by Ralph Cotton
Stepping up into the saddle, he drew the Winchester rifle from its boot, checked it and laid it across his still-throbbing lap. Gilley hadn’t fallen for the rifle bait. Now what?
“All right, Gilley,” he called out in a no-nonsense tone to the surrounding land, his voice echoing a little, “this is your last chance to straighten things out between us.” He looked at the tired horses still standing a few yards away. “No reason we can’t put this behind us . . . saddle you up a horse and ride out of here together.”
Deep in the shelter of the woods, Gilley watched Cheyenne from around the edge of a large boulder. She listened, but she dared not reply, even though something cried out inside her, wishing that things between them could have turned out different. Maybe things had just gotten out of hand for a minute there. In the heat of the moment, him and his men running from the law, maybe he had lost sight of how he felt about her—
Don’t be a fool! she told herself, the voice in her head admonishing her for even considering such a thing. Jesus, he tried to kill you!
That’s right, he did, she thought, taking the side of good reasoning. Once they try to kill you, it’s pretty much over, she resolved.
Anyway, she hadn’t come into this thing looking for a man, she thought, watching Cheyenne look back and forth, then nudge his fresh horse over to where the tired horses stood. She had come into this for the money, pure and simple. Sure, she had slept with him. That was always expected with men like him. Cheyenne would never have allowed a woman into his fold had she not first submitted to him. It was the way things were done. Luckily, he hadn’t shared her with the others—not yet anyway, she thought.
But all that aside . . .
She allowed herself the faint trace of a smile, watching him lean down enough to loosen the tired horses and shoo them away, shouting and waving his rifle barrel. He hadn’t killed her. She would get her money—and then some, as soon as he rode away and she could slip inside the shack and gather it from under the bed. She would almost give a portion of that money just to see the look on his face when he opened the saddlebags and looked inside.
“All right, Gilley,” Cheyenne called out. “I’ve tried to reason with you and make up—gone as far as any man can go to straighten things out.” He paused and listened, hearing no reply from the rocky woodlands. “I’ve been more than fair, and understanding.”
She could tell by the calm way he’d acted coming out of the shack that he hadn’t yet checked the saddlebags and discovered his money was missing.
“Once I leave, you’ll be left out here by yourself,” he called out. “You better think about it real good before it’s too late—a woman out here all alone, no horse, nobody protecting you. There’s still wildfires sprouting up everywhere.”
The son of a bitch.
How stupid did he think she was? She slumped against the big boulder and kept watch around the edge of it until he chased away all the tired horses, then turned his fresh horse and rode away alone the trail. Even when he was gone out of sight, she stayed put for a while longer, playing it safe until she was certain he wasn’t sitting somewhere watching, waiting for her return.
* * *
In the middle of the hot afternoon, the Ranger had seen the black wall of smoke boil up over the pine-covered ridges and hilltops to his west. Streaks of orange flame licked upward within the churning blackness, as if the whole of it arose from a deep porthole to some lower nether realm. Beneath him the rust-colored barb chuffed and grumbled under its breath as the smell of char wafted across the rock chasm still flanking their trail. The Ranger patted his horse’s withers with his gloved hand.
“I know,” he said to the animal, as if horses both heard and understood what was said to them. “It looks like hell’s not through with us yet.” He raised his fingertips and idly touched the damp bandana tied around his neck. He looked down at the hoofprints in the rocky dirt. He didn’t like turning away from them, but it looked as though that was the wise thing to do, for now.
He nudged the horse forward, off the trail and upward along a thin elk path into the rock and woodlands, not wanting to get caught on an open hillside should an increase in the wind push the fire to them any faster than it was already traveling.
Nothing between us and the devil, he told himself as if not wanting to frighten an already skittish horse with talk of their dire prospects.
An hour later, in spite of their climbing higher up off the trail and farther away from the black distant smoke, long looming gray streaks of it weaved into the woodlands and among the rock around him like tentacles searching him out. The Ranger pulled the bandana across the bridge of his nose and rode on. He reached back into his saddlebags and pulled out the damp shirt he’d wrapped around the horse’s muzzle earlier, having it ready just in case.
But as they climbed higher up the steep game path, he saw the gray smoke still lying beneath them, spread like a gauzy shroud over the rugged terrain, not rising to engulf them. Not yet anyway, he told himself, nudging the horse on.
When they reached a higher trail and he stepped the barb onto it, the Ranger saw a lone horse standing bareback, facing them from less than twenty feet away. He saw a length of lead rope hanging from the horse’s muzzle to the ground.
“Easy, now,” he whispered as the barb walked toward the horse slowly. When the barb sidled close enough, he picked up the dangling lead rope with his left hand and drew the horse over beside him. In his right hand he held his Winchester rifle as he looked around warily, knowing he was closer to the men he was tracking than he might have been had he stuck to their hoofprints and ridden through the encroaching smoke.
