Red River Ruse

by James Reasoner

  Cambridge felt in his bones that Nacho had come here to accuse Livingston of being the head of the outlaw gang. Maybe Nacho had dragged Livingston out of the church and taken him at gunpoint to Sherman, intending to turn him over to the sheriff. That was possible, but not likely. Nacho would have probably brought Livingston back to the stage station and let Cambridge handle things from there. Assuming, of course, that Livingston was indeed guilty—and that was a hell of an assumption, Cambridge thought.

  He holstered his gun and cuffed back his hat, sighing as he pondered what to do next. Suddenly, as he stared down at the floor, he spotted something he hadn't noticed before. There were a couple of small stains of some kind on one of the planks.

  Cambridge went down on one knee and reached out to touch the spots. His finger came away slightly sticky, and when he held it up, he saw that the tip had a reddish-brown cast to it now. His face settling into grim lines, he muttered, "Nacho . . ."

  The spots were blood, sure enough.

  By the time Cambridge got back to the stagecoach station, Sandra was already lying down in Maxwell's room. The stationkeeper was sitting at the long table in the main room, nursing a cup of coffee. As Cambridge came in, Maxwell looked up and said, "Howdy, Billy. You find Nacho?"

  "Not yet," Cambridge replied, a bleak look in his eyes. "I'm afraid there's more trouble, Jake."

  Maxwell sighed. "No end to it, is there? What is it now? You want me to fetch Sandra to hear about it, too?"

  Cambridge shook his head and said, "If she's resting, then leave her alone. She's been through enough the last few days."

  "That's the damned truth," Maxwell muttered.

  "And so have you, Jake. I'm sorry as hell Nacho and I came here and helped bring all this down on your head."

  "You didn't do no such thing," Maxwell declared. "It was Theodore's doin', plain and simple. You boys pokin' around may've stirred things up a mite sooner than they would've been otherwise, but it would've all come out sooner or later. I'm just thankful there wasn't anybody else killed."

  Cambridge nodded and sat down across the table from his old friend. "I think Nacho went after the leader of the outlaws," he said.

  "O'Shea?" Maxwell started to shake his head.

  Cambridge stopped him by saying crisply, "Not O'Shea. The ringleader of the gang is John Livingston."

  For a couple of seconds, Maxwell didn't say anything. Then, eyes wide with surprise, he exclaimed, "The preacher?"

  "That's right." Cambridge had thought it all out during the ride back from the church, and he was convinced now that Livingston was behind all the deviltry. In a firm voice, he explained to Maxwell how Nacho might have revealed the plot to catch the outlaws to Livingston earlier that day.

  "But you don't know for sure he did that," Maxwell pointed out.

  "Nacho was certain he had the gang leader's identity figured out. He flat out told me it wasn't O'Shea, and he headed south, not west into the breaks. The only person he knows anywhere in that direction, at least around here, is Livingston."

  Maxwell still looked doubtful. "Those outlaws chased you and Nacho the other day when you were with the preacher and that O'Shea girl. Would they have done that if Livingston was their boss?"

  "They might have if they were trying to scare us off. None of their bullets came really close, and they backed off in a hurry when Nacho and I put up a fight. Anyway, what better way to turn aside suspicion than to seem a victim yourself?"

  "Reckon that makes sense," Maxwell said, rubbing his beard-stubbled jaw. "Hard to believe a preacher would be up to such mischief, though."

  "Livingston mentioned, too, that he'd only been in these parts for a few months. Did he show up about the same time all the trouble started?"

  "Come to think of it, he did. The Baptists had been without a preacher or even a circuit rider for a while when Livingston drove up and told folks he'd been called to take over the church. Reckon it didn't occur to nobody to challenge him on it. Folks were just glad to have a preacher around again." Maxwell sounded like he was starting to believe Cambridge's theory.

  "I just got back from the church," the lawyer continued grimly. "Livingston's not there. Nobody is. But there's blood on the floor. I figure there was a fight."

  "Nacho went there and told Livingston what he'd figured out," Maxwell guessed.

