Laurel, p.16
Laurel, page 16
The blacksmith paused to look up from his work. "He seems capable."
"How long does he mean to be gone?"
"Can't say."
Avery took the time to roll a cigarette. He took a few puffs, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs before he exhaled. "Where can I get something to eat?"
"Over at the Worthy's restaurant. You can't miss it. With that new cook they got, people can't stay out of the place."
"Thanks," Avery said and ambled down the street. He hadn't seen Sycamore Flats in nearly eight years. The place had grown. He'd have to give that some thought. There might be some real possibilities here.
He had no trouble finding the restaurant. The aromas of fresh bread and seasoned beef were impossible to miss. From the number of people inside, he gathered no one had tried.
Avery sat down at the only empty table. "I'll be with you in a minute," the woman said when she came to collect the dishes left by the last customers.
"No hurry," Avery assured her, but she was back quickly.
"We have only one thing today," she said.
"Then dish me up a plate."
The food arrived in a few minutes. Avery studied the people in the restaurant as he ate his food.
"Who owns this place?" he asked when the woman came to bring his pie.
"I do. I'm Mrs. Worthy."
"My compliments to the cook," he said. He waited until she had refilled his coffee cup and turned back to the kitchen. "Could you tell me where I can find Laurel Simpson?"
Mrs. Worthy expression froze. "I don't know anybody by that name."
"I think she goes by Blackthorne now."
Mrs. Worthy's gaze narrowed and became more intense. "If that's who you want, why didn't you say so?"
"I didn't want to give her a name she doesn't have a right to."
"As to that, there seems to be a difference of opinion."
"I don't guess it matters what I call her."
"It will if you call her the wrong name."
Avery's eyebrows gradually bunched. He wasn't used to opposition from women. In fact, he wasn't used to opposition at all. It was with some difficulty he controlled his temper.
"How should I ask after her?"
"If you must ask for her -- and I'd advise you to do some thinking on that question before you make up your mind -- you'd better call her Mrs. Blackthorne. Then everybody will know who you're referring to."
"You don't act very friendly."
"I'm never friendly to people trying to stir up trouble."
"What makes you think I'm doing that?"
Mrs. Worthy gave him a hard stare. "If there's nothing else you want, I have other customers."
Avery sat quietly until his anger subsided. Then he ate his pie, drank his coffee, tossed some money on the table, and left. He was certain not everybody in town would be quite so stingy with their information. In less than thirty minutes he found several people only too happy to tell him where to find Laurel Blackthorne and delighted to learn her maiden name, the only name they felt she had a right to. Avery also learned Adam was spending most his time out of the canyon. Avery found him riding his horse back and fourth, teaching him to turn with the pressure of a knee.
"That's a mighty big horse you've got there," Avery said, stepping from behind a paloverde tree. "Who taught you to ride like that?"
"The sheriff."
Avery's face tightened. He had heard more about this sheriff than he liked. "He must be a good rider."
"He's good at everything."
Avery decided it was about time he did something about Hen Randolph. "You ought to be careful of strangers. You never can tell what they're up to."
"The sheriff ain't no stranger. He's been here for weeks and weeks."
"I heard he beat your uncle and threw him in jail."
Adam pulled his horse to a halt. "He tried to steal me. He hurt Ma."
"He only wanted to take you to your family. He didn't mean to hurt your Ma."
Adam glared at Avery. "Yes, he did. He hit her."
Avery decided he had to take a different tack if he was going to get anywhere with this child. "He shouldn't have done that. It's not right to hit a boy's ma."
Adam looked a little less defensive.
"It's not right to depend on strangers when you've got family."
"Ma says I don't got any family except her."
"Sure you do. You got three uncles and a grandfather who gave you that horse. If you don't treat him nice, maybe he'll take it back."
"No!" Adam jerked on the reins like he was about to run away.
Avery sensed he had finally found a weak spot. Adam obviously loved his horse. "Wait!"
"Ma says I'm not supposed to talk to strangers."
"I'm not a stranger. I'm your grandfather."
"I don't believe you," Adam said stubbornly. "I don't know you."
"If you let me talk to you, you'll know me. Then maybe you'll like me."
"Are you going to try to steal me?"
"No. I want us to become friends. I want you to help me against the sheriff."
"No. He's a good man like my pa."
Avery paused. Obviously Laurel hadn't told the boy how Carlin died. Maybe this was the wedge he needed. "You love your pa, don't you?"
Adam nodded.
"You think he was a fine man."
Adam nodded again.
"Do you think your pa would like you siding with some stranger against his family?" Avery immediately knew he had hit Adam where he was most vulnerable. "Do you think he'd be proud of a son who helped a sheriff hurt his brother?"
"I didn't help him," Adam said.
"You didn't stop him."
Adam looked confused. "I'm too little."
"You could help me punish him."
"He didn't do anything wrong."
"He hurt your father's brother. He's out right now looking to hurt some more."
"He's looking for rustlers."
"That's what he said, but he's looking to kill Blackthornes. What kind of boy would you be if you helped a stranger shoot your uncles."
