The Vigilante's Bride (19 page)

“ ‘Why, he even doubles as my bookkeeper,’ Angus says to me.

“That perked my ears up. I asked him if he let him handle his money, and Angus said of course he did. I looked at him like I thought he was crazy.

“And Angus looks me right back and says, ‘He ciphers better than I do and can do it in his head besides. He don’t gamble a-tall and don’t drink, neither. Rides five miles to church every Sunday, regular as a clock.’

“Disgusted, I threw my hand in and said Sullivan sounded like a saint.

“And Angus comes right back, rakes my money in, and says, ‘Not quite. A little too quick with his fists. Still in all, I trust him with anything I got – anything ’cept my daughters, that is.’ ”

Emily stiffened. Turning, she raised her eyebrows at Luke.

Luke covered his mouth and turned away, his shoulders heaving. “I didn’t know he even had daughters,” Luke said.

This time Stuart’s eyebrows went up.

“By then I was getting interested,” Stuart continued. “I was just starting the DHS and good people are hard to find up here, but long-winded old Angus was tired of losing and ready to quit. I kept talking to keep him there. I asked him if this boy trail boss of his could shoot.

“And Angus gets all puffed up and says, ‘Shoots like a hired gun. Got a draw like chain lightning. Awesome. Downright awesome.’ ”

Stuart nodded at Emily. “If I wanted to steal Sullivan away from Angus – and by that time, I did – then that was one card game I had to lose, so I threw in winning hands, kept Angus talking and taking my money till I got all the particulars on his trail boss and exactly where I could find him. I had to track him down quietly, you see. Couldn’t very well just ride up to the Double A and offer him a job.

“Two months after that game, I had Sullivan and his horse moved up to Lewistown. And now, I understand, he’s settled in all nice and comfortable out there at New Hope.”

Stuart rubbed his hands together with an evil smile at Luke.

“I’m looking forward to seeing Molly again. Haven’t seen her in a couple years. By any chance, she play poker?”

Afraid Haldane might be lying in wait for Luke and Emily, Stuart and his crew of cowboys rode along to New Hope with them. “A little show of support never hurts,” Stuart said.

“Particularly if he recognizes
you
,” Luke said softly.

Stuart nodded. “Decent folk don’t know us, but the outlaws do. If Haldane recognizes us, he’ll think twice before he pulls something like this again on you. The implication is we’ll come get him. And we will.”

At the spot where they’d camped the night before, Luke reined the horses off the road and into the clearing to see their campsite and Jupiter’s grave. Stuart and twelve D-S cowboys rode in with them.

Luke took them up the cliff, and they sited where they were and where the shooter had been. Fanning out over the clearing, riding and walking, they checked the ground for tracks and found spent rifle brass. The cartridge casings could identify the rifle they came from. Luke slipped the brass casings into his shirt pocket.

“I’ll turn these over to the sheriff,” he said.

From the wagon, Emily watched the interaction of Luke and the men he used to work with. There was an easy give and take between them all, and yet something stamped him and Stuart with an attitude she’d seen before. Her throat went dry. All lawmen had it.

Two hours later, thirteen men on horseback escorted a green ranch wagon, its canvas sides and bowed top peppered with bullet holes, up the lane and into New Hope’s courtyard.

Doors slammed. Squealing children poured out of the house and down the front steps. One of them, four-year-old Teddy, was beating a pot with a spoon. Up the hillside, three boys ran out of the barn and raced down the hill, whooping like Indians.

“Teddy, stop that noise!” Luke bellowed.

Emily jumped over the side of the wagon, skirt flying. On the run she grabbed Teddy, who was heading for the group of men and their horses with his noisy pot.

Stuart, already on the ground, yelled, “Men, hold your horses! These kids are gonna get stepped on.”

Restraining Teddy, Emily took his spoon away and shouted over the racket. “They’re just excited. They’ve never seen this much company in their lives.” She led Teddy to the wagon and handed him up to Luke.

The D-S men swung down at once and held their horses, while the kids jumped up and down and hollered and hugged everybody.

Granville Stuart, along with two little girls holding his hands, eased himself through the group toward Molly, who was coming down the steps.

Molly threw her arms open. “Grant, what a nice surprise!”

