Black Wind Pass Read online

  Eileen Brown and Carrick had been rough and tumble friends as kids. She was the only girl on the range who not only relished rock fights with the boys, she often won them. She and Colt had been together when he left for the war. Carrick had had a fool notion about her at one time, but his long-time friend thought the world revolved around her and that meant nothing went very far in that direction for Carrick. She was smiling as she came from the house, followed by a boy and two girls. She wore a simple brown dress; her chestnut hair was loose. She was thin, Carrick thought. Thin and too pale, like she never got out as much as a woman on the range should have. Back beyond the cabin, he noted, two other men with rifles were watching.

  “Carrick?” She stopped and studied him. “Rory! God, it is good to see you. It is so good to see a friendly face on this range for once. We thought you were dead. I’m sorry about your family.” She wrapped her bony arms around him, felt bones underneath the worn trail clothing, and wondered what had kept Carrick away so long. Even at a glance, it was easy to see that the wild exuberant boy who rode the range as though every moment of life needed to be lived to the fullest had been replaced by a man who saw and heard everything around him with a caution that could only have been learned through experience. She knew that the hard way.

  “Hello, Eileen. Nice kids. Hope they behave better than a pack of kids I used to know who roamed this place a long time back.”

  “ ’Course they do, Carrick. Their ma knows all the tricks,” she replied. “When did you get back? It’s been years since the war.”

  “Took a while to get here. There were some things that got in the way.” It was enough. He looked around. His friends had settled themselves with a family and a place to be. He was still a long way from feeling at home anywhere. Suddenly, he did not want to talk about the past any more. It brought that feeling he tried to keep down. The past was dead. Let it rest in peace. The range around his was a contentious, angry sea. He promised Reb and her aunt he’d make things right. Time to forget what was and figure out what came next.

  He turned to his old friend. “Colt? You act like you got suspicions any company coming down your trail isn’t friendly. And I hear range talk that maybe things go on out in these here woods that the law wouldn’t smile at. Maybe you can set me straight. Lot of changes took place since I left and I don’t understand it all.”

  Colton Ramsay explained that after a bad bout of fever, and some Indians who took advantage of the war to raid farther south than usual, the valley ranches all shriveled to bare bones. Oliver and Jones arrived at about the same time, and had been rivals from the start. Oliver had fought for the South, and Jones, the North. Jones wanted an empire from the beginning; Oliver started wanting more land to spite Jones. When the Carrick family died off, Jessie Lewis kept the ranch limping along in the war, riding the range herself with her kid niece. They had kept the same brands, being too poor for much that was new. Other ranchers helped some, in admiration of their spirit. When the war ended, the Lewis women were starting to get the old Bar C to rights as a working ranch when Lazy F and Double J began their duel and started encroaching on the old Bar C lands. The women were not tough enough, in Colt’s eyes, to fight back hard. They gave ground, tried to stave off a showdown, and in the end the other ranches nibbled away until the once-sprawling Bar C was down to its home range and nothing more.

  Carrick touched his old friend’s arm and steered him over by the fire for some words beyond the earshot of Ramsay’s children. He kept his voice low.

  “And when did you start shadin’ the law?”

  Ramsay’s face had a wry look on it. “Law’s funny, Carrick. Range law out here became what men like Jones and Oliver say it is. Dan Hill over in Lincoln Springs is Jones’s man. He was a drunk until they put a star on him. Jones says it’s the law, Hill agrees. This was my family’s land. You know that. Not much, but ours. Anything goes through it, it’s mine. Horses, cows, anything. You know that what other people can’t hold becomes somebody else’s. Way it’s always been. When the railroad men came, they didn’t care about anything more than getting what they needed. So if timber came from Double J, or steaks from Lazy F, they didn’t care. Me and the railroad, we got what you might call a business deal. They want it, I get it. Lincoln Springs store sells things for a lot of money. I sell them for less. No questions. New Winchester cost you twice in that town what I sell it for, but I don’t exactly advertise. Riders find me. Maybe we live on the edges, Carrick, but it’s more honest than tryin’ to squeeze them women off their land.”

