Chapter 30
Ben gripped the worn railing of the Weatherford stockyard fence and hung his head.
Forty-five longhorns out of three hundred and fifty.
That’s all he had left to call his own. The realization had dropped him to his knees in the mire of the mud flats as he’d gazed in horror at the gut-wrenching scene eight days ago.
If only he could stuff cotton in his ears and block out the moos.
That might work here for the cattle in front of him, but nothing could suppress the moans that haunted him from the night at the pond and the day after.
Dead cattle. Bellies bloated. Not all of the casualties had been from the water.
There were also the ones who’d severely injured a leg or two in the mad dash down the slope and lay lame, unable to walk.
Ben and his crew had dealt bullets of mercy as the only option.
They’d been left with more meat than a cowboy could carry or preserve. A waste. Wasted effort, wasted funds, wasted hopes and dreams.
He’d sent a pack mule loaded with meat along with Juan who trailed Eagle Ed behind his horse on a travois—payment to the trader five miles down the Pecos who agreed to take Ed in.
Perhaps the trader’s Kiowa wife would be able to nurse Ed back to health.
Legs crushed by stampeding hooves, Ed would likely never walk again.
Ben scrubbed his hand down his face. He’d given Dan charge of ten cattle for Ed and a longhorn each for him and Juan. He’d paid Devon and Morning Fawn five and given one to the man from Ramsey’s place. A man paid with what he had when his pockets were empty.
Ben’s shoulders sank. He should have never started on the drive with only Ed to guide him. He should have waited for Goodnight to return, taken a gamble that the rancher would make a drive before fall. He should have…
Laudanum. The whisper sent a shiver through him.
His mouth watered. He’d been fighting it for ten days, the itch under his skin that crawled up his spine and pulsed in his brain.
If he could only have a taste, just a taste, it’d ease the misery, pull him out of the pit, for just an hour or two, but that would be enough.
No. He curled his hands into fists. The rail wobbled as he pushed away from the corral. Plumes of dust rose as a wagon rattled by on the nearby road. One way led past the tannery and out of town, the other into the center of Weatherford.
When the livery stable owner and the stockyard manager had inquired about what happened on the trail, Ben shook his head. “Don’t ask.” If he were smart, he’d slip out of town, ride out to the ranch, and face Cora. How was he even going to begin to tell her how miserably he’d failed?
Money jingled in his pocket, payment for the cow he’d sold to the stockyard manager.
Funds for living on. He needed to see Miller and reassure the man he’d be paid, before the rumors started to spread.
His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.
He’d need to save enough cash to pay his way back East. How else could he hope to provide for Cora and Charlie, and keep his word to Jeb?
He wasn’t a rancher. The remnant of forty-five longhorns he’d brought back to the stockyard for Cora would only go so far.
The mid-July sun beat down on his grime-covered clothes.
If he had money to spare, he’d pay for a bath and a shave, clean himself up so he’d look halfway respectable when he showed up at Cora’s to deliver the news.
When he got to the ranch, he wouldn’t even go into the house.
He’d tell Cora outside, then drag himself to the stable loft.
He’d not sit through a meal with her beneath the weight of her disappointment in him.
Hands in his pockets, he trudged down the main street past a scattering of log and frame structures.
He’d find a water pump, wash up there, and maybe take a meal at the café to bolster his strength.
For two weeks, his rations had tasted like sawdust, and his stomach had cinched up tighter than a prune.
He hung his head, barely tipping his hat to the passersby.
The town square lay up ahead a few blocks with its two-story brick courthouse in the center.
Ben halted at the intersection by the clothiers.
A buggy rumbled past on the side street, and a cargo wagon loaded with crates headed onto the main road.
His gaze drifted to the slender green building.
Every hair on his arms stood on end. The druggist. He couldn’t swallow.
Just one little taste. A spoonful. Would it really do that much harm?
Sweat broke out on the back of his neck and his forehead. His feet turned down the side street. He’d stroll past. He wouldn’t stop. Passing a barbershop, a two-story wooden structure with no sign, and more, Ben walked on toward the well at the end of the street.
