This Loving Land (4 page)

Sadie was speechless, stupefied with disbelief. Then the words burst from her.

“Oh, ma’am! You’d take me and the baby with you?”

“Why not? And my name is Summer.”

One girl laughed, the other girl cried. Summer felt as if a load had been lifted from her shoulders. Here was someone she could talk things over with, someone who, hopefully, would work beside her. The girl’s need was even greater than her own. They began to talk, to plan, and finally slept when dawn was just a few short hours away.

By sun-up, the town was astir.

Through a crack in the door, Summer watched the hotel man’s retreating back. She closed the door softly and smiled reassuringly at Sadie. Green eyes stared unsmilingly back at her. The freckles stood out, each one like a grain of brown sugar on the fair skin. The girl who stood, clutching the hand of her small daughter, didn’t remotely resemble the dance-hall girl of the night before. A well-worn cotton dress covered her from neck to instep, but the bodice was loose and the waistline clearly showed a recent loss of weight. The bravado of last night, when she found her daughter missing, was gone; fear of what the hotel man would do when he discovered she didn’t have the money to pay for last night’s lodging took its place.

When Summer opened the door for Bulldog, he stood and gaped at the two women and two children waiting for him.

“Mrs. Bratcher is going with us,” Summer said, by way of introduction. Her voice was confident this morning. She had set a course, and felt she had command of their future once again.

Bulldog shifted from one foot to the other. “Wal . . . now . . .” He clearly didn’t know what to say.

Summer thought it best to tell him the complete story.

“And we’re not paying him one cent!” she said firmly. “He’s been charging her a dollar a day!”

The whiskered cowboy shook his head. “A dollar! Wal, now . . . Did he want to take his pay out in trade, Sadie?”

The girl nodded.

Summer looked from one to the other. Of course Bulldog would know who she was. There weren’t that many women in town that Sadie would go unnoticed.

“I’ll be back fer ya.” Slamming his dusty hat down hard on his head, the cowboy gathered up two armloads of boxes.

The trip from the room to the wagon in front of the hotel went smoothly. The hotel man wasn’t at the desk, and when Summer asked about him, Bulldog spit contemptuously into the dirt.

The sun was only half an hour above the horizon when their light wagon rolled to a halt in front of the store and the pile of supplies stacked on the loading dock. Hangers-on called out good naturedly to Bulldog as he lifted the heavy bags and boxes onto the wagon bed.

Since leaving the hotel, Sadie had relaxed, and her lips were tilted continuously in a smile. Summer was immensely glad for her presence. The two children stood behind them, watching all that was going on with large, excited eyes.

“I’m glad you’re with me!” Summer clasped Sadie’s hand.

“Yo’re glad! Oh, Jesus Christ . . . Oh, I mean . . . I still can’t believe we’re out of that . . . place. I’ll work hard, miss. I’ll work my fingers to the bone!”

“You’ll do nothing of the kind. We’ll work together. And for Pete’s sake, call me Summer.”

“I ort to be a callin’ you angel, that’s what I ort to do!”

At the sound of Summer’s laughter, the loafers in front of the store all turned their heads in unison to look at the lovely, raven-haired girl. She had piled her hair in a loose knot on top of her head because of the heat, and curly tendrils floated about her face and clung to the nape of her neck. The dark cotton dress she wore set off her violet eyes, and with the flush of excitement spreading over her fair skin, she was quite beautiful. But she was completely unaware of the picture she made, and the eyes that couldn’t seem to look away from her, as she held out her sunbonnet to Sadie.

“I’ll be right back, John Austin. Sadie, don’t let him get out of the wagon. After you know him better, you’ll understand why. I’m going to get us some garden seed.”

Summer paused in the doorway of the store to allow her eyes to adjust from the bright sunlight to the darkened interior. It was filled to capacity with goods needed to sustain life on the vast cattle ranches that surrounded the town. Barrels of flour, sugar, salt pork and cornmeal crowded the aisles; jugs, tools, baskets, rope and harnesses hung from the rafters. Her eyes settled on a table of bright yard goods, and as she walked toward it she passed behind a man counting out a stack of silver dollars to the store clerk.

