This Calder Sky (30 page)

Overcome with curiosity about his friend's whereabouts and his reasons, Chase pushed away from the bar. An impulse he didn't quite understand carried him to the rear entrance of the saloon instead of the front door. It was used mainly as a rear access to the second floor, permitting customers to come and go without necessarily being seen by anyone in the bar if they chose.

Before he reached the door, it opened and Buck walked in, rubbing his hands together and blowing on them in an effort to warm them from the exposure to the chill of the November night. He gave a guilty start when he first saw Chase, then recovered quickly to grin.

“What are you doing, Chase? Sneakin' up the back stairs?”

“Where have you been?” A half-smile softened the challenge, but Chase couldn't stop the suspicion running through him concerning Buck's odd behavior.

“Just stepped out for some air,” Buck shrugged and continued to grin. “The smoke's so thick in here it burns your eyes.”

“Is that why you went out the front door and came in the back?” Chase asked and saw the discomfited look flash in Buck's eyes.

“What're you talking about?” Buck laughed.

There was a shout from the bar area. “Hey! Somebody help! Fred Dickens is outside with his head bashed in! We gotta get him to a hospital!”

Chase shot his gaze at Buck, narrowed in disbelieving accusation. His friend had a look of surprise on his face, too. Chase couldn't tell if it was faked or real. Buck started to push by him.

“Let's go see what the trouble is,” he urged, but Chase caught his arm to stop him.

“How much money do you have on you?” he demanded.

Buck pulled back, appearing confused by the question. “What? A few dollars. What's that got to do with anything? Come on. I want to see what's happening.”

But Chase wouldn't let him pass. “I thought you hit it good at the poker tables.”

“Okay. So maybe I got a couple hundred bucks in my pocket.” Buck's temper had a short fuse. It was sputtering now as he angrily shrugged a challenge.

“Fred told me you were busted at the tables tonight.”

“I had a run of bad luck,” he admitted.

“Then where did you get the money in your pocket?” Chase threw the previous remark back in Buck's face.

“I said, ‘maybe' I had it. I didn't say I
did!”

Chase grabbed him by the shirtfront and slammed his back against the wall, shaking the dust loose from the woodwork. “Goddammit! Don't lie to me!” He tightened his hold on the material and shoved his clenched hand up to Buck's throat. “I saw you sneak out the front door a couple of seconds after Fred left. Now he's laying out there with his head bashed in. I'm willing to bet he's been robbed like the others, too! And I want to know what you had to do with it!”

“Chase! You're crazy!” Buck argued, his anger strictly focused on his own defense. “I didn't have anything to do with it!”

With an effort, Chase relaxed his hold on the shirt and stepped back. “Prove it,” he challenged. “Empty your pockets.”

Buck licked his lips and looked away from the unwavering stare of Chase's eyes. “It didn't happen the way you think,” he murmured, and Chase found himself wishing he had never pushed the issue. A bitter disillusionment was rising in his throat, choking him with its bilious taste. “I just wanted my money back,”
Buck insisted, but his voice had taken on a wheedling tone. “The game was crooked. Fred had been dealing from the bottom of the deck. I couldn't let him get away with that, could I? I mean, I had to teach him a lesson. All I did was just tap him on the head a little.”

“What about Anderson? Jeffers?” Chase named the other two victims and felt the cold hand of betrayal touch him. It hardened him to ice. “Both times you used me. I provided the alibi because you were my friend and I believed you.” He turned and walked away, afraid of what he might do to this man, who had been like a brother, if he stayed.

Buck followed him into the main room of the saloon, whispering urgently. “Chase, it won't happen again—I swear it! Let me explain how it was so you'll understand.” There was suppressed anger and impatience in his voice as he exhorted Chase to listen.

The saloon was nearly empty. The few customers who remained were clustered together talking about this latest assault and robbery. Before Chase reached the bar, the front door opened to admit Sheriff Potter. His weary eyes scanned the remaining group, immediately bringing silence. His search stopped when he saw Buck and Chase.

