Vengeance Trail (11 page)

They sat for a time listening to the waters spilling their way south and west, spilling their way to some unknown destination.

The wind blew gentle for once. The sky was blue and cloudless overhead; the air, warm and pleasant.

“It’s my favorite place,” she said, leaning her head on his shoulder. “When I first came here eighteen years ago, the Comanches
watered their horses at this very spot. You could not come here alone—they were very fierce toward the white man then. We
would come in groups, wagons full of us, to picnic. The men would all keep their guns handy, though. But we were never disturbed
by the Comanches or any other Indians. This place seems less special without them,” she sighed.

“Well, there’s still a few bands roaming around yet,” he said. “Renegades, not the same type as you would have known back
then. The ones raiding and running around now—those still wild—they’re not the same. They don’t have pride in who they are,
or were. They’re just mostly outlaws and aren’t to be trusted.”

“We’ve taken all the adventure out of it, haven’t we, Mr. Dollar?”

“Ma’am?”

“We’ve tamed the Indians, tamed the land, and someday we’ll probably figure out a way to tame the weather. It does not seem
like much of a place to be anymore.”

“No, Josie, it doesn’t. And, in some ways I miss it and what it was, even though what it was wasn’t always pleasant. I guess
the only thing we haven’t tamed are the white men. We still got a passel of them that can sure stir things up. I guess, in
a way, I ought not to be too disappointed: it gives me work and wages. But, the older I get, the less I feel up to it.

“It wouldn’t be so bad, having a little spread like you and Mr. Miller have got, a nice little herd of longhorns, and….”

“And what, Mr. Dollar?”

“And a woman like you.”

She pressed her head against him, her arm around his waist.

“Why should it be,” she said, “that I’d have to meet you now instead of eighteen years ago?”

“Maybe eighteen years ago, we wouldn’t have recognized the value in one another,” he said.

“Oh, I would have recognized it in you, Mr. Dollar. A man such as yourself would be hard not to notice, then or now.”

“Well maybe,” he said. “But, back then, I wasn’t quite the same person as I am today.”

“What were you back then, Mr. Dollar? How were you so different than you are now?”

“Well, for one thing, I was as wild as a wooly range bronc,” he laughed, and in so doing realized how long it had been since
he had laughed aloud. It felt good.

“Up until the war came along to give me a whole new perspective on things, I thought the world was just there for my enjoyment.”

“And what did you do for enjoyment?” she teased.

“Well, Josie, I’m not so sure an Ohio girl should hear such things.” He gave
her a wink that she found charming.

“Mr. Dollar, I have not been an Ohio girl for some time and I know all about such places as they have in Mobeetie and why
men go there.”

“I must confess, that I have myself spent a time or two in such places as you describe are in Mobeetie.

And, I have tasted whiskey and admit to liking it on occasion, but now favor tequila somewhat better. And, I have gotten falling
down drunk a time or two.”

Her laughter triggered his own and they rolled on the blanket until there were tears in their eyes.

And when they finally caught their breath, they lay for a long time holding hands and looking into one another’s eyes.

“Do you remember yesterday when you asked me if I thought you were pretty?” he asked after a time.

“Yes.”

“I told you that I thought most man would find your looks agreeable.”

“Yes, I recall you telling me that.”

“Well, Josie. I lied. At the time I was just trying to tell you what I thought you wanted to hear.” He saw the change in her
face, saw the flash of disappointment.

“What I should have said, and what I
am
saying to you is, I find you one of the most lovely women I have ever known. The more I look, the more I see.”

This time, she could not stop the tears from coming, nor did she want to.

“You make me very happy, Mr. Dollar.”

“I reckon the easiest thing for me to do would be to say the same thing, Josie.” And then it was his turn to kiss her.

“Have you ever had the fortune to make love to a woman on the prairie, Mr. Dollar?”

“No, ma’am, I have not.”

“Well, your fortune is about to change.”

Afterwards, they ate fried chicken, powdered biscuits and honey, canned peaches, boiled potatoes,
pickled eggs, and drank buttermilk from ajar that they had kept cold by submerging in the flowing waters of the Canadian.
She had also included two large slices of apple pie, which they took turns feeding one another.

