A Tale Out of Luck (21 page)

Poli and the rest of the boys were taking care of things back at the ranch, and the fall cow work had been accomplished weeks ago, so this was as good a time as any to linger in Luck, take care of business, enjoy a few drinks at Flora’s, and appreciate her warm body in bed with him.

The problem was that no replies to his telegraphed inquiries had come in. In fact, no wires were coming into Luck at all. Not long after Hank sent his telegrams out, some unknown party had removed a long stretch of telegraph wire from the poles somewhere between Luck and Austin. The stagecoach driver noticed it, and reported it, but repairs had not been forthcoming.

Then, earlier this afternoon, the stagecoach brought the mail to town, and the mail included several copies of the Austin
Daily Statesman
. On page two, Hank found an article by Max Cooper. It started by describing the murder of Wes James, then went on to tell how Captain Hank Tomlinson, a retired Texas Ranger who had once been suspected of killing three fellow Rangers, had guided the reporter straight to the scene of the crime and seemed to know far too much about the way the killing had happened. Furthermore, there was evidence to suggest that Wes James had been rustling cattle by doctoring the Broken Arrow brand, giving Captain Tomlinson a motive for killing him.

In summation, Cooper had suggested that if “someone with Indian skills” had faked the killing and blamed it on innocent Indians, then the killer also bore the responsibility for the deaths of Major Ralph Quitman, two buffalo soldiers, and an unknown number of Comanches as a result of tensions brought about by the murder of Wes James.

Hank had slammed the paper to the floor of Ma Hatchet’s Café and stomped it when he read that part. Few who read the article would know that Max Cooper was really Lieutenant Matt Kenyon of the Texas State Police, and that he was far from an impartial journalist. Those readers would include judges who could be called upon to produce arrest warrants. Any government-appointed Reconstruction Republican jurist currently sitting on the bench would leap at a chance to discredit a Texas Ranger.

So, feeling time running short, Hank had decided to ride into Austin where he could find a working telegraph and try to collect some information that would help clear him of suspicion before Matt Kenyon obtained a warrant and attempted to serve it. Of course, he knew that the capital was the State Police stronghold, and that he might be riding right into a trap, but Hank wasn’t much good at avoiding confrontation. He saddled a horse and rode.

He had gotten almost halfway to Austin when, riding up onto a hill, he spotted the telegraph crew repairing the line. His frustration flared. A wasted afternoon. He didn’t even ride up to talk to the repair crew. He just turned around, having decided to go on back to Luck and collect his telegrams in the relative security of his own town.

Now, he paused on the hill above Luck. The sun had vanished behind a blue haze in the west. The sight of the coming norther set his teeth to grinding. Jay Blue and Skeeter were still out there, for all he knew. He rode on into town, left his horse with Gotch to take care of at the livery, and stuck his head into Sam’s general store for the fourth time today. “Well?” he said.

“I’m sorry, Hank. I just tried, and got nothing.”

“Well, I rode halfway to Austin, and saw a crew working on the line.”

“Then I won’t leave the store until I get something. I’ll stay here all night if I have to. You need to stay out of Austin, Hank. For all we know, the State Police might have been the ones to cut the line, so’s to draw you into the capital where they can arrest you.”

“The thought had occurred to me.”

“Well, then, you just stay put, and I’ll check the telegraph every ten minutes to see if it’s been fixed.”

“Newfangled contraption,” Hank groused, glaring at the silent telegraph ticker. “You think it’s handy until you really need it, then your enemies disable the thing with a dang pair of wire nippers.”

“Hank, maybe you should get out of town. I’ll send riders with the telegrams if you want to go back to your ranch and lay low a while.”

“I don’t lay low. I ride high.”

Sam smiled and nodded, as if he had expected no less. “Well, if there’s anything else I can do to help . . .”

Hank scratched his chin, his eyes angling toward the back of the store. “Have you looked in the jail cell lately?”

“Not in a couple of weeks,” Sam admitted.

The town of Luck had one cell. It was really nothing more than an iron cage bolted to the floor of a little lean-to extension to the back of Sam’s store. As town marshal, Sam occasionally had to lock some drunk or petty thief in there, but it was rarely used.

“If the State Police do come to town to arrest me, I might be the next resident in there. I’m gonna check now for vermin and such. An extra blanket would be fittin’, too. I feel a norther comin’ on in my old bones.”

“Extra blankets are on the shelf, and the only key is in the lock.”

