“There’s a milk cow out back,” Uriah Tweedy said as he came back into the bedroom after scouting outside. “Babies drink milk, don’t they?”
“I reckon,” Shawn said. “I seem to recollect that they live on milk.”
“Then go out there and fill a bucket,” Tweedy boomed.
“Hell, I don’t know how to milk a damned cow,” Shawn argued, worry making him testy.
“You’re a puncher, ain’t you?” Tweedy growled.
“A puncher punches beeves, not milk cows.”
“Well, we need milk. Somebody’s got to do it afore that screaming younker drives us all crazy.”
“Then you go fill a bucket.”
“I hunt bears. What do I know about milk?” Tweedy scowled, the baby’s shrieks scrambling his brains. “What variety of kid is that anyhow?”
“I don’t know,” Shawn snapped back at Tweedy.
“Then take a look, damn it.”
“You take a look. I don’t know a thing about babies.”
“You can tell a girl baby from a boy baby, can’t you?” Tweedy taunted.
“So can you.”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen. She’s a little girl and she badly needs . . . um . . . a change of garments,” Lowth interrupted the argument.
“You do it,” Shawn and Tweedy said in unison.
“Do either of you know anything about caring for an infant?” Lowth asked as he scouted around the bedroom, the screaming child in his left arm.
“I’ve seen my sister-in-law do it and it’s damned complicated,” Shawn said, his irritation growing. “You have to be trained for that kind of thing.”
“Well, some milk would be a start.” Lowth held up a stack of white cloths. “Look!”
“What’s them?” Tweedy frowned. “Some kind of loincloths?”
Lowth smiled. “It’s what you tie around the baby to catch . . . well, whatever it catches.”
“Damn it, Thaddeus, you’re married,” Shawn said. “Haven’t you ever had a baby before?”
“Oh dear no, Mr. O’Brien. Mrs. Lowth doesn’t believe in them. Messy little creatures, she always says.”
“Hell, it can’t be that complicated,” Tweedy said. “We prop the kid up somewhere and pour milk down her. The milk goes in one end and comes out the other. What’s so all-fired difficult about that?”
“Thaddeus, you clean the kid good,” Shawn instructed. Then, his face became grim, like a man about to face a firing squad, and he muttered, “I’ll go milk the cow. Is there a bucket out there?”
“No, but there’s a water jug in the kitchen,” Lowth said. “I think that will hold enough for a baby.”
“Then we’ve got to get back on Moss’s trail,” Shawn said. “We can’t miss the train.”
“What about the kid?” Tweedy asked apprehensively.
“We’ll take her with us,” Shawn answered. “We can’t leave her here to starve.”
Tweedy groaned. “I knew it. Now we’re all gonna die.”
“I filled the jug,” Shawn said. “Milking is not so bad when you get the hang of it.”
“How do we feed it to her?” Tweedy grumbled.
“The fastest way possible,” Shawn said. “Maybe then she’ll quit her caterwauling.”
“Prop her up, Mr. Lowth. Get her to open her mouth an’ I’ll pour that jug o’ milk into her.” Obviously, Tweedy had no idea how to feed a baby.
“I found this, Mr. Tweedy.” Lowth held up a small ceramic dish that looked like a gravy boat with a spout at one end. “I believe we put the milk in here and feed it to her.”
“Looks like you may be right, Thaddeus. But do it fast.” Shawn held his hands over his ears.
Lowth did as he was told. As soon as he put the spout to the baby’s lips, she drank greedily and a blessed silence descended on the cabin.
“A baby gettin’ wet-nursed by a hangman.” Tweedy shook his head in disbelief. “I never in all my born days seen the like.”
“Mr. O’Brien,” Lowth whispered, “look around the kitchen and see if you can find ajar with a lid. We’ll need to carry milk with us, and this feeding thing. And we’ll also need a warm blanket and a sack to tote the loincloths.”
“Damn it. Does a baby need all that stuff?” Shawn questioned.
“I’m afraid so.” Lowth nodded his head.
“And we’ll need a woman’s dress and a hat,” Tweedy added to the list.
“What the hell for?” Shawn muttered.
“To get you on the train without attracting Zeb Moss’s lead,” Tweedy answered.
“Tweedy, am I thinking what you’re thinking?”
“There’s no other way. It has to be done.”
“Well, I ain’t doing it,” Shawn declared. “No way am I dressing up like a woman.
Tweedy smiled. “Young feller, don’t be such a caterwauling baby.”
Thaddeus Lowth held the baby in his arms when they took to the trail again and Shawn led the hangman’s packhorse.
Uriah Tweedy scouted ahead, but he had no doubt Albuquerque was Zeb Moss’s destination.
By the time they reached the Sandia Mountains the wagon tracks were so fresh Shawn and Lowth slowed to a walk. They kept pace but were careful not to dog Moss’s back trail too closely.
Tweedy returned and drew rein beside Shawn and glanced up at the sky. “If’n the snow holds off, I reckon we’ll reach the city by nightfall.”
Shawn nodded. “I reckon.”
“You’ll change into your woman’s fixins afore we ride into town, Mrs. Lowth,” Tweedy looked like a mischievous leprechaun from the pages of one of Shawn’s childhood books. “I found a black veil in the cabin that will cover your face. I mean, I’ve seen women with mustaches before, but nary a one with a dead mouse hanging under her nose.”
Shawn grimaced. “Enjoying this, aren’t you, Tweedy?”
“Hell boy, ol’ Zeb doesn’t know me or Mr. Lowth on sight, but he’d sure as hell recognize you, so you’re the one’s got to wear the dress. Oh, an’ you’ll carry the baby. Make you look real harmless, like, bein’ sickly Mrs. Lowth an’ all.”
Shawn glared at the old bear hunter, blue ice in his eyes. “Tweedy, when this is all over, remind me to put a bullet in your belly.”
Tweedy thought this uproariously funny. He slapped his buckskinned thigh and roared, “Damn it, Mrs. Lowth, maybe you ain’t as harmless as I figured.”
“Don’t listen to him, Mr. O’Brien,” Lowth put in. “I’m quite sure you’ll make a charming wife.”
He said it to be kind, but all he managed to do was add fuel to the fires of rage already smoldering in Shawn’s belly.