Hate Thy Neighbor Read online

  * * *

  Josiah Mosely did not attend the dinner, though as a guest under her roof Kate made it clear that he was more than welcome. Mosely had begged off, citing his battered, iodine-stained face as an excuse, and Kate had not pressed the matter.

  As he snuck out of the house into the cold moonlight that night Mosely had other, more important things on his mind than fancy grub.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Night and darkness transformed Bill Cody’s encampment. Lit from within by oil lamps, as far as the eye could see the tents glowed like Chinese lanterns and people flickered back and forth in shadow. The horse lines lay to the west beyond the camping area and to the north was the tract set aside for the wagons and animal exhibits. That lot was poorly lit, and Josiah Mosely stood and studied the layout for long time, but he saw no sign of human activity. He reckoned that’s where the bear would be held, along with its unwelcome houseguest.

  Mosely, a hammer and chisel in hand, angled to his right through the mother-of-pearl moonlight. He stopped in his tracks. What the hell is that sound behind me? Footsteps! And too close. Within clubbing distance close.

  “Who’s there?” Mosely whispered. “Identify yourself and state your intentions.”

  A few moments silence and then, “Don’t shoot, mister.”

  It was a child’s voice.

  “Who are you?” Mosely said.

  “My name is Peter. But folks call me Pete.”

  “I’m Josiah. Are you with the Wild West show?”

  “No. Mrs. Kerrigan took me in after the cholera killed my ma and pa.”

  “She adopted you?”

  “Kinda. Kate says I’m her ward.”

  “What are you doing out here, Pete?”

  The boy kicked the grass at his feet. “Ivy and Shannon wouldn’t let me come to dinner with them. Shannon is mean. She told me I was a grubby little wretch and to eat in the kitchen.”

  Mosely smiled. “Girls who think they’re all grown up tend to say mean things about small boys.”

  “Where are you headed, Josiah?” Pete said.

  “Nowhere special. It’s getting late. You’d better go home now.”

  The boy closely studied Mosely’s face in the moonlight and then his eyes dropped to the hammer and chisel in his hand. “I can keep watch,” he said. “I’m real good at that. Shannon says I’m her mother’s spy.”

  Mosely said, “Hmm . . . I think you’ll see what you see and then fess up.”

  “I won’t, Josiah. Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.”

  Mosely thought about it and then said, “All right, I can use another pair of eyes. But afterward you keep your mouth shut, you hear?”

  “I crossed my heart,” Pete said. “What are we gonna do, huh?”

  “Free an Indian.”

  “The one in the bear’s cage?”

  “Yeah, that’s him.”

  “Mr. Cobb says his name is Cloud Passing,” Pete said. “I wanted to take him a piece of cake from Mrs. Jazmin’s kitchen, but she said the bear would take it. And she said that . . . Shy—Shy—”

  “Cheyenne,” Mosely said.

  “Yeah, that’s it. She said Cheyenne warriors are full of tricks and deviltry and little boys like me should stay away from them.”

  Mosely smiled. “Then aren’t you afraid to help me?”

  Pete shook his head. “Mr. Cobb says that nothing scares me and he says that’s how a boy should be.”

  Mosely nodded. “Every now and then Mr. Cobb says a wise thing. All right, Pete. Are we ready?”

  “I am if you are,” the boy said. He reached into his pocket and produced a handful of yellow crumbs that smelled like lemon cake. “I was on my way to give the Indian this when I met you. Now I’ll give it to him later.”

  * * *

  The boy called Pete stepped next to Josiah Mosely like a shadow as they made their careful way toward the bear wagon. Somewhere out in the darkness a penned-up buffalo bull grunted and closer a woman called out in her sleep. A roosting owl, drawn to the camp by the prospect of rodents, hooted, its wide-shouldered silhouette silvered by moonlight. Mosely’s feet made little sound and the boy’s none at all.

  “There,” Pete whispered. He pointed to his right. “Next to the yellow wagon.”

