A Tale Out of Luck (7 page)

The corporal kept his fists in front of him.

Now Jubal Hayes pulled his tinted glasses off, dropping them in the dirt, revealing one last unusual feature. The light gray color of his eyes was such that a person could only look
through
them, instead of into them. And as Jubal Hayes made a glance his way, Skeeter thought he saw the eyes actually turn red for a brief instant.

“Only thing is,” said Jubal Hayes to his would-be opponent, “you better watch out. It’s
catchin’
. If I touch you, you’ll end up lookin’ just like me.” He made a rush toward the corporal, who screamed and ran away like a frightened child.

“Mr. Hayes!” scolded the major, finally arriving, out of breath, at the scene of the confrontation. “First Sergeant, catch that corporal!”

“Yes, sir!”

Jubal Hayes began laughing, until that one cloud in the sky moved away from the sun, and then he shrank under it like a slug under a handful of salt thrown down by a mean little kid. He ran for his hat and pulled his scarf up. He scrambled for his shaded glasses, blowing the dirt from the lenses before he returned them to his face. But when he turned to collect his knife from the corral post, he found that Jay Blue had already retrieved it and was offering it to him.

“Here you are, Mr. Hayes.”

“Give me that!” Jubal Hayes looked so insulted that Skeeter thought he was going to cut Jay Blue’s throat with that shiny blade, but Jay Blue did not appear to be afraid.

Skeeter stood gawking, fifteen paces away, where he had been compelled to stop. What was Jay Blue doing with that strange man’s knife? The man said it was catching, for heaven’s sake.
Why did we even come here? Oh, when is this bastard of a day ever going to end?

11

J
AY BLUE
was studying his own reflection in the lenses of Jubal Hayes’s glasses, noting that bruises covered a good portion of his face. He improved upon his image as much as he could, drawing himself up into a slightly bolder stance. He was hoping the mustanger might be of some assistance to him in recovering his lost mare, since Major Quitman had showed no inclination toward helping. If Jubal could charm the wildest of horses right into a cavalry corral, certainly he could track down a single stall-raised Thoroughbred.

But before he could broach the subject, the rattle of a wagon attracted his attention. He turned and saw a buckboard coming, five horsemen following at a trot. Instantly, he recognized the Double Horn Ranch crew, led by big Jack Brennan. As the buckboard came closer, Jay Blue saw that the ranch foreman, Eddie Milliken, was driving the vehicle behind two mules. Then he noticed some odd-shaped object in the bed of the wagon, covered by a wagon sheet.

First Sergeant Polk was dragging the offending corporal back by his collar as the buckboard rattled right up to the acting post commander. Milliken’s shoulders lurched in a silent chuckle when he saw Jay Blue’s face. Jay Blue snarled back.

“What is this?” the major demanded.

Jack Brennan ignored the major, his eyes bouncing back and forth between Jay Blue and Skeeter. “What are you two whelps doin’ here?”

“Jay Blue was supposed to be on guard and Indians stole the captain’s Thoroughbred,” Skeeter claimed.

Jay Blue heard Jubal Hayes make a horselike grunt that said he knew otherwise.

“I’ll ask the questions here,” Quitman scolded. “What have you got in the wagon?”

“Evidence.”

“Of what?”

Brennan shrugged. “The government’s failed Indian policy?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Why don’t you take a look and see,” Jack Brennan suggested.

“First Sergeant!” The major waggled his index finger at the wagon.

Keeping one big hand clamped tightly on the corporal’s collar, Polk stepped forward and threw the tarp aside. The corpse of a man lay in the bed of the wagon, six arrows protruding from it at odd angles. Jay Blue approached close enough to look over the sideboards. He saw the lifeless face of the man staring heavenward, but only from one eye, as the other was missing. He grimaced at the sight of the bloody skull where the scalp had been torn away.

“We found him up on Shovel Mountain,” Brennan announced.

“Who is he?” Jay Blue asked.

“Hell, I don’t know. I saw him once at Flora’s Saloon.”

“What happened to his eye?” Skeeter asked.

Brennan pointed at the buzzards circling overhead.

“These are Comanche markings,” Major Quitman claimed, studying the intricate designs in red paint on the dogwood arrow shafts. “We’ll need to ride over to Flat Rock Creek and question those Comanches about this. First Sergeant, secure one of those arrows to bring with us, and get a section of men mounted.”

