"The ranch is down there about a mile," West said, gesturing into the valley that spread below them from their vantage point on the top of a ridge.
Flint followed West's outstretched arm and saw pinpoints of light burning. "Somebody's already up," he commented.
"That's not unusual. McGill expects his men to work hard, and that means hitting the saddle at daybreak. The men eat their chow in the bunkhouse, and I figure McGill'll be with the men giving them their orders for the day. There shouldn't be anybody in the main house when I slip in."
"Won't folks be wondering where you are?"
West grinned. "I imagine they've already decided that I just up and pulled out. Payday was last week, so I only had a few day's wages coming, not enough to matter to a light-footed cowboy."
"You'd better be careful anyway. McGill doesn't know you're working against him, but he still might try to gun you if he catches you inside the house."
West gave a short, humorless laugh. "Trading shots with McGill might not be so bad."
"The two of you blasting each other won't help my sister-in-law," Flint pointed out. "I need that tally book, Jordy."
"You'll get it," West assured him. He urged his horse into a walk. "Come on. We can get a little closer before I move in on my own."
Anabel had slept very little, despite the soft bed in the room that McGill had taken her to the night before. She was afraid he would try to have his way with her, but he had been a gentleman. She had been sullen and silent, but that didn’t seem to shake McGill's faith that sooner or later he would win her over.
And if he didn’t, well, then he would just keep her a prisoner here in this house for the rest of her life—or until he got tired of having her around. If that happened, Anabel knew, he would silence her permanently.
Yesterday as soon as McGill had positioned his men around the house, he disappeared to attend to ranch business. Anabel stayed in the parlor for the rest of the day, sometimes pacing up and down the large room, sometimes giving in to fatigue brought on by frustration and despair and dozing on the sofa.
Several times during the afternoon, McGill returned and asked her about the records that her father had kept, but Anabel didn’t answer him. The rancher only shrugged and left. She realized he could afford to be patient now that she was in his power. He had sent word into town to her servants, telling them that she had decided to stay at the ranch for a while. They were to close up the house and leave for the time being. No one would miss her, she knew; no one would come to her aid.
That evening after a strained, silent supper with him in the large dining room, McGill had taken her to the small spare bedroom. When she finally lay down on the bed, she kept her dress on. McGill had given her an elegant nightgown that came all the way from St. Louis, he said, but Anabel knew that she would have felt uncomfortable wearing it, as if that would somehow represent a victory for McGill. For long hours, she tossed and turned and stared at the ceiling of the second floor bedroom. Visions of McGill being suitably punished for his crimes filled her thoughts. She wondered if that man Flint could have been right. She no longer doubted that McGill could have been responsible for her father's death.
Finally, sometime in the dark hours of the night, she dozed.
When she awoke, the sky outside the window of her room was gray with approaching light. She was groggy, and her head hurt. Her dress had a strange odor, due no doubt to the dunking in the creek.
She went to the door of the room and paused there, listening. She heard a soft snore right outside; that would be her guard, napping on duty. The door itself had been locked, and the room's single window was nailed shut. She had checked that right away, then given up any thoughts of escape. Breaking out would make enough racket to summon the guard, even if the man were sleeping on the job.
Anabel's mouth was achingly dry, and she had other needs that required attention. She knocked on the door, rapping sharply enough to awaken the guard outside. She heard the thump as his chair legs hit the floor, then a moment later he grunted, "What you want, lady?"
"I...I need to use the outhouse," Anabel replied, almost overcome with embarrassment. She wished that McGill had had the foresight to have a chamber pot put in the room.
"Sure, sure," the guard said. "Let me find the key."
A few seconds later, Anabel heard the key rattle in the lock. The man swung the door open and stepped back to let her come into the hall. He was a young, bearded cowhand. She didn’t remember seeing him before on any of her trips to the ranch, but that meant nothing. Cowboys came and went all the time. At least he wasn’t leering at her, and she was thankful for that much. He watched her with sleepy eyes as she went down the hall toward the rear stairs.