Hat off and hands trembling, he cranked the bucket up and doused his head. Water ran onto his shirt, streaking through the embedded dirt and grime. Rinsing his neckerchief in another bucket, he washed his face, neck, and hands, then ran his fingers through his hair, before donning his hat.
Finished, he gripped the stone wall of the well.
God help me. The tremble had spread from his insides to his core.
He needed laudanum. His skull throbbed. He should go through the alley, cut over to the next side street and get back to Main that way.
With a shudder, he started that direction, walked past a trash heap and a stray cat.
Waste water ran through a ditch, headed for the town run.
His feet halted. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t make it back to Pennsylvania without it.
How many times had he prayed and asked the Lord to take away the hunger, the cravings?
He’d prayed until his knees were stiff and his fingers numb.
And still, it persisted. No answers. No healing.
And why had the Lord allowed him to lose the cattle, all that he had left of his early inheritance money?
He scrubbed his hands over his jaw. No. He wouldn’t lay the cattle at the Lord’s feet. That had been his haste and gamble, his doing. But still… if only the Lord would scrub his heart, make it clean. Hadn’t He done as much for David?
Ben kicked a tin can back into the heap.
“You lost, mister?”
He turned. He hadn’t heard the woman approach.
Her gown hung off her shoulder. A smudge of dirt here and there marred the green silk.
Rouge covered her cheeks, matching her bright red lips.
“You just ride into town? I saw you washing by the well. I got a bath at my place if you want to get cleaned up.” She smiled and touched a finger to his sleeve.
“No, thank you, ma’am.” He pushed her hand away and pivoted toward the street, double-quick.
“I ain’t no ma’am,” she called after him.
He didn’t turn around.
The green building loomed large as he neared the corner. His stomach clenched like a claw striving for its last morsel of sustenance…
What if he bought the smallest bottle they offered?
Just in case he needed it for his travels.
He wouldn’t touch a drop until he got on the stagecoach.
If he got on the stagecoach. How could he not if he had any hope of earning real money?
He paced in front of the establishment for a full fifteen minutes before he went in.
The small glass bottle pressed against Ben’s thigh through his thin trouser pocket, burning his conscience like a red-hot poker.
His feet dragged along as he strode past the Weatherford town square and beyond.
What in the world was he thinking? He should go back to the druggist, throw it on the counter, and ask for his money back.
He sniffed. Fresh-baked bread. Chicken. Probably baked.
The scents drifting from the café rumbled his empty belly.
He should eat something, bolster his strength, and then see if he could bring himself to go back by the druggist before he headed out to the ranch.
A bowl of soup would end this rawness in his stomach.
But what of the rawness in his soul? Cora might in time regain respect for him if he worked hard in Pennsylvania and proved himself an able provider, despite the horrendous loss of the cattle. But if he followed through on what was in his pocket, he might as well say goodbye to her forever.
Voices buzzed beneath the canvas-topped outdoor seating. One sounded familiar. A railing separated the diners from the street. A waitress emerged from the log cabin kitchen with a tray of steaming dishes. She worked her way between the small tables.
Ben’s heart constricted.
Cora sat with Arthur LeBeau, chatting away. Her braid hung down her back, but loose strands framed her face beneath her finest straw hat. LeBeau smiled and played with his fork, oblivious to anything but the lady before him.
Ben clenched his jaw. Cora had promised to end any notion LeBeau had of courting her.
And here she was enjoying the man’s company.
How many times had she seen the doctor in the six weeks Ben had been gone?
Had she allowed the man to call at the house and sit in the parlor visiting as if she and Ben had never spoken words of affection to each other?
Ben had declared his love, and she’d hinted at her own for him.
Their kiss had stirred him from the crown of his head to his toes.
And here she was, sparking with this puffed-up toad, as if she didn’t have a care in the world.
Heart thumping like a locomotive in his ears, Ben strode into the café, shoved a chair out of his way, and marched to their table.
Cora startled. “Ben? What…when? I thought you were—”
“Away? In New Mexico? Colorado?” He shifted his gaze from her to the scoundrel.
LeBeau pursed his lips, but he wasn’t man enough to tame the weasel smile that broke through. “Afternoon, McKenzie.” His eyes gleamed as if Robert E. Lee had been elected president.