The Long Trail Home (13 page)

“Are you stallin' from tellin' me what happened, because you're tryin' to concoct a lie, Kiowa?”

“You've got a bad case of righteousness, Sammy. Didn't you tell me that Rocklin said that if he died, the horses belonged to us?”

“He said if the snakebite killed him, not if one of us shot him.”

“The snakebite did kill him; that's what I'm sayin'.”

“Give me the story.”

“Rocklin was doin' OK the day you rode off to Dodge. In fact, he kept sitting up trying to write a few things. He couldn't eat any food, but he could swallow water if he worked at it. We both figured he was on the mend. A man can even survive a day or so without water.

“I checked on him about midnight, but he insisted I go on to bed. I left a canteen by his side so he could keep his lips wet—they were chapped somethin' bad. The next mornin' I let him sleep until I had breakfast cooked. When I went to check on him, he was dead. I saw the canteen open and tossed down on the floor, and his mouth full of water. I think he drowned, Sammy. His throat was so swollen that he drowned.”

The remuda milled around nervously. Fortune studied the dark horizon. “How did a drowned man get shot?”

“I'm comin' to that. Well at first, I didn't know what to do. I figured I'd leave him right there until you returned. But I had no idea how many days you'd be gone or how long it'd take to move the herd to the ranch. I stewed around until afternoon. I hesitated to bury him, because I feared someone would accuse me of killin' him.”

“The two shots in the chest are still tough to understand.”

“Sammy, keep quiet until I'm done. You've got me hung for murder, and won't even listen to my story.”

“I'm listenin'.”

“Well, the bay stallion was kickin' other horses in the corral, so I led him down to the cottonwoods and snubbed him up tight—to drain a little meanness out of him. While I was there I decided it would be a good place to bury Rocklin. That's when I fetched the shovel and dug the grave.”

“What grave?”

“You said you buried him.”

“
I
dug a grave for him,” Sam announced.

“Didn't you see the one I dug?” Kiowa challenged.

“No.”

“Where did you find the shovel?” Kiowa asked.

“I didn't.”

“It was in the bottom of the grave I dug.”

“Are you tellin' me you dug a grave then didn't bury Rocklin in it?”

Kiowa rose to his feet.

“Where are you goin'?”

“The horses are gettin' snuffy. Let's slap the saddles on, just in case we need to ride.”

Fortune stood beside Fox. “Who's out there?”

“No one, I hope. Can I strap the gun back on?” Kiowa asked.

“You haven't explained the bullets in Rocklin's chest. Saddle up, but leave the gun on the grass.”

“Sammy, you ain't bein' very friendly like.”

Fortune retrieved Picket and began to saddle the buckskin. “You were diggin' a grave in the cottonwoods, that I didn't find. Go on with your story.”

“My ‘story'? I'm givin' you the truth. Anyway, I was down about four feet in the grave, shoveling away, when four men came ridin' in to the ranch on three horses.”

“The same that hit the corral before?”

“I figured the one's a little upset about you shootin' his horse.”

“Maybe they made the fake wolf howls,” Sam pondered.

“That could be. Anyways, they had the remuda out of the corral before I could leap out of the grave. They kept me pinned down in the cottonwoods with those .45-70s. I'm not sure who pumped the lead into Rocklin's dead body. I wounded one as he ran out of the cook tent with some grub. He might have been the one. I think they meant to steal all the goods, but they ran off with the horses once I started throwin' lead.”

“And you saddled the bay stallion and gave chase?”

“When I went up to the tents and saw what they did to poor Rocklin, it made me so mad—I saddled him up and bucked around the yard for an hour 'til I could get him settled down to ride. Then I went after them. Wouldn't you have done the same?”

Fortune was silent for a moment. “Yeah, I reckon I would've.”

“I had to follow the remuda at a distance. I dropped down into that barranca—that's the way you came up, didn't you?”

“Yep.”

