His steel-hued eyes swept over her, as unreadable as ever. "I guess I am," he replied in a low voice. "We're both mature adults."
Delilah leapt to her feet. "I have never been so insulted in my life! I insist you return me to town immediately!"
"Now hold on a minute . . ."
"Immediately, sir! I refuse to listen to another second of your insulting insinuations and propositions. And in future, I suggest that your energies would be much better spent on recovering stolen cattle."
"Aww. . ." and then the sheriff cursed in a disgruntled tone beneath his breath as he rose. Delilah suspected she had not been meant to hear the word, but, once again, he had miscalculated. With a gasp of outrage at such rudeness, Delilah stalked toward the buggy where she scooped Poopsy into her arms. It was one thing to inadvertently hear that kind of language in a saloon where men liked to be free of the strictures imposed by good company. It was another thing entirely, however, to know that she was the object of it. Without waiting for Sheriff Chambers' assistance, Delilah climbed into the conveyance to sit stiffly waiting for him to drive her back to town.
The entire picnic had been a disaster. Not only had she apparently failed to convince him that he should turn his attentions elsewhere, but she had learned that his pursuit of her was not nearly as honorable as she had supposed.
In fact, the only thing that made the day itself worthwhile was that Eve stopped in at the hotel for a visit shortly after Delilah had returned from the picnic. She'd come to get some more medicine for Tom from Doctor Hale and used the excuse to stop for a brief visit with Delilah.
"Well thank goodness something good is happening today, or I should have seriously considered returning to bed to get through it more quickly," Delilah said as she hugged her sister. Eve was dressed in a more traditional green suit with a split skirt that reached her ankles, and a pleated white shirtwaist. And Delilah realized just how beautiful her sister had grown up to be.
"What do you mean? What's happened?" Eve asked as she pulled out of Delilah's embrace to look into her face.
After they were seated at the small writing table that occupied the corner of Delilah's room, Delilah told her about the sheriff's very indecent proposal. Eve was as shocked as Delilah had been. "Well," she huffed. "I would never have expected something like that from him. He's always seemed like such a decent man."
"You can bet I won't be going on another picnic with him. But, enough about that. Let's talk about something else. Has there been any change in Tom's condition?"
Eve's eyes clouded. "He's more feverish now. And complaining of the pain more. It doesn't look good."
Delilah swallowed, hating to see her sister's emotional pain. "I'll keep praying," she murmured. "Perhaps. . .” But neither of them truly believed that Tom would recover, and she broke off.
"So tell me," Eve said with false brightness as she changed the subject, "have you met any other handsome available men recently?"
Delilah shook her head. "None with whom I care to spend time."
Eve frowned. "I worry about you, Sis. You can't go through your entire life alone. You need a companion."
"I have Poochie," Delilah indicated the little dog who lay watching them with alert black eyes.
"I meant a man."
Delilah shrugged. "A man is a lot more work, and I haven't yet met one who was worth the trouble."
Eve considered her and then smiled. "Well, that's true. It has to be the right one to make it worthwhile. Remember old Mrs. Bitters?"
Delilah laughed. "Now there was one woman whose name definitely suited her. Up until the day she threw Mr. Bitters out into the street in his underwear, that is. I never saw a woman undergo such a rapid personality transition in my life. She became positively jovial.” The sisters passed their remaining time together in fond reminiscence of times past until the chime of the bedside clock intruded and Eve had to leave.
* * *
Almost a week later, Samson lay in the shadow of a huge boulder overlooking Brokenback Canyon. He had found a herd of about sixty head of cattle, just as he'd suspected he would, but so far no one had tried to move them. Only two men maintained a more or less constant presence in the canyon, and thus far—since he was forced to keep his distance—he hadn't been able to identify them. In a canyon as isolated as Brokenback, there wasn't really a need for anyone to constantly monitor the herd except to protect them from predators because there was nowhere for the cattle to go. Since he needed to catch all of those involved, if possible, Samson had little choice but to keep surveillance on the canyon and wait for the rustlers to make their move.
