Reluctant Enemies

by Vivian Vaughan

  Will blanched. Hadn’t Priscilla warned him not to make stupid statements? “Mind if I take a look at ’em?”

  Even as he asked, Will wasn’t at all sure he wanted to set foot on the place. Certainly not in the direction of that angry hound, accompanied by its surly master. Sure enough, though, that’s the way DeVries led him.

  “This where you regularly keep these animals?” They had reached the muck-littered pole corral unmolested. Will rested a boot on the bottom rung and examined the six horses that stood out like cut diamonds in a second-rate mounting. Behind them now, the hound still barked, but since DeVries kicked him in the ribs on passing, his tone had changed from aggression to agony.

  “You got objections?”

  “To the corrals? None. This where they were taken from?”

  “Stolen from?” DeVries corrected. “Yep. Right here.”

  “Were you at home?”

  DeVries narrowed a dark expression on Will, who suddenly entertained the image of the Scotsman kicking him in the ribs.

  “I mean, your dog would have alerted you, if you were home, that is. Were you home that night, Mr. DeVries?”

  The Scotsman never missed a lick. “Maybe so, maybe no.”

  “When a man is accused of a crime as serious as horse stealing…” Will paused, perusing the horses in the corral with deliberation. “When a man’s accused of stealing animals this valuable, he has a right to expect the truth—all of it.”

  “That half-breed ain’t got no rights.” DeVries spat tobacco off to the side. “He stole my horses, an’ he’ll hang for it.”

  “If he stole your horses, he’ll hang for it.”

  “He stole ’em. Ask Newt.”

  “You have papers, I take it.”

  “Papers?”

  “Ownership papers. Sales receipt. I’d like to see the papers.”

  “I didn’t buy these horses, I raised ’em.”

  “From what?”

  DeVries looked at Will as if he’d fallen out of a nest somewhere high in the sky. “You Yanks don’t never git no smarter, no matter how big you git.”

  Will ignored the sneer. He was actually getting used to it. Dressed up in proper grammar, DeVries’ snide remark would come close to Priscilla’s favorite taunt. “Where did you get the original stock, Mr. DeVries?”

  From the man’s narrowed eyes, Will expected him to refuse to reply. He was wrong…again. “Rounded ’em up, like ever’body else in these parts does wild horses.”

  “Wild horses?”

  DeVries held Will’s gaze, direct, challenging. Will considered pursuing the subject, considered the consequences if he did. The idea of getting himself shot out here where nobody but Newt Haskel knew to find him wasn’t an appealing proposition. And it’d be for nothing, he was certain. Aaron DeVries wouldn’t be inclined to tell Will anything of value, even if the man knew it. Which Will was beginning to doubt.

  “Reckon I’ll be headin’ back to Santa Fé, then, Mr. DeVries. Thanks for showing me around.”

  DeVries followed Will to his horse. Will felt the buffalo gun, handled loosely, but aimed in the general area of his spine the whole way. He hoped Aaron DeVries was surefooted.

  “Newt didn’t say nothin’ ’bout you bein’ the nosy type,” DeVries commented.

  Will swung up on his horse, feeling the return of a small measure of control. “Nosy?”

  “Like you don’t take my word for them bein’ my horses.”

  Will shrugged. “It isn’t that I don’t take your word. Judge Sanders appointed me to defend a man; I’m bound by the law to consider every angle.”

  “Out here we see the law a mite diff’ernt. You might oughta have Newt bone you up on our ways ’fore you run off half-cocked and start accusin’ folks of lyin’. You’re liable to end up gut shot and buzzard bait.”

  “Is that a threat, Mr. DeVries?”

  “Take it any damned way you like. Tell Newt he oughta ed’jecate you next time, ’fore he sends you off.”

  “Count on it, Mr. DeVries. I’ll certainly tell Newt every word you’ve said.”

  By the time Will reached Santa Fé the sun was setting. As it did every evening, the sunset reminded him of Spanish Creek and Priscilla. Lordy, but he seemed to have gotten himself into something he should’ve sidestepped. Try as he did, though, he couldn’t associate Spanish Creek Ranch with Charlie McCain, not even when he mulled over the probability that Charlie had purchased that ranch with money embezzled from Will’s own family. Spanish Creek seemed a world apart from the hatred he had felt for twenty-three long years—even from the promise he made his mother that long-ago night, to find the man who murdered his father and bring him to justice.

