She served him coffee, which he drank without speaking. Armando Costello was a silent man, a patient man. At least that was how he saw himself. Take the treasure—he had searched ten years for this treasure, his treasure. He’d watched his legacy dwindle, once two dozen plats to mines and caches of buried treasure, now just this one remaining plat. And he had never given up, never wavered from his quest to find the fortune that would one day be his.
The plats had originally been given to his grandfather by the Mexican government for services rendered to his country. When his grandfather died, his grandmother gave the plats—a trunkful of them—to another grandson and helped smuggle the boy and the precious trunk out of Mexico.
But Armando Costello would not be put off so easily. Not only were those plats his legacy, but they meant the difference between a life of luxury and one of groveling for a meager existence. He had determined to follow his cousin to the very ends of the earth, if need be, to claim what rightfully belonged to him.
Now, with his dreams so close to being realized, Costello was filled with an almost overwhelming sense of urgency. But he knew he must keep himself under control for the next few days. It would not be easy, for his worst enemies—how well he knew it!—were his own temper and rashness.
Twice before he had come close to the treasure, and each time his hotheaded ways had gotten him into trouble, forcing him to begin his search all over again.
The first time was up in the Indian Nations, where his cousin was teaching school. He had attempted to steal the plats, but his cousin had caught him at it. They’d fought, and Costello was thrown in jail. By the time he got out, his cousin and the plats were gone.
Costello next traced his cousin to Fort McKavett, east of Summer Valley. While biding his time, waiting to make just the right move, he whiled away the hours gambling in a cantina in Scabtown. One night he got drunk and killed a soldier who accused him of cheating at faro. That cost Costello two years in the penitentiary down in Huntsville, miserable years. But he was lucky—the soldiers had prepared to hang him when civil authorities intervened.
By the time he got out of prison and made his way back to Fort McKavett, his cousin had left that part of the country. He did learn, however, that one of the plats had been won in a faro game by a man who lived in Summer Valley.
Costello’s first trip to Summer Valley didn’t amount to anything because the man he was after had gone off to fight in the Civil War. So Costello continued his search for his cousin, whom he finally located in a pauper’s grave in Galveston. The plats had disappeared, and even Armando Costello was realistic enough to understand that the seaport town of Galveston opened onto a wide, wide world. The two dozen plats could be anywhere.
Costello spent much time along the waterfront, drinking, gambling, and listening. But he never learned a thing about his cousin’s death, nor about the lost plats.
By then the war had been long over, and Costello, despondent from his loss but not defeated, headed back to Summer Valley. One plat would be better than none.
In Summer Valley he found his luck running true to form: the man had returned from the war and left again, this time for the gold fields in California.
But here Costello’s fortune took a turn for the better. The man left the plat with his sister, Zofie Wiginton. And she in turn had given it—given, as though it were no more than a worthless relic—to a stranger, a newcomer to the region, Benjamin Jarrett.
At last Costello was able to see an end to his life of wandering. At last he dared envision himself living the life of wealth and luxury that was his birthright, the kind of life that would be his revenge on a world which had so long denied him his due.
Benjamin Jarrett posed no threat to Costello’s plans…at least, not at first. The man was absurdly trusting. Costello himself was not woodsman enough to have located the treasure. But Benjamin had found it, and now Costello knew where it was. Of course Benjamin had found it, he reassured himself.
Why else had the man become so possessive of the land surrounding his house and creek? Why else had he suddenly become suspicious of his friend Armando Costello? Why else had Benjamin sent those telegrams, if he had not suspected Costello of being after the treasure?
When the time came to get rid of Jarrett, Costello did it without qualms. It would have come to that eventually, anyhow. Costello had no intention of sharing this last treasure—not with anyone.
Costello grinned into the steam of the third cup of coffee Lavender set before him. Matt and Holt Rainey had unwittingly played right into his hands. Their determination to gain control of Plum Creek gave Costello the foil he needed to cover his own actions. Anything that happened to Benjamin and Ellie Jarrett could be blamed on Rainey.
