Red River Ruse

by James Reasoner

  They stepped outside the door, leaving Maxwell and Sandra alone inside the station. Cambridge looked at the smoldering ruins of the trading post and shook his head. "I never thought this would happen," he said tiredly. "We've lost our lead to the gang now."

  "But why would they raid the trading post?" Nacho asked. "Theodore was one of them."

  "He was working for them. I reckon they didn't really consider him a member of the gang." Cambridge rubbed at his jaw and frowned in thought. "The way I see it, they must have decided they didn't need his help anymore, so they decided to hit the trading post and get what they could out of it."

  Nacho objected, "But that man who was inside, he said they did not steal anything."

  "I know. That's what's so strange about the whole thing. From the sound of it, the real reason they came was to kill Theodore Maxwell. The destruction was just incidental. But why in blazes would they want to do that? Unless, like I said, they'd decided not to work with him anymore and thought he might be a risk in the future."

  "He was a risk right now," Nacho said flatly.

  "You mean the trap we were setting? Of course he was, but the rest of the gang didn't know that. Only four of us even knew that Theodore had any connection with the outlaws."

  Nacho didn't say anything. He took a deep breath, all the facts finally settling into place in his brain. He knew exactly why Theodore Maxwell had been killed, why the gang had risked coming out in the open for this raid. He even knew who the boss outlaw was now.

  "Wait a minute," Cambridge said as Nacho turned away and started around the building toward the barn and the corrals. "Where are you going?"

  "I got something to do," Nacho said, pausing but not looking back.

  "There's nothing else we can do tonight except wait for the sheriff to show up and tell him what happened. Then we'll pay another visit to Seamus O'Shea. He's gone too far this time."

  "No." Nacho finally turned so that his eyes met Cambridge's. "You're the smartest man I know, Billy, and I reckon I'm about the dumbest, but you're wrong this time. O'Shea doesn't have anything to do with those outlaws."

  "What are you talking about?" Cambridge demanded impatiently.

  Nacho didn't answer. He was heading for the corral again. Cambridge didn't follow him, and Nacho knew that the lawyer was angry with him. Well, Billy had a right to be angry, Nacho thought. Cambridge had no idea just how much right he did have to be mad. But he was going to find out before this night was over.

  Nacho threw a saddle on the horse he had been using and swung up onto its back. He guided it around the building and heeled it into a run as he reached the road. Cambridge was still standing in front of the station, and he had been joined now by Maxwell and Sandra. They all stared after Nacho as he rode away into the night.

  He was headed south, toward the cutoff and the road that led to the Sand Ridge Baptist Church.

  Chapter Fourteen

  As he rode through the night, Nacho supposed he should have told Cambridge about his suspicions. No, they were more than suspicions, he decided. As far as he was concerned, they were iron-clad certainties. But it had been his own foolishness that was indirectly responsible for tonight's violence, and he was going to put things right himself. Besides, Cambridge wouldn't have believed him.

  Nobody in his right mind would have.

  Nacho didn't encounter anyone on the south road, and when he swung east onto the smaller trail, it seemed deserted, too. He urged the horse to greater speed, anxious to get this over with.

  A three-quarter autumn moon gave plenty of light to ride by, and Nacho was able to make good time. Soon he could see moonlight reflecting from the whitewashed steeple of the church up ahead. He pulled his horse back to a walk and slipped his Colt from its holster. The hammer was resting on an empty chamber, as was Nacho's habit, but now he opened the loading gate, rotated the cylinder, and filled that chamber with one of the cartridges from his belt loops. He was about to go up against the trickiest son-of-a-bitch he had ever encountered, and he wanted the gun fully loaded. He eased the weapon back into the holster as he entered the little yard in front of the church.

  A dim light was burning in one of the building's rear windows, behind the sanctuary. There was no parsonage, so Nacho assumed that the Reverend John Livingston had his living quarters back there. He dismounted and tied his horse to the hitch rack, then went to the front doors of the church and rapped sharply on one of them. When there was no response after a minute, he knocked again, louder this time.