  Oh, he still intended to do it. There was no question in his mind about that. He hated Charlie McCain. But Charlie’s daughter was a different matter. And that worried Will.

  Arriving back in town he considered going straight to his room, cleaning up, eating supper, then heading downstairs to the cantina where Newt Haskel made a nightly habit of closing up the place—before he and Jessie returned to her suite of rooms at the opposite corner of the building from the single room Will rented.

  Passing the Faust & Haskel office, however, Will saw a light on in back, so he hitched his mount at the front rail and made his way around the side of the building. The sooner he got his suspicions off his chest, the better. There must be an explanation for those horses. But Newt or someone had some explaining to do, before they convinced him that Aaron DeVries raised pure-blooded Spanish horses on that rocky spread in the mountains.

  Will let himself in the back door, then stood quietly at the sound of voices coming from the office beyond, Oscar’s office. Oscar Haskel, Newt’s brother, was senior partner in the firm. His office, running front to back along one side of the building, reflected his additional work load and stature in both size and appointments.

  “You say McCain’s out at Spanish Creek by himself?” Will heard Oscar question.

  “Except for his wife and that feller who cain’t even shoot straight.” It was Newt’s voice. “Charlie sent Jake and Titus Crockett off with a herd of steers for Fort Stanton. The trip’ll take more’n a week, maybe longer if the weather don’t hold. An’ they’ve already been gone most of that time.”

  “All we need is one more day,” Oscar said. “One day and we’ll have Charlie McCain in his grave and Spanish Creek Ranch on our hands—all tied up with a legal seal.”

  “Reckon we don’t need to keep that half-breed in jail, then,” Newt said.

  “Keep him there, in case I’m wrong. If we can’t get McCain any other way, we’ll figure out how to use Wounded Eagle.”

  Will listened, scarcely believing what he heard. His brain rushed on a pell-mell search for a safe haven.

  “What about Radnor?”

  “I sent him out to DeVries to—”

  Before they could knowingly tip their hand, Will acted. He slammed the outer door, the sound stopping Newt’s words in midsentence. Stomping across the office, Will threw open the connecting door and confronted Newt with, “What the hell do you mean sending me on a wild goose chase, Haskel?”

  “Wild goose?”

  “Is your hearing bad, Newt? I may be green, like everyone keeps telling me, but I’m not stupid. Aaron DeVries no more raises pure-blooded horses on that spread east of the Río Grande than I tame wild buffalo and sell ’em for circus monkeys.”

  “How would you—”

  Oscar interrupted Newt. “You’re right, Radnor. DeVries isn’t the owner of those horses. It’s time we brought you into our little scheme.”

  Newt’s hand stilled on his handlebar mustache. “Now, Oscar, that’s not—”

  “Hush, Newt. I know what I’m doing.”

  Will’s attention went from Newt to his brother, Oscar. Larger than Newt, more worldly in appearance and speech, Oscar was held around town to be the more intelligent of the two men. Although Will had never heard Oscar Haskel raise his voice, he instin
ctively knew the man would be capable of a choleric outburst, should the situation require it.

  “What is this secret of yours, Oscar?”

  Oscar removed a stubby cigar from his lips, contemplated the glowing tip. “Let me say…” His brown eyes, cold and hard, found and held Will’s, warning him, before the man spoke another word, that he might be standing here in a peck of trouble. “Let’s just say, it involves the reason you came to New Mexico Territory.”

  Will’s heart leapt to his throat. He struggled to keep his face emotion-free. He forced his breathing to regulate. He stared Oscar Haskel in the eye, calling on every trick his grandfather had taught him about cross-examination. And they all failed.

  Oscar Haskel smiled the smile of a victor. “To get Charlie McCain.”

  Will frowned, but didn’t speak. Truthfully, he couldn’t think of a reply. And what he wanted to do, turn and flee the room, was out of the question, given the conversation he’d overheard earlier and now Oscar’s accusation.

