Colorado Sam (5 page)

   Heft Thomas wasn't happy he felt obliged to bring Nathan back to earth. “She's a fine, fine young lady. None better can be found. But she can get you killed, young'un.”

   They were in front of the low bunkhouse. Light smudged by dust and grime spilled from its glass windows, providing enough illumination that Nathan could discern Heft Thomas's features. Same as with his aunt's guard dog, there was nothing humorous about the steely glint in the foreman's dark eyes. “What do you mean by that, Mr. Thomas?” 

   Heft Thomas spat next to his boot toe. “Country hereabouts might be even more dangerous now than it was after your uncle shot and killed Cole Buckman, father to the Buckman boys. And it don't matter the shooting happened years ago.” 

   “What does that have to do with me, Mr. Thomas?”

   Heft Thomas angled toward a bunkhouse window and fished in the watch pocket of his Levis. His probing finger hooked a piece of paper folded into a tiny square. Using both hands, he unfolded the paper and smoothed it flat on a knee. “Read this,” he ordered, “and you'll see why you can't afford to be moonstruck over no girl.” 

Nathan took the rectangular sheet of paper and stepped closer to the window. In the brighter light, he made out that he was holding a telegram. He lifted the document smack before his straining eyes. The telegram was from Seth Tanner and addressed to his brother, Lucius. It read: 

   “The buzzards are circling.”

 
   Nathan frowned. “What did Uncle Seth mean by ‘the buzzards are circling'?”

   “I can't say for dead certain, though I've got my notions,” Heft Thomas said. 

   The foreman held out his hand. “I'll hang onto the telegram, if you don't mind.”

   Nathan surrendered the yellowing document. “Has my aunt seen that?”

   “No, I never showed it to her,” the foreman said. “Seth didn't want to worry her. He told me to git for town and send his wire.”

   “If Uncle was having trouble here in Colorado, why did he feel he needed to warn my father clean off in St. Louis?” a puzzled Nathan asked.

   “That I can't tell you, Nephew. The big boss wasn't exactly a gusher when it came to talk. I do believe he planned to meet with the U. S. Marshal before he was killed a-purpose.”

   Nathan's brow lifted. “You don't think Uncle's death was an accident?”

   “No, it just looked thataway.”

   “I don't mean to be disrespectful, Mr. Thomas, but are you sure it wasn't an accident? Father said Uncle's horse fell on him.”

   “I'll take you up north where he was killed. Thataway you can decide for yourself.”

   Nathan buttoned his jacket against the growing cold. “I'd like to ride up there with you, Mr. Thomas. Is it far?”

   “No, six miles is all. We're between haying and roundup. You and me could light out after breakfast in the morning. We'll tell Mrs. Tanner I'm showing you the windmills and watering holes that direction so you can start getting a feel for the cattle business. That agreeable to you?” 

   “Yes, sir, Mr. Thomas.” 

   “Good. Now, let's meet the boys,” the foreman said with a wry smile. “And you best call me “Heft” or the crew will razz me forever.” 

   The interior of the bunkhouse was long and narrow. A rough-hewn plank table filled the area nearest the south door. Beyond the table stood a six-lidded cast iron stove flanked on either side by hanging utensils and shelves stocked with foodstuffs. Tins of Arbuckle's coffee, lard, and baking powder, plus bottles of Lea & Perrin's Sauce, ground ginger, cinnamon, and whole cloves filled the uppermost shelves. Heavier items—sacks of flour, sugar, rice, and pinto beans—rested on the lower shelves. Sage and other herbs hung in dried bunches from the beams of the ceiling. The proverbial sourdough barrel sat alongside the stove. 

   Bunks lined the long walls of the room from plank table to the burning fireplace on the north wall. Short of the fireplace, half a dozen men, clad mostly in red long johns, surrounded a circular table. Poker game forgotten, the collective gaze of the six men shifted to the south doorway as Heft Thomas and Nathan entered the bunkhouse.

   The cowboy with hair the color of red clay said, “Find you a stray did yuh, Heft?”

   “Yeah,” Heft Thomas said in return, “but he's man enough to ride your horse, Brick.”

