Chapter Four: The Die Is Cast

Chuck Peterson stretched out along a comfortable sofa in the office of Luther Preston of the First Colorado Bank and Trust. He would rather have been anyplace but sitting in that office, but he knew that sooner or later Hoot would have to show his face and withdraw his money. Chuck knew Hoot could get about $150 from a few ranchers he'd done odd jobs for, but without the nest egg his grandfather had left for him, he wouldn't last but a few weeks. It irritated Chuck, however, that Hoot could be so dumb and so impulsive. He was just like his mother, rest her soul, setting out on an adventure with nary an idea of the consequences. Chuck shook his head repeatedly as he remembered when Margaret had bought twelve Alpine Dairy goats and decided to start her own cheese business. It was a fiasco. Yep, Hoot was just like her.

To make matters worse, at least in Chuck's opinion, was the fact that Hoot knew the promoter was a fraud, but he was still choosing to run off and join him. Chuck thought for a minute. What was his name? Soloman Diggle. Soloman Diggle! The name kept racing through his mind. He'd been with Hoot when they met the Diggle fellow at a fair over in Durango and Chuck had immediately felt he was a con man, what with his barrels, his top hat, and his bull horn. Chuck even recalled that Hoot had said something about him being shady. It didn't add up to Chuck. He had spent a sleepless night at his brother's house just thinking about it. Maybe that is what bothered him about Hoot leaving. It didn't make any sense.

From the office, Chuck could see all of Hot Springs Boulevard. He watched as a shrewish woman carrying a worn and dated trunk scuttled across to the train station. He then noticed a few ranchers exiting the coffee shop across the way. He might have been one of them if he hadn't been holed up in Preston's office waiting for his boy. Just as he about lost interest in the boulevard and its flurry of small town activity, he noticed the harried figure of his youngest son emerge from the decadent lobby of the Hot Springs Inn escorting Sally Forester. Chuck let out an audible yelp of disbelief.

"You all right, Mr. Peterson, sir?" asked a concerned Luther Preston as he poked his head in.

"Well, considering how everything is going today, Luther, I've been better," replied Chuck still steaming at the thought of his son and the local tramp shacking up in the Hot Springs.

"I understand, sir, but if there's anything we can do..."

"Just bring him in here when he gets through those doors, do you understand?" Chuck interrupted before the banker could feign interest in his plight.

"Yes, sir," the banker said with a tone of displeasure. Chuck figured he just wanted his office back, but as much money as Chuck had in that bank, Luther should be happy to let him borrow the office for a few minutes. Luther knew it, too, but he was put out by the inconvenience nevertheless.

The banker left the office and Chuck returned to the lazy bustle of the boulevard where he saw his son enter the feed shop alone. He scanned the boulevard for signs of the girl, but she must have slipped away while Chuck was talking to the banker. A few minutes past and Hoot exited the feed shop. Chuck could see he had a handful of money. He was headed directly toward the bank, but with his hat pulled low, Chuck could tell he didn't want to be noticed.

A few seconds passed again before the small strand of bells attached to the bank's front door announced Hoot's arrival. He entered wearing a pair of gabardine trousers, a pressed dress shirt and a pair of polished brown loafers. He cut a very handsome figure that was attested to by the nervous greeting of the female teller. Chuck could see him chat casually with her for a few moments before Luther Preston approached him. The two had a brief exchange before Luther led him toward the office. Confused by the explanation Luther had given him, Hoot entered the office in a huff.

"Luther, what do you mean you can't release the funds?" he shouted, oblivious to the presence of his father in the room.

"Just what I told you, Hoot. There's a small problem we have to clear up before we can release the funds," replied Luther, now feeling great discomfort at the situation.

"What pro...," began Hoot before he noticed his father seated in the sofa against the far wall of the office, "...blem do we have here?"

Chuck eased himself off the sofa and stepped to the door, closing it with a gentle push. Then he faced Hoot with a somber yet determined look on his weathered face. "It's not going to happen this way, Hoot," he whispered just loud enough for Hoot to hear him. "You know well enough that outfit ain't no place for a Peterson."