Normally, he would have asked the local ranchers for help with the situation. However, since in this instance virtually all the ranchers were themselves suspects, he, his deputy, and two recruits from town were doing the work themselves.
He and Bill Tillis, one of the recruits he managed to deputize temporarily, usually took watch from about midnight to early morning because that was the most likely time for the rustlers to try to move the herd out. Samson's deputy, Carl Wilkes, and the other recruit watched the canyon from late afternoon until Samson showed up to spell him at night. Tonight though, he and Tillis had come out earlier because Wilkes young wife Kimberley had gone into labor. Knowing Carl, he would have done his job anyway had Samson asked it of him, but his mind wouldn't have been on what he was doing, and that kind of thing tended to get good men killed.
It was nearing ten o'clock on a night that would have had a bright moon overhead had it been less cloudy. With the storm clouds scudding across the sky, though, the night was as black as pitch. Wind soughed through the branches of the cedars clinging to life on the rocky slopes of the gorge. He could hear the cattle lowing calmly below him. But there were no noises out of the ordinary. No hoofbeats or human voices. Keeping his senses attuned to the slightest sound or change in the mood of the herd, Samson allowed his mind to wander.
For the life of him, he could not figure out Delilah Sterne. And he didn't know what his next move should be. The only thing he did know was that, despite his frustration with her, he wanted her more now than ever. She was just about everything he wanted in a woman. And, if she was a bit lacking in the kissing department, Samson figured that was her husband's fault for not teaching her better. Samson could remedy that soon enough if she'd give him the chance.
Getting the chance was what was going to be the problem. She was still as jumpy about being touched as a jack-rabbit downwind of a coyote. Samson had come to the conclusion that, whatever had happened to her to make her fear a man's touch, it must have happened after her husband's death.
He recalled the way she'd jerked away from his touch on that first day when he'd tried to wipe the dirt from her face. And he remembered the fear in her eyes when she'd been treating him after the cougar attack. It had been very real. Too real. It wasn't hard to imagine what must have happened to her. Whoever the man was who had hurt her, Samson would have liked to have given him a good beating before choking his worthless life from his body. He despised such men. But, since he was unlikely to get that opportunity, he decided instead to concentrate on undoing the damage. If he could.
That incident in Delilah's past would determine his next move. He'd been gentle with Delilah, as he was gentle with all women—he was too big not to be, for he was afraid of hurting them—but, he hadn't been. . . slow. If he'd surmised rightly about the incident in her past, Delilah needed consideration and understanding as well as gentleness. She needed time to learn the joy of physical loving all over again. And since dearest Kenneth wasn't around to help her, Samson figured he was the next best choice. If there was one thing he knew how to do well, it was make love to a woman. Now, if he could just wrap up this darned rustling business, maybe he could get her to talk to him about something other than the Cameron's stolen cattle.
At that moment, there was a stir in the herd below and Samson shoved his thoughts aside to concentrate on duty. Two riders below held up lanterns a
s they moved around the periphery of the herd. If they were simply adding more stolen bovines to the herd, they might just be the two of them. If they were moving them out, there'd be more men. Somewhere.
He peered through the impenetrable blackness until his eyes hurt. Then suddenly two more lanterns flared to life. The white patches on the herd below glowed in the light: white faces, white legs, horns. The herd began to move restlessly.
A short distance away, a match flared briefly. Tillis' signal that he was moving down. Samson drew a match from his pocket and returned the signal before quietly summoning Goliath from the dense shadows.
He needed to get close enough to see who was involved before he and Tillis could put their plan into action. It was going to be tricky.
He suspected the rustlers were moving the cattle out, knowing that on a night as dark as this, with a storm brewing, they were unlikely to be seen. That meant there'd probably be about six men. Possibly more, but he doubted it in a rustling operation like this one. More hands meant more mouths to talk and this had been a real closemouthed affair.
Six men against two. Not good odds, but he'd faced worse.