   The older, scruffy bearded cowboy beside Brick came upright. On his feet, the older cowboy was shorter than the diminutive Heft Thomas. A grease-stained apron was tied about his waist. “Gee, Boss, your eyes must be tuckered out. Even you gots to admit he walks like a pilgrim in those fancy boots.”

   “Spud, you wasn't so damn small, I'd beat on you till my stick broke,” Heft Thomas said. 

   The cowboys erupted into raucous laughter, reminding Nathan of Conductor Rueben Bean and his fellow brakemen. Heft Thomas allowed the laughter to run its course, then said none too gently, “Spud, let's pray you don't poison Mrs. Tanner's nephew here with your lousy pie.”

   Nathan could've heard rain strike dry sand. Six pairs of eyes stared at him. Chair legs scraped the floor and suddenly every cowboy was standing. 

   “Didn't mean no insult, Mr. Tanner,” the one Heft Thomas called Spud said, wiping his hands nervously on his filthy apron. “And my cooking ain't spread dirt over nobody's face that I knows of.” 

   Nathan sensed that if he got off on the right foot with the cowboys, they might befriend him. If he didn't, they might well brand him an easterner unworthy of sharing their quarters. And if they were anything like Heft Thomas, changing their initial opinion would be tantamount to predicting the second coming of the Lord. 

   Cap in hand, Nathan approached the table. “Don't fret, Mr. Spud, I'll be more than happy to eat your pie, whether I'm hungry or not,” Nathan said, grinning broadly. 

Joints loosened and the cowboys relaxed. Nathan offered his hand to the closest of them. “I'm Nathan Tanner, visiting from St. Louis. I've always wanted to meet the men my uncle picked to ride with him.”

   Chests swelled and the cowboys nodded and poked each other in the ribs. The cowboy before Nathan, horribly scarred on forehead and jaw, clasped his hand and shook it vigorously. “I'm Charlie Swain, and don't worry, I'm tamer than the grizzly that tried to swallow me.”

   “Been gnawed on some myself,” Nathan informed Charlie Swain, returning the vigorous handshake.

   Two cowboys rushed to get at Nathan simul-taneously. They were of equal height, and given the fact their thick bodies, straight blond hair, pale blue eyes, thin mustaches, and sun burnt skin made matching bookends of them, Nathan was surprised they weren't brothers. “Liege Towers and Rand Johnson,” one of them said. “I'm Liege, he's Rand.”

   Nathan shook their hands in turn and said, “Sure hope you gentlemen wear different colored hats.”

   The stubby cook in the filthy apron stepped forward, his smile crooked as an S-hook. “They don't, we lock them up. Spud Daniels, Mr. Tanner, and I'd be proud to fix your vittles.”

   The next cowboy was leaner than a cow prod, if that were possible. His cheeks were sunken and his chest heaved with each breath he drew. “Ike Justice. I watch after the saddles and riding tack. Round up time, I'm the cook's flunky.”

   The hand Ike Justice offered was ice cold. That this rail of a man was even on the ST payroll revealed much about Seth Tanner. As with his father, loyal employees were never cut loose unless it was of their own choosing. 

   The last cowboy was the gent with the clay-colored hair. “My paw named me Brick. My whole moniker is Brick Redman. Ain't often a young fellow can stand to be laughed at,” the cowboy said, jacking Nathan's arm up and down like a pump handle.

   Heft Thomas cleared his pipes, hawked, and spat into the fireplace. “Better not wear that arm out, Brick. I can't picture him eatin' Spud's morning fixin's with but one paw.”

   “Me neither,” Charlie Swain chimed in. “Yuh gots to pin Spud's fryin' meat against the plate to cut it with a razor.” 

   “Don't listen to them, Mr. Tanner,” countered Spud Daniels. “They give Annie Britton the same grief.”

   Liege Towers chuckled and said, “Yeah, but we're just joshin' with Annie.” 

   This time Nathan laughed with the cowboys.

   The stubby cook's patience deserted him. “Mr. Tanner, seeing as how I'm the last resort around here when it comes to manners, if you'll follow me, we'll fetch you a bedroll.” 

   “Do that, Spud,” Heft Thomas said. “The rest of us will visit the necessary and then settle in.”

   A door next to the fireplace opened into a square room with floor to ceiling shelves upon which the ST crewmembers stored their personal possessions. There was much empty space on the shelves. “You'll learn cowboys don't own much other than what's on their body or with their horse,” Spud Daniels explained without being asked. 

