The Lady and the Outlaw

by Joyce Brandon

  The interior of the Oriental Saloon was dim until his eyes adjusted to the difference. He could make out Frank Lovell and Wyatt Roundtree playing the faro bank, Frank keeping cases while Wyatt socialized with the dealer and the lookout. Men slouched at the bar over their social glasses. He heard one man joshing his friend about checking to see how come the end of his neck was all haired-over like that. The man did have a very impressive head of hair. Slaughter always admired that, since his own hair had disappeared, leaving only a ring of fuzz around his neck and ears.

  Three boys were piking at a monte game, and ten drovers sat around a long table eating together, one of them complaining about the cost of yardage at the feedlot. He could hear the righteous indignation in the man’s voice: “I’ll not ship any more cattle to this town until they adjust their yardage costs. Listen! For two bits I can get myself a room with a nice clean bed in it, plenty of soap, water and towels, and I can stay there for twenty-four hours. And their stockyards are way the hell out there and they want to charge me twenty cents and let my steers stand out in the weather.”

  Slaughter stopped at the far end of the bar where Jack Fuller was standing, wiping absently at the bar.

  “Morning, Jack.”

  “Morning, Will, you drinking this early?”

  “Naw, I came to see your boss. He in?”

  “In the back.” He nodded toward the bead-covered opening that led down a narrow corridor and then out into the alley.

  Slaughter found the office he was looking for, a large room on the left side of the corridor that looked like a lawyer’s office or some rich politician’s office instead of just the owner of a Dodge City saloon. He’d been in this office many times, collecting his share of the take off the gambling tables. It was customary. He kept law and order, and King gave him a cut. Saved them both some time and trouble.

  John King was something of an enigma for Dodge City. He was the richest man in town, the best dressed, and black as the ace of spades. He owned the Oriental and three other establishments in town. The Oriental was one of the fanciest saloons in the territory. The bartender, Jack Fuller, had been imported from one of those fancy hotels back east, and he could make any mixed drink a man could ask for, as long as he had four bits to pay for it.

  Today King was dressed in a very expensive fawn-colored suit that few other men could have afforded. The finest wool, soft as a baby’s bottom, and impeccably cut. He was a massive man with thick neck, burly arms, but narrow through the hips. Store-bought clothes would have been ridiculous on that enormous frame. Slaughter could imagine buttons straining and popping off to leave gaping holes where that shiny black skin would glare out. King’s face was as much an enigma as the rest of him. The features were brutal, heavy, reminding Slaughter of a prize fighter who had been brutalized once too often, but the eyes—there was no explaining them. They could have belonged to a teacher, someone smarter than he ever met. And there was no doubt John King was tough. He had made a place for himself by sheer brute force five years ago. He had stuffed this town’s pride and ignorance down its own throat. He no longer had to prove himself or apologize for his color.

  He looked up when Slaughter tapped on the doorjamb.

  “Yes?” he asked curtly, his intelligent brown eyes jolting Slaughter with the reminder that they did not belong in that taciturn, brutal face.

  Slaughter cleared his throat self-consciously. “I got a letter today about that outlaw you’ve been looking for—Ward Cantrell.”

  Impatience was replaced by interest now.

  “Oh, where is he?”

  “Phoenix, Arizona.”

  “Are you going after him?” King asked politely.

  “Me? Hell, I’m no gunfighter. I ain’t never faced a man like Cantrell.” Slaughter paused, feeling foolish. “There’s a big reward for him. Fifteen hundred dollars. I thought that was why you wanted to know.”

  King didn’t reply. His brown eyes watched Will Slaughter as if he were not seeing him anymore.

  Slaughter shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t understand what was going on. He had expected King to be grateful, but now he looked like he was remembering something it would be better he didn’t remember. He wouldn’t have come, except years ago King asked him to let him know if Cantrell or word of him turned up. He worked for the man, so he remembered that request.

