“Well, I think he’s nice looking,” Lanie declared.
“So are wolves. Especially when they’re in motion. But I don’t think loyalty is their best quality.”
“You think Smith is untrustworthy?”
“I think we don’t know anything about him,” Wesley replied. “Even the judge doesn’t. I know I’m going to watch him every minute, even though I don’t know what I could do if he got out of line. Hit him over the head with a stick, I guess, while he’s asleep.”
“Oh, stop talking like that, Wes,” Lanie said with amusement. She was excited about going into action; adventure always seemed to animate her. She was not good at waiting around idly. Once things started to happen, she was ready to move. Now she said impatiently, “Come on, let’s go. And we certainly will get some comfortable walking shoes this time!”
“I don’t expect we’ll be walking much, not with that bunch,” Wesley said. “Maybe getting a soft pillow for the saddle would be a good idea.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Wolves Don’t Have Rules
The skies were still gray when Lanie and Stone came out of the hotel and met with the three men, who were already mounted. Lanie looked at them and whispered to Wesley, “They’ve got enough guns to take on a regiment, haven’t they?”
Both of the white men were wearing gun belts. Lobo Smith had a .44 with a cedar handle, while Lorenzo sported a pair of white-handled pistols. Lanie noticed that Lobo’s gun belt was not fancy—only a plain, narrow belt with no cartridge loops. She wondered where he carried his bullets. She saw also that he had a dirk knife, and that he as well as Dawkins had saddle rifles and two more revolvers in saddle scabbards at their thighs. They were huge pistols, big enough to knock down a bear.
The Indian, Woman Killer, had the biggest rifle Lanie had ever seen. “That’s a Sharp rifle,” Marshal Dawkins said, seeing her staring at it. “It’d kill a buffalo nearly a mile away.”
“Let’s hope we don’t get jumped by buffaloes,” Lobo remarked dryly. “Are you ready to go?”
Lanie wanted to ask why they couldn’t start at a reasonable hour but knew that was no way to begin the trip. “Of course,” she said shortly. She marched to the horse Woman Killer was holding and mounted awkwardly. She wished now that she had spent the number of hours riding that Betsy had; she was aware that she looked out of place. There was some satisfaction in noting that Wesley had done little better.
When the two of them were settled in their saddles, Smith turned without a word and led them down the silent streets—Smith and Dawkins first, Wesley and Lanie following. Woman Killer, leading a pack mule, brought up the rear.
None of them talked as they left town. Lanie was upset with Lobo Smith, who had disappeared the whole previous day. She had expected to have a talk with him and lay out their strategy, but at breakfast Dawkins had simply said, “Lobo’s scoutin’ around, looking for some kind of trail.”
“When will he be back?” Lanie had demanded.
Dawkins looked amused. “When he gets here, I reckon, Missie.”
As they rode along, Lanie mulled over the events of the day before. It had been after supper when Lobo appeared. Lanie and Wesley were sitting on the front porch of the hotel, watching the sun go down, when suddenly he seemed to materialize from nowhere. Lanie was startled and still unhappy over what she considered his irresponsibility. “Well, we’ve been waiting for you!” she snapped.
Lobo smiled lazily. He was wearing jeans and a deerskin shirt, like a mountain man’s, with fringes. He also wore something she had not seen before on a cowboy—a pair of Indian moccasins. All riders, it seemed, wore high-heeled boots with big rowels. That’s why we didn’t hear him, she thought.
He wore a black low-crowned hat held by a leather thong. “Picked up something,” he told her, shoving his hat back, his voice soft on the evening air.
“What is it?” Lanie demanded.
“Got word that Perrago might be in Eureka Springs. We’ll have a look there before we head out into the Territory.”
“Where’s Eureka Springs?” Wesley asked.
“Few miles north of here. We could take the railroad, but then we wouldn’t have any horses. So be ready before sunup.” He gave Lanie a cursory nod, then disappeared into the gathering darkness of the street.
