by Unknown
All of the married women provided the covered dish suppers; the unmarried young women brought brightly decorated box lunches that would be auctioned later in the evening.
People also brought their own chairs, but no one expected to use them much because the music would be toe-tapping and loud. After the dance started, two fiddles, a guitar, a banjo, a harmonica, and an accordion would play one lively tune after another. Everybody knew that the musicians' repertoire was as limited as their skill but they would make up for both with their lively playing and enthusiasm.
Blair and Warren arrived early in order to wander about the picnic grounds and visit before the dance started. Warren immediately sought out other ranchers to discuss the impending land opening—lately, the major topic of most conversations—the trouble with rustlers, the price of cattle, crossbreeding, corrals, and a few complaints about hired guns moving in as though they smelled an all-out range war.
Blair recognized several girls she had attended the local school with, visited with them for a while, learned who had gotten married and started their families, and in some instances who had moved away. But she soon began to feel very uncomfortable. While they were polite and courteous, it seemed as though they talked around her, answering questions when she asked them, but never quite including her in the conversation.
At first, Blair thought they were deliberately being rude, but after a few moments’ consideration, she decided that assumption was unfair. Even though she had been reasonably close to some of the girls, they were never "best of friends." When she left, their lives had continued without drastic change, and perhaps they were uncomfortable, too. Perhaps they felt they no longer shared anything in common. If so, Blair knew only time would remedy that.
Not wanting to intrude any further, she wandered over to the tables and began helping the older women; but they had everything well under control and she soon felt as though she was doing nothing but getting in their way.
"Blair, you doing all right?" Warren wanted to know as he came up behind her. "I saw you from over there and your face looked about foot-long. Did somebody say something out of the way to you?"
"Oh, no, everybody has been very polite," she quickly assured him. "To be truthful though, I suppose I am feeling a little lost. There is no one here yet that I knew real well, so I’ve just been wandering about listening to what they all have to say. Now go on back to your gossiping ..."
"Gossiping? Men don't gossip!"
Blair laughed at his righteous expression. "I suppose that notion depends on one's point of view. When women talk, they are gossiping. When men get together, they have discussions. I was raised in a family of men and I know all about your so-called friendly discussions. At any rate, Adam should be here before too long, so go on back to your old cronies. I am just fine and I am enjoying myself. Now, go on!" She gave him a gentle nudge.
Warren was so staunch and set in his ways, and had such a strong opinion of how women should stay in their proper place, she enjoyed goading him. He had not realized yet that the world was changing, and that women were strong individuals capable of having independent thoughts. He had always thought of women being gossips and never considered the fact that men did the very same thing. But the difference was: they were men, they could get by with it.
Strolling casually about, Blair kept overhearing the same conversations: trouble, rustlers, shootings, robberies. Why couldn’t they leave that at home? This was a social event, not some debating circle. The problems would still be there tomorrow, so why beat them into the ground tonight when everybody was supposed to be in a festive mood?
Suddenly, a man's voice boomed loudly, "Here comes Tom Bastrop! I’ll bet he will know what to do about all of this rustling that's been going on."
A small stirring seemed to indicate that this opinion was not shared by all of the men present.
Tom Bastrop arrived in a new surrey, polished and elegant, surrounded by eight, well-outfitted riders, all carrying rifles.
"Yeah," someone muttered, "I see what he plans to do, but the small ranchers don't have the money to buy hired guns like he does. Those men have been throwing their weight around, too."
Tom stepped down and helped an elderly woman to the ground, a woman Blair recognized to be his aunt, although she did not personally know her.
Blair watched as the eight men dismounted and tied their horses. Suddenly, sheer black fright swept through her. The idea of Adam being a deputy marshal had been extremely romantic, but after seeing such dangerous-looking, well-armed men —even though they posed no threat to him— his profession no longer seemed so glamorous or exciting. For the first time she actually realized every morning when he pinned on his badge or strapped on his guns, there was a possibility he faced death. She began to shake as fearful images built in her mind. If he did fall in love with her and they married, how could she live with the daily knowledge that each time he went to work, he might never return? Could she live with that sort of terror?
"I wish I were the man you were thinking about," Tom Bastrop said, rocking back on his heels and smiling at her.
Flustered, Blair timidly returned his smile, and stammered, "I-I'm Sorry. My mind was miles and miles away. D-did you say something?"
He threw back his head and laughed. "Now, Blair, that's an ingenious way of making me repeat my compliment. I said, you look very lovely tonight. I doubt if I have ever seen a woman's eyes sparkle so brightly."
Blushing, she lowered her lashes and graciously thanked him.
Tom glanced about. "Where is the deputy? I thought he was supposed to bring you to this shindig tonight?"
"He was —is," she quickly corrected herself, "but he has been detained. I expect him momentarily, though." The smoothness of her answer belied the tension she felt returning, but it was there, traveling along her nerves.
"You mean he didn't personally escort you into town?"
