Chapter 3
Boone
“Boss says no tribal men on company payroll.”
“Let him stand here and tell me that hisself,” I spit, tightening my fists as one of Hollister’s men stares over my shoulder at Okee.
Can’t see without eyes in the back of my head, but I’d wager Okee don’t give this bastard the satisfaction of a flinch.
Just that cold, unyielding look, hard as stone.
Man could win a staring contest with a corpse.
“He’s a veteran,” I say. “Spilled blood for this land.”
“I don’t make the rules.”
We’d made it back west to Fort Gibson where a wagon with “Hollister & Co. Timber” painted on the side sits at the riverbank landing on the Verdigris under a large cottonwood tree.
Beside it, a canvas tent with a crude wooden table is crowded with men—thirty or so—with a guard barking names for various jobs.
We’re here for a job they ain’t shouting about.
One whispered under a cryptic name: God’s Land. But the cute name don’t really mean squat. Even if Hollister wants his men to believe it does, there’s nothing holy about it. Spent enough years fighting wars to know high-up men put sweet names to ugly things to make you feel better about doing them.
The white canvas glows with the gold light of dusk. On the ground rests a pile of clean axes and saws. So-called lumber jobs, but ain’t a man here in sight with a tool on him beside a pistol or a blade.
“Let me talk to Hollister, then.”
“Hollister don’t meet with pissants.”
I don’t give a shit if Hollister owns the whole damn camp—that gets the heel of my hand settling on my iron, teeth clenched as the sting crawls up my throat.
I know there ain’t a damn thing fair in this world, and I can put up with my share of bullshit, but hell if my blood don’t boil when someone treats Okee like that.
He looks away and waves the next man forward like I ain’t worth the trouble. Last thing I want is to spend February burning fence posts for heat and chewing leather.
The flyer promised cash: half up-front, half after.
I try again. “Come on. General Grant ain’t hauled us through four years of hell so some clerk with a borrowed rifle could tell me who counts as American.”
The guard squints past me at Okee, sizing him up.
“Hell,” he mutters. “Don’t even know if he understands English. Is he stupid or mute?”
Before I can blink, Okee replies, voice flat and half bored.
“I understand fine. English, Creek, a little French besides. Trouble is, you haven’t said anything worth the breath to answer. I’m not in the habit of entertaining fools.”
The man straightens up, a flash of something wild and touched in his eyes. “Say that again, boy?”
Okee don’t flinch. Just says, “Looks like you’re the one with understanding troubles.”
I love seeing Okee bite back, and I can’t stifle my laugh before I add, “Dumb son of a bitch couldn’t pour piss out a boot if the instructions were nailed to the heel,” I say.
That earns a rare grin from Okee—full-teeth, bright as summer sun—and damn if that don’t drag a smile outta me too. Gets Hollister’s own men chuckling. Heads turn down the line.
Then I see the foreman stand.
Shit.
The line parts, men clearing space as he cuts a path straight for us.
“Problem here, boys?” he asks.
“Told ’em we don’t hire tribal folk,” the guard says, rubbing his elbows like that’s where my jab landed.
The foreman jerks his chin at me. “You serve with the Blue Ridge company?”
“Yes, sir,” I answer, squaring my shoulders. “Name’s Boone Maddox. This here’s Okee Collins.”
The foreman studies me a moment longer, then shifts his gaze to Okee. Looking him up and down, he looks to be measuring something—maybe his height, the breadth of his brawny shoulders.
“I’ll be damned. You’re the Aces, ain’t you? Thought you boys were dead.”
Haven’t heard that name in a spell.
Colonel stuck it on us back in ’64, outside Pea Ridge. Rebs damn near rolled our right flank. Okee and I held the gap. Picked our shots and bought the company time. Colonel rode by after and said, “Looks like I was holding a pair of aces.”
Fool name stuck tighter than a tick, much to my regret. Right childish. But if this hiring man ain’t meaning harm, I’ll let it ride. Might be that sorry nickname proves useful yet.
“Yes, sir. Blue Ridge company. Forty-first Kansas.”
The foreman turns to the guard. “Put ’em both on. If Everett’s got a problem with it, he can talk to me.”
The guard hesitates, but he knows better than to argue.
“Yes, sir.”
I flash the guard a smile and am met with a cold look.
Might pay for it later but damn, don’t it feel good to win.
We shuffle off through the line of would-be thugs looking for the kind of work that rewards a man’s taste for violence.
Ain’t no lumberjacks here. Clear enough what’s really needed without no permits posted, taking to the woods at night.
“Reckon we ought to celebrate with a drink.”
“No. I need you sharp,” Okee says. “I don’t trust these bastards.”
“Me neither,” I mutter as we move off from the line. Men watch us go. Hard looks, assessing, like they’re already adding up what we’re worth.
Okee glances back toward the tent. “How did you come to hear tell of this job?”
I huff out a breath. “Flyer. Nailed up outside the feed store. Ain’t known it was Hollister’s doing till we showed up.”
“Of course Hollister would not want folks to know his payroll is rife with hired guns,” Okee says, keeping his voice low as we cut through camp.
