by Jane Toombs
She hesitated, heard Kilgore’s voice behind her and quickly placed her hand on the Mexican’s arm.
“Thank you,” she said.
As they moved away from the group of men, she heard them muttering and expected any moment to have Kilgore confront her again. Then she noticed, for the first time, that five other Mexicans stood next to the cantina beside Dolan’s store, all watching her.
* * *
“My friends,” the man escorting her murmured.” Do not be afraid. I am Vincente Gabaldon and I will see you reach your home safely.”
Her breath eased out in a sigh of relief. She glanced at Vincente Gabaldon, seeing him without a haze of fear. His dark hair was touched with silver at the temples, giving his dark handsomeness a distinguished flair.
“It’s kind of you to rescue me” she said. “Brave.”
He looked over his shoulder toward Dolan’s. “They do not follow,” he said. “Ladrones. Thieves. Muy mal. Very bad. It is not wise for the senorita to promenade alone. Such men as those do not know how to treat a lady. I only regret I did not see what was happening in time to save you embarrassment. It was not until you called out . . .”
Tessa, flushing, put a hand to her mouth and he paused. She’d truly made a spectacle of
herself for half of Lincoln to see.
“Are you a friend of Mr. McSween’s?” she asked Vincente.
“I am not his enemy, but I do not take sides in this disputa.”
She wondered how anyone could manage to avoid being drawn into it and looked at him curiously, only to find him regarding her with open admiration.
Inside her a small glow began. There was something about Vincente Gabaldon that intrigued her. His eyes were so dark, like jet, strangely fascinating eyes . . .
She turned her head away from him. What was the matter with her, staring at a stranger like this?
“I can only thank you again for coming when you did,” she said. “I assure you I won’t venture out alone again.”
“It has been my very great pleasure to be of assistance to the lovely Senorita Nesbitt.”
Tessa was glad to see they were approaching the McSween gate. She found his nearness unsettling.
“If I can ever be of service to you again, you have only to let me know.”
Thank you, Senor Gabaldon.” Tessa lifted her hand from his arm, went through the gate and hurried to the house, her mind and emotions in an uproar.
If only Ezra would come home.
She was more than ever afraid there’d soon be open war between Dolan’s men and Alex’s. A shooting war that would last until Dolan or Alex died.
And Ezra was there somewhere with the man she’d begun to think was the most reckless and dangerous of them all.
Billy the Kid.
Chapter 7
Mark reined in the sorrel under the cottonwoods on the bank of the Rio Bonito opposite town. He sat in the darkness, listening. From somewhere upriver an owl hooted three times. Frogs, quieted by his coming, resumed their two-noted calling.
Across the river, muted by distance and the trees, he could hear men’s voices. He was a little downriver from Lincoln. Likely the voices came from the saloons.
Mark was almost certain no one had followed him, but he waited another few minutes before dismounting. He tied the sorrel to a sapling. He was leaving his horse a long way from where he meant to go, but it couldn’t be helped—this was the only decent cover in quite a stretch.
The night was cool, summer hadn’t set in completely, though it was already June. He’d deliberately waited for the dark of the moon.
That goddamned Peppin was sheriff now--he’d never liked George Peppin. When the bastard had told him about Tessa coming to Dolan’s store and being harassed by Kilgore, it was all Mark could do to hold his temper. He’d had some respect for Brady, but he had none at all for George Peppin. It made him wonder, not for the first time, if it wasn’t plain bullheadedness that kept him working for Dolan when he didn’t cotton to Dolan’s actions.
You might say Tunstall’s death had been cancelled by the bushwhacking of Brady and Hindman, but that didn’t excuse the way Dolan was harassing McSween. Mark stuck with managing Dolan’s ranch and didn’t get involved in any gunplay, but there was such a thing as guilt by association.
Neither side was lily-white when it came to that.
Why had Tessa come after him? If only he’d been in town that day. As it was, he didn’t get her message for over a week. And in that week, Copeland was ousted as Sheriff and Peppin put in.
