Empire Page 9

  The problem was that by shooting Mattie, Goodwin had already proved that he was no longer sane, because a man who harmed a woman in the west was marked for death and would be hunted down and killed. When it became known that Mattie’s injury was no accident and that Dan Goodwin was responsible, he would be a marked man and sooner or later would stretch a rope from some lonely tree. Goodwin knew that but shot Mattie anyway, so if Ben didn’t stop him now, who would be next? One of the children? All of them?

  For a moment, he almost regretted not turning the herd over to Goodwin, so long ago. Maybe then, none of this would have happened and Mattie would be safe at home. But just as quickly, he knew that before too long, he would have crossed Goodwin’s path anyway and that this fight was the inevitable way of things. Fate will not be denied.

  On every ridge he came to, he simply rode up and over, deliberately exposing himself, hoping to draw some over-eager fire, instead of waiting until he rode into point blank range. And on every ridge, the hair stood up on the back of his neck as he tensed and waited for the slam of a bullet.

  He camped that night under a large oak with a granite wall protecting his back. He counted on a deep collection of dried oak leaves to warn him of approaching danger. He cleared an area of leaves and picketed his horse where it could graze on the exposed grass. He built no fire, eating a cold supper of canned beans and jerky. For a long time, he watched the valley to the south and listened. He heard nothing but the night sounds of the wild and was just about to turn in when he thought he caught a glimmer of light out of the corner of his eye. He turned and watched intently but saw nothing for a long time and was about to give up when he saw the flare-up of a far-off campfire as someone added fuel.

  Was it Goodwin? If so, why was he so far off the trail? The fire was a good two miles east of where a traveler would be camped while following this route . . . unless he was backtracking in order to set up an ambush. Had Goodwin built a fire thinking it could not be seen so far off the trail? Had he made a mistake?

  Ben was back in the saddle and without breakfast while the sun was still two full hours from rising. If an ambush was planned, he wanted to be there before Goodwin. He knew that from the location of the mysterious campfire, there was a dry stream bed which a man could easily follow back to the main trail and wait for someone following his tracks. Ben planned to be there first and set up his own ambush.

  The sun was just breaking over the horizon and warm on his back as he took his position. Below was the stream bed, dry and rocky with a sand bar here and there where floods had deposited them. There was no sound except for a lone raven lookout occasionally cawing from its perch high atop a dead pine. He’d picketed his horse nearly a mile back, just in case it was tempted to whinny a greeting should a rider come up the dry waterway.

  An hour later, he was about to give it up and head back when he heard a slowly-walking horse coming up the stream bed. He pushed forward slightly from his position under some sagebrush and watched the bend in the creek bed for the rider to appear. Sweat ran down his cheek as he steadied the rifle and eared back the hammer, covering it with his left hand to muffle the clicking sounds of metal on metal. The sound of rocks rattling under hoofs echoed along the walls, as the horse slowly picked its way among the water-rounded and treacherous stones. A mosquito buzzed around his ear and somewhere, another raven called to the lookout.

  Then, for a long time, the horse stopped. Had the rider heard him cocking the hammer? Or was he simply pausing to listen? Then, it came on again, a little faster this time and Ben tensed, his finger finding the trigger and the sights aligned on the spot where the horse must first appear as it came around the bend. Suddenly its head appeared, and it stopped, a big black, his head high and listening, nostrils wide as it checked the air for the smell of danger. Satisfied, it finally stepped out, and Ben could see it was riderless.

  Puzzled, Ben pushed forward for a better look and a bullet slammed into the granite shelf where he had been lying, whining wickedly away in a nasty ricochet. Instantly he dove behind a boulder, but not before spotting a rifle barrel on the facing hill across the creek. So that was why the horse took so long! Its rider had gotten off somewhere to climb the hill for the ambush and had allowed his horse to simply wander! When Ben had moved forward, he had been spotted immediately, causing a hasty shot which had nearly been successful.

