Hard Ride to Wichita (4 page)

Squinting his eyes and tensing his muscles to try to hold back the shakes that he felt creeping through his body, Luke snapped, “What are you doing with that?”

Oddly enough, the two brothers seemed even more nervous than Red or Luke. Marty held out both hands in a placating gesture as he said, “That's what we brought to trade! Honest.”

Joseph nodded. “He's right. It used to belong to my uncle.”

“Is it loaded?” Red asked.

“Yes.” Keeping his hand an inch or two above the pistol's grip, Joseph asked, “You want to take a look for yourself?”

“Yeah,” Luke said quickly. “Hand it over.”

“Maybe you should take it from him,” Red warned.

Before Luke could take that precaution, Joseph had already drawn the pistol from where it had been tucked beneath his belt. The pistol's barrel was at least twice as long as Luke had been expecting. The lines were smooth and the grip looked as if it had been through six different kinds of hell.

“What a piece of junk!” Red said.

“What are you talking about?” Joseph snapped. “My uncle was in the army. He carried this gun against a band of Apaches in the Dakota Territories!”

“Looks like he dropped it into a river about that long ago too. Did you just fish it out yesterday?”

Luke reached out and took the pistol from Joseph. “How can I tell if it's loaded?”

“That right there,” Joseph said as he showed him how to open the cylinder.

It wasn't easy, but Luke rolled the cylinder all the way around. He then closed it up and got the weapon situated within his grasp. A smirk snuck onto his face, which he wouldn't have been able to hold back if he'd tried.

“Unless you've got another couple of those things stashed somewhere, I'd say you still owe us,” Red told him.

“That's a good gun,” Marty said. “I fired it myself.”

Red laughed loudly. “I know that's a damn lie. If you fired more than two rounds from that thing, you'd be missing a piece of your hand.”

The iron was partly rusted, but its weight felt good in Luke's hand. He hefted it and nodded in satisfaction as he rested his thumb against the hammer. After taking a breath, he pulled it back to hear the invigorating clack of the firing mechanism. “What kind of gun is it?”

“It's a genuine Colt,” Joseph told him.

“There's two shots in the cylinder ready to go.” Eyeing the other boy suspiciously, Red asked, “You won't shoot us, will you?”

Glaring at Marty, Luke said, “I never said I was gonna kill anyone. I just want to see if this thing really works or not.”

“Don't do it,” Red warned. “I've heard of men getting their whole hand blown off when a pistol misfires.”

“I'll be careful.”

“Don't matter how careful you are! Something goes wrong and that gun could blow up in your face.”

Luke's eyes were glassy and transfixed upon the weapon in his hand. “Just get me something to shoot at.”

“Are you gonna take that gun as a trade or not?” Marty asked. “We wanna be done with this.”

Luke glanced over at him and was about to fiercely tell the boy to mind his manners when he realized Marty was already stricken mute. Without meaning to, Luke had pointed the Colt at the boy. Reluctantly he lowered the pistol and forced himself to sound innocent when he said, “I never shot a gun before. That's all I'm after.” Luke wasn't much of an actor, but he was convincing enough to get the Paulsen boys to relax a bit.

“There's some bottles over there,” Joseph said. “Marty, go set them up on that fence.”

As Marty hurried away to complete the task he'd been given, Red walked over to Luke and whispered, “Just take the gun and be done with it. We can probably sell it to get the money we were after.”

“Don't you want to try to shoot it?” Luke asked.

“I shot a gun before. My pa has one. Hasn't yours ever taken you hunting?”

“I've been hunting, but this isn't like any hunting rifle. This has been through Indian wars,” Luke said as he turned the Colt over to see how the light reflected off its rusted surface from different angles. “This is like a pistol carried by gunfighters.”

“It's one carried by a soldier,” Red reminded him.

“Plenty of gunfighters used to be soldiers.” Looking up to find a trio of bottles lined up on the fence separating the lot from the strip of land behind the neighboring store, Luke grinned and opened the Colt's cylinder.

