The Long Trail Home (6 page)

Sam shook his head. “We promised to take Ladosa up to Dodge City.”

“She won't mind swingin' by Public Land if it means stealin' thirty-six horses,” Kiowa insisted.

“Thirty-six unbroke horses,” Sam corrected.

“We can break them along the way.”

“You ever done that?”

“Nope.”

“Can't be done. You can't run and break horses at the same time.”

“But they'd be worth fifteen dollars a head if we drove them to Denver. How much money would that be?” Kiowa tempted.

Sam rubbed his chin and studied the wild, dark clouds backing up toward Antelope Flats. “It would be over five hundred dollars, even if we kept the two best.”

“Now, that sounds better. Maybe our luck is turnin'.”

“I'm takin' Ladosa to Dodge, Kiowa.”

“You ain't gettin' honest on me, are you, Sam Fortune?”

“I just don't feel like breakin' that promise. Lookin' at Piney today . . . I don't want to disappoint any more ladies. Maybe after we deliver her we can come back and break those ponies.”

Kiowa paused at the well. Both men put one boot on the rim to strap on spurs. “I figured with that carbine in hand, you'd be in a hurry to go home to the Black Hills,” Kiowa probed.

“My home was in Coryell County, Texas. You know that.”

“But they took it away from you.”

“Mama's buried there—bless her soul—so I guess it will always be home. I've never even been to the Black Hills. I didn't go see Daddy when he was alive; I reckon it's too late now.”

“You gettin' melancholy on me, amigo?”

“Nope. We make our choices, and we pay the price. That's the way life is, Kiowa. And today I choose to take tiny little Ladosa up to Dodge City. That's all there is to it.”

The strong-shouldered, dark-skinned man pushed his hat back. “Maybe I'll mosey over to the Ohaysis. No reason to hold onto this last two bits.”

“You goin' to talk to Rocklin about those ponies?” Sam asked.

“I might as well find out what the story is. I didn't promise to take no one to Dodge, remember? Who's marshal up there now?”

“Does it matter?”

“I reckon not.”

“I'll go see how Ladosa and Piney are doin'. Then I'll come bail you out of the ruckus you always get yourself in.”

Kiowa roared, “That's good, Sammy. Because if them two women start fightin' over you, you ain't goin' to get one lick of help from me.”

Spurs jingled as Sam Fortune hiked to the cabins, bullet boxes in one hand, carbine in the other. The wind had suddenly stopped, and the menacing clouds from the plains crept toward Antelope Flats. The air felt as explosive as if waiting for someone to light a sulfur match.

A very short lady with long, black hair slipped out the front door as he approached. Ladosa motioned for them to sit on the steps.

“How's Piney?” he asked.

“She's clean and sleepin'. I don't think she's been home for several days.”

“She can't remember where she lives, Ladosa.”

“She was rememberin' pretty good awhile ago. She remembered you and her dancin'.”

“Down the street?”

Ladosa slipped her arm in his. “No, at Fort Worth in the spring of '79.”

“She can remember that?”

“Yes, and she remembers the men who kicked her head in.”

“She didn't fall off a wagon, did she?” he asked.

Ladosa shook her head and brushed back a tear.

“They still around? I'd like to pay them a visit,” he growled.

“Some say they rode out to New Mexico. One man is missin' middle fingers on both hands, and another wears gold earrings, like a pirate.”

Sam's clenched knuckles turned white. “Maybe God will open up the pits of hell and drop them in.”

“Do you believe in God, Sammy?”

The edge melted from his voice. “Ever'body believes in God.”

“That's not what I mean. Do you believe that God has a plan for your life?”

“Ladosa, are you preachin' at me?”

“Maybe. Maybe I'm preachin' at myself.”

“Where did all this come from?”

“I ain't goin' to Dodge City with you and Kiowa,” she announced.

“We were only goin' up there for you.”

“Well, I'm not goin'. I'm goin' to stay right here in Antelope Flats.”

“Why on earth would you want to do that?” Sam quizzed.

“'Cause I think it's God's plan for me. He wants me to take care of Piney. I'll get me a job and look after her.”

He hugged her shoulder. “You're bitin' off a big chew, Ladosa.”