  Ben stayed below the ridgeline and quickly moved to his right. He eased up behind an outcropping and peered through a crack between rocks. After a moment, he spotted the rifle barrel, eased his own rifle forward, and waited. He was rewarded when a shoulder appeared just to the right of the rifle. He sighted slightly above it and squeezed off a shot. He heard the hard whap of a bullet striking flesh and the rifle disappeared, followed by a violent thrashing in the bushes, accompanied by several groans. Then silence.

  Ben waited for a long time, but nothing moved. Finally, he began working back to the trail, a quarter of a mile to his right, where he could cross the stream bed out of range and out of sight. From there, he could work his way behind Goodwin’s last known position and determine his condition, dead or alive.

  The trail dipped down to the stream bed between two outcroppings on the north bank and then exited into a grove of large cottonwood on the south. Ben studied the far bank for several minutes from the concealment of the rocks and listened, but heard no sound except the calling of ravens. Finally, he eased out and stepped onto the trail. Instantly, a rifle spoke from the cottonwoods across the waterway, slamming him in the midsection, and he felt himself falling.

  ‘You’re savvy, I’ll give you that, but it won’t help you now.’ Ben looked up and into the eyes of a mad man. Goodwin’s shirt was gone, used for bandages to bind up his bleeding left shoulder, his left arm dangling uselessly. But in his right, he held a big, Colt Paterson pistol, hammer eared back and pointed at Ben’s forehead.

  Ben weakly felt for his own pistol and Goodwin laughed. ‘Hell, the first thing I did was take your guns!’ He grinned. ‘Wouldn’t want nobody to get hurt, now would we?’

  His smile faded. ‘Now I never harmed no woman before and she sure looked surprised when I done it. The crowd was all yelling their fool heads off at you on that stage, so nobody even heard it.’

  He cocked his head and peered down on Ben with oddly vacant eyes. ‘Well, no sense in wasting time.’ He bent low and leveled the pistol at Ben’s forehead. ‘Too bad she had to die to get your attention.’

  ‘She’s not dead.’ Ben looked defiantly at Goodwin. ‘But you will be, just as soon as the word gets out that you shot a woman.’

  ‘Maybe so, but you won’t be caring about that or anything else.’

  Dan Goodwin’s finger tightened on the trigger and Ben flinched at the roar of a gunshot. He saw Goodwin stagger backwards, a shocked look on his face, and fall flat on his back, the Paterson firing harmlessly into the air. Then Bear was standing over Ben, the smoke still curling slowly from his Sharps .50.

  ‘Where’re you hit?’

  ‘I don’t know. Help me up.’

  After regaining his feet, Ben pulled up his shirt and found a large, rapidly spreading bruise on his abdomen and a badly bent belt buckle, but no blood and no open wound. He grinned at Bear and then his eyes narrowed.

  ‘I thought I told you to watch over Mattie!’

  Bear backed away, his hands and palms stretched out in front of him in feigned fear.

  ‘Now, boss, that’s just what I did. When I went to the doctor’s to check on her yesterday mornin’, she was sittin’ up in bed eatin’ breakfast, cool as you please. Doc said it was a miracle she was alive at all, much less hungry and orderin’ folks around! Then she got around to askin’ after you and when I told her what you were doin’, she reared up and ordered me to go after you straight off, so here I am.

  ‘I found your horse back up the trail a mite and then I heard the shots, so I come a-runnin’ and when I saw you on the ground and Dan Goodwin fixin’ to shoot you, I just na
turally cut loose and let her fly.’

  Bear paused and scratched his beard. ‘Boss, I surely do respect your orders and all, but I’d far rather have you mad at me than Mattie, and that there’s a fact.’

  CHAPTER 13

  ‘Who is he and what’s his business with us, Ben?’ Mattie poured her husband another cup of coffee, and picked up his breakfast dishes.

  Ben looked up from the letter. ‘His name is Farnsworth, Mattie, Reginald Farnsworth. He represents a group of English investors who have taken an interest in American ranching. In fact, several large western ranchers sold out completely to English investors and then they stayed on as managers.’

  Mattie sat down across the table. ‘What does this Farnsworth fellow have in mind for the Rafter T? I wouldn’t want to sell out, Ben, or even sell a controlling interest. I love it here, and it’s a fine place to raise a family.’

