The Last Chance Ranch (12 page)

If Ben heard him, he gave no sign. Just kept kicking.

Sighing, Obie picked up a mug from the bar and dashed its contents in Ben's face. Ben started, whipping his head around in search of a new enemy to pummel, instead finding Obie's familiar face looking calmly back at him. “I said that's enough."

Ben blinked, the wildness leaving his face all at once. He looked down at the unmoving man at his feet, moaning and smelling of piss and blood, then around the saloon at his staring neighbors. When he came back around to Obie, he had a bewildered look on his face, like he'd just woken up from a bad dream. Obie took his shoulders and squeezed hard, wanting Ben to focus on him. “Come on. Let's go home."

Nodding, Ben made his way slowly to the door, weaving a little, like he was drunk. Obie watched him leave and then turned back to the others. “Snow's dead. Vargas bushwhacked him on the way to town.” Just saying the words made his throat feel like it was caught in a noose, but watching their faces, Obie knew there'd be no trouble. Everyone had liked Snow. More than one man present turned a grim eye in the captain's direction, and Obie thought he might not have to come back, after all.

Sam Barstow asked the question Obie hadn't yet considered. “Why'd he go after Snow?"

A sick feeling washed over Obie. He thought of the last time he'd seen Snow, well and smiling, driving the wagon away.

Wearing Ben's hat.

His fists clenched, he turned to the whimpering mass on the floor, ready to finish the job. A firm hand on his arm stopped him. He turned to see Percy, his eyes wide with shock, shaking his head in a silent plea. Obie choked back his rage and walked out.

He nearly didn't see his lover, clinging to the side of the big, black stallion in the dark. Obie paced slowly to his side. He ran a hand up the man's heaving back, breaking their unspoken no-touching-in-town rule. To his surprise, Ben spun around into his arms, sliding to his knees in the dirt and pressing his face hard against Obie's flat stomach. Ben's arms went around his waist so tight Obie could barely breathe. Obie returned the embrace, pulling his lover as close as he possibly could, one hand cupping his head, the other wrapped around his shaking shoulders. Every other thought in his head abruptly fell quiet as Obie considered that he was very likely the only thing keeping Ben from flying into a million pieces.

He, Obie Watson, who up until a year ago had never been trusted with anything more important than the care of an old pocket watch, was now responsible for the well-being of another human being. And not just any man, but Ben Johnson. That most controlled and steady of men, when he reached his limit, turned to Obie to hold him together. And that was just damn terrifying.

Ignoring the voice in his head urging him to
run, run, run,
Obie held on tight while his lover sobbed silently against his belly. “I've got you,” he whispered, stroking the short hair beneath his hand. “Go on, it's all right. I won't let go."

It took a long time for Obie to fall asleep that night. After falling apart so briefly in town, Ben shut down completely. He was still lying there, stiff as a corpse, staring sightlessly into the dark, when Obie finally dropped off.

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The hands moved slowly around the bunkhouse, casting furtive looks at Snow's empty bunk. Temper sat cross-legged on his bed, holding his Bible and praying. His blood-stained pants were hung over a fence outside. Likely a coyote would drag them away by morning. Temper wouldn't mind.

Larry and Porter were silent, the one sunk in misery, the other in simmering rage. Miguel had been playing mournful, wordless songs on his guitar, and it was working Dex into a temper. “Swear to God, if you don't quit plucking on that thing, I'll wrap it around your goddamned neck!"

Miguel spat a short Spanish insult at him and kept on playing.

"I've had just about enough of your kind!” Dex snarled.

The music stopped. “My kind?” Miguel's voice was soft and dangerous.

"Mexicans,” Dex spat. “It was one of your kind that killed Snow. Least you can do is let him rest in peace."

"Vargas was none of mine. I hope the boss killed him, and he burns in hell for all eternity. Snow is in heaven now, and he deserves to be. I will play this guitar to honor him, and not you or nobody is going to stop me.” Miguel resumed his dirge. Dex swore a blue streak and slammed out of the barn. Billy sighed and followed him out.

