Wolf dismounted and handed the horse over to one of Mr. Brady's ranch hands. Walking purposely towards the barn he realized things were pretty much over. Couples walking hand in hand started pouring out, laughing. Several passing voices echoed sentiments for the evening: "Such a lovely party," "That boy has the loveliest voice I've ever heard, Mr. Brady must have him sing at the spring dance," "Mr. Brady did it again. Clever of him to have that young man entertain us."
Wolf puffed up a bit in pride. The boy had caught more fish in his net. The nostalgic reminiscences of their native tongues set to melodies of childhood dreams had snagged more Darby Cole fans than Wolf could have imagined possible. The boy was a charmer, of that he had little doubt.
Just then a woman screamed. Men started shouting and Wolf turned to the grove. The moonlight well lit the small figure hanging by his neck, swinging from the tree limb. It was Darby. Wolf ran, his heart breaking as it beat in desperation.
Darby was well into the act. The hardest part is keeping a straight and pained expression, he giggled at the thought. The Cassidy boys had rigged a footrope to the branch from which Darby would be hung. All Darby had to do was put his foot in the loop, raise himself up with the rope and place the other noose-like loop around his neck. For all intents and purposes in the dark, Darby would look like he hung by his neck, not the footrope he would be standing in.
Swinging down from the branch, he grabbed the noose hanging nearby. Placing it around his neck he stood absolutely still waiting for the crowds to leave and notice the gruesome scene.
Sober, it was an easy, though still dangerous ploy, but drunk, it was damn deadly. Darby started to put a little swing into his hips, wanting to attract attention. Suddenly as a woman let out an earth-shattering scream, Darby's foot slipped from the loop. He grabbed the rope with his hands, but they burned their way down as his body fell into the neck loop and Darby Cole was beginning to experience what a lynching really was like.
Wolf raced forward; all thoughts aimed at the young life hanging in the balance. A flash to his right caught his peripheral vision, his subconscious recording events while his conscious thoughts moved in the moment...the boy he cared for hanging by his neck. A hand grabbing metal, clearing leather in one smooth, even-balance of speed and accuracy, the flash, the rope fraying, bark splintering, another flash, the rope gave way, and Darby Cole fell safely into the arms of the Wolf.
Ben held on for dear life, his hands wrapped around the huge head. He sat on top of the world, giggling despite his ordeal, the fears about Tuck. He couldn't help himself, the bouncing motion as the big man trotted across the street to the Sheriff's office, had him all tossed up inside. It was a good feeling he admitted. Laughing was something he decidedly liked doing, just like the giant.
Jorgan's face was scrunched up in a mask of distortion, the small, dirty hands sometimes falling onto his brow bone, sometimes poking his eyes as the small boy laughed and screamed. A few times the grimace was real as the boy tugged at his hair, not used to the roughhousing.
Reaching his mighty hands up, grasping the small guy by his waist, Jorgan bent forward and flipped the boy. A piercing scream filled the night.
"Jorgan, my nerves can't handle any more. Can you two get serious," Simon said sternly, though the laughter in his eyes belied any harshness beneath the surface.
"Yes, sir," Jorgan said in mock contriteness. Noticing the fear that crossed Ben's face, fearful he and the giant were in trouble, Jorgan winked. The potential for tears vanished as he tried to suppress his mirth behind a dirty appendage.
"I don't seem to have any notices about two runaways," Simon said as he flipped through his most recent notices and posters. "I'd best send a telegraph out first thing in the morning. Try to locate the boys' parents."
"Papa don't want us no more. He told us, 'Don't you come back, never,'" Ben said kicking at the desk with his booted foot.
"Well, I still need to confirm that, little guy. Benjamin Caleb Lawless and Lucifer Tucker Lawless? Those were the names you gave me, right?" Simon asked as he smiled up at the little boy composing his thoughts to paper.
"Yes, sir. Tuck's just like the devil, like pa always said."
Jorgan gave Simon a look that would not have bid well for the Senior Lawless had he been within the vicinity. Then shaking his head, he pulled Ben up like a sack of beans under his arm, butt forward. He looked down at the small bottom and spoke seriously to it, "Well, I guess you're going to be guests of the Mueller's until we can find out what to do with you.... hello? Anyone listening? Oooops, wrong end." Then he flipped the boy around, as the child screamed in delight, threw him into the air and as he turned Jorgan caught him and rested the small bottom on his arm, now face to face with the boy.
"Jorgan, do you think that's such a good idea?" Simon asked.
