A Fire in the Blood

by Shirl Henke

  Pike was surprisingly strong for a small man and thrashed free, attempting to draw his pistol and fire it as Jess grabbed his wrist and pointed the weapon away. They rolled over, fighting for control of the gun while Lissa crouched on the ground near the horses, frantically attempting to untie her hands by tugging at the ropes with her teeth.

  Jess rolled atop Pike and slammed his right fist into the outlaw's face. Pike's head rolled to the side and his body went suddenly limp. Jess leaned back, straddling the unconscious man, and carefully massaged his knuckles. Ever so gingerly, he flexed his fist. In spite of the pain, there were no broken bones. Then he looked over to where Lissa sat working on the ropes that bound her hands.

  She watched him turn his steely gaze on her as he approached. Slipping a knife from his belt, he slashed the rope from her wrists, then yanked her to her feet by pulling none too gently on her arm. Caught off balance, she stumbled, clutching him to keep from falling.

  "Oh, Jess, I can't—"

  "Are you a complete idiot, lady?" He grabbed her wrists and held her angrily away from him, cursing all the while.

  "You're hurting me," she gasped as her abraded wrists burned from his rough grip. He released her with an oath and turned to the outlaw at his feet, tying him up as she watched. "You saved my life, Jess."

  "It wasn't intentional," he replied savagely.

  "Why are you acting this way?"

  He looked up at her, fury blazing in his face. "You spoiled, brainless little bitch! What the hell were you doing—going out for a ride to view the scenery, all alone so a pair of hard cases like this could carry you off and rape you?"

  She stiffened. "You can't call me vile names like that!"

  "I just did and they fit you custom-made." He stood up, glaring at her, fighting the urge to shake her. "I'd paddle you good if I weren't afraid of busting up my gun hand even worse than I already have."

  "Germaine was right. You're nothing but a half- breed killer—a savage!"

  The instant she flung the words at him she wanted to call them back. He stood very still, with eyes turned to molten silver. His face could have been carved from granite as he said, "There's your horse. Mount up." He turned to the outlaw he had bound and began to hoist him up.

  "Jess, I'm—"

  "Just ride, Lissa," he said raggedly. He tossed Pike over the saddle of his horse and tied him securely to it, then mounted Blaze and kicked the stallion into a canter, pulling Pike's horse behind him.

  Chastened, Lissa mounted Little Bit and followed. They rode to the roundup camp in silence.

  * * * *

  Jess turned the mean little rustler over to Moss Symington after questioning him at length about any involvement with the big outfit preying on J Bar herds. Satisfied that he and his partner Mace were simply drifters who had thrown in with a small wagon train to make money by increasing their meat supply, Jess left the pleading and desperate Pike to the tender mercies of the J Bar hands. He envied neither the pale, sweaty little drifter nor that train of settlers. The old-timers were very protective of their herds—not to mention Marcus's daughter.

  His business now was in Cheyenne. He rode into town a few hours after dark and headed straight up Eddy Street to the Royale Theater where Cammie worked. "The show should just be beginning, Blaze," he said to the stallion as he reined in outside the big frame building with its elaborate false front, painted in garish shades of red and blue.

  The billboards outside proclaimed, "Miss Camella Alvarez, the Spanish Songbird." Jess grinned as he purchased his ticket. Cammie had never even been in Spain. She was born in Matamoros and raised in south Texas. The music hall boasted polished plank floors covered with clean sawdust. The stage was elevated four feet above the crowded room and surrounded by a tier of boxes. The main floor was filled with oak chairs and tables to accomodate the overflowing crowd of music hall denizens. Most were townsmen, clerks, and tradesmen in stiff, storebought clothes of cheap cut and poor fit, but here and there sat wealthy businessmen smoking expensive cigars and displaying gold watch chains on their ample midsections.

  Jess pulled out a chair near the far left side of the stage, straddled it, and rested his arms across the splintery oak back. He knew Cammie always checked the house before curtain. She would be watching him about now. The lights dimmed, and a round of applause and raucous cheers went up as the curtain rose to reveal the Spanish Songbird, clad in scarlet sequins and feathers. The gown was slashed daringly up one side to reveal a lushly curved leg in a black fishnet stocking. She gave Jess a seductive wink before she began to sing.

