entrance once upon a time, though it didn’t look as though it had ever been shored up with timbers. Probably abandoned right off when there was a strike somewhere else. That happened a lot in these parts in the early days.”
Cole remained quiet, letting Will sort out his thoughts. A sideways glance revealed the deputy’s contemplative profile.
“What I mean about it not bein’ odd,” Will said at length, “is that it wasn’t but a piece from here that we found them. Seems like it might be natural to see it so clear like in my mind right now.” He fell silent again, then said suddenly, “I could take you there if you want. That is, after we get you introduced proper to the Abbots. There’s enough time for that, I reckon.”
Coleridge Monroe had no idea what a proper response might be. He was saved from having to come up with one by the blast that reverberated through the mountain pass. He ducked instinctively.
Will Beatty was careful not to laugh, though one corner of his mouth twitched. “Been expecting that,” he said. “That’d be Runt warning us off.”
Cole was prepared to say that perhaps they should heed the warning when Will drew his rifle from the scabbard and fired a shot in the air. His ears were still ringing as the deputy paused for a ten count and fired a second round.
“That’ll let Runt know it’s me,” Will said, sheathing the rifle. “He won’t know who you are, but he’ll give you the benefit of the doubt ‘cause I’m with you.”
Cole looked to his right and left, peering back over his shoulder as much as he was able.
“Don’t get all twisted there, Doc, and take a tumble. You won’t see him until he’s of a mind to let you. That’s how it is with Runt. He’s real cautious of folk. Always was more or less, but it’s worse now that his brothers are gone.”
“Runt? I thought the sheriff said it was Ryan Abbot that most likely took a shot at me the last time.”
“Ryan. Yeah. He’s the one. Call him Runt the same way folks like to call me that no-account Beatty boy. You get a name put to you around these parts and it pretty much sticks like pine sap.”
“Things aren’t so different where I come from.”
Will thought he detected an undercurrent in the doctor’s tone, not bitterness precisely, but something akin to resignation. “Reckon it’s a universal condition, Doc, unless you got something in your little black bag for it.”
“No.” Cole shook his head. “No, I don’t.”
“Well, then, back to Runt. You can guess how he got his name.”
“Smallest of the litter?”
“That’s right, though there aren’t but the three boys. Like I said, the older ones have moved on. Last I heard, Rusty–he’d be the oldest, about thirty-five or so, I’d guess–”
Cole interrupted. “Redhead?”
“What? Oh, his nickname, you mean. No, he was born Russell Abbot and has hair as black as a sinner’s heart. He was called that on account of a crick in his knee that sounded like a hinge needin’ some grease. Like I was saying, last I heard he found religion and two wives when a group of pilgrims came through here a while back. Settled himself in Utah.”
“Mormons?”
“Seems like. If Runt’s in a favorable mood, I might ask after Rusty.”
The trail widened as they made a gradual descent. They left the relative protection of the trees for a gently sloping grassland. A scattering of black-faced sheep on the hillside suddenly huddled together and then moved as swiftly as a nimbus cloud toward a rough-hewn cabin and outbuildings set in the bed of the valley. Chickens ran in circles in the yard. A cow lowed mournfully.
Cole had come upon this scene before but not from this vantage point or at so close a distance. The shot that drove him away with his tail between his legs–if not his horse–had come when he was still on the periphery of the clearing, just barely revealed amidst a phalanx of aspens. He raised the brim of his hat a fraction and squinted against the sunlight glancing off the stream that ran through the valley.
“Where is he?” asked Cole. “I don’t see anyone.”
“Well, he sure as hell isn’t waiting for us on that sad excuse of a porch. C’mon, we need to keep going.”
“What about the other brother? You said he’s not around either.”
“That’s right. Randy left about the same time Rusty did. Now, he had a way with the ladies. Always did, though I think they called him Randy ‘cause his Christian name was Randall. Still, I remember people speculatin’ on whether he just grew into his name, like the egg maybe came before the chicken.”
Cole had been to Longabach’s restaurant with his sister several times since their arrival. Estella Longabach’s meaty stew was served with a side of speculation, giving her customers a double order of something to chew on. Cole could easily imagine the chicken and egg debate occupying the diners for an evening.
“Randy seemed the kind that would embrace his brother’s new religion,” Will said, “but he stayed a couple of months after that and took up with a half-breed Cherokee girl. Bought her from the trappers she was traveling with and moved on up to Leadville. Could be they have children now.”
“So Runt cares for the place.”
“His pa makes sure he does. He’ll be the one in the house.”
Cole tried to recall his conversation with the sheriff.
“Judah?”
“That’s right. But call him Mr. Abbot until he tells you otherwise. He’s particular about that.”
“Of course.”
“You should know that Runt’s ornery, and that he comes by it because he can’t help himself. Judah’s a hotheaded cuss and Rusty and Randy were just plain bad-tempered when I knew them. Both of them bullies, and with me being a few years younger, I felt the meanness in them more than once. That wasn’t anything compared to how they carried on after Runt. My ma says that Runt had to come into this world with his fists up and flailing, just to make sure he survived. It didn’t help that Delia Abbot died right off. I suppose there was a wet nurse for a while, but that was probably as much of a leg up as Runt ever got.”
“Could I have seen him around town?”
“No. He comes in maybe twice, three times a year for supplies. He hates leaving his rifle with the sheriff, but that’s the law. Still, he’s pretty good with his fists and doesn’t back away from a fight. I’ve never seen him not get his licks in.”
“So he’s a brawler.”
“No, not really. His brothers were brawlers. He did his share to keep up so they wouldn’t turn on him, but mostly it takes some provocation to get him goin’. Someone, usually someone who doesn’t know squat about him, gives him a reason to take a poke. He’s never done any time in jail, and he’s never been drunk. Wyatt just sends him off with his supplies and points out the doctor’s office to the one that tangled with him.” He gave Coleridge Monroe