Temper paid them no mind. Grief was a strange thing, striking men in different ways. For some, anger was easier to deal with than sorrow. He glanced at Larry, looking for some sign that he needed company, but the young man seemed caught up in his own thoughts. Temper slid the Bible under his pillow and crawled into his bunk, waiting patiently for the others to settle and put out the lamp. He didn't know if any were actually sleeping, but the room finally went dark and quiet. He wasn't planning on getting much sleep himself, the events of the day still much too clear and new in his head, but after a while, he drifted off.

Sometime in the night he awoke with the feeling that someone was watching him. He knew Larry was nearby, having become accustomed to the feel and smell of him. Silently, he lifted the edge of his blanket. The younger man climbed in. Temper wrapped his arms around him, pulling the lean, warm body up close against his own. Little huffs of breath blew against his chest, and a few hot, silent tears soaked into his nightshirt. Temper held him until his breathing evened out in sleep. A while later, after Dex and Billy had crept back inside smelling like sex, he wondered what the others would think in the morning, finding them in the same bed like this. He found he didn't really care.

Obie woke up alone when the sun was barely up, his eyes feeling like he'd ridden through a sandstorm. He dressed and wandered into the hall. Juanita, red-eyed and silent, pressed a tin mug of coffee into his hand and vanished back into the kitchen.

Lonnie was sitting on the porch swing with his own cup. His shirttails were untucked and his suspenders hung loose around his thick thighs. He was unshaven, and his expressive face was tired and bleak. He motioned with his cup, and Obie turned, registering the sound he'd been hearing since he stepped outside. Ben was in the cemetery, shirtless and up to his knees in a hole, digging mechanically. “He won't let me help,” Lonnie said. “Guess he wants to do it by himself. Wanted to build the coffin, too, but Temper promised to do a good job. Said he'd do right by old Snow.” The big man's voice caught, and he cleared his throat and took a long drink.

Obie sighed and watched his lover for a while, grim-faced and sweating at his task. He decided not to interrupt him and headed for the barn instead.

He pushed the door wide and left it open to allow the weak morning light to filter in. Obie's throat tightened at the sight of Temper, carefully filing a rough edge off the pine coffin set up on sawhorses in the work area. It finally hit him, right then and there, that he'd never again walk into the barn or the bunkhouse,
anywhere
, and see Snow's familiar, white head and smiling face.

Temper had looked up briefly at his entrance but returned to his work. Obie trailed his fingers over the wood, noting the seamless joints and sturdy construction. “It's nice,” he said, the words rasping in his throat. “That's a good job."

Nodding, Temper laid the plane aside. “Give me a hand.” Together, they lifted the coffin into the back of the wagon. Obie noted with a sick sense of relief that all traces of the blood had been washed away. While they were loading it up, Percy's old mare plodded up the road to the ranch. The preacher was sitting arrow-straight in the saddle, clutching the reins in thin, liver-spotted hands. He pulled the horse up as he approached the barn. Obie went to meet him.

"Morning, Father. What brings you out here?"

"I've come to lay Snow to rest,” Percy said, sliding carefully from the saddle. Obie took his reins and handed the mare off to Temper for care.

"I don't know that he was a believer,” Obie admitted.

"Nobody's perfect."

Obie managed a smile. He guessed that Percy would never quit surprising him. “Perce,” he ventured as they walked toward the house, “is he dead?"

"He wasn't this morning when I checked in. Some of the boys from the lumber mill dragged him off to the doctor last night. Andy seems to think he'll live."

"That's too bad."

Percy stopped him with a hand on his arm. “You did right, stopping him when you did."

"I'm not so sure about that. Bastard deserves to die for what he did."

"Perhaps.” Percy rocked back on his heels and lifted his eyes to the sky. “Believe me, son. I know what it's like to feel that righteous anger. But vengeance is the province of the Lord, and it's up to Him to punish wrongdoers."

Obie made a face. “Too bad he don't always come through with the punishin'. I seen plenty of fellas do wrong and skip off free as a bird."

"In this life, maybe. But God judges all in due time."

"You really believe that?"

"I have to, Obediah. Sometimes it's the only thing that gets me through the day.” They resumed walking. “Speaking of justice, I had a conversation with the sheriff. He wanted to ride out with me this morning."

"Not today, Percy. I truly don't know what would happen, but it wouldn't be pretty."