  “Don’t worry, Radnor. We’re after McCain, too.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “You weren’t the only one who made inquiries,” Oscar explained. “When you started nosing around Santa Fé, looking for a position with a law firm, we made inquiries ourselves. Philadelphia, you see, rang a bell. That old gossip regarding Charlie McCain. Or should I say, Charles Martin Kane?”

  “So you hired me to help you get him?”

  “More or less.”

  “What about Joaquín? Did you set him up?”

  Oscar and Newt exchanged glances.

  “Let’s keep this on a need-to-know basis, Radnor. At the moment, Wounded Eagle is of no concern to you.”

  “Joaquín is my only concern. I’ve been appointed to defend him. Now it appears, against set-up charges.”

  “Damnit, Radnor, you aren’t listening. We’ve just been handed a surefire way of getting McCain. Come along, and you can have the chore, or should I say the privilege, of being the one to fire the fatal shot.”

  “What about the two of you?”

  “You want McCain dead. We want Spanish Creek Ranch. We’ll all be happy.”

  “Killing Charlie won’t guarantee you Spanish Creek Ranch. Priscilla—”

  Newt interrupted Will. “Don’t sound to me like he’s as anxious as you made out, Oscar.”

  “I’m anxious, Newt. To get Charlie. Not to rush into something when I don’t have all the facts.”

  “What’d you want to know?” Oscar spoke in a conversational tone, as though they were discussing a simple legal procedure, like drawing up a will or something. “We ride out tonight, leave in time to arrive at the ranchhouse before daybreak—couple, three hours from now. We—”

  “I mean, how do you intend to claim, legally claim, Spanish Creek Ranch?”

  “He’s thick with Jake,” Newt advised Oscar.

  “All the better,” Oscar replied. “She’ll be safely out of the way for several days. When she returns you can have her.”

  Will struggled to keep his myriad emotions under control. At least they weren’t planning to kill Priscilla. But what about her mother? “Thick or not,” he retorted, “I demand to know how you intend to accomplish this take-over without drawing suspicion.”

  “Drawing suspicion?” Newt retorted. “Hell, Radnor, you are green. We’re the law around here. We can do anything we damned well please.”

  “I see,” Will replied in icy tones. “Aaron DeVries suggested I get you to educate me; I guess that about covers it.” He turned to leave, even though his spine crawled at the prospect of showing his back to these men.

  “Hold on a minute,” Oscar called. “We’re not here to split hairs. We’re inviting you to go along. Can’t see how it’d hurt anything. You’re still after McCain, aren’t you?”

  Turning, Will stared hard at these men who considered themselves above the very law they had both sworn to serve. Yes, he was after Charlie McCain. But he’d never intended to go against the law to take him.

  “Look at it this way,” Oscar argued, “we’ll provide you an opportunity for that showdown you’ve been hungering for, these last twenty some-odd years; while we’re at it, we’ll take ourselves a ranch we’ve been after for nearly as long. You win, we win. Where’re you going to find a better deal?” Standing, Oscar Haskel withdrew the cigar from his mouth and extended his right hand to Will. “What’d you say? Are you in…or out?”

  Will stared at the hand, his heart in his throat. Contradictory emotions fought for control. Hatred for Charlie McCain versus dedication to the law; admiration for Charlie McCain versus hatred for these lawless bastards. But above and beyond every other consideration was his commitment to the law. Two, three hours, Oscar’d said. Time for…what?

  Taking Oscar’s hand, Will watched an expression of relief light the older man’s face. “Where do we meet?”

  “The boys are gatherin’ here.” Oscar checked his pocket watch. “Two hours.”

  Will wanted to ask what boys, how many boys, but he didn’t dare. “Wait for me.” He nodded to Newt and left the room. He’d walked halfway to the plaza before he remembered his horse hitched outside the law office. Time. Wasted time.

  Retrieving the animal, he rode around the plaza, hitched the horse behind the cantina, then rushed around the side, entering from the front, like any other paying customer. He stopped inside the door, searching for Jessie Laredo.

  “Will!” she hailed through the smoke.

