“This is the best day in my whole life,” Leo gasped.
The Kid looked at his friend in rueful amusement. He knew what Leo meant. He had been reprieved from having to shoot the Coyote Kid like he was a lame horse.
Beth held out the bandages. “Let’s put these back on, Bobby. I’m sure it will be better if they have a little more time to heal. Remember what the doctor said.”
The Kid submitted. He was satisfied that he would not be blinded for life. And now for first time he had seen her. She was not beautiful, but she was nice-looking. When he held her again, he would remember what she looked like. He was so full of gratitude that he forgot about the news that Leo had brought.
12
John Wesley was relieved to see the sign indicating the sheriff’s office. Long before then, he had grown weary of the three criminals. They were a surly crew, and it had been a strain to keep them in line around Mrs. Arnold.
“Well, what have we here?” a tall, lean man wearing a badge asked.
“Whiskey dealers,” John said as he dismounted. He noted the quick frown the lawman cast at Mrs. Arnold. “Do you know Mrs. Arnold, Sheriff?”
“She looks familiar.” The sheriff turned and bent his frown on John. “Who are you?”
“John Wesley Michaels, an officer of the court.”
“Federal?”
“No, sir. Territorial court. I have three John Doe warrants and evidence for you.”
“Territorial law?” The man’s words echoed with suspicion. John hesitated to show the man his badge. The major had warned him that local law enforcers did not take kindly to anyone infringing on their jurisdiction. “I believe we work on the same side of the law?” John challenged the man.
The sheriff studied him for a moment, then seemed to reach a decision. “Sure we do. I’m Sheriff Rogers, and I’m glad to see someone run those three down. You did Apache County a real service. I’ve been trying to get the goods on Gar there for years.” He motioned to the prisoners. “Get on inside the jail,” he ordered.
John nodded to Dolly where she sat on horseback, then he followed the sheriff inside the jail. In the office, he handed Rogers the three warrants and the bottles of whiskey.
“These are my deputies, Neal and Teddy.” The sheriff indicated the two young men in the room. “We’ll get your handcuffs off the prisoners, and you can come back tomorrow and fill out the arrest papers on them. I’ll sure you’re tired.”
John dismissed the man’s concern and remained silent as the two deputies eagerly used his key to unlock the handcuffs. Then they shoved the whiskey peddlers down the hall to the cell.
“They’ll still be here when the judge comes,” the sheriff assured him.
“Fine. One more thing, Sheriff.” John had started for the door, but he stopped and turned back. “Do you know the Coyote Kid?”
“No, I’m afraid I wouldn’t know him on sight. He’s the one who allegedly shot Mrs. Arnold’s boy, right?”
“Not allegedly, Sheriff. A couple of weeks ago he and his partner were headed south and bought whiskey from those peddlers.” John watched the sheriff’s face intently. There was something suspect about the sheriff’s quick change from anger to cooperation. Sheriff Rogers was, no doubt, a fair-wind man, and right now he had shrewdly guessed that the wind was blowing John Wesley’s way.
“No, he hasn’t been here, or I’m sure I would have heard about it. Now, Mr. Michaels, if you don’t mind I have an important appointment to keep. You will be back in the morning, won’t you?”
John Wesley knew he was being dismissed, but as it suited his own purposes at the moment, he let it pass. Nodding to the sheriff, he picked up his handcuffs from the desk, then walked quickly out of the office.
“Well, did he take them?” Dolly asked skeptically when he reached her side.
He raised a brow in surprise at her irritated tone. “Of course.” He put the manacles back in his saddlebag, shaking his head in wonder at the way the woman’s mood fluctuated.
“Well, I was beginning to wonder if—” She broke off abruptly as the sheriff came sauntering out on the porch.
“Afternoon, ma’am,” he said with a hint of amused laughter in his voice. He nodded at John Wesley. “You folks have a good night.”