  Mosely’s eyes scanned the gloom. The bright wagon was visible and beyond it lay the vague shape of the bear cage. Mosely stopped and listened. Only the owl scraped the silence with its apologetic hoot and nothing moved.

  “Let’s go,” Mosely said.

  “You have a gun?” Pete said.

  “Not with me,” Mosely said.

  All the boy’s disappointment was summed up in one word, “Oh.”

  Mosely smiled. “Next time I’ll remember to bring them.”

  Pete said, “How many have you got?”

  “Two.”

  “Can I have one?”

  “Sure, when you’re older. Now let’s get this done.”

  “What are we gonna do?”

  “Save an Indian from a bear and the gallows is what we’re gonna do.”

  * * *

  There are exceptions to every rule, but by nature the black bear is more genial than the grizzly and slower to irritation. However, when the grizz decides to attack he’ll often just beat you up and then leave you alone—but not the black bear. If ol’ Ephraim gets angry enough to strike he won’t stop until he kills you. He gives no second chances. Therefore, Josiah Mosely was right to be wary as he approached the caged wagon where Cloud Passing squatted at one end, the bear at the other. Both seemed asleep, and the feral smell of wild animal and wilder man hung heavy in the air.

  Remembering Bill Cody’s advice to poke a Cheyenne to gauge his mood, Mosely prodded Cloud Passing with the butt end of his hammer. The Indian woke instantly, his black eyes flashing. Then he saw Mosely and smiled.

  Mosely nodded. “I’m getting you out of here, understand? You catching my lingo?”

  Whether the Cheyenne understood English didn’t matter. Mosely’s intent was clear when he attacked the hinge that held the huge iron padlock in place. It took only a few minutes to lever the hinge away from the somewhat rotted wood, and Mosely swung the door wide.

  “Get out of there,” he said.

  Cloud Passing didn’t hesitate. He scrambled outside and to Mosely’s horror so did the bear. But the animal showed no hostile intent and stuck close to Cloud Passing. Mosely swore it was making calf’s eyes at him. From behind him he heard Pete say, “Josiah. Somebody’s coming!”

  “Light a shuck, Indian, and take your bear with you,” Mosely said. Then, “And for God’s sake be quiet. Not a sound, understand?”

  Josiah Mosely had been around white men for too long and he hadn’t spent any time with Indians.

  Rejoicing in his newfound freedom, Cloud Passing threw back his head and let rip with his cougar war cry, a shrill shriek that shattered the night into a million shards of sound.

  “Damn it!” Mosely yelled.

  “Hey, what’s going on there?” a man hollered.

  The bear roared.

  Cloud Passing launched into a wailing, yipping, foot-pounding dance.

  Mosely grabbed Pete by the wrist and took to his heels.

  A pistol shot. Then another.

  From the cover of darkness Mosely saw the Indian run toward the tents. The bear launched into her bouncing ball lope and headed in the opposite direction toward her cage, deciding that there were safer places to be that night than on the vamoose with a human who was even wilder than she was.

  Josiah Mosely spent the next fifteen minutes searching for Cloud Passing, but there was no sign of the man. He had vanished into the night. Mosely walked to the edge of the tents and peered into the darkness but saw nothing. He turned and stepped right into a Winchester muzzle that settled neatly between his eyeglasses. “Raise your hands, feller, or I’ll blow your brains out.”

  Mosely blinked and beheld the pretty but somewhat mannish fea
tures of Annie Oakley, the one they called Little Miss Sure Shot. He raised his hands.

  “You’ve played hob and damn near spoiled Kate Kerrigan’s dinner,” Annie said. She wore a green evening dress that didn’t become her. “Now there’s a half-broke Cheyenne on the loose and apart from Sitting Bull he’s the best Indian we ever had.”

  “I won’t see any man caged,” Mosely said.

  “You’ll see yourself caged when Mr. Cody gets through with you,” Annie said. She looked down at Pete. “And youngster, if you kick my shins one more time I’ll put you over my knee and paddle you.”

