by Matt Braun
Stroud glowered at him. “Don’t gimme none of your bullshit, Monte. This here’s my show and I’ll run it any damn way I see fit. Got it?”
“Don’t get your bowels in an uproar. I was just sayin’ it ain’t my cup of tea.”
“Like it or lump it, you’re gonna hear it.”
Stroud nodded to Fontaine, motioning him forward. Fontaine walked to a cleared area at the end of the table and bowed with a grandiose air. “For your edification,” he said, glancing about the room, “I shall present the most famous passage from Julius Caesar.”
The outlaws stared back at him with blank expressions. The thought crossed his mind that he might as well be a minister preaching to a congregation of deaf imbeciles. Yet he knew that his audience was Stroud alone, a man with the power of life and death. His eloquent baritone lifted with emotion.
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them,
The good is oft interred with their bones;
So let it be with Caesar …
Fontaine labored on to the end of the soliloquy. When he finished, the crowd swapped baffled glances, as though he’d spoken in Mandarin Chinese. But Stroud laughed and pounded the table with hearty exuberance. “You hear that!” he whooped. “That there’s art!”
No one appeared to share the sentiment. Chester was the next to perform, accompanied by the Jew’s harp and the harmonica. He went into a soft-shoe routine, which was made all the more effective by the sandpaper scrape of his soles against dirt on the floor. He shuffled in place, executed a few lazy whirls, and ended with legs extended and arms spread wide. The outlaws whistled and hooted their approval.
Lillian was to close with a song. She asked the men on the Jew’s harp and harmonica if they knew the ballad Molly Bawn. When they shook their heads, she suggested they follow her lead and try to catch the melody as she went along. She moved to the end of the table, hands folded at her waist, and avoided the leering stares of a crowd now gone quiet. Her husky alto flooded the room.
Oh, Molly Bawn, why leave me pining,
All lonely, waiting here for you?
The stars above are brightly shining,
Because they’ve nothing else to do.
The flowers so gay were keeping,
To try a rival blush with you;
But Mother Nature set them sleeping,
Their rosy faces washed with dew.
Oh, Molly Bawn! Oh, Molly Bawn!
The ballad ended on a heartrending note. There was a moment’s silence; then the outlaws rocked the cabin with applause and cheers. Stroud looked proud enough to bust his buttons, grinning and nodding until the commotion died down. He climbed to his feet.
“Listen here, Lilly,” he said expansively. “Let’s give these boys a real show. What say?”
“I don’t understand,” Lillian said.
“That old rag you’re wearin’ don’t do you justice. Go change into one of them pretty silk gowns. The ones I saw in your trunk.”
“Now?”
“Yeah, right now,” Stroud said. “Get dolled up and come give us another song.”
Lillian looked at Fontaine, who shrugged helplessly. She turned away from the table, unwilling to anger Stroud, and moved toward the door, As she went out, the Jew’s harp twanged and the harmonica chimed in on The Tenderfoot. The men poured a fresh round of drinks, clapping in time to the music.
“Good-lookin’ gal,” Monte Dunn said, glancing at Stroud. “How’d you like to sell that little buttercup, Rufe? I’d pay you a handsome price.”
“What d’you think I am?” Stroud said indignantly. “I don’t sell humans like some gawddamn slave trader.”
“Well, I don’t know why not. You stole her just like you stole them horses out in the corral. You’re gonna sell them horses for a profit. Why not her?”
“She ain’t for sale.”
Dunn laughed. “Hell, anything’s for sale. Name a price.”
“Monte, you stink up a place worse’n a polecat. Think I’ll get myself some fresh air.”
Stroud walked to the door. Sally started after him and he waved her off. She’d overheard his conversation with Dunn, and she didn’t believe a word of it. She thought he was after more than fresh air.
Outside, Stroud hurried off in the direction of the Fontaines’ cabin. A coal-oil lamp lighted the window, and he paused, darting a look over his shoulder, before he opened the door. Lillian was clothed only in her chemise, about to slip into her blue silk gown. She backed away, holding the gown to cover her breasts. He closed the door behind him.
