Something More (32 page)

“We need to stop the bleeding, Saddlebags,” she said in her firmest voice.

Luke knelt down on the other side of him. “How bad is he hurt?”

“I don't know yet.”

“You'd better let me check him.” He passed Angie his rifle. She sat back on her heels and laid the rifle next to the other weapons. When she turned back, Luke was pushing aside the clothing. “He must have five layers of clothes on,” Luke muttered, then arrived at bare skin. “I'm surprised he isn't sweltering in this sun.”

“Le' me be,” Saddlebags mumbled in protest and pushed at Luke's hands. But the movement drew a grimace of pain from him, revealing his loose-fitting dentures, yellowed with age and tartar. “Don' nee' . . . yore help.”

“I have half a notion to let you bleed to death, so don't tempt me,” Luke shot back and continued his inspection. “The old guy's skinnier than I thought. These baggy clothes made him look bigger than he is. Lucky for you,” he told the still-resisting Saddlebags before he explained to Angie. “The bullet only creased him, but it's a deep one. Might have chipped a rib bone. We just need to get the bleeding stopped, though. Do you have a handkerchief?” Luke straightened to dig his own out of his back pocket.

Angie removed hers and gave it a shake. “It's a bit dusty, I'm afraid,” she said uncertainly.

“So is mine,” Luke acknowledged. “But they're both cleaner than the material touching him now. They'll do the trick until we get back to camp. We've got a first-aid kit there.”

Taking both handkerchiefs, Luke wadded them together and attempted to press them to the wound, but Saddlebags fought him off and fumbled around in his own pocket.

“Go' m' own,” he insisted weakly and dragged a dirty rag out of his pocket to show them.

“That thing is filthy . . .” Angie grabbed at the rag and engaged in a short tug-of-war with him before she succeeded in wresting it from his grasp.

During their brief tussle, Luke maneuvered the handkerchiefs in place. “Here.” He took Saddlebags's hand and pressed it against the spot. “If you want something to do, keep pressure on this to slow down the bleeding.”

Grunting with pain, Saddlebags nodded agreement. Luke sat back and released a heavy breath of satisfaction, then plopped his hands on his thighs.

“Now let's get him back to camp.”

“How will we do that?” Angie asked worriedly. “The horses are going lame. You pulled some of their shoes.”

“Not all of them,” he corrected, eyes twinkling. “Jackpot and Sandy are still wearing a full set. I didn't fancy the idea of walking all the way back to camp once I finally caught up with you. Tobe would tell you that no cowboy will walk if he can ride.”

“I'm sure he would.” Angie smiled in spite of herself. “But how could you be sure—”

“—that Saddlebags wouldn't take the two horses and keep going?” Luke finished the question for her. “I counted on his greed for the gold. He wouldn't have abandoned it. And two horses wouldn't have been able to carry it very far. And definitely not very fast.”

“Clever,” she murmured.

“I thought so.” He smiled crookedly, and gestured with a nod of his head. “Why don't you go get the horses and bring them over here?”

“All of them?”

“All of them,” Luke confirmed. “As long as we stay at a walk, the others can make it to camp without much trouble.”

 

 

It was late afternoon when they finally reached the canyon campsite, with Luke leading the way, riding double behind Saddlebags, one arm wrapped around the old man's middle to keep pressure on the wound. Angie brought up the rear, leading the three sore-footed horses.

Tobe trotted out to meet them, a bright angry light blazing in his eyes at the sight of Saddlebags. “You got 'im. I knew you would. Man, I wish I could've gone with you.”

“See to the horses,” Luke told him. “And get that gold unloaded.”

Griff took one look at the old man drooped over the horn, weak from the loss of blood, and said, “I was kinda hopin' you'd bring him back draped over the saddle.”

“Nope.” Luke reined in and swung out of the saddle. “Only creased him in the side.”

From his place by the smoldering campfire, Fargo harrumphed at the news. “Too bad.” He turned his head to the side and spat at the ground as Dulcie peeked from behind his legs, all round-eyed and scared.

“He's lost a lot of blood, though.” Angie dismounted and passed the reins to Tobe, then walked swiftly after Luke. “We'll need to get that wound disinfected and bandaged.”

Seeing Angie, Dulcie raced to meet her, careful to make a wide arc around Luke and the old man he carried. When she reached Angie's side, she seized her hand, clutching it tightly.