  John King had been the most feared bounty hunter in five territories but had given that up after he amassed enough money to buy his first saloon. A number of fugitives were damned glad he had, too. He brought back every man he ever pursued. Mainly because King was a bloodhound on a trail. His massive frame never tired, and he would not give up. He had a reputation for being fast with a gun, and people suspected he had an abiding hatred for white men. He never went after blacks, Mexicans, or Indians. It was said he could track a snake over granite. People claimed he was really the devil, pretending to be a black man to trick unsuspecting white men into crossing him.

  “Are you going after Cantrell?” Slaughter asked.

  King dragged in a deep breath. “How much is that reward?”

  “Fifteen hundred. Dead or alive.”

  It would not be worth the trouble for so little money, to disrupt his life here, his business, leave his woman. But he had a personal score to settle with Cantrell. He stood up heavily, weighted down by his thoughts that had taken such a bitter turn.

  “I will go, but I don’t want any competition.”

  “You got my word.”

  King was towering over him, broad and stalwart. Slaughter had the urge to back away or hold up his hands, but the man did nothing.

  “When does the next train leave here for parts south?”

  “Twelve noon. You gonna be on it?”

  “Yes.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Ward rode through the bitter cold without feeling it, made camp ten miles north of the Powers spread, but found after his long, eventful day that sleep did not come. He was coiled like a spring inside, ready to meet and kill Younger.

  He stared at the stars, traced the passage of clouds blocking the view, and watched the moon rise above the horizon. He listened to the yip and howl of coyotes off in the distance.

  I’m defining a new market for myself. That’s a new term I learned from Tim. We’re getting married soon… .

  He should have followed his instincts and slapped that condescending smile off her face. What a little hypocrite she was! One minute she made love to him wildly and with such abandon that he was half mad with desire for her, and then, for no reason, she changed into Winslow Breakenridge.

  Ward closed his eyes. The thought of Leslie married to Tim Summers was unbearable. Why had she ridden to Buckeye and brought him money if she didn’t love him? And if she had ten thousand dollars, why did she need Summers? If security were so damned important to her, why would she give it away?

  He could see her long black hair fanned out on the pillow, framing her pale face. Her lime-green eyes half-closed, her seductive, kiss-swollen lips were provocatively parted. Her slender body beneath his own was enough to drive him mad.

  He forced himself to stop seeing her, but he was outraged that she could spend such a long time making him love her so she could prove beyond doubt that she felt nothing for him. He had the terrible feeling that he would live the rest of his life alone, remembering her, married to Tim Summers.

  Angrily, he closed his fist around a rock and threw it. To hell with her! And to hell with the governor’s damned amnesty agreement. Bookkeeping was their problem, not his. He didn’t give a damn whether they wiped his record clean or not. He could live in England or Europe under any name he chose. All he needed was money, and he had more than enough if he lived to be two hundred years old.

  The only people who needed his services were the Mendozas, and theirs was the only debt he cared about paying. He had killed eight of the men who slaughtered them, and he was going to kill the last four.

  He tried to concentrate on that g
oal, but kaleidoscopic flashes of memory haunted him. Was she as frankly sensual with Tim Summers? Did she take her pleasure as openly and as joyously with Summers as she did with him? Why had she waited naked in her room that night after the party? Could anyone be that highminded? That she would sacrifice herself for a friend’s reputation? Or ride twenty miles to repay what she considered a debt, and stay to give herself wholeheartedly, with wild, sweet abandon, before sprinkling her money on him?

  Try not to hurt Younger. I may have to marry him. A day later she refused to leave when he tried to release her. She was a mass of contradictions. Even her actions today: first the melting, then the ice. Had she come to save him or only to buy him out? “As Tim’s wife I will have everything I need,” she’d said.

  There was a certain sureness in the outcome of his life now. He couldn’t expect to ride into Younger’s camp, kill him, and ride out again—not alive anyway. He would die tomorrow, and Leslie would get married and live happily ever after.

  He lay back and closed his eyes. Regrets accomplished nothing. At least tonight he didn’t have to write any farewell letters. He’d said his good-byes this afternoon.

