"I'm just glad we were in the right place at the right time, Reverend. You might consider taking some of your male parishioners with you next time you have to travel around the countryside. Unless that gang has been apprehended by then, of course."
'That's a fine suggestion, brother. Good day to you . . . and thanks again."
Cambridge touched the brim of his hat, then got the mules moving again. Nacho waved, and this time, Dove returned the gesture. There was a silly grin on his face, Nacho knew, but he couldn't help it.
After a couple of minutes, Cambridge said, "Looks like you made a little progress. That girl was downright friendly to you today. That's a far cry from threatening to kill you."
"Ah, Billy, you just do not understand women. One day they want to kill you, the next day they are in love with you." Nacho shrugged. "It is all part of their feminine charm."
"Hold on a minute. I said she was friendly. I didn't say she was in love with you."
"But isn't it obvious?"
Cambridge snorted. "About as obvious as the reason behind that attack on us."
Nacho glanced over at him. "What do you mean, Billy?"
"I mean there's something mighty strange going on around here. There was no reason for that gang to jump us." The lawyer inclined his head toward the load of grain in the back. "You think they were after that?"
"Well. . . no."
"And Livingston and the girl didn't have anything worth stealing with them. Actually, your idea about them chasing us just for the fun of it makes as much sense as anything. But I don't think they'd do that, either."
Nacho had to agree. If these were the same men who had held up the stage—and he was still convinced that they were—those desperados weren't the type to be pulling such pranks. They had been deadly serious about their work.
"If they were really trying to kill us," Nacho mused, "they would not have left like that. We might have downed a few of them when they closed in, but they would have gotten us. The same thing is true if they were after Dove and the preacher for whatever reason."
"That's right. So we're left with something that doesn't make any sense at all—but it almost got us killed anyway."
Nacho sighed. His side hurt a little, and so did his head. He was a simple man, he told himself, and unaccustomed to all this heavy thinking.
"Billy . . ." he said, "I am starting to wish we had taken the train."
* * *
Theodore Maxwell stood on the porch of the trading post and looked out at the night. There was more of a chill in the air this evening than there had been previously, and Theodore was glad he was wearing a jacket.
He glanced over at his father's stage station. A southbound coach had come through earlier, meaning that the place was a beehive of activity for a little while, but the stagecoach was long gone now and the station was quiet again. The glow of a lamp came through the windows of the building. Supper would be over, and more than likely, his father and the two visitors would be sitting around discussing the morning's run-in with the outlaws.
Theodore had heard all about it from Sandra after lunch. He had pretended disinterest, but actually he had listened keenly to everything she had to say. According to her, Cambridge and Graves had narrowly escaped death at the hands of the desperados, and Reverend Livingston and that half-breed O'Shea girl had been in danger, too.
It was a shame the two men from West Texas hadn't caught bullets, Theodore thought. That would have simplified matters a great deal. He was getting tired of their poking around.
He was getting tired of other people's suspicions, too, come to think of it.
The door of the trading post opened and someone stepped out onto the porch behind him. It had to be Sandra; there weren't any customers in the place at the moment. After a few seconds of silence, she asked, "What are you doing, Theodore?"
"Getting some air," he said. "Anything wrong with that?"
Hastily, she answered, "No, not at all. I was just wondering—"
"Nothing to wonder about," he interrupted sharply. "A man wants a little air, he steps out and gets some. All there is to it."
"Of course."
Still without turning to face her, he went on, "Why don't you close the store for the night? I don't think we're going to get any more customers."
"We usually stay open a little later than this," she began tentatively.
"I don't care, dammit! I said we're closed for the night. Go ahead and lock up and then go to bed."
"Will . . . will you be coming along soon?"
He pretended he hadn't heard the question as he went down the two steps to the ground. There was a small barn behind the trading post where he kept his horse. He intended to throw a saddle on the animal now and take a ride, but he wasn't going to explain that to Sandra. She had no right to know everything about his comings and goings, he thought.
She didn't call after him or ask any more foolish questions. That was the way he liked it. She would learn to keep her nose out of his business—or she would regret it for the rest of her days.
When he rode away from the trading post a few minutes later, he headed north, following the road toward the Red River. Fallen leaves crackled under the horse's hooves as Theodore kept it at a steady trot. At this time of night, the trail was practically deserted. It was unusual whenever he met anyone during one of these nocturnal rides.
He had been to enough of these nighttime rendezvous that he had no trouble recognizing the proper place to turn off the road, even in the darkness. Making his way along an even narrower trail, in a few minutes he reached a bluff overlooking the broad, shallow river. He could see starlight reflecting off its muddy, slow-moving surface.
As he drew rein, a voice said, "Right on time, Maxwell."
Theodore started, involuntarily jumping a little in the saddle and then mentally cursing himself. He didn't want the other man to think that he was nervous. He shouldn't have reacted that way, he told himself. After all, he had been expecting the man to meet him.
"I try to be punctual, Graham. Now do me the favor of telling me why you insisted on this meeting."