  'That's the way I see it. He probably intended to bring Livingston back here. But Livingston put up a struggle and somebody got hurt. It must have been Nacho, or they would have turned up by now."

  "Lordy," Maxwell breathed. "When I said there was no end to it, I didn't figure it'd get this tangled up. What do we do now?"

  Cambridge stood up. "I have to hope that Nacho is still alive. If he is, Livingston probably took him to the gang's hide-out, somewhere over there in the breaks. Reckon he'd want to know whether or not Nacho had told anybody else what he'd figured out."

  "Then you're left with tryin' to find the gang's hide-out, which ain't goin' to be easy." Maxwell's voice hardened. "Not in time, anyway."

  "That's why I need your help, Jake."

  Maxwell stood up, too, and faced Cambridge across the table. "Anything I can do, Billy, you know that," he said solemnly.

  "I want you to take me to Seamus O'Shea."

  The stationkeeper looked puzzled. "What makes you think goin' to see O'Shea would do any good? I thought you said you figured he didn't have any part in this after all."

  "I don't, but he probably knows that part of the country better than anybody. I had a feeling right from the first that he might have an idea where those outlaws are holing up. I'm counting on you and me being able to talk him into helping us." Cambridge shrugged. "For one thing, his daughter seems to have been taken in by Livingston's act, too. O'Shea might not like knowing that Dove had been fooled like that."

  "Don't reckon he'd care for the idea, now that you mention it." Maxwell nodded. "I'm with you, Billy. You intend to start tonight?"

  "There's no time to wait for morning."

  "Well, between the two of us, we ought to be able to find O'Shea's place. I've been there once, bought some horses from him. And you and Nacho paid him a visit a few days ago."

  "We'll find him," Cambridge said firmly, not allowing a trace of doubt to creep into his voice. "And he'll help us."

  Cambridge just wished he felt as sure as he sounded.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Somebody was using a hammer and tongs on Nacho's skull, trying to shape it into a horseshoe. That's what it felt like, anyway, when consciousness began to seep back into him. Gradually, he realized it was his own pulse that was sending the pounding jolts of pain through his head, every time it beat.

  The fact that he was hanging head down, tied over a saddle, his belly rubbed about raw by the unfamiliar position, didn't help matters any. The horse plodded along as Nacho tried to pry his eyes open. He had already discovered that his wrists were tied tightly to his ankles by a cord that passed under the animal's belly. Opening his eyes and lifting his head were about the only maneuvers he could accomplish in his present condition.

  Everything was still dark when he finally got his eyes open. No, not everything, he realized a moment later. He could see a few vague shapes moving past and guessed they were trees and bushes. It was still night, even darker than when he had last been awake. The moon had set by now, leaving nothing but faint starlight filtering down from the heavens.

  The longer he stayed conscious, the more memories came back to him. Might have been better to remain out cold, he thought. At least that way, he hadn't been forced to think about how Dove O'Shea had played him for a fool. The best judge of women in West Texas . . . that was a laugh.

  For as long as he lived—which probably wouldn't be very long, he thought bitterly—he would never forget the scornful look on her face as she had gazed down at him there in the church. She and Livingston had both been in on it all along. In fact, the way she had given orders, she was probably the boss, not the preacher.
>
  Like father, like daughter, Nacho supposed. Dove was living up to both sides of her heritage, the Comanche . . . and the Comanchero.

  From the sound of the hoofbeats, there were two other horses on the trail. Dove's and Livingston's, he supposed. So far, they didn't seem to have noticed that he was awake. If he could somehow get loose, he could slip away into the night—

  No chance of that. The knots on his wrists and ankles were too tight. Dove knew what she was doing. He felt confident that she had been the one who tied him onto the horse.

  He let his head hang loosely from his shoulders and spent a few minutes cursing himself. He had been taken in completely by Dove's demure pose. The real Dove was the one in buckskins who had pointed that carbine at him and Cambridge and threatened to use it. Nacho could see that now that it was too late to do him any good.

  And Livingston had fooled him, too. Even after he had figured out that the preacher was part of the gang, he hadn't expected Livingston to reach into a Bible and come up with a gun. The book had been hollowed out so that a little pistol could be hidden in it. An old trick, but it worked.