“Ever'body needs someone else to take care of, Sammy. I never had no one. Now I do. Who do you have to take care of? You goin' to take care of Kiowa? You goin' to take care of me? You'll be dead in less than a year. You're lucky to have lived this long. You told me so. If you ain't got someone to take care of, you ain't got nothin'—no matter how famous your gun is or how much money you have in your poke.” She slipped an arm around Sam's waist and laid her head on his shoulder. “Ain't you goin' to say nothin'?”

He stared out across the street.

“It could have been me, Sammy. I look at Piney, and I say, ‘What if it were me?' If it were me, would you stay and take care of me? Would any man want to take care of me? I'm stayin', Sammy. That's all there is to it.”

He leaned over and kissed her forehead. “I'm glad you're stayin', Ladosa. Piney needs you bad. I'll rest a little easier at night knowin' that you're lookin' after her. We traded off your patent medicine, but you can sell the mules and wagon.”

“What are you and Kiowa goin' to do?” she asked.

“There's an old boy who needs some horses broke. That'll give us a couple of horses and a little cash.”

“Then what? Indian Territory is changin', Sammy. They're goin' to open it up, and then there will be no place left to hide.”

“Maybe we'll ride down to Arizona. My little brother and his family are down there with the army at Fort Grant.”

“Why don't you go up to Dakota and see who mailed you that carbine?” Ladosa challenged.

The dark, sulfur-smelling clouds crept into town, like outlaws sizing up a bank.

“Because there's no one in the Black Hills who needs me to take care of 'em.”

“How do you know that?”

“Darlin', there has never been anyone in that family that needed someone to take care of 'em.”

“Are they all as stubborn and reckless as you, Sam Fortune?”

“Stubborn—yes. Reckless—no. I win the prize for that one. Me and Daddy, I suppose.”

“Go see 'em this year, Sam. For people like you, me, Piney, and Kiowa, there ain't no next year.”

He stood up on the dirt. She stood on the porch. Even so, she remained several inches shorter than he. He leaned down and kissed her on the lips. “Good-bye, darlin'. I've got some ponies to break.”

“I won't see you again, Sam Fortune. I know it in my bones.”

“Then let me thank you for all the fond memories I'm goin' to have of you around some campfire on down the trail,” he said.

“Thanks for dancin' down the street with Piney. She won't ever forget that,” Ladosa added.

“Nor will I.”

He turned and walked away.

Heavy, dark clouds squatted over Antelope Flats, muting the daylight inside the building. Stagnant cigar smoke and untrimmed lanterns also dimmed the Ohaysis. Sam could barely see the other side of the building. He strained to make out the figure of Kiowa Fox, leaning with his back against the bar, glass in hand.

“You ready to pull out for Dodge City?” Kiowa tested as Fortune approached.

“There's been a change in plans. Ladosa wants to stay here and take care of Piney.”

“That's good. That's real good.” Kiowa picked at his gold lower teeth with his squared off fingernail. “You and me can break a few ponies, then.”

“Have you talked to Rocklin yet?”

“Nope. He's in that big poker game in the corner. The bartender assured me that they don't want to be disturbed. But if we don't talk to him soon, he'll be broke. Those other three are using a marked deck, and they're fleecin' him.”

Sam squinted his eyes. “How can you see through the smoke?”

“Trust me.”

“Well, let's change the deck.” With Kiowa still leaning his back against the bar, Sam turned to see the man with the one-sleeve suit coat.

“I see you decided to visit my establishment after all,” the proprietor greeted. “I been ponderin' it, and I could sell you that lot for one hundred cash dollars.”

Fortune laid the carbine on the bar, barrel pointed at the man's midsection. “No thanks, Mr. Dillerd. I'd like a cup of coffee and new deck of cards.”

The man rapped his fingers on the bar, all except the stubby ones that had been cut off at the last knuckle. “The coffee's a nickel a cup, and I cain't supply cards for solitaire.”

Sam nodded toward the gamblers across the room. “You'll give me the coffee for free, and the cards are for that game in the corner.”

Dillerd stiffened. “They got a deck.”

Sam rested his hand on the receiver of the carbine. “That deck's marked. We don't aim to see Mr. Rocklin get cheated out of his money.”

