Beautiful Bad Man (2 page)

Kepler pointed at Cal the way he always did, with the same Sharps .50-90 rifle he used on buffalo. “You take the wagon into the yard and help unload, then do the other two. By the time you’re done, I’ll be back.”

Cal nodded and let his tortured team move through the gates.

Kepler and the skinners returned, all cleaned up and barbered, before Cal and the yardmen finished unloading the last wagon. Billy and Hank sat in the shade and waited for the final count. Kepler paced, complaining about the wait.

The skinners disappeared as soon as they had their money, but Kepler stopped Cal as he drove the last wagon out of the yard.

“Here you go, boy. Take care of the horses and then get cleaned up and get drunk. Have a woman.”

He handed over a small sheaf of bills that Cal didn’t bother counting. He knew what was there — a hundred dollars.

In spite of his determination not to say anything this time, bitter words spilled out. “Tell me honest for once, Jake, how long do I have to work for free before we’re even?”

The big man threw an arm around Cal’s shoulders, and Cal stiffened, hating the touch. Except for the Girl a long time ago, no one who touched him ever meant well, and Kepler’s painful grip made sure Cal recognized a threat.

“There’s men work for a whole year for a hundred dollars, you ungrateful pup, and that first year you hardly worked. A little cooking and carrying ain’t work. The year after that all you did was eat and grow. You only been skinning worth a damn lately. Next year. Next year you get a share.”

The story had been the same, or some version of the same, for three years. Which was about how long it had been since Cal had ruined a hide with a rip or hole. One way or another, there wasn’t going to be a next year.

His time with Kepler had taught Cal what he should have learned long before. Every living thing was either predator or prey, and even when prey managed to survive, it lived a miserable life, starving and freezing, running and hiding. A predator would be long gone before Kepler finished gambling, drinking, and whoring.

The buffalo hunter had beaten through any gratitude Cal felt early on, and twenty was long past the age of a pup. Not only was he leaving this town as a wolf, he was going to have his fair share of hide money with him when he went.

C
AL TRIED THE
door to a room in the best hotel in Fort Worth an hour before dawn. The doorknob turned. Nervous anticipation quickened his heart rate. He’d been right to stay patient and keep checking night after night, waiting for Kepler to stagger to his room too drunk to lock the door.

Cal stepped into the room and shut the door as quietly as he’d opened it, then waited for his eyes to adjust to the trace of moonlight filtering through the windows. Kepler’s snores resonated so loudly, stealth hardly seemed necessary, but Cal slid to the side of the bed like a shadow. He eased the blanket back just far enough to see part of the money belt Kepler never took off unless it was empty.

Cal had just slid the blade of his knife under the belt when Kepler jerked awake with a snort and yanked a pistol from under the pillow.

“Why you little....”

Cal shoved the knife down and in, twisting and tearing. The pistol fell from a flailing hand, and Kepler clawed at the knife before falling back lifeless.

Pulling the blade out, Cal wiped the blood off on the bed clothes then finished cutting the belt free. On his way out of the room he saw the long shadow of the buffalo gun leaning in the corner behind the door and took it too. The thought of learning to shoot a gun he’d been forbidden to touch held a certain attraction, and who knew, maybe he’d be good at it.

November 1880

Hubbell, Kansas

A
S THE NEWEST
hire, Cal rode a short distance behind the other men Webster Van Cleve claimed he needed to protect his ranch. What Van Cleve actually wanted was different of course, and running settlers off their land wasn’t Cal’s usual line of work. He figured to watch and learn.

Strange to have spent years in this area and recognize so little. When it came to the land, he’d never seen much except his uncle’s place, but he’d been to town a few times, and Hubbell no longer bore any resemblance to the excuse for a town he remembered.

The old town probably disappeared within a year of the coming of the railroad. He’d seen it in other towns. The new buildings were twice the size and ten times more numerous than what they replaced. Two saloons had whores working upstairs.

His horse followed the others through a swift-running creek. Water splashed on his wool trousers and soaked through. The icy burn was one more reminder of the early onset of what old timers predicted would be a long, hard winter.