“You wanna bet that thing won't blow off your hand?” Red asked.

“It won't.”

Seeing that he wasn't about to sway his friend from the course he'd chosen, Red threw his stick at the ground with enough force to bury its point several inches into the dirt. He stormed off a few steps before turning and placing his hands on his hips to watch what transpired next.

Luke squared his shoulders, planted his feet, and straightened his elbow. Bringing that arm up, he felt as if the Colt had gained a few pounds in the last few seconds. Adjusting his stance and ignoring the tension in his muscles, he sighted along the top of the barrel and pulled the trigger. The Colt let out a haggard bark and kicked against his palm without so much as nicking the bottle.

“That's got some punch!” Luke said while smiling as if he'd sent glass flying in every direction.

“It sure does,” Joseph said. “Try it again.”

Although he could hear Red sighing behind him, Luke didn't bother turning to see the scowl on his friend's face. Instead he brought the gun up again and took his time while aiming. As he stared down that barrel, he swore he could see every flake of rust, every nick in the iron, and every speck of dust within the structure of the firearm. Luke took a breath, held it, and pulled his trigger again. The gun sounded even louder than the first time, but he didn't come any closer to knocking a bottle from atop that fence.

“The thing's probably bent,” Red said. “Satisfied?”

Luke thumbed the hammer back again, took quick aim, and pulled the trigger only to hear the dry slap of iron against an empty chamber. Before he could ask for another bullet, someone called to them from the street.

“What's going on over there?” a man asked in a gruff voice. “Who's doing that shooting?”

“That's the sheriff!” Red said.

For a moment, all four boys froze. They looked at one another, waiting to see if any of them could come up with a good plan. The only one that had anything to say was Luke, and he just managed to get out one word.

“Run!”

That was plenty of incentive to scatter the boys like dry leaves in a stiff breeze. As soon as they got moving, the shouting that had started it all came at them with even more intensity.

“I see you boys!” the lawman shouted as his heavy steps brought him closer to the lot. “You best not have a gun or I'll tan all of your hides!”

Luke's legs pumped for all they were worth. His ears were filled with the thump of his heart and the quick wheeze of excited breaths. Only when he'd found an empty alley did he stop and take a look around to see where he'd wound up.

The Paulsens were nowhere to be found.

From what he could see, the alley he'd chosen was between a shoe store and a leatherworker's shop. Sure enough, when he pulled in his next breath, it was laden with the scent of polish and cowhide. Suddenly hurried steps closed in on the alley. Luke raised the Colt to hip level to greet whoever had chased him down.

“Put that thing away, you idiot!” Red said as he charged down the alley. “Hasn't that hunk of scrap already caused enough trouble?”

“Where's the sheriff?” Luke asked.

“He's hightailing it after Marty Paulsen. The damn fool ran straight back to his own house. We just gotta hope he doesn't speak a word about us to the sheriff.”

“He won't,” Luke said.

Taking a gander out of the alley, Red looked up and down the street. There were a few locals out and about who were taking interest in the commotion nearby, but none were looking in his direction. He moved back into the alley before he was seen. “He won't, huh? You think you scared him that much?”

“He's too scared to speak his own name. Doesn't much matter what it is that got him that way.”

Unable to refute that logic, Red leaned against a wall and ran his fingers through his coarse mane of hair. When he let out the breath he'd taken, a nervous laugh came out with it. “What in blazes were you thinking? The least you could've done was take that gun somewhere it wouldn't attract so much attention.”

“You say that now, but you didn't think about the sheriff coming along before he started shouting at us.”

“I still say you could've blown your hand off.”

“But I didn't,” Luke said quietly. The Colt was still in his grasp and he angled it so he could view the barrel from several directions.

“Joseph or Marty was probably just looking to unload that thing,” Red said as he approached his friend. “They might have stole it, even.”

Luke laughed once and shook his head. “Neither of them lilies has what it takes to steal anything. I'm gonna clean this up and get it working properly.”

“Then what?”

“Then I'm gonna show that sheriff what trouble really is!”

