Spirit of the Wolf (37 page)

...to
Bess....

Obviously, he'd done something right, for he hadn't seen hide nor hair of them in months. Still
,
he couldn't be too careful...or too patient
. L
ast thing he wanted was to lead them right back to Foggy Bottom and endanger the only real family he'd known since boyhood.

Mamie, head low and ears back, sauntered along at a slow, rolling pace. The soft
thud-thud
of hooves beating sand lulled him into a drowsy dream-state, and he closed his eyes, more to conjure an image of Bess than to block out the unrelenting rays of the noonday sun.

Hot white fear made him snap them open again. "I can't see her," he whispered
past parched lips.
"I've been gone so long, I can't even get a picture of her in my mind
anymore
!"

The admission ached inside him, doubling him over the saddle horn. She'd been the sole reason for his dogged determination to outrun Carter and Yonker. She'd been his incentive to keep going when winds howled and rains pelted and snow threatened to bury his last shred of hope. If he couldn't even
see
her....

He sat up, closed his eyes again and clenched his teeth, intent upon conjuring the image of her dark eyes, her sweet lips her creamy white skin.

But it was no use.

Try as he might, he couldn't summon her to memory.

If he couldn't call her image to mind
when there was nothing but the occasional scorpion and cactus out here to occupy his mind
,
what must
Bess
see
?

"She's moved on," he said to himself. "And why shouldn't she? Didn't you tell her that if love came knockin', she oughta answer?"

Chance
hung his head in sorrow as the agony of it welled up inside him. True enough, he'd written those words. But somewhere deep inside him, he'd hoped she wouldn't listen, that she'd wait for him.

"Bess...
ah
my sweet, sweet Bess...."

Chance
knew that she deserved a life free from worry and fear, deserved to share it with a man who'd give her
a home, and children, and—

"She deserves better than the likes of
you
, W.C. Atwood!"

His heart
w
renching bellow stopped Mamie in her tracks, and was quickly swallowed up by the dry grit and the sun-baked desert air.

He gave the horse a soothing pat. "Sorry, girl," he said, "didn't mean to scare you...."

Chance
climbed out of the saddle, dug around in his ruck sack. As Mamie nibbled oats from his cupped palm,
Chance
uncorked the canteen and tilted his head back and drank his fill. When his thirst was quenched, he dug a small metal bowl out of the pack, filled it with warm water, and
let
Mamie have a turn. She lapped greedily, nudging him for more when the bowl was empty.

"Don't you fret, girl," he said, stroking her forehead. "Pretty son now, I'll see to it you get a proper meal and a good brushing, and all the water your belly can hold."

After recapping the canteen, he stowed the bowl and hoisted himself back into the saddle. "If we ride straight through and don't pamper ourselves," he said, patting the horse's right shoulder, "we'll be in Lubbock this time next week."

It was as though the horse understood, and agreed
with his plan
, for she stepped up her pace and continued due east.

"Easy, girl," he advised, "it's a long, long way to Texas from here
. W
e've got to go sure 'n' steady if we want to make it alive."

Not that it matter
ed, because
once
they got there
....

Mamie dutifully slowed her pace. As they plodded along, he closed his eyes
again,
and this time, he saw Bess's big eyes and sweet smile. Experience had taught
Chance
that if he let himself, he
could
hear the lyrical notes of her laughter
,
feel the softness of her kisses
and
the tenderness of her touch
, too
.

He opened his eyes and focused on the drifting mounds of never-ending sand. "No point torturing yourself, man," he said. "
She’s replaced you
."

With a decisive nod, he pulled the brim of his hat lower on his forehead and squared his jaw. "
You’re
plumb loco
,” he said
.
“How else do you explain that you’ve b
een talkin' to yourself for the last hundred miles!"

Some other time, he might have chuckled at the confession. Some other place, the acknowledgment might have coaxed a grin, at least.

But he was alone, again, and that's the way he'd end his days.

Chance
took a deep breath and sat up straighter.
Soon, he’d ride into Lubbock and hand himself over to the sheriff.

Because even the hangman's noose was an easier fate to face than a lifetime without Bess.

***

Bess sat on the front porch and listened to the distant wail of the lone wolf. There was a chill in the air, and she acknowledged sadly that soon, the bright-blinking golden light of fireflies that lit the night would be dimmed by winter's determined approach.

Another season without
Chance
, she thought, hugging the small bundle in her arms.

A year ago, her father and brothers had said she should give up hoping
Chance
would ever return.
But a lot had happened in a year....

She'd known the moment she caught sight of Micah's dour expression when he returned late that afternoon that he'd brought home more than a supply of flour and corn meal. Without even bothering to unload the wagon, he'd trudged up the walk and handed her the envelope that bore the name
W.C. Atwood
.

"I can't open this, Pa," she'd protested. "It's addressed to
Chance
."

"You're his wife in every way but one," he'd barked. "Open it!"

As she did, he'd added in a low growl, "If I knew for sure where he was, I'd hang him myself
for leaving you the way he did
."

