Although it was nearly spring, the early March wind was cold and raw as it swept down from the mountains.
Standing on the edge of the cabin porch, Dylan Quade lifted his head and sniffed the air. Damm, he thought with a frown, it’s going to rain. He hoped he could make it to the trading post before the downpour arrived.
It had been a good winter for trapping, and he had many fine pelts to sell. He didn’t want to arrive at the post with the furs soaking wet. But he felt he had them well-wrapped in oilskin and need not worry about their condition when he reached the post.
A crooked grin stirred his lips. He was more than ready to get off the mountain and spend the summer months in the lowlands. He would thaw out there and tend to his herd again. Round up the wild mustangs. And how pleasant it would be to feel the soft, warm body of a woman again after all these months.
He hadn’t had a woman since he rode up the mountains last fall to set out his traps. “Almost six months with no one but you for company, Shadow,” he muttered to his dog. He dragged a comb through the thick black hair that hung to his shoulders, then shook his head. That was quite a dry spell for a man in his early thirties.
But all that was about to change, he thought, and picking up the straight-edged razor lying beside a shaving mug of lather, he began scraping away a winter’s growth of beard. When he had finished, he felt his face, nodded his satisfaction, then tossed the pan of soapy water and stubble over the edge of the porch. When he had wiped the pan dry with the towel he had dried his face on, he entered the kitchen to prepare his breakfast.
He took a heavy frying skillet off the wall and placed it on the small cast-iron stove. When he had laid his last two strips of salt pork in the pan, he set about peeling the three potatoes left in his larder. Half an hour later Dylan had finished eating and had washed the dishes he’d used.
He went into his bedroom and began sorting through his clothes, deciding which to take down the mountain and which to leave behind. He laid to one side several pairs of denim pants, as well as shirts and underclothing. These articles would be worn on the range when driving the cattle out of the brush and gullies. The buckskins, such as those he wore now, would be mostly used in the rainy season. The fringe on the shirts and trousers drained the water off a man when he was caught out in the rain. Most folks didn’t know that.
After Dylan had shoved everything into a saddlebag, he checked his Colt. He would be traveling through some outlaw country as well as land inhabited by scattered bunches of renegade Indians. His gun must be in perfect working order. When he found it so, he hung it on the foot of the bed.
He next laid his hand to gathering up his trapping gear and carrying it to the sturdy little storage shed. There the traps would stay until the next freezing frost, when they would be set out again. Slamming the door shut, he clicked the heavy lock in place. The lock was there mainly to keep out the Sutter clan. It was claimed that the Sutter men would steal anything they could get their hands on. By and large, they were a lazy bunch; it was mostly the women who provided the food for their tables.
That task finished, Dylan went back to the cabin. It was time he started putting together those supplies he would take with him to his ranch five miles out of Jackson Hole. He wouldn’t need to take much—just a few days’ supply of grub, small cloth bags of flour, coffee, and sugar. He didn’t want to ride to town right away for supplies. When he first returned to the Bar X, what he most liked to do was to ride over the range, checking how the cattle had fared over the winter. He was always anxious to see how many new calves had been dropped.
He only had a couple hundred head of cattle, but they were special. They were Brahmas crossbred with longhorns. Their offspring would carry more meat than ordinary cattle and would consequently bring more money.
But separate from his prize herd, Dylan also had thirty head of longhorns. These he kept out of affection for the dying breed. Some of the old mossyhorns weighed close to thirteen, fourteen hundred pounds, and they were as mean as the devil himself. They were always ready to take out after a man if they caught him on foot.
As Dylan walked back to the cabin, he thought it strange how he was always drawn between two worlds. When the autumn wind blew from the mountains, cool and bracing, a longing for the wilderness descended on him. Then the sun of the lowlands seemed to shine too hot on his head, and as soon as the cottonwood and aspen leaves began to fall, he headed for the high country, where nobody but eagles and mountain sheep went. His grandfather had always said that he was like an Indian, that he had a love for the wild and lonely. He half suspected that was true.
But then again, every year around this time, when the leaves began to bud out on the trees and the grass started to green up a bit, he heard the silent call of the valley coaxing him from his high lonesome, hinting that he should find a wife, start a family.
Dylan shook his head with a wry smile. What woman in her right mind would want to live the way he did, caught between two very different worlds? It was a good thing he never wanted to get married.
Dylan had made up his bed and swept all the floors when he heard the distant rumble of thunder. His brow darkened. That rain was getting closer. He would never make it to the trading post without being drenched.
