The Long Trail Home (9 page)

“I ain't feeling well at all. Help me off these rocks: Ol' Mr. Snake might have relatives hiding in here.”

They carried Rocklin to the wagon. “Did you bring a canteen? My mouth is drier than that alkali dirt.”

Kiowa swung up on the roan. “I'll ride back to camp and fetch water. You take it easy comin' in.”

Sam climbed into the wagon. “You want to lie down in back?”

“I don't want to go to sleep, that's for sure. It was stupid. I knew there could have been snakes. After I dropped that horse down into the barranca, I figured to roll some rocks over him. I can't believe I bent over and stuck my hand in that snake hole in the boulders.” He stopped a minute and held his chest. “Everything seems to be cramping up on me.”

“You don't need to talk. Take it easy, Mr. Rocklin.”

“When I heard you ride up I thanked the Lord for you being out here with me. It was Providence, you know.”

“It'll be OK. Kiowa knows how to lance a bite and suck out the poison. You'll be sick for a day or two, but you'll pull through.”

Sweat rolled off Rocklin's forehead, nose, and chin. “I kept thinking ‘I can't die out here alone. There's no one who can tell my daughter what happened.'”

“Let's get you in the shade of those cottonwoods.”

“Fortune, if I don't pull through this, send word to my girl in Cheyenne City.”

“Mr. Rocklin, we'll get you through this and—”

“Did you hear me, boy?”

“If somethin' happens to you, I'll write to your daughter.”

“And you and Kiowa keep the ponies.”

“You just keep your eyes on that vision of a big, developed ranch. A wise, west Texas drover told me one time that if a man has a vision for the future, he can pull through all sorts of tough times.”

“Oh yeah? Whatever happened to that old drover?”

“I heard he's got a big ol' ranch house with lots of shade trees and a wrap-around veranda. He's got a thousand long-horned bovines roamin' through green, grassy hills. Ever' summer his grandkids come and stay with him.”

Rocklin's eyes lit up. He sat up a little straighter. “Say, just how many grandkids does that old, west Texas cowboy have?”

“Twelve.”

“Twelve?” Rocklin gasped.

“At last count,” Fortune grinned. “And ever' last one of 'em is a girl.”

“Lord have mercy on that old man. You had me suckered in, Fortune, until you got to the part about twelve girls.”

“You'd love it, old man.”

“Yeah . . . I reckon I would. How about you? You ever been married, Sam?”

“Nope. Too wild and reckless, I suppose.”

“You ever have any kids?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Well, this snakebite is probably making me not think square. I'm ramblin' into areas I shouldn't—but what in the world is a man like you doing out in Indian Territory stealing horses and robbing banks? You're better than that, and you know it,” the rancher challenged.

“Are you startin' to meddle, Rocklin?”

“Yep. I knew the minute you stepped into that fray in Antelope Flats. I felt it in your handshake. I knew, Sam Fortune, that there ain't no way on the face of this earth that you could steal my horses. Someplace back along the line, you were brought up right.”

“Old man, you better rest up. That poison is gettin' to your brain.”

“I'm sure it is. But, why do you think you're squirming around right now? It's because you know I'm right. I was over in Ames in April when Tulsa Jack Blake got killed. He deserved it. But I don't want to pick up a newspaper and read about Sam Fortune gunned down robbin' a bank for five hundred dollars or some wild-eyed Texas drifter shootin' you in the back just for fame.” Rocklin wiped his forehead on the sleeve of his shirt. “Now—I'm done with my trespassin'. I don't know what made me blurt that out. We ain't knowed each other barely three weeks.”

Kiowa and Sam decided to post a guard at the corral at night, even though Rocklin didn't think it necessary. About midnight Fortune hiked out to relieve Fox. The night air still felt hot, so he didn't rebuild the fire.

No sounds came from the high plains west of San Francisco Creek. Fortune circled the corral a couple of times then plopped down on the dirt and propped himself against a corral post. A quarter moon hung in the eastern sky. He could see everything as dark shadows. To cover the taste of bitter, supper coffee lingering in his mouth, he chewed on the braided, rawhide stampede string.