John slapped down the flap of the saddlebag, his teeth clamped in a tight line. He looked over the horse and glared at the sheriff’s back as he strode down the boardwalk. There had been such a wealth of insinuation in the sheriff’s parting words that John had to fight hard not to scramble up on the porch and knock the man’s teeth loose. He hoped Mrs. Arnold had not noticed Roger’s meaningful look. He turned to her, keeping his anger well hidden. “Do you want to sleep in a hotel?”
“No, they cost money. We crossed a small stream earlier that would make a good campsite.” Her voice was grim, her eyebrows furrowed.
“Why are you angry?” he asked under his breath.
She still glared when she turned to look at him. “That stupid man acted as though you had a disease. You’re both lawmen; so why did he act like he didn’t want to take your prisoners?” She continued without giving him a chance to reply. “I hate that kind of a man. You’re the one who captured those outlaws. He should have been grateful, but he acted as though you were the criminal.”
He sighed as he mounted Jacob. She was right, of course, but he wasn’t greatly concerned about the lawman’s manner toward him. He was more relieved that Mrs. Arnold had not noticed the lawman’s knowing grin.
“It doesn’t matter, Mrs. Arnold. Let’s move on.” He also noticed the shocked stares the two of them drew from some of the town women as they rode up the street. Oblivious to their looks, Mrs. Arnold still acted upset on his behalf. The major warned him local sheriffs were liable to resent any intrusion in their business. Turning over the whiskey makers had been a good example. He planned to write a complete report to the major and do the paperwork for the prisoners at the jail in the morning. He also wanted an opportunity to do some checking around town to see if anyone had seen anything of the Coyote Kid.
At the small stream, Dolly was undecided just where to stop, and didn’t feel like asking the silent man riding behind her. Irritated by her own indecision, she jutted out her chin and set the mare westward on a cowpath that parallelled the stream. She led Thomas behind her. He had become a docile, well-trained beast of burden ready to go wherever she led him.
“Is this a good place?” she asked defensively as she turned in the saddle to look at John. The water looked deep enough in the small clear stream, and would be perfect for her own intentions. Every bone and muscle in her body cried for release. The odious smell of horse and perspiration saturated her pores. Several times on the trip, she had considered changing into a dress, but she had not wanted to cause more ribald comments from the whiskey peddlers than they had come up with on their own. At the moment, she rebelled at the idea of changing when her skin felt so gritty.
“This is fine. I’ll put up the horses this time,” he said, gathering the reins in his hand.
“I want my bedroll.” She busied herself undoing the leather ties.
He frowned in puzzlement; it was still an hour until dark. “Your bedroll?”
“Yes. After I build a fire I intend to take a bath and I’ll need something to wrap around me.” She stared at his face defiantly. Perhaps he was shocked at her words, but it should come as no news to him that women, as well as men, took baths.
“Why do you need a fire?” he asked in genuine curiosity.
She closed her eyes and summoned up patience. He certainly did not know very much about women. Although she admitted grudgingly that he did not seemed shocked by the idea of her bathing. “I will want to sit by the fire to get warm after I’ve bathed. And I may even wash my hair. If you want to change, I’ll wash your clothes, as well.”
“Mine?”
“Well,”, she retorted dryly, “I don’t intend to wash you.”
He grunted as his face heated be
neath the layer of dust. “I was not suggesting anything of the kind, Mrs. Arnold.”
“My name is Dolly. We’ve been riding together for five days. Call me Dolly!”
“Is that your real name?” He took a good look at her. Somehow the name Dolly did not seem to suit her.
“My real name? No, but I don’t use my Christian name.”
“Which is?” he persisted in a calm voice.
A smile lifted her chapped lips. “It’s Zinnia, like the flower.” She frowned in mock fierceness. “But if you ever call me that, I’ll shoot you.”
“Zinnia?” he echoed in wonder.
“Don’t you dare laugh!”
He drew in his cheeks to keep from laughing at her glaring eyes. Hastily he looked away and changed the subject. “Mrs. Arnold, I’ll change my clothes, but I can wash them myself.”
“And will you bathe?”
