Page 5 of The Widow and the Wanted

“Told ’em we don’t hire tribal folk,” the guard says, rubbing his elbows like that’s where my jab landed.

The foreman jerks his chin at me. “You serve with the Blue Ridge company?”

“Yes, sir,” I answer, squaring my shoulders. “Name’s Boone Maddox. This here’s Okee Collins.”

The foreman studies me a moment longer, then shifts his gaze to Okee. Looking him up and down, he looks to be measuring something—maybe his height, the breadth of his brawny shoulders.

“I’ll be damned. You’re the Aces, ain’t you? Thought you boys were dead.”

Haven’t heard that name in a spell.

Colonel stuck it on us back in ’64, outside Pea Ridge. Rebs damn near rolled our right flank. Okee and I held the gap. Picked our shots and bought the company time. Colonel rode by after and said, “Looks like I was holding a pair of aces.”

Fool name stuck tighter than a tick, much to my regret. Right childish. But if this hiring man ain’t meaning harm, I’ll let it ride. Might be that sorry nickname proves useful yet.

“Yes, sir. Blue Ridge company. Forty-first Kansas.”

The foreman turns to the guard. “Put ’em both on. If Everett’s got a problem with it, he can talk to me.”

The guard hesitates, but he knows better than to argue.

“Yes, sir.”

I flash the guard a smile and am met with a cold look. Might pay for it later but damn, don’t it feel good to win. We shuffle off through the line of would-be thugs looking for the kind of work that rewards a man’s taste for violence. Ain’t no lumberjacks here. Clear enough what’s really needed without no permits posted, taking to the woods at night.

“Reckon we ought to celebrate with a drink.”

“No. I need you sharp,” Okee says. “I don’t trust these bastards.”

“Me neither,” I mutter as we move off from the line. Men watch us go. Hard looks, assessing, like they’re already adding up what we’re worth.

Okee glances back toward the tent. “How did you come to hear tell of this job?”

I huff out a breath. “Flyer. Nailed up outside the feed store. Ain’t known it was Hollister’s doing till we showed up.”

“Of course Hollister would not want folks to know his payroll is rife with hired guns,” Okee says, keeping his voice low as we cut through camp. “If we’re here to chase off surveyors, I’d surmise whatever tract we’re working isn’t even his timber to cut.” A sharp breeze cuts through and he tightens his coat.

He doesn’t say anything after that. Just keeps walking, letting the thought hang between us.

“Pays good,” I say at last, because somebody’s gotta speak and it might as well be me.

Okee snorts. “It pays well because the risk is considerable. These are government men we’re running off.”

Then it dawns on me. “You think your daddy might be out in these parts?”

He shakes his head. “My mother’s last letter said he’s in Okmulgee. Something about brokering a unified territory.”

I chew on that a minute. “Well, ain’t nothing to worry about, no how. If we hang, Hollister hangs with us, and every man he’s hired. They know that. Means no survivors on the other side, neither. Clean job, or none at all.”

“Let us hope.” Then he falls quiet again, the silence thick as the bacon grease smoke drifts off the cook fires. I can see a stack of fried chickens from here. I clear my throat.

“You hungry?” I ask. “Or you wanna go in starvin’ as well as sober as a priest?”

Okee walks a few more steps before he answers, his long hair blowing in the wind, black as crow feathers. Then he slows, just enough for me to catch it.

“Yes,” he says. “We eat.”

We angle toward the cook fire, the smell of charred meat tugging hard at my gut. Been a while since my last proper meal. Spent the morning on the trail out of Fort Smith, then caught a brief spell of rest before we rode into Hollister’s camp.