SHATTERED DREAMS
Book Three of The
Arkansas Valley Series
by
r. William Rogers
*
Published by:
Robert W. Rogers at Smashwords
*
Shattered Dreams
Book Three of The
Arkansas Valley Series
Copyright 2011 by Robert W. Rogers
ebooks ISBN:978-1-4658-1119-6
Smashwords Edition License Notes:
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you would like to share it with. If you are reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.
All rights reserved solely by the author. The author guarantees all contents are original and do not infringe upon the legal rights of any other person or work. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without the permission of the author. The views expressed in this book are not necessarily those of Smashwords.
Unless otherwise indicated, Bible quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible. Copyright 1989 by Thomas Nelson Inc.
Chapter 1
Tom removed his dusty, sweat-soaked hat and dropped it to the dirt next to his right knee. He ran a forearm across his brow and then guardedly peeked his pale blue eyes above the good-sized boulder, making sure to not let any more of him show than was necessary. He rested his gaze on the small band of six mustang mares that milled uneasily just a short distance away. A pleasant grin punctuated his handsome features as his attention focused down to the tan-colored stallion that stood a bit off to one side.
The chase had lasted the better part of the morning, but despite all that the stallion was proving a bit pigheaded now that it was time for him and his mares to head on into the box canyon.
Tom lowered himself down behind the boulder and after dusting the hat against his leg, replaced it on his head. He shifted his position slightly and glanced behind him as the sounds of approaching riders reached his ears.
The stallion had also heard the commotion and snorted his displeasure while pawing the ground, sending small puffs of dry dust into the air. Shaking his head, he whirled and bolted toward his band of mares while at the same time letting loose with a shrill scream that was pretty clear in its meaning.
In less time than it took for Tom to shift his attention back to the small band, they were already high-tailing it outta there. He watched as the mustangs made their way down the slight decline of the mesquite-strewn slope. Once on level ground, they picked up speed and fled toward the south at a full gallop.
As he watched them go he was taken by the natural beauty of their flight, with streaming tails and flowing manes signifying their need to remain free.
Tearing his attention from the intriguing sight, Tom pushed a palm against his knee and tiredly pushed himself to his feet. He then made his way over to the group of riders.
“Hey, George!” he said in greeting as he approached the three mounted men. “Not much luck with that other bunch…huh?”
“Nah. They outsmarted us and made a clean get-away. ’Bout the same as them ones, I’d say.” He gestured with the back of a hand toward the small cloud of dust that was all that remained of the fleeing horses.
George Atkins was a feisty kinda twenty-one year old wrangler who had no problem saying what was on his mind. He’d been with The Bartlett for about a year now and was one of Tom’s favorites. The ranch’s foreman, Ike Curtis, had hired him on.
George pulled his hat and while making good use of a dusty shirt sleeve, rubbed the sweat across his forehead. The removal of the hat had let loose a cascade of dark-brown hair that came to rest in front of his equally dark-brown eyes. The comb-starved locks extended down the sides and back to a length of just below the top edge of his shirt collar. The slight grin on his face showed anyone with an interest that he was having one heck of a good time chasing these lop-eared mustangs.
“Well…you gonna stand there all day or you gonna git chur backside inta the saddle so’s we kin git after ’em?” he asked around the grin and replaced his hat while trapping the unruly hair under it with a sweeping motion of his hand.
Tom slowly broke into a grin of his own. He too was enjoying the challenge of rounding-up the elusive mustangs.
Tom Bartlett as of a cut that allowed for folks to not just abide him, but more’n likely wanna be his friend, as well. He was even-tempered and would give a fella the shirt off his back if there was a need. Kinda like that time a while back when he’d given a passel of money to the church building fund after having finagled it back from a slimy card shark that’d cheated him out of it during a time when he’d fallen from grace.
Tom’s pa, Sam, had started the ranch back in ’48, after him, Tom’s mother, Judith, and then three-year-old, Tom, had trekked all the way out here to southeastern Colorado from Independence, Missouri, and built the ranch through hard work, steadfast determination and hard-fought sticktoitiveness.
But none of that had come about without the family having suffered grievous losses. Jay, as Sam had preferred to affectionately call his beloved wife, had been taken from them by the Comanches during a raid on the ranch in ’58, and things had been tough for Sam from that dreadful day until his own death in the Spring of ’66--just a little over a year ago. Sam had been killed doing what he loved best…chasing after the wild mustangs that graced the Bartlett range.
Tom’s thoughts flashed to that oft-remembered day, but he quickly pushed the hurt away and returned to the problems at hand.
“Well, what’s it gonna be? You gonna mount up or just stand there all wall-eyed an’ wishin’ them cayuses’ll come back here all by their lonesome?”
Tom grinned up at George and collected the brown gelding’s trailing rein. He flipped it over the animal’s head and aimed a toe at the stirrup. “Just you try yer best ta keep up with me!” he fired back challengingly before pulling himself up and settling his backside into the familiar feel of the saddle. The Bartlett hands reined around, and after kicking their mounts into motion, headed out in the same direction the mustang band had just taken.
After a relatively short ride, they topped a low rise and were pleasantly surprised to see that the fugitive horses had come to a dead stop and seemed contented to wait for the pursuers to catch up--almost as if they were playing with them.
The riders pulled rein.
“Looks like we got them broncs just about scared ta death of us,” George commented with good-natured sarcasm. “Seems ta me--”
“Seems ta me,” Tom interrupted, “that we need us a better plan.” Taking one last glance at the ever-watchful stallion and his grazing mares, Tom pulled the gelding’s head around and ordered, “Come on!”
