Wolf made arrangements with Darryl to leave his rig and horses at the stable until Monday. They would pick up the buckboard and then load their wagon with the supplies Brown's Mercantile will have set aside for them. Wolf needed to buy a milking cow and chickens from a local farmer. Cloud Walker was bringing up a small herd of steers and supposedly at least one good milking cow, but something had obviously delayed his friend. Managing a wagonload of furniture, a small herd of horses and cows, and a bunch of relatives that would drive any sane man crazy was a remarkable fete in itself. Indians had no immunity where dysfunctional families came in.
He walked into the hotel with the large valise and Darby's canvas pack. When he checked into the room on the second floor that overlooked the front of town, he set the canvas pack down and eyed it suspiciously. He wanted to allow Darby privacy, this was true, but he decided a quick run through of the items Darby had packed might help him keep tabs on his young charge a bit better.
He quickly peered out onto the street---no sign of wild cowlicks and a cocky strut. He flipped the top back and quickly checked the contents: hairbrush, white shirt (for the dance, no doubt), socks, and nightshirt. He felt the nightshirt and saw that something had been wrapped safely in the folds. Unwrapping the package, he discovered the silver-framed picture of Darby's mother. Wolf blushed with guilt. He quickly re-wrapped the framed photo and put everything back as he had found it. He was glad there were no books in there. If Darby had packed the treasured volumes, then he might be inclined towards a suspicion his young charge didn't feel he would be returning to the ranch. Now he at least knew, any attempt or aversion on Darby's part to "hightail" it would be purely spur of the moment.
After dropping the tattered list off with Henry Brown and discussing some new items that might be if interest to him, he headed off for his own interview with Judge Green.
Darby Cole came out of Bowdine's Boarding and Bathhouse smelling of lavender water. He had soaked in the huge tub for what seemed like over an hour. His freshly cut hair that had lain in total submission for Mr. Hawthorne, the barber, now sprung up in angry defiance. His pink face had been scrubbed raw as the rest of his body. Not having had a bath in one month's time, only washings had made him miss the Sunday morning ritual at the saloon. Darby would carry bucket upon bucket of hot steaming water into the small room where not one or two, but three bathtubs stood. The ladies would take baths in shifts of threes and when they were all warmly pampered and feeling like ladies again, it was Darby and Mr. Baines turn to be pampered. Darby enjoyed the time he spent with Mr. Baines in the tub, talking man to man. He missed the way Mr. Baines had always gone out of his way to include him in conversations and make him feel like a real man, with valued opinions. Not like Wolf Stoddard, but then Wolf didn't let him get away with half the stuff Mr. Baines did. Sometimes Darby wondered if Mr. Baines really liked him, or if he perhaps wasn't just trying to reach Delilah through her one soft spot.
It really didn't matter which was true for Darby now, he just wished he could talk as easily with Wolf. Oh, sure, Darby talked---it was a lifetime of practice and something he was always good at, but Wolf didn't seem to really listen. His face often bore a look of mild tolerance and disapproval. Yet---and it was a big YET in Darby's book---he did seem genuinely concerned with Darby's health when he had fallen onto the ledge and dislocated his shoulder. Maybe Wolf was just a different kind of man than Mr. Baines. Maybe Wolf was just so used to being alone, he didn't know how to communicate with another person who was in his face daily.
Oh, well, Darby thought, I don't need to worry too much longer on that. Didn't even have to plan it, but I think I might get myself out of my sentence. Judge Green certainly seemed concerned about the bullwhip. Darby wondered how much of it he really bought, but sometimes all you had to do was put a fly in the kitchen and everyone started stirring the pot, like Sophie always said.
Darby smiled to himself as he came out into the late afternoon sun. He hitched up the britches that actually fit him, the leather belt that was bought for him alone, and for one brief moment felt guilty. However, Darby Cole, with the self-centered focus of youth, shook the thought off and began his visiting.