“Buck.” He walked forward, his boots shuffling on the wood floor, as if it was too much effort to lift them. “You're going to have to take a ride with me.”

“You've got no call to take me in,” Buck denied and edged closer to Chase. “If anybody says they saw me out there, they are lying.”

“It's different this time, Buck,” the sheriff said. “Fred Dickens regained consciousness before the boys took him to the hospital. He named you. He recognized you just before you hit him over the head.”

“He made a mistake! I was with Chase. Ask him!”

The sheriff pulled his mouth down at the corners as he reluctantly glanced at Chase. “Was he with you?”

Chase didn't have to think about his answer, or look at Buck. “No.” His reply was flat and final.

“What are you doing to me, Chase?” Buck protested and tried to prevent him from walking to the bar by getting in front of him, but Chase looked right through him. “You're supposed to be my best friend. We grew up together. My momma raised us both. Tell the sheriff I was with you!”

Chase made no reply and brushed past Buck as if he wasn't there. Buck had lied to him and deceived him. For the sake of the friendship they had shared, Chase would not add his voice to the condemnation. And neither would he offer anything in Buck's behalf, because what he had been was not what he had become. So anything good he might be able to say did not apply.

“You'd better come with me, Buck,” the sheriff said again and took him by the arm.

“No!” Buck whipped his arm away to rage at Chase's back. “What kind of a friend are you? You're supposed to be my buddy, my pal! You think you're so damned high and mighty just because you're a Calder! Well, it could have been me instead of you!” He punched a finger against his own chest to emphasize the point. “It could have been me, you bastard!”

Chase glanced down the bar to where Jake was standing. “I'll have a whiskey, straight,” he ordered.

“Buck, you're coming with me.” This time the sheriff's voice was more decisive. “Don't make me add resisting arrest to the other charges.”

Buck continued to yell and curse at Chase until the sheriff led him out of the saloon. The area at the bar around Chase remained clear. Not even the Triple C hands approached him. They left him alone to mourn the loss of his friend in private.

Presents were heaped under the Christmas tree. It was Ty's first Christmas and most of the packages were for him, mostly from Pamela. She would have bought everything in sight for him if Maggie hadn't finally threatened not to let her take care of him anymore.

Maggie smiled as she watched Ty banging a rattle on the floor and absently opened the Christmas card from Culley. There was a letter inside.

December 19

Dear Maggie,

Remember I told you Fred Dickens, the rodeo guy, went into a coma and died? Well, Buck Haskell was convicted on manslaughter charges. He claimed he was drunk and didn't know what he was doing. I heard Chase Calder wouldn't even testify on Buck's behalf as a character witness. I can believe that. One of their thieves got caught, so they washed their hands of him. I told you they were like that—you get
into trouble, and suddenly they don't even know you.

When the judge sentenced Buck to prison, I guess he started yelling and making all kinds of threats to get even with Chase. I heard it took three men to take him out of the courtroom.

It's snowing.

Merry Christmas,
Culley

She felt pity for Buck Haskell—pity because he'd been betrayed by the Calders, specifically by Chase, who had been his friend. Betrayed just as she had been. Her gaze lifted to the star atop the tree; she hoped the Calders would never know the peace it symbolized.

The early spring foal teetered unsteadily on bandy legs, its whisk-broom of a tail rotating wildly for balance. With legs too long, a head too large, and eyes too big, it blinked at the bright, strange world it had been so eager and insistent to enter only minutes before. It whickered, a sound that needed some practice before it would resemble a horse's neigh. For a newborn foal, it was good-sized and obviously healthy. It should have been the center of attention, with its snow-white blaze running down the center of its concave forehead.

But everyone's eyes were on the old mare lying in the straw. Each breath she took was labored. Maggie's fingers dug into the side rail of the stall; she was mentally willing the mare to move. Morning Mist was a hunting mare, a sentimental favorite of Dr. Phillip's. He'd kept her, after her career in the show ring finally ended, as his sole broodmare. At twenty-one, even that was becoming too much for her. This time it had been a long and difficult birth. What strength she had, the foal had taken, and the mare appeared to have none left.