The retraced their tracks down the sloping rise. Once safely out of sight of the band, they hauled up. Tom was the first to dismount, followed closely by George, then Otis and finally, Willard. The foursome squatted around in a lopsided facsimile of a circle and the others watched while Tom, with a few sweeps of his hand, smoothed out a spot in the dirt.
They’d dealt with this particular stallion on more than one occasion before and knew from those past experiences that he wasn’t about to give up his mares easily. Heck, anyone with any sense about him at all could see that just that simple fact alone was enough to require a measure of ingenuity on their part.
Using a stick he found lying within reach, he started making marks in the smoothed-out clearing. The plan he laid out was a sight more complicated than just a simple run-’em-into-the-box-canyon-and-close-off-the-entrance, sort of plan, as was more than not the usual way of doing things.
Although the band was already somewhat tuckered from their recent run, the new plan was to tire them even further. The hope was to take all the starch out of them before eventually herding them into the same box canyon they’d just left.
Once the particulars were all laid out, and everyone knew what was expected of him, they broke up the get-together and headed for their horses.
George would run the mustangs until he’d pushed them to the buttes about five miles or so to the south. Once he’d gotten them that far, Otis would be waiting there and continue the chase. Otis would then drive them to the bank of the Purgatoire River over on the east edge of the Bartlett range. Willard would then take over. His part would be to run them north toward the bluffs, where they were now.
After the by-then-hopefully-tuckered bunch of mares had completed the expansive circle, Tom, who would be waiting, would join Willard. With the two of them keeping up a steady pressure they figured they wouldn’t have any trouble driving the mustangs into the box canyon. It would then be a simple matter to close them in, and that would be that.
With the plan sitting right on the front tip edge of their brains, Otis and Willard lit out for their assigned positions while George and Tom took the time to rib one another about the other’s earlier failure to contain their respective bands of wild horses.
The taking of the mustangs was essential to the success of The Bartlett. After Sam and Jay had originally established the ranch, they had entered into a trade agreement with the army that centered on The Bartlett keeping the garrison at nearby Fort Lyon supplied with top-notch, reliable mounts.
The whole arrangement had begun a mite on the modest side but had turned into an extremely lucrative business shortly after the outbreak of the all-out Indian wars that had spawned as a result of the Sand Creek Massacre in 1864. That infamous event came about because of the need for personal acclaim for one, Colonel John Chivington.
As the story goes… in November of that year there was a breakdown in the treaty with the Arapahoe and Cheyenne tribes that had guaranteed safety to folks along the Santa Fe Trail. That regrettable development motivated the then Governor of the Colorado Territory, fella by the name of John Evans, to order all friendly Indians in the area to Fort Larned, Fort Lyon or certain other predetermined areas located further to the north.
Once the particulars were worked out, Chief Left Hand led his Arapahoe people to an area about forty miles north of the confluence of the Arkansas and Purgatoire Rivers, known as Sand Creek. Shortly after that, Chief Black Kettle and his Cheyenne Nation joined Left Hand.
Their intent was to comply with the Governor’s order and live in peace with the White-Eye. However, Colonel Chivington saw it in a completely different light. To him it was an opportunity to enhance his image as an Indian fighter. With that in mind, in the early morning hours of November 29, he ruthlessly attacked the unsuspecting, sleeping Indians with his First Colorado Regiment.
Estimates of the Indian losses varied, depending on who a body chose to listen to. Chivington himself claimed that during the “battle” he killed somewhere between four and five hundred of the “savages.” Another, and probably more reliable version, put the losses during the “massacre” at one-hundred-and-sixty-three Indians, including one-hundred-and-ten helpless women and children.
The Sand Creek Massacre, as it quickly became known, not only spread a black cloud of unrest over the entire area, but also served to spearhead what was to become the bloodiest period of Indian wars to ever darken the vast expanses of the western frontier.
Through all this, The Bartlett flourished, not only as a result of the plight of the White-Eye, but mainly because it endeavored to assure that only the highest quality mustangs were made available to the soldiers who now found themselves forced into continual running battles with the tribes of revenge-bent Indians.
In an effort to go the army even one better, Sam had hit on the idea of integrating the bloodline of larger and faster thoroughbred stallions with that of the stronger and sturdier mustangs. The intent was to develop a strain of mustang crossbreeds that would improve the quality of the herd to an even higher level. Although the thoroughbred experiment was still in its infant stages, it had already showed unmistakable signs of being successful. The foaling of the past spring had produced some excellent off-spring and had encouraged Tom to continue with what was fast-becoming the ranch’s legacy, even despite his pa’s untimely death.
*
Once Tom and George felt relatively certain that Otis and Willard had been afforded sufficient time to work their way around the band and get settled into their pre-determined positions, Tom reined around toward the nearby bluffs while George headed out to start things.
George slowed as he neared the top of the rise that he figured still hid the mustangs. He reined up and while pushing the balls of his feet against the stirrups, stretched upward and peeked over the crest. As hoped-for the small band had wandered only a short distance. He grinned his pleasure and quickly lowered himself. He was in the exact position needed to head the band in the direction that would send them straight toward the buttes where Otis would be waiting.
With a couple of affectionate pats along the length of his mare’s neck, he encouraged her, “Okay, girl…let’s see what cha got,” he said softly, and by lightly touching his heels to the dappled-gray mare’s flanks, urged her forward and into a slow canter toward the already-alerted band of mustangs.
As George approached the mustangs, he kept an especially watchful eye on the wary stallion while he circled his mares protectively. The majestic symbol of freedom finally had enough of the approaching intrusion and urged his mares into motion.
The mustangs lit out and quickly got up to speed while remaining in relatively close proximity to one another, almost as if they were connected by unseen lengths of rope.
