A Tale Out of Luck (23 page)

“One summer day, we found four of the five Raffertys dead and scalped, their cabin burned. Comanche sign everywhere. Young John Rafferty was missing, so we knew they had carried him off to make a warrior of him, if he was tough enough to survive.

“We gave chase, and we got close. We even sighted the Indians. They dodged us, but we hounded them for three days of hard ridin’. That boy knew who we were from our visits to his homestead. He knew us all. But the Indians had fresh horses and we didn’t. They outran us. Our mounts went lame, and we ended up walking back to the settlements. That Rafferty boy must have thought we gave up.”

Hank shook his head and looked at the floor. He gritted his teeth and prepared to tell the rest.

“Four years later I was in camp with my same three Ranger amigos, way up on the Concho. Rogers went down to the river to fill our canteens one afternoon, and didn’t come back. We found him dead and scalped, a couple of these arrows in him.

“We found no sign to follow. The murderer was careful. We buried Rogers on a lonely hill and started back for civilization. The next day, Hornsby was gatherin’ firewood, not twenty steps from me and Jim Kenyon. We heard a bow thump and saw Hornsby go down with an arrow in his chest that matched the one that had killed Rogers. Same as these arrows here. Hornsby was dead before he hit the ground.

“I got mad and shouted out, ‘Show yourself!’ I said, ‘Who the hell are you?’ The voice that came back from the woods said, ‘John Rafferty, you son of a bitch!’ I let a couple of bullets go in the area of the voice, and he cussed me up and down in English and Comanche as he ran off. Again, we found no trail to follow, but Jim Kenyon and I knew what was going on now. That Rafferty boy had gone Indian and learned to hate white men. But he especially hated
us
for givin’ up on him four years before, and abandoning him to go through hell.”

“But you didn’t abandon him,” Flora said.

“He didn’t know that. He was just a kid, caught in the worst of circumstances, and he was takin’ it out on us. So Jim Kenyon and I decided to stick together and ride like hell back to the settlements, and we were way up on the Concho at the time, so we had a ways to go. It was Jim Kenyon who dubbed him Black Cloud. Said he was hangin’ over us like a thunderstorm, strikin’ us down like lightning. But it’s hard to see a black cloud comin’ in the night. In my sleep, I heard the arrow that got Jim while he stood guard, not ten feet from me. I buried him in a shallow grave, covered with rocks to keep the wolves from diggin’ him up.

“I don’t mind tellin’ y’all I was scared. Scared of an angry kid gone Indian—no more than seventeen years old. But while I was prayin’ over Kenyon’s shallow grave, I got an idea. It occurred to me that it wasn’t the wolves that were gonna dig him up. It was Black Cloud. He’d want the scalp. So I rode away from the gravesite like I was late for supper, but I stopped a mile away, dismounted, and snuck back on foot, Indian-style.

“I almost got the drop on Black Cloud—John Rafferty—whatever you want to call him. I saw him from a distance through the brush, digging up the grave. It was night, but I could make out that he’d sure enough grown into a tall, skinny, white warrior with long dark hair. I ducked down and snuck closer, to get within pistol range. But somehow he heard me, or smelled me, or saw me. When I stepped out of the brush, he had his bow drawn. You can’t often duck an arrow, but it was dark and I got far enough aside to take it in the shoulder instead of the heart. I pulled the trigger on my Colt and caught him in the belly. Knocked him down, but he scrambled, caught his horse, and rode away.”

“My God,” said Sam, “how’d you survive?”

Hank picked up the arrow that had fallen from the fiddle case. “I tried to push this damn thing through, but it was stuck against the inside of my shoulder blade. So I pulled on it as hard as I could until the shaft came free, leaving the point in me. I was bleedin’ pretty bad, but I made it to my horse. I thought about following Black Cloud to finish him off, but I was weak, and decided to let him die of his gut wound. I was half dead myself when I made it to the nearest homestead.”

“But Black Cloud didn’t die,” Jay Blue said, gathering the situation. “He’s back. Still makin’ arrows. Still killin’ and scalpin’.”

“Looks that way, doesn’t it, son? He might even be trying to pin this one on me. And having this old arrow in my possession doesn’t really help my case any. It could be considered evidence against me.”

“Against you?” Sam said. “But that’s the arrow that wounded you.”