He was putting his shaving paraphernalia in the saddlebag when Shadow began barking. Dylan glanced out the window and saw an elderly man coming down the ridge behind his cabin. He recognized his uncle, and from the old man’s hunched posture he guessed that something bad had happened at the Quade place.
His old relative had no sooner climbed off his mule than he was crying out in his cracked voice, “My Homer’s dead, nephew! Shot down in cold blood comin’ home from church yesterday when he warn’t carryin’ no gun.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Uncle Silas.” Dylan turned his head so that the old man couldn’t see that he felt no sorrow to hear of his cousin’s death. If ever there was a mean bastard, it was his cousin Homer.
“I’m sorry I missed his funeral,” Dylan lied again. “I guess there was a big turnout for his wake.”
Silas frowned and looked off through the trees. His voice was gruff when he said, “Most all the folks had excuses why they couldn’t make it.” He paused, then added, “A lot of people didn’t like my Homer. They wuz jealous of him. You remember how good-lookin’ he wuz, what a good fighter he wuz.”
Yeah, like hell jealousy was what kept folks away, Dylan thought to himself. They didn’t come because they couldn’t stand the bastard. I doubt that I would have gone even if I’d known about it in time. The folks living on Tulane Ridge could now walk about the mountain in peace. The men and teenagers would no longer be badgered to fight with him.
And the women, single and married alike, would no longer have to fight off his advances. They would no longer have to keep silent about what Homer did when he found them out alone. They were aware that if they told their menfolk about the things he did to them, their male relatives would be forced to fight the big bully. And Homer Quade had never fought a fair fight in his life.
Yes, the womenfolk would sleep deeply tonight. They would no longer have to live in fear of Homer Quade.
Dylan’s lips tightened. With the exception of himself, he’d thought all the men living in the mountains were afraid of Homer. He wondered what had provoked Homer’s killer. It must have been something terrible for the man to shoot him down in cold blood. Mountain people didn’t tolerate that sort of killing. But the mean bastard must have deserved it.
While Silas dabbed at his teary eyes with a dirty rag, Dylan admitted to himself that he was doubly glad Homer was dead. He had known for a long time that some day Homer would go too far and he’d be forced to kill the man. That would start a feud the likes of which hadn’t been seen in the mountains for many years.
When Silas began to complain again, Dylan made himself listen to the old man’s grumbling.
“It wasn’t bad enough that my boy was struck down at such a young age,” Silas was complaining, “but he had tied a girl in wedlock only a couple hours before.”
For a long minute Dylan could only stare at his uncle in disbelief. What girl in her right mind would be foolish enough to marry Homer Quade? Every female for miles around knew what kind of beast he was.
Dylan was finally able to ask, “Who did Homer marry? Is it anyone I know?”
Silas nodded. “You know her. She’s Taig Sutter’s daughter. The white-haired one. You know, the one with the long legs.”
Dylan knew which girl the old man was talking of. Everybody whispered about Rachel Sutter. With the exception of having long legs, she didn’t look like her siblings. They resembled their father, dark-skinned, with hair as black as an Indian’s.
It was rumored that Rachel didn’t belong to Taig. It was whispered among the mountain people that she’d been sired by a schoolteacher who had taught in the mountains eighteen years ago. He had been seen often keeping company with Rachel’s mother. When school had let out for the summer, he had left, promising to be back by fall. He had never returned.
And to add to the people’s suspicions, Taig didn’t treat Rachel the way he did his other children. He never missed an opportunity to cuff the girl on the ears, or take a stick to her. Everyone felt sorry for Rachel and said it was wrong that she should be slapped, have her hair pulled, be made to work like a slave. It was not unusual for the girl to still be working in the fields while the rest of the family were sitting down to supper.
But no one interfered in Rachel’s treatment. It was a mountain law that everyone turned a blind eye to what went on in his neighbor’s home, so Rachel continued to lead a hellish life.
She was rarely seen at gatherings of the mountain folk. The girl always hung on the fringe of the family when company came to visit. She was very shy and tended to roam the mountains alone.
Dylan remembered with a hidden smile how Homer had come upon Rachel one day on the mountain and tried to have his way with her. The story was that she’d fought the bully off. She had a fighting spirit he hadn’t suspected. She’d grabbed up a heavy stick and hit him alongside his head. He had bled like a stuck pig. From then on, Homer had stayed clear of Rachel Sutter.
Come to think about it, so did the other males on Tulane Ridge. He recalled that he, himself, had been snubbed by her more than once.