  ‘Nor would I. The twins are nine years old now, and I want each of them to take some of their savings and buy a hundred head of cattle from the Rafter T later this spring. I want them to move them up on mountain pastures for the summer. They need to learn the business, and there’s no better way to learn than to manage real cows and real money, especially when it’s their own money.’

  Ben grinned at Mattie’s skeptical look. ‘They’ll be fine, Mattie. Bear and Digger Jones will be right there to guide them along, and they won’t even know they’re learning something. They’re good boys, and I’m proud of them.

  ‘As far as Mister Farnsworth is concerned, I have no interest in selling or leasing any part of the Rafter T, but I am open to going shares on a cattle investment, or possibly on some new stamp mills for the mine. I might even want to invest in a new, steam-powered saw mill. There’s enough timber on the abandoned railroad right of way to supply a large mill for the next fifty years.’

  ‘When will this Mr Farnsworth get here, Ben?’

  ‘His letter says he’ll be here tomorrow.’ Ben rose and grinned at his worried-looking wife. ‘He’s English, not royalty, Mattie. He’s nothing but the British version of a banker. Just be your usual, charming self.’

  Ben stepped outside, and Mattie went to her cupboard to check on her best dishes.

  Joseph and Jeremiah, better known as Joe and Jerry to the hands, had spent the last two days mucking out the horse stables and barn where Mattie kept three milk cows. It was hard, dirty work, but their father expected them to carry their share of the load, and they did, with only the usual, good-natured grumbling he had come to expect from them.

  The team waited patiently as the boys filled the manure spreader for the last time, before pulling it to Mattie’s two-acre garden and spreading the contents for fertilizer. They then drove the team down into the creek bed and washed the spreader down with buckets of water and a scrubbing with a couple of old brooms. Their pa was a stickler for keeping his equipment clean and in good repair, and Lord help the man who failed to comply.

  The boys put the spreader back in the shed and then inspected their work with their father. Ben carefully examined each stall and the dairy stanchions for cleanliness and fresh straw while the boys anxiously looked on. Finally, he nodded his head and pointed at the tool shed. ‘Are your poles in good order?’

  Ben had promised the boys a day off to go fishing as soon as the spring chores were done, and the bend in the river known as ‘the hole’ was reportedly teeming with large, native trout this year, so they were fairly itching to try their luck. Although they’d already secretly checked their poles a dozen times in the last few days, they ran to the tool shed to get them out and check them one more time.

  Ben watched them run off, and felt a familiar swelling in his chest. His oldest sons, identical twins except for a small birthmark on Joe’s back, were turning out to be good, steady, and willing hands, even at their age. His son Walter was also showing an interest in the ranch, but he was the scholarly one. He did his chores willingly and cheerfully, but every spare minute was spent with a book. Young Henry was solemn and thoughtful, his intelligent eyes missing nothing. He was fiercely defensive of the whole family, but especially his sister, Julie, one year his junior. At five years of age, Henry was already the fighter of the family, and his father had to keep a tight rein on him. A boy a year older and much larger than Henry had pulled Julie’s hair at school, and Henry instantly had him on the ground, giving him a bloody nose.

  To the west, clouds were building up over the peaks, as they had been doing each day for a week, but without delivering the promised rain. Last year was unusually dry, and this year was shaping up to be the same. So far, the water was adequate, but a rancher always worried about water.

  In two weeks, spring roundup and branding would begin. The Rafter T had registered four brands and two other ranches would be sending reps to check on their own brands. It was a good time of year, and Ben looked forward to it. Winter months were often hard, with limited travel, so spring brought neighbors together again, and branding fires saw a lot of back-slapping, hand shaking, and friendly grins. It was a place where men could be men and enjoy each other’s company.

  Ben mounted up and rode slowly along the dusty wagon road to the western slope, and then followed an old game trail up to the tree line. Winding around through the cool cathedrals of tall pines, he found his way to a favorite rocky outcropping where he could see the entire ranch from horseback. The valley was cloaked in the lush green of early spring, and the dark backs of grazing cattle dotted the land.

