Pinto Lowery (10 page)

“Then it's best you call me Elsie,” his weary host countered. “I'd argue with you some more, but I
am
cold, and I
will
accept your generous offer. Brax, you watch your sister. Ben, get along out of those clothes now. And keep Mister ... Pinto ... company.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Ben said, shaking his head and waving Pinto back to the small comer room. “She'll scrub my hide off with that brush, you know,” the boy complained when they were safely out of his mother's earshot. “Take a year's growth off me.”

“You know, Ben, dere's men pay a silver dollar in Wichita fer a scrub like what you'll get. Hold yer tongue till yer older. Man don't have a ma forever, and when she's gone, won't nobody look on you half so kind.”

“You lose yer ma, Pinto?”

“Year 'fore I come back from de war,” Pinto said, frowning. “And ain't a lot o' good I known since.”

Ben nodded sadly as he unbuttoned his soggy shirt.

“She means well enough, I suppose,” the boy added. “And I sure'd miss her if she was to not be here, like Jared's ma. But she just don't leave a man much dignity, washin' him naked like he was still a baby and not half grown.”

“Sure,” Pinto said, fighting the urge to grin as he stared at the spidery arms and protruding ribs of the child hurrying himself into premature manhood. It wasn't until Ben wrapped himself in a quilt and drew a mouth organ to his lips that Pinto grew cold.

“Don't you like music, Pinto?” Ben asked.

“Like it jus' dandy,” Pinto replied. “Only stirred up a recollection's all.”

“'Bout a harmonica player?”

“A friend,” Pinto whispered. “Some'd say he was jus' a boy himself. Never saw de backbone nor de heart.”

“Somethin' bad happen to him? In the war?”

Pinto nodded. In the war? Sure. In one war or another. Or was it all the same one?

Braxton came along to fetch Ben, and the brothers dragged themselves along to the kitchen. A bit later Brax reappeared. Then Elsie and little Winifred departed while Pinto scrubbed himself in the lukewarm, halfway muddied water.

“Ma said I can heat up another kettle,” Ben offered as he observed Pinto's reaction to the tepid bathwater.

“It's jus' fine, Ben,” Pinto insisted. “'Mos' as fine as de company.”

By and by those weeks passed at the Oakes place in Wise County etched themselves into Pinto's heart. He tried telling himself Tully would be back from Kansas soon and find little use for a hireling. And there was the call of the open sky and the windswept plain, too. But at night, sitting in the loft swapping tales with Ben and Brax, Pinto Lowery found a piece of himself he thought he'd lost back in Pennsylvania when Jamie Haskell fell.

“You tell stories just fine,” Ben proclaimed.

“Used to tell my cousins,” Pinto said, remembering. “And come summer, when we could skin out on our chores some, I'd run off with my friends to de river bottoms and swap a few lies.”

“Ain't all o' them stories lies, is they?” Brax asked.

“No, sir,” Pinto declared. “Dere's particles o' truth in every one.”

Better still were mornings and evenings when Pinto took his meals with the family. Elsie was a rare wonder of a cook, and she near had the flesh Pinto had run off in a season's mustanging back on his ribs. He'd almost forgotten what real coffee tasted like, and Elsie was forever putting a platter of biscuits and a tub of butter on the sideboard for him to mix with slices of jerked beef.

Fer a job a man's paid fer, dis watchin' over Elsie and the youngsters's got to be marked down at de top o' my lis'
, Pinto thought.

But with three-fourths of the male population of Wise County driving cattle to Kansas, some took notice. Not all came to see women and children through the steaming June afternoons. Many arrived with larceny in their hearts. Big Nose Joe Hannigan was among the worst.

It was Jared Richardson first brought word of Hannigan's arrival in Wise County.

“Thought to warn you,” the young man told Pinto late one afternoon. “Didn't want to worry anybody, but we had some trouble day 'fore yesterday with some visitors.”

“Oh?” Pinto asked.

“Come ridin' up to the house, screamin' like Comanches and demandin' our money. All they got fer their trouble was a load o' buckshot courtesy o' Arabella's twelve gauge. That sort o' discouraged 'em.”

“I'd judge it did,” Pinto said, grinning at the notion.

