The Lady and the Outlaw

by Joyce Brandon

  A hollow ache started inside him. He had surprised himself. Mama saw it and was the one to break up the group, sending Pedro and Isabel to bed. “Go, shoo, the sun comes up at the same time, no matter when you go to bed, and you are both hard to wake.”

  Grumbling, they kissed Ward good-night and went to their separate pallets. Mama carefully folded the sewn fabric and put the basket away. Ward poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table beside her. He had noticed a new set of frown lines around Mama’s mouth and that her eyes darted to the window repeatedly, even when she was pretending to be relaxed. “You look tense, Mama.”

  “Thou didst see the fence?”

  “Problems?”

  “Sí. Señor Powers wants my water for his cattle.” Her face took on a stubborn fierceness.

  Ward frowned. There was that name again. It was turning up with alarming regularity and always in a way to cause the hair on the back of his neck to bristle. “Powers? His ranch is miles from here,” Ward said.

  “Sí. That is the way it was, but he has been growing. Now there is no longer anyone left between his rangeland and ours. He has offered to buy our land, but where would we go? This is our home,” she said, spreading her hands.

  “What happened to your neighbors? The Randolph family?”

  “Killed, along with other homesteaders.”

  “Powers?”

  “It was made to look like Indians, but the tracks were of horses with shoes.” Ward didn’t like the sound of what Mama was telling him. If it was true, Powers and his riders were as dangerous as they looked. But even Powers could not run roughshod over his neighbors without someone taking exception to it. There was still law in the Arizona Territory. Maybe not as well organized as in parts east, but there was a sheriff and the United States marshal and the military up north who would serve as a deterrent, even to a man like Powers.

  Ward patted Mama’s hand. “Before I leave,” he promised, “I will see Powers and explain to him you do not want to move. His men will not bother you again.”

  “He will not listen.” Mama shook her head sadly. For the first time since he had known her he saw fear in Mama’s eyes. Deep wrinkles creased her forehead, and the stern lines on either side of her mouth had deepened. She was showing her age. He had always assumed she was indestructible.

  “He will listen, Mama,” Ward said grimly, determined to take some of the burden off her already stooped shoulders. “You just have to know how to talk to a man like that.”

  Chapter Ten

  Ward had been home a week. It was September tenth and the weather was growing cooler in the evenings. The nights were marked by first frost, and the leaves had begun to turn so that the evening sun, seen through a grove of aspen trees in the mountains near the Mendozas’ small home, was a blazing white ball that turned sparse, dangling leaves into luminous gold. The white slender tree trunks with their black markings looked like a speckled toothpick forest. The leaves, all fiery and splendorous, seemed detached from the spindly trunks, more like golden clouds that clustered around to protect the pale rootlike trunks. The grass, wherever the sun touched it, was the color of straw.

  Ward’s horse, a big black one, stopped at his urging. The air was still and pungent with smells of the forest: pine, spruce, fir, rotting wood, and the smell of blood from the deer tied over the flanks of his horse. Mama Manuela would turn the buck into steaks for dinner after she had cured the meat. He kicked the black into a gallop. It would be sundown when he got back, as it was. No time to dawdle, but he did. He gathered strength from solitude. It was necessary to him.

  He hadn’t realized it until he joined the cavalry and discovered that military life was lived in a state of togetherness that a civilian would find incredible—there was no place inside the fort where a man could be alone. The need for privacy had been compounded by a burly drill sergeant who didn’t allow any sign of emotion on a man’s face, night or day. Once, shortly after he had enlisted, the pressure became so great on him that he had searched until he’d found a small corner between buildings where he could stand and be out of the sight of all eyes for ten whole minutes. The cavalry had become more bearable after he was commissioned.

