The thought kept Kirkwood going.
The taciturn Prewitt, a man so bland and colorless he seemed to fade into the background unless you were looking right at him, turned out to be an excellent trail cook. Nothing approaching the same level as the fine restaurants back in New Orleans to which Kirkwood was accustomed, of course, but Prewitt was able to put together a decent meal out of the supplies Leon had bought before the group left Fort Worth.
Around the campfire that night, while the men were enjoying the stew Prewitt had prepared, Shelby said, “This woman you’re looking for, Kirkwood, is she pretty?”
Kirkwood frowned. He didn’t like being addressed so familiarly and disrespectfully by a common gunman, but he didn’t want a falling-out, so he allowed the insult to pass. “Isabel is very beautiful. One of the loveliest women I’ve ever seen. And I’ve been with many beautiful women.”
“I wonder about the other gals traveling with her.”
Loomis said, “They’re probably as ugly as the north end of a southbound horse. Who else would become a mail-order bride and get hitched up with a fella she doesn’t even know?”
“It’s hard to say,” Henry Baylor mused. “Perhaps the other women have extenuating circumstances in their background, like our friend Ripley’s beautiful Isabel.”
Kirkwood wasn’t sure which he disliked most, being called Kirkwood by Shelby or Ripley by the gambler.
“I reckon you can ask ’em,” Loomis said as he poured himself another cup of coffee. “After all, we can’t be sportin’ with ’em all the time. We’ll probably have to talk to them a little, here and there, in between bouts in the blankets.”
He shook his head as if such a prospect as actually talking to women wasn’t appealing at all.
“Yeah, but what if they are ugly?” Shelby asked.
Loomis pointed with his thumb. “Give ’em to the Kiowa.”
The Indian looked up from his bowl of stew and glared. “Don’t want white women. They complain too much. Like crows, always cawing and flapping.”
That drew a round of laughter from the other men. Leon even smiled faintly, Kirkwood noted.
“Then why are you here?” Loomis asked the Kiowa.
“Money. Don’t want white man’s women, but like his money just fine.”
“Yeah,” Shelby said. “Maybe the hombres who are supposed to marry those women will pay to get ’em back safe and sound. Well . . . safe, maybe. Probably not as sound as they were before they ran into us.”
Kirkwood dashed the dregs of his coffee into the fire. He had listened to these crude, tiresome discussions more than once. He might need the help of these men to get what he wanted, but that didn’t mean he had to enjoy their company.
With a nod to Leon, he retired to his bedroll to dream about Isabel. Those dreams might be blissful—or they might be bloody.
Either way was all right with Ripley Kirkwood.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
By the end of the day, Ace, Chance, and the five ladies had reached a crossroads where a couple arrows with names burned into them were nailed to a signpost. The one that pointed onward in the direction they had been going, almost due west, sported the legend ABILENE.
The other arrow, angled south by southwest, had the name CROSS PLAINS burned into it.
“That sounds familiar,” Ace said as he reined in. He was riding the chestnut again, the horse having rested enough to bear a rider once more. “I need to take a look at the map.”
“It’s plenty late enough for us to stop and make camp,” Chance said. “Let’s do that, and then you and Lorena can put your heads together over the map.”
That sounded like a good idea to Ace. They were on flat ground, but nearby the smaller trail leading to Cross Plains went down a slope into a valley broad enough that Ace couldn’t see the other side in the fading light.
They gathered wood for a fire. In an area with sparser vegetation, they would have been collecting firewood everywhere they found it, taking it along with them in case they had to make camp in an area with no trees. So far, that hadn’t been a problem. Post oaks, live oaks, cottonwood, pecan trees, all had been common along their route. It was good country. Ace could understand why settlers had been eager to expand into it, and why the Comanche had fought so hard to keep them out.
Once the team was unhitched and the other horses unsaddled, the fire built, and supper underway with Agnes preparing it, Lorena got her map from inside the wagon and spread it on the tailgate, the best place to open it out so that she and Ace could study it.
