“Enough,” rasped the black-clothed boss with an impatient motion of the .45. “Put him on the horse and tie his hands.”
Sam noticed a crude drawing between the man’s thumb and wrist—a black widow spider. Not that he could do anything with the information where he was going.
One last time, he scanned the landscape anxiously, hoping to glimpse riders, but saw only the branches of cedar, oak, and cottonwood trees swaying gently in the breeze. He strained against the ropes binding him, but they wouldn’t budge.
Thickness lodged in his throat as they threw him on Trooper’s back. His heart pounded against his ribs. He sat straight and tall, not allowing so much as an eye twitch. These outlaws who thrived on violence would never earn the right to see the turmoil and fear twisting behind his stone face. Advice his father had once given him sounded in his ears. “When trouble comes, stand proud. You are a Legend. Inside you beats the heart of a survivor.”
Sam Legend stared into the distance with unseeing eyes, the muscle working in his jaw.
The ringleader threw the rope up and over one of the gnarled branches.
Bitter regret rose. Sam had never told his father he loved him. The times they’d butted heads seemed trivial now. So did the fights with big brother Houston over things that didn’t make a hill of beans.
Yes, he was going to die with a heart full of regret, broken dreams, and empty promises.
The rope scratched, digging into his tender flesh as the outlaw settled the noose around Sam’s neck. “You better find a hole and climb into it, mister,” Sam said. “Every ranger and lawman in the state of Texas will be after you.”
A chuckle filled the air. “They won’t find us.”
“That wager’s going to cost you.” Sam steeled himself for pain, wondering how long it would take to die. He prayed it was quick. He wondered if his mother would be waiting to soothe him in Heaven.
“Say hello to the devil, Ranger.” With those words, he slapped the horse’s flank. Trooper bolted, leaving Sam dangling in the air. The rope violently yanked his neck back and to the side as his body jerked.
Choking and fighting to breathe, Sam Legend counted his heartbeats until blackness claimed him. As he whirled away into nothingness, only one thing filled his mind—the tattoo of a black widow spider on his killer’s hand.
Two
A month after Texas Ranger Sam Legend almost died, an ear-splitting crash of thunder rattled the windows and each unpainted board of the J. R. Simmons Mercantile. The ominous skies burst open, and rain pelted the ground in great sheets. A handful of people scattered like buckshot along the Waco boardwalk in an effort to escape the thorough drenching of a spring gully-washer.
Sam paid the rain no mind. The storm barely registered—few things did, these days. The feeling of the rope around his neck was still overpowering. He reached to see if it was there, thankful not to find it.
The nightmare had him in its grip, refusing to let go. More dead than alive, he moved toward his destination. When he reached the alley separating the two sections of boardwalk, he collided with a woman covered in a hooded cloak.
“Apologies, ma’am.” He glanced down by rote, then blinked. All at once, the world and all its color came rushing back as Sam stared into startling blue eyes.
She nodded and opened her mouth to speak. But before she could, a man took her arm and jerked her into the alleyway.
“Hey there!” Sam called, startled. He’d been so focused on those blue eyes he hadn’t realized anyone else was there. “Ma’am, do you need help?”
He received no answer, as her companion forced her toward a horse at the other end of the alley where a group of mounted riders waited. The hair on the back of his neck rose.
Intent on stopping whatever was happening, Sam lengthened his strides. Before he could reach them, the man threw her onto a horse, then swung up behind her. Within seconds, they were gone.
Sam stood in the driving rain, staring at the empty street. It had all happened so fast he could hardly believe it.
Hell, maybe he’d imagined the whole thing. Maybe she’d never existed. Maybe the heavy downpour and gray gloom had messed with his mind…again. Ever since the hanging, he’d been seeing things that weren’t there. Twice now he’d yanked men around and grabbed for their hand, thinking he saw a black widow spider between their thumb and forefinger. The last time almost got Sam shot. Folks claimed he was missing the top rung of his ladder. Now his captain was sending him home to find it.
