Moses scowled, withdrawing his gaze from the two women. Gruffly, he said, “You know the rules about the privacy of my room. I’ll take care of what needs to be done in there myself.”
“Just tryin’ to help, that’s all.”
Moses’s scowl lessened. “I know. And for that I’m grateful. But here now, something else occurs to me we could all be grateful for. After what Harley said back there on the trail, I got me the cravin’ for a hot, woman-cooked meal before we head out on our journey. Got a long, cold night ahead of us and no reason to expect much easier for who knows how long beyond that. A full belly to start out would be a welcome thing.”
Cyrus looked around, frowning. “You sure we oughta take time for that?”
“I said so, didn’t I?” snapped Moses. “One look makes it easy enough to tell that the painted-up floozy ain’t gonna be no shakes as a cook. But I’m thinkin’ the brown-skinned one, with the apron and all, is a different story. We got us a chunk of cured ham in the pantry, along with some taters and canned greens. I got me a notion she could do right fine with those fixin’s.” He returned his focus to Consuela. “How about it, señorita? Am I right? You can cook, can’t you?”
Consuela met his eyes with a fierce glare. “Sí. I am an excellent cook—for humans. For animals, I don’t bother.”
Moses barked out a quick laugh. “Ha! A feisty one. A firebrand. That oughta add some spice to the meal.”
“You ain’t gonna let her talk to you like that, are you?” said Cyrus. “You want me to belt her one for sassin’ that way?”
Moses’s mouth spread in a tolerant smile. “In her fix, she’s entitled to a little sass. Sign of spunk. Wouldn’t give you a plugged nickel for a woman without some spunk.” The smile went away. “Long as she don’t overdo it. In that case we’d have to teach her and the floozy—just to make sure—where the line is that ain’t to be crossed.”
“For God’s sake, do as he wants. Don’t make it any worse for us than it already is,” Alora urged Consuela.
Consuela considered the entertainer with a mixture of disappointment and pity. Then she returned her gaze to Moses. “Very well. Provide me something to work with, I will make you the best meal I can.”
“That’s better,” Moses chuckled. “You heard the señorita, Wiley. Stoke up a fire in that cook stove and bring out those fixin’s I mentioned. Plus some coffee for brewin’ and anything else you can think of.”
“Harley’s comin’ down the draw, Pop,” Cyrus announced from where he was looking out the front door. “He’s ridin’ easy, don’t appear to be in no particular hurry. The coast must still be clear.”
“A-course it is,” said Moses, chuckling again. “We put the fear of hellfire in those town nancies. I wouldn’t be surprised if they not only ain’t started out after us yet, but they’re probably pee-dribblin’ in their boots while still stayin’ hunkered behind locked doors and drawn window sashes.”
Wiley looked puzzled. “But you said before we couldn’t count on ’em not comin’ after us.”
“In time, yeah. Just not quick-like. There’s a difference.” Moses jerked his arm in an impatient gesture. “Now, instead of standin’ there arguin’ and askin’ questions, get a move on and start doin’ what I told you!”
CHAPTER 41
“There,” said Simon Quirt, pointing.
In the distance, against the sky’s last pale streaks before evening gave way to full night, a curl of smoke was visible.
Bob nodded. “Uh-huh. That’d be about right. That’ll be the Shaw ranch.”
“And the smoke, indicating somebody is there, must mean your hunch was right—that’s where they fled to.”
“Appears so.”
“Let’s hope your deputy and the others are in a position to see the same thing and draw the same conclusion.”
“I’m betting they are. I got a heap of confidence in Vern.”
“From what little I saw of him, I have to agree.”
“The quicker we close in the rest of the way, the quicker we can find out for sure about all of it.” Bob paused for a minute, setting his jaw. “And the sooner we know for certain we’ve caught up with the Shaws, the better chance we’ve got of saving those women from any worse treatment than they may already have suffered.”
Quirt gave him a sidelong look. “Hate to put it too blunt, but you figure those women are even still alive?”
