Hot Lead and Cold Apple Pie

by Anne Garboczi Evans

  Once the posse had been herded to the campsite and stripped of weapons, Bloody Joe’s henchmen began the messy business of tying them all up. Bloody Joe stood over Cal, who knelt at gunpoint. He stared down at him, dirty scars crisscrossing the blubber of his face. “I have a proposition for you, Mr. Westwood.”

  Cal looked up. “Does it involve you not killing me?”

  The man guffawed. “Yeah, surprisingly.”

  “Then I’m all ears.” He glanced at the canvas tarp where the gang had piled the posse’s weapons. It was too far away.

  Bloody Joe swung his pistol closer to Cal’s face. “I’m afraid your reputation precedes you, Mr. Westwood.”

  Not good. That meant they knew he was a member of the elite Texan gang fighting force that had pursued the Silverman gang for a decade now. Obviously, they didn’t want to kill him. Hang and quarter him under torture while dismembering him piece by piece was more like it. Like Isaacs.

  “We need a lawman to get things in order with the federal marshal, make this silver mine transfer all legal-like, and you’re the man for our job.”

  Hands still in the clenched position, Cal’s jaw gaped. “You want me to ride out to Denver and do paperwork for you?”

  “Don’t act so shocked. We read the article about you embezzling in Moobeetie. That stunt selling your twin brother to the circus, pretty cold-blooded. As part of this gang, you’re going to have to stay loyal to the family, got it?”

  “Um…” Cal swallowed and rubbed his right ear to make sure it was still there and working properly. “Why do you care about legal paperwork?”

  “This ain’t no two-penny mine that I’m going to grab some loot from and run. I sent surveyors out to this spot, and they’re projecting the silver goes straight into those mountains, miles and miles straight.”

  Still on his knees, Cal stared up at the man’s beefy face, which grew animated.

  “The Silverman gang is going to set up their empire here. Gilman will be the perfect front town. We’re going to have banks and stores and saloons all legal-like. Soon we’ll be the largest gang town in the nation.”

  Cal tried to stop staring. Anyway, this was not the time to wonder. Tugging his shirt out a little for the disheveled look, he prepared himself for the ruse to come.

  “So, you in?”

  Cal let forth a criminal-sounding chuckle, stood to his feet, and stretched. “Absolutely. Don’t know how you figured all that out about me in just one afternoon but certainly glad you did.”

  Guffawing, Bloody Joe slapped him on the shoulder. The slap hurt. Who was the man used to congratulating—two-ton cattle? “Can’t hide nothin’ from the Silverman gang. We know everything that temperance lady down in Gilman revealed about you.”

  Cal almost swallowed his tongue. Not Mrs. Clinton—again. But this time he wasn’t complaining. He glanced back to the still trembling posse, well, all trembling except for Ginny. He caught her eye and saw a steely look in those clear green crystals. Did she know this double-cross was just a farce?

  Kneeling at gunpoint, she still managed to move one shoulder in a little shrug and let her chin fall in the faintest of nods. Yes, she knew. Good.

  “Hands behind your back, Missy.” A gang member grabbed her roughly and began wrapping rope around her flesh.

  Cal’s fists tightened, but he forced himself to turn to Bloody Joe. “What’s your plan for the current population of Gilman?” With the back of his hand, he motioned toward the posse.

  “Mass graves are a bit hard to cover.” Bloody Joe laughed. “I figure I’ll let them stay. See how well their puny businesses serve my ends.”

  “What about the posse members?”

  “They came out to shoot me. In general, I resent folks shootin’ at me.” Bloody Joe toyed with his knife.

  Resented? Did that mean Bloody Joe would kill them? If so, how much time did he have for a rescue? He attempted to act as if he didn’t care much either way and wasn’t hanging on Bloody Joe’s next words.

  The man spat and tucked his knife back in his belt. Then he turned back to Cal and shrugged. “If you think you can keep them quiet, though, I might let them go.”

  A sigh of relief almost collapsed Cal’s chest. “I can.”

  From behind him, a gang member’s guttural voice rose louder. “What’s your name, girl? And what’s a gal like you doing out on a posse?”

  “I’m Ginny Thompson and I’m a better shot than any of your gang.”

  Bloody Joe’s head came up. “The sheriff’s niece.” He swore and then motioned to the gang member. “Hey, bring that girl over here.”

