But before the meal could begin, Malcomb was at the door to the dining room. “Excuse me, sir. Governor Stanton is here to see you.”
Chane cursed inwardly at the fresh wave of pain that darkened his wife’s eyes as she tried to gauge the seriousness of Stanton’s news from the tone of Malcomb’s voice. “Relax, love,” he said, squeezing her cold hand.
The men went into the library and Jennifer sighed. “Another high-level conference about Ward Cantrell.”
“What do you think they will do?” Leslie asked, sipping her coffee, trying not to show her concern.
Eyes haunted, Jennifer shrugged. It would please her tremendously if Leslie would admit she was in love with Peter—Ward, she corrected herself. Then they could suffer together instead of apart, both trying to pretend only an acceptable level of polite concern. She wanted to tell Leslie the truth. Leslie wouldn’t tell anyone. But Chane was so adamant, telling her that Ward’s life could depend on her silence.
The devil in Jennifer couldn’t resist testing Leslie’s reactions. “The Cattlemen’s Association is threatening to offer a rather sizable reward for Cantrell—dead or alive—I heard.” It was only a rumor, and one that Chane had managed to squelch, but it served its purpose. Leslie looked properly stricken in spite of her attempts not to. Leslie trusted Ward’s competence to evade capture, but the thought of another reward, dead or alive, added to the other two, frightened her. Jesse James had been shot in the back of the head by his best friend for ten thousand dollars only a few years ago.
A cold heavy lump formed in Leslie’s chest. He wouldn’t stand a chance. Too many people would want that money. Someone should warn him. He could ride away…be safe.
“Chane said he’s absolutely sure Ward had nothing to do with either Powers’s murder or Sandra’s disappearance. I’ve known Ward a long time. I know he is a man of honor…”
Leslie barely heard her. Jennie didn’t know the same Ward Cantrell she knew. He had killed Younger’s men, kidnapped and seduced her, and had spent the night with Sandra after spending the day making love to her. The part of her that wanted to believe in him was starved for details that would repudiate the damning evidence against him, but they were not forthcoming.
Chane came into the room before she could reply. Jennifer turned her attention to him. “Was it bad news? Is Ward—?”
“He’s fine, as far as we know.”
“Were you able to talk him out of the reward?”
“Yes,” he said firmly. “We’re calling another meeting of the cattlemen tonight. I’m sending a rider out to the ranches to let the owners and operators know. I’m sure Ward’s been framed. It’s unfortunate that he left town at the same time all hell broke loose. He’ll be fine, I’m sure,” he said, forcing an optimistic demeanor. “But with murder and kidnap charges being bandied about, even Stanton is nervous, and I vouched for Cantrell.”
Jennifer’s face drained of color. Things must be more serious than she’d thought. She knew by Chane’s look that when he said, “I vouched for Cantrell,” he had told Stanton that Ward was her brother and that it was barely enough to sway him.
“At least they are going to hold off until tonight,” she said worriedly. “Will that be enough time?”
“Not unless the sheriff finds Powers’ killer, or Sandra reappears. The town is hanging mad, and Ed is first and foremost a politician. He’s not going to go against public sentiment.
“Word just reached town that Cantrell has taken over the town of Buckeye. They’re talking about an alternate plan now—a big posse to ride in there tonight, rescue the townspeople, and bring Cantrell and his men to justice.” He had softened that considerably for the women’s benefit. The mob he saw, which apparently was still growing, would not bother to bring anyone they caught back to town for a trial.
Wheels began to turn in Leslie’s mind. Winslow Breakenridge had assured her that if she needed money, she could draw on her uncle’s bank account. He had arranged it with the bank.
After lunch, she rode into town with Chane, who said he was going to the railroad office to talk to Summers about Loving. Chane suggested she stay home and let him take care of her errands for her, but she insisted.
The town was strangely quiet. He was grateful that the streets were cleared of lynch mobs—probably because the eager vigilantes were home preparing for their big ride.
They parted on Van Buren Street.
