Free Vengeance Trail by Bill Brooks Page B

ceiling when she spoke.
    “Clave, he likes to ride over to Mobeetie now and again. They got the only cat house in this part of the Panhandle,” she said.
     “You know how men can be, Mr. Dollar.”
    “No ma’am.”
    “Well, they can be plum awful sometimes. Would you like some more tea? I’ve got plenty.”
    “No ma’am. I sort of hoped your husband would have come in by now. I think I need to talk to him about this rustling business
     around here.”
    She shrugged and cupped her chin in the palm of her hand and stared at him until he dropped his eyes down to his empty plate.
    “You married, Mr. Dollar?”
    “No ma’am.”
    “Ever been?”
    “No ma’am.”
    She sighed, stood, and went to a basin near the window. He watched as her shoulders rose and then dropped again in deep sigh as she stood there staring out the window.
    “Being married can sometimes be hard,” she said. “Living out here in the middle of nowhere, listening to the wind blow all
     the time, hearing the bawl of cattle can be hard. It makes me cry sometimes, Mr. Dollar.”
    He could understand her loneliness. The frontier was a rugged place for women.
    She turned and faced him.
    “Do you think me an attractive woman, Mr. Dollar?”
    The question caught him off guard.
    “Well, ma’am. I guess I shouldn’t be the one to judge,” he said.
    “Why not? You’re a man. Surely you can see for yourself whether or not a man would find me interesting to look at.”
    “I would say that most men would find your looks to be agreeable,” he said. In a way, he had not lied to her. Even though
     plain and somewhat large as females went, with a little fixing and a little care, he could see where she could draw a man’s
     attention to her.
    “You are a kind person for having said so,” she replied. “Would you like more to eat?”
    “No ma’am. I reckon I’d best be going,” he said, the poor light in the room indicated that the sun was sagging in the west.
    “Then how about a cup of coffee before you go? I can see that you are not a fancier of tea,” she said, glancing at his half
     empty cup, “but it was kind of you anyway. Coffee won’t take but a minute. If you like you can smoke outside while I make
     it?”
    He knew that she was holding on to his company, not wanting to be left alone. Well, maybe if he lingered a bit, her man would
     show. He could see no harm in a few more minutes.
    He stepped out into the long shadows of the house, shadows cast by a setting sun. The wind had died, the windmill stood silent
     and still. He pulled his makings and rolled a cigarette and struck a match off the heel of his boot.
    He thought about the woman inside, thought about her loneliness, about his own. The smoke tasted good after the meal. A man
     should feel this way most of the time, he told himself.
    He imagined the spread being his, the buildings, the cattle, the land, the woman inside. He imagined stepping outside the
     house after a fine full supper and having a cigarette and watching the sun sink red and feeling the coolness of evening start
     to come on.
    She came outside, handed him a steaming mug of coffee and leaned against the wall next to him.
    “What do you see, Mr. Dollar? Can you understand how a body could go crazy?”
    “I reckon it must be hard on you, ma’am.”
    “Cows and cowboys,” she said. “I don’t see it. I was born in Ohio. There, we had trees and green grass and rivers…oh
     my, we had lots of water.” She fell silent thinking about it. He crushed out his cigarette, not wanting to offend.
    “I married Clave through the mail, answered his advertisement for a wife. I thought it would be a great adventure—you know, the wild and wooly West, marauding Indians, the
     frontier. My parents were against it of course, I was but seventeen at the time. I truly was a handsome girl, Mr. Dollar.
     I had many beaus at the time and could have taken my pick of men to marry.”
    Henry hitched his thumbs inside his pockets