"I thought as much, so I talked him out of it. He agreed to wait a day, but if Ben doesn't come into town to see him tomorrow, he'll be coming out."

"That fat son of a bitch. He's gonna pick now to do his job? He sure didn't give a damn about the law when that bastard shot Ben."

"I understand, truly,” Percy soothed, patting Obie's arm. “But that's for tomorrow. Today we say goodbye to our friend."

Obie didn't hear much of Percy's sermon. He stood at Ben's side in a numb state as words and sounds drifted past him. He heard the horses whickering and the men sniffling, he heard Rosie ask her mother if
Tio
Snow was really in that box, and why were they putting him in the ground? But the preacher's words were a low buzz in the background. Mostly, Obie was aware of Ben standing next to him, feet planted, eyes fixed on some point on the horizon. Obie reached out discreetly and brushed his hand against his lover's. It was like touching stone.

When the grave had been filled in and Percy was on his way back to town, Ben ordered all the hands to wait for him in the bunkhouse. Obie followed him into the house and found him in the bedroom, kneeling in front of the big chest under the window. Ben kept it locked, and Obie had never seen what was kept inside. Now the blankets and clothes that were usually heaped on top of it had been carelessly dumped on the floor.

Obie dropped to his knees beside his lover, planted a kiss on that stubbled jaw, and tried not to worry when Ben didn't seem to notice. “Whatcha doin'?"

"Something I never thought I'd do,” came the gruff reply. Ben pushed back the lid on the chest and pulled back a faded green quilt. Obie felt his heart speed up at what lay underneath.

"Where'd they come from?” Nestled among old clothes in the bottom of the chest were pistols of varying quality and caliber, some still in their holsters.

"I never allowed guns on this ranch, ‘cept for rifles. Boys turn these in when they take work here. Pick ‘em up when they leave. These are from the fellas that either didn't leave, or gave up the gun when they did."

Obie was drawn to a set of pistols much finer than any of the others. Gleaming black, with dark walnut grips, they rested in fancy leather holsters attached to an equally fine leather gun belt. It was hard to believe anyone had willingly given them up.

"Can you shoot, Obie?"

"Some. Not much of a shot,” the reformed gambler admitted. “Generally I rely on my mouth and my feet."

Ben almost managed a smile, but it quickly faded. “You'll get better,” he said, spreading the quilt out on the floor. One after another, he laid the guns on the fabric, adding cloth bags that clinked when he put them down. Obie watched, a pain growing in the core of his stomach. His anxiety grew as they walked together to the bunkhouse.

The men were sitting quietly, the pall of the graveyard having followed them indoors. Obie tried to judge how they were taking Snow's death, but most of them were damned hard to read, even for an old poker player. Temper was sitting on Larry's bunk, talking to him in a low voice with a hand on his arm. Everyone looked up when they came in, their faces tight and closed as though waiting for another blow.

Ben regarded them for a moment, then strode over to Snow's neatly made bunk and dropped his burden. The hands gathered around without a word. “From now on, nobody goes anywhere unarmed. That goes for here and in town. I know I can count on you all not to be foolish with these damned things, but I expect you all to protect yourselves and each other. I'll set up some lessons for those of you that need ‘em.

"I don't want anyone going anywhere alone, neither. Every time you fellas ride out, at least one man is to have a rifle loaded and ready.” Ben looked around the circle, making eye contact with each man in turn. “There's worse things around here than coyotes. We found that out the hard way. Next time... next time, we won't be such easy pickin's."

Obie watched their faces as Ben laid down the law. Mostly he saw tightening jaws and hard swallows and felt a general sense of determination from the hands.
Snow is gone,
they seemed to say.
Let him be the last one.
The one exception was Porter, who regarded his boss with hooded eyes and walked out of the bunkhouse. Ben didn't look surprised. He gathered up the gun belt with the fancy pistols and followed him out. Obie wasn't sure if he was welcome, but trailed behind out of sheer curiosity.

Porter was leaning against the fence, the lines of his back tense and uninviting. Ben approached casually, leaning next to him, while Obie hung back and watched. For a long moment, neither of them said a thing. When Porter spoke, he did so without moving at all.