  Along the eastern slope, he could just make out the top of the stamp mill, and the white streak of the slag pile. He had quietly made plans to move the stamp mill to the south another few miles, because the constant dull sound of the hammers reached all the way to the ranch-house. Mattie had said nothing, but he knew the noise disturbed her. She liked the sounds of a working ranch, but not the steady throb of the mill. It would mean hauling the ore a few miles, but Ben knew it would be appreciated, and he, too, liked a quiet evening on the front porch.

  The many stacks of hay put up for last winter were now down to the ground, and again, he looked hopefully to the skies. A few good summer rains meant one and possibly two additional hay cuttings, and he’d need every bit of it come winter. Otherwise, he’d have to buy hay, and that would eat into the profits on his cattle. He mounted up and headed back down to the ranch-house.

  Ben was in the tack room the following morning when he heard a wagon and several horses pull into the barnyard. Clay Johnson poked his head in the door. ‘Visitors, boss. Some English dude and his son.’ Clay grinned, and lowered his voice. ‘You ought to see that kid’s get-up!’

  Reginald Farnsworth was a tall, thin man, with an aristocratic bearing, and his son was about the same age as the twins. But any resemblance stopped there. The twins wore range clothes on the ranch, while this young man looked like he was about to take in an opera in Denver. He wore knee-high blue pants with a matching frock coat, frilled shirt, and a blue cap with a ribbon to top it all off. Ben looked back to Farnsworth and nodded.

  ‘I reckon you’d be Mister Farnsworth. I’m Ben Tower, and this is the Rafter T.’

  Reginald Farnsworth dismounted and took Ben’s offered hand, with a surprisingly firm grip. ‘How do you do, sir? I am indeed a Farnsworth as is my son, Jack, here.’ He looked over at his son, and then back at Ben.

  ‘You may be wondering why he is dressed so inappropriately. You see, my wife is traveling with us, but declined to visit a ranch. She stayed at our hotel in Denver, but insisted that Jack wear what she believes to be proper attire for calling on strangers.’ He stopped and pursed his lips. ‘My wife is rather, shall we say, set in her ways. Thus, poor Jack, who wanted to wear range clothing, is instead fit to attend a tea party.’

  Ben grinned and walked over to Jack, still mounted on his horse. ‘I have twin boys just about your size. Would you like to meet them and change clothes? They have plenty, and they won’t mind at all.’

  ‘That would be most kind of you, sir. I
am rather uncomfortable.’

  Ben heard Clay mutter something and looked at him. Clay silently pointed over Ben’s shoulder and Ben turned around in time to see Joseph and Jeremiah standing in the barn door staring at Jack Farnsworth. They slowly turned to look at one another and broke out in loud laughter. They pounded each other on the back and laughed some more, finally collapsing on the ground and holding their sides.

  Jack Farnsworth slid off his horse and walked over to the twins, waiting. When they looked up at him, he asked, ‘Don’t you have a mother?’

  ‘What? What are you talking about? Of course we have a mother!’

  They scrambled to their feet and stared at him. He looked like a sissy, but he was not afraid.

  ‘Doesn’t your Mum dress you up sometimes when you don’t want to?’

  The twins shrugged. ‘Maybe, but not like that! You talk funny too . . . like a sissy boy!’

  ‘I can whip either one of you anytime.’

  Joseph’s mouth dropped open.

  ‘You? Why, you couldn’t whip my little sister!’

  ‘I can whip both of you, one at a time. I wouldn’t judge a book by its cover.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means don’t decide who I am by how I’m dressed.’

  Reginald Farnsworth moved next to Ben. ‘Ben? May I call you Ben? And would you kindly call me Reggie?’

  Ben nodded.

  ‘Ben, Jack can probably do what he says. They’re all about the same size, true, but Jack has had some training and he’s quite good at fisticuffs. I’d better stop him.’

  Ben shook his head and smiled. ‘No, I think this might be a good lesson for the boys. Let’s let them sort it out if you’re willing, Reggie.’ Ben found himself liking the Englishman.