A Man with a Past by Mary Connealy

TWENTY-ONE

Cheyenne charged toward Ralston’s new house. Fearless and tough though she was, Falcon caught up to her. He’d rather not let her run alone into the house of a liar and a thief.

Cheyenne slammed the door open. “Percy Ralston, you get out here.”

No one came out.

She went on into the house to search the rooms.

“Mr. Hawkins.” A white-haired man with a limp came out of another one of them bunkhouses like the one Falcon was sleeping in. How many men did Hawkins jam into this one?

“What is it, Bud?” Hawkins had followed them into Ralston’s place.

“Ralston rode to Bear Claw Pass this morning. He left right after you did and before the sheriff got out here. He said he’d told you in the note he sent.”

“I didn’t see any note until I got back. And he didn’t say he was riding to town, he said he was ailing.”

“He complains o’ them joints worse’n I do.” Bud shook his head.

Falcon saw something in Bud’s eyes that made him ask, “Don’t you think he hurts as much as he claims?”

Bud’s mouth made a straight, hard line. “He’s mighty faithful to his limping, but I’ve seen the man move a few steps now and ag’in when he don’t think no one’s watchin’. It makes me think he’s not quite as laid up as he lets on.”

Since Falcon knew, considering those boulders, that had to be true, he didn’t pursue the comment.

Hawkins did. “What do you mean? He walks with a cane all the time. His one knee won’t even bend, and it pains him terribly.”

Falcon didn’t like something about Oliver Hawkins, maybe his smooth talk. Maybe the way Win acted when he got too close to her, or the way she’d dragged her heels about announcing her marriage. But the man struck him wrong.

If Hawkins was a cheat who’d been cheated by a better cheat, it wouldn’t bother Falcon overly, ’ceptin’ the man hadn’t just cheated Hawkins. When Ralston started in to stealing RHR cattle, he’d done honest, hardworking folks wrong.

That bothered Falcon plenty. He hoped that meant he was an honest man himself.

“Did you see him ride out, old-timer?” Falcon walked up close to cut the herd of clamoring folks.

“Yep, rode the same way his woman just did.”

Hawkins shoved Falcon aside. Or he tried to. Falcon didn’t move an inch. So Hawkins went around him. “His woman? Mrs. Hobart was his woman?”

And what Falcon heard in Hawkins’s voice wasn’t just surprise, it was shock, even jealousy. It didn’t take much figurin’ to know Hawkins had considered Mrs. Hobart to be his woman, and not just in the way of cooking and tidying.

Falcon gave the man a disgusted look, then said, “Everyone stop moving around. I need to look at hoofprints, and every step y’all are takin’ is scuffing them up. If Hobart went after her man, then I can for sure follow her.”

“Bud”—he gestured at the old man—“can you tell me which prints Ralston left?”

“Yep.” They walked to the trail left by Hobart. “He’s riding a line-back dun. A big gelding.” Bud pointed, and Falcon saw the tracks clearly.

“And no reason to take that one except it’s strong and fast. The tracks are plain as day. Laid out right in line with the gray mare Mrs. Hobart rode.”

Falcon studied them, then asked, “What’d’ya mean no reason for it?”

“Ralston ain’t a big man, and if he’s going to town like he told me, he don’t need a horse that strong. And he’s supposed to be lame. Hard enough to mount a normal-sized horse. Why choose a big critter like that unless you’re planning to move far and fast?”

“Did you see him mount up?”

“Ralston always ordered someone to slap leather on whatever horse he rode, then he led the horse behind his house to mount up back there. Common enough, too. He rode out for a few hours every couple a days. Said it helped his leg. And behind his house, there’s a stump. He said he uses that to mount. But I sneaked a look a few times. Ralston ain’t usin’ no stump. He just don’t want to let anyone see him swingin’ up nimble as a squirrel.”

Cheyenne came rushing out of Ralston’s house. “He’s left nothing behind but empty drawers.”

“He had two good-sized satchels with him, now that I think of it. He must have loaded those on while he was behind the house. Then he took off. Didn’t have much time to see just what he was about.”

Turning on his heel, Falcon rushed for his horse, tied around back of the mansion. “We can catch up to Mrs. Hobart without much trouble and make sure she’s on a trail that stays with his. Maybe she’s partnered with him in this.”

Hard not to wonder if any more of the Hawkins hands were involved, or the RHR hands.

As Falcon swung up onto his horse, Wyatt and Cheyenne were with him. Kevin and Win just behind.

“Win, wait.” Hawkins came running after them. “Let them go. Stay here and talk to me.”

Cheyenne turned to Kevin, who had a mule-stubborn look on his face as he hoisted Win onto her horse.

“You two should stay. Explain to Oliver what’s going on.”

Win scowled at Cheyenne as her father reached her side.

Oliver reached up and clasped her hand. “Please stay awhile.”

“Oliver.” Cheyenne was a lot friendlier to Hawkins than Falcon thought need be. “We think Percy Ralston was stealing cattle from you, and maybe money. Can you let Win and Kevin check the account books and talk to the hands? We need to get to the bottom of this. If we can’t catch up to Ralston, we’ll at least get Mrs. Hobart and bring her back. We’ve got a lot of questions for the both of them.”

