I knew Lila would be standing at the cabin door, watching me go. I turned and there she was, her hands on her hips, her head tilted to one side in complete bafflement. I waved, and kept on riding.
Me, I never thought of myself as an especially brave man, but at the same time I figured I was no coward. All I knew was that I didn’t want Wingo, or the Apaches, trapping Lila and me inside the cabin.
The walls were stout—that was sure—but if a body had a mind to, he could keep us pinned up in there until the contents of the picnic basket ran out and we’d be forced to make a break for it—and then, out in the open, we’d be sitting ducks.
Ma and Jim Meldrum wouldn’t come looking for us either, at least not for a few days, thinking Lila and me had stayed on at the cabin to get the place ready.
I figured the path I’d chosen was the right one. Better to meet the danger, whatever it was, head on and get it over with, hopefully to my advantage.
I rode across the meadow, the paint knee-deep in grass and bluebonnets, and the only sound was the buzz of insects and the faint whisper of the wind.
The sun was now straight above me in the sky and the day was hot. When I cleared the meadow I reined in and listened—for what I did not know. I took off my hat and wiped my sweaty brow with the sleeve of my shirt, my eyes scanning everywhere around me.
But the land lay still and nothing moved under the burning sun, the jangle of the paint’s bit chiming loud in the quiet as he tossed his head against flies.
To the south lay the vast limestone bedrock of the Edwards Plateau. But even this far north, a few narrow veins of limestone ran under the prairie, now and then jutting dramatically above the flat grassland, the rock carved into fantastic shapes by the action of wind and rain.
The rise where I’d seen the gleam of light lay just ahead of me and I replaced my hat and slid the Winchester from the boot. Riding even more warily, I found, near the foot of the low hill, a narrow patch of brush and scrub oak that offered a chance of concealment.
I swung out of the saddle and pulled the paint into the brush. The hill, if you could call it that, was very shallow, rising no more than forty feet above the plain, studded with mesquite and juniper, brilliant swathes of bluebonnets growing here and there among the grass.
I whispered gently to the horse and led him into the brush. Then I stepped onto the slope, rifle at the ready. Moving carefully from one patch of brush to another, I made my way to the crest and got a big surprise. The top of the hill was only about ten yards wide before it sloped away on all sides to form a ridged horseshoe shape below on the plain, enclosing about ten acres of flat land.
Glancing around, I saw no immediate sign that anyone had been up there. But as I scouted around and kneeled to examine the ground more closely, I noticed a small rock had been displaced, lying on its side, revealing some damp earth where it had once lain.
Somebody had been up here very recently—and I was sure I’d seen the glint of the sun on his rifle.
I stood and looked back at the cabin about a mile behind me. The dun still stood, hip shot, outside the cabin, but I saw no sign of Lila.
From where I was on the crest of the rise I had an excellent vantage point to study the land around me. But I noticed no telltale dust or other evidence that anyone or anything was moving out there.
To the south, toward the Edwards Plateau, sky and land merged together in a blue-gray haze, and when I turned to the north, the prairie stretched away from me, green, flat and seemingly empty of life.
Whoever had been up here, Apache or Lafe Wingo, he was gone now.
I squatted on my heels and built a smoke, letting the tensions of the last few minutes slowly ease out of me.
When I finished the cigarette I rose and ground the stub out under my heel.
It was time to return to the cabin. Lila would be getting worried.
I turned my steps back down the hill and hit the ground fast as the blast of a rifle shot thundered across the afternoon quiet.
Instinctively my eyes went to the cabin, in time to see a puff of smoke drift away in the breeze from one of the windows.
Then I heard the paint crashing around in the brush, screaming.
I took the slope of the hill at a fast run, dove for the patch of brush and rolled, coming up fast on one knee, facing the cabin.
Frightened by the sudden gunfire, the dun had trotted away a few steps from the cabin, but was now grazing near the stream. I saw nothing moving behind any of the windows.
The paint was down, kicking, and I stepped beside him. His left front leg had been shattered by the rifle bullet just below the knee and his eyes were rolling white and scared, blood spattering me from his ruined leg. I did what I had to do. I put the muzzle of the Winchester close to his head and pulled the trigger. The paint kicked once and lay still.
