The Milch Bride (11 page)

“What the hell is going on?”

Hattie got up, but Jackson lay back on the quilt watching as
J.D.’s face puckered up, ready for a cry. Wordlessly he lifted the baby against
his chest, kissing the soft scrunched face. The baby pushed a fist into his
mouth and Jackson nibbled it.

On her feet, straightening her clothes, Hattie spoke
defensively. “We were playing with the baby, teaching him to roll over.”

“Sure you were. I knew something was up when you both came
up with excuses to miss church. When I think of the faces of the Dawsons,
missing seeing that boy.”

Hattie sputtered. “We’ve done nothing wrong.”

Rubye looked like she would slap the girl, and Jackson
sprang to his feet.

“Miss White, I think you’d better apologize to Miss
Stoddard.”

“Apologize, to that lying minx. That baby is no more
teething then the man in the moon. I doubt it’s her monthly either, but you’d
know more about that than me?”

“Stop!” the voice was fierce. “Stop before you say things
you’ll regret.”

“The only thing I regret is believing two liars. I’m leaving
this house of sin.”

Hattie started to say something more in protest, but Jackson
reached out and put a hand on her arm, then moved that arm behind her. This let
J.D. reach out to grab her and change arms. Hattie felt a huge ache grow in her
chest. She wanted to crumple from the angry scorn of a woman whom she had taken
for a friend. The baby’s lower lip was quivering at the tension in the air and Jackson
placed a hand on the soft little back, letting his hand stroke the velvety skin.
J.D. curled into Hattie’s arms. She felt comforted by Jackson’s arm bracing her
back and the baby clinging to them both. At the slam of Rubye’s door, she
pulled free, but as she turned to carry the boy to the bedroom, her eyes pooled
with tears of disappointment and she clenched her jaw to keep from shedding
them. Was she never going to be free of suspicion and accusation?

<><><> 

Rubye hurriedly packed and quickly left for town, driven and
comforted by James Boyd. The Dawsons had long ago offered her a place if she
ever found living with ‘that woman’ too difficult. Even after all these months,
Irene Dawson had stayed angry that Jackson had dared to bring the woman into
his house, into his wife’s bed, and given her the care of her precious
grandchild. Irene Dawson would be only too eager to welcome Rubye and listen to
her accusations and stories about that ‘white trash.’

Hattie rushed into the kitchen as soon as J.D. was asleep in
his crib. Upset with Rubye’s reaction, she was relieved that the food was ready
as the men should arrive any minute for dinner. She rushed to dish up the roast
and vegetables, sliced a bowl of ripe tomatoes and the large wheel of cornbread.
 She had dishes and silverware on the table, then stepped back in shock as
strange men began to ride up. Already nervous since James and Rubye would not
be there to serve, she started to shake.

Frightened, she called for the one man who could make her
feel safe. “Jackson?”

He came into the kitchen from his study. Hattie felt her
heart sink when she noticed the guns strapped to his hips. She had never seen
any of the hands on the ranch walk around armed before. They kept rifles in
their saddle scabbards but they were mostly for shooting varmints. Handguns,
like her father’s pistol, were for shooting men. More than the strange men
continuing to file into the yard, the sight of this armed man left her stunned.

Jackson shook his head. “Sorry I didn’t warn you in time. There
will be a lot of men coming to form a posse. I had a run-in with rustlers this
morning, and I plan to catch them and see them strung up this time. Dinner
looks good, but we don’t have time to sit down and eat.”

Hattie knew her confusion and disappointment showed.

He gave her shoulder a pat in consolation as he asked, “Can
you get a couple of pails of water for these riders and clear this table, but leave
the bread? Then stay out of the way while we talk.” He stepped down the stairs
into the cold cellar only to emerge in minutes with a bag of deer jerky and
several strings of beef jerky that had hung from the ceiling below.

Hattie awoke to her surroundings at his touch, quickly
carrying the food back to the kitchen stove and returning dishes and silverware
to the pantry shelves. She started through the door to the porch, then stepped
back behind the screen at all the staring eyes. Jackson walked up behind her
and told her curtly. “Never mind, stay with J.D.”