"What? It's the only thing to do. Anna will agree. The other boy needs medical attention, Anna and I are both trained." The blue eyes looked into the laughing brown ones inches from his own. "Ya...ya...ya....I like the idea," and with each 'ya' Ben was bounced upon his perch.
"Well, you'd best clear it with your sister. I don't want to see her getting too attached. They're both probably runaways and I imagine their folks are right worried about them." Simon still had a hard time believing some of the facts that any parent would name their child Lucifer either after the devil or matches. Or that they would turn a small child out to survive with a brother not much older than himself. And that any father would use a buggy whip on his son.
Ben heard the statement and popped his fingers back in his mouth, seeking security in the gesture. Jorgan noticed, pulled the fingers from his mouth and said, "I bet you're hungry."
The small brown curls danced as the nodding head confirmed his suspicions. "I know just the place now to get us some fried chicken, biscuits and corn." Turning to Simon he said, "You think Brady has any leftovers?"
"If Darby Cole didn't eat everything, you might still have a chance," Simon laughed as man and boy made a mad dash out the door.
The instant the wild haired youth was in his arms, Wolf collapsed beneath the weight. Hugging the boy to him, trying to reassure himself he was fine, he closed his eyes seeing the dark eyes laughing, the gay boy he saw dancing and singing a short while before, still alive and well.
Then he heard the soft mutterings against his chest, then the rumbling of laughter and his concern exploded in a heated rage. Pushing the giggling miscreant away, still holding him by his shoulders, he smelled the stale breath of whiskey. The kid was drunker than a hoot owl.
Rising in one short burst of energy, he hauled Darby upright. Darby's fingers were trying to grasp the noose around his neck, but failing with each attempt. Wolf released him and slid the knotted rope from around his neck. The crowds moved in, the distress now turned to anger and annoyance at the childish prank. Realizing the disaster that was pre-empted, they wanted revenge now for their frazzled nerves.
Walter Skinner slipped into the fray, a welcome figure of authority on Brady's property.
"Okay, folks, we've had a close one. This boy will be dealt with. It's been a long night. Mr. Brady gave you a great party, let's call it a night and head on home." Walter positioned himself between Wolf and Darby and the crowd, turning them towards their wagons and horses on the other side of the barn.
Wolf never took his eyes off of Darby's face. The laughter soon faded and Darby's face began turning a slow red, a small dash crept up along his neck and now rose to his ears, soon the face would be flaming, heated with self-consciousness. "I thought it'd be funny."
"We'll see how much fun you can have when we have our little talk," Wolf said coldly, irritated that all the townsfolk had seen his weakness, his concern for the scamp.
Turning to pick up his hat that had fallen off when he caught Darby, he spotted Joshua and Jeremy laughing hysterically in the darkness near the corral. He walked threateningly towards the pair.
Joshua straightened and nudged his brother in the side. Grabbing their arms, Wolf pulled them along with him back towards Darby. "Did these two put you up to it, boy?" Wolf asked, shaking the two prizes sharply.
Darby looked down at his feet. This was the moment of fire, the time of true grit and test of his manhood and his friendship, he needed to prove himself. Slowly raising his eyes, he shook his head, "No, sir, ain't nobody's idea but mine. You know I'm the best at pranks."
Wolf could feel the two captives take a deep breath and relax, but he noted the look that passed between the three. Darby would have needed help getting up there in his present state and he knew as surely as Darby's eyes were black, that there were three equal villains.
Repositioning his grip, he walked the two boys back to the barn door. "I know he's protecting you, but I won't push it. I know for a fact your Pa would tend to you properly, one word from me, but Darby seems to want to spare you and I'll honor his wishes, since he'll be feeling the discomfort, perhaps it's his choice. However, if I ever catch you two drinking or using Darby for your own amusement, I'll personally take the hide off of you." The cold blue eyes bore holes through the two boys. Joshua tried to keep eye contact, although Jeremy had never once looked up into the ex-marshal's face. Wolf directed the final edict to Joshua, "You think you're tough, boy, but you don't want to mess with me." At this, Joshua dropped his eyes, knowing full well he would be held accountable the next time.
"What's the problem here?" Barney Cassidy asked as he came out of the barn, slightly inebriated himself. "What've my boys been up to?"
Joshua now turned pleading eyes towards Wolf.
"Nothing, Barney, not a thing. Just telling your boys to go directly home. Too many strangers camped outside of town for dawdling."
"We know, we're on our ways home now. Come on, Joshua, Jeremy, give your Pa a hand."
