CHAPTER 2
The next day, late in the afternoon, Hunter had a strange sense of foreboding as he rode into the Arapaho Creek headquarters.
He stopped his horse just inside the wooden portal in the overhead crossbar of which the Arapaho Creek brand—A/C—had been burned. He curvetted his fine grullo stallion, Nasty Pete, and took a quick study of the place.
The house sat off to the right and just ahead of him—a large, two-and-a-half story stone-and-log affair. A large, fieldstone hearth ran up the lodge’s near wall shaded by a large, dusty cottonwood, its leaves flashing silver in the breeze blowing in from the bastion of the Rocky Mountain Front Range rising in the west. A couple of log barns and a stable as well as a windmill and blacksmith shop sat ahead on Hunter’s left, beyond a large corral.
The wooden blades of the windmill creaked in the wind, and that hot, dry, vagrant breeze kicked up finely churned dirt and horse apples in the yard just ahead of him; they made a mini, short-lived tornado out of them. The breeze brought to Hunter’s nostrils the pungent tang of sage and horse manure.
Likely impressive at one time, the place hard a time-worn look. Brush grew up around the house and most of the outbuildings. Rusted tin wash tubs hung from nails in the front wall of the bunkhouse. Also, there were few men working around the headquarters. Hunter spotted only four. Only one was actually working. A big, burly man in a leather apron, likely the blacksmith, was greasing the axle of a dilapidated supply wagon, the A/C brand painted on both sides badly faded.
One man sat on the corral fence to Hunter’s left, rolling a sharpened matchstick from one corner of his mouth to the other with a desultory air. Two others sat outside the bunkhouse between the stable and the windmill, straddling a bench and playing two-handed poker.
Of course, most of the hands could be out on the range, tending the herds, but Hunter had spied few cattle after he, Annabelle, and the ten horses they would sell here, had ridden onto Navajo Creek graze roughly twenty miles north of Denver, near a little town called Javelina. The graze itself was sparse. It was a motley looking country under a broad, blue bowl of sky from which the sun hammered down relentlessly.
It was all bunch grass and sage, a few cedars here and there peppering low, chalky buttes and meandering, dry arroyos. It was, indeed, a big, broad, open country with damn few trees, the First Front of the Rocky Mountains cropping up in the west, some of the highest peaks showing the ermine of the previous winter’s snow. This dry, dun brown country lay in grim contrast to those high, formidable ridges that bespoke deep, lush pine forests and roaring creeks and rivers.
What also appeared odd was that three of the four men Hunter could see appeared old. Late fifties to mid-sixties. Only the man sitting with his boot heels hooked over a corral slat to Hunter’s left appeared under forty. He regarded Hunter blandly from beneath the weathered, funneled bridge of his once-cream Stetson that was now, after enduring much sun, wind, rain, and hail of this harsh country—a washed-out yellow.
The man slid his gaze from Hunter to the main house and said, tonelessly, “Looks like the hosses are here, boss.”
Hunter followed the man’s gaze toward where an old man with thin gray, curly hair and a long, gray tangle of beard stood on the house’s front porch. He had to be somewhere in his late-sixties—hard-earned years, judging by the man’s slump and general air of fragility.
He appeared to be carrying a great weight and was damned weary of it. He wore wash-worn, broadcloth trousers, a thin cream longhandle top, and suspenders. He squinted at Hunter, his bony features long and drawn. He looked as though he might have just woken from a nap.
“Hunter Buchanon?” the man called raspily.
“Rufus Scanlon?” Hunter countered.
The man dipped his chin, his long beard brushing his flat, bony chest.
“We have the horses up on the ridge,” Hunter said, hooking a thumb to indicate the low, pine-peppered ridge behind him. “I rode down to see if you were ready for ’em.”
He glanced into the corral where only three horses stood still as stone save switching their tails at flies, hang-headed, regarding the newcomer dubiously.
The man beckoned broadly with a thin arm; his lips spread an eager smile, giving sudden life to the otherwise lifeless tangle of beard. “Bring ’em on down!”
Hunter glanced around the yard once more. He was selling his prized horses for two hundred apiece. He had a hard time reconciling such a price with such a humble looking headquarters. He hoped he and Anna hadn’t ridden all this way for nothing.
“All right, then,” he said.