Ace pointed. “I thought I remembered a place called Cross Plains. That’s where we need to go, all right. From there on southwest to Coleman, then west to Hutchins City and right on to San Angelo.” His fingertip followed the route as he spoke. “Another four days ought to do it.”
“And not a day too soon,” Lorena murmured.
“We’ve done pretty well so far.”
“Considering we’ve had to deal with lunatics and kidnappers, I suppose you’re right. We’re all still alive and relatively healthy.” Lorena began rolling up the map.
“I’m sorry not everything has worked out the way you wanted it to,” Ace said.
“You mean because I’ve had to deal with some stiff-necked boy?”
Ace felt his face warm, but whether it was from embarrassment or anger, he didn’t know. “You can think whatever you want about me, but I still have to live with myself. I have to look at myself in the mirror . . . and sleep at night.”
She smiled at him and caressed his cheek with the hand that wasn’t holding the map. “Oh, honey, people can look themselves in the mirror after doing lots worse things than anything you and I might have done. Otherwise most of us would go mad. Trust me on that. I speak from experience.”
She tapped the rolled-up map against his head and climbed into the wagon, chuckling to herself. Ace was left standing there, feeling vaguely foolish.
Chance moved from the shadows on the far side of the wagon and said quietly, “I reckon she told you.”
“Spying on me now?” Ace asked sharply.
“Nope. Just happened to be around here. I’d gone to check on the horses and happened to come back this way. I promise you, if anything that shouldn’t have been was going on, I would have withdrawn discreetly.” Chance paused. “Of course, that was pretty unlikely considering that she was with you.”
“A stiff-necked boy, you mean?” Ace snapped, quoting Lorena.
“No, big brother. A man who’s not in the habit of compromising what he believes in.”
Ace frowned. Chance hardly ever called him big brother. Although they were twins, William “Ace” Jensen had been born several minutes before Benjamin “Chance” Jensen. Unlike a lot of boys, Ace had never tried to use that fact to his advantage while the two of them were growing up. He seldom even thought in terms of big brother and little brother.
Because of that, whenever Chance used the term, it was usually because Ace had done something to impress him.
Ace was touched by Chance’s words. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”
“Oh, I didn’t say you weren’t a damned fool. But I do admire a man with the courage of his convictions.”
Ace laughed and aimed a half-hearted swipe at Chance, who ducked the lazy blow. Together, they walked back around the wagon to join the ladies.
* * *
The next morning, they took the trail to Cross Plains and spent the day traveling through rangeland criss-crossed by narrow creeks. They met several cowboys who tipped their hats and tried not to gawk at the ladies.
“Any trouble going on around here?” Ace asked one of the young men.
“Nope. You might want to steer clear of Brown County, though. It’s off yonderways.” The cowboy pointed to the south.
“Why’s that?” Ace wanted to know.
“Some of the big ranchers have started fencin’ off their range to keep the farmers and the little greasy sack outfits from comin’ in and takin’ o
ver. And some of those fences have been gettin’ cut on a pretty regular basis. It’s made for a lot of hard feelin’s and a considerable amount of gun smoke.”
“What about Indian trouble?” Chance asked.
The cowboy shook his head. “Not around here. You got to go farther west for that. Haven’t been any Indian fights in Callahan County for, oh, eight or ten years now, I’d say. I was just a sprout the last time the Comanch’ done any raidin’ in these parts.”
As the young puncher rode away and Agnes got the wagon rolling again, she said. “Well, that’s reassuring, I suppose. We don’t have to worry about being scalped.”
“He did say there might be Indian trouble farther west,” Ace pointed out. “The army established a post in San Angelo for a reason.”
“But if there’s an army post there, shouldn’t the area around San Angelo be safer because of it?”
