• • •

  He had unsaddled and fed Rodeo and was having dinner when he heard the clatter of the returning wagon. When Poppy entered the bunkhouse, he made eye contact with no one as he walked directly to his bunk. Trail dust still covered his face and he didn’t even bother removing his boots before he lay down. In short order he was asleep and snoring despite the noise from the nearby poker game.

  Outside, the air had turned cool and a few stars were already visible in the rust-colored sky. Walking made Jennings’s leg feel better and gave him the opportunity to contemplate the events of the day. He was not particularly surprised to learn that rustled cattle were being delivered to the Sinclair ranch, but Pete’s dispassionate killing of the young Mexican was something else. In a short period of time Coy had seen the results of the beating given a young man in town, then watched as a man whose only sin was drinking too much and using poor judgment was shot dead. Pete Sinclair was not just mean, as he’d been warned. He was cold-blooded evil.

  “Evenin’, Mr. Jennings.”

  He was nearing the corral where the mare and her foal were penned when he heard young Penelope’s voice. “And how are you, young lady?”

  “I’m fine, thank you. My mother ’n’ me have come to tell the horses good night.”

  April McLean stood near her child but didn’t acknowledge his presence.

  “Nice to see you as well,” Coy said.

  The smile she’d previously shown him was absent. Her lips were pursed as she pulled her daughter to her side and glanced back in the direction of the house.

  “You seem troubled,” he said.

  “I’ve been told by Mr. Sinclair I’m not to talk with you,” she said.

  “Pete, you mean?”

  She nodded. “Pete, yes.” With no further explanation she turned and headed toward the house, holding her daughter’s hand tightly.

  Poppy, awake from his brief nap and sipping from a cup of coffee, was standing in the doorway of the bunkhouse when Jennings returned. There was a crooked smile on his face. “And how’s pretty Miss April doin’?”

  Jennings pushed past him without replying.

  Chapter 9

  For the remainder of the week, Jennings went about his chores, avoiding Pete Sinclair as much as possible. As he expected, the cattle were herded in the night after his visit to Blue Flats, though he was not asked to help with the branding. Nor did he take any more evening walks that might result in problems for April McLean.

  Signing on with the Bend of the River Ranch had been a mistake. The simple answer was to just ride away. This ain’t your fight, he told himself. You’re a lowly deserter just needing a job, not additional troubles. Still, he couldn’t put aside the fact that bad things were happening and no one seemed interested in doing anything about it.

  Coy needed to talk with Giles Weatherby.

  When he prepared to ride into Phantom Hill on Sunday, he was careful to make certain Miss April’s buggy was still in the barn when he left.

  It was still an hour before singing was to begin and the livery owner sat outside, enjoying the sun as he wiped dirt and dung from his boots. He wore a clean shirt and his hair and beard were trimmed and combed.

  “Almost didn’t recognize you,” Jennings said as he looped Rodeo’s reins over the hitch rail.

  “I make an effort to be presentable on the Sabbath.”

  From inside the livery came a shout. “That you, Mr. Jennin’s?” Ira peeked from the doorway, a smile on his face. “I was hoping you might come.”

  “He’s been warting me plumb to death, asking how long before Sunday,” Weatherby said.

  Coy placed his arm across Dalton’s shoulders. “I been lookin’ forward to seein’ you too.”

  “Reckon we’ll be getting us pie later in the day?”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me none.”

  Weatherby reached into his pocket and withdrew a penny. Handing it to Ira, he said, “You might want to go purchase Bell’s candy stick ’fore you forget. Me ’n’ Mr. Jennings got us some visiting to do.”

  Coy took a seat on the bench and watched Dalton hurry off in the direction of the general store. “How’s the Burton boy?”

  “Doc tells me he’s mending slowly. It now appears he’s going to be able to retain his sight, which is something we’ll soon be giving up a prayer of thanks for.”

  “How long before he’ll be up and about?”

  “That’s what I’m wanting to speak with you about.”