“If that was softened so’s not to be too blunt,” Bob said, “I’d hate for you to blurt something right out. But to answer your question, yeah, I figure they’re still alive. They’ve got too much worth as negotiating tools. Not to use against just us, but possibly in other ways farther down the trail. The thought of those women being killed don’t trouble me as much as . . . well, other things.”
“Okay, I get your meaning. You don’t have to paint the picture no clearer than that.”
“I hope to hell not. I don’t want to think about it any more than I have to, let alone talk about it. Come on, let’s close in on that smoke.”
* * *
In order to prepare the meal for her captors, Consuela’s wrists had been unbound. The loop of rope around her throat was left in place, its opposite end untied from the shutter bar hook and knotted instead around a leg of the heavy iron cookstove. This allowed her limited mobility—from the stove to the table—but no opportunity to try and make a sudden run for it.
All the while she was fixing the food, Consuela’s mind was constantly churning. Observing, considering—looking for the slightest opening, anything that might give her the tiniest advantage, something unexpected she might be able to use as a weapon.
But at the same time, she knew with a sinking, gut-level practicality that current circumstances made any chance of escaping from these four vicious, heavily armed men all but impossible. What was more, even if she somehow managed to pull off that miracle for herself, there was the matter of Alora Dane, the other captive. Was Consuela willing to abandon her to her own fate, leave her to fend for herself?
On the one hand, Consuela knew that would be a difficult choice to make. On the other, what sense would there be in compromising the success of her own escape—if any opportunity presented itself—for the sake of trying to save them both? That would only double the odds against either of them getting free.
Above all, there was the thought of Bucky. Making it back to him, being there for him—that was Consuela’s ultimate goal. Whatever it took to achieve that, she kept reminding herself—no matter the amount of suffering or humiliation, no matter how many difficult choices she might have to make—she must endure for the sake of Bucky. She must.
* * *
“Now that darkness is settling in,” said Clayton Delaney, “are you sure you can still read the trail?”
His question was addressed to Largo, who was mounted beside him on a blaze-faced black gelding. Delaney sat a thick-chested pinto, the stolen hotel room pillow cushioning the seat of its saddle against Delaney’s throbbing bottom. Milling about them, all having reined to a halt as signaled by Delaney, were Iron Tom Nielson, Peabody, and four other riders, each one hard-eyed, bewhiskered, grim mouthed, and fairly bristling with firearms and other weapons.
In answer to Delaney’s question, Largo’s normally impassive expression appeared mildly affronted. “The sky has now cleared. There will be plenty of moon- and starlight.” He paused, emphasizing the latter point with an upward sweep of his arm. “The trail, to me, is very clear. I can follow it easily.”
Delaney nodded. “Good. That’s what I wanted to hear. Any idea how far ahead of us they are?”
“Three, maybe four hours. At the point they passed here”—now Largo pointed to the ground—“they were moving fairly fast. With the darkness, they will slow. If we keep on steady, we will gain on them.”
“Damn right I mean to keep on steady,” Delaney said. “And damn right we’ll be catching up with them.”
“The only thing, then,” spoke up Iron Tom, “is to
hope that this posse is on the right trail that’ll lead ’em to the Shaw gang.”
“I refuse to contemplate otherwise,” said Delaney. He shifted his position on the pillow, wincing slightly. “You heard what Largo said, these posse boys are riding hard after something. I got faith they’re on the right scent. We stick with ’em, they’ll take us where we want to go.”
“You reckon they’ll stop to make a night camp?” asked Peabody.
“I don’t know. What I do know is that we don’t stop until or unless they do.” Delaney pulled his whiskey bottle, his pain duller, from his saddlebag and threw down a swig. Lowering the bottle, he added, “So keep your canteens in reach and some jerky to gnaw on as we ride, men. That’s the best I can promise for right now. But when we succeed in running down what’s out there ahead of us, then soon after that I can damn well promise high living for all who stick with me!”
“We hear you, Clayton,” said Iron Tom, speaking for the others. “We came this far, we aim to stick. So let’s get on with it.”
