Jacy slammed back the whiskey and Fisk refilled the glass. “Why in hell did he ride out there alone?” It contradicted everything she knew about the man.
Fisk shook his head and stepped away to pour refills for a couple of cowpokes.
The cowboy standing next to Jacy said, “That’s what we’re all tryin’ to figure out. First he ain’t got no balls at all, then he’s got ’em big as a—”
“Al!” Fisk scolded the man.
“Sorry,” the cowboy said to Jacy.
Someone behind her said loudly, “Jed Gibbon is a drunken fool. He won’t be any help to you, Miss Kincaid.”
Jacy turned. Before her, unbelievably, Homer Rinski was coming up from a table circled by Verlyn Thornberg and three of Thornberg’s drovers. Rinski blinked his eyes intensely and stared right through her.
He was half shot and as stirred up as a Baptist preacher. Jacy had never seen the man in the Sundowner before. He was far too pious for saloons, or so Jacy had thought.
Rinski stopped a few feet away, the round brim of his black hat sliding shadows across his big, emotional face.
“Jed Gibbon is a cowardly fool,” Rinski continued. “If us ranchers are going to remain in the basin and remain alive, we must stand together and stand up for ourselves!”
The room had gone quiet. Someone yelled, “You got that right, Homer!”
Rinski paused dramatically, wide blue eyes probing Jacy’s with a rheumy, haunted cast. “That’s the only way we’ll face down the devil. That’s the only way we can stay here and raise our families and live our lives with God’s grace, and not be run out of our homes like a bunch of weak-kneed”—he paused, searching for the right word—“pumpkin-rollers!”
“Tell her, Homer!” someone yelled from over by the door.
Rinski’s voice deepened, his face reddened, and his countenance grew more and more grave. Startled by the man, Jacy took an involuntary step backward. Rinski took two steps forward, closing the gap between them. The room was so quiet you could hear the wind breathing in the stove’s old chimney.
“King Magnusson is the devil, sure as I’m standin’ before you now,” Rinski continued. “And the Lord does not mollycoddle those who run from the devil. He grants grace to those who face him down and stare him in the eye and say, ‘No, I won’t run from you, Lucifer. I’ll die before I run from the Beast.’”
Jacy stared at the man, spellbound. She’d never seen the quiet, pious Rinski this animated. Rinski stared back at her. She was aware of the other men watching them both and nodding. The room rumbled dully with muttered curses of agreement.
Shortly, Rinski drowned it out. “So, Miss Kincaid, will you stand with us against the Beast? Will you join our army and help us drag the devil from his lair?”
Rinski’s eyes narrowed. He slid his face toward Jacy until she could see the pores in his skin, smell the liquor on his breath. He was waiting for an answer. She looked around, not quite sure what to say.
She cleared her throat. “I … I’m not exactly sure what you’re sayin’, Homer.”
Rinski blinked, staring in silence. But for the wheezing of the big stove, the room was silent. Then Verlyn Thornberg scraped his chair back and gained his feet slowly.
Turning to Jacy, he said, “We’re gonna hunt down King Magnusson and his men like wild dogs, and make them pay for what they’re doin’. You with us?”
Held by Rinski’s gaze, Jacy felt her heart beating wildly and sweat popping out on her forehead. She swallowed and licked her lips, thinking.
They were right. Magnusson was the devil, and he deserved to die as horribly as the men he’d killed … as horribly as Gordon and Mrs. Sanderson.
Thinking of them lying out there now along the banks of the Little Missouri, their bones gnawed by wolves, Jacy turned her head to look around the room. They were all there, she saw—the six other ranchers on the Bench and their winter riders.
And they were all looking at her … waiting for her answer.
She pursed her lips and nodded her head slowly. “Okay,” she said. “I’m in.”
CHAPTER 16
SUZANNE MAGNUSSON WAS getting dressed for her party. She stood before the freestanding walnut mirror in her big, roomy bedroom with its lace curtains, canopied four-poster bed, and two giant carved armoires her father had shipped up the Missouri River from St. Louis and then hauled by freight wagon to the great mansion he’d built in Dakota. The mansion was a virtual castle. Magnusson had designed it himself after the old fur-company trade houses.
