Vengeance Creek: The Sons of Daniel Shaye

42

In the morning, Ben Cardwell woke first. Simon Jacks, in the next bed, snored noisily. Under Jacks’s arm were his saddlebags, which now contained close to ten thousand dollars, the same amount that was in Cardwell’s saddlebags.

Cardwell sat up and swung his feet to the floor. He was disappointed by the amount of money the saddlebags had yielded. Spread on the bed before they’d counted it, it had seemed like more, but many of the bills were of small denomination. Jacks was satisfied with his take, so much so that he’d taken his money to bed with him. But Cardwell wanted more, and he knew where to get it: the one bank he had not yet tried to rob. But in order to get it done, he was going to need Jacks, and a few more men.

Of course, if word got out about what had happened in Vengeance Creek, he’d never get the men he needed to follow him. All the more reason he needed Simon Jacks, and that meant keeping the man happy.

He stood up, dressed quietly, stuck his saddlebags underneath the bed, then left the room to go downstairs and have some breakfast alone. He needed to do some thinking.

Davis stumbled from his bedroll early, had his last mouthful of jerky, and washed it down with water from his canteen. He knew the area, and knew that he wasn’t far from Blue Mesa. That might even have been the town Cardwell and Jacks had stopped in. If not, he could at least get some supplies there and continue to follow their trail—even though he had the feeling that he knew where it would lead.

Thomas made a fresh pot of coffee and then woke the other four.

“I’ll get breakfast going,” James said as he tossed back his blanket and got to his feet.

“Let’s make do with coffee this mornin’, James,” Thomas said. “I want to get an early start.”

James looked at Cory and Colon, who were staggering to their feet sleepily.

“Suits me,” Cory said. “Quicker we get this all done, the quicker I get back to my shop.”

“Berto?” Thomas said.

“We can always eat,” Colon said.

“Coffee, then,” James said.

“I already made a pot.”

James looked at Thomas and said, “Oh, your coffee?”

“What’s the matter with my coffee?”

“I’ll let them decide if we should drink yours,” James said, “or if I should make a new pot.”

“Make a new pot,” Cory said, “please.”

Thomas looked at Colon. “Berto?”

“Sorry, Tomas,” Colon said. “I agree.”

“Fine,” Thomas said, “go ahead.”

“Don’t be mad, big brother,” James said, patting Thomas on the back. “Good coffee is an art.”

“An art?” Thomas said as his brother went to the fire. “How much of an art can it be to toss a handful of coffee into some hot water?”

“Well,” James said, picking up the existing pot of coffee, “for one thing, you’ve got to wait for the water to boil.”

“You don’t wait for the coffee to boil?” Cory asked.

“It’ll boil eventually,” Thomas said defensively.

James shook his head, upended the pot and poured out his brother’s coffee. He then reached for a canteen.

“Watch and learn, big brother,” he said, placing the pot on the fire.

Before they broke camp it was Thomas’s job to go to the stream and refill the canteens while the others enjoyed James’s coffee. He was crouching over the water, filling the last canteen, when he heard a footfall behind him. He dropped the canteen and turned, reaching for his gun.

“I wouldn’t,” a man’s voice said.

Thomas stopped his hand but completed the turn. The man was older than him, but younger than Ralph Cory, probably around thirty-five or so. And he was holding a rifle on him.

“That’s a unfriendly move,” the man said.

“So’s sneakin’ up on someone.”

“I wasn’t sneakin’,” the man said. “If I was, you never would’ve heard me.”

“Still,” Thomas said, “you’re the one holdin’ the rifle.”

“So I am,” the man said. “Tell me, is that coffee I smell?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I won’t kill you if you’ll invite me for a cup,” the man said. “How’s that sound?”

“Consider yourself invited.”

Abruptly, the man raised his rifle barrel and said, “Finish refilling your canteens, then.”

Thomas did so and stood up. “Camp is this way.”

The man fell into step with him and said, “My name is Forbes, Hal Forbes.”

“Thomas Shaye.”

“Deputy, I see.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me,” Forbes said, as they walked toward the camp, “is the coffee good?”

“That’s what my brother tells me.”