A Gown of Spanish Lace Page 2

  He had been sent to the rise by his father to survey the valley below. It was not unusual for a close eye to be kept on the valley floor. A sentry was always posted to be sure there was no chance of discovery. He took his shift like every other man in the outfit. But still—there was something different about the order this time. He had yet to sort it through, but he had this strange gut-feeling….

  He could see McDuff, already posted on the shelf of rock that overlooked the entire area—hills, streams, valley, and connecting valleys. There was only one way into the camp. If anyone was on the trail that paralleled the small creek below, McDuff would spot them. So why did his father feel this added vigilance was needed? Had his pa reason to think they had been followed? Or was his pa simply using this as an excuse to get him away from the camp for a while? But why? What could his pa be planning that he didn’t want discovered?

  The young man fanned his bronzed face slightly to get some coolness on his sweating brow. The day was unusually warm for fall. Indian Summer, they called it. Indian Summer that could get as hot as any mid-July day. He stepped back into the shade of a large pine before increasing the action of the Stetson. Even a small movement could be detected in an otherwise motionless setting.

  As his eyes traveled over the slope before him, they took in everything—the flit of a bird, the stirring of tall grasses as some cautious, small creature moved about seeking food, the rollicking bounding of an energetic squirrel. He even saw the shift of hand from McDuff on his ledge perch as he brushed away a pestering fly. McDuff could be careless. His rifle was lying in plain sight on the ledge. Not that anyone from below could see the Winchester, but what if the shifting of the afternoon sun should reflect off the barrel? McDuff needed to be more cautious. The young man frowned as he thought about the danger carelessness could bring to the entire group. He wouldn’t refer the matter to his pa—that might cause an unnecessary fuss. He’d speak to McDuff himself when they were both back in camp.

  After another thorough study of the valley, he was content that they had no cause to be concerned about unwanted visitors.

  Guests were not welcomed at the camp of the band. Not even those of similar stripe. Years of living on the edge had proved that no man was to be trusted. They had learned to guard their own backs even from those of their own company. And one never left a trail that was too easy to follow, or rode without checking frequently over a shoulder.

  He moved slowly from the shadows and replaced the stained Stetson. His steps were lithe, deliberate, and smooth. His body fit and muscular. He intended to keep it that way. He abhorred the wasting away of manhood, of body and mind that he observed in those with whom he shared the simple log buildings of the small camp. He attributed their slovenliness, their softness, and their paunchy bellies to their lives of boozing and idleness. Except for the frequent night excursions that supplied the needs of the group, they did little but lounge around and take their occasional watch. He had no intention of becoming like them. Secretly he admired the strong bodies and straight backs of the braves in the local Indian tribe—but he knew better than to express that thought to his pa.

  His pa had no love for the Indians. That was evident each time one was seen or talked about. His father, dark and swarthy and given to black moods, would spit in the dust, curse profusely, then spit again. “Only good Indian is a dead Indian,” the boy had heard all through his growing years. He knew better. Yet he was smart enough not to argue with his pa.

  “Well—nothin’ goin’ on down there,” he murmured to his mount as he reached one hand to gather the reins. The horse tossed its head and snorted.

  With one easy movement he was in the saddle. The horse danced in his impatience to get going, but the rider held him in check. For some reason he could not understand, he was reluctant to head back into camp, even though he had planned to spend a good share of the afternoon practicing his draw. With the raid of the night before, he was now supplied with ammunition. His pa allowed him no shells for target practice when their store was low.

  He loved the feel of the cool, ivory-covered pistol butt in his hand. He loved the tension he felt in his own coiled body as he hit leather. The click of the hammer as the gun whipped upward—the feel of his finger being at one with the cold metal as he squeezed off a shot. He felt close to his gun. As though it really was an extension of himself. He felt closer to his gun than to any of the men down in the valley shacks below him. It had been his only “toy” as a child, his source of entertainment as a boy, his challenge of skill as a young man.