Joshua nodded a curt thanks and Jeremy and he both grabbed their Pa's arms and headed towards the wagons.
Looking back, Wolf saw Darby bent over near some bushes, no doubt losing all the chicken he had consumed during the evening. The boy was going to be one sick hombre on the ride back to the ranch in the morning.
"I guess he ended it in true Darby fashion," a small voice said near his elbow.
Startled he looked down into the warm gray eyes of Mary Deets. She smiled up at him, hooked her elbow for his assistance and he walked her to the wagon. Lifting her gently by the waist, he settled her on the seat.
"I'll be right back, after I collect Mr. Cole."
Walter Skinner passed him, walking steadily towards the barn.
"Walt!" Wolf called to the retreating figure.
The neatly dressed man stopped and turned in one fluid motion, ease and grace of style that spoke years of training. A man born to draw and stoop, like a swan gliding in towards landing, Walter Skinner cut his space with little energy.
The brown bespectacled eyes pinned Wolf steadily.
"Thanks." The simple word spoke volumes to Skinner. Wolf would never forget the unbelievable accuracy that followed his lightening draw, the memory of speed and flash as the rope broke under the assault. Darby's foolishness could have ended the evening in a heartbreaking moment of regrets, if it were not for Walter Skinner’s trained professionalism.
The compact frame hesitated, then nodded. Tipping his hat as though to bid farewell, he smiled softly. "Marshal, all the training, all the tracking, all the men you've pursued..." then turning his head to look at the vomiting boy in the darkness, "now, I feel sorry for you."
He smiled an enigmatic smile and continued his journey towards the barn.
Moments later, Wolf appeared out of the darkness, Darby's butt high on his shoulder. Tipping his hat to Mary at his success, he dropped the groaning figure into the back of the wagon and climbed aboard himself.
Wolf gently lifted the frail woman from the wagon. He walked her to her cabin door and preceded her inside, lighting the small lamp on the kitchen table. Allowing his eyes to adjust to the surroundings, he saw the neatly, but scantly furnished dwelling. Mary was indeed a poor widow by every standard used to rate. Then he saw the canvas bags in the corner: Coffee, beans, flour, rice, and more all marked with WS somewhere or other. The puzzle pieces were falling into place.
"Seems you got all your supplies for winter, Mrs. Deets," Wolf said, conversationally.
"Oh, Lordy, yes. Some kind soul in Happenstance has been dropping off groceries and supplies, quite unexpectedly, for the past six months or so. I don't question, Mr. Stoddard, I thank the Lord for such charity in another person's heart. I don't think I'd make it through the winter on what I get from my quilting sales."
Wolf nodded, "Yes, Mrs. Deets, the Lord does work in mysterious ways." Tipping his hat, he walked to the door, "Good night, ma'am. Darby thanks you, I'm sure, for the pleasure of your company."
"Tell Darby I hope he feels better in the morning, but I sincerely doubt it. Tell him thank you for me." Wolf saw the tears well in her eyes, and he knew what a gift the boy had given the woman that night.
"I sure will, ma'am." Then leaving the cabin, he mumbled, "among other things."
Wolf carried the semi-conscious boy up to the room. From the noise coming from several rooms as he walked the long corridor, many night revelers were returning in worse shape than young Darby. Dropping his bundle gently on the bed, he lit the lamp. Peeling the boots off first, then unbuckling the belt and stripping the britches down, he jostled Darby around, inconsiderate of his state. Damn it, the boy deserves no special treatment, Wolf thought as his anger built. I could be carrying his body over to the undertaker right about now...foolish brat, I've let him get away with too much. Then his thoughts went over to the bags marked WS that were in Mrs. Well's cabin. Fire coursed through him as he finished undressing his charge, leaving him in long johns, he roughly rolled him under the covers.
He had no proof, now, but the first item on the morning list was a long talk with Darby and Mr. Brown. Darby may well be innocent of any theft, but it was common knowledge the boy had a soft spot for the widow woman and her angel of mercy appeared about the time the boy came into Happenstance. There were just too many coincidences for a lawman not to have his suspicions.
Looking down at the boy as he mumbled in his stupor, turned on his side and cuddled up to the pillow, seeing the pouting lips part as soft snores escaped, he softened. Remembering the laughing, black eyes, and the wild hair as he danced across the floor, the gentleness with which he graced Mary Deets and all the ladies, Wolf couldn't help soften his perceptions. There was a goodness here, Wolf admitted to himself, that he was at a loss in handling. A misguided appropriation of love and kindness that would get the boy killed sooner or later if he didn't realize the parameters of law, possession, and good intentions.