He’d been a good cow pony, that paint, and he’d deserved a better fate.
It could only have been Lafe Wingo who fired from the cabin. I reckoned he’d hit the paint’s leg at a distance of almost a mile, an expert marksman’s shot.
A rising rage burning in me, I ran toward the cabin, stopping now and then to take advantage of whatever meager cover was available. I knew the closer I got, the more vulnerable I became to Wingo’s rifle, but the paint’s death and my concern for Lila made me throw caution to the wind.
I moved closer to the cabin, my rifle up and ready. But no bullets came in my direction.
I crawled the last hundred yards to the cabin on my belly, pushing the Winchester out in front of me. The sun was beating down, hot on my back, and once I wriggled through a cloud of bluebonnets, sending up swarms of tiny flies.
When I reached the wall of the cabin, I stepped carefully toward the door. I reached out with the barrel of the Winchester and the door swung open easily.
Moving carefully, I set the rifle down against the stone wall, and slipped the thong off the hammer of my Colt.
It was now or never.
I shucked the revolver and sprang in front of the door, hearing the clamoring hammer of my own heartbeats in my ears.
“Wingo! Get out here!” I yelled.
All I heard in return was a mocking silence.
The cabin was empty.
Cautiously, I stepped inside and looked around, the Colt in my fist, with its hammer back and ready. There was no sign of a struggle and the food from the picnic basket lay spread out, untouched, on a gingham cloth on the table.
On the floor under the window lay a single empty rifle casing. I picked up the brass shell. It was .50-90 Sharps caliber. Wingo had shown the professional gunman’s usual prudence, taking time to reload his rifle after he’d killed the paint.
But why kill the horse and not me? I’d been an open target up there on the hill and Wingo had demonstrated that he had the rifle skill to drop me.
That question was answered when I found something I’d overlooked when I first stepped into the cabin.
Propped up on top of the mantel of the fireplace was a handwritten note, scrawled with pencil on a page torn from a tally book. A single, quick reading of the words told me all I had to know.
BRING THE 30 THOUSAND HERE TO
THE CABIN BEFORE NOON
TOMORROW OR THE GIRL DIES.
P.S. COME ALONE OR I’LL KILL
HER FOR DAMN SURE.
I stood there for long moments, staring at that scrap of paper, my own guilt and my dreadful fear for Lila icing my insides.
The girl had trusted me!
Lila had seen me hastily ride away just before Lafe Wingo arrived. Did she think I’d run out on her to save my own skin and left her to the wolves?
What else could she think?
I figured Wingo had been up on the hill, and he let me see sunlight flash on his rifle or on the silver ornaments he wore. Then he had ridden down the other side and swung wide to approach the cabin from behind. By the time I’d reached the hill and had a good view of the surrounding country he had already made his move.
&
nbsp; Wingo was a sure-thing killer who made a living shooting from ambush. He knew how to take advantage of every scrap of cover and had melted into the surrounding low hills and brush like a hungry cougar.
The gunman had outfoxed me every step of the way, and Lila was the one who’d paid for it.
She might have still been outside the cabin when Wingo arrived and he’d surprised her so completely she didn’t even get a chance to cry out.
She’d trusted me and I’d betrayed that trust. And that thought was like a stake through my heart.
Me, I’ve never been what you’d call a drinking man, but now I picked up the bottle of wine, knocked the top off and sat with it on the stoop of the cabin.
It took me an hour to finish the bottle, and when it was empty and I tossed it away, I felt no better. And maybe a lot worse.
Feeling sick and light-headed, I caught up the dun and it took me several attempts, my foot slipping out of the stirrup, before I clambered into the saddle. I rode back to where the paint lay, and retrieved my own saddle and bridle, then swung the dun toward the SP.
As I rode, the afternoon light began to wane, shading slowly into dusk. Above me, a pale lemon sky was streaked with scarlet and out among the shallow, shadowed hills the shameless coyotes were already talking.