Another sod house appeared in the distance. From the day Cal hired on, Asa Preston had led the way to one homestead after another where they all sat on their horses and stared at hard-faced farmers and their sons, who stared back over the sights of their rifles. Preston made threats, the rest of them did a little damage, and they rode away, a half-dozen gunmen frustrated by a handful of sodbusters.

At first Cal thought this would be more of the same tedious routine, but no farmer stood ready to defend this house. The overcast sky and lifeless brown fields all around added to the deserted, hopeless air of the place. Preston reined in close to the front door, and Cal maneuvered next to Ike Kerr. The little bald man was the only halfway friendly one among the gunmen. He was also a talker.

“We’re too late to drive anyone out of here,” Cal said. “They’re gone.”

“All that’s here is a widow woman. Her husband had a bad accident a while back.” Ike’s grin made Cal wonder how the husband died but not enough to ask.

Preston jumped down from his horse, yanked the door of the soddy open, and disappeared inside.

“Looks like she’s gone,” Cal said.

Ike shook his head. “We been out here and warned her twice, but she’s not the kind who listens. She had her chance, and this time’s lucky. For us, not her. She ain’t even got a gun, and she won’t put up much fight.”

Cal swore under his breath. If some stupid, pigheaded woman hadn’t hightailed it to safety before it came to this, he’d have to watch and hear what they did to her. If he rode off, he’d never be able to trust any of these men at his back. He weighed his options, not liking any of them.

Preston strode out of the house, anger and frustration on his face. He remounted and started barking orders.

“She’s somewhere around. You, look in that shed.” He pointed at the only other structure in sight, another soddy with only three and a half walls. “The rest of us will cover the whole damn place.”

Before Preston stopped speaking, a woman walked around the corner of the house dragging a burlap sack along the ground.

She didn’t look stupid or stubborn, but worn out, as if the life had already been squeezed out of her. The heavy brown coat hanging to her knees must have belonged to the dead husband. The scarf on her head and the part of her dress visible were the kind of gray that had started out some different color long ago.

From where he sat, Cal couldn’t see her clearly. Her face was only a pale oval marked by large shadows like bruises where eyes should be. He suspected getting closer would only show eyes as washed out as her dress.

Keeping a tight hold on his horse, Preston spurred until the animal danced then forced it to skitter around the woman, bumping her one way and the other. She stayed on her feet but didn’t try to get inside the house or run.

Preston backed the horse off only to leer down at her. “I figure you haven’t gone to town yet because you need a ride, and since we’re such nice fellows, we’re going to give you a ride. We’re going to give you lots of rides.”

The woman’s tired expression didn’t change, and she didn’t raise her voice. It floated to Cal on the cold air, slid over him, wrapped around him, and quickened his heart and breath.

“You are an evil man, Mr. Preston. You are all evil men. I know you murdered my husband, but I’m not afraid. I don’t care any more, and I’m not going to run and scream and make it more fun for you. I’m not running.”

“Evil men.” “I’m afraid.” “Run, running.” After all these years Cal still sometimes dreamed of the night he’d escaped from hell, and this used up, worn out woman’s voice was an echo of the Girl in the wagon.

Nothing he’d seen or heard that night hinted those settlers were going to take land near Hubbell. Odds were they’d kept going west for days, even weeks.

Interfering with Preston’s plans could get a man killed. Cal had no intention of doing anything that stupid or risky. She couldn’t be the Girl. This nothing of a woman could not be the Girl.

Preston gigged his horse again until it spun and knocked her down. She sat against the wall of the house where she’d fallen. Except for drawing in her legs, she made no effort to protect herself from the hooves.

“No-rah Haw-kins.” Preston chanted the name over and over in a singsong falsetto.

Cal never thought of the Girl by name because he’d never been sure what he’d heard her father say that night — Laura, Dora, half a dozen names had that sound. Like Norah.

She couldn’t be the Girl, but what if she was? Damn it, damn it all to hell.

Shifting reins to his left hand, Cal urged his horse forward, pulled his Colt, and thumbed back the hammer. “Leave her be.”