George dug in his heels, nearly losing his seat in the process as the powerful gray lunged forward in her eagerness. But he managed to remain in the saddle. He experienced a sense of elation at the gathering of muscles beneath him, as the spotted-gray mare got up to near full speed in just a handful of powerful strides.
In no time at all, the chase was on and the fleeing band maintained a measured distance well out in front of the pursuing horse and rider.
George and the gray remained steadfast in their objective to keep the band headed toward the buttes that lay to the south. He reveled in the refreshing feel of the cool wind as it passed by his face while pushing against the brim of his hat, threatening to lift it from his head. Reaching up, he tugged it lower. He then leaned forward along the mare’s neck and blended with the dappled-gray’s pounding, surging muscles as they reverberated up into his arms and shoulders.
The miles sped by underfoot all too quickly and a slightly disappointed George Atkins eyed the first signs of the buttes as they showed their tops along the horizon. The band of mustangs had slowed significantly, as had the dappled-gray, but George knew the mare wasn’t anywhere near being used up and could easily give him more if he asked it of her.
With the buttes now looming large, Otis rode out from behind a good-sized stand of scrub oak and waved an acknowledgement. George returned the wave and reined up. Tired and disheveled he watched as Otis pulled his hat and fanned it back and forth along the neck of his fresh mount as they took up the chase.
George held the heaving gray steady, dismounted and pulled his hat. He wiped his sweat-covered forehead against the sleeve of his shirt as he watched the already-tiring band of mustangs disappear in a cloud of dust…with Otis in hot pursuit. He then retrieved his canteen from the saddlebag on the near side, uncapped it and dumped a generous portion of its contents into his overturned hat.
Once the mare had drank a sufficient amount he donned the hat, enjoying the refreshing trickle of cool water that leaked onto his scalp. He brought the canteen to his lips and drank more than just a sip or two his ownself. Once he’d satisfied his thirst, he screwed the cap back on and returned the container to the saddlebag.
Stroking the gay affectionately along the side of her neck, he said appreciatively, “Thanks for the ride, girl. Been a good while since I had me a all-out run like that one.”
The animal nickered and bobbed her head as if understanding the words. To anyone with only half an eye for horses, it was more than just a mite obvious that she too had enjoyed the run.
*
Tom continued to wait patiently at a spot that enabled him a good look in the direction from which the horses would be approaching. He loved this ranch and all it stood for. His thoughts again departed the present and he remembered back to past times when he and his pa had together worked the mustangs. A gnawing pang of sorrow tugged at his innards as he again felt the loss of his pa. He recalled that fateful day, and using a fingertip, ran a portion of sleeve under his left eye. He then used the sleeve in earnest as the tears began to flow.
It had happened on a warm spring day. The two of them, along with Ike, Fisher, George and another fella named, Smitty, had cornered a few head in the very same box canyon they were using today. As Tom vividly remembered the day, he glanced in the direction of the canyon that was behind him. He was secretly thankful that his view of the exact spot where it had happened was obstructed by the stand of cottonwoods.
Gazing out across the prairie, he wished the horses would suddenly appear to occupy his mind. But they didn’t and he was again drawn back to that dreadful day.
The band that day had been chased into the makeshift corral and Tom and his pa had then strung a couple of ropes across the narrow mouth of the small canyon. Once the horses had been trapped inside it was then the task of the rest of the fellas to lasso them one-by-one and bring them to Sam and Tom, whose job it was to make them ready for the ride back to the ranch.
It had been during this transition that a rattler had latched onto the foreleg of an already agitated mare, with the end result being that Sam suffered a devastating kick to the head and died later that same day without ever regaining consciousness.
Tom was himself a born-again, blood-bought Christian and knew that the taking of his pa had been God’s will and that he would someday be with him again in heaven. He’d been able to take a measure of comfort in knowing that.
Tom wiped the tears unashamedly and was relieved to see through the blurriness that the fugitive mustangs were finally approaching.
Realizing his exposed vulnerability, he rose and climbed aboard the gelding. A smile appeared as he took note of the fatigue of the loping, stung-out line of horses. He quickly reined the gelding into a stand of scrub oak and waited.
After the band of mustangs had passed him by, Tom continued to watch them until they disappeared beyond a rock outcropping. He then emerged from his place of hiding and kicking his mare up to speed, joined Willard as he rode by.
“Looks like they’re a mite on the haggard side,” Tom commented.
“And none too soon if ya ask me,” Willard returned, tiredly. “Dusty as it is, I’d be obliged ta just sit myself down with a big ol’ glass a Connie’s lemonade.”
“Now that’s a thought,” Tom said above the sounds of the loping hooves under them. “Why don’t you ease up and I’ll take ’em on into the canyon?”
Needing no more prodding than that, Willard reined up and turned the bunch of mares over to Tom. Tom continued to mosey the mustangs toward the trees that effectively hid the mouth of the canyon. He maintained a close proximity behind the stragglers and didn’t allow them to slow any more than they already had. Once it was plain to see that they would amiably enter the mouth of the box canyon, he slowed and let them continue on at their own bedraggled pace.
When he reached the mouth of the narrow canyon he dismounted and pulled the rope from his saddle. He then commenced to tie one end around the trunk of a sturdy young cottonwood at the side of the opening. Once that was done, he hastily dragged the other end of the rope across to the opposite side of the opening. After pulling the rope taut, he secured that end to another tree. He then pulled his hat, sleeved the sweat and surveyed his handiwork. Satisfied, he replaced the hat and smiled while watching the dejected stallion standing spraddle-legged just inside the enclosure and breathing heavily through flared nostrils.
