CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THOSE WHO HAD patronized Madge’s saloon regularly—local farmers, ranch cowboys, buffalo hunters—began arriving with their tools and wagons to clear away the debris. It was something of a last salute to a place that had been special to them. Even a few of the Tascosa women, despite their disdain for the place where their husbands had gotten drunk and lost grocery money at cards, brought sweet tea and lemonade for the workers.
Meanwhile, Eli Rayburn limped about in search of the ideal hiding place for the money. For the time being, it was buried in the bottom of his grain bin, but he wanted a safer place, somewhere far removed from the livery. It needed to be impossible for Ben Baggett or his men to find.
He and Jonesy had told Clay about their discovery.
They spent one whole evening tossing around ideas for a perfect hiding place. Finally, in the dead of night, they walked to the cemetery and found the grave of Colonel Basil Jay Hawthorne, a rancher said to have been the richest man on the High Plains before a strike of lightning claimed his life. As the legend went, he was out in a pasture helping a cow to birth her calf during a storm when it happened. The calf, which survived, was named Colonel by Hawthorne’s grieving widow.
There, beneath the largest tombstone on Boot Hill, they buried the money pouch in a strongbox.
“Anybody ever asks,” Jonesy said, “we can just say it appeared the colonel was just trying to take his money with him.”
“It’ll not need to remain here long anyway,” Rayburn said. “Just until a little time has passed so ol’ man Baggett will have forgotten about it, or died, whichever comes first.”
ALMOST TWO WEEKS had passed since what locals began referring to simply as “the Fire,” and neither Clay nor Jonesy had said much more about leaving for home. When the subject did come up, it was quickly quieted by a litany of excuses. It might still be a bit early for Pate to travel long distances. . . . They needed to keep an eye on Eli’s healing process and lend a hand at the livery. . . . And they would both feel better knowing Madge and Jennie were in good frames of mind before they left.
The decision to stay even seemed to put Jonesy in better spirits. “Truth is,” he said, “it could be that my wife hasn’t even discovered I’m gone yet. And if we get to running low on pocket money, we can always sneak out and rob the colonel of whatever we need.”
For a while longer, the tent would continue to be their home.
With the saloon no longer a destination, a new quiet settled over Tascosa. Only those in need of supplies braved the sweltering summer heat to visit Madge and Jennie at the mercantile. Blacksmithing needs were put on hold until Rayburn’s health returned, so there was little activity at the livery. Rarely was anyone from the canyon seen in town.
Even the pace of Baggett’s operation had slowed while he sought to recruit new manpower to replace the rustlers he’d lost. Bootsy was promoted to head scout and spent much of his time searching the New Mexico Territory for new ranches to raid.
Though he didn’t mention it as often, a day rarely passed that Baggett didn’t think about the money that had been stolen from him and curse the memory of Top Wilson. He had been delighted when he finally learned the details of the killing.
When Bootsy had told him that it was Madge who was responsible, Baggett walked down to the canyon corral, where Calvin Dunning was mending a fence. “Don’t I recall you being married to that saloon woman in town?”
Bootsy had also made him aware of Madge’s recent fame. “We ain’t been together in a long time,” Dunning said.
“But according to the law, you’re still husband and wife.”
“I guess.” Aware that others were listening, Dunning was uncomfortable with the conversation.
Baggett was enjoying the embarrassment he was causing. “When you come to work here, I had no idea you was hitched to such a famous person. Me, I had a woman like that, I’d stick close so she could protect me. Blow the head off anyone giving me grief. Of course, a fellow would need to be careful not to get her mad, lest she aim her shotgun in his direction. Think there’s any chance I might be able to hire her?”
There was a smattering of laughter among the other workers at the corral as Dunning turned and walked away.
“Next time you’re in town,” Baggett called out, “you be sure and tell the little lady how proud I am of what she done.”
“I don’t go to town,” Dunning mumbled.
PAUL PRICE WAS likely the least sociable resident of Tascosa. Aside from those who visited his laundry or sought a monthly shave or hot bath, few townspeople ever saw him or his wife, Anna. It was generally assumed that his shyness had something to do with his having been kicked in the head by a mule when he was a youngster. It was safe to assume he was the only person in town who had not heard details of the saloon burning.