  As she walked forward, eyes blazing, Cal saw Bloody Joe study her, taking in the hair that had fallen down around her shoulders, and the pine sap that streaked her clothes. “You’re the sheriff’s niece, aren’t you, gal?”

  “Yes. What have you done with my uncle?” She glared at him with an intensity that really wasn’t advisable to direct at the man with one of the highest rewards on his head in all of the West.

  Cal wanted to shake her. Wherever this line of questioning was going, it wasn’t good. Never give up your real identity, never. That was the first thing taught in the gang division.

  Bloody Joe tightened his fingers on Ginny’s arm. Cal wanted to slam a fist in his face. Or a bullet.

  “Hey, lawman.” Bloody Joe yanked Ginny in front of him. “You can take the rest of the posse, but this one’s got to go the same road as the sheriff. Loyal relative, confessions on death beds, it’s all bad. Killing’s the only thing that will keep her mouth shut.”

  Ginny struggled against the man. “You kill my uncle, and you’ll be sorry!”

  Definitely time to take this situation in hand, which, ideally would mean ripping the man’s dirty fingers off Ginny and twisting the criminal’s gun out of his holster. Instead, Cal dug his thumbs into his own belt loops and worked up his most criminal face. Somehow the ‘ignorant cowhand’ image kept forcing itself into his imagination instead. Oh well. That might work, too.

  Tilting his head back, Cal laughed. “You think that gal’s going to turn on her uncle?” He pointed and laughed again.

  Loosening his grip on Ginny’s arm, Bloody Joe stared back at Cal. “You think she’s not?”

  That was the problem with criminal chortling, one needed to explain it after. “Naw…” He searched desperately in his head for an end to that sentence.

  “Why?” Bloody Joe narrowed his eyes.

  Why? Why did women do anything? A brilliant idea burst through his consciousness. Love—that’s what. “She’s been sweet on me since the day she clapped eyes on me. If I tell her to hush, she’ll hush.”

  The look of fascinated horror on Ginny’s face was worth a lot more time than he had to spend on it.

  “She doesn’t like her uncle much neither. He’s the strict type. Don’t think she’ll shed that many tears for him.” Hands on his empty gun belt, Cal attempted the criminal swagger. Failure. Yeah, he wouldn’t try that one again.

  Bloody Joe’s eyes turned beady. “I heard she was devoted to her uncle, even works in the sheriff’s office with him.”

  “Oh, that’s an act.” Cal slapped his thigh, hoping that looked more gang-like than the swagger had. “I think she does it mostly to gawk at the men that come in. Makes her look respectable being a sheriff’s secretary and all.”

  Ginny turned red all the way from her neckline up to that cute forehead of hers. And not an embarrassed, blushing red either. No, this was an angry, I-want-to-kill-somebody red.

  Bloody Joe chewed his lip as his greasy hand slipped off Ginny’s arm. “If you’re sure…” He turned to his henchmen. “I guess you can tie her up with the rest.”

  Cal grabbed Ginny and pulled her to his side with more haste than was probably necessary. But by then she had gone stiff, so maybe the force was necessary. “No need. I’ll keep an eye on her.”

  Bloody Joe looked doubtful, but he motioned the gang member away. “All right. But you keep her i
n line, and I won’t have her talking to the sheriff.”

  “Of course.” Cal relaxed his hold on Ginny, and she jerked a good foot away. That really wasn’t going to help the story he’d just told Bloody Joe. “Anything you want me to do now? Or shall I just wait until you get that silver mine paperwork so I can head off to the marshal?”

  “Waiting’s fine. Help yourself to the goulash.” Bloody Joe motioned to the pot over the fire and then strode toward it.

  As soon as Bloody Joe had turned his back, Cal drew Ginny over to the edge of the pines.

  “Just what was that about?” Ginny hissed once they had crossed enough ground to be out of earshot. When angry red flushed up her cheeks, her eyes sparkled.

  “I saved your life. I think a thank you would be warranted.”

  “In the most inconvenient way possible.”

  “All right, I may have added the gawking-at-men part for my own personal enjoyment.”

  “You’re absolutely right. You did. You could have stuck to the she’s-not-happy-with-her-uncle part, and spared my life and reputation.”

