Frowning slightly as he watched the buggy roll away from the church, Cambridge wondered who the girl was. He hadn't noticed her around the tables while he was eating or talking to Deputy Gilliam. As striking as she was, he would have remembered seeing her. He must have just missed her somehow, because from her garb it was obvious that she was one of the ladies from the church. Some of the others were leaving now, as this weekly dinner was coming to an end.
With a smile, Cambridge shook his head. He didn't have time to waste thinking about a pretty girl. That was more in Nacho's line. He had some outlaws to locate. Strapping his gunbelt on again when he reached his horse, he prepared to swing up into the saddle.
But for some reason, he glanced one more time in the direction the girl's buggy had gone. It had disappeared from sight by now, of course, but the image of her face, brief though it had been, was still vivid in Cambridge's mind. For a second, he considered asking Reverend Livingston about her . . .
Then he told himself he was being ridiculous and headed back toward the Red River station.
* * *
Nacho was waiting on the porch when the lawyer rode into the clearing in front of the station. He was perched on a straight chair that was leaned back against the wall. With his pocket knife, he was carving a chunk of wood into an unrecognizable shape.
"Billy!" Nacho called out as Cambridge rode up. He tossed down the wood and closed his knife. "I been waiting for you to get back. You find out anything?"
Cambridge dismounted and looped the reins over the railing along the porch. "Not much," he admitted. "The outlaws headed southwest, like the driver said, and the local law doesn't seem to be very efficient, like Jake said. So, other than confirming that, I didn't accomplish a thing." Cambridge forced a weary smile. "How are you feeling this afternoon?"
"I'm a lot better," Nacho told him. "I think I could ride right now if I had to, and I know I'll be able to by tomorrow."
With a dubious frown, Cambridge said, "I don't know about that. It was just yesterday afternoon you were shot, for God's sake! You don't need to get in too big a hurry, Nacho, or you'll wind up hurt worse than you were before."
Nacho grimaced. He had been afraid Cambridge would react that way. "You don't understand, Billy. I can't sit around here for days. There's nothing to do! I was whittling when you rode up. You ever known me to whittle before?"
"Well . . . I don't reckon I've ever seen you whittling until now."
"I am a man of action!" Nacho said, clenching a fist for emphasis. "If I sit around, I will turn into a . . . a codger, like the old men who sit on benches in town and play dominoes. You don't want that to happen, do you, Billy?"
Cambridge chuckled. "No, I wouldn't want that to happen. But give it at least another day, Nacho. Surely you can stand it that long."
"I suppose so," Nacho said with a sigh. "But I'm ready to start tracking down those skunks who robbed us."
"So am I, Nacho, so am I." Cambridge looked around. "Where's Jake?'
Nacho jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "I think he said he was going out to the barn."
"Thanks. I want to pick his brain a little about that country to the southwest. It's been a long time since I rode through any of it. We need to be prepared before we take out after those men."
Nacho nodded as Cambridge walked away. When the attorney had disappeared around the corner of the building, Nacho's forehead creased with worry. He hadn't told Cambridge the whole truth. He was anxious to find those desperados and recover the stolen money, of course, because he still felt like he had let Cambridge and Edward Nash down. But he had another reason for wanting to go on to Fort Smith and leave this stage station behind. Ever since his encounter that morning with Theodore and Sandra Maxwell, an uneasy feeling had been gnawing on Nacho's belly. There was trouble in the making here, and he didn't want any part of it.
But he wasn't sure he would be able to stay uninvolved, not if Theodore had had anything to do with that bruise he had seen on Sandra's jaw the night before.
Nacho had been born in the wilds of West Texas in the early days of its settlement, when women were few and far between. As a result, he had grown up with the idea that females were to be protected and cherished. To Nacho's way of thinking, any man who would strike a woman was just asking for a beating, at the very least.