  Carrick frowned. Behind the smokescreen of words that didn’t really add up to anything, his friend had all but admitted being a thief. That wasn’t kids being kids; that was real trouble. He thought about saying something, decided against it. Ramsay was old enough to know how to live his life without Carrick’s help.

  “Oliver keeps pesterin’ Jessie Lewis to sell,” Carrick said, both wanting to change the subject and get some questions answered in his own mind. “I understand Double J. Jackson Jones wants to rule the world. Oliver seems like he’s got enough land for him. Asked Randy and he said Oliver’s getting near what his range can hold. Man’s making money. What’s his game?”

  Colton Ramsay laughed so hard the whiskey he was drinking sprayed all over him. The liquor fanned the flames of the fire for a brief flaring moment and illuminated his crafty face. “For one, as soon as Jones gets Bar C, he’ll be right next to Lazy F and that will push Lazy F off the range like it never existed. So, Oliver knows once Bar C goes, he’s as good as gone. It gets real personal, too, Carrick. Oliver would do anything to stop Jackson Jones from getting what Jones wants. He ain’t had much luck in that department to date, you might say.” He kept laughing.

  “Gonna share the joke, Colt?”

  “Remember Lucinda Callahan?”

  It was a face he could never forget. He had almost at one time thought about staying behind from the war for that face, even though it was very clear that her family had plans for their daughter that went above marrying a boy like him. It was like a fever. He had it briefly. Then it passed and he was cured.

  “She’s Lucinda Jones now. She married Jackson Jones. The man made her father his ranch manager until old man Callahan died. One version of the trouble between Jones and Oliver is that she picked Jones over Oliver even though Oliver did everything he could to win her, and Oliver never forgave them. None of them are people you can ask about that, so it could be nothing more than smoke. Jones has a temper you don’t want to set fire to. Oliver never told the truth a day in his life. Lucy acts like she’s the Queen of Wyoming, now, and doesn’t speak to folks who knew her when she had patches on her one and only dress. What drives Oliver? No idea, Carrick. It could be personal. He may think he can out-smart everyone and scheme his way ahead of Jones. He’s a shrewd man; be careful. With Jones, you see it coming. With Oliver, you don’t.”

  Jessie Lewis eyed Carrick critically as he returned to the old Bar C’s ranch house. With her arms folded and her right foot tapping out impatience, she was waiting in front of the door, with something clearly on her mind. It had never dawned on him to stop by the ranch first thing. Until he saw the firm set of her jaw.

  She barely let him dismount. “Mr. Carrick, after yesterday’s adventure with my niece, it is time to get some things clear around here,” she said authoritatively. “Do you know if you are going to stay with us, or go your own way here, or simply ride on?”

  “You are direct, ma’am.”

  “My niece’s influence. That is not an answer. I deserve an answer. Reb deserves an answer. I do not approve of windy promises made to her if there is nothing to back them up.”

  Carrick tried to frame the words.

  “I am waiting,” she said.

  “Got nowhere to go, Jessie. Land kind of seeps into your bones. Not quite sure why, but I figger I’ll be around a while. Got myself knee-deep in all this already so I might as well go in all the way, don’t you think? Why?”

>   “I like things settled.” Her posture and tone eased. “I thought you were staying from what Reb told me, but I wanted to be clear. I know all this must confuse you, but the ranch needs attention and if you plan to help, I needed to know because there are things we need you to do. By the way, if you are going to work for us for nothing, the least we can do is buy you some decent clothing. The rags you are wearing should be burned. Go into Lincoln Springs and get what you need. We have an account at Godfrey’s store. You are not obligated to pay for provisions.”

  “From my non-existent wages?”

  “If you have been wanting more coffee, Mr. Carrick, you must speak up and ask. It is not my fault if I don’t know your needs!” a grin of mischief played across Jessie’s face. Jessie Lewis sure must have been a fire-breather in her day, Carrick thought. Then he reflected: She was still one now.

  Reb appeared at her Aunt Jess’s side. She saw the smirks on two faces. “What did I miss?”