“I suppose.” The idea was not unappealing, but the lack of privacy bothered him more.
“There are plenty of places to take one.” She pointed toward the stream. “That is my bathtub. When I’m finished, you can use it.”
“Mrs. Arnold, I’m quite certain I can find my own bathing spot.” He closed his eyes; for sheer tenacity this woman took the prize.
After supper, she bathed in the clear water. It was dark, but she didn’t mind the enveloping twilight. The soap from her saddlebags and the soft water of the stream eased away the dirt and aches on her skin. All the chafed and sore spots were soothed by the cool water. Running her hands over her body, she discovered strong muscles had already begun to replace the soft ones. Being a housewife was a lot different from riding astride a horse.
She dried herself briskly, causing her skin to tingle. Then she wrapped the blanket around her and tiptoed over the coarse ground to the fire. When she had warmed away the goose bumps, she quickly donned a dress. Then, gathering up her dirty clothes, she went back to the stream.
“All right if I wash my clothes here, too?” Micheals asked quietly as he squatted beside her.
“Yes.” She watched warily as he plunged his clothes into the water.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Arnold. This is not a new chore to me,” he said with a note of humor.
She shrugged and continued rubbing the dirt from her jeans. “John Wesley,” she asked thoughtfully, “where will we go next?”
“South. Fort Apache. Maybe the Kid headed in that direction. We can only follow our noses until we find a solid clue of some kind. You know there are people who might hide him?”
“Hide him?”
“Yes. It might be difficult for you to understand. But the Kid is some sort of a paid vigilante. He works for ranchers and shoots rustlers and thieves. Actually, as far as we know, he rarely shoots innocent people. Except your son,” he finished quietly.
Her hands tightened in the wet folds of her clothes. She wasn’t ready to talk about Josh: “But he shot Manuel for no apparent reason. Why?”
“I don’t know. I’ve heard stories that when he’s drunk, he indiscriminately shoots Mexicans and screams, ‘You bloody vaqueros, you killed him.’”
“But what does that mean?”
He wrung out his clothes then doused them in the water again as he related to her what he knew of the Kid. “The Coyote Kid is real, but he’s a legend, too.”
She waited for him to continue, but there was only the sound of the water squashing in and out of his clothes. “Here, give me the clothes. You tell me about the Coyote Kid and I’ll wash them.”
He nodded in agreement, sat back on his heels and looked up at the rising moon. “The Kid once worked for a rancher in New Mexico. This man never wore a gun. Seems a Texan along with his Mexican cowboys drove a big herd north to graze this rancher’s range. The rancher met them unarmed and was shot down. They missed the Kid somehow and rumors have it that later he killed all of them. He scattered their cattle, and when he attacked the vaqueros he howled like a coyote.”
“What did he do next?”
“Oh, I’ve heard several different stories. Some say he continued to shoot rustlers and stage robbers for a price. Ironically, the only time he was in jail was under a murder charge later dismissed as self-defense. Word is he was framed over an honest gunfight. They say that when he was let out of jail, he had a gun in his boot. Obviously supplied by someone on the outside.”
“You make him sound like a hero,” she said, seeming put out at the notion.
“I consider him a killer. But I’m afraid the Kid is a part of the disease called ‘vigilante violence’ that grips the West. When the law fails, then people write their own rules. And they hire men like the Kid. So many ranchers and even politicians owe him favors. Do you see what we’re up against?”
“What does all this mean?”
“I just wanted you to know he has several friends who may hide and help him.” He paused, ran his front teeth over his lower lip and stared at a bright star. How many of these people would aid the Kid, he had no idea. Then he continued. “Tomorrow we ride back to Snowflake and fill out an arrest report. I’ll write the major and then we’ll ride south. We’ll find the Kid.”
She digested the news slowly as she carried the wet clothes to some willow branches. “Sometimes I wonder if we will catch him,” she said tiredly.
He blinked, taken aback by her words. It was the first time he had heard her sound despondent. “Do you want to go back?” he asked quietly.