“I was worried about you, Angie,” she declared in a voice much too earnest to be ignored.

Angie paused and stroked a hand over the girl's flaxen hair. “And I was worried about you. But we're both all right now, and that's good.”

“Yes.” But Dulcie sounded none too certain about that. She darted an apprehensive glance at Saddlebags, then back at Angie. “Is he gonna die?”

“Not if I can help it,” Angie stated.

Dulcie looked again toward the old man. “He scares me.”

“I know. But he won't ever hurt you again,” Angie assured her. “I promise.”

“Tobe says they'll put him in prison and throw away the key. Will they?”

“They might.” But Angie knew what that would entail—lawyers, a trial, testimony, sentencing, appeals, publicity, reporters. She didn't look forward to any of it, certainly not in Dulcie's case. “Why don't you go help Tobe with the horses?”

Glad of a reason to have distance between herself and Saddlebags, Dulcie dashed off to join her brother. With a last glance after Dulcie, Angie turned and crossed to the bedroll where Luke had laid Saddlebags down.

Lying there, the old man looked small and frail, not in the least bit menacing. The first-aid kit sat open next to Luke. Angie looked on while Luke peeled back the layers of clothes and removed the blood-stained handkerchief compress, ignoring the weak protests Saddlebags made.

“I can do it m'self,” he insisted, interfering with pawing hands.

He sucked in a breath of pain when Luke washed out the wound with disinfectant. By the time the wound was clean, Tobe walked into camp lugging the first ingot with Dulcie right by his side. Griff followed them, carrying the second. As they left camp to fetch the rest, Luke applied ointment to the bullet wound, then a bandage, and wrapped it in place with an encircling gauze strip.

“Didn't you say something about your grandfather owning a gold pocket watch?” Luke asked without rising.

“Yes. Why?” Her interest heightened, Angie watched as Luke appeared to rearrange the layers of clothes, paying no attention when Tobe and Griff returned toting more of the outlaw gold.

“Because he's got one pinned inside his vest,” Luke announced and proceeded to unfasten it.

“Hey! What're you doin'?” Saddlebags clawed at Luke's hands, but he hadn't the strength to stop him.

“Take a look. Is this it?” He passed the watch to Angie.

She had only caught glimpses of its scratched and grimy surface while Luke was unpinning the watch from the vest. Now Angie held it in her hands with only a meager description from her grandmother to identify it—gold with a scrolly leaflike design around the outer edge and the initials
JW
inscribed in it but Angie couldn't remember where she was supposed to find them.

“Gimme that watch! It's mine, I tell ya. Mine!” In a frantic rage, Saddlebags hurled himself at her, hands grasping to seize it from her. Angie turned, using her body to shield the watch from his reach while she checked first the front then the back for the initials. Luke pulled him off of her and forced him back onto the bedroll. “Give it t' me, ya hear!” Saddlebags continued to struggle. “It's mine by rights.”

Deaf to his cries, Angie located the clasp and opened it to look inside the face cover. There, wedged in the circle, was an old black-and-white photograph taken in the late teens or early twenties of a young woman, her fashionably short hair styled in finger waves. Angie stared at it in shocked recognition.

“This picture—it's my grandmother.” She swung back to stare at Saddlebags. His hat had come off during his struggle with Luke. The pallor of his forehead and the crown of his head showed gray and stringy hair that the hat had plastered to his head, giving the illusion of a skull cap. “Where did you get this?” Angie demanded. “You took it from him, didn't you?”

She jerked the watch back when Saddlebags tried to grab it from her. Again Luke pulled him back.

“No, no, no,” Saddlebags raged helplessly. “Thieves! That's what ya are! Thieves! Stealin' from an ole man.”

“Where did you get this?” Angie repeated, refusing to give up until she received some answers. “Tell me where—” She broke off the question, her gaze drawn to a small dark patch on his forehead, centimeters from his receding hairline. Stunned, she leaned closer.

“It couldn't be,” she murmured in disbelief.

But there was no mistaking the small, bluish birthmark high on the right, almost hidden in his hairline—exactly as her grandmother had described.

“It's you. Blue Boy.” With her fingertips, Angie reached to touch it, but Saddlebags pulled away, an angry pain darkening his eyes.

“ ‘Blue Boy' ?” Luke frowned. “What're you talking about?”

