The Reckoning Page 9

  Ike’s face fell, and his eyebrows arched, his anger replaced by uncertainty. He leaned toward her. “Uh…look here, Mrs. Pinshaw, I never meant to hurt your feelings. I’m just trying to find out about my sister…Please…” and he stopped. Margaret’s shoulders shook harder now, and she sobbed loudly. Ike looked away, then back at her, as there was nothing he could do and nowhere else to look.

  Margaret finally stopped crying and started sniffling. She brought a hanky to her nose and turned back toward Ike. Her previous pluck was replaced by a self-conscious look as she dabbed at her eyes. “That’s very unlike me, Mr. Porter. I’m so embarrassed. I never cry. Please excuse me.”

  Ike frowned. “No excuse needed on your part, ma’am. I reckon it’s my fault. I never been any good with people. Ever. I’d rather be walkin’ barefoot through a mess of scorpions than givin’ you a hard time. I just don’t know no other way. If you’ll accept my apology, I’ll remove myself from your shop.” He slapped his hat against his leg and dropped his gaze to the floor. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shadow move across the glass window outside. He looked up and caught a fleeting glimpse of a man just before he disappeared from sight. Ike started for the door.

  Margaret called after him. “Mr. Porter, I have an idea. Why don’t we start all over? I would like to do that, if you’re willing.”

  Ike stopped and turned around. “Don’t know why you’d want a varmint like me in your shop for any amount of time more than I’ve already been here, ma’am.”

  “As you said, you’re already here, Mr. Porter. Will you sit for a minute?”

  Ike noticed that she didn’t say he wasn’t a varmint. Entirely confused, he stammered a quiet yes and took a seat. Margaret turned to the small stove and placed another piece of wood in it. “That tea kettle should start whistling soon. Oh, I didn’t even think to ask. Do you drink tea?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Ike lied. After the fire took hold and Margaret brewed the tea, she offered him a cup and saucer. She filled his teacup while he tried to get his index finger through the small handle. After working at it, he gave up and grabbed the cup with both hands and took a sip. He looked around for a place to put the cup and saucer and decided on his long lap, where the chinaware almost disappeared.

  “Sugar?”

  “Uh…no, ma’am, I reckon not.” Tea was bad enough. Sugar would just add insult to injury.

  Margaret came over and held out her hand. Ike stood and almost dumped his tea set but caught it before it could crash to the floor. She said, “I’m Margaret Pinshaw, welcome to my shop.”

  He bowed and shook her hand gently. “Thank you ma’am, nice to meet you. I’m Ike Porter. I wonder if you might be able to help me.”

  The two former combatants continued their play-acting over the next hour, and Ike found out more about the rumored interest that George Pinshaw had in his sister.

  Margaret offered that information almost without being asked. “No, you don’t have to apologize for asking. I’m afraid my husband did flirt with Sue. We had words about it, but he would still try to find ways to get her alone. I made sure that didn’t happen often. George was an everyday man, not of great character, but not of poor, either. I loved him, in my way, but we were never as close as I always thought married people should be. Like my parents were.”

  “Mine too,” Ike blurted before he knew it, reflecting back on the last goodbye he’d had with his folks before going off to war. An image of the single headstone at the farm clouded his vision, and he scuffed at one of the stove’s black iron feet. He cleared his throat and without looking up asked, “Do you think there was any connection between your husband’s death, and Sue’s disappearance after that?”

  “No, I can’t imagine that the two are related. What gives you that idea?”

  “Someone put the notion in my head, but I haven’t been able to make any sense of it.”

  “Lorraine Blanchard, I’ll bet. She gets herself involved in some things around here that she shouldn’t.”

  Ike saw the look of disapproval on Margaret’s face. He wanted to take his landlord off the hook. “No…it wasn’t Lorraine, but what do you mean by that?”

  “I don’t know anything for sure, if that’s what you’re asking. Why don’t we finish our tea? I wouldn’t want people to think I was monopolizing you.”

  Ike hadn’t learned much but decided he’d gotten as much out of Margaret as he was going to. “That’s fine, ma’am. By the way, this tea is real good.” It tasted like lukewarm bath water.