He mounted, slipped his gloves off and tucked them into his jacket pocket. Then, releasing the thong on his gun, he removed the Colt Peacemaker, ensured that it slid easily out of its holster, and began to make his way quietly down the slope to the canyon floor. He wasn't much worried about the men catching sight of him before he was ready for them. It was a black night, Samson wore unrelieved black, and rode a black horse who, despite his size, was part mountain goat. Still, just to be on the safe side, Samson tugged the brim of his hat down a mite and pulled a black bandanna up over the lower part of his face. If the moon should peak out from all the cloud cover, he didn't want his face showing up like a painted target.
As he drew nearer the canyon floor, he noted that the herd began to surge a bit inside the ring of circling men. Calves bawled for their mothers; steers bellowed; mothers lowed, calling for calves from which they'd been separated. The ground began to vibrate slightly with the concentrated movement of the animals. Ignoring it, Samson focused instead on the men. He could now discern two more drovers, neither carrying lanterns, in addition to the four with lanterns.
Who were they?
Knowing that the rustlers would be driving the herd out through the same large natural tunnel that had allowed them to enter, Samson positioned himself in the shadow of a huge boulder next to the path they would have to take. As Tillis silently arrived, Samson signaled for him to do the same on the other side of the trail. Tillis knew Samson's goal was to identify the men involved and take them alive, if at all possible. Now they had only to wait and watch for the right moment.
Samson shivered as the night wind slid down off the surrounding stone walls. It was still early enough in the season for the nights to be downright cold. A meteor flashed by overhead leaving a powdery trail of glowing coals in its wake. Goliath shifted restlessly beneath him. Damn, he was tired. Tired and cold. He blew on his chilled fingers, but dared not put his gloves back on. He'd never been much good at handling a firearm with gloves on.
Then, finally, he heard the bawling cattle coming nearer and tensed, his fatigue forgotten. He stayed unmoving in the shadow of the boulder as a few head of cattle passed him. It was too dark to make out any brands, of course, but he'd already recognized Wes Powell in the light of the lantern he carried as he rode point. He was sitting a bay horse this time and rode on the other side of the trail. Samson would have to leave him to Tillis for one of the other drovers, swaying a lantern high above the milling backs of the cattle, was only a few paces away now, riding swing. Samson studied him closely. The way the man sat a horse was familiar, but he was having trouble placing him.
Then, he looked up and the lantern light fell directly onto his craggy features. Spade Johnson!
Samson frowned. Well, hell! He hadn't expected that. A Bar K hand rustling cattle with a Lazy M hand? The rivalry between ranches, good-natured though it usually was, was often pretty stiff, and it tended to extend right down to the hands that worked for each brand. Something curious was going on here. Real curious.
"Git on up there!" Spade yelled at a dawdling heifer as his cow pony nipped the steer on the flank to propel it forward. Samson looked beyond Spade, pin-pointing the whereabouts of his comrades as Spade moved by Samson's concealing boulder toward the canyon entrance. The two men riding drag were not carrying lanterns. They were just shadowy forms in the night, barely discernible from the milling herd. He'd have no chance of identifying them until they'd been caught. The problem was that because they were bringing up the rear, if he came out of concealment before they'd passed by, they could catch him and Tillis from behind. Not a good option.
He frowned as he watched the next swaying lantern approach. He and Tillis would have to make their move soon, or risk losing the men up front. He pulled his Colt from its holster in readiness and watched the second lantern-carrying drover draw nearer. This man he identified as One-Eyed Jim Irish. Jim rode for the Elk Creek brand.
Three identified men. Three different brands. Samson was beginning to get a picture of this operation, and he didn't like it. It smacked of a level of organization he hadn't suspected. From his vantage point, it looked like whoever was behind the rustling had recruited hands from different targeted ranches. The hands, working from inside, would know when the best time to hit would be. If he was right, he suspected he would not catch the ringleader tonight. A man smart enough to organize this and tough enough to keep these drovers from cheating him was unlikely to dirty himself by coming anywhere near the actual work.
God, he hoped he was wrong. Because if he wasn't, his best chance of getting anywhere near the fellow behind it all would be to coerce his identity from one of these men. And drovers were, by nature, a closemouthed lot. Even the outlaw ones.