“Sorry big fella,” he said and gestured toward the equally dejected-looking cluster of mares, “but I need them girlies added to the herd.”
Willard was the first to arrive. There was more than just a mild interest as he dismounted. “What’dya think? They worth all the effort?”
Tom readily confirmed Willard’s suspicions, “Yep! They look ta be in real fine shape.”
A slight nod of approval accompanied the smile on Willard’s face. “Good. Kinda figgered that way my ownself.”
Willard removed his hat by pulling it forward and down off his head. He ran a pitchfork of fingers through his sandy-blond hair, and then by running an open palm across his forehead, smeared the sweat before replacing the hat. He then pushed the Mexican-style drawstring up under his chin and reached into his saddlebag for the tangle of ropes he’d stuffed in there before leaving the ranch that morning. He tugged it from the saddlebag and let it fall to the round at his feet.
“What a mess,” he said, shaking his head and gazing down at the pile of coils. Deciding the mess wasn’t going to straighten itself out, he knelt and set about sorting out the jumble while Tom continued with his own chores.
After completing a closer inspection of the band’s condition, Tom busied himself with rounding up enough dead-fall wood to build and maintain an adequate fire for heating up the business ends of the branding irons. He then lit up the fire while Willard set about building a pot of coffee.
It wasn’t long after that until George and Otis showed up.
The foursome drank the pot of coffee plus another one just like it while managing in their spare time to complete the branding of the mares. They had long-since turned the stallion out and back to the prairie.
Once everything was in readiness, they extinguished the remains of the fire and headed the new editions to the herd toward the comforts of The Bartlett.
The capture of the six mares had been a good day’s work for the tired wranglers and they were eager to return to the bunkhouse and some well-deserved rest. But the truth be known, there was one member of the group who wasn’t all that eager to get back to the ranch.
Chapter 2
“I am very sorry, Señora Susie. I did not want to upset you,” the plump, middle-aged housekeeper said in her heavy accent.
“Oh, it’s alright, Constance. It’s just that I don’t seem to have much luck getting the hang of things around here.” Came the exasperated response, accompanied by a matching wave of the hand.
“Señor Thomas loves you very much and will understand when he comes home.”
Sue wondered at the last statement. She felt deep down in her heart that her relatively newlywed husband did not love her…leastways not the way she felt he should. “I-I know,” she said with uncertainty, “but that won’t make this mess go away.” Her exasperation continued as she gestured with yet another wave of futility, this time toward the smoking pan that had been moved to the cool side of the cook stove. She lifted the lid and looked inside. She shook her head at the remnants of the previously perfectly good potatoes she’d attempted to boil and forgotten to keep an eye on. “Maybe cooking isn’t what I’m cut out for,” she commented dejectedly and forced a smile that she didn’t at all feel.
“I think maybe you are right,” Constance said obligingly and returned a genuine smile to Sue. “I, too, think maybe we will no tell Señor Thomas.” After pausing and wiping her hands in her apron, Constance Valdez continued, “Unless you think you want him to know this thing.”
Realizing that the jewel of a woman was giving her a way out of her dilemma, Sue eagerly jumped at the opportunity. “Sounds reasonable to me,” she said, as her emotions began a transformation and the smile reappeared. Only this time around it looked more at home.
Sue Bartlett was the former Sue Hobbs. Her father, Jason, was sheriff of the town of Las Animas that lay a scant three miles or so to the northeast, just across the banks of the Arkansas River. The town had just recently been plated and Jason had jumped at the chance to be its first sheriff. Before that he’d been the sheriff of El Puebla, which was situated on the south side of the river and barely a good stone’s throw or two from Las Animas. Sue had grown up around the jailhouse in El Puebla and really had no problem with her father being a lawman, but she’d certainly feel a whole sight better about things if he’d give up that line of work.
Her mother had passed away when she was still a youngster. Her father never remarried and had raised her the best way he knew how. But growing up around a jail was not necessarily conducive to becoming the best cook around, especially since both her and her pa’s meals had always been supplied by the city of El Puebla. Just about the closest she ever came to preparing meals on a regular basis was to go pick them up at the café down the street.
Constance, on the other hand, was most likely the best cook around these parts--that included the preparation of Mexican food as well as gringo food. She never seemed to have the slightest problem and that’s probably what had gotten Sue to thinking that cooking was way easier than it actually was.
Sue had often marveled at how easily the finished product just seemed to cook itself and magically appear on the table at mealtime. But after this most recent potato episode, she was certainly leaning towards letting Constance have her kitchen back. Well, maybe letting isn’t the right word. It should most likely be more like a, “What-can-I-do-to-stay-out-of-the-kitchen,” kinda word.
“Okay, it’s settled then,” Sue agreed, “You don’t say anything about those potatoes…” She again gestured toward the pot of burnt potatoes. A gentle smile nudged the corners of her mouth as she remembered, “Or the overcooked eggs the other mornin’, or the--”
Constance had been grinning. “I understand, Señora. I will keep my mouth shut. And for that--”
“And for that, I’ll keep outta your kitchen.”
“I am thinking that is a very good deal for both of us, no?”
“I think it is a very good deal, yes,” she agreed happily.
Their attention was then drawn to a commotion outside.
“What’s that?” Sue asked, hurrying to the window. She peered out at the small band of mustangs that were being herded into the corral. “The fellas are back!” she announced, “and with a good amount of success, too, I’d say!” she added excitedly, after counting the six mares.
“You go outside, Señora, and I will finish the cooking.”
Sue untied her apron and tossed it across the back of a handy chair on her way out the door. She arrived at the corral at just about the same time as the boys from the bunkhouse did. Fisher Thompson was a nice enough fella and Sue liked him a lot, but her favorite was the foreman, Ike Curtis.