“When I reported what had happened to Kenyon, Rogers, and Hornsby, the story got out. People started talkin’ about the incident after it came out in the newspapers. Some said that I faked the wound, and that I didn’t really have an arrow point in me at all.”

“Why would you fake it?”

“Some say there was no Black Cloud. They say I made the whole story up. They say I made the arrow myself. In essence, they were saying that
I’m
Black Cloud—that I killed all my Ranger brothers and covered it up with a wild story. After all, I was the only witness to survive.”

“Why would you kill your friends?” Flora asked.

“Oh, there was all manner of speculation on that, too. Some say I lost my temper and killed one of ’em over a trivial matter, and then had to kill the witnesses so I wouldn’t hang. Some even say we found Jim Bowie’s lost silver mine, and I wanted it all to myself, so I killed my partners. It got that ridiculous.

“Anyway, Jim Kenyon’s widow, who was left behind with a baby boy to raise—Matt Kenyon—asked for an investigation. She claimed some whiskey-soaked informant had come to her and told her that I had gotten drunk with him in a saloon and confessed to killing all the men. And I don’t doubt some fool told her that. She was a good woman, but the loss of her husband and what that damned fool drunkard told her drove her crazy. She was never the same. And she raised her son to believe me a murderer.”

“What became of the investigation?”

“Nothin’. The drunk who accused me couldn’t be found, and there wasn’t enough evidence to warrant an investigation. The bodies were never recovered. Nobody even went to look for ’em, though I offered to lead a party out there. Nobody wanted to ride with me. People would cross the street to avoid me when I was in some town. It didn’t set easy—knowin’ that half of Texas believed I had killed my three best friends. Took me years to earn my reputation back and put all that behind me. And now, here it is again, starin’ me right in the face.”

Hank felt that old craving for whiskey. Not just a shot, either, but a brain-numbing bellyful.

“So what do we do now?” Jay Blue asked.

Hank blinked hard. He threw the old arrow shaft, stained with his own blood, onto the counter, and watched it rattle to a standstill. “Some developments have occurred since you left town, son. You can read all about it on page two of the Austin
Daily Statesman
. The upshot is that Matt Kenyon will be coming to arrest me for suspicion of murdering Wes James. Maybe as soon as tomorrow. The best thing we can do is find out who
really
killed him.”

“How?”

Hank felt his eyes bulge. “The telegrams. I left ’em on the table.”

Flora stopped him before he could take a step. “It’s okay, I gathered them up,” she said, holding her hand over her heart.

He sighed, relieved to have her help, but annoyed at himself for forgetting about the Western Union slips the moment that old arrow appeared. He was about to force a thank-you out of his mouth when lightning brightened the night outside, revealing the image of a tall man running across the street toward the store.

“Take cover,” Hank said, pulling Flora behind him as he reached for his sidearm. The sky flashed again, and Hank saw Black Cloud, in war paint and full Comanche regalia, running at him with a scalping knife, looking straight through the store window into his eyes.

Thunder shook the windowpanes, and the door flew open, but it was Long Tom Merrick who stepped in, his face drawn with more worry than a night ride through a Texas blue norther should produce. “Captain, we got trouble at the ranch.”

Hank shook the image of Black Cloud out of his head. “What is it, Tom?”

“It’s Poli. He went huntin’. His horse came back without him.”

The news hit Hank in the stomach like an anvil. He had never known Poli to lose his mount. He had never seen Poli get bucked off. Poli knew which horse to choose for which chore. He knew how and where to tie a horse to prevent the animal from breaking loose. “Where did he go huntin’?”

“He didn’t say. Beto said he was after a big buck and didn’t want the rest of us to know where. And, Captain . . .”

“What is it, Tom? Spit it out.”

“The horse had a stab wound right in front of the saddle on the left side. It looked like an arrow point could have caused it.”

Hank felt that old black cloud loom over him again. He had to draw on every bit of gumption he owned to maintain his bearing in front of people who looked up to him.

“Gotch!” he ordered. “Sober up and saddle our horses.”

“Yes, sir!” Gotch said, charging out into the frigid night.

“A pack mule, too!”

“Got it!” The door slammed behind him, shutting out the howl of the wind.

“Sam, put together a pannier with anything we might need—blankets, bandages, medicine, food.”

“I’ll do it, Hank. And anybody who needs gloves or coats can get them now and we’ll settle up later.” Sam turned toward the nearest aisle and started gathering provisions.

