He sighed deeply, never getting over the fear that someone would remember that name and connect him to it. If only he could remember where he had seen Lieutenant Gentry before.
Twenty-four
Lieutenant Phil Gentry poured himself another shot of whiskey, then leaned back in his chair to think. It was late, and the grounds outside were quiet. There wasn’t much activity at Fort Lyon anymore, what with most Indians living on reservations now and troubles over sheepherders having calmed somewhat. Law had come to the West, and a lot of army posts like this one would close over the next few years.
He didn’t mind. He was about ready to retire from the army anyway. For the first few years after the war he had had to suffer the abuse of being considered a “Galvanized Yankee,” a former Confederate who had come into the regular union army after the war. He had originally belonged to the union troops, until the war broke out. Because he was from Tennessee, his conscience had not allowed him to fight on the union side, and he had joined the Confederates, a cause that had ended up being useless.
It was the war period that he needed to think about, because it was during that time he was sure he had met the man who called himself Jake Hayes. He had spent a couple of days at the Parker ranch, then ridden on to Denver on army business and had just got back to the fort yesterday. There had not been a lot of time to think about Parker’s right-hand man, but now he could study on it. The name Jake sounded familiar when associated with the size of the man, his dark good looks, and those guns he wore. He’d seen the man and those guns before, and when he first shook hands with him, he could have sworn Jake seemed to recognize him too. He had even looked a little worried.
Why would he be worried? Men who seemed uneasy around an army officer were usually men who had a past to hide. A lot of men hiding from the law came West, changed their names, their lives. Was that what Jake Hayes was doing? He leaned forward again and opened a drawer, taking out a thin cigar and lighting it. His eyes squinted as he forced himself to remember. If Jake Hayes was wanted, then if he knew him, maybe it went back to the war. A lot of men who dealt in illegal gunrunning and that sort of thing ended up outlaws after the war was over. Jake Hayes had that look to him, an air about him that told a man he could be ruthless if necessary. Maybe if he could see the man under different circumstances, maybe if he hadn’t been smiling and happy the day of Parker’s shindig, maybe then it would be easier to remember him.
He thought back to when he acted as an agent for the Confederate army and bought stolen guns for the South—guns taken from union supply trains robbed by outlaws who sold them to whoever needed them, men who didn’t much care who won the war. Sometimes the guns came from small regiments of union soldiers who were attacked and shot. Either way, the gunrunners managed to procure rifles and ammunition for the Confederates, who paid for them in gold, sometimes taken from the wedding rings of generous, courageous Southern women who wanted to donate to the cause.
He remembered that one man in particular was mentioned often among the Confederate spies and agents he had worked with. He could swear that man’s name had been Jake too. He was known as one of the best with his guns, had taken on six Yankees once who were supposed to be protecting a wagonload of rifles. When he was through, the Yankees were dead, and the rifles were delivered into Confederate hands.
Zane Parker had bragged about how good Jake Hayes was with guns. “Fastest I’ve ever seen,” the man had told him.
Jake, he thought. Jake…Harper? Harker? The last name of the Jake he had known was something like that. He knew just the man who would remember—Otis Benson. Otis had worked with him during the war as a Confederate spy, had dealt often with the gunrunners, and he had kept in touch with the man after the war. Otis was a sheriff now in Carothersville, Missouri, had told him that if he ever quit the army, he ought to come there and see about a job in law enforcement. Maybe Otis would remember a gunrunner named Jake who had a reputation himself with guns—a big man who looked part Mexican or part Indian.
He puffed on the cigar absently as he took a piece of paper from his desk and penned a wire to Otis. He would give it to his dispatcher in the morning.
***
Beth stood waiting with an eager heart as Lloyd rode toward her on the familiar roan gelding. It was a big horse, necessary to carry a big man. Lloyd Hayes was no boy in her eyes, and whenever they got to see each other again, it brought a rush to her heart. He looked so grand on the horse. Already he was one of her father’s best hands. He was a skilled marksman, the one who did most of the hunting, providing the meat when the men were out on roundup or mending fences. He could outdo any of the other men when it came to busting mustangs, and thanks to his mother, he was so well educated he was able to go off to college in the fall. Their house was filled with books Miranda had made him read and study, books she had ordered from the East so she could educate him. Lloyd had passed an exam to enter college, and she was so proud. What a handsome lawyer or doctor he would make!