Red River Ruse

by James Reasoner

  Her flight was hopeless, and within a matter of seconds, it was over. Theodore rode up beside her, his horse almost driving its shoulder into her. Sandra cried out as she stumbled and fell again, landing heavily in grass that was beginning to turn brown with the approach of winter. Theodore reined in and swung down from the saddle, and seconds later, his fingers dug painfully into the flesh of her arms as he hauled her to her feet.

  His palm cracked across her face, stunning her. He was trembling with rage as he shouted, "Filthy slut! I'll teach you to spy on me, you Goddamned bitch!" Again and again he slapped her, until the fiery, stinging pain of the blows went away and Sandra's face was as numb as the rest of her. Then he shoved her away and stood there watching, his chest heaving with exertion and emotion, as she fell again.

  She tasted dirt in her mouth, and she pushed it out with her tongue as she sobbed, "Don't . . . don't hit me . . . don't hit me anymore . . ."

  He didn't seem to hear her. "Teach you a lesson," he muttered, standing over her. "Ought to just go ahead and kill you. But I won't. You'll keep your mouth shut, won't you, Sandra? You'll be a good wife and not say anything about this to anyone, won't you?"

  "Won't say . . . anything," she made herself respond. "Jus' don't hit me . . ."

  She heard him laugh, and then he stalked away. A moment later, a gun cracked and the squealing that was coming from the mare stopped.

  Maybe that was what he should do for her, she thought fuzzily. Maybe a bullet through the brain would be better.

  But instead, he came back, grasped her arm, and jerked her roughly to her feet. Something twinged inside her, a pain she hadn't noticed before. A broken rib? That was possible. It didn't really matter, not anymore.

  "Come on," Theodore grated. "Now that you've gotten that out of your system, we're going home. It'll be slower now. We'll have to ride double."

  She cringed at the thought of having to be that close to him all the way back to the trading post. But her mind was beginning to work a little more clearly now, and she pushed away the thoughts of how welcome death might be. She was still alive, and she was determined to stay that way. It was better to share a horse with Theodore than to be left out here dead.

  Because as long as she was alive, she still had hope, no matter how faint it might be.

  Hope that somehow she would have her revenge on the man she had married.

  * * *

  Dawn wasn't far off when Asa Graham reached the cabin, deep in the rugged, wooded breaks, that the gang used for a hide-out. Graham was tired from the long ride he had made tonight, and when one of the other outlaws who was on lookout duty challenged him, he answered peevishly, "It's me, you damn' fool. Ain't you got eyes in your head?"

  "Sorry, Asa," the man said. "I thought it was you, but I figured it was better to be sure than to let some lawman ride up on us, especially since the boss is here."

  "The boss is here?" Graham repeated in surprise. "What for?"

  "To find out what you learned from Maxwell, I reckon."

  Graham nodded. "Yeah, that makes sense. Guess I better get this over with."

  He rode into the small clearing around the cabin. Dismounting in the grayish light, he turned his horse into the pole corral and then stepped up onto the porch.

  A figure sat in an old rocking chair at the far end of the porch, shrouded in shadows. In a cold voice, the head of the gang asked, "Did you talk to Maxwell?"

  Graham strolled along the porch, trying to look more casual than he felt. He was a cold-blooded killer, but even he felt a little touch of unease at this moment. He said, "I talked to him."

  "And?" The question came at him sharply.

  "Cambridge and Graves ain't givin' up. At least that's the way Maxwell heard it. I reckon those West Texas boys ain't very smart."

  "Too damn smart, that's more like it. If they keep snooping around, they'll figure things out. They might even find this hide-out."

  Graham began, "I don't think that's very likely—"

  "I don't give a damn what you think! I don't want to take the chance."

  "So go ahead and kill them," Graham shrugged, stung by the rebuke.

  "I may have to." After a moment, the figure in the rocking chair went on, "Did Maxwell have anything else to say?"

  Graham chuckled, his mood improving. "Yeah, he did. He said he wanted a bigger piece of the pie. Wants to meet with you face to face so the two of you can talk about giving him more to do. And more money; I reckon that's what he's really after."

