The Gallant Outlaw

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Good-looking woman. Stubborn, though,” Lorenzo replied.

  “Always liked a woman with grit in her,” Lobo remarked, laughing.

  They rode hard all that day, and the next day Lobo sent Woman Killer ahead to scout. The Indian left at three o’clock while the others made camp.

  Darkness fell as they were finishing their evening meal, and Lobo lifted his head. “Somebody coming,” he said in a low voice, rising to his feet. Picking up his Winchester, he moved over to a large rock, listening carefully. The others didn’t hear a sound, but after a moment he lowered the rifle and said, “Woman Killer.”

  The Indian rode in, excitement lighting his smooth face. “Found ’em!”

  “You saw him? Perrago?” Lobo asked.

  “No. Perrago not there. But the black-haired woman is there—and Mateo.”

  “It’s them, then,” Lobo said tonelessly.

  Lanie was watching Lobo as he spoke and noticed that his face changed at the mention of the woman. “A woman?” Lanie asked curiously.

  “Yes,” Woman Killer nodded. “Name is Angela.”

  “Angela Montoya,” Lobo added. “It’s them, for sure.”

  “Only two men and two women,” Woman Killer told them.

  “You saw another woman? Did you—could you see her?” Lanie asked anxiously.

  “Yes. Small woman with red hair.”

  “It’s Betsy!” Lanie cried. “We’ve found them!”

  Dawkins was excited. “Found ’em at the right time, too! If there’s only two men there, the rest of ’em must be out on some kind of a raid. What do you think, Lobo?”

  “Sounds good,” Lobo agreed. “We’ll take ’em in the morning. Or maybe tonight would be better, catch ’em off guard,” he added thoughtfully.

  “I’d say morning,” Dawkins argued. “You get to shootin’ in the dark, no tellin’ who could get hurt. Tomorrow we can get there, surround that cabin at daylight. Soon as the men come out, I’ll take one and you take the other. With only two, we can kill them first thing and they won’t be causin’ us no trouble.”

  His words sent an icy chill through Lanie. Wesley Stone’s jaw dropped. “K-kill them? Without warning?” he stuttered.

  Dawkins stared at him in surprise. “Why, you didn’t think we’d get that little lady back without shootin’, did you?”

  “Well, uh, no, I guess I didn’t,” Stone stumbled, “but we need to give some warning, don’t we? Give them a fair chance?”

  “You’re thinking like a man that works in an office,” Dawkins said grimly, and spat on the ground. “Don’t you understand? We let ’em know we’re there, one of ’em grabs her, puts a pistol to her head and threatens to kill her if we don’t leave. And they’d do it, too, any one of ’em. They don’t think any more of takin’ a human life than you’d think of takin’ a drink of water!” He took a deep breath and spoke in a gentler tone, “I know it sounds rough to you two. But out here it’s different. These men—you just have to treat ’em like wild animals. If you want your sister back, Miss Lanie, that’ll be the best way.”

  Lanie was troubled, and she exchanged distraught glances with Wesley Stone. The two of them knew they were out of their element, but Lanie could not quite bring herself to face what Dawkins and Lobo were planning. “Maybe we can think of another way,” she said quickly. “Let’s wait until the morning.”

  That ended the conversation. The group gathered around the fire as Woman Killer ate his late meal. Lobo took guard duty; Woman Killer would take the next watch, followed by Lorenzo Dawkins. The old man seemed to be strengthened and invigorated by the thought of action.

  But that night, as everyone else lay asleep, Lanie stared blindly into the darkness, troubled in spirit. Finally she got up and looked around at the still forms lying on the ground. The fire cast a feeble glow in the immense darkness of the open country. Moving off about thirty yards from the fire, she stood gazing at the moon and the stars. It was a brightly lit night and she could see the shadows of the hills over to her right. For a long time she stood motionless, thinking about what was to come.

  To her left, Lanie heard the sound of a twig snapping, and she whirled quickly. At the same time Lobo’s voice came softly, “Lanie?” He had been walking around the camp, as was his custom, and she released a sigh of relief. He came closer, the silvery moonlight washing over his face. He had put aside his hat, and his hair looked crisp and curly as he moved closer to her. “You all right?” he asked.

  Lanie answered, “I’m worried about tomorrow.”

