Although there had been no reaction in the somber gaze of the man introduced as Mr. Smith when Cullen identified himself, there was a sudden tightening of the muscles in his forearms. It was a natural reflex upon having the man he waited for suddenly walk right in and present himself before him. Without conscious thought, Bob Yeager dropped his hand down to his side where his .44 normally rode. His first inclination was to pull the derringer he kept hidden in his boot and earn his two hundred dollars right then and there. He was dissuaded from doing so, however. The Remington derringer held only two shots, and if anything went wrong, he might have to race the two men and the boy to the table beside the front door for his gun belt and pistol. His heavy eyebrows lowered to a deep frown as he pretended to concentrate on the slab of ham on his plate and he considered the wisdom of killing McCloud in front of so many witnesses. Telling himself that it would be much wiser to wait and bushwhack Cullen on the trail, he forced his attention back on his supper.
After everyone had finished the meal and Marcy filled the coffee cups one final time, Cullen sat back to listen to Fred Sullivan’s plans to expand his little business venture. Everything hinged upon the success of the spur stage line; otherwise, he said, he would have to continue to depend upon farming to feed his family. “How often does the stage run?” Cullen asked, not really caring, but aware of Fred’s enthusiasm for talking about it.
“Right now,” Fred answered, “once a week—once from Butte to Missoula, and once back to Butte.”
“So there was only one stage from Missoula this week,” Cullen said. “How many passengers were on it?”
“Six. Isn’t that right, Myra?” He looked at his wife for confirmation.
“That’s right,” she said, “six, but we fed seven. There was that one man who met one of the passengers here. So there weren’t but five that went on to Butte.”
Her comment sparked an immediate interest for Cullen. “Someone got off the stage here, instead of goin’ on to Butte?” When both Sullivan and his wife nodded, Cullen asked, “Was the passenger who got off by any chance a woman?”
“Why, yes,” Myra replied, “a rather pleasant young woman. Her brother met her here with a couple of horses. They stayed to eat, and then went on the road to Helena, I think.”
I’m damn glad I stopped here for supper, he thought, for he had assumed Roberta was heading back to Butte. Then it occurred to him that he had never asked, neither here nor in Missoula, if there was more than one woman on the stage. “How many women were on the stage?” Myra replied that there were two. He had to be sure, so he asked one more question. “Do you remember the name of the woman who got off here? It might be somebody I know.”
She paused to recall. “No, I don’t remember what her name was.”
“Roberta,” Marcy supplied. “Her name was Roberta, but I don’t remember her last name.” She hesitated to watch Cullen’s reaction, then asked, “Is she a friend of yours?”
He didn’t answer right away. His mind was already thinking about the trail to Helena, estimating the time it would take to reach the town and who the brother might really be. Finally, he smiled at Marcy and replied, “No, she’s no friend of mine. I was just curious.”
His comment stirred a spark of curiosity in the sullen Mr. Smith as well. Always on the lookout for an extra payday, Yeager wondered why McCloud was asking about a woman who left the stagecoach and went to Helena instead of Butte. To Yeager, he seemed to be a little more than just curious. Jack Sykes was pretty tight-lipped about why he wanted McCloud killed. And where the hell did Jack Sykes get his hands on enough money to pay me two hundred dollars to get rid of this son of a bitch? he wondered. He downed the last swallow of coffee from his cup, thinking about Cullen’s interest in the woman and wondering if she had anything to do with Sykes. Maybe Sykes was the brother who met her here. There might be a bigger payday than two hundred here, he thought. Jack might be onto something he don’t wanna share with nobody. It was enough to ignite a genuine interest in what Sykes was up to. The decision was made to wait to see if McCloud changed his mind about going to Butte, and set out on the road to Helena instead. Yeager wasn’t particular about which trail he did the job on, but if Cullen did head for Helena, it might be a pretty strong indication that the woman had something to do with whatever gold mine Sykes had struck. And that little son of a bitch might as well cut ol’ Bob in on the deal.