  Now part of him itched to take full advantage of the new supply of ammunition. Yet part of him held back. Something strange was going on. He could almost taste it. He had to try to think it through. To see if he could work out the puzzle. Nothing had been said to him directly—but he could sense it. Could feel it. And it had something to do with him. His pa seemed unusually morose—black in his mood of the morning, even though the raid of the night before had been even more successful than any of them had dared hope. Not a single man—nor horse—had been lost or even hit. They had returned with supplies that would last them clear through the winter if necessary, and cash to add to the ample collection that each man guarded with his life.

  It had been a good night’s work. And no man even appeared to try to tail them. So why the tension? Why the scowls among the group? He just couldn’t figure.

  With a word to his horse he moved forward. He wasn’t going back into the camp. Not yet. He’d give things a chance to cool off down there. Give his father time to be mellowed by whiskey.

  He turned the buckskin back down the trail, but he knew he would take the left branch once he hit the bottom. He would head for the spot where the spring formed a deep crystal pool and take a leisurely dip in the frigid waters. Maybe it would clear his head and help him to think.

  “I don’t know why yer growlin’.”

  The man named Sam was the only person in the small company of men who would have dared to speak to “The Boss” in such a fashion. Perhaps he dared because they had traveled together for so many years. Perhaps he knew that under the sweating, stomping, cursing exterior was a man who might—on occasion—be willing to listen to some reason. Perhaps Sam was just too hardened to care what the other man thought of his comments. His gun was faster, and both men knew it.

  “He’s a coward,” spoke the prowling boss with a curse and a spit into the thick dust on the floor of the room. “Jest a yella-bellied coward.”

  “Ya know thet ain’t so, so I’ll not even favor thet comment with a re-ply,” spoke the first man as he sliced a section from a wad of dark tobacco. He poked the tobacco back into a torn pocket and stuffed the chew into his mouth, tucking it firmly between his stained teeth and droopy lip.

  “He covers it. He covers it well—but he’s a coward all the same.” The big, brooding man cursed again and kicked at the only chair in the room. It toppled, breaking once again the leg that had been patched over and over.

  “Dawgone it, Boss,” said the smaller man, irritated. “Don’t know how many times ya think thet I can mend thet thing.” It was his turn to curse. But his voice was softer, less menacing.

  “Fergit the chair. It’s the boy we’re talkin’ on.” The big man stopped his pacing and turned to the man who sat on one of the log blocks that made up the other seats in the dark room. He leaned close to the tobacco chewer and his eyes shot sparks of fire.

  “He covers it.” He almost shouted the words into the face of the smaller man. “He—”

  “Back off,” said Sam, the smaller of the two, giving a push to the heavy chest leaning over him. “I ain’t nohow wantin’ to share yer whiskey. Not when you’ve already downed it.”

  The big man glowered but straightened and moved back slightly. His hand was trembling. He cursed again, this time more from habit than venom, and moved off to moodily peer out the one window with its broken, smoke-blackened glass.

  “What’d he do wrong now?” inquired the sm
aller man, still seemingly undisturbed. He spit into the corner.

  At first the big man just glared as though the other should understand. Then he spoke angrily. “He had a chance to finish thet no-good gunslinger yesterday. To finish ’im. What’d he do? Wing ’im. Jest winged ’im. He’s a coward.”

  The smaller man didn’t share the opinion. “Look, Boss—iffen the Kid is wrong—he’s wrong. But he ain’t a coward. I’ve known him ’long as you have. I’ve watched him grow. He ain’t no coward—an’ you know it well as I do.”

  The big man continued to stare out the window.

  “He can shoot straighter and draw faster’n any man I know,” Sam continued from his perch on the log stool. “He’s strong as a bear an’ springy as a wildcat an’ he has eyes like an eagle—never misses the flutter of a wood moth. He hears the slightest rustle. Leaf can’t fall in a tornado without he hears it, and besides all thet—he’s got this uncanny sense—this feelin’ in his bones when somethin’s amiss. Why, you’d a walked right into an ambush over there in Widder’s Pass hadn’t been fer him. And you’d never got away from thet posse in—”

  “Shet up,” barked the man known as “The Boss.”