Suzanne had protested the move from the family’s original home on the outskirts of St. Louis—a palatial plantation with oak trees, rolling green hills, white board fences, and impressive painted barns and corrals for the family’s blooded horses. How her father had even been able to consider leaving such peace and tranquillity still baffled her.
But then it probably hadn’t been as tranquil for him as for her. He’d had two brothers to compete with, and an ancient patriarch overseeing the family’s main business, a giant brickworks north of the growing city that had become a veritable gold mine since the start of the Western building boom.
So here she was, in northern Dakota, dressing for a party to which a handful of middle-aged businessmen from Big Draw would sit around with their wives and leer at the main attraction whenever her father’s back was turned. At least Harrison would be there, Suzanne told herself as she stepped into her lacy blue-silk dress and pulled it up to her waist.
And Mark Talbot would be there, as well, taking her mind off the tawdriness of her present circumstances.
If any man could do that, it was Talbot. They really had a lot in common, she and Mark. Dakota was too small to hold either. Both were well-traveled, schooled in other places and other cultures—in the exotic.
And of course, both were now stuck here for the long winter. Not getting together would be quite mad!
Suzanne arranged the dress’s lace so that it fell flat across her opulent bosom, then lifted both hands to her neck and tossed her long dark-brown hair out from her collar. She was thinking of Talbot’s broad shoulders, long-muscled arms, and ruddy face with piercingly blue eyes—eyes as blue as the Dakota sky on those rare winter days when the sun shone.
She tipped her head and bit her lip, trying to see herself through his eyes—the long, well-brushed hair cascading down her naked shoulders, ringlets brushing her brows, brown eyes rich with warmth, a fine long neck, a smooth chin, and a generous bosom. She pulled the lace down, revealing a healthy portion of the cleft between her breasts.
Liking what she saw, she pulled the lace even further down. Suzanne wondered what her father’s cowboys would give for such a view.
She hadn’t had much in the way of bedroom adventure on her last trip. Harrison, recently jilted by a high-ranking British soldier, had dogged her every move, suffocating her with his need, making romance impossible. If Talbot didn’t come through for her soon, she’d have to bunk with one of the cowboys.
Horrors! The thought sent a chill up her spine and made her want to jump back in the bathtub.
Someone knocked on the door.
With a start she pulled the dress back up over her bosom. “Yes?”
“It’s Father, pet.”
Looking down to make sure she was covered, she brushed her hair back from her face, walked to the door, and opened it. “Hello, Papa.”
King Magnusson stood there, his six-foot-four-inch frame nearly filling the doorway, a maudlin grin softening his big, rawboned face. Only his daughter could evoke such a look on Magnusson’s otherwise severe features. The joke among Magnusson’s cowboys, cronies, and eastern partners was that if the old man’s wife wanted anything, she went through the daughter.
“Hello, kitten. I just wanted to remind you that the party will begin in about an hour. I didn’t want the guest of honor to be late. But I see you’re one step ahead of me. Don’t you look ravishing!”
She gave a lavish curtsy. “Well, thank you, Papa.
”
“I also wanted to remind you that this is not going to be the kind of elaborate affair you’ve gotten used to back east. Mr. Wingate has decided to stay an extra week before heading back to Philadelphia, but I’m afraid the rest of the guests will be … well … my associates. And your mother and brother, of course.”
“And Dr. Long,” Suzanne reminded her father with lighthearted censure. The doctor’s distinctly effeminate sensibilities, not to mention his fondness for the same sex, had made him an object of Magnusson’s private derision.
“Well, yes … and that Nancy-boy, of course.”
“Oh, Papa, I forgot to tell you—I’ve invited someone else.” She hadn’t forgotten; she’d delayed telling him because of what she’d seen her father do to the man who’d visited the ranch three days ago—the man who’d been wearing a sheriff’s star.
Magnusson frowned. “Oh?”
“Yes, a Mr. Talbot.”
