Capture the Sun (Cheyenne Series) (9 page)

      
“Feliz, were...were Marah and Noah married—I mean legally, by white custom, not Cheyenne?”

      
Feliz smiled serenely, going back to a long ago time. “Si, they were married by a missionary minister. It was not a tribal ritual, Carrie. Marah was a beautiful young woman of sixteen when she met Don Noah. Hawk has her fine features and coloring, and her free spirit and love of the land. He has much to be bitter about, Carrie, but he is a good boy.”

      
Carrie arched her brows. Somehow she could not think of that menacing gunman as a boy. “Frankly, I find it hard to imagine his ever being a child, Feliz.”

      
Feliz laughed as she recalled one of Hawk's boyhood pranks. “One day when he was seven I baked his favorite ginger cookies. He sneaked up to that window and pulled himself on the sill where he could reach in and grab them. Since I had just taken them from the oven, he burned his fingers, but he told me it was little enough pain for the honor of counting coup on my kitchen.”

      
Carrie smiled as she saw the obviously fond memories Feliz had of Hawk's boyhood.

      
“Frank told me about a time when Hawk was out on the range with him looking for stray steers. Hawk was maybe nine years old by then. They came across a Sioux chief’s burial lodge. These are like big woven beds, set high in the air on four long poles. One of the vaqueros decided to climb up and see if the old warrior had anything valuable to steal. Well, Hawk slipped off from the men and came around from behind. He got a long stick and sneaked under the lodge with it. When the vaquero was rooting through the dead chief's medicine bag, Hawk pushed the stick through the woven mat and propped the dead body up. Frank said the men back at the bunkhouse could hear that grave robber yell. He fell backward off the ladder and hurt his leg. All the other men laughed so hard no one could give him help. He just lay there, flopping around on the ground while they hung on their horses and laughed.”

* * * *

      
While Feliz reminisced with Carrie about Hawk's childhood, Hawk was busily at work. He had arisen in time to join the bunkhouse breakfast at four-thirty and renew old acquaintances with a few of the men who were his friends.

      
Kyle was sleeping with the hands. He had always hated Noah's elegant house and preferred rough camaraderie to the formal manners required to eat at Noah's table. Kyle had been born in a Texas whorehouse and never knew his father. Hawk often told him he was lucky. But because Kyle knew he lacked education and refinement, whenever they returned to the Circle S, he chose to keep his distance from the big house.

      
Later that morning they rode out, ostensibly for Hawk to reacquaint himself with the stock and see what improvements had been made in the operation of the place. In fact, it enabled the two men, both of whom had been range detectives, to take a look at the rustling situation firsthand.

      
“Yore pa offered me a job o' work, Hawk,” Kyle said as they rode, then lapsed into silence.

      
“You take it?”

      
“I reckon I like the view up north fer a change. Yore fixin' on stayin' awhile. Thought I'd lope along here fer a spell. If'n I'm gonna git shot at, Montana's as good as anywheres else.”

      
“It is a good day to die,” Hawk said softly, a quirk of a smile lingering around his mouth.

      
“Don't yew go hexin' me with thet Cheyenne death song, Longlegs. I figger on dyin' in bed, with a woman on each side o' me, ta kinda get me ready fer all thet heat down there below. Nah, these here bastards ‘er plumb dumb as sheep. Cuttin' out a few head o' stock an’ runnin' it off whilst yore pa's away. All's he has ta do is hire a few trackers with guns an’ them varmints'll skedaddle.”

      
“It appears to me he just did that,” Hawk said dryly.

      
“Since when's the old man hirin' his own son? Yer still sleepin' at the big house, ain't ya?”

      
“Yeah, Kyle, I still have a room. They even let me eat in the dining room with them,” Hawk said. The sarcasm couldn't mask the bitterness lying beneath it.

      
“Reckon I know whut burr's under yore blanket, Longlegs, an’ she's got red hair, I hear tell. Ain't seen 'er yet, but Frank says she's a real looker.”

      
“White women are poison, beautiful or not.”

      
“
All
women er pizen, my friend, but whut a way ta die, huh?’' He laughed a bit, then sobered and looked over at the tall, silent rider beside him. ”Ya figger he'll cut yew out if'n she foals him a nice white boy?”

