The Reluctant Bridegroom (28 page)

Sky considered Birdwell intently. He had never seen the man so adamant, and until he heard the last couple of sentences, he hadn’t understood why. “You gettin’ married, Sam?”

A grin broke the soberness on Birdwell’s face. “You know it! I feel like a young man, Sky! She’s better than any woman I’ve ever dreamed of.”

“I congratulate you both, Sam—but what does
she
say about this plunge into politics? Edith’s sharp enough to see that it could be dangerous.”

“Said she wouldn’t have a man who wouldn’t fight for what he thought was right.”

Sky ducked his head and studied the floor. “You’re makin’ me look bad, Sam—but I’ve got Joe to think of.”

“Ah, Pa, I
wanna
stay here.”

“We’ve been through all that,” Sky said sharply. “Well, I’ve got to go—”

“Sky, I’ve some bad news. You got pretty close to Lot Penny on the trip here, didn’t you?”

“Something’s happened to Lot?”

“Last night he was preaching on the street in front of the Silver Moon, and Jim Rook came out and beat him up.”

Winslow looked startled, then angry. “Raimez put him up to it,” he said bitterly.

“Sure. Him and Poole and Ingerson.”

“Where’s Lot?”

“Tom’s keeping him at his place. Karen and some of the women are taking turns nursing him.”

“Can you look after Joe?” Sam nodded, and Sky turned to his son. “Joe, I’ll be back pretty soon. You behave yourself.”

When he left, Joe kicked at the counter. “I don’t
wanna
leave here!”

Sam put his hand on the boy’s shoulder, but could think of nothing to say that would comfort him. “Let’s finish that game of checkers, Joe,” he said gently.

****

A sharp wind was sweeping out of the north, but Winslow ignored the cold as he walked rapidly down the street toward Lake’s office. He had grown genuinely fond of Penny, which only intensified the cold rage he felt building inside him as he passed along Main. He’d discovered long ago that his temper was a wild and uncontrollable thing when it got out of hand, and so as he walked along he told himself that he had made up his mind to leave, that the affairs of the town were not his problem. In fact, they never had been; his world had been his small ranch and the far-flung traplines. Although he had come to town for supplies and to visit with a few close friends, the politics of the town had never concerned him. Until now.

Knocking on Lake’s door, Winslow pushed it open and went inside. Lake was sitting on a chair, reading a thick book. He looked up from his reading and rose from his seat. “Hello, Sky.” The guarded quality of his tone reminded Winslow of the wall that he himself had created between them. “Guess you heard about Lot.”

“How is he?”

Lake looked worried. “Not good. He took some bad licks to the head. Rook used his boots on him after he was down.” Anger flared in his black eyes, and he said, “I’m going to have it out with Ingerson about this! It’s a plain case of assault and battery!”

“Can I see him?”

“Go on back. He’s got a concussion—the pain’s pretty bad when he wakes up.”

Sky hesitated, trying to think of something to say to Lake about their confrontation on the trail, but nothing came to him. “He’s going to be all right, isn’t he?”

“Can’t say. He took some bad blows around the eyes. May affect his vision—and a concussion as bad as he’s got is always tricky.”

Sky stared at him, then turned and went through the door that led into a bedroom. Penny was lying in the single bed, and Rebekah was sitting in a chair by his side. She looked up at Sky and got to her feet. He waited for her to speak, but she did not.

“You don’t have to get up,” he said quickly. Going to stand by the bed he looked down at the battered face. Lot’s features were swollen so badly that he could scarcely recognize him. His nose was flattened and his eyes were both swollen shut. Cuts around the eyes had been stitched and the mouth was distended. He had probably damaged some ribs as well, Winslow surmised, seeing where Lake had bound the torso with strips of white bandages.

Rebekah stood with her back against the wall. The sight of Winslow disturbed her, for she had lived the scene on the train over and over. She watched him as he sat down and stared at Penny’s battered face. He took off his hat, and the pale November sun came through the single window, throwing the planes of his face into sharp relief. His eyes were half hooded, but she read the anger that burned in them clearly, and his lips were drawn tight.
He’s mad enough to kill,
she thought.
Just like the time when he found Tom coming out of my wagon.

