The Outlaws (Books We Love Western Suspense)

by Jane Toombs

  “Maria!” Tessa exclaimed, sitting up. She jumped from the bed and began to dress hurriedly.

  Mark did the same. “It’s all right, Tessa,” he said. “I mean to--”

  “Ssh! I couldn’t bear it if Maria finds you here.”

  She bit her lip as she looked from him to the closed bedroom door. All her doubts crept back into her mind. What had she been thinking of? All Mark had to do was touch her and she became a wanton.

  “I’ll go and keep Maria in the kitchen,” she said. “You can leave by the front door and she won’t--”

  “But I don’t want to leave. We haven’t talked. I want to tell you--” .

  “You can knock and pretend you’ve just arrived. Oh, please don’t argue, Mark. I don’t want Maria to think I’m—I’m--” She couldn’t finish and began again. “You don’t know what it was like in this town after the fire. Men stared at me on the streets and I knew they were thinking terrible things about me and—and Alex. As if either of us--” She stopped again. “I won’t ever go through that again.”

  “All right,” he whispered. “I’ll do whatever you say.”

  Mark waited until he was certain Tessa was in the kitchen with Maria, then eased out of her room, walking on his toes so his boot heels wouldn’t click on the floor. He passed through the main room and out the front door, feeling like a fool. Annoyance flickered in him. This wasn’t how he’d planned to do his courting, clandestinely.

  He was careful to shut the front door without noise. He hesitated a moment before knocking on it, angry at himself as well as at Tessa.

  He shouldn’t have listened to her pleas, should have marched with her into the kitchen and told Maria they were to be married and that best wishes were in order.

  He raised the iron knocker and slammed it against the metal plate with unnecessary force, “Where the hell did you spring from?” Rutledge’s voice said from behind him. Mark whirled. Rutledge was advancing up the path from the street “I didn’t see you turn in here.” Rutledge eyed him suspiciously.

  Try to hide something and you wound up with one lie on top of another. Damn it, he didn’t owe Rutledge an explanation.

  The door opened and Tessa’s eyes widened as she saw Rutledge with him.

  “Won’t you come in?” she said rather breathlessly.

  Tessa perched on the edge of a straight-backed chair. “Please sit down,” she told them.

  Rutledge sat on the settee, but Mark shook his head, moving to stand beside the empty fireplace. He leaned on the mantel, eyeing Tessa sardonically. Now what did she intend to do?

  She glanced nervously from one man to the other.

  “Did you find out about Ezra, Calvin?” she asked finally.

  “I’m afraid Ezra has been with Billy on those cattle raids,” Rutledge said. “He was recognized by two different men.”

  She turned to Mark. “Have you heard anything?

  “Not much more than what Rutledge just told you. Ezra seems bent on making an outlaw out of himself.”

  Tessa clenched her fists. “He isn’t a thief! He only goes along because Billy’s leading him into it.”

  “You make him sound stupid,” Mark said. “Ezra’s got a good mind. He knows what he’s doing.”

  Tessa tightened her lips, “It’s Billy’s fault,” she insisted. “Look at poor little Violet, the way Billy lured her from her home. God only knows what will become of the child.”

  “Violet rode to Sumner of her own free will,” Mark said. “Or so I understand. She wasn’t fleeing her father; she could have stayed here. Wrong or right, Ezra and Violet both made a choice, Tessa.”

  “Someone ought to stop Billy,” she went on as though he hadn’t spoken. “It isn’t right to let him corrupt others.”

  Rutledge, who hadn’t put in a word since answering Tessa’s question, nodded.

  “I know Ezra’s a good boy,” he said. “A fine young man. Billy Bonney’s influence is nothing short of pernicious.”

  Mark shrugged. He’d come to know Ezra quite well in the weeks they’d spent with Billy and the others in the hills south of San Patrick. While it was true Ezra idolized Billy and seemed blind to his faults, at the same time the boy had clearly been enjoying himself. It wasn’t as though he was drawn to Billy against his will.

  “Something should be done,” Tessa said, looking at neither of them.

  “My dear, I’ll do all I can,” Rutledge said solemnly.

  Which will be nothing, Mark said to himself. He knew Tessa wasn’t going to like what he meant to tell her, but it was the truth.