"I've been too lenient with you, little mite," Wolf said aloud, "but that's all gonna change now. You're my prisoner, pure and simple, no more tomfoolery. You need to realize who's in charge and your place in the scheme of things for the next year or two." With that firm thought rooted deep in his design, he crawled in beside Darby and immediately found peace.
"I AIN'T GOING BACK WITH YOU!" Darby yelled, from across the room. Sitting in the chair trying for the umpteenth time to pull his boots on, his head was splitting in two. Wolf had roughly woken him and ordered him up and dressed in a matter of minutes, sharply smacking his upturned backside when the response time was not to his liking.
"Keep your voice down, son," Wolf said in a soft voice that carried more weight than any return fire. "You don't have a choice in the matter. I kindly let you come to town and attend this dance, let you see some folks before the long winter, but it is not...I repeat NOT a pardon. You are my prisoner and after we get some matters settled, young man, we're on our way back to the ranch."
"I ain't going," Darby mumbled under his breath, exasperatedly as he finally fell back, the offending boot in place upon his foot.
Darby had made up his mind sometime last night. Life was just too short to be cooped up at the ranch. Seeing all the people, talking, dancing, laughing...these were the things he was used to. He had no intention of staying at the forgotten outpost with a washed up, old, ex-marshal who liked nothing better than to keep Darby Cole on a tight rope.
Remembering Wolf's kindness, allowing him to come, the new clothes, the food he gave him freely, and, Darby admitted to himself, the friendship Wolf tried to extend from time to time. I guess he ain't such a bad guy, not really, but I want to stay in town and I am.
Breakfast was a strained meal with both men sullen and silent. Wolf was at his wit's end. He couldn't get the image of the marked flesh out of his mind, the small boy who was punished so severely. What crimes could warrant such pain on one so young? He didn't want to deal with Darby in the same, seemingly harsh and unforgiving way.
Yet, he didn't want to shirk his responsibility. He had lost all the hard won control he had gained these past few weeks, and he knew it was his own fault.
With breakfast finished---although he was amazed that Darby still had such an appetite---he paid the bill. Walking into the lobby, Darby started heading up the stairs. Wolf hooked a few fingers in the waistband of his britches and pulled him back.
"Not so fast, you're going with me to Brown's Mercantile. There seems to be a mystery going on that I think you might help solve."
"Me? Why me? I didn't do nothing," Darby griped, but found himself being pulled along the boardwalk towards the store.
Entering the store, he pulled Darby in front of him and with a firm hand on his back pushed him towards the counter where Mr. Brown stood going over a ledger.
"Darby, did you come here on Saturday and double-check the stock?" Wolf asked him, staring him in the eye, looking for the sign he knew so well, a sign of deceit and cunning.
"I don't remember. Woooolf," he whined, "I got a might awful headache. I don't remember."
"I'm asking you, boy, and I'll only ask you once, did you steal supplies from Mr. Brown?" Wolf stood his ground.
The blush started, as Wolf knew it would. No matter what the boy wanted to say, no matter how hard he tried to lie, under such direct scrutiny and in his shattered state, he blushed and revealed it all.
Looking into Wolf's blue eyes, seeing the hardening of the steel, he knew he was done for.
"Mr. Brown's got plenty of food. He don't need to worry none about making it through the winter. What are a few supplies?" Darby asked, angry and defiant in his resolve.
"You stole from me, boy, as well as Mr. Brown. You have no concept, do you?" Wolf threw up his hands in a gesture of frustration and defeat, "No concept of right and wrong. What the hell did your mama ever teach you? She must have been some woman!" Wolf let it out in sheer futility, but the shock of the words met him moments before a fist came crashing into his jaw. Reeling backwards, stunned by the sheer surprise of the attack, he landed against the sacks lined up near the counter.
Henry Brown came around the counter. Glancing quickly at Darby, seeing the expression of confusion and shock that creased his pale features, Brown didn't know whom to go to first, who needed comforting more. Then the black eyes met the brown ones, "I'm sorry," softly echoed the stillness, and the boy turned and raced out into the street.
Wolf grabbed Henry's hand and slowly rose to his feet, rubbing his sore jaw. The small bell rang over the door and both men turned, expecting Darby to come back contritely. Instead Jim and Blair walked in.
"Wolf, what happened? We just saw Darby running out. He looked mighty upset," Jim Ellison said, while he noted the bruise along Wolf's jaw, the colors already tinting the cleanly shaven flesh.