The man was very tall, whiplash thin, but with broad shoulders and long arms. His dark hat was pulled low, the broad brim shielding his face, and a long, thin cheroot in his mouth trailed a waft of not-unpleasant smoke. His clothes were dark and free of dust, and against his thigh rested a holstered gun. But Summer wasn’t aware of these impressions until later. She was only dimly aware that the man stopped clinking the silver until she passed him.

After looking over the yard goods and thinking how nice it would be if she could afford to buy the blue for herself, the green for Sadie and the sunny yellow for Mary, she put the thought from her mind and moved to the now-vacated counter.

“Mornin’, miss.” A youngish clerk with a large Adam’s apple, which rose and fell as he spoke, stood wiping his hands on a once-white apron.

“Morning. How much are the seeds?”

“The seeds? Oh . . . they’re ten cents for this scoop.”

“Ten cents?” Disappointment and uncertainty tinged her voice. “You’d pay two cents for that scoop back in the Piney Woods where I come from. Ten cents, you said? Well . . . give me a scoop full of bean, beet, turnips, corn and okra. I’ll also need some potatoes to eye.”

The clerk looked over her head. “If you’re the lady Bulldog got the supplies for, ma’am, you ain’t gonna need none. Bulldog said you ain’t . . . he said that . . . well, he gave me a bill of what to lay out, and warn’t no potatoes on the bill. He said you ain’t goin’ to need . . .”

“Is that stuff out there all for us?”

The clerk’s face turned a beet red. “Well . . . I was told to lay out a stock; I was given a bill to fill.”

“I can’t pay for those things.” Her voice was flat, angry. “I can’t pay for them now, and maybe never!”

“They’re paid fer, miss.” The clerk smiled broadly, but Summer didn’t.

“Bulldog paid for our supplies?”

“Mr. McLean paid, miss.” For some reason the clerk’s face burned a bright red again, and he kept his eyes on his hands.

Summer’s lips tightened. “I’d like a copy of the bill, please.” She stood proudly, looking steadily at the fidgeting clerk who stood as if cemented to the spot. “The bill.” Summer held out her hand.

The clerk’s eyes roamed the store, looking everywhere except at her.

“I’ll make it out and give it to Bulldog—later.” He began to scoop out seeds, wrapping each batch in a piece of brown paper.

Summer regretted her quick remarks. She had no doubt the story would be all over town by noon—if not spread by the clerk, then surely by the tall customer. Pretending to look closely at the bins of dried beans and rice behind her, she let her eyes wander until she located him. He stood with his back to her, and it was something in his stance, in the way he held his head, that drew her eyes to him again and again. He bent his head to light another cheroot, and she knew. He was the tall man from the street, the one Bulldog had talked with the night before. She turned to face the counter; her heart had started to beat at an alarming rate and her face felt suddenly flushed.

“Two sticks of peppermint candy, please.” For some reason she lowered her voice to a mere whisper.

When Summer left the dimness of the store, she was aware that the crowd of loafers had increased. She was also aware that the sun was higher, and that it had grown warmer. All this she knew, but in a secondary way, for her attention was on the handsome buggy, escorted by half a dozen riders, pulling up in front of the store. The driver eased his long length out of the seat, and reached up a hand to help the woman who was sitting beside him. She was lovely, and her clothes were the finest Summer had ever seen. She was dressed all in gray, from the soft, high-button shoes to the wide-brimmed hat set atop high-piled blonde curls. She lifted gray-gloved hands, deftly folded back a gauze of gray veil up and over her hat brim, and laughed softly into the man waiting to help her. He reached up and encircled her narrow waist with both hands and lifted her gently to the ground. He handled her as if she were a piece of priceless porcelain, and Summer marveled because he was a large-framed man with a stern, unsmiling face.

Summer headed for the steps, hoping to slip past the party unnoticed. To her embarrassment, the woman stopped and smiled at her.

“Hello.”

Her voice was musical and seemed just the right sound to come from such a beautiful creature. It was difficult to determine her age, for though her face was smooth, her eyes bright and her hair shiny, she had a very few wrinkles at the corner of her eyes and around her neck, where the lace collar of her dress was secured with a delicately-carved brooch.