“Will you be wanting breakfast in the morning, Mr. Smith?” Myra asked when Yeager pushed his chair back and prepared to take his leave.
“No, I reckon not,” Yeager answered. “I changed my mind. I reckon I’ll be headin’ on out tonight. I’d best be gettin’ along.”
“Well, remember us next time you’re traveling this way,” Myra replied, not really sure she meant it. The man seemed to have a shroud of doom around him that made her uncomfortable. She turned to face Cullen then. “How about you, Mr. McCloud? Are you leaving now, too?”
Cullen thought about it for only a second. “No, ma’am,” he replied. “I think I’ll spend the night in your barn, and get started after breakfast in the mornin’ if that’s all right with you.”
“Glad to have you stay over,” Myra answered with a smile, always happy to earn another fifty cents for breakfast and an extra fifty for a bed in the hay.
No one noticed the crooked little smile that appeared on Yeager’s unshaven face after the exchange between Myra and Cullen. He waited until Cullen pushed his chair back under the table, then walked with him to the little table beside the front door, taking the measure of the man he planned to kill tomorrow. Cullen found the man odd, his expression one of amusement as he strapped on the gun belt and adjusted the revolver to settle on his hip with the handle turned out, all the while gazing at him as if expecting some comment. With no desire to make conversation with him, Cullen strapped his belt on and walked out the door. “Be seein’ you, McCloud,” Yeager called after him.
Cullen looked back at the grinning man and replied, “Yeah, maybe so,” and headed for the barn to take care of his horse. Once inside the barn, he spied a bucket hanging on a nail driven in a post and remembered that he wanted to feed the bay some grain. He decided to help himself and add it onto his bill in the morning. He was still feeding his horse when Yeager came in from the corral, leading a blue roan that was almost all black—two white socks and a blaze on its face the only white showing. The heavyset brute grinned at Cullen as he threw his saddle on the horse, although he did not speak again. Cullen was glad to see him finally climb in the saddle and ride out of the barn. He felt a sense of distrust for the scar-faced stranger and was relieved that he would not have to share the stable with him for the night. He might have given Mr. Smith more thought, but Jimmy Sullivan walked into the barn at that moment. “Pa sent me to see if you needed any help with your horse or anything,” the boy announced.
“Nope, we’re all set,” Cullen replied, “but thanks just the same.” Then he remembered. “Tell your pa I owe him for a half pail of grain.”
Bob Yeager rode away from Fred Sullivan’s house at a leisurely lope, up from the river, and north on the road to Missoula. His ride was not very far, however, for after about a half mile, he reined the blue roan toward the river again. Then, walking the horse back toward the stage station, he continued until he found a spot to camp where he could watch the lane from the Sullivan house to the road. “We’ll just set here and wait,” he told himself. “If he rides outta there in the mornin’, and heads for Butte, then I reckon I’ll just earn me two hundred dollars. But if he takes out after that woman to Helena, then there’s somethin’ bigger goin’ on, and two and two might add up to a helluva lot more than four.” He would kill the man, as he had contracted to do, but he was determined to find out what Jack Sykes and the woman were up to.
“Mr. McCloud . . .” Cullen heard the voice outside the barn. He had just saddled the bay, so he led him out the door. From the sound of the voice, he assumed that it was Jimmy, but was surprised to
find that it was the girl, Marcy, waiting outside. “Good morning,” she said. “I just came to tell you breakfast is ready.”
“Good morning,” he returned, understanding why she had called him from outside the barn instead of walking right in. “I’m all ready to ride.” He led the bay up to the hitching rail in front of the house and she walked along beside him.
“Do you ride this valley very often,” Marcy asked, “or are you just passing through this once?”
He looked down at her and smiled. “Well, I’m just passin’ through this time, I guess.” She nodded and said nothing more as they stepped up on the porch. A pleasant-looking young lady, he thought. Now as the early rays of the sun peeked over the eastern slopes behind him to scamper playfully across her young face, he couldn’t help noticing the shy freshness of her smile. “Marcy, was it?” he asked, embarrassed that he had to.
“That’s right,” she answered.
