A hill of beans, p.9
A Hill of Beans, page 9
By the time he finished speaking, Van Horne’s voice was harsher and had increased in volume. And listening, Orson’s jaw had sagged steadily open wider.
“Sufferin’ Virgin Mary,” the former cook groaned. “You mean all the while I was traveling with a pack of cattle thieves?”
Van Horne grimaced. “No other way to put it. Those longhorns might still be wearing Bradley’s brand, but they’re technically mine and he’s nothing more than a no-good rustler. Ain’t that right, Malloy?”
“Like you said, that’s what it comes down to,” Malloy replied, though not looking particularly pleased with the pronouncement.
Orson’s expression grew suddenly anxious. “I had no idea. I swear! You’ve got to believe me.”
“Lucky for you, I do,” Van Horne allowed.
“So do I,” said Malloy. “But now, Brandenburger, you’ll have the chance to prove your innocence even further with some added cooperation. As you can see, this posse has been formed to run down Bradley’s bunch and retrieve Mr. Van Horne’s property. Up until a short time ago, we figured they were aiming to try and sell the cattle in Denver. But as you know, they passed that up. What you can help with now, to get us back on track, is to reveal what they’ve got in mind instead. Where are they headed with those stolen longhorns, Brandenburger?”
* * *
Half an hour later, after he’d gladly given up Miles City as Bradley’s destination, Orson was on his way back to Bison Horn, once again in the company of Barlow and Curly. In the interim, he had been invited to sit and have a cup of whiskey-laced coffee with the appreciative posse members before leaving their camp.
With that behind him, his mood was light as he rode off. Not only was he relieved to have gotten things squared with Mr. Van Horne and Ranger Malloy, but there was a spiteful part of him that relished knowing he’d also gotten a measure of revenge on those Rafter B varmints.
A lingering sour note, however, was the realization that his reception back at the Buffalo Wallow would almost certainly be negative, including from the half-breed soiled dove who’d earlier been so eager to take him into the back room. No explanation would be able to easily erase the “horse thief” accusation that had been announced for all to hear. For this, Orson still harbored a grudge against Barlow and Curly.
But their status with Van Horne and the Ranger—not to mention the fact they’d proven to be a couple of formidable hardcases strictly on their own—made Orson think better of seeking any more trouble with them. It wouldn’t be hard to find other saloons where the novelty of his cast would get him the kind of attention he’d grown to crave. Orson smiled inwardly, and as he rode along between Barlow and Curly, in his head he once again began rolling around some ideas for new tall tales to explain the hand injury.
Some fanciful fabrication was the last thing on his mind, then, when Barlow’s arm suddenly reached out, the knife in his fist flashing in the moonlight as it passed under Orson’s chin and laid open his throat. The former cook made a single sound, like a subdued cough, as blood gushed down over the front of him. His shoulders slumped, then he crumpled and slipped slowly from his saddle, dead before he hit the ground.
“The old goat sure had a lot of juice in him, didn’t he? Look how it’s still pumpin’!” Curly Pierce marveled, gazing down at the fallen body.
“We ain’t got time to hang around gawking,” said Barlow as he swung down from his saddle. “We’ve got to get him buried. Van Horne told me on the sly to get rid of him and not leave any trace. Then be sure to bring the Rafter B horse back with us.”
“Why’s he so worried about the horse?”
“It’s his property now. Remember? What’s his, he wants.”
“Can you believe that? All that money he’s got, and he’s worried about one lousy horse?”
“Just be thankful he didn’t say to kill it and bury it, too.”
“I suppose. I don’t recall signin’ on for no shovel work, though. Not even a little bit,” Curly groused as he dismounted.
CHAPTER 17
Colleen’s intervention on the Forrests’ behalf finally wore down her father’s resistance to them tagging along on the drive. There was a final question Bradley demanded must be addressed, though, before giving in entirely. That was the matter of what had gone wrong back in Torrence that resulted in the professor’s elixir making so many people so sick, some of them nearly dying.
The only explanation Forrest could come up with was that he’d made the harmful batch with some recently purchased whiskey that must have been tainted. “A primary ingredient in my recipe, as is the case with almost all elixirs such as mine—not to mention many of the concoctions prescribed by licensed physicians, truth be told—is a strong dose of whiskey,” he’d revealed.
He’d then gone on to admit, with great remorse, that the whiskey he used for the bad batch had been purchased, due to its bargain price, from a moonshiner outside of Laramie. Since he strictly followed the same recipe he had used dozens of times before with no problem and all the other ingredients came from supplies he had on hand that had previously been used without any problem, the cheap moonshine—which Forrest foolishly never tested or sufficiently sampled before introducing it into the mix—had to have been the source of the subsequent suffering.
In the end, the man’s frankness and his sincere-seeming regret for the damage his carelessness had caused was enough to convince Bradley that the incident had been an accident—a near-tragic accident, to be sure—and therefore deserving forgiveness.