Price was good at washing, folding clothes, and making chin whiskers disappear, but social graces eluded him.
When he’d appeared at the livery with Wilson’s horse, it was only the second or third time Eli had ever had a conversation with him. And then he was back. And again he was talking about a hunting trip he’d made in the wooded area beyond his place of business.
“I was wondering,” he said, “if we’ve got reason to be concerned about Indians attacking.”
“Far as I know,” Rayburn said, “it’s been a long while since we had those worries. I think the last time they were seen in these parts was when the army ran them out of the canyon and onto the reservation over in the Territory. What causes you to ask?”
“I thought I saw some the other day. Two of them riding bareback and carrying long guns.”
“Was they wearing warbonnets and have their faces painted?” Eli regretted the condescending remark as soon as it left his mouth.
“I’m telling you, I saw them.”
“Didn’t intend making fun. I’m sure you did. But I got no explanation for them being in these parts.”
Breckenridge, however, did when Eli mentioned the conversation that evening.
“Remember me saying how I thought there was something strange about those cattle drivers being killed the way they were? It seemed more message sending, like they were of a mind to even the score for what Top Wilson caused over at that Comanche village. They replaced their stolen cattle, but maybe ain’t yet satisfied they’ve properly avenged their dead.”
Rayburn spat tobacco into the dirt and cursed. “How long until we get all of Wilson’s messes cleaned up?”
“I recall a few of them following us home. Didn’t see them after we made it to Tascosa, but it could be they continued trailing Baggett’s boys on to the canyon. Might have recognized them as members of that rustling party Wilson led.”
Eli had a solemn look on his face. “You think we’ve got cause for concern here in Tascosa?”
“I don’t think so,” Clay said, “but if I was living down in Palo Duro Canyon, I might be inclined to start sleeping with one eye open.”
MADGE KNEW NONE of the hymns but faked singing as best she could. Jennie, seeing her brave effort, smiled from across the room. For both, it felt good to be among people again. It also pleased them that none in attendance had so much as mentioned the events at the saloon.
As was tradition, Sunday singing ended with a prayer and refreshments. On this afternoon there was gingerbread cake and apple cider.
On the buggy ride back to the farm, Madge wasn’t sure how she felt about the experience. The people, other women mostly, had been nice, but she was uncertain about a person placing so much blind faith in a divine being who watched out for people from somewhere high above the clouds. Where had He been the night her saloon burned?
She decided not to mention her doubts. Instead, she asked Jennie about Will Darby.
“He was a man trying very hard to mend his ways.” Jennie’s voice took on a wistful quality. “In his past, he had made a lot of wrong turns and bad decisions. He admitted that. But he had good qualities as well. Even Pa could see that once he got to know him. I told him once that he was like watching a rosebud opening into a beautiful flower.”
“And you loved him,” Madge said.
“I loved what he was becoming . . . a good and honest man. He told me of his mistakes and shortcomings, even why he gave up his Christian name to be called Will Darby.”
“What did he tell you about his brother?”
“Clay was the man he wanted to someday be. Will felt he’d been a great disappointment to his brother and wanted to make it up to him. He spoke often about one day returning to the family farm—me with him—and working side by side with Clay. He loved him.”
“I’m sorry that wasn’t allowed to happen,” Madge said.
The lantern was already lit in the cabin when they arrived. “In a way,” Jennie said, “I could understand his feelings about his homeplace. It’s much the same for me. I always feel everything’s right and as it should be once I get home.”
Madge reached across the buggy and gave Jennie a hug. She felt a slight tug of jealousy. The closest thing she’d ever known to a real home was a small bedroom located upstairs from a smelly saloon. And now even that was gone.
While they watched Cyrus unhitch the horse and store the buggy away, Madge felt a shiver run down her spine. She had the sudden feeling they were being watched.
“What is it?” Jennie said.
Madge forced a smile. “Nothing,” she said. “The devil just walked over my grandma’s grave.”