  Cal shrugged and looked over to where the sun set. He needed a plan. “They’re gang members. Federal penitentiary walls don’t talk.”

  She glared at him. “Speaking of the federal penitentiary, how do we get them there?”

  Removing his Stetson, he wiped sweat off his forehead. If he left for the marshal’s with Ginny and the posse still here, they’d be dead as soon as Bloody Joe discovered the double-cross. “Got nothing yet, but when I do, you’ll be the first to know.”

  “Be the first to know? I should be part of the planning process!” Her arms crossed against an outraged chest.

  “Westwood, get over here and send that girl somewhere less escapable.” Bloody Joe’s voice carried from where he sat by the fire.

  Cal grazed his fingers against her hand. “Got to go.”

  “Wait!” She grabbed his hand with both of hers, tugging at him.

  He looked at her.

  “You just told a desperate gang that I’m sweet on you. The lives of our whole townsfolk and your superior officer, my uncle, are hanging by the slender thread of the Silverman’s trust in you. And you’re going to jeopardize that trust by walking away without so much as a romantic word?” Her voice showed an utter disdain more suitable for a Temperance League meeting than for when lives hung in the balance.

  Placing her hands on her small waist, she directed a firm stare at him. “We need to act enamored. Make the gang believe we’re madly in love. I could cook you some eggs. Women always cook for men they love. Or perhaps if you just tugged on one of those buttons on your vest and loosened it for me, I could sew it back on. That always shows affection.”

  “Ginny Thompson,” he placed a finger on her lips. “You are a beautiful woman, but you don’t know the first thing about being sweet on a man.” With those words, he did what he’d wanted to do ever since he first saw those kissable pink lips.

  He circled his arm around her waist, moved his mouth over hers, and felt her lips and the warm press of her body against his. She was so vibrant, so alive. But desperate men filled this clearing, any of whom with one pistol shot could take her lifeblood.

  In Texas, he studied the cases of 375 prisoners taken by the Silverman gang. Only five made it out alive.

  He jutted his shoulders out. He’d just have to change that statistic. “And that’s how you show a man you’re sweet on him.” Letting go of her, he stepped away. “Got to get back to Bloody Joe. Don’t run away, because then they’ll kill me, and you’ll have to save the town from mass graves yourself.” He hoped to make her fume about his lack of faith in her responsibility, keep her spirits up anyway.

  But no sharp retort jumped to her lips. Instead, she stared at him, eyes wide.

  16

  “Westwood.” With one dirty hand, Bloody Joe motioned him over to the circle of gang members. His thick fingers didn’t look like those of a marksman, but he’d been known to hit a target at fifty paces and his skill with a knife was renown. Not to mention that in at least three recorded fist fights, he’d strangled his opponent with just those bare hands. “Ready to prove your loyalty to this gang?”

  Sharply, Cal moved his chin up and then down.

  “Watch duty.” Sprawling back on a soiled red blanket, Bloody Joe pointed to the outside of the camp. The sleeve of his filthy gray jacket slipped back, showing coarse body hair and brutal muscles. “Go on outside the camp with those ten. Not that Gilman’s got much more to throw at us.” He glanced at the prisoners inside the camp and guffawed again.

  Cal’s gaze followed Bloody Joe’s to the little knot of prisoners crouched in the dirt, huddling against the night wind. Silas’s chin was down to his knees and his blue lips trembled as he shivered in the darkness. Mr. Clinton sat away from the others, leaning back against an evergreen, but every two minutes he jumped with a sporadic convulsion that moved him several inches off the pine needles. The cowhands were probably in the best condition of the lot. Pokey leaned back-to-back with the big cowhand.

  From this distance, Cal could faintly hear the man whistling a slow campfire tune that made the dark night seem even darker.

  “Here.” A sentry member shoved a coat, which smelled faintly of horse and poor quality beer, into Cal’s hands. “Nights get cold up here.”

  “Bring the mine owner to me before you go out.” Bloody Joe stabbed his finger at the young sentry member.

  “Yes, sir.” The young sentry stomped across the rapidly cooling ground. Shoving his way into the midst of the prisoners, he grabbed Mr. Clinton by the rawhide that bound the man’s hands behind his back and jerked up.

  Even through Mr. Clinton’s jacket, one could see his shoulders quivering. The sentry half-dragged, half-carried him over to Bloody Joe.