Leslie went directly to the bank and sought out Harvey Aspen, the president.
“Well, good afternoon, Miss Powers.” He smiled. She was, since her uncle’s death, one of his biggest depositors. “What can I do for you?”
“Good afternoon. I want to find out how much money I can withdraw from my uncle’s…my…account.”
Harvey Aspen’s prim banker’s face puckered into a frown. He didn’t like withdrawals, especially by women, but unfortunately he couldn’t prevent them.
“How much would you like to withdraw?” he asked cautiously.
“Ten thousand dollars,” she said tentatively. “Is that much available?”
“Haarrumph. Well, uh, yes, there is…”
“Good! That should be fine. I would like large bills, please.” She smiled, breathing a sigh of relief. Apparently Winslow knew exactly what he was doing.
“It’s dangerous to carry that much money in cash.”
“I’m not going far,” she reassured him smilingly. “I’m going to invest it, so please don’t say anything.”
“Invest it? Here?”
“Mr. Kincaid is letting me buy some stock.”
“Ahh! A wise investment! We can make a simple transfer.”
“And spoil my fun? Oh, no, I want to do this personally. Miss Freeman always told us if it was worth doing, it was worth doing personally. In money matters, she said, it is best to handle those very personally.”
“Who is Miss Freeman?” he frowned.
“A very dear friend and president of Wellesley College. You wouldn’t know her, I’m afraid. But there was some scandal about her having a love affair with the president of Harvard. Sort of a long-distance, mail-pouch type of affair.”
She chattered incessantly, so that by the time the transaction was finished, he was glad to see her leave even though a good portion of “his money” went with her.
Financing arranged, her next stop was the railroad ticket office. She avoided the central administrative offices, where Tim worked, and studied the ticket schedule.
“May I help you, miss?”
“I’m new in Phoenix,” she said, smiling prettily. “How much does it cost to go to Tucson?”
“Five dollars.”
“How far is Tucson?”
“A hundred and thirty miles by rail.”
“Could I see that on a map?”
“Course you can, ma’am. One thing a railroad ticket office always has is a map,” he said proudly, glad he could so easily impress this pretty girl.
He brought the map out, and Leslie spotted Buckeye immediately. It was about twenty miles downriver on the north side of the Gila, the same as Phoenix. That should be easy to find, even for her. She thanked him profusely, and then rushed home to change into riding clothes.
Her uncle had sent the rest of her things before he died. She was surprised, but realized he was probably glad to be rid of them.
The weather was decidedly crisp for Arizona. Perhaps there would be a winter clime. In Wellesley, horseback riding had been popular for both sexes. She had all the winter-weight paraphernalia. She chose her favorite riding habit—London smoke-colored cloth with beige cambric jacket, long sleeves, a full skirt over petticoats and riding trousers, to allow her to ride astride. No lady would ever be seen in just the trousers—too unfeminine! Around her neck a brooch secured a rich brown stock that complemented the beige of the jacket. Over her right breast was an embroidered horseshoe and the initials LMP. Dark patent-leather boots with silver spurs, a beige felt tophat trailing a long flowing veil of pale beige,
and brown leather gauntlets completed the ensemble. With a warm cashmere coat behind her saddle, full enough to cover her legs in case it got colder before she reached Buckeye, she felt prepared for anything.
She wrote a short note to Jennifer, took a fast horse from the stable, and left without seeing or talking to anyone.
Kincaid’s office in the Bricewood West could well have been described as chaste in its furnishings. The major piece of furniture in his office was a conference table twenty feet long, which he used to spread his drawings on. Next in importance was a drafting table, then a large, cluttered desk, and lastly three large, comfortable leather chairs.
At the moment Kincaid and Brian Perry, his chief architect, were in a huddle over drawings they were working on in the center of that long table. A loud knock on the door, which had been left open, brought Kincaid’s head up.
Ed Stanton stuck his head in the door and rapped again.
Kincaid straightened, wondering if it was more bad news.