Crippled. The word clanked around in his head, refusing to settle. But even though he had full use of his legs, that’s what he was at present. The cold fear washing over him had nothing to do with the air temperature or rain. The sudden appearance and disappearance of the woman seemed suddenly so fantastical that it couldn’t possibly have been real. What if he never recovered? Some never did.
His hand clenched. He’d fight like hell to be the vital man he once was. He had things to do—an outlaw to hunt down, a wrong to right…a promise to keep.
Sam drew his coat tight against the wet chill, forcing himself to move on down the street toward the face-to-face with Captain O’Reilly. It stuck in his craw that they thought him too crazed to do his job. The captain thought him a liability now, a danger to the other rangers. Wanted him to take a break.
His heart couldn’t hurt any worse than if someone had stomped on it with a pair of hobnail boots. Maybe the captain was right. If he’d imagined that woman just now—and he really couldn’t be certain he hadn’t—then maybe he needed the break. Sam Legend, who had brought in notorious killers, bank robbers, prison escapees and the like, had become a liability.
But one thing he knew he hadn’t imagined, and that was the blurred figure of Luke Weston standing over him when he’d regained consciousness that fateful day. There had been no mistaking those green eyes above the mask. They belonged to the outlaw he’d chased for over a year—he’d stake his life on it.
When his fellow rangers had ridden up, Weston disappeared into the brush, leaving Sam with questions. Who cut him down from the tree? Was Weston with the rustlers? Why had the outlaws left Trooper behind? Awful considerate of them.
So what the hell had happened, dammit?
Rangers who’d ridden up told Sam they’d seen no one. He lay on the ground with the rope loosened around his neck, drifting in and out of consciousness.
Those questions and others haunted him, and he wouldn’t rest until he got answers. Somehow he knew Weston was the key.
At ranger headquarters, he took a deep breath before opening the door. He pushed a mite too hard, banging the knob against the wall. Captain O’Reilly jerked up from his desk. “What the hell, Legend? Trying to wake the dead?”
“Sorry, Cap’n. It got away from me.” It seemed a good many things had, recently.
The tall, slender captain waved him to the chair. “I haven’t heard this much racket since the shoot-out inside that silo with the Arnie brothers down in Sweetwater.”
“I hope I can talk you out of your decision.” Sam sat down.
O’Reilly sauntered to the potbellied stove in the corner and lifted the coffeepot. “What’s it been? A month?”
“An eternity,” Sam said quietly.
“Want a snort of coffee? Might improve your outlook.”
“I’ll take you up on your offer, but doubt it’ll improve anything. I need this job, sir. I need to work.” Revenge burned hot. He’d not rest until he found the men who’d hung him and when he did, they’d pay with their blood.
“What you need is some time off to get your head on straight. I can’t have you seeing things that aren’t there.” O’Reilly sighed. “You’re gonna get yourself or someone else killed. I’m ordering you to go home for a while, then come back ready to catch outlaws.”
“Finding the rustlers and catching Luke Weston is my first priority.
”
“That wily outlaw has been taunting you for the last year.” O’Reilly’s eyes hardened as he handed him a tin cup. “It seems personal.”
“Hell yeah, it’s personal!”
Weston had been there, that much he knew. The outlaw could have strung him up himself. Why else would Sam remember those green eyes?
In addition to that, and though it sounded rather trivial when compared to a hanging, a year ago Weston had taken his pocket watch during a stagecoach holdup. Sam’d tried to protect a payroll shipment, but Weston’d done the oddest thing. The outlaw had only taken exactly fifty dollars, a paltry sum compared to what he’d left behind, and the passengers’ belongings untouched. But he’d seemed to take particular delight in pocketing Sam’s prized timepiece. Memories of the intent way Weston had flipped it open and stared at the inscription before tucking it away drifted through Sam’s mind.