  Despite his condition the last time they’d talked, Weatherby remembered most of what he’d told Jennings about the Sinclairs and the warning he’d given. “How are you getting on with your job at the Bend?”

  On the ride into town Coy decided to tell the blacksmith what he’d seen and learned since they last talked. Weatherby silently stared at the ground as Jennings told of his ride to Blue Flats, of Pete Sinclair’s shooting the young Mexican, and seeing cattle he was sure were stolen.

  Weatherby nodded. “Ol’ Lester’s had those outlaws—or men like them—doing his thieving and dirty work for the longest time. Seems he has the belief that it will keep his own hands clean and his conscience clear.”

  “There’s another thing worrying me,” Coy said. “I’m afraid I might have caused someone unneeded trouble without intending to.” He told of his brief conversations with April McLean and her daughter and of being informed that Pete Sinclair had warned her not to talk further with him.

  Weatherby shook his head slowly. “Mean and jealous. I’d suggest that’s a highly dangerous combination.” There was a lengthy silence before he continued. “I got no proof of what I’m about to tell you, but . . .”

  Before he could complete his sentence, Ira returned, still smiling. “Folks are beginnin’ to arrive over by the tree,” he said. “Time for singing.”

  Weatherby gave his boots one last swipe, then rose and cradled his Bible under one arm. “Will you be joining us?”

  “I reckon I’ll be able to hear from here,” Coy said.

  “We’ll continue our talk later, then.”

  • • •

  The sound of the hymns being sung lifted Jennings’s spirit. He closed his eyes, letting the voices of the community sweep away the concerns he’d wrestled with over the past few days.

  His eyes were still closed when he heard his name called. When he opened them April McLean was standing in front of him.

  “Mr. Jennings,” she said, “I saw you sitting here and came to offer an apology for my behavior the other evening.”

  He stood and doffed his hat. “None’s needed.”

  She shook her head. “Nice folks need to be treated nice,” she said, “and I failed in my Christian responsibility. You did nothing that merited my turning away without a better explanation.”

  “You told me what it was Pete Sinclair said.”

  “He may be my boss, but all I owe him and his family is an honest day’s work and meals on the table. I’m not owned by Pete Sinclair, and I have a right to speak to anyone I choose.”

  Jennings said, “My worry is any problem me being friendly might cause you . . . and your daughter. It’s my impression that Pete’s not a person given to understanding ways.”

  “Leave me to worry about that,” she said. “Good day to you, Mr. Jennings.”

  “I’d prefer you call me by my given name. Coy.”

  She smiled, then turned and walked away to join those waiting to hear Weatherby’s reading from the book of St. Luke.

  • • •

  “We’ll soon be needin’ to include you in our prayers for healing if a certain person’s wishes continue to get ignored,” the livery owner said as he approached. There was an attempt to lend a tone of jesting to his observation, but Coy knew he was serious.

  “You think her working for the Sinclairs puts her in any danger?”

  Weatherby shrugged. “So long as Pete’s got an eye for her, it’s not likely. At least until he finally comes to realize she’s got no interest in his affections. For now, though, I ’spect he’s hardheaded enough—and full enough of hisself—to think he can persuade her if he keeps working at it. Meanwhile, I’d suggest that the best favor you can do for her is to keep your distance and not give anybody cause to be riled up again.”

  “Again?”

  “That’s what I was gonna speak with you about ’fore we was interrupted. You recall me telling you what caused the widow McLean to be out to the Bend was her husband losing his life when his barn caught fire?”

  Coy nodded.

  “Understand, I got no proof for what I’m sayin’, but it was my suspicion at the time that the fire was most likely set by Lester Sinclair’s henchmen. Like I told you, he’d been attempting to convince April’s husband to sell his farm for some time with no success. It wasn’t long after his unfortunate passing when the widow agreed to sell to Lester. Then she and the little girl moved out to the Bend at the old man’s offering, doubtless thinking what a kind and generous man he was.”