The boys looked at each other quietly for a few seconds before breaking into laughter.

“Who's that over there?” someone shouted from outside the alley.

Luke wasn't sure if the voice belonged to the sheriff or not. He and Red ran in the other direction and didn't look back.

1864

Most of Luke's days were spent either with Red or on his own. As the war spread throughout the entire country, everything else seemed to become smaller. Fighting was all anyone could talk about and death had become all too familiar for young and old alike. If a family member hadn't been scarred or killed by enemy fire, someone had a friend or acquaintance that had been touched by the terrible hand of conflict. Having left school behind earlier that year, Luke tended to his own studies by reading books or honing the skills he thought he would need. With the world in its current state, one of those skills involved a friend that had grown closer to him in recent months.

The Colt Navy revolver had been disassembled, cleaned, reassembled, polished, taken apart again, and repaired as best Luke could manage. There was only so much he could do for the old pistol, but the weapon was firing better than it had at the start. Either that, or all of his practice with the gun had done him a lot of good. He could hit more targets than he missed. When bullets had gotten too expensive to buy, he'd begged the town's blacksmith to teach him how to press his own using supplies paid for with the sweat of his brow.

John Vassilly was a stout man with a bald head and thick, burly arms. As he'd been a blacksmith for over half his life, nearly every bit of exposed skin was scarred from heat, bruised from his hammer, or callused by thick layers of petrified skin. Not one given to smiling, John showed the same expression for every occasion. He knew Luke well enough to give the young man a crooked smirk when he did a good job and a slap on the back when he was particularly proud of his unofficial apprentice.

“You about to head on home?” John asked

The autumn sun was still lingering in the sky, but it was well past the time when customers would be accepted into the little shop attached to an old barn that had been converted into John's workspace. Luke sat in a corner where he toiled at learning the blacksmith's trade and tried his hand at a few of the smaller jobs that came into the shop. He even had a small square window within inches of his head, which he now looked out to see nothing more than an empty street.

“I can stay,” Luke replied.

“I'll need you to go. Gotta lock up for the night.”

“I can do that.”

“You've been here long enough, boy. You need to get on home so your mama don't fret about where you are or what you're doing.”

Luke rolled his eyes and set down the set of tongs he'd been repairing. “Did she tell you to keep an eye on me?”

“As long as you're in my shop, I'm keeping an eye on you. Don't forget that,” John said sternly. In a somewhat softer tone, he added, “But yeah. Your ma did come around and ask that I don't keep you for so long. She said something about you needing to get home to read more.”

Ever since Luke had put his schooling days behind him, his mother had been yapping at him to dive back in. She wanted him to go away to some fancy university school she'd heard about in Illinois. He didn't know how she'd gotten the money for him to go and it didn't matter. He wasn't about to leave her in Maconville.

“Go on, now,” John said as he picked Luke up by the collar as if he were lifting a cat by the scruff of its neck. “I told you to git and so you'll git. Give my best to your ma and pa.”

“He's not my pa,” Luke said.

Even if John didn't know everything that went on in the Croft home, he had eyes in his head that told him plenty while looking at the young man in front of him. “Kyle seems like a good enough sort.”

“That's what everyone says.”

“Well,” the blacksmith said as he gathered up the things he needed to take home, “isn't it the truth?”

Luke shrugged and stood up. “If I gotta go, I gotta go.” The Colt lay in its regular spot on an empty crate he used for a table. He picked it up and tucked it under his belt.

“What about that friend of yours?” John asked while trying not to stare at the weapon that was never out of Luke's sight. “How's Red doing these days?”

“He's fine. I'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Vassilly.”

Stepping aside to let Luke pass, John gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Bright and early. Maybe we can get Barry Hogan's team shoed ahead of schedule.”

“Sounds good.” Luke didn't look back as he left the blacksmith's shop. He did, however, pause for a few moments before turning in the direction he needed to go if he meant to head home. Despite having reached the height of a man some time ago, Luke shrank a bit as he started walking the familiar path that would lead to his front door.