  “Mr. Carrick has decided he’s staying, Reb, and that he will be working for us on wages that amount to coffee and beans.”

  “Aunt Jess, does that mean he’s going to do real work one of these days instead of riding around and eating us out of house and home? And if he’s a hand, then isn’t it one of us—like maybe me—that gives him his orders?” A vaguely evil smile danced briefly on her lips, then vanished, replaced by the poker face he was beginning to know well.

  “I said I promised, Reb.” Eyes met eyes. She looked away first.

  The flustered young woman told them abruptly dinner was cooked and led the way inside. Jessie Lewis went last, smiling. She had noticed that Carrick looked for Rebecca every time he entered the house or barn—or even outside. Reb was doing the same. Jess was aware that neither of them knew she was watching them watch each other. She wondered a moment whether what was going to come would end well or badly, but she decided that whatever emerged, it was part of a plan in which she, like all the rest, were only players. She did find herself humming. That hadn’t happened in a while. One man alone would not stop Lazy F and Double J, but she had a feeling that at last she had found a hand who would not run when either ranch, or both, tried to push her and Reb off their land. It was a start.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Lincoln Springs, Wyoming, enjoyed an unsteady existence. It was a quiet place tending to a few needs of local ranchers when Dave Jackson built his first store and named the place Jackson’s Springs. It all but dried up during the Civil War years. Reconstruction brought a new name and new settlers. Fire destroyed the building where the post office had been. The old store and saloon were joined by a stable and a few other buildings. A hotel was built that had eight rooms. There was endless talk of bigger and better, better and bigger. The telegraph line was supposed to be connecting Lincoln Springs with the world around it, or so the town’s residents were told. After that, the railroad might come and all of the things that lingered in the bright, indefinite dreams of frontier families might come true.

  As Wyoming grew more ranches, when boys from the war started coming home and new men with big dreams came west, a few farms took the land nearest the hills while others took land around the town itself, where the water flowed all year except in the worst of droughts. Other folks drifted and stayed. Some small ranches raised stock, a few horses. Indians roamed from the west now and again. Every so often, a few wild young men disturbed the peace, but that was as often true with whites as it was Cheyenne. The days of the big raids were over, or so it seemed. To the north, the Sioux were giving the army fits, but along the southern towns of Wyoming, Indian wars were a thing of the past, or so the army insisted. That meant towns started sinking roots. Some had churches; some, schools. All had saloons. Lincoln Springs had hired itself a sheriff to keep the cowboys in line.

  Despite the pretensions of those who gathered in town meetings to talk of a future that would be something more, the present was gritty and often harsh. To Carrick, Lincoln Springs was as dirty and dusty as any other frontier town he had seen. Someone had compared frontier towns to seeds that would sprout given sufficient time and enough water; they looked more to him like scars than seeds.

  Jed Owens at the stable remembered him.

  “How are the Lewis ladies?” he asked.

  “Not giving an inch,” Carrick replied.

  Hughes looked quickly both ways to see if anyone was listening. “Bully for them,” he said. “They’ve got grit.”

  Hughes would not take any money. Carrick wondered if the town was giving charity to the Lewis women out of respect for an underdog or plain Western defiance of anyone who seemed too powerful.

  Charity ended at Willard Godfrey’s dry goods store.

  “I deeply respect the ladies for their efforts, but they no longer have credit at this store,” said Godfrey, a skinny man who wore a vest, a gartered long-sleeve white shirt, and wiped his hands time after time on the black pants he wore. His thinning red hair was plastered over the bald spot that dominated his white skull. In a place where almost everyone looked as though they lived outdoors, the whiteness and softness of his skin gave him almost a prison pallor. His prominent nose and small eyes gave the appearance of shrewdness; the yellowed bad teeth gave a sickly cast to the false and fleeting smiles with which he peppered his speech to Carrick.

  “You tell the ladies that?” asked Carrick lazily.

  “I have not yet done so. It is very busy here. On their next trip to town we will discuss this. I am certain of that.”