He wasn't sure how to go about explaining all of this to Cambridge, though. Billy might be reluctant to believe the worst about the son of his old comrade. But Cambridge hadn't met Theodore yet, either.
Nacho sighed again. This trip had turned out to be more complicated than he had ever thought it would be. It had sounded so simple at first— deliver the money to Fort Smith, see some country he hadn't seen before, take advantage of the opportunity to ride a stagecoach, a means of transportation that might soon be vanishing from the West.
Instead he'd gone through a robbery, been shot, and landed in a situation that was just boiling with potential trouble.
He wished he was back on the ranch near Pecos. Punching cows had this beat all to hell.
* * *
A southbound stage was due to come through that afternoon, and Jake Maxwell was making his usual check of the horses that would make up the fresh team. Their shoes were in good shape, and they appeared to be rested and ready to go. He picked up a brush and was running it over the flank of one of the animals when he heard the light footsteps behind him.
He didn't have to turn around to know who the visitor was. He would recognize that sound anywhere, not to mention the delicate scent of lilac water that accompanied his daughter-in-law.
"Hello, Sandra," he said.
"Hello, Jake. I brought you some eggs. I left them in the station, just inside the back door."
"Thanks." Maxwell glanced over his shoulder and saw her standing between him and the open barn door, the sunlight behind her making her long blond hair glow as it fell around her face and shoulders. She looked like something that should have been in a picture. He turned, unable to take his eyes off her.
He had known Sandra ever since she was a little girl, growing up on her father's farm several miles east of the station. She had grown into a real beauty, and he had been surprised when his son Ted had wound up marrying her. Sandra could have had any young man for miles around—all of them had paid court to her at one time or another since she turned fourteen—but she had chosen Ted, who had never been a particularly handsome boy. Ted didn't have much charm about him, either; most of the time he was rather dour. Maxwell knew he shouldn't think such things about his own son, but damn it, they were the truth.
Maxwell had wondered briefly if Sandra had married Ted because she'd found out somehow that the trading post was going to be his. It was hard to credit that, though. Maxwell hadn't even told Ted about his decision to turn over the trading post until after the wedding. Besides, once he got to know Sandra, he was convinced that such scheming would never occur to her. She was too open and good-hearted for that. And, if she'd wanted to marry for money, she could have done better than Ted.
The only thing Maxwell could come up with was that for whatever reasons she might have, Sandra honestly loved his son.
Or at least she did when she married him.
Now she took a step closer to Maxwell and said, "I saw Mr. Graves over at the post this morning. He picked out a gun and some shells and said you'd pay for them."
"That's right," Maxwell nodded. "Reckon I'd better go over there and take care of that. I imagine Ted's startin' to get worried about it."
"You know Theodore . . . he's always worried about money."
Maxwell grunted. He knew his son, all right. Sometimes he thought he knew him too well. He loved Ted, of course—there was enough of the boy's mother in him that Maxwell couldn't help but love him—but sometimes he wasn't sure he liked him. He certainly didn't like the way Ted sometimes treated Sandra, snapping at her, bossing her around, maybe—worse.
"I'll get over there as soon as I can. I'd best wait until after
the south-bound's come through, though."
"I'll tell Theodore."
Maxwell nodded, and as he did, his eyes strayed down to the thrust of Sandra's breasts against the fabric of her dress. His mind strayed as well, distracted from their idle chatting by the rise and fall of her bosom as she breathed. Damn, but the girl was lovely . . . !
With a sharp intake of breath, Maxwell tore his gaze away from her body. He had no right to be looking at her like that, and he knew it. His face flushing with shame, he turned back to the horses and told himself he was nothing but a lecherous old man to be staring at his own daughter-in-law's breasts like that. "Got to get busy," he grunted without looking at her again.
"All right," Sandra said slowly. Her voice shook slightly, and he could tell that she was upset, too. Well, she had every right to be! She probably thought he was disgusting. After a moment, she went on, "I'll see you later, Jake."