Adam's chin held its stubborn jut, but Avery could see he'd planted a seed of doubt. He was satisfied with his progress for the day. "I just want you to help me keep him from hurting any more of your father's brothers. Will you do that?"
Adam didn't answer.
"You won't be much of a man if you let people go around hurting your family. People will start to think you're yella."
"I'm not yella!" Adam shouted.
"I know you're not. No Blackthorne is yella, but other people might think different. You think about what I said. We'll talk again tomorrow."
"I'll tell my ma."
"This is men's business," Avery said, looking hard at Adam. "Only a sissy would talk to his ma about men's business."
"I ain't no sissy."
Avery smiled. "You think about what I said. You got nice hands, a good feel for a horse. You'll make a top rider one of these days."
* * * * *
"It sure has been quiet the last couple days," Horace Worthy said to his wife. "I hate to criticize your cooking, but it ain't up to Tyler's."
"You're not hurting my feelings," Grace said. "I'd rather eat his cooking any time."
"You think he'll be back?"
"Not until his brother returns."
"You think he can do any good? After all, he's just a cook."
"He's not just a cook. He's a man who can cook."
"I suppose that makes a difference."
"It does in his case."
* * * * *
Laurel had kept her mind off Hen all day, but the moment she started washing his clothes, the wall caved in. Every thought she had tried to push aside, every feeling she had denied, every hope she had ignored rushed in upon her like an incoming wave. Hen had been gone three days, and she had been conscious of each passing minute.
She knew sleeping in his bed every night had made the pressure to think of him overwhelming. But after three days of trying to think of anything but Hen, she was finally forced to admit she was incapable of common sense where he was concerned.
She couldn't avoid the question that had begun to haunt her. Did he care for her, or was he just a particularly gallant sheriff with a weakness for single widows and fatherless boys? Common sense told her his letting her spend her nights in his house was merely part of his duty. But her heart wouldn't let her believe it. She didn't want to believe it.
She would miss him if he never came around again. She looked forward to his visits. Well, maybe not exactly looked forward, because they were never regular, but she couldn't deny her excitement and pleasure when he did come.
That was a terribly hard admission to make. It went against everything she wanted. But she had to be honest. Not matter what kind of man he might be, she liked him better than any man she'd ever met.
She scrubbed a little harder on the shirt, wrung it out, put it in the rise water, and started on another.
She smiled to herself. He was something of a dandy, at least by Sycamore Flats standards. He was so tall and slim. The crisp contrast of the black and white created a startling impression, especially in a hot, dusty town like Sycamore Flats. Every day he put on a clean shirt which he wore with a string tie, dark vest, and black pants. He wore nothing more than once. Laurel wondered if all rich Virginians were accustomed to such extravagance.
It was getting harder and harder to remember he was a gunfighter. She even wondered if he was quite the gunman everybody thought he was.
She hoped not.
But if he wasn't, he was in grave danger. Any rustling within a hundred miles probably involved the Blackthornes. They were killers.
Adam came running into the yard. "The sheriff's back," he shouted, "and he's got two rustlers."
Laurel wrung out the shirt, dropped it in the rinse water, and ran after Adam, drying her hands on her apron as she went.
Chapter Fourteen
The crowded streets gave the town a festive atmosphere. Everyone wanted to see who Hen was bringing in. Women who had completed their shopping, men and boys who ignored their chores, milled about gossiping and speculating. Laurel caught a final glimpse of Adam as he ran off with Jordy. After being given so much freedom lately, she didn't expect him to stay by her side.
"A lot of people seem to have found reason to be in the street," Grace Worthy observed.
Laurel turned in surprise. She had been so intent on watching Hen she hadn't seen Grace approach. "I supposed they're hoping this will mean an end to the rustling."
"Nobody cares about rustlers except Peter and Wally. They're anxious to see who he caught."
"Why?" Miranda Trescott asked. She had come up just after Grace.
Laurel almost cringed. Being around Miranda reinforced all her feelings of inferiority. Laurel knew she was prettier than Miranda, that her breasts were fuller, her curves more rounded and alluring, yet she felt almost ugly standing next to Miranda. She was young and pretty, beautifully dressed, self-possessed, friendly, and good-natured. She was as kind as she was unfailingly cheerful, and she looked every inch a lady. Laurel no longer denied that she hoped for more than friendship from Hen, but being around Miranda made her realize how farfetched such dreams were.
"They're hoping he caught Blackthornes," Grace Worthy said. "And they're hoping he didn't."
"That doesn't make sense," Miranda said.
"It does when you know the town. People suspect they're behind the rustling. Maybe some of them are, but they all stick together. If we try to hang any of them, the rest will take it out on the town."
"But that's against the law," Miranda said.
"There's the law out here," Grace said, pointing to Hen as he rode into town.
"Surely the townspeople--"
"The town hired Hen Randolph to do what it couldn't," Grace said.