  ‘‘I went after your brother for you once,” he reminded her. “Ezra didn’t want to come back with me, but I shamed him into it because you and Jules were in the McSween house, virtually unprotected. There’s no such reason for him to leave Billy now.”

  “But you’re a deputy marshal. Couldn’t you force Ezra to come home?” “Arrest him, you mean?” Mark demanded.

  Her hands flew to her mouth. “Oh no!”

  “Perhaps our deputy marshal’s afraid to tangle with Billy’s gang,” Rutledge said. “You shouldn’t blame him. It’s well known Billy tends to shoot first and ask questions later.”

  Mark gritted his teeth. His impulse was to lift Rutledge by his shirt collar and toss him out the front door. He took a step toward the settee.

  Rutledge rose to face him.

  Tessa got up hurriedly and stepped between them, looking at Mark. “Maybe you’d better leave,” she said.

  “I came here to talk to you. We haven’t had a chance.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Rutledge said, staring at Mark over Tessa’s head. “Tessa and I have a standing appointment to meet on Thursday afternoons.” Mark’s fists clenched.

  Tessa put a hand on his chest. “If you start a fight, I won’t ever forgive you,” she said to him. “It happens to be true, what Calvin says.”

  “Then perhaps it was he you were waiting for earlier,” Mark growled.

  He saw the shock in Tessa’s eyes. Her face flamed. She reached up and slapped him across the face.

  He turned away, picked up his hat and strode out of the house.

  * * *

  A week later, when the sheriff of Dona Ana County, on the Mexican border, sent an urgent appeal to Kimbrell for help in subduing Jesse Evans and his gang who were on a rampage down there, Mark joined Longworth and four other deputy sheriffs heading south.

  Mark got shot in the leg in a skirmish with the bandits, and the wound festered, keeping him at Mesilla into the fall.

  He’d long since realized his dislike of Rutledge had pushed him into insulting Tessa. It seemed as though everything he’d done since he’d come back to the Territory had been the wrong thing as far as she was concerned.

  In November, when he could ride again, Mark didn’t head straight for Lincoln, deciding to detour by way of Fort Sumner. He’d heard Billy and his boys had rustled some one hundred head of Chisum’s cattle in the Texas panhandle and sold them to Colorado beef buyers, then hightailed it back to Sumner.

  He didn’t plan to nab Billy. The only one he wanted was Ezra. If he brought the boy back to Tessa, she was certain to forgive and forget.

  At Roswell his plans went awry. As he came into town, a posse was forming to ride after the Comanches who’d just raided horses on a ranch near town, killing a man and his son. Mark joined the posse and, with a man named Pat Garnett and two others, stuck to the trail long after the rest of the posse returned to Roswell.

  They finally caught up with eight Comanches driving the horses, surprised them at a night camp and killed them all. Garrett collected the Indians’ moccasins in a sack and strapped it onto his horse.

  “I keep count this way,” he said to Mark. “A sight less messy than scalps.”

  As they drove the foot-sore string of horses back to Roswell, the soft-spoken Garrett, who tended to be taciturn, began to talk to Mark when he heard Mark was heading for Sumner.

  “Well, I live up Sumner way,”
he said. “I was down looking at land when those damn Comanches raided.”

  “Mind it I travel up the Pecos with you?” Mark asked. He liked Garrett, a lean and very tall man with dark eyes and a shaggy mustache.

  “You’d be welcome. We’ve ridden through hell and high water together already,” He gave Mark one of his crooked smiles.

  Mark and Garrett arrived in Sumner just before Christmas. Mark had never been to the abandoned fort before and looked about with curiosity.

  The Pecos made a wide turn to the southeast here and the town stood on its north bank, Stores and cantinas backed up against the river. All the old adobe army buildings were in use as houses. Mark saw a Catholic Church and a post office. Most of the residents seemed to be Mexican.

  “Hola, Juan Largo,” they hailed Garrett. “Hello, Long John.” He waved back.

  “Pete Maxwell lives over there in what was once the officer’s quarters,” Garrett said to Mark, pointing to a large building with a wide veranda across the front and along the north and south sides. “Pete gave me my first job when I came to Sumner. I’ll ask him to put you up—he’s got plenty of room.

  Mark nodded his thanks, following Garrett past a rusted cannon outside the picket fence that ran in front of the house.