“I came right up that little creek and found them camped here early this morning. I stampeded the remuda north, but they had picketed their saddle horses, so they came after me. About seven miles north of here, I found an outcrop of boulders and made my stand. I killed two of them. The third one and the wounded one rode straight up into the mountains. I figured it would be a couple days before they could report to any others and come after me.”

“Or they might come right back after the horses?”

“That's a possibility. I surmised to give the horses rest in this meadow for an hour, then start across the plains.”

“That's your story, Kiowa?”

“That's the truth. You believe me, don't you?”

“I'll tell you what I believe for sure. Rocklin's dead. He has two bullet holes in his chest. Someone stole the horses. And I didn't see any dug grave.”

“Did you go down beyond the cottonwoods?”

“No.”

“Well, you got to trust me, Sammy.”

Fortune pushed his hat back and ran his fingers through his hair. “Kiowa, I do trust you. Now, let's ride back and find that grave.”

“Boy, that's trust all right.”

“Listen, I'm not tyin' you up, disarmin' you, or coldcockin' you. I just need a little encouragement. Besides, you don't want to wait here and see if those Black Mesa boys found some pals and are coming after you.”

“You're right about that. This rimrock is miserable cover, especially at night. Do you really believe my story?”

“Yep,” Sam replied.

“I want to see it in your eyes. You're a lousy liar.”

“Light a match.”

The moment the flame blazed in Kiowa's face, a shot sounded, and limestone chips flew off the rimrock wall.

Both men dropped down to their haunches. The horses milled in a circle.

“Draw another shot, Kiowa. I'll send them one of these .50-caliber telegrams.”

From a kneeling position, Kiowa Fox fired off two quick rounds with his revolver, then rolled left. As soon as Sam spotted gunfire flash from the distant barrel, he squeezed the trigger on the Sharps carbine.

In the distance, there was a scream—and a curse.

“You think they have reinforcements?” Sam called out.

“If they do, they have us pinned in.”

“Let's run them through the barranca, single file. It will be easy to hold them back from down there, and they can't spot us from up on the plains until daylight.”

“You want to lead the remuda or push them?” Kiowa called out.

“You lead,” Fortune shouted. “Me and the .50-caliber Sharps will trail.”

Two more shots exploded in the night sky. Bullets buzzed like mad bees above Sam's head. The cavvy of horses, anxious for leadership, followed Kiowa into the narrow arroyo. Sam pushed the roan ahead of him and then plunged into the darkness of the barranca. They slowed to a trot as the horses adjusted to the water and rocks under their feet.

Fifty yards into the arroyo, several shots fired over Sam's head.
They're just guessin' at the range. Two can play that game.
He turned and fired a shot straight back into the dark.

He heard the report of return fire. Two more bullets whizzed over his head only a foot or so. The little, steep-walled canyon was coal black, but the night sky outlined his course. Sam squeezed off another shot straight back between the barranca walls.

This time there was no return fire.

They kept up the pace through the canyon until they broke out on the plains at the confluence of Beaver Creek. As the eastern sky turned gray, Kiowa held up to a near dead, cottonwood stump, and Sam circled the remuda.

Kiowa, draped forward over the horse's neck, coughed out each word: “Did we lose 'em, Sammy?”

“I think so, but I'm not sure why. Maybe I didn't hit him but shot his horse in the bottom of that barranca. Lots of bullets were fired, but we didn't make much of a target in the dark. If I clipped a horse, it ought to slow them down. I reckon we can stay up on the plains now and make better time. We got away easier than I thought.”

“It wasn't all that easy, partner,” Kiowa groaned.

Sam rode near. There was just enough to light to see the pain in Fox's face. “Kiowa?”

Dark red blood oozed down the back of Fox's shirt. “Ain't this somethin', Sammy? After all the gunfights we been in and then to take a random bullet in the back. It's just my time. You'll be next, I reckon. Bury me in that grave I dug. I didn't kill Rocklin, Sammy . . . you got to believe me on that.”