“Molly, sweet thing,” he called. “I’d give you a hug, but I got my hands full. I swear, a herd of cattle is easier to handle than all these kids.”

Later that afternoon, his face solemn, Luke snapped the reins and drove the buggy away from Jupiter’s house. “I’m glad you were along for that,” he said to Emily. “I’m no good when a woman starts to cry.” He drove at a steady pace down Jupiter’s driveway. “I think it helped that we both saw what happened. There was nothing Jupiter could’ve done. She needed to know that.”

Emily turned away from him in the buggy and waved at the group of men ahead of them on horseback, walking the horses to Repton. Stuart insisted on taking them all to dinner at the Manor House Hotel in Repton. He and his men would stay the night there before returning to Billings tomorrow. His crew would collect the horses, wagons, and other trail equipment they’d left there and head back to Lewistown. Stuart would take the noon train to Chicago.

To Emily’s disappointment, Molly begged off because one of the children was sick.

While the Lewistown crew got their horses settled in the Repton livery for the night, Emily strolled the hotel’s cobblestone promenade along the White Dog River. Slate green, flecked with foam, the narrow little river tumbled out of a ravine between two mountains and splashed into a wide pool of late summer sunlight.

“Like that?” Luke asked, coming up alongside her.

“It’s pretty, a fairy-tale river.”

A short man in spectacles, talking with Stuart a few feet away, walked up and joined them. “Excuse me, I couldn’t help overhearing,” he said. “Small as it is, it’s a little workhorse of a river. A mile downstream it powers two mills.” He smiled. “If you’ll excuse my butting in, I’m John Armstrong, editor of the
Repton Tribune
.” He took his hat off. “And you would be the lovely Chicago lady, Miss McCarthy.”

Luke stuck his hand out and stepped in before Emily had to respond. “Been a long time. Good to see you again, John.”

Armstrong grabbed his hand in a hearty grip. “Luke, I heard you’d come back. I just heard about Jupiter getting killed. You’re going to talk to me about him after a while. Right?”

Luke puffed his cheeks and exhaled hard. “After I talk to the sheriff. How’d you find out?” he asked the editor.

Stuart edged in. “I told him. John recognized me and some of the men. He put two and two together and came up with fourteen.”

CHAPTER
16

Fall was roundup.

Just after daybreak, seven riders and a small caravan of mules and wagons loaded with firewood, cooking pots, equipment, and saddles pulled out of the barns at New Hope. A remuda of extra horses, roped together, followed behind, headed across the north pasture for the open range.

Relaxed in the saddle, Luke whistled softly under his breath. The horizon was a misty blur, the pewter sky above stained with the pink streaks of morning. Spreading his arms in a wide stretch, he gave a contented grunt. It was great to be alive on a day like this.

Near a stand of scrubby willows, they began unloading. First thing, Jeb Simson got a hot fire going with the wood they’d brought, put a pot of coffee on to boil, and shoved the branding irons into the pile of burning oak logs to heat. Not until the metal glowed and was ash colored would they be hot enough and fast enough for a quick skin burn.

A column of white smoke billowed and rose. Caught by the early morning breeze, it quickly dissipated and vanished into the sky.

Luke and Henry and Will Brown mounted their horses and trotted toward the herd of brown and black and spotted backs and horns.

“Nice and easy with them. Don’t chouse ’em up,” Luke called. Working a herd of excited cattle was a nightmare and dangerous. A smart man took nothing for granted with cows.

His knees gripped the horse tighter.

Dust swirled. The herd spread out at their approach. Sitting easy in the saddle, the men plunged into the blaring confusion of lowing cattle and clacking horns, letting the horses do the work, shouldering their way into the herd. Bulls bellowed and swept their horns at the men. Luke listened, not with his ears but with his eyes, soaking up all the other signals. One large black bull in particular he watched warily, a thick-muscled giant with a massive chest, a five-foot spread of horn, and an extra doggedness he didn’t like at all. Luke let out a quiet hiss of relief. Ponderously dragging its tail on the ground, the big slab-sided steer moved off.