The house at the end of that path was the only one Luke had known his entire life. He'd been born in Missouri but was brought to Kansas when he was still an infant by his mother and father. His birth father had died some years ago, and memories of him faded more and more no matter how hard Luke tried to hang on to them. For better or not, he'd learned, everything faded.

As usual, the Croft house was quiet. And, as usual, that silence was shattered the moment Luke walked in through the front door.

“Where have you been?” his mother asked. She was a short woman with dark blond hair and a crooked nose. She always smelled of freshly baked bread, and it had been years since the hint of worry had left the corners of her eyes. She rushed forward to place her hands on his arms to hold him steady as she looked him over.

“I'm not hurt, Ma,” Luke said.

“I know. I just missed you. I hardly ever see you anymore.”

“He's working, Virginia!” said the man who stomped out of the kitchen with a fresh layer of chicken grease on his face. “Leave him be.”

“He's my son,” she said proudly. “I won't leave him anywhere.”

“How much did you bring home today, son?”

Wincing at being called that, Luke couldn't help thinking of his real father. The man who bore the kind face from his fading memories had died of a fever. It was a quiet, forgettable death compared to the gruesome sacrifices being made during the brutal days of war. The passing of one good man seemed even less significant since nobody mentioned his name any longer. Ever since Luke's mother had met Kyle Sobell, it was as though the man that had brought Luke into this world had been erased altogether.

“I asked you a question,” Kyle said. “How much did you bring home?”

“Nothing,” Luke told him. “I'm still working on a few things.”

“What kind of job is that?”

“It's an apprenticeship,” Luke's mother said. “He's learning a trade and John Vassilly is a fine teacher.”

“If he was learning a trade, he'd be bringing home some pay or otherwise finding a way to help us make ends meet,” Kyle groused. “At least that way he'd be of some use around here.”

“Don't talk to him like that.” Before she was finished speaking those words, the back of Kyle's hand was on its way to meet her cheek. It was a light slap compared to the others that had been given to her over the years, but it rang out like a thunderclap in Luke's ears.

“Don't do that!” Luke said.

Kyle barely acknowledged him with half a glance. “Just get out of my sight,” he said to the young man.

Luke stood up straight. “I won't go anywhere. You will.”

Slowly, Kyle turned to face him. His eyes angled downward as a wicked smile eased onto his face. “Oh, you're the big man now, are you? What are you gonna do, big man? Draw that pistol and shoot me down?”

Luke hadn't even realized his hand had drifted toward the Colt. Looking down, he saw his fingers were less than an inch from touching the weapon's grip. “Just . . . stop hitting her.”

“Or what?”

Rushing forward to grab Kyle with both hands, Virginia pleaded, “Leave him alone! He's just upset, is all. Things are hard for Luke. He's always been alone.”

“That's because he's a freak with dead eyes,” Kyle said. “Ain't that right, boy? You look like some kind of ghoul. Maybe you should be an undertaker. Go learn a trade that suits you better.”

Dead eyes.

That had always been a peculiar little insult that Kyle had thrown at Luke ever since the three of them had gone to pose for a family photograph six Christmases ago. Luke had blinked at the wrong time and the resulting photograph showed only empty white spaces where his eyes should have been. Of course, that space was a reflection off his eyelids, but Kyle picked up on the fact that it looked more like a ghost's eyes. Whenever Luke kept to himself or seemed particularly withdrawn, Kyle brought up his dead eyes. Since those sorts of instances were frequent, Luke had learned to let the insults roll off his back. The same could not be said about his mother.

“Don't call him that!” she said. “It's a terrible thing to say.”

“He knows I'm only fooling about,” Kyle said through a smile. “Besides, I thought you always liked my jokes.”

“That was back when you were amusing,” she replied. “Now you're just cruel.”

“Am I? At least I'm not the one that's about to draw a gun on the man who's put a roof over his head all these years.”

Kyle was right. Luke's hand was still within easy reach of the Colt. His mother waved that off without a second thought. “He's just scared,” she said. “He won't hurt anyone.”