But even the Raineys would not go so far as to murder a woman. No, this matter had to be handled delicately.
Costello had thought to run her off, had tried every way he knew how. But that woman was a tough one. Even without her brother-in-law’s interference, Costello doubted he could have budged her.
Kale Jarrett was one development Costello had not counted on. Jarrett was a persistent cuss, and he appeared to see right through Costello’s lies. But the man’s own brothers had fixed that by dropping the harmless remark about drawing for Ellie’s hand in marriage.
What luck that he overheard their conversation! With little effort he’d altered the information to fit his own purposes. He hadn’t been born a fool—only a poor, maltreated relation to a stupid grandmother.
But none of that mattered anymore, Costello reminded himself. By now his men, Abe and Martin, would have killed Kale Jarrett, and only the woman remained.
Armando Costello himself would take care of Ellie. This part of his plan must be implemented with care, her being a woman and all. And afterward he would return to kill Abe and Martin. No one must survive to connect him with the murders.
Only then would he take the treasure and hightail it to Mexico City, where he would live like a king.
Armando Costello knew not what the treasure was, but neither did he care. If it turned out to be a mine, he would find a way to get the ore out of the ground. If it was buried treasure, as he hoped, he would take enough along to set himself up. Then he could return as necessary for a supply of riches that would last a lifetime.
“We have to talk, Armando.”
Ellie’s voice shattered his concentration—his vision of servants in an imaginary villa bringing him tequila and exquisite foods, of women clamoring for his affection, beautiful, full-bosomed women dressed in lace and silk and smelling of fine perfume.
Ellie’s dress was rumpled and dirty. Hadn’t she admitted to standing in the middle of the creek, the idiot? Her hair wanted attention; her hands were red and callused from ranch work. He swallowed his disgust at such baseness.
“Why did you lie to me about Kale?” She crossed the otherwise empty gaming room to sit beside him.
He stared at her vacantly, struggling to clear the web of luscious beauties from his brain. He had work to do before he could bask in the loveliness of one of them…or two of them…or three…however many his fancy and his body demanded.
“You mean about the drawing?” He held himself in check admirably, he thought. Didn’t he refrain from gloating over the fate of her lover?
“You know they didn’t draw straws for me. Kale’s brothers wouldn’t have told you such a thing.”
He shrugged, returning his attention to the cup of coffee. “Perhaps I heard wrong.”
“Indeed you did,” she accused. “Now you’ve caused all sorts of problems. From now on, Armando, I want you to…” She paused, considering how best to tell a man his romantic overtures were unwelcome. “…ah, Kale and I are going to be married,” she finished. “As soon as it’s proper.”
His eyes danced with a wicked gleam. “Proper, Ellie? Now’s a fine time to be thinking about what’s proper. From the looks of it, the cow’s already out of the barn; no sense locking the gate at this late da
te.”
Forcing back a curt response, she stood. “Just don’t interfere.”
“Me? Don’t you worry about that, my dear. I want only what’s best for you. If you want—”
At that moment the front door opened and Abe and Martin came in. They stopped short at the sight of Ellie, as though they had seen a ghost, she thought, smoothing loose strands of hair back from her face. She must get herself together before she went home. Kale would think he had seen a witch.
“We need to talk,” Abe told Costello.
Alarm rose inside Armando Costello. He jumped to his feet. “What went wrong?”
“No need to panic,” the man called Martin soothed. “It went smooth as a whore’s silk pantaloons.” The last words were uttered in lewd tones, while Martin leered at Ellie. She fled the room, her face aflame.
“Pull out a chair, boys,” Costello welcomed. “Sit down. Tell me all about it.”
Intent on seeing Kale at the earliest possible moment, Ellie rushed back to Lavender’s room, where she pinned her hair more securely upon her head. She scrutinized her mussed dress in the looking glass, then sighed.
