Lanie was softened by his confession. At first, she had seen only the hardness of the man, the sudden violence that had lurked below the seemingly careless demeanor—and had judged him for it. But this made things different. She thought back to what he must have been like when he was a boy—alone, forsaken, cast off; and she sensed that he had never had any security—nor anyone to love him. Without meaning to she leaned forward and put her hand on his. He looked up, startled. “You’ve lost someone,” she said softly, “and so have I, Lobo. You’ve lost your mother, and I’ve lost my sister.”
He was tremendously aware of the touch of her soft hand on his and did not move for a moment. He had known women before, but never one like this one; a rough life had put him in contact with rough people. He was aware that there was a quality in her that had been missing from the other women he had known. Shoving the thoughts of her as a woman out of his mind, he drew his hand back, trying to make their touch seem accidental, and answered, “But I can never get my mother back.”
Lanie was aware of his discomfort, that he had deliberately withdrawn his hand from her touch, so she changed the subject. “You think we’ll find my sister?”
He shook his head. “You never know about things like that.” He put his thoughts in order and finally said, “I feel as if I’m searching for something. I can’t turn around and go back. I know what’s behind me, but I don’t know what’s ahead. I don’t know what it is I’m trying to find.”
“You’ll find that something,” she said.
He listened intently to Lanie’s words and understood them, as well as the unspoken words—the words of kindness written on her face. Gradually he relaxed, and reached up to touch his ear in an absentminded gesture. “Not everything is right or wrong. Lots of things are half right and half wrong,” he observed. “I’ve quit judging people. We’re all in the same wagon, passing through the same scenery, bound for the same place. But every man has a different set of eyes, and that’s the beginning of right and wrong.” He looked at her suddenly and said, “I hate to think of it hurting you—your sister being lost.”
She sat up straight in the chair, startled at the change in him, and what the change did to her. He had become important to her; what he thought of her mattered to her. At first she had seen him as an adversary, but now he was becoming a true friend. He was saying things that might have come straight from her own private thoughts. Quickly, to cover her own feelings, she said, “We’ve both lost something. But we can’t give up, can we?”
He looked at her with a directness in his gaze. His thoughts were fully on her, warm and embracing. “Nothing comes the way you think it should. And the world is deaf and dumb to some of us. Finally you figure you’re just making pictures in water.” He hesitated, then added, “That’s why I like to be around fellas like Wes Stone and Marshal Dawkins, and even Woman Killer. They’ve got something I don’t have. They believe in something, anyhow.”
Very quietly Lanie answered, “You’ll find something, Lobo. I know you will.”
He looked at her, warmed by her words and charmed by the gentleness that he had not known existed in her until the night before. Shrugging, he said only, “We’ll go on. You’re praying you’ll find your sister, and I hope there’s something in it—this prayer business. I’d like to think so anyway.”
She would have answered, but at that moment Lorenzo came back with two mugs of beer, set them down, and grunted, “I weaseled these out of Slim John. Promised to throw him in jail if he didn’t give ’em to me. Now,” he ordered Lobo, “let’s talk about how we’re going to find this man Perrago. I’m gettin’ tired of chasin’ him around all over the country.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
A Change of Mood
To the surprise of Lanie and Wesley, Lobo did not lead them out on the chase the next day. “Why do you suppose he’s giving us a rest?” Stone wondered. “It’s not because he has any tender feelings for us, I don’t think.”
They were sitting in the shade of a small cottonwood tree, seeking relief from the blistering heat of the sun. They had gotten up late, eaten a leisurely breakfast of eggs and bacon, and had been prepared to ride out. But they had discovered that Woman Killer and Lobo had ridden out before dawn. Now, Lanie stared out into the distance where heat devils danced across the desert floor. The land was so flat it was hard to tell where the land met the sky. Absently Lanie commented to Stone, “I don’t know . . . They’re like hunting dogs. Always on a scent. Have you noticed, Wes, that even when we’re riding, their eyes are never still? They’re always looking at trees, or a rock, or something.”