He waited until One-Eyed Jim was almost upon him, and then he gave the signal he and Tillis had agreed upon: three waves of a large square of white cloth. He only hoped there was enough moonlight, feeble though it was, for Tillis to see it. But he couldn't worry about that now. . . because One-Eyed Jim had seen something. And just as Samson had hoped, the man was guiding his horse a little nearer Sam's concealing boulder as he peered into the darkness, trying to decide just exactly what it was he'd seen.
Before he knew what had happened, the rustler felt the cold, steel of Samson's gun-barrel pressing against his neck just below his left ear. "No sudden moves," Samson warned coldly, his voice low. "Unless you want me to pull this trigger."
Jim raised his hands carefully away from his sides. "Evenin' Sheriff," he said cordially. "Any chance we can talk about this?"
"None," Samson replied. "Dismount," he ordered. As Jim began to move a bit too eagerly, he cautioned, "Carefully! Where I can see you. And put the lantern down over there.” He indicated a flat-topped boulder a few feet off the trail that would nevertheless be readily visible to the man bringing up the rear on this side of the trail.
When Jim had complied, Samson waved him back into the shadow of the boulder with a single meaningful gesture of the Colt. "Turn around," he ordered.
The drover turned slowly as Samson dismounted. "Ah, Sheriff, come on. . ."
"Shut up!" Samson interrupted him, prodding him with his gun for emphasis. He didn't know how much time he had before that lantern would be investigated.
Jim obeyed, and Samson hastily tied the drover's hands behind his back then ordered him to his knees and secured the end of the rope to his ankles for good measure. That done, he jerked One-Eyed Jim's bandanna from around his neck and stuffed it in his mouth. "Quiet, now!" he warned.
He saw the glint of the man's good eye in the darkness and knew it was filled with an intense anger. One-Eye had been bested. His pride had taken a blow. But Samson didn't have time to worry about that now.
"One-Eye?" a voice called out of the darkness.
"Yeah?" Samson returned in a deep generic tone tha
t would be identifiable as male but not much else as he hastily remounted.
He heard the scrape of a horse's hoof on stone as the caller moved his horse off the trail in search of One-Eyed Jim. "What the hell are you doin' you stupid son of a. . .?"
The click of a revolver being cocked next to his ear cut the man off in mid-sentence. His gun-hand jerked toward his pistol. "I wouldn't," Samson warned.
"Who the fuck are you?" the man growled.
Samson could have asked the same question. "Get down!" he ordered, not bothering to reply. "Slowly!"
He repeated the process he'd used with One-Eyed Jim. As soon as the unknown rustler was securely tied next to Jim, he hastily returned to his surveillance of the trail. The last of the cattle had gone by. It wouldn't be long before the first drovers, Wes Powell and Spade Johnson came back to investigate the disappearance of their comrades. Samson was ready. He just hoped Tillis was too.
In the next instant though, a gunshot cleaved the night, its echo ominous and cold within the canyon walls. Then another rang out.
Something had gone wrong.
Samson quickly reached over to douse the wick in the coal-oil lantern: It wasn't going to work as bait again. His eyes straining ahead, he spurred Goliath from cover, staying low over the horse's neck. He knew where Bill Tillis had been before the fracas, and he headed toward that spot now. Bill's camouflage had consisted of the dense shadow afforded by a clump of ancient cedars. Samson ducked beneath one of the boughs as Goliath moved into the trees. "Bill," Sam called quietly, searching the darkness for the hint of a human presence.
"Over here.” The voice sounded labored.
A moment later Samson found him. "You okay?"
"Took one in the leg."
"Bad?" Samson asked, dismounting to kneel at Tillis' side.
"Feels worse than it is, I think. Musta hit the bone. I'll live, but I ain't walkin' anywhere real soon."
Hastily Samson folded the white cloth he'd used to signal Tillis earlier into a thick bandage and tied it as well as possible around the wound. There wasn't time to do more. "How'd you make out before you got shot?" he asked.
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