To hell with finery! Kale would welcome her just as she was; she knew that. Snatching up the package that held the red dress Poppy had loaned her, she hurried to the hallway only to be intercepted by a solemn-faced Lavender.
“Come with me, baby—I’m afraid Costello has learned of a desperate development. It’s best you hear it from him.”
Indeed, Ellie thought later, Armando Costello’s news was desperate, as desperate as any she’d ever received.
“How do they know?” she demanded at length. “How could your men know what the Circle R cowboys have been up to?”
“I explained, Ellie,” Armando replied, “when Abe and Martin were in the Crazy Horse Saloon down the hill, they overheard the Rainey men—I wouldn’t call paid assassins cowboys—bragging about how they kidnapped Kale Jarrett.”
“Kidnapped?” Ellie questioned, as though she hadn’t heard him correctly the first time. “Where did they take him? And why?”
Armando’s arm had replaced Lavender’s around Ellie’s shoulders. Now he squeezed her in a supportive manner. “Like I told you, they claim to have taken him to the painted cliffs.”
Ellie eyed Costello. Her mind refused to accept such an eventuality. “Why the painted cliffs? And how did they get back so soon?”
Armando cleared his throat. “Well, as to that,” he shrugged, “I asked the same question, my dear. The very same question.”
“Well?”
“It seems the men in the saloon were cronies of the men who kidnapped Jarrett. The men in the bar helped intercept him on his way back to the ranch last evening, then they came to town, while two of their number made the trip.”
As he spoke, he became more fluent, his mind creating a new but equally valid scenario. When Ellie first questioned him, Armando had felt himself grow physically sick. Had he set his plans back yet again by acting in a rash manner? Forcibly, however, he took command of his senses and of the situation, and he now felt confident he had covered his mistake.
“Initially, according to the men in the saloon, they felt the need for a small army of men, Jarrett being a known gunman. After he was apprehended and subdued, however, they considered two men equal to the task of transporting him to the cliffs.”
Apprehended and subdued…the words tolled an ominous knell in Ellie’s mind. “Did they…harm him?”
“I’d say murder is about as harmful to a man’s life as you can get,” Armando quipped, then immediately bit his tongue.
Ellie grasped the arm of the settee for support. Her head spun, causing her body to sway. “They’ve already…ah, killed him?”
“No. No, I don’t believe they have. I think they intend to perform the…ah, the foul deed after they arrive at the cliffs. Whether they roughed him up, shot him, or what…?” He shrugged, feeling pleased with his story.
“He wouldn’t have given up without a fight. He wouldn’t let them take him—” Ellie buried her face in her hands, too stunned to cry. Kale kidnapped, possibly shot or otherwise injured…Kale, on the way to his death even now.
She jumped to her feet. “I’m going after them.”
“You can’t do that,” Lavender said. “You’d only put your own life in danger.”
“My own life?” Her fears raced unbridled. “I must go to him.”
“My plan,” Costello slipped smoothly into the conversation. His only problem now was to sound dejected. Dejected! When his plan was working so well. This stupid woman believed every word; she reacted just as he’d known she would. “Charging hell with a bucket of water,” they said out here in the West of men unafraid of danger. They should have said it about women, too, or this woman, anyhow. This foolish woman would not be armed with so much as a bucket of water when he fell upon her.
“My plan,” Costello repeated, drawing himself back to the intense situation before him, “is already laid. I’ll go myself. I’ll bring him home, my dear…or his body. I’m sure you’ll want to bury him proper, beside his brother.”
Ellie burst into tears. Lavender pulled her to her bosom, glaring at Costello over Ellie’s head. “How dare you speak of this tragedy in such a glib manner.”
Costello managed an apology. “A shame. A sordid shame. Two husbands—well, just about—killed in the same manner and in the same place, by the same evil men.”
“What do you mean, in the same place?” Lavender demanded. “How do you know where Benjamin Jarrett was murdered?”