“Section Two, Red Platoon, Company K!” Polk barked.

The buffalo soldiers made like a covey of quail, the men running to choose and saddle mounts. Polk looked at the corporal he still held in his grasp—the one who had started the trouble with the albino mustanger. “Well, Corporal Cornelius, if you’re so full of fight, you can ride at the head of the column.” He shoved the corporal toward the stables.

Jay Blue heard a chuckle of satisfaction from Jubal Hayes.

With one powerful hand, First Sergeant Polk yanked an arrow from the corpse. The sound of the barbs on the war point ripping flesh sent a chill down Jay Blue’s backbone.

Jack Brennan had gotten down from his horse to address the post commander. “Me and my boys will go with you, Major. I’ve been missing a couple of horses, and I’ll just bet that those red devils have got ’em.”

“I’ll bet they’ve got our Kentucky mare, too!” Jay Blue sang. “Skeeter and I will ride with you.”

“No,” the major said. “I will not be responsible for getting Captain Hank Tomlinson’s son killed. You youngsters stay out of this. Go home. Mr. Brennan, your men can ride with me to identify your stock as long as you agree to act only under my orders.”

Jack Brennan turned to Milliken. “Take the dead man into town. The rest of you men will come with me and the major.” He looked at Skeeter, then Jay Blue. “You two whelps do what the major says and let the men handle this.”

“But . . .” Jay Blue began.

“Don’t try to follow us,” the first sergeant added.

“But they’ve got our mare,” Jay Blue insisted.

Jubal Hayes slapped Jay Blue on the shoulder with the back of his hand. “Them Indians don’t have your daddy’s mare. Do as you’re told and go home. First Sergeant, who’s gonna pay me for those horses I led in?”

Polk took the money from his pocket, handed it to the mustanger, then turned for the stables. The major was marching back to his headquarters, for his weaponry, Jay Blue assumed. Eddie Milliken was busy cussing at his mules to turn the buckboard around, but took the time to aim one of the cuss words at Jay Blue. Jack Brennan was remounting with a curious grin.

Jay Blue turned to the mustanger. “What did you mean, Mr. Hayes? If the Indians don’t have our mare, who does?”

Jubal Hayes finished counting his money and tucked it into his shirt pocket. “I cut her trail this morning. Shod all around, long-legged, running with a herd of mustangs. That stallion got her.”

“What stallion?”

“The wildest of the wild. The Mexicans call him El Grullo. White men call him the Steel Dust Gray.”

Skeeter had walked up within earshot, though he still seemed leery of the albino man. “They say he’s uncatchable.”

“That’s right,” Jubal agreed.

“How could a mustang steal our mare right out of her pen?” Jay Blue argued.

“Was she in heat?” Jubal said through his scarf.

“Yes, sir,” Skeeter replied.

“Then that stallion took her,” Jubal insisted. “That mare is gone as a goose in spring, boys. You wouldn’t even know where to look to find her.”

“I was hoping you might guide us,” Jay Blue suggested.

Jubal shook his head. “Not interested. Go home and face your daddy.” He marched back to his pony, stepped up into his stirrup, and turned west.

Twenty-four buffalo soldiers had formed up with their mounts. First Sergeant Polk ordered them into a column of fours as Major Quitman marched back to the stables with his saber and his Colt revolver belted on. A corporal brought Quitman his horse and held it while the officer mounted. Within a minute, the major gave the order to ride, repeated by First Sergeant Polk at the top of his bellowing lungs. Jay Blue could only stand there with Skeeter and watch the column move off to the east while Jubal Hayes continued to trot away to the west.

“Maybe they’re right,” Skeeter said. “Maybe we should just go face the captain. You can’t believe that crazy-lookin’ mustanger. He didn’t actually
see
our mare. That could have been anybody’s shod horse running with the wild ones. We don’t know if the Indians have got her, or El Grullo, or somebody else. We don’t know any more right now than we knew this morning.”

“The gate was closed, Skeeter.”

“Huh?”

“The gate to the mare’s pen was closed this morning. Didn’t you notice?”

“I was a little busy dodging the captain, hombre.”

“That mare jumped over the rails. What horse thief would open the gate, steal the mare, then close the gate back? She jumped, Skeeter. She’s running with the Steel Dust Gray.”

“Then we’ll never get her back now. You heard that mustanger. He said not even he could get her back.”