  The sun was slipping beneath the jagged rim of the mountain ridge that surrounded the rolling hills of the desert when he finally saw the Mendoza house, small and squat beneath the escarpment. He stopped his horse. Nothing was moving, not even the chickens who usually pecked incessantly at the earth. Unaccustomed stillness set off an alarm inside him. He held the horse firmly. He’d been a fugitive too long to ignore the warning in ominous silence. Maybe Doug had been captured and told them where to find him. He squinted his keen eyes, scanning the scene ahead of him until he saw a dark shape against the dim red earth. Kicking his horse forward, he refused to think.

  The fence was down. The small garden had been trampled into dust. Not even the chickens remained. The goat lay tangled in barbed wire that had been pulled loose from its posts and lay curled into a snarl beside the lean-to barn.

  He had approached from the rear, and when he rounded the corner to the front of the house, he saw what he feared most. Mama Manuela was a crumpled shape in the dust. Pedro, his hands still clutching the new rifle, was sprawled like a ragdoll only a few feet from her. Both dead. No need to kneel beside them, but he did, partly from shock and partly from the need to know that he had not overlooked helping them if anything could help. Pedro’s skull had been crushed. Mama’s stout form was riddled with bleeding bullet holes.

  Sickened and filled with dread, he walked inside the house. Grandpapa was sprawled in a corner, sitting like a doll that had been jammed there by an angry hand. His open eyes were staring at the wall opposite, like some grim watchman. Ward turned and saw the horror that must have been his last.

  Isabel lay on the pallet Mama had put there for him. Naked, her shapely legs splayed and bloody, her warm brown skin marked by bruises, her pretty face swollen and blackened where ruthless fists had smashed into it. Hands that had worked so carefully in white satin were clenched into fists, her nails red with blood. He found a blanket and covered her, then stumbled outside, away from the house, and sagged against one of the cottonwoods, gasping for breath. Without realizing it, he must have been holding his breath, not willing to breathe that smell of death, already heavy and sweet in the small cabin.

  Drenched with sweat, sick to his soul, he forced himself to walk a widening circle around the cabin until he found clear prints of departing horses.

  Then he knew that Mama had been right. These were not Indian ponies. They were shod, and several of the prints would be easy to recognize again. Grimly, he filed the information in memory and then took a shovel from the barn. He dug a grave—one big one. He carried each of his family in turn and laid them gently to rest, then knelt and bowed his head, but no words came to him, no tears, no comfort. Finally he stood and vowed to Mama that he would send a priest to bless the grave for her. Then he shoveled dirt onto the canvas he had covered them with.

  Exhausted, Ward sat under the tree and carved their names onto a shingle, then strapped it to a stake and drove it into the soft earth at the head of the grave. Then he hacked off a portion of the deer’s hind quarter and went inside to take some of Mama’s salt to pack it in. As he left the small house he saw the white wedding gown lying on the floor, discarded. He remembered the way Mama, Isabel, and Pedro had looked, teasing one another and giggling over each perfect stitch. He could see Isabel’s face as she told him how much she loved her novio and how happy they would be. He stopped and knelt beside Isabel’s gown. He picked it up and walked to the table. His brown sturdy hands, sore with unaccustomed blisters from digging the first grave he had ever dug, carefully smoothed the lustrous fabric. He had meant only to put it on the table, but the feel of it under his hands released a full set of memories. He could see Isabel’s pretty face, beaming with joy at the thought of the happiest day in her life, Pedro’s youthful manliness as he struggled with th
e tiny needle and the slippery white fabric, and Mama Manuela, beaming with pride at the closeness of her family and their love for one another. The feelings he’d been numb to before, as he’d knelt at the grave, rose up in him now and his hands tightened in the soiled, torn fabric. His teeth clamped together in rage, and his blue eyes hardened, then closed, and he gathered up the white satin and began tearing it into a dozen pieces.

  The next morning when the sun slipped over the eastern horizon, Ward was on a hill overlooking the Powers spread. The house and barns were inside seven-foot walls, and armed men were everywhere. Ward watched all day until he spotted his prey on the road from the enclosure. After they had moved out of sight he rode down and inspected their tracks. Markings from several of these hooves matched the unique prints he had seen in the Mendoza yard.