“Come in, Ed. You know Brian here, don’t you?”
The three shook hands. “I just stopped by to see if you have a couple of minutes to spare,” Stanton said jovially.
Brian Perry gathered up three of his tools from the scatter of papers. “I’ll be next door figuring those cubic feet of air space requirements.”
“Thanks, Brian.”
“I won’t keep you long,” Stanton said as Kincaid closed the door after Perry and motioned him to a chair.
“No problem. I needed a break, and so did he. Looks serious.”
Stanton frowned. “Could be. Could be nothing, but I thought you would want to know. A rancher by the name of Hank Morrissey is talking real bitter about the treatment he got from the Texas and Pacific.”
Kincaid let his breath out slowly. He had feared worse—much worse. If he weren’t afraid of insulting his young brother-in-law, he would have ridden out himself to bring him in. Tell him to call off the whole thing. This was no time to try to solve something as simple as cattle rustling when the whole countryside was up in arms, ready to shoot him down on sight. It still amazed him how this whole mess had come about. A week ago everything had been fine. Now…God only knew how it would all end.
But apparently Cantrell was not what was on Stanton’s mind.
“What happened?”
“Seems your people held him up in the feedlot eight or ten days, letting other herds that arrived after him ship out, charging him for feed until he was about bust. Reckon the last straw came when Simon Beasley bought a herd that had only been in the pens four days and shipped ’em right out. There was almost a shootout. Wenton says if he hadn’t been doing some tall talking, there would have been bloodshed.”
Chane scowled thoughtfully, his green eyes narrowed. “I guess I’ll pay a visit on Summers. Get his side of it. Was that all you heard?”
“Yes. I knew you’d been tied up with the rustlers and your other business interests.” He didn’t mention that he was also feeling a little guilty about not being as helpful as he could have been regarding Jennifer’s brother, but business was business.
“Thanks, Ed. I appreciate it. Did you ride over?”
“Walked. Dr. Matt says I have to walk my ulcer, not nurse it with milk and whiskey.”
“Good. I’ll walk to the office with you.”
When Tim Summers came back from lunch Kincaid was waiting for him.
“Afternoon, Tim.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Kincaid!” Tim smiled warmly, his face lighting with pleasure. “What can I do for you?”
“Information.”
“Let’s go into my office. Have you time for some coffee?”
Chane waited until they were both seated with their coffee cups before he continued their conversation.
“What’s our current policy for getting herds in and out of the feedlot?”
“We’ve found that we have the best success in shipping steers that have at least four, five days to rest after a drive. Gives them a chance to get back the water they lost on the trail and cuts down on losses by death. Their weight is better, too. Everyone benefits.”
“Do we ever hold up a herd longer than that for any reason?”
Summers frowned, his black eyes filling with indignation. “Not on purpose,” he said grimly, “but I had a problem with my new assistant.”
“What kind of problem?”
“Nothing deliberate—I don’t think. Mostly just inattention to detail and an inability to follow simple instructions.” He paused, looking apologetic. “I had to fire him. He caused a serious problem with a man named Morrissey. There was almost a range war from what I heard,” he ended in disgust. “But let me assure you, Mr. Kincaid. I’m not trying to pass the buck. I take full responsibility for my entire staff. I called him in as soon as I got back from Tucson, as soon as Wenton told me what had happened. I hope this hasn’t embarrassed you too badly. I had a feeling I should have sent someone else to Tucson, but I like to do the important things myself. And I knew you felt strongly about hiring a good manager for the Tucson branch office.”
“You did fine.” Chane nodded. “We don’t keep anyone’s cattle over five days?”
“No, sir!” Tim said crisply. “And that only to increase their chances of surviving the trip.”
Kincaid stood up. “Good, Tim. Thanks for the coffee.”
“My pleasure, Mr. Kincaid.”