“Makes me mad enough to chew nails, and him calling himself Luke Legend half the time! Does it just to taunt me. I have a reputation to protect.” The thought filled Sam’s head with so many cuss words, he feared it would burst open.
The captain leaned back in his chair and propped his boots on the scarred desk that Noah must’ve brought over on the ark. To make up for a missing leg, someone had cut a crutch and stuck it under there. “Sometimes we all get cases that sink their teeth into us and won’t let go.”
“I just about had him the last time.” And now the captain was forcing him to take time off. Sam would lose every bit of ground he’d gained.
Luke Weston had led him on a chase this past year from one end of Texas to the other, and Sam still had yet to glimpse anything except a pair of cold, pale green eyes glaring over the top of a bandana. Eyes that only held contempt, and anger. Except for this last time, when they’d seemed to hold concern. But maybe he’d imagined that.
Damn! He really didn’t know what was real and what wasn’t anymore.
Maybe the captain was right.
Reaching for a poster that lay atop a pile on his desk, Captain O’Reilly passed it to Sam. “Got this yesterday.” Bold lettering at the top of the page screamed: WANTED! Luke Weston a.k.a. Luke Legend—$1,000 reward for capture and conviction. Below, it stated the crimes: robbery and murder.
The murder charge was new since the last poster Sam had seen. The reward had only been two hundred dollars then. He stared at the thick paper and narrowed his eyes, wondering whose fate had intersected with Luke Weston’s.
“Who did he kill?”
O’Reilly’s face darkened. “Federal judge. Edgar Percival.”
“Stands to reason Weston would turn to outright murder eventually. Seems every month he’s involved in a gunfight with someone, though folks say they were all men who needed killing.”
And yet the new charge did shock Sam. He’d come to know Weston pretty well. A period of four months separated all of the outlaw’s robberies, with only one fifty dollars taken. And in each instance, Weston had never shot anyone. Maybe he did it out of boredom…or to taunt Sam.
“A bad seed.” The ranger captain’s chair squeaked when he leaned forward. “Some men are born killers.”
The line at the bottom of the poster, also in heavy bold print, read: Armed and Extremely Dangerous. As with all the others, it didn’t bear a likeness, not even a crude drawing. There were no physical features to go on. Frustration boiled. The lawman in him itched to be out there tracking Weston. The need to bring him to justice rose so strong it choked Sam. Weston was his outlaw to catch, and instead he’d been ordered to go home.
Hell! Spending one week on the huge Lone Star Ranch was barely tolerable. A month would either kill him or he’d kill big brother Houston. The thought had no more than formed before guilt pricked his conscience. In the final moments before the outlaw had hit his horse and left Sam dangling by his neck, regrets had filled his thoughts. He’d begged God for a second chance so he could make things right.
Now it looked like he’d get it. He’d make the time count. He’d mend bridges with his father.
Family was there in good times and bad.
Despite his better qualities, Stoker had caused problems for him. Sam had driven himself to work harder, be quicker and tougher, to prove to everyone his father hadn’t bought his job. Overcoming the big ranch, the money and power the Legend name evoked, had been a continuing struggle.
Captain O’Reilly opened his desk drawer, uncorked a bottle of whiskey, and gave his coffee a generous dousing. “Want to doctor your coffee, Sam?”
“Don’t think it’ll help,” he replied with a tight smile.
“Suit yourself.” The hardened ranger put the bottle away. The white scar on his cheek had never faded, left from a skirmish with the Comanche.
Sam studied that scar, thinking. Although Sam had intended to keep quiet about the woman he may or may not have bumped into on the way over out of fear of being labeled a lunatic for sure, he felt a duty to say something. He wouldn’t voice doubts that he’d imagined it. “Cap’n, I saw something that keeps nagging. I collided with a young woman a few minutes ago. Before I could react, a man grabbed her arm and shoved her into the alley between the mercantile and telegraph office. I saw fear in her eyes. When I followed, they got on waiting horses and rode off. Can you send someone to check it out?”
