“Got to go,” he said briskly. “I’m a farmer now. There’s stock to feed out on the range, woman! There’s fields to plow and harnesses to mend. But I’ll be back for lunch.”
So saying, he picked up his hat and ambled out the door, leaving Rachel to stare after him, her eyes dancing with amusement.
The next day, Tyree was sitting on the front porch of the Lazy H, mending a bridle for the gray, when Clint Wesley rode into the yard.
Rising, Tyree tossed the bridle aside and moved to stand near the steps as the marshal swung out of the saddle.
“You’re a long way from town,” Tyree remarked.
“I’ve come to take you in,” Wesley said, the words coming hard and fast, before his courage deserted him. “I have a warrant here, charging you with the murder of Job Walsh.”
Tyree looked faintly amused. “That so?”
“Yes, that’s so!”
“Seems I told you once I wasn’t going back to jail.”
“So you said.”
“I haven’t changed my mind.”
“Be that as it may, I’m taking you in. Today.”
“Suit yourself, kid,” Tyree growled, no longer amused. “I’d just as soon kill you as look at you, so make your play or get the hell out of here.”
For a moment, it looked like Wesley would back down; but then, with a suddenness that surprised both men, he reached for his gun.
Tyree reacted instinctively. His left-handed draw was smooth as silk and his Colt was out of the holster, the hammer cocked, the muzzle directed at Wesley’s chest, before the marshal’s gun cleared leather.
Wesley’s face went chalk white as he stared death in the face. The barrel of Tyree’s Frontier Colt looked as big as a canyon, and Tyree’s eyes, staring down at him, were as cold as the grave.
And then Rachel’s voice cut across the heavy stillness. “Tyree! Don’t!”
It was a near thing. Tyree’s finger remained curled around the trigger, but the hammer didn’t fall, and Wesley held his breath waiting, as Rachel ran out of the house and laid her hand on Tyree’s arm.
“Please don’t kill him,” Rachel pleaded softly, and when Tyree failed to respond, she stepped purposefully into the line of fire.
Cursing himself for a fool, Tyree lowered his gun.
It was a chance Clint Wesley could not pass up. Taking a quick step to the right, he jerked his gun from the holster and lined it squarely on Tyree’s chest as Rachel stepped out of the way.
“Drop it!” Clint commanded. There was a marked quiver in his voice, but his gun hand was steady as a rock.
“Clint, what are you doing?” Rachel demanded, shocked by the sudden turn of events.
“Stay out of this, Rachel,” Wesley warned curtly. “He’s a wanted man, and I’m taking him in.”
Tyree stared at Wesley, weighing his chances of raising and firing his gun before the marshal could pull the trigger. The odds were slim, but there was always a chance because Wesley was green as grass and not likely to expect such a desperate move. But even as Tyree considered it, he rejected the idea. He could not gun Wesley down in front of Rachel, could not abide seeing the love in her eyes turn to disgust as he killed a man she was fond of.
Nevertheless, he did not release his hold on the Colt, and his delay made Wesley nervous. Unconsciously, Clint tightened his finger on the trigger. He was as surprised as everyone else when his gun went off. The bullet went high, plowing a shallow furrow along the outside of Tyree’s left arm.
Muttering an angry oath, Tyree dropped his gun as the marshal’s bullet raked his flesh.
For a moment, Wesley stared blankly at the blood dripping from Tyree’s arm. And then he grinned hugely. By damn, he had done it! Logan Tyree was his prisoner.
Looking extraordinarily pleased with himself, Wesley fished a set of handcuffs out of his back pocket. “Get down here, Tyree,” he ordered brusquely.
But the tall gunman refused to obey.
“Clint Wesley, I don’t know what you think you’re doing,” Rachel scolded, “but I’ll never forgive you for this. Never as long as I live!”
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Rachel,” Clint said stolidly. “I’m just doing my job. Get down here, Tyree!”
“You want me, come up and get me,” Tyree challenged, and some of the smugness went out of Wesley’s expression.
Red-faced and wary, the marshal climbed the porch stairs and locked the handcuffs in place, then he picked up Tyree’s gun and shoved it in the waistband of his trousers. He heaved a sigh as he realized it was over. Tyree was unarmed, his hands cuffed behind his back.