“You cain't threaten me with that Sharps,” Dillerd huffed.

“This gun?” Sam cocked the hammer back, leaving the barrel pointed at the trembling saloon owner. “I wouldn't think of threatenin' you. No, you'll give me the coffee and the deck of cards, because you owe me.”

Dillerd didn't take his eyes off Fortune's trigger finger. “What do you mean, I owe you?”

“I had to stand out there in the street and listen to you lie about how Piney got hurt. Why would a man lie like that, Dillerd? Only because he was coverin' up for a friend . . . or for himself. Maybe you're one of 'em that kicked her in the head.”

Kiowa spun around, his unsheathed knife in his right hand. “He did what?”

“No, no . . . boys . . . I didn't have anything to do with that. None of us did. It was two drifters. They've been gone for months.”

Sam surveyed the room. “Then why did you lie to me?”

“Look, if all us merchants tell newcomers that women aren't safe and that they get beat up, what will that do for business? Besides, that wrestlin' story don't hurt Piney none. It gives her a little fame and makes folks relax; that's all. Just a fib to make things easier to handle for ever'one.”

“Do you believe him?” Kiowa asked.

“I don't know,” Sam replied. “Ever' time I've talked to this man, he's lied to me.”

Dillerd backed up until glasses rattled on the shelf behind him. “Boys, I'm tellin' the truth.”

“I'd believe you a whole lot more if I had a free cup of coffee and new deck of blueback cards,” Sam insisted.

Dillerd scurried into the back room and brought out a steaming black mug and a new box of cards.

“Thank you, Mr. Dillerd,” Fortune said. “I do believe your story.”

“Which one?” Kiowa chided.

“Well, all of 'em, I reckon.” Fortune glanced into the corner. “Come on, ‘pride of the Kiowa nation,' let's see if you can read those marks.” They strolled over to the poker table.

Three feet from their destination, Rocklin, his back to the wall, glanced up. “This is a closed game, boys.”

Fortune held his coffee cup out in front of him with one hand and scratched his ear with the other. “Jist wonderin' how close you are to finishin' up. I got me two cash dollars and wanted to play some poker.”

“You're looking at the wrong table, boys.” Rocklin tried to shoo them away with the wave of a hand. “Each of these chips are worth five dollars.”

“Wooowee! Did you hear that, Kiowa? These boys know how to play poker.” Fortune leaned over the closest man's shoulder as if to glance at the hand, but the gambler next to that man pulled a pocket pistol out of his vest and shoved it into him.

“Back off, mister!” the gambler growled.

Fortune raised his hands and jumped back, sloshing hot coffee down the back of the man in front of him. The man's cards tumbled to the table as he leaped up and spun around, gun in hand.

“Sorry, mister. . . . When he pulled a gun on me . . . like to scared me to death,” Sam stammered.

“Get out of here before I shoot you both!” the scalded man bellowed.

Hands and coffee cup still in the air, Fortune backed away. “We'll leave. We don't want to play poker with you anyways. Them kind of cards ain't no fun.”

Rocklin pushed his hat back and laid a tightly bunched hand face down in front of him. “What are you talking about?”

“Nothin', nothin',” Sam insisted. “I don't ever encourage a man who's holdin' a gun on me.”

“Put your guns away,” Rocklin told the two.

“He's drunk.”

“By the looks of things, I seem to be financing this poker game tonight. Put your guns away,” Rocklin repeated.

Both men hesitated, but they complied and sat back down.

“What did you mean, these cards are no fun?” Rocklin re-addressed.

“Well, me and Kiowa are out on the trail by ourselves from time to time, and we play a little poker. But the only deck we have is a marked one that belongs to my half-breed friend, here. Let me tell you, two-man poker with each of you knowin' what's in the other man's hand is about as borin' as visitin' with the moon. I ain't never tried it with four men, so maybe it's a little more fun.”

This time when the man went for his gun, Fortune tossed the rest of the coffee down the man's neck and pressed his own revolver into his back before the man could rise to his feet. Kiowa covered the other two.

Rocklin shoved the table forward and leaped up. “Are you saying this deck is marked?”