Reilly's Luck (1970) (15 page)

He did not want to be a gambler or a gunfighter. He did not want to die as Hardesty had, or Will Reilly, or as Tensleep almost had. For a long time he had wanted to go east ... now was the time.

He was going to keep five hundred dollars and he was going to leave the rest of it with the Bucklins to buy cattle and operate the ranch.

If he ever needed to come back, he could come back there, to the ranch ...

Chapter
Twelve.

But he did not go ... not quite yet. He rode with them to round up their cattle buy on the plains west of the Neuces, and started the long drive overland to the ranch, mostly young stuff with a few older steers to steady the herd. They wanted breeding stock, for they were not thinking of next year, but of the years to come.

After the first two days the cattle strung out, and for two weeks they moved the herd, first through dry country, and then across swollen streams and land that was soggy from the sudden rains.

At last Val pulled off to one side and said to Pa Bucklin, "I am leaving it to you. You will hear from me, and one day I will come back. In the meantime, build the herd, and when there is money for me, bank it in my name."

They shook hands, and Pa said, "The womenfolk are going to miss you mighty. My girls set store by you, boy."

"I will come back."

Cody rounded the herd and rode up to him. "If you ever need help, you send out a call and we'll come a-runnin'. We reckon you're kin of ourn now."

"I never had a family. Only Uncle Will, who wasn't rightly my uncle."

"You've got one now. From grass roots to cloud."

The day was threatening rain when he turned his horse away from the herd and pointed north for Kansas and the railroad. He held to low ground because of lightning, but he kept a steady course. When night came there was nothing around him but dampness, the clouds, and the dark. He camped several times before he saw the lights of Dodge, and when he came up to the town he was wearing sodden clothing, several days of whiskers, and a bedraggled look.

He rode past a cheap saloon and did not see the man who suddenly gave him a second look, then spoke over his shoulder into the saloon.

He drew up opposite a restaurant and leaned over to stare in the rain-wet window, trying to see how inviting it looked inside. He swung down and was about to tie his horse when two men in boots and spurs came up the boardwalk.

"Shed right back yonder in the alley," one said, "where you can put your horse out of the rain."

"Thanks," Val said, and followed the man into the alley. They were scarcely within its darkness when he heard the man behind him take a quick step. Val started to turn, but not in time. The gun barrel caught him a sweeping blow over the ear and he went down.

He heard a voice saying, "He's wearing a money belt an' packing about three thousand dollars."

He felt hands fumbling at his shirt, but he could neither move nor speak. A voice was muttering, "Hell, there ain't that much here!"

He felt rough hands seize him, and then he lost consciousness. He remembered nothing after that. When he opened his eyes it was daytime, and he was sprawled on his back. He heard a whistle, and he realized he was on a train, lying on the floor of an empty freight car. His head was throbbing.

He tried to sit up, and finally made it. The car door was open and he saw that it was still raining--the rain, slanting across the opening, was like a steel mesh. He felt at his waist--the money belts were gone. His gun was gone, too. He searched his pockets, but he found nothing, not so much as a two-bit piece.

The car was empty except for himself, and he had no idea how long he had been lying there. Through the night and most of the day, no doubt, for, judging by the light, it was already getting on toward evening. Several times he saw the lights of houses, so they must be in eastern Kansas or Missouri. He lay back, rested his head on his arm, and went to sleep.

A boot in the ribs awakened him, and a voice spoke. "Come on! Get up!" The train was standing still on the outskirts of a village. The voice came again. "Get out of here, now! An' don't let me catch you on one of our trains again!"

He ducked a blow, stood up, and dropped to the ground, but his legs were weak and he fell, rolling. Slowly, he pulled himself up. The train was starting, with jerks and a rumble.

He stood watching it vanish into the town. His head was throbbing, and when he put his fingers to his skull he found lacerations.

His mind fumbled over the sound of that voice. It belonged to somebody he had known or heard once before, and obviously it was somebody who knew he was carrying money--for he had known exactly where to look, and even how much had been there.

Val shivered with cold and wetness. Hunching his shoulders against the rain, he looked around. He stood at the bottom of the embankment. Ahead of him in a shallow valley, was a small stream, which the railroad crossed on a trestle. Clumps of willows grew along the stream, with here and there a cottonwood.

He saw a thin trail of smoke rising from a point downstream. Beyond the hollow he could see a house painted white, a red barn with a weather vane, and a windmill. Sitting down on a rock, he took off his spurs and dropped them into his pocket, then he started toward the trail of smoke.

A path led to an open place among the willows where three men were sitting around a fire. Two were older men, the other in his early twenties, Val judged.

They looked at him. "Man, you look as if you really got it rough," the younger man said. "They throw you off that rattler?"

"They sure did." Val touched his scalp. "But they didn't do this. I got pistol-whipped in Dodge City."

They looked at his outfit, and his boots. "You been punchin' cows?"

It was simpler to put it that way, so he agreed. He dropped down on a log across the fire from them. "Somebody rolled me and dumped me into a boxcar. Where are we, anyway?"

"Missouri." The younger man leaned over and filled a tin cup. "Have some coffee. Do you good."

Neither one of the older men, both of whom looked capable and tough, had spoken.

"Which way you headed?" Val asked.

"East. I got an uncle in Pennsylvania. I'm going there."

One of the older men leaned back under the makeshift shelter and said, "New Orleans for me. I can make it good, down south."

"Ain't much to do," the other one said, "and they don't pay nothing, Fred."

"I'll make out. I always have."

The coffee was hot and strong, and it was just what Val needed. He felt the warmth of it go through him. "I got to find work," he said. "They took all I had."

"You got anything to sell?"

