Riding the Timberline Page 3

  ‘I see horses over there,’ Cass called out as they entered the valley proper. She looked closer and saw the animals were behind a pole fence that kept them secure.

  ‘They’re mine,’ he said simply. ‘I catch them and tame ’em down for sale.’

  ‘You have a horse ranch?’

  Tyrell chuckled. ‘Hardly big enough to call it that. Not yet anyhows. Takes time to build an outfit.’

  ‘I love horses,’ she said. A simple admission but genuine.

  He had become aware of the way she had responded to the roan, and the likewise way the canny mount had sensed her feelings. Horses had an inbred selectivity when it came to people. They knew those who were sincere. Who could be trusted, and they returned that trust.

  ‘They’re smarter than cattle,’ he said. ‘And the smell isn’t so bad.’

  The sun had cleared from the last scraps of cloud the storm had left behind and it warmed the land. In the wake of the rain the greenery seemed to explode with new life. Rich and bright, with the differently hued trees making a contrast. Further off the high peaks were sharp etched against the sweep of blue sky.

  ‘Will, it’s so beautiful up here. I never noticed before.’

  ‘Times are I can’t see any reason why I’d want to leave.’

  ‘I can understand that.’ She spoke in a quiet and measured way, as if she was afraid to raise her voice for fear of breaking the blessed peacefulness. ‘You have a wonderful place here, Will.’

  ‘It does for me.’

  A little while later they came to his cabin, snug and tight against the sheer rock face. Cass gazed around, taking in the evidence of his habitation. She noted that he was a tidy man. Everything having a place. His tools neatly hanging from pegs driven between the logs in the wall. The lean-to where his chopped wood was stacked. Close by a small corral for his horses. She saw a powerful chestnut watching from the corral. There was feed and water at hand. When she observed the cabin itself she was quick to spot the sturdy door, and the shutter that could be lowered to close off the window.

  ‘You built this all by yourself?’

  Tyrell nodded as he helped her from the saddle and set her down on a wooden bench resting against the cabin wall.

  ‘Took me some time, but I wasn’t going anywhere.’

  He turned then and she watched as he turned the roan into the corral, unsaddled and fetched fresh graze and water for the animal. He humped the saddle under the lean-to, picking up his saddlebag and the Henry. He opened the cabin door and vanished inside. Shortly after he pushed open the shutter and propped it in position using a wedged stick he had fashioned. Back outside he came to where Cass sat and reached out to pick her up again.

  ‘If you support me I can manage,’ she said.

  He helped her stand on her good leg, then acted as a crutch so they could make the short walk inside the cabin. Getting through the door was awkward and Tyrell was made aware of her female shape again when she turned her body against his. It was yet another reminder of his self-imposed exile from another part of natural existence.

  Inside, with the bright sun shooting daylight through the window she was able to observe the well-ordered interior of the cabin.

  A single room, with a hard packed dirt floor. Against one wall was his bunk, obviously handmade. There was a small table and a bench. A couple of oil lamps, one on the table, the other suspended from a roof beam. Against the rear rock wall stood a black, cast iron stove with a tin chimney that vanished through the sloping roof. Tyrell had made a couple of shelves. One held personal items, and a number of well-thumbed books.

  ‘I am impressed, Will Tyrell. You have a home here.’

  ‘If things work out I’ll have something better. More permanent. Already chose the site.’

  He stopped suddenly, aware he was talking too much. Revealing more about himself than he might normally do. He helped Cass to the bench and when she was settled he picked up the coffee pot and took it outside to fill from the stream close by. Back inside the cabin he busied himself lighting the stove, setting the pot on the top, then adding crushed beans and a pinch of salt.

  ‘I got some venison stew from yesterday,’ he said. ‘Take some time to warm up.’

  ‘I’m not going far.’ She hadn’t spoken for a while, sensing his reluctance to impart any more knowledge about himself. ‘Will, I need to tell you why I was out there. How this all happened.’

  He turned to look down at her, seeming to tower over her on the bench.