"Brown's store was robbed last night. Some young boys needing food. Theft probably never would have been noticed...except more was taken than was found on the youngsters. Darby's been playing Good Samaritan, but with other people's money. Dumb fool never realized he was taking supplies already marked for me, not being able to read and all." Once again he could have bitten his tongue as he saw the look pass between Blair and Jim. The reading was a secret Darby had entrusted him with. He wasn't exactly keeping many promises made to the boy right now.
"I said something I shouldn't have about his ma. He had every right, I guess, to slug me, but he's still a little thief." Wolf forced his fist down hard on Brown's counter.
Jim Ellison grabbed the man's elbow and ushered him out of the store. Blair followed close behind.
Once outside, Jim pushed the ex-marshal down into a chair on the boardwalk. "You haven't exactly been keeping tabs on the boy since he came to town. Granted, you have things to take care of, but the boy was put into your custody for guidance and direction. Direction, my friend, you have not been giving him. Any young man as wild as Darby is going to take his freedom as far as he can until someone stops him."
"His ma," Blair started in, "well, she died taking a bullet meant for him. He's feeling guilty about the whole thing and I think his whole self-worth has been shaken. He's worried you might hate him for things he's done in the past. Seems to me, Wolf, the boy puts a high price on your opinion."
Wolf rubbed his jaw, thoughtfully. "I guess I screwed this up pretty badly." Then considering something for a few moments, he looked up at his two friends. "Would you mind just stopping by my ranch and checking the stock, food and water, that's all. I should be able to collect the boy and be back there day after tomorrow latest. You are leaving today, right?"
"Yep, Blair and I were on our way to collect our own supplies. We'll be happy to. You go fetch Darby."
Darby ran towards Mr. Dawson's cabin. Head throbbing from the night of drinking, stomach tightly knotted with memories of the punch he had delivered to Wolf, he focused on reaching Mr. Dawson. The old man would help him, of that he was sure.
"Mr. Dawson! Mr. Dawson!" Darby yelled as he pounded on the door. "Mr. Dawson, I need your help." The door slowly opened and Mr. Dawson peered out. Moments later Darby Cole, coffee cup in hand, sat at the table pouring out his heart.
Wolf returned to the hotel. Quickly packing his bags, he turned to grab Darby's canvas sack. Pausing briefly, he opened it and pulled out the silver-framed picture of Delilah Cole. You need a lesson, boy, and I think this just might do the trick.
Taking his pocket knife from his jeans, he pried open the backing and extracted the photo. As he gently placed the photo in Darby's nightshirt, he noticed a folded piece of paper had slipped out from behind the photo. Picking it up, he gently laid it out on the dresser. It looked like a map. It was a hand-drawn one with mountains, rivers, and trees crudely sketched, but a map, none-the-less. Refolding with great care, he slipped it into his own breast pocket. He laid the silver frame aside and finished clearing out the room.
Collecting his wagon from the livery, he stopped by Brown's for the supplies. Paying up the bill and demanding that Brown include the stolen items, Wolf picked up the milking cow and chickens. The brat couldn't have gotten far. He would never leave town without his ma's picture and he was no match for Wolf's skills. Wolf knew Darby was only trying to avoid the inevitable, not really run away.
Besides, there were only three people in town Darby would take shelter with: Miss Cassie, whom already was on to his ploys and obfuscations; Mrs. Deets, whom Darby seemed too protective of to pull her into a battle of wills with Wolf; that left Mr. Dawson. Darby would not be dumb enough to return to the cave---at least Wolf didn't think so.
Ready to return to the ranch, Wolf headed towards Dawson's ranch for a quick stop in collecting his prisoner. Riding along slowly, careful of the milking cow and the load the horses pulled, he steeled himself for not only the confrontation, but the heavy, heartless hand he would have to play. Thinking back on the laughing black eyes, he drifted along to another pair and another time.
Wolf woke slowly, the knot on his head recalling events. They had left New Orleans early in the morning. Falcon had been cooperative, but sullen. The tearful good-byes by Tuny, Michelle and various other friends and relatives, were nothing compared to Falcon's mother's tearful wails. Wolf was sure the plans would be cancelled, save for the firm set of Etienne Bordage's jaw. Wolf climbed on the buckboard and waited patiently for his traveling companion to join him.
When the boy was ready to climb on board, Etienne broke through the crowds and firmly grabbed the defiant young man by his shoulders, spinning him around. For a brief moment black eyes met tired, brown ones. Tears threatened the old eyes, then the old man pulled the boy into a hug wrapping his arms tightly around his captive. A sob escaped Falcon as he was pushed away. He grabbed the old face between his hands and kissed the old man on the cheek. "Papere, I love you."