There was no doubt at all that Peppin meant to get McSween by one means or another. The thought of him letting Kilgore put his hands on Tessa made Mark clench his fists. He forced himself to relax.
He’d be seeing Tessa soon if everything worked out. Excitement rose in him at the thought of holding her again. He pictured the two of them somewhere away from the Territory, lying together, Tessa’s softness next to him, her golden hair like silk against his face . . .
Enough! Dreaming never got a man anywhere. Mark made his way through the cottonwoods, walking upriver. The trees thinned as he came to the ford where the spring runoff had lessened enough so that the crossing plank was back at the shallows.
Mark stood beside a clump of willow shoots, waiting to see if anyone was about, but there was no sign of it, so he went on.
He passed Schon’s house without incident and approached the fence and wall surrounding the McSween house.
The north side of the adobe wall ran along the river and there was one gate in it. A high picket fence met the wall on either end and continued around to enclose the house. The fence had
two gates, one to the east and one to the south, the southern gate directly in front of the house and almost on the street.
Mark stood at the northwest corner where fence met wall. He had to go in through the front gate because both the east and the north gates would get him no farther than the east wing of the house where the Shields lived with their children.
Jules and Ezra had their bedroom in the east wing, but Tessa did not. She slept in the McSween side of the house, the west wing, and all three of the Nesbitt’s spent their waking hours there.
Were the gates guarded? He’d heard McSween was hiding out again, in the hills near San Patricio, with most of his followers, but that didn’t mean a guard wouldn’t be left to protect the women and children still in the house.
Mark shrugged. He’d have to hope he spotted any guard before the man saw him. He hated to arrive like a thief in the night, but as things stood in Lincoln these days, a Dolan man couldn’t go near the McSween house without being challenged. And turned back. Might even get shot if the challenger had a nervous trigger finger.
He eased along the outside of the fence and around the corner to the front of the house, Headed for the gate. Slipped inside. Flattened himself against the fence.
Lights glowed from the windows. He could hear someone playing the piano--Jules, by the sound of it. Best not to try to get in the front door. Someone might go by in the street and see him.
Had anyone along the street seen him enter the gate? He waited, finally pushing away from the fence and heading for the back door. A metallic click froze him in his tracks.
“Quien es?”A man’s voice demanded. “Who is it?”
Mark saw a dark shadow move in front of him, He knew the man held a gun cocked and ready. A lie would be more dangerous than the truth.
“Halloran. Tessa Nesbitt sent for me,” Mark said.
I don’t think so, senor.”
“She did. Ask her.”
“Why you no come to front door?”
“I’m here secretly. Ask Senorita Nesbitt. She’ll be very angry if you stop me from seeing her.”
There was a silence. Finally the man ordered Mark to walk ahead of him. With the gun at his back, Mark opened the rear door and stepped into the kitchen. Rosita, grinding corn, jumped up, letting out a squeal when she saw the two men.
&nbs
p; “He says Miss Tessa sent for him,” the man told Rosalita in Spanish.
“She did send for me,” Mark repeated in English. “I’m Mark Halloran.”
Rosita shook her head. “I know nothing, senor.”
The pistol muzzle jammed into Mark’s back, “You tell me lies,” the man snarled. “I know you now, Dolan bastardo.”
The kitchen door opened a little and Jules poked his head into the room.
“Leave!” Rosalita ordered, “Vamoose, pronto!”
Jules didn’t move, staring from Mark to the man holding the gun. Suddenly he flung the door wide open and rushed toward them.
“Don’t shoot Mr. Halloran, Manuel,” he cried. “Don’t shoot my friend. Mi amigo.” Manuel tried to fend off Jules and still keep his Colt trained on Mark.
What on earth is going on?”
Everyone turned to look at Tessa who stood in the open doorway. Her eyes widened as she recognized Mark. He bowed slightly.
“I believe you wanted to see me,” he said
* * *
Mark rode south under the morning sun. And just what the hell do you think you’re doing? he asked himself. Being a hero? He snorted. A fool’s more like it.