****
Unknown to Lanie, Lobo had left to see Dawkins at the boardinghouse where he stayed. “Got a sniff of our man,” Lobo had said, leaning back. “Ran into Pete Summons. He said that Perrago was at Eureka Springs not long ago.”
“He’s probably not there now,” Dawkins observed.
A half smile touched Lobo’s lips and he agreed. “You’re probably right. But it’ll be a good little ride, enough to break those two in. They’re not ready for the Territory yet, Lorenzo.”
“Got to say you’re right about that,” Dawkins said. “I don’t know what that girl thinks she can do. She ain’t gonna talk Perrago out of a thing he don’t want to do.”
The two men discussed the situation for a while, then Lobo excused himself. He went to his room, dropped into bed, and slept soundly.
****
Leaving Fort Smith, the party crossed the Arkansas River on a ferry, then followed the foothills of the Cookson Mountains for most of the day. These were really just hills, rising slightly to the west, like the backs of turtles. The ride was pleasant enough, though Lanie became tired by afternoon. She would rather have died than show it, though, and finally when they made camp that night, she forced herself to stay up, just to show the men that she was not going to be a handicap on this trip.
Just after noon as they crested a small hill, a buck had burst out of a thicket. Lanie was behind Lobo, watching him, and saw what happened. For most of the ride Lobo had been lounging in the saddle, seemingly half asleep. But the moment the buck showed, Lobo whipped out his pistol and got off one shot. The buck leaped into the air, then fell to the ground kicking.
“Not a bad shot, Lobo,” Dawkins had observed.
Lobo grinned. “Yeah. Deer don’t shoot back at you. They don’t make a fellow so nervous.”
He skinned and butchered the deer quickly and efficiently. Lobo had elected himself cook. They thoroughly enjoyed the steaks broiled over the campfire. Lorenzo pulled out some cans of peaches and passed them around. They fished the sweet fruit out with their fingers, then drank the juice from the cans. Afterward they sat around the fire, listening to the muted sounds of the night.
Lanie wondered when they would talk about Perrago and their plans to catch him. But Lobo sat motionless, silently staring into the fire as if he saw something in it that the others couldn’t.
Wesley began to talk with Dawkins about religion in general, and the conversation wandered to specifics about the frontier. “What about the Indians?” Wesley asked. “The missionaries have been coming here for quite a while, haven’t they? Are there many Christian Indians?”
“Ask Woman Killer there,” Dawkins answered, indicating the Indian with his head. He groomed his mustache and went on. “All I know is, them missionaries ain’t done much good. The Indians get shifted around so much by the government that the missionaries can hardly find ’em, much less catch up with ’em. Ain’t that right, Woman Killer?”
Woman Killer’s eyes were expressionless and obsidian, glinting as they reflected the flames of the small fire. “Missionaries good,” he said assertively. “I go to missionary school, find Jesus God.”
That was the extent of the Indian’s testimony. But Wesley wanted to know more about Lorenzo’s faith. “What’s your theology, Lorenzo?” he inquired seriously.
Lorenzo Dawkins pulled out a pipe, filled it, lit it with deliberation, and got it glowing heartily before he finally answered. “Well, I ain’t got none, I reckon. I’ve led a pretty rough life. Rode with Quantrill back during the war. That’s enough to send a man to perdition, if you get my meanin’. Some of the things I did I don’t like to think about.” He stared blankly into the fire for a fe
w moments, then roused himself and took a long draw on the pipe. “But,” he said, sending a small cloud of purple smoke upward, “the good Lord’s forgiven me for all that.” He considered the question again and finished succinctly, “And theology. Well, all I know is I was in a mess, and God sent Jesus to straighten it up.”
Lanie was listening to Stone and the others, but she watched Smith. He took no part in any of it, giving the impression that he didn’t even hear it, but at Dawkins’ last sentence Smith looked across at the marshal. He didn’t exactly smile at him, but his expression was one of warmth and approval. Lanie saw that he had a great respect for the older man, and wondered about Lobo’s own beliefs.
Stone and Lorenzo Dawkins talked for a long time, mostly about the efforts to Christianize the Indians. Woman Killer did not join in the conversation, but his stony black eyes rested on each speaker in turn, unblinking and intent.