  “Jest remindin’ ya,” said the tobacco chewer mildly, spitting again into the corner.

  “Well—ya needn’t. I know all thet, Sam. Think I’ve been somewhere else whilst he’s been growin’ up? I know all thet.”

  “Then what’s stickin’ in yer craw? I don’t figger.”

  Silence hung in the air while Sam worked his tobacco, and Will Russell, the boss, stared off into the distance. The latter ran a hand through thinning, dark greasy hair. “I dunno,” he said at last. “Jest this—this sick feelin’ in my innards. This—this funny fear—thet iffen it came to it—he’d back down.”

  “Back down?” Sam aimed a stream of tobacco into the corner. The big man whirled and moved toward him, his voice lowered, though one could not call it soft.

  “Ya ever seed him shoot a man?” he hissed, the sound raspy and harsh.

  “Well—shore. He’s got the quickest hand—”

  “Have ya seed him shoot a man?” the big man insisted.

  “Shore. I told ya.”

  “Dead?”

  There was silence. Sam stared at the scowling face before him. “Don’t think dead. He jest—takes out their shootin’ arm.”

  “Exactly. Exactly.”

  Sam shrugged his shoulders. The stiff leather vest lifted and fell with resistance. “So what’s yer beef? They sure don’t do no more shootin’ fer a while.”

  “But he’s never taken ’em out. Never.”

  “So—”

  “So—don’t ya think folks notice thet? Don’t ya think word gets around? Here’s a feller quick with a gun—but he never shoots to kill. Every gunslinger in the West is soon gonna be in on thet little secret.”

  The big man kicked at the sprawled chair, sending it careening across the room to smash into the log walls of the cabin.

  He cursed and Sam joined him.

  “Good thing this here shack is built sturdy or ya woulda kicked it down by now,” Sam complained.

  “Make some coffee,” snarled the big man, and Sam stirred himself from his seat and moved toward the blackened stove near the cabin door.

  The big man crossed to lift the chair and study the damage. “Fix this thing when ya get around to it,” he told the smaller man. “I hate sittin’ on a wood block. Most as bad as sittin’ on a rock.”

  Sam shrugged, nodded, and shoved some wood into the firebox. He filled the blackened pot with water and slashed open a small bag holding coffee grounds and liberally dumped some into the pot.

  Silence followed until Sam had finished his duties and returned to his log seat.

  “We oughta get us a few more chairs,” he said more to himself than to the big man.

  “Hard to carry behind a saddle,” the boss growled. He reached out a hand to drum his fingers in agitated fashion on the boards of the wooden table.

  Silence again. At last Sam spoke.

  “So yer worried about ’im?” he asked. His voice was lower now—his manner less defensive.

  “I worry,” admitted the big man in response.

  “I still think he can handle hisself.”

  “Maybe,” replied the big man. “But odds are agin’ it.”

  “How so?”

  The fingers beat more rapidly on the tabletop.

  “Doublin’ up. One man forces a draw—another comes in—gits his attention. First man has a chance for a slow, careful shot with his good hand. Takes ’im.”

  “Come on, Boss,” scoffed Sam. “How often ya seed thet happen?”

  “It could.”

  “Sun could come up in the west, too, I reckon—but I ain’t seen it do it yet.”

  “Could happen,” insisted Will.

  Sam got up to check the coffee. It wasn’t boiling yet.

  “Sure gonna be good to have a decent cup of coffee,” he muttered. “Thet stuff we been drinkin’ tasted ’bout like slop.”

  He brought two chipped, stained cups to the table.

  “Know what I think?” he asked softly.

  There was no response, so after a few moments of silence he continued. “I think yer jest worryin’ too much. The boy is doin’ jest fine. Can’t think me of a better tracker—smarter woodsman—more careful feller at watchin’ his back—why—bet there ain’t an Injun—”

  He stopped. The big man had begun cursing and spitting. Sam quickly changed the course of the conversation.