  He straightened, not at all surprised that Powers’ elite corps, the same men who had ridden in the parade, had been the ones who murdered the Mendozas. That Younger was the leader of the group only hardened his purpose. Ward knew, in that moment, looking at the fresh prints, that he was going to kill them, and he knew almost in the same breath how he was going to do it. He couldn’t ride in there and take on the whole bunch single-handedly—not if he wanted to be effective. He would wait until Younger’s woman came out, and he’d take her. Younger and all his men would come after them. Fifteen to one he could handle, especially since he got to lead. North into the mountains—a man could take his time, hide and strike at will. He would save Younger for last.

  Ward waited the two days until she left the enclosure. He saw the big door swing open, then the woman, her hair streaming back like a black cloud, followed by two heavily armed escorts.

  To get back to the ranch house, the trio had to ride through a grove of aspen trees. When they came out he was behind a boulder with a rifle trained on them. He had chosen his spot carefully and was far enough away from the fortress so that shots fired wouldn’t be heard.

  “Halt! Don’t move!” he yelled.

  “What the hell!” The man on her left clawed at the gun in his holster, and Leslie heard an explosion and saw him jerk. His horse screamed and then bolted, dropping its limp burden to the ground. Her own horse reared up, and she jerked on the reins, barely comprehending what was happening. The bullets came too close together, like a rolling explosion. Her horse reared again and lunged wildly. She clawed at the horse’s mane, trying to retain her seat, but the horse moved one direction and she the other. Screaming, she tried to regain her balance as the horse caught the bit in its teeth and bolted. The man fired again; her horse ran erratically trying to change direction, and she could feel herself leave the saddle to sail through the air, right at the man who was shooting at them.

  It all happened too fast for her. She saw the ground coming up at her, but nothing else.

  Chapter Eleven

  Younger,

  I buried the Mendoza family two days ago. I have your woman. I’m going to sell her to the Indians after I’m done with her.

  Cantrell

  Dallas Younger read the note that had been taken off the body of one of his men and crumpled it with a curse and a snarl that contorted his usually handsome face.

  “That bastard!” Younger bellowed for the Indian tracker, Warmfoot. When the Indian appeared before him, he explained in pidgin Apache that he wanted him to find Cantrell. “I’ll follow soon as I can. You leave a clear trail, hear?”

  Powers took the note, smoothed it against his chest, read it with his lips pursed into anger and surprise. “Who the hell is Cantrell?” he demanded.

  “He’s the gunfighter that met Dodge Merril in Holbrook a few years back. Faced the Merril gang down single-handed after that—sent ’em crawlin’, or so the story goes.”

  “You seen him?”

  “No, but I reckon I will.”

  “You ain’t going after him, are you?”

  “Hell, yes! He’s got Leslie. That’s your niece.”

  “She ain’t nothing but trouble to me,” Powers said flatly.

  Younger glared at him, disgust pulling the corners of his lips down. Powers ignored him. He understood Younger and his kind. They had some fancy code about killing that was supposed to make everything all right, but a man was just as dead whether you shot him in a fair fight or in his sleep. With his code, all he had to do was wait. Cantrell would take care of his problem for him. Then the ranch would be all his.

  They were standing on the long porch of the main house. The porch overhang shaded them from the hot sun of late afternoon. Powers mopped his forehead and gazed out across the gentle slope that fell away from the house. The yellowed grass was stiff and dry, reminding him how remorseless the desert sun was. Leslie was a rank tenderfoot; she wouldn’t last long in the Arizona desert. He didn’t speak. He was waiting for Younger to let the reality of his words sink in.

  The house was only four years old, built after the railroad came to Phoenix, bringing with it prosperity for many. That was when rustling cattle, or burning brands on mavericks, started paying so well. This had been his home. His brother Charlie, Leslie’s father, had been planning to build his a ways off, down by the cottonwoods, so he and that good-for-nothing wife he planned to bring out would have some privacy, except he hadn’t lived long enough to build it. He’d found out about the rustling activities carried out by Younger and his men and had threatened to make trouble.