Sam winced at how quickly doubts filled O’Reilly’s eyes. The captain was wondering if this was one more example of Sam breaking with reality. Hell! If he’d conjured this up, he’d commit himself into one of those homes where they locked up crazy people.
O’Reilly twirled his empty cup. “After the bank robbery a few weeks ago, we don’t need more trouble. I’ll look into it.”
“Thanks. I hope it was nothing, but you never know.” Relieved, Sam took a sip of coffee, wishing it would warm the cold deep in his bones.
“When’s the train due to arrive, Legend?”
“Within the hour.” Sam would obey his orders, but the second the month was up, he’d hit the ground running. He’d dog Luke Weston’s trail until there wouldn’t be a safe place in all of Texas to even get a slug of whiskey. He’d heard the gunslinging outlaw spent time down around Galveston and San Antone. That, Sam reckoned, would be a good starting point.
O’Reilly removed his boots from the desk and sat up. “I seem to recall your family ranch being northwest of here on the Red River.”
“That’s right.”
“Ever hear of Lost Point?”
Sam nodded. “The town is west of us. Pretty lawless place, by all accounts.”
“It’s become a no-man’s land. Outlaws moved in, lock, stock, and barrel. Nothing north of it but Indian Territory. Jonathan Doan is requesting a ranger to the area. Seems he’s struggling to get a trading post going on the Red River just west of Lost Point, and outlaws are threatening.”
“I’ll take a ride over there while I’m home.”
“No hurry. Give yourself a few weeks.”
“Sure thing, Cap’n.” The clock on the town square chimed the half hour, reminding him he’d best get moving. Relieved that O’Reilly had softened and allowed him to still work, Sam set down his cup. “Appears I’ve got a train to catch.”
O’Reilly shook his hand. “Get well, Sam. You’re a good lawman. Come back stronger than ever.”
“I will, sir.”
At the livery, Sam hired a boy to fetch his bags from the hotel and take them to the station. After settling with the owner and collecting his buckskin gelding, Sam rode to meet the train. He shivered in the cold, steady downpour. The gloomy day reflected his mood as he moved toward an uncertain future. He was on his way home.
To bind up his wounds. To heal. To become the ranger he needed to be.
And he would—come hell or high water, mad as a March hare or not.
Right on time, amid plumes of hissing white steam, the Houston and Texa
s Central Railway train pulled up next to the loading platform.
Sam quickly loaded Trooper into the livestock car and paid the boy for bringing his bags. After making sure the kerchief around his neck hid the scar, he swung aboard. Passengers had just started to enter so he had his pick of seats. He chose one two strides from the door.
Shrugging from his coat, he sat down and got comfortable.
A movement across the narrow aisle a few minutes later drew his attention, as a tall passenger wearing a low-slung gunbelt slid into the seat. Sam studied the black leather vest and frock coat of the same color. Gunslinger, bounty hunter, or maybe a gambler? Bounty hunter seemed far-fetched—he’d never seen one dressed in anything as fine. Such men wasted no time with fancy clothing. A gunslinger, then. Few others tied their holster down to their leg. No one else required speed when drawing. Likely a gambler too. Usually the two went hand in hand.
His coloring spoke of Mexican descent, though judging by the shade, he had one white parent. Lines around the traveler’s mouth and a gray or two in his dark hair put him somewhere around the near side of thirty. Though he wore his black Stetson low on his forehead, he tugged it even lower as he settled back against the cushion.
The fine hairs on Sam’s arm twitched. He knew this man. But from where? For the life of him, he couldn’t recall. He leaned over. “Pardon me, but have we met?”
Without meeting Sam’s gaze, the man allowed a tight smile. “Nope.”
Darn the hat that bathed his eyes in dusky shadows. “I’m Sam Legend. Name’s not familiar?”
“Nope.”
He’d been so certain the man looked familiar. “Guess I made a mistake…” Odd that the man hadn’t introduced himself, though.
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