  “It’s jest ’cause yer his pa thet yer frettin’,” he hurried on. “Boys are gonna think yer a stewin’ ole woman iffen—”

  The big man stirred restlessly and his curses grew louder. Sam went for the coffee, hoping it was boiling. He may have pushed a bit too far. It was time to back off.

  “I know he can take care of hisself,” the big man growled. “Iffen he chooses to—thet’s the rub. He’s gotta learn thet ya have to take yer man. Dead men don’t carry grudges. No smart man leaves him a trail of one-armed men carryin’ a full pail of bitter with ’em. Sooner or later one of ’em varmints is gonna turn up and he ain’t gonna be lookin’ to play fair.”

  It was a new thought for Sam and the first one he agreed with. He poured the coffee and moved to put the pot back on the stove.

  “Too hot to be drinkin’ coffee,” he muttered to himself, even though he sniffed the deep aroma with appreciation.

  He returned to his seat and took a drink of the scalding liquid. The coffee burned all the way down, causing his eyes to water. When he recovered he spoke again.

  “So what ya plannin’?”

  There was silence while the big man fingered his cup.

  “Gotta force his hand,” he said at last.

  “Force his hand? You mean—make him take his man?”

  The big man nodded, his eyes dark and smoldering.

  “And how ya fixin’ to do thet? You gonna call him out?”

  Will Russell answered that ridiculous question with a dark stare.

  “Okay, okay,” hurried Sam. “So thet was dumb. I take it ya got a better idea.”

  The big man sipped his coffee slowly, smarter than to gulp it as Sam had done.

  “Well—” prompted Sam.

  “What’s the one thing thet a man—almost any man—would kill fer?” asked the boss.

  “Money?”

  The big man cursed. “We got thet,” he reminded Sam. “Stashed away. An’ we can get more—anytime we take a notion.”

  “Then—?” Sam let the question hang between them.

  “A woman,” said Will simply.

  “A what?”

  Sam could not believe what he had just heard. The boss only nodded.

  “Ain’t no woman within miles of here,” Sam reminded him.

  “Thet means we gotta find one.”

  “Find one. How?”

  “I ain’t got it all figured out yet, but it’ll come.”
>
  “An’ if an’ when ya do find one—how ya aim to get them together? An’ what makes ya sure he’ll—go fer her? He ain’t got no idee what a woman’s even about.”

  The big man gave the smaller one a withering look and then turned back to the table as though the absurd comment deserved no reply. He hiked his large frame a little closer to the table and returned to drumming his fingers in an irritating fashion, his brow furrowing with deep, dark thoughts.

  At length he turned. “We’ve got a lot of figurin’ to do, Sam,” he said, then nodded his head toward the coffeepot to indicate he’d be needing his cup refilled.

  Chapter Three

  Ariana

  Saturday walks became an anticipated part of Ariana’s week. She no longer resisted her mother’s counsel. She had learned that she was more productive after a stroll in the neighboring woods or along the local stream. Often she invited one or another of her students to accompany her. It became a time to build relationships and teach lessons that could not be learned in the schoolroom. Ariana prayed that she might be able to teach not only about life but also about the Giver of Life. Not just scientific facts of the world but about the One who established the Laws of Nature. Not just mathematics but about the One who made the consistency of mathematics a possibility.

  “God has given us an ordered world,” she said often, and she hoped her students would see and understand what she was trying to convey as they looked at the world around them.

  If there were any whose children attended the little schoolhouse on the hill who thought that the preacher’s daughter was bringing “too much religion” into the classroom, they never voiced it. Even the owner of the local saloon suggested that “a little law and order wouldn’t hurt” his two offspring any. He thought the world was bound to quickly chip away any “excess goodness” they might obtain.

  “We need us some high principles,” said the school board chairman in a community meeting. “And I for one don’t know where to find ’em ’ceptin’ in the Good Book. Far as I’m concerned, thet little gal can pour in ’em all the Bible learnin’ they can hold. Make upright citizens of ’em, the way I see it.”