Outlaw in Paradise

by Patricia Gaffney

  "No, but this is. Look, he's following a vein from the Seven Dollar back into the cliff. See down there?" She pointed down at the wheel tracks and the pile of strewn rubble on the rocky bank directly below. "The dredger's a blind—he's placered out on his side. That—thief!"

  "Come on, Cady, we'd better get out of here." He had to grab her arm and pull before she would budge. "Let's go before somebody spots us."

  He was right. She let him lead her away, glad for the dark cover of the pine woods again. They began to run. The closer they got to the clearing, the stronger a feeling grew that they were being watched, followed. She'd tied the buggy to a section of a rusty trommel in the mine yard. "Hurry," she told Jesse as he unhitched the horse. "Hurry, hurry, let's go." She felt jittery as a cricket. Some of Wylie's men were as ruthless as he was. If she and Jesse got caught here, now—she didn't want to think about what could happen.

  Jesse swatted the mare, and they cantered out of the bumpy yard, bouncing in the buggy like dolls in a child's wagon. The road to town was empty in both directions—thank God! They were safe, and nobody had seen them. Still, they'd ridden nearly a mile before she started to relax.

  "Polecat," she said again, hammering her knees with her fists. She knew plenty of worse words for Wylie, but she was still watching her language in front of Jesse. Which was pretty stupid.

  "I don't get it. What exactly is he doing?"

  "He's placering with a dredge along the riverbed— cleaning bedrock after the gravel's stripped away. But it's a cover, a blind. He's placered out, same as the Seven Dollar. What he's really doing is following ore shoots from my riverbed back into my mine. I saw it!"

  Jesse still looked baffled.

  "Before there was a Seven Dollar or a Rainbow, they struck virgin placer gold below the cliffs at the river's edge. People made a fortune, and then it dried up. So they switched to mining for lode gold, hoping to follow the ore bodies back uphill to the source, maybe a big underground lode. Wylie had some luck, but Mr. Shlegel never did, he just found a few stringers that petered out. So he gave up."

  "And you think Wylie's found a lode? A big one? In your mine?"

  "I don't know what he's found, but it's sure as hell in my mine. Thieving bastard. Well, he won't get away with it." She rubbed her hands together. "Ha. I've got him this time. If I can get Tommy to do something," she amended, half to herself. "But still. Finally. Got the son of a bitch dead to rights. I don't see how he can slither out of this one. This is against the law, and I've got proof. Go straight to the sheriff's, Jesse, don't stop at the livery. By God, this time I'm going to get him."

  But she wasn't nearly as sure of herself as she sounded. Some kind of superstitious dread was making her hands perspire, and she couldn't shake a weird, nightmarish feeling that something bad was going to happen.

  Maybe it already had. Jesse slowed the buggy for traffic on Main Street, and after half a block Cady figured out what was peculiar. Everybody in the street or on the sidewalk stopped and stared at them, but nobody spoke. Nestor Yeakes was lounging in front of the livery, as usual, but when Jesse waved at him he didn't wave back. He just stared.

  "Hey, Sam," Jesse called to Sam Blankenship, who was crossing Noble Fir in front of the real estate office. He stopped in the middle of the street—and stared.

  "What's going on?" said Jesse, and Cady shrugged back at him, bewildered. She didn't like it. It was more than peculiar, it was downright scary.

  Ham spied them at the same moment Cady saw him, coming out of Chang's laundry. Immediately he made a dash for the buggy. She put her hand on Jesse's arm. "Stop, stop—he shouldn't be running—!" Jesse pulled on the reins, and the mare pranced to a halt.

  "Cady—Mr. Gaul—Mr.—" Ham stumbled over his tongue, couldn't get the words out.

  "What?" Cady cried, disturbed by his face, his manner. He was excited, but that was nothing new; it was the fear behind his eagerness that alarmed her. "Stand still, Ham. Tell me what's wrong."

  "They's a man!"

  "A man," she repeated, struggling for calm. "What man."

  "He up at the Rogue right now. He say—he say—" The whites of his eyes gleamed as he rolled a frightened glance at Jesse.

  "What?"

  "He say his name's Gault!"

  Thirteen

  "Jesse? What are you doing? Jess—turn the rig around!" Cady tugged on his arm, trying to read the expression on his face. "Where are you going? You can't go to the Rogue, he'll kill you. Jesse!" She punched his shoulder, and finally he looked at her.