   Enough light from the fireplace shone into the dark storeroom for the cook to locate a particular bedroll wrapped in a waterproof tarp and bound with rawhide thongs. “Hope yuh ain't squeamish, Mr. Tanner,” Spud Daniels said. “This was your uncle's. They brought it in with his body.” 

   “I'm too whipped to be anything but thankful,” Nathan said. “And please call me Nathan, Mr. Daniels.”

   “And I'm Spud. That “Mister” stuff makes me feel like I'm standin' before that tough-nut judge over to Alamosa.”

   The bottom tier of the bunk farthest from the fireplace and nearest to the cooking stove had no bed clothing. Spud Daniels untied the thongs of the bedroll and rolled it out on the bunk's bare mattress. “Not a bad place to sleep,” the stubby cook said. “You may be a tad frosty early on, but in the morning when I fire up the stove, you'll be the warmest cowboy in the bunkhouse.” 

   Nathan looped his shell belt and six-gun over the bunk's corner post, removed his calfskin boots, and flopped atop the bedroll. The bunk's wooden slats and mattress were rock hard, but he prayed he wouldn't have to move a finger for a month. 

   The ST cowboys, shaking and shivering in long johns and wool socks, drifted back into the bunkhouse. Heft Thomas occupied the bunk next to Nathan. Before undressing, the foreman retrieved Nathan's six-gun from its holster and passed the weapon to him butt first. 

   “Stash this within easy reach,” Heft Thomas ordered. “No man's your friend in the dark, not even me.”

 
   A brace of pistols drew bead on Nathan and fired. He cringed. The bullets didn't strike him, and when he turned to locate their target, he saw his mother and father. Blood began to spurt from holes in their bodies. He sprinted towards them. No matter how fast he ran to get between them and the firing pistols, they floated just out of reach until they suddenly disappeared like smoke dispersed by a strong wind.  

   Barking like a dog, a grizzly bear charged from the same blackness that had swallowed his parents. The bear sprang and clamped his whole face in its mighty jaws. His terror was so great Nathan screamed at the top of his lungs.  

   The thump of his forehead against the slats of the top bunk awakened him. Once his mind cleared, he looked to see if his outcry had disturbed Heft Thomas and the other cowboys. Apparently, he'd screamed only in his dream, for no heads lifted and the cowboys snored as merrily as ever.

   He sank back into his bedroll and tried to concentrate on the good things that had happened since the loss of his parents: his escape from St. Louis in the middle of the night, the unexpected rendezvous with Heft Thomas, meeting his aunt, dinner with Laura Payne, the friendliness of the ST cowboys. But his uncle's telegram and Heft Thomas's orders to keep his six-gun within easy reach during the night hours kept shouldering the good things aside. 

   Nathan knew what it was like to be truly afraid. Fear had tied his stomach into cramping knots the afternoon the Scarrett brothers, Frank and Edgar, confronted him in the schoolyard because he'd ignored the advances of their scrawny baby sister, Moline. He was more frightened now, for the bullish brothers had stood before him barehanded and weaponless and the worst thing they could do to him was beat the stuffing out of him. His father's killers and those who'd shot at him on the waterfront, on the other hand, went armed and had yet to be identified. Nathan worried the same would hold true for his uncle's killers since there were no witnesses to his death either. He was learning it was the unknown enemy that commanded the most fear, and played the most havoc with a man's nerves. 

   What if the armed killers came after him? Would he have the courage to defend himself? He consistently hit the bulls-eye on a stationary target with his pistol at thirty paces, which counted for exactly nothing if he lacked the fortitude to shoot a fellow human being. What was most frightening of all, he wouldn't know until he was in that situation whether he could pull the trigger or not.

    He was afraid to doze off again for fear those awful dreams would reappear. God forbid, maybe having a guard dog like the crossbred Sam at the foot of your bed wasn't such a bad idea after all. At least a scared man could get some sleep. 

   Despite his efforts to the contrary, tiredness eventually won out over fear, his eyes hooded, and he slept.