  When the performance was over, he bought another beer and waited. No one was allowed backstage without the lady's permission. Her note arrived at his table before the head was off his beer.

  Camella's dressing room was a cramped cubicle, horrendously overcrowded and filled with rainbow hues of sparkling satin gowns, rhinestone tiaras, and feather wraps tossed carelessly over greasy benches or hung on pegs sagging from the rough pine walls. She sat at a tiny round table covered with faded pink shantung, looking in a mirror that leaned precariously against the back of a scarred- up set of steamer trunks.

  "Great show, Cammie," he said, leaning in the open door.

  She dropped her rouge pot and turned with her arms open wide. "Jess, querido, you have finished your work for Jacobson already?" She flew into his embrace, not waiting for an answer as she pulled his head down and kissed him passionately.

  He kicked the door closed with one foot and moved into the kiss, bending her over his arm and nuzzling her throat. "Mmm, you smell good," he murmured as his hands tangled in a thick cloud of curling ebony hair. Her perfume was a heavy attar of roses. Nothing subtle about it. Unlike the delicate essence of orange blossoms. He shoved the unwanted thought away as she laughed and nibbled on his ear.

  "You will stay the night, no?" Her tongue darted along his jawline, then rimmed his mouth teasingly.

  "I'll stay the night, yes. If you've worked up a good appetite, I'll take you to dinner at Dyer's first."

  Finally they broke off the playful embrace. Camella turned her back and raised her long mane of hair, saying, "Unfasten me, querido. I cannot go out in public in this torture rack of a dress."

  He obliged, baring a creamy expanse of olive skin as the dozens of tiny hooks on the costume gave way. She let it slither to the floor, then stepped carelessly over it and shook down her hair. She stood before him clad only in a lace corset and underpants. She looked good and she knew it as she held up various dresses, deciding which to wear to dinner that night. Jess let her pose and play her games.

  "How long can you stay?" she asked, inspecting an emerald taffeta dress.

  "Just tonight. I'm still working for Jacobson." He pulled out the photograph he had taken from Argee's body. "Ever see this girl in town?"

  She looked at the well-worn picture. "That is Pearl Soames. She left for Deadwood a month ago. What is she to you?" Camella asked with a pout on her full lips.

  He chucked her beneath her chin. "Just a lead—found it on a dead rustler and thought she might know more about his friends."

  "Who was the rustler?" She pulled the taffeta over her head with a loud rustling crackle, then turned for him to fasten her up.

  "Who does this when I'm not around, Cammie?"

  She turned with wide dark eyes and said, "Ah, Jess, someone is always around to button me up . . . and unbutton me, but I would always prefer you, querido."

  He let the comment go and replied to her earlier question, "The rustler's name was Billy Argee. Curly-haired young pup, thin, wiry build, medium height."

  "Yes, I knew him. He fancied himself a dangerous gunman," she added scornfully. "You shot him."

  He shrugged. "Yeah. Wanted the fool alive, but he wouldn't have it that way. Know any of his friends?"

  "He usually rode in alone, but once I saw him and Pearl with another J Bar man—Sligo, I think, is his name. A big thickset hombre with yellow hair."

  Jess rubbed hi
s chin consideringly. "Sligo. I'll have to watch where he goes when he rides away from the ranch tomorrow."

  She insinuated herself in his arms and said, "That is tomorrow, Jess. This is tonight. . . ."

  * * * *

  On the ride back to J Bar, Jess turned the matter of Ralph Sligo over in his mind. He and Argee had been careful not to chum together around the other hands. Sligo was older, probably smarter than Argee. Getting him to lead Jess to the rustlers' base camp would not be easy. He considered facing the man down and threatening to kill him—or have some of Symington's boys beat it out of him. But there was always the chance Sligo would make the same violent choice Argee had. If he talked, he would stretch rope anyway. Better to follow him and see what developed.

  Jess's thoughts strayed from Sligo and the rustling to the vicious-tongued little bitch at J Bar. He had saved her wretched life, and she had turned on him like a cornered wildcat. The insults he had grown used to hearing. Monique had called him a dirty, lying savage when her father caught the two of them.