Moments later, the two men were riding toward Yellow Creek. Rachel stared after them, utterly shocked by what had happened. Slowly, she began to smile. Who would have thought that Clint would actually summon the nerve to arrest Tyree? “Well, Mr. Wesley,” she mused, “you have him now, but you won’t have him for long.”
The Yellow Creek Jail was a red brick building sandwiched between Wong’s Chinese Laundry and the newspaper office. It was a long, low building, with two narrow windows facing the street, and a stout oak door.
Inside, Wesley motioned Tyree into the cellblock, opened the door to the first cell. With a grimace, Tyree stepped into the cell, shuddered imperceptibly as the iron-barred door closed behind him.
Clint Wesley turned the key, removed Tyree’s handcuffs, then heaved a sigh of relief. The job was done and, by damn, he had done it! He was whistling a cheerful tune as he stepped out of the cellblock and closed the door that separated the Marshal’s Office from the jail.
Tyree stared out the tiny barred window set high in the rear wall of his cell while memories of the Yuma pen flitted across his mind, the high gray wall, the drab cell, the mean-spirited guards, the twang of the whip striking cowering, cringing flesh. The long days and longer nights. The unpalatable food, the tepid water green with slime.
He began to pace the tiny cell, unconsciously padding back and forth like a tiger in a cage. Damn Annabelle Walsh! He could see her fine hand in all this. And damn his own stupidity. He should have known she would make good on her threat. Obviously, she had given that damn confession he had signed to the marshal. No doubt she would be the first one at the hanging, the last one to leave. He could see her now, standing right in the front row so she could watch him kick!
Swearing softly, he came to an abrupt halt. Pacing endlessly back and forth would get him nowhere, and he stretched out on the narrow cot that filled most of the cell, only to rise moments later to pace again.
A doctor came to dress his wound. It would heal nicely in a few weeks, the sawbones said. Wesley smiled, and Tyree scowled. If Wesley had his way, Tyree would not have a few weeks.
Tyree was pacing his cell again sometime later when the cellblock door swung open, and Clint Wesley stumbled into view. The marshal’s face was drained of color; his hands, held high above his head, trembled visibly. Behind Clint, armed with sawed-off shotguns, stood Jorges and Nacho Arango, two of Annabelle’s most ruthless killers.
Jorges shoved Wesley into an empty cell, jabbed his shotgun into the marshal’s chest while he looked askance at his brother.
Wesley held his breath and closed his eyes as he waited for Nacho to give the word that would scatter him all over the jailhouse wall.
But Nacho shook his head, and Jorges had to content himself with knocking the marshal unconscious before backing out of the cell and locking the door.
Tyree stood in the middle of his cell, also waiting, feeling his stomach knot as Jorges unlocked the cell door. Nacho stepped inside, his cocked shotgun buried in Tyree’s gut, while Jorges handcuffed Tyree’s hands behind his back, then shoved Tyree out of the cell.
The gray stud was waiting outside, along with a dun gelding and a black Morgan mare. Jorges hustled Tyree into the saddle, took the gray’s reins, and then they were riding out of Yellow Creek toward Coyote Butte at a brisk trot.
Sometime later, Jorges and Nacho slowed the horses to a wa
lk. The streets of Yellow Creek had been deserted when they left the jail. Likely, no one had yet discovered that the marshal was unconscious, his prisoner gone.
Tyree glanced at his captors. The Arango brothers were short, stocky men. He recalled seeing them at the Slash W. Neither could speak because they had run afoul of a couple of Apache warriors who had cut out their tongues and left them in the desert to die. Rumor had it that Job Walsh had saved their lives, and they’d been riding for the brand ever since.
It was full dark when they reached Coyote Butte. Jorges dismounted and pulled Tyree from the saddle while Nacho drove an iron spike deep into the hard ground, and then lashed Tyree’s ankles together. That done, Nacho pulled a length of rawhide from his pocket, pushed Tyree to the ground, and tied his ankles and wrists together behind his back. Lastly, Nacho dropped a loop over Tyree’s head, jerked it snug around his neck, then secured the loose end to the iron spike.