"No, he did not." Blair heard the defensive note in her voice and resented it. But she did not like his line of questions. It was as though he was attempting to make sly insinuations without actually appearing to sound rude or inquisitive. "It was by my request, though. He had important business to attend to, and since Warren was coming anyway, I told Adam I would just ride with my brother and save him the long trip out to the ranch. I'm sure you are aware that this town keeps one lawman extremely busy. Although, I am certain it will be much better once the deputies arrive."
"Oh? Has he sent for reinforcements?"
"Yes, but he did not quite phrase it that way." She wished desperately for someone to rescue her. It wasn't that she disliked Tom —in fact, he seemed to be a very nice man, even if he did act a little too forward, a little too presumptuous at times. However, she recognized the reality that her opinions were probably biased; she was so in love with Adam, all other men paled in comparison.
Suddenly uncomfortable in his presence, Blair searched for an excuse to slip away. Thinking quickly, she allowed a polite smile to tug at her lips. "If you will please excuse me, I believe I see Sally Majors standing over there. She is an old friend whom I haven't seen in four years."
"Wait, Blair, before you leave . . ." He glanced toward the tables. "I have already counted twelve box suppers up there. I don't suppose I could talk you into giving me a clue as to which one is yours?"
"Now, Tom," she scolded teasingly, "you know that would be cheating. Keeping the woman's identity a secret is the reason why only married men are allowed to carry the boxes to the tables. Now, if you will excuse me . . ."
"Do you remember your promise to save a dance for me?" he called after her.
She glanced back over her shoulder. "Of course I remember. I shall see you later."
Watching Blair make her way through the crowd, Tom's face darkened, his hands clenched into tight fists, and a muscle worked furiously in his cheek. He could not remember wanting something so badly as he wanted Blair Townsend. If on
ly he could keep his patience in check, he would figure out a way to get her . . . one way or the other.
Adam, wearing a tailored black broadcloth suit, a gray silk vest, new boots, a white shirt, and a black string tie, strode eagerly toward the stockade. He had been asked to stop and talk to the dance committee and was arriving much later than he originally planned.
He wanted to come early enough to watch the people as they arrived, hopefully to spot any potential troublemakers beforehand so he would know whom to keep an eye on throughout the evening.
From past experiences, he knew at these sort of gatherings there were always a few men who slipped outside and passed the bottle one time too many and often became rowdy or too eager to settle any differences with their fists. Usually, any ruckus raised was nothing serious, but with so much trouble in the area, tempers and nerves were already strained to the breaking point. The posters that had been tacked up over town announcing the dance clearly stated the social was for local citizens; but without any deputies to help him, if some of the homesteaders or the town rowdies decided to attend, the last thing he needed on his hands was a confrontation between the homesteaders and ranchers.
His steps slowed when he reached the rope corral. A quick count told him there were twenty wagons, mostly buckboards, waiting. As for riding stock, he estimated sixty to seventy horses under saddle. It was quite a sizable gathering, even for such a highly populated area.
Striding quickly toward the gaily lit opening, Adam was suddenly stopped by five men brandishing rifles.
"Go on, Harley, set I’m straight!" a voice from the back of the pack called.
"Where in the hell do you think you are going in such an all-fired hurry?" the man standing at the point asked in a surly tone.
Adam stared at him coldly for a moment, then started to step aside to pass.
"I asked you where you were going," Harley swapped a plug of tobacco from one bulging side of his jaw to the other and spat a stream of tobacco juice, which landed close to Adam’s boot before he leveled the rifle at his stomach.
With a significant lifting of his brows, Adam slowly looked down at the rifle barrel, then to his boots, before replying, "To the dance. Now if you will step aside . . ."
Harley gestured with his rifle toward Adam's guns. "Not wearing those, you're not."
"By whose orders?" he asked coldly. He had just come from a meeting where they discussed not allowing guns in at the dance. Under the circumstances, he felt if the men checked their pistols when they arrived and picked them up when they left, it could prevent trouble, but the committee had voted him down.
"I don't see that's any of your business. The boss gave the order and we're enforcing it, that's all you need to know." Harley stepped closer, clearly trying to intimidate Adam. "Fact is, I've taken a powerful dislike to you —I think you're nothing but a tinhorn gambler—so wearing guns or not, you can just turn your butt around and go back where you came from."
"I believe you are mistaken, it is my business," Adam said slowly, his gray eyes suddenly cold, hard, and unafraid. "But even if it wasn't, there is a lady waiting for me and I am late. Now if you will just step aside . . ."
The man smirked arrogantly. "You are going to be a hellava lot later if you don't turn around and git! The only way you'll attend the dance is to come through me and the boys here, and I don't think you are man enough to do it."
Adam was tired of arguing with him. He shrugged and moved as though to turn. Instead, he knocked the rifle aside, seized the man, spun him around, and grabbed him in a bear hug. He forced the rifle barrel up until it dug into the bottom of the man's chin. "You men drop your rifles! My trigger finger is stretched about as far as it can go. One wrong move out of any of you and I'll blow his head off."
Hearing steps behind him, Adam raised his voice, "Whoever is trying to slip up behind me, I would advise you to think twice. Even if you get me, he'll still be a dead man. I’m not telling you men again to drop your rifles!"