“We just have one key?”

Sam shrugged. “That’s all we’ve ever had.”

Hank passed through the back of the store as a lady walked in the front door to do some end-of-the-day shopping.
Good
, he thought. The lady would keep Sam busy for a while. He opened the door to the lean-to and found everything pretty much in order. The tin bucket that served as a toilet was clean and empty. The iron shelf that served as a bunk had a thin mattress on it, and a blanket.

The cell door was open, and as Sam had said, the key was in the lock. Hank reached into his pocket and fished out a second jail cell key that Sam had never known about. He tried both keys in the lock and they both worked fine. He returned the original key to the lock and took his other key to the mattress on the bunk. Drawing his bowie knife, he used the razor-sharp tip to cut a few of the stitches along one of the seams. Carefully, he slipped the key into the sparse cotton stuffing of the mattress. He knew that the line between lawman and outlaw sometimes became very thin on the Texas frontier. He couldn’t have predicted the current scenario, but he had always had a plan of escape from his own jail cell in case it ever came to that.

When he returned to the store, Sam was just saying good-bye to his customer.

“How did it look?” Sam said.

Hank shrugged. “A little dusty. A few scorpions here and there. Better than many a Ranger camp I’ve slept in on the hard ground with a blizzard freezin’ me nigh to death.”

“Let’s hope you don’t have to actually spend any time in there. Surely, if they do arrest you, it’ll will be under your own recognizance.”

“I wouldn’t count on it, Sam. Kenyon seems hell-bent on making a show of this whole thing. It doesn’t hurt to be prepared, if you know what I mean.”

“I think I do,” Sam said.

Hank nodded at his friend, grabbed the brass knob, and opened the door, stepping outside. Just before he slammed the door behind him, that confounded Western Union machine started tapping away like a redheaded woodpecker.

Sam listened to it with his head cocked aside for a few seconds. “It’s fixed!”

“I gathered that,” Hank replied, still standing in the open doorway.

Sam tapped something in reply and grabbed a pencil he kept near the ticker. “There’s a logjam of replies to copy. Most of ’em for you, Hank. This is gonna take some time to get down on paper.”

Hank smiled. “Meet me in my office.” He pointed down the street toward Flora’s place.

Leaving Sam to his scribblings, he angled across the dirt thoroughfare.
Liable to be hock-deep in mud by this time tomorrow
, he thought. That blue norther looked like a bad one, and his knee joints
were
aching. He thought about Jay Blue and Skeeter again, and hoped they’d find shelter, wherever they were. He was almost across the street, and was already tasting some of the good stuff Flora kept hidden behind the bar just for him, when he caught sight of motion to his left, way down the street. In the twilight glow he saw four riders coming in at a trot.

Within seconds, he recognized Jay Blue. After that it was a simple enough task to pick out Skeeter. He didn’t know the other two riders, but guessed whom they might be. He took in a breath of sweet, pure relief, and exhaled a world of worry. He could handle whatever might happen to himself with this Black Cloud mess, but if any tragedy ever befell that boy—those boys—he’d go crazy as a rabid wolf.

He stepped into the livery barn. “Gotch! You got business comin’!”

Gotch Dunnsworth stepped out to greet the late arrivals. “I’ll be damned,” he said, recognizing the boys.

The party trotted up, grins painted on their faces. Jay Blue told of their successes with Steel Dust before they even stepped down from their saddles. They introduced Jubal Hayes and Luz, and Hank thanked the mustanger for helping the boys recover the Kentucky mare.

“This is Gotch Dunnsworth. He’ll take care of your stock and your tack.” Hank turned to the one-eyed war veteran. “Oats all around, Gotch, and put it on my tab.”

“Sure thing, Captain.” Gotch began gathering reins.

“I reckon it’s time to celebrate now,” Hank announced.

“Yes, sir,” Jay Blue sang. “We’re gonna get something to eat, and then Mr. Hayes wants to show everybody in Luck how to saw on a fiddle, if we can find one.”

“He can use mine!” Gotch said.

Hank turned and studied the livery owner. “You own a fiddle, Gotch?”

Gotch started laughing. “Don’t you remember? You give it to me back before the war. I never learned to play it much.”

“I gave you a fiddle?” Hank had absolutely no recollection of the event.

“There was whiskey involved,” Gotch admitted. “It was back in those days . . . You know . . . Well, you’ve cut back, even if I haven’t.”