Ike pulled his hat as he stopped next to her. “Howdy, ma’am, eh...Mrs. Bartlett, eh...ma’am,” he said nervously.
Ever since their first meeting Sue had taken an instant liking to Ike. He was a jovial kinda rascal with about forty-five to fifty years on him and carried with him a good respect for members of the opposite sex. He was tall, about five-ten or eleven. He wore his pistol on the front of his left hip with the butt-end facing forward and cocked just a mite toward center. His features were those of a man who’d spent a good portion of his life outdoors. His skin was tanned a bonze color that afforded a startling contrast to his blue eyes and graying blond hair. His gaze was steady but friendly. He was also a born-again Christian.
“Hello, Ike,” she said, returning he greeting while looking straight into his eyes. “You know, I’ve been here for a few months now and you most likely don’t even know my given name, let alone ever used it.”
“I, eh...well...”
“See. That’s exactly what I’m talking about. It seems to me that whenever you get around me, you get tongue-tied and can’t seem to remember much more’n just howdy...and ma’am.” She noticed his downcast eyes and imagined the embarrassment he must be feeling. She watched as he fidgeted with the brim of his hat. Reaching out, she touched him on the arm. “The name is Sue,” she said softly, “and I surely would appreciate it if you were to start using it.”
Ike smiled as the hat found its way onto the top of his head. “Yes ma’am, eh...I mean, Sue, eh...ma’am.”
“That’s some better, but you still need to work on it, Ike,” she said and turned her attention to her husband. “Looks like you fellas had a good day today,” she said and tucked some loose strands of her long, fiery-red hair back behind her ear--she preferred wearing it pulled back and tied with a brightly-colored ribbon.
She was a very pretty woman. She had green eyes that complimented not only the redness of her hair, but would no doubt do justice to the attractiveness of a deep-water fishing pond as well. Her jaw-line was narrow, not too long, and accentuated by high cheekbones that showed more than their share of light brown freckles. The nose was small and turned up a mite...right on the end. Her lips were full, but not overly so. A fella watching them form words would be hard-pressed to not get a hankering to pucker up and smooch with her.
“Yeah, sure did,” Tom answered simply, while he continued the task of unsaddling the gelding. “Had us a time runnin’ ’em down, though, but managed it alright enough.” He let the girth fall as he undid the cinch strap. He pulled the saddle and blanket from the animal’s back and transferred it to the top rail of the corral fence. Finally turning to face his wife, he showed a smile and reached out for her.
She came to him, and expecting a kiss, was disappointed when he instead placed an arm around her shoulders and turned toward the boys. “We’ll go out again tomorrow at sun-up,” he said.
Sue’s disappointment at the lack of attention Tom had been paying her, as of late, was a genuine bother to her, but she so far had been able to keep things in perspective. Their marriage, just a few months prior, was more the result of a life-long, insinuated promise rather than dedication.
The two had grown up together, leastways since they were young teenagers. During those early years, they’d made a commitment to one another to marry when they grew up--after they were old, was the way Tom had put it. But the continuity of that promise had been shattered when the Comanches had attacked the ranch and murdered Tom’s mother.
After that dreadful day, he’d never been quite the same, and neither was their relationship. Although he and Sue had continued to share a close relationship over the years, He’d been continually haunted by the fear of losing someone else that he dearly loved and was fully committed to. As the only way he could see to deal with his plight, he fell from grace and turned to drinking and gambling.
Of course, the Lord has ways of dealing with backsliders and Tom was no exception. Once he came to his senses and remembered his upbringing, he eventually found himself back in the fold and returned to everyone’s good graces.
As time went by, Tom gradually came to the realization that maybe he would be able to deal with making the necessary commitments to Sue and that they would be able to fulfill their storied dream. It was under that premise that they were married.
Their relationship as husband and wife had quickly taken on the characteristics of one that was based on understanding the need for tolerance and acceptance. Being devout Christians enabled them to pray together about it and it soon became a simple matter of accepting God’s will. There was always the hope that some day the Lord would see fit to draw them closer together until an unrestrained love was built between them. That was now their hope, their dream, and their as yet unanswered prayer.
To date, although making sizeable headway, he continued to have difficulty committing to her completely.
*
Sue’s thoughts returned to the present when Tom turned to her and said, “Good to see you, honey.” He then planted a mild peck on her cheek.
She returned the dismal show of affection by patting the opposite side of his face with a palm, and saying around a forced smile, “You, too, Tom.”
After their meager exchange of greetings, she looked up at the sound of Ike softly clearing his throat. Just before he turned away she noticed a narrowing of the area between his eyes,
Ignoring Ike’s reaction, and with the formalities out of the way, Sue announced dinner, “You fellas all go get washed up. Dinner’s about ready and you know that Constance will most likely toss it out if you aren’t ready when it is.”
The boys were hungry, and in no uncertain terms. With the unsaddling done, they headed for the wash pans that rested on the shelf of sorts along the north wall of the bunkhouse. Sue and Tom started for the main house at the same time that Constance began banging on the triangular dinner bell that hung from a front porch rafter.
“Come an’ get it before it is food for the buzzards!” she announced.
While they strolled toward the house, it was plain to Sue that Tom was troubled by something. “What is it, Tom? You look like you have something eatin’ on you.” She asked, with genuine interest.
Her sincerity put him at ease. He stopped, causing her to stop as well. They turned to face one another. “You’re right, Sue. I do have something botherin’ me. I-I’m sorry about that…that…” he gestured toward the corral, “about that…whatever it was back there.”
“You mean that…shall we say lack of affection we just showed one another.”
