Griffin turned back to her, but kept his eyes on Wycoff as he spoke. “Wait,” he said.
“I’ll make the soup.” “I can make it.” Dodie stepped past Janice, a small kettle in her hand. “If you’ll give me what I need.” Wycoff backed off a step, watching Dodie.
He glanced from her to Griffin and touched his tongue to his lips. When he glanced at the wagon Janice held her gun on him. He backed up and sat down.
Dodie went to the fire, accepted meat and barley from Griffin, and went to work. From time to time she glanced at Wycoff.
Janice saw that the teamster was staring hungrily at Dodie as she worked, but the threat of the gun in the doorway held him back. And Dodie was careful never to come between the gun and Wycoff. She worked swiftly, but with no lost motion.
When the soup was ready, Griffin gestured at the coffeepot. “Take that, too. You and Miss Ryan could use some coffee, I expect.” Janice saw Wycoff get to his feet and turn away. He walked slowly, and Griffin turned instantly to watch him. Wycoff’s right hand was carried a little high, his elbow bent. Griffin’s lips thinned down. “Try it,” he said. “I’ll kill you if you do.” Wycoff turned carefully, letting his arm straighten. When he completed his turn he was smiling. “Sure. I can wait.” He walked back to the fire and sat down. “Don’t know Barker very well, do you?” He nodded toward Griffin’s gun. “He’s better with one of those than you are.
He’s better, maybe, than Mabry. Seen him at Rattlesnake Ranch, where the Plummer gang used to hang out. Plum- mer could beat him, but not all the time. I seen him empty a gun into a post in no more’n a second.” “Did the post have a gun?” Wycoff’s lips thinned down at the retort, but he made no further comment. Dodie hurried back to the wagon then and Janice closed the door.
Dodie fed Maggie her soup. The older woman was conscious and seemed aware of their surroundings. She looked up at Dodie. “Are we still here?” “Yes.” “I wish that man with the guns would show up. I had faith in him.” “Yes.” Dodie looked at Janice. “I think he was in love with you.” “Oh, no!” she protested.
“If you had asked him, he would have come with us.” “Did you ask him?” “He wouldn’t have come for me,” Dodie said quietly, “but if he had asked me, I would have gone with him.” “But he’s a killer!” “I wish we had him here now,” Dodie said.
“I wish we did.” Suppose, Janice thought, she had asked him?
It was too late to think of that now and there had been no reason to ask him, only… she knew that Tom had secretly wanted him to come, respecting his experience. Yet if what Griffin had said was true, he must have followed them. “I scarcely talked to him!” she said.
“I didn’t talk to him at all,” Dodie replied quietly. “But I would have gone with him.” Dodie had made enough soup for all three, and now Janice and Dodie took their plates and began to eat. Janice was thinking back to the moment when she had first seen Mabry in the stage station, how her step had faltered, and how he glanced at her quickly, and then went on by, a big, brown-faced man with wide shoulders. Not really good-looking, but strong, so very strong. Her face flushed a little at the thought.
She couldn’t recall ever before having seen a man who was so–so male.
Yet it was not only that. There was a thoughtfulness in him, a consideration for others, a sense of delicacy.
He had hesitated to join them at the table, and only when they insisted had he came. What was love, anyway? Who could say how it happened? Did it come only of long association? Or did it come quickly, sharply, like a pain or a shaft of sunlight through clouds?
“I think,” Dodie said quietly, “you’re in love with him, too!” KING MABRY opened his eyes to the shadowed light of late evening. Turning on his side, he glanced around. Healy was gone. The room was cool, the fire burned down to coals, glowing here and there. Mabry eased himself out of bed and tried his strength by standing.
Shakily he moved to the fireplace. There was wood in the bin, and he built up the fire. Obviously Healy had been gone for some time. When the fire was blazing again he looked around, found the coffeepot, and put it on the fire with fresh coffee.
Surprisingly, despite his weakness, he felt good After examining his wounds, he dressed, taking his time and stopping to rest. He was very thirsty and he drank several gourds of water. When the coffee was ready he filled a cup and drank it, black and scalding. Healy had been gone too long. Mabry belted on his remaining gun and banked the fire carefully. He was restless from confinement but knew his strength would allow only limited movement.
He got into his coat and opened the door, inhaling deeply of the crisp, cold air. It was like drinking deep of a thinner, colder, purer water.
Outside was snow, only snow. Healy’s tracks led around the house and he easily picked out the most recent ones. He started to follow, then pulled up short.
Four Indians had stopped their horses on the slope near the barn and were looking toward the house.
All were young, and they looked mean and tough. Mabry remained where he was, at the corner of the house.
Three of the Indians had Winchesters and he had only his .44, but there was a slit inside his buffalo-coat pocket that enabled him to reach through and draw the gun under cover of the coat.
The Indians were wrapped in moth-eaten blankets and two wore old government-issue Army jackets. They started down the slope, but one hung back, arguing angrily.
One dismounted and started for the door of the barn, and Mabry knew it was time to make a move or lose a horse. He stepped past the corner of the house and loosened the loops around the buttons of his coat with his left hand. He had taken three steps before they saw him.
“How,” Mabry said, and waited.
These were renegade Sioux, and if trouble started they would be tough to handle. The Indian who had hung back he discounted. This Indian was older, his blanket looked better, and he had a shrewd look about him. “Where squaw?” The Indian on the ground spoke first. “No squaw,” Mabry said.
“Just one horse and one One of the mounted Indians grunted and the one on the ground started to open the barn door.
“Lay off that!” Mabry started forward quickly, and as he moved the mounted Indian lifted his rifle.
Turning on the ball of his foot, Mabry shot through the opening of his coat, and the Indian let go of his rifle and fell forward over his horse’s neck and into the snow.
The unexpectedness of it stopped them. They had seen no gun, and the white man seemed to be alone.
They looked from the dead Indian to Mabry, and there was a smell of gun smoke in the air.
Then the Indian who had not wanted trouble turned his pony and started to ride away. The remaining mounted man started to follow, but the Indian on the ground started to pick up the fallen Winchester. As he reached for it, a bullet kicked up snow in his face and a rifle report slapped hard against the hills.
“Leave that!” Mabry shouted. “Get going!” The Sioux said something bitter and swung to his pony’s back. He turned the pony, and, his face dark with anger, he shouted at Mabry again.
When they were out of sight, Mabry crossed to the Winchester and picked it up. It was newer than his own, and carved into the stock were the initials H.s.
Stolen from some white man, or taken from a body.
Tom Healy came down off the ridge with the rifle in his hands. “Thought I’d let “em know you weren’t alone.” “Good man.” “Those Indians are heading right for the wagons,” Healy said anxiously. “And there’s more of them close by.” The Indian pony stood a few yards away, near the dead brave. They had not even offered to carry him away, which was additional evidence that they were renegades, outlawed by the tribe, probably, as well as by the whites. The pony had an old brand on his shoulder, and he shied slightly when Mabry walked to him. “Ride this one,” he said. “I’ll saddle up.” His head was aching with a dull, persistent throb, and his side bothered him, but he felt good. Yet he would have little endurance… that he must remember.