  After a moment, he heard footsteps on the other side of the door. It swung open, and Livingston peered out at him, a puzzled look on the preacher's face. Livingston was carrying a candle in one hand and a Bible in the other, a finger stuck between the pages to mark his place. He had removed his coat and tie but still wore his shirt and the pants of his dark suit.

  "Mr. Graves . . . Nacho," Livingston said. "What are you doing here?"

  "I came to see you, Reverend. Sorry to bother you this late, but it's mighty important."

  Livingston stepped back. "Well, come in, come in. You didn't have to knock. The doors of the church are never locked. We're always open for prayer and meditation."

  "This is going to take more than prayer, Reverend," Nacho said as he entered the church. He glanced up at the cross above the altar and the pictures of Jesus that were hung on the walls of the little foyer. A distinct feeling of unease rippled through him. If he was wrong, would what he was about to do border on the sacrilegious?

  He put those thoughts out of his head as Livingston smiled and said, "Nothing is beyond the power of prayer, my friend. Come with me."

  Livingston put his Bible under his arm and rested his hand on Nacho's shoulder as the two men walked down the aisle toward the front of the sanctuary. This was the first time Nacho had been inside the church, and he saw that it looked like most of the other Baptist churches he had seen— stained glass windows, rough pews with no padding, a slightly raised pulpit. It was nowhere nearly as elaborate as the missions where he had been taken as a boy, but Nacho sensed some of the same majesty and sense of purpose about the place. The people who came here to worship were honest and simple . . . good people who deserved better than they had gotten.

  When they reached the front row, Livingston gestured toward the long pew and said, "Why don't you have a seat?"

  Nacho shook his head. "I'd rather stand."

  "All right." The minister smiled again. "How can I help you, brother?"

  Nacho drew the Colt smoothly and quickly and lined it on Livingston's belly. "You can drop the act and admit you are the most lowdown outlaw skunk who ever walked the earth," he said in a cold voice.

  Livingston's eyes widened in alarm. "Lord help us," he murmured. "Whatever in the world are you talking about, Brother Graves?"

  Nacho shook his head. "I'm not your brother. I know all about you now, Livingston. I know you're really the leader of that outlaw gang. Theodore Maxwell probably could have told us that—but he's dead now. Your henchmen murdered him tonight. They burned down the trading post and nearly killed five other people. I think you will hang for what they have done."

  Staring at him in disbelief, Livingston said, "You've lost your mind, Nacho. I don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about, but I'd like to help you." He started to lift his arm and reach out to Nacho.

  The vaquero stepped back quickly, keeping the gun steady in its aim. "Don't try anything, Livingston," he snapped. "I want to take you alive, but I'll put a bullet through your knee if you try to get away."

  Livingston took a deep breath, putting an expression of pity on his face. "I'm sorry you're having these delusions. What can I say to convince you that you're wrong?"

  "Nothing," Nacho said flatly. "You see, I know you're the boss, Livingston. You ordered that raid on the trading post and told Graham to make sure Theodore Maxwell died. You did that because I was foolish enough earlier today to tell you that we knew Theodore was working with the gang.
You were the only one who knew besides me and Billy, and Jake and Sandra Maxwell. It had to be you."

  Livingston sighed and shook his head. "I wish I could make you see that you're mistaken." He opened his Bible and went on, "But since I can't . . ."

  Nacho saw the little pistol in Livingston's hand, saw the barrel tipping up toward him. At the same instant, he heard the soft footsteps behind him. Torn between two potential threats, he twisted to the side, trying to get out of the line of fire.

  Something crashed against his head, sending him reeling. He heard the spiteful report of Livingston's pistol and felt a white-hot lance of pain in his right arm. His own gun slipped from his fingers as he staggered and fell. Something warm and wet trickled down across his face from his scalp, and his right arm was rapidly going numb. He tried to push himself back up.

  A kick slammed into his side, knocking him sprawling in front of the pews again. He looked up and saw Livingston looming above him. All traces of Christian charity and compassion were gone from the preacher's face now. They had been replaced by a look of pure evil and hatred.

