A Man with a Past by Mary Connealy

 

ONE

AUGUST 1870INDEPENDENCE, MISSOURI

When a man grows up in wild country, huntin’ food, eyes wide open for trouble, he knows when he’s being watched.

And that stranger back’a him weren’t out lookin’ for a place to have a Sunday picnic.

Falcon had fought shy of a dozen towns and wanted no part of Independence, Missouri. ’Ceptin’ he didn’t know where in tarnation he was going, and to his understanding, this was his last chance to figure it out.

So he went ridin’ right smack into that beehive of a town on his old rawboned mule to find out how to get to Wyoming. And a man commenced to following.

For a lot of people, it might be right hard to spot a single man on these crowded streets full of shops and freight wagons. Everywhere Falcon turned, people swarmed.

But staying alive wasn’t easy in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Tennessee, where a man could find a way to die near every time he turned around. And yet here Falcon stood, as tall and rawboned as his mule, proving he was a tough, savvy man, and he didn’t intend to trust luck with that man on his tail.

He intended to trust skill.

He’d said a word or two here and there as he traveled—and more often just a word, not two—and found out how to go along the Oregon Trail. Funny how much a man could learn by listening. He didn’t want to ask a lot of questions for fear that man a-doggin’ him might come along wanting to know what Falcon had been talking about.

The same men who went to yammering about the Oregon Trail would be just as likely to shout out every word Falcon had said.

So he said mostly nuthin’.

But he’d learned enough to find which way the trail went. As he understood it, Wyoming was two or three states along it to the northwest—mighty big states. Bear Claw Pass was the town he was looking for, and it was right on the trail, too. If he just followed the path, well-marked so they said, he’d find what he was looking for.

But before he showed himself there, Falcon wanted some answers. A lawyer who held information for him about an inheritance was in Casper, the first town east of Bear Claw Pass.

The sun was setting on a long August day when Falcon headed out of Independence. He planned on sleeping at a campfire tonight, as he’d done every night. He’d heard tell of such as a hotel, but he couldn’t figure why a man would pay for a roof when he could have the stars for free.

The crowd thinned as he edged out of that crazy, loud town. The closest he’d come to a town before, not counting the ones he’d avoided on his way out here, was Chickahoochi Cove back home, and he didn’t go there ’cept if he had trading to do that the traveling peddler couldn’t handle. That’d only happened a few times in his life.

As he left that wild herd of people behind, the man following him dropped back and back and back.

And when the town got really thinned out, that’s when Falcon spotted the second man. The other lagged farther back. Falcon only spotted him because the buildings were sparse on the edge of town.

One man, on foot, Falcon might’ve just braced him and told him to fight or run.

But two was a more concernin’ business. And two men riding.

Checking his saddlebags, he was able to sneak a good look at both men. Well-armed. Not tenderfeet. Falcon would beat ’em. But it wouldn’t be easy. And tough as he was, those two men could get lucky.

Leastways now he knew what he was up against.

There were bluffs outside of Independence. They weren’t any match for the Blue Ridge Mountains back home but hills sure enough and fully wooded. And these humble Missouri woods and hills called to him as if they were his natural home.

Land he could vanish into.

A lot better to take these varmints on here than on the plains he’d ridden across coming west. Of course, he’d’ve done it if he had to, but these men had only taken up after him today.

He did himself some thinking as he rode toward those trees, doing his best not to alert the men that they’d been spotted. He wanted to vanish, and for that, he needed surprise.

Were they horse thieves? He was astride his mule, but Harvey wasn’t worth much money. They’d passed dozens of riders with better stock than old Harvey.

He had every bit of money he owned tied into a leather pouch tucked inside the waist of his britches. His bedroll was tied on the back of his mule. And his saddlebags just had food, a few pans, and bullets and a bullet mold.

Falcon had sold what little he had when he headed west, but he hadn’t flashed the few coins he carried. He wasn’t a rich-lookin’ man. Homespun clothes and moccasins and a fine broad-brimmed hat that he’d made himself. His family had never had themselves any cash money, and there was nuthin’ about him that looked worth stealin’.

It must be they were after Harvey.

He’d let ’em have the saddlebags if they were only packed with food—he was a good shot and could get more of that—but he needed those bullets and the mold to make more.

There was a pistol holstered at his waist, a rifle slung across his back, and a razor-sharp Arkansas Toothpick tucked in a scabbard under the front of his shirt.

A man could live forever with those tools. Falcon Hunt was likely to have to prove that right soon.