  “I knew you would be. But Dawkins is right. The important thing is to get Betsy out of there. And if you give those men one chance, they’ll kill her, Lanie.”

  There was a heavy stillness in the air as Lanie stared into his face, wanting comfort. In the bright moonlight he looked younger; Lanie noticed distractedly how his neck joined into his smoothly muscled shoulders. He was strong, and she found that strength comforting, and yet it was that strength that would kill, she knew.

  “I—I just can’t think straight,” she whispered. “It goes against everything I’ve ever thought of.”

  “I know.” He stood silently, his face impassive. Lanie was very beautiful as she stood close to him, and the vulnerability of her spirit was reflected in the troubled lines of her face. Her eyes seemed enormous and they glistened in the ghostly light of the moon. She was trembling, he saw, and he muttered, “I wish you didn’t have to go through this.”

  She stepped closer to him. She felt lonely and alienated out in this vast, wild desert. It was a place of death and mercilessness; she had known it from the first, and now she felt it pressing down on her. Lanie had never been faced with a decision such as this, and she knew instinctively that she could choose what to do. If she said to go ahead, they would kill the two men. But she could stop them with a word. The pressure of it had been building up inside her, and her knees felt strangely weak. The thought of bloodshed at her own hand made her feel almost sick. “I—I just don’t know—what to do,” she whispered tremulously. Unconsciously she reached out and touched his arm, as if to gather strength from him.

  Lobo was starkly aware of her closeness and of the aura of femininity that seemed to emanate from her. Lanie was a woman—shapely, beautiful, full of vigor—and her nearness made him desire her in a way he’d never wanted a woman before. He looked down at her lips, full and inviting, then raised his eyes to meet hers. He could see the weariness etched on her face, in her eyes.

  Lanie caught the expression of concern and it moved her. He was so strong and protecting—and suddenly desire swept over her.

  He put his hands at her hips and pulled her upright against him and kissed her full on the lips. His mouth bore down hard and heavy on hers, and he could feel her wishes joining his. Her response touched the deepest chord of his heart, and at that moment he thought he had never known such exhilaration.

  As for Lanie, she knew that a barrier had fallen, a barrier that could never be entirely restored. She suddenly realized with shock that she and Lobo were on the edge of the mystery that every other man and woman faced—neither of them knowing what good or tragedy would come of it.

  And then, she drew back and said breathlessly, “I don’t know why I let you do that.” Her voice was distraught; she was unnerved at her own strong reactions. Instantly she drew a tight rein around her emotions and she said resolutely, “That must never happen again.”

  “It probably will,” Lobo said calmly. But he knew that the moment had passed and that Lanie was flustered. Finally, he said, “You’ve got to decide, Lanie. What will we do?”

  The time of decision had come. Taking a deep breath, Lanie fought to stop the thoughts that flew aimlessly inside her head. She would never be able to make a clear, unfettered decision, knowing that whatever she decided, she would have regrets about later. But uppermost in her mind was Betsy.

  “All right,” she said. “Do what you have to do. I want my sister back.”

  CHA
PTER THIRTEEN

  The Best-Laid Plans

  Dawn had not yet come, but a thin, milky line of light had begun to appear in the east. The face of Lorenzo Dawkins was hidden under the shadow of the brim of his hat so that Lanie could only see his lips as he spoke. “I know you two don’t wanna shoot nobody, but we’ve gotta do whatever we can to make this work. Even if you can’t hit nothin’, you can let off a few rounds and make ’em think we’re an army.”

  As the small group bunched around the marshal, they could feel the warm breeze of the coming morning. And yet, despite the warmth, both Lanie Winslow and Wesley Stone were chilled. Neither of them had slept that night, and one time Wesley had said to her, “Lanie, I don’t think you ought to do this. You’ll think about it the rest of your life.” She had shaken him off, but now, with the action upon her, she began to wonder if he had not been right.

  As if discerning her thoughts, Dawkins gave her a penetrating look. “Missie, you sure you wanna go on with this? We can back off right now. Or, we can take you back, and me and Lobo can try to get at it another way.”

  But Lanie knew that the “other way” would still involve shooting and killing. She was convinced from what she had heard of Vic Perrago that he would never give up Betsy without a fight. So she answered briefly, “No. I want Betsy back now.”

  “All right then,” Dawkins said, and his voice grew hard as granite. “We’re gonna surround the house. Missie, you and Mr. Stone, take these here guns. If anything happens, fire off as fast as you can in the air. We’re gonna make ’em think they’re outnumbered.”