“Well, yeah…kinda. I’m only apologizing for my lack of affection. I know you’re doing yer best ta put up with my shortcomin’s, and I appreciate that, but that still don’t make it right for a gent to treat his wife with no more attention than he’d give a sick mule. I’m--”
She placed a caring hand against the side of his neck. “Tom…listen to me. We both know that sometimes people are apt to do things that seem to be alright at the time, but in reality are not what they seem on the surface. Does that make any sense to you?”
He grinned. “Not much. But go ahead.”
“It’s just that when we decided to marry, I…we…” pausing to gather her thoughts, she decided to instead just plunge right in, “Tom, I want you to understand that I’m not at all adverse to spending the rest of my days right here on this ranch as your wife.”
He started to interrupt, but she raised a hand between them, cutting off any intentions he might have had along those lines. He closed his mouth.
“When we married, we both suffered under false hopes and dreams about what we were doing. I’m not saying it was a mistake, but I am saying that it’ll be needing some time before thing will straighten around to a way of thinking that most married folks enjoy. We had this dream of being married ever since we were kids and I for one went into this with both eyes wide open and my head pointing straight ahead. I knew what I was getting’ myself into. I was…and still am, willing to work through the problems.” A tear had started to well at the bottom of one eye and she brushed at it.
Knowing her well enough to realize what a difficult time she was having with all this, he reached out and placed an open palm against each side of her face. “Sue…honey, I understand what you’re sayin’. I’m sorry that my way of thinking has caused us to sometimes hafta pussyfoot around one another, but…but just give me some time. The day pa died, he told me that true love only comes along once in a man’s entire life. He said that He supplies each fella with the opportunity to have that one special woman who was meant for him. He said that what a man does with that opportunity is up to him. I know the good Lord has meant us for each other and I’ll do my levelheaded best to get shed of my problems and be the husband you deserve. I promised pa that I would, and now I’m promising the same to you. Just have--”
“I hope so, Tom,” she interrupted, with pleading eyes. “I truly do love you.”
“I love you, too, Sue. I honestly do. But the problem isn’t love. Lord knows I’m just plumb full of love for you. The problem is commitment to accepting the tragedies of life that sometimes have a way of knockin’ a fella for a loop. I know I’ll do well with that, in time. Just stick by me and we’ll lick this thing together.”
She could see in his eyes that he was sincere. Feeling a sense of affection that was as intense as any she’d ever felt, she leaned her face toward his. He, too, leaned forward as her intent was both obvious and welcome. They continued until their lips finally met.
The tenderness of the kiss was not filled with the burning passion of unrestrained love, but rather the soft tenderness of a continued understanding that a foundation was being laid, upon which to build a relationship that may one day be blessed and grow into the sought-after togetherness.
They held the kiss for a long while, until a sense of urgency began to creep into the union that gradually grew until it threatened to turn to a feverish pitch.
Realizing the growing intensity was on the verge of becoming unbridled passion, she pushed away breathlessly. Holding herself out to arm’s length, she gazed lovingly into his eyes.
He, too, was gulping for air in short, labored gasps.
“Now that’s more like it!” she said with a mischievous grin.
Chapter 3
The recent additions to the Bartlett herd were indeed welcome ones, and not to mention sorely-needed ones as well. Although the handful of mares was not a huge number in itself, at such times as these, any addition to the herd was a step in the right direction.
With the Comanches having recently gone back to raiding ranches up and down the valley, it was as if they were of a mind to steal every horse and head of cattle they could get their hands on.
To date, The Bartlett had been spared. Most likely because it was the biggest spread in the valley and had the most guns available to defend it. In addition, nearly all its horses ran free, so there was no need to attack the gathering of buildings. But make no mistake about it, there was not a single member of The Bartlett who was willing to take their good fortune lightly.
*
“Seen a fair-sized bunch down by the Billings place just the other day,” Otis said as he shoved a knee into the belly of his mare, causing her to let loose of the expanse of air she was holding in. He twitched a bit of a triumphant grin as he pulled on the cinch strap, gaining a good couple of inches, maybe more. He spoke matter-of-factly while he continued to saddle the mare, “Might still be wanderin’ that part of the range. Probably worth a look-see anyways…if ya ask me.”
He secured the strap by wrapping a half hitch around the cinch-ring and pulling down on it sharply. Finished, he unhooked the stirrup from its place atop the saddlehorn and dropped it against the mare’s side. The startled mare side-stepped and snorted her disapproval, but calmed quickly as Otis stroked her neck and patted her chest a couple of times. He then mounted, joining the others who’d already finished up.
The group that was preparing to head out that morning included: Otis, George, Willard, and Tom, the same foursome who’d brought in the six mares the day before. Ike and Fisher would again remain behind and tend to the initial breaking of that bunch.
With all but one of the wranglers having finished their preparations to lite-out, the mood was jovial and positive as the mounted trio milled around while Willard put the finishing touches on his buckskin. He’d noticed that the girth on his usual saddle had started to fray. Not much being partial to riding on any piece of equipment that might be suspect, he’d pulled the saddle and had started over.
He made quick work of the setback and dropped the stirrup shortly after Otis had mounted.
“’Bout time! Figgered you was gonna lollygag fer a month a Sundays.” George was covering his face with a good-natured smile as he playfully attacked the tardy Willard Harper.
Willard swung himself up into the saddle and rocked it side to side, judging it to be just about right. “Yeah, well…least I ain’t havin’ ta muddle my way through life with a moniker like…George.”