“Talbot?”
“Mark Talbot. He ranches a few miles north of us, I understand. You haven’t heard of him?”
Magnusson squinted his eyes and looked beyond his daughter, suddenly thoughtful, not quite sure what to say. He knew that a Talbot had once ranched in the area—on some of the best graze on the Canaan Bench, as a matter of fact—but Magnusson thought he’d run him out of there.
“I … don’t think I have, no,” he said, flustered.
Her eyes were sweetly entreating. “You don’t mind, do you, Papa?”
“Mind?”
“That I invited someone else—a nester?”
She smiled indulgently. Suzanne was well aware of her father’s hatred for the small ranchers around the Double X; she did not know, however, about the terrorism and murder. That’s why his display three days ago had been such a shock to her. She still didn’t know what to make of it.
Disregarding her question, he asked one of his own. “How did you meet this Mr. Talbot?”
“Harrison and I met him on the train. He was on his way home from fortune-hunting in Mexico. Isn’t that exciting—a real adventurer in our midst! He’ll be so interesting.”
“Yes … interesting,” King grumbled.
He could tell that his daughter was quite smitten with this Talbot fellow, and he didn’t like it a bit. He’d always envisioned Suzanne marrying someone from her own circle—one of Magnusson’s investors’ sons, for instance. A gentlemanly type born with a silver spoon and a penchant for fine brandy and horses, not to mention money. Lots of it. That type, he knew from experience, was in short supply in Dakota.
“And not to worry, Papa,” Suzanne continued. “Mark is a clever fellow. I know that if you made him a generous offer for his ranch, he would accept it. He’s no rancher—not really—so don’t go getting territorial on him.”
“What is he, then?”
She shrugged, smiling broadly and tipping her head dreamily. “He’s a handsome man of the world.”
King tried but was unable to stifle a scowl. But then he thought of something, and he managed a grin and a complete change of tone.
“Well, I certainly am eager to meet this man of the world of yours, Suzanne,” he said, putting his big hands on her shoulders and dropping his lantern jaw to look into her eyes. “When is he coming?”
“I hope by six.”
“Then for you, my girl, I hope so, too.”
“Thank you, Papa.”
“Any friend of yours is a friend of mine, pet.”
He kissed her on the cheek, too self-absorbed to notice the look of concern in her eyes, and strode down the hall.
When the bedroom door closed behind him, he dropped the phony smile and descended the stairs. In his office he found Randall paging through an English stock journal, his face fixed in that bored, aimless look he always wore.
“Randall, go find Rag and tell him I want to see him.”
“What for?”
“Don’t ask any of your dull-witted questions now, boy!” Magnusson exploded. He took a deep breath, lowered his voice, and said through gritted teeth, “Go get Rag!”
* * *
Talbot sensed someone watching him before he saw movement in a copse of deciduous trees in a low, serpentine swale about a hundred yards to his left.
Whoever was spying on him probably thought they were invisible against the dark background of trees, and to anyone but Talbot they probably would have been, but over the past seven years he had cultivated an acute sensitivity to danger.
Now as he rode he did not slide a second look toward the swale. If someone was drawing a bead on him, a double take might be all the encouragement he needed to squeeze the trigger.
But he didn’t want to make an easy target, either, so as nonchalantly as possible, he spurred his horse into a lope. A half second later he was glad he did. Something whistled in the air about six inches behind him. A rifle cracked. The horse pricked its ears and tossed its head.
The idiot sons of bitches had taken a potshot at him!
Talbot hunched down against the gelding’s neck and tossed a look toward the trees. The riders were cantering toward him, yelling curses and hunching forward in their saddles. Both rifles belched fire and smoke, and the lead cut the air with angry sighs. One spanged the ground nearby, and Talbot’s horse veered from the trail.
Talbot dug his spurs into the gelding’s side, urging the horse into a hell-for-leather gallop. He wanted to buy time to dismount and look for cover.
He’d put about two hundred yards behind him when the trail began climbing a low ridge capped with woods. Until now the trail had been relatively free of snow, the wind having cleared it. But Talbot knew the ridge would be covered and no doubt a bitch to negotiate—even on a horse as stalwart as his speckled gray.