  Would Lissa disavow her attraction to him as easily if Marcus confronted her? Somehow he did not think so. There was an apparent honesty about Melissa Jacobson, a bold openness at odds with the usual female subterfuges. Why am I even thinking of her? She would only get him killed. Women like Cammie were his for the asking. The two of them had surely burned up the sheets last night. Still, in the height of passion, he had thought of Lissa's fiery tresses and wide gold eyes. He swore at the troubling turn of mind that continually drew him back to her.

  Marcus Jacobson's vast cattle empire once more materialized before him as he crested the rise. Most of the men were out with the roundup. He had requested that the new hands be assigned to duties around the ranch. Sligo was lounging against the corral gate, talking with another hand when he rode up and dismounted.

  Jess nodded to the pair, then led Blaze into the stable and gave him to Bob Abbot for a thorough rubdown. He turned toward the bunkhouse, figuring on getting some rest, but he had no sooner stretched out on his bunk when Tate walked in with a worried look on his face.

  "Boss wants to see you at the big house."

  "What for?" Jess asked, rolling off the bunk.

  "Didn't feel it my place ta ask," Tate replied drily. "But I got a hunch it's about Miz Lissa gettin' in that scrape you pulled her out of."

  Jess's expression darkened, but he said nothing about the matter. "Do me a favor, Tate. Keep an eye on Sligo while I'm gone. I want to know where he heads if he rides away."

  Tate's expression grew intent. "You figure Sligo's workin' both sides?"

  "Maybe," was all Jess would say. He walked up to the imposing white house, noting an expensive-looking rig with a handsome sorrel hitched to it standing at the side door. Marcus had company.

  Germaine opened the door to his knock, her thin face frozen in a hostile glare. "Mr. Marcus will see you in the library." She gestured stiffly to the second door down the wide, carpeted hallway.

  "Merci," he said with a sardonic smile, then strolled to the door, which was slightly ajar. He could hear Jacobson speaking to the visitor. Lissa was nowhere in sight. Jess was grateful for that as he knocked on the door.

  "Come in, Robbins. You remember Lemuel Mathis from Cheyenne?"

  Mathis nodded his immaculately barbered head but did not offer to shake hands. Jess returned the nod while standing in the middle of the opulent room. The walls were covered with books, and a large walnut desk dominated the rich masculine surroundings. Against one wall a matching piece of dark furniture served as a bar. Although it was not near the dinner hour, Jacobson and Mathis were sharing a drink.

  "You wanted to see me for some reason?"

  "Several reasons. First, Lemuel and I are both grateful for your timely intervention that saved Lissa from those cutthroats. Moss has taken care of the one you brought back."

  "I thought he would," Jess replied levelly. "You ought to keep a tighter rein on that girl, Mr. Jacobson. It was pure luck that I was coming back in that direction."

  Marcus sighed and ran his hand through his thin silver hair. "I can't order my daughter around as if she were a cowpuncher. She was raised back East where things were safe. It's been a difficult adjustment, her coming home last year. She feels isolated here at the house with only Germaine for company."

  Jess's eyebrows rose and a look of dry amusement touched his face. He could well appreciate how spending a week or two with Germaine Channault could make anyone get cabin fever. "What was the other reason you needed to talk to me?"

  "We wanted a report about how your campaign with the rustlers is progressing," Mathis said with an arrogant wave of his hand.

  Jess paused, studying the thickset man with his soft, citified airs. "The Association didn't hire me. Mr. Jacobson did." He looked to Marcus, who nodded, then replied, "There's not much to tell yet. Three men tried to ambush me, and I killed them. Two were from the gang. The third was an inside man."

  "Yes. Billy Argee. I knew the lad. I can't believe he was a thief," Lemuel said stiffly.

  "Believe it. That or he had some strong reason to dislike me. Considering I'd never even been introduced to him, that seems unlikely. I did some nosing around town after the shooting—to find out about his friends."

  Marcus's eyes narrowed. "What did you learn?"

  "Seems Argee and Sligo have been seen drinking together in town."

  "You think Sligo's crooked, too?" Jacobson blanched. "Hell, have I got anyone on the payroll I can trust?"