Reluctantly, the men tossed their rifles on the ground, even the man behind him.
"Now, I ask again—real polite like—who gave the order for you men to stop anyone wearing a gun?"
"Our boss did," someone muttered.
"Does he have a name?"
"Yeah, Tom Bastrop. And I'll tell you right now, he won't like this at all."
"I don't like it either. Go get him . . . and hurry," Adam said, his voice hard and ruthless.
It was only a couple of minutes before Tom arrived, out of breath and flanked by Logan Banner and Ross Reynolds, the hired guns Adam had seen him with earlier in the week.
" 'Evening, Tom," Adam said, simultaneously releasing his hold on the man, and kicking him in the seat of his pants, which sent him sprawling to the ground. It wasn't so much what Harley had done that angered Adam, he was merely following his boss's orders; it was the fact that he had taken so much pleasure in it.
Tom stared at Adam for a moment, then he turned slightly, putting his hands on his hips. "You goddamn fools! This man is a United States Deputy Marshal!" he railed.
Still holding the rifle, Adam splayed his legs and pushed back his broad-brimmed hat. "I'd like to talk to you for a minute . . . alone."
Tom motioned with his head and the five men moved toward the light. He challenged Adam by saying, "Ross and Logan stay with me. Anything you have to say, Cahill, you can say it in front of them."
"Suit yourself. I want to know who gave you the authority to station those men out here, turning back anyone who came wearing guns?" Adam asked curtly.
Tom's back became ramrod straight, he bristled with anger. He was not accustomed to anyone questioning anything he did. "No one gave me the authority. I took it on myself as a way to prevent trouble."
"Positioning six men ..."
"Six? I see only five." Tom gestured toward the men and grinned slyly.
"I included the man who tried to slip up behind me," Adam stated coldly, noting how quickly that statement made Tom’s grin disappear. "It so happens, I favored the idea of not wearing guns to the dance, but the committee in charge voted against it. It wouldn't have bothered me, though, if you and the other ranchers had selected one man each and stationed them out here. But the men you selected reminded me of a pack of wild dogs; they would have caused more problems than they would have prevented."
Adam's gray eyes narrowed thoughtfully. It made him wonder if Bastrop did not do it deliberately.
He continued, "I figure I have enough trouble on my hands without people like you adding to it. If I need help, I’ll ask for it, but until I do, stay out of my business, and let me do my job the way I see fit."
Tom muttered through clenched teeth, "I'm warning you now, Cahill, you are making a big mistake."
"Really? What makes you think so?" Usually he did not waste his breath arguing, he'd always thought it was pointless. But there was something about this man that rubbed him the wrong way.
Tom's face tightened as he glowered at Adam. "I'm not the kind of man you want for an enemy."
Suddenly Adam was tired of this quarrel, it could last all night if he let it. Besides, each could crow about being the randiest rooster in the barnyard, but until either of them decided to prove it, it was meaningless.
"Look Bastrop, I don't give a damn if you are my enemy or not. I'm issuing a warning now though, don't cross me . . . that goes for you or your hired guns." His eyes flicked to Logan and Ross. "I don't scare easily . . . and I’m not scared now. This entire area is sitting on a powder keg, and I was hired to see that some damn fool doesn't set a match to it. I can't give you credit for having good sense, but you are smart enough to know as well as I do that the homesteaders are not responsible for what's going on around here. It's coming from the inner ranks, and probably someone I'd least expect."
"And you think it's me."
"To be honest, I haven't quite decided if you are a suspect or not
. You're trying awfully hard to look like one, but then again, you may be stupid enough to think bringing in hired guns is the solution. Regardless of who's responsible, I'll show no partiality — even if the man I have nothing but contempt for is innocent. Just remember, stay the hell out of my way and I'll do the job I was hired to do!" With that, he pushed his way past Tom and sauntered toward the dance.
Anger made Tom tight-lipped. "I want you to kill that son of a bitch now!" he whirled and said to Logan.
Logan shook his head. "Me and Ross don't do any back shooting . . . especially if it's a lawman involved. Either one of us will call him out, but we'll have witnesses and it will be a fair fight."
"Never mind, it was anger that issued that order, not me. If he was killed, there would be ten more to take his place." Tom stroked his chin thoughtfully, then began to laugh. "I'm beginning to get an idea how I can solve two problems at one time. And it is probably the best damn plan I've ever come up with." He swore bitterly into the darkness, "Adam Cahill, you will live to regret this night!"
Chapter 20
The musicians were fine-tuning their instruments when Adam entered the dance arena. He hung his hat on a rack someone had provided, then slowly looked around. Almost immediately, he spotted Blair standing near the front of the bandstand, completely surrounded by men who were laughing and engaged in friendly jostling in an obvious attempt to make an impression and to catch her eye.
Jealousy flared in him instantly. There had never been any doubt in his mind that he cared deeply for Blair, but at that moment he realized exactly how much. That realization was alarming because he knew he had met her at a very crucial time in her life and even after what happened between them the previous night, it was quite possible there was nothing but misery ahead for him.