"Mon petit, as I do you."
The ride had begun in silence. Icy periods of strong determination to make the trip as unpleasant as possible, Falcon persisted in his obstinacy. Wolf had to repeat himself several times to get the boy to obey simple commands such as fetch some firewood, get some water, or unload the supplies. By the third day on the trail, Falcon's reticence took on another cloak. He was now blatantly belligerent and defiant.
They had settled in for the night. Wolf squatted near the fire cooking an evening meal of curried ham and rice that Tuny had packed securely for the travelers.
"Get some water, I'll get the coffee going."
There was no response. Falcon sat on a rock across from him, playing with a small rope, practicing knots.
Wolf rose, picked up the wooden bucket and threw it at Falcon's feet. "I said, 'get some water.'"
Falcon acted like he hadn't heard a word the larger man spoke.
Walking briskly over to the boy, he grabbed him by his arms and pulled him down to stand in front of him.
"Boy, we're in this together, like it or not, and, trust me, when I tell your grandfather I'll deliver you to Vincent Bordage in Wyoming, I fully intend to, with or without your cooperation. But, and it's your butt to consider, boy. When I tell you to do something you'll damn well do it." Shaking the boy sharply, he stooped to pick up the bucket. Holding it out, he waited patiently for Falcon to take it.
Black eyes burned holes through Wolf's soul, but he held his ground. Finally a small smile creased the edges of Falcon's lips and he grabbed the bucket. "As you wish, podna."
Wolf turned to resume his ministrations over the evening meal when a sharp crash broke into his thoughts and sent him spinning forward into the darkness of unconsciousness.
Darby sat back on the dirt floor in the cellar. He was amazed he never found this place before. All the times he had spent with Mr. Dawson, sitting on his front porch, fishing in the stream, walking these same hills towards his cave off in the distance he never dreamed such a spacious cellar existed.
Now, he was a prisoner here just as surely as he had been in Sheriff Banks' jail. How did the old man trick him up so easily. Just goes to show you, boy, with that sweet talk and fast tongue of yours, you sometimes give away the turkey while you're basting her, he could hear Sophie warn him. Well, this was one time Sophie was right.
Oh, things had started off nicely enough. Mr. Dawson was ready to go to war to protect him against the big, bad wolf. Mr. Dawson was like a grandfather to him, all solicitous and caring and concerned. Then Darby had simply asked for a cup of cocoa. A simple request by his view. Then Mr. Dawson got all-inquisitive like.
"How'd you know I got cocoa, boy. Last time you was here, I was plum out and you knew it. You knew how much I loved that chocolate drink." The old man's gray eyes narrowed during the inquisition.
Coughing, Darby tried to stall, "I just figured you got some more."
"You're right, boy, absolutely right. Of course, seems to me if you know I've got cocoa now when I didn't have it a few days ago, well, seems you must know who's been giving me supplies."
"No, I don't know nothing about that, Mr. Dawson," Darby tried to back step out of the predicament he saw himself falling head first into.
"Darby," Mr. Dawson stood before him looking down directly into the black eyes, "Darby, boy, you be truthful with me now. You been bringing me these supplies for the past few months?"
"Ah, well, ah.....I...."
Mr. Dawson pulled the boy up by his shirtfront. Shaking his guest in an attempt to help straighten matters out in his head, Mr. Dawson pulled Darby's face in close.
"You answer me, boy."
"Yes, sir," Darby said, reluctantly.
"And how may I ask have you been paying for these supplies when you barely had enough to keep food in your own belly?"
"Wolf, he pays me. He pays me wages for my work."
"Wages? I thought you were working your jail time off. I thought he was working you to the bone...a regular slave, at least that's how you put it to me. A man who takes a bullwhip to a boy, doesn't strike me as the kind of man who pays free labor any wages." Mr. Dawson's face changed and Darby cringed at the look of disappointment that tinted the regions that normally held such pride.
"Boy, you're good. I've never known a kinder, gentler soul, and it's been a joy having you around, but you're a lying, little thief, aren't you?"
"I AIN'T NO THIEF!" Darby yelled, squeezing his hands tightly at his sides in utter frustration.
"Come with me, there's something I need you to do for me," was all Mr. Dawson said, as the small, frail elderly gentleman grabbed Darby in a surprisingly tight grip.