Somewhere the hours had flown.

“I should be getting you back, Josie, before Mr. Miller arrives,” he said reluctantly.

“We could just keep riding,” she said, her hazel eyes serious. “We could just ride off in any direction we wanted to and find
a life for ourselves.”

“It’d be mighty easy for me to say yes. But, I guess if we did it that way, I wouldn’t ever be able to feel right about it,
and, I don’t think you would either. Not in the long run.”

They both knew that he was right.

They rode back to the ranch at a slow, reluctant pace, each silent in their thoughts, each wanting to say something to the
other that would offer hope.

She had just finished putting away the picnic supplies while Henry leaned against the house smoking a cigarette when three
riders appeared on the east road.

“That will be Mr. Miller,” she said coming outside to stand next to the Ranger. The hour had grown late, the sky had turned
brassy.

“The two men with him are occasional hands that share their time between spreads around here. Tip Wymans and Ollie Hunt.”

The trio reined in.

“Who might you be, mister? And what are you doing here alone with my wife?”

Clave Miller was a common looking man, the
only physical exception being that his ears stuck out like the doors of a barn left open.

“I’m a Texas Ranger,” replied Henry, crushing the cigarette under the heel of his boot. He lifted back the flap of his duster
enough for Clave Miller and the two that rode with him to see the badge he wore.

“Josie, you know how I feel about strangers hanging around here—you know what I’ve warned you about.”

Maybe because of his feelings toward the woman, his opinion of the man was colored, but he instantly did not care for Clave
Miller.

“Like I said, Mr. Miller, I’m a Texas Ranger. Your missus is not the reason I’m here. I came on official business.” The explanation
did not seem to appease the man, however. He continued to glare at his wife.

“You care to inform as to exactly
why
it is that you have come here, Ranger?”

“Was reported that cattle were being rustled, enough so as to have a formal request made to investigate,” said Henry, doing
his best to maintain some official decorum with the man.

“Well sir, cattle rustling is about as old a profession as there is around here. That, and whorin’. Ain’t that right boys?”
It seemed to Henry that the man enjoyed being crude in front of his wife.

The two men at his side grinned their approval.

“Then I take it, Mr. Miller, that you have not suffered any stealing from your herds?”

“Hell yes I’ve had stock stolen. But, so what? So has everybody else in the Panhandle. What you don’t understand is that we
take care of our own problems up here. We don’t need the Texas Rangers,
or anyone else for that matter. Now if you don’t mind, get the hell off my property or else I will be forced to have you shot!”

The lawman stiffened at the challenge. All three riders were wearing sidearms, and all three had Winchester stocks showing
from saddleboots. Whether they were true gunhands or not, he could only guess.

“Why are you being so mean-minded, Clave?” Josie, full of scorn, stepped between them, and said, “You’ve been drinking!”

“You keep your mouth shut, woman! Stay clear of men’s business!” Her entry into the fray had only provoked the rancher. Henry
Dollar had been a lawman for a long time and he knew when small matters got out of hand, they could turn dangerous, more dangerous
than they ought to be.

Gunplay wasn’t called for here. He didn’t think the cowboys were gunfighters and Clave Miller looked more bark than bite.
But still, there was Josie to consider.

“There’s no need, ma’am,” he said, meeting her gaze. “I’ll be on my way.” He could see the look of disappointment and doubt
in her eyes.

He turned his attention to the rancher.

“I’ll be around these parts for a few days,” he said more as a warning than as plain conversation.

“Ain’t no concern of mine, mister. You just watch whose property you’re tramping on.” The double meaning didn’t escape the
lawman’s notice.

“Don’t push your luck compadre!”

He turned to go, paused and said, “Ma’am, if I might have a word with you in private for a moment.” Clave Miller started to
speak, but the lawman’s glance warned him off.

He walked her out of earshot.

“Josie, I’ll be back around this way. I haven’t figured everything out yet—about you and me. I haven’t figured out how it
is we should say our goodbyes to one another.”