Upon seeing his father sitting on the sofa, Hoot's mind had been racing, but now that his father was lecturing him about what he ought and ought not to do, Hoot just got angry. "Ain't no place for a Peterson?" he shouted as he wheeled around and pounded Luther's desk with a closed fist.. "And the ranch is?"

Chuck had expected the outburst (Hoot was, after all, his son), but he had thought it would be born of frustration not anger. "Now, don't go flying off the handle now, young man. You understand?" he cautioned. "I'm still your father and I won't be disrespected."

"I can't disrespect you, but you can disrespect me?" Hoot shot back with an icy stare.

Chuck had remained calm for the most part, but Hoot's accusation that he was somehow being unfair lit a fire under the tall rancher and he exploded like a powder keg. "Disrespect? How dare you accuse me of disrespect?" Chuck boomed. "I have given you everything! Everything! There isn't one thing that I haven't given you and yet you stand here and accuse me of disrespect! You're lucky I don't put a boot in your backside right here in Luther's office."

As Chuck continued his voice got lower but progressively more menacing. He then took two aggressive steps forward and stood face to face with Hoot. "I give you everything," he grumbled, "and I don't even get the courtesy of a goodbye. I gotta hear about it from Jonesy. Are you scared of me, Hoot? Is that it? Well, you better be scared of me, 'cause I can make your life a living hell. And don't think I won't. Now go get your stuff and let's go home. I'm tired of these games."

Hoot's eyes, now clouded with fear, stared firmly at his father. "That's just it," he whispered with as much courage as he could muster. "I don't want everything, Dad. I just want this. I've dreamed about leaving since I was little. Ma always said I should follow 'em, no matter who stood in my way." As the words left his lips, Hoot turned away and walked to the window to avoid his father's piercing stare.

"Don't drag your mother in to this, Hoot," said Chuck with a little less ire. "She'd have never let you run off with Dibble. Never."

Hoot knew his father was right. She would have hunted him down just like his father had done. Hoot leaned on the window sill and his eyes filled with tears. Defeated yet again, Hoot turned back to face his father. "So what now, Dad? You just ain't gonna let Luther give me my money? Is that it? I suppose you just want me to head back up to camp and forget all this happened?"

Hoot's voice began to rise again as the desperation became more and more apparent to him. "You just want me to rot up in the hills like them other boys? You just want me to give up on everything?"

As Chuck watched the tears cascade down his son's face, he looked out past him into the street. At that very moment, Cole McBride stumbled across the boulevard into the same coffee shop he'd just seen the ranchers leave. Chuck thought about it for a moment. It seemed too good to be true. Chuck almost felt guilty that he had even thought it, yet it was glorious and fair.

"I'll tell you what, Hoot," he began, fighting the urge to laugh at loud at the irony. "I'm gonna make you a deal, if you're up for it."

Hoot stopped crying and searched his father's face for some sort of sincerity. "What? If I go get my stuff right now, you won't put a boot in my backside?" His question dripped with sarcasm, but his father just smiled.

"No, no. Nothing like that. Something I think you might be up for."

Hoot's lip stopped quivering and he looked curiously at his father. "I'm listening," he said guardedly.

"You said you wanted to be a daredevil, right?"

"Yeah."

"Well, this is something along those lines. Jake Sorrentino and I made a little wager yesterday. I think Miguel Lopez' mare is twice as fast as any human and Jake doesn't see it that way. So we set up a little race of sorts."

Hoot, who for a second had embraced a sliver of hope, looked at his father crestfallen. "And you want me to run against the horse?"

"You win the race," Chuck said almost like he was challenging his son, "and I let you run off to join the circus or whatever that crew is with Diggle."

"Dad," Hoot responded matter-of-factly, "only a fool would run in a race like that. You know full well a guy can't run that fast."

"I know that, Hoot, but Jake seems to think a guy like you just might prove me wrong." Chuck could hardly wait to utter his next sentence. "The thing is, Hoot, the horse has a little handicap...and his name is Cole McBride."

The mention of the name ricocheted off all the walls in the office and hit Hoot square in the forehead sending him for a loop. He recovered just long enough to look his father in those devious brown eyes. "Looks like you found your fool," he growled. "I'm in."