It was salty.

I ought to stir up the fire and boil me some coffee.

Rocklin shouldn't have said those things. It's none of his business. That's why I've been in the Territory. There's no one around to preach at me.

He held the Sharps across his lap and fingered the cold, steel trigger.

Except Daddy's carbine. It preaches at me. I should just mail it back. That's what I'll do. Next time I'm in town, I'll just wrap it up and send it to . . .

I don't even know who's up there in the Black Hills. Dacee June. I'll send it to . . . twenty-one? . . . is she really? It's been ten years. She was in pigtails clutching onto Daddy's arm everywhere he went.

Far across the barren plains he heard a howl, then a duet of moaning wails. He cocked back the big hammer on the carbine.
I haven't seen a wolf or wolf track since we've been out here.
He squinted his eye to spot movement in the darkness of the night. He got up and slowly circled the corral. He noticed a lantern lit Rocklin's tent, and he spied the silhouette of the rancher sitting up on his cot. After bordering the corral once more, he hiked over to the row of tents.

“Mr. Rocklin?” he called out. “Are you all right? Can I get you something?”

The response was muted like something blurted into a pillow. Fortune opened the flap, bent over, and stuck his head inside. Rocklin sat on the edge of the cot wearing his ducking trousers and no shirt. His neck had swollen about the size of his head, his face white. He gestured for Fortune to come in.

“Isn't this somethin'?” he whispered. “I can't talk much, but I don't want to lay down.”

“You want me to fetch you a drink of water or anything?”

“You tryin' to drown me? I want you to read this.” He handed him a piece of stiff paper.

Sam noticed an open jar of India ink on the pork barrel that served as a table in the tent. He read through the page twice before he looked up at the man. “You want me to go to Dodge City and bring those longhorns back?” Sam asked.

Rocklin motioned for Fortune to come closer. In a barely audible hoarse whisper, he explained, “If I pull through—and I certainly aim to—it will be three or four days before I can get on the trail. I've got to find out what's going on. This gives you power of attorney to transact my business. Pay off the crew, and hire some cowboys to drive the herd out here if the others don't want to come.”

“Maybe we should wait a couple days, . . . you just might be able to . . .”

“Sam, I need you to help me. I'm countin' on you.” He reached out his swollen right hand.

Fortune hesitated.

“Do it for my Amanda up in Cheyenne City and those twelve girls she's going to have someday.”

Sam slipped his hand into Rocklin's. The handshake was weak but sure.

“As soon as you're able, follow me into Dodge,” Fortune encouraged. “I'll either be throwin' the outfit together or on the trail back”
—or in jail.

“Don't take the wagon. It's too slow. Take two horses to trade off.” Rocklin motioned for Sam to hand him his brown leather vest. He reached into the pocket and pulled out a coin.

“What's the double eagle for?”

“Expenses,” Rocklin replied. “Get a bath and shave; buy yourself a new shirt and maybe a tie before you present that power of attorney.”

“I don't know if I can pull this off, Mr. Rocklin.”

“I don't have anyone else. It's about a hundred miles. You can make it in two days.”

Fortune folded up the papers and slipped them into his shirt pocket. “I can make it by midnight, if the horses don't give out,” he muttered.

Rocklin's swollen neck and face subsided a little by daylight, but he was too weak to get out of bed. His arm had turned such a dark red, it looked almost black. Sam Fortune climbed up on the buckskin gelding and Kiowa handed him the lead line to the red roan mare.

“Anything I can bring you, Kiowa?”

“You've got two horses, you could always bring back—”

“You've got to find your own women,” Sam replied.

“Sammy,” Kiowa whooped, “you ain't much of a friend when the chips are down.”

“Take care of the boss and those ponies until I get back.”

“What else is there to do?”

“Watch out for the red wolves,” Sam challenged.

“Wolves? There ain't any wolves up here.”

“Yeah, that's what I thought. But I heard two howls from the west last night—not the yip-yip-yee of coyotes, but honest wolf howls.”

Kiowa grinned. “Might be some relatives of mine.”