Kiowa's head slumped forward, and then his body tumbled to the ground.

CHAPTER FIVE

Cheyenne City,

Wyoming Territory

The short man behind the register wore a black bow tie tilted in the opposite direction as his head while he attempted to read the name on the register upside down. “Yes . . . Mr. Fortune . . . will you be staying at the Inter-Ocean more than one night?” His gold-frame spectacles slid far down his nose.

Sam Fortune straightened his own tie and tugged his Stetson lower across his forehead. A gold-tipped fountain pen in his right hand. “I'm not sure. It all depends.”

The man's smile looked forced, making his face seem even wider. “Are you passing through or planning to move here?”

Sam's eyes narrowed. He hesitated to respond.

The clerk rocked back on his heels, as if longing to exit but not wanting to offend.

“If I knew that,” Sam replied, “then I'd know if I wanted the room another night, wouldn't I?”

The man tugged at his shirt collar, then straightened his vest. “Yes, sir, Mr. Fortune . . . didn't mean to pry. Say, are you related to them Fortunes up in the Black Hills?”

Sam rubbed the bridge of his nose, then put his hands on his hips, revealing his holstered revolver. “You ask a lot of questions for a hotel clerk.”

“Sorry, sir.” The clerk put both hands on top the counter and tapped his fingers across the polished oak.

Sam surveyed the uncrowded lobby. “I've got some gear at the IXL Livery. Could you send someone down to pick it up and put it in my room? I need to find some folks here in town before I settle in.”

“Yes, sir. We'll take care of it.” The clerk rested his elbows on the counter. “Who are you lookin' for?”

Sam stuffed the cold, brass room key into his vest pocket. “I'm lookin' for a hotel that doesn't pry into my business.”

A big smile quickly replaced the chagrin. “You came to the right place. The Inter-Ocean is Cheyenne City's best and most discreet. What I was askin' is, if you need an address or help to locate someone in this town, I'm at your service. We've even got a telephone, you know. You can stand in one place and talk to folks all over town. At least, we'll have one for a few more weeks.”

Fortune studied the oak and black metal box on the wall behind the counter. “What do you mean?”

The clerk dismissed the matter with the flip of hand. “Oh, it's that trouble with the bank.”

“What are you talkin' about?” Sam unfastened the top button on his white shirt and loosened his tie.

“Cyrus Edgington—he owns the C.T.E., the Cheyenne Telephone Exchange—well, he pushed on borrowing money to make telephones available to most of the homes in town. Only, folks aren't too sure they want them. Two dollars a month is steep for some folks. So, Edgington couldn't meet the deadline on his big loan from First National Bank. Old man Converse at the bank decided to foreclose on the telephone company.”

“The company's going out of business?” Sam probed.

The clerk's voice lowered as if revealing a secret. “Edgington asked for an extension, but Converse said no. Frankly, I figure the bank wants to own the phone company. Anyways, Edgington and that firecracker wife of his refused to surrender the assets to the bank.”

Fortune brushed back his sandy blond and gray mustache with his fingertips. “Is his wife named Amanda?”

“Say, do you know the Edgingtons?”

“Her father was a friend of mine.”

“You don't say? He was up here early last year to visit and stayed right here at the Inter-Ocean. In Room 208, if I remember correctly. I never forget a room.”

“What's the status on the telephone exchange?”

“The bank sued for payment, the phone company countersued for obstruction, and the court will have to decide the matter. Judge is goin' to rule this morning. Edgington could go to jail if they rule against him. They won't send her to jail, being great with child like she is. It's her second one, you know. Say, were you lookin' for Edgington's house?”

“That's one of the stops.”

“Twentieth and Ferguson. They got electric lightbulbs right in the house and two telephones. Can you imagine that? They have one upstairs and one downstairs. But I reckon the bank will get the house too. They're nice folks. Course, they are young. They can start all over . . . providin' he don't go to jail.”