He felt that he should like to say more, but couldn’t think of anything appropriate. He wasn’t comfortable trying to make casual conversation with young ladies. He lacked the glibness of his brother Cody—or even the bluntness of Smoke. A thought struck his mind that he was more at a loss than he had been with Roberta, and he realized how much she had dominated any conversation. He smiled to himself when he thought of the ornery cook, and guessed that Smoke would just tell Marcy that she was pretty. That sort of comment was all right for Smoke, but from Cullen, it was not in his manner to make a blunt statement like that. Hell, he thought, it’s just a girl telling me that breakfast is ready. He shook his head then, wondering why he was even bothered by it. I’m getting as bad as Cody, he thought, thinking I need to cozy up to every female I meet. He was saved from having to make further conversation when Jimmy stepped out on the porch.
“Breakfast is gettin’ cold on the table,” Jimmy said. “What’s takin’ so long?”
Myra Sullivan set a fine table. It was well worth the fifty cents she charged stagecoach passengers. Cullen was surprised when she told him that she was only going to charge him a quarter for his breakfast since he was paying to sleep in the barn and grain for his horse. “Well, I’m much obliged, ma’am,” he said, and glanced in Fred’s direction to see if there were any signs of disapproval on his part. His glance was met with a broad smile.
“That’s right,” Fred said. “Last night you were just a customer. This mornin’ you’re company.” He looked at his wife and chuckled. “That bein’ the case, we ought not charge him a quarter, Ma.” Myra laughed and promptly agreed. The Sullivans had decided they liked the tall, gentle stranger. Possibly it was because of the sharp contrast to the brooding hulk with the scarred face who had occupied a chair at their table for two meals before Cullen arrived. In fact, Fred was aware of a light and jovial mood at the breakfast table without the baleful glances from the dark figure as he hovered guardedly over his plate.
“Well, I expect I’d better get goin’,” Cullen announced, after finishing another cup of coffee. He found it difficult to bring his concentration back to the task he had undertaken. It was tempting to forget about the villainous woman he had been tracking, but then he thought about Jug, lying helpless on the travois as Cody had ridden away, and his resolve quickly returned. Roberta already had an almost insurmountable lead on him, and she was more and more likely to disappear the longer he delayed. Getting up from the table, he said, “I’ll be sayin’ good-bye, then. Thank you for the breakfast.”
“Come back to see us,” Myra said.
“I will,” Cullen replied. “I’ll be back on my way home.” Noticing the smile on Marcy’s face as she stood in the kitchen door, he had a feeling that he definitely would.
It did not take long for him to return his focus to the job he had set out to do, to find the black widow who had left a trail of bodies as she made her way out of the Bitterroot Valley. He could not help wondering how a woman could be so free of conscience that she could use men up and destroy them when she was finished with them. He was driven to find her, even though he was still not sure what he was going to do if he found her. Kill her, as she would do in the reverse situation? Even under the circumstances, it was difficult for him to think of shooting a woman. She had stolen a considerable fortune that rightfully belonged to Gabe Morris’ family, but how could he recover gold dust that had no doubt been converted to cash and dispersed who knew where? It was a lot to think about, and enough to trouble his mind. If killing a woman was out of the question, he was at least determined to make sure she spent the rest of her life behind bars.
There were other thoughts to command his attention as well as he started on the road to Helena. He berated himself for his foolish infatuation for the mysteriously charming woman who had shown up at his father’s ranch searching for her beloved uncle. “Damn, what a fool I was,” he complained to his horse. Looking back at that regrettable time, he was drawn to compare Roberta with the young and shy Marcy Sullivan. This was the thought in his mind when he was suddenly slammed in the back by a .44 rifle slug that knocked him out of the saddle. Landing hard on the ground, stunned and confused, the wind knocked out of his lungs, he was not sure what had happened, having not heard the shot that caught him between the shoulder blades. After a few moments, while he struggled to get to his hands and knees, he tried to reach for his Colt revolver. But he didn’t seem to be able to control the movement of his hands and arms, and he felt as if there was a heavy weight buried deep in his chest. He heard horse’s hooves approaching. The sound seemed unusually loud, and he knew he must pull his pistol, but he seemed unable to do it. Halfway up on his hands and knees, he crumpled helplessly flat on the ground again.
