Chapter Thirty-one
When Lucien Bodine arrived in Chugwater his first thought was that it was no different from any of the other small towns he had been in over the last ten years. But as he rode north on Clay Street, he saw a town of industrious people. There were a couple of freight wagons moving in the street, half a dozen buckboards, and that many more on horseback. Wooden plank sidewalks lined each side of the street and they, too, were filled with people, all of whom seemed to have some place to go.
As he rode past the sheriff’s office, he saw a man, wearing a badge, leaning against the post that supported the porch roof. He was smoking a cigar and greeting people who passed by. Bodine dipped his head slightly and looked away from the lawman as he passed. He had never been in Wyoming before, so he had no way of knowing whether or not the lawman would recognize him, but he thought it would be better not to take a chance.
He knew, from the newspaper article, that Chugwater was where his brother was killed, but the article had not identified the man who killed him. Bodine intended to find out that bit of information, though he wasn’t quite sure how he should go about it. If he started asking questions he might arouse a little more attention than he wanted.
Bodine was in no particular hurry. His brother was dead and would stay dead for as long as it took for Bodine to avenge him.
Bodine was tired, hungry, and thirsty from the long ride up. He still had most of the money he had taken when he robbed Garland’s Road Ranch, for the simple reason that there had been little opportunity for him to spend it. The Wild Hog Saloon seemed to call out to him, so he stopped in front, looped the reins around the hitching rack, and went inside.
“What’ll it be?” the bartender asked, making a swipe across the bar with a wet and smelly rag.
Bodine ordered, and was served, a beer.
“You got ’nything to eat here?” Bodine asked after taking his first swallow.
“Ham, beans, biscuits.”
“Bring it to me over at the table.”
“That’ll be two bits.”
Bodine slapped a quarter down, then took his beer to a table that he chose specifically so that his back would be in the corner, making it very difficult for anyone to approach him without being seen.
* * *
When Sid Shamrock stepped through the batwing doors of the Wild Hog Saloon, he saw an old familiar face. Lucien Bodine was sitting alone at a table in the back of the saloon. He was eating, and paying more attention to the food on his table than to anyone in the room.
For just a moment Shamrock considered going over to talk to him, but then he decided against it. Bodine was one of the most volatile men Shamrock had ever known, and if he happened to see the badge pinned to his shirt, Bodine could start shooting before Shamrock could explain its purpose.
Shamrock needed to avoid being seen by Bodine until he was able to figure out how best to handle the situation. Although he preferred spending his time in the Wild Hog Saloon, he decided that under the circumstances, and to avoid being seen by Bodine, it might be best for him to give Fiddler’s Green his business. He eased back out before Bodine looked up from his beans.
“Captain Harris,” Biff greeted when Shamrock stepped up to the Fiddler’s Green bar a few minutes later. “I must say that I’m surprised to see you here. I had been given to understand that the Wild Hog is your preferred watering hole.”
“It is, but there’s a feller in there right now that I would just as lief not see.”
“You and your . . . deputies . . . have been busy, I hear. Damming up the water sources for half a dozen ranches, and, how many herds have you taken?” Biff asked.
“It’s all legal,” Shamrock said. “It ain’t like we was stealin’ or nothin’.”
Shamrock ordered a beer, then glanced down at the other end of the bar where a couple of cowboys were in animated conversation.
“Well, it’s causin’ ever’ body a lot more work but Terrell is lettin’ his neighbors use his water so’s the cows don’t all die off,” one of the men said.
“So is Mr. Dakota over on Kensington Place,” another said.
“And don’t forget Duff MacCallister.”
“What kind of man is this feller Houser, anyhow? I mean, it takes one mean son of a bitch to come in here ’n start makin’ life bad for ever’ one. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if he warn’t the one that kilt Keegan, Kirk, ’n then burnt down Percy Gaines’s house.”
“Not him. Have you noticed that he don’t never even wear a gun? Hell, a real gun would more ’n likely scare ’im to death. ’N he don’t never ride a horse, neither. He just drives aroun’ in that surrey of his’n.”
“Yeah, well, if he didn’t do it his ownself, there ain’t no doubt in my mind but what he had some o’ them men that works for him do it.”
“Not Turley or Cooper, ’cause I know them two boys, ’n they’re pretty good men.”
“No, I don’t mean none o’ his cowboys. I know all of them, ’n they’re all pretty good men. I’m talkin’ about some o’ them deputies he’s got workin’ for ’im. You got to wonder, though, why it is that Turley ’n Cooper is still workin’ for Houser?”
“The way I figure it, they ain’t workin’ for Houser a-tall. Both them boys rode for the brand when ole Mr. Prescott owned the place, ’n I think they’re just still ridin’ for the brand.”
“Yeah, you may be right. But hey, we was talkin’ ’bout Gaines gettin’ his house burnt down a while ago. As it turns out, that could wind up bein’ ’bout the best thing that ever happened to Gaines.”
“What? Now, why would you say somethin’ like that? When is it ever a good thing if a man’s house burns down ’n he loses ever’thing?”
“I can say somethin’ like that, on account of he’s havin’ a new house bein’ built that’s a lot bigger ’n nicer ’n the old one ever was.”
“He’s got that kind of money? How is it that Gaines can afford a house like that?”
“Oh, he ain’t havin’ to pay for none of it. Most o’ the other ranchers has took up a collection ’n that’s what’s payin’ for it, though folks is sayin’ that it’s MacCallister hisself that’s payin’ for the most of it. ’N as for the work, well, all the hands that works for MacCallister is doin’ the actual buildin’ of it.”
“Why’s MacCallister takin’ such a interest in it?”