  ‘You don’t owe me any explanation.’

  ‘I feel obliged because...’ Now she was at a loss for words, and her obvious discomfort struck a chord inside him.

  ‘I’ve been up here too long I guess. Makes a body lose the need for conversation. I didn’t mean to be inhospitable. You got something to say you come right out with it.’

  ‘I was running away,’ she said simply. ‘From people who were holding me against my will. I was out there for close on five days and then I go and do a stupid thing and break my leg.’

  ‘I doubt breaking your leg can be marked down as careless. Did you do it a purpose?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Then it wasn’t stupid.’

  ‘I feel that way. I feel guilty as well. Those people are out there looking for me. If they find out you’re involved it could bring you trouble.’

  ‘Let me worry about that.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ she pressed on. ‘These people are bad. Determined in what they do. They won’t give up on hunting for me so they can take me back.’

  ‘Back where?’

  There was an odd curve to her lips when she spoke again.

  ‘To my wedding. Isn’t that strange, Will Tyrell? There I was about to be married, if you could call it that, and I couldn’t wait for the chance to break out and get as far away as possible.’

  And only then, quietly and for a short time, she began to weep. Exhaustion and her emotions got the better of her and when she fell silent Tyrell saw she had dropped into a fitful slumber, head resting on her arms across the table. He picked her up gently and carried her across to the bunk. He laid her down and drew blankets over her.

  Tyrell busied himself with a few chores while Cass slept. She hadn’t stirred even when he carried her to the bunk.

  He had taken the rifle and placed it close at hand just inside the door. He also loaded the double-barrel 12-gauge Greener he’d had for many a year during the time he had worn a badge. With its cut down barrels the shotgun had no great range but as a close-quarter weapon it had little equal and the effects of a shot from its black muzzles could stop a crowd in its tracks. He made sure his box of cartridges for the Greener was handy. As an afterthought he took out his Colt and placed a cartridge in the empty chamber he usually kept under the hammer. It might not come to anything but caution was never a wasteful exercise in his mind. He had plenty of ammunition for both the rifle and handgun.

  He set to inside the cabin, making sure there was ample wood for the stove. He filled the water barrel he kept in one corner, then went outside and made sure the horses were secure. He spent some time outside, looking out across the approaches, satisfying himself they were still alone. Now that she had explained her situation, though not in detail, Tyrell knew that despite her outward calm Cassie was more than a little scared. And she had a right to be if what she said was true. He had no reason to disbelieve her explanation. He recalled when he had found her how she had mistrusted him at first until he had proved he was no threat. Her fear had been real. And her injured leg was real enough The overall condition he had found her in spoke of a long time out on the mountain with little to offer her comfort.

  The light was starting to fail as Tyrell made his way back inside the cabin. He secured the door, then lit both oil lamps. He fed wood into the stove, knowing the temperature would fall quickly once the daylight was gone. Only then did he fill himself a mug of coffee and take it with him as he sat, back to the rear wall of the cabi
n, the shotgun on the table close at hand.

  He glanced across at the sleeping woman and found it hard to look away. In the subdued glow from the lamps her face lay half in shadow, half in light, the subtle curve of her cheek and soft mouth taking on a beauty he would have found impossible to describe in words. The gleam of her hair shimmered in the flickering light from the stove. Without any kind of action on his part he realized the loneliness of his situation up here on the mountain. His solitude suddenly took on an emptiness he had failed to realize until this young woman had come into his life. If he had been a self-pitying man there would have been a wretched need for more than he had now. But he had led a solitary existence for so many years, the tin star he had packed denying him much more than the offerings of the job. If he had thought about then it had been little more than a fleeting whim, quickly dashed from his mind by the demands of his profession.

  He drained the last of the coffee, moving to the stove to take a refill, and as he turned to sit down again he heard the creak from the bunk as the woman stirred. She turned her head to look in his direction and he saw her eyes were open, studying him frankly.

  ‘Coffee?’ he asked.