      
“Always did. I never really thought I'd inherit Circle S, Kyle. One way or another, Noah'd keep me from it. He knows I'd open the land for the People to hunt on. Buffalo are gone, but there are antelope, elk, deer. Better than they've got on that so-called government land where the White Father promises food and starves them into submission. “Only question was how he'd acquire another heir. As long as he was married to Lola, there wasn't a chance.

      
“This time he's picked very carefully. She's out of her depth. He'll make her heel to his every command, or I miss my guess. But she's young and healthy, a good breeder.” He laughed grimly. “Yeah she'll earn her money with that old bastard.”

      
“Whut ya figger ta do, Hawk? I'm game fer leavin'. We cud head up ta yore ma's people an’ visit fer a spell.”

      
“I'll visit Grandfather and the others soon, but for now I just want to stay here and devil the old man. As long as he can use my gun, he'll keep, me on. Besides, I'm anxious to see just how he'll go about telling me when the time comes.”

      
“Ya figgerin' ta throw his money in his face when he offers yew a chunk ta ride off in the sunset.” It was not offered as speculation but as a bald statement.

      
“You know me pretty well, old friend...”

* * * *

      
Carrie had spent the morning gleaning as much information as she could from Feliz, the repository of all Sinclair family information. Noah had been out on his land since daybreak, and Carrie did not see him until the midday meal. He was preoccupied and paid little attention to her, eating quickly and heading back to the corral.

      
Carrie tried to bring up the problem of Mrs. Thorndyke's rudeness and independence, but was unable to get more than a perfunctory and exasperated, “She's run the house perfectly for over sixteen years. I won't disturb things that work well.”

      
In other words, Carrie concluded disconsolately, she could wander around, a stranger in her own house, or take charge of it without Noah's support. Pondering that, she conceded that she would at least get some help from her husband with her other obvious problem: she could not ride a horse.

      
Noah had been horrified when Carrie told him she had never been on horseback in her life, that in an urban area like St. Louis, horseback riding was not a popular diversion for most young ladies. Noah immediately took charge in characteristic fashion by announcing he would select her a gentle mount and have it outfitted with a sidesaddle. She was to report to Frank Lowery for her first lesson on the morrow.

      
Nervously, Carrie did as instructed, dressing in a simple riding habit she had bought as part of her trousseau. It had been a request of Noah's and she had honored it without confessing that she did not ride. She smoothed the brown skirt and decided to brave the corral with no more procrastination. Anything larger than a sheepdog terrified her. Pray God whoever Frank selected to teach her would have the patience of Job!

      
As she approached the corral, Carrie sighted Frank's snowy hair easily because he stood nearly a head taller than any of the other hands. He was surrounded by men taking morning job assignments and then moving off in groups of twos and threes to saddle their mounts and set to work. Patiently she waited until he was finished discharging his responsibilities. She was uncomfortable with the curious and occasionally leering stares of the motley assortment of men who passed by her. Some tipped their hats in deference, some blushed and looked down at their boots, and a few eyed her far too boldly for her comfort.

      
Finally, as the press thinned, Carrie caught Frank's eye. He flashed that toothy smile and loped toward her. “Right early fer ya ta be up, ma'am. What kin I do fer ya?”

      
Carrie was taken aback. “Didn't Noah ask you to find someone to go riding with me? I—I don't know how to say this to a Texan, but I never rode a horse before, and I'm under orders to learn.” She gave an uncertain smile and he

 
returned it broadly.

      
“I do apologize, ma'am, but Noah musta plumb fergot. Ya see, soon's he got down here, word come ‘bout some stock bein' stole down by th' Mizpah fork. I reckon he had some fierce worries. Fact is, soon's I post the day's work, I—”

      
A drawling voice cut in, “Know yer right pushed fer time, Frank. Be real proud ta show th' missus th' ropes. Yew know no one's better’n a Texan ta teach a tenderfoot ta ride.” Kyle Hunnicut's bandy-legged gait carried him around the corral to stare eyè to eye with Carrie. He was barely taller than she, despite his high-heeled riding boots.