  Margaret raised an eyebrow and shot him a look. “Why, you’d make a good politician, Mr. Porter, the way you so nicely say what you don’t mean.”

  Ike blushed and put his empty cup and saucer down on the cooling stove. “Ma’am, thank you for your time and the tea. Nice to meet you, and I apologize again for bein’ such a ham-fisted oaf.” He put his hat on, tipped it in her direction, and left the shop.

  The drover outside was gone.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Hey, Major, when we goin’ to fetch them cattle that’s wandered off into the hills? Ought to be bringin’ those strays down here to the valley floor soon, I reckon. Winter’s peekin’ around the corner.”

  Dan Kelly whirled to the familiar voice. It was his brother, Scratchy, one of the hands at Emerald Valley Ranch. The ranch lay in a high mountain basin known as South Park, several miles south of Cottonwood proper. Scratchy had just brought his brother’s horse from the barn. Saddled and ready, just like he told him. Kelly moved quickly to where the major stood on the front porch, looking off in the distance. The rancher had a bit of a regal air about him as he surveyed his domain. “Don’t mind him, Major; it ain’t none of our business when we go and round up those cattle. You just tell me when, and I’ll have the boys ready to ride.” Kelly shot Scratchy a look that would have killed him if it could have.

  “Before you ride out, I want you to come in the house, Dan.”

  “Yessir, sure will. Be right there in a minute.” As the major turned to go back inside, Kelly marched over to Scratchy. “Don’t you never talk to the major like that again, or I’ll horsewhip you, understand?”

  Scratchy responded with a question. “Why’s that, Da…”

  Kelly decked Scratchy in mid-sentence with one punch, then stepped on his arm, and threatened to knock him unconscious with a second one. The other hands tried not to watch and shuffled back to the bunkhouse.

  Kelly followed them into their squat building and scowled around the smallish room filled with messy, slept-in bunk beds. The men mostly leaned against the rough plank walls, eyes fixed on the warped wooden floorboards as the top hand strode around the room, yelling.

  “Anybody got anything else to say to the major?” Kelly picked Scratchy’s hat up and threw it out the door at the semi-conscious wrangler. “Don’t none of you never talk to him, you talk to me. Hear? I’ll be the one to talk to the major, clear?”

  Heads nodded all around.

  “You got somethin’ to say, you say it to the top hand—me.” Kelly scanned each man’s face, then turned on his boot heels, slammed the rickety door behind him, and headed for the ranch house.

  A small Mexican woman ushered him inside. Kelly knocked on the open door to the study. “Uh, Major?”

  “Come in.” This was the only room in the large house that Kelly had ever been in. Dark wood lined the four walls, and a fine European carpet covered most of a polished wooden floor.

  “Sorry about that hand outside talkin’.”

  “Never mind about that. I got more important things to deal with.” Tompkins smoothed his black bowtie and gathered the papers spread out on his desk. Without looking up, he said, “I heard you ran into some trouble with a stranger at the Wildfire.”

  Kelly held his hat corralled between both hands and propped against his chest, like a chipmunk holding a nut. “No sir, ’tweren’t no trouble. I just set him straight on how things run around here, and then he left.”

  “Who
was it?”

  “Don’t rightly know, sir. Said his name was Poor, or some such.”

  The major put the papers away in a drawer, then moved out from behind his tooled mahogany desk. He put an arm around Kelly’s large shoulders. Then, almost in a whisper, he said, “Don’t ever tangle with strangers again unless I tell you to, got it?”

  Kelly was bent down close to Tompkins. He straightened up, startled. “Yes, sir!”

  “Now come over here. I got something I want to show you.”

  Kelly followed the major over to a table where a rough map lay spread out.

  Tompkins pointed to it. “Hold these two corners flat. Just like that. See this land here?” The major traced his finger around a large swath of land that the ranch lay on the north end of.

  “Yessir, that’s the whole South Park plateau, ain’t it?”

  Tompkins nodded. “A man named Palmer was one of the original settlers in this valley fifty years ago and laid claim to large tracts of this area when it was still open range. I mean to have this whole northern part of the valley, and everything in it.” The basin was thousands of grass-covered acres, perfect for fattening cattle.