She ground her teeth in irritation. “There you go, Mr. Michaels,” she said, regretting her momentary lapse into feminine weakness. “No, I do not want to go back. I won’t go back, not until … not until we’ve arrested the Kid.” She felt tired and depressed and angered by his attitude. After all they had been through, he still did not take her seriously. He was ready to send her back without so much as a thank-you.
Glaring at his shadowed face in the starlight, she swept up her blanket and stalked back to the fire. Tomorrow, she vowed, she would poison him. Even the thought of snakes lurking around the camp did not dissolve her anger at the hardheaded marshal. Adjusting the blanket over her shoulders, she wrapped it tightly around her. The star-sprayed sky held her gaze, while she wondered what to do next. It was a long time before she finally lay down in her bedroll and sleep claimed her.
The following morning she boiled some mush and sprinkled brown sugar on it. They ate the meager breakfast in silence. As they sipped their second cup of coffee he finally spoke. “Tell me something.”
“What’s that?” she asked guardedly.
“Tell me how I’m supposed to write to the major concerning your presence. He’s never going to believe that a woman helped one of his marshals round up a gang of whiskey peddlers, or that she rides with that marshal as a sort of assistant.” He looked at her as if thoroughly amused by his dilemma.
She wrinkled her nose at his unfamiliar smile.
“Well,” she began, “‘Mrs. Arnold’ sounds like someone old enough to be your mother or grandma. Just write in such a way that he doesn’t learn the truth from that snippy sheriff. You don’t have to tell your major everything. Besides, if you refer to me as the motherly Mrs. Arnold, it wouldn’t be a lie, would it?”
He sat in silence for a moment, pondering the matter. Somehow he must handle it. Then he prepared to ask her something that had nothing to do with the subject at hand, a serious matter that kept bobbing into his thoughts. Maybe her womanly intuition would answer the question for both of them.
“Why don’t you trust Sheriff Rogers?”
She shrugged and gestured helplessly with her hand. “I just don’t trust him.”
It was strange that her words so bluntly echoed his exact thoughts about Rogers. John rose and threw the remains of his coffee on the dry ground.
“Well, would you like to wait here for me today? If I don’t learn anything in Snowflake about the Kid, we’ll head south and look for him. In the meantime, you could rest up for the long ride ahead.”
The idea of spending
a leisurely half-day out of the saddle certainly held appeal. Slowly she nodded, then looked up at him with genuine concern. “John, please be careful in town. That Sheriff Rogers is an odd turned man; he worries me.”
He opened his mouth to agree, then clamped it tight. He was not going to give her another reason to get angry on his behalf and he did not want her worrying. He strode off to his horse, contemplating meeting Rogers again.
Actually, the man was about what he had expected. He was a politician and businessman with a thousand square miles in Apache County to control, and only a handful of young deputies to back him up. No doubt he passed out deputy badges in the towns across the county to his political cronies. Some town councils made their own selection for municipal law, but most appointments were made by the sheriff.
It was still early in the morning when John reached Snowflake. He dismounted in front of the office-jail and hitched Jacob to the rack, noting the young deputy who came through the open doorway.
“Howdy, Mr. Michaels.”
John made a quick survey of the empty street. “Good morning. Is Sheriff Rogers around this morning?”
The deputy answered with a laughing shake of his head. “Sheriff doesn’t get up this early. My name’s Neal Tobin. Oh, don’t worry, Mr. Michaels, those whiskey peddlers are still here.” He stepped aside for John to enter the office.
“I sure hope so. Those three are tough outlaws,” John said. The fact had not escaped his attention that those whiskey peddlers were the calculating type of ruthless outlaws that were ruining the West. They reminded him of diamondback rattlers, dangerous within striking distance. Even the youngest of the gang was a threat. All he lacked was experience to be equal to the leader, Gar.
“They’re in the cell back there, if you want to check, mister.”
John declined the offer. “I don’t need to see them, but I do need to fill out the arrest report so the circuit judge will have all the details when he gets here.”
Servant of the Law Page 17