Preston had started to get off his horse. When he heard the words and saw the gun, he settled back down in the saddle. “I heard Cal Sutton was a man to ride the river with. I guess I heard wrong.”

At times like this the world changed for Cal. Time slowed. The landscape and everything in it became brighter, edges more distinct. The smallest sound reverberated like thunder in his head, yet he could hear the blood flowing in his veins.

Without taking his eyes off Preston, Cal saw the woman climb to her feet. He knew each time a man shifted in his saddle or a horse twitched an ear. Even so, a gunfight could only end one way, and bucking the ramrod too hard in front of his men would end in shooting.

“You heard right, but this woman’s a friend of mine. I didn’t recognize her until you said her name because it’s been a while.”

Preston’s pale eyes glittered with malice even as he bared tobacco-stained teeth in a poor imitation of a smile. “So the rest of us should ride off and leave you to get reacquainted with your
friend
, is that what you’re saying?”

“I’m asking you for a favor, Asa. Leave this woman be. I’ll explain to Van Cleve, and I’ll buy you all a drink next time we’re in town.”

Two men were sure to die if shooting started, Cal — and Asa Preston. Cal watched Preston make the calculation and decide to fight another day.

“You’ll never make this right with Van Cleve. But you’re still going to buy me several drinks. And a woman.”

Cal lowered the gun to acknowledge the deal but didn’t change where the barrel pointed.

Preston shouted face-saving orders, wheeled his horse, and started back the way they’d come at a gallop. One by one the rest of the men turned their mounts and followed.

Without taking his eyes off the retreating gunmen or holstering his gun, Cal dismounted. His horse, unhappy at being left behind, tried to pull away, then settled at the sound of a few soothing words and the feel of Cal’s unyielding hold.

The last of the gunmen to turn, the one who had shown the most sneering reluctance, was Yost, a young man with more swagger than sense. If he lived long enough for the spots on his face to clear up and his beard to come in as more than fuzz, he might learn better. Cal watched Yost haul back on his horse and yank it around and knew fuzz was all there’d ever be.

Yost jerked his pistol out and rode back shrieking like an Indian, his legs drumming against his horse with every stride. Some men might gamble that wild shots from the back of a galloping horse would never find a target. Cal wasn’t one of them.

His bullet hit Yost in the center of the chest. The body slumped and slid. Blood blossomed against the light gray wool coat. A boot caught in one stirrup for a few strides as the body fell, sending the panicked horse racing back toward its companions.

Cal yielded to the pull of his own horse a little and spoke softly again to quiet it, never taking his eyes off the men in the distance. They had all pulled up and turned now. Preston’s voice sounded, words indistinct, but tone unmistakably furious.

One of the men caught Yost’s horse and led it back. He heaved the body across the saddle without ceremony, tied it in place, and rode away without a word or a glance.

As Preston and his men disappeared in the distance, Cal’s world returned to normal. Muscles clenched too hard too long ached. His belly went hollow as tension ran out. Cold air crawled under his coat and bit through his sweat-soaked shirt.

He turned to take a better look at the woman, ready to ask the questions that would tell him if she was the Girl.

“You killed that man with no more feeling than stomping a bug,” she said. “What’s wrong with you? What’s wrong with all of you?”

This close Cal could see he’d been right. Her eyes were washed-out gray. So was her skin. The dark hair hanging around her face was as dull as the rest of her.

“Whatever you want from me, you’re not getting it,” she said.

He couldn’t imagine this woman ever having anything anyone would want. He’d made a mistake and risked his neck for nothing. His silent regard finally provoked an expression — hostility.

“If you expect thanks, you’re not getting any,” she said bitterly.

Cal swung back on his horse and looked down at her. “The only thing I ever expect is trouble.”

Touching spurs to his horse, he started after Preston and the others.

C
AL RODE BACK
to the V Bar C deep in a brown study. Preston’s men were unlikely to avenge Yost with a bullet. The other gunmen were as much lone wolves as Cal himself; none called any other friend.