  “That’s some of the prettiest grazing land I ever saw, Major. I can see…”

  “True enough, but the real prize isn’t the land. The real money is in controlling the land the railroad will eventually come through on. You see this pass, here?” He pointed to a pass named Kenosha, a rough passage that traveled through the mountains between South Park and Denver. “This is the only route the railroad could follow to come into this part of South Park. And when it comes out of the mountains and drops down to the basin floor, it’s got to come right through this little settlement of Jefferson.” He pointed to a small spot on the map north of them.

  “Lots of little families have moved there over the past few years. And more’ll be coming, for sure.” The major traced a finger around Jefferson absently as he talked.

  Kelly nodded as if he understood what Tompkins was talking about.

  “The point is, whoever controls Jefferson and the land around it will be rich when the railroad comes through in a few years. The railroad’s already nearly to Denver, and they’ll be building connections from it through the mountains soon.”

  Kelly leaned in closer to the map.

  The major looked at him sideways and moved away slightly. “So those homesteaders need to be run out of Jefferson and the whole place burned to the ground. The town ain’t worth anything, but the land is.”

  “How are you gonna get ’em to leave, Major?”

  “I ain’t. The Utes are. And you’re going to make sure they do. I want you to ride out, meet the Utes like I told you, and make the deal. They get rifles for scattering those settlers in Jefferson. Go get it done.” He looked back down at the map and waved Kelly away. Outside, the foreman motioned to his brother for his horse, which a sore-jawed Scratchy still held at the ready.

  “Have a good—” Scratchy started to say but stopped when Kelly shot him a look. The top hand was not in a good mood.

  Kelly swung up on the horse and headed for the jumbled granite range that lay to the west in the distance. A kick with his heels, and the top hand was flying across the faded sage that rose in patches to the hills ahead. A dry autumn had turned the flats to a light brown tone.

  When the valley floor gave way to forest, Kelly slowed and began to thread his way up through age-old stands of aspen whose newly golden leaves shimmered in the wind. A nearly invisible trail led upward through a random field of large gray granite boulders scattered on the hillside like tenpins. He knew the trail well, so he kept a steady line as it disappeared and reappeared among the rocks. After a difficult climb, he broke out into a clearing midway up the hillside, reined his horse to a halt, and scanned the valley below. Satisfied that no one was following him, Kelly started back up the rise, turning here, then there, as he switchbacked his way upward.

  At the top, the ground leveled out and the forest formed a wide circle around a hidden high valley. A look left and right, then Kelly left the golden safety of the trees and kicked his horse into a trot as bright midday sunlight warmed him. Halfway across the narrow plateau, Kelly spied the box canyon that rose to the sky on his left. He raised his right arm with his rifle in it. Sunlight glinted off a lance in the distance in answer. Kelly raised his arm again and rode into the mouth of the half-circle granite escarpment.

  A young chief of the Ute Mountain Indians rode forward from the back of the canyon to meet him. Rain Water wore a single feather backward in his leather headband and caution framed his unpainted face. He wore a leather vest and leggings on this cool fall day. He was accompanied by five braves and kept his lance pointed skyward as the white man neared. “Kel-ly, you are late. I expected you yesterday.”

  “I couldn’t leave the ranch until today, Rain Water.” The top hand smiled a thin smile. He lied well. Served the Indian right that he’d had to wait a day. He leaned forward in his saddle. “Have you talked with your chief about what we discussed? Do we have a deal?”

  “Yes, I have talked with him, but first, Chief Black Tail Deer has a token of friendship. What do you bring us?”

  Kelly considered for a moment. He’d never trusted any Indian and had never gotten along with the Utes. He reached into his saddlebag and drew out a package. “I bring the great warrior chief a picture of his homeland.” He unwrapped a small picture frame, which held a sepia photograph of the surrounding mountains the Utes spent the summers in. In the middle of the picture were snowcapped peaks so tall they seemed to be suspended in the sky. A Denver photographer had captured the scene.

  Rain Water grinned. “My chief will like this. He wishes Major Tompkins to have this symbol of respect.” Rain Water turned to a brave nearby, who held out a beautiful leather-covered spear to Kelly. It was adorned with rare eagle feathers that the tribe rarely parted with.

