Gabriel's Atonement (5 page)

Gabe grabbed his satchel and hurried down the aisle, anxious to see how his horse had fared on the train. He'd won the black gelding in a poker game a few months ago and had quickly become attached to the fine creature. Animals made good friends. They never argued with you, although Tempest could be temperamental when riled. They wouldn't desert you in favor of someone better looking or with a deeper pocket, and they generally vied for your attention. If only people were the same.

Gabe handed his claim ticket to the freight conductor and waited on the ramp for the man to bring out Tempest. He recognized the gelding's loud whinny and figured the conductor had his hands full with the feisty animal. The clunk of hooves sounded as his horse kicked the side wall of the train. A loud curse echoed in the freight car, and Tempest bolted past Gabe, almost knocking him off the ramp. Gabe's heart ricocheted in his chest as he made a flailing grab onto the handle of the boxcar door and regained his balance.

He searched for the ornery beast and saw him corralled by a circle of men. A woman with curly hair slipping from her loose bun eased up to the frightened creature, her hands held apart. Gabe jogged toward the group, concerned for the woman's safety and determined not to lose his horse.

As he drew near, he could hear the woman's soft muttering. Tempest's ears flicked in her direction, but his eyes no longer held that wild, frightened look. He snorted and thrust his big head toward the woman, and she quickly grabbed the loose lead rope then patted Tempest on the neck.

“What a good boy you are. And pretty, too.”

As Gabe stepped behind her, he realized how small she was—probably no more than five-three, and the top of her head reached no higher than his chin, yet she'd bravely faced down his spooked horse. He opened his mouth to thank her, but then she turned, taking away his breath. The pale green of her eyes made his heart jolt. Could this possibly be Tom Talbot's widow? How many women in Caldwell could have eyes with that unusual color?

He struggled to match the face in the faded photo he'd memorized with the real-life woman in front of him. Homer had said she was pretty, and that was true in a tomboyish way. A faint sprinkle of freckles not visible in the photo dotted the bridge of her nose and splattered onto her cheeks. Her skin held the sun's gentle kiss, and except for being on the skinny side and wearing worn clothing, she was easy on the eyes.

When she noticed him staring, she stepped toward him. “Is this your horse, mister?”

He nodded, accepting the lead rope from her. Tempest nickered, and Gabe scratched the rascal between the ears.

“He's a fine animal.”

Gabe pressed his lips together. He didn't like surprises. Didn't like losing control and hated that his mind swirled with haphazard thoughts. But those eyes…

“Guess he doesn't like the train all that much. It can be rather loud and jarring.” The woman's lips tilted up in a shy smile. “Better keep a close eye on him, what with horses being in such high demand right now.” She stepped around him, squeezed past two men, and disappeared into the crowd.

Tempest nudged his arm, wanting attention. Gabe watched the woman go, a hundred questions racing through his mind. He'd never seen a woman with eyes the color of—what? They didn't resemble anything he could think of. Maybe the light green satin of one of the saloon gals' dresses back in Kansas City, but this woman, clothed in a dowdy, faded dress, was much lovelier than a saloon dancer in her finest. Something about her tugged at his heart.

“Hey, mister. Ya wanna sell that horse?” Gabe blinked and focused on a tall man dressed in a three-piece suit coming his way. He waved a handful of dollars in the air. Tempest snorted and jerked his head, but Gabe kept him under control.

“I asked if you want to sell that horse.”

From behind him he heard someone yell, “Hey, John, this feller's got a horse for sale.”

Before he could respond, Gabe was quickly surrounded as men elbowed one another to get closer. Tempest pranced sideways and snorted. Gabe tightened his grip on the leather lead and patted the horse's jaw. “
Shh
…you're all right, boy.”

“I'll give you twenty-five dollars for that horse,” a man said above the din of the crowd.

Men pushed closer, and Gabe had to return to the ramp leading to the freight car. Tempest eyed it, snorted, and stood his ground on the depot platform.