Many thoughts crowded into my alcohol-fuddled brain, each one loudly clamoring for attention.
But one called out louder than all the rest.
I would not ask Ma Prather for the thirty thousand dollars. That money, earned hard, was all that stood between the SP Connected and ruin.
I would have to find another way.
If there was another way.
Chapter 22
When I was half a mile from the ranch, I stopped at a small creek, swung out of the saddle, lay flat on my belly and splashed water over my face and neck. I wet my unruly hair and combed it down flat and then remounted the dun.
Thankfully, my brain felt less fuzzy and I’d stopped seeing two of everything.
And that was probably just as well, because as I rode into the SP, Jim Meldrum was standing outside the bunkhouse, the eager, impatient way he watched me come telling me he had news.
When I reined up, Meldrum gave me a grin and a wink and told me pretty Sally Coleman was in the house, talking to Ma.
“She’s got something to say to you, Dusty,” the puncher said.
“What is it?” I asked.
Meldrum shook his head. “Best you hear that for yourself.” He gave me another knowing wink and said, “I’ll put up your horse.”
Right at that moment, I didn’t want to talk to Sally. I didn’t want to talk to anybody, even Meldrum when he stopped on his way to the barn and asked: “Where’s Lila? Did she stay on at her place?”
“Later, Jim,” I said. “After Sally leaves.”
“You going to take the bonnet you bought for her?” Meldrum asked, an odd, amused light in his eyes.
I shook my head. “Later for that too.”
“Maybe it’s just as well,” Meldrum threw over his shoulder at me as he walked away, and I heard him chuckle to himself.
Now what had he meant by that remark?
I had no time to ponder the question. There was a smart-looking surrey, with a bay horse in the traces, standing outside the house and I swallowed hard and stepped toward the door.
I wasn’t in the mood to be a-courting pretty Sally Coleman, but I had to talk to Ma in private. Better to get it over with.
When I reached the porch I took off my hat and smoothed down my hair and then stepped inside. Charlie Fullerton met me in the hallway and nodded to the parlor’s closed door. “In there.”
I saw it again! Exactly the same amused expression in Charlie’s eyes that I’d seen in Jim Meldrum’s.
What was going on? And what did Sally want to tell me?
I hesitated at the door and Charlie smiled and said again: “In there, Dusty.”
I nodded, took a deep breath and stepped inside.
Sally was sitting on the same chair that Lila had sat in and one thing was immediately apparent—she was almighty big in the belly.
Standing, one arm on the fireplace mantel, grinning like a possum, stood tall, lanky Ethan Noon, one of the Coleman hands. I’d never cottoned to Noon much. The man had no chin, a huge, bobbing Adam’s apple and long yellow buckteeth. Noon had a hee-haw laugh that made him sound like a loco mule and he had a habit of stamping a foot and slapping his thigh when something amused him, which was often.
When I walked into the room, Sally smiled and rose to her feet, her hands extended to me. “Dusty,” she said, “how very nice to see you again.”
I took Sally’s hands and kissed her on the cheek, and over by the fireplace, Noon slapped his thigh and gave his hee-haw laugh.
“Sally has brought us some wonderful news, Dusty,” Ma said, her face revealing nothing. “She and Ethan got married three days ago.”
Glancing at Sally’s swelling stomach under her dress, I figured the nuptials had been just in the nick of time.
Sally still held on to my hands and her eyes moistened a little. “Oh, Dusty, I’m so sorry. You see, after you left with the herds, I fell head over heels in love with Ethan. It all happened so sudden that I simply couldn’t help myself.” She looked up at me, her face earnest. “Dusty, can you ever forgive me? I know what a terrible shock and disappointment all this must be to you, but please, please try to understand.”
I caught Ma’s amused smile, as I said, lying just a little: “Disappointed, yes, but I’m happy for you, Sally.” I looked over at Noon. “And you too, Ethan.”
Sally giggled and Noon hee-hawed several times and slapped his thigh. “The best man won, Dusty, an’ no mistake.”
Now normally a challenge like that would have earned Noon my fist to his nonexistent chin, but I was happy to let it go.