“Well, they went and set fire to the bunkhouse and shot up our chickens some. Scared Jim and Job considerable. Worse part's they sailed into Defiance, guns blazin', and robbed the bank. After that, they took both saloons and the mercantile.”

“How many were they?” Pinto asked nervously.

“Seven to begin with,” Jared explained. “Harry Allen over at the mercantile kilt one 'fore they shot him dead. They gunned ole Miz Pegram, too, who only come in to buy some gingham cloth. And a crazy kid outside the Lucky Seven Saloon got murdered, too.”

The picture of a grinning face flashed through Pinto's brain, and he grew cold.

“Boy wasn't even doin' anything!” Jared exclaimed. “Shot him for the sport.”

“Who was it did de shootin' ?” Pinto asked.

“Young fellow, as I heard it,” Jared explained. “But it's his brother's got folks boltin' their doors. Big fellow with a busted nose.”

“Joe Hannigan,” Pinto muttered.

“You heard o' him then?”

“Yeah, I heard o' him. It's bad luck's blew him here, and that's certain.”

“Thought you ought to know. Some men tracked 'em a ways. Lost the trail just west o' here.”

“And you rode out here by yerself?” Pinto cried. “Won't get old takin' chances with yer hide, boy! Bes' I see you home safe.”

“No, don't you worry over me,” Jared argued. “I'm smoke on the wind out here. I know every prickly pear and brier in all o' Wise County. You look out yourself. Ain't much to stop Joe Hannigan from payin' you a visit. He's got plenty o' food from the mercantile, but he'll be needin' water. If he turns shy o' the creek, I expect he'll see your cook smoke.”

“Could be,” Pinto confessed.

“You could bring Miz Oakes and the little ones out to our place. We'd enjoy the company, and those outlaws ain't likely to come lookin' for more buckshot.”

“Wouldn't bank on that, Jared,” Pinto declared. “These men got memories.”

“But there's nobody here to hold 'em off!”

“Dere's me,” Pinto pointed out.

“Not much when you put it against six killers.”

“Guess it'll have to be 'nough,” Pinto said, sighing. “Now you bes' ride along home, Jared. I thank you fer de news, but I got no time to bury neighbors jus' now. Vamoose.”

Pinto waved the young man along, then made his way solemnly toward the barn. Ben and Brax were busy toting well water to the house, and Pinto joined them for a moment. Once inside, he pointed to a shotgun resting over the door.

“Know how to fire her?” Pinto asked.

“That's Ma's gun,” Ben explained. “But there's a Springfield in the cupboard I fired lots o' times.”

“Well, you leave de shotgun to her then,” Pinto said, scratching his chin. It was hard to imagine prim and proper Elsie Oakes firing a load of buckshot at anybody. “You see riders come, you take out that rifle and be ready. You shoot any strangers come callin', hear?”

“Expectin' trouble?” Brax asked excitedly. “That what Jared rode out to say?”

“Was,” Pinto admitted.

“Was what?” Elsie asked, stepping over to join them.

“Trouble,” Pinto explained. “Wors' kind.” He then motioned her outside and related the tale of Big Nose Joe Hannigan.

*  *  *

Pinto Lowery had never been a man to wait for trouble to come calling. No, he believed in meeting a thing head on. After satisfying himself Elsie understood the peril and insisting the children stay close to home till the danger passed, Pinto saddled the black and prepared to track down the Hannigans.

“You ain't goin' for good, are you, Pinto?” Brax asked.

“Lef' my blanket roll in de lof', didn't I?” Pinto responded. “I'll be along in a bit. Tomorrow. Or maybe de day after.”

“I could go with you,” Ben offered.

“You got a job,” Pinto told the youngster. “And I got one, too.”

Thereupon he set off to locate the Hannigans.

Joe Hannigan had ridden the outlaw trail often enough to know the difference between real danger and a pack of farmboys and saloon owners out to get some bank money back. Pinto supposed the Hannigan gang spent a whole hour losing their pursuers. Currently the bandits were camped just above a winding creek west of the Trinity River. Big Nose Joe and his brother Pat were splashing in the shallows with two youthful-looking companions. The other two outlaws kept watch from the hillside.

Pinto drank it all in from the far side of the creek. A stand of locusts offered good shelter there. He'd left the black fifty yards back in a narrow ravine. Best not to alert a nervous lookout, and a restless stallion was apt to stir or whine any moment.