“I'll give you forty dollars,” a bald man with a bushy beard cried.

“Forty-five.” A tall stranger shoved the bald man, who back-stepped several paces. “I claimed the horse first.”

Gabe raised his free hand in the air, palm forward. “Gentlemen, please.” When they quieted, he continued: “Sorry to disappoint you, but this horse isn't for sale. He's my personal mount. I apologize for the confusion.”

The crowd moaned as one but quickly dispersed amid grumbling murmurs. Relieved, Gabe looked around and found his satchel partially hidden under the ramp. He glanced past the depot, wondering what to do with Tempest now. Would the horse be safe in a livery, or would he need to hire a man to guard him?

A dark-haired adolescent boy jogged toward him, obviously hoping for a coin or two. “Need some help, mister?”

“Know a good hotel and a reliable livery where I can board my horse for a few days?”

“Yes, sir.” The boy bobbed his head and smiled. “Can I lead your horse?”

Gabe held out his satchel. “You carry this, but better leave ole Tempest to me. He's a bit spooked by the train and crowd.”

The boy accepted the satchel and shrugged one shoulder. “Sure. Hopkins Livery can board him, and the Blue Bonnet's got clean beds and fair food, but the Leland Hotel is the best in town.”

“It is, huh?” Gabe grinned. “So, what's your name?”

“Jasper.”

“Since you seem to know a lot about this town, can you tell me why that mob wanted to buy my horse so bad?”

“It's the land grab. Folks are buying up every horse and wagon they can find. Some even got them fancy bicycle things, but I cain't see how they're gonna ride them over rocks and through gullies. Give me a horse over one of them crazy contraptions any day.”

An idea sparked in Gabe's mind. Bill Swanson had some saddle-broke horses for sale back in KC. If he could buy them cheap and have them shipped here, he stood to make a nice profit. He'd assumed that men riding in the land run would already own a mount, but after the way those men had dickered for Tempest, he felt confident he could quickly sell a half-dozen good horses.

All he had to do was get them to Caldwell before the land run.

Silas Stone tossed a final shovelful of dirt onto the fresh grave. Using a branch broken off a nearby cottonwood tree, he swiped the red soil around the grave and tossed several handfuls of leaves on it until the area blended in with the undisturbed ground. He threw the branch aside and studied his handiwork. Nobody would find the cowboy's final resting place for a long, long time—if ever.

Tired from the strenuous physical labor, he wiped his forehead with his sleeve and rolled his shoulders to work the kinks out. With shovel in hand, he followed the faint path and made his way down the hill to where the cowboy's dugout sat, nestled in the side of the knoll. The man had the misfortune of settling on the only piece of land that Silas had determined long ago would be his one day. And this was that day.

The other man had done the exhausting work of chiseling the earthen house out of the hard dirt and rock on the side of the hill, but Silas and his brother would reap the benefit, staying warm in the winter and cool on hot summer nights—as long as the soldiers hunting for Sooners didn't discover them in the Unassigned Lands before April 22.

He slid on the loose rock and jogged his way down to the nearby Cottonwood Creek then knelt at the bank and splashed the cool water on his face. Though only April, the warm afternoon sun glaring on him, combined with hard physical labor, made Silas long for a drink of whiskey. Water would have to do, though, since the nearest saloon was miles away, across the state line in Kansas. He slurped his fill then looked back at the dugout.

The door would be easy to miss. With the opening hidden among a copse of trees, wild shrubs, and tall prairie grass, nobody would know the dugout was there unless they were looking for it. He would have missed it himself, if he hadn't seen the smoke from the cowboy's campfire.

Now all he had to do was steal a small herd of cattle, and he'd be in the ranching business—right in the heart of Indian lands.

He stood and let his gaze wander across the area that had been allotted to the Creek and Seminoles. For some reason, no Indian had ever settled here. It was their loss.

Warm satisfaction seeped through him as he surveyed the valley he'd first laid eyes on during a trail drive years ago. He'd passed through several other times, and each time, his desire to settle here grew stronger.