“Boys,” Hank said to the Broken Arrow men, “we need to get back to the ranch. As soon as the wind dies down so a man can hear, we need to be out there, calling Poli’s name. Come daybreak, there will be no tracks to follow after all this rain. We’ll just have to roust him out like an old mossback steer. I want everybody searching in pairs. Nobody rides alone. That way, if you find him alive, one man can stay with him while the other rides for help. The signal, if you find him, dead or alive, is three rifle shots.”

Long Tom Merrick, Jay Blue, and Skeeter all nodded. Tom turned for the door, leaving a trail of raindrops still dripping from his slicker.

Jay Blue tugged Skeeter’s sleeve. “Skeeter, grab some of those warm gloves for me and meet me at the livery.”

Skeeter didn’t answer as Jay Blue motioned for Jane to follow him out the door, offering his coat for her to use in crossing the street.

Hank turned to Jubal. “Mr. Hayes, may I ask a favor of you?”

Jubal stood taller, lifting his chin. “Anything, Captain.”

“I know you and Luz have got to get back to your canyon early tomorrow and tend to your stock. But, on the way, can you search as you go?”

“Of course.”

“Once again, I’ll be obliged to you. Sam, provide Mr. and Mrs. Hayes with some warm clothes and a couple of slickers.”

“Sure thing, Hank.”

Jubal led Luz toward the winter clothing.

“What about the telegrams?” Flora said.

Hank shook his head. “I don’t have time now.”

“Let me help,” she said. She put her hand over the telegrams tucked into her bodice. “If you say it’s okay, I’ll read these. Sam and I can use the telegraph to follow up any leads in your absence. You’re running out of time, Hank. You know Kenyon is coming for you.”

Hank nodded and gave Flora a forced smile. He turned toward Sam. “Sam, you and Flora will act as my agents while I’m gone. Use my name to follow up on the investigation as you see fit. You’re detectives now. Get to the bottom of this business of who the hell Wes James was, and who wanted him dead.”

Sam beamed at the promotion. “Yes, sir, Captain!”

“That should lead us right to Black Cloud,” Flora said.

“That’s why you have to be careful. This is very serious business. It wouldn’t hurt to arm yourself.”

Flora glanced down the store aisles to make sure no one was looking. She put her high-heeled shoe on the edge of a keg of nails and lifted her skirt to reveal a tiny derringer tucked into a garter that held up her silk hosiery.

Hank’s eyes flashed, and he grinned briefly. “Those legs are more deadly than that popgun, but that’ll do in a pinch.”

She dropped her skirts. “You can pinch anything you want when this is all over.”

A lightning bolt attracted Hank’s eyes to the window again, and he caught a glimpse of Jay Blue and Jane across the street, huddled close together under the awning of the saloon.

Hank leaned close to Flora. “What’s that girl’s name—the one Jay Blue is sweet on?”

“Jane Catlett.”

“Is she a good girl?”

Flora nodded. “She’s a nice girl. Just had a hard start on life.”

“What happened to her?”

“She doesn’t talk about it. All I know is she lost her mother.”

“Let her help you with the telegrams. But don’t include anybody else.”

“Sure, Hank.”

He slipped his hand behind her neck and gave her a brief kiss on the lips, then strode for the door, his spurs ringing.

33

B
Y THE LIGHT OF A LANTERN
up in Flora’s room, the saloon owner and her employee, Jane Catlett, began to sort through the telegrams that had gushed into Luck once the wire was fixed. Hank had sent dozens of inquiries all over Texas, and as far north as Nebraska, asking stockyard bosses, brand inspectors, and range detectives he knew—and he knew them all—whether they had ever heard of a Wes James, or anyone who matched his description or that of the horse he rode, or if anyone had any recollection of Wes’s vertical WJ brand.

“Most of these just say, ‘No,’” Jane said, thumbing through the stack of unorganized telegrams.

“Mine, too. Let’s deal with them first. We’ll arrange them on the floor geographically.”

“What do you mean?”

“Imagine a map of Texas and the Southern Plains here on the bedroom floor. Wherever the telegram came from, put it in the right place on the map. Then we’ll start to get an idea of where Wes James
hasn’t
been seen. That’s a start.”

“Hey, you’re good at this,” Jane said, sounding impressed. “I wish we had some thumbtacks. We could put them on the wall.”