  There was silence on the porch for several seconds, then: "The Goddamned fool. He already knows more that it's safe for him to know."

  'That's the way I see it, too," Graham nodded. "Maxwell's gettin' ambitious, and that ain't good."

  "You think he could be a threat to us if he doesn't get his way?"

  "Damn straight." Graham's tongue came out of his mouth and wet his lips. "You want me to kill him?"

  Again there was silence as the question was pondered. Finally, the answer came. "Not yet. His services have been valuable. But if one more incident occurs to make us think Theodore Maxwell has outlived his usefulness . . . then, yes, you can kill him. But be sure and make it look like there's no connection between him and us. Let it be during an attack on the trading post, something that people will put down as just another outlaw raid."

  "Sure. That won't be hard to manage, if it comes down to that. And I reckon it will."

  "We'll see. I suppose that's all for now." The figure stood up. "I'll be in touch."

  Graham nodded and remained on the porch long enough to watch the boss ride away into the dawn. Folks would be mighty surprised, he thought with a chuckle, if they knew who was really ramrodding this gang.

  Then he went inside to get some sleep. He needed his rest; killing was tiresome work.

  * * *

  Jake Maxwell was up early, as usual. Cambridge and Nacho were still in their bunks asleep by the time Maxwell had tended to the stock and gotten breakfast started. He was in the habit of rising early anyway, and considering how badly he was sleeping these days, the less time he spent in his bed, the better.

  He stepped to the front door of the stage station and peered over at the trading post in the morning light. The place looked quiet, almost deserted. Maxwell frowned slightly. Theodore usually had the store open by now, so that he wouldn't miss any customers who happened to come by this early. Maxwell hoped that nothing was wrong over there. That Theodore hadn't found out what had happened between him and Sandra.

  Maxwell sighed. Two nights had passed since he and Sandra had given in to the demons that plagued them. Demons of lust, that was what a preacher would call them. Maxwell knew he and Sandra had sinned. But it was hard for him to understand what was so wrong with two lonely people taking some comfort in each other. The laws of God and the laws of Man both said that what they had done was evil.

  But Maxwell just couldn't quite see it that way.

  Still, until he could sort things out in his mind and figure out what to do next, he was glad that Sandra seemed to be avoiding him. She hadn't come over to the stage station the day before, and Maxwell was grateful for that. He wouldn't have known what to say to her. She would probably be mighty embarrassed, too.

  The creak of door hinges caught his attention. He looked up and saw Sandra stepping out on the porch of the trading post. Maxwell noticed the stiff way she was moving, like something was hurting her. She had a broom in her hands, and she started sweeping off the dust that had accumulated on the porch overnight.

  Theodore emerged from the building behind her, put his hands on his hips, and looked around at the morning in what seemed to be great satisfaction. For some reason, the boy's expression made Maxwell bristle. Folks who looked that proud of themselves usually didn't have much to be proud of, he thought. Theodore glanced toward the stage station, but if he noticed his father standing at the door, he didn't give any sign of it. He turned his head and said something to Sandra.

  Maxwe
ll's eyes narrowed. Unless he was mistaken, Sandra had flinched when Theodore spoke to her. The boy had to be bad-talkin' her again.

  What he ought to do, Maxwell told himself, was to march over there, grab Theodore by the collar and the seat of his pants, and fling him in the water trough. Then he'd tell the fool youngster to treat his wife right for a change. Somebody needed to teach Theodore a lesson, and by God, Jake Maxwell was just the man to do it! It was his duty as a father.

  But even as Maxwell stiffened in anger, he knew he wasn't going to do any such thing. The time when something like that might have done some good was long past. Theodore was going his own way now, and nothing his father could say or do would make a difference anymore.

  Theodore turned and went back into the store, leaving the door open behind him. Sandra kept sweeping, her head drooping and her eyes on the floor of the porch. Maxwell wanted to call out to her, but he didn't. He took a deep breath and started to swing around to enter the stage station.

  That was when Sandra looked up.