  “I don’t rightly know where Billy and his boys are staying at the moment,” Garrett added, “but I’ll spread the word you’re bunking with Pete and want to talk to Ezra Nesbitt.

  When Ezra didn’t show, Mark did his best to find out where Ezra might be staying, but the townspeople didn’t want to talk to a stranger about Billy and his gang.

  Mark surveyed the country around the town as best he could, riding north between twin rows of winter-bare cottonwoods to die village of Punta de la Glorietta, then east to small ranches whose Mexican owners viewed him with suspicion.

  On New Year’s Day Mark rode through the leafless peach orchard on the northern outskirts. He looked at the frozen Pecos and the dusting of snow over the hills, feeling as cold inside as out. He might as well give up and head back to Lincoln.

  ‘‘Halloran!”

  Mark whirled around and saw Billy, Ezra and Tom O’Folliard riding toward him.

  “Heard you were looking for us,” Billy said.

  “Looking for Ezra anyway,” Mark admitted.

  Ezra looked thinner and far older than his sixteen years.

  “Can we have a talk?” Mark asked him.

  Ezra shook his head. “I can guess you’re going to tell me to go back to Lincoln. No use jawing about it cause I ain’t.”

  Billy grinned. “Come on, Ez, we’ll all go--how about it? We ain’t been into town in a coon’s age.”

  It wasn’t what Mark had in mind, but once Ezra was in Lincoln, maybe Tessa could talk some sense into him. At least she’d have a chance.

  “There’s Violet--” Ezra began.

  ‘‘Well, she can come, too. Why not?” Billy asked.

  Ezra shrugged. “It’s okay with me, if you want to go,”

  Mark rode into Lincoln with Billie on one side of him and Ezra on the other with the rest of the gang behind them. When he saw men on the street nudge one another, he shrugged. He wouldn’t be the first lawman to have rustlers for friends.

  He tried not to think of the possibility that one day he might have to go after Billy and Ezra—and trail them to the death. As had the Comanches.

  Chapter 14

  Ezra left the house whistling, his breath frosty in the evening air. He’d managed to persuade Violet to visit his sister, so he didn’t have to worry about her tonight.

  There wasn’t anything wrong with saloons and cantinas—a man needed a place he could drink and gamble, but Violet didn’t belong there. She wasn’t his, she was Billy’s, but he felt responsible for her just the same.

  Tessa had been in a good humor, too, because he was home. He didn’t spoil it by reminding her he wouldn’t be staying long.

  He pushed open the door of Hargrove’s saloon and went in. He didn’t see Billy and the others, but he knew they’d be along. At the bar a red-faced man was toying with a pearl-handled pistol. Ezra held, tensing. The man saw him and grinned.

  “Don’t be afraid of Joe Grant, sonny. I don’t shoot puppies.” A few men laughed nervously.

  Ezra forced himself to unclench his fists. He’d heard of Grant. As fast as they came, sober. Right now he was half-crocked. A man learned early not to argue with drunks.

  “I took this little baby from Finan Chisum,” Grant boasted, his words slurring. “Yes sir. Ain’t no one owns a prettier one.” He looked along the bar, then back at Ezra. “Ain’t no one I can’t beat to the draw neither, drunk or sober.”

  He peered at Ezra closely. “By God, if you ain’t the pup that runs with that son‑of‑a‑bitching Kid.”

  The man next to Grant at the bar edged away. The room quieted.

  “Well, ain’t you?” Grant demanded.

  “I know Billy,” Ezra said.

  Grant lifted the muzzle of his gun, pointing it at Ezra’s gut. “I mean to do for the Kid one of these days. This county ain’t big enough for him and me both.”

  Ezra swallowed. If he went for his Colt, Grant would shoot. If he didn’t, he’d have to stand here and listen to insults. Grant might shoot him even if he didn’t try to draw--you never knew-what a drunk would do.

  “Course, I could start with you.” Grant’s finger touched the trigger.

  Ezra made himself stare into Grant’s eyes, unmoving. Bastard’s trying to get me to go for my gun, he told himself. Then he’d have an excuse. His knees felt as mushy as refried beans. He took a deep breath.