Hands trembling, Bess had slumped onto the parlor sofa and unfolded the telegram:

W.C.,
it said,
PICKETT'S KILLER BEHIND BARS.
And it was signed
JOE
PURDY.

The dispatch had provided Bess with the first tangible hope she'd had in
many, many
months...hope that
Chance
was all right...hope that he'd come back to her.

She left first thing next morning to send a telegram of her own, care of Lubbock's sheriff. Certain that
Chance
would be back in Texas by then, she watched as Stoney Frasier
click-click-clicked
the simple message that would vibrate through the wires between Baltimore and Lubbock--the only connection between her and
Chance
:

COME HOME SOON.
STOP.
SOMEONE I WANT YOU TO MEET.

That evening, and every evening since, she'd sat in this very spot, watching the horizon. At first, she watched for Stoney's son to ride up on his dapple gray to deliver
Chance
's reply. When weeks passed with no sign of the boy, she began watching for
Chance
himself, thinking
,
hoping
he'd decided to tell her in person what he might have said in a telegram.

More than a whole lonely year had passed since she got word that
Chance
had
cleared his name and
found his elusive freedom, yet she continued to sit in the big rocker every sunset, staring at the horizon. What choice did she have but to believe that one day soon, his silhouette
—tall
and proud and unfettered by the chains of his past
—would
appear in the distance.
She pictured their loving, joyous reunion, imagined his jubilation at learning that he had a daughter.

They'd plan a wedding, a party afterward to celebrate their union, then maybe build a little cottage
in the clearing beyond t
he manor house
. He’d t
ell her every detail of his life...including what the initials in his name stood for....

Bess's shining dreams dulled a bit with each day that passed without word from him. A week ago, on a night very much like this one, she admitted the awful truth:

She would never see him again.

Still
,
something drove her to the front porch rocker every day. Perhaps her father was right
. M
aybe she
was
just torturing herself, sitting here, looking for what would never arrive. But what choice did she have?

The baby squirmed, reached a tiny, pudgy-pink hand toward her mother's doting face.

Smiling past her tears, Bess tenderly h
ugged
her three-month old daughter
.
"Maybe your daddy isn't coming back," she whispered, kissing the baby's cheek, "but I'll see him every day of my life...in your beautiful ice-blue eyes...."

***

Chance
led Mamie down the center of the gritty road at a slow, even pace. He hadn't known what to expect, exactly, but it surprised him how little the town had changed.

The tidy row of buildings that ran down the center of Lubbock had been given a fresh coat of paint. There was a new sign on the feed and grain, the bank had changed names, and the old hotel was a restaurant now.

But music and laughter still filtered from the saloon, the steady sound of hammer meeting iron still rang from the blacksmith's shop. And the weathered rocker still sat on the porch of the Lubbock Sheriff's Office.

Chance
headed for the livery stable, intent upon taking care of first things first.

He'd given it a lot of serious thought in the hundreds of miles, during the hundreds of hours it had taken to get from Arizona's west border to Texas: Mamie had been faithful and true to the end. She deserved to go to a good home, to a man who'd value her devotion and her loyalty, who'd appreciate just how far she'd go and just how much discomfort she'd tolerate for her master.

She wouldn't be sold, like common property. Instead, Mamie would be a gift, given in good faith to whatever man passed
Chance
's horsemanship test. And when he found that man, he wouldn't
, c
ouldn't say goodbye to his faithful companion.
Instead, he’d
leave, quick and simple. It would be far less painful that way.

"That's some horse you've got yourself there," the liveryman said as
Chance
's feet hit the hay-strewn floor. "Ain't you a beauty," he continued, nuzzling her nose. "What's a purty li'l gal like you doin' with a dusty ole cowpoke like this?" He sent a gap-toothed grin in
Chance
's direction, then patted Mamie's forehead.

Chance
watched Mamie's head dip low as the grizzled old fellow continued to shower her with affectionate praises. She'd always been skittish, wary of strangers, yet she hadn't so much as blinked when the liveryman approached, hadn't backed off when he reached out to scratch her whiskered chin.

"She could use a good brushin'," the man said. There was no mistaking the scolding tone in his voice. "And when was the last time she had herself some water? A bucket of oats?" He ran a leathered hand over her withers. "Man oughta be horsewhipped," he continued, "treatin' his horse this-a way...."

"She's yours, if you want her."

"Horse like this?" He laughed. "I
promise, I
ain't got the askin' price."

Chance
crossed both arms over his chest and willed himself to say it: "I have personal business," he began, "and Mamie, here, can't come along. All I'm askin' for her is your promise that you'll take good care of her.
N
o rough ridin', no plows to pull. She ain't overly fond of grass, but she'll eat it when pickin's are slim, and
—“

"Mister," the liveryman interrupted, "no need to fret. I'll treat her good." He ruffled her bangs, as if to prove it. "
She’ll be here when you finish your business
."

Chance
cleared his throat, pulled the hat lower on his forehead
and headed for the door.

"What-say we get you cleaned up all nice an' purty?" he heard the liveryman say as he stepped onto the wooden walkway. "An' after that, I'll rustle you up a feedbag full o' fresh oats...."