"Sure." He kept his tone flat and expressionless.
He stood there waiting as she left the barn, then dragged a deep breath into his lungs. There was no excuse for letting the girl affect him like that. He was old enough to be her father, after all. He'd been married for more than twenty years, been a widower for nearly ten. He should have been long past having his head turned by a pretty young woman, even one as lovely as Sandra.
The worst part about it was that this wasn't the first time such a thing had happened. It seemed like the worse Ted treated Sandra, the more Maxwell felt himself drawn to her. At first he had told himself what he was feeling was just the normal sympathy any man would feel under those circumstances. But as time passed and he found himself looking at her more and more, he realized that wasn't the case. It was a sobering, shocking revelation, and he'd spent many long, sleepless nights railing at himself for the evil thoughts that were invading his brain.
Sandra knew how he felt, he was sure of that. She had caught him staring at her enough times, just like today, that she had to be aware of what was going on. The whole thing might have been easier to deal with if she had just gone ahead and slapped his face or spat on him in disgust.
But the only emotion he had ever seen in her eyes at those times wasn't shame or anger or embarrassment. It was . . . sadness.
Those thoughts raced through Maxwell's mind in the moment after Sandra left the barn. He let out the deep breath in a weary sigh, then stiffened as he heard her voice outside, between the barn and the station building. "Hello, Mr. Cambridge," she said. "Jake's in the barn, if you're looking for him."
"Thanks, ma'am," Billy Cambridge replied. "That's who I'm looking for, all right."
Maxwell turned around as Cambridge came into the barn. He lifted a hand in greeting and said, "Howdy, Billy. You find what you were lookin' for?"
"I found Deputy Gilliam," Cambridge replied. "You were right about where he'd be, Jake. And you were right about his attitude, too. He said he'd report the hold-up to the sheriff, but that was all he was willing to do."
"And Massey'll cluck his tongue and make a note and stick it in his desk, and that'll be the end of it," Maxwell told him. "You find any tracks on the road?"
Cambridge nodded. "They took off southwest, into the breaks. That's no surprise."
"Nope. Lots more places to hide out over there than there would be anywhere else around here. Too much open farmland to the south and east. Of course, they could've gone north and crossed the Red into Indian Territory. Plenty of outlaws up there, from what I hear." Maxwell stuck his hands in his pockets. "But up there they'd have to worry about those deputy marshals Judge Parker sends out from Fort Smith. Reckon you've heard about Parker?"
"The Hanging Judge? I've heard about him, all right. I hope to be able to pay him a call while I'm in Fort Smith—if I ever get there."
"You'll get there," Maxwell said with a grin, "and you'll have that money with you. I never knew Billy Cambridge to let go of something once he got his teeth into it."
"I'm getting older," Cambridge pointed out. "My teeth may not be as strong as they used to be." He shook his head. "What I really want to know is whether or not that country to the southwest is as rugged as it used to be."
Maxwell hooked a three-legged stool with the toe of his boot, pulled it over, and gestured for Cambridge to sit down. He upended a bucket and used it for his own seat. "It's rugged, all right," he said, glad for the excuse to get his mind off Sandra. Leaning forward, Maxwell traced a wavering line in the dirt with his fingertip. "That's the Red River." He drew another line branching southwest. "That's the Wichita. There's a few little towns between here and Wichita Falls, like Ringgold, but they don't amount to much. Some folks have moved in and started farms and ranches over there. They're wide-scattered, though. Mostly the country's brush-choked gullies and rocky little hills, except for that flat stretch where the Chisholm Trail runs."
"What's the Trail like these days?"
"Folks don't use it much anymore, not since the Texas & Pacific reached Fort Worth in '76. The days of the big cattle drives to Kansas are over, Billy. I reckon the Trail will be flattened out and dusty for a long time, but the day'll come when you can look over the land and never be able to tell it was there."