 

 
   Spud Daniels' method of waking the ST cowboys was most unique. Disliking the chill of late September mornings, he refused to beat the iron triangle outside the bunkhouse door. He merely pounded on the plank table with a length of firewood until every last cowboy was awake and cursing him.

   The table banging sent cowboys dressed in boots and Levis to the outside washstand and the necessary in a drove. Nathan followed after them. 

   The phaeton buggy that had been parked beside the stable upon Nathan's arrival with Heft Thomas was missing, indicating that Laura Payne had indeed departed the ST at an early hour. Nathan assumed his aunt had helped harness the buggy horse, which didn't surprise him. Alana Birdsong impressed him as a very capable woman.

    The ST crew were joshing and jabbering and didn't notice the large black mass lope from behind the hay barn. Nathan watched Sam cross the yard, a jackrabbit dangling from his huge jaws. The guard dog plopped on the veranda of the ranch house and began devouring his breakfast. The sight of Sam on the loose unsettled him, for it meant the beast wasn't always in the control of his female master. 

   Standing in line before the necessary, he became aware of how sharply his white underwear of Egyptian cotton with French collaret and fancy pearl buttons contrasted with the standard-issue red long johns worn by the ST crew. None of the hurrying cowboys seemed to take note of the difference, and relieved he hadn't poked their funny bone the very first thing in the morning, Nathan lagged behind while they bolted back inside and finished dressing. Once the cowboys were occupied with knife and fork at the cook's table, he donned his shield shirt in a flash and joined them.

   The denigration of Spud Daniels' breakfast fixin's the previous evening was unwarranted. He was far from being a boil and burn cook. A whopping platter of potatoes and diced onions simmered, more than fried, in a skillet greased with bacon fat served as the main dish. Slices of beef pot roast, interspersed with bacon strips, rimmed the platter of potato and onion, leading Nathan to believe Spud Daniels had frequented Annie Britton's kitchen on more than a few occasions. A kettle of pinto beans, complete with serving ladle, set next to the main dish along with bowls of boiled eggs, raw turnips, and peeled onions. Not one, but two tall enamelware coffee pots passed amongst the diners. 

   Anxious anticipation rippled through the ST crew as Spud Daniels, hands protected by potholders, placed a Dutch oven on the table and removed the lid. Just the smell of the stubby cook's sourdough biscuits provoked much lip smacking and feverish grabbing, and before any cowboy could call out, Spud produced clay urns of butter to go with the biscuits. The lavish meal of the previous evening already a distant memory, Heft Thomas and Nathan matched the ST crew bite for bite, Nathan again marveling at the bantam Heft's prodigious appetite.

   Since breakfast and supper were the cowboy's only meals of the day, their foreman allowed them to linger over a final cup of coffee. Nathan missed the sly wink Liege Towers gave his look-a-like, Rand Johnson. “Rand, you notice anything out of the ordinary out at the necessary?”

   “Yeah, if he hadn't been wearing Levis and cowboy boots you'd have thought some dude fresh off the train got amongst us by mistake,” Rand Johnson answered. 

   “Them pearl buttons belong on a ladies dress, don't they, boys?” Charlie Swain stuck in.

   A statement on Nathan's behalf came from a most unexpected source. Ike Justice, whose average words per day Brick Redman had long sworn could be counted on the fingers of a single hand, exceeded his daily quota by observing, “A Tanner's a Tanner. Fancy underwear don't mean squat one way or another.”

Before anybody at the table could launch a retort, Heft Thomas slid his chair back and stood. “Gents, roundup ain't far off, and there's still considerable horseshoeing and bronc busting waiting on you.” 

   The cowboys grumbled, but the boss man had spoken and, fisting hats, spurs, and roping gloves, they headed for the blacksmith shop and corrals. When the bunkhouse was empty except for Spud Daniels, Heft Thomas said to Nathan, “Let's get some horses and we'll ride up where your uncle was killed. Don't forget your Colt.”

   Nathan buckled his shell belt around his waist and donned his jacket and cap against the chill of the morning air, though he regretted the cap, which no self-respecting cowboy would be caught wearing on his worst day. 

   Heft Thomas selected his Blackie and a steel dust gelding of approximately fifteen hands from the corral. “Your uncle named him Buck after he won him as a colt from Cole Buckman in a poker game at Moss Kaylor's saloon. He didn't pan out as a stud. But he's eight years old and a prime using horse.” 