He neck-reined Nasty Pete around and galloped back out through the portal. He followed the trail across Navajo Creek and up to the crest of the ridge where Anna was holding the horses in scattered pines. They stood spread out, calmly grazing, Anna sitting her calico mare, Ruthie, among them.
When they’d stopped here on the ridge, Bobby Lee had disappeared. Likely sensing they’d come to the end of the trail, the coyote had lit out on a rabbit or gopher hunt. Seeing Hunter, Anna booted the mare over to him, frowning incredulously beneath the brim of her dark green Stetson, its horsehair thong drawn up securely beneath her chin. The Rocky Mountain sun glinted fetchingly in her deep red hair.
“What is it?” she asked, the mare nuzzling Nasty Pete with teasing affection.
“What’s what?”
“I know that look. What’s wrong?”
Hunter shrugged and leaned forward against his saddle horn. “Not sure. Humble place, the Navajo Creek. Doesn’t look like the kind of outfit that can afford these hosses. I told Scanlon in my letter that this was a cash deal only. That’s two thousand dollars. Just a might skeptical that old man down there has two thousand dollars laying around, lonely an’ in need of a home.” The big ex-Confederate gave his wife a pointed look. “I’ll guaran-damn-tee you, though, I’m not goin’ home without the cash he agreed to pay or without the horses he agreed to buy if he can’t buy ’em!”
“You should’ve had him put cash down.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve never had to do that before.”
“That’s because you’ve always known the men you were selling to.”
Hunter sighed and raked a thumb through a two-day growth of blond beard stubble. “I gotta admit I ain’t the shrewdest businessman.”
“No, you’re not. You’re a simple, honest ex-rebel from Georgia.” Anna sidled Ruthie up next to Nasty Pete, thumbed Hunter’s hat up on his forehead, and kissed him. “And that’s why this Yankee girl loves you. Not sure I could’ve fallen in love with a shrewd businessman. My father was one of those.”
Hunter smiled.
Annabelle frowned with sudden concern. “You don’t think he might try to take them from us, do you? The horses.”
Hunter shook his head. “Doesn’t seem the type. Besides, not enough men around, and those who are, all but one, don’t look like they could raise a hogleg. Nah, he’s probably one of those tight Yankees who let his place go to pot because he was too cheap to hire the men to keep it up. He probably has a mattress stuffed with money somewhere in that old house. He’s likely ready to spend some of that cash on horses, maybe try to build up his own remuda. Hope so, anyways.” Hunter glanced around, again seeing no sign of a herd. “Looks like he might be out of the cattle business.”
Anna straightened in her saddle. “Let’s go see. With any luck, we’ll be in Javelina by sundown, flush as railroad magnates and sitting down to a big surrounding of steak and beans!”
“Mrs. Buchanon, you are indeed a lady after my own heart.”
“Oh, I think you’ve known for a while now that you have that, dear heart.” Anna narrowed an eye at him and hooked her mouth in a crooked smile, jade eyes shimmering in the late afternoon light. “Lock, stock, and barrel!” She started to rein her calico around, saying, “Let’s go drive these broom-tails down to—”
Hunter touched her arm. “Hold on.”
She turned back to him, frowning. “What is it?”
“Whatever happens down there.” He gave her a commanding look and jerked his chin to indicate the humble headquarters at the base of the ridge. “Don’t go off half-cocked like you did last night.”
“Oh, I went off fully cocked last night, dear heart.”
“Anna!”
But she’d already reined away from him and was working Ruthie around to the far side of the herd.
Hunter stared after her, shaking his head in frustration. But wasn’t it his own damn fault—letting himself tumble for a fiery Yankee girl, a redhead spawned and reared by the equally stubborn and warrior-like Yankee Black Hills Rancher, Graham Ludlow, who’d become Hunter’s blood enemy when the man had tried to keep his prized daughter from marrying into the Confederate Buchanon family?
In fact, the two families had nearly destroyed each other in the feud that had followed.
But after the smoke and dust had cleared, Hunter had found himself with the prize he’d lost two brothers, and nearly his father, old Angus, in winning. Annabelle’s father had been ruined, his ranch, nearly reduced to ashes, now defunct. Hunter had to admit, as he watched Anna now, expertly working the mustangs, that she’d been worth it.
If anything had, she had . . .
He chuckled wryly. “You romantic fool, Buchanon.”