“You got any kin that isn't lookin' to shoot you?” Sam chided.

“Nope.”

“Then be careful. They'll come after these horses if they think they can get away clean.”

“Bring us back those bovines and a crew. Then we can take off, and the wolves will be someone else's problem.”

Sam Fortune reached the Cimarron River before noon without seeing a living creature on the plains. He crossed the border into Ford County, Kansas, then swung a little to the east and followed Salt Creek straight north, looping around two large herds of longhorns that were being grazed to the railroad.

Neither belonged to Rocklin.

Both said Rocklin's bunch was farther on north.

He reached the Arkansas River and the Santa Fe Railroad several hours after dark. He followed them east to the outskirts of Dodge City.

Campfires glowed down by the river as well as lights along Front Street. He found a few unoccupied cottonwoods, picketed the horses, and pulled the saddle. Sam slept undisturbed, even through the sounds of a passing train rolling across the river.

At 6:30 A.M. he sat at a corner table in Beatty and Kelley's Restaurant and watched each man who came in. The steaming plate of biscuits, chops, and gravy diverted his attention from the doorway.

I haven't had one sit-down meal since I left jail, not that those meals really counted. Silverware, linen napkins, and a clean coffee cup—and someone who knows how to cook! A man could get used to that.

A tall man in a black suit, with square shoulders and thick dark mustache, blustered through the front door, looked around, and left.

That man looked an awful lot like Tap Andrews. Last I heard, he got killed bustin' out of Arizona Territorial Prison when he ran across Stuart Brannon and that Yavapai posse of his. Course, if I believed rumors, I'd have to dig a grave and crawl in. No tellin' how many times folks have announced my death.

I could never live in Dodge City. Ever' shadow and shout could be someone from my past. Maybe me and Kiowa should ride out to New Mexico. I don't know many folks there.

A young lady with a long yellow dress and clean white apron filled his coffee cup.

“Darlin', you look a whole lot like my little sister. Could you tell me how old you are?” he asked.

She brushed long, light brown bangs off her eyes. “I'm going to be sixteen next week.”

“Are you married?” he baited.

“Are you proposing?” she laughed.

Oh Lord, was I ever sixteen?
“No, darlin'. . . I just haven't seen my li'l sis in a long time, and I'm usin' you as a substitute.”

“Well, I'm not married, but I think Richard O'Brian is going to ask me by fall. He has seven hundred and ninety-two dollars, you know.”

“That's nice. He's a thrifty man, I take it?”

“Yes, and he's very hardworking. He's an apprentice bootmaker for John Mueller. On weekends he works on the south side of the railroad at the Dodge City Corrals. Papa said I can't marry anyone unless he's saved up a thousand dollars.”

“You have a very wise daddy. Thanks for talkin' to me, darlin'.”

“You look very lonely. Where is your little sister?”

“Up in Dakota. In Deadwood, last I heard.”

“I think you ought to go visit her.”

“You're right, darlin'—I ought to do that. And I think you ought to hold onto that Richard. He's hardworking, thrifty, and smart. I know he's smart, because he picked you out. If I was sixteen or seventeen, I'd be saving my money too.”

“You would?”

He nodded and gulped down a lukewarm swallow of coffee. “Now, where's the best place in town to get a haircut and shave? I've been on the trail too long.”

“Right next door at the Centennial Barber Shop. Ask for Mr. Dieter. You can get your hair cut in the latest fashion.”

“What is the latest fashion?”

“Well, for men your age, I suppose the fashions don't change much.”

“You're right about that darlin'.”

He watched her as she toted his dirty dishes back to the kitchen.
Kids are honest. I'm a worn-out man with mostly gray hair. I don't look thirty-four. I probably don't even look forty-four.

The immaculate man behind the barber chair almost stood at attention when he walked through the door.

“Are you Dieter?” Sam asked.

“Yes sir. Would you like a haircut today?”

“A sixteen-year-old waitress next door said you were the best barber in Kansas.”

The barber used a whisk brush to wipe down the leather chair. “That's my Greta!”

“Your daughter?”