This Loving Land - Dorothy Garlock [13]
Three
Summer was glad when they left the town behind. Bulldog clucked and snapped the reins sharply on the horses’ backs as they ambled out of the rutted street and onto the prairie. A slight breeze kicked up little eddies of dust along the trail, but did little to dissipate the early morning heat. Summer put on her sunbonnet to take advantage of the shade it offered, and for a time rode silently, reflecting on Bulldog’s mood and trying, fruitlessly, to comprehend his silent, scowling countenance. The area surrounding them was like a vast ocean, only solid and hot. Some half a mile ahead, a small grove broke the emptiness, and it was there that they headed. A group of horsemen waited beneath the cottonwoods.
“Mr. Bulldog?” Summer gestured toward the men when Bulldog turned to look at her.
“McLean men.”
He reached into his pocket and drew out a flat tin, dipped a small twig, the end of which was chewed into a brush, into the brown powder, and coated the inside of his lower lip. Summer had seen this done often. Even people in the Piney Woods dipped snuff.
“Mr. McLean’s men?”
“Yup.”
Sadie glanced nervously at Summer and pulled her sunbonnet from beneath the seat and tied it securely under her chin.
When Bulldog pulled the team to a halt under the shade trees, the men on horseback sat motionless and stared at the women. Summer looked at each face before confusion forced her to look away. Not one of the men fit her imaginary picture of Sam McLean, the one who would be the man in charge. The silence was broken by Bulldog’s low laugh. It drew attention to him.
“Wal, now! You fellers just pull in yore eyeballs. This here’s Summer Kuykendall, and the other’n is Mrs. Bratcher.”
“Are you outlaws?” John Austin stood behind Summer, gazing with awe at the horsemen.
Summer looked around in horror. “John Austin!”
Grins appeared on the weathered, toughened faces, and one rider urged his horse forward.
“I’m not sure ’bout the rest of ’em, boy, but as fer me, I’m the ramrod of these galoots when the boss ain’t around. Jack Bruza’s the name.”
“What do you ram, mister?”
Summer cringed. Her brother’s questions were often unintentionally upsetting. He would invariably pick out the word that interested him the most and ask about it.
“Uh?” The expression on the man’s face was typical of those who talked with John Austin for the first time.
The loud guffaws of laughter from the men didn’t affect Jack at all. He grinned with them, took off his hat, scratched his head and allowed his restless horse to edge closer to the wagon.
“Wal . . . I’m a gonna have to study on that one, boy. How’d ya like to ride along with me while 1 tell ya ’bout it?”
John Austin didn’t hesitate. He could never be accused of shyness.
“Can I, Summer? Can I?”
It was hard for Summer to suspend her habit of concern for her small brother. She looked first at the man and then at the prancing horse.
“I don’t think. . . .”
“Jack ain’t gonna let no hurt come to him,” Bulldog growled. “Ya don’t aim to make no sissy-britches out of him, do ya?”
She felt a flush of embarrassment at the rebuke. “Well . . . all right. But . . . be careful, John Austin.”
Mary set up a howl as soon as the boy was lifted from the wagon.
“Me . . . me ride!”
An old man urged his horse up to the wagon. He looked inquiringly at Sadie.
“Ma’am?”
Sadie nodded, and with one arm he scooped the little girl up and placed her carefully in front of him.
“Jist come on up here with ol’ Raccoon, lit’l purty gal, we’ll jist have us a fine ride.”
A youth, not more than fourteen, swept off his broad-brimmed hat, his young face creased with a teasing grin. He turned his horse in a circle, then caused the animal to rear up on its hind legs.
“One of you ladies is welcome to ride with me,” he called.
“Ya just quit yore showin’ off, Pud. Or I’m liable to take a board to yore back side.