Black Hills (9781101559116) (32 page)

Staying on the move, Cormac worked some ranches and stayed away from mines; he had no liking to be underground so much of the time. He outran a couple of Indian war parties, one of which nearly had him surrounded until Lop Ear pulled a burst of speed from somewhere deep inside and led them out of the trap.

Cowhands being nomadic by nature, and Lop Ear, Horse, and himself liking to see the greener grass on the other side of the next hill made working ranches an easy way to see some country. Riding the grub line, they stopped at whatever ranch or campfire they found handy, most always welcomed and rewarded with free food for the conversation and news.

Some of the ranchers were skilled cattlemen; others were just getting along. Some knew cattle but didn't know business; some were just the opposite. Cormac learned about grazing and grasses and the importance of not overgrazing an area, and he learned about locoweed, poisonous gymson weed, and a thousand other trivial facts necessary to cattlemen, like handling stampedes, going without sleep, long night watches, riding point, the taste of eating dust while riding drag position, saddle sores on his hind-end from a sweat-covered saddle, branding, and always carried with him the memory of a cantankerous old steer named Old Mossy. And he also learned how the unexpected sound of a rattlesnake behind him in the bushes in which he was in the process of squatting to do some morning business can quickly solve the problem of constipation.

The B-B in western Kansas was a nice spread on some good land with natural irrigation, a clean bunkhouse, and a cook that knew how to make bear-sign. Another wandering puncher working for the Flying H had said they were the best doughnuts in three states, and Cormac couldn't disagree. He was hired on as ramrod, but they called it Segundo, and as such, he was drawing forty dollars a month. He got along well with the men, and they were good workers. They knew what needed doing and got it done with very little guidance. Then why was he getting restless after only eight months? More and more, he found himself looking at the hills and wondering what lay over that way and getting up in the night to go outside for a smoke and look at the stars. Sometimes he wondered if Lainey was looking at the same stars at the same time.

A young wrangler not yet eighteen years old going by the name of Jingles for the jingling Mexican spurs he wore coming back from town one Saturday night a lot faster than he went in, kicked up a lot of dust coming into the ranch yard and woke everybody up by firing his gun into the air as he got near the gate. Having been rousted out of bed early that morning, Cormac wasn't too interested in getting up again after just having gotten to sleep. He put on his hat and guns before going out to investigate.

“All we did was kiss one time,” Jingles was telling a group of riders in front of the main house with their guns out. He was surrounded by the other hands and their boss, Con Wellington.

“That was one kiss too many. The rules in this town have been set long ago,” answered a suited man in a bowler hat appearing to be the leader, as Cormac walked across the yard toward them. “Cattle people are not allowed east of the tracks. Everyone in town knows that, and you should have. You boys are welcome to come into town to buy supplies, or have a drink, or raise a little hell, but you do it west of the tracks. East of the tracks is the nicer side of town. If you don't know it by now, you sure as hell will by the time we get done with you. I'll not have my daughters associating with the likes of you. Take him, boys,” he said to the others.

“Nobody is taking anybody,” Con Wellington said calmly. “Who are you?”

“
We
are the business men that own all those businesses in town, and we make the rules.”

“Well, those are pretty stupid rules, because
we
are the ones who spend the money in those businesses in town,” responded Con Wellington calmly, “but if they are the town rules and the other citizens have agreed to them, so be it. Cab City is about the same distance; if that's the way it is, we'll just start going there. We'll have to check with your storekeepers and see if that's what they want, but for tonight, you folks go on home and if we find out that's the town rules, we'll abide by them, won't we, Jingles—”

“It don't matter what he says,” the bowler-hat leader interrupted. “There are more of us than you, and we have the guns, as you can plainly see . . . they're pointing at you. We are taking him with us, and we are going to teach him a lesson. Take him boys.”

“If you try, your group is suddenly going to get a lot smaller,” Cormac told them as he walked up to the group, coming from the side, “but if that's what you want, you go ahead and see if you can ride that bronc.”

As one, the rider's heads turned to look at the voice, and the guns began to swing toward him. “Wait everybody, freeze!” exclaimed one of the riders. “For God's sake, don't make him go for those guns! I saw him shoot a guy in Dodge City. That's Mack Lynch!”

In an instant, the brushing sounds of guns going back into their holsters was heard throughout the group. “We'll be going now, Mr. Wellington,” said the suddenly polite and soft-spoken leader. As one, the group turned without another word and rode out of the yard, leaving those remaining to stare at Cormac.

“Is that true Cormac?” asked Con Wellington. “I thought your name was Cormac Lynch, but I guess Mack is short for Cormac. I never made the connection.”

“Yes, sir,” said Cormac. “It's true. I'm sorry. I'll leave in the morning.”

“That's not necessary, Cormac. This would have gotten ugly if you hadn't been here. You're more than welcome to stay.”

“Thank you, sir, but no thank you. If I stay, sooner or later, sure as shootin' someone with a gun will come looking for me, and somebody else is liable to get hurt in the ruckus. I'll leave in the morning.” The next day, he drew his pay and did just that.

He was headed southwest, riding down a hill into a two-bit town three days into Southern Colorado after leaving Kansas, when Cormac realized it was his birthday and decided to wet his whistle and tie on the feed bag at the local saloon to celebrate. That was a decision he later wished he'd thought better of. He first registered at the hotel and then rode over to the saloon. He figured that a couple drinks and food that he hadn't cooked his own self and a good night's sleep in a real bed would be celebration enough. He later thought the sign over the door of the saloon should have prepared him. It proclaimed A SALOON WITH NO NAME.

