Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Henry came out the door of the Belle and pulled his coat closed as the chill dawn air hit him.
As he stood at the top of the steps leading down to Main Street, he glanced at the silver gleam of the sun easing up over the eastern peaks.
Above him, the sky ran from graveyard black to slate gray.
He breathed in the smell of snow in the crisp air and closed his eyes for a brief moment, allowing his senses to revel in the magnificence of being free.
A man didn’t know what he was missing in life until he was thrown into a hell hole like the Arapahoe County Jail.
No freedom to breathe fresh air. No scents of pine and flowers and the mountains and women.
No warming taste of whiskey on his tongue.
For six months, Henry’s companions had been only stinking, angry men.
His life had consisted of dusty backbreaking work, darkness, and the cold, inescapable chafing of leg irons on his ankles.
Now, he treasured the good smells and the laughter and the warm body of a woman next to him. Unlike those long, lonely months, he felt alive again.
Henry patted the pocket that held his poker winnings. He’d been losing early last night, and he’d been wise enough to ease up on his drinking, a decision that others at the table had not made. As a result, he’d won back what he lost and then some.
The sound of a glass breaking inside the saloon caused him to cast a quick, cautious look back at the door. He descended the steps. He didn’t want anyone sneaking up on him with the idea of getting back his money.
Elkhorn was quiet; the crunching of his boots was the only sound.
As he crossed, he kept a wary eye on a pair of miners huddled together against a storefront between two barrels.
Their hats were pulled down over their faces, their knees drawn up, and they had a horse blanket covering the two of them.
He’d seen them inside a few hours earlier, both of them losing heavily at the faro tables.
They never stirred, but Henry’s mind was drawn to two other fellas he’d run into in a fancy new saloon on the east side of Cherry Creek in Denver last winter. Those sons of bitches hadn’t even been playing cards at his table, but that hadn’t stopped them from jawing at him.
They were locals; Henry was an outsider. They were losing; Henry was winning. The liquor went down steadily; the pestering got louder.
Henry should have folded his hand, collected his winnings, and left when he had a chance. He knew nobody in that saloon and didn’t have a single person to watch his back. But the cards were falling his way, and he thought his luck was good.
When both got up and decided to jostle him as they passed, he kept his composure. But when they came back from the bar, trouble came with them. One intentionally spilled his drink on Henry while the other told everybody at the table what Henry was holding in his hand. That was it. He’d had enough.
All it took was him standing up, and the fight they were hunting for began.
Two on one, the battle was fast and ferocious.
The saloon had a policy of collecting guns as patrons walked in, so fists were what they had to work with.
Both men were large and tough and younger than Henry, but they hit the floor one after the other.
He could hear the circle of bystanders shouting encouragement to the pair.
Quickly, they were on their feet and at him again, but Henry’s fists put them back down.
Then, before the saloon management could get to them through the crowd, someone decided to escalate the excitement.
Henry barely saw the glint of the knife in time as a third one came at him.
Spinning, he arced a fist that landed like a hammer on the man’s ear, sending him flying.
Even with the noise, Henry heard the crack of his head on the edge of a table.
When he went down, his face bounced a couple of times on the floor.
That was the end. The saloon bouncer and a few more latched on to him.
When the law arrived, the two bastards swore Henry had started it, and their friends backed them. The third man lived, but six months was a hell of a price to pay for a fight that he hadn’t started.
But that was all behind him now. He was in Elkhorn.
Going past the jail and down the side street toward Malachi Rogers’s livery stable, Henry forced the dark thoughts from his mind.
He had money in his pocket, women he could find comfort with, and a ranch to call his own.
For a long time, trouble had been haunting his footsteps, but his fortunes were turning. Maybe.
Henry was close to the livery when he sensed a movement behind him.
He spun around, his hand on his pistol grip.
In the dim light, he stared at the animal crossing the road not thirty feet away.
It was a good-sized coyote with a rat the size of small pony dangling from his jaws.
The predator cast a sidelong glance at him and hurried into an alley across the way.
Headed for the wooded hills to enjoy his breakfast, apparently.
“Don’t offer me none,” he murmured. “Couldn’t eat a bite.”
Keeping his eye peeled for any other varmints—two legged or four—who might be lurking in the shadows, he accidentally banged into a stack of crates leaning into the lane, sending the top one crashing to the ground.
Before he could take another step, a small form materialized in front of him.
“Hey, Henry.”
The boy wasn’t wearing his usual battered hat with the bullet hole in the crown, and his red hair—looking darker in the dim dawn light—was standing up on end.
“Hey, Paddy.”
Paddy Byrne had been a twelve-year-old orphan, drifting west with a no-good brother, and heading to hell in a hurry when he crossed paths with Marlowe this past May. The young fella had gone looking for Caleb, who’d gunned down the brother during a rustling attempt at the ranch.
Wiry and tough and smart as a street dog, the boy had been living ever since with the livery owner’s family and working for his keep.
Henry never met the brother, but he was certain this urchin was cut from entirely different cloth.
Paddy had a sharp tongue that he wasn’t shy about using, but he was basically a good lad.
He and Gabe Rogers came out to the ranch quite often, and Henry saw him nearly every time he came into town for a night at the Belle.