  "I have to."

  "Why?"

  "Because a man's got to do what a man's got to do."

  She hit him again. "Are you crazy? It's Gault, Jesse—the real Gault! What do you think he'll do when he finds out you've been impersonating him?"

  "Well, I reckon he'll be mad."

  "I reckon he'll shoot you!"

  He looked grim and didn't answer, just kept driving the buggy toward Rogue's Tavern.

  "Damn it. This is because of what I said, isn't it?" She shook him by the wrist in her agitation. "I take it back—you're not a coward. You're not." That only made him smile bleakly. "You're not. I just said it because I was hurt. Please, Jess, turn around and get out of town, ride as fast as you can. Nobody'll—"

  "Too late. I'm not running anymore."

  Why was he talking like that? She started to curse, but it did no good; he wouldn't even look at her. Fear finally shut her up; she watched in speechless dread as he halted the mare in front of the saloon, handed her the reins, and leaped down. "Maybe you better stay out here, Cady. Safer." And with that, he left her and went toward the swinging doors.

  She clambered down clumsily, shaky-kneed. "In a pig's eye," she said out loud, and the trembly sound of her own voice scared her even more. Ham trotted up, out of breath, holding his side. She gave him a quick, reassuring hug. "I want you to drive the buggy to Nestor's, and then I want you to stay there. Don't come back to the Rogue. Hear me, Ham?" He nodded, but she wasn't sure of him—he'd disobeyed her before. She said it all again, bending down and looking him in the eye. "Don't you come back to the Rogue, Ham, I mean it. Stay at Nestor's till I come and get you."

  "Okay."

  "Okay. All right, then. Go."

  She watched him hop up on the buggy, turn it, and trot off down Main Street. She waited till he was out of sight, and then she ran into the saloon.

  It was packed. It looked like church on Sunday, minus the women. Catching sight of Levi's bald, shiny head above everybody else's, she pushed and elbowed her way through a sweaty press of bodies. "Excuse me—Gunther, move—let me by, Stan—" until finally Levi grabbed her wrist and hauled her behind the bar with him. She stepped up on the foot- high riser she used to serve drinks from when Levi wasn't around—and if he hadn't grabbed her again and held on, she'd have waded back into the crowd. Because from here she could see Jesse. He stood beside a table where Merle Wylie sat with another man. Gault.

  God Almighty. Definitely Gault. Looking at him, Cady felt disoriented, almost light-headed, shoved back in time to the day Jesse had come to Paradise. This man, this real Gault with his black clothes and black leather eyepatch and black cigarette, looked older, craggier, not half as handsome, but his... his aura was the same. No, it was worse. Jesse had looked like a cocked gun, as if he'd as soon kill you as spit on you. Gault looked like he'd much rather kill you.

  Amazingly, they looked alike—almost a family resemblance. Same beaky nose, same steely-gray eyes and silver-streaked hair. No wonder it had been so easy for Jesse to be Gault; no wonder so many people had bought it without question. Even her. Especially her.

  She felt a hand clamp down on her forearm and turned as Glendoline stepped up beside her, jostling her on the riser. "Cady, look."

  "I'm looking."

  "Who is it? Which one do you think—"

  "Hush." Wylie was saying something, and she wanted to hear. All around her, speculative muttering stopped when he scraped back his chair
, grinning up at Jesse.

  "Well, well, well," he said gloatingly, dragging the words out. "What a fascinating conversation I've been having with Mr. Gault here. I always knew there was something phony about you. What's your real name, mister? What do you do for a living, punch cows? Polish spittoons?"

  Somebody's nervous laugh cut through the taut silence. Cady's hands shook. Where was her gun? In a cigar box on the far side of the bar—she couldn't get to it from here. What would she have done with it anyway? Jesse had his back to her, she couldn't see his face. She could see Gault's, though. Lord God in heaven. If he wasn't a cold-blooded killer, she'd eat her hat and swallow the feather.

  He stood up slowly, lazily, like a snake changing position on a warm rock. Face-to-face, the resemblance between him and Jesse was even more startling. His smile was like death, and when he spoke in his whispery voice, so eerily familiar, it made her shudder. "I don't know who you are," he told Jesse, "and I don't much care. You've got something that belongs to me. Couple of six-guns. You can hand 'em over now, nice and easy, and I won't kill you. I ought to, but I won't. But if you take longer than five seconds to lay 'em down on this table, I'll shoot you where you stand. One."

