Too Soon to Die

Denny stood on the platform at the rear of the car, watching the rolling, grassy hills as they swept past. Folks called it Big Sky Country, and she could see why. The arching blue vault of the heavens seemed enormous.

The slight rocking of the train as it traveled along the rails didn’t bother her. Not only had she ridden on many trains before, she had also made a number of voyages by ship, crossing between Europe and America, and had never had any trouble getting her sea legs. Compared to Louis, who spent most of his time on board hanging over the railing, the trips had been downright pleasant for her.

She had her own car for that part of the journey, and that bothered her. When the train had reached Chicago, she’d found that her father had wired ahead and made arrangements for the private car. Smoke never flaunted his wealth, but he had a number of lucrative investments, including a considerable amount of stock in the railroad. The men who ran it were glad to do him a favor, and Denny hadn’t seen a gracious way of refusing, even though it didn’t seem fair.

Cal and the other hands from the Sugarloaf weren’t traveling in luxury like that, but they were comfortable in a converted freight car with a dozen bunks and several tables in it. It was the next car back from Denny’s car, and most of them were in there, playing poker, mending harness, darning socks, and swapping lies. In other words, the same sort of things they would be doing if they were in the bunkhouse back on the ranch.

Steve Markham emerged from that car onto its front platform, which was only a few steps from the rear platform of the private car where Denny stood. He rested his hands on the railing, grinned out at the passing landscape, and called across the gap to her, “Mighty pretty country, ain’t it?”

“It is,” Denny agreed, “but no prettier than Colorado.”

“Oh, I reckon it’s prettier right now.”

“How do you figure that?” she asked.

“You’re here.”

Denny smiled and shook her head. She should have known he would say something like that, she told herself. He seemed to be a born flatterer. She told herself she didn’t like it, but she wasn’t so sure about that.

Markham had kept his distance for the most part, and she was glad of that. It made things simpler, less complicated. They had worked together taking care of the horses at times, but someone else had always been around. Cal hadn’t had to go out of his way to chaperone them, which he’d said he wasn’t going to do anyway.

They had also toiled side by side while they were moving the horses from one set of stock cars to another in Chicago. Markham had been all business, not even speaking to her unless it had to do with the job at hand.

She wouldn’t have minded seeing some of the sights in Chicago if they hadn’t had to leave almost right away on the other train. She and Louis had been to the Windy City a number of times, but they were always just changing trains and passing through. She hoped her brother had enjoyed visiting the city with Melanie before they went on farther east.

Without being invited, Markham stepped from one platform to the other, his long legs making it easy for him to cross the gap. Once he was on the rear platform of Denny’s car, he stood at the railing beside her. “We’ll be pullin’ into Stirrup soon, I reckon. That’s the name of the settlement where we get off the train, ain’t it?”

“That’s right. Then it’ll take us three or four days to drive the horses the rest of the way to the Circle C.”

“Three or four days of bein’ out in the open air, in pretty country like this, with a beautiful gal like you for company . . . I’m sure lookin’ forward to that.”

Denny frowned slightly as she said, “Steve, you’ve been behaving so far—”

“I’m still behavin’,” he protested. “I didn’t grab you and plant a big ol’ smooch on you, did I? And that’s what I wanted to do when I seen you standin’ there lookin’ like that, with your hair blowin’ in in the wind—”

“Getting cinders in it, you mean?” she interrupted, laughing.

“Well, that’s part of travelin’ by train, I reckon. I don’t mind sayin’, I’m happier on horseback.”

“To tell the truth, so am I.”

A companionable quiet settled over the platform, broken only by the clatter of the rails and the chuffing and rumbling of the locomotive up at the front of the train. Denny enjoyed just standing there with Markham at her side.

“I can imagine what this country was like when herds of buffalo covered these hills and the only folks around were the Injuns,” he murmured after a while. “Lonely but beautiful.”

“More than likely,”

Denny agreed. The train swept into a long, gentle curve, and from where they stood, they could see a wide, shallow valley opening up before them. She spotted some roofs in the distance, as well as a church steeple, and pointed them out to Markham. “That’ll be Stirrup. We’ll be there in just a little while.”

“Are you excited to go on a drive like this?” he asked.

She nodded. “Honestly, I am. It’s like the buffalo you mentioned. Times are changing and the old ways are vanishing, and it’s nice to be able to experience them and bid them a proper farewell.”

“Sounds like poetry. Did you learn how to talk like that in Europe?”

“Not hardly.” She waved a hand at the landscape. “It’s this country that brings it out. This big, big country . . .”

* * *

A short time later, the train rolled into Stirrup and pulled onto a siding. The locomotive slowed to a stop when the stock cars were in position to be cut loose and unloaded.