Val thought of his spurs. They were large-roweled, California-type spurs, not too common in this area. "I've got some spurs." He showed them. "That's about all."

"You might get a dollar for them--maybe two if you hit the right fellow. Say, there's a boy about your age up at that farm"--he pointed--"who might fancy those spurs. I seen him trying to rope a post up there. Fancies himself a cowhand."

"You got to be careful," Fred offered. "You can get six months for putting the bum--" At Val's blank expression Fred explained. "I mean, for begging. You ask for grub or money, and they'll put you on a work gang."

"And it don't make any difference that you're huntin' work," the other man said. "I'm a millwright, and a good one, if I do say it. There just ain't any work to be had." The fire as well as the coffee had warmed Val, and he grew sleepy. All of the others dozed, but when a train whistle blew the three ran for the train and left him sitting there.

He stared into the ashes of the fire. The rain had stopped, and he should be getting on. He was fiercely hungry, his head still ached, and he was unbelievably tired. He got to his feet, kicked dirt over the fire, and took the path that led toward the farm where the boy lived who might buy the spurs.

The road was muddy, but he kept to the grassy border. Cows stared at him across the fence, and at the ranch a dog barked. He walked more slowly as he neared the farm, not wanting to enter. He had never sold any of his personal possessions, and did not feel sure how to go about it. He dared not ask for food--not if he could get six months in jail for it. And he knew that some jails hired their prisoners out as laborers and collected a fee from whoever hired them.

He hesitated, then turned in at the gate. A big yellow dog barked fiercely, but he talked softly and held out his hand to it. The dog backed away, growling.

A woman in a blue apron came to the door and looked at him suspiciously. "Yes? What do you want?"

"I was wondering if you had some work I could do? I can split wood, dig ... I guess I can do anything."

"No." Her voice was sharp. "We don't need any help, and you're the fourth man who has been here this morning."

A tall boy had come into the doorway behind her, and the contempt vanished from his eyes as he glimpsed Val's cowboy boots. They had been made by the best maker of cowboy boots, and were hand-tooled, with fancy stitching.

"Are you a cowboy?" he asked.

"I was," Val said. "I was robbed in Dodge City. Somebody put me on a train and here I am."

"Tom, you stay in the house!" the woman ordered. "You don't know who this man is."

"He ain't no older than me. Look at his beard--it's only fuzz!"

Val was irritated by the comment, but he kept his peace. "Are you a cowpuncher?" he asked, knowing well enough that the boy was not.

"Well, not really." The boy had come outside. He was about Val's age but somehow seemed much younger. "I plan to be. Only my folks, they don't cotton to the idea."

He walked out and leaned on the top rail of the fence. Val sat on the rail beside him. "It's hard work," he said, "and some of those old mossy-horn steers get mighty ornery."

They talked for a time while Val's stomach gnawed with hunger. Finally he said, "I got to go. I want to find somebody who'll buy my spurs."

"Spurs? Let's see them!"

Val took the spurs from his pocket. The Californios liked their spurs fancy, and these were an elaborate job, each with two tiny bells. He could see from the way the boy's eyes shone that he wanted them.

"You can see," Val said, "these are no ordinary spurs. Fact is, they were a gift to me. From Wild Bill Hickok."

"You knewhim? "

"He was a friend oi my uncle's. He warned my uncle that some men were looking for him. To shoot him," he added.

The boy handled the spurs. "I'd like to have them," he said, "but I've only got two dollars."

"Well," Val said, "if you could rustle me a meal, or some meat and bread or something, I'd sell them to you for two dollars."

"You just wait right here."

In a few minutes he was back with a paper sack and the two dollars. Val took the money and the sack. "You'd better go now," the boy said. "Pa's coming home and he's dead set against tramps."

"All right ... and thanks."

He started for the gate, then hesitated. "Look, if you ever get into west Texas, you hunt up the Bucklin outfit. They're this side of the cap-rock--you ask at Fort Griffin. You tell them Val Darrant sent you."

He walked out of the gate, and when well down the road he sat down under a tree. There was a big hunk of meat and cheese in the sack, and several slices of homemade bread, as well as an apple. Val took his time, eating a piece of the bread, most of the meat, and the apple. Then he walked on.

Two days later he was in St. Louis. He rode the last few miles on the seat of a wagon beside a farmer who was carrying a mixed lot of hides, vegetables, and fruit. "Work's mighty scarce, boy," the farmer told him, "and you will do yourself no good in St. Louis. Ever since the depression hit, there's been three men for every job."

Idle men stood about the streets of the city, and Val paused on a corner, considering. He had nothing to sell. Nor was he in any position to look up any of Will Reilly's friends, for he lacked the one thing Will had always insisted he keep. He must have a "front," he must have the clothing, the neatly trimmed hair, the polished boots, even if he did not have a cent in his pockets.

Standing on the corner watching the traffic, he tried to gauge his talents and abilities. He had great card skill, but he did not want to be a gambler. He had skill with guns, but he did not want to use it. He had received from Will an education in literary and historical matters. But to do anything with any of these abilities he needed money.

All day he walked the streets, and wherever men were working he asked for a job. In every place it was the same. "We don't have enough work to keep our own men busy."

When night came, he wandered back to the river front and sat down on the dock. For the first time he realized that Will Reilly, while showing him much of life, had also shielded him from much. To be with Will Reilly had given him a position, and as Will was treated with respect everywhere, Val had also received respect. Suddenly now it was gone, and he stood alone, and unknown.

There were friends of Will's in St. Louis. They had stayed at the Southern Hotel, and Will had been accorded the best treatment that hostelry had to offer, but he could not walk into that lobby looking as he did now. He might write to the ranch for money, but the postal service was uncertain, and it might be weeks before anybody from the ranch went into town, or to Fort Griffin.