlow, the owner of the saloon, standing right behind him. She was old enough to be Jay Blue’s mother, but that didn’t much tarnish her desirability, or the popularity of her drinking establishment. If young Jane was the prettiest thing in Texas, Flora Barlow surely ran her a close second. She also exuded a vague essence of knowledge of things that would surely make a man very happy.

“I hope you don’t have your sights set on little Janie,” Flora said, her voice a tease and a warning all at once. “She doesn’t like cowboys. At least not as much as I do.”

Jay Blue turned to Flora and smiled. “Janie? Janie who? I just came in for a beer, Miss Flora.”

Her hands landed naturally on hips accented by her corseted waist. “You rode all the way here from your daddy’s ranch for a beer?”

“It’s my ranch, too. Will be, anyway.”

Flora smirked at him, crossing her arms under her breasts, and making it difficult for Jay Blue not to glance toward the low-cut bodice. “What would your daddy think about me selling you a beer? You’re barely old enough to shave.”

“I beg to differ, Miss Flora. I’m on my second straight razor. I wore the first one smooth out.”

Flora smiled and dropped the mock interrogation. “Well, I guess one beer won’t hurt you, then. But, just one, then you’d better make tracks for that ranch you intend to claim. If I know your father—and I do—he’s not going to hand that ranch over to you just because your name is Jay Tomlinson.”

“Jay Blue, ma’am.”

“Oh, Jay
Blue
, of course. You’re going to have to earn that ranch, Jay
Blue
.” She sure made her mouth look attractive when she said, “
Blue
.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Harry, give this big-shot rancher a beer,” Flora said to her bartender.

Jay Blue sauntered to the bar to collect his beer, nodding a greeting to Gotch Dunnsworth.

“You want to drink a whiskey toast to Dixie, kid?” Gotch said.

Jay Blue knew Gotch expected him to purchase said shot of whiskey. “I never touch the stuff, sir,” he replied, lifting the beer mug to his lips and sucking in the warm, bitter brew.

“Don’t know what you’re missin’.”

Jay Blue’s eyes followed Jane across the room. “I’m sure you’re right about that, Mr. Dunnsworth.”

“Your daddy know you’re here?”

“Not exactly.”

“Well, your ass is gonna be
exactly
in a crack when he finds out.” Gotch wheezed a volley of laughter.

Jay Blue smiled sheepishly, but then entertained himself with thoughts of what it was going to be like when Jane finally consented to being alone with him somewhere. He stood there at the bar— suffering through tiny sips of his acrid beverage and hoping Jane would again look his way, which she did not—until the squeaking hinges of the swinging doors announced a new arrival. A towering hulk of a man burst in, followed by five loud and dusty cowhands.

The big man was Jack Brennan, owner of the Double Horn Ranch, the closest thing the Broken Arrow had to a rival on the ranges around Luck. Jack possessed the size and muscle to strike fear into the hearts of most men, but came nowhere near Captain Hank Tomlinson in his command of respect.

The Double Horn cowboys spotted an empty table and went to claim it. Jay Blue knew them all by name, though considered none of them as a friend. The redheaded foreman, Eddie Milliken, led the way, followed by Joe Butts, Ham Franklin, Bill Waterford, and Johnny Webb. Jack Brennan stood his ground at the door for a moment, sweeping the room with his eyes. When he spotted Jay Blue, he drew back his head and furrowed his brow, then strolled over to the bar.

“Whiskey,” he said to the bartender. “And you better send a bottle to them boys at the table, too.” His big hand gripped the full shot glass hastily placed before him. He threw the shot back and seemed to get lost for a moment in some faraway place full of worry and sorrow. “Hit me again.”

With his second shot in hand, he turned to Jay Blue, feigning surprise. “Didn’t notice you there, Jay Boy.”

“It’s Jay
Blue
, Mr. Brennan.”

“That’s what I said. Did you see that thing outside?”

“What thing?”

“Looked like a cross between a ox and a javalina. I guess it was a ox-alina. Anyway, it had a saddle on it looked just like yours.” He threw the second shot of whiskey past his teeth.

Jay Blue felt stupid for letting Jack Brennan set him up, once again, for an insult to his horseflesh. “I’ll match Old Dunnie up to any cow horse in the country—” he began, but Brennan stepped on his reply as if it were nothing but a whistle in the wind.

“What the hell are you doin’ here, kid?”

“Huntin’ strays.” Jay Blue kept his eye on Jane as she moved closer to the table the Double Horn Ranch cowboys had occupied.

“I know what kind of stray you’re huntin’.” Jack tapped the shot glass on the bar at the bartender. “Gotch, you want a whiskey? Harry, pour Gotch a whiskey, for God’s sake. The man’s a war hero.”

“To Robert E. Lee!” Gotch said, lifting his glass toward Harry’s bottle.

Jack looked down at Jay Blue. “Where’s that little half-breed shadow of yours? What do y’all call him? Skinner? Scooter?”

“Skeeter. He’s standing guard tonight.”

Jack shook his head in disapproval. “Your daddy ought to know better than to put a boy out on guard tonight. I hear some Comanches are camped over on Flat Rock Creek. I don’t reckon they’d steal one of y’alls’ horses to ride, but they might want to eat one.”

The comment galled Jay Blue, but not as much as the fact that the Double Horn foreman, Eddie Milliken, was clearly flirting with Jane. “Daddy just came back from Kentucky with a new Thoroughbred broodmare.”