  Her soft laughter was disconcerting. ‘What more could a girl ask for.’ She pushed at the blankets covering her. ‘Thank you for those. Now can you help me sit up, please.’

  He helped her upright. He moved a small box into position to support her splinted leg, draping a blanket over it. He handed her a mug of coffee.

  ‘If you’re still hungry that stew should be ready.’

  ‘Starving is more the word.’

  He found a couple of tin plates and ladled out the hot stew. As well as the venison there were some vegetables. Wild potatoes he had discovered growing in one of the meadows. The last of the carrots and onions he had brought back in his supplies the last trip he had made down the mountain with a small herd of horses.

  Cass attacked the stew with enthusiasm. He watched her eat, enjoying the sight. She looked up suddenly, almost guiltily.

  ‘You must think me uncivilized,’ she said. ‘Eating this way.’

  He shook his head. ‘Better than someone who picks at her food like some bird. And I dare say it’s been some good time since you had a decent meal.’

  She finished the stew and accepted more. Now she ate with less fervor, her initial hunger satisfied, and while she ate she told him more about her ordeal.

  ‘They are called the Callenders. More of a clan than a family. The head is a man called Mordecai Callender. The whole clan worship him. They do his bidding without question. Even down to kidnapping someone and removing them from their own family, bringing them to their mountain stronghold and...’

  Cassie paused, her emotions getting the better of her as her head lowered and the hand holding her spoon froze part way between plate and mouth. Tyrell picked up her sudden mood swing and though he was not sure what he should do reached out a hand and gently laid it on her shoulder. He felt her stiffen momentarily, then just as swiftly she relaxed.

  ‘No need to tell it if the hurt is still strong.’

  She looked up at him face flushed, eyes moist, but her voice was strong when she spoke. ‘Hurt? Yes. But it’s not as strong as the anger.’

  ‘How did this all happen, Cass?’

  ‘Because of a poker game. Silly as it sound, Will, because of a game of cards and wagers made because of too much drink.’

  She told the tale and the telling held Tyrell’s attention due to the way it unfolded.

  How her father, Roderick Marchant, had been in a poker game that had lasted the whole of a long night. In the end there were only two players left at two a.m..

  Roderick Marchant and Mordecai Callender.

  They had won and lost on equal terms throughout the game, until the final pot had held over ten thousand dollars and they had come to the final show of cards, each man sure he had the winning hand. The mood was one of bluff and counter-bluff. Neither man had any more cash to play and they turned to offering material prizes, though that was down to the not inconsiderable amount of liquor they had consumed and were still consuming.

  ‘I got me a pure blood Arabian stallion out at the livery,’ Callender had boasted. ‘You win, she’s yours.’

  ‘Hell, I got plenty prize animals of my own.’

  ‘Sounds like you don’t have such a sound hand there if you won’t match my offer.’

  Roderick Marchant was no fool. He was wealthy. A successful businessman with enough money to buy what he wanted. His weakness was becoming reckless and over-confident when he had drink inside him. As he was on that fateful night.

  ‘I’ll match you.’ He stared around the saloon, waving his hands. ‘I got no prize stallion though.’

  ‘You got one prize I took a shine to.’ Callender was smiling benevolently. ‘That pretty daughter of yours. When I saw her at the dance the other night it was a revelation. Beauty and spirit. All a man could want in a woman.’

  ‘Cassie?’ A hint of trepidation in his voice now, but the soft persuasive whisper of his gambling demon was telling him he had the winning hand of the night.

  Callender scrubbed a massive hand across his stubbled jaw. ‘Friendly game, Marchant. We had us a time didn’t we? Hell, man, let’s play it through.’

  Marchant’s eyes were unfocused as he stared at the hand of cards he held. He thought of the ten thousand dollars on the table and the pure bred stallion. He glanced across at Callender’s smiling face. All he had to do was lay his cards out on the table and collect his winnings.

  ‘Bet’s on,’ he said and laid his cards down. ‘There she is, Callender. Best hand I had all night.’