  “You cut off their credit because they didn’t pay?”

  “Oh, no! No! I never said that.”

  “Then why?”

  “Well, um, I, um, with all of this, um, uncertainty, um, all of this talk about the anticipated failure of the ranch, of course, you know, I could not afford, if things turned for the worse as I hear is expected . . .”

  “Somebody told you to do it.”

  “No! No. I never said that.”

  “Crowleys maybe? Before I killed them the other day?”

  “That was you who did that? I value Double J as a customer, sir, and . . .”

  The bell over the door announced the arrival of other customers. Audibly exhaling his relief, Godfrey turned away from an encounter he obviously found unpleasant and a discussion he was clearly losing.

  Jackson Jones strode through, with the former Lucinda Callahan on his arm. She had been beautiful ten years ago. Now, she was regal. Wearing a royal blue dress with endless folds of expensive looking fabric bedecked with ribbons and white lace at the cuffs and throat like some Eastern lady’s fashionable outfit, her auburn hair was tucked up under a blue hat precariously perched atop her head. There was neither mud nor dust upon her, as though the elements most common to Wyoming were banned from such a grand personage. Her eyes were bold, green, and direct. Her skin was pale the way ladies who were supposedly proper kept it. She was tall for a woman, standing almost eye to eye with Carrick, which left her still half a head shorter than her husband. She was busy barely acknowledging the near-bow from Godfrey when Carrick spoke.

  “Luce.” He nodded.

  Suspicious eyes moved from Godfrey to Carrick. She clearly did not know him. For a moment, a look of annoyance passed across her face. Her nose went up and her eyes looked down at him.

  “Mr. Carrick,” rumbled Jones, giving Carrick a look of suspicion that matched hers. “You are acquainted with my wife?”

  “Carrick?” she asked, eyes wide, the mask she was wearing shattered by surprise. “Rory Carrick? Are you really alive after all this time? Heard you were dead or living in the East. Is it really you?”

  He took a step towards her. After all around the fall of 1860 when the fever he was certain was love was burning in him, they had been about as close as two ranch kids could get while still being proper. He saw the panic emerge in her eyes as they took inventory of the grime on his jacket and the crusted dirt on his pants. He stopped.

  “Mrs. Jones,” he said, taking off his hat. He turn
ed to her husband. “Valley this size only had so many girls when I was a kid,” he explained. “Everybody knew everybody. Luce and I were friends as kids—long, long time ago. Guess you found yourself the pick of the litter for a bride.”

  “I believe she understood, as I hope you will understand at some time to come, that the future is best when one partners with a winner, Mr. Carrick.” Jones was not wearing one of the silly fancy suits men wore when they came into town. He had on range clothes, but they were clean and looked like they were made from much better cloth than anything Carrick had ever worn. “As I have said, there is in nature as well as in the affairs of men an established and preordained order in which those who are the best able to survive must do so. In nature this is to weed out the unfit. In society, it is to discourage from business and industry those who should not seek to waste resources. The rewards of success should only belong to those who deserve it, not those to whom some accident has bestowed riches beyond what they may deserve. Your emotions may cloud your judgment, Carrick, but there is no doubt that I can do much more for this range by uniting all of the ranches as the Double J than anyone else can do by fumbling and stumbling and surviving by nothing more than the nearest blind good fortune.”

  As Carrick looked at Jackson and Lucinda Jones looking down upon him, his temper flared. “Guess you ordered your man here to shut off the women’s credit, Jones, so they couldn’t buy anything. Man who goes straight up at the world wouldn’t do that. Would you? Or do you talk one way and live another?”

  The reaction was not what Carrick expected. “What is this?” Jackson Jones roared at Godfrey, stepping forward and pounding his open palm on a shelf, spilling the bolts of cloth that had been neatly piled upon it.

  “Gordon Crowley, Mr. Jones, came to me and told me that they were not getting any more credit. You didn’t want them to get it.” Godfrey was scurrying to pick up what had been dropped. “That’s what he said, Mr. Jones, so that’s what I did, Mr. Jones. Double J is my best customer.”