“Ah . . . hello.” Summer was ashamed of the stammer in her voice, and moved to pass on.

The woman reached out a gloved hand and placed it on her arm.

“Have you just arrived in town?” She smiled so sweetly and her voice was so friendly that Summer couldn’t help being flattered by her inquiry.

“Since yesterday.”

“I thought so.” She smiled up at the stern-faced man. “I was right, Jesse. I thought I knew all the lovely young ladies for miles around.” Summer felt a flash of pleasure on hearing the compliment. “I’m Ellen McLean, dear. And this is my son, Travis.” Reaching around, she placed her hand on the arm of another man standing slightly behind her. He had blond hair and dancing blue eyes and winked openly at Summer when she glanced at him. She could feel the color come up her neck. She held out her hand to the woman.

“I’m Summer Kuykendall.” She made the announcement and waited.

The name brought no hint of recognition from the woman, and it occurred to Summer that perhaps Sam McLean hadn’t told his family about her and John Austin.

“I’m happy to meet you, Summer.” Mrs. McLean placed both hands around the forearm of the stern-faced man. “This is my good friend and manager of our ranch, Jesse Thurston.”

Summer looked into the coldest eyes she had ever seen. They were light gray, almost the color of the woman’s dress, and absolutely expressionless. He raised his hand to the brim of his hat, his eyes holding her as if he could pin her to the wall. Summer inclined her head and her eyes shifted to Travis McLean, who was grinning at her in open admiration. He was somewhat younger than the other man, but still looked too old to be the son of the fairylike creature dressed in gray.

“Are you, by any chance, related to the Kuykendalls that homesteaded here some years back?” Mrs. McLean smiled up at the big man again. “I don’t like to think of how many years back, Jesse, really I don’t!” Her smiling eyes came back to Summer. “You can’t be Nannie Kuykendall’s daughter!”

“But I am. Did you know my mother?”

“Yes indeed, my dear. Your mother lived near Sam McLean’s ranch. My late husband, Sam’s brother, took up land a bit further west.”

A flicker of regret crossed Summer’s mind, and at the same time relief that this wasn’t Sam McLean’s family. She felt she was not yet equal to the task of meeting the McLeans.

“You’ll be living out on the homestead? I haven’t been there for years. May I call on you?” Not waiting for her question to be answered, she rushed on. “I didn’t visit your mother as often as I liked, but I’ll visit her daughter.” Her eyes sought the stern face. “Won’t it be nice for me to have a lovely young woman to visit, Jesse?” The man looked down into her wide-eyed face and his hand came up and patted the gloved hand on his arm.

During this pause, Summer had moved to the steps.

“I’ll look forward to your visit, Mrs. McLean.”

“I’ll call on you soon. Goodbye, my dear.”

Travis McLean swept his hat and clasped Summer’s elbow to assist her down the steps.

“I’ll bring my mother to call.” His voice was low and he emphasized the first word. His hand gently squeezed her arm.

Trying not to notice the intimacy, and vastly relieved that this man was not Sam McLean’s son, Summer walked quickly to the wagon. She took Bulldog’s hand and climbed up over the wheel and sat beside Sadie. Then she noticed how quiet the street was. All activity, it seemed, had stopped while she conversed with Mrs. McLean. Even the store clerk stood in the doorway, his hands folded across his apron. Suddenly, Summer wanted to get away from this place, away from the watching eyes. Now Bulldog and Sadie seemed full of quiet, unspoken disapproval, and Summer felt uneasy.

Bulldog slapped the ends of the reins against the rumps of the horses, and the wagon rolled down the rutted street. Even John Austin hadn’t anything to say. Summer turned to smile at him, but he was looking back, as was Mary, at the group watching them from the porch of the store.