Hattie knew if she were stronger she would snort like Rubye
at the request that she just fade into the background. Instead, she felt
grateful for the reprieve and quickly disappeared into the back room.

Hattie kept the door cracked a little so she could hear,
wanting to know the reason for the gun, the men arriving, the details of the
animals taken, the shots fired. It was an hour later, when the men were finally
gathered, that Jackson addressed them all. She heard about the exchange of gun
fire, felt surprisingly elated on hearing that two of the rustlers were wounded
and all the cattle and two mules were back. Maybe it was the Sweat brothers and
Rafe Hogue. It was un-Christian she knew, but she prayed it was the three
rapist. She was afraid, since they were going to chase after the rustlers, but
she felt optimistic that they would catch up with them soon and this time Jackson
would have all these men as backup.

It surprised her that so many of the local ranchers had also
had cattle rustled. They were as angry as she felt. There was agreement that it
was time to go after them.

Tony rode in spraying dust. “The sheriff’s on his way; he
wants everyone to wait until he arrives.”

There were already over twenty men ready to ride and Jackson
burned with irritation at the needless wait. He had already shared all the
details of the shoot-out this morning, and he didn’t want to repeat it. His
irritation spilled over when James Boyd pulled in with the empty buckboard,
minutes before the sheriff finally arrived. The reminder of the scene with
Rubye White and her abrupt departure fueled his anger. Now what had been
settled would need to be worked out again. He would need to make more
arrangements just to keep his household running smoothly.

It was nearly three o’clock by the time everyone was
gathered and Sheriff Tate finally rode onto the ranch in his high-wheeled buggy.
Again, pacing and talking loudly, Jackson explained what happened, why they
needed to hurry and ride after the rustlers.

Hattie paced inside the house, echoing his anger and
excitement, bouncing the wide- awake and fussy boy. She knew from Jackson’s
description, that at least one man was hurt badly enough they should at least
catch him. She crossed her fingers, making a selfish wish. Let it be Rafe
Hogue, not Able or Silas Sweat. Please let it be Hogue, the leader, the
instigator, the brutal animal. Let him be wounded, dead, or about to be hung as
a rustler. Her name might never be cleared, but her father’s beating and death
would be avenged.

The sheriff stood in his buggy, interrupting her thoughts
with his speech. “I will tolerate no vigilantes. We will catch these men, but
they are to go to Star to be held, to wait on the circuit judge and a fair
trial.”

His words were greeted with angry arguments. “What about our
animals?”

“If the brands are there or you can offer proof that they
are your cattle, then you can hold them until the trial. We’ll make a tally of
all animals recovered and who takes each, in case of future disputes.”

Jackson pointed to the back paddock. “We recovered Miss
Stoddard’s mules and a dozen of my cows and calves. Cows are branded; I reckon
each calf will identify its own momma. Range law says it belongs to the owner
of the cow.”

“True about the calves. How do I know those mules are
Stoddard animals?”

Jackson was tempted to say, just ask them.

Hattie piped up through the screen door, softly so Jackson
could hear her. “They wear Stoddard brands.”

Jackson repeated the answer though the sheriff had heard it.
The sheriff stared at the shadow, deliberately making no nod or tip of his hat.
Instead he wrinkled his nose as though from a bad smell and Jackson felt the
insult burn up the back of his neck. He still felt the rage of Rubye’s casting them
in the role of sinners. He could not, nor ever would, slug a woman. But if the
sheriff dared a similar comment, he would reconsider those words sitting in the
dust.

His housing arrangements would be the first issue Jackson
would have to resolve when they returned. Hattie already did most of the
laundry, more than her share of cleaning, and often helped with the meals. Even
taking care of J.D. full-time, she could probably take on the chore of feeding
the men. However, with the housekeeper moved out, even Jackson would not dare
sleep under the same roof with her. Hell, he had problems.

Finally, all agreed. As quickly as the house and yard had
filled, it emptied.

It was Cliff, who picked up the blood trail, the other half
of the party headed northwest, keeping each other in sight as the line spread
out over the range. The rest of the men, including Jackson, Hank and the sheriff,
fanned out southeast, doing the same thing.

