from me, you ride for the brand. From now on Preston deals with the woman, and you stay away from her. What’s more, I’m taking the cost of the wood out of your pay.”
One last swallow emptied his glass. Cal turned it in his hand a moment as if giving the matter serious thought. “That sounds fair,” he said finally. “Maybe I’m wrong and Preston can convince her.”
No one waited for him outside this time. Howling wind drove icy flakes of snow against his face like flying needles. As soon as the weather cleared, he’d discuss Norah Hawkins and the price of wood with Van Cleve in more detail.
T HE WIND RAGED, driving sleet and snow before it on and off for days. Cal walked out of the bunkhouse on the first clear morning and looked over the landscape with a critical eye. Bright sun had already melted away shallow snow cover in open areas scoured by the wind. Another day or two like this, and even the deepest drifts would be gone.
After filling his belly with V Bar C breakfast, Cal left the rest of the crew discussing the day’s work over a last cup of coffee, packed what little he had brought with him in his bedroll and saddlebags and caught up his horse.
He rode far enough down the ranch road to be out of sight of anyone watching, then swung around behind the house and left his horse in heavy brush. As he’d expected on a big house like Van Cleve’s, there was a back door. Locked. A little broken glass took care of that.
A small brown woman wearing a white cap and apron over a black dress was serving Van Cleve, his wife, a girl maybe five and boy a couple years older breakfast in a sunny room not far from the back door. Cal had heard about the children, but they were kept away from Preston’s men so well, he’d never seen them before.
“I need to talk to your husband, ma’am,” Cal said, nodding to Mrs. Van Cleve. “Why don’t you and your friend there take those children for a walk.”
Mrs. Van Cleve showed signs of being the fainting kind, but the maid was made of sterner stuff. The little woman had both her employer’s wife and the children gone from the room in less than a minute. Whatever Van Cleve paid her, he ought to double it.
As soon as the door closed behind the women, Van Cleve jumped to his feet.
“Who do you think you are coming in here like this? Get the hell out of here right now, and I won’t have Preston shoot you as you leave.”
Cal smiled at the little man as he headed for him. Van Cleve held up his hands. “I’m not heeled. You can’t shoot an unarmed man.”
“So that hideout gun in your coat doesn’t count? I’m glad to hear it. I’m not shooting you. I’m explaining something to you.”
Cal snaked a hand inside Van Cleve’s jacket, relieved him of the hidden pistol, and threw it through the nearest window. The sound of breaking glass and rush of cold air gave him considerable satisfaction.
“I not only gave Norah Hawkins a load of firewood. I gave her maybe a tenth of the food and supplies Preston and his men stole from her husband when they killed him. I figure you owe her. Now since you want me to pay, I’ll pay. You keep the wages I’ve got coming, and we’re even, but I want a receipt, so let’s go get one.”
Hoisting Van Cleve high enough only his toes reached the ground, Cal pushed him down the hall to his study. The choking noises the man made couldn’t have anything to do with an arm hard around his neck, so Cal ignored the sounds while he yanked open one drawer after another until he found pen, paper, and ink.
“Now, you sit here and write out that I paid for one wagon load of firewood and one wagon load of provisions and delivered it to Norah Hawkins, and you authorized it all. Date it last month.”
“You can’t make me write that.”
“Sure I can.” Cal grabbed an ear and twisted. When Van Cleve’s yell changed to a scream, Cal let go and put the pen in the man’s hand. Van Cleve wrote.
Once he had the paper tucked in a
One last swallow emptied his glass. Cal turned it in his hand a moment as if giving the matter serious thought. “That sounds fair,” he said finally. “Maybe I’m wrong and Preston can convince her.”
No one waited for him outside this time. Howling wind drove icy flakes of snow against his face like flying needles. As soon as the weather cleared, he’d discuss Norah Hawkins and the price of wood with Van Cleve in more detail.
T HE WIND RAGED, driving sleet and snow before it on and off for days. Cal walked out of the bunkhouse on the first clear morning and looked over the landscape with a critical eye. Bright sun had already melted away shallow snow cover in open areas scoured by the wind. Another day or two like this, and even the deepest drifts would be gone.
After filling his belly with V Bar C breakfast, Cal left the rest of the crew discussing the day’s work over a last cup of coffee, packed what little he had brought with him in his bedroll and saddlebags and caught up his horse.
He rode far enough down the ranch road to be out of sight of anyone watching, then swung around behind the house and left his horse in heavy brush. As he’d expected on a big house like Van Cleve’s, there was a back door. Locked. A little broken glass took care of that.
A small brown woman wearing a white cap and apron over a black dress was serving Van Cleve, his wife, a girl maybe five and boy a couple years older breakfast in a sunny room not far from the back door. Cal had heard about the children, but they were kept away from Preston’s men so well, he’d never seen them before.
“I need to talk to your husband, ma’am,” Cal said, nodding to Mrs. Van Cleve. “Why don’t you and your friend there take those children for a walk.”
Mrs. Van Cleve showed signs of being the fainting kind, but the maid was made of sterner stuff. The little woman had both her employer’s wife and the children gone from the room in less than a minute. Whatever Van Cleve paid her, he ought to double it.
As soon as the door closed behind the women, Van Cleve jumped to his feet.
“Who do you think you are coming in here like this? Get the hell out of here right now, and I won’t have Preston shoot you as you leave.”
Cal smiled at the little man as he headed for him. Van Cleve held up his hands. “I’m not heeled. You can’t shoot an unarmed man.”
“So that hideout gun in your coat doesn’t count? I’m glad to hear it. I’m not shooting you. I’m explaining something to you.”
Cal snaked a hand inside Van Cleve’s jacket, relieved him of the hidden pistol, and threw it through the nearest window. The sound of breaking glass and rush of cold air gave him considerable satisfaction.
“I not only gave Norah Hawkins a load of firewood. I gave her maybe a tenth of the food and supplies Preston and his men stole from her husband when they killed him. I figure you owe her. Now since you want me to pay, I’ll pay. You keep the wages I’ve got coming, and we’re even, but I want a receipt, so let’s go get one.”
Hoisting Van Cleve high enough only his toes reached the ground, Cal pushed him down the hall to his study. The choking noises the man made couldn’t have anything to do with an arm hard around his neck, so Cal ignored the sounds while he yanked open one drawer after another until he found pen, paper, and ink.
“Now, you sit here and write out that I paid for one wagon load of firewood and one wagon load of provisions and delivered it to Norah Hawkins, and you authorized it all. Date it last month.”
“You can’t make me write that.”
“Sure I can.” Cal grabbed an ear and twisted. When Van Cleve’s yell changed to a scream, Cal let go and put the pen in the man’s hand. Van Cleve wrote.
Once he had the paper tucked in a
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