A man on horseback moved out of the shadows of the trees into the faint light of the moon and stars. Theodore could make out the flat-crowned hat and the long duster, the right hand flap of which was pushed back at the moment to allow the man easy access to his gun. Theodore swallowed. When Asa Graham wore his duster like that, trouble was usually in the offing.
'Take it easy," Graham advised. He was doing something with his hands, and a moment later Theodore found out what. The outlaw tipped a cigarette into his mouth and reached into his shirt pocket for a light.
"You're not going to strike a match, are you?"
"Why the hell not?" Graham asked around the cigarette. He found a lucifer and scratched it into life. It threw harsh illumination over the hard planes of his face as it flared up and he held the flame to the cigarette. "There's nobody around to see me but you."
Trying to suppress his impatience as Graham casually shook out the match, Theodore said, "Look, I've done everything you've asked of me. If you want something else, all you have to do is tell me. I'll do it if I possibly can."
"Yeah, you've done a good job, Maxwell," Graham drawled. "You've helped us get rid of some of the money and goods we've stolen. But don't start thinkin' that gives you the right to order folks around. Somebody else is callin' the shots in this operation, and don't you forget it."
Theodore's impatience was turning into irritation now. "I'm well aware of that," he snapped, "and I'm not trying to give orders."
Graham drew in on the cigarette, making the tip glow. As he blew the smoke out, he said, "Reckon you heard about that lawyer and his Meskin pardner gettin' shot at today. We were tryin' to throw a scare into 'em. You know whether or not it worked?"
"If you mean are they going to give up their quest to recover the money you stole from them—no, they aren't. In fact, from what I hear I'd say they're more determined than ever
to catch up to you."
"Damn!" Graham rasped. "I don't know why the hell I didn't just go ahead and kill those bastards when I had the chance. That'll teach me, won't it?"
"What happened today? Instead of trying to scare them off, why didn't you just kill them then?"
Graham shook his head. "We had orders to shoot high and back off after we'd shook 'em up a mite."
"Was that all you wanted from me?" Theodore asked. "Just to find out if Cambridge and Graves were planning to give up?"
Graham shrugged and said, "That's it."
"And for that you dragged me off up here to the river?"
The outlaw's voice hardened as he replied, "It wasn't my idea. I do what I'm told, just like you—most of the time, anyway."
"Well, tell the boss that I'm getting tired of this arrangement. I can play a bigger role in all of this, and I want a face to face meeting with him to talk about it."
Graham gave a short bark of laughter. "You sure you want me to pass along that message?" he asked. "You're forgettin', Maxwell—havin' you workin' with us may come in handy sometimes, but we could get along without you just fine."
Theodore took a deep breath and controlled his temper with an effort. "Just tell him."
"Whatever you say." Graham turned his horse around and rode back into the shadows, disappearing within a few seconds.
Theodore stayed where he was for several moments, his hands clenched tightly on the saddle horn. He hated being forced to deal with a crude, uneducated killer like Graham, but for the moment that was all he could do if he wanted to remain a part of the gang's lucrative activities. He sighed again and lifted the reins, ready to turn around and ride back to the trading post.
The rattle of dried leaves made him stop short.
His muscles tensing, Theodore sat up straighter in the saddle and peered around him in the night, listening and looking intently. He had a small pistol shoved into the top of his boot—he seldom went anywhere without it these days—but the little revolver didn't have much stopping power. Suddenly he wished he had brought along a bigger handgun or a rifle.
Again the rustle of leaves came to his ears, and this time he was able to pinpoint it better. The telltale sound came from his right, from a thick clump of brush. With his pulse hammering wildly in his head, he reached down, pulled up his pants leg, and plucked the pistol from his boot. "Who's out there?" he demanded as he straightened and leveled the gun at the bushes. "Who's spying on me, dammit?"
There was no answer, and Theodore suddenly found his anger overwhelming his fear. He spurred forward, sending his mount crashing through the brush. Moonlight flashed on something light-colored to the right. Theodore jerked the muzzle of the gun in that direction and his finger started to tighten on the trigger.
"No! Don't shoot!"
He stopped at the last instant as the familiar female voice pleaded with him. "Sandra?" he gasped in surprise, dropping out of the saddle and grabbing at her. His fingers caught the shoulder of her dress and jerked her closer to him.
Her terrified face stared up at him, the blue eyes wide with fear.
Theodore began to smile as he felt coldness seeping through his body. "Come along, my dear," he said in deceptively gentle tones. "We're going to have to talk about this."
Chapter Eleven
Sandra had never known horror like she experienced during the ride back to the trading post. Theodore said little as he forced her to show him where she had hidden her mount. The horse was an old mare they had used for plowing when Sandra had put in a garden back in the spring. It was a little surprising the mare had even been able to keep up with Theodore's saddler, but Sandra had been determined to find out once and for all where he was going when he disappeared like this. She had followed him at a distance, finally dismounting, tying the mare, and slipping the last hundred yards on foot.