“Well, looky here,” he said, advancing on her. “I knew you was hidin’ something special under that dress.”
“Get out!” Lillian backed up against the wall. “Get out or I’ll scream.”
“Naw, you ain’t gonna scream. That’d bring your pa runnin’ and I’d have to kill him.”
“Please don’t do this, I beg you. I’m not that kind of woman.”
“You’re my kind of woman,” Stroud said, reaching for her. “You and me are gonna have some good times.”
Lillian swatted his hand away. “Leave me alone! Don’t touch me!”
“I’m gonna do more’n touch you.”
The door burst open. Before Stroud could turn, Sally whapped him over the head with a gnarled stick of firewood. The blow drove him to his knees, and he saved himself from falling by planting a hand against the floor. She shook the log in his face.
“You son-of-a-bitch!” she screeched. “You try any strange pussy and I’ll cut your balls off. You hear me?”
Stroud wobbled to his feet. “You ought’nt have hit me like that, Sal. I was just talkin’ to her, that’s all.”
“You’re a lying no-good two-timin’ bastard!”
She shoved him out the door and slammed it behind her. Lillian sat down on the bunk, the gown still clutched to her breasts. Her heart was in her throat, and she had to gulp to get her breath. Yet a small vixenish smile dimpled the corner of her mouth.
She thought Sally really would cut off his balls.
CHAPTER 14
LATE THE next morning, the first of the stolen horses was led to the branding fire. Outside the corral, thick stakes were driven into the ground several feet apart, and laid out near the fire were lengths of heavy-gauge wire and a lip twist. A wooden bucket, with a rag dauber fastened to a stick, was positioned off to the side.
The horse was thrown and the men swarmed over him. Within seconds, his legs, front and rear, were lashed to the stakes. One man held the gelding’s head down, while two others kept his hindquarters from thrashing. The fourth man stepped into the fray with the twist. He attached the rope loop to the horse’s lower lip, then began twisting it like a tourniquet. The pain, intensifying with every turn, quickly distracted the horse from all else.
Stroud stood watching with Fontaine and Chester. His eyes were bloodshot from last night’s party, and his head pounded with a dull hangover. But he was proud of his operation, and he’d invited them to observe the crew in action. He wanted them to see how a stolen horse was transformed into a salable horse.
“Watch close now,” he said. “Shorty’s a regular brand doctor.”
“Pardon me?” Fontaine said, curious despite himself. “A brand doctor?”
“Yeah, somebody that makes a new brand out of the old brand. He’s a gawddamn wizard.”
Shorty Martin walked to the fire. He studied the brand on the gelding’s flank—Bar C—then selected a piece of wire. His hands worked the metal the way a sculptor fashions clay; with a twist here and a curl there, he shaped one end of the wire into a graceful but oddly patterned design. A quick measurement against the old brand apparently satisfied him.
“You gotta pay attention,” Stroud urged. “Shorty works fast once’t he gets started.”
Martin pulled the length of wire, now cherry red, out of the fire. With a critical
eye, he positioned the wire and laid it over the old brand. The smell of burnt hair and scorched flesh filled the air, and an instant later he stepped back, inspecting his handiwork. As if by magic, the original had been transformed into a .
“Ever see the like!” Stroud crowed. “Touch here and a touch there, and we got a Triangle O.”
“Amazing,” Fontaine said, truly impressed. “Mr. Martin is something of an artist.”
Chester’s brow furrowed. “I don’t mean to question his work, Mr. Stroud. But isn’t the burning and the redness something of a tip-off?”
Stroud chuckled. “Keep your eyes peeled, sonny. You’re fixin’ to see why Shorty’s a sure-enough doctor.”
Martin hefted the bucket. He stirred the contents, which appeared thick as axle grease and had the faint odor of liniment. Then he turned to the horse, and with a quick stroke of the dauber he spread a dark, pasty layer across the new brand. The entire operation had taken less than five minutes.
“I’m still at a loss,” Chester said. “What does that do?”