After a while, Lobo stretched indolently, reminding Lanie of her cat, and said in his particular way, “Better get some sleep. Long ride into Eureka Springs tomorrow.” He rose and walked outside the camp, disappearing into the darkness.
“Where’s he going?” Stone asked in surprise.
Lorenzo watched him go and answered, “I don’t know if that man ever sleeps. He’s just like a cat at night.” Lanie smiled at Lorenzo’s words. Dawkins continued. “You know how cats are. They take little naps all day long, but at night they’re out, ready to find any trouble roamin’ around. That’s the way he is—Lobo.”
“Any danger of Indians attacking us here?” Lanie asked nervously.
“Missie, there’s always that danger. Never can tell what an Indian will do. Ain’t that right, Woman Killer?”
Woman Killer nodded solemnly. “Yes. Especially Kiowa. Bad. No good Kiowas.”
Lanie had to smile at the Indian. “You’re a racist, are you, Woman Killer?”
She felt his steady, expressionless gaze on her as she spoke. Suddenly she was too tired to continue the discussion and didn’t want to offend the stone-faced Indian, so she quickly excused herself. She found her blankets and eased her aching bones into their welcoming comforts; almost at once she was asleep.
The next afternoon they arrived at Eureka Springs and found it packed with tourists. This was like no town Lanie had ever seen before. The hardwood foliage in the town was like a jungle, and up through the leaves of the trees she could see the slopes on which the town was built. There were fine Victorian houses and hotels. The streets were so narrow and winding that two wagons could barely pass. And all along the sidewalks were stone benches that pedestrians could rest on before climbing up to Hotel Row. Here they could sit and admire the spectacle of houses built almost on top of one another up the shoulders of all the surrounding hills.
“I’ll drift around,” Lobo said. “See what I can find out. Lorenzo, why don’t you go down to the courthouse and check out any of the marshals. Maybe they know something about Perrago.”
“What’ll we do?” Lanie asked.
“Guess you might as well get yourself a room, Miss Winslow,” he replied easily. “Not much you can do along this line. You and Mr. Stone there get some rest. I’ll come for you when it’s time to leave.”
Actually, Lanie was relieved. The two days’ ride had drained her, and her legs and thighs were so sore she could hardly walk. “We’ll be ready when you are,” she said defiantly, locking her eyes into the gaze of Lobo Smith.
She and Wesley found two rooms in one of the hotels, and it was a real pleasure to take a regular bath. Lanie soaked in the hot water for almost an hour. Getting out reluctantly, she dried off and put on the one nightgown she had brought for the trip, then crawled into bed. The clean, crisp sheets were wonderful, and she relaxed with a sigh, glad for the big window that allowed a cool, fragrant breeze to come into the room and made the summer heat bearable.
She lay in the bed, thinking about Betsy and the family at home. Lanie was not a girl who had doubts about herself; she had little reason to. She had been successful at just about everything she had set out to do. But she knew that this was something altogether different—the success of this venture wasn’t entirely in Lanie’s hands. She drifted off gently, but no sooner had she settled into a deep sleep than there was a loud knock on her door.
“Who is it? What—What is it?” she cried, sitting bolt upright in the bed, eyes staring. The room had grown dark, lit only by the bright moon shining through the open window.
“It’s me. Lobo.”
“Just a minute!” Lanie jumped out of bed and realized she hadn’t brought a robe. She walked to the door, unlocked it, and pulled it open just a crack, hiding behind it.
Outside the door, Lobo Smith stood leaning against the wall with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, excitement gleaming in his good eye. “Get ready, we’re pulling out,” he said cheerfully.
“Pulling out! What do you mean, pulling out? I just got to bed!” Lanie wailed.
Lobo grinned at her. For the first time, it was a full grin, and it made him look much younger, almost boyish. The dim light of the corridor threw his face into blue-gray shadows. “Well, might be best,” he said with a hint of mischief in his voice. “You and Mr. Stone stay here while Dawkins, Woman Killer, and me go run this fellow down.”