  Maxwell felt like someone had slugged him in the belly. Even at this distance, he could see the ugly bruises on Sandra's face. Those bruises, and the pained way she was moving around, told him that she had been on the receiving end of a brutal beating. There was only one person who could have given her such a thrashing.

  Theodore . . .

  Maxwell was stalking across the clearing between the stage station and the trading post before he knew what he was doing. His weathered features were set in a furious, outraged mask. His callused, knobby fingers clenched into fists. Theodore had finally gone too far.

  Sandra shook her head urgently, and finally the look of pleading on her face penetrated the fury that had thrown a red haze across his vision. As he reached the bottom of the steps, she said softly, "Go back, Jake! Please go back."

  "But you're hurt," he began. Now, up close, it was almost more than he could stand to look at the marks on her. A shudder ran through him. How dare Theodore do such a thing?

  "I'm all right," she whispered. "Please . . . I don't want him to see me talking to you."

  "He's got to be punished," Maxwell said, talking about his son as if Theodore was still a child. "Somebody's got to teach him a lesson . . ."

  Sandra caught her breath sharply at those words. Maxwell didn't understand why, but obviously they bothered her. Before he could go on, she said, "I'll meet you later, in the barn. Please, Jake. I've got to talk to you, but I . . . I can't do it now."

  He felt himself nodding. The last thing he wanted to do was to cause more trouble for Sandra. "In the barn," he agreed.

  "As soon as I can." She darted a glance over her shoulder, afraid Theodore would appear out of nowhere.

  Maxwell nodded again and turned around, heading back to the station building. As he walked away, he thought he heard his daughter-in-law stifle a sob, and it was difficult not to rush back to her, fold her into his arms and promise her that nothing would ever hurt her again. But somehow he kept walking.

  Billy and Nacho were still asleep, he saw as he passed through the station building. He moved quietly so as not to disturb them, both for their own sake and for his. He didn't want any witnesses to his meeting with Sandra. He already felt guilty enough without his friends knowing what was going on.

  Maxwell went straight through the station and out the rear door, heading for the barn. His heart was still thudding heavily in his chest, not only from his anger at Theodore but also because he was about to be alone again with Sandra. Even under the circumstances, he couldn't help but be excited by her.

  As he waited in the barn for her, the minutes seemed to stretch out unnaturally. He hoped that Theodore hadn't found out she was coming here to meet him. Maxwell had no idea what had happened to set him off and cause the violence he had inflicted on Sandra, but it was obvious now that Theodore couldn't be trusted. It was hard to believe that the baby boy Maxwell remembered so clearly had grown into such an evil man, but there was no denying the facts.

  Maxwell was pacing back and forth impatiently when he heard the door of the barn open slightly. He stopped short and turned around as Sandra slipped through the narrow opening. She closed the door behind her, plunging the inside of the barn into shadows again. Some light filtered down from the windows in the loft, but it didn't do much to relieve the gloom. Even in the dim illumination, Maxwell could see the bruises. Without thinking about what he was doing, he held out his arms to Sandra, and she came into his embrace without hesitation.

  Burying his face in her hair, Maxwell tightened his arms around her, easing off quickly when a sharply indrawn breath reminded him that she was hurt. He started to say, "I'm sorry—"

  "It's all right," she cut in. "Go ahead and hold me. Just hold me, Jake."

  That's what he did for the next few minutes, lifting a hand to pat her lightly on the back or stroke her hair. She rested her head against his chest and sighed. Maxwell tried to listen closely for any sounds coming from outside, so that Theodore or the two visitors wouldn't be able to walk in and surprise them, but he found himself swept away in the sensations of warmth and softness that he held in his arms.

  "Why?" he finally murmured, as much to himself as to Sandra. "Why would anyone . . ." He couldn't complete the question.

  But she could. She asked, "Why would anyone do such a thing?" Then she spat out the answer. "Because he's an outlaw, just like those men who stole your friend's money."

  Maxwell leaned back and placed his hands on her shoulders. He asked, "What are you sayin', Sandra?"

  "It's simple enough. Theodore is part of that outlaw gang that's been making life miserable for folks around here."