"Reckon you know your way around the place," he commented, "you bein' the late mayor's daughter an' all."
"That's right," Anabel replied. "I don't appreciate being treated like this, either."
The cowboy shrugged, and the barrel of the rifle in his arms bobbed up and down. "Ain't none of my affair. I reckon the boss has got his reasons for what he's doin'."
"He has a reason, all right," Anabel snapped. "He's a cruel man who's trying to save his own skin."
"Wouldn't know nothin' about that, ma'am. Say, once you're done, I imagine Cookie's got some breakfast ready if'n you're hungry. I could do with a mite to eat myself."
Anabel made no reply. The guard took her outside in the dawn light and stood a respectable distance away while she made use of the outhouse. Then he followed her as she went back to the main building. Anabel glanced around, wondering if it would be possible to make a dash for freedom. Surely McGill had not instructed his men to shoot her if she tried to escape.
But then she thought about it and decided that the risk was too great. Her guard had treated her decently so far, but she wasn’t willing to risk her life on his crude chivalry.
When Lucas Flint and Jordy West were within a few hundred yards of the ranch house, they reined in. The young cowboy left Flint waiting on the far side of a brushy rise and continued toward the house. As he circled wide around the bunkhouse, he saw a few men moving around the building. Others were at the corral, saddling their horses for the day's work. Keeping an eye on them, West stayed in the trees and brush as much as he could and continued to circle until he had put the main house between the bunkhouse and him.
West eased out of the saddle and tied his horse to a sapling. From here he would go on foot. He paused to check the loads in his Colt, then slipped the gun back in its holster. Despite what he had said about welcoming a gun duel with McGill, he knew that he had to be careful. There would be time to face down McGill later, after Rachel Coleman's execution had been postponed.
The house loomed before him. A veranda ran around the front and both sides of the house, and several doors opened onto it. He headed for the side door closest to him. His boots seemed to thump loudly on the planks of the porch as he stepped across it, but he knew that was just his nerves. He was moving as silently as he could.
West slowly inched the screen door toward him to prevent the hinges from squeaking. When he had it open, he tried the knob of the wooden door. It turned freely, as he thought it would. Nobody locked doors around here, not even skunks like McGill. The crooked rancher was probably convinced he had nothing to worry about.
Pausing just inside the door, West listened intently. He didn’t hear any voices or footsteps. The Chinese cook was probably at the bunkhouse serving breakfast. McGill should be over with the hands, giving them their chores for the day, just as he had told Flint. West was betting that he had the house to himself.
Although enough daylight was filtering into the house to allow him to make his way around, many of the rooms were still shadowy. McGill's office was located in a rear corner of the house; West had always picked up his pay there and was familiar with it. He slipped through a couple of sitting rooms and down a long hall to the door of the office. This one wasn’t locked, either, and he breathed a sigh of re
lief once he was inside and had closed the door behind him.
Hurrying to the big desk that stood against one wall, West started pawing through the litter of papers on its top. He had seen the tally book several times, knew that McGill used a small, leather-covered ledger for that purpose. It wasn’t on top of the desk, so West had no choice but to start going through the drawers. He opened them carefully, again trying not to make any noise.
In the second drawer he tried, his fingers brushed against a leather binding. He pulled the book from a stack of papers and thought it looked like the right one. To be sure, he flipped through its pages, squinting in the dim light to make out the writing, and he smiled when he saw he had found what he was looking for.
He closed the book, slipped it under his shirt, and turned to leave. He had taken one step toward the office door when it suddenly opened.
Lance McGill stopped in his tracks and stood just inside the doorway, a surprised look on his face. His hand had gone instinctively to the gun on his hip when he saw that there was an intruder in his office, but he stopped before drawing the weapon.
It took every ounce of West's self-control not to reach for his Colt. His brain was racing, trying to find a way out of this that wouldn’t involve shooting, and as McGill frowned in recognition, West decided on his course of action.