There was, she realized, no middle ground with Sky. Other men saw gray areas, but with him it was different.
Why, he’s like a powder keg ready to go off!
she thought.
Lot’s his friend—and that’s all that counts.
It made her go back to
that moment when he’d accused her and Tom, and for the first time she saw the ugly scene from his side.
He liked me more than I knew—and that’s why he lost control.
She’d had little experience with men, but she had known that he was attracted to her—not so much by what he said, but by the way he looked at her. Until that minute, though, she had no idea how much.

Now as he sat there silently, Rebekah saw that beneath his strength, there was a vulnerable area in Winslow. She had heard how his wife deceived him, and now she realized for the first time how deeply that had wounded him. It made his rage at what appeared to him to be another case of a cheating woman at least understandable.

He looked up and their eyes met. He held her gaze, thinking—as he often had—of her unusual combination of beauty and strength. He thought, too, of the ugly scene on the trail, but it never occurred to him that she would ever understand. He didn’t understand it completely himself—except that it had been one of those moments when his ungovernable temper had exploded. He had relived that moment over and over, and regretted it, but he could not change it. One of the things that he had never learned to do was to fix the results of his actions. It was not a matter of swallowing his pride; it had simply never occurred to him that words could remedy what had been
done.

“Lake’s not sure he’ll make it, is he?”

Rebekah answered, “He’s been badly hurt—but I’m believing God will heal him.”

The simple statement caused him to regard her intently; something in her words caught him and pulled him up short. He studied her face, seeking for a clue to the quiet faith that had always drawn him. “Seems like God lets the best people take the worst beatings.” He tore his eyes from her face and rose to his feet. “I’ll be back later.”

“All right.”

He went to the door, put his hand on the knob, then turned
and said quietly, “It’s none of my business, Rebekah—but what are you going to do?”

She faltered for one moment, and he saw the uncertainty in her eyes disturbing the placid serenity. “I—I’ll be going back to the East.”

He knew, instinctively, that it was not what she wanted. He wanted to press her further, to have her speak of Carl Morton, who was at the root of her problem. He recalled the intimacy between her and himself that had built up on the train, how she’d shared some of her hope with him—but that was gone now. He’d destroyed it himself, and now he could only say, “I’m sorry it didn’t work out, Rebekah.”

He left the room and found Dave Lloyd and Clay Hill standing beside Lake. “Hello, Sky,” Clay greeted him. “Just heard you’d got in.”

“Hello, Clay,” Sky responded, then nodded to Lloyd. “How are you, Dave?”

A look of relief brightened Lloyd’s face. He had just been saying to the other two that he doubted that Sky would ever speak to him again for embarrassing him in front of the wagon train. He returned the nod quickly. “I’m fine, Sky.”

“We’re going down and insist that Ingerson arrest Rook, Sky,” Clay announced. He had a high color by nature, and the anger in him brought an added flush to his cheeks. “He’ll do it, too—or I’ll send for a federal marshal!”

“I’ll just go along, Clay,” Sky told him.

“You will!” Hill exclaimed. “Good!”

“Thought you were leaving town, Sky, “ Lake commented.

“Sure—but I’ve got a little message for Mr. Rook.”

The others looked at him nervously. “We’re going to do this the legal way, Sky,” Clay informed him.

“Go ahead” was all that Winslow said, with an implacable look on his smooth face. “I just want to ask the gentleman a question or two.”

“So do I,” Lloyd grunted.

They went to the sheriff’s office and found it locked. “He’ll
be at the Silver Moon,” Clay commented. “That’s really his office, anyway.”

The lawyer was correct, for they found Ingerson standing at the bar in the company of a tall, thin man who wore two guns. “That’s Del Laughton,” Clay said quietly to the others. “He’s a bad one.”

The Silver Moon was the fanciest saloon in town, and the proprietor, Dandy Raimez, was no less ornate. He was seated at a table playing solitaire, dressed—as always—in a white linen suit, a spotless ruffled shirt and a brightly colored vest. He was half Indian and half Mexican, his handsome face expressionless as he looked up at the three men. Beside him, Winslow noted, was Rita Duvall.

Her eyes widened as she saw Winslow, and turning nervously to study the face of Raimez, she cast her gaze covertly at the men at the bar. Raimez said something to her and she shook her head, but he spoke again, and she reluctantly lifted a hand and called out, “Sky—come have a drink.”

Winslow went to her at once, ignoring the men at the bar. He recognized Jack Stedman along with a huge man he took to be Rook, but walked by them. “Hello, Rita.” He gave Raimez a look. “How are you, Dandy?”

