CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Five months later
CLAY AND MADGE were married in God’s Place Chapel in Aberdene. Jonesy and Patricia were there, accompanied by Lonnie, who was wearing the first store-bought clothes he’d ever owned. Once the brief ceremony was completed, they had walked to the town park, where a celebration was underway.
There were tables filled with fried chicken and sweet potato pies, fresh bread and jars of lemonade. Children were pitching horseshoes and having sack races. Grown-ups sat on benches and blankets spread in the shade of huge pecan trees, talking and watching the kids. Laughter could be heard everywhere. Lonnie had never seen anything like it.
That day, the look on his face pleased the Pates and the newlyweds, assuring them that he was adjusting well to his new home.
Now, months later, they still talked fondly of that “wedding day.”
Ruben had done a good job tending Clay’s farm in his absence, and the spring rains had continued into the summer, lending an emerald luster to everything. Sarge had been glad to see Clay and quickly welcomed Madge into the family.
She and Patricia became immediate friends and visited each other regularly, as did their husbands. Rarely was Tascosa mentioned, except to wonder how Eli or the Broders were. The money, buried on Boot Hill, was never discussed.
One Sunday, after riding Maizy over for a visit, Lonnie happened upon the graves of Clay’s parents and brother and asked about them. His mother and father had been much like Lonnie’s, Clay said, loving, hardworking people. When remembering Cal, he spoke only of good times and good deeds.
“Losing family’s hard. It leaves an empty place that’s difficult to fill unless you’re lucky enough to find others,” Clay said. “You and me, we’ve been fortunate to have new folks come into our lives and bring us new happiness.”
They walked to the fence line of the pasture and picked wildflowers, then placed them on each of the graves. Lonnie didn’t mention it, but he wished the resting place of his parents was closer.
Seeking to lighten the mood, Clay asked about school. “You’re now in grade seven as I recall,” he said.
“Eight,” Lonnie said. “They put me ahead a grade after I showed my teacher I was good at reading and writing. I can thank my ma for seeing to that.”
He talked about how much he liked Miss Cochran, his teacher, and his classmates. He bragged that he was the fastest runner in school and admitted there was one girl, named Ginger, he especially admired.
What he didn’t mention was the stranger he’d seen riding past the schoolhouse several times recently, his hat always pulled low on his forehead.
FOR BEN BAGGETT, thoughts of the past were constantly on his mind. Somewhere, somebody still had the money Top Wilson had stolen from him, and he was more determined than ever to find it. Through a process of elimination, he’d considered the possibilities.
He had no reason to think that the livery owner in Tascosa might have it. His place was the same run-down barn and corral it had always been. If he had somehow gotten the money, he would have shut the doors of his business and been on his way, headed out West probably. Instead, he continued to eke out a living renting tents to passing cattle drivers and blacksmithing.
Wilson had no friends. There was no way one of the others living in the canyon had gotten their hands on the money pouch. Even on the off chance someone had, his secret was forever safe, thanks to the Comanches. The girl he’d been sweet on had repeatedly rejected him and was now working for her grandpa in the mercantile, and her pa was still raising goats. They’d not likely received any financial windfall. After speaking with the strange-acting fella who ran the laundry and bath, he was scratched from the list of suspects.
Somehow, somebody, Ben had decided, had made off from Tascosa with his money. From what he’d learned from Paul Price—when he wasn’t talking crazy of another potential Indian raid—the fella named Breckenridge and his partner, along with Madge, had left for a place called Aberdene over in East Texas.
Find them, Baggett thought, and they would lead him to his money.
First, however, he needed to locate somewhere new and get his life back in order. The money he’d put away in the cave wouldn’t last forever. Once clear thinking had returned following the murderous attack in the canyon, he decided to head for Fort Worth. It was a cattle town, and he still considered himself a cattleman, however outside the law he operated.
Fort Worth, he knew, was the major stopping place for those driving longhorns along the Chisholm Trail toward Kansas City. Once the site of an old army outpost, it had grown into a bawdy, no-holds-barred town where an area known as Hell’s Half Acre was home to notorious outlaws hiding from the law for various reasons. A bigger Tascosa. It would be the perfect place for Baggett to begin rebuilding his gang and a good place to headquarter.