  “This is a valuable gift. I’m sure it’ll have a special place of honor in the major’s ranch house. Now, let’s sit down, and we can lay out our plans.” Kelly started to dismount.

  “I do not think you will like this. Mighty Chief Black Tail Deer says he cannot do what you ask. He says he will not talk about it again.”

  Kelly’s face reddened, and he leaned forward on his horse. His hand gripped the saddle horn. “You said we had a deal! A raid on Jefferson for rifles. Damn you!”

  “I did not say we had a deal. I said I would tell you what my chief says, and Chief Black Tail Deer says no.”

  Kelly stepped his horse toward Rain Water, and five braves moved their mounts toward the outlaw. He stopped, then pointed a rigid finger at the Ute warrior. “I knew you wouldn’t keep your word. I told the major he never should have trusted you redskins. You tell your chief this ain’t over. He’ll be sorry if he doesn’t help us get rid of those settlers.” Kelly hefted the lance.

  A flush spread over Rain Water’s face. Two of the braves moved toward Kelly, but Rain Water motioned for them to remain back. He turned to Kelly. “You should forget this, cowhand. The chief will not discuss these things again.” As Rain Water turned to leave, Kelly swung the lance and knocked the photo from the Indian’s hand. Glass shattered on a granite rock. Rain Water turned back to Kelly. He looked down at the ruined frame and lifted his stare to the white man. “Do not think that we were ever friends, Kel-ly. And do not ever cross my path again.” One of the braves kept his rifle trained on the white man. Rain Water nodded to his braves and turned to go.

  Kelly’s hand inched toward his revolver. The brave brought his rifle up and hit Kelly along the head, knocking him to the ground. The warrior picked the lance up and hovered over Kelly but backed off at Rain Water’s command. “Leave him, and his horse. Come back tomorrow. If he is still here, we will bury him.”

  Kelly’s eyes rolled back in his head.

  Chapter Twelve

  Margaret Pinshaw swung the rusty iron gate open and stepped into the little town cemetery. The gate squ
ealed as she closed it behind her. The way it hung on its hinges, it wasn’t keeping anything in or out. She shivered and wiped rusted iron smudges from her white gloves while she glanced at the darkening sky. She wouldn’t stay too long today. The cemetery was atop a gentle rise to the north of town. She strode straight to a recently turned grave with a small, clean-looking gray granite headstone.

  GEORGE PINSHAW

  1840-1868

  She stood in front of the slightly mounded plot that mountain grasses had not yet reclaimed. The few words on the marker seemed sparse. A man’s life ought to count for more than that. Margaret twirled her fancy white parasol absentmindedly. The blue edging formed a colorful circle in the air as it spun. “What were you doing out there, George? You never went out that way. There isn’t any reason you should have been there in the first place. Who shot you? You were never any good with a gun, even during the war, so anyone could have gotten the drop on you.”

  Her husband had died several months ago under mysterious circumstances. She’d pestered the sheriff ever since for more news, but he only told her George was bushwhacked on a little-traveled trail outside of town. What he was doing there, and why he was there, no one seemed to know, and the sheriff didn’t seem too eager to find out.

  She looked back toward town. The skies had grown darker, and the wind was coming up. The first splatters of rain would be on her soon.

  She bent down and placed a small yellow bouquet of fall wildflowers at the base of the simple marker, then straightened up. A hard drop smacked her shoulder, and she drew the parasol closer. “I’ll find him, George. I’ll find out who killed you. It doesn’t matter to you anymore, but it matters to me.” She clenched her hands tightly around the dainty shade.

  Rain fell harder as Margaret stood in front of her husband’s headstone. As she turned to leave, the wind gusted, the sky let loose, and small hail came down in sheets. Her delicate parasol was in danger of being torn apart, or blown away, but she was more concerned about her hat. Margaret always wore one of her favorite hats when she visited the cemetery on Sundays. She stumbled away, unable to walk well in her heeled shoes, or see much of anything with her parasol drawn down around her head. Her crinoline dress ballooned in the wind as she hurried down the hill. Just then, a black buggy drove up.