When Jackson crossed the boundary onto the Stoddard ranch,
he heard the bellow of a large bull. Excited, he spurred his horse down the
valley toward the seeps and the mud puddles where Hattie had sent his men months
ago in search of eighteen cows and a black, trick horned bull.

The area was fenced with logs, animals crowded into the
space. Along with the Stoddard animals were his eight missing cows and their
twin calves and most of the animals that had been pilfered during the last
months, including several saddle horses. He was disappointed not to see
Hattie’s old gelding, but the excitement of the ranchers on finding their
missing animals was palpable. He looked, but the first fifty cattle the
Stoddard’s had lost were gone.

Maybe they had rustled and sold animals quicker before the
Stoddard place became available? Now they could hide out and keep the animals
until they had enough to trail north. Something about the arrangement didn’t
add up. Where were they getting the feed? When they’d moved Hattie, they’d
moved all the food stored here, though there hadn’t been that much. Where did
outlaws get the food to keep the stolen cattle penned up and fed?

He held the men up. “It looks like they’re holed up at Tom
Stoddard’s place. We’d better go in slow and cautious.”  He grinned as he
looked from face to face, “All this crowd, they might know we’re here, so keep
your guns ready and try to find and use all the cover you can find.”

They crept in, inching from the cover of the trees to the
protection of the barn, all the time expecting to hear shots. Jackson and Cliff
rode into the barn with one of the farmers holding the door open. As he
suspected, the loft was full of hay, and there were two barrels of oats for the
horses. There were wheel marks clearly showing where a wagon had sat, probably
moving no farther than a foot from where the oats were unloaded. He toed the
ground, noticing a bright fleck of red. “Hey, look at this.”

Men who had approached the house, called in complaint.
“They’re gone.”

Entering the house, Jackson put his hands on his hips,
resting them near the guns. The place was filthy, food dropped on the floor,
everything rough. He noticed there was a new table, four good chairs where the
broken table and two busted chairs had sat before. In each bedroom, there were two
cots, just like the ones he had been sleeping on in the study. Not just feed in
the barn, but somebody had provided furniture for these owl hoots. Someone with
money was behind the rustlers. In a town like Star, there were only a few men
who had that kind of money.

Sheriff Tate looked around the cabin and Jackson felt his
suspicion rise. This was the man who told Hattie he would arrest her for
indecency for wearing pants, but told her he believed low-life saloon trash,
not her. Jackson felt his jaw clench and he let his hand rest on the butt of
his revolver before calming enough to speak.

“Ben, you and your deputy rode in from town. Clearly one of
these rustlers was wounded badly. They doubled back here for a wagon, because
the wagon that was in the barn is gone. Did you pass them on the way into town
heading to Doc Jenkins?”

The sheriff rolled his eyes at him. “Damn, Harper, I know
you think you’re the big dog, having a shoot-out with the rustlers and finding
their hidey-hole and the rustled cattle, but I am the sheriff. You think if I
rode past a bunch of bloody men, I wouldn’t have noticed and stopped them?
Especially, when Tony rode in and told me to ride out and arrest some
rustlers?”

Jackson wasn’t the only one who gave the sheriff hard looks.
He wanted to say, yeah, if you’re being paid not to see them. He just stared
and didn’t answer.

“All right, let’s drive these animals back to the ranch,
make a tally, and then get people home. Those of you who live in town, you can
look for wagon tracks; see if you can find a lead. Hank, you can try to trail
the wagon while it’s still light, maybe they went across the prairie.”

Everyone wanted to comment, but none of them did. Later,
when the sheriff was gone, Jackson knew there’d be plenty said.

“Why drive them to your place? Take the tally here, divide
them up. Save these men a little of their Sunday.” Tate said as though he were
already running for reelection.

“Anyone know who’s been staying here at the Stoddard place?”
The sheriff bellowed.

No one answered. “Don’t worry. If they’re as shot up as
Jackson claims, they’ll be easy to spot,” the sheriff laughed.

“They’re shot up, or do you think I painted the blood trail
here and out in the barn?”