Jack said softly, “I won’t say that, Sierra. I am telling you my part of the story. You will have to sort the truths out yourself. And ask yourself if it matters now. What’s done is done.”
“Let’s just say she lied,” Sierra said. “Why? And if she did, why did she let it go on for all those years?”
“A person tells a lie, and they become a prisoner of it. The only key out of that jail is the truth, and that brings embarrassment, sometimes deep shame or the fear of losing something or someone you hold dear. I carry a few lies on my back, and they don’t get lighter with the years. Still, I guess it is just easier to live out the lie sometimes.”
“Maybe for the liar,” Sierra said, “but not for the lie’s victims.”
“Depends on the lie, I guess. Sometimes, the truth would be too late anyhow.”
“You almost sound like you are defending Grandma Emily.”
“I’m not defending anybody. I’ve got enough trouble figuring out what’s going on in my own head these days. I’m not about to guess what went through somebody’s mind nearly a half century ago. Like I just said, what’s done is done.”
“I’ll tell you more about Papa. You should know about the good times and the things he loved to do. You will be proud of the man and how he dealt with life.”
They talked until long after darkness cloaked the desert-prairie with only a star-studded sky casting a warm glow over the earth. Jack asked few questions. He just listened quietly, smiling and nodding his head when something pleased him. Sierra found herself calling up memories long since buried, cheered as if meeting old, treasured friends. Why is it, she wondered, that it is so much easier to remember the bad than the good?
Finally, she noticed that others had already crawled into bedrolls around the campsite. Those that had not were laying out their ground beds. “I’ve been rattling on so much,” she said, “I hadn’t noticed everybody was going to bed.”
“It’s been nice, Sierra. We’ll try to make a habit of this. We’re past due for catching up.”
“Where are you sleeping tonight, Grandpa Jack?”
“I see nobody’s under the nearest Studebaker. I thought I would roll out my blankets over there.”
“Do you mind if I roll mine out near yours?”
He stood up, and she noticed he winced and grabbed the overhanging branch of a hackberry tree to steady himself as he got to his feet. “I would be honored,” he said.
Chapter Nineteen
Jack was in a dead sleep when Thor’s low growling awakened him. The dog had been curled up on top of a portion of the blankets Jack left for his furry friend. Usually, the dog crowded Jack to the edge of his blankets, leaving him encased like a wrapped mummy. Thor stood now, though, his eyes focused to the south.
Jack scooted out of his blanket cocoon and tossed a glance to the other side, where Sierra slept in her blankets a few feet away. She appeared undisturbed. He slipped on his boots and picked up his gun belt before sliding out from under the wagon bed and stumbling to his feet. He knew better than to disregard Thor’s warning, and he had to water the cactus anyhow.
He took several steps away from the Studebaker to get a clear view of where the horses and mules were strung out. He could make out the shadowy images of two guards watching the remuda. The animals were gold on a journey like this, and an old horse soldier like Tige Marshall would post double guards even in country considered safe. He was not certain who was posted with the horses, although he thought one might be Irish. Mitch Eagle Eyes would likely be his relief. The other was a tall man, likely Roper Hawley. Neither appeared to be aware of any threat.
“Okay, Thor,” Jack said, “show me.”
The dog slipped into the trees along the stream, and Jack followed, moving stealthily but worried that he would alert a visitor if they had one. With Thor in the lead, they moved slowly along the streambank for several minutes. Suddenly, the big dog stopped. Jack’s eyes followed Thor’s gaze. Fifty to sixty feet downstream, a man stood half-hidden by the trees. He held a rifle in his hands, and his attention was directed away from the stream, in the direction Jack estimated the remuda and guards would be. Jack edged into the cover of the trees and watched while he considered his next move.
If he hollered, the man would run. Jack would prefer a captive, so he could ask some questions and find out what the stalker was up to. A human and animal head count could have been made from the safety of hills along the way, so he was looking for something more. The man turned in Jack’s direction and started walking his way. Jack would be forced to make his presence known soon. He slipped his Peacemaker from its holster, and when the visitor was no more than twenty-five feet distant, Jack stepped from the trees.
“Stop where you are and drop the rifle,” Jack ordered. His finger was wrapped around the trigger, ready to squeeze if the man gave a sign of using his own weapon.
The stranger obeyed, and the rifle clattered on the rocks. There was movement to his right across the stream, and Jack whipped his weapon toward the sound.
“Just me, Jack.”
It was Mitch Eagle Eyes. Yet another man appeared behind the visitor. Jack recognized him as Roper Hawley, who had been with the remuda. He was one of Tige’s buffalo soldier hires for the freight company, by far the tallest man in their party, his body and legs stretching so long they made the big sorrel gelding he always rode look like a child's pony.
Jack turned his attention to the stranger and stepped nearer to him. A paunchy man wearing a Plainsman hat pulled low on