Again Armando Costello could have bitten his tongue off. “The men told it, the men in the saloon. Said they took Benjamin to the painted cliffs to murder him so his brothers couldn’t connect them with the crime. You know how his family sticks together…they’d certainly come out of the woodwork with two brothers killed by the same folks.”
“It’s true,” Ellie told Lavender, “that much, anyway. Kale and I were there. We found Benjamin’s silver buckle in one of the caves. The fragment of pictograph I found in his pocket matched a chip in the wall in the same cave…” Her voice cracked; her heart was a heavy lead weight inside a gossamer body. “We also found some dark stains that could have been blood.”
The last words were barely audible above her sobs.
“I’ll bring him back, Ellie. One way or—”
“No!” she fairly screamed. “I am going. If you want to accompany me, all right. But I’m going after him myself. And I hope I run into those Rainey bastards on the way.”
Lavender objected, of course, but Costello argued that Ellie would be in safe hands; he even promised to have Abe and Martin accompany them, then made a mental note to see that the men left town the same time he and Ellie did. The promise of treasure should encourage them.
“I still don’t like it, baby,” Lavender worried.
Ellie sighed. “I’m sorry, Lavender, truly I am. But I must go. Don’t you understand? I must.”
Lavender nodded. “I suppose, but—”
“I promise to see after her,” Costello interrupted, anxious now to be on his way. “I won’t let her ride into harm, even if I have to hog-tie her, as you say out here, when we come upon the Raineys.”
Lavender acquiesced after that, since, as she told Ellie, she knew she didn’t have much say in the matter. She led Ellie to the back of the Lady Bug to fetch a bedroll and put together supplies for the trip.
After the women left him alone in the parlor, Armando Costello patted his chest where he had secreted the plat his men took from the mantel in Ellie’s house after they killed Kale Jarrett.
It felt rough and strangely warm against his body, as though it possessed energy from ages past to quiet his racing heart and to warm the chill of fear which settled over him…fear of not succeeding in this one last attempt to find a treasure that was rightfully his.
But this time it would work, he promised himself. Crossing to the gaming room, he stepped behind the bar and took
a bottle of whiskey from Lavender’s ample store. This time he would do everything right…even to not returning to Summer Valley. It would take awhile for Lavender to become worried enough about Ellie to set out after them. By that time he’d have found the treasure and would be on his way to Mexico City.
He had even planned for the outside chance that Kale Jarrett escaped death. If that had happened, which Abe and Martin assured him was not the case, but if it had, he certainly didn’t want the gunman on his back trail. With his plan, however, Jarrett would not be able to stop him, neither dead nor alive.
Not now. He was on his way. Like a stone rolling down a hillside gathering momentum, nothing could stop him now. Nothing.
From the moment he regained consciousness Kale knew he was in trouble. Blood covered his shirt; he felt it caked on his face and neck. Every movement brought intense pain to all parts of his body.
He tried to raise a hand to the wound on his head, but his arm moved only a few inches before it fell back to his side, shooting pain up and down his body. Then a great wave of weakness engulfed him and he passed out.
When he came to, the first rays of the day’s sun were glinting off the caliche-colored rocks. This time his head was clear. He recalled being overtaken by Costello’s men. Looking up, he saw the top of the cliff fifty feet above him. That was likely where he had fallen from or been dropped. He couldn’t remember anything past drawing his Colt.
His entire body, from his head down to the tops of his boots, ached like he’d been stuck with hundreds of needles. Gradually he became aware of the reason: he was lying on his back, smack-dab in the middle of a bed of prickly pear.
The more he thought about it, the madder he got. Here he was, weak from loss of blood and a gunshot wound to the head that was serious at best, but he was damned if he was going to die lying on his back in a bed of cactus.
He took a deep breath, gritted his teeth, and pitched himself out of the pear patch.
He landed on his feet, a bit wobbly, but standing up. A few steps, however, told him he would never be able to make it to the house in these clothes, riddled with cactus needles as they were.
Sweet Autumn Surrender Page 24