  Jennings felt his stomach tighten as he listened to Weatherby’s story.

  Later, after taking Ira to Miss Mindy’s for pie, Coy returned to the livery, where he found Weatherby still dressed in his singing clothes. “I wouldn’t advise doing blacksmithin’ in that outfit,” he said.

  “Thought maybe you’d like to join me lookin’ in on Buck Burton ’fore you head back to the ranch.”

  The young man was still in Doc Matthews’s back room, though now seated in a chair instead of lying on the bed. Much of the swelling on his face was gone and there were stitches on his lips. The red and purple bruises were turning yellow. There was a splint on his hand, and bandages were wrapped around his abdomen. One eye remained closed, but he could see his visitors through the narrow slit of the other.

  “He’s considerably weakened, but I think once he can do more than take sips of broth and tea and resumes eating regular, that will change,” the doctor said. “He’s improved to a point where he now feels only terrible instead of like he’s about to die.”

  Burton winced in pain as he attempted a smile.

  The doctor placed a hand gently on his shoulder. “It is my professional opinion that this young man is strong and will properly mend, given time. For now, rest is what he needs, and we should leave him to it.”

  The visitors walked onto the front porch, where Matthews joined them. “He had a visitor last night. In walks Lester Sinclair himself, hat in hand and all sincere-looking, making apologies for what his boy did. Told Buck not to fret over my fee—said he’d be paying it.”

  Weatherby swore. “I didn’t see Pete at his regular place at the saloon last night.”

  “Sinclair said he was punishing the boy by forbidding him to come into town.”

  “That won’t last long,” Weatherby said as he shook his head. “My guess is that ol’ Lester’s got himself a plan in the making.”

  As they slowly walked back to the livery, Jennings spoke. “You’re figurin’ that Sinclair is planning to try and claim Burton’s farm, right?”

  “Were I a gamblin’ man, I’d say that’s a good bet.”

  “If a man can’t physically tend his property, he ain’t got many options to consider.”

  “That’s the other thing I was planning to speak with you about,” Weatherby said.

  He explained he had been riding out to Burton’s farm daily, milking his cow, and seeing that his livestock were fed. “It’s about all I can do, what with folks needing my services here in town. But the fruit in that small orchard he’s got is fallin’ to the ground to rot or be eaten by crows and raccoons. And his garden’s badly in need of tending. And I worry that thieves might soon determine that there ain’t no one livin’ there, and help themselves to his belongings.” He looked over at Jennings.

  “I took a liking to you the day you arrived with your injured horse,” he said. “And when you told of your plan to seek work out at the Bend, I didn’t see it my responsibility to urge you to think twice ’fore doing so. Now, though, I think you’ve seen what goes on there. And, being honest, I have genuine concern for your safety should you stay. Clearly Pete don’t like you, and that can only make for future problems if you don’t consider moving on soon. “

  Jennings smiled. “Can’t say as I disagree.”

  “While there would be no pay involved,” the blacksmith said, “what I was wondering is this: At least until Burton gets back to good health, would you consider moving into his cabin and caring for his place? You wouldn’t go hungry, since he’s got himself a half-decent smokehouse, and with proper care his garden will provide ample vegetables. And I could spare Ira to give you a hand if the notion suits you. I’m sure Buck would be agreeable.”

  Coy stopped and looked at Weatherby. “Your thinking is, it might be a way of keeping Sinclair from gettin’ his hands on the farm.”

  “At the moment I’ve got no other plan.”

  Jennings sighed and looked off into the distance for a moment. “It seems a good idea to me,” he said. “First, I’ll need to inform someone at the Bend that I’ll be taking my leave.”

  Weatherby smiled. “Yes,” he said, “I reckon she’ll be needing to know.”

  Chapter 10

  A mother hen and her chicks scattered as Jennings and Dalton arrived at the dirt yard in front of the cabin. Ira and Bell had taken the lead, having previously made trips to the Burton Farm with Weatherby.