      
A thick thatch of frizzy reddish hair stuck out from beneath a wide-brimmed, battered hat and an equally unruly patch of freckles was liberally spread across his face. A nose, long ago displaced in a Texas bar fight, fell sharply to the left side of his cheek while a strong set of teeth, yellowed by chewing tobacco, flashed her a warm grin. He could have been as young as thirty or as old as forty-five. It was that kind of a face.

      
Frank laughed good-naturedly and spoke up. “Mrs. Sinclair, meet Kyle Hunnicut. This here rascal's th' best stock detective north o' th' Platte, ma'am, an’ I reckon a fair rider, too.”

      
Carrie nodded, returning the greeting of the wiry little man who wore a deadly Colt strapped to his hip as naturally as had his friend Hawk. “I'd be grateful, Mr. Hunnicut, for any pointers you could give me. I'm quite a novice, I'm afraid.”

      
The crooked grin again. “Nothin’ ta it, ma'am.” Kyle patiently saddled a small mare for Carrie, then helped her into the sidesaddle. Once up on the horse, the ground looked far down, and she immediately transmitted her nervousness to the animal, causing her to skitter. After a few minutes of patient instruction and reassurance by Kyle, they set out.

      
“You're a ‘stock detective,’ Mr. Lowery said. What does that mean?” Carrie still felt as though she was in a foreign country.

      
Kyle grinned and began to roll a cigarette as he explained. “Wall, ma'am, thet's really à fancy name fer a good tracker who doubles as a hired gun. Fact is, I kin foller most any stolen cow's trail an’ deal with th' varmints thet took ‘em.”

      
“Is there much theft around here? I thought my husband was so powerful that no one would dare steal from him.” Carrie was taken aback at his casual reference to violence, but tried not to show it.

      
“Fact is true, Noah Sinclair's got him th' biggest spread in eastern Montana, but thieves is a peculiar lot. They purely don't care. Thet's why Noah kin use us fer now.”

      
“Us? You mean you and Hawk, don't you?” For some inexplicable reason Carrie found herself bringing up his name when she knew she shouldn't.

      
He nodded in agreement and corrected the position of her hand on the tightened rein.

      
Here I am out in the middle of nowhere, calmly riding around with a hired gunman,
she thought in disbelief, making yet another resolution to adapt, no matter what.

      
As if sensing her unease, Kyle said, “Yep, Longlegs 'n' me, we go back a piece. He run off from school 'n' come ta th' Nations lookin' fer some way ta survive. I cud see he's a nat'ral with a sidearm. Sorta quiet an’ moved real quick. Guess th' Injun blood gave him thet.”

      
“So you trained him,” Carrie supplied, intrigued despite herself.

      
“Yes'm, I did thet. Never had me a breed fer a pardner afore. Ya might say he trained me in a way, too.” He lapsed into silence, remembering.

      
“Why did you offer to teach me to ride, Mr. Hunnicut?” He was Hawk's friend. Why was he being kind to her?

      
“I'd be obliged if’n ya'd call me Kyle ma'am. Onliest ones whut calls me ‘Mr. Hunnicut’ 'er fellers in bars tryin' ta cadge a drink off'n me.”

      
Carrie laughed. “All right, Kyle.” She waited for him to answer her question.

      
He considered for a minute, then said, “It seems Hawk's got one idee about yew, 'n' Frank's got another. Figgered I'd see fer myself.”

      
“Well, Kyle, how do you vote?” Carrie was abashed at his forthrightness and decided to be equally bold.

      
“I ain't rightly decided yet. Got ta think on it fer a spell. I'll let yew know.” He grinned toothily.

      
Carrie was sure this strangely honest ruffian would do just that and surprised herself by hoping that she'd pass his inspection.

* * * *

      
By the end of her fïrst week at Circle S, Carrie was used to early rising, despite Noah's nightly visits to her bed. Pushing that unpleasant thought from her mind, she headed toward the corral for her morning ride. Frank and Kyle had taken turns squiring her around and answering questions about the daily workings of the big ranch. Both were easygoing and possessed a rough Texas charm that she found relaxing.
I will learn to fit in here
, she thought to herself, recalling the vast store of western lore she was absorbing daily.