A minute later he saw that what he’d been dreading was true. The trail at the top of the ridge was socked under a hock-high drift that appeared to deepen as it climbed. Talbot cursed and looked around. The woods all along the ridge appeared equally socked in. He had no choice but to push ahead and hope the horse would make it.
It made the first ten yards with little problem. Then, plunging into a knee-high drift, it foundered. Screaming, it fell, and Talbot jumped clear, shucking his rifle.
As the horse thrashed in the snow, complaining loudly, Talbot scrambled clear and checked his backtrail. The two riders had split up to cut him off. One was closing fast, crouched low in the saddle.
Talbot slid his gaze back to the horse and watched helplessly as the animal scrambled out of the drift in a spray of snow, and galloped down the other side of the hill, pitching indignantly, stirrups flapping like undersized wings.
Talbot looked around for a hiding place, then scrambled behind the broad trunk of a lightning-topped cottonwood. He pressed the back of his head against the bark, squeezed his rifle, and winced as the horseman approached in a clatter of hooves.
Finally the horse slowed as it neared the drift, and Talbot wondered if the man had spotted his hiding place. Peeking around the tree, he saw the man leading his horse by the reins, coaxing it through the drift.
Getting an idea, Talbot grabbed his rifle by the barrel. When the man was only a few feet away, Talbot stepped out from the tree and raised his rifle like a club.
“I ain’t got all day, horse!” the cowboy yelled, facing his agitated mount.
Just as he’d led the horse through the deepest part of the drift, he turned, and Talbot let him have it with the flat of his rifle stock. The man gave a sharp grunt and fell on his back, instantly unconscious, blood flying from his ruined mouth and nose.
The horse squealed and reared, but before it could gallop off, Talbot grabbed the reins. When he’d gotten the horse settled down, he hurriedly tied it to a branch, then swapped coats and hats with the unconscious cowboy. A moment later, he mounted the man’s horse and cantered down the trail.
He spotted the other rider about two hundred yards farther on, approaching from his right. Talbot yanked his hat brim low to hide his face.
Talbot shrugged his shoulders and raised his hands, hoping the man wouldn’t realize the impersonation.
“He must have went up in the trees,” the man yelled. “You didn’t see?”
Again Talbot shrugged his shoulders. The man was getting close enough for Talbot to start delineating facial features, so he turned, giving the man his back and acting as though he were observing the high, wooded country to the north.
As the man neared, he said, “You know, goddamnit, Tex, I could kick your ass for taking that stupid shot back there! How in hell did you expect to hit him from that far away?”
He paused, cantered within ten yards, and stopped. “If you woulda waited, we coulda trailed him into the creek bottom on the other side of the saddle and caught him in a cross fire.”
Suddenly Talbot turned. “What in hell would you want to do that for?” he said tightly, laying the flat of his rifle stock against the side of the man’s head.
The man gave a loud “Hey!” and toppled from his saddle, hat flying and horse recoiling. On the ground he lay stunned for a moment, then went for his gun.
“Uh-uh,” Talbot warned, jacking his rifle.
The man was a big, solid cowboy with gray-brown hair and a savage face. Wrinkling his nose and baring his teeth, he stared at Talbot with all the charity of a wounded grizzly. His hat had fallen off, and blood from his torn ear dribbled down his face. “Why, you…”
“Forget about me, friend. Who are you and why were you trying to kill me?”
“I’m Rag Donnelly, foreman of the Double X, and you can go fuck yourself.”
Talbot squeezed the trigger and spanged a slug off the flat rock five inches right of the man’s head. The man cowered, raising his elbow to shield his face.
“Tough guy, eh?” Talbot said.
“Tough enough,” the man grunted.
“Not too tough for bushwhacking, though.”
The man said nothing, just stared. Talbot met the cold eyes, feeling his anger grow.
Then the man said, “This is Double X range, and you’re trespassin’.”
Dakota Kill and the Romantics Page 15