“Oh…and I s’pose yer of a mind that Willard’s one a fella’d wanna name his kid. Why I’d rather--”
“Okay, boys…that’s about all the name callin’ we need for one day.” Ike said from his position atop the corral fence. He jumped down. “You boys take care out there an’ watch yer backtrail. Them Comanches is a sneaky bunch a heathens an’ kin still manage to git the drop on a two-headed lizard what’s got a head pointin’ in either direction.”
There followed a chorus of “Amens” and a show of head nodding that left no room for doubt about the truth of Ike’s assessment.
Tom, on the other hand, was more attentive to the figure standing on the front porch.
Sue stood with the collar of her sheepskin coat turned up around her ears to ward off the early-morning nip. Her arms were wrapped around her chest as she hugged herself and watched her husband and the others prepare for the day’s hunt. She’d asked to go along but Tom had been emphatic that as long as the Comanches were being as ornery as they had been of late, she’d not be leaving the relative safety of the ranch.
Her first thought had been to remind him that the confines of the ranch hadn’t been safe enough to keep his mother alive. But knowing how fragile his feelings were on the subject, she smartly decided to keep her mouth shut. Besides, he was right as rain about it. It was just that she didn’t like being shut out of his life. It seemed to her as though he would rather be gone from her than remaining behind and sending either Ike or Fisher in his stead, as was his right as owner of the ranch.
She spread a smile that she didn’t really feel as he waved his good-bye in her direction. She half-heartedly returned the wave. Turning to head into the warmth of the main house, she decided that maybe they needed to have a talk about the feelings that were stirring up inside her.
As Sue entered the warmest room in the house, Constance was shoving lengths of wood into the yawning door of the cookstove.
Suspending a stick in front of the hungry stove’s open mouth, she looked up from the chore and shook her head slowly. “He is go away again an’ you are have to stay behind, no?”
Sue tugged her way out of the heavy coat and replied as she chose a suitable peg from the row high along the wall next to the back door, “Yeah, seems to be a way of life for him to just run off and leave me behind, without even a second thought.”
She hooked the little loop thingamajig over the peg and retreated to the stove where the coffee pot rested in its customary place toward the back of the hot side of the stove. She retrieved a cup from the wall cabinet next to the stove and poured it about three-quarters full. She then replaced the pot and sipped the hot liquid through pursed lips as she made her way to the table.
Constance had completed her feeding of the stove, and using the end of a piece of wood, closed the door with a clang. She tossed the door-closer into the bin beside he stove and crossed the room. She lowered herself into a chair across from the Señora. She then reached out and placed her hand on top of Sue’s. “You are not very happy with this married business, no?” she asked.
Sue lowered her gaze to first look at the hand laying affectionately on hers, and then raising her eyes, took in the sincere expression in Connie’s eyes. “It’s not that I’m unhappy with the marriage, it’s…” Sue paused, knowing that that was not entirely true. “Oh, Constance…why can’t he…?”
She rose from the chair and crossed to the window where she had a last glimpse of Tom and the others just as they disappeared over the crest of the knoll to the south. She turned and leaned back against the sink. Her tone was sincere as she said, “I truly do love him, Constance. I just wish he’d…” The words trailed off as a flood of emotion overcame her.
*
The foursome rode out through the arched gateway and off in a southerly direction toward the Billings place that bordered The Bartlett just west of the buttes. After nearly a half hour had passed, the group entered a fair-sized patch of prickly pear.
“You figger we’ll find them jugheads?” George asked no one in particular as he guided his bay mare around a large clump of the cactus. “I mean…you figger the ride’s gonna be worth the trouble?”
“Don’t know,” Tom said, simply, and carefully watched his own horse’s progress through the cactus-infested area. He reined to a halt and waited patiently for Willard to work his way through a narrow opening between two good-sized plants.
“Sure will be glad when we’re outta this mess,” George commented and looked ahead to see just how much of it was left. Satisfied that it was starting to ease up, he turned his attention on Otis. “How many ya figger was in that herd ya saw the other day?” he asked.
Otis had never gone to grade school and therefore had no way of knowing a whole lot about numbers an’ countin’ ’n such, but gave it his best estimate anyway, “Oh…I figger there’s about a corral full,” he said confidently.
“Would that be a big corral or a little corral?” George asked. He knew Otis had never had any book-learnin’ and never passed up an opportunity to flaunt the fact that he’d been formally educated all the way up through the fourth grade, back in Kansas.
“Eh…a big…I mean a…” Otis said haltingly and turned a mite pink as he fought off his shortcoming. “What the heck difference does it make?” he fired at George through the scowl that had replaced the embarrassment. “A corral’s a corral!”
George grinned with superiority. “Not much difference atall,” he replied. “Just wonderin’ was all.”
“Hold up!” Tom said as he reined to a stop. “You two knock it off.” He pushed up in the stirrups and shaded his eyes before squinting off into the distance. The early morning sun shown brightly in the cloudless sky, but he was determined and continued to strain to see into its glare.
The rest of them also reined up as Tom continued his scrutiny toward the eastern horizon.
“What cha see, boss?” Willard asked and joined Tom in trying to make out what had gotten his attention.
Tom lowered himself back into the saddle. “Probably nothin’. I just thought for an instant that I’d made out some movement over thataway. Might make a bit of sense, though, to wait here a spell ’til we’re sure I was wrong. Ain’t no use ta ride smack dab inta the midst of a passel a redskins when a little bit a patience could keep things amiable.”
The fellas stepped down, happy for the respite. Tom was the only one who remained mounted, so he would have a good vantage point, if need be. Willing to wait until things sorted themselves out, the rest of the boys relaxed as best they could amidst the threat of being stuck by the cactus plants that seemed to be darned near everywhere.
“If you was ta hafta guess at the number of them horses ya see’d, how many would jah say…right off the top a yer head, I mean?”