  He was a little surprised to still be alive. They probably wanted to take him out well away from the church before they killed him. They might even be heading for the gang's hide-out. Maybe he'd finally find out where it was, not that it mattered now.

  Somewhere along the way, Nacho lost consciousness again. He drifted in and out of oblivion, not aware of anything much except the pain in his head and the steady gait of the horse. After what seemed like an eternity had passed, the sound of voices finally dragged him back from the haven of darkness.

  ". . . get in deeper an' deeper," a deep voice was rumbling. "I'm dead set agin' this, girl."

  The gravelly tones were familiar somehow to Nacho, and after a moment he placed them. The voice belonged to Seamus O'Shea, the former Comanchero.

  "I been hearin' things about what you been doin', an' I don't like it," O'Shea went on. "Give it up, Dove, an' light out now 'fore it gets any worse."

  She just laughed, a harsh, strident sound. "You're a fine one to talk, old man," she snapped. "You rode with some of the worst bandits in the world for two years, and now you have the gall to tell me to be a good girl."

  "That was different. I was out o' my head with grievin' for your mama." O'Shea sighed. "This is plain viciousness."

  "We're just protecting ourselves." That was Livingston. "You can understand that, Mr. O'Shea. We can't let Graves live. We just have to find out what he's told that lawyer friend of his before we kill him."

  Well, that was a little bit encouraging, Nacho thought. Every hour he stayed alive was another hour when he might have a chance to get away. He didn't hold out much hope of being rescued. Billy wouldn't know where to look for him, wouldn't have any idea that Livingston was even mixed up in all this.

  "I'm tired of arguing," Dove said angrily. "Just watch our back trail, Pa. If anybody comes along, you've got your choice. You can turn them back—or kill them."

  With that, the horses started moving again. Nacho turned his head a little and opened his eyes, wincing as the dawn light struck them. The three of them were passing in front of O'Shea's cabin, and the old frontiersman was standing there with a Sharps in his hands, glowering after his daughter and the phony preacher. Even upside down, Nacho could see the concern on the man's face, and he also saw the way O'Shea's eyes widened in surprise when he noticed that Nacho was awake. But the former Comanchero's lips clamped tightly together, and he didn't say anything.

  If Nacho was waiting for O'Shea to help him, it was a futile hope. O'Shea just stood there, watching, until the little procession vanished into the woods.

  * * *

  Sunrise found Cambridge and Maxwell on the rough, almost invisible track that passed for a trail in this part of the country. They weren't following the exact same route that Cambridge and Nacho had taken on their only visit to Seamus O'Shea's cabin, but Maxwell assured the attorney that this way was a little faster.

  "Ought to sight his smoke soon," Maxwell said when they paused momentarily to rest the horses. "I imagine Seamus is an early riser. He'll have breakfast cookin' by now." He took off his hat and massaged his temples in weariness. It had been a long night for both men.

  Cambridge had hated to drag Maxwell away from the station. The man had had enough trouble in his own life lately. When they had roused Sandra and explained the situation to her, however, she had insisted that Maxwell do everything he could to help Cambridge find Nacho.

  "Nothing you can do here will bring back Theodore . . . the way he used to be," she had said softly. "I'll be all right, Jake, really. You go on."

  There was nothing Maxwell could do about the trading post, either, not right away. Rebuilding it would be a long process. But rebuild it he would; Cambridge was sure of that. There was a new light of determination in Maxwell's eyes whenever he spoke of the future. So maybe some good would come out of this mess after all. Cambridge hoped so.

  They pushed on, and less than an hour later, Maxwell spotted the smoke from O'Shea's chimney, just as he had predicted. A few more minutes brought them in sight of the ramshackle cabin.

  Cambridge reined in. "Do we just ride up there, or is he liable to take a shot at us if we do?"

  "As long as we sing out before we get there, I don't reckon Seamus'll start blastin'," Maxwell replied with a tired grin. "Come on." He heeled his horse into motion.

  A minute later, as they started down the hill toward the cabin, Maxwell called, "Hello the cabin! Seamus! Seamus O'Shea! It's me, Jake Maxwell!"