“I suppose that’s a result of always being alert for trouble.”
“I wish they’d come back!” she snapped with exasperation. “I feel useless, just waiting around here.” She bit her lip as she looked toward the barn where they had bedded down the previous night. “Did you see how bad Lorenzo looked? He could hardly eat anything this morning, and then he told me he had to lie down for a while.”
Stone sighed deeply. “He doesn’t need to be doing this kind of thing—he’s too old for it. Besides that, he’s sickly. I wish he’d go on back to Fort Smith. But I don’t guess he will—he’s stubborn, just like Smith.”
The two sat talking companionably for a while, mostly about unimportant things. There was a lull in the conversation, and Lanie glanced at Stone and smiled sadly. “I think you ought to go home too, Wes. This isn’t really your affair, and you’ve done more than you needed to already.” She considered the idea of telling him that she would never marry him; and the intrusive thought surprised her, for she had considered it seriously at one time. Wesley was not flashy or handsome or rich, yet she had always liked him enormously, and thought that someday her feelings might become deeper. But these last few days together had convinced her that he would never be more than a good friend. She wanted to tell him this as gently as she could, and muttered, “I know you’re doing this for me, but—Wes—we—we could never be more than friends.”
To her surprise, Stone grinned cheerfully at her. “I know that,” he answered. “And maybe I’ve known it for a long time.” He sat cross-legged, holding his bony knees, looking more than ever like a craggy, youthful Abraham Lincoln. The planes of his face were angled and sharp. From the struggles and hardships of the last days, his eyes seemed sunken. Wesley Stone was an honest man with others, and even more so with himself. Actually he had known for some time that his chances with Lanie were slim. With determined lightness he continued. “I guess that’s one good thing that’s come out of this trip.”
Lanie was overcome by surprise; she hadn’t anticipated this reaction. “Wh—what do you mean by that?” she asked.
“I mean, I’ve found out just like you that we’re not for each other. Not,” he added hastily, “that you ever had any serious idea of marrying me, but you knew how I felt about you. Or thought I felt about you.” A puzzled look came over his face. “And it took a thing like this to show me that you and I can be good friends, but never anything more.”
Lanie leaned over and patted his hand warmly. “It’s true, isn’t it? But after all, good friends are worth so much! I don’t have all that many of them.”
“We never have many good friends,” Stone mused thoughtfully. “Lots of acquaintances, but not many really good friends. I wish that—” He broke off suddenly and lifted his head, squinting his eyes, gazing across the desert. “Look! I think that’s Smith and Woman Killer coming in!”
They watched the two trails of dust to the north, and eventually Lanie recognized the pair. “Yes, it is! Let’s go see what they’ve been doing.” They rose to their feet, but it was twenty minutes before the men rode in, so deceptive was distance in the clear air of the desert country.
Lobo Smith and Woman Killer were layered with dust, and their mouths were parched, so Lanie got them a pitcher of cool water from the spring house and waited until they had drunk their fill before she asked impatiently, “What did you find out?”
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“Not a thing,” Lobo said in disgust. His lips were cracked with dryness, and he took another deep drink from the long-handled tin cup he held. “Nothing in this world better than water when you’re thirsty,” he grunted, and handed the cup back to Lanie. “Wild goose chase. We’ll have to try something else.”
Woman Killer said, “I go to my people. Might know of Perrago.” His smooth copper skin did not appear to have been affected by the blistering sun; he seemed to not even notice the stifling heat. Turning, he gathered the tired horses and walked toward the stable, the animals barely able to lift one hoof in front of the other.
“Those horses are almost used up,” Stone remarked. “Think I’ll go help Woman Killer give them a good rubdown and some feed.”
He hurried off, leaving Lobo and Lanie alone. “The heat is terrible,” Lanie said. “Let’s go inside. I’ll get Slim John to fix you something to eat.”