Summer was glad when they left the town behind. Bulldog clucked and snapped the reins sharply on the horses’ backs as they ambled out of the rutted street and onto the prairie. A slight breeze kicked up little eddies of dust along the trail, but did little to dissipate the early morning heat. Summer put on her sunbonnet to take advantage of the shade it offered, and for a time rode silently, reflecting on Bulldog’s mood and trying, fruitlessly, to comprehend his silent, scowling countenance. The area surrounding them was like a vast ocean, only solid and hot. Some half a mile ahead, a small grove broke the emptiness, and it was there that they headed. A group of horsemen waited beneath the cottonwoods.

“Mr. Bulldog?” Summer gestured toward the men when Bulldog turned to look at her.

“McLean men.”

He reached into his pocket and drew out a flat tin, dipped a small twig, the end of which was chewed into a brush, into the brown powder, and coated the inside of his lower lip. Summer had seen this done often. Even people in the Piney Woods dipped snuff.

“Mr. McLean’s men?”

“Yup.”

Sadie glanced nervously at Summer and pulled her sunbonnet from beneath the seat and tied it securely under her chin.

When Bulldog pulled the team to a halt under the shade trees, the men on horseback sat motionless and stared at the women. Summer looked at each face before confusion forced her to look away. Not one of the men fit her imaginary picture of Sam McLean, the one who would be the man in charge. The silence was broken by Bulldog’s low laugh. It drew attention to him.

“Wal, now! You fellers just pull in yore eyeballs. This here’s Summer Kuykendall, and the other’n is Mrs. Bratcher.”

“Are you outlaws?” John Austin stood behind Summer, gazing with awe at the horsemen.

Summer looked around in horror. “John Austin!”

Grins appeared on the weathered, toughened faces, and one rider urged his horse forward.

“I’m not sure ’bout the rest of ’em, boy, but as fer me, I’m the ramrod of these galoots when the boss ain’t around. Jack Bruza’s the name.”

“What do you ram, mister?”

Summer cringed. Her brother’s questions were often unintentionally upsetting. He would invariably pick out the word that interested him the most and ask about it.

“Uh?” The expression on the man’s face was typical of those who talked with John Austin for the first time.

The loud guffaws of laughter from the men didn’t affect Jack at all. He grinned with them, took off his hat, scratched his head and allowed his restless horse to edge closer to the wagon.

“Wal . . . I’m a gonna have to study on that one, boy. How’d ya like to ride along with me while 1 tell ya ’bout it?”

John Austin didn’t hesitate. He could never be accused of shyness.

“Can I, Summer? Can I?”

It was hard for Summer to suspend her habit of concern for her small brother. She looked first at the man and then at the prancing horse.

“I don’t think. . . .”

“Jack ain’t gonna let no hurt come to him,” Bulldog growled. “Ya don’t aim to make no sissy-britches out of him, do ya?”

She felt a flush of embarrassment at the rebuke. “Well . . . all right. But . . . be careful, John Austin.”

Mary set up a howl as soon as the boy was lifted from the wagon.

“Me . . . me ride!”

An old man urged his horse up to the wagon. He looked inquiringly at Sadie.

“Ma’am?”

Sadie nodded, and with one arm he scooped the little girl up and placed her carefully in front of him.

“Jist come on up here with ol’ Raccoon, lit’l purty gal, we’ll jist have us a fine ride.”

A youth, not more than fourteen, swept off his broad-brimmed hat, his young face creased with a teasing grin. He turned his horse in a circle, then caused the animal to rear up on its hind legs.

“One of you ladies is welcome to ride with me,” he called.

“Ya just quit yore showin’ off, Pud. Or I’m liable to take a board to yore back side.” Bulldog snapped the reins sharply and the team began to move. “Now cut out the tomfoolery, and keep yore eyes peeled.”

“The man’s name is Raccoon? The boy’s name is Pud?” Summer couldn’t suppress a small laugh. She turned to help the children onto the wagon.

“Yeah.” Bulldog cocked his head to one side, as if surprised by her interest. “We call the kid Pud, ’cause he is the puddin’-eatin’est little bastard ya ever did see. I don’t recall jist what his name is. But ya just let a batch of bread puddin’ get made up and that goddam kid’ll eat till his eyes bulge.” He flicked the backs of the straining team. “Raccoon’s name is Fox, but when the boss was a tyke, he couldn’t remember what kind of varmit he was, so he called him Raccoon, and it stuck.”