Putting the barb forward, he rode along the trail at a walk, lead rope in one hand, rifle in his other, until he came upon another horse standing facing him, this one in the middle of the trail. Instead of gathering the tired horse and continuing on, he stepped down from his saddle and stood watching and listening for any sound or sign along the trail in front of him. Somewhere nearby the gunmen had changed horses. These were the horses they had used to ride here from Phoebe.
As he watched the trail before him, Sam put both horses on the lead rope and looked them over good before leading them and the barb forward quietly. When he found a path filled with fresh hoofprints that wandered off into the rock and woodlands to his left, Sam hitched the horses to a pine sapling and traveled forward alone. Climbing over boulders and picking his way through trees and rock crevices, he crawled, at length, atop a rock ledge overlooking a shack situated in a small clearing.
There were no horses anywhere around the shack, Sam noted, yet he still waited, rifle in hand, poised and ready. Within moments, from atop his rocky perch in the waning afternoon sunlight, he saw a single figure wearing a long riding duster and wide-brimmed hat walk into sight from beneath the porch roof. Sam noted the canvas bag draped over one shoulder as the figure moved across the clearing onto a narrow rocky trail and disappeared into the shelter of tall pines. With his rifle still poised, Sam waited and watched long enough to satisfy himself that no one else was coming out of the shack. Then he lowered the rifle and scooted back across the rock ledge.
Time to go, he told himself. When he knew he was out of sight, he stood up dusting the seat of his trousers and walked back to the horses. Knowing where the thin trail from the shack led out onto the main trail, he hurriedly gathered the horses and took cover behind a rock twenty yards from where the two trails intersected.
When the lone figure walked into sight, the Ranger stepped out from behind the rock with his rifle cocked and aimed at chest level.
“Stop right here,” he said in an even tone. “Get your hands up where I can see them.”
“Don’t shoot!” the figure said.
The wide hat brim hid her face in the thin evening light, but Sam could tell it was a woman by the sound of her voice.
“P
lease, don’t shoot!” the woman repeated, letting the bag on her shoulder drop to the ground behind her. She raised both hands shoulder high and spread her fingers wide apart for him to see. “I’m unarmed! As you can tell.” She wiggled her fingers a little for good measure.
“Lift your hat, easylike,” Sam said with a curious turn in his voice. “Let me see who I’m talking to.”
The woman lifted the hat back off her head and let it fall by its string down behind her. With her hat off, her hair fell to her shoulders.
“A woman,” the Ranger murmured.
“Thank you,” the woman said. She stared with apprehension on her face—not scared, but concerned, wondering who this was, where this was headed. “Are you the law?” she asked hesitantly.
“Yes, ma’am,” Sam said. With his left hand he held open the lapel of his duster, revealing the badge on his chest. “I’m Arizona Territory Ranger Samuel Burrack. Who are you?” His question was not harsh or demanding, yet firm enough to compel a prompt reply.
“I’m Jillian . . . Jillian Hodges,” she said, lying about her last name. “Folks call me Gilley.” She glanced around as if it suddenly dawned on her that she wasn’t sure where they were. “Is—is this still Arizona Territory?”
“I don’t know,” Sam said a little briskly, almost cutting her off, not about to start answering her questions—at least not until he had enough answers of his own. “Where’s the others?”
“What others?” Gilley asked, testing the situation, seeing what position she might jockey herself into, what gains she might make for herself.
“Are you sure you want to play it this way?” the Ranger asked flatly, stepping forward, sounding indifferent to whether or not she told him the truth, as if he already knew her whole story and was only verifying it for himself.
She just stared at him, her hands still up, a warm evening wind sweeping through the air, whipping a strand of dark brown hair across her face.
The Ranger returned her stare and held her eyes for a moment almost against her will.
“It could go easier on a person who only provided horses, especially if that person helped the law do its job,” he said.
Gilley thought about it, biting her lower lip a little, taking a chance on reaching a hand over and pushing the hair from her face.
“What about . . .” She paused, then started again. “What about a person who provided horses, but had no idea they were going to use the horses to escape the law?”
He’d better watch this one real close, the Ranger told himself, his eyes still fixed on Gilley’s as he stepped in closer, lowering his rifle a little.
“I can’t speak for a jury,” Sam said quietly. “But I’ve gone as far with this as I intend to. Where are they headed? How far ahead are they?”
Gilley let out a breath with a slight sigh.
“Can I lower my hands, Ranger Burrack?” she asked. Before he could answer, she lowered her right hand, testing him.
“In a minute,” he said, raising the rifle barrel and gently but firmly guiding her hand back up with it.
She looked a little surprised by his move, almost hurt or offended that he could think she might be up to something.
The Ranger reached out and held her duster open, looking her up and down. He saw no gun tucked in her waist, no sign of any gun bulges beneath her clothing. He stepped around behind her, patted her waist, but stopped there.
“What’s in the bag?” he asked, standing behind her, toeing the canvas bag with his boot.
“Only everything I have in the world,” Gilley said in a humble, even voice. “My personals, a pair of trousers, a skirt . . . You can look for yourself, if you don’t believe me.”
Sam thought about it. Why would she even invite him to look for himself?