Jay Blue smiled, even though it hurt his lip.

“Uh-oh. I don’t like that shit-eatin’ grin. What are you thinkin’?”

“I’ll bet Mr. Hayes can do it if we help him.”

“You crazy? Didn’t you hear him say it was catchin’?”

“The man’s an albino, Skeeter. You’re born with it. You can’t catch it. You saw him lead those mustangs right into the corral like he was a mother duck. And that’s working on his own. If we help him, I’ll bet we can get the mare back, and maybe catch El Grullo, to boot. I say let’s follow him. We’ll catch up to him and talk him into it.”

Skeeter frowned. “Well, what about this Indian trouble? Do you want to end up like that scalped man?”

“We’ve got good horses and plenty of ammunition. We’ll watch each other’s back, like we always do. Like brothers. Anyway, like Daddy always says, a man who fears Indians is liable to get snake-bit, and a man who fears rattlers is liable to get scalped.”

Skeeter frowned. “What does that mean?”

“Hell, I don’t know. Are you coming or not?” Jay Blue mounted his horse.

Skeeter sighed in resignation and put his foot in the stirrup. “I guess I’ll take my chances with you and the mustanger,” he said, settling into leather. “The captain would just kill me if I came back without you.”

“He’s liable to kill us both if we come back without that mare.”

12

F
LORA BARLOW’S SKIN
smelled of her lavender bath oil and her patchouli perfume, but when she came down the steps from her bedroom and opened the back door to the saloon, the odors of tobacco smoke and spilt beer cut through the more feminine aromas and assaulted her nostrils. She didn’t really mind. It smelled like a pretty tolerable living to her.

Looking to her right, back into the corner, she saw that the Double Horn boys had left a few shot glasses and empty bottles strewn around. One chair was knocked over. She had watched them play poker until about three o’clock, and then she had gone to bed alone. Dottie had stayed up with the cowboys, drinking and who knows what all. Flora did not run a whorehouse here, but Dottie was a big girl and if she wanted to make some extra pay that way, that was her business. Apparently, the Double Horn boys had all passed out and slept on the floor. She didn’t see or smell any vomit. Someone—surely Jack—had left five silver dollars on the table.

Flora straightened up the mess in the corner, then walked to the double front doors with the glazed glass panels. Unlocking them, she swung them inward, propping each open with a brick waiting on the floor for just that purpose. Now only the swinging barroom doors stood between her and the street.

Luck, Texas, was going about its normal midday routine. A few pedestrians strolled the boardwalks. A farmer and his wife drove by on a hack loaded with a month’s worth of supplies. The farmer looked longingly at Flora, then turned his eyes forward at the behest of his wife’s bony elbow. He cussed the mules and shook the reins. Flora smiled. She loved being the unattainable object of desire. Way down the street, past the farmer’s wagon, she could see three men riding into town. They were too far away to recognize, but they sat their horses like cowboys.

The day had warmed up nicely following last night’s chill, so Flora decided she’d open all the windows and air the place out. Muscling the panes up on the west side last, she saw that those three riders had stopped to talk to Sam Collins in front of his general store, and now she recognized them very well. It was Hank, along with his top hands, Tonk and Poli. Her heart made a little skip, and she was glad she had her doors open in case Hank wanted a drink, as was his custom. She didn’t know how Captain Hank Tomlinson could get her all worked up just by riding down the street. She’d had her share of men, and she should have known better, but she couldn’t help herself when it came to the captain.

She watched him for a moment. He was shaking his head as he listened to Sam. She could just imagine what the conversation was all about. She didn’t recall Sam being here last night, but the story of Jay Blue’s beating would be all over town by this hour. She straightened the chairs around the poker table in the corner until she saw the silhouettes fill the doorway.

Hank and Poli came in, but Tonk stayed outside, like he always did. Hank turned to invite him in. “Tonk, come on in and have a sup of branch water. It’s only Miss Flora in here, anyway.”

But Tonk just shook his head and took a seat on the bench outside.

When Hank turned back toward her, Flora put on her prettiest pout of apprehension. “I’ve halfway been expecting you.”

He flashed that familiar smile at her. “I’m halfway thirsty.”

“I’m the other half,” Poli said.

Relieved by their smiles, she moved into position behind the bar. “Beer? I’ll bet it’s still cool from last night’s chill.”