For close to an hour Pinto watched the swimmers. Eventually Pat spelled the guards, who then took to the water. It was a terrible temptation for Pinto. One bullet through the forehead of Pat Hannigan, and the outlaws would be helpless before the barrel of the Henry. It wasn't half so hard a shot as others Pinto had made. Still, a miss spelled death, and killing the whole gang would be less than likely.

Ain't got de stomach for it anymore
, Pinto thought. At Fredericksburg he and Jamie Haskell had stood there firing round after round into the surging blueshirted mass coming up the heights. Whole companies had been cut down. What were six men to the thousands?

If's different when you can see their faces
, Pinto told himself. And no matter what they had done, Pinto Lowery lacked the anger to boil his blood.

It was later, toward nightfall, that Pat Hannigan took out a mouth organ and started playing haunting tunes.

“Joe, that noise'll carry for miles,” one of the gang complained. “Sure to draw that posse.”

“Maybe they'll bring that girl and her shotgun,” Pat said between tunes. “Eh, Joe?”

The big-nosed killer scowled and kicked a rock into the creek.

“Might be I'll swing back that way and visit that gal,” Joe growled. “As for a posse, I almost welcome 'em. It's gotten too fool quiet hereabouts for my likin'. In the old days, you could depend on a Comanche to make a try for yer horse or some farmer to happen along. Nowadays you got to ride into town to find any excitement.”

“Hard to stay long when you rob the place,” Pat observed. “Wish I'd got a bottle 'fore you shot that pup outside the saloon.”

“He got in my way,” Joe grumbled.

“Well, he didn't learn much from his mistake,” a sandy-haired outlaw said, laughing.

“Try another tune,” Joe suggested, and Pat struck up a melody.

The music plagued Pinto near as much as the conversation. As the Hannigans told stories of this outrage or that, Pinto fumed. It was bad enough to hear such talk, but listening to the mouth organ brought back Muley's face.

Be nightmares dis night
, Pinto knew.

Then there was the matter of the boy. What was his name? Pinto didn't even recall. Nobody would trouble themselves much about it, either. What a sad thought it was to imagine the poor kid tossed in a hole without even a marker for remembering!

Eventually Pinto lay back against a boulder and tried to catch a bit of sleep. The outlaws were resting in their blankets, and the intervening creek promised continued concealment. Even so, Pinto never slept more than half an hour at a time. Too many ghosts haunted his dreams.

Come daybreak the Hannigans began breaking camp. They did so in no great hurry, and more than once Pinto thought to fetch help and take the killers then and there. He dared not leave them to visit the Oakes place, though.

Joe Hannigan made his way to the creek and drew out a razor. As Hannigan soaped his face, Pinto thought of the day poor Muley had begged the use of Pinto's strap.

“Got my pa's old razor,” the boy had said. “Just need to put an edge on it.”

“And to grow some whiskers,” Elmer Tubbs had said, laughing. “Now get to work you no-account!”

No-account
? Pinto thought. The boy was worth a dozen Elmer Tubbses.

That was when Pinto saw the watch fob. Joe Hannigan twirled it in one hand while slicing off the beginnings of a beard with a razor held in the other. Pinto Lowery recalled that fob. Elmer Tubbs was partial fond of it. He'd held it himself the day Pinto had ridden away.

So, Tubbs, you caught up with' em, did you
? Wasn't the first fool to rush to his death. Faye and the youngsters would have a hard time of it now.

“Joe, ain't you ever gettin' finished down there?” Pat finally shouted.

“Didn't know you to be in such a rush,” Joe answered.

“Ain't generally,” Pat admitted. “Got a feelin', though. Feel better when I put this place behind me.”

“Gone seein' omens in the clouds like Pa?”

“No, but there's somethin' just the same.”

Joe finished his shave and wiped his face clean. He was preparing to climb the hill when one of the younger outlaws let loose a howl.

“Lord, Jimmy, what's got you befuddled?”

“This!” the young outlaw exclaimed, pulling a small object from his saddlebag. “What is it, Joe?”

“Oh, that,” Pat said, laughing as he tossed something to his big brother.

“Why it's ears, boy,” Joe explained, tossing them back. “Cut off that freight boy back in Doan's Creek.”

“Ears!” Jimmy cried.