  Blinking in astonishment, Maxwell studied her face. Her eyes and the set of her mouth told him she was telling the truth. "How do you know this?" he demanded.

  "I saw him and heard him. He met another member of the gang up by the Red River last night. I followed Theodore and heard all of it. He's been helping them get rid of the things they steal."

  Once Sandra got started, the story tumbled out of her in a hurry, from her trailing Theodore to the rendezvous, to her capture by him later and the beating he had given her. Maxwell's anger grew. It had been hard at first to accept the idea that his son was a criminal, but there was no doubt in his mind that Sandra was telling him what had really happened. Theodore might not be stopping stages and robbing people at gunpoint, but he was just as much an outlaw as the other members of the gang.

  "I swore to him that I'd never tell anyone," Sandra said as she finished her story. "But I couldn't keep the truth from you, Jake. You had to know."

  "Damn right," he growled. "Something's got to be done about this. Theodore can't go on helpin' those desperados loot the territory. And he's got to pay for what he did to you, too."

  "He said he was teaching me a lesson." Sandra had to choke out the words.

  "He's the one goin' to learn it," Maxwell promised grimly. "I'll horsewhip him—"

  "If you do, he'll try to kill you. We've got to wait, Jake, and figure out the best thing to do."

  "We could go to the sheriff and tell him about what Theodore's been doin' with those bandits."

  She shook her head. "It would be my word against his. Yours wouldn't carry any weight in court, since you didn't actually see or hear anything yourself. All he'd have to do would be to deny the whole thing and claim that I was making up stories about him because he beat me. Who do you think the sheriff would believe in a case like that?"

  "Reckon he'd likely believe Theodore," Maxwell grunted, a bleak look on his face. He sighed. "Reckon you're right, Sandy. We're goin' to have to do some studyin' on this. But I know just the man to help us—Billy Cambridge."

  "If . . . if you tell Mr. Cambridge, he might figure out . . . what's been going on between us."

  "Doesn't matter," Maxwell said with a shake of his head. "I'm willin' to face that if you are. Theodore's turned into a hydrophobia skunk, and he's got to be stopped."

 
; After a second's hesitation, Sandra nodded. "You're right. He's got to be stopped. We'll tell Mr. Cambridge about it—about all of it."

  Carefully, so as not to hurt the rib that might be cracked, Maxwell hugged her again. He had heard some newfound strength in her voice when she spoke those last words.

  He hoped she could hang on to that strength during the rough times that were coming.

  Chapter Twelve

  Billy Cambridge woke up suddenly, his hand going to the gun under his pillow. But the hand on his shoulder that had shaken him awake belonged to Jake Maxwell, he saw, and Maxwell was saying hurriedly, "Hold on, Billy, it's just me."

  Cambridge grunted, sat up, and rubbed his eyes. "Old habits," he said. Then, seeing the anxious expression on Maxwell's face, he went on, "What's wrong, Jake?"

  "Plenty. Soon as you're dressed, Sandy and I need to talk to you."

  "Sandra?" Cambridge frowned. No more information came from Maxwell, though, so he shrugged, got out of the bunk, and reached for his pants. "What about Nacho? Do you want him in on this meeting, too?"

  Maxwell nodded. "Reckon he's got a right, seein' as how those outlaws shot him."

  The lawyer's frown deepened. What could this have to do with the outlaw gang? Could Maxwell have discovered something about them?

  By the time Cambridge was dressed and emerging from his cubicle, Nacho was coming out of his own room, knuckling sleep from his eyes. He looked at Maxwell and said, "What is this all about, Jake?"

  Sandra Maxwell was seated at the long table, her back to Cambridge and Nacho. Maxwell motioned for them to come around the table, and as they did so, both men stopped in their tracks. Sandra looked up at them, the dark bruises on her face standing out in hideous contrast against her fair skin.

  Nacho let out a surprised curse in Spanish, and Cambridge said, "Oh, my God. What happened?"

  "That boy of mine is what happened," Maxwell said. "He did this to Sandy, probably cracked one of her ribs, too."