They walked along the ridge until they came to what appeared to be the mouth of a cave. As they got closer, though, Matt saw that the opening had been shored up and steps had been carved into the earth, leading down.
“There was a little cave here already,” Frankie said, anticipating Matt’s question, “but Pa and the boys dug it out and enlarged it, sort of like a root cellar. Then they ran a pipe up through the ground to vent the firebox on the boiler.” She leaned through the entrance and called, “Don’t get nervous and start shooting, boys. It’s just me and Bodine.”
Matt followed her down the earthen steps, and found himself in a chamber that was partially carved out of the ridge and partially underground. It was about twenty feet by twenty feet, he estimated. A couple of lanterns hung from nails driven into the timbers that supported the roof.
A huge iron boiler dominated the room and made the air hot and moist in the chamber. The Harlows must have assembled the contraption here, Matt decided, because he didn’t think they could have gotten it through the door the way it was now. A copper pipe emerged from the tapering top of the boiler and ran over to a barrel that was connected to a second barrel by another pipe. More barrels that were probably full of moonshine sat on the other side of the chamber.
The four Harlow brothers stood around the room, two of them holding rifles, the other two tending to the fire in the boiler and watching the ’shine drip into the second barrel.
Frankie nodded toward the boiler. “This is Old Skullbuster,” she said with a note of pride in her voice. “My great-grandpappy built her originally. She helped brew up thousands of gallons of white lightning, back in the mountains in Tennessee.”
“More like millions of gallons, I’ll bet,” one of her brothers said.
“My grandpappy used it, too,” Frankie went on, “and then when my pa decided to come west, he took it apart and loaded the pieces on his wagon as careful as he could. We put it back together when we decided to settle here and got this place ready for it.”
Matt nodded. “Mighty impressive. You keep it runnin’ all the time?”
“Nearly all the time,” Frankie said. “Have to let it cool off every now and then, so we can clean out the firebox.” She pointed to the first barrel. “The mash is in there, and the squeezins drip out into the other barrel.”
Matt nodded. It was a simple setup. He had seen moonshine stills before, but Old Skullbuster was probably the biggest he had come across.
“It really only takes a couple of people to tend it and to stand guard,” Frankie continued. “We take turns doing that and working in the fields. We have to keep the corn crop growing so we’ll have it to make the mash. Some folks use grain, but Pa says there’s nothing sweeter than good corn liquor.”
“He just might be right about that,” Matt said with a smile. “What would you like me to do? I reckon I can tend a boiler if I need to.”
Frankie shook her head. “We’ll take care of this part of it, just like we always have. You’re here to kill Cimarron Kane, Bodine.”
Matt stiffened at the casual way Frankie spoke the words. “I told you, I’m not a hired gun. And I’m dang sure not a paid killer.”
“That’s not what I meant. Sooner or later, Kane and his kinfolks will come after us again. That ambush last night was just the start of it. When that happens, we’ll need help fighting him off. That’s where you come in.”
“And if Kane happens to wind up with a slug in him—”
“We dang sure won’t grieve for him,” Frankie said.
Matt understood. “Maybe it would be a good idea if I was to sort of patrol the place. You know, keep an eye out for Kane and his bunch.”
“That’s what I was hoping you’d say. Let’s go.”
“You’re coming along, too?”
“Pa and the boys don’t need me right now, and it’ll help if you know the countryside hereabouts.”
Matt couldn’t argue with that, so he and Frankie left the cave where the Harlow still was located and returned to the barn. Matt saddled up his stallion while Frankie got a big bay gelding ready to ride.
“That looks like a lot of horse,” Matt commented. “You sure you can handle him?”
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he knew they were a mistake. Frankie snorted contemptuously, gave a defiant toss of her head, practically vaulted into the saddle, and said, “Let’s see you keep up with me, Bodine!”
With that, she galloped out of the barn, and all Matt could do was go after her.
He swung up onto his horse and put the animal into a run. Frankie had already opened up a lead as she raced off to the west, paralleling the ridges. A thin cloud of dust coiled up into the air from her horse’s hooves.
Despite that lead, Matt’s rangy gray stallion soon began closing the gap. The horse wasn’t much for looks, but he had plenty of speed and stamina and could run all day if he needed to. Matt saw Frankie glancing over her shoulder at him. He wasn’t sure what she was trying to prove. Probably that she was as good as her brothers. From what Matt had seen so far, he wasn’t sure but what she was already better.
They flashed past the fields where the family’s corn crop grew. The green leaves and tasseled ears waved back and forth a little as a morning breeze stirred them. The plants were shorter and scrubbier than the ones Matt had seen growing in other, more fertile places, but they had plenty of ears on them. He wondered if the Harlows ever roasted any of those ears, or if they all went to make moonshine.
Still in the lead, Frankie sent her mount curving around the fields and took off toward the south. Matt stayed close behind her, holding his horse in a little now so that he wouldn’t overtake her. He was curious where she was going, and letting her win seemed to be the best way to find out.
A few minutes later, when they were out of sight of the Harlow homestead, Frankie galloped up a long swell of