  She moved the rifle from the bridge of Mosely’s nose, tossed it into her left hand, and shoved the muzzle into his belly. “You come with me. Bill is on his way.” Annie grabbed Pete by the ear and twisted. “You too, you little twerp,” she said.

  * * *

  Even the charms of Mr. Dickens’s sublime work The Old Curiosity Shop could not hold Kate Kerrigan’s attention. She closed the book, laid it on the bedside table beside the little carved bone owl she treasured, and let her mind dwell on Peter. The boy was always getting into mischief, but this time it was more serious. Bill Cody was really upset over the disappearance of his Indian, and he also claimed that the bear was so traumatized by the experience she would not eat. Around the encampment people hinted darkly that freeing Cloud Passing was a hanging offense and one of Bill’s riders, a former lawman, suggested that up in the New Mexico Territory there was a notorious desperado by the name of Joseph Morley or Marley who went by the handle The Chuska Kid. “The accused might well be the same man,” the former lawman said, and everyone agreed that he was very wise and called a spade a spade.

  Of course Peter was only a boy, and Bill said he’d been led astray by Josiah Mosely, perhaps aka The Chuska Kid, and that he’d leave his punishment up to Kate, as though life hadn’t punished the child enough already.

  Kate lay back on the pillow, her hair spreading like liquid fire across the ivory silk. She closed her eyes, dark eyelashes fanning across her cheekbones, and remembered a different time and place, the trail drive to Dodge City and her first meeting with another boy so like Peter, a boy she’d named Sam Chisholm. Holy Mother, had it been four years already? It seemed like just yesterday . . . or perhaps the day before....

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Heat lightning flashed in the sky as Frank Cobb stepped up to the fire. “Cattle are restless,” he said. “Something out there is spooking them.”

  Kate Kerrigan stared into the surrounding darkness. “Wolves or a cougar maybe?”

  “Maybe,” Frank said. He wore his belt gun, the first time he’d buckled it on since the herd left Texas. He poured himself coffee, stood, and listened into the night.

  In the distance the nighthawk waddie sang tunelessly to the unquiet herd.

  Well come along boys and listen to my tale,

  I’ll tell you of my troubles on the old Chisholm Trail.

  Come a ti-yi-yippee yip-pee yea,

  Come a ti-yi-yippee yea.

  Firelight made the shadows flicker and touched Kate’s hair with red-gold flame when she moved her head. “Frank, are we in trouble?” she said. “I have a feeling . . .”

  “Trouble? I don’t know,” Frank said. He tossed away the dregs of his coffee and dropped the tin cup by the fire. “The buckskin mare is a good night horse. I reckon I’ll throw a saddle on her and ride herd for a spell. The croaking frog you hear out there is Deuce Baker. He’s a steady hand, but I reckon tonight he could use some help.”

  “Be careful, Frank,” Kate said, rising to her feet.

  Frank Cobb nodded. “Depend on it.”

  * * *

  The herd was strung out along a narrow valley with good grass and a few trees. There were several springs, two of them with sweet water, although the third and widest smelled strongly of sulfur and the cattle gave it a wide berth.

  Kate was tired out from a rigors of the trail, but she knew there would be no sleep that night. Normally the cattle would have bedded down by now, but they were still on their feet, shuffling restlessly, a dust cloud rising above their backs like a yellow mist. She stepped away from the fire and stared into gloom. There was no moon, and Kate had lost sight of Frank and Deuce Baker, who were out there somewhere, invisible in the darkness.

  “It’s late. You should be in your blankets, ma’am.”

  Kate turned and saw Lem Winston the trail cook. Lem always looked like a rather grubby snowman, and tonight was no different. The flour did that, and trail dust.

  “The cattle are restless,” Kate said, echoing what Frank had said earlier. “I don’t feel like sleeping.”

  Winston looked around at the punchers snoring under their blankets. “You should take a lesson from them boys. They could sleep their way through Judgment Day.”

  “Then I hope I don’t have to wake them,” Kate said.

  “Heat lightning spooks a herd sometimes,” Winston said. “Seen it a time or two.” Then, after a moment’s thought, “But they won’t run.”