Luke singled out a calf for a head catch and let the reins lie loose. There was a bond, a linkage, between him and the horse. Bugle made a quick dash and worked the youngster’s mother to the edge of the herd. She ran, her calf following. When the cow dodged, Bugle gauged instinctively which way she would break, keeping himself between her and the rest of the herd so she couldn’t go back. She swerved out right where he wanted her. Bugle sprang forward and cut her off from the calf.

Luke coiled the rope for a quick throw. He stretched up straight in the saddle and whirled the rope over his right shoulder.

“Yaah! Yaah!” he yelled.

The calf raised its head in alarm. Overhand, Luke cast his arm straight forward with a quick leftward twist to his hand. The loop sailed, spreading left, the rope running through his fingers. He played it out. When he had the loop over and ahead of the calf, he stopped it, dropped it. Still spinning, the loop rolled on its side, standing in the air. The calf ran right into it. Luke yanked, taking up the slack, and tightened the noose.

The instant the rope had left Luke’s hand, Bugle veered in the opposite direction. He pulled up short, half squatting, digging in, braced for the shock when the animal hit the rope at the other end. The calf hit it, tumbled, grunted, and fell down in a cloud of dust. Sidestepping, always facing the calf, Bugle kept the line taut as Luke dallied the rope around the saddle horn and hauled the animal in.

Together, Luke and Bugle dragged the bawling calf over to the fire. John Cosgrove, a young New Hope hand, worked as a flanker, to help the rider haul a calf in. John grabbed the rope and pulled himself out along the taut line to the straining calf. He seized her tail and twisted her off-balance. The animal dropped onto its shoulder, its hind quarters sticking up. John fell on its neck and pinned her. Luke slid off and jerked the calf ’s hind legs out from under her, and the calf fell into the dirt.

The branding crew worked fast. John’s brother, Tom, moved in quickly on the downed calf and slapped a glowing white-hot iron against the animal’s left hip. There was a sizzle of burning flesh. Sides heaving, the calf rolled its eyes and bawled a bewildered cry of pain. The stink of scorched hair and skin rose from a blackened
N-H
still smoking on its flank.

The men jumped back. The calf scrambled to its feet and bucked its way back to its mother.

An hour later, when Luke was working the edge of the herd, a white-spotted bull calf with a torn ear ran by. The blood had dried and crusted.

“Hey, Scully, look at that one.”

“Reckon a coyote got him last night?”

“Something sure did.”

Bugle sidled closer to cut the calf out of the herd. Luke whirled the lariat and sailed the loop out. As if it knew the rope was coming, the calf cut left. The loop caught one ear and slid off. Bugle swung in sharply after him. Quickly, Luke hauled the rope in, coiled it, getting ready to throw again. The calf broke – not toward the herd and its mother, as the horse expected. Instead, it broke for the open range and darted right in front of him.

Bugle almost ran him down, the big horse’s momentum barreling him straight ahead like a runaway locomotive. Luke tried to manhandle him into a pivot, but Bugle couldn’t get his legs under him fast enough. Stumbling, he went down on his knees, catapulting Luke out of the saddle and over his head into the dirt. The calf scrambled away, blatting. Belly swinging, its mother lumbered into a swaying run after it.

Luke climbed to his feet and grabbed up his hat. Dusting his pants off, he glared at Bugle. The horse slung its head and blew his lips, as if oblivious to Luke’s dirty look.

Back in the saddle, Luke headed into the herd again for another calf, puzzling about the one that got away.
The critter acted like it had been roped before
, he thought.

At noontime Luke slid off fast. Hot and tired, he was stiff up to his shoulders. He poured himself a cup of coffee and drained it, hardly tasting it, trying to wash the grit from his throat and mouth. He felt like he’d been eating dust for hours.

“Whew!” Scully took off his hat and mopped the front of his neck. Carrying his plate of beans and bacon, he crossed to where Luke was and sat down cross-legged facing him. “We must’ve done fifty this morning.”

“Fifty-three, but who’s counting,” Luke said. Wearily, he leaned back against a tree trunk and closed his eyes. Puffing his cheeks, he let out a long, slow exhale. His shirt was soaked with sweat.

“How long’s it been since you done this?” Scully asked, talking around a mouthful of beans.

“Not long enough,” his boss said, not opening his eyes.