Lanie lifted her face haughtily. He’s always trying to make me look weak and helpless! she thought. “I’ll be right down,” she said stiffly, slamming the door. Hurriedly she threw on her clothes, grabbed her things, and ran down the steps in a flash. Her eyes were still gritty with sleep, and she knew it would be all she could do to hang on to the saddle for the night ride. But Lanie was on a rampage and there was nothing that could stop her, especially an outlaw seemingly set on exposing any weakness.
Downstairs, she found the four men waiting outside with the horses. “Where are we going?” she demanded.
Lobo answered in a straightforward tone, “Been a train robbery. From what I hear, might have been Perrago.”
“Where was this?” Stone asked grumpily. He had been roused by Woman Killer from a sound sleep and was bad-natured for once. “I don’t see that it’s going to do us any good to go rambling around these mountains in the middle of the night.”
“Be quiet, Wesley,” Lanie commanded. She looked over at Lorenzo Dawkins and asked, “Where did the robbery take place?” She deliberately ignored Lobo, which for some reason amused Woman Killer, who was observing the scene from his large bony gray horse.
“Somewheres close to Muskogee,” Dawkins informed her. “The Arkansas Valley runs through there. ’Course, it mighta not been Perrago, but from what we was able to pick up, it’s a good bet.”
“How far is it?” Lanie asked intently.
“Oh, ’bout two whoops and a holler,” Dawkins chuckled, but then saw that his humor was not appreciated, and went on, “Well, we gotta ride over to the Boston Mountains. We can either ride through the middle of them or swing up north and go around them. Or south, all the way back to the railroad.” He squinted into the darkness for a moment. “I expect we’d better get there quick as we can.”
Lanie swung into the saddle and felt her muscles protesting, but she kept all signs of pain off her face. “Well, let’s go then! What are we waiting for?” She looked up at Lobo rebelliously. “You won’t have to slow down for me!”
Lobo nodded. “That’s good to know, Miss Winslow.” He mounted, turned his horse, and left town at a hard gallop.
“You shouldn’t have told him that,” Wesley chided her as the two spurred their horses to catch up. “I would have asked him to take it easy. I’m about to fall out of the saddle. Don’t those three ever rest?”
“Hush, Wes,” Lanie retorted. “Hurting a little you are, that’s all.” In her tired state the Welsh strain of her mother’s speech flowed unbidden. Then she added, “Oh, devil throw smoke! I could shoot that man sometimes!”
“Who?” Wesley asked in confusion.
“Lobo Smith. Him!” She did not amplify h
er remark for some time, but finally she said, “He thinks I’m worthless. But I’m going to show him how wrong he is!”
Later that night they stopped for a break and a drink of water at a cool mountain stream. Lanie found herself almost unable to get off the horse. She staggered when her feet hit the ground, her legs numb. As she was about to crumble, she felt a steely hand catch her arm. Turning around she saw that it was Smith, who remarked smugly, “Long ride for someone not used to being on horseback.”
Yanking her arm away petulantly, she said, “Don’t worry about me. I’m all right.” He did not answer, but she could see that her remark amused him, and it drove her to again challenge him. “I don’t see why we have to ride all night. We could at least be a little—a little . . .” She could not think of a word and finally finished lamely, “civilized about all this! After all, there are rules!”
Lobo stood silently for what seemed to Lanie a very long time. He was a lean, strong silhouette in the darkness. He seemed to be listening to something far off in the deep woods of the mountains that rose up darkly in front of them. All Lanie could hear was the gurgling of the small stream and somewhere far off the dim cry of a night bird. After a while, he looked directly at her and said softly, “Wolves don’t have rules, Miss Winslow.” There was a softness in his voice that conflicted with the roughness of his statement, and Lanie realized again that she knew nothing about this man. Fear ran through her as she thought of the danger that lay ahead—but she could not stop now.
“All right,” she said evenly, her eyes fixed on his. “We’ll do what we have to do.”
CHAPTER NINE
“I’m Not Anybody’s Woman!”
The Gallant Outlaw Page 10