“Scared as a church mouse,” Kyle grunted. “He should've outgrown that a long time ago. Guess it ain't his lot in life to be a real man.”

If he hadn't already heard those things from Kyle as well as so many others over the years, Luke would have been angered by such words. Instead he saw them for what they were: the feeble rants of an ignorant man.

When Luke's mother drew herself up to defend him, he rubbed her back and said, “It's all right.”

“No. It's not,” she said defiantly. Before she could get another word out, a heavy set of knuckles pounded against the front door.

Virginia looked toward the door as if she'd been caught in a sin and Kyle strode over to answer it while shaking his head in silent disgust at the rest of his adopted family. He opened the door to reveal a tall man wearing a rumpled waistcoat over a dusty white cotton shirt. A wide-brimmed hat sat atop his head, casting a shadow that was almost dark enough to obscure his entire face.

“Did I come at a bad time?” the man asked.

“No, Scotty,” Kyle replied. “Come on inside and make yourself at home. We was just having a discussion.”

Emory Scott was lean and had sunken features. He wore a double rig around his waist carrying two finely polished pistols that looked to have cost him a pretty penny. After removing his hat, he gazed at Luke's mother for just a bit too long. “Evening, Ginny.”

She averted her eyes and patted her son's arm while making her way to the bedroom. Without a word to anyone, she shut herself inside.

“She's a quiet one, huh?” Scott said.

Kyle grunted and crossed the room to grab a bottle of whiskey from the top shelf in the kitchen.

The tall man looked over at Luke and then to Kyle. Luke's stepfather grunted once and said, “Don't pay him no mind. He's about as useful as teats on a bull. What brings you around to this neck of the woods? More work from the captain?”

“Do you always discuss business with others around?” Scott asked.

“What does it matter? This is my home, ain't it?”

“Yes, but it's not everyone's business.”

“I didn't say nothing about the move to Wichita, if that's what you mean.” When Scott let out an irritated sigh, Kyle added, “Not that it matters anyhow. I can trust them.”

“Maybe we should do this some other time,” Scott said.

Carrying the bottle and two glasses over to a table in the front room, Kyle said, “Nonsense! You came all this way. Have a drink at least.”

Reluctantly Scott accepted the glass that was handed to him and held it out to be filled.

“Now,” Kyle said. “Have you got another job for me?”

“I do . . . if you have something for me.”

“You know I do,” Kyle said through another smirk. Angling his head toward the bedroom, he shouted, “Virginia! Bring that valise out here! The one under the bed.”

Scott's eyes narrowed and his face darkened in a way that made Luke feel like an intruder in his own home. The lean gunman remained quiet until Luke's mother emerged from the bedroom carrying a leather bag that had been under her bed longer than most of the dust that had collected down there. Although he'd always known it was under his mother's bed, he'd never been inclined to open that bag. The fact that this stranger wanted to do just that struck him as very peculiar indeed.

“Hurry up and get over here with that,” Kyle demanded.

Scott watched her without the salaciousness that had been in his eyes when he'd first arrived. Now he studied her the way a hawk studied mice scurrying around on a desert floor.

As soon as he got the bag in his hands, Kyle opened it. “Here you go,” he said while reaching inside.

Scott moved forward to block Luke's view of the bag's contents. Grabbing the bag in one hand, he pulled it away from Kyle and took a look inside for himself. “What in the hell is wrong with you?” he snarled. “You keep this here where everyone in this house can know about it?”

“They're my family,” Kyle said. “I already told you. They ain't about to—”

“There's no telling what they might do,” Scott cut in. “The fact of the matter was that you were told to keep this safe.”

“It is safe!”

“Safe from the law as well as safe from prying eyes, you blasted fool.”

Kyle shook his head and opened his mouth without saying anything. As much as Luke liked to see his stepfather at a loss for words, he couldn't help feeling an even greater desire to get out of that house. If not for the fact that his mother was on the other side of the room, he might have done that very thing.