McGill lifted his other hand and savagely slapped her face. She cried out, and tears welled in her eyes.
"You'd better tell me the truth," he grated. "I don't have time to waste on you, Anabel."
"I told you," she said, fighting back her tears. "I don't have them."
"You're lying." McGill stood up, dragging her with him. "But I'll make you tell me the truth."
There was a quick patter of hurrying footsteps in the hall. The maid appeared in the parlor doorway. With an anxious look on her face, she said, "I heard you cry out, miss. Are you all right?"
McGill swung around to face the young woman while he fiercely gripped Anabel's wrist. Smiling, he said, "Miss Yeager is just overwrought right now. Isn't that right, Anabel?"
The pain and pressure on Anabel's wrist made her want to scream, but she knew McGill would do more to hurt her if she didn’t go along with him. "Y-yes," she stammered. "I was just...thinking about my father…"
"I think you need a ride, Anabel," McGill declared. "That'll clear your head. I've got my wagon right outside. How about it?" The steely determination in his voice was as strong as the grip that encircled her wrist.
Anabel nodded jerkily. "Yes. That...that sounds fine."
McGill picked up his hat with his free hand and put it on. "Come along, then. You won't need a wrap; it's a lovely day."
Putting his arm around her shoulders, McGill steered Anabel from the parlor. She glanced nervously at the folded dress on the table and prayed he wouldn’t notice it. Repressing another urge to cry for help, she let him lead her out of the house and down the walk to the buckboard that was tethered to the fence outside the gate.
"Climb up," McGill ordered once they reached the wagon. Anabel did as she was told. The rancher jerked the reins free from the fence, then climbed onto the seat beside her. As he flicked the lines and got the horses moving, he went on. "You don't have to be afraid of me, Anabel. I'm sorry if I hurt you back there. I just wanted to get us out where we could talk without being disturbed."
"I don't have anything to say to you." Anabel's voice was little more than a whisper.
"Oh, I think you do." McGill turned the wagon around a corner. He had the team moving at a fairly good clip, handling the animals with practiced ease. "I want to know about those records you mentioned."
"There aren't any," Anabel ventured. "I...I just made the whole thing up."
McGill shook his head without looking at her. "I'm sorry, my dear, but I just don't believe you. You see, I know your father kept records of what we were doing. I always advised him not to, but you know how he was. He liked to have everything down in black and white." McGill snorted contemptuously. "Well, it certainly backfired on him, and on me, too. But if you've got those papers now, I want them."
Anabel tried to force her brain to work. Something in McGill's statement struck her as strange, but she was too upset and frightened to figure out what it was. She saw the glances of the townspeople they passed in the buckboard and wanted to call out for help, but she knew it would do no good. Lance McGill would just spin some more of his smooth lies. No one would believe her if she accused him of being a rustler and a kidnapper.
But kidnapping her was exactly what he was doing. He knew now that she had seen the documents and understood what they meant. He couldn’t afford to let her tell anyone.
God, did he intend to kill her? Anabel wouldn’t put it past him. She had seen the look in his eyes and knew he would do anything he thought necessary to protect himself.
As she blinked back her tears, she realized those documents were the only leverage she had. The buckboard was passing through the edge of town, heading north to the trail that led to Trident. He was going to take her to the ranch, she thought. Once there, he would feel he could do anything he wanted to her.
He had been silent for several minutes, but now, as they moved from the outskirts of Cheyenne into the open range, he coaxed, "You and I have been friends for a long time, Anabel, ever since you were a girl. I don't want us to become enemies now. Just tell me where those papers are, so I can get them and dispose of them. Once that's done, nothing else has to change between us."
His voice was soft and persuasive, and Anabel knew he was trying to charm her. Over the years she had heard stories about all the women who had been in love with the dashing Lance McGill. She knew he was accustomed to getting whatever he wanted. But she could easily resist; this time he was up against someone who had every reason to hate him.
"I saw the papers," she said abruptly. "I know what they mean. But they're in a safe place where you'll never get your hands on them. If anything happens to me, they'll go to the authorities."
She knew her threat was hollow, but it was the best she could manage. She just hoped it was convincing enough to make McGill hesitate before he tried anything extreme.
He didn’t reply for a long moment, concentrating instead on driving the team of horses. "What do you intend to do with the documents?" he asked at last.
Anabel took a deep breath, then told him the truth. "I planned to see to it that no one ever found out about them."
"You don't want your father's memory dishonored, is that it?" McGill nodded thoughtfully. "That's probably wise, Anabel."
"Then you'll turn around and take me back home?" she asked.
McGill shook his head. "Not with the way you feel about me now. I know you, Anabel. You're going to want to get even with me. Sooner or later, you'll want to settle the score for what you think I've done, both today and in the past. I can't allow that."
"So what are you going to do?"
He grinned. "Just like I said. I'm going to marry you—right away."
Sick fear churned in Anabel's stomach. She couldn’t stand the thought of being married to this man. He was evil, and besides, she loved Jordy West. There had to be some way out of this! "I...I can't marry—" she began.