  Another face swam into view in the circle of yellow light cast by the candle in Livingston's hand. Nacho saw the carbine she held and knew she had hit him with the butt of it. She was the only one who could have moved up behind him that quietly.

  "We've got to get rid of him," he heard Dove O'Shea say with an unmistakable tone of command in her voice.

  The darkness took him then, and at that moment, he didn't much care.

  * * *

  The fire was out, the trading post in ruins. Jake Maxwell looked at the pile of blackened rubble in the moonlight and shook his head. A big part of his life had gone up in flames tonight—the business he had started so many years earlier . . . and the son who had somehow gone horribly wrong.

  Cambridge felt deep sympathy for his old friend as he stood beside Maxwell and Sandra.

  "We'll rebuild it," Maxwell said abruptly, his arm tightening around Sandra's shoulders. "No reason the store can't be better than ever. I'll keep runnin' the station, and you can handle the tradin' post, Sandy. I reckon you been doin' most of the work there lately anyway, what with Theodore's bein' busy with his outlaw pards."

  Cambridge heard the bitterness in Maxwell's voice as he spoke about his son. "You don't mean that, Jake," he said softly. "Theodore did wrong, but he was still your son. You'll regret it if you don't grieve for him."

  "What do you think I been doin' these last few months, Billy?" Maxwell lifted a hand and wearily rubbed his face. "Reckon you're right, though. But I'll have to see to it later. Right now there's other things to do. Like figurin' out where Nacho took off to in such a hurry."

  "He was upset about something, that's for sure. Before he left, he said I was wrong about Seamus O'Shea being the leader of that gang. He acted like he thought he knew who was really in charge. But he didn't say anything else, just rode off like the devil was after him."

  "Speakin' of the devil, I wonder where the preacher is," Maxwell said. "He usually shows up any time there's trouble, wantin' to help folks."

  Cambridge frowned. Maxwell was right. People from all around had converged on the fire, even though it had been mostly out by the time they showed up. The neighbors had gone on their way now, after promising that they would be back in the morning to help Maxwell any way they could. But Reverend Livingston hadn't put in an appearance, and even though Cambridge hadn't known the minister for long, he agreed with Maxwell that his absence was unusual.

  "I suppose he might not have heard about the fire," Cambridge mused. "Either that, or he was busy with something else."

  "Reckon so." Maxwell had a look of deep concentration on his face. Suddenly, he turned to Sandra and asked, "You recollect that man and woman who came to the tradin' post a few nights ago and talked to Theodore?"

  She nodded. "I remember them. We never did figure out who they were."

  "Well, talkin' about Reverend Livingston just now got me to thinkin'. He drives a buggy just like the one that came here that night."

  "Wait a minute," Cambridge said. "What are you two talking about?"

  Quickly, Maxwell told the lawyer about the arrival in the middle of the night of a buggy carrying two mysterious figures. "Ever since we found out Theodore was mixed up with them outlaws, I been thinkin' maybe those folks were part of the gang, too," Maxwell said. "But they couldn't have been, because now that I think about it, I'm almost sure that was the preacher's buggy."

  Cambridge's frown deepened and he gave a little shake of his head. The ideas that were suddenly popping up in his brain, prompted by what Maxwell and Sandra had just said, were too crazy to be true. And yet . . .

  Nacho had been talking to Livingston earlier that day, while Cambridge was inside the store laying out the bait for Theodore. Could Nacho have said anything to Livingston about their plans? It was possible, Cambridge decided. After all, Nacho would be likely to trust a man of the cloth. Raised in West Texas with its mixture of white and Spanish cultures, Nacho might give a Baptist preacher the same regard and admiration—and trust—that he would a priest.

  But even Cambridge had a hard time believing that somebody like John Livingston could be the secret leader of a bloodthirsty band of outlaws.

  But still, Nacho had taken the south road, and that was the route that would ultimately take him to the church . . .

  "Reckon I'd better do some riding, too," he announced. "Sorry to have to leave you right now, Jake, but I've got to check on something."