  “I sure do admire that pistol,” he said, surprised that his voice didn’t quiver. “I’ve never seen a pearl-handled one before.”

  Grant blinked and then glanced down at his gun. He smiled. “She’s a beauty.” The muzzle pointed away from Ezra as Grant turned the pistol over in his hands again. “Prettier than a ten-dollar whore.”

  Men began talking again, a little too loudly. Ezra looked quickly around and saw that Billy had stepped in from a back room. He didn’t know how long Billy had been standing there.

  Grant hadn’t seen him yet.

  Billy sauntered over.

  “Evening, Joe,” Billy said, grinning. “Nice little gun you got there.” He held out his hand. “Mind if I take a look?”

  Grant stared at Billy. Ezra could almost hear Grant’s thoughts: If I don’t hand him the gun, I’m a coward, If I do hand him the gun, he might shoot me. If I shoot him instead of giving him the pistol, this other young pup’ll have a chance to get me.

  “What the hell, take a look,” Grant said. He put the pearl-handled Colt into Billy’s hands.

  Billy examined the gun, twirled the cylinder and handed it back to Grant. “Very nice,” he said. “How about a drink?”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Grant agreed, sliding the gun into his holster.

  “I know you ain’t much of a drinker, Ez,” Billy said. “Why don’t you play a little poker? I see there’s an empty chair.”

  Ezra knew Billy wanted him away from Grant. He shrugged and said, “Sure. I feel sort of lucky tonight.”

  He eased into the seat, anted and picked up the cards dealt him, watching Billy from the corner of his eye.

  “Gonna be trouble,” the cowboy next to Ezra muttered, “as sure as my name’s Gene

  Shelton.”

  “Stand or draw?” the dealer asked.

  Ezra glanced briefly at his five cards. Two kings. He’d keep those, discard three. A moment later, when the dealer threw him two cards, he realized he’d only tossed in two, keeping a jack with his two kings.

  “I can draw faster than any man in the Territory,” Grant said loudly.

  Ezra turned his head toward the bar. Saw Grant pull the damn pearl-handled Colt as he spoke. Aim at Billy. Before Ezra was out of his chair, Grant pulled the trigger.

  The gun clicked as the hammer fell on an empty chamber.

  Al
most leisurely, Billy’s Colt came out of its holster. It roared just as Grant’s clicked again.

  Grant staggered against the bar, then fell headlong. He twitched once. Lay still.

  Ezra jammed his half-drawn pistol back into the holster as he strode toward Billy.

  Billy stepped over Grant’s body. “Any luck?” he said.

  It took Ezra a moment to understand what he meant, then realized he was still clutching the two kings and the jack in his left hand. “I don’t know,” he said, striving to sound as casual as Billy. “I didn’t look at my draw.”

  Billy strolled back to the poker table with him and watched while Ezra picked up the two cards he’d been dealt. Two jacks.

  Ezra took the pot with his full house.

  “Guess it’s just your lucky night, Ez,” Billy told him.

  By the time they were outside, Ezra had figured out what happened. Billy must have seen there were only a few shells in the cylinder and twirled it to get the empties up front. Grant had been too drunk to understand what was going on.

  Still, Grant would be alive if he hadn’t pulled iron on Billy first.

  Tess cried when Ezra packed up to leave the next morning.

  “Papa would roll over in his grave if he knew you were stealing cattle,” she sobbed.

  “You leave Papa out of this. He’s dead. I’m not. I’m doing things my way. I like it. It’s a free life—we live how we want and no one stops us. You got to understand, Tessa, that you can’t mother me forever. Why don’t you get married and have yourself some babies to raise?”

  For some reason this made her cry harder. He felt bad going off leaving her so unhappy, but it couldn’t be helped.

  “Your sister doesn’t want to marry Mr. Rutledge,” Violet pointed out to Ezra as they rode toward Sumner with the others.

  “Well, Mark’s back; she could marry him if she wanted “I do not think he has asked her,” Violet said.

  Ezra didn’t reply. Sometimes he didn’t understand other people. He’d sure thought Mark and Tessa were in love. But maybe it was like Billy and Violet. Sort of one-sided. Billy was fond of Violet, true, but he didn’t take care of her and he certainly didn’t plan to marry her. In fact, Ezra didn’t know what would become of Violet if he weren’t around to look after her.