Grace Worthy's words struck Laurel with blinding force. She had thought only of the harm guns could do, of Carlin's death, of the kind of people who used guns for selfish gain. She had forgotten that unless men like Hen were willing to use a gun, lawless men would rob and kill at will.
Hen had told her that, but she had been so blinded by her determination Adam would never have anything to do with guns, by her own fear of being abandoned again, she couldn't see it. Good people had to use guns, even if they didn't want to, because evil people would.
The crowd tightened up as Hen came down the street. Two men rode behind him, their hands tied behind them, their feet tied under the saddle. Peter Collins and Wally Regen brought up the rear, smiles on their faces.
"William says this may not stop the rustling, but it ought to slow them down for a while," Ruth Norton said, no more immune to curiosity than anyone else.
"Depending on how the town reacts," Grace said.
"What do you mean?" Miranda asked.
"Someone let Damian Blackthorne out of jail after he attacked Laurel," Grace said. "If the town feels the same way about these men, there won't be anybody but Peter and Wally standing behind the sheriff."
"And William," Ruth said. "How could his own children be safe if he doesn't?"
Laurel was forced to admit somebody had to stand up against the Blackthornes. She couldn't do it herself. The townspeople probably felt the same way. But she didn't know why Hen had to be the one. There must be plenty of other men willing to use their guns for two hundred and fifty dollars a month.
"Are those men Blackthornes?" Miranda asked.
"They're Carlin's cousins," Laurel said. "Corbet and Doyle."
"How do you know?" Grace asked.
"You forget I was married to a Blackthorne. I spent a month with them before--"
She stopped. She had never told anyone what Carlin had done to her. She wasn't about to start now.
"--before I left."
"Will the Blackthornes take their side?"
"They won't have to if somebody lets them out of jail," Grace said.
"But this isn't the same. Not that attacking you wasn't a terrible thing," Miranda hastened to assure Laurel. "But this is stealing cows."
Grace chuckled. "You're learning fast. Yes, cows are more important than women. That just might make the difference."
* * * * *
Tyler rode in an hour later. He passed behind the town, keeping in the wash until he reached the livery stable. Jesse wasn't about, so Chuck Wilson came to take his horse.
"Give him some oats," Tyler said
"He looks rode hard," Wilson commented.
"He was."
"See anything."
"Yes. The Blackthornes are behind the rustlers."
"You going to tell the sheriff?"
"I think I'll keep it to myself for a bit. The sheriff and I aren't getting along too well at present."
"He don't like taking advice from his little brother, eh?"
A hint of a smile broke the solemnity of Tyler's expression. "Something like that."
* * * * *
"I don't know who he is, but I'd swear on my grandmother's honor he's a Blackthorne," Grace told Hen. "He had the look of one, especially those nasty yellow eyes."
"And he didn't do anything but eat his dinner and leave?"
"Not that I saw, but you can bet there's others that saw more. That man's not here for no reason."
"No, not if he's a Blackthorne," Hen agreed. "I guess I'd better look into it."
"I guess you'd better if you want to keep your head on your shoulders, and that little boy in his mama's arms."
"You think he's after Adam?"
"I don't know why this Blackthorne should be any smarter than the rest."
* * * * *
"Yeah, I saw him," the blacksmith said. He was fixing a broken trace for the stagecoach. "He left his horse here a bit."
"Did you see where he went?"
"He asked about a job. I told him to see Phil Baker, the bullwacker. He always needs help."
"You ever seen anybody like him on your stage?" Hen asked Sam Overton, the stage driver, who was keeping an eye on the blacksmith.
"A few times. I didn't pay much attention."
"I'd appreciate it if both of you would keep your eyes open for strangers about," Hen said.
"You expecting trouble, sheriff?"
"Hoping it won't come, but I mean to be ready if it does."
* * * * *
"I want everybody to understand the rules before we start," Hen said. "If you don't stick to them, we can't build the chute."
"What's so important about rules?" someone asked.
"Nothing, if you don't break them," Hen replied.
About twenty men had gathered at the livery stable. They had loaded several wagons with freshly cut lumber from the pile that had been collecting behind the stable over the last several days. Armed with hammers, saws, and nails, they were about to begin the chute to bring water from Sycamore Canyon.
"How long is this going to take?" one man asked. "I got work of my own to be doing."
"Months," another replied. "That damned canyon is at least half a mile from here."
"We'll need a million pieces of lumber."
"That'll cost a fortune."
"It won't cost as much as it would to rebuild the town," Hen said. "Let's get going. Just remember. No one is to go past the mouth of the canyon."
Laurel watched the procession approach the canyon with mixed emotions. She was pleased the construction had finally begun. The sooner they finished, the sooner they got their water and she got her money.
The anticipation of that day was delicious. She had felt so helpless, so desperate, for so long that the prospect of the freedom to do as she pleased, go where she wanted, was almost too wonderful to believe. She knew nothing of the outside world. Her imaginings might have no foundation in reality, but they were wonderful because in her dreams nobody questioned her about her marriage or regarded her son from narrowed eyes. She and Adam would be just like everybody else.