Silently complimenting himself on the rifle shot, Bob Yeager reined his horse to a stop before the wounded man. “That was a pretty damn good shot,” he boasted as he stepped down from the saddle. “Most of a hundred yards, I expect, and I hit you square between the shoulder blades. You look pretty much a goner to me,” he commented unemotionally, “but it wouldn’t hurt to make sure.” He drew his revolver and pumped two shots into the body for good measure. “That was an easy two hundred dollars,” he said as he dismounted. Rolling Cullen over, he unbuckled his gun belt and pulled it from him. Checking his pockets for cash then, he came up with a few more dollars. Then his attention was drawn to Cullen’s bay gelding, and he moved to secure the horse before it took a notion to depart. “That’s a fine-lookin’ horse,” he said, admiring the light bay, all the while becoming more and more pleased with his profits from this one job. Ready to ride, he climbed aboard his horse, giving the bleeding body one last glance. “Well, it was a pleasure meetin’ you, Mr. McCloud. Say hello to the devil for me. Tell him Bob Yeager sent you.” Then with a gruff laugh, he kicked his heels into the blue roan’s sides and was off to claim the rest of his payment from Jack Sykes, and maybe find out a little more about the mystery woman.
Chapter 8
Cody McCloud suddenly sat up, startled awake by something—he could not explain what. He had been sound asleep in the chair beside his brother’s bed. He looked at once toward the patient, wondering if Jug had made some outcry, but Jug was lying quietly, although his eyes were open. Confused by the feeling that something was wrong, Cody wondered if it was caused by a dream. If so, he couldn’t remember it. Then the thought of Cullen came to his mind, and he wondered if his brother was all right. His father walked in the room then.
“I see you woke up,” Donovan McCloud said softly. “I brought you some coffee. Smoke made some breakfast, and he’s already grumblin’ about it gettin’ cold.”
“Thanks,” Cody said, reaching for the cup. “I didn’t even know you’d left the room. I went to sleep.”
“Yeah, I figured you could use some coffee after last night,” Donovan said. It had been a rough night for the father and son keeping a vigil beside Jug’s bed. All indications had pointed toward Dr. Elrod’s prediction being accurate—that Donovan’s middle son wouldn’t make it, and it seemed to be coming to
a climax that night. Feverish and apparently out of his mind for much of the night, Jug had finally lapsed into sleep in the wee hours of the morning. And now his father stood over his bed gazing sadly at the still figure lying there, his eyes open, but apparently seeing nothing. A moment later, Donovan was startled when the eyes shifted to look toward him.
“I could use a little of that coffee myself.”
Coffee splashed on the floor and the bed as Cody and Donovan both jumped uncontrollably when the words came from the patient. “I didn’t mean I wanted to wear it,” Jug said. His voice was weak, but lucid for the first time since he had taken a turn for the worse two days before.
“Here, take this!” Cody exclaimed, offering his cup.
“Help me sit up,” Jug replied. His father and brother immediately set their cups down and hurried to lift him to a sitting position in the bed. “Take it easy,” Jug complained. “I still got a damn hole in me.”
After he was situated comfortably, and taking a few tentative sips from the coffee cup, Cody gazed down at him, still marveling at the transformation from a few hours before. “Hell, I thought you were dead,” he commented. “Doc Elrod said you were gonna die.”
“Well, I reckon he didn’t ask me about it,” Jug said. “Might be Smoke’s a better doctor than Elrod, anyway.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Smoke agreed as he came through the door at that moment. He had heard exclamations coming from the room and had come to investigate the cause. He walked over to stand close to the bed and took a hard look at the man returning from the dead. Satisfied that Jug had an unmistakable spark of life in his eyes, he snorted and asked, “You ain’t havin’ one of them clear spells just before you die, are you?”
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