  “This here’s it,” Ira said. “This is where Mr. Burton was livin’ ’fore he had to go stay with the doctor.”

  Coy let his eyes roam from the small cabin to the corral shed from where Buck’s cow bellowed her urging to be milked. There was a hog pen located upwind, and beyond that, the small orchard of pear and apple trees. Potatoes, tomatoes, and beans grew in the garden, with a well and the smokehouse nearby. He saw that firewood was neatly stacked and protected with a tattered piece of canvas that had no doubt once covered the wagon in which Burton arrived two years earlier. In the distance, rows of corn waved gently in the morning breeze. Beyond the field was a tree line that marked the eastern edge of the small claim.

  Buck Burton had worked hard to make something of his forty acres. It was the kind of place Jennings hoped to one day own. That, however, was unlikely to happen any time soon now that there would be no more pay from the Bend of the River Ranch.

  • • •

  He worked a full day before approaching the ranch house after dinner. When Lester Sinclair met him on the porch, Jennings offered no explanation for his decision beyond the fact that he’d wished to move on. He considered a more elaborate story—suggesting he might join an old army friend working cattle up near Tascosa—but decided against it.

  Sinclair shook Jennings’s hand and wished him well, but made no offer to pay him for his final day’s work. Nor did he suggest that Coy could spend a last night at the ranch before leaving.

  Pete, sitting nearby with his brother, glared but said nothing. Repete seemed to pay no attention to the brief conversation.

  “Then I’ll gather my belongings and be on my way,” Coy said.

  “You take care,” the elder Sinclair said. He struck a match to light his pipe, then disappeared back into the house.

  It was dark by the time Jennings returned to the bunkhouse and retrieved his saddlebag from beneath his bunk. None of the cardplayers noticed when he neared the doorway and picked up one of the rifles that leaned against the wall. Nor did they see him dip his hand into a nearby bucket filled with ammunition and put the cartridges in his pocket.

  Why not? he thought. Stealing from a thief wasn’t really stealing.

  After saddling Rodeo he walked him toward the corral, where he hoped to find April McLean and her daughter. As he approached he could see that the girl was holding a carrot out to the colt.

  There was a look of surprise on April’s face as she realized he was preparing to leave.

  “I just wished to say good-bye,” Coy said. “And to tell you if you ever need my help with anything, you can see Giles Weatherby at his livery. He’ll know where I can be found.”

  He smiled down at the girl as he climbed aboard Rodeo.

  Penelope was still waving good-bye when Pete Sinclair emerged from the shadows to glare at Jennings. April quickly moved between the men as the foreman yelled, “Good riddance.”

  • • •

  The days passed quickly as summer soon faded to cooler weather. Jennings enjoyed working the farm, doing repairs that Burton hadn’t gotten around to before his injuries, hoeing and harvesting in the cornfield and garden, tending the livestock, cleaning the well. They were chores he and his two sisters had often done on the family farm back in Arkansas. Briefly, he allowed himself to fantasize that Burton’s place was his, that he was living his own dream.

  Ira Dalton liked being away from the livery and in Coy’s company. Only occasionally would he leave for evening rides. He found some traps hanging against the side of the smokehouse and began setting them down near the tree line, always returning with rabbits and squirrels that Jennings would prepare for their dinner. “Trappin’ reminds me of a long time ago,” Ira said one evening as they sat at the small table. “Only this time it seems more an enjoyment. And you cook a lot better, Mr. Jennin’s, ’specially when you add dumplin’s.”

  Coy wondered about his new friend’s tortured life in hiding but never raised the subject. He felt certain he’d been told all Ira wished him to know.

  “I’m thinking,” he said, “that with the evenings now gettin’ cooler, it might be time we build a proper pen for the chickens. Seems it would better protect them from varmints, and locating their eggs would be a sight easier if we provided them layin’ nests. We should fix it so they can roost somewhere other than in the trees.”

 

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