Dorothy Garlock (6 page)

“What’ll ye have, mister?” A heavyset woman, her dark hair parted in the middle and pulled to a tight bun on the back of her head, called from the back of the room.

Logan turned. Her face was flushed from the heat of the stove and she fanned it with the tail of the apron wrapped about her waist.

“Whatever you have ready, ma’am.”

“Hungry, air ya?”

“My stomach was slapping my backbone all the way to town.”

“Ha, ha, ha . . .” The fat woman laughed and her belly bounced in rhythm. “I’ll fix ya up a bait of steak and eggs.”

“You gonna cook fer a Injun, Mable?”

The surly voice cracked over Logan like ice. He swiveled to see who was speaking. The man wore dirty range clothes and had a week’s growth of whiskers on his face. His pale, watery blue eyes were filled with hostility. Logan stared at him. He almost felt sick to his stomach. Would he have to kill him? The thought had just popped in his mind when the woman’s loud, angry voice filled the room.

“Yore gawddamned right, I’m gonna cook for him! I ain’t put up no signs that says ’cause yore an Injun, or a drifter, or a shit-eating polecat, like ya are, Shorty Banes, that ya can’t eat here. His money’s good as yores, his manners is better. If’n you can’t hold yore tongue, ya can haul yore ass outta here!”

“Hit don’t seem right,” the man protested angrily. “Hit’s not decent to be a eatin’ alongside a redskin.”

“What’a you know ’bout what’s decent? If’n ya was atryin’ to be
decent,
you’d’a took a bath afore ya et! The stink of sweat ’n whiskey ya carry ’round’s enuff to turn my stomach. This here’s my place ’n hit seems right to me to feed ’im. I can do as I want to. If’n yore gonna keep on arunnin’ off at the mouth, Shorty Banes, ya’ll get the backside of a skillet. I ain’t takin’ no orders from you or nobody on how to run my own place! Ya can shut yore mouth or git, ’n I ain’t arepeatin’ myself!”

The man grumbled, turned his back, and hunkered over his meal. Logan pressed his lips together to suppress a smile. The world suddenly seemed brighter.

By the time Logan finished his second cup of coffee, the room was cleared. The woman, Mable, came out of the kitchen and stared at him with bright, blue eyes.

“Ya done et all that? Hit was the biggest slab a meat I had ’n hit’s gonna cost ya two bits.”

“It was worth every penny of it. Coffee’s the best I’ve had since Saint Louis.”

“I don’t keep the grounds aboilin’ more’n a week. If’n ya do, it’ll be so bitter ya might as well drink boiled acorns.” She snorted in disgust. “Ya goin’ to be stayin’ ’round here?”

“I’m thinking of it.”

“Keep a sharp lookout for the Clayhill men. That Shorty Banes is one of ’em. There ain’t no law here. It’s ever’ man fer hisself.”

“I realize that. Does Clayhill own the town?”

“He’d like to think he does. He ain’t got no say about my place or the mercantile, but runs ’bout ever’thin’ else.”

“I guess that includes the Land Office,” Logan said dryly.

“Shore as hell does. A few people slipped in a year or so back ’n got set up there in the hills. Ain’t been nobody since. He strong-arms that Land man. Adam Clayhill means to hang onto what he’s got ’n he’ll take what he ain’t got if’n he takes a notion.”

“What about his family?”

“He went back East ’bout ten or twelve year ago ’n come back aparadin’ his new family through town jest like they was somethin’ to see. The girl ain’t nothin’ but a snot. She comes to town actin’ like she owns the place. They take the stage to Denver, ’n from what I hear they lord it over folks down there, too. The boy ain’t too bad. Folks kinda liked him, but he’s gone off some’eres and ain’t been ’round fer quite a spell.”

Logan sat quietly and listened. There was more, much more, he’d like to know about Adam Clayhill, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask.

“Don’t guess he had no kids a his own,” Mable was saying. “Leastways, I ain’t ne’er heard a none. He sets a store by that gal. The way she carries on she needs her bottom blistered, is what she needs.”

Logan put his money on the table. “Are you sure that’s enough? I must have eaten six eggs.”

“Hit’s plenty. Come again. I like to see a man what puts away his vittles.”

“Thank you, I will. Where’s the Land Office?”

“At the end of the block. Next to the general mercantile.”

“Thanks. I need to go there, too.”