* * *
Back in Rattlesnake Wells, August Gafford sat alone in his office at the Crystal Diamond Saloon. He felt sick to his stomach, sick to the point of thinking he might actually throw up.
Everything was going so wrong.
Hell, so much had already gone wrong. What else was left?
Through the office door he could hear the sounds coming from the saloon’s main room. The murmur of a handful of voices, the clink of glasses now and then. The halfhearted banjo plunkings of Lyle Levitt, who’d shown up mainly to escape the boredom of staying holed up in his hotel room.
So very, very different from what the grand opening of the Crystal Diamond was supposed to be. The big kickoff that Gafford had been counting on, the fantastic gala he had put so much planning, effort, and money into . . . all a stupendously flat fizzle. No dance hall review, no swarm of high-spending customers, no nothing.
Alora Dane, the special attraction he had brought in from clear back East . . . gone; kidnapped by the ruffians who’d put a blight over the whole day.
The much-ballyhooed prize guns, Gafford’s ace in the hole . . . gone; taken by the same pack of vermin.
Ben Eames, also known as “Eagle Eye” Emerson, his insurance policy to make certain the guns stayed in his possession . . . a failure in the shooting competition, a failure once again in removing the obstacle that might still allow the guns to fall to Gafford, and then the ultimate failure in getting his worthless hide killed instead.
Not that Gafford gave a damn about Eames being dead. His ineptness deserved nothing better. But the alleged sharpshooter’s demise removed all but the remotest chance for Gafford to get his hands on those cursed guns at a time when it was clear he was going to need their value more than ever. Short of outright thievery should the weapons ever come within his reach again, Gafford was in the direst straits imaginable. The dreadful opening of the Crystal Diamond—not to mention the days ahead that seemed destined to also fall short of expectations—guaranteed Gafford’s immediate plunge into deep debt. And his borrowing power, with no collateral except for the failing saloon itself, was completely exhausted.
Furthermore, he had a nagging concern about the town deputies who were investigating the killing of Eames. Gafford couldn’t shake the feeling that the lawmen had far-reaching suspicions. Did those suspicions include him? Despite the precautions he and Eames had taken never to be seen together or linked in any way, had they overlooked something? Was there something out there that those bumbling deputies might stumble over that would mean even more bad news?
Gafford’s stomach rolled over and spasmed momentarily. He thought for sure he was going to throw up this time. But he didn’t. After the feeling passed, he leaned back in his chair, beads of sweat popped out on his forehead and his breath coming more rapidly.
God, what had he done to deserve this? How could so much hard work and careful planning go so terribly wrong?
He reached for the decanter of brandy on his desk, removed the glass stopper, and peered down into the pool of amber liquid as if the answers were floating somewhere in there. Then, not bothering with a glass, he tipped up the whole decanter and drank thirstily.
CHAPTER 42
Moses Shaw felt almost as if he were bewitched. It had been years since a woman stirred any feelings in him. Hardly anything at all beyond the passing of his wife. Yeah, the Indian squaw he’d taken in to help raise his sons had shared his bed and, as much out of obligation as anything, there’d been times when they coupled. But toward the last, before she passed, too, any such urges from either of them had long faded. After that, when his boys went to visit the whore cribs in New Town, Moses merely shook his head at the waste of time and money and felt grateful he was past such foolishness.
But now this sultry, dark-skinned Consuela had come along and awakened yearnings in him he thought he would never experience again. Watching the way she moved as she worked over the stove and passed back and forth from there to the table—the sway of her hips, the shimmer of her long, glossy hair, the occasional flash of bare leg through the tear in her skirt—brought back all the things that the nearness of an all-over fine woman could do to a man.
In fact, it had been the nearness of her when she was tied behind him in the saddle, the womanly curves and the heat of her pressed against his back and the smell of her filling his nostrils, that had first gotten Moses’s attention. From there, his continuing awareness of her, his savoring of her, had only increased to the point where he could barely take his eyes off her.