“I don’t know for sure, except that Gaines used to work for MacCallister, so prob’ly that’s why.”
Having heard enough, Shamrock drained the rest of his beer and set the empty mug down on the bar.
“Another one?” Biff asked Shamrock. There was no welcome in the tone of his voice.
“No, I gotta go.”
Leaving the saloon, Shamrock rode out to Percy Gaines’s ranch to see for himself what the two men in the saloon were talking about. He was surprised to see how far they had come, and equally surprised to see the kind of house that was being built. Unlike the earlier structure, which had been wood, the house going up now was of brick. There were at least nine people working on the house, some laying brick, some mixing mortar, others carrying bricks, while one was up on the new gables.
Steve Emerson, having seen Shamrock arrive, walked over toward him. Shamrock had not dismounted.
“Hello,” Emerson said. “Did you come to help?”
“No,” Shamrock replied bluntly. Jerking on the reins, he turned his horse around and left at a rapid trot.
“Who was that?” Percy asked.
“That was . . . Captain . . . Harris,” Emerson said, slurring the word Captain. “He’s the head of this bunch of no-account deputies I told you about.”
“I wonder what he wanted,” Percy mused.
“More ’n likely, the son of a bitch was out here spyin’ on us.”
“Spyin’ on us for what?”
“Who knows for what? Who knows anything about him or, for that matter, any of the rest of those deputies? You’ve done been told how they stoled Spivey’s ’n Chambers’s cows. ’N they shot ’n kilt Cecil Gibson.”
“And the sheriff didn’t do anything about it?”
“No, he didn’t do nothin’ about it. First of all, Harris ’n the others that shot ’im is deputies for the governor, ’n they was just carryin’ out orders in takin’ the herd. ’N in the second place, all the witnesses says that Gibson drawed first.”
* * *
Some distance away from the Gaines ranch, at Twin Peaks, Brad Houser sat behind his desk, drumming his fingers on the desktop as he contemplated the information Shamrock had just given him.
“His house is being rebuilt?” Houser asked.
“Yeah, they’s nine or ten people out there workin’ like beavers,” Shamrock said.
“Who are the people who are helping him? Where do they come from?”
“Most of ’em is from MacCallister’s ranch. But they’s a couple of the smaller ranchers that’s helpin’ ’im, too. I’ve seen Ethan Terrell out there, ’n his boy.”
“Terrell? Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t he providing water access to the ranchers who have been cut off from water by our recent acquisitions?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
The drumming of Houser’s fingers became even more pronounced. “This new house that is being built. You say MacCallister is behind it?”
“Oh yeah, he’s for sure behind it.” Shamrock smiled.
“I had no idea that our Scottish neighbor would wind up being as much of a fly in our ointment as he has been.”
“You want me to kill ’im?”
“No. MacCallister is a man who commands a great deal of respect, not only for the size of his ranch, but also because of the dominance of his personality. I fear that his untimely demise, at this time, could wind up causing more problems than getting him out of the way would solve.”
* * *
Back at the Gaines house, where everyone had put in a full day’s work, Ethan Terrell put down a hammer and looked toward the western sky. The sun had lost its heat and glare, but none of its brilliance as it was a glowing, orange globe, hanging just above the horizon. “Boys, it’s gettin’ a little late,” Ethan Terrell said. “I think the boy’s ma was going to fry some chicken for our supper, ’n if it gets cold before we get home, she’ll be some upset.”
“Ha, I know Lottie,” one of the others said. “And believe me, you don’t want her upset.”
“Come on, Poke, we gotta go.”
“All right, Pa,” Poke replied.
“What do you say, men, that we call it quits for the day?” Percy said. “I want to thank all of you for coming, and hope to see all of you tomorrow.”
“We’ll be here,” Terrell promised. “I’m anxious to see what this house is goin’ to look like when it’s finished. Why, I might even hire Byrd to design a new house for me.”
After all the tools were put away, and good-byes exchanged, the men left the worksite to return home, home for most of them being the bunkhouse at Sky Meadow.
Ethan Terrell and his son, Poke, had the farthest to go, and though it wasn’t yet dark, the sun was completely below the horizon by the time they got home.
“You got here just in time,” Lottie said. “The chicken is done, the potatoes are mashed, the gravy is made, and I’m taking out the biscuits now.”
“Ma, when I get married, do you think she will be as good a cooker as you?” Poke asked.
“Well, if not, we can always have your ma teach her,” Ethan said. “My ma taught Lottie. Why, before we were married, she couldn’t boil water.”
“Ha! Do you want to eat tonight, Ethan Terrell?” Lottie teased.
* * *
Poke was tired and pleasantly full when he went to bed that night, and because of that, went to sleep very quickly. He wasn’t sure what time it was when he awoke in the middle of the night, but he lay comfortably in bed, about to drift off again, when he saw a strange, wavering light playing against the wall of his bedroom.
Confused, he sat up and looked through the window.
The barn was on fire!
“Pa!” he shouted, running into his parents’ bedroom. “Pa! The barn is on fire!”
“The horses!” Ethan said. Getting up, he pulled on his boots, but didn’t put any clothes on over his long underwear.
“Get your shoes on, Poke, come help me!” Ethan shouted as he started toward the front door.
Poke returned to his bedroom, but unlike his father, he pulled on a pair of trousers, then reached for his boots. He was just pulling them on when he heard shots from out front.
Almost immediately after the shots, he heard his mother cry out.
“Ethan!”
There were more shots, and Poke hurried to the living room. His mother came back inside, and Poke saw that the front of her nightgown was covered with blood.
“Ma!”
“Run, Poke, run!” Lottie said. “They’ve killed your father . . . and me. Run, hide!”