He paused on the porch and stood staring off down the street. For the first time he wondered if he was acting wisely or like a damned fool. What he was going to do might start a series of events that could lead to a lot of killing. He felt the weight of the money in the belt around his waist, shrugged his shoulders, and stepped off the porch and into the dusty street. He had come too far to back down now.

When Logan pushed open the door to the Federal Land Office, a bald, round-shouldered man who sat at a desk against the wall looked at him for an instant and then turned back to the papers on the desk.

“What’a you want?” he growled.

Logan crossed to the counter and placed his palms on the dusty surface. “I want to see the land map.” His voice was smooth against the unfriendly silence.

The man gave no sign of having heard. He shuffled papers, dipped his pen into the inkwell, and wrote on a paper. Logan’s palm slapped against the counter top. The man jumped as if stung and replaced the pen with exaggerated patience.

“I said I want to see the land map and I want to see it
now
!” Logan’s voice was flat, angry.

The man turned and faced him. Red with fury, he stared while he waged a silent battle with himself. His wavering eyes took in the smoldering look of anger in the eyes of the man who was plainly a breed. He noted the broad shoulders, the hard, lean length of him and his stance. The Land Officer wasn’t brave enough to stand up to this man. Self-preservation won over pride. He got slowly to his feet when Logan shifted his.

“This here’s a government office, and I’m a government official. I’ll thank you to show some respect,” he said with a show of bravado.

“Respect! Goddamn you!” Logan snarled. “I wanted to see the land map. That’s what you’re here for, you . . . bastard! Get it or I’ll put a hole in your damned head.” He stepped close to him, towered over him. The man reached behind him, brought out a long cylinder, and held it between them. Logan snatched it from his hand, unrolled it, and took it to the counter. When the man started to walk past him to the door, Logan’s arm shot out and stopped him. “You’re not going anywhere. Take hold of the end of this map and weight it down so I can look at it.”

“I . . . need to go out back.”

“I don’t care if you piss in your pants. You’re staying here until I finish my business.” Logan’s eyes quickly scanned the map. He was familiar with the territory, familiar with maps. As a captain in the Illinois Regulars he’d scanned many maps and made instant decisions. He noted the location of the Spurlock ranch and the land of the nesters to the east. He tapped the map with a double-jointed forefinger that turned toward his thumb. “How many acres in this section, starting here?” He placed his finger at the beginning of Clayhill property and traced it south to the river. He looked up to see the man’s eyes riveted on his crooked finger. “Look at the map, goddamn you! How many acres in this marked off section?”

“That’s been spoken for.” The man cast a despairing glance toward the door.

“It’s government land. It isn’t marked sold on the map. If you don’t have the deed I’ll catch the next stage to Denver and you’ll be without a job.” He stared down at the man, his face closed like a trap.

“I . . . got the deed.”

“Get out the papers. I want to see the legal description.”

“I—”

Logan grabbed the front of his shirt. The man stared up into a face rigid with anger and his tenuous resolve broke.

“I’ll . . . get it.”

Logan let go of his shirt. The man made a move toward the door and then, thinking better of it, went to the desk and drew out the papers.

“How many acres?” Logan hovered over him.

“Thirty thousand.”

“Thirty thousand at twenty-five cents an acre. I’ll count out the money while you fill out the papers.”

“Mr. Clayhill ain’t goin’ to like it.”

“You’d better stop worrying about
Mr. Clayhill
and start worrying about
Mr. Horn.
I’m here and he isn’t!” Logan shoved the trembling man down in the chair. “Make the deed out to Logan Horn.”

When he had finished counting out the money, Logan shoved it across the counter. He then strapped his considerably lighter money belt around his naked waist, pulled his tunic down over it, and buckled on the heavy gunbelt. He snatched the papers from the clerk’s hand, and after carefully scrutinizing them to see if they were in order, he folded them, tucked them inside his shirt, and went out the door.

A wagon was drawn up beside the porch of the general mercantile. Logan glanced at the supplies loaded in the wagon bed. It occurred to him that he should get his wagon and supplies now in order to avoid coming to town later.