“I’ll borrow Mr. Collins’s banjo,” Jay Blue said. “You’ve got a guitar in the saloon, don’t you, Daddy?”

“Huh?” Hank said, still dumbfounded and embarrassed that he had given away a fiddle in a drunken stupor years ago and forgotten about it. “Oh, yes, son, I’ll get my old guitar down from the wall.”

“Mr. Hayes can dang near make a fiddle shoot sparks!”

“I’ll warn the fainthearted,” Hank said with a smile.

“Don’t get nobody’s hopes up,” Jubal said modestly.

“Skeeter, help me with these horses,” Gotch said, handing two pairs of reins to Skeeter.

Pride swelled up in Hank as he began to appreciate what his son had accomplished. He extended a hand for Jay Blue, but then just went ahead and gave him an
abrazo.
“I’m proud of you, son.”

He realized he hadn’t spoken to Skeeter yet, and looked up to congratulate him, too. But Skeeter had already disappeared into the livery barn with Gotch.

31

S
KEETER HELPED GOTCH
unsaddle the horses and rack the saddles. He rubbed down two of the mounts and stabled them.

“Skeeter, be a hand and throw them hosses some oats,” Gotch ordered. “Fork ’em some hay, too. I’ve got to find that fiddle the captain give me.”

Where the hell was Jay Blue while he was taking care of all this?

By the time he got to Ma Hatchet’s Café, Jay Blue, Jubal, and Luz were already half-finished with their meals.

“’Bout time you got here,” Jay Blue said. “I ordered you a steak.” He pointed to a bleeding slab of beef on a plate.

Skeeter didn’t care much for steak that rare. “I told you I wanted fried chicken.”

“You said not unless it was Beto’s fried chicken. You heard him, didn’t you, Mr. Hayes?”

Jubal shot a glance at both boys, but just kept chewing.

“I said that so Beto wouldn’t get his feelin’s hurt. Some folks are like that, you know. They don’t want to hurt nobody’s feelin’s.”

Jay Blue threw his knife and fork on his plate and dragged a cloth napkin over his mouth. “Just eat it, Skeeter. I’m goin’ across the street to borrow Mr. Collins’s banjo.” He scooted his chair back and shot upright. He was on one of those tears where everything revolved around Jay Blue Tomlinson.

“Hold on!” Jubal said, taking one last bite. “You gonna leave a couple lookin’ like us to walk into that saloon alone?” He made gestures toward Luz and himself.

“It’s a nice town,” Jay Blue insisted.

“I’ve been run out of nice towns and shot at with live ammunition. I don’t want to go nowhere in this town without somebody named Tomlinson holdin’ my hand.” He stood, then grabbed the back of Luz’s chair with gentlemanly grandiloquence. “Come, my darlin’, we’re late for the ball.”

“Alright,” Jay Blue said, his impatience clearly shining through his attempts at being a gracious host.

The three of them left, and Skeeter was alone again. He cut a sliver off of the edge of the steak where it was actually cooked a little, but it didn’t appeal to him much. He satisfied what was left of his appetite with some biscuits and butter, some mashed potatoes, and some green beans.

Trying to catch up to the party, he stormed out of the café and saw a light on in the general store. Stepping in, he found Sam Collins furiously scrawling as the telegraph ticker tapped away like an annoying rattle on a buckboard wagon. Skeeter was always amazed that Sam could make sense of that racket.

Sam glanced up over the lenses of his glasses. “Howdy, Skeeter.” His pencil point had worn itself dull, but he didn’t seem to have time to whittle it sharp. “You just missed ’em.”

“Thanks, Mr. Collins.” He started to go, but the ticker paused.

Sam looked up and smiled. “Jay Blue told me about saddle-breaking the Steel Dust Gray.”

Skeeter threw his chest out a little. “It was sure somethin’, Mr. Collins.”

“Sounded like it. Were you there?”

The ticker took off again like a branch against a window pane on a stormy night.

Skeeter’s mouth was hanging open and his breath seemed stuck in his throat in a way that made him feel that he was going to vomit up that piece of raw steak.
Was I there? I did half the riding!
“You might say I helped,” he answered. He wasn’t sure if Sam even heard him, for the blunt pencil stub was back to scratching marks on paper.

He stepped out of the doorway and quietly shut the latch. He trudged across the street, and happened to see lightning in the northwest. A cold night was coming. There’d be rain, maybe sleet.