“You think Percy has done all that?” Hawkins asked that question just like a man who didn’t have a brain in his head. “And Mrs. Hobart?”

Win’s shoulders slumped. She and Kevin exchanged a look Falcon couldn’t understand, but it seemed like they were mighty troubled by something.

“We can stay awhile, Pa.” Win swung down from the horse, and Kevin slid an arm around her waist.

Falcon was done listenin’ to ’em jaw. He rode toward the tracks left by Ralston and Hobart. It was like readin’ from a book. He set out at a fast pace, not a bit worried about losing such a clear trail.

“They’re heading for town.” Wyatt rode up on one side of him, Cheyenne on the other.

“If they keep to the trail they are,” Cheyenne said. “But Ralston lied to Hawkins about why he wasn’t at work. No reason to trust that he told the truth to Bud. He might’ve started out for Bear Claw Pass until anyone watching him was out of sight.”

And before they were a mile down the trail, Falcon saw the big dun’s tracks veer right into the heart of the most rugged stretch of hills Falcon had seen so far.

“Hobart went on toward town, and Ralston turned off. You reckon she thinks she’s following him but doesn’t know where he went? Or is she making a run for town and the train, just taking off?”

The three of them stopped where the tracks split.

Cheyenne adjusted the flat-brimmed hat she wore on her head to shade her eyes from the sun. “If she’s making for the train, then she could get away clean. It doesn’t come through that regular, but I think it’s due.”

“I’ll take Hobart,” Wyatt said. “You two go after Ralston.” He spurred his horse and raced away.

Cheyenne frowned after him. “I should’ve gone after Hobart.”

Falcon reined his horse to follow Ralston’s tracks. “Why’s that? ’Cuz a woman should chase after a woman? That don’t sound like you.”

Cheyenne fell in beside him, likely wondering at a man thinking he knew her. “I didn’t mean I should.”

“It’s what you said.”

“I mean he’d be more likely to want to stay with me and hunt Ralston and send you after Hobart.”

“Not leave us alone together?” Falcon didn’t figure the tracks would vanish in the next minute so he stared at Cheyenne and her ever-cranky expression.

“He doesn’t know there’s any reason for that.”

“Sure, he does.”

Cheyenne gasped and pulled her horse to a stop. Falcon rode on, and she got going again.

“Did you tell him I—you, that is we—did you . . . tell him?”

“That a man had some moments of . . . closeness with his big sister? A man who might be married? Who might be as big a sidewinder as his dead pa? Nope. I didn’t say nothin’. But a man like Wyatt wouldn’t want to leave his sister alone with a man in the wilderness. It’d go against his notion of what was proper. But he also probably knows, admits that is, I’m better in the woods than he is. That’d be a real grown-up way to think. You’re better’n him, too. So he takes the easy trail heading for town. Not hard to follow that one.”

“And leaves the highly skilled trackers to head into the wild?” Cheyenne smiled.

He noticed she’d done a little smiling here lately, after a long spell of not one upturned corner of a lip. He hoped she’d admit it was because of the son-of-a-sidewinder.

“I would dearly like to believe my little brother—”

“Who’s a full-grown man and a top rancher and tracker. Not as good as us, but still has a fine eye,” Falcon interrupted.

“—is growing up. I like thinking it. I’m enjoying the rising respect for him, and it was already mighty high.”

“The trail turns off here.”

“I know this trail,” Cheyenne said. They were headed up. The trees closed overhead, shading them from the strength of the August sun. The scent of pine and rich soil, the breeze ruffling the leaves of oak and cottonwood and aspen, were like a comforting hand sheltering Falcon and Cheyenne. “I love riding in the forest.”

“Me too,” Falcon said. “I walked through here that week I was wandering.”

“That must’ve been before I caught sight of you.”

“I intended to follow the stream that’d carried me along, hoping maybe I’d be able to find out where I came from. But I wasn’t real sure that was the right thing. Sure, I could maybe find folks who’d know me. But I might find trouble, too. I was feeling beaten up from that trip down the river. I spent a few days sleeping too much and eating what I could find until I had some strength back.”

“This is miles from that stream and miles from where I picked up your trail. You covered a lot of country.”

“I’m a long-legged galoot. Even with my head not workin’ right and nearly drowned and needing to feed myself with nothing to hand but a knife, I know I came this far.”

“And you remember a woodsy trail in a mountain full of woodsy trails?”

“Yep, mighty strange when I can’t remember my own name.”

“Don’t try and remember anything now. We don’t have time for the pain you go through, and anyway, it’s awful to see. The trees clear out ahead. If Ralston is just flat-out running, if he knows we found his cattle—”

“Your cattle,” Falcon interrupted again.

“—found our cattle, he’d have to know we were in there, or someone was. We didn’t put all the boulders back like we found them. He’s making a run for it, but there’s a fine lookout on up the trail. If a man were to stop, keep his eyes open for someone doggin’ him, he’d have a field of fire and we’d have very little shelter.”