One thing he knew, the boy’s time with the Rogers family was definitely improving him, even if it wasn’t doing much to curb the smart-assed remarks he regularly directed Henry’s way.
“I’ll go get your horse.”
The greeting told Henry that something was wrong. Paddy's words didn't carry that chipper note they usually did.
“Wait a minute. How come you’re minding the store this early? Where’s Gabe and his pa?”
“They’re getting something to eat before taking a couple of wagons up to the logging camp.”
“They trust you to handle things here. You’re learning.”
“I guess.” Paddy shrugged and kept his eyes down. “Want your horse or not?”
“Matter of fact, I do, young fella.”
“I’ll saddle him up and bring him out for you.”
Henry watched Paddy go, his steps dragging. He wondered what was wrong. Twelve years of age had its challenges for a boy. The recollections of his own childhood stirred in him. Back in Wyoming, the buffalo was on the move this time of the year. A busy time for everyone.
He felt like he barely had time to blink before the boy was back, leading the bay gelding out, all saddled and ready.
“Here you go,” Paddy said.
Henry couldn’t let that dog lie. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Why you asking?”
“Cuz you ain’t flapping your tongue this morning like you always do. Asking a hundred questions.”
The boy shrugged. “How’s things out at the ranch?”
“Marlowe’s gonna have me building the Hanging Gardens of Babylon before we’re done, but it’s going fine.” He took a breath and forced himself to look hard at the young fella. “What’s the long puss for, Paddy? You look like you just lost your pet rat. Cuz if you do, I know where he went.”
“I ain’t got no pet rat, Henry.”
“Come on. Out with it. Ain’t we friends?”
The shrug again. “I guess.”
Henry put a hand on Paddy’s shoulder. “Come on. What is it?”
“Nothing.”
Henry didn’t believe it. “If it’s something I can help with, you know I will.”
Damned if a tear didn’t run down the boy’s cheek, but he dashed it away like it was a thirteen-legged spider.
“Paddy?”
“I heard something that I wasn’t supposed to be hearing.”
“What did you hear?”
“Don’t think I oughta repeat it.”
There was no guessing what Paddy was hiding. Between working in the livery and running around Elkhorn with Gabe, he could have overheard plenty of conversations.
“Do you think you’ll get in trouble if you tell me about it?”
Paddy shook his head. “Not trouble.”
“Then out with it.”
He kicked the dirt couple of more times before starting to talk. “Gabe’s two cousins are coming out from Memphis. Their folks died from some big fever, so there’s no other place for ’em.”
Henry had heard all about the yellow fever epidemic when he was in jail in Denver. New Orleans had been hit so hard, they called out the army to keep folks from traveling anywhere. But it still spread up and down the Mississippi. Memphis had thousands of people die of it.
“So what’s that got to do with you?”
“I can count. With two more in the family, there ain’t no room for me.”
“Did Mr. or Miz Rogers say something?”
“No. They don’t have to.” Paddy scuffed a boot in the dirt. “Besides, they was only s’posed to be keeping me for a while.”
The way Henry heard the story, Caleb felt responsible for the boy. And there was some talk at the start that maybe someday Paddy would move out to the ranch. But nothing was set in stone.
“Maybe I oughta talk to Marlowe about it.”
“You can’t.” Anguish crept into the boy’s voice. “The Rogers been good to me. I don’t want Mr. Marlowe blaming them for nothing. Also, I earn my keep. I don’t want no charity from you or Mr. Marlowe or anyone.”
Henry tried to think what the right thing was to say. Malachi Rogers and his wife were good people, and he had no doubt they wouldn’t put Paddy out on the street. At the same time, he understood why the twelve-year-old would be worried about what might become of him.
“Then you talk to Marlowe,” he suggested. “We’re almost done with the barn. We got room for you.”
The boy shrugged, uncertain.
“You know who else would tell you to stop fretting?” Henry asked.
Paddy looked up. “Who?”
“Miss Belle.”
The boy rolled his eyes. “She tells everybody to stop fretting.”
“That’s because everybody does too much of it.”
Paddy managed the ghost of a smile.
From what he had heard, the Belle's owner had taken a shine to the boy months ago.
Every time Henry saw the two of them together, she was slipping him an extra biscuit, a piece of pie, or some bit of advice he probably didn't want to hear.
Belle had a way of collecting strays—dogs, children, and occasionally grown men who ought to know better.
“What would she say to me?” Paddy asked.
Henry snorted. “Probably that you're borrowing trouble before it arrives.”
“And if the trouble does arrive?”
“Then she'd feed it supper and tell it to stop being foolish.”
That earned a genuine laugh from the boy.
“Maybe I will talk to Mr. Marlowe. But I need to sort out how to ask.” There was a glint in Paddy’s eyes as he looked up. “Reckon you’re good for something after all, Henry.”
He punched Paddy lightly on the arm. “When are they coming? The cousins, I mean.”
“Next couple of months, I guess.”
“Well, that gives you some time to sort things out.”
“Promise me that you won’t say nothing to Mr. Marlowe.”
Henry nodded slowly. “I won’t say nothing for now.”
“You promise?”
“Hell, Paddy, after the brandy I drank last night, I’ll be lucky if I can find my way out to the ranch, never mind remember this conversation.”