"Of course, you can, and you will!" McGill snapped. "You see, Anabel, there's a law that says a court can't force a wife to testify against her husband. Once we're married, nobody can make you say anything you shouldn't, and I won't have to worry, will I?"
Anabel knew what he said was true, but she also knew a woman could voluntarily testify against her husband. But if she did, she would expose her father.
Turning to look at him, Anabel shook her head, but she could tell from the cold, knowing smile he gave her that he didn’t believe her for an instant. After they were married and he owned her share of the partnership, he would take steps to ensure that she wouldn’t talk.
Anabel fell silent, and McGill didn’t seem to have anything more to say. The wagon rolled on toward the ranch. As she watched the passing country, she realized they would be there in a little over an hour, and Anabel wondered if she would ever again see Cheyenne and her home.
About half an hour later, Anabel spoke. "Could you stop for a minute, Lance?" she asked softly.
"What for?"
"So that I can walk around for a bit. You have to remember I'm not used to riding in a buckboard for this long."
McGill considered for a moment, then nodded. "I guess these plank seats are pretty hard, all right." He pointed at some trees to the left and swung the wagon. "There's a nice little creek over there. We'll stop in the shade."
A few moments later he drew the wagon to a stop beneath one of the trees that lined the creek. Through the underbrush Anabel could see the stream; the sunlight was glittering prettily on the water. It was cool in the shade, and the creek bubbled musically. It would have been a very pleasant spot—if Jordy West had been beside her on the seat, and not Lance McGill.
"I'm glad you decided to be reasonable about this, Anabel," McGill said as he climbed down from the wagon and came around to assist her. "There's no reason you and I have to be enemies, no reason at all."
"Of course not, Lance. Thank you."
She caught him watching her warily, being cautious in case she tried to trick him. But as they strolled side by side alo
ng the creek bank, she felt him begin to relax.
The brush thinned out so that Anabel could stand on the edge of the bank and look across the creek. She calculated it was about a dozen feet wide and three or four feet deep with a steady, gentle current.
As she stood there, McGill moved behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. In a husky voice, he said, "For years now, I've thought you were the loveliest woman I've ever seen, Anabel. I've been biding my time, building up the ranch so that one day you could be the mistress of the biggest spread in the territory."
"You did...all of those things...for me?" she stammered.
"The rustling? Sure. Oh, I'll admit I enjoy the money and the power, and so did your father. But both of us wanted the best for you, Anabel."
A spasm of revulsion passed through her, but McGill evidently mistook it for another emotion. He pulled her against him, started turning her to face him.
Anabel abruptly twisted in his arms. Her hand shot toward his face, her long fingernails stabbing at his eyes and raking down his cheek. McGill let out a yell as Anabel clawed him. She grabbed his jacket and kept turning, spinning them both around on the edge of the bank. She meant to push him into the water if she could, but suddenly the earth crumbled beneath her. She felt herself falling.
McGill fell with her. They landed with a huge splash. Under the water, Anabel tore herself from his grip and then surfaced, gasping for air. Fighting the weight of her sodden gown, she struggled to the muddy bank and started to scramble up it. Her frenzied brain told her that if she could get to the wagon before him, she could escape, leaving him here. Excitement surged through her as she reached the top of the bank. She would get the documents from the chimney and go to Sheriff Dedrick with them! It was too late to protect her father's name now, but she could make sure that McGill was punished for his part in the scheme.
McGill's fingers clamped around her ankle, jerking her foot out from under her and spilling her on the grassy bank. He threw himself on top of her and, as she flailed hysterically at him, grabbed her wrists with one hand. His other fist cracked against her jaw, knocking her head to the side. Shocked by his violence, Anabel stopped fighting. She lay in the grass, panting heavily and staring up at McGill.
"Damn bitch!" he snapped. He let go of her and got quickly to his feet. As he stepped back, he pulled the gun from his holster and cocked the hammer. He grated, "I don't know if these cartridges will fire after that little swim, but I guarantee that if you try anything else, we'll sure as hell find out!"
Anabel stayed where she was, sprawled on the ground and silent except for her heaving gasps.
After a moment McGill bent down, grasped her arm, and pulled her to her feet. He shoved her toward the wagon. "Get up there!" he ordered. "I see now I can't trust you, Anabel, so we'll just do things my way from now on."
Stunned by all that had happened, she climbed numbly onto the wagon seat. It was too much, coming as it did on top of everything else that had occurred recently. She did nothing and was quiet as McGill stepped up and sat down next to her. He transferred the gun to his left hand and picked up the reins with his right. Glaring at her, he flapped the reins and clucked to the team to get them moving toward Trident again.
Neither one spoke for the rest of the trip. Anabel's clothes were soaked, but the chill that gripped her didn’t come from the wet garments. While the warm sunshine soon dried her dress, she was still cold inside. She always would be, she thought, as long as she was in Lance McGill's hands.
As they approached the two-story whitewashed ranch house, McGill finally holstered his gun. If the cowhands who were working in the corrals nearby thought anything of their boss driving in with the lovely blonde, both of them with their hair and clothes in disarray, they said nothing. With a hand clasped firmly around her upper arm, McGill led Anabel into the big ranch house.