   They bridled the two horses and led them into the stable. Heft provided Nathan a double rigged stock saddle with the ST brand burnt into its horn, skirt, and fenders. Given his experience with the Tanner Mansion horses, saddling was an easy chore for Nathan. He buckled the latigos, pulled on the horn to insure the saddle was tightly seated on the gelding's back, and led him from the stable. Heft Thomas turned Blackie twice before mounting and Nathan followed suit.

   Mr. Ming burst from the ranch house. The Chinese servant came at a dead run, one hand raised like a signal flag, the other clutching a cream-colored Stetson. He skidded to a halt at Nathan's near side stirrup. “No give hat,” said the panting Mr. Ming.

   Nathan was all smiles and thanks. He exchanged his cap for the pinch-crowned Stetson and found it fit his head perfectly. Heft Thomas broke into a rare smile. “If you're ready, cowboy, we'll light after it.”

 

 
   They rode through fenced pastures of immense acreage. The pastures gave way to meadows where hay stubble bristled like hair on a hog. Beyond the meadows, rolling terrain covered with bluestem and Grama grass swept away to the horizon. The vista in all directions was broken only by cottonwoods growing on the banks of Rock Creek and far off, snow-tipped mountain peaks. At Nathan's query, Heft explained that by making extensive use of public lands as well as that fenced by the ST, Tanner cattle grazed clean to the foothills of the distant San Juan Mountains. 

   When looking to the horizon, the rolling terrain appeared an unbroken expanse of similar ground. Up close, gullies cut by runoff water zigzagged hither and yon and clusters of low rock stuck up everywhere in the tall grasses. Nathan quickly recognized the value of an alert, sure-footed using horse.

   The sun, arching upward in the vaulted sky, gradually warmed the air. As the morning chill vanished, Nathan removed his jacket and tied it behind the cantle of his saddle without slowing the gelding, it being obvious Heft Thomas had no intention of blowing the horses until they reached their destination.

   The banks of Rock Creek rose with each mile. The jumbled rock and debris at water's edge soon made a ford necessary if a rider wanted to cross the wide stream without endangering his horse's legs. After one particularly long stretch of rough bank, Nathan saw an opening ahead in the cottonwoods and aspens. Heft Thomas came abreast of the opening, tugged on his reins, and dismounted. The foreman motioned for Nathan to dismount and said, “We're there. This is where we found your uncle.”

   A breeze shimmered the leaves of the cottonwoods. The coming of autumn had painted the leaves of the white-barked aspens bright gold. Black and white magpies chirped and flitted from tree to tree, protesting the invasion of their private domain. The current of Rock Creek could be heard purling over its bed of rock and stone. Nathan couldn't imagine a more peaceful setting for an act of violence. 

   Heft Thomas took rope hobbles from his saddlebags and shared a pair with Nathan. “I'm too old and too short in the legs to walk home.” 

   The horses hobbled, the foreman walked to the edge of Rock Creek. The bank was steep, but free of rock and debris at nature's whim. Two large boulders embedded in the bank protruded into the stream, deflecting the current and creating the equivalent of a small cove. Across the rushing waters, the bank was lower, and while the opposite side of the ford wasn't protected from the current by boulders like the near bank, it was negotiable on horseback. 

    Heft Thomas removed his riding gloves and folded them over his shell belt. “It was raining powerful hard that night, thunder booming and lightning striking every whipstitch. Seth was on one of his lonesome scouts, inspecting his property, and got caught up in the storm. We found his body two days later here at the bottom of the ford. We figured that lightning or a branch flying through the dark had spooked his horse. If not that, his pony simply lost his footing on the slippery incline, slid back down the bank, and rolled on him.”

   The foreman removed his Stetson and swiped sweat from his balding head. “That pretty much matches up with what we found—your uncle at the bottom of the bank, back and ribs crushed and broken. We located his loose horse a day later. The pony's far side was caked with mud.”

   Heft Thomas paused and looked Nathan in the eye. “But there's one thing that don't match up with the idea a horse rolling on him is the whole story.” 

   “And what's that?” an intrigued Nathan asked. 

   Heft Thomas minced no words. 

   “He drew his pistol.”