For the moment, however, all he had was Calvin Dunning, a partner he considered half-witted and of little use, a survivor of the canyon raid thanks to his cowardice. Baggett would keep him around only until he found someone better.
Still, while he got acquainted with the men in Hell’s Half Acre, he did have one assignment he felt Dunning would be capable of carrying out.
“Once we get ourselves settled,” he said, “I’ll be wanting you to ride over to this place called Aberdene and locate some folks. Might be interesting for you, seeing as how one of them’s your wife. Meanwhile, I think we need to go find us a place to drink some whiskey.”
After hearing what his boss wanted him to do, Dunning badly needed a drink.
BAGGETT FOUND THE city life invigorating. He liked the lights and noise, the constant movement of people. There were numerous saloons to choose from and places where you could order a steak well into the night. No one ever seemed to sleep. It brought to mind his days in Brownsville, on the Texas coast, and he regretted spending so many years in a place as remote as Palo Duro Canyon.
At the first saloon they visited, they saw two fights break out. In another, a drunken cowboy won a poker hand and, in celebration, pulled his pistol and fired several shots into the ceiling. Few patrons even bothered to look up from their drinking. Things were freewheeling and apparently lawless. The latter was just what Baggett was looking for.
Dunning, meanwhile, wrestled with mixed feelings. He was glad to be riding out of the city, alone for a while, but was anxious about the job he’d been given. He had no wish to see Madge and considered ways to avoid her. Hopefully, the bushy beard he’d grown would provide some disguise.
He’d felt relief when Baggett had instructed that he only determine that Clay and Jonesy were there, not approach anyone. Just find them, then report their activities and location back to him. Once that was done, Baggett would figure out the next step.
Dunning, aware that his boss didn’t hold him in high regard, hoped it would not involve him.
It was easier than he’d anticipated.
The first day in town he was having breakfast in the hotel when he heard Jonesy Pate’s name mentioned by a man at a nearby table. Dunning went over, introduced himself as Haley Johnson, and said he’d overheard the name of an old friend.
“I’m just passing through,” he said, “but if Jonesy’s living anywhere nearby, I’d like to drop in on him.”
He was immediately given directions to Pate’s ranch. “You’re in luck. Him and his friend returned from a trip somewhere out West a few months back,” one of the men said. “And Jonesy came back with a youngster who’s now living with him and his wife.”
“Lordy mercy. Jonesy’s got himself a son?”
“Oh, no. As I hear it, this boy’s an orphan who Jonesy took a liking to and invited to move in with him and Patricia. Nice-looking young man. Don’t recall his name, but I’m sure you’ll meet him.”
“I look forward to it,” Dunning said. “Now, once again, which road is it I want to take to get to his place?”
The man pointed his napkin in the direction of the kitchen. “Go north and just follow the one that runs out past the schoolhouse. It ain’t far. You’ll first come to the Breckenridge farm. Then Pate’s place is just a mile or two on down the way.”
As if feeling left out of the conversation, the other breakfast eater spoke up. “Clay Breckenridge, he’s who went on the trip with Jonesy. And, believe it or not, he came back home with a lady he married just a while back. Real pretty woman.”
In five minutes, Dunning had learned everything he wanted to know and more, thanks to the gossipy old men. Not only had he found out that Breckenridge and Pate were, indeed, there, but also that his wife had married again.
For reasons he couldn’t fully explain, the latter didn’t interest him nearly as much as Pate taking in an orphan.
Later that day, he was hiding in a creek bed near the caliche road entrance to the Pate ranch when Lonnie rode past. Likely returning home from school, Dunning thought.
On the way back into town, he decided against trying to get a glimpse of Clay or the new Mrs. Breckenridge. Instead, he rode past the schoolhouse several times the following day, trying to get a better look at the boy. He had begun formulating a plan that he thought might put him in the good graces of his boss.
The orphan, he thought, could well be the key to finding Baggett’s stolen cash.