But back at the corral the restless horses reared and snorted and tossed their heads and kicked up clods of mud and the ranch dogs howled like wolves, their lips pulled back from their teeth. And even the big orange tomcat, a cold and callous rat killer, glided from the underbrush and sat for long minutes, looking over at Deke’s grave with unblinking eyes that burned like amber fire.
I felt no grief for Deke Stockton because I hardly knew the man, but the animals mourned his passing and that was something I have no way of explaining.
After breakfast, Lila insisted that she wanted to visit her farm that very day. At first Ma and me tried to talk her out of it, but since there was no sign of Apaches in the area, we finally relented.
Lafe Wingo was very much on my mind, but Jim Meldrum figured if I rode real careful and paid attention to what was going on around me, the gunman would not attempt a play by daylight in open country.
It was a small enough reassurance, but I was determined that no tinhorn killer like Wingo was going to dictate how I led my life.
Lila had a penciled map of her place over by Cottonwood Creek, drawn by her pa’s brother, and it would be easy to find.
“Two hours’ ride, Lila,” I said. “No more than that.”
I saddled the lineback for Lila and then the paint. Ma told us we should make a picnic of it, and gave me a basket that I tied behind the dun’s saddle.
We headed out under a clear blue sky, all sign of last night’s rain gone. The land between the SP Connected and Lila’s spread was flat, open grass country, here and there shallow rises crowned with mesquite and juniper breaking up the monotony. The recent rains had turned the prairie green and we rode through masses of bluebonnets and long streaks of yellow mustard that stretched for miles in every direction.
The sun had still not reached the highest point in the sky when we found Lila’s place, a stone cabin built beside a narrow stream, which I took to be an offshoot of the Cottonwood itself.
In front of the cabin spread out forty or fifty acres of open meadow with plenty of prime grass and beyond that sandier soil, dotted with mesquite and juniper.
I sat the paint and looked around. If Lila raised a herd here, the cattle could go as far as the creek to drink, then head back to the meadow to graze.
With good management of the available grass and some luck, I figured Lila’s acres and the open range around them could easily support a hundred head and maybe more, enough for her to get by year to year if she was careful with her money.
As for Lila, she was turning her head this way and that, her eyes alive with wonder and excitement.
“Dusty, I can’t believe I’m actually here,” she said. “I’m really on my own place.”
I nodded. “You could build a good ranch here, Lila. The grass is good, there’s water right close and, from what I can see, the cabin was built to last by someone who knew how.”
“Let’s go take a look inside,” Lila said, spurring the lineback just as vehemently as she’d ignored my remark about ranching.
I followed her to the cabin and we stepped inside. The interior was thick with dust and a pack rat had made a nest in one corner, but Ned Tryon’s brother had known a thing or three about building and he hadn’t stinted on cost.
The floor was covered in smooth gray flagstones, all of them laid level, and the roof was solid, constructed of thick, weathered beams and good timber. A P.D. Beckwith iron stove, which must have cost all of thirty dollars, stood against one wall, and the table, chairs and bunk were store bought, as were the blue china plates, cups and saucers stacked on a shelf near a side window of the cabin.
All the wood, including a wide gun rack, had matured to a deep honey color, and the floor was covered by a pair of colorful wool rugs.
The cabin had a warm, welcoming look. It was a down-homey place where a man could kick off his boots of an evening and stretch out his legs by the stone fireplace, knowing his own cows were grazing outside and that all was well with his world.
“Isn’t it wonderful, Dusty?” Lila asked. I saw tears begin to start in her eyes and I knew she was thinking of her pa.
“Your pa’s brother,” I said, “what did he intend to do with the spread?”
“Do with it?” Lila looked puzzled. “Why he was going to live on it. Only, he died before he ever got a chance to enjoy it.”
“Did he plan to farm?”
Lila shook her head. “No, he wrote Pa that he was going to raise cattle.”
“Then he knew well that this wasn’t farmland,” I said.
Lila stepped to the window. “Look out there, Dusty. Can you see what I see?”
“Grass,” I said.
“I see corn and fruit trees and maybe even pecans,” Lila said, her eyes sparkling. “This will be a real farm one day.”
“Lila,” I said, trying to reason with her, “look at the soil out there. It’s thin and it’s dry and sandy. It will grow grass, at least most of the year, and maybe post oak, but it won’t grow corn and . . . and . . . apples.”
Lila looked at me, her face stiff, eyes blazing. “Then I surely must beg to differ, Mr. Hannah.”
Well, I knew that every time she called me Mr. Hannah my biscuits were burning, so I backed off a step or two. “I guess time will tell, Lila,” I said, backing down even more. I attempted a smile and tried to inject some heartiness into my voice. “Hey, isn’t it time we ate?”
Lila’s anger disappeared as quickly as it had come. “Yes, and let’s eat in here—in my own home, Dusty.”
“I’ll bring in the basket,” I said, and stepped outside.
As I untied the picnic basket from the back of the paint, I glanced around at the surrounding country—in time to see a single flash of light among the juniper and curly mesquite at the crest of a low rise to the south.
The flash was brief, just an instant of sunlight glinting on something reflective, a drop of rain on a leaf maybe . . . or on metal.
Pretending to be unconcerned, I strolled back to the cabin with the basket, whistling through my teeth. I opened the door and stepped inside.
I dropped the basket on the table and smiled at Lila: “While you’re getting the picnic things laid out, I’m going to ride out toward the creek a short ways,” I said.
“Whatever for?” Lila asked. She opened the basket. “Ma, or Mr. Fullerton more likely, has done us proud. Fried chicken, fresh bread, a whole apple pie and . . . oh look, Dusty, a bottle of wine.”
There’s a time for explanations, but now wasn’t that time. “It all looks mighty good,” I said, “and I’m as hungry as a coyote with a toothache.” Then, without any further explanation I opened the door. “Be right back.”
“But . . . but . . .”
“Be right back,” I said again. I stepped to the paint, swung into the saddle and turned south, in the direction where I’d seen the flash of light.
I was becoming more and more convinced the glare, brief as it was, had been no accident of nature. I believed I’d caught the glint of a gun barrel or a concho, and that could mean Apaches . . . or Lafe Wingo.
Whatever happened next, I knew I must draw the danger away from the cabin and Lila.
But as it happened, that was a hasty, ill-conceived notion, and it turned out to be one of the biggest mistakes I ever made in my life.
Chapter 21
I knew Lila would be standing at the cabin door, watching me go. I turned and there she was, her hands on her hips, her head tilted to one side in complete bafflement. I waved, and kept on riding.
Me, I never thought of myself as an especially brave man, but at the same time I figured I was no coward. All I knew was that I didn’t want Wingo, or the Apaches, trapping Lila and me inside the cabin.