“Do the boy’s folks live at the ranch?”

“Naw. They was dirt farmers. The old man was a lazy mule and the old woman took off with a peddlin’ man. Jack brought the kid out a few years back. Keeps an eye on him. He’s a good kid, if’n he is mouthy. Stick his head in the fire if’n Jack tol’ him to.”

The day rocked on. It was pleasant sitting on the high seat. The country was lush and beautiful. They followed a creek south, the trail coming so close at times they could see the swiftly running water. Bulldog explained the creek was running full now, due to the rains in the north, but would more than likely be a dry sand-bed before the summer was over.

The riders kept their distance from the wagon, riding mostly to the side and behind. Jack came to talk occasionally with Bulldog. They said as few words as possible, as was the way of men who spent much of their time alone.

“Seen any sign?”

“Nope.”

“Nothing of Slater?”

“Nope.”

“He ain’t far off. Keep yore eyes peeled fer a signal.”

“Ain’t likely to do nothin’ else.”

“I got me a hunch.”

“Yeah?”

“Could be we’ll cross ’em at the gorge.”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t let Pud do nothin’ hare-brained.”

“He ain’t gonna do nothin’. He’s just full of mustard.”

“We ort to be to the gorge in half an hour.”

“Yeah.”

Jack wheeled his horse and rode away. After that, the men were spaced further out from the wagon.

Happily sucking on the candy sticks, John Austin and Mary lay down in the wagon bed.

“When will we get home, Mr. Bulldog?”

Home. The word came so naturally from her brother that it was seconds before it registered with Summer.

“Afore dark, most likely, if we keep on a clickin’.” Bulldog’s keen eyes were constantly shifting, and he had neglected to dip his snuff for a while. “You younguns lay down, and don’t be makin’ no racket.”

It had all been so peaceful. Summer suddenly felt the sharp spur of anxiety.

“Are you expecting . . . trouble?”

“Ya’d be plumb bad off not to be ’specting trouble in this country. It’s somethin’ that comes sooner or later like a skeeter bite.” Bulldog’s tone was grim. “If’n it comes, ’n I ain’t sayin’ ’twill. You hop over the seat and plop down on top them kids, ’n don’t be pokin’ yore head up fer nothin’.”

Summer smoothed her dress down over her knees with a nervous motion. She started to say something, but would not trust her voice. She looked ahead at the hills. They seemed now to advance on them.

“We’ll do as you say, Mr. Bulldog.” Sadie’s voice was quiet, confident. “Don’t you worry none. Me ’n Summer’ll take care of the kids.”

“I wish you’d put a stop on callin’ me ‘Mr.’ Makes me itchy. Name’s just plain ol’ Bulldog. Ain’t been called nothin’ else fer so long, I’d not answer to nothin’ else but.”

They traveled on in uneasy silence, the rattle of the harnesses and the clip-clop of the hoofs on the hard-packed prairie trail the only sounds to break the stillness.

Slater McLean sat motionless on his buckskin. He rolled the cigarette in his lips, liking the taste of the fresh tobacco, squinted his eyes against the sun’s glare, and gazed down into the valley. He was a big, lean, wide-shouldered man. A quiet man with a weathered face, straight black hair, and eyes so deep blue that they almost seemed black.

He sat easily in the saddle and studied the terrain with care, beginning with the far distance and working closer, letting no rock or clump of brush go unscrutinized. He had learned long ago that careful scrutiny and patience were essential in this country if you wanted to live. It was hot and he drew on his cigarette. A few clouds drifted across the sky, and their shadows traveled the length of the valley. Nothing else moved.

Finishing the cigarette, he let his eyes wander to his right, where a dip in the ridge would be the logical place to hide and wait for the wagon. It was so logical a place for an Apache; he would wait behind the broken boulders that lined the ridge—and if he took his time and made no sudden moves to attract the eye, he would be on the wagon before Bulldog could spit. Sweat trickled through the dust on Slater’s face. His neck itched from the heat and dust. Nowhere in all that vast distance was there a movement. Yet, somewhere out there were Apaches. He was sure of it.