“Blue Boy was the pet name my grandmother gave to her husband,” Angie explained, a new softness gathering in her eyes as she gazed at the old man. “The watch truly does belong to him. This is my grandfather.”

“This old geezer?” Fargo stood to one side, his voice riddled with skepticism. “I thought your grandpa was dead.”

“So did I.” A faint, surprised laugh slid from her throat with the realization of how very wrong she'd been. After a second's hesitation, Angie pressed the watch into his palm. Saddlebags immediately jerked his hand away, rejecting her touch. “This is why God wanted me to come here,” Angie murmured. “It was to find you. Not the gold.”

“I ain't yore grandpa,” Saddlebags snarled. “Never was an' never will be.”

Angie just smiled. “You can deny it all you want, but you can't change the truth.”

“I tell ya' I ain't yore grandpa!”

But Angie didn't believe him.

U
ltimately, her grandfather's story came out in bits and pieces. In the beginning, Angie did most of the talking, catching him up on information about the family and telling him about his wife Hannah, the life she'd made for herself, the home she'd had, the love she'd given and the love she'd never lost for her missing husband.

The thrust of Angie's words was always positive, never with a hint of reproach for his absence, knowing it was the way her grandmother would have wanted it.

When she finished, Saddlebags sat for a long time staring into space. “I al'ays figgered she'd marry again,” he said at last, indirectly confirming his identity for the first time.

“I don't think the thought ever crossed her mind,” Angie told him. “You were her husband. She never wanted any other.”

He nodded without looking up or making a comment.

“One thing puzzles me,” Fargo spoke when the silence began to stretch. “Who was that guy we found with your teeth?”

“Yeah, who was he?” Tobe chimed in, his chores finished some time ago, and the gold bars all neatly stacked near the fire circle.

Angie had a feeling she knew the answer to that, but waited to see if her grandfather would tell them. He sat on the bedroll, his back propped against a log.

In a grassy area under the trees, a horse snorted and stamped at a deerfly. There was a scuttle of leaves as a squirrel leaped to another tree branch. Then all was quiet again.

“Amos Aloysius Smith is who he was.” Saddlebags confirmed her suspicion. “Met up with him in the rail yard at Laramie. I'd decided I wasn't never gonna find that gold, an' I knew our first baby was gonna be born soon. I wanted t' be home for it. By then, I didn't have a dime t' my name. I figgered I'd ride the rails back t' Iowa. Everybody was doin' it then, not jus' no-good tramps.”

“That doesn't make any sense,” Tobe protested. “If you met up with him in Laramie, how'd his body end up on the Ten Bar?”

“When I got t' the yard an' found out I'd missed the eastbound by an hour, I was feelin' purty down—knowin' there wouldn't be another one 'til the next day. Amos he had a bottle an' he offered me a drink. Afore I knowed it, I'd told him about the gold, showed him the letter, explained about the code an' all—an' how it hadn't led me nowhere. Turned out he was a preacher's boy jus' like my grandpa Ike. He got all excited, said he knew where the gold was an' if I'd give him half, he'd show me. I wanted that gold. Givin' up half didn't sound like so much. So, back we come. Once I showed him the rock pillars in the valley, he figgered he didn't need me no more.”

“There was a fight,” Luke guessed.

Saddlebags pushed away from the log, eyes blazing with pain and the left-over fury. “He tried t' bash m' head in. I had t' fight back. We went at it purty good, too. Then he had me on the ground, tryin' t' choke me. I hit him. It didn't seem no harder than other times, but he went down an' didn't get up.”

He paused, remembering, the anger dissolving. “I let 'im lay there a while whilst I saw t' myself. My nose was broke, an' my jaw, pro'ly some ribs, too. My face was swoll up so bad I couldn't har'ly see.”

Unconsciously he ran his fingers over the bridge of his nose and onto his cheekbone, as if feeling the old injuries.

“It got t' botherin' me the way he jus' lay there not movin'. Somethin' tole me he was gonna die if he didn't get help.” Lifting his head, Saddlebags looked straight at Luke, but his thoughts were still in the past. “The Ten Bar was the closest place I knew t' get help for 'im. I got 'im as far as I could, but all the jostlin' of totin' 'im—” He sank back against the log, his head bowed in guilt. “He was dead, an' I as good as killed him.”

“But he tried to kill you first,” Tobe protested, voicing Angie's own thought.