Chapter Forty
A cold November morning slowly turned into a warm afternoon as the hooves of Leslie’s horse thundered over the dry, hard earth. She rode parallel to the watercourse, keeping the wide silver-gray shimmer of the river in sight. Galloping at a comfortable pace, she admired the tangle of alfalfa that grew along the river banks, so different from either the ocotillo, cactuses, tumbleweed, or orchards or farms she passed.
She had made her decision precipitously and regretted it at least a hundred times in the last two hours. She was making a fool of herself. He would probably take her money and use it to keep his mistresses! What if she found him with Sandra? Hello, Ward! Just rode over with a wedding present for you two—and to let you know there are six hundred angry men coming here to kill you. The sight of Sandra clinging to Ward would probably bring such a hot flush of rage that she would kill him herself. Good afternoon, Ward! Should I rip out your throat first, or would you prefer I mangled some very vital parts of your arrogant young body, you bastard?
Buckeye was barely a settlement. There were four buildings, mostly lean-tos. She didn’t see anyone, but there were six horses standing in the shade of a weathered two-story building. A faded sign whispered Hotel. The paint, when the sign was new, had been black; now it was hardly darker than the gray wood. A shaggy, long-haired red dog dozed on the porch.
She reined Kincaid’s powerful racy Arabian to approach the building with the horses and the dog slowly, realizing afresh how insane she must be. What if he wasn’t there and a pack of bandits raped her and stole her money?
Damn! Why did she have to care what happened to him? He hadn’t given her any commitments. A day of love, a few tender words, some lingering good-bye kisses, and here she was, making a blessed fool of herself! Why?
Only because she couldn’t bear to see Jennie suffer so grievously? Or did part of her still nurture the hope, blind and pitiful as it was, that Tim was wrong about Ward and Sandra?
At some point a woman gets tired of asking herself questions she can’t answer. Why shouldn’t she come if she wants to? In any event, she was here! She gave herself a good talking to—about cowards dying a thousand deaths—but it didn’t help. Her heart was still hammering madly in her chest, and she felt like a foolish child.
Ward and Dusty rode into Buckeye late Sunday morning. The wide dirt road was deserted except for a Mexican woman driving an oxcart away from the small store. She was broad and swarthy, with a flat, unemotional face that reminded Ward of Mama Manuela and revived the empty ache in his chest.
They tethered their horses in f
ront of the only two-story building in the settlement. There were two vaqueros lounging at a table just inside the door and one man behind the bar, sleeping, his feet up, his sombrero pulled down, the wide brim reaching all the way to his fat belly. It smelled of cigarette butts and whiskey.
The scrape of their boots on the rough wooden floor stopped the snores and brought the man’s hand up to shove the sombrero back, revealing a round face with small deep-set eyes, thick lips, and a heavy mop of stiff black hair. When he saw Ward his eyes came alive. “Señor, Ward! Welcome!”
Grinning, Ward exchanged greetings with the beaming man. Dusty watched in silence, not understanding the rapid Spanish.
“It has been a long time!”
“Yes, it has, friend. Too long!” Ward agreed.
“Mama! Come! Señor Ward has come!”
A short, smiling woman with a face that glowed with perspiration and pleasure shuffled out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. “Señor Ward!”
They hugged, and the woman clasped his face in her two hands, smiling at him. “You’re too skinny. You need some good home cooking. What is Manuela doing? Starving you? Or are you chasing the girls too hard? Is that why you carry these marks on your face, hombre?”
At mention of Manuela’s name, Ward’s smile faded, and he straightened. Carmen Castenada looked from Ward to her husband.
Ward sighed. “Manuela is dead,” he said gently.
Quick tears sprang into Carmen’s eyes. Ward told them about the Mendozas and what he suspected of Powers’ involvement. When he finished, Cruz, who was patting his wife’s shoulder, spoke.
“You will stay here. I can get vaqueros to ride with you. Powers must not go unpunished for this!”
“We can’t stay here. We don’t know what to expect from Younger and his gang. They may run—they may come after us. I’m not going to endanger any more people than I have to.”
The Lady and the Outlaw Page 37