“Shorty’s secret recipe,” Stroud announced. “Heals the brand natural as all get-out in a couple of days. Jesus Christ himself couldn’t tell it’d ever been worked over.”
The gelding was released and choused back into the corral. One of the men roped another horse and led it toward the fire. Fontaine wagged his head.
“I must say, you have it down to a science. Very impressive indeed.”
“Tricks of the trade,” Stroud said. “Stealin’ horses takes a sight of know-how.”
“I’m curious,” Fontaine said in a musing tone. “How do you sell the rebranded horses?”
“You’ll recollect I told you curiosity could get you killed around here.”
“I withdraw the question.”
“No, come to think of it, what’s the difference? You gents are gonna be with us till hell freezes over. It ain’t like you’ll ever be tellin’ anybody.”
“I take your point,” Fontaine said. “We are, in a manner of speaking, residents of Wild Horse Lake.”
“Like I said, you won’t be tellin’ tales out of school.”
Stroud was in an expansive mood. He went on to liken his operation to a thimblerigger’s shell game. Several livestock dealers, spread throughout surrounding states and territories, represented the pea under the pod. Every week or so the gang would conduct a raid into Kansas, Colorado, New Mexico, or Texas. The stolen horses were then trailed back to No Man’s Land, where the brands were altered with Shorty’s magic wire.
The stolen stock, Stroud elaborated, was never sold on home ground. Horses from Kansas were trailed to Colorado and those from Texas to New Mexico. To muddy the waters further, the order of the raids was rotated among the states and territories. Local ranchers were never able to establish any pattern to the random nature of the raids. Yet it was all very methodical, nearly impossible to defend against.
The shell game was played out on many fronts. After being trailed to different locations, never on home ground, the horses were sold by livestock dealers over a widespread area. Usually, there was a mix of altered brands, and to all appearances, the stock had been bought here and there by an itinerant horse trader. In the end, horses stolen in random order were the shells of the game, sold across the breadth of four states. The livestock dealers, the pea under the pod, were known only to Stroud and his gang. Not one had ever been caught selling stolen stock.
“Nothin’s foolproof,” Stroud concluded, “but this here’s mighty damn close. Them horses are scattered to hell and gone, and nobody the wiser.”
Fontaine could hardly argue the point. There was a logistical genius to the operation, which virtually eliminated any chance of being detected. Yet Stroud had revealed the inner workings of the scheme with what amounted to a veiled threat. The Fontaines would never leave Wild Horse Lake. Not alive.
Lillian was watching them from the kitchen window. She and the other women were preparing the noon meal, and she wondered why her father and Stroud were involved in such lengthy discussion. As she turned from the window, she saw that Sally had taken a break, seated at the table with a mug of coffee. She decided now was the time.
“May I speak with you?” she asked, moving to the table. “We haven’t talked about last night and perhaps we should.”
Sally looked at her. “What’s on your mind?”
“Well …” Lillian seated herself. “I wanted to apologize for what happened. I was as surprised as you were.”
“Wasn’t any surprise to me. Rufe never could keep his pecker in his pants.”
“Do you think he’ll try again?”
“Damn sure better not,” Sally said evenly. “If he does, I won’t stop with his balls. I’ll lop his tally-whacker off.”
The term was new to Lillian. She considered a moment and suddenly blushed with understanding. Her mother had always referred to that part of a man’s anatomy as his “dingus.” She mentally committed tally-whacker to her vocabulary.
“You sound unsure,” she said. “Does he really believe you would—you know … do that?”
“Oh, he believes it,” Sally said with a wicked smile. “Trouble is, he’d risk it if he caught you off alone somewhere. He knows you’d never talk.”
“Why on earth wouldn’t I?”
“Did you tell your pa about last night?”
“No … I didn’t.”
“Because you knew he’d get riled and start trouble and Rufe would kill him. That about cover it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, dearie, Rufe figures it the same way.”
Lillian was silent a moment. She glanced quickly at the kitchen area, to make sure they wouldn’t be overheard by the other women. Then, lowering her voice, she took a chance. “Will you help us escape?”