“Unless we leave our horses and go into the woods and slide around, sneak up and get ahold of him.”

Cheyenne smiled. “Yep, unless that.”

Falcon swung down and led his horse a few paces into the woods and found a small area, little bigger than two horses, with enough grass to keep the critters content. Cheyenne was tying her horse up beside Falcon’s before he’d finished.

“Let’s stay to this side of the trail.” Falcon headed out.

Cheyenne clamped a hand on his arm. “Nope, this trail curves close enough to a solid wall of rock up there that we’d have to step out of cover.”

“Nice being with a lady who knows her way.” Falcon smiled at her, proud to be in her company. “Then let’s take the downhill side. It’ll be a pleasure sneakin’ through the woods with you today, Miss Cheyenne.”

The cold look she gave him reminded him of saying Patsy to her. She’d be a partner, but she wasn’t in the mood to be friendly, and who could blame her?

They walked across to the downhill side of the trail. The trees here canopied the trail, but it was so rarely traveled that the grass grew solid on it, and some small trees peeked through right on the trail.

Every step was hard work. The trees growing on a steep sidehill were a jungle. There were saplings growing up between ancient oaks, scrub brush everywhere. The ground was uneven, cut by ancient rivulets of water, stones jutting out every few feet. Mostly just animals walked the trail. They’d spent generations finding the easiest way through trackless forests.

“That’s poison ivy, be mindful.” Falcon pointed to a ponderosa pine, its branches stretched far, weaving in and out of the growth around it. Its trunk was covered with a climbing vine covered with leaves clustered in groups of three.

Easing up to his ear, Cheyenne whispered, “You remember poison ivy, but you don’t remember your own name?”

“It’s strange, and no denyin’ it. But there’s nothin’ for it but to go on, manage best I can. Hope my noggin starts working again someday.”

He pointed to a short tree with long narrow leaves that ran in pretty rows. “And that’s poison sumac. It’ll turn vivid red in the fall.” Shaking his head, Falcon slipped on downhill.

It took time climbing down. Finally, Falcon stopped, crouched low, and pointed. Up the hill a stretch, maybe a dozen yards, barely visible through a thicket of scrub birch trees, a man crouched behind a waist-high boulder, his rifle resting on top of it.

“Percy Ralston,” she whispered into Falcon’s ear.

Falcon tapped her on the shoulder, then jabbed his finger at her, then at the ground.

A firm nod of her chin, and Falcon slid away.

He moved like a ghost in the woods.

No idea how he’d learned it. He figured it was a need for hunting, but maybe he’d been a sneak and a thief.

It gave him a headache thinking of it. He got down on his belly to stay below the bushes. If he rose up high enough to see Ralston, then it stood to reason that Ralston would be able to see him.

Choosing every inch forward with care took time. He sure hoped Cheyenne didn’t get tired of waiting for him.

Smiling at the thought, he could well believe she had the patience of a cougar waiting for prey to walk under the branch. Cheyenne would wait in silence forever.

Another inch forward, then a foot, then five feet. He was close. Ralston crouched right past this clump of stunted trees. Another slow advance and Falcon knew his time was coming now. He had to launch himself. Strike hard and fast as a red-hot rattler. Oh, Falcon had a gun, but he didn’t want shooting trouble.

A sickening twist to his stomach reminded him he’d already killed a man in the midst of this. It’d been his knife that did it for Ross Baker.

Another thing he couldn’t know about himself. Had he killed before? And was this his next chance?

Made him less partial to Wyoming.

He leaned forward and to the left. He needed one glimpse of Ralston so he’d know where to jump him. Where was the man’s gun? Where was he looking?

Leaning out, Falcon couldn’t see him. He leaned farther, then farther yet. Finally, he rose up on his knees, an inch at a time, and found no one.

Ralston had taken off.

He pivoted to find the man just as a hard blow knocked him to his back. A fist slammed into his face before he knew what had happened.

Percy Ralston, the disabled cowhand from the Hawkins Ranch, had a punch like he’d hidden an iron horseshoe in his glove.

Falcon caught the next plowing fist in his left hand, then pounded Ralston in the face.

A hard grunt broke free of the man as he grappled with Falcon. Ralston had him down, all his weight on top. He moved with a wiry ease that shocked Falcon at the same time it made him furious.

Another fist to the face, then Ralston wrenched free of the grip Falcon had on his one fist, and in a flash that hand came up with a rock half the size of Falcon’s head. The rock came whipping down as a bullet blasted it to pieces.

Cheyenne was on them with a fury. She swung the butt of her rifle into Ralston’s head and knocked him off Falcon. Falcon pounced on him with a drawn-back fist, then froze. Ralston was knocked into a sound sleep.

Cheyenne leaned on her rifle and looked down at the man. “He ain’t a bit laid up, the low-down scoundrel.”

Breathing hard, his face throbbing from too many landed blows, Falcon said, “At least he wasn’t before you bashed him in the head.”