  He made his way toward her, forcing his feet to saunter not run. Reaching Jessie, he grabbed her around the waist, drew her to him, and swung her around the room.

  “You’re in a good mood tonight, querido.” Her laughter stopped when he began to whisper in her ear.

  “Keep laughing,” he warned. “I need your help. Can you keep a secret?”

  “I love secrets.”

  When he prompted, she agreed, “Sure I can keep a secret…for you.”

  “Even from Newt?”

  Her expression grew wary. “Sí.”

  “Especially from Newt,” he reiterated.

  “What is it, Will? What’s happened?”

  “I need a fresh horse.”

  “That’s easy.” Her voice, though, was soft with uncertainty. “Is there trouble?”

  “Depends on whose side you’re on. Meet me upstairs as soon as you can get away without drawing suspicion.” When she arrived, he related the conversation he’d overheard and the one he’d been party to. “I’m asking you again, Jess. Whose side are you on?” Will held his breath, praying he hadn’t misjudged the situation.

  A mournfulness etched lines on Jessie’s face. “For me, there’s never been any doubt, Will, not where Charlie’s concerned.” She looked at him with the certainty of a fortuneteller. “You’ve decided, too. I can see it in your eyes.”

  “I’ve always known, Jess. Like I told you, I’m on the side of the law.”

  “The law!”

  “Not Santa Fé style,” Will corrected. “Now, listen close. When they ask you about me, and they will, tell them I came in happy as a lark. Lead them up here and act surprised that I’m not in my room.”

  Jessie patted his back. “Don’t worry about me, Will. I’m much more experienced, in certain fields, than you.”

  A full moon lit the night, and for that Will was grateful—he supposed. Of course, if the Haskels came along too soon, they’d have no trouble picking him off in such a spotlight. With every passing mile he considered himself the eternal fool for riding to Spanish Creek to warn Charlie.

  Oscar was right. This was the opportunity he’d waited a lifetime to find. The opportunity to get Charlie McCain. And here he was riding to the man’s aid.

  He tried to dispel the suspicion that his actions were driven by his affection for Priscilla. And affection, after all, was all it could be considered. A few simple kisses and here he was rejecting the opportunity he’d awaited for twenty-three years.

  A few kisses and his bra
in had turned to mush.

  He whipped up the horse and rode hard. Oscar had said two hours. Perhaps they would spend another half hour or so waiting for him. He’d left Jessie with instructions to send his own horse to the livery by Jorge, the errand boy who had performed the service on several occasions. He’d told Jessie to answer no questions, unless Newt or Oscar turned mean.

  Jessie had laughed. “Mean? You don’t know mean, compared to what I’ve seen in my lifetime. For a chance to help Charlie, I can endure a little slapping around.”

  “It wouldn’t help Charlie,” Will had objected. “If they find out I’ve ridden to alert him, they might change their plans. If a showdown’s to come, let it come now.”

  He was thinking about Priscilla. And Jessie knew it. She tousled his head, like she would a boy’s, then kissed his lips like she would an ardent lover’s.

  “That’s for Priscilla,” she said. “Since she isn’t here to do it herself.”

  His horse was winded and the moon was on the wane by the time Will reached the hills overlooking Spanish Creek headquarters. He studied the house in the fading moonlight. Sensuously built, even the house reminded him, not of Charlie McCain, his archrival, but of Priscilla.

  Priscilla, who was cocky and arrogant instead of coy and proper. Priscilla, whose kisses taunted him with promises that kept him awake nights.

  Priscilla, who was on his mind much too often. He kicked his mount and galloped down the hillside, intent on his mission to alert the man he had come to destroy.

  The law, he argued. The law. Man must not put himself above the law. Charles Martin Kane did when he murdered my father.

  But that was no reason for him to make the same mistake, Will argued. He would uphold the law. He prayed that was the reason he had come to Spanish Creek on a mission that, if it accomplished nothing else, surely set him at odds with the law, Santa Fé style.

  Dismounting at the hitching rail, Will watched moonbeams glance off the medieval suit of armor. He recalled the welcoming smile on Kate McCain’s face the night she opened the door for him, unaware until it was too late who he was. He wondered why they hadn’t told Priscilla. Perhaps by now, they had.