  "Jesse!" Terror made her yell it. The way he held himself, the stubbornness in his shoulders, his stiff arms—she had an awful premonition of what he would do.

  She was right.

  "Listen, you." His creepy whisper echoed Gault's, sibilant syllable for syllable. "I don't know who you are, and I don't give a damn. If you're not out of my face before I count to three, I'll put a bullet through the eye you've got that phony patch over. One."

  Gault blinked rapidly, and for half a second Cady actually thought she saw consternation blur the resolve in his hard, cruel face. But the moment passed, and his vicious smile uncurled again, making her scalp tingle. "Looks like we got ourselves a standoff," he whispered menacingly.

  Menace was all right, menace was fine. At least he'd stopped counting.

  "Uh-oh." Glen dug her fingers harder into Cady's arm. "Oh, no, oh, no."

  Cady saw what she saw: Sheriff Leaver coming through the swinging doors and trying to push his way through the crowd. Hatless, tie askew, collar crooked, he looked green and sickly, and Cady remembered what Willagail had told her this morning—he and Jesse had gotten drunk together in the jailhouse last night. "Oh, this is just great," she quavered, wringing her hands. "Now Gault can kill both of them."

  Glendoline clapped her hands to her face and burst into tears.

  "You see the paper this morning?"

  "What?" Cady glanced up at Levi, uncomprehending. "Did I what? See the paper?"

  "Front page. Sara Digby say she seen who left off all that money at her place."

  "Who?"

  "Jesse."

  "What?"

  "All right, what's going on here?" The sheriff's reedy tenor sounded anything but authoritative, but it did grab back Cady's fractured attention. Glen's, too; she stopped bawling to listen. "Break it up. I want everybody to get out and go home. Come on, now. There's not going to be any shooting, so you might as well move on. Arthur, Sam, let's go. Stony, Leonard, you, too, Shrimp. Come on, everybody out."

  Nobody moved, not one soul. They milled, shuffled their feet, unfolded their arms, but nobody went out the door. Glen wailed, "Oh, Tommy," and Cady put her arm around her. What's this? she thought distractedly. Was Glen sweet on the sheriff after all?

  "Which one of you is Gault?"

  Maybe someday Cady would look back and laugh, remembering how Will Shorter looked asking that moronic question, glasses perched on the end of his nose, pencil poised over his notebook. As if the real Gault would raise his hand and the fake one would slink away, mystery solved.

  "I'm Gault."

  "I'm Gault."

  "You're a liar."

  "You're a liar."

  "Fight it out," Wylie suggested gleefully. "Right here and now. That'll settle it."

  "Fine with me," whispered Jesse.

  "I can hardly wait," whispered Gault.

  "Jesse!" It wasn't Cady who yelled it this time, it was Ham. She saw him shoving and fumbling his way through the crush of gawking men. Levi let go of her arm and started to vault over the bar, but just then Ham spurted out of the crowd and made a rush for Jesse. He threw himself against him, slamming into his hip and almost throwing him against the table.

  "Okay, hold it!" No more whispering; Jesse's voice rang out clear and commanding as he pulled Ham close, shielding him with one hand on his head and the other on his shoulder. "There's not going to be any shooting in here."

  "Outside." Wylie stood up, his eyes glittering with excitement. "Take your fight outside. Guns at twenty paces. You can—"

  "Too dark." Gault jerked his chin toward the window. The sun had set; dusk was creeping in. "I want a nice clear shot when I kill the man who says he's me."

  "Likewise," Jesse sneered. Cady watched every man in the room look at him, then at Gault, then him, then Gault.

  Gault said, "I can kill you tomorrow as easy as tonight."

  Jesse curled his lip. "Ten o'clock suit you?"

  What? What? She couldn't believe her ears. Clutching at Levi's hand so hard he winced, she yelled, "No!" but nobody paid any attention to her.

  "Ten o'clock. In the street." Gault removed the slim black cigarette stuck in the side of his mouth and flicked it on the floor at Jesse's feet. "You feel like committing suicide any sooner than that, let me know. I'll be at the hotel."