Heading into the hills around San Patricio looking for Billy the Kid and his companeros was like heading into a duel blindfolded with your hands tied behind you.
“But Billy knows you,” Tessa had said. “Surely he won’t harm an old friend. And I’m positive if you talk to Ezra and tell him how frantic I am, he’ll come back with you.”
Mark sighed. That’s all she’d wanted him for. To bring back Ezra who’d fallen in with the Regulators because he idolized Billy.
So much for dreaming of having Tessa in his arms once more. She hadn’t even brought him into the parlor, telling him what she wanted right there in the kitchen, then urging him to leave the house.
She didn’t get him out quick enough. Mark had heard that phony drawl of Rutledge’s before Tessa closed the door. Rutledge was good enough to invite into the parlor, but Mark Halloran wasn’t. He just did the dirty work.
Mark yanked his hat farther down on his head and scowled at an oriole that flashed across the trail in a blur of yellow.
What the hell was he doing this for?
For Ezra? He hardly knew the boy, not even as well as he knew Jules. While he wouldn’t recommend Billy as a model for any youngster, he couldn’t say he really cared about Ezra.
But he did care for Tessa. And she’d asked him for help.
Why hadn’t she asked Rutledge? Mark grimaced. She probably had and Rutledge had bowed out gracefully, having better sense than to hunt for men who didn’t want to be found.
Although it would have been a damn sight safer for Rutledge to come hunting Ezra than for a Dolan man like Mark.
He made a wide swing around the little town of San Patricio, not wanting his presence announced any sooner than it had to be. The hills west of town were pine-covered and riddled with long snaking canyons. On down a ways they rose to become mountains more than six thousand feet high. Lots of pinon pine and fir up there and maybe a few Mescaleros hunting until it was time to go back to the reservation for the government subsidy.
Somewhere in these hills Billy was camping with McSween and the Regulators. And Ezra.
Before he reached the higher hills, dust rising on the trail to the north caught Mark’s eye. He was already off the trail but he climbed higher to reach the cover of a pine grove where he had a view of his back trail. He reined in and waited,
After a time a column of mounted men rode into sight. Cavalry from Fort Stan ton. What were they after? Apaches? The Regulators?
Mark urged his sorrel from the pines and hailed the officer leading the soldiers, then descended the hill to join them.
Mark Halloran,” he told the captain.
Captain Carrol.” The officer’s voice was curt. “What’s your business this way, sir?” he
asked.
“I’m looking for someone who’s with Alex McSween,” Mark said. “Have you seen the
McSween party?”
“Are you working with Sheriff Peppin?” Captain Carrol asked.
“Unofficially, yes.” Mark thought the lie necessary.
“We left the sheriff and his posse near San Patricio,” the captain said.
“Back at San Patricio?” Mark echoed, not wanting to admit he had no idea Peppin was anywhere about.
The captain nodded briefly. “I’m taking over the pursuit, I suggest you join Peppin.’’ “Which way were the McSween men headed?” Mark persisted.
“Toward the Pecos.” Captain Carrol kicked his horse into a fast trot, pulling away from Mark. His men spurred after him.
So Peppin had managed to convince Colonel Dudley, the commander at Stanton, to go after McSween and the Regulators. Mark wondered how he’d managed it. Brady’s killing?
What now? Was it any use to trail Carrol? If the cavalry caught up with the McSween party, Ezra would be brought back to Lincoln anyway.
Mark heard hooves pounding toward him, again from the north, and eased off the trail. A sergeant passed, riding hard after Captain Carrol.
A lagging trooper catching up? Mark shook his head. Sergeants weren’t laggards as a rule. He looked after the soldiers, then kicked the sorrel into a gallop, following. He might be able to do something for Ezra if he was on hand when the Regulators were rounded up.
A half mile along the trail, Mark caught sight of blue uniforms. Dust rose as horses milled about. Mark reined in the sorrel. Damned if the troopers hadn’t halted. He pulled off the trail again, not wanting the captain to spot him and wonder why he hadn’t gone back to join Peppin.