He paused in the doorway of the store to allow his eyes to adjust from the bright sunlight to the darkened interior. It was filled to capacity with goods. Barrels of flour, sugar, salt pork, salted fish, and cornmeal crowded the aisles; jugs, tools, rope, and harnesses hung from the rafters. When his eyes became accustomed to the light, he saw a woman standing beside a table of bright yard goods. She wore a blue dress and a stiff-brimmed sunbonnet. Logan put his fingers to the brim of his hat and the woman nodded in response.

“Howdy.” The clerk was a big, red-faced man with thin gray hair. He spoke politely to Logan, then looked past him to the woman. “You decided on anything, Mrs. Parnell?”

“Not yet. You go ahead and wait on your other customer, Mr. McCloud. I’m waiting for Cooper.”

“Well, now. What can I do for you?” The man looked him straight in the eye and Logan almost sighed with relief. He’d dreaded dealing with another belligerent person.

“I need a wagon and team to haul supplies before I can think about buying them.”

“You come to the right place. I own the livery and I’ve got several wagons out back. Step out and see if any of them suits you. Don’t have any mules, but I’ve got a good team of bays.”

“I don’t think I’d take a mule if you gave him to me. I developed a powerful hate for the stubborn creatures while I was in the army.”

“Soldier, was ya? What side was ya on?”

“Illinois Regulars.”

“You don’t say? I come out here from Springfield, myself. If you see anything you want out back, walk on over to the livery and take a look at that bay team. They’re sound. Not more’n eight years old.” The man gave him a teasing grin and a wink. Logan smiled his understanding of the joke. In Illinois you never admitted to a horse being over eight when you sold him.

When Logan returned, he asked the price of the team and the wagon. The price the man quoted was reasonable, and Logan nodded in agreement. While the man found his helper to hitch the team to the wagon and bring it out front, Logan made out a list of supplies he would need.

The woman moved up to the counter with a bolt of goods in her hand, and Logan politely moved aside. She was tall, with soft, beautiful blue eyes and wisps of light hair that framed her face beneath the bonnet. Her face had age lines at the corners of her eyes and on each side of her mouth. She was not a young woman, but her skin was smooth and soft and her smile pleasant.

“You go ahead and make out your list. I’ll just put this down on the counter. I have plenty of time. I’m waiting for my son.”

“I can’t seem to think, right offhand, what all I’m going to need,” Logan said, and looked around the store. He had the peppermint sticks at the head of the list. He looked up to see the woman staring at his crooked finger. He flexed it and frowned. This was the second time today someone had looked long and hard at his finger.

The store man returned and Logan gave him the list.

“I’ll make out a bill of sale for the wagon, harness, and team. You might need it.”

“I’d be obliged. I need to send off a letter. Do I leave it at the stage office?”

“Leave it with me. I’ll see that it gets on the stage to Denver.”

“Thanks. Do you sell paper and envelopes?”

“Not to someone I’m planning on getting as much money out of as I am you. Here . . .” He reached under the counter for a tablet and an envelope. Logan grinned, moved down to the end of the counter, and began to write:

Mr. James Randolph

Randolph House

Denver, Colorado Territory

I’d be obliged if you would wire Springfield and tell Wagner, Spillman, Landers, Hinkle, Henderson, and Tigeman that jobs are waiting for them. They’re to come to Junction City and ask directions to the Spurlock ranch. The Spurlocks will tell them where to find me.

I’m in the market for two thousand head of cattle if the price is right. You can write in care of the general store here in Junction City.

Logan Horn

He sealed the envelope, addressed it, and handed it to the storekeeper. “Add the cost to my bill.”

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll have my hand deep in your pocket by the time I fill the list and add on the team and wagon.” He selected a shovel from the group that stood against the wall and picked up a couple of ax heads. “Mind telling me where you’re fixing to settle?”

“I don’t mind. I bought some land out beyond the Spurlocks.”

“Out beyond the Spurlocks? Would that be the range Clayhill grazes?”

“I’ve heard it mentioned that he does. My cows will be on it now.”

“Wheeee . . . I’m thinkin’ there’s goin’ to be hair in the butter when Clayhill finds out.”

“I wrote to a friend about finding me some cattle. I’d appreciate it if you’d hold my mail here for me.”

“I do it all the time. I hold all Mrs. Parnell and Cooper’s mail. How are you amakin’ out, Mrs. Parnell? Cooper still aplannin’ on getting him a fancy stallion and goin’ in the horse business?”

“He’s afiguring on it. It may not be for a year or two. We’ve still got a lot to do out at our place.”