Fargo snorted in agreement. “Sounds like a plain ole case of self-defense to me.”

“But there weren't no way for me t' prove it.” His brows knitted together in a way that told Angie her grandfather was still haunted by the choices he'd made all those years ago. Injured and scared himself, he'd obviously panicked.

“What if some judge sent me t' prison? I couldn't have the shame o' that fallin' on Hannah, not with a baby comin'.” Saddlebags hung his head again.

“So you decided to bury the body and conceal Smith's death.” Rising, Luke crossed to the fire and refilled his coffee cup from the never-empty pot.

“It wasn't hard. Good thing 'cause I wasn't in no shape t' do much diggin'. It'd rained a couple days a'-fore an' softened the ground up. I saw this big hollow under a cutbank an' dragged 'im there, then caved the bank in t' cover 'im up.”

“Wait a minute. What about the ring and your teeth?” Angie remembered. “Why did you want people to think you were buried there?”

He shot her a startled look. To him the answer was obvious. “'Cause I figgered if the body was found, it was better fer Hannah t' think I was dead than t' know I'd killed a man. Course, I got worried some about his teeth. I knew Hannah would figger out quick it weren't me when she found out about 'em. Pullin' his weren't hard. He didn't have no chewin' teeth an' most o' the rest of 'em got knocked loose in the fight. My own mouth was cut up so bad inside I couldn't stand havin' m' teeth in anyways. Afterwards”—he dragged in a long breath and let it out in a heavy sigh—“afterwards I hightailed it outta there. I didn't want nobody aroun' here seein' me beat-up like I was. They'd a known right off I was in a fight an' start wonderin' about the other guy. I went t' Casper. Nobody knowed me there. Right off I got throwed in jail fer bein' a vagrant,” he recalled with a scornful, snorting breath.

“Told 'em I was Amos Aloysius Smith an' showed 'em his wallet to prove it. Later they got a doctor in t' patch me up some. But nothin' healed right.” He rubbed a finger over his crooked nose. “Didn't look like m'self no more. An' with a beard, not even Hannah woulda guessed it was me.”

Privately Angie disagreed, convinced her grandmother would have recognized him, even with a beard and badly broken nose. But second-guessing his decisions was pointless.

“What happened after you were released from jail?” she asked instead.

His thin shoulders lifted in a vague shrug. “Bummed around fer a while, got work when I could, an' watched the papers fir any mention of a body bein' found here. Kept thinkin' about that gold, tho, an' finally figgered out what Smith'd seen in the letter. But I was leery a comin' back to look fer it. People mighta got suspicious—two people comin' to look fer that outlaw gold, one right behind the other—specially if that body'd been found. I waited better'n two years 'fore I figgered it was safe. Then I was careful to fight shy of any that'd knowed me 'fore. Figgered it was safest t' keep t' m'self.” He stared into the middle distance, seeing into the past. “Found this canyon straight off. An' the eagle on the rock, too. But no gold. Dug down six feet without findin' it.”

“But you kept looking for it—all this time. Why?” That was what Angie didn't understand.

“'Cause I knowed it was out there somewhere laughin' at me, that's why,” he flared with sudden impatience, but it quickly subsided into a vague grumble. “'Sides, I kept thinkin' that if'n I had that gold, somehow I could make things right. So I kept on lookin'. Then it got too late t' make things right,” he acknowledged. “An' I was too old. What else was I gonna do? Where else was I gonna go?”

Angie wondered if he saw the irony. All those years ago, he had feared being convicted of killing Amos Aloysius Smith and sent to prison. In the end, he had sentenced himself; this canyonland had become his prison and the gold, his warden. It was sad. Too sad to discuss.

Crossing to the fire, she picked up the speckled enamel pot and walked over to him. “Would you like some coffee, Grandpa?”

His glance darted to her face, wary and uncertain. “Makes me feel funny t' hear ya call me that,” he admitted, then thoughtfully studied the deep red color of her hair, his expression losing some of its stony hardness. “Ya got Hannah's hair. An' her freckles, too.”

“The sun brings them out,” she acknowledged and poured coffee into his cup, keeping a finger on the pot's lid.

“Did with Hannah, too,” he recalled, falling silent with the memory.

After refilling her own cup and setting the pot near the fire again, Angie returned to her seat on the log near him. Dulcie stole up behind her and whispered close to her ear, “Is he really your grandpa?”