“In a minute. I just want to stand on my own two feet for a while.” Lobo stretched his legs, did two or three deep-knee bends, then swung his arms around, loosening the muscles in his shoulders. Looking out across the desert, his single eye almost shut against the brilliant sunlight, he said in a low voice, “He’s out there somewhere. But this is a big place, Lanie.” His thoughts obviously troubled him. “I’m going to take a little walk, get my legs loosened up. Then I’ll be back to get something to eat.” He turned and glanced back at her. “Come on. I’ll show you what I found the other day.”
“All right.” Lanie, anxious to break the monotony of the morning, found herself relishing the invitation. She walked beside him through the scrub sagebrush, broken here and there by a spindly cottonwood struggling to make it in the drought-stricken land. Studying one small, malformed specimen, she broke the silence. “You know, it’s amazing how worthless this land is, isn’t it? Yet men fight over it.”
“Men will fight over almost anything, I guess,” Lobo replied. Silently he led her down a beaten path, and then they passed cottonwoods somewhat taller and stronger than those around the settlement. “Look,” Lobo said, pointing.
Across a small field, Lanie saw an area with about ten or twelve graves. “A cemetery? Here?”
“Burial place for those who didn’t make it.” They walked over and Lobo stooped and stared at a board that rose up out of the dusty ground. He read the crudely carved letters slowly. “Fella’s name was Jedediah Ransom. Died twelve years ago.” The name seemed to hold some fascination for him and he said in a low tone, as if to himself, “His mother was proud of him when he was a baby. He grew up having all kinds of hopes and dreams, just like the rest of us. He probably had a woman who cared for him, loved him, hoped he’d always be there for her. Maybe a son or a daughter . . .” Silently, he reached out and traced the rough lettering with his forefinger. “Here he lies,” he murmured, “and I wonder what it all means to Jedediah Ransom now.”
Lanie could sense a curious streak of mysticism in this hard-looking man. She didn’t know what to say, although she herself had had such thoughts. Gazing around the little cemetery now, the same thoughts and questions rose within her. “Why, I’ve thought about things like that,” she said to Lobo, her eyes traveling over the roughhewn markers dotting the hidden field. “They had their lives, just like we have ours. They left footprints on the earth, their hands worked hard to make a living. And now . . .” She looked down at a grave next to the one where Lobo still knelt. “Somewhere, someone still remembers the touch of these people. But I guess we’ll never know about that.”
She stood motionless, thinking of these things. Then, in a gesture of rebellion, she began to draw her moccasin along the fading edge of the grave to sharpen its outline, and thus postpone its inevitable oblivion. Lobo stood and backed off a step, watching her wordlessly. When she had made the complete rectangle, Lanie looked up at him; he was staring at her, studying her. Laughing in embarrassment, she shrugged and said in a light tone, “I guess there’s something in all of us that makes us want to live longer than we do, isn’t there, Lobo?”
“Some people feel like that.”
“No. All people do. Some just don’t talk about it.”
“You may be right,” he admitted. “Some of the toughest men I’ve ever known were superstitious and afraid of what waits for them on the other side of death. They took life easy enough, but when it came their turn, they went out into the darkness like little kids—afraid.”
The two stood close together, looking down at the grave of Jedediah Ransom. Something else was on his mind, Lanie felt, so she waited quietly. Finally he said, “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about Betsy.”
Instantly she turned to him, hearing the somber tone of his voice. A note of fear sounded in her voice. “What? What is it? What do you want to tell me?”
Lobo had sensed the dread in Lanie, fearing that her sister was dead, that she was beyond help; and he saw that fear in her now. “I don’t think you’re going to be happy, Lanie,” he answered her reluctantly. “Even if we find her.” There was the faintest hint of tension in his body and voice; he didn’t know how to say what he knew he must. Lobo felt awkward; her gaze unnerved him and he shifted nervously. “I think we’ll find her, all right. But you come from a family that’s uh—well off. And your parents, you tell me, are religious people. Well . . .” He searched futilely for words.
“What is it?” she prompted him. “What do you want to tell me, Lobo? Just say it!”