She had visited Trident many times before, had always thought it was a lovely house with its veranda that wrapped around three sides, cozily nestled in a grove of trees. The heavy, comfortable furniture inside was expensive but very different from the ornate, elegant furnishings of her own home. Trident was a man's preserve that she once found pleasant. But now she saw it as an evil place.
McGill pulled her into the big parlor, led her to a chair, and roughly shoved her into it. "You just sit there for a while," he growled.
Anabel finally found her voice. "What are you going to do with me?" she whispered.
"I told you what I'm going to do. I'm going to marry you, dammit."
"I can still testify of my own free will, even if I'm married to you." She knew her words might well seal her death warrant, but she didn’t want him to think that she was going to cooperate meekly.
McGill shook his head. "You won't be going anywhere to testify to anything. You're going to stay here on this ranch, right in this house." He grinned, and it was an ugly expression. "A husband's got a right to keep his wife at home, doesn't he?"
He turned away and called sharply to someone with an odd-sounding name. A moment later, a Chinese man wearing an apron appeared in the parlor doorway. "Go find a couple of the boys and send them in here," McGill instructed the cook. "I've got a chore for them. They're going to be standing guard over something that's mighty valuable to me."
Anabel knew what he meant. She was a prisoner, and if McGill had his way, she would remain so from now on.
"I'll send someone into town for your things," he said, turning back to her. "You tell me where those papers are, and I'll get them, too."
Anabel shook her head.
McGill shrugged. "Have it your way. You'll tell me sooner or later, or I'll tear that house apart until I find them. Either way, I'll get them, and then nobody will ever give orders to Lance McGill again, by God!"
Again, there was something strange about his words, but her stunned brain refused to comprehend. She stared silently at the Navajo rug on the floor, until McGill finally cursed bitterly and stomped out of the room. Vaguely, she heard booted feet on the veranda, heard his voice issue orders to the cowboys the cook had brought, giving them instructions to watch her.
This was just the first day, she thought. The first day of a prison sentence that could last the rest of her life.
15
Lucas Flint and Jordy West spent an hour in the Laramie sheriff's office, trying to convince the local lawman that they were not gun-crazy outlaws. Flint produced his marshal's badge, and several cattle-yard workers who had witnessed the uproar testified that Ladell and his men had started the fight. Still angry that a gun battle had been waged in his town, the sheriff finally agreed that Flint and West had not been at fault.
"You'll have to stay for the inquest," the local lawman said as he returned their guns to them.
As Flint strapped his holster to his hip, he glanced at the clock on the wall and saw that it was already past noon. Looking at West, he nodded toward the door. "Sorry, Sheriff," he said, shaking his head slowly. "We can't do that. You've got our statements. They'll have to do."
The sheriff’s face reddened. "Say, you don't come in here and give me orders—"
"I'm not," Flint cut in coldly. "I'm just telling you that we're leaving. We've got to be back in Cheyenne by nine o'clock tomorrow morning, and that's going to take some hard riding."
The sheriff regarded the two grim-faced men for a long moment, then sighed. "All right, get the hell out of here," he snapped. "I don't want to see you in Laramie again, you understand?"
"I don't think you have to worry about that, Sheriff," West replied.
Flint had already turned and was heading for the door.
Three minutes later they were on their horses, traveling east toward the edge of town. As they passed the cattle pens, Flint glanced at the scene of the shoot-out. The bodies of Ladell and his men had been removed. The cattle were calm again, and the choking clouds of dust had settled. No evidence remained of the desperate battle that had been fought there only a little over an hour before.
It was going to be a long afternoon and a longer night. But probably not long enough, Flint thought bleakly.
They ate in the saddle and, when night fell, took turns dozing as they rode. The weather stayed clear, so once again the moon and stars shone brightly enough to show them the road. Flint lost track of time, and his exhaustion numbed him to everything but the sound of galloping hooves and the motion of the saddle beneath him.
An hour before dawn, as the sky in the east was beginning to lighten, Jordy West pointed to the southeast. "We'll angle off the road here and head for Trident," he said.
Flint was thankful that the young cowboy was with him. He doubted that he could have found the ranch by himself. Uncapping his canteen, he drank deeply, then splashed some of the water on his face. He shook his head to clear away the sleepiness.
Trying to stifle a yawn, he slipped his watch from his pocket and opened it. The moon was setting now, but coupled with the brightening sky, it cast enough light for him to read the watch face. A little after five o'clock. If they could get away from Trident around six, even allowing for a slower pace from their exhausted horses, they would reach Cheyenne sometime before eight—plenty of time to stop the hanging.
They were going to make it. The thought sent a surge of adrenaline coursing through him, driving away the rest of his weariness. Because of this night of hard riding, they would get back in time.
If nothing else slowed them down, he reminded himself grimly. They still had to get that tally book.
They rode for another half hour, West leading the way across the rolling range. The eastern horizon was starting to turn pink with the approaching sunrise when West pulled his horse to a stop. The animal's head drooped with fatigue, as did Flint's when the marshal halted beside him.
Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 112