Denny had already gathered her gear. She didn’t have much. She slung her war bag over her shoulder and swung down from the platform to join the other hands heading back along the rails to the waiting cars.

They unloaded their saddle mounts first and got them ready to ride. Then some of the men led the horses Bob Coburn was buying down the ramps and turned them over to mounted hands, Denny among them, who hazed them into what was normally a large cattle pen. It was too late in the day to start the drive to the Circle C, so the stock would remain there overnight and head north in the morning.

A rawboned cowboy with a drooping salt-and-pepper mustache rode up to the pen while that was going on and announced, “I’m lookin’ for Calvin Woods.”

Cal heard him, motioned Denny over, then reined his horse around. “I’m Woods. What can I do for you?”

“Haskell Sherman,” the puncher introduced himself. He leaned over in the saddle to shake hands with Cal. “Call me Hack. I ride for the Circle C. The boss sent me in to wait for you fellas and ride along to the ranch with you. He figured you wouldn’t have no trouble findin’ the way, but he said I could be sort of a Justin Case.”

“Glad to have you along, Hack.” Cal introduced her as well. “This is Miss Denise Jensen.”

Sherman pinched the brim of his dusty old black hat. “Pleasure to meet you, miss. Hope you know I don’t mean no offense when I say it was a plumb disappointment to find out your pa couldn’t make the trip. I was lookin’ forward to shakin’ hands with the famous Smoke Jensen.”

She pulled the leather glove off her right hand and stuck it out. “I hope you’re not too bothered by it, Hack. Call me Denny.”

He grinned and shook with her. “No, I wouldn’t say I’m a bit bothered,” he drawled. “If you don’t think I’m bein’ too bold, you’re a whole heap easier on the eyes than this bunch of hairy-legged cowboys. And speakin’ of cowboys”—he turned back to Cal—“you know Mr. Coburn would’ve been happy to send a crew down here to pick up those hosses. You fellas didn’t have to make the trip all the way out to the ranch. The boss said it was Mr. Jensen’s idea, though, so he was willin’ to play along with it.”

“It’ll be good for these boys,” Cal said as he nodded toward the hands working with the horses. “Some of them have never driven stock more than a few miles to town. They don’t know what it was like to set out across hundreds of miles of rugged country, pushing wild longhorns to the railhead.” He chuckled. “To tell you the truth, I was born too late for that particular memory myself.”

“I wasn’t,” said Hack Sherman. “I came up the trail from Texas more than once, mostly as a wrangler. I wasn’t much more ’n a button then. Glad I had the experience, but I’d just as soon not eat dust for a couple o’ months ever again!”

Cal and Sherman discussed getting the men from the Sugarloaf some rooms for the night in Stirrup’s lone hotel. Mostly cattle buyers stayed there, and it wasn’t a busy season for them, so Sherman didn’t expect it to be a problem.

“Why don’t you come along with us?” he suggested to Denny as he turned his horse. “If John Pearsol, the fella who runs the place, needs any convincing, I reckon having Smoke Jensen’s daughter with us might make a difference.”

“I was helping with the horses—” Denny began.

“The unloading is nearly done, and the boys can handle the rest of it without any trouble,” said Cal.

Denny shrugged and nudged her horse into motion. She and Cal and Hack Sherman rode along Stirrup’s main street toward the hotel, leaving the Sugarloaf hands to finish up the job behind them.

* * *

Steve Markham was sitting easy in the saddle with his hands resting on the horn, taking a momentary break from the work, when an irascible voice said from behind him, “I’m lookin’ for Calvin Woods.”

Markham turned his head and gazed over his shoulder. A bow-legged little man on the far side of middle age but not quite old yet was standing there with a telegraph envelope in his hand. He wore town clothes and was probably the local Western Union agent.

“You got a wire for Cal, mister?”

“That’s right. Where’ll I find him?”

Markham glanced along the street. Denny and Cal were just pulling up in front of the hotel, along with that fella from the Circle C. Another glance told him that none of the other Sugarloaf hands were close by, and they were all concentrating on the job of getting the horses in the pen, not paying attention to him. When he was sure of that, he gave in to the sudden impulse that had sprung to life inside him and reached a hand down to the little telegrapher.

“I’m Calvin Woods,” he said.

“Why the hell didn’t you say so to start with?”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you, mister. Now, I’ll take that wire.”

Grumbling, the telegrapher handed it over, turned, and stumped away on his bowed legs. Markham let him get a little distance, then tore open the envelope and slid out the yellow telegraph flimsy inside.

The look that appeared on his face as he read the words printed on the paper in block capitals was only there for a second, but anyone who caught a glimpse of it probably would feel a twinge of unease.

Because at that moment, Steve Markham looked like he wanted to kill somebody.