She glanced once over her shoulder, saw that her husband was watching them, straining, as if to hear the conversation.

“I’m not ready to say goodbye to you, Henry. I’m just not.”

“I guess I’m not so ready, either.”

“I could go with you now. I’d be willing.”

“A few days,” he said. “Let us both think about it for a few days.”

“A few days then, Mr. Dollar.”

“Yes, Josie. A few days.”

She watched him ride away, and her heart rode with him. And even after he had disappeared she could still feel his presence.

They had ridden into the blackness of the night. The dank smells of the swamp filled their nostrils. Something with great
flapping wings flew across the road before them. A chorus of night creatures rose and fell from the brackish waters.

They had ridden for the better part of an hour since having fled the house in New Orleans. A full moon was just beginning
its ascent above the tangled tops of cypress trees.

Lowell Biggs rode slumped over the horn of his saddle; each jolting step of the animal brought him greater pain. He struggled
for every breath. The place in his back where the knife had gone in burned and squeezed at his lungs. He could feel the last
of his strength draining away. Twice, he had nearly tumbled from his horse, but was held in the saddle by his brother.

But now, the last of him was bleeding out, and the pain had grown so terrible that he no longer cared if he went on. If he
could only lay down and close his eyes and sleep for a little while, he told himself, everything would be fine.

Something blinked yellow in among the trees. The light of a cabin.

Carter saw it, pulled up alongside his brother and put his hand on the wounded man to steady him. “There,” he said, pointing
toward the small frame of light. “We’ll get you some relief there!” Lowell was too weak to reply. His body ran hot and cold
with chills and fever.

As they approached the cabin, a dog came off the porch, its hackles raised, its snapping bark echoing into the night.

“Shut up!” yelled Carter at the hound as it stood its ground in front of the cabin. Carter reached for his pistol and was
about to draw it and shoot the dog when the door of the cabin sprung open.

“Who be out there!” The voice was that of a woman; the accent, Cajun.

“Call off your hound, woman, or I’ll shoot him!” demanded Carter. “I’ve got a wounded man that needs help!”

The dog’s bark intensified at the sound of the stranger’s voice. Carter lifted the pistol out of his holster and aimed it
at the cur. The click of the hammer being thumbed back seemed insignificant but the barking gave way to a sudden low growl.
The dog clearly recognized the sound of a revolver being cocked.

The woman said something in French or Cajun, Carter couldn’t be sure which, something short and hard, something commanding.
The dog eased back to her, came to stand by her feet switching its attention between her and the strangers.

Carter holstered the weapon, dismounted and eased Lowell from his saddle. Lowell whimpered in pain. Carter felt the coldness
of his flesh.

Without bothering to ask permission, Carter half carried Lowell toward the cabin, up the few steps of the porch, past the
woman, and brought the wounded man to rest upon a small cot in the corner of the single room.

“What is this you do here, eh?” she asked, falling in behind them. Reflected in the yellow light coming from an oil lamp on
a table in the center of the room, the woman saw the bloody trail on the floor.

Carter turned his attention to her. She looked to be of color, but not exactly Negro. He had heard tell of the Cajun people
in this part of the country, knew that many were of a mixed blood. He guessed her to be one.

She was a decent looking woman, he thought, eyes black as pitch, hair the same color—long, touching past her shoulders—skin
the color of creamy coffee. She wore a simple cotton dress, no shoes.

“My brother’s been stabbed in the back. He’s nearly bled to death. I can’t help it your’s is the first place we come to. But
he can’t go no farther. I’ll need clean water and rags to pack the wound, and whatever else you got to stanch the blood.”

He saw her staring at him, staring at Lowell and where the blood was already soaking into the blanket that covered the cot.

“I’ll pay for the convenience,” he said.

“He is young,” she said.

“Too damn young to die like this,” said Carter, his impatience growing. “I could use that water and clean rags now!”

Without further comment, the woman went to a pitcher and poured water into a tin basin. She brought it to him and then opened
a small trunk and
removed a man’s white shirt. She tore it into strips and gave them to him as well.