  Sleep came at last and then dawn. The sun crept over the horizon and lit a bank of thunderheads from beneath with brilliant color, turning them and the sky a fiery orange and red. Ward saddled his horse and headed north. There had been good forage. Blueberry felt good. His stride was powerful, rhythmic, impatient. Ward gave him his head, and the stallion stretched out for a good long run that suited Ward’s mood perfectly. He was ready for action—tired of waiting.

  Morristown nestled in a steep-walled, bowl-shaped ravine formed by two mountains. A stream, barely more than a trickle, cut through the notch. The buildings were east of the almost barren watercourse, probably because spring snows swelled that trickle to a torrent. The residents had apparently learned respect for the river’s path, avoiding it scrupulously.

  As the sun set, Ward tethered Blueberry near tall grama grass and climbed the rock-studded ridge that overlooked the settlement. He watched from a vantage point on the slope of the mountain west of the small hamlet. There was no activity to indicate Younger was there. He rejoined Blueberry and rode boldly in.

  The saloon was a run-down shanty, but it was in better shape than most of the other buildings. It smelled of wood smoke, bourbon, sweat, and cigars.

  “Evenin’, stranger.” The bartender wiped the glass in his hand mechanically.

  “Evening. Whiskey.”

  “Kinda off the beaten track, ain’t yuh?” he asked after Ward downed two drinks slowly, appearing to be deep in thought.

  “I don’t pick where I work—just who I work for.”

  “And who might that be?”

  “Don’t reckon that’s any of your business,” Ward said noncommittally, smiling to soften the rebuke.

  The man nodded, accepting that. He could tell he was one of Younger’s men, but he must be new, since he hadn’t made a beeline for Bass Wimer’s place on the north end.

  Ward finished his drink, paid the man, then paused, smiling sheepishly. “Younger leave this morning?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “Just trying to decide how much hell I’m gonna catch for making him mad.”

  “’Bout twelve hours’ worth.”

  Ward grimaced in pain. “Much obliged.”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  “Oh! It is so exciting! A real wedding at last. We haven’t had a formal wedding in eight months. Can you believe that?” Elizabeth Cartright gushed. “Eight months!”

  Leslie believed it. She felt nothing but envy for anyone who wasn’t getting married in a few days. But she would die before she let Elizabeth know it. She had never been willing to submit her innermost thoughts to public scrutiny. Fortunately Elizabeth didn’t require an answer, just a listener.

  “Think how exciting it will be. You will be a young matron! That opens all sorts of doors! You’ll share secrets with other young marrieds, and learn all about their secret affairs, who belongs to whom, so to speak. Oh, how I envy you! Tim is so handsome. I adore fair-skinned, black-eyed, black-haired men. They look so intense, don’t they? And he has such a nice smile. It is obvious he absolutely adores you.”

  Leslie fretted over the pretty bouquet she was supposed to be making as a pew decoration and finally put it aside. Wedding preparations were tedious, boring, and a bloody waste of time. She was too nervous to work on trifles. She needed something—maybe a ride. And here she was, trapped with Elizabeth. A person could die listening to her talk about how wonderful everything was. Why didn’t she let each person decide for herself what was wonderful and exciting about her own life? The way Elizabeth gushed, it was no wonder denials sprang into Leslie’s head faster than she could stifle the flow.

  Tim was going to be a good husband: considerate, loyal, faithful. He was handsome. It was just that his black eyes only looked friendly when he smiled, and too often he stared and then they looked unaccountably cold and unfeeling. It wasn’t his fault, though. He had a lot on his mind. Kincaid kept him extremely busy. Leslie caught herself before she could follow that thought with thank goodness. In one week she would be married—how incredible! It had seemed so right, telling Ward Cantrell of her decision, but trying to live it was another matter altogether.

  Damn you, Cantrell! Damn you!

  A day’s ride beneath low-hung, slow-moving thunderheads was endured before Younger’s party reached the secret camp. Sandra was pale and weak. She had a bruise on her back that jarred each time the horse put a hoof down.