“He really is.” Angie nodded.

Dulcie snuck another look at the bearded and grimy old man, then whispered doubtfully, “Are you glad about that?”

“Very glad. I've missed not having a grandfather. Now I have one.” Automatically Angie reached over and laid a hand on his shoulder.

Through the cloth of his coat sleeve, Angie felt the tensing of his body in instinctive resistance and withdrew her hand, aware that it would take time for her grandfather to become comfortable with physical contact. He'd lived too much of his life without it.

“He scares me.” Dulcie shrank back to avoid looking at the old man.

“I know.” Smiling gently, Angie smoothed the flyaway wisps of Dulcie's pale hair, tucking them into her ponytail band.

Saddlebags, nee Hank Wilson, caught their exchange. “I wouldn't a hurt her.”

“You sure acted like you would,” Tobe retorted, some of the anger returning to his voice.

“I had t'. It was the only way t' git that gold. All these years alookin', I couldn't let it git away from me,” he insisted with a ghost of that previously fierce need to possess it. Then he paused and added, “But I wouldn't a hurt the child.”

“I believe you,” Angie said, even though she had been convinced otherwise at the time.

“It's the truth.” His glance strayed to the muted gleam of the cross-stacked bullion by the campfire. “I guess it's kinda fittin' that you was the one t' figger out where it was hidden. Kinda keeps it in the family.”

“I guess it does,” she agreed idly.

“Funny,” he murmured. “I always thought I'd be happy once I got my hands on that gold. Figgered I'd be a-jumpin' in the air, hootin' an' a-hollerin'. Now . . . I don't seem t' care. It don't make sense.”

“I think it does. After all, it's just gold,” Angie said. “It can only buy you things that will make you laugh or keep you warm. It can't love you or hold you or make you feel good inside.”

“Guess I throwed all that away,” he murmured and glanced around, looking lost. “What'll I do now?”

“I'd like it if you went home to Iowa with me,” Angie told him. “Wouldn't you like to finally meet your daughter?”

He shook his head. “She ain't gonna' care about a father she never saw afore.”

“Maybe not at first,” Angie agreed, knowing her mother. “But she'll come around in time. You'll see.”

“Maybe.” Doubt lingered in his voice.

“Believe me,” Angie promised gently, “she may not welcome her prodigal father with open arms the way she should. But you will hurt her much more if you don't come back.”

He mulled that over, then nodded. “Not goin' would be wrong, I 'xpect. Sure ain't nothin' to hold me here no more.”

“One thing's fer sure, Saddlebags,” Fargo declared. “All this gold means you can get yourself some fancy duds an' go home in style. Do any of you know how much money's sittin' there?” he challenged. “Why, it must total up to three or four million.”

A low whistle of surprise came from Tobe. “That much?” he murmured in awe.

“Easy,” Fargo stated emphatically.

Griff shook his head in amazement. “Out of my share, I'd have enough to buy three or four restaurants . . . if I wanted them.”

“I don't think so, Griff,” Angie said.

“Are you kidding? Twenty percent of four million—”

She cut in, “It won't be four million. Or even three.”

“What are you talkin' about?” Fargo demanded with a frown. “Why not?”

“Because it isn't ours. This bullion is the property of the United States Government,” she explained. “It has to be returned.”

Luke's soft chuckle was wry with amusement. “I should have known,” he murmured, smiling at her with admiration and approval.

“Known what?” Tobe looked at him in confusion.

“Angie told me she had plans for the gold when she found it,” Luke replied. “I should have guessed she intended to make restitution.”

“It's what my great-great-grandfather, Ike Wilson, ultimately wanted—for it to be returned to its rightful owner. It's taken longer than he thought,” she admitted. “But it's finally being accomplished.”

“You mean—we aren't gonna get anything?” Tobe stared at her, stunned and deflated.

Angie shrugged and smiled. “With any luck, the offer of a reward still stands. It probably won't be enough to buy you a ranch, but you might be able to lease some land and buy a few cows to at least get you started.”

“What about my house?” Dulcie asked, all sad-eyed. “Won't I get it?”

“I—” Angie began hesitantly.

Luke broke in, “You'll get your house, Dulcie. As soon as I get my own place built, you and Tobe can have the trailer to yourselves.”

Fargo's mouth dropped open. When he closed it, he nearly choked on the wad of tobacco. “You're gonna build?”