  The little man stood in front of the hardened criminal. He held his chin high, though, and stuck out his trembling ribs. “You can do what you want with me. But don’t touch my wife or there will be consequences.”

  Consequences? Yeah, that was probably true. Even the Silverman gang wouldn’t be likely to rub shoulders with Mrs. Clinton and walk away unscarred.

  Bloody Joe stuck a piece of paper under Mr. Clinton’s thin nose. “Sign the silver mine over to me.”

  Mr. Clinton hesitated.

  “You need me to assist him?” A spare man with grease stains on his face laid hands on Mr. Clinton. The man twisted his thin fingers into Mr. Clinton’s neck, hitting veins.

  A hiss of pain escaped Mr. Clinton’s lips.

  The spare man found Mr. Clinton’s wrist and twisted. Mr. Clinton’s whole face went a strange shade of purple as the man applied more pressure.

  “Be careful, Smith. He needs to sign with that arm.” Bloody Joe stood over the man.

  “Oh, I’m always careful…” Whipping out a knife, the spare man let the blade slide down Mr. Clinton’s arm, leaving a thin trickle of red. Then, with one flick of the knife, he cut Mr. Clinton’s bonds and shoved him forward. Bloody Joe thrust a pen into his hand. “Sign.”

  Muscles quivering so hard he could barely stand straight, Mr. Clinton took the pen. “All—all right.”

  Bloody Joe held out the paper. The pen fell to the leaf-covered ground twice before Mr. Clinton managed a signature.

  Cal’s gaze followed the hasty twists of the signature. The deed could be easily overridden with the testimony of anyone who’d seen Mr. Clinton forced to sign at knife point.

  Bloody Joe knew that full well when he’d allowed the posse to witness the event. Cal breathed evenly as he casually turned his gaze away, but his gut twisted. Bloody Joe meant to kill all the prisoners. That was the only explanation for his lack of concern.

  Shoving the paper into his pocket, Bloody Joe fell back on his blanket. “Off on sentry duty now, all of you. I’m trying to sleep.” He flicked his fingers toward the darkness outside the camp.

  The young sentry turned away, though the spare man took another moment to tu
g rawhide around Mr. Clinton’s wrists and pull it so tight that Mr. Clinton screamed.

  Cal wished again for a revolver in his empty holster.

  “Where’s the girl, Westwood?” Bloody Joe asked from his sprawl on the blanket. He released a cough into the soiled sleeve of his jacket.

  Turning, Cal pointed his thumb to the north of the campsite. Ginny crouched, arms hugging her knees in the cold.

  Scooting forward, Bloody Joe stretched his toes closer to the fire. “Tell her to git closer. I don’t trust her.”

  Closer? Ginny was already about fifty miles closer to these criminals than he’d like.

  Cal felt the eyes piercing into his back as he walked over to her. “Ginny.”

  Her head came up from her crouched position, her tangled hair plastered around her face. The bodice of her dress looked damp. She’d tucked her feet up underneath her, exposing petticoats. The moist ground below had begun to seep into her clothes, streaking the cream of her dress with brown and crisscrossing the sap stains.

  “They want you closer.” Cal gestured to the campfire, scowling because he had to say it. One quick glance behind him, and he dropped the young man’s coat around her shoulders. “Try to stay out of the mud. You’ll catch pneumonia.”

  “I don’t catch pneumonia.” She closed her fingers around the fabric. Her nose came a bit closer to the cloth and her back jerked straight. “It stinks!”

  “I know.”

  With distaste, she pushed one arm through a sleeve. Sitting there, she looked wet and helpless. If the gang harmed her…His fists tightened.

  “Any plans yet?” Ginny coughed into her collar, a hacking sound made worse by the chilled air.

  If only he should have ridden to Denver at first and not risked the posse’s lives, even if it meant Sheriff Thompson’s life was sacrificed. Cal shook his head. “I’ll be back by daybreak.”

  ~*~

  Five hundred yards outside the camp, the sentries began to spread out. Cal watched them move to their positions.

  “I’m Smith.” A spare, greasy man stuck his hand out—the same man who had not only stuck a gun in Cal’s back this afternoon and laughed at the whole posse, but also most recently tortured Mr. Clinton. Reaching under his slicker, the man produced a rusted revolver. “Joe said to arm you.” He held it out.