Compared to Lila, Sally Coleman looked colorless and washed out, her skin and hair the same shade of white, her eyes more rain cloud gray than blue. In her brown woolen dress she looked dowdy and plain, a corn sack tied in the middle. Gone were the red, blue or green ribbons I’d admired so much and the tightly curled ringlets that bounced on her shoulders. In their place was hair scraped straight back from the face in a severe bun, pinned in place by a long steel spike. She looked like a girl consciously trying to become a mature woman before her time and the only thing that remained of the Sally I’d once known was the giggle, still high-pitched, strident and silly.
Once I’d thought myself madly in love with Sally Coleman. Now I wondered what I’d ever seen in her.
“Well,” Ma said, rising to her feet, “this calls for a celebration. I believe I can find a bottle of champagne for us.”
“Ma,” I said quickly. When she turned to look at me, I shook my head. “We have to talk, urgently.”
Ma Prather was a perceptive woman. She knew something must be terribly wrong, something that required her attention and was far more important than Sally Coleman and her marriage.
“Lordy, Sally and Ethan,” she said, “I guess we’ll have to postpone the champagne. I think Dusty here has pressing range matters to discuss.”
Noon disengaged himself from the fireplace, and stood there grinning, all hands, feet and stoop shoulders. “That don’t make no never mind, Mrs. P,’ he said. “Me and Sally have to be moving along anyhow.” He glanced over at me, a barb glinting in his muddy eyes. “We like to get to bed really early o’ nights.”
Sally giggled and Noon hee-hawed, and Ma, sensing my urgency, hustled the pair to the door.
After farewells that took a lot longer than they should have, Sally and Noon climbed into the surrey and soon its bobbing sidelights were heading down the trail in the direction of the Coleman ranch.
“What’s happened?” Ma asked, her hand on my arm. “Is it Lila?”
I nodded. “We better go inside and talk and I think Jim Meldrum and Mr. Fullerton should hear this too.”
I gave Ma my arm and led her
into the parlor and when Meldrum and Charlie arrived I told them how I’d been bushwhacked by Lafe Wingo, and Lila taken. I took out the note Wingo had left and passed it to Ma. “This says it all.”
Ma fetched her spectacles and read, her face paling with every word. I think she read the note several times before she finally laid it aside and said: “We have no choice. We must pay this man. Lila’s life is more important than a two-by-twice ranch, so there can be no argument.”
I shook my head at her. “Ma, you love this ranch. If you don’t pay off the bankers they’ll foreclose and you’ll lose everything, including the chair you’re sitting in and maybe even the clothes off your back.”
“He’s right, Miz Prather,” Meldrum said, his long, melancholy face sadder than ever. “You and Mr. Prather built the SP with your own blood and sweat and then you held it against Kiowa and Comanche and white men who were worse than any of them and tried to take it from you.” He rose to his feet and, in an uncharacteristic gesture, crossed the room and placed his hand on Ma’s shoulder. “Dusty is right. You love this place and I can’t stand by and see you throw it all away.”
“Jim,” Ma said, her voice very small, “saving a girl’s life is not throwing it away.”
Meldrum nodded. “I know that, but me and Dusty and Mr. Fullerton will just have to find another way.” He looked over at me. “Any ideas?”
I shook my head. “Haven’t studied on it, at least not yet.”
“I’ll study on it some my ownself,” Meldrum said. He looked down at Ma again. “Now don’t you go fretting none, Miz Prather. We’ll get the girl back, safe and sound. There was a time when I was pretty good with a gun, you know.”
Ma took the lanky puncher’s hand, her eyes tearstained. “Jim, you left all that behind you. You told me you were all through with gunfighting.”
“Times change,” Meldrum said. “And sometimes, for better or worse, a man has to change right along with them.”
Ma’s eyes shifted to me. “Dusty, what will you do?”
“Get Lila back, Ma,” I said. “Right now, that’s all I know.”
As to how that was going to happen, I had no idea. And judging by the tight, unhappy expression on Jim Meldrum’s face, neither did he.
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