That had been two days ago. Now, on the morning of the third day, breakfast was finishing up and they would soon be on the move again. As it was turning out, the Forrests were so far proving to be no hindrance to the drive. In fact, the professor—after being given a few pointers—was actually being of considerable help. An experienced rider, he had begun assisting Colleen with the remuda by day and had also insisted on taking his turn at nighthawk duty. His daughter, Belinda, managed their team and wagon on her own and at evening camp made herself useful in small ways however and whenever she could. The way the men of the crew followed her with their eyes at every opportunity, there wasn’t much doubt they found her to have sufficient worth merely by her presence.
Surely Belinda must have had some awareness of this, but if so, she didn’t display it outwardly. Nor, other than to take the normal womanly measures to maintain her appearance, did she flirt or act in any manner to solicit it.
Still, her effect on the men did not go unnoticed altogether. When Colleen brought the mule team around and helped Mac get them hitched to the chuckwagon, she abruptly asked, “Do any of the men look at me that way?”
Mac immediately recognized what she was referring to. But he also recognized that the smartest thing for him to do was steer as wide around the answer as possible. In an attempt to do so, his response was to concentrate harder than necessary on the task at hand and mumble a vague, “What’s that? Look at you how?”
“The way they look at Belinda, that’s how,” Colleen answered somewhat testily. Then added, “And that includes you—although you don’t gawp quite as bad as most of the others.”
“Gawp?” Mac echoed with a frown. “Ain’t sure I’m following you.”
“The heck you’re not. Quit playing dumb, you’re not fooling me one bit,” Colleen snapped. “I’m talking about the way all the fellas gaze at Belinda, practically drooling, whenever she comes in sight. It’s pathetic. They’re like a bunch of humpbacked hounds panting after . . . well, you know what I mean. And don’t pretend you don’t.”
Much as he didn’t want to be, it looked like Mac was cornered. He tossed a couple sidelong glances, hoping somebody else might be headed his way to provide an interruption. But there was no such salvation in sight.
Colleen arched an eyebrow. “I expect an answer. And I’d appreciate it if you looked at me when I’m talking to you.”
Mac lifted his eyes from the rigging and met hers. As always, he was struck by her fresh beauty. The just-rising sun caught her thick chestnut hair and framed it in shimmering gold. And her agitated state put an extra sparkle in her eyes and added a blush of color to her cheeks that made her features all the more appealing.
Mac sighed. “Doggone it, Colleen, what do you want me to say? Is this some kind of jealousy thing?”
“Jealousy’s got nothing to do with it,” Colleen insisted, a bit too forcefully.
Mac dragged the palm of one hand down over his face. “Okay. In the first place, how long have the fellas in this outfit—except for me, since I came along more recently—been on the trail staring at mostly nothing every day except the rear ends of a bunch of longhorns? Quite a spell now, right? Then along comes a gal looks like Miss Belinda. And she’s right pretty, no getting around that. So ain’t it kinda natural for a bunch of men like I just described to take particular notice of her?”
“Hmmph! If you mean it’s natural for a bunch of men to act like drooling idiots, then I guess you’d know the answer to that better than me.”
“Are you wanting to make conversation or looking for a reason to be insulting?” Mac wanted to know.
Colleen pressed her lips into a tight, straight line and didn’t answer right away. Then: “I didn’t mean to be insulting. At least not to you. But you avoided my original question. Do the men ever look at me the way they do her?”
Accepting he was cornered and there was no way he could avoid getting sucked deeper into this discussion, Mac said, “The answer to that is . . . not usually. Not from what I’ve seen. But it ain’t that simple. You got to understand there are some good reasons why.”
Colleen thrust out her chin. “Like what? Because I’m not pretty enough for anybody to take a second look at?”
“Now, blast it, that ain’t it at all,” Mac was quick to respond. “How many times do we have to cover this business about you being pretty? Once and for all, I think you’re pretty—no, I know you’re pretty. Same as anybody who’s ever laid eyes on you. And if you figure I’ve never taken a second look at you in the time since I joined this drive, well, then you ain’t been paying very close attention.”
Colleen’s expression changed, softened. “I’m grateful for you saying so, Mac. I needed to hear that just now . . . And I have noticed you looking at me. And unless you’re a lot dumber than I take you for, you know that I’ve been looking back.”
The way the conversation had suddenly turned was causing Mac to feel uncomfortable in a whole different way. Trying to keep things from getting too far out of hand, he said, “As far as how the other fellas in this outfit do or don’t look at you, you’ve got to stop and consider a couple things. First, you’re the boss’s daughter. That’d give any sensible hombre some amount of pause, whether you think it should or not. Second, over half the men in camp are relatives to you—your father and brothers. They sure ain’t gonna look at you the way we’re talking about, yet the four of them always being close by is another sort of roadblock to anybody else who might be inclined to pay you attention. You beginning to see what I mean?”
Colleen gave a faint bob of her head. “Yes. I guess I do.” She gazed at him for a long moment before saying, “Thank you for sparing me the time, Mac. There’s no one else in camp I could have had this talk with. I appreciate it. And I hope I didn’t come across as being petty or mean-spirited where Belinda is concerned. I actually like her and we seem to be hitting it off well. It’s just that . . .”
“No need to explain,” Mac told her. “If talking to me helped, then I’m glad. We’ll just leave it at that.”