Wolf sat in the large leather chair, Darby had vacated several hours before. He was sipping a small glass of whiskey from Jack's private stock. They started their visit with news of the day. The meanest, most-sought-after outlaws now on the loose and the proper law enforcement that was needed in a town to keep the good, god-fearing citizens safe.
"It was a blessing that you took down the Cajun before you took off your badge. He was a bad one from what I heard and his draw couldn't be matched by no one. Saving you, I guess, that's true." Judge Green said as he carefully observed his long-time friend.
Wolf's face colored slightly and a shawl seemed to drape the features with a cold indifference---like ice slowly fogging a glass. "He's out of the game, that's all that matters. Don't matter who stopped him."
"True, true," Judge Green said slowly, thoughtfully. "I'm only glad we have one less we have to worry about. They're springing up a lot younger now days. Simon told me a group of young drifters pulled into town last week. They're apparently camped not too far out of town. They come in every other night and make a general nuisance of themselves. You know, younguns, strutting their stuff just itchin for fight."
"The young ones are the worst ones. They think they'll live forever and even if they do die, they just want to make a name for themselves. Like fame lets you live forever. If they're lucky and they do survive to twenty-five, they have to worry about someone putting a bullet in their backs to take up the torch." Wolf quickly finished off his glass and put it firmly down on Judge Green's desk.
"Let's discuss the kid. That's the real reason for this visit."
"How are you two getting on?" Green asked, while pouring himself another three fingers of the golden liquid.
"Fine. He's a hard worker, a quick study, and for the most part, obedient. I don't ever see the kid being docile, but he's a basically good kid. I pegged him right from the beginning." Wolf said with a faint smile touching his lips.
"That's my assessment of the situation, too," Green said, sipping casually from his glass, "but, I'd go easy with the bullwhip if I were you."
Green watched the expected reaction from the man he knew for more than ten years---the fair-minded, compassionate, firm, but humane lawman who always brought his prisoners to justice in one piece.
First Wolf's lips compressed tightly in anger, then his eyes twinkled as he envisioned the smooth-talking scamp giving his best performance. He burst out laughing. Judge Green joined him and both men were tearing and coughing.
Wolf picked up the empty glass.
"I think I need another one. You can see what I have to deal with. He must be slipping though, since you obviously don't buy into it."
"Hey, I'm sorry you missed his face when I asked him to take his shirt off...." The rest of the visit could be heard by anyone passing by on the street. No doubt all within earshot wondered what could be so funny on a late Friday afternoon, to have Judge Green in stitches.
Darby felt good. He was among people. He liked being with other people, just like in the saloon. There was always someone to talk to, joke with, or even a shoulder to cry on. The women were always ready to spend time with him and they were like one huge family. Sure there were bad times, lonely times of grief and regrets, but on the whole there was always someone to share those times with, someone who understood. Wolf just didn't seem to understand Darby. They were light years apart, and not even on the same side of the sun.
First stop would be Mr. Dawson. Darby liked the old man. His own son never seemed to find time to stop by and talk to him, but Darby loved the fascinating stories of the Civil War and Europe, where the old man came from. He made those periods come alive in Darby's mind.
Darby made the short journey to the end of town, where Mr. Dawson 's shack lay snuggled at the base of a small hill. The creek that wound through the backstretch of town and off into the mountains angled a few yards from the front door. Oft times, Darby and Mr. Dawson would sit and fish with their sticks and twine, hoping for a good catch for the noon or evening meal.
Darby knocked on the front door. The sun was tipping towards the earth and evening was coming on. Wolf would be expecting him back at the hotel for dinner in a short while. Darby knocked again, this time adding his voice to the announcement, "Mr. Dawson, it's me, Darby."
The soft shuffling sounds from inside approached the front door. It slowly pulled open and the grizzled old man smiled a gap-toothed grin at his friend. "Darby, boy! Come in, come in. Where you been keeping yourself?"
"Have new lodgings," was all Darby offered.
"You didn't end up in Laramie, did you, boy?' Mr. Dawson asked, somewhat sternly.
"No, sir, I didn't, but I got caught somewhere between a rock and a hard place."
