Calder Brand - Janet Dailey Page 0,34

the cabin. The man hadn’t said much about himself, but Joe was burning with curiosity. Who was Elijah Hawkins? A hermit? An outlaw? A friend of the vigilantes who’d raided the McCrackens? Would he be safe here, or was he setting himself up to be killed or arrested?

Joe had sensed Elijah watching him, taking his measure as they rubbed down the horses. But there was no way to know what the man was thinking. There was something in his taciturn nature, the way he wore his hair in long braids, and the flat tone of his speech, that reminded Joe of the Comanches and Kiowas he’d met when the drive was passing through Indian Territory. But Elijah was pale-skinned and blue-eyed; and his silvery hair showed reddish glints in the lantern light. He was clearly a white man. But what sort of white man was he?

Joe followed him out of the barn and waited while he closed the door. Now that the moon was higher, he could see beyond the barn to a stout log corral with shapes moving behind the rails, shifting like grass in the wind. Horses. Wild horses.

“I catch them and break them for sale,” Elijah said. “Kiowa breaking. That’s what they call what I do. You’ll see more in the morning.”

They crossed the clearing to the cabin, which was made of adobe, not the usual sod. The place was spare and neat, with everything in one room. Clothes and tools hung from pegs around the walls. A shelf above the bed held a lamp and a half-dozen books.

Books. A memory flashed through Joe’s mind. Sarah, lugging her carpetbag, weighted down with her precious books. Where would Sarah be now? Probably married. Such a pretty girl and so full of spunk. Surely, by now, some man would’ve sweet-talked her into becoming his wife. Whoever it was, he’d damn well better treat her right.

Joe’s one regret was that he hadn’t pulled that girl into his arms at the train and kissed her good-bye. Even after all this time, he thought about her at night, imagining how those full lips, sweet and ripe as summer cherries, would have tasted pressing his. Knowing Sarah, she probably would’ve slapped his face. But the memory would have been worth it.

Elijah stirred the coals in the fireplace and added enough cow chips to make a cheering blaze. Within a few minutes, he’d heated some coffee, warmed up some beans, and added a few stale biscuits that were wrapped in a cloth.

The table was a board resting between two wooden crates. Two more crates served as chairs. The plates were leftover pie tins. The cups were tin as well, like the ones from the cattle drive. The knives and forks were old and tarnished.

The food couldn’t compare to Rusty’s chuckwagon meals, let alone Joe’s mother’s cooking; but he hadn’t eaten all day, and Joe was starved. The beans, with dry biscuits dipped in the sauce, tasted good; and he was grateful for anything that would fill his belly and restore his strength.

So far, at least, Elijah didn’t seem to be much of a talker, especially while he was eating. But Joe was curious about the man, and he might not get a better chance to learn more.

“You mentioned Kiowa breaking,” he said. “What does that mean? How is it different from regular breaking?”

Elijah washed down his biscuit with a swig of coffee. “When a cowboy like you breaks a horse, he does it with force and fear. By the time the horse is ready to ride, it behaves because it doesn’t want to be punished. Kiowa breaking is a whole different way. It’s done with gentleness and trust. The horse obeys because it wants to. A man who’s learned to ride a Kiowa broke horse will never be satisfied with the other kind. I can show you tomorrow.”

“But I can see that you’re not an Indian. How did you learn?”

Elijah helped himself to more beans. “My folks settled in western Missouri—pretty wild country back in the day. As one of seven kids, I was pretty much left to my own devices. When I was about twelve, I was fishing along the creek that ran past our farm when a couple of Kiowa braves snuck up behind me, threw a blanket over my head, and rode off with me. I never saw my family again.”

“What happened to your people? Did the Kiowas attack them?” Joe asked.

Elijah shrugged. “To this day, I don’t know. I never