This Loving Land - Dorothy Garlock [5]
“No, ma’am, ya ain’t better. Anything happen to ya and I’d have my hide took right off.” His faded blue eyes crinkled when he grinned. “I think it best to have some grub sent up fer ya and the boy. And—ma’am, I’ll be here in the mornin’ to take you all out to the Keep. Ain’t no more than twenty-five or thirty miles out. McLean’s Keep reaches way out to Spider Mountain. Now, that’s a fer piece.”
“McLean’s Keep? Is that Mr. McLean’s ranch?”
“Yup.”
It was clear he was not giving out any more information about his employer than he had to.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Bulldog. It isn’t your fault that Mr. McLean didn’t choose to meet us. There must be a reason, and I’d rather he not know of my disappointment and think us ungrateful for what he’s already done for us.”
John Austin, leaning forward, elbows on the window sill and chin cupped in his hands, was not listening. He was watching the street, and particularly a fight in progress in front of the saloon. He always left everything to Summer. Summer would know how to handle things. She always did.
“The one with the whiskers will win,” he announced suddenly.
“Win what, John Austin?” Summer was glad her brother had said something.
They moved to the window and looked over the boy’s head to the street below. Bulldog chuckled.
“No, he won’t, boy. That’s ol’ Cal Hardy down thar. He’s a fightin’ son-of-a-bitch. He can whip his weight in wild cats afore breakfast. Yup, that ol’ Cal’s a fightin’ bastard.”
Summer gritted her teeth to keep from saying the words that sprang to her lips. Nothing passed John Austin’s ears and eyes!
“He won’t win this time, Mr. Bulldog. The other man is not as strong, but when he hits he puts all his weight behind the blow, while that man, Cal, only uses his arms, and he’s making himself tired, too, the way he struts around. The other man don’t waste his strength a’tall. See, see how he comes up on one foot when he hits?”
“Dad-burnit! Ya just might have somethin’ thar!” Bulldog slapped John Austin on the back. “It’s ’bout time someone whupped that bastard s ass.”
“Please. . . .”
Bulldog was so wrapped up in the excitement of the fight that- he didn’t hear the word that burst from Summer’s lips.
“How do you know that Cal’s mother didn’t marry his father, Mr. Bulldog?”
“John Austin!” Summer’s face crimsoned. She was used to her brother’s insatiable curiosity, but strangers were sometimes put off by him. But she needn’t have worried about Bulldog. He was too interested in the fight to have noticed what the boy said.
John Austin looked up at his sister, inquiringly, to see what caused her rebuke.
“A bastard is the child of a woman who ain’t married, Summer. I read it in the dictionary. I just wanted to know if Mr. Bulldog was a friend of Cal’s mother.”
Summer said nothing as she brushed the dark hair back from the boy’s forehead and pressed his head against her. John Austin was exceptionally bright. By the age of three he had known all his letters, was able to write his name and draw pictures. At five, he could read all the books the family possessed, and any other reading material made available by people passing on the road near their home, from the newspaper to wanted posters. Summer recognized his talent for drawing after his one glimpse of a train. He made a sketch of it, complete with locomotive, cars and caboose. She was amazed at her brother’s ability to remember detail. However, in other, simpler things, childish things, he was completely inept.
Bulldog took off his hat and slapped it against his leg. “Yore right as rain, young feller. Ol’ Cal got his ass whupped proper! He shore got his squawker plucked this time. He won’t be a crowin’ fer a while!”
John Austin’s eyes glinted as he glanced at his sister. This was trashy talk, and people with breeding didn’t talk this way, so Summer said. His sister was looking out the window, so he smiled indulgently at the