"Is that you, West?" McGill demanded. "What the hell are you doing in here? The foreman told me he thought you'd drifted."
West took a deep breath. "I'm planning to," he said. "That's why I'm here, Mr. McGill. I was looking for you. I want to draw my pay and ride on."
McGill visibly relaxed. He strode past West toward the desk. West hoped he didn’t notice that someone had been going through his papers. The desk had been in enough of a mess to start with that there was a good chance McGill wouldn’t notice that anything had been disturbed.
"What's the matter, West?" McGill asked. "Haven't you been happy here?"
West didn’t turn all the way around to face McGill. He was all too aware of the tally book bulging against his shirt. McGill had not noticed it yet, and West didn’t want to give him an opportunity to. "Everything's been fine here, boss," he lied. "I reckon I just need to move on. You know how us Texans are."
"Sure," McGill grunted. He sounded convinced, but his eyes were still narrowed suspiciously.
West wanted to leap across the room and smash a fist into his face, but he kept a tight rein on that impulse. Here in McGill's stronghold, such an action would just get him killed. If he could get away from the ranch and give the tally book to Flint, then he would settle with McGill later.
The rancher pulled open a desk drawer, and West caught his breath when he saw it was the same one in which he had found the tally book. But McGill just drew out a cash box and opened it, apparently not noticing that the book was gone. He said, "You don't have much pay coming, West, just a few days' worth."
"I know," West said.
"Why don't you stick around until the end of the month? That'd give me more time to replace you."
"Sorry, Mr. McGill," West said, trying to sound sincere. "I've just got to be riding."
McGill shrugged. He took a handful of bills and counted out a few. Then he closed the cash box and replaced it in the drawer. West held his breath until McGill had shut the drawer.
The rancher turned and held the money out to West. "Here you go," he said. "Before you ride on, why don't you stop at the bunkhouse for some grub? I don't mind feeding you one last meal."
"Thanks," West said as he took the bills. He folded them and stuck them in his pants pocket, trying not to look nervous. "I reckon I'd better be heading out, though."
"Suit yourself."
McGill turned back to the desk, and West started toward the door. The cowboy's pulse was hammering in his head. Just a few more minutes, he thought, and he would be safely away from the Trident ranch house. Then it wouldn’t matter if McGill discovered the theft of the tally book.
As West touched the doorknob, the door flew open in his face. He stepped back, surprised, his hand going toward his gun. Then he stopped, and his eyes widened in shock as Anabel Yeager threw herself into his arms and cried, "Jordy!"
West barely had time to notice the haggard, desperate look on Anabel's face before he wrapped his left arm around her and pulled her to him. He saw a ranch hand hurrying after her and recognized him as a man called Dale. Behind West, McGill exclaimed, "What the hell!"
It's all torn now, West thought bitterly. McGill had had no idea there was anything between Anabel and him, but the rancher wasn’t blind. He could see it now in the way Anabel buried her face against West's chest and sobbed.
West stepped back quickly, taking Anabel with him. With his right hand he drew his gun as McGill reached for his weapon. West said sharply, "Hold it, McGill! Leave that gun where it is and tell Dale to put his down."
McGill stopped, his hand frozen a few inches from the butt of his revolver. He stared into the muzzle of West's Colt for a long moment, his face flushed with rage. Then he switched his gaze to the obviously confused guard and snapped, "Forget it, Dale! Put the rifle down."
Dale hesitated, then stooped and laid the Winchester on the floor. "Sure, boss. Whatever you say."
Keeping his gun trained on McGill, West asked, "What's going on here, Anabel?"
"He...he kidnapped me!" Anabel stammered in a choked voice. "He told me that my father and he were partners in that rustling ring, just as you thought, Jordy! Oh, God, I thought he was going to kill me. He said he was going to keep me here forever..."
"Take it easy," West said grimly. "He's not going to hurt anybody else."