“What do you think?” He was riding Horse with Lop Ear carrying the pack beside them as they stopped in the street and looked up at the sign. Horse nickered her approval. Cormac shifted his weight and swung his leg over the saddle horn to slide off but instead, he swung it back over and sat down.

“You know what, guys? Sorry, Horse. I know you're not a guy. I think it's time you two had a birthday. As Lord and master, I do hereby proclaim forthwith this thirtieth day of June to be your birthdays and therefore cause for celebration.”

Cormac backed Horse away from the hitching rail and turned up the street. “Let's go buy you some new shoes for your birthday and get you a room in the stable, and just maybe, if you don't kick the blacksmith, I'll get you a rub down and some grain or corn in your feed bag.”

After making arrangements for the blacksmith, who also owned the stable, to re-shoe both horses and give them a good brushing and combing, Cormac walked to the saloon. It was of the large size, with the expected long bar along one wall and a door at one end leading to the storage and living quarters, and that was where they ran out of normal.

There were oddly shaped tables of various types of wood and style, some large enough for eight or ten people, some only for two. There were large and small soft chairs, hard chairs, and small straight chairs in various locations ringing tables and lining walls. In one corner, a large red umbrella with dangling white fringe hovered over a table that had been built using multiple types of beautiful woods by an obviously skilled craftsman.

Another corner was arranged like a parlor; with pictures, a table with surrounding chairs upholstered in red, and a rug on the floor. Most of the pictures were nice to look at, some weren't, and one was just plain ugly. If it had belonged to his pa, his pa would have probably said he was gonna trade it to an Indian for a broken watch and then throw away the watch.

The rug made Cormac think of his dirty boots, and Lainey warning him about his dirty high-topped farmer shoes after chores late one night.

“Cormac Lorton Lynch! Don't you dare come into this house and walk on my fresh-mopped floor with those dirty old clodhopper shoes! Either clean them off, take them off, or go without supper and sleep in the barn tonight!” Cormac remembered looking in the door for support from Mr. Schwartz sitting at the table; he had been working hard all day in the Dakota-hot fields, and he was tired and certainly not in the mood to be pushed around.

Mr. Schwartz only wiggled his toes with one pushing out through a hole in his sock to call attention to the fact that he had no shoes on either, and with a smile, pointed to them sitting on the porch outside the door and shrugged his shoulders. What's a man to do? Later, when Cormac had been morose and brooding about it, she teased him as she walked by.

“Oh, boo hoo! Boo hoo!” she cried, pretending to rub her eyes. Unfortunately for Cormac, he had been holding a towel at the time and snapped the south end of her when she was going north. He was instantly in real trouble then. Lainey had grabbed the broom and put the run on him in no uncertain terms.

There were floor-length curtains on the windows of a thick material unknown to Cormac and more pictures large and small of mountains and lakes, pastures and streams, flowers and trees, a person riding a funny-looking two-wheeled contraption with one really big wheel in front and a tiny wheel in the rear, and a multitude of other subjects placed on the walls at various heights. One was large and hand painted of an attractive lady with long black hair and a captivating smile on a wall all by itself. Most bars were made for standing only, however, along the far end of this one were five tall stools for sitting that reminded him of the one-legged milk stools they had used on the farm for milking.

Like the other patrons, he shied away from the stools and found a spot at the opposite end of the bar, behind which were several exotic-looking bottles of alcohol. Cormac rolled and lit a cigarette while waiting for a double shot from a bottle that looked to be soundly built, and when it came, sipped it slowly as he took it all in.

A pretty waitress in a high-necked dress that fit her well from the waist up, but loose enough from the waist down to swish the floor when she walked, moved gracefully in and around the tables delivering drinks and food, and somehow managing to stay just out of reach of searching hands.

“Sort of takes your breath away, don't it?”

A cowhand leaning against the bar beside him and looking at the oddities, made a motion with an empty glass that took in the room. Cormac looked around the room again, seeing a splotch of red stain by his feet and smelling the remnants of gun smoke, the tracked-in mixture of dirt, hay, and manure on the floor, the whiskey and the sweat, and hearing the saloon sounds: the tin-penny piano along the back wall playing a song about a girl named Clementine with an old-timer, a couple of farmers, a businessman in a three-piece suit, and a couple of teamsters—all drunk, or near enough to it—making up new verses that had her living an interesting life:

And there was the unintelligible chatter of voices: a too-loud laugh of a sporting dance hall girl helping an overeager drunk cowboy up the stairs, a poker player loudly asking for three cards, and the excited voices of two cowboys coming in the swinging door already feeling their oats.

“That it does, pardner,” Cormac answered, nodding. “That it does. I wonder how a place like this come to be.”

“The story goes that the owner had once been a wealthy rancher with a wife who collected furniture from different parts of the country, even imported some from other countries. When she died from some kind of fever, he lost interest in ranchin' and bought this saloon, then furnished it from his home because it reminded him of her.” Cormac signaled for a drink refill and motioned at the cowhand's empty glass.

“You want a refill on that?”

The cowboy grinned at him. “If that's an offer, I surely would. I'm huntin' a job, but my poke's a bit on the empty side lately.”