Stands a Calder Man (Calder Saga 2)

Built like a circus strong man and just about as ugly, Bull Giles wore a tailor-made black suit. The jacket was unbuttoned, revealing a silver brocade vest and a diamond stickpin. Despite his hulking physique, he appeared every inch the gentleman. The impression was stronger as Bull Giles singled out Lorna Calder for his initial greeting. There was a softness in his features that belied his powerfully built body and craggy face.

“You haven’t changed a bit, Lorna. If anything, you are more beautiful.” He took her hand and bowed gallantly over it, kissing the top of her white glove.

“And you haven’t changed a bit, either, Bull,” she declared. “You are still the flatterer.”

“If your husband wasn’t standing here, giving me the baleful eye, I would attempt to convince you that my admiration isn’t insincere.” There was a lightness in his reply that didn’t match the intensity of his gaze. Then he was turning to Benteen before anything more could be read into his manner toward Lorma. “I guess I don’t need to ask how things are,” Bull said as he shook Benteen’s hand. His glance swerved to the emigrants flocked around the promoter.

“They’re blacking this land like a plague of grasshoppers.” Benteen put them in the same category of disaster, which seemed an unwarranted exaggeration to Webb. “I hope you’ve come up with something.”

“The dam broke, Benteen,” Bull stated. “It would take an act of God to stop this flood of people now.”

The pronouncement was no different than Benteen had expected, yet it didn’t lessen his displeasure at actually hearing it voiced. There was a brief lull in the conversation as Bull paid the porter for carrying his satchel. Benteen motioned to one of the men to stow the satchel in the buggy.

“The town has really grown.” Bull looked up the street, noting the many new buildings that flanked the muddy thoroughfare. “Is that a lumberyard?” He nodded toward the stacks of green wood piled against an unfinished building.

“The lumberyard’s the most recent,” Benteen admitted. “Blue Moon even has a bank. And there’s optimistic talk going around about building a granary.”

“Nothing stays the same, I guess.” Bull thoughtfully studied the wide spot in the road that had grown into a full-fledged boom town in less than a few months. “Things change.”

“The changes aren’t always good.”

Bull’s mouth twitched in a dry smile. “You’ll have a hard time convincing the merchants of that.”

“The problem with greed is that it feeds on itself.” Benteen seemed to shake off his dark mood with an effort and made the opening gambit to depart from the station. “Let’s go have a drink while Lorna does her shopping.”

“Good idea,” Bull agreed. “It’s a long, dry ride to the ranch, as I remember.”

For the short ride up the street, Benteen climbed in the buggy with his wife, Ruth, and Bull Giles. The muddy ground was getting thicker as it slowly dried in the hot sun. It was like walking in glue as Webb untied his horse’s reins and moved to the near side to mount.

As he stepped into the stirrup, Nate backed his horse away from the post to give Webb room. The driver of the bench-seated wagon closest to them was a black cowboy dubbed Jingles because of the belled spurs he wore. He pretended not to see the Triple C riders filing past to accompany the buggy.

But Nate forced an acknowledgment, stopping his horse beside the wagon seat. “Jingles, what are you doing in that box?” He frowned. “A top hand like you oughta be in the saddle.”

“The ranches around here are layin’ off top hands. They ain’t hirin’ ’em.” His voice was hollow with resentment for the menial job he was doing, but he had a wife and family to support. “At least I’m gettin’ paid to ferry these pilgrims across this ocean of grass.”

“You keep ferryin’ em,” Nate replied, “and it won’t be grass no more. Without grass, there won’t be cattle. You’re gonna wind up puttin’ us all on the grubline.”

Jingles pushed his hat lower on his forehead to cover the guilt in his eyes as his chin came down. Nate urged his horse after the ro

lling buggy. Webb said nothing to add to the black cowboy’s miseries as he rode by. The plummeting cattle market had made hard times for all ranchers. To cut expenses, most of them were operating with skeleton crews. The Triple C hadn’t hired its usual contingent of seasonal riders, running strictly with its corps of permanent hands.

His father had said change wasn’t always good. Jingles would agree with him. As Webb scanned the homesteaders’ wagons scattered up and down the street of Blue Moon, he recognized they welcomed the change, and so did the merchants. Whether change was good or bad seemed to depend on a person’s perspective.

A team of pale sorrels stood placidly in the trace chains of the wagon parked in front of the new bank. Their feathered fetlocks were encased in mud, disguising their white-socked legs. But the Belgian bloodlines of the two draft mares were unmistakable. For a cowboy, it was second nature to study animals and note their owners; almost as automatic as breathing.

When Webb spied the Belgian draft mares, he knew without taking a second look this was the team hitched to the wagon the girl Lillian had been sitting in earlier. But the wagon seat was empty now. And he didn’t see her among the pedestrians walking on the boards laid across the mud.

A long breath sighed from him as he looked around. A rawness worked on his nerves and coiled his muscles. That edgy feeling was back, a sense of dissatisfaction without knowing for what. Webb wasn’t sure if it had ever left him. He didn’t understand this restlessness, or its source. Was it the drylanders and the change they were bringing that was working on him? Or was it something inside himself?

His horse broke into a trot, reacting to the restlessness of its rider. Webb checked its pace with an irritable tug on the bit and clamped his jaw down on the urge to sink his spurs into the horse and ride away while he could.

6

The mug of beer in front of Webb was warm and flat. He had taken only one swallow from it. His father and Bull Giles were discussing politics, but he wasn’t listening.

The other Triple C riders had gathered along the bar, supervising a billiard competition in progress. Their loud, rowdy voices and guffawing laughter emphasized the distinction between themselves and Webb’s brooding silence. He felt tied and bound by the Calder name, not one of them. He reached for the beer mug, then pushed it away and stood up. He turned to avoid the sharply questioning look his father sent him. “Where are you going, Webb?”

“My mother and Ruth will probably be needing a hand with their packages.” It was merely an excuse to leave the table and the saloon in obedience to the agitation that charged him with a raw energy.