  The string of tents trailing down the mountainside from a weathered gray house with a steep roof was a welcome sight. She was half-frozen, tired, in pain. Dallas lifted her off and carried her inside.

  Men seated at the table playing cards stood up, scraping their chairs on the wooden floor. “She hurt?”

  “Yeah, where can I put her?”

  “There’s a cot in the bedroom thar.”

  Dallas carried her through the main room while the others came stomping in, taking off their coats, exchanging greetings with the three men inside the house. They were more of the same rough lot that were becoming so familiar to Sandra: gunslingers, outlaws, range mavericks—trail trash, her father called them.

  He put her down on a cot in the bedroom that opened onto the right side of the common area that was used as kitchen, parlor, and dining room. Tired as she was, she couldn’t sleep. Dallas rubbed her back with horse liniment cut with butter. With her head on his arm, snuggled against his warm body, her last thought before sleep claimed her was that no one had ever been so good to her.

  “Dallas, Dallas, wake up…”

  Younger opened one red-rimmed eye and glared balefully at Pick Sitwell.

  “There’s a messenger here from the boss. Won’t talk to anyone but you.”

  “All right,” he growled, disengaging himself gently from the sleeping girl and coming easily to his feet. He pulled his boots on and ran his fingers through his disheveled black hair, moving purposefully now that he was awake.

  The messenger was Slim Parker, a tall stringbean of a man Dallas had seen many times before in that role. Neither of them acknowledged the other. Dallas appeared at the door; the messenger started off walking, and Dallas fell in beside him. It was habit. They didn’t need to appear casual here in the midst of Dallas’ own camp, surrounded by his men.

  “The boss wants you to come see him.”

  Dallas hid the angry reaction that came instinctively to him and shrugged. “I thought I already had my orders. I was going to drive the herd down to the pens so we could ship ’em.”

  “He said he wants to talk to you—alone. He didn’t mention any other plan.”

  Dallas cursed to himself. It would take a day to get down there and a day to get back. “All right,” he growled. “Get yourself a fresh hoss and grab a bite to eat. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  The sun was just coming up, turning the sky near
the eastern horizon misty rose. Clouds were gold on the bottom, like the leaves of aspen trees on the canyon floor. Dallas found his second lieutenant, Cedar Longley, pulling on his pants.

  Dallas respected Longley in a way he did few men. It was Cedar who had led Younger into this old Apache stronghold; Cedar who placed the lookouts. Longley, son of an old Indian agent, had been raised on Indian reservations till he was twenty. His father was present at the signing of the Guadalupe Hidalgo Treaty, which made the U. S. government responsible for keeping the border Indians under control, and Cedar could tell surprising stories about the Apache as the feudal robber barons of the Southwest. He had watched them take regular and ritualistic tribute from settlers who chose to buy their safe passage rather than fight for it. For fifty years the Apache controlled the passes and looked with contempt upon the white tillers of the soil who lived in their wattled stick houses, plastered with mud and roofed with sticks and branches in the style of the Indian and Mexican arbors.

  Younger’s tone conferred that respect now. “I gotta go back and see the boss.”

  “What for?”

  “Don’t know.”

  Longley’s face was dark, his cool blue eyes speculative. “You think he’s getting cold feet?” he asked.

  “Could be. Things are getting tolerable warm in these parts, what with Cantrell and his riders harassing our men and making brags that are firing up the ranchers. Hell! We ain’t stole half as many cattle in the last two months as we been used to, but loose talk is causing so much hell ranchers are exaggerating like crazy.”

  Longley frowned and stood up. “We ain’t had a chance to talk, what with the girl being hurt and all, but I guess now’s just as good a time. The boys ain’t going to take it lightly if he’s figuring on going straight and leaving us out in the cold.”

  Younger nodded. “I reckon the boys won’t be alone. I’m not taking kindly to the idea either. Ain’t no reason why we couldn’t continue just like usual once we kill Cantrell.”