Colleen smiled. “Very well. But there is one more thing. Above all, make sure you understand that I don’t mind you taking those second looks at me.” She paused. “I don’t mind at all.”
CHAPTER 18
The descending sun was just getting ready to touch the western horizon when Mac reached the spot Shad Hopper had marked for their night camp. There was a meandering creek close by from which the stock could slake their thirst and then a wide, grassy expanse where they could rest and graze until it was time to get moving again in the morning. Mac figured the herd was a good hour or more behind, giving him plenty of time to set up and have a good supper waiting for the crew when they came straggling in.
Belinda Forrest had rolled her wagon up soon after he reached the campsite. She was quick to express her relief that the end of another long day had been reached.
“That wagon seat beats walking, to be sure, and probably spending hours in a saddle, too, I imagine,” she said. “But I guarantee there are certainly more comfortable ways to pass the time of day.”
As she said this, Belinda placed her hands at the small of her back and tipped her head from side to side as she arched her back, working out some kinks and aches. These actions caused a spill of wavy blond hair to fall over one side of her face and, at the same time, thrust her generous breasts even more prominently against the front of her blouse.
The whole thing was quite natural and not meant to be intentionally provocative, yet that was exactly what it was. Mac had to abruptly look away in order to keep from “gawping” as a result. The recollection of Colleen’s word from their discussion only that morning made Mac feel immediately guilty on two counts: one, that he was reacting the way he was in the first place, and two, that by so doing he was somehow betraying Colleen.
Promptly focusing on the work he had to do as a means to shift his thoughts away from where they didn’t belong, Mac began unharnessing his mule team and said over his shoulder, “There’s a small grove of trees over there by the stream. Why don’t you go ahead and sit over there in the shade for a while, relax and rest a bit. Maybe soak your feet in the cool water. We’ve got a good hour, maybe a little more, before the others show up.”
“But what will you be doing?” Belinda wanted to know.
Mac answered, “I’ll get the teams unhitched, leave them to drink and graze. Then I’ve got to start supper for the crew. You can bet they’ll show up plenty hungry and not in any mood to wait very long for something to fill their bellies once they get here.”
Belinda moved up beside him. “No, that won’t do. Not at all. Let me see to the teams while you go ahead and start your meal preparations. I can’t very well laze about like some pampered princess while everyone else continues working. As it is, I feel like I’ve already contributed too little ever since Mr. Bradley allowed us to join your group.”
“You’ve done everything asked of you,” Mac pointed out. “You’ve taken care of your team and wagon while your father pitches in elsewhere.”
“That’s just it. Father is pitching in, contributing something to the overall drive as a means of payback to show our gratitude. Yes, I’ve been handling our team and wagon. But that doesn’t benefit anyone else.” Belinda reached out and gripped Mac’s wrist, stopping him from continuing to unfasten the rigging. “And I certainly won’t allow you to see to my team as well as your own. That would make me riding ahead with you today only added work for you. That’s the last thing I want. So let me take care of the animals. It’s the least I can do.”
“Okay. Your horses are your own business. But,” Mac said stubbornly, “mules are whole different critters. Especially this pair of ornery knotheads. They may look mild as milk right at the minute. But right when you least expect—”
“Leave them to me,” Belinda cut him off. With the grip she had on his wrist she tugged his hand off the leathers then reached with her free hand to take them instead. “Believe it or not, I’ve handled mules before. I even know the kind of salty language it takes to get their attention. So promise me you won’t be shocked if I have to cut loose with a whole string of unladylike words.”
Mac gave in with a wry grin. “I promise. But I can’t speak for the mules. Them, you might shock. They’re only used to sweet, gentle, coaxing words spoken in a soothing voice.”
Belinda laughed. “Yeah, I bet. You just go on about your cooking. Leave these jug-eared wastes of good hay and oats to me.”
Mac held up his hands, palms out, in a gesture of surrender. Then, still grinning, he made his way around to the side of the chuckwagon. From where a horsehair rope held it lashed to the outside of the box, he took an ax. He carried it with him as he strode toward the grove of trees he had pointed out to Belinda earlier. Behind him, he could hear her talking to the mules—her velvety voice gentle and pleasant to start with, even as it warned them in no uncertain terms what kind of tongue-lashing they were in for if they gave her cause.
Half an hour later, Mac had two cooking fires burning strong, fueled by the wood he’d chopped, and he’d begun laying out the makings for supper on the fold-down table at the rear of the chuckwagon. Belinda had unharnessed the two teams without any problem, and the animals were now down by the creek where they’d be left to drink and graze on their own until the rest of the outfit arrived, at which time they would be rounded up and put in with the remuda until needed again in the morning. Finished with them for the time being, Belinda had muttered something about “freshening up” before disappearing into the medicine wagon and not yet reemerging.
As he continued with his meal preparations, Mac’s mind strayed to wondering what the blond beauty might be doing in there by herself. After a few minutes of this, the realization came suddenly that what was really on his mind was wishing she was out here talking with him instead of being hidden away. Then, on the heels of that, almost as suddenly, came another pang of guilt for having that wish and knowing how much it would hurt Colleen if she knew he harbored such a thought.
