Sweetwater by Dorothy Garlock Page B

call.
    He rode around to the back of the house to see if the wagon was there. There was no sign of it or the mules. He bent low from the saddle to see if he could tell from the tracks if the wagon was loaded when he left the cabin.
    “Yo’re mighty careless a-ridin’ in like that. Ya could’a got yore head blowd off.”
    Trell recognized Colleen’s voice and turned to see a dim form emerge from a clump of bushes.
    “I called out.”
    “I heard ya, or I’d’a been twitchin’ my finger on this here trigger. I had ya in my sights.”
    “Where’s your grandma and the wagon?”
    “Hid. I come back to see if them skunks was out tonight.”
    “Do you have everything out of the house that you want?”
    “Ever’thin’ but the cookstove Pa bought. There was no way Granny and I could get it on the wagon.”
    “I’ll help you get it out if you want. We can hide it in the bushes and come back for it.”
    “Pa worked hard for the money to buy that stove.”
    Trell stepped off his horse. “Let’s get it out.”
    The stove was not large and the girl was strong. Fifteen minutes later they had carried it a hundred yards from the house and covered it with brush.
    “Now,” Trell said, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “What do you think about firing the house? It could be that when they discover you’re gone, they’ll decide to use it.”
    “I’d thought of it.”
    “We’d better do it if we’re going to. If they plan on coming back tonight, they’ll be here soon.”
    “I’ve got a can of lamp oil in the wagon.”
    “Take my horse. We’ve got no time to waste.”
    It took only a few minutes to splash the cabin with the oil. Trell lit a swatch of dry grass with a match, threw it in the door and backed away as the cabin burst into flames. He took his rifle from the saddle scabbard and urged Colleen back out of the light made by the fire.
    “Go back to your granny. I’ll wait and see if the flames bring out the skunks.”
    “It’s not yore fight. I’ll wait.”
    Trell knew that it would be a waste of time to argue and hunkered down beside her in the bushes.
    While they waited Colleen told him that after her mother died, her father couldn’t bear to stay in the house where they had lived when they first married and where she was born. Miles Murphy sought to build a new life for himself, his daughter, and his mother in the territory. He had been told the land was in an estate that would soon be auctioned off. With his meager savings, he’d hoped to buy a bit of it and eke out a living. First the Indian agent had come and told them to leave, then the men had come who had gunned her father down.
    “Where did you live before coming here?”
    “Missouri. Then we went to Timbertown, but Papa would rather farm or raise cattle than work in the sawmills.”
    “Did you know T.C. Kilkenny and Colin Tallman?”
    “You couldn’t live long in Timbertown and not know them.”
    “T.C. and Colin have a big ranch north of here. T.C. helped build the town for Rowe Lumber.”
    They talked on in low voices. Trell was comfortable with the girl; and as he sized her up, he was more convinced than ever that Jenny Gray would like her. They were a lot alike. Both had an overdose of spunk.
    A half hour later, just as the flames of the burning cabin were beginning to die down, they heard the sound of horses’ hooves, then three riders came across the grassland to stop just inside the circle of light.
    “Mother-a-Christ! That little twister-tail done burnt the shack. Reckon she knowed we wanted it?”
    “Told ya she was a corker, Hartog. Bet she’s wilder than a turpentined cat.”
    “I know how to take the starch outta her.”
    “That’s the one,” Colleen whispered and raised the barrel of her rifle at the same time.
    Before Trell could stop her she had fired off a shot. The bullet grazed the horse the man was on. The frightened animal reared throwing the man off-balance. Nonetheless, he pulled his gun and fired off