Stumbling along, Darby tried to bail out before the ship sunk, "I ain't no thief. These folks got money, Mr. Dawson. They don't know how hard it is for the folks, like you and me.... folks who don't. You deserve to eat better. I only take what's left over from people who have more than they could want for."
Coming upon the side of the hill, it wasn't until Mr. Dawson walked him behind some large boulders, that Darby saw the door. Mr. Dawson took some keys from his pocket, unlocked the door, and in one quick move pushed Darby into the darkened enclosure, slamming the door and locking it.
Darby fell to his knees, totally disoriented by the sudden darkness.
"Sorry, I had to be so rough, boy." Mr. Dawson's voice came through the door. "If you rise slowly and come towards my voice, touch the door, then walk your ways left along the wall. You should come to a worktable and there's a lantern there with some lucifers. You'll have light while you sit and wait for your Mr. Stoddard to come fetch you."
Darby rose slowly and did as he was told. Several moments later the lantern blazed alighting the spacious storage room. There were empty barrels set against one wall, old oil lamps neatly spaced on a shelf above them. The place looked like an old storage shelter for mining equipment. No picks or shovels, as faith would have it, nothing to help in his escape. A table sat in the middle of the room with an old chair next to it. Some crates lay scattered and toppled, haphazardly in the remaining space.
"I'm sorry I have to do this, boy, but it's for your own good. I need to set things straight in my head about your Mr. Stoddard, but I'd bet my life right now, he's the best thing to ever happen to you. I love you, boy, I love you like the grandson I never had, but I'll be damned if I'll let you thieve your way through life."
"I AIN'T NO THIEF. Mr. Dawson, PLEEEEEAAASE!" Realizing his cries had no affect upon his friend, he changed tactics.
"Mr. Dawson, sir, you been the best friend I've had here, you and Mrs. Deets and Miss Cassie. I don't know what I would have done, if you folks hadn't shown me your kindness. Made me feel right welcome most times. Wolf.... he’s not a man to fool with, sir. He's going to take leather to me, sir, and you'll be whipping me as surely as he is." Darby waited, cheek pressed up against the door, fingers crossed that his friend would be touched by his desperate pleas...not half as desperate in actuality, not quite yet.
"Darby, if I were younger, if my 'arTHORitus" didn't pain me so dearly, I'd be taking my razor strop to you myself. Guess you just won't be happy until you end up in Laramie or at the end of a rope. I saw that stunt you pulled at Brady's dance. I saw the man you claim to fear so much run to you like nothing else on earth mattered to him at that moment than saving your hide. I know well what you've been telling me, boy, and they're right fine stories to amuse. You got charm in your tellin, but I got eyes, boy, and my eyes don't deceive me." With that final statement, said in haughty disgust, Mr. Dawson turned and walked slowly back to his cabin.
When Wolf checked the campsite, he discovered that Falcon had taken one of the horses. Quickly grabbing a canteen, stuffing some beans and biscuits in a knapsack, he pulled the Winchester from under the wagon seat, mounted the other team horse, and followed the trail. They would have to come back for the wagon and personal belongings later. Time they could not afford to lose, but time Falcon would pay for with the skin on his back.
Falcon was a bayou boy. Most times that Wolf had seen him he was barefoot, with his pants rolled up, his shirt sleeves high over his elbows, his hair wild and unkempt. Except when in the refined company of his grandfather and mother, Falcon Landry was wind on water, a breeze of undetermined destination lost in his own bid for escape. Did such acumen of nature extend over all the land? Did a boy accustomed to the solitude of the swamps know how to handle himself in Texas? Wolf thought not and the next day, his suspicions proved right. Falcon Landry was a prism whose colors he had yet to see.
Huntsville, Texas, was a small town north of Houston, not a large city like New Orleans, the denizen long used to their own brands of justice, the life of the town emanated from the saloon. Riding down the center main street, as one-horse towns all had, Wolf saw the matching horse, saddleless, hitched in front of the swinging doors.
Dismounting, he pulled his hat low over his eyes, checked the holstered gun, and slowly passed the partial enclosure into the dark interior. He intended to leave with his prize, no matter what the good townsfolk thought.
The dim light of the saloon cooled the interior by a few degrees. In the far corner a piano player played. Five men occupied one table. They were chapped and weather-beaten. Wolf gauged them as cattlemen returning from a trip to Houston. The only other table was occupied by a gentleman in a frilled shirt and waistcoat...a professional gambler from the looks of him. Three other men sat at the table with him: two cowpokes in need of distraction after a long drive, and a wild-haired youth whose back was turned to Wolf. As the sun rose in the east, Wolf knew it was Falcon.