  “I don’t want to have anything to do with it,” Wesley Stone said stubbornly. In the light breaking upon the landscape, he looked older and very scared. “I just don’t think I could kill another person.”

  “You won’t be doing any killing,” Lobo shrugged. “Just pull that trigger. We won’t have any trouble with just two of ’em down there.”

  “That’s right,” Dawkins agreed. “If anything happens and you see we’re in trouble, just shoot up in the air, like I tell you. Now, they’ll be comin’ out pretty soon. So, Lobo, let’s mosey on down and take up a position behind them rocks. Soon as the two men come out, we’ll pop ’em and this’ll all be over. You think we need to worry about Montoya?”

  “Angela’s an old friend. I think we can leave her alone. What if the men come out one at a time?” Lobo asked, eyes roving over the layout.

  Dawkins shook his head. “No good. Only chance we’ve got is to get both of ’em away from the girl. Best thing is gonna be to get ’em both at once. They’ll have to come out together sooner or later.”

  “Well, everybody keep still and quiet then ’til that happens,” Lobo ordered.

  The plan seemed simple enough, and they headed out toward the cabin. When they arrived, the two noncombatants were positioned carefully by Lobo and Dawkins. Then Woman Killer, Lobo, and Lorenzo moved down closer to the cabin.

  At first light a lantern came on, clearly shining through the single window in the front of the house. Half an hour later, a young man, with black curly hair stepped outside. He walked to the well, let the bucket rattle down, drew it up full of water, then went back inside. The individual members of the group waited impatiently, but nothing happened for the next hour. Finally a Mexican man came out, sat down on the porch, and began rolling a cigarette. Lanie could see him plainly from her position behind a bunch of scrub oak. He had to be Mateo Río, a bloodthirsty killer, from what Marshal Dawkins had told her.

  Time crawled on. Río did nothing but smoke and stare out across the desert. Suddenly, Lanie’s heart leaped; the door of the cabin opened and Betsy came out. Even at that distance Lanie could recognize her, and she almost cried out to her. Betsy walked around the house to a small shed, entered it, came out shortly holding something, then reentered the house.

  Time seemed to stop. For fully an hour longer, Mateo Río sat on the front porch smoking and staring out across the desert. Finally he rose, stretched his legs, then went to the well and got a drink of water. Lanie watched the door, hoping that the other man would come out, and yet dreading it at the same time. But he did not come out; instead, a woman came through it—the woman that was called Angela Montoya. Curious, Lanie stared at her; she had seen the strange expression in Lobo Smith’s eye as he spoke of this woman. She was, Lanie saw, very attractive, with black hair and a shapely figure. She went to the barn and came out ten minutes later, mounted on a beautiful black mare. Calling out something to Mateo, she spurred the horse and rode off to the west. I’m glad she’s out of the way, at least, Lanie thought. Surely the other man will come out soon!

  All morning long they waited, the hours dragging by eternally, it seemed. As fortune would have it, the two men never appeared at the same time. The younger man with the black curly hair mostly stayed in the house. At noon Río went inside and the younger man then came out, mounted a horse, and rode off in the direction that the woman had taken earlier. As soon as he disappeared, Lobo left his position and crawled over to where Dawkins was hidden behind a huge outcropping of rock that broke the floor of the desert.

  “What do you think, Lorenzo?” Lobo hissed. “Only one in there now.”

  “If he comes out, we nail him. That’s all there is to it,” Lorenzo answered in a hoarse whisper. “We try to rush him, sneak up on him, it might tip our hand. And he’d have the girl.”

  “Where do you suppose those two went?” Lobo asked, shading his eyes to look off to the west.

  “I don’t know, but I hope they stay gone. That bird’s got to come out sooner or later.”

  The pressure was mounting; the lack of action was crawling on Smith’s nerves. “I never could stand waiting,” he grunted to Dawkins. “Once I’m in a fight, it’s different. But the waiting—that’s what gets me.”

  “Always that way, I reckon,” Dawkins replied calmly. “I remember once, before that charge at Gettysburg—that last one—I was nervous as a June bride.” Memories washed over the old man as he reflected on those days of loss. “All of us knew we was in trouble, and that most of us wouldn’t make it up that there hill. But once it started—it was all different.”