What she had heard was bad enough—her husband involved with the gang of vicious outlaws that had been plaguing the area for weeks—but even worse was the fact that she hadn't been able to sneak away without alerting him. She had considered waiting until he was gone to emerge from her hiding place in the bushes, then decided against the idea for fear that the mare would whinny at Theodore's horse when he passed. The presence of another horse so close to the rendezvous would have alerted him, too, so she had taken a calculated risk and tried to get away first.
But that risk had backfired on her, and now she was the prisoner of a man she didn't even know anymore. Certainly, Theodore wasn't the same man she had married.
Or maybe he was, and she suddenly realized that might be the worst thing of all.
"Mount up," he had told her. "We're going home." When she had pulled herself up onto the old saddle he had taken in trade from a farmer who didn't have the price of some supplies, he had reached over and grabbed hold of the reins.
Now, as he led the old mare along the road back toward home, Sandra shuddered as she thought about what might happen once they reached the trading post. Surely he wouldn't kill her. If he had wanted to do that, he'd had his chance when he first found her. She had been able to tell from the way his features contorted in the moonlight as he recognized her that he wanted to kill her. She had closed her eyes tightly and waited for the bullet that would end her existence.
The bullet hadn't come, and now she had to worry about what might take its place.
Maybe it would help to talk to him, she decided desperately. Summoning up her courage, she said, "You don't have to worry about me, Theodore. I . . . I won't say anything. You're my husband. I'd never say anything to hurt you."
Without glancing over at her, he asked, "You won't say anything about what?"
"Why, about you and that outlaw, of course! About you working with that gang!"
She thought a smile played fleetingly across his lips; it was hard to be certain because they were passing through some shadows cast by trees beside the road. But when they emerged from the gloom, his features were frozen again in their usual dour expression.
"So you were close enough to hear what we were saying," he commented, almost as much to himself as to her. "I thought so, but now I'm sure."
"No," she said quickly. "I didn't hear anything—n
"It's too late, Sandra. You gave in to your impulses one too many times. You followed me, trying to satisfy your curiosity. That was a mistake."
"I swear to you—"
"That won't help," he cut in coldly. "You have to learn your lesson."
She bit back a sob. He sounded more cruel and callous than ever before. She would never survive this night. She was sure of that now.
But she would hang on to life as long as she could. He wouldn't be expecting any resistance from her; he figured she was too cowed for that. No sooner had that thought raced through her head than she was acting on it. She leaned forward, snatching at the reins he was using to lead her horse, and at the same instant, she dug the heels of her shoes into the mare's flanks. The animal leaped ahead, shocked by the unexpected prodding.
The loosely-held reins slipped through Theodore's fingers. Sandra felt him try to tighten his grip on them, but he was too late. She had them again, and she used them to jerk the horse toward the field alongside the road.
"Run! Oh, God, run!" she shouted to the mare, leaning forward and slashing at her with the trailing ends of the reins. She hated to treat the old horse this way, but her only hope of escaping from Theodore lay in opening up a quick gap that he couldn't overcome. He still had his gun, but she knew he wasn't a good enough shot to hit her, not at night and not from the back of a running horse.
The mare responded gallantly, stretching her legs out and surging to more speed than Sandra thought she had in her. Behind her, Sandra heard a faint, surprised curse. She twisted her head around long enough to see Theodore starting after her in pursuit, then she concentrated on guiding the horse through the rough field.
Not surprisingly, Theodore didn't shoot at her. He was aware of his limitations with a gun, she
knew, and besides, he wouldn't want a bunch of shots to alert the countryside that something was going on. She understood now that whatever form his vengeance took, he wanted it to remain quiet and unnoticed.
She glanced back again, unable to keep herself from checking to see how close he was. He had shaved a little off her lead, but he wasn't overtaking her as fast as she had been afraid he would. That was due to the mare's courageous effort, Sandra thought. But how long could the horse keep running like this?
Not long, she discovered to her dismay a moment later as one of the mare's front legs suddenly buckled. Sandra jerked in the saddle as the horse stumbled and threatened to go down. She made a grab for the saddle horn but missed, and before she could make another try, the saddle itself went out from under her as the mare fell.
Instinctively, Sandra kicked her feet free of the stirrups. When she was little, she had seen a man dragged by a runaway horse, had seen another man with his leg pinned and crushed underneath a fallen mount. She let go of the reins and let herself pinwheel through the air, trying frantically to find the ground so that she could land properly.
The ground found her first. Her shoulder slammed into the earth, and it was only blind luck that sent her rolling in a way that lessened the damage done by the fall. When she came to a stop, she was numb from the impact and breathless as well, gasping for the oxygen that had been forced out of her lungs when she crashed into the ground.
Over the pounding of blood in her head, she dimly heard a bone-chilling sound—the screaming of a horse in pain. Forcing the muscles in her neck to work, she lifted her head and made out the dark bulk of her horse nearby. The mare was thrashing around and trying to get back on its feet, but the broken leg wouldn't let it. While she was racing across the field, Sandra realized, the horse had stepped in some sort of hole.
Hoofbeats made her look past the injured mare, and she saw Theodore galloping toward her. The fear that had filled her earlier came flooding back, galvanizing her muscles. She was on her feet almost before she knew what was going on, then turning and running . . .
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