That done, Jorges and Nacho prepared a quick meal of beans and hard biscuits, then rolled into their blankets and were quickly asleep.
Wide awake and trussed up like a Christmas turkey, Tyree stared up at the stars, wondering what the hell Annabelle was up to. Apparently, she had decided not to settle for anything as quick as a hanging, unless she meant to tie the knot herself. He glanced at the lone cottonwood some twenty feet away, swore softly as the rope around his neck suddenly seemed to grow tight. Hanging was a bad way to die. The Apache feared it as nothing else, believing that a man’s soul left his body with the last breath. When a man was hung, his soul was forever trapped within his corpse.
Tyree shifted uncomfortably. It was not a pleasant way to spend the night, lying on his side in the dirt with his arms and legs drawn together behind his back and a rope around his neck. There was no way to get comfortable and before long, his muscles began to knot up on him.
The moon was on the wane when he finally fell asleep courting thoughts of vengeance.
Rachel was still furious with Clint Wesley when she rode into town late that night. But mingled with her anger was a grudging admiration for his nerve. Who would have thought that Clint would actually try to arrest Tyree? The fool! She could not help wondering if it had occurred to him yet that but for her timely interference, he would be laid out in Buckman’s Funeral Parlor right now. Instead, thanks to her intervention, Clint was alive and well and Tyree was in jail, wounded and facing the prospect of a speedy trail and a hanging that was likely long overdue.
Patting her skirt pocket, Rachel felt a measure of comfort as her hand touched the derringer nestled inside. She had gotten Tyree into jail, and now she meant to get him out. Clint would be madder than hell when she insisted, at gun point, that he release Tyree. And her father would be appalled when he discovered she had broken a man out of jail. But it could not be helped. She could not stand quietly by and let Tyree hang.
Yellow Creek was asleep under a pale yellow moon when Rachel turned the buggy down the main street. Reining the horse to a halt in front of the jailhouse, she drew a deep breath as she stepped carefully from the buggy. The gun was cold in her hand as she climbed die steps to the Marshal’s Office and she stifled a nervous giggle as she opened the door, thinking how surprised Clint would be to see her wielding a gun and demanding Tyree’s immediate release.
Closing the door softly behind her, Rachel hoped, fervently, that Clint would accede to her demands. If he refused, all would be lost, because there was no way on God’s earth she could shoot Clint.
The Marshal’s Office was empty, quiet as death. A lamp, turned low, sent long shadows dancing on the walls as she glanced around the room. Clint’s coat was hanging from a nail in the wall, his hat was on the top of his desk. Knowing he usually slept on a cot in one of the empty cells when he had a prisoner, Rachel tiptoed into the cellblock, thinking that, if she were lucky, Clint would be sound asleep and she could free Tyree with no one being the wiser.
But the keys to the cells were missing from the hook inside the cellblock door, and all the cells were empty.
She was puzzling over the whereabouts of the marshal and the gunman when a hoarse groan broke the eerie stillness. Rachel’s first instinct was to run, but a second groan, louder than the first, sent her to investigate and she found Clint sprawled on the floor of the last cell, his hands pressed against the back of his head.
“Good heavens!” Rachel gasped, kneeling outside the cell. “What happened? Did Tyree…?”
“No. Two of Annabelle’s thugs buffaloed me. I guess they took Tyree.”
Wesley rose unsteadily to his feet. “Extra key,” he rasped. “Bottom desk drawer.”
Rachel flew on winged feet into the office, muttering under her breath about the awful clutter in the bottom drawer as she rummaged around for the key to the cell. Apparently Clint never threw anything away, and she was forced to paw through papers, a set of handcuffs, a pair of fur-lined gloves, several socks that did not match, and an old wanted poster with Tyree’s picture on it, before she found the extra keys.
Hurrying back to the cellblock, she unlocked the door and stepped into the cell. “Are you all right?” she queried anxiously, not liking the wan expression on his face, or the amount of blood matted in his hair. “Can you walk?”
“Of course I can walk,” Clint retorted irritably, but his steps were none too steady as he made his way down the narrow corridor to the office. With a sigh, he eased down into the big leather chair behind the desk, sat back, very carefully, and closed his eyes.