Yesterday, on his way to town, he’d crossed the trail of a band of Apaches. They had been riding without women and children, which meant they were young bucks out raiding, hot to lift hair and steal horses. No doubt they were a rag-tail outfit of half-starved renegades, and Slater hoped to hell he wouldn’t have to kill them.

The Apaches were not the only problem Slater had to worry about. There was another gang in the area, led by a man named Findlay. Bushy Red, he was called; and as far as Slater knew, he was the only white man in a gang of renegade Apache scouts, runaway slaves and Mexicans. Several times lately he had come across their sign, had found tracks of as many as a dozen or more. They were a mean outfit. The Texas Rangers had run them out of the Brazos River country, and they had drifted south, rustling and raiding.

Slater eased his weight in the saddle and checked the eagerness of his horse. They had been motionless for half an hour. Both had welcomed the rest after the grueling ride across country from Hamilton. But now he gave himself a mental shake. He couldn’t keep his thoughts from the small dark-haired girl who got off the stage. Somehow, he hadn’t expected to see such a proud little creature. She walked with her head up and her chin tilted as if she were six feet tall. He had often wondered what kind of woman the little girl had grown into; she was spunky from what he could tell. But still, he was puzzled by her bringing along the girl from the dance hall. He shrugged. As long as she didn’t cause trouble among the men, he didn’t care.

Slater’s eyes were alert, but his thoughts traveled. The little brother was quite brainy, if Bulldog could be believed. At least the kid was well-behaved. Both of them will be better off at the ranch, he mused. Especially now that Travis had set eyes on the girl. The McLeans hadn’t bothered him for a long time now, but he knew the meeting was no coincidence. And if Ellen had said anything about Sam, the girl wouldn’t have left town with Bulldog.

And there was Jesse Thurston to deal with. His toughness was ingrained. He wasn’t a cruel man, yet he was quick, hard and dangerous. Whatever wells of softness there were in him, were apparent only where Ellen McLean was concerned. That was a strange alliance. He was still lapping up every word or gesture from the woman, and she old enough to be his mother for all her beauty and careful grooming. He had seen Jesse almost beat a man to death for making a remark to Ellen, and she had stood by loving every minute of it. That was before . . . he raised a hand to his scarred cheek, rubbed the rough ridges. Every time he saw his reflection in a mirror, his eyes hardened and he felt almost choked with hate. Yes, he had been right to send Bulldog to meet the stage. His face might have been a shock to her now. He put his heels lightly to the horse’s flanks. Even if she hadn’t written, he had always had it in the back of his mind to fetch her home.

Slater pulled the buckskin up short of the ridge and moved against a dark clump of juniper where he was as invisible as possible to be on the hillside. A small cloud of dust rose above the brush on the opposite side of the slope. He studied it. It could have come from a deer scrambling up from the creek, but it would stir up more dust. He waited. The dust appeared, then vanished, and that meant it was not a deer, but someone not wanting to be seen. He eased himself from the saddle moving slowly, and lifted his rifle, being careful the streaks of sunlight shining through the branches didn’t strike the metal. His eyes were glued to the spot where he had glimpsed the dust. He watched and waited, crouched down behind a clump of brush and weeds. He had stayed high up enough on the slope to be able to see the side of the draw, and yet see the wagon coming from the east. The sun was in the west, giving full light to the valley and shade to the sides of the slope.

Watchfulness was no new thing for Slater. Watchfulness and patience will keep you alive, he had been told more than once. The first to move is often the first to die.

In the hot stillness of the afternoon, Slater could hear the jingle of harness, the soft thud of hooves on the packed trail, Bulldog’s muffled curse as the wagon jolted over a stone. He dared not to take his eyes from the willow clumps. The Apaches would wait until just the right moment. They knew the value of waiting. He had to have a sign soon, so he could fire . . . there it was. A movement of brown and his finger tightened, the rifle leaped in his hands. The sound of the shot echoed in the valley even as the Apache stood, then crashed over, his arms flung wide.