Otis knew what George was up to. “Now George, you know durned good ’n well that I ain’t had no schoolin’ an’ don’t know my numbers worth a hound’s tooth. So, why then do ya wanna ask me a question that you could just as easy answer yer ownself?”
“What’dya mean…answer my ownself?” George asked as he tested the sharpness of a nearby yucca with the tip of a finger. “Oww,” he whined and placed the wounded finger into his mouth for quick healing.
“Well…peers ta me, all you’d be needin’to do is whip yerself together a fair-sized corral, fill it to the brim with horses an’ then just count ’em like ya had good sense. Peers ta me that’d be ’bout as good a way as askin’ a fella who couldn’t tell ya the answer in the first place. Now if ya was to ask me how many bullets was in a six-shooter, I’d be able ta come up with an answer to that one right off. Or if ya had a hankerin’ ta know about--”
“Alright! Alright! I get the picture. I’ll shut up,” George said around the nearly-healed finger. “Just you shut up yer ownself first.”
Otis smiled at having successfully sashayed right around George’s question, but the victory seemed a bit hollow and the smile faded. The whole thing had certainly got him to wondering just how many horses he had seen in that herd. Maybe I’ll just find me someone ta help me understand how ta figger numbers, he thought and retried the smile.
This time it seemed to fit a sight better and he left it there until Gorge asked, “What’s so funny? You look like the cat what ate the canary.”
The smiled lessened as Otis had grown thoughtful. He was continuing to think about the possibility of acquiring some kind of numbers learning. “Yeah, maybe I will. Maybe I’ll just do that,” he said, absent-mindedly.
“What’re you talking about?” George asked and furrowed his brow questioningly.
“Alright you guys, that’s enough!” Tom interrupted. “You fellas get mounted and let’s head on out of here. Seems like whatever it was is gone.”
The trio rose carefully from their precarious positions among the prickly plants and mounted to the relative safety of their horse’s backs.
They continued with the journey to the Billings place. But that’s not to say that George wasn’t continuing to keep an inquisitive eye on Otis.
The rest of the morning passed with the group of Bartlett wranglers reaching the buttes. They had brought along enough hardtack and jerky to make stopping for an eating break worthwhile, and did so a bit before the sun was straight up overhead. This was right about the spot where Otis had run across the herd and also right about the end of familiar territory for all of them, except for the area to the southwest where the Billings place was located. If the herd had wandered off to the south or southeast it would be more guess-and-by-golly than anything else about where the animals might have holed up and were now calling home.
Willard conveyed that he seemed to remember a time a while back when a fella was telling him about an area to the southeast of the buttes that was fairly prominent with good grazing and a couple of watering holes. With nothing better to go on, they decided that they would first go on over to the Billings ranch house, and if Ed Billings couldn’t give them a better reason for heading off in a different direction, they would indeed check out Willard’s lead.
With the meager lunch having been mostly eaten, they mounted and while munching on the last few remaining morsels, veered a bit to the southwest toward the Billings spread. It was just a matter of about ten or fifteen minutes before they topped a gentle, grass-covered rise and caught sight of the small cluster of ranch buildings.
The picturesque little ranch lay nestled in a ravine that afforded a more than adequate amount of protection against being sighted by chance. Plain ’n simple…if a fella didn’t know right off where it was, it’d be near impossible for him to find it without out-’n-out stumbling onto it by mistake. And that’s exactly how Ed Billings liked it.
They rode down the gently-sloping hill and approached the main house just as Ed exited out the front door. He was carrying a two-barreled scattergun that had holes in the business end of it that were big enough to make a homeless prairie dog envious.
“Howdy, Ed,” Tom greeted and reined up.
The others followed suit and remained seated.
“Howdy, yer ownself,” Ed returned and lowered the shotgun. “Git down an’ set a spell,” he invited and propped the weapon against a pole that served well in doing its part in holding up the overhanging porch roof. “What brings ya’ll down here this time a the day?”
Tom answered as he and the boys dismounted and tied up at the hitchrail, “We come down here cuz Otis here,” he gestured toward Otis who in turn nodded to Ed, “said he’d seen a band of mustangs down this way a few days back.”
“That so?” Ed lifted his sorry excuse for a hat between his thumb and index finger and scratched the sparse, graying hair with the three remaining fingers. “Ain’t see’d hide nor hair of any such a thing in a coon’s age,” he said and replaced the hat. “But that ain’t ta say they ain’t none around. Fact is they could be most anywheres. Why, there was a time when I even see’d ’em a way over by the--”
“Yeah,” Tom interjected, knowing full-well how Ed was when he got started telling one of his stories, “they could be most anyplace alright.” Deciding to continue before Ed got wound up again, Tom said, “You know of an area east-southeast of here what’s got good water an’ good grazin’?”
Ed arched an inquisitive eyebrow. “Why ya askin’? Ain’t no one asked about that place since…heck, come ta think about it I cain’t even remember when was the last time. Why, I cain’t even remember if anyone ever--”
Ed was showing signs of getting wound up again so Tom dove in, “Yer sayin’ then that there is such a place?”
“That’s a fact. ’Bout right over yonderly,” Ed said and pointed in the direction he figured it was located. “Been there a time er two my ownself, but ain’t never knowed anyone else ta lay eyes on it. There’s a rock cliff over there what’s got a couple a caves in the face of it. There’s even a skinny ol’ pinnacle rock that stands straight up inta the air an’ shows the way into a cut ’tween two hog-back buttes.”
This time Tom let Ed ramble. He was saying things that could be of a help to a fella who had a mind to learn about the lay of the land in a never-before-seen area that could easily hide a few head of mustangs, or even Comanches for that matter.