It had been a long time since he’d had to rope and brand like this himself. On a big spread like Stuart’s, it wasn’t required. He’d been the boss. But at one time or another in his life, he’d done everything there was to do on a ranch – from line riding to cooking to trail-bossing. He knew cattle like he knew his own name.

But at that moment, tired and sore, Luke wondered if maybe he’d left Stuart’s too soon. Over the years he’d saved almost enough to buy a small ranch. It was what he’d always dreamed about – a place of his own, the kind of cows he’d have. And no more wild longhorns. He intended to crossbreed with those white-faced Herefords from Kentucky, a hornless breed. He’d had enough horns to last him a lifetime.

He lay back, cocked his boot up on his knee, and tipped his hat down over his nose.

Build my own house, too, a small place to start.

Funny, whenever he’d imagined it before, the house had always been empty. But now it took no effort at all to slip one cat-eyed redhead and a bunch of babies into that dream. The problem was keeping her out of it.

Easy enough to say when she wasn’t around. It was when she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him that his mind shut down. Until now, he’d never felt a need for a permanent relationship. Caught in any girl’s net, he’d have been miserable. Just the thought of settling down in one place with one woman and raising a family had always turned his insides to jelly. But he’d almost asked Emily to marry him that night on the mountain, and he knew it. And he’d come close again last night when they went for a walk.

A long time ago he’d learned to recognize the marrying look in a girl’s eyes. Because he could, he’d always managed to stay two long jumps ahead of the preacher and broke it off before anyone got hurt. Emily didn’t have that look. So how come he was waiting for the net to settle around his shoulders? How come he wasn’t running this time?

Because she’d brought something into his life, filled a hollow place inside him that he didn’t know was there. And she was on his mind all the time, there when he went to sleep, there when he woke up.

Dear Lord, I hope you know what I’m doing, because I sure don’t.

He pushed Emily from his mind and sat up. Luke regarded New Hope’s crew, mentally sizing them up. Today was the first chance he’d had to see them work. They did all right, he thought proudly. Old Jeb Simson, his face windburned and tough as rawhide, might limp a little when he walked, the result of a horse falling on him a few years before, but he had cow sense and was wily as they came. Henry Bertel and Will Brown, both his own age, came up from Texas on a cattle drive a few years before and never went back.

The last two were a pair of ropy, towheaded brothers named Cosgrove from over near Billings. Of the two, he liked John better. Young Tom Cosgrove talked too much. The big bony Swede was always singing under his breath or squirming in the saddle.
Can’t keep his backside still for ten minutes
, Luke thought. Just a kid really, a year older than Emily.

The six of them had worked like twelve that morning, and every one of them was tired, himself included. Tom Cosgrove and Henry Bertel were stretched in the shade of a tree, napping. The others were sitting around the fire. Jeb, closest to it, had his stiff knee bent awkwardly and was trying to roll a smoke. Luke watched Jeb fumble the drawstring closed on the small tobacco pouch. He dropped it. Tobacco scattered across his legs.

Luke frowned. Not a good sign. Jeb was branding. A man could get hurt when he got that tired.

“Let’s call it quits. We’ve done enough today,” Luke said.

The instant relief he saw in their faces told him he’d done the right thing. They were all tired. “Better get your appetites back,” Luke said. “The ladies in the kitchen were peeling apples when we rode out this morning. I’ll bet we get pie tonight.”

“Especially if the boss put in a special request before we left, which he did,” Jeb Simson said. “I heard you myself. You know something, Luke? You got those ladies eatin’ out of your hand, Miss Molly included. How you do that?”

“Practice, Jeb. Just practice.” Luke laughed. “Miss Molly’s like a mama to me.”

Lying on his back, Tom Cosgrove chuckled, his voice muffled by the hat over his face. “Bet Miss Emily ain’t like a mama to you though, is she?”

Luke rocked to his feet, his face heating. “Watch your mouth, kid!” Fists balled, he stood over Tom. “Get up and let’s go.” His voice was like a blast from the arctic.

Luke rode on ahead, alone.
What’s wrong with me?
Tom was only teasing, yet Luke knew he’d come dangerously close to punching the kid out. One of these days the boy might make a good cowhand, if the little snot ever learned to keep his mouth shut.