  ‘You said it, brother. Nothing you had has bettered that,’ Callender said evenly. Then he placed his hand down, deliberately turning over each card for Marchant to see. ‘But it don’t better what I have, Brother Marchant. Not by a long damn it don’t.’

  Marchant stared hard at the line of cards. A straight flush. It beat his hand clear as spring water. He felt a rush of depression course through his weary body. He wanted a drink. No, that was the last thing he wanted. Damned if it hadn’t been all the liquor that had dulled his wits and his lost him the game. He watched Callender scoop the cash into his upturned hat and push back from the table.

  ‘Be around in the morning for the girl.’

  Marchant managed a weak grin, nodding like a man in on a private joke. His alcohol bemused brain was too lazy to acknowledge the new, sharper gleam in Callender’s eyes. He waved a limp hand in the man’s direction as Callender turned and left the saloon, followed by his two companions, who had been seated behind him all through the long session, saying nothing, doing nothing except watching the proceedings.

  Sometime later Marchant returned to his hotel and his room, falling into bed and into a deep sleep.

  In the morning he was shaken into consciousness by one of his own men and opened his eyes to bright sunlight streaming in through the window. It took him a moment to clear the wool from his head. He sat up, raising a hand to silence the man.

  ‘Hell, Jimmy, slow down there. Can’t make sense what you’re saying.’

  The man took a breath. ‘Boss, there’s a feller outside calling you down to honor your bet from last night. Some poker game you lost to him.’

  ‘I paid my bet. He took ten thousand dollars in cash from the pot. Most of it mine.’

  ‘But he says he wants the rest of the wager, Mr. Marchant.’

  ‘Rest? What rest?’

  ‘I don’t figure this myself, but he says you offered Miss Marchant against his prize Arab stallion.’

  Marchant’s mind cleared instantly. The room sprang into sharp relief. Colors and sounds came into focus.

  ‘He said what?’

  ‘He says he won Cassie off you as part of the bet.’

  ‘The hell he does. Jimmy, get the boys together. We’re getting out of here and heading back home.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  A
s he dressed Marchant’s mind retraced the evening’s events. He could recall vaguely Cassie’s name coming up at some time. That was it. No memory of her being offered as part of any bet. Even if it had happened there was no way it had been meant as serious.

  When he went downstairs the first person he saw was Mordecai Callender.

  Callender, in daylight was older than Marchant recalled. He wore heavy, well used range clothes and boots. A big man, solid, his broad face craggy and framed by a thick whiskers. The man had a hard gleam in his eyes as he turned to face Marchant.

  ‘You’ve kept me waiting, Marchant. I have no stomach for wasting time.’ He looked around. ‘Now where is the girl? I have a long way to travel.’

  ‘Then I suggest you start, Mr. Callender. There’s nothing here for you. Our game ended last night. It’s over.’

  Callender seemed to find that amusing. ‘I don’t believe so. I’m here for my winnings.’ Callender stepped closer, face dark with repressed impatience. ‘Honor your debt and I’ll leave.’

  ‘What debt is that, dad?’

  Cassie Marchant had come down the stairs unbeknown to both of them. Now she stepped up beside her father, eyes taking in the scene.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘This man mistakenly believes a lighthearted wager during last night’s card game holds true.’

  ‘The wager was open and honest,’ Callender said, all friendliness gone from his voice.

  ‘What was the wager?’ Cassie asked.

  ‘You were, girl,’ Callender said. ‘To see my hand your father offered you. And I won.’

  Cassie was unable to hold back an amused laugh. ‘Then you are going to be disappointed. I’m not some prize heifer to be bartered over a drunken game of poker.’

  ‘I’ve already told Mr. Callender the very same,’ Marchant said. ‘That the wager was raised in the high spirits of a very long game.’

  ‘Honor your debt, Marchant, I’ll not be denied my prize.’

  ‘Mr. Callender, please leave,’ Cassie said. ‘This nonsense has gone on too...’