He rode out and joined his young wife in gathering the herd and hazing them on down the trail, across the creek, and into the Navajo Creek headquarters, where the man who’d been sitting on the corral fence stood holding the gate wide. When Hunter and Anna had all the horses inside the corral, obscured by a heavy cloud of roiling, sunlit dust, Rufus Scanlon strode over from the main lodge, grinning again inside the tangle of beard.
He wore a corduroy jacket over his underwear top—a concession to having guests, especially one of the female variety, Hunter silently opined—and rested his bony arms on the top corral slat, inspecting his new remuda.
“Nice, nice,” he said, blinking against the dust. “Say that brown and white pinto looks to have some Spanish blood. Look at the fire in his eyes!”
Hunter and Anna sat their horses behind him.
“Most of these do,” Hunter said, surveying the fine-looking remuda, all ten stallions stomping around, skirmishing, nosing the air, getting the lay of the new land. A lineback dun tried to mount a steel-dust with a long, black snout and black tail and nearly got into a fight for his trouble. Others gazed off into the distance, wild-eyed, wanting to be free once more. “Some very old bloodlines in this string. Old Spanish an’ Injun blood. You’ll have some good breeders here, Mister Scanlon. Get you a coupla fine mares, an’ you’ll have one hell of a remuda.”
“Were they hard to break?”
“Oh, they’re not broke,” Hunter said with a dry chuckle. “Do they look broke to you? Nah, their spirits are intact. But you try to throw a saddle on any of the ten, an’ they’ll give you no trouble. Now, when you try to mount . . .”
“That’s when you’ll have trouble,” Anna cut in. “They’ll test any one of your riders”—she grinned beautifully, gazing at the herd fondly and with a sadness at the thought of parting with them—“just to make sure they’re man enough.”
“Or woman enough?”
Hunter turned to see a young woman striding over from the main house—a well setup brunette in a white blouse and long, black wool skirt and riding boots. She took long, lunging strides, chin in the air, a glowing smile on her classically beautifully face.
Her hair hung messily down about her shoulders, blowing back in the wind, strands catching at the corners of her mouth. She was olive-skinned, likely betraying some Spanish blood of her own, and there was a wild clarity and untethered delight in her eyes as brown as a mountain stream late in the day—as late as the day was getting now, in fact.
“Or, yeah,” Anna said uncertainly, cutting a territorial glance at Hunter whom she’d no doubt spied eyeing the newcomer with keen male interest, “woman enough. Even gentled, they’ll throw you for sure if they sense you’re afraid of them.” She glanced at Scanlon who stood packing a pipe he’d produced from the breast pocket of his worn corduroy jacket. “Who’s this, Mr. Scanlon? The lady of the house?”
Scanlon merely chuckled as though at a private joke, eyes slitted, as he fired a match to life on his thumbnail and touched the flame to the pipe bowl.
“Lucinda Scanlon,” said the young lady, somewhere in her early twenties, Hunter judged while trying not to scrutinize her too closely, knowing he was under his wife’s watchful eye. She extended a hand to Anna. “The lady of the house and the whole damn range!” Chuckling, she added, “Pleased to meet you . . . Mrs. Buchanon, I assume?”
“Annabelle,” Anna said, returning the young lady’s shake, regarding her dubiously, as though a wildcat—tame or untamed, was yet to be determined—had so unexpectedly entered the conversation.
“Annabelle, of course,” said Lucinda Scanlon, casting Anna a broad, warm smile before turning to Hunter whom she also offered a firm handshake and welcoming smile. Her eyes were not only as brown as a mountain creek but as deep as any lake up high in the Rockies, Hunter found himself noting. “And you’re Mr. Buchanon.”
“Hunter.” He felt a sudden restriction in his throat at this sudden newcomer’s obvious charms and forthright, refined, open, and friendly manner. Appearing so suddenly out of nowhere here at this humble, going-to-seed headquarters, she was definitely a diamond in the rough. A bluebird in a flock of crows.
“Indeed, Hunter. I enjoyed your letters describing the remuda.”
“Well, uh,” Hunter said, hiking a shoulder in chagrin. “Anna helped me with it. I can ride all day, but I ain’t . . . haven’t . . . exactly perfected my sentences.” He chuckled self-consciously. “Letters but not always my sentences.”
Annabelle cut him a sharp look as though silently throwing a loop over his head and reining him in. He realized he’d removed his hat and quickly donned it.
Scanlon saw the interplay and laughed.