When the stud colt whickered bewilderedly again, the mare snorted weakly and tried to lift her head, but she couldn't get it off the straw. The mare's eyes closed as Maggie looked on, as the effort had drained the last ounce of energy. With his shirtsleeves rolled up, Dr. Phillip stood to one side of the stall, next to his stable hand. A grim look of worry was etched in his tanned and handsome face.

“Let's try to help her up,” he suggested.

While Maggie watched, the two men knelt beside the mare and tried to lift and push her into a position where she could get her legs under her, but the horse hadn't the strength to cooperate. After much struggling, the stable hand, Ralph, gently laid the mare's head on the straw-covered floor.

“It's no use,” Ralph said, breathing heavily from the exertion.

“I fixed some hot mash.” Maggie unlatched the stall gate and stepped inside. “Maybe if we can get her to eat something, she'll get her strength back.”

“See if you can, Elizabeth.” Phillip agreed with the suggestion, but didn't rely on it as he turned to the groom. “Get some ropes and we'll rig up a sling. If we can just get her on her feet and keep her there, the foal can nurse, and Misty will stand a better chance, too.”

Kneeling beside the mare, Maggie set the pail of mash on the floor and pulled a clean rag from her hip pocket. She dipped it in the mash and squeezed it into the mare's mouth. Most of it trickled out. She stroked the mare's throat to help the horse swallow whatever it could, then repeated the process.

Ralph returned. “I've got them, Dr. Phillip. How do you want to work this?”

“We'll use this crossbeam. It should be strong enough to support her.”

Busy concentrating on her task, Maggie was only half-aware of what the two men were doing. A soft
thump was followed by something white slithering into her side vision. Maggie glanced up to see the white rope dangling from a crossbeam. Her mind clicked in another image of the ranch barn and the rope that had hung from its center beam.

A horrible tightness gripped her throat and Maggie stood up. She saw again the plain rope over the stable's beam. Then another image clicked to replace it. It was the barn again and there was a noose swaying at the end of the rope. She backed up to escape the frightening picture and had a moment's relief when reality surfaced to bring the stable into focus. But her mind wouldn't stop its gruesome recall. The color drained from her face as the last picture came to her mind's eye and stayed—the one of her father's body swinging from the noose.

It wouldn't go away. Her hands were raised close to her face, her fingers spread. Maggie squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the mental image. But all the sensation, all the horror and anguish came flooding back to make it as real as if it were happening now. From far, far away, she heard someone screaming—incessantly, endlessly.

She had to get him down! She had to unloosen the rope! She ran to get it down, clawing at the hands holding it. Even when she realized it was just a rope again with no noose on it, it remained imperative that she take it down.

When she had backed away from the horse, she had drawn Phillip's glance. A frown creased his forehead at the look of terror on her whitened face, bewildered by her fixation with the rope. He was about to ask her what was wrong when she started screaming. His groom had stood motionless in stunned shock when she had attacked him to tear the rope from his hands and pull it off the stall's crossbeam. Phillip rushed over and
grabbed her shoulders, pulling her off the defenseless man.

“It has something to do with the rope. Take it down,” he snapped over his shoulder, prodding the groom into action as he hauled the rope from the crossbeam. “Elizabeth, the rope is gone! Look! It isn't there anymore!” His voice was firm and commanding, pushing at her to obey. “Open your eyes and look. It's gone. It doesn't exist.”

She stopped struggling to get free and turned her head to look. For an instant, she was still. The rope was coiled in a harmless heap on the floor. A violent shudder went through her. Dry, hacking sobs began to shake her shoulders as Phillip put his arms around her.

“Come on. Let's get you out of here,” he murmured.

“What should I do about the mare and foal?” Ralph asked somewhat helplessly.

Phillip ushered Maggie outside the stall and paused to send him an impatient look. “Try to find someone to come over and give you a hand. Call Simmons at the van Doren ranch.”