He rode into the trees covering a bluff and took off up a game trail climbing north. He considered every move he’d make because likely enough he was only going to get one chance to do this. He needed to use his woods savvy to hide, and he could do that a whole lot better alone. It burned him bad to realize he might have to let them take the mule. But he’d get him back.

He watched the woods, scouting out a spot where he wouldn’t leave a track.

He heard hoofbeats picking up speed behind him and knew the men were closing in. Not much time to find just what he needed.

And then, right before him, a massive, fallen-down tree stretched from the edge of the trail into the woods.

Falcon leapt down, landing on the rough bark of the massive broken trunk. He stripped his saddlebags and bedroll from the mule in a few quick swipes and slapped Harvey hard on the rump. The old boy wasn’t stubborn, as mules were often said to be. He took off up the trail, knowing that was what was asked of him. The coming riders would be on him in a minute. Falcon scampered along the trunk, glad he wore moccasins instead of boots.

A bullet cut through the trees, then another. A man shouted, “Stop or we’ll kill you!”

Stupid thing to yell. Nothing about it to cause Falcon to stop. But the shooter must’ve caught a glimpse of Harvey or Falcon or both, or he wouldn’t have opened fire.

The downed tree Falcon stood on wasn’t long dead. An old oak. The branches spread before him, thick and a lot of ’em still hung with dead leaves and clusters of acorns. Ducking around limbs, he looked for a hiding place. He didn’t want to be seen, but he wanted to be close.

One of the heavy branches had snapped off and wedged against another big tree, slanting up such that it formed a near cave.

He heard the riders coming and dropped down to the ground in the V between the tree trunk and the broken branch. He ducked low and waited, tensed up, his hand on his pistol.

Cheyenne had nightmares . . . and she wasn’t always asleep.

Nightmares of digging up Clovis Hunt and strangling his rotting corpse with her bare hands.

She jerked awake, as she did nearly every night since they’d read the will.

Her ranch. Given away to strangers.

A ranch her pa, Nate Wild Eagle Brewster, had started before he’d married her ma. Pa was a long-time friend of Grandpa’s. He had been the trail guide on the wagon train that brought Grandpa and Ma out west, and he decided to settle in the same area they did. After a while, he and her ma had gotten hitched.

Pa had died when Cheyenne was a wee thing. Before Ma’s head had cleared from her grief—or at least that was Ma’s story—she’d married up with a handsome mountain man by the name of Clovis Hunt. Clovis was Pa to Cheyenne’s little brother, Wyatt.

Wyatt was her partner in the ranch and a fine man, but his pa was as worthless as perfume in a chicken coop.

Now Cheyenne lay awake fretting. Her mind chasing like a mad thing, trying to undo what had been done to her.

She rolled onto her shoulder and stared out the window. She’d propped it open to let in the warm summer night.

No more sleep tonight. Not after she’d gone round with Clovis in her nightmares. Studying the sky, she saw the moon was low and the stars were winking out.

Throwing back the covers, she decided to get on with the day. Maybe she could make a big breakfast and have it ready when Wyatt rolled out of bed. Slipping silently into her clothes, she swung her door open to face Wyatt.

He was fully dressed and heading downstairs. “I thought you might be getting some sleep for once,” he said.

Shaking her head, she said, “You want flapjacks and side pork? I can add biscuits and gravy.” She threw her arms wide. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, there’s plenty of time if you’re hungry for an apple pie.”

His mouth turned up in a humorless smile.

“Flapjacks if there’s plenty of ’em. I’ll help. We can get a jump on the day.”

They’d gotten a jump on the day every day since Clovis had turned up his toes. Died peacefully in his sleep like the lazy varmint he was. Cheyenne and Wyatt hadn’t even noticed he was dead until the noon meal.

They walked downstairs together. She thought of Winona Hawkins asleep in her own room. No sense making her get up. They’d leave food for her.

She’d squawk. She was over here staying to help feed them during branding. But she sure didn’t sign on for breakfast two hours before sunrise.

While they worked silently together, Cheyenne fumed. She and Wyatt were a good team and had been since Ma died three years ago. And why not? They were equal owners in the ranch and had been raised for that.

And now two unheard-of brothers, no doubt sidewinders just like Clovis, were heading here to steal all of her ranch and a chunk of Wyatt’s. Wyatt held on to a third, but Cheyenne was cut out of everything.

She couldn’t strangle Clovis Hunt, but she kept the idea in reserve in the event she got a chance to use it on Wyatt’s brothers.