Rachel whisked around the office, heating water in a pan on the pot-bellied stove, tidying up the top of the desk while she waited for the water to get hot, sweeping the floor because she was too agitated to sit still. When the water was warm, she took a handkerchief from her skirt pocket and dipped it in the pan, then began to sponge the blood from the gash in Clint’s head. He winced as the warm water dribbled into the cut above his left ear, cussed aloud when she washed the wound with whiskey she found in one of the other desk drawers.
“Don’t waste it all on my head,” Wesley admonished, reaching for the bottle. “It’ll do a lot more good on the inside.”
Rachel frowned as he took a long drink from the bottle. She did not hold with strong drink, but she had to admit his color quickly improved after a swallow or two.
“What are you doing in town this late?” Clint asked, corking the bottle. “Nice young ladies don’t generally come calling in the middle of the night. Especially at the jail.”
“I came to break Tyree out,” Rachel admitted sheepishly.
Clint Wesley could not have been more surprised if she had suddenly stripped naked and thrown herself across his lap. “Break him out of jail!” Wesley exclaimed. “How’d you intend to do that?”
“With this,” Rachel said, taking the derringer from her skirt pocket.
Clint stared at her, speechless. She was the most wonderful, unpredictable woman he had ever known, and he loved her more than words could say. Words, he mused bitterly. If only he had told her how he felt sooner, when it mattered, perhaps she would not now be engaged to a no-good drifter like Logan Tyree.
“I couldn’t let Tyree kill you,” Rachel explained. “And I couldn’t let you hang him, so…” She shrugged. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“You’re the beatenest woman I’ve ever known,” Clint muttered. “How about helping me over to my place and fixing me something to eat? I’m starved.”
“Your place? I thought you stayed here?”
“Not any more. I bought the old Miller place.”
“Oh, I’ve always loved that old house. It’s so romantic, with all those turrets and stained glass windows. And that wonderful balcony that overlooks the town.”
“Yeah, I knew you liked it,” Clint said. He had bought the house a few days before Rachel had announced her engagement to Tyree. “I bought it because I hoped that you, that is, that we…” Clint coughed and looked away, a flush spreading over his cheeks.
“Dammit, R
achel, I bought the place for you. For us.”
“But I’m engaged to Tyree.”
“I know,” Clint said gruffly. “But, dammit, Rachel, honey, Tyree’s a wanted man in practically every part of the country. What kind of life can you have with a drifter like that? He’s no good for you, Rachel. He never will be. Sooner or later, somebody’s gonna hold onto him long enough to give him the hanging he deserves, and then where will you be? I love you,” he declared passionately. “I know I should have said something sooner, but I thought you knew. Everybody else does. I’d make you a good husband, Rachel, or die trying.”
He finished abruptly, his eyes begging her to accept his proposal, to admit he was right about Tyree.
Momentarily taken aback, Rachel could only stand there, her eyes wide with surprise at the unexpected force of Clint’s words, and the fervent love shining in his mild blue eyes.
“But, Clint,” she stammered after a long moment. “I told you before. I don’t love you. Not the way you deserve. I’m in love with Tyree.”
“Tyree!” The name spewed from Wesley’s mouth as if it were poison. “Dammit, Rachel, the man’s not fit to wipe the dust from your shoes. He’s a drifter, a hired killer! Hell, he’d probably gun you down if the price was right.”
“Once, maybe, but not anymore. He’s changed.”
“Sure,” Clint said skeptically.
“It’s true! He wants to settle down, have a family…”
“For how long?” Clint interrupted. “He’s a loner, a man with itchy feet. He’ll never settle down in one place.”
“Clint, please.”
“Rachel.” His love for her vibrated in his voice. For once, he threw propriety to the wind, and took her boldly in his arms. His kiss was filled with longing and desire and yet, for all that, it was a chaste kiss, lacking the fire and promise that made Tyree’s kisses so tantalizingly seductive.
With a sigh, Clint dropped his arms to his sides and took a step backward. There was a sadly haunted expression in his eyes, a note of despair in his voice when he spoke.
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