Cambridge shook his head. "Times are changing, that's for sure. That's one reason I decided to take the stagecoach to Arkansas. I figure it won't be much longer until the stages aren't running anymore."
"You're right. The company keeps complainin' about how people don't take the stage, and then they cut their rates again. Ain't goin' to matter how cheap they make the tickets, though. Nobody's goin' to want to spend weeks in a hot, dusty stagecoach gettin' their teeth rattled out when they can make the same trip in days on a train, and in a lot more comfort to boot."
"What will you do when the stage line closes down?" Cambridge asked.
"Keep on raisin' horses. It's about the only thing I know how to do. This place is mine; the company just leases it." Maxwell grinned. "Don't worry, Billy. I'll make out just fine. Anyway, the stagecoach ain't on its last legs just yet. It'll be around for a while."
"I hope so," Cambridge said. He leaned forward, a solemn look on his face, and went on, "Do you think we'll be able to follow the trail those outlaws left?"
"Well, that all depends. As I recall, you ain't the best tracker these parts have ever seen, Billy."
Cambridge gave a little laugh. "No, I'm not, but Nacho Graves may be. His father was British and he can act as civilized as he wants to, but inside he's all vaquero."
"You've got a chance, then. It hasn't rained in the last couple of days, and I'm not expectin' any for a few more days. Ought to still be some tracks you can follow."
"What if we lose the trail, though? Do you have any idea where a gang like that might be holed up?"
"Hard to say," Maxwell replied with a shake of his head. "There are abandoned cabins scattered all through that country, where folks tried to make a go of a ranch or a farm and failed. You might stop and talk to a man named O'Shea. He's got a place a ways west of here, and if anybody knows what's going on out there in the breaks, it'd be him."
The lawyer nodded. "O'Shea. I'll remember that."
"Him and me, we're not what you'd call close friends, but we know each other to nod to. You might mention my name if you talk to him."
"All right. Thanks." Cambridge paused for a moment, then said, "Is something bothering you, Jake? You're starting to look like you're going to cloud up and rain."
"I was just thinkin' about you and Nacho goin' after them bandits by yourself," Maxwell said slowly. "What are you goin' to do if you find 'em? You said there was a half a dozen of 'em in that robbery, and there could be more in the gang. You and Nacho are just two men."
Cambridge's expression was solemn as he replied, "I know. We can't hope to capture them by ourselves. Trying a stunt like that would just get us killed. But if we could find their hide-out, then we could take the law back there. Surely even this Sheriff Massey would send out a posse—if we could tell him exactly where to fi
nd the gang."
"Maybe, maybe not," Maxwell said doubtfully.
"Well, what about the Rangers? They'd help if they had solid evidence."
"That might be your best bet. I just wouldn't want to see you and Nacho tryin' to bring those bastards in by yourselves."
Cambridge laughed shortly. "Don't worry. I'm mad, Jake, but I'm not crazy. We wouldn't face them down unless we happened to run into two or three of them by themselves. And then we'd probably think twice."
Maxwell stood up. "Glad to hear it," he said, brushing off the seat of his pants. He took his watch from his pocket and flipped it open to check the time. "I got a southbound stage scheduled to come through pretty soon, so I'd best get these fresh horses ready to go."
"Thanks for the information," Cambridge said as he got to his feet. "And for all your help. I don't know what we would have done without you."
"You'd have figured out something else," Maxwell said, slapping his old friend on the back. "You always were the thinkin'est son-of-a-buck I ever knew, Billy."
Cambridge chuckled again and left the barn, strolling back toward the station building. Maxwell watched him go, and the smile dropped off the stationmaster's face as Cambridge disappeared into the building. It had been good to see Billy again, damn good, but Maxwell hoped that Cambridge was able to conclude his business and move on. Cambridge was smart and he knew how to keep his eyes open; Maxwell would hate like the dickens for Cambridge to discover what was going on around here. He'd never live down the shame if his old friend were to find out how he felt about Sandra.
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