A wide, wrap-around veranda surrounded the two-story, Victorian home with circular limestone turret in the northeast corner. The black iron fence encircled a yard of mostly grass with two, large elm trees in the front. Rose bushes hugged the white house with green trim.

Sam climbed the six wooden stairs to the front door. White lace curtains covered the glass front door, so he couldn't see inside. Using the glass for a mirror, Sam straightened his tie, tugged on his suit coat cuffs, and reset his Stetson. He brushed down his mustache, then stared at his clean but calloused and tanned hands.

My fingernails haven't been this clean since that winter I spent with the twins.

He rapped on the door.

The floor creaked. Shadows fell on the lace curtains, but no one came to the door.

He knocked again.

This time, no noise inside. No movement. No one appeared.

He rapped even harder.

The lace door curtains parted, and two bright blue eyes on a curly headed toddler appeared. The little girl stuck her thumb in her mouth.

With the door still locked and the curtain pulled back, a round-faced young woman—with long, curly black hair, tear-worn eyes, and quite a round stomach pushing out the front of her burgundy dress—appeared. She held a short-barreled shotgun.

“Who are you?” she called out through the glass.

He pulled off his hat. “I'm Sam Fortune, ma'am, and I'd like to speak to you about—”

“Are you a constable?”

“No, ma'am, I'm up from—”

“The bank?”

“No, I'm up from the Indian Territory, and I need to—”

“Go away. My husband's not home, and I don't want to talk to you.” The curtain flopped back down. The woman disappeared.

Sam jammed his hat on the back of his head. “Amanda, I need to talk to you!”

The door swung open a couple inches and the barrel of the shotgun peeked out. “How did you know my name?”

He leaned toward the crack in the door but couldn't see her at all. “I worked for your father.”

“In Indian Territory?”

“Yes, out in the Public Lands.”

Her answer was definitively as the breaking of a dry stick. “My father's in Texas. You have the wrong person.” She slammed the door.

Sam stepped up to the door and cupped his hand around his mouth. “I've just got one question for you, Amanda. How come your mama stayed in Tennessee and didn't even tell your daddy she wasn't comin' home? It doesn't seem right to leave a man waitin' like that at the Fort Worth station.”

The door swung completely open. A scent of vanilla drifted out the door. The very pregnant woman still carried the shotgun. The little, blue-eyed toddler hid behind her mother's floor-length skirt. “How did you know that?”

Fortune held his gray Stetson in his hand. “Mrs. Edgington, can we talk for a moment? This is important.”

“My husband's not home and could be in jail before the day's out. They will foreclose on this house within days and think nothing of turning me and my daughter out on the street. As you can see, sir, I'm not really in the mood to visit. I've let the hired help go, and I do not entertain gentlemen in my home when I'm by myself. I apologize if this sounds un-Christian, but I would rather you talk to my husband.”

He motioned toward a wooden porch swing. “Would it be appropriate to visit out here on the veranda? I promise to keep it short.”

With one hand on the shotgun and the other on the curly head of the little girl, she stepped to the doorway. “How do I know you aren't trying to evict me from my home by deceit?”

He swept his hat across the veranda. “Bring the shotgun with you, and let me have it with both barrels if I try anything deceitful or improper.”

A shy smile broke across the trouble woman's face. “I don't even have a shell in the chamber,” she murmured.

Sam returned his hat to the back of his head. “Ma'am, don't ever pick up a gun if you don't intend to use it.”

She set the gun down inside the parlor and stepped out on the porch, leading the toddler. “You really sound like my father.”

“I suppose I do. . . .” He motioned toward the oak swing. “Would you two ladies like to sit down? I'll stand.”

The toddler laced her fingers and rested both hands on top of her dark brown hair.

The woman patted the girl on the shoulder. “This is my daughter, Rocklin.”