“You’re off your rocker!” Sally said, flummoxed by the very thought. “Why would I do a fool thing like that?”
“You know why we were brought here. It has nothing to do with my father or my brother, or with the fact that we’re entertainers. It has only to do with me.”
“So?”
“So where will it end?” Lillian coaxed her. “Will you kill him when he finally manages to … to rape me? Will you kill me just to remove the temptation?”
“You’re some piece of work. Either I help you escape, or somebody—you, Rufe, maybe even me—winds up dead. That the general idea?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“Wish to hell you’d stayed in Dodge City.”
“So you’ll help us get away?”
Sally sighed wearily. “I’ll think about it … no promises.”
The cabin was cramped. There was a single bunk, wedged into a corner, and wall pegs for hanging clothes. Last night Fontaine had insisted that Lillian take the bunk while he and Chester made do with pallets on the floor. Yet it was their only haven from Stroud and the gang. The one place they could talk in privacy.
By early afternoon all the horses had been doctored with new brands. Stroud, finally tired by a morning of braggadocio on the stratagems of a horse thief, had dismissed Fontaine and Chester. Lillian helped the women clean up in the kitchen following the noon meal and afterward was left to her own devices as well. The family gathered in the relative security of the cabin.
Fontaine related the details of Stroud’s windy discourse on the triumphs of the gang. His tone was one of grudging admiration, and he admitted that the outlaw chieftain had a natural gift for organization. He readily admitted as well that Stroud’s garrulous revelations of how the operation worked had come at a high price. They were, for all practical purposes, consigned to spend the rest of their lives at Wild Horse Lake. Stroud would never release them.
“You should have heard him,” Chester added, looking at Lillian. “He as much as said he was confiding in us because we would never be able to tell anyone. He would kill us before he’d let that happen.”
“Not in those exact words,” Fontaine amended. “He has a clever way of issuin
g a threat without stating it openly. But you are nonetheless correct, Chet. Our lives are at peril.”
“I had the feeling that we were being sworn in as members of the gang.”
“With the proviso, of course, that anyone who betrays the trust signs his own death warrant. I feel sure Mr. Martin would gladly carry out the sentence.”
“Huh!” Chester grunted dismally. “Shorty Martin would kill us just to get this cabin back.”
Fontaine nodded. “I daresay you’re right.”
Lillian listened with growing concern. She desperately wanted to tell them of her conversation with Sally Keogh. But she wondered how to do it without revealing last night’s failed assault by Stroud. She decided to shade the truth.
“We may have an ally,” she said. “I spoke with Sally this morning. She might help us.”
“Oh?” Fontaine inquired. “Help us in what way?”
“To escape.”
Fontaine stared at her, and Chester’s mouth dropped open. A moment elapsed before Fontaine recovered his composure. “Why in God’s name would you ever raise the subject with her? She is Stroud’s woman.”
“That was exactly the reason,” Lillian said with more confidence than she felt. “Sally thinks Stroud is attracted to me and she’s worried. She told me so herself.”
“One moment.” Fontaine stopped her with an upraised palm. “Are you saying she is concerned Stroud would turn her out for you? She would lose his … affections?”
“Yes, Papa, that’s what I’m saying.”
“And she broached the matter with you?”
“Not about the escape,” Lillian said evasively. “She expressed her concern that she might lose Stroud. I suggested the way around that was to help us escape. She promised to think about it.”
“Extraordinary,” Fontaine muttered. “Wouldn’t that rather place her in jeopardy with Stroud?”
“Not unless she’s caught.”
“What if we’re caught?” Chester interjected. “We already know what Stroud would do to us. He’d kill us!”
Fontaine thought that was only partially true. He suspected Stroud would kill Chester and himself without a moment’s hesitation. Lillian, on the other hand, would be spared only to become Stroud’s concubine. But all of that might happen anyway, for he’d seen Stroud’s covetous attitude toward his daughter. He told himself that escape was their only option.