Even when he’d sat admiring the prize guns in their custom case, his gaze had lifted from time to time to rest briefly on Consuela. And now, when she passed close to him as she began serving the meal, his hand reached out a time or two, as if by its own volition, to gently brush against her hip.
This attention, the weight of his eyes and certainly the awkward groping of his hand, did not go unnoticed by Consuela. It made her skin crawl. But, at the same time, the desperately determined part of her mind that was fixated on doing whatever it took to make her break from these animals so she could return to Bucky, calculated how finding favor in the old man’s eyes might provide an opening to help facilitate her escape.
Nor was Consuela the only one who noticed the way Moses was paying attention to her. While Wiley remained mostly oblivious, both Harley and Cyrus were quick to catch on. This kind of behavior from their father came as a surprise and also a point of sly amusement, causing more than one knowing elbow-nudge to pass between the two older brothers when they caught the old man gazing longingly.
“You were sure right about the señorita being able to cook, Pop,” spoke up Harley as he forked a bite of ham into his mouth. “This here’s a mighty tasty feed. Gonna be kind of a shame to hit the trail again too fast, without takin’ time to let these good eats settle a bit.”
“What needs doin’, needs doin’,” replied Moses fatalistically. “Those town nancies may have given us a lead by not takin’ out after us right away, but we can’t afford to squander it. There’s a practical side to takin’ this time to give our bellies a good fillin’, but we dasn’t tarry too long.”
“You still haven’t packed your things yet, have you?” asked Cyrus.
“Don’t worry about that. It won’t take me long,” Moses assured him.
“What about feedin’ the women?” said Wiley. “Are we gonna let them have something to eat, too?”
Moses seemed to consider a moment, then said, “Reckon it’s only fittin’. Especially the señorita, since she did some to earn it. I don’t give too much of a hang about the floozy, but we can’t hardly leave her starve.”
After she’d prepared and served the meal, Consuela’s wrists had again been bound and she was left to stand by the end of the hot stove, still neck-looped to its leg. Alora Dane remained where she’d been since they got to the cabin, sitting on the floor over by one of the front windows, bound and neck-looped on a shorter tether to a sh
utter bar hook.
“When we’re done eatin’,” Moses continued, “we’ll untie their hands and allow each of them a plate of food. No forks or knives—they can make do with their hands.”
“Even the señorita?” asked Cyrus.
Moses scowled. “What do you mean?”
“Well, that’s kinda shoddy treatment . . . I thought maybe, you know, since she cooked so good for us and all you might want to . . . hell, I don’t know. Never mind.”
Moses’s scowl intensified. “That’s right. You don’t know. Just worry about eatin’ what’s in front of you and let me do the thinkin’ and worryin’ about how we treat our hostages.”
* * *
Having tied their horses at the top of the wooded slope that ran down on the eastern side of the Shaw cabin, Bob and Simon Quirt had then worked their way down to the flat where they now crouched in deep shadows just within the tree line. An open area of trampled grass and dirt, no more than thirty yards across, separated them from the cabin. Before leaving the higher ground, Bob had taken a piece of mirror out of his war bag and held it up to catch a glint of moonlight, sending a signal flash to the slope on the other side of the natural bowl in which the cabin sat. After what seemed like an agonizingly long pause, he got a return flash from the opposing slope, indicating that Vern and the rest of the posse had arrived and were in position.
Speaking in a low whisper, Quirt said, “Lights burning inside and, even with the shutters closed, there are enough chinks in those walls to see movement of somebody in there. If it’s the owlhoots we’re after, though, wouldn’t you think there’d be some horses tied and ready out front?”
“What you got to remember,” Bob replied, “is that the one whisker of honest work the Shaws ever did was horse trading. Look at the corral on the other side with a dozen or more horses in it and the four saddles straddling the rails. Since the Shaws know horses and have plenty to choose from, seems reasonable that they’d strip down the ones they rode in on, turn ’em out to the corral, then figure to saddle fresh mounts when they’re ready to ride out again.”
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