“You’d think so,” Chance said, “but sometimes those war chiefs will go looking for a fight. If there’s no war, there’s no need for them.”
“That makes sense, I suppose,” Agnes said. She wasn’t likely to argue too much with Chance, feeling about him the way she did.
Late in the afternoon they reached Cross Plains, most likely named for the terrain and the fact that two trails crossed there. Two large, wooded hills rose side by side a few miles west of the settlement, but other than that the landscape was gently rolling plains all around.
“It wouldn’t hurt to pick up a few more supplies for the rest of the trip,” Ace told Agnes. He pointed toward several cottonwoods and a store located near the crossroads. “You can park under those trees, and we’ll stay there tonight.”
Chance looked at a saloon they’d passed. “Might be a poker game going on in there. If Lorena would advance us a little of our wages, I could get us a bigger stake.”
“This is a pretty small settlement,” Ace pointed out. “I’m not sure how much money would be in a game around here.”
“You never know until you try,” Chance responded with a grin.
Agnes brought the wagon to a stop under the cottonwoods. Ace and Chance swung down from their saddles and helped the ladies out of the vehicle.
Several middle-aged, bonnet-wearing local women were shopping in the store. They cast suspicious glances toward the newcomers and muttered among themselves at the sight of such attractive strangers.
The proprietor seemed happy to see them, though. He was a heavy-set man with thick jowls and graying red hair. As he stood behind the counter at the rear of the store, he called, “Howdy, folks! Come on in.”
Agnes, who had taken charge of their supplies, went to the counter and began telling the man what they needed. The other four women looked around the store, seeing what merchandise was available.
Ace and Chance paused in front of a glass display case with several shiny new revolvers. Neither of them needed a new gun, but it didn’t hurt anything to look.
The proprietor boxed up the supplies, then had a boy who worked in the store carry them out to the wagon. The youngster’s eyes were mighty big as he looked at the mail-order brides, and his freckled face flushed a deep red when Jamie and Isabel smiled at him.
As Lorena settled the bill, Ace asked the man, “Is it all right if we camp out there under those trees tonight?”
“Why, sure, son. It’s still a free country, ain’t it?”
“The last time I checked,” Ace replied with a smile.
Chance nodded toward the building across the road and asked, “What are the odds of there being a poker game going on over there?”
“In the Devil Horse Saloon?”
“Is that what it’s called?” Ace said. “Strange name for a saloon.”
“Yeah, but the fella who owns it, fella called O’Donnell, he bought it by racin’ a horse he used to own. A devil horse, folks claimed, on account of it was black-hearted as Satan. Nobody could handle the brute ’cept O’Donnell. But fast? You never saw the like. He raced that devil horse against all comers, all over this part of the country, and never lost a match. Won a heap of money wagerin’ on the critter and used it to buy the saloon from old man Elkins.”
“You said he used to own the horse,” Ace said. “What happened? Did he sell it?”
With a solemn expression on his jowly face, the storekeeper shook his head. “O’Donnell was on his way back here from Brownwood one day when a bunch of owlhoots jumped him. There was too many of ’em for him to put up a fight, so his only chance was to outrun ’em. He did it, all right, but just when he got back to town, that devil horse collapsed under him. He was the fastest anybody around here ever saw at racin’ distances, but that long run plumb wore out his heart. He didn’t stop until O’Donnell was safe, though.”
All five of the women had been listening, enthralled by the story. Jamie said, “How sad.”
“Yes’m,” the storekeeper agreed. “Anyhow, mister, you asked about a poker game, and sure thing, some of the boys like to get together and play just about every night. It ain’t a very high stakes game, though, and you look like the sort of fella who’s used to bigger things.”
“As long as it’s a friendly game, I enjoy the competition,” Chance said.
“Oh, it’s friendly enough. Ain’t been a shootin’ over cards in six . . . no, eight months now. Nobody died, then, just limped around for a spell afterward. And that was less from bein’ shot and more from bein’ throwed through walls and such. Cross Plains boys get pretty rowdy when they go to scrappin’. Some of ’em are pure pizen.”