  Maxwell and Sandra both looked baffled, but the stationkeeper said, "Sure, Billy. Whatever you want. Help yourself to a horse."

  Cambridge went back into the station and got his hat, then saddled the same mount he had been using. He didn't like keeping Maxwell in the dark, but if he had explained the nebulous theory that his brain had put together, Jake would have thought he had lost his mind for sure. Better to prove it one way or the other first.

  Of course, if he was wrong, then he had no idea where Nacho had gotten off to or what sort of trouble the ranch foreman had found for himself.

  Maxwell and Sandra were standing in front of the station as Cambridge galloped off. He gave them a wave, which Maxwell returned. The two of them looked good somehow, standing side by side like that, drawing strength from each other. He didn't know what had happened between them in the past—didn't really want to know, to be truthful about it—but he had a feeling that when a suitable interval had passed, Sandra would marry another Maxwell. The right Maxwell this time. And if that happened, Cambridge would wish them both all the luck and happiness in the world.

  Right now, though, he had to find Nacho.

  * * *

  When he reached the cutoff, he swung east, heading toward the church. Nacho had a good half-hour's start on him, so Cambridge urged his horse on at top speed, hoping to cut down that lead. Knowing Nacho, he was probably in some sort of trouble by now.

  Cambridge didn't slow down until he came within sight of the church. Then he pulled his horse back to a walk and studied the place in the moonlight as he approached. The whitewashed building was dark, no lights showing anywhere. And there were no horses tied up in front, either, no sign of the animal Nacho had ridden away from the stage station.

  Just because he wasn't here now didn't mean he hadn't been here, Cambridge reasoned. He reined in and swung down from the saddle, flipping the lines over the hitch rack with a practiced twist. The front doors of the church probably weren't locked, but Cambridge knocked anyway, not wanting to walk in unannounced and frighten Livingston.

  There was no answer, so Cambridge called, "Reverend? Reverend Livingston? It's Billy Cambridge." When there was still no reply, he reached out with his left hand and took hold of the knob on the right-side door. It turned in his grip. He shoved the panel open as he slid his Colt from its holster and stepped back.

  The interior of the church was dark and silent. Cambridge hesitated for a long moment, not liking the fact that he woul
d make a good target when he went inside and was silhouetted against the moonlight in the opening. But he wouldn't find out anything standing around here. He moved through the entrance quickly, stepping to one side as soon as he was in.

  He listened intently for a footstep, the sound of breathing . . . the click of a gun hammer being drawn back . . . anything. Instead there was nothing. The church was as quiet as a tomb.

  Taking a chance, Cambridge called again, "Reverend Livingston!" He crouched as soon as the words were out of his mouth, reaching out with his free hand to steady himself against one of the rear pews.

  After waiting for several minutes that seemed even longer, Cambridge stood up again, satisfied that he was alone in the church. Moving slowly, feeling his way along, he went up the aisle toward the pulpit, and when he got there, he reached into his pocket for a match. With a rasping noise that sounded even louder in the utter silence, he scraped it into life, closing his eyes first so that the glare wouldn't blind him.

  When he opened them again a few seconds later, blinking against the harsh light, he looked around and saw that he was alone, just as he had thought. Spotting a row of candles in a plain brass holder on one end of the pulpit, he went over and began to light them. The illumination grew until he could see even into the corners of the big, high-ceilinged room.

  There were some other rooms in the back of the building, probably where Livingston slept, and he would have to check all of them. But first he wanted to take a good look around the sanctuary. That didn't take long. Nothing seemed to be disturbed. There were hymnals lying on the pews, and a small vase of flowers sat at the other end of the pulpit from the candles. None of the pews were toppled over or even knocked out of arrangement. From the looks of things, the place was ready for Sunday services.

  Which were scheduled to start in about twelve hours, Cambridge thought. Livingston should have been here, praying or working on his sermon or whatever it was preachers did on a Saturday night. With his gun still held ready in his hand, Cambridge hurriedly went through the other rooms. He found Livingston's bunk and some of the minister's clothes in one of the small chambers, but no sign of the minister himself.