  And while he would never condone killing his own brother, he had been secretly relieved when Charlie had died. No one knew exactly what Charlie Powers had been doing, afoot in a gully, when someone ran a large herd of steers down it, trampling him, but Mark Powers was not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. He might suspect Younger, but he’d never confront the man with it. Just as Younger should now accept what had happened to Leslie.

  Younger finally expelled a heavy breath. “That would look like hell! Some bastard kidnaps your niece and you just write her off,” he growled. “How the hell is that going to look to the folks in town? Like we ain’t got guts enough to take back what belongs to us, that’s how.”

  Powers frowned. “Reckon you’re right about that, but you’d be doing us both a favor if you brought her back dead. Maybe you can hang that bastard Cantrell for killing her. Be damn sure he ain’t alive when you bring him back.”

  Younger turned away in disgust. He went to the bunkhouse. The only one there of the men he fully trusted was Sam Farmer. Sam was a lanky, raw-boned, red-haired Arkansan.

  “Who the hell led the raid on the Mendozas?” he demanded of the man who was stretched out on his bunk, counting flies as they buzzed overhead.

  “The boss did.”

  “Did Powers know about it?”

  “Don’t know. Didn’t never come up. Why you asking?”

  “’Cause it was the stupidest piece of work I seen in my whole damned life!” Younger exploded. “You assholes rode in there and killed the women and kids, and now Ward Cantrell is after my ass.”

  “Cantrell! Jesus!” Sam came upright off the bunk.

  “How the hell did Cantrell get mixed up in this?”

  “How the hell should I know? Maybe he’s slept with so many of them little chileñas he thinks he’s one of ’em.”

  Farmer pushed the red hair off his suddenly pale face. Freckles stood out against the pasty whiteness. “How’d you find out he’s after you?”

  “’Cause the bastard wrote me a note,” he growled. “He killed Spike and that drunk he rides with, and he took Powers’s niece. Damn!” Younger’s face was hard with fury. “Round up the boys and tell them to toss their bedrolls over hosses. We’re riding out in ten minutes, and we won’t be back until we find that bastard and the girl.”

  Leslie woke up slowly, painfully. After a second of frowning into inky darkness she realized she was on a horse, riding in front of someone, cradled like a babe in strong arms. Her aching head was on his shoulder, and she could smell a warm, musky man smell mingled with leather, tobacco, and sweat—a salty sm
ell that was not altogether unpleasant. She stirred to relieve her cramped muscles and heard a husky masculine chuckle, followed by a voice that seemed vaguely familiar.

  “So, you’ve decided to live after all.”

  “What happened?”

  “Hit your head when you fell.”

  His voice did not sound like any of the men on her uncle’s ranch. “Who are you?” she asked in growing alarm.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said grimly.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  Ward felt involuntary anger rising up inside him, rough and heated, and made a conscious effort to control it. She sounded as if she had just stepped out of the sacred halls of Radcliffe—the haughty insolence that only Daddy’s money and Mother’s handpicked tutors could buy. A lifetime of privilege followed by an Ivy League college and carefully chaperoned dates with Harvard undergraduates. What the hell was a woman like this doing with Dallas Younger? “Save your strength,” he said grimly. “You’re going to need it.”

  “You…you…kidnapped me? But why? I haven’t any money. No one would pay to get me back.”

  “Too bad for you, then.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Leslie twisted around to look at her abductor and was aware of her breasts brushing against his arm. In the darkness all she could make out was a silhouette, a grim, dark profile against the lighter sky.

  “They’ll come after me, you know—Dallas Younger will follow me. He’ll kill you when he finds us…” she warned him nervously.

  He laughed softly, a strangely undaunted sound. “I’m counting on it.”