“If we’re here to chase off surveyors, I’d surmise whatever tract we’re working isn’t even his timber to cut.
” A sharp breeze cuts through and he tightens his coat.
He doesn’t say anything after that. Just keeps walking, letting the thought hang between us.
“Pays good,” I say at last, because somebody’s gotta speak and it might as well be me.
Okee snorts. “It pays well because the risk is considerable. These are government men we’re running off.”
Then it dawns on me. “You think your daddy might be out in these parts?”
He shakes his head. “My mother’s last letter said he’s in Okmulgee. Something about brokering a unified territory.”
I chew on that a minute. “Well, ain’t nothing to worry about, no how. If we hang, Hollister hangs with us, and every man he’s hired. They know that. Means no survivors on the other side, neither. Clean job, or none at all.”
“Let us hope.” Then he falls quiet again, the silence thick as the bacon grease smoke drifts off the cook fires. I can see a stack of fried chickens from here. I clear my throat.
“You hungry?” I ask. “Or you wanna go in starvin’ as well as sober as a priest?”
Okee walks a few more steps before he answers, his long hair blowing in the wind, black as crow feathers. Then he slows, just enough for me to catch it.
“Yes,” he says. “We eat.”
We angle toward the cook fire, the smell of charred meat tugging hard at my gut. Been a while since my last proper meal. Spent the morning on the trail out of Fort Smith, then caught a brief spell of rest before we rode into Hollister’s camp.
Dusk is already settling in. The river darkens, the tree line swallowing what little light’s left. Men finish their meals quick, checking blades, loading rifles. Nobody’s talking much now.
We get in the chicken line and split a hen. A deputy sits two tables down, star pinned to his vest, laughing with Hollister’s men like they’re kin.
Figures. The law ain’t out here to keep the peace. They’re here to handle the trouble quiet.
Tables and benches are set up outside a row of food vendors. My mouth’s watering as we sit, eager for a proper meal.
“In the morning we can stock up. Thinking about headin’ west. Maybe we can spend Christmas in the Rockies again this year.”
Okee chews and shrugs like it don’t matter either way. He’s easygoing like that, letting me set the course. He don’t speak.
“Well don’t strain yourself with all that chatter, honey. Might bite your tongue clean off.”
He raises an eyebrow at the term of endearment, head sweeping around to see who might’ve heard.
I smirk at that. His plump bottom lip is glistening with chicken grease, red like it’s been worked over. There’s a hint of a smile there before he finishes, wipes his mouth with his sleeve and grunts, “Fine by me.”
Tearing into the hen with my teeth, hot drippings run down my fingers. The meat’s tender, skin crisp, and the taste hits me like a long-overdue reward after weeks of hardtack and beans. Across the plank table, Okee’s doing the same—ripping, chewing, not bothering with manners. Nobody out here does.
That lip of his stays slick, wetter every time he licks it clean. Makes his mouth look too damn soft. I can’t pull my eyes off it.
He catches me staring once. Don’t say a word, just breaks our gaze and drags the back of his hand across his chin, smearing it instead of wiping it away.
My blood’s running hotter than the cook fire behind us.
I shift on the bench, clear my throat. “Rockies’ll be snowed in deep by Christmas. Good trappin’, though. Quiet.”
He grunts again, tears off another strip of breast meat, sucks the juices from his thumb. “Quiet’s good.”
The light’s near gone now. Lanterns start flickering on up and down the row of wagons and tents. Men drift away from the tables, plates scraped clean, faces hard again. The easy moment of supper fades, quick as it came.
Okee finishes first, tosses the bones into the fire barrel, stands and stretches.
He straightens slow, rolling his broad shoulders back, and as he raises his arms overhead the tail of his work shirt pulls free from his belt.
A strip of skin shows—flat, hard belly ridged with muscle, dusted faintly with dark hair that teases down beneath the waistband.
The firelight licks across it, warm and golden.
He holds the stretch a heartbeat longer than he needs to, like he knows exactly where my eyes have gone, then lets the shirt drop back into place.
My cock thickens quick against the seam of my trousers, straining enough that I have to shift my weight on the bench to hide it. Daggum tease.
He turns to me, firelight catching the sharp line of his cheekbone, the faint sheen still clinging to the corner of his mouth where the grease hasn’t quite been wiped away.
I want to reach over and thumb it away myself, but I don’t. Not here. Not with fifty hard men milling around, sharpening steel and checking gunpowder.
“Ready?” he asks.
My blood’s pounding too loud in my ears. One wrong move and there’ll be no hiding the tent in my trousers. I stay seated a second longer, pretending to scrape the last bit of meat from a bone I’ve already picked clean.
He turns toward the horses, giving me his back and the space to pull myself together.
But even the way he walks—easy stride, shirt still half untucked, hips rolling just enough under worn denim—keeps the heat coiled tight in my gut.
I drag in a slow breath of cool night air, willing my body to settle.
Once it does, I stand too, pitch my own bones into the flames. Side by side we walk back toward the horses. Darkness falls quick and full. Lanterns dim. The river’s just a black streak now, the trees a solid wall of nothing.
Time to go to work.
No survivors on the other side.
Clean job, or none at all.