  "Same goes. I'll be here."

  Openmouthed, Cady watched as Gault, the real Gault, the man who was going to kill her lover at ten o'clock tomorrow morning, waded into the withering, awestruck crowd and sauntered through the swinging doors.

  ****

  It's hard to argue with somebody you're kissing. Hard to hold up your end of a debate with a man who's trying to get your clothes off. Cady was giving it a try, though, and staying as far from the bed as she could without actually going outside. To get sex off Jesse's mind she might've gone outside, except it was raining.

  "I'm not doing this," she insisted for the third or fourth time, turning her mouth away to avoid his marauding one. "Not until you say you've come to your senses."

  "Rather come to your senses."

  "Will you stop?"

  "Can't." His lips were warm and his mustache tickled. She craned her neck, but that only gave him access to her throat. "Cady, I just gotta have you."

  He had her pressed up against her bureau, and she could feel exactly how much he had to have her. "If you're doing this for me, I'm telling you, Jess, you don't have to."

  "I was hoping to do it for both of us."

  "Not—this. Damn it, you know what I'm talking about."

  "Yeah, but I don't want to talk about it."

  "Will you just listen? Oh, God." He'd finally gotten her dress undone in back, and he was peeling it off her shoulders and down her arms. "Quit it, now. Quit." Such a half-hearted protest; she didn't blame him for ignoring it. "Jess, we have to talk."

  "Later."

  "No, now." She put her hands under his chin and forcibly lifted his face from the hollow between her breasts. "Please." She was reduced to pleading. His beautiful face, smiling at her so sweetly, worry-free, animated only by lust and longing, was going to be her undoing. "I don't understand you," she wailed. "If you fight Gault, he'll kill you."

  "No, he won't. That's not going to happen. Trust me," he ordered, holding her still and kissing her on the mouth. She tried to talk, but he said, "Shh," and kept on, seducing her with the care he took the single-mindedness and the gentleness.

  "Oh, Jesse, don't." But she didn't stop him from unfastening her chemise. Instead she buried her nose in his hair, and Jesse buried his in her bosom, stroking her, painting her bare skin with his tongue. "I'll give you money. Do you want money?"

  "Sweetheart," he said tenderly, "shut up."

  "I've got a nest egg. It's in the bottom drawer, under my stockings."
r />   "How much?"

  "Over two thousand dol—"

  He covered her mouth with his, pressing his tongue inside and silencing her with sexy, stirring caresses. She lost track of the conversation. It seemed like forever since she'd touched him like this, made love with him like this. "I was so stupid," she whispered when he let her speak. "Do you forgive me? It's my fault we wasted so much time. Oh, Jess, I love you."

  "I love you, Cady."

  "Do you? Oh, Jesse, do you?"

  "I swear it. Marry me when this is over."

  She started to cry. "Stupid," she muttered, smearing at tears with her fingers. But she couldn't help it. A war was going on inside between despair and bliss, and she couldn't control herself.

  "Marry me, honey. I'll make you so happy."

  "How can I marry you if you're d-dead."

  He laughed. She had an urge to smack him, and a stronger one to hold him so tight, she took him right into herself.

  He had the same urge—the latter one. He slid his knee between her legs, making her shuffle her feet apart, and she lost all her will to resist him. She had just enough strength to return his hot kiss and slip her hands inside his shirt, desperate to touch his skin, feel his body. She loved it that he was covered with straight, soft, dark hair. He tilted her back, back, till her head rested on top of her bureau, and he kissed her through her shift, right through the fabric, nibbling on her and making her moan. "I can't stand up—" She had to brace her pelvis against his to stay upright. He rocked her slowly, deeply, humming throaty encouragement against her breast, and she sucked in a gulp of air through her teeth. "I'm falling," she sighed, wrapping weak arms around his neck.

  He picked her up and carried her across the room—so much for her bed-avoiding strategy. A wisp of common sense returned while he undressed her. She didn't resist, but at least she didn't help him, and she recovered enough presence of mind to start the argument over once she was naked.

  "Jesse, this is all because of what I said, isn't it?" Beside her on the bed, he was taking his boots off. "I don't think you're a coward. How could I?" He ignored her and started on his belt buckle. "You don't have to prove anything to me. I mean it—I love you. Do you think I'll love you more when you're a really brave corpse?"