  Kate smiled. “How can you be so sure, Lem?”

  “The night is bothering them, too dark, too quiet. The cattle are jumpy all right, but they’re tired and they’ll settle.”

  “Mr. Cobb says there’s something out there,” Kate said. “He says maybe a cougar.”

  Winston nodded. “Maybe so, he’s right.” He turned his head and his eyes swept the towering ramparts of the darkness. “Yup, maybe so,” he said again.

  “What do you think it could be, Lem?” Kate said, the firelight touching her face with its rosy glow.

  “Cougar. Bear. Coyotes. All kinds of critters roam the big flat. It’s hard to say.” The cook smiled. “Wait right there, ma’am. I got something real special for you.” Normally a soft-spoken man, Cobb’s voice sounded loud in the stillness.

  Winston stumped away on his peg leg. He’d lost his left leg under the knee while he was still in his teens, the result of a rattlesnake bite that had gone gangrenous. He returned, holding something white in his hand.

  “Aimed to give you this earlier, ma’am,” he said. “But right now seems as good a time as any, you being so worried an’ all.” Shyly, Winston held out the white object. “It’s a gift, like. It’s made out of buffalo bone and I engraved it myself.”

  Kate took the object and smiled. It was a beautiful little owl about two inches tall. On top of its head was a carved loop representing the moon and through that ran a thin silver chain.

  “Lem, it’s beautiful,” Kate said.

  “One time a Comanche woman told me that the owl is a bird of good omen because it’s the guardian of the night,” Winston said. “The owl will protect you, Mrs. Kerrigan, and bring you luck.”

  “Then I must wear it at once,” Kate said. She held out the chain. “Will you, please?”

  Kate turned her back and the cook fastened the chain at the nape of her slender neck. “There,” she said, turning to the cook again. “Now I am well protected. Lem, it’s very pretty.”

  Winston gave a gap-toothed smile. “I’m glad you like it,” he said.

  Then, something strange . . .

  “Listen,” the cook said. “Now just listen to that.”

  From somewhere very close an owl hooted, asking its eternal question of the night.

  “The owl is already guarding you, Mrs. Kerrigan,” Winston said. “It’s telling you something.”

  “Telling me what?”

  “That I do not know.”

  Kate smiled, or tried to. “I guess I’ll find out, huh?”

  “That would be my opinion,” Winston said. But he looked worried.

  * * *

  The long night passed without incident. The herd eventually settled, and by dawn most of the cattle were resting. But Lem Wilson kept his voice low as he wakened the hands instead of his usual bellow of, “Come and get it or I’ll throw it out!”

  Deuce Baker rode in, and when Kate questioned him he said no, he hadn’t seen Frank Cobb,
and yes, it was odd that he was still out with the herd.

  Kate said, “Did anything happen that might have delayed Mr. Cobb?”

  “I don’t think so, ma’am,” Baker said. “But the cattle were moving around so much it was hard to tell. Maybe Mr. Cobb went after a cougar or a lobo wolf.”

  “Perhaps,” Kate said. She smiled. “You’d better go get your breakfast, Deuce. You look all used up.”

  After the young puncher left, Kate stood to eat her bacon and beans, her eyes scanning the distance for any sign of Frank. He rode in half an hour later when the hands were already out with the herd.

  He touched his hat to Kate, swung out of the saddle, and helped himself to coffee. He didn’t speak until he’d built and lit a cigarette and then he said though a cloud of exhaled smoke, “We lost fifty head, maybe more.” He saw the question on Kate’s face and said, “Rustlers. I count four of them.”

  “You tracked them?” Kate said.

  Frank nodded. “A fair piece. I’m going after them.”

  “Frank, you look tired,” Kate said.

  “I reckon.” He saw Lem Winston and called him over, then, “Mr. Winston, you go back a ways with most of the hands. Who’s the best with the iron? Don’t say Hank Lowery. Since he got religion he’s sworn off gunfighting, or so he says.”