The crickets and other insects suddenly went quiet, setting his senses on alert. A snap cracked behind him, and Silas swiveled, reaching for his gun. His frantic heartbeat slowed, and he lowered his hand as his younger brother, Arlan, approached.

“Thought you was diggin' that cowboy's grave, not lollygaggin' by the creek.” Arlan glared at him, his rifle resting in crook of his arm.

“Thought you was on guard duty.” Silas lifted his chin and glowered back.

“A man's gotta eat, don't he?” After a moment, Arlan cracked a smile. “Besides, I been sittin' up on that there hill standing guard all day, and there ain't been nary a soul in sight. We's too far out for them soldiers t'find us.”

Silas grabbed the shovel and started for the buckboard that held their food supplies. After dinner, they could move everything into the dugout, hide the buckboard, and no longer have to worry about critters getting into their supplies during the night. He'd miss bedding down under the stars but not sleeping in the rain.

“I've got a hankering for some fish tonight.” Silas tossed the shovel on top of a crate and pulled a cane pole off the wagon's tailgate.

Arlan reached for it. “I'll catch 'em while you fix the biscuits.”

Silas raised the pole out of his brother's reach. At seventeen, Arlan was still nearly a foot shorter than Silas. Arlan jumped up, but Silas stretched high, until his overalls pinched his shoulder.

“Give it to me.”

He shoved his brother back. “Hold yer horses. I figured we could both fish to celebrate our new home. We'll eat sooner that way.”

“You reckon it's safe to live inside a hill? Don't seem right to me.” Arlan's worried glance shifted toward the hidden dugout. The boy hated small, dark places ever since their pa had locked him in the root cellar when he was young. It wasn't like Arlan could help being simple-minded, but their pa had been embarrassed to take the boy into town and had locked him up to keep him safe while the family was gone. Then as if the dugout were never a concern, Arlan shrugged. “Guess we
could
eat faster with us both fishin'.” He crossed to the wagon and rummaged around until he found their second pole.

Silas mixed together a cup of flour, a bit of sugar, and a spoon of grease from the pan where they'd fried the rabbit they ate for lunch, then rolled out some dough balls for bait. His brother reached around Silas's arm and snatched one, ran his hook through it, and squeezed it tight as he headed for the creek. Arlan glanced over his shoulder, grinning, as if he'd stolen a cookie from a bakery. Silas shook his head. His brother was just a big kid. Sometimes he wondered if Arlan would ever grow up.

Two hours later, after they'd gorged themselves on fried bass, Silas leaned against a tree while Arlan stretched out next to the glowing embers of the fading campfire. They really ought to throw some dirt on it so the smoke and scent wouldn't alert soldiers to their whereabouts, but he didn't have the strength to move. All that grave digging had plumb worn him out.

The sun would be setting soon, and they needed to get the food supplies transferred from the buckboard to the dugout, but he couldn't seem to make his lackluster body move. Riding herd on three thousand longhorns was a heap easier than digging through hard red dirt and rock. Muscles ached, and blisters burned his hands. He felt a lot older than his twenty-six years.

“I heard tell folks call people like us Sooners.” Arlan scratched his belly. “You don't reckon the soldiers will find us afore the race, do ya?”

“Doubt it.” Silas yawned. “Startin' tomorrow, we'll lay low and hide out in the dugout until the twenty-second.”

Arlan bolted upright. “But that's more'n two weeks away. I cain't stay indoors all that time.”

Silas heaved a sigh. He didn't much like the idea either, but it had to be done to avoid the soldiers hunting for Sooners. The closer it got to race day, the more the soldiers would be searching for people illegally entering the area reserved for the land rush. He and Arlan weren't the only ones who'd entered the Unassigned Lands early and staked a claim. The gently rolling hills were full of squatters. Once the race started, the legitimate racers would be hard pressed to find a piece of land that a Sooner hadn't already taken. Silas chuckled. Play by the rules and you lose.