A grim look came over Dylan’s face. There was only one reason Homer would marry the girl. For revenge. As her husband, he could get even with her for striking him that day. He could beat her when he pleased, and use her like she was a whore.
Did Rachel know how lucky she was that her husband had been shot dead on their wedding day? He felt sure that in her heart she was celebrating.
Dylan looked at Silas and said, “I’m surprised the girl would marry Homer after clobbering him on the head that day.”
“Oh, that warn’t nothin’.” Silas made a dismissive wave of his hand. “It just showed that the girl had spirit. Homer would have knocked that out of her if’n he’d had the time. Besides, her pa ordered her to marry Homer. I’m tellin’ you, there was quite a to-do up at their place that day.”
Silas shook his head. “There was Rachel acryin’ she didn’t want to marry Homer, and her ma tryin’ to make Taig stop hitting the girl with a stick. Ida ended up with two black eyes.”
Silas snorted a tittering laugh. “While everyone was catching their breath, Homer grabbed Rachel and flung her on his horse and hightailed it out of there.”
Dylan frowned at Silas. “I know that Preacher Robison has his faults, but I’m surprised he married them, what with Rachel claiming that she didn’t want anything to do with Homer.”
“That son of mine was a corker,” Silas guffawed. “He told Rachel that if she opened her mouth to the preacher, her ma would meet with an accident. It worked. The girl didn’t say nary a word except ‘I do.’”
Dylan crushed the desire to smash his fist into his uncle’s mouth. Instead, he asked, “Will the girl be going back to her folks, or will she stay with you and Aunt Edna?”
Silas shifted a chaw of tobbacco from the right side of his mouth to the left. He spat a mouthful of brown juice at a bee in the center of a flower, then, avoiding eye contact with Dylan, said, “Now, that’s a worrisome question, and part of the reason I’ve come down to see you.
“You see, Rachel’s pa won’t take her back. He claims that since she married Homer, she is now a Quade and it’s up to us to take her in. As you know, our shack is bustin’ at the seams what with my other three boys, their wives, and all the younguns. We just ain’t got the room for one more person.”
Silas paused and shifted his tobacco again before saying, “All us kinfolk had a meetin’ last night. You’re not goin’ to like this, Dylan, but we decided that you wuz the most likely one to take her in.”
He rushed on before Dylan could speak. “You’ve got that big place down in the valley. You got a passel of rooms and you got no wife to take care of them. Rachel is a hard worker and a good cook.” He gave a sly, cackling laugh. “You might even want to marry up with her some day.”
“Now, just a damn minute!” Dylan burst out when his shock faded enough to allow him to speak. “I’m not having anything to do with that Sutter outfit on Tulane Ridge. They’re shiftless and no-account and no kin of mine. I’m not obligated to that girl in any way.”
“You’re kind of shirt-tail cousins,” Silas persisted. “Your pappy wuz a seventh cousin to Taig Sutter’s seventh cousin.”
“Man! If that’s not scraping the bottom of the barrel!” Dylan exploded. “You go back up the mountain and have another meeting with your kin and tell them that I won’t take the girl in. They’ll have to make other arrangements for her.”
Again Silas shifted his wad of tobacco and, as before, without looking at Dylan, muttered, “It’s too late to do that. Rachel is already on her way to Jackson Hole by coach. She’ll arrive there sometime this afternoon.”
While Dylan stared at him in disbelief, Silas climbed up on his mule. He hit the animal across the rump with a short switch that sent the mule galloping up the ridge.
“You old bastard!” Dylan called after him. “I’ll send her back up the mountain first thing in the morning.”
He watched the mule disappear up the mountain and sighed. He hated sending the girl back to a life of misery, but he couldn’t imagine her living with him. People would talk, and the first thing he knew, they’d have him marrying the girl. He might feel the urge to marry every spring, but it wouldn’t be to a Sutter woman. He had too much pride for that, he thought as he went back into the cabin.
Dylan took a last look around the cabin, then strapped on his Colt and stepped out onto the porch. As he closed the door behind him, he swore softly. A wall of rain was coming toward him. He had a wet trip ahead, all right. He picked up the large bundle of furs off the porch and whistled to Shadow. He’d have to put off his trip to the post. Instead he’d have to detour to the stagecoach office in Jackson Hole to meet Rachel Sutter.
As he walked toward the barn, a large drop of cold water fell from a tree and ran down his neck. With an impatient oath, he pulled the collar of his slicker up above his chin.