“No guns? Nothing sharp inside?” he asked. As he spoke, he picked up the bag and squeezed it here and there, recognizing the stiffness of stacks of cash.
She shook her head and said, “No, you have my word there’s no weapons, if that’s what you’re looking for. Is this what you mean by helping the law do its job?”
Sam picked up the bag and laid it in front of her on the ground.
“If you’re telling the truth, yes, that’s helpful,” he said. “Empty it. Let’s see how helpful you’re being.”
She sighed again.
“All right, Ranger,” she admitted, “there’s money in the bag.” She quickly added, “But I wasn’t lying to you. There’s no gun, no knife, nothing like that.”
Sam nodded to himself.
“Just money,” he said.
“Just money,” she repeated.
“Money from the Phoebe bank robbery,” Sam said.
She stalled, as if making sure she wasn’t giving up anything on herself, then said, “It’s money they gave me for the horses,” she replied. “I can’t say for sure where it came from.” With her hands still raised, she looked around at him and asked, “Is that still being helpful?”
Sam didn’t answer. Instead he said, “Go ahead and empty it.”
“Right there, in the dirt, my clothes?” she asked.
Sam took off his sombrero and pitched it onto the ground at her feet.
“You can lay your belongings on my hat,” he said.
Watching her upend the bag and empty it onto his dusty sombrero, Sam thought to himself, Oh yes, I’d better watch this one real close.
She sighed again, this time in resolve, knowing there was no way she could avoid him seeing all the bound bank money.
“Okay, Ranger Burrack,” she said, “can I just be honest with you?”
“By all means, please do,” Sam said quietly.
Chapter 4
While Gilley Maclaine separated the paper-bound stacks of money from her clothing lying atop the Ranger’s sombrero, she told the Ranger as much as she could without openly admitting her role in the bank robbery. The Ranger listened more closely than he let on as he picked up the stacks of money and held them in his hands.
“So,” she said in conclusion, “I agreed to bring four horses up to the shack and have them here waiting for him and his men.” She shrugged. “It was stupid, thinking back on it. But it seemed all right at the time.”
“This is a sizable amount of money for four horses, ma’am,” the Ranger said, holding the money for her to see. He eyed her suspiciously. “You’ll have to do better than that.”
She stared at him for a moment.
“I stole it from the Cheyenne Kid’s part of the bank money, all right?” she said finally, a little resentful that he wasn’t fooled by her initial explanation.
“You robbed the robber,” said the Ranger.
“If you put it that way, I suppose so,” she said. “The fact is, Cheyenne tried to get away from here without paying me for the horses. I saw a chance to get what was mine and I took it. Can you blame me?”
Sam didn’t reply. He only stared at her critically, as if he knew there was more to her story.
“He tried to kill me,” she said flatly. She watched the Ranger’s face to judge the effect of her words.
“Tried to kill you . . .” He gave a slight nod as if he found it reasonable to believe.
“I heard him tell the others what he was going to do once they’d left,” she said. “So I took the money from his saddlebags and hid it under the bed. I was ready for him when the time came. . . .”
Sam listened as she gave him an almost blow-byblow account of the fight.
When she’d finished telling him everything, she looked at the money in his hands with regret.
“And now you’re taking my money and keeping it?” she asked. Her tone didn’t hide the fact that she felt she was being unfairly treated in the matter.
“No,” said the Ranger. “First of all,
it’s not your money. It belongs to the bank in Phoebe. Second of all, I’m not keeping it. It’s going into my saddlebags—back to the bank, just as soon as I get this thing settled.”
“Meaning, just as soon as you kill Cheyenne and his pals?” she asked.
“I’m taking them back,” the Ranger said. “If killing them is the only way to make it work, I expect that’s what I’ll have to do.”
“Can—can I be honest with you, Ranger?” she asked.
There it was, for the second time, Sam reminded himself.
“Sure, why not?” he said.
She looked at him for a moment, catching the trace of cynicism in his voice.
“All right, here it is,” she said, as if unburdening herself of some heavy weight on her conscious. “I was having relations with the Cheyenne Kid.”
Sam just stared at her.
“We were lovers,” she said with emphasis, as if he might not know what she was talking about. She studied his flat poker face for a moment, then said, “Do you understand what I mean?”
“I think so,” the Ranger said.
“Well, we were.” She shrugged. “So there. I know how bad that sounds, but it’s the truth.”
“Let me get this straight,” the Ranger said. “You had sexual relations with him, and afterward he tried to kill you?”
“No!” she said indignantly. “Not right afterward. I mean, we were having relations before I ever agreed to bring the horse up here.”
“I see,” said Sam. He paused in thought for a moment. “So, you and Cheyenne knew each other as lovers. He asked you to bring him some fresh horses up here. Him and his gang rob a bank, come get the horses and leave you behind.”
“And attempted to kill me,” she interjected.
“But you robbed him. He left, and had no idea you’d taken the money from his saddlebags.”
“Yep, that’s the whole of it,” she said. “Have I helped myself any, being honest with you?”