Ace and Chance glanced at each other, not sure whether to laugh or take the man seriously.
Ace wound up nodding and saying, “Much obliged to you, sir.”
As they followed the women out of the store, Ace said quietly to his brother, “Still think you ought to sit in on that game?”
“You heard the man. It’s been eight months since there was a gunfight in there. What makes you think tonight would be any different?”
“Oh, maybe the way we seem to draw trouble like a lodestone attracts iron. How many run-ins with different hombres have we had over the past week?”
Chance shook his head. “I don’t keep count. I’ve got better things to do.”
“Like play poker in some small-town saloon.”
“I’ve got a hunch the cards are going to be running my way tonight, Ace. I feel a lucky streak coming on.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Since they were spending the night in a settlement, they didn’t have to prepare a meal and eat on the trail. They went to the local café. A set of deer antlers were mounted over the door, visible evidence of why the place was called the Staghorn.
They ate steaks, potatoes, greens, biscuits, and deep-dish apple pie. Ace and Chance were stuffed by the time they were finished with the meal, but the ladies had had enough sense not to eat so much.
“I’ll go see what’s happening at the Devil Horse,” Chance said as he finished his second cup of coffee. “If things don’t look too promising, I’ll head on back to the wagon.”
“I’ll keep an eye on things,” Ace said. “Don’t play too late.”
“And try not to lose all that money I advanced you,” Lorena added. “Although I suppose it’s not really any of my business if you do.” She had given Chance two ten-dollar gold pieces, which was almost a fourth of the price they had agreed on for the Jensen brothers escorting the women to San Angelo.
Having Chance risk that much on the turn of some cards made Ace a little uneasy, but he knew in the long run it didn’t really matter. He and Chance had fallen into a pattern of drifting for a while, working when they had to, and then moving on again. If they wound up flat broke in San Angelo, they would just look for other jobs.
As they stepped out of the café, Chance parted company with the others, strolling up the street toward the Devil Horse Saloon. Ace and the ladies headed toward the clump of cottonwoods where the wagon was parked.
Lorena glanced after Chance. “I sor
t of wish I was going with him. I’ve spent so much time in saloons I actually miss the smoke and the sawdust on the floor and the smells, even though some of them aren’t what you’d call pretty.”
“I suppose you can go if you wish,” Isabel said.
“No,” Lorena replied with a faintly sad smile. “I’ve put that part of my life behind me, or at least I’m trying to. It’s better just to forget all of that.”
Ace halfway expected Isabel to make some snide comment about Lorena’s checkered past, but for once the half-Irish, half-Mexican beauty didn’t say anything of the sort. Maybe the time they had spent together on the trail was starting to smooth off the edges of the friction between the two women.
While the ladies climbed into the wagon, Ace checked on the horses—the team and the saddle mounts. Then he spread his bedroll under the wagon but didn’t crawl into it just yet.
He wasn’t going to sleep until his brother got back and he found out whether that lucky streak Chance had mentioned had actually come to pass.
* * *
From a dark, narrow passage between two buildings, Ripley Kirkwood watched Isabel as she walked with the other women from the café to the wagon. It was the first time he had laid eyes on her in several weeks, and his insides were a roiling mass of emotions.
First and foremost was anger. How dare she turn her back on all that he could offer her? A life of leisure and comfort and wealth, and all she had to do in return was devote herself to him and be willing to accommodate his . . . appetites . . . every now and then. He was well aware that at times those appetites were somewhat outside of the norm, but was that his fault?
He also felt a longing for her that was disconcerting in its strength. The fact that any woman could have such an effect on him annoyed him. He was the one who had always been in control, not the other way around. From the day he had met Isabel, though, something had changed.
He wasn’t sure anymore if he could live without her, and he didn’t like that. Not one bit.
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