CHAPTER SIXTEEN
IN THE MOONLIGHT, the ramshackle ranch house looked just as Top Wilson had described it. Built of sod and timbers, it listed to one side and rocks had begun to fall away from the chimney. The outbuildings had seen better days. What little fencing there was hadn’t had proper upkeep in some time. It was easy to count the number of cattle lying in a group at one end of the pasture. There were only eighteen.
From their hillside vantage point, Darby stared silently at the scene. These are dirt-poor folks, barely getting by, he thought, and we’re here to rob them of all hope for any kind of future.
“Don’t hardly seem worth the trip,” one of the rustlers said. “Won’t be long before Top has us riding plumb down to the Rio Grande or back over into East Texas. Guess we’ve about cleaned out all the close-by places. At least this’ll be easy.”
And it was, until two loud shotgun blasts erupted from the front porch of the house. The owner and his son had been roused by the noise of their herd being driven away.
Though already a safe distance away, well out of range of any buckshot aimed in their direction, one of the rustlers reined his horse to a stop and pulled his Winchester from its sheath. Turning toward the house, he fired a series of rapid shots.
There was a distant yell, and one of the men dropped his shotgun and slumped against the porch railing.
“Teach them to go shooting at me,” the rustler said as he joined the others moving the cattle.
Will felt a knot swell in his stomach, then thought he was going to be sick. “There was no cause for that,” he shouted as the proud gunman rode past.
“Somebody shoots at me,” he replied, “he’s going to get shooting in return.”
It was that moment, like a vision, that Will Darby knew he needed to get out of the cattle-rustling business. Stealing was one thing. Bloodthirst for no good reason was another. It troubled him that no one had even seemed curious whether the rancher had been killed or just wounded. It was just part of doing business.
Darby suddenly felt hopelessly trapped. He’d left everything behind for his independence, and all it had provided was a growing feeling of regret and guilt. When, after writing that one letter home almost two years earlier, he’d received a response from his brother urging him to return and visit his ailing father while there was still time, he’d stubbornly chosen to ignore Clay’s plea. It now weighed on him. He missed his pa and the company of his brother and found himself thinking about them often.
It was not only people he’d left behind, he’d come to realize. It was a place, a peaceful little East Texas farm that had been replaced by a canyon filled with outlaws and no-accounts.
He tried to talk with Bootsy about his feelings after they’d returned but got no comfort. “Thing you gotta realize,” his friend said, “is that everybody here has shot and killed his fair share of men, be it in the war or in other less justified times. Me included. That’s the way this going-to-Hades life is. I got one word of warning you’ll do well to think on. The true fact of the matter is this life’s far easier to get into than to escape from.”
The only rays of brightness Will found himself clinging to were his thoughts of Jennie Broder. He’d seen her several times since escorting her home, visiting the farm on a couple of occasions to sit on the front porch and talk, and saying hello in her grandpa’s store.
He had no idea how she felt about him, but he had no doubt that she’d found her way into his heart. His spirits had soared when she invited him to Sunday dinner. When he briefly hesitated, she laughed. “Not to worry,” she said. “Papa has promised he’ll not shoot you so long as you display proper table manners and use no foul language.”
CYRUS BRODER SAID little during the meal, content to listen as his daughter and her gentleman caller enjoyed each other’s company. It was when Jennie was in the kitchen, doing dishes, that he and Will spoke.
Broder had obviously given careful thought to what he wished to say. “I’ve got great admiration for my girl’s good judgment,” he said. “That’s to the credit of her mama, God rest her soul. I don’t know if Jennie’s said so, but it’s clear to me she has feelings for you. You know, you’re the first man ever invited to sit at our dinner table.”
He chuckled and added, “Fact is, you’re the first I ain’t considered taking my shotgun to.”
He quickly turned serious again. “From what I’ve observed, you seem a good man. What you done to protect my daughter a while back set well with me. My concern is the manner in which you earn your living. I’ll be honest and say I’ve got no use for Ben Baggett, though I’ve never had occasion to meet him. But you hear things—about his lacking good character and his unlawful doings. That you’re on his payroll is highly troubling to me, and I can’t shed that worry.”
Will was at a loss for a response. Finally, he said, “I ain’t proud of what I got into when I signed on with him. And I’m planning to soon remedy that mistake.” He paused, then added, “Much of that decision is on account of your daughter.”
THE DAY HAD begun to cool as they walked along a pathway leading to a hillside on the edge of Jennie’s daddy’s farm. Will praised her cooking and the affection her father obviously felt for her.
“He’s proud of this place, you know,” she said, looking out on the greening landscape. “Loves it with all his heart and soul.”
“And rightfully so. It brings to mind my own homeplace. I wanted to tell you we had ourselves a conversation while you were cleaning up in the kitchen.”
“I take it he didn’t order you to get on your horse and be gone,” she said.
“He was expressing concern about me working for Ben Baggett,” Darby said. Though she had never broached the subject, he knew it troubled her as well.
Will took her hand. “He’s right, you know. I’ve done things in my life that I’ve got no cause to feel proud about. I’ve done a lot of acting before thinking, things I’d prefer we not discuss. But, like I told your daddy, I’m of a mind to mend my ways as best I can, starting with parting ways with Baggett and his sorry bunch.”
Jennie rose to her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. “And what is it you plan on doing thereafter?”
“I reckon I’ll go home and help my brother tend the farm, if he’ll have me. I’d lost sight of the beauty there. Come spring, it gets so green it’ll hurt your eye. There’s clear streams for fishing and woods for hunting. Folks back home do their Sunday singing in a real church.”
They began walking again, now hand in hand, as he continued to describe the little town of Aberdene, its quiet ways and good people quick to extend a helping hand to their neighbors. He talked of Clay—“the good brother”—and their happy times together as young boys. “I’m of a mind there’s much I can still learn from him.”
“It sounds like a place I’d like to see one day,” she said as they turned toward the house.
As they approached the house, Jennie waved to her daddy sitting on the front porch, sipping a glass of sweet tea.
“You know,” Will said, “there’s good sometimes come outta bad. Had I not been hired by Baggett and come to these parts, I’d never have seen you—or got me a taste of your fine cooking.”
“In that case,” Jennie said, “I’d say good for your Mr. Baggett.”