To Mark’s surprise, after a few minutes the entire company passed by, heading back along the trail to Fort Stanton. Ordered back, by God. That sergeant had carried a message from the colonel. When they were out of sight, Mark climbed down onto the trail again and rode hard southeast, toward the Pecos. Toward the Regulators.
* * *
Ezra didn’t care much for the new recruit Billy had added to their company. He was a lanky young drifter from Texas named O’Folliard. Who could almost outshoot Billy. McSween paid little attention to the men who guarded him, letting Billy choose whom he wanted.
O’Folliard rode alongside Billy, taking Ezra’s place. Cracking jokes and laughing. Billy didn’t even seem to notice Ezra wasn’t there.
“You look kind of glum, Nesbitt,” Charlie Bowdre said. “Saddle sore?”
“I’m okay.”
“We’ll get some decent rest once we reach Chisum’s,” Bowdre went on. Maybe some decent grub, too. Old John’s got a damn god cook.”
Ezra nodded. He didn’t seem to feel enthusiastic about anything since O’Folliard joined The Regulators.
“Reckon we’ve outrun them troopers--don’t see them no more back there,” Bowdre said,
He raised his voice to call to Billy. “Hey, Kid, you think they’ve given up?” Could be,” Billy called back.
Ezra glanced around. There was a sharp rise to his left. If a man climbed that, he’s get a good look view to the sides and rear. “I’ll go check,” he said. “See if anyone’s tailing us,”
He spurred away without waiting for an answer, his spirits on the upswing. Got to show what I can do, he thought. Got to let them know I’m as good as any man in the Regulators.
But as he began to climb the hill, he heard a horse behind him and looked over his shoulder. Saw O’Folliard.
“Billy says two scouts are better than one,” O’Folliard announced as he caught up to Ezra.
Ezra scowled but said nothing, continuing to climb. Why had Billy sent O’Folliard? Didn’t he trust him? Didn’t Billy think he was capable of scouting a back trail without help?
To make matters worse, O’Folliard’s horse, a tough little buckskin, scaled the hill quicker than Ezra’s pinto and the Texan reached the summit first. He hunkered down behind an outcrop of rock and, when Ezra joined him, O’F
olliard had already spotted someone.
“Looks to be alone,” the Texan said.
Ezra peered along the back trail, saw a lone rider coming fast. As near as he could tell at this distance, it wasn’t a trooper.
O’Folliard returned to his horse and yanked his carbine from the scabbard, The gun was new, the brass shiny and stock unscratched, “O’Folliard winked at Ezra. “Pretty, ain’t it.” Figured the Comanche I got this off lifted it from one of them green army recruits who can’t spot an Indian till the redskin’s scalping him.”
“You mean to fire on him?” Ezra jerked his head toward the oncoming rider. “What if he’s one of us?”
“I reckon you’ll tell me if he is.”
That’s why Billy send O’Folliard with me, Ezra told himself. He doesn’t think I have the guts to shoot a man. Without warning lines from another of Browning’s poem’s flashed into Ezra’s mind:
“Our interest’s on the dangerous edge of things
The honest thief, the tender murderer…”
It came from a long poem, one that bored Ezra when his father had read it aloud during winter evenings, for he didn’t really understand what it meant. Something about a bishop explaining faith. What did church-going have to do with anything in Ezra’s life?
What the hell made him remember some of the lines? A tender murderer? Didn’t mean a thing as far as he was concerned. What use was poetry? What use was poetry?
“He’s getting in range,” O’Folliard said, citing on the man below.
Ezra focused his attention on the rider. Now that the man was closer, something about him seemed familiar. The horse sorrel--he knew that horse… “Don’t shoot!” he cried. O’Folliard looked at him. “One of us?”
“I know him, “ Ezra temporized.
“That don’t tell me nothing’.”
“Billy knows him, too. He’s sort of a friend of Billy’s.”
O’Folliard eyed Ezra. “Seems like it’d be easy to say whether he’s one of us or not. You been saying everything else.”
“Jesus, he’s only one man!” Ezra burst out. “He can’t do us any harm, even if he does work for Dolan.”