  There was no response. Cambridge and Maxwell looked at each other, shrugged, and kept riding.

  The shot shattered the early morning stillness.

  Cambridge and Maxwell both left their saddles, diving in opposite directions as the slug whined over their heads. Rolling as he landed, Cambridge came up in a crouch, the Colt in his hand. He'd had a glimpse of muzzle flash, somewhere off to the right of the cabin. O'Shea had to be hidden in the woods over there. Holding his fire, Cambridge scurried behind a tree and waited. A few yards away, Maxwell was doing the same thing.

  Another shot echoed through the trees, but it didn't come anywhere close to them. Maxwell got to his feet, leaned against the trunk of the tree he was using for cover, and shouted, "Hold on, Seamus! No need for shootin'! We're just here to talk!"

  "Go home!" O'Shea called from his concealment. "Get th' hell out o' th' breaks an' don't come back!"

  Maxwell looked over at Cambridge and shook his head. O'Shea's violent reaction to their visit didn't make any more sense to him than it did to the lawyer.

  "Listen, O'Shea! This is Billy Cambridge. My friend and I were out here the other day. We need your help!"

  "I ain't helpin' nobody! Now be on your way, or I ain't goin' t' be responsible for what happens!"

  Cambridge called over to Maxwell, too quietly for O'Shea to hear, "We're going to have to flush him out of there. Whether he's willing to help us find that hide-out or not, we can't let him keep us pinned down here."

  Maxwell nodded and motioned with the Winchester he had taken with him when he leaped off his horse. Cambridge understood. He pointed up, indicating for Maxwell to aim high.

  As Maxwell poked the muzzle of the rifle around the tree and started blazing away as fast as he could work the lever, Cambridge darted out from his own cover and raced for another clump of trees some thirty feet away. The growth was thicker there, and he would be able to work his way around to the side of O'Shea without exposing himself very often or for too long at a time. Of course, O'Shea could still get lucky and nail him, but that was a chance Cambridge had to take.

  This wasn't the first time Cambridge and Maxwell had worked together in such a situation. When they were both in the Texas Rangers, they had fought outlaws and Indians and Mexican troops. But a lot of years had passed since those days, years that Billy Cambridge had spent for the most part in courtrooms, risking nothing more dangerous
than an ornery jurist's displeasure. The instincts were still all there, though, and still working just fine. He spent the next fifteen minutes moving into position. O'Shea sent a couple of shots his direction, but the bullets went wild. The old Comanchero didn't know exactly where he was, Cambridge decided.

  That was what he thought until he darted out from a clump of brush, heading for the next piece of cover, and found his feet kicked out from under him. He went down hard, trying to twist and bring his revolver into play. A booted foot hit his wrist, knocking the gun away, then came down hard on his chest.

  The muzzle of a Sharps centered itself on Cambridge's nose from less than a foot away. Seamus O'Shea towered over him, his face dark and thunderous, eyes narrowed and shining with a murderous gleam. At this range, when the Sharps went off it wouldn't leave a hell of a lot of Cambridge's head intact.

  Cambridge made his mouth work. "Reckon I was wrong about you," he said.

  O'Shea tilted his head slightly to one side. "What you mean by that?"

  "I guess you're still an outlaw after all."

  Something changed in O'Shea's eyes then. The gleam fled, to be replaced by a look of more sadness than Cambridge had ever seen. O'Shea moved the barrel of the carbine away from Cambridge's face and took the foot off his chest. "Why the hell didn't you an' that Meskin go back t' West Texas where you belong?" he muttered.

  "Drop the gun, Seamus!" Maxwell shouted from twenty feet away, lining the Winchester's sights on the burly old frontiersman.

  Cambridge held up a hand as he hurriedly pulled himself into a sitting position, knowing somehow that O'Shea was no longer a threat. "Wait a minute, Jake!" he called. "It's all right."

  "Th' hell it is," O'Shea growled. He canted the barrel of the rifle over his shoulder and shook his head. "Ain't nothin' ever goin' t' be right again. But come on back t' th' house, an' we'll talk about it."