“Fine as silk, Winslow.” The saloon man indicated a chair. “Have a seat.” When Sky sat down, he offered, “Have a drink on the house.”

“Too early.”

Raimez took a drink from the glass in front of him, then gave Sky a brilliant smile. “I owe you one—for bringing me a beautiful present.” He put his hand on Rita’s bare shoulder possessively, his white teeth gleaming against his dark skin.

“Glad to be of service, Dandy.”

It was not the answer Raimez expected, and his smile slipped. He turned to look at the other man offhandedly. “Hear you’re leaving the country, Winslow.” He tapped the table with a well-manicured finger. “Might be just as well.
Things might heat up a little around here. Hate to see a good man like you get caught in the crossfire.”

It was a veiled threat, and Winslow recognized it at once. He knew that Raimez, for all his fancy clothes and soft manners, was a hard man. He wore a gun at all times, and had used it more than once; a saloon man in a tough town like Oregon City had to be able to handle trouble.

“Didn’t know you were so interested in my health, Dandy,” Sky said; then he turned his head, as did Raimez and Rita, to watch the scene that was unfolding at the bar.

Clay Hill had taken a stand opposite Rolfe Ingerson and Matthew Poole. “Ingerson, I’ve got a deposition here. I want you to arrest Jim Rook on the charge of assault and battery.”

Ingerson assumed a look of surprise. “Why, Clay, I can’t arrest every man that gets into a fight in this town! Shoot, the jail wouldn’t hold them—and they’d never get convicted.”

A quiet laugh went up from the men around the bar, and Clay Hill flushed angrily. “This wasn’t a fight, Sheriff. It was an unprovoked assault on a minister of the gospel by a known bully. Mayor, I expect you to support me in this thing.”

“Well, now, Clay,” Poole replied, “I’ve heard a different version. Way I hear it, the preacher got mad and threw a punch at Jim. You saw it, didn’t you, Del?”

The tall man with the cadaverous face nodded solemnly. “Hate to go against a preacher, Sheriff—but Rev. Penny just plain lost his temper and took out after Rook. Poor Jim had no choice but to defend hisself!”

The laugh that followed this was louder, and Hill snapped, “I’m calling in a federal marshal, Poole!”

Ingerson’s bulk dwarfed Clay Hill, and he sneered, “Come on, Hill. You think they’re going to send a marshal over one fist fight? Be sensible.”

“Better take your marbles and go home, Hill,” Dandy Raimez called out, smiling unperturbably at Rita. “This fine lady here says the preacher was after her and the rest of the women all the way from Independence, anyway.”

Rita’s head jerked up at that, and she started to protest, but she had no chance. Dave Lloyd whirled and said loudly, “You’re a liar, Raimez!”

Raimez paled and his hand dropped to the gun at his belt. For one moment it appeared that he would draw on Lloyd, but he warned, “Be wearing a gun next time I see you.”

Lloyd, who had been a professional fighter at one time, took a few quick steps and stood before Rook. “You’re pretty rough on old men, Rook,” he mocked. “Why don’t you try it with a man under thirty?”

Rook’s head jerked up at the abrupt challenge.

“Bust him up, Jim!” Raimez said.

Rook looked down at the smaller man, smiled, and pulled his gun out of the holster.

“Good thing you did that, Rook,” Dave taunted. “If you hadn’t, I’d have made you eat it!”

Rook gave a yell and threw a punch that would have torn Lloyd’s head off if it had landed, but Dave shifted his head and let Rook fall into his arms. With a powerful motion he shoved him back with such force that Rook’s back struck the bar and tore it loose from its moorings.

The big man bounced off the bar and stood with a bewildered glaze in his dull eyes. “Come on, Rook,” Lloyd cried, “kick me in the head a little like you did Penny!”

This time Rook was more careful. He had felt the power in Lloyd’s arms, so he carefully planted his feet and threw a punch at the belly of the smaller man. With contemptuous ease, Lloyd turned the blow aside and with a lightning-like move, he drew his right back and drove a shattering punch into Rook’s stomach. It made a solid booming sound and snapped Rook’s mouth open as the breath was driven from his body. He grasped his arms with both hands, his face pale as he sucked for air.

Lloyd closed in and took one look at the helpless man. “Good night, Friend.” He turned Rook’s head to one side, and with a crushing right caught him in the mouth. Rook
fell backward and lay there with his legs kicking the floor frantically for several seconds before they stopped.