Chapter 8 #2
This boy was lost and hurting. But he was facing the same thing that a lot of young folks faced. People lost their kin. Found themselves with nothing. Their dreams shattered. A lot of them, like this waif standing here with a gun in his shaking hand, would cling to the edge of a cliff.
Paddy was at a fork in the road. He had good sense. Caleb wanted to give him the chance to use it. It would make all the difference.
He looked hard into the boy’s face. “All folks make mistakes. But if they learn from them, they’re better for it. Is that gonna be you, Paddy? Is this a mistake? Or do you still think you need to do for me?”
“I don’t wanna shoot nobody. But what am I gonna do?” he wailed. The gun dropped to his side. “I got no kin left. No place to go. I got nothing. And Billy’s gone.”
The words hit Caleb harder than they should have. Because once upon a time, he’d felt exactly the same things.
Just then, a gate creaked open in the fenced enclosure outside, and the voices of Gabriel and his father could be heard.
When the boy turned his head, Caleb stepped toward him and took the pistol from his hand. Paddy gave it up willingly.
As he decocked the hammer of the Dragoon and slid the weapon into the pocket of his coat, he saw that the baling hook lay on the ground. Dusty was just disappearing through the doors to the street and moving faster than a cougar with his tail on fire.
Malachi Rogers and his son came into the stable, and the livery owner smiled in recognition.
“Gabriel told me you had some trouble out at your place last night. We’re keeping those fellows’ horses and saddles here for the time being.” He glanced at Caleb’s ragged companion. “Brought a friend along, Mr. Marlowe?”
The elder Rogers was a sharp-eyed, dark-skinned man of medium height with the broad shoulders and massive arms of a man who’d put in his years muscling livestock and hammering hot iron into horseshoes and other necessities.
He was wearing a well-brushed black stovepipe hat and a gray wool coat over a black waistcoat and black cotton shirt, open at the neck.
He’d retired his pants with the army stripes down the side a few months ago—a nod to his increasing prosperity—and wore heavy wool pants of a darker gray tucked into well-worn boots.
Malachi Rogers was a former Buffalo Soldier.
When Caleb first brought his horse in to be boarded, he spotted the blue cap of the 9th Cavalry hanging from a nail above the desk in the livery office.
When the man noticed him eyeing it, they had a short but interesting conversation about the Indian Wars.
Malachi had served as a corporal in a unit stationed at Fort Stockton.
While he was there, he’d seen more action than he cared to remember.
When his regiment was sent to Fort Union in New Mexico in ’75, he’d decided it was time to hang up his spurs and settle in Colorado.
At the time, Elkhorn was little more than a ragtag community of tents, log cabins, and knee-deep mud.
The son of a blacksmith himself, Malachi knew his trade, and the fledgling town needed him.
“We’re a new acquaintance,” Caleb replied somberly, putting one hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Lost his brother last night.”
The stable owner’s eyes widened as the meaning sank in. He nodded, a frown creasing his face. “So what now?”
“That’s what we were just chewing over.”
Malachi glanced at his son and then back at Paddy. “You got any place to sleep, young fella?”
Paddy shook his head.
“Well, there’s room in that loft. You’ll be warm and snug up there.” He and Caleb exchanged glances. “When’s the last time you ate?”
A shrug.
“If that means you can’t recall, it’s been too long,” the stable owner said. “Gabriel and me are about to go in for our noon dinner. I’m sure Mrs. Rogers has enough for another. How does that sound to you?”
“Much obliged, sir,” Paddy murmured.
“Look at that, Mr. Marlowe. Manners and all. If your friend could bring himself to scrape some of that dirt off his face and hands, I think Mrs. Rogers will be well pleased having him at our table.”
This was working out better than Caleb hoped.
Better than most things in life generally did.
He addressed Malachi and his son. “I need to go out of town. I can’t say for sure how long. Think you could spare Gabe for a few days to watch over things at my ranch and take care of Bear? I’ll pay him same as last time.”
Gabriel tried to suppress his excitement, unsuccessfully. Malachi looked doubtful.
“If you’re worried about trouble,” Caleb said with a quick side look at Paddy. “After last night, I don’t think any fellas will be going out there anytime soon.”
Gabe’s father put a big, callused hand on his son’s shoulder. “Who’s gonna help me in the livery? We got a shipment of oats coming tomorrow and a full stable of horses to tend to.”
“I can work the stable,” Paddy chirped up. “I know horses good. And…and I owe you.”
Malachi Rogers thought about it for a moment. “Then I guess that’ll work out.”
Ten minutes later, after smoothing out the details, Caleb mounted his horse in front of the livery.
Paddy had taken off his hat to wash his face and hands.
Having handed over the reins, the boy stood patting the buckskin’s neck.
For the first time, with his ginger-colored hair slicked down and darkened by the water, he looked his age.
“When I get back, maybe we can set and talk about the future. I’m gonna need help on the ranch, at least until my partner gets here.”
As Caleb rode out, Paddy’s bright face stayed with him. He wasn’t too sure why he’d said that. Taking on responsibility for a kid was no small thing. And, considering his own upbringing, he had no example to look to as far as how it should be done. Even so, someone had to step up for this boy.
He thought about how many street rats he’d seen in his travels. Towns seemed to breed them.
Besides, maybe that was part of building a home too. Not just land and cattle and fences. Maybe it was deciding a lost kid didn’t have to stay lost forever.