  “Yeah, I felt that way myself a time or two,” Lobo said absently. He was trying to think of a plan, but discarded each as quickly as he formed them. The cabin sat up on a steep shelf that rose at least twenty feet above the barren desert floor. It would be impossible to sneak up on it; there was no cover whatsoever. Lobo stared at the door, willing the man to come out. “You know that fella? The one with the black hair?” he asked the marshal.

  “Sure. Bob Pratt. He done a year in the pen for cattle rustling. Didn’t know he’d hooked up with Perrago,” Lorenzo answered. “Pretty hard one, though, ’specially for one so young.”

  “That’s the only kind Perrago wants.”

  “Reckon that’s true.”

  Dawkins and Lobo stared at the small cabin, studying it with intense concentration. After a few moments Lorenzo Dawkins shifted uneasily and said, “Somethin’ don’t feel right to me. I got a Injun arrowhead stuck in my back they never could dig out, right next to my backbone. Always hurts just ’fore it rains, or ’fore trouble comes.”

  “Hurtin’ a bit now, Lorenzo?” Lobo grinned.

  “Little bit.” The older man yanked on the brim of his hat and smiled faintly. Then he sobered and said, “I don’t like this, Lobo. I wish we coulda come in, taken ’em nice and simple, and gotten it over with.”

  Lobo’s mouth tightened. “Maybe when Pratt and Angela ride back in, Río’ll come out. Then we can get ’em with one blast.”

  Dawkins sighed with exasperation. “I hope so. Longer this runs on, worse it gets.”

  Back where he was hidden, behind some small cottonwoods in an old creek bed, Wesley waited uneasily. He looked down at his torn and worn clothing, the scuffed boots, thought of the blisters on his feet, his sunburned hands, and wondered, What in the world am I doing here? I wouldn’t be any good in a figh
t. But he knew that something in him demanded that he stay, so he put leaving out of his mind.

  Wesley had thought a great deal about Betsy Winslow during the last few days; he had even had dreams about her. He wasn’t prone to dreams, so this had struck him as very unusual. And he had thought much of the times he had spent with Betsy—when he had been put off by Lanie. He remembered Betsy’s humor and her quick wit, which always seemed to bubble out in his company. The thought surprised him; he had been so focused on Lanie that he had overlooked her vivacious sister who lavished him with attention. The thought of harm coming to Betsy ran a sharp stab of pain through him. What would I do if she doesn’t come out of this okay? he thought anxiously. So much harm has already been done. . . . He knew Betsy was a sensitive girl, and if she had been abused by Perrago, Stone was sure that it would devastate her. He fingered the Winchester that Lobo had handed him, wondering if he really could use it on a man if he had to.

  The afternoon wore on sluggishly. At about three o’clock a thin column of dust rose to Lobo’s left. Cautiously he called out to Dawkins, who was still in his hiding place about forty feet away. “Looks like they’re coming back,” he said almost inaudibly. “Montoya and Pratt.”

  “Likely Río’ll come out and meet ’em,” Dawkins warned. “If he does, I’ll take the Mexican. You take Pratt.”

  “All right.”

  But Río did not emerge from the house, nor did Betsy. The two horses galloped up to the front of the cabin, and the riders dismounted and hitched their horses there. No movement or call came from the house, and Angela Montoya and Bob Pratt went inside.

  Lobo blew out a frustrated sigh, then sat back on the ground, resting his rifle on a rock. After a while he called softly to Dawkins, “We need some water. I’ll go fetch the canteens. Won’t take long.”

  “No, I’ll go,” Dawkins countered. “We need to talk to everybody. If this thing don’t come off before dark, we’ll have to give it a try again in the mornin’.” Lorenzo edged back out of view of the cabin and straightened up stiffly, then made the rounds. Finally he had drawn the whole bunch together and told them, “Well, I don’t think it’s gonna do any good for you all to be staked out. Me and Lobo can watch the house good as anyone. Give me that big canteen, Woman Killer, and the rest of you pull back and rest. I don’t think anything’s gonna happen before mornin’.” He took the canteen, and despite protests from Lanie that they might be able to help, he insisted the three pull back. “No, Missie, go on. Me and Lobo can handle it. Woman Killer, you keep a watch over these two,” Lorenzo said stubbornly. “We may stay out all night and give it another go in the mornin’.”