McGill laughed humorlessly. "Seems to me you've been working both sides, West. I thought you rode for me."
"I told you I was quitting, McGill. I don't work for scum like you."
"You two won't get out of here alive, you know that." McGill's voice was smugly confident, and he appeared to have gotten over his anger.
"I think we will," West declared. "You're going with us to make sure we do."
McGill slowly shook his head. "I'm not going anywhere. If you want to shoot me, go right ahead. But if you do, Dale there will gun both of you down. You don't want that, do you, West?"
West hesitated. McGill was right; if he shot the rancher, he would lose what little leverage he had.
Dale didn’t give West time to make up his mind. He grabbed for the six-gun on his hip, yelling, "I'll get him right now, boss!"
Anabel screamed as West jerked around and triggered just as Dale's gun cleared leather. The slug slammed into the cowboy's midsection, knocking him back into the hall. West whipped around in time to see McGill lunging toward him. He lashed out with his gun.
The barrel cracked against McGill's skull. He grunted and staggered past West and Anabel, his feet tangling and causing him to topple. He fell heavily on the office floor, then shaking his head, he struggled to stand.
Hesitating for only an instant, West quickly decided he couldn’t kill the man in cold blood. But he couldn’t give McGill time to regain his senses, either. Still clutching Anabel, he urged, "Come on! We've got to get out of here!"
Half dragging her, he ran from the office toward the side door. That shot would bring McGill's men on the run, but he believed they had a chance to reach the horse West had left hidden in the trees.
Anabel was gasping for breath as West pulled her onto the porch. He heard booted feet pounding on the veranda, and three Trident cowhands ran around the front corner of the house. West snapped a shot over their heads, close enough to make them come to an abrupt stop and duck back around the corner.
Several men rode around the rear corner of the house. They were all holding guns, West saw. He had just taken a step toward the edge of the veranda when they opened fire. Bullets chewed up splinters at his feet. West dodged back and flattened against the wall of the house, clutching Anabel to him. If this kept up, she was liable to catch a stray slug, he thought frantically. There wa
s no way they could get into the trees and reach his horse.
In fact, he thought bitterly, they were good and pinned down, and McGill would probably push through that side door next to them at any second.
Suddenly Lucas Flint galloped toward them through the trees. Guiding his horse with his knees, he led West's mount with one hand and fired his pistol with the other. The marshal's accurate fire drove McGill's riders back behind the house and forced the men on the front porch to crouch against the wall, but McGill's men continued to trade shots whenever they had the chance. Flint yelled to West, "Come on!"
West plunged recklessly off the porch, his free hand clamped on Anabel's arm. He was thankful that Flint had disregarded his suggestion to stay put. The first shot must have brought the man from Kansas on the run, and now they at least had a chance to get away.
West jammed his gun into its holster as he reached his horse. Flint had pulled both animals to a stop and was still firing at the front and back corners of the house. West reached up, grabbed the saddle horn, and vaulted onto the animal's back. He pulled Anabel up, barely feeling her weight, and settled her in front of him in the saddle.
In a hail of bullets from McGill's men, he and Flint spurred for the safety of the trees. It would be a long run to Cheyenne with McGill's men dogging their every step, but West thought they could make it.
Suddenly West's horse stumbled, and the young cowboy realized his animal had been hit. As he felt the horse's legs falter even more, West kicked his feet out of the stirrups and gripped Anabel tighter. They flew off, just as the wounded animal toppled over on its side. West twisted in midair, knowing they were going to hit hard and trying to position himself to land under Anabel and take the brunt of the impact. They slammed into the ground, and West felt the air whoosh from his lungs.
West and Anabel tumbled over several times, coming to rest at the foot of a tree. A few yards away, the fallen horse whimpered in agony and then died. Gasping for breath, West slapped at his holster, but it was empty. Bleakly he realized his gun had slipped out during the fall. And Anabel—
Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 113