“Rocklin? Just like your daddy's last name?”

“It was my last name, as well. My father doesn't have any sons. I wanted to make sure the family name wasn't forgotten. Of course, Mother absolutely detests the name and calls her Missy, instead. But we like it, don't we, Rocklin?”

The toddler stuck out her tongue and nodded up and down.

Sam wanted to reach out and touch the child but pulled his hand back. “I think it's a wonderful name.”

The woman eased down on the bench slowly, then tugged the little, wide-eyed girl up beside her. Fortune stood and leaned his back against the porch railing. Both ladies watched him intently.

“I don't think I heard your name,” she inquired.

“Sam Fortune.”

“Is Daddy dead, Mr. Fortune?” Amanda Edgington asked.

He looked away from her and the girl. For a moment, he said nothing. Then, he looked back at her. Amanda stared down at her hands clasped in her lap. Tears rolled down the perfectly smooth, pale cheeks. She took a deep breath. “I knew it in my heart a week ago. I'm afraid I've already shed my quota of tears for the day. I'm almost empty now. Isn't that sad? To receive such news and be already cried out?”

Sam rubbed his chin. Though it was freshly shaved, it felt rough. “He died around the first of July. How did you know?”

Little Rocklin reached up with chubby fingers and touched her mother's teary cheeks. Amanda reached down and hugged the girl. “Every year since Mother and I left Texas, Daddy sent me a long letter and a twenty-dollar gold coin on my birthday. Twenty years, without fail. Last week was my birthday, and no letter came. I knew that he had died. Only death could keep him from remembering me. How did he die, Mr. Fortune?”

“He got snakebit, Mrs. Edgington. We were way out in the Public Land, like I said, and couldn't do much for him. Kiowa—that's the other man that was workin' for him at the time—tried to suck out the poison, but I guess it wasn't enough. Rocklin was a good man, and I've been grievin' over his loss.”

She pulled a small linen handkerchief from the sleeve of her burgundy dress. “Were you with him when he died?”

The porch railing felt hard, pressed up against his backside. The air stiffled Sam, and sweat soaked his entire white shirt under his suit coat and vest. “After the snakebite, he seemed to be doin' fair, so he sent me to Dodge City on some business. Kiowa Fox stayed with him. I was gone only a couple days, but when I came back he had passed on. I buried him along San Francisco Creek and read the Bible over him.” He turned his head from her and brushed the corner of his eyes. “That reminds me, I have his Bible and some personal belongin's in a satchel at the hotel. I'll bring 'em over later. Actually, his Bible is in my bedroll. I've been readin' it at night. I wasn't tryin' to intrude. Hope you forgive me for that.”

“Mr. Fortune, I'm sure my father would be delighted that one of his friends wanted to read the Bible.” She took a deep breath and let the air out slowly. Her shoulders seemed to relax. “Tell me, what was Father doing out in Public Land anyways?”

“Your daddy had big dreams, Amanda. He figured they would open up Public Land soon, and he wanted a jump on securing a ranch. He said he was buildin' it up to leave to you. He talked about you a lot, ma'am.”

Tears trickled from her steel gray eyes. She brushed them with the linen hankie. “Excuse me for my emotions. Perhaps I do have a fear or two left. Do you and your wife have any children, Mr. Fortune?”

Sam felt blushed. “No, ma'am—I'm not married.”

She attempted, unsuccessfully, to smooth her skirt down over her protruding stomach, “Well, let me warn you, women who are about to give birth can be very emotional.”

Sam felt flustered watching her stroke her stomach. He faced the yard. “I heard about the trouble with the telephone company, ma'am. I reckon you have plenty to be emotional about.”

“It has not been a good summer, Mr. Fortune. Now, tell me, were you a partner with my father?”

He turned back toward her. “No, ma'am, just a hired hand. My friend Kiowa Fox and I were breakin' horses and helpin' him build up the place.”