“All right. I know Perrago. He’s used your sister, like he uses all women. That’s what he does. He never loved a woman in his life. To him, they’re something to be used and then thrown aside. And he’ll throw her aside, too, as soon as he gets tired of her.”
For a long time thoughts like this had threaded darkly through Lanie’s mind. But she shook her head and said defiantly, “I don’t care. I don’t care what’s happened, or what she’s done. Betsy’s my sister! And my parents feel the same way. No matter what she’s gone through, we still love her.”
“You may love her,” Lobo said, his eye narrowing, “but what about the way she feels? Do you think she can just walk away from this?” His voice grew full of warning. “When these things happen they leave scars!”
“You’re wrong!” Lanie thrust her hand in front of him, her voice growing loud. “See that scar?” He saw a tiny white scar tracing between the thumb and forefinger of her left hand. “I almost cut that finger off, and it bled, and it hurt, and I cried. Even after it was bandaged it hurt for weeks, and was sensitive for months, even years! But look at it now. Touch it.” Tentatively he held his hand out and she took it, putting his fingers against the scar. “See? It doesn’t even hurt. I know it’s there—I know something happened that day—but the pain is not there anymore. Just the memory. And that’s what it will be when we get Betsy back. We’ll take her home, and take care of her, and love her, and she’ll be all right.”
Lobo’s gaze was full of wonder. “You always think the best, don’t you, Lanie? Well, I’m glad you do, and I hope you always do.” He seemed to be affected by the conversation and abruptly turned from her, saying, “Let’s go talk to Lorenzo. We’ve got to do something besides wander around this desert.”
Late that afternoon, after having disappeared, Woman Killer came around the corner of the General Store with a gleam in his eyes. He immediately walked to Lobo, who was sitting on the front step, staring out across the desert. “I find them.”
Lobo looked up and exclaimed, “Perrago?”
“Uh. My cousin. He comes from the north, Cherokee Nation. He married Cherokee girl. Says he saw Perrago three days ago, close to Grand River.”
“Let’s go tell the others,” Lobo said.
Quickly they called a council of war. They all gathered together and heard what Woman Killer had to say. When he finished, Lobo exclaimed, “Why, I know where that is! I’d forgotten about it! Perrago don’t use it much. But sometimes he goes out and robs a train, then ducks back there. Handy place to hide—and hard
to get at. They can see for miles in every direction. If too big a bunch comes after ’em, they can split up and fade into the hills, then come back together somewhere else.”
“What do you think, Lobo?” Lanie asked eagerly. “Think we might go after them?”
“Yeah. We’ll travel tonight, be much cooler that way.”
Dawkins’ eyes were bright, and he looked much better than he had when they had first arrived at Otumka. “C’mon, let’s get goin’. And let’s be sure we take enough grub this time! We’ll load those mules of ours good. I ain’t intendin’ to go hungry while I’m chasin’ around after that bunch!”
They pulled out shortly before dark, just as the air began to cool, and traveled most of that night. They made camp just before dawn, the horses beginning to tire. They rested there all the morning, then started out again after eating at noon, and traveled hard for the next three days, making quick camps and taking short rests.
Lobo was pleased to see that Lanie and Stone stood the hardship of the journey better than before. “I believe they’re gonna make it,” he remarked to Lorenzo Dawkins as the two trailed them. “They’re doing better than I thought they would.”
“Guess so,” Lorenzo nodded. He took off his hat; a slight breeze lifted his fine white hair. He was tired again and looked more frail than ever, but he was a tough man and rode without complaint. “I wish they weren’t here,” he said, his voice troubled. “Ain’t no place for a woman like that. Or him either, for that matter. They could both get killed. You thought of that?”
“Yeah, I’ve thought of it. But I don’t know what to do about it. That woman’s got more determination than a hungry mule!”
The marshal laughed. “You sure got a way with words! Comparin’ a young lady like that to a mule!”
Lobo turned slightly in the saddle to search Dawkins’ face. “What do you think of her? Lanie, I mean?”
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