"Oh, where be that, boy?" the old man asked as he ambled towards the rocker in front of the fireplace.
With practiced ease, Darby went to the kettle on the stove and began to heat the water. He opened cupboards and checked under the curtained sink, doing a silent inventory in his mind, like he always did on such visits, prior to the fall from grace.
"Wolf Stoddard took me in. He's an ex-Marshal. He ain't a bad man, Mr. Dawson, but he punishes me severely, sir." Darby paused for added effect, "with a bullwhip. He needed some free, slave-labor so he jumped at the chance to take me."
"A BULLWHIP!" Mr. Dawson was duly shocked. "You stay here with me, boy. Ain't no one gonna hurt you under my roof."
"Can't," Darby said as he took some potatoes out of the bin and several carrots and onions. He pulled a huge iron kettle from the stove and began to light the old wood-burner. He filled the kettle with water and began chopping up the vegetables and adding them to the pot. A vegetable stew would have to do, but Darby had a shopping list...or as he liked to think of it---a contribution list... ticking off in his head.
"Whatcha mean, you can't," the voice cackled with almost a high-pitched hysteria. "I'll take a bullwhip to his hide he wants to see how I handle men like him."
"It ain't so bad, sir. He feeds me, and he bought me these new clothes. We're in town for the dance. You plan on going? Maybe with your son and his wife?" Darby put his knife down and rolled up the sleeves on his shirt. He added coffee to the basket and poured the heated water through the grounds. Mr. Dawson re-used his grounds over and over, the frugality of age and poverty.
"He said he'd pick me up, him and his fancy filly they have no time for an old man like me, but Richard said Mr. Brady specifically said to make sure you bring your pa." Dawson coughed in derision, "Wouldn't be taking me if Mr. Brady didn't ask...oh, that boy takes such stock in fine upstanding citizens like Mr. Brady, but his own pa, hell, he don't give a damn about me."
"If I had a pa, I'd take right fine care of him," Darby said, thinking back on all the times he wanted a father and grandfather, the times when his ma and the ladies just didn't seem to fill whatever hole he found in his soul.
Darby put the vegetables on the stove and poured a cup of the thick brew for Mr. Dawson and himself.
"How about a cup of cocoa. You always had a right fine sweet tooth. The coffee can set until supper." Darby started searching the cupboards for the favored drink.
"Sorry, boy, all out."
"What say we amble on out to the porch, Mr. Dawson." Darby knew the old man sometimes didn't get enough fresh air or sunlight. "Beautiful sunset bursting on the horizon, like an eager child, waiting to show off just for two misfits like us."
The toothy-grinned man, huffed, "Yep, love those sunsets, boy. Always have." Then both lonely hearts, leaning one on the other, walked out of the cabin, the stew cooking slowly on the stove, coffee cups in their hands.
Wolf headed on over to Sheriff Bank's office, once Judge Green and he had worked out a proper strategy for dealing with the little liar. He owed Simon a drink and he might need his aid in the lessons of the heart he had planned.
When Wolf entered, the large black man looked up from the paperwork that seemed to have conquered his desk. "Wolf, glad to see you made it into town for the dance. I wondered if Ellison had spread the word."
Simon rose to grasp the tall man's hand in a warm, friendly handshake. He pulled back dramatically scanning the lanky form from top to bottom in exaggerated concern. "Seems you're no worse for wear with that tiger you got by the tail."
Wolf laughed. Simon reflected on what a good sound it made. The clear, deep resonance came from deep within and it was a pleasant sound, from a man who rarely practiced. Darby seemed to have made some changes in the man whether he wanted to admit it or not.
"I think he met his match, but he still needs a keeper. As a matter of fact, that's why I came to see you. Judge Green and I have devised a plan to teach the impudent little rascal a lesson. You feel like playing?"
"Anything that trims the feathers on that little rooster, count me in." Simon laughed.
"If you got some time, I'd like to buy you a drink."
Simon rose, grabbed his hat, and putting a friendly arm around Wolf,
both men walked out into the fading sunlight.
Part 3 of Story Three