"Your deal, boy," the gambler said, passing the deck to the lad.
Falcon began his shuffle. Even from his position at the bar, Wolf could see the boy's quick hand and steady rhythm.
Suddenly, the gambler's hands slammed down on the deck of cards. "I'd bet my mother's life right now, boy, that the next card you deal yourself is an Ace of Spades. You been dealing from the bottom of the deck, every third card to yourself."
"You calling me a cheat?" the young voice tried to sound cocky and tough, but Wolf could hear the slim threads of uncertainty.
The other two men quickly rose and backed away. The cattlemen at the table set down their drinks, all eyes turned to the man and boy facing each other across the card table.
"Flip the card over, boy, let's see if I'm wrong." The gambler's voice was smooth, a professional. Wolf didn't doubt a derringer was nestled somewhere snuggly up his sleeve or in his coat pocket. Should Falcon prove hot-tempered, he would be dealt with succinctly and terminally.
Wolf moved quickly, positioning himself right behind Falcon's chair. The gambler's eyes shifted for one quick moment, acknowledging the threat. "Ain't no business of yours, mister."
"Boy's my business." Wolf used his silky voice. It was the voice that made most men stop dead in their tracks. Loud voices gave away fear, but the soft, gentle ones held enigmatic promises.
"He's cheating. Let him flip the card and we'll see." The gambler still kept his gaze riveted on Falcon.
"Flip it," Wolf said, so quietly only Falcon and the gambler heard.
"I ain't cheating, damn it," Falcon pushed up to rise. A strong hand pushed him roughly back down. Belligerently, he looked up at Wolf with hate brimming his eyes.
"Flip the card, Falcon. Now!"
Seeing no compliance, Wolf reached down and slowly flipped the card, his eyes never leaving the gambler's face. Then both men, as though concurring on the plan, slowly shifted to the Ace of Spades that now faced up in front of Falcon.
"He saw the card as I was dealing. Don't mean I was cheating," Falcon's voice lost some of its hostility and now sounded like a child's voice pleading and forlorn.
"We hang card cheats in this town," the bartender said. The huge man had been quiet and detached throughout the dealings, but Wolf now saw him standing with a shotgun.
"I'll deal with my kid brother," Wolf let the lie soak into their pores before he continued, "no one else touches him."
"Bear, man's right. A brother has a right to deal with his own kin. Boy's too young to hang anyway." Wolf looked up and met the eyes of the gray-haired cattleman. Wolf nodded his appreciation of the support.
"Seems you gents are forgetting that I was the one who was wronged. Me and these two other honest card players," the gambler said as he gracefully extended his hand to encompass the two frightened players now standing near the bar.
"How much has the boy won from you?" Wolf asked.
"Thirty dollars, the last pot, twenty before."
"Falcon, give him the money back."
"No, I won that...." Falcon's breath was snatched in mid-air as he was physically hauled out of the chair. Forcefully pushing him up against the wall with his left arm, Wolf still kept the gambler in his line of vision, expecting the most opposition from him, if any.
"Empty your pockets," Wolf said.
"No! I.."
Wolf backhanded the right side of Falcon's face, snapping his head sideways. Hating himself for the cruelty of the blow, he swallowed his self-contempt. These men needed to see the boy would be dealt with properly.
"Empty them."
Falcon didn't hesitate this time. He quickly pulled a roll of money from his pant pocket. He held out the money to Wolf, his lower lip quivering, head hung low.
Wolf took the money. He turned towards the gambler and counted out the fifty dollars. The remaining money he pushed into his own pocket, safekeeping for the long ride ahead.
"Now, the boy and I leave."
The gambler started to protest, but the older cattleman cut him off. "Take your brother and teach him right from wrong. If he were my kin, he'd be none-too fond of sitting for the next month."
"Thanks for the advise," Wolf said, grabbing Falcon's arm, taking him by surprise, he bent low and slung the boy across his shoulder. Falcon started kicking and pounding the broad back. Wolf brought his large hand sharply across the up-turned backside. The loud yelp brought a few laughs from the cattlemen and the gambler smiled. "Lay a few strokes on him for me." Then the saloon was filled with laughter and guffaws as the approving group urged Wolf on with his intentions.
Turning quickly, before a change of heart delayed him, he walked the boy out in long, determined strides. Slinging the struggling youth across his horse, he untied Falcon's ride and climbed up behind his package. Riding quickly out of Huntsville, one hand pinning the outraged boy down, he chose to put distance between the players.
Part 9 of Story Three