  "Surely you're seeing bugbears beneath every bed," Mathis said dismissively.

  Jess shrugged. "Maybe. We'll see. Meanwhile, I'm going to keep an eye on Sligo."

  "That doesn't seem like much to earn the kind of money Mr. Jacobson is paying you," Mathis said stiffly.

  Jess's eyes flashed a silvery warning. Then he dismissed Mathis and turned to the old man. "I'll work this my way, Mr. Jacobson—if that's all right with you. If not. . ."

  Marcus nodded. "For now, I'm satisfied." Sensing the tension between the two men, he changed the subject. "Next week we're going to the Evers spread. Between J Bar and Diamond E's parts of the roundup, all the hands from the neighboring ranches get together to blow off some steam. Have a bunch of riding and roping contests, what you Texans call a rodeo. Why not go to the shindig? It's a good chance to watch all those hands and nose around. You suspect Sligo's involved with the rustlers. Maybe you'll learn something more."

  Shrugging, Jess agreed. "I'll go."

  "Good, good," Marcus said, ushering Jess to the door. "Keep me posted if you learn anything else."

  Ignoring Mathis, Jess nodded to Jacobson, then stepped out the door and closed it. He retraced his steps down the hall, but just as he passed the arched entry to the parlor, Lissa stepped out into his path. She was wearing a peach silk dress and a tremulous smile.

  "You are going to the rodeo with us?" she asked uncertainly.

  "You always get what you want, but this time you might think twice before you ask for me—I might just be the biggest mistake you ever made."

  He turned away and strode angrily through the front door, slamming it as he left.

  * * * *

  "Sligo just rode out, Jess," Tate said when Robbins returned to the corral.

  "You got a horse I can use? Blaze is ridden out."

  "Yeah. Take your pick from my cawy," Shannon said as they walked over to the corral.

  In moments Jess had saddled a big buckskin and was trailing Ralph Sligo. He headed southeast for several miles. Then, just before crossing the boundary line of J Bar range, Jess saw Sligo's horse standing before a deserted line shack. Quickly pulling the buckskin behind a cluster of low-growing ash trees, he waited and watched.

  Very shortly Sligo emerged from the shack, looked warily around the seemingly deserted horizon, then mounted up and rode back toward the ranch. Jess stayed hidden until the hoofbeats of the cowboy's horse grew silent. He cautiously rode up to the line shack with his gun drawn. The c
abin had not been used in years from the look of the broken windows and sagging door frame. Cocking his gun, he shoved open the door, which creaked a feeble protest as he flattened himself against the inside wall. Empty. He holstered his gun. The interior smelled stale and musty, but a faint yet unmistakably fresh aroma of tobacco hung on the air. A burned-out butt lay on the edge of the crude log table.

  Jess checked the butt. Cold. It had not been smoked by Sligo. He walked around the small dingy room. The ill-fitted floorboards groaned and squeaked with every step. A grimy layer of silty dust was disturbed by footprints all over the floor, but one board out of the traffic pattern beside the door had other smudges on it. Handprints.

  He knelt down and used his knife to pry up the loose board. A note lay inside the small wooden frame beneath it. Whistling low, he unfolded it and read the crude pencil scrawl.

  "Herd on S. fork of Logg Pol. Roundup will not git to beevs til Sun."

  A crude map was drawn on the other side of the wrinkled sheet of paper indicating where the isolated herd was scattered, unattended. Jess smiled darkly. Sligo's assurance that the herd would not be rounded up until Sunday was about to be violated. He could do nothing more until he was able to hire extra guns from Texas and hoped Ringo Pardee would answer his wire soon. Pardee's men would be needed to set a trap for the rustlers.

  He couldn't wait to shake Wyoming dust off his boots for good. But he knew a lot could happen between now and then. Getting together a dozen professionals could take a month or more. Jess swore to himself as he replaced the paper and left the shack.

  Chapter Eight

  "It's a beautiful day for a ride," Lissa said brightly to no one in particular as they approached the Diamond E.

  "I expect the turnout will be real good." Moss Symington chuckled, recalling the previous rodeo. "Remember how it rained last year and old Deever's roan slid in the mud?"