Scarlet Sunset, Silver Nights

by Leigh Greenwood

  “I want to stay worse than anything else in the world. But if I don’t find a way around the trouble that’s on my trail, staying is only going to cause her more trouble than leaving. I don’t want her to be the widow of a gunman. I won’t have my kids growing up thinking their father was a common killer.”

  “I bet she would go with you if you asked her.”

  “And live the rest of her life on the run? Would you want that for your cousin?”

  Gaddy shook his head.

  “I’ll stay if I can ask her to be the wife of a man she can love and respect, one with a name she can be proud to give her sons. I’ll move heaven and earth to make that happen, but if I can’t…”

  Gaddy dropped his gun in its holster. He seemed to have gotten over his emotional outburst. In fact, he seemed remarkably like an adult. “But you’ll stay until this trouble is over, no matter what?”

  Slade nodded. “No matter what.”

  “Then I’d better get back. A new man rode in last night. He might know something about the other ranches. I’ll be here tomorrow at the same time.”

  He’s growing up Slade thought as he watched the boy ride off. But not fast enough. If only they had another year. Then Gaddy would be able to give Pamela the help she needed.

  But they didn’t have another year. He doubted they had another week.

  The afternoon was so still Pamela could hear the horse even before it entered the canyon. “Come on in, Marshall, and sit for a while,” she said as soon as Taylor Alcott pulled up. “You must have had a long ride.”

  Pamela really did want the marshall to visit for a little while, but she hadn’t expected him to climb down from the saddle without more encouragement. He rarely stopped anywhere when he was on the trail, and he never took the trail unless it was business. Pamela could surmise from the grim expression on his face that it had taken some very unpleasant doings to drive him from his comfortable office in town this time.

  “The ride in wasn’t so bad,” the marshall said as he settled into one of the deep, leather-covered chairs in Josh White’s office. “Right pleasant when you consider what the desert can be like during the summer.”

  “Do you want a drink?” Pamela asked. She’d never entertained the marshall before. She didn’t know what to offer.

  “You can give me a shot of your father’s whiskey,” he said, then grinned. “You can’t beat a Virginia man when it comes to knowing good whiskey.”

  “I understand Tennessee and Kentucky might want to dispute that with you.”

  “No problem,” the marshall replied with a grin that belied the sternness in his eyes. “You tell them to bring along several bottles of each. I’ll let them know what I think when I’m done.”

  “Sure you don’t want more?” Pamela asked as she handed the glass to the marshall. The ounce and a half didn’t look like much in the bottom of the deep glass.

  Taylor downed the whiskey in one gulp. “Don’t mind if I do, but just one more. I got to get back to town before nightfall.”

  After she refilled his glass, Pamela took a seat directly across from the sheriff. “Now that we’ve finished with the amenities, can we get down to why you came out here?”

  “Can’t it be just to look at a beautiful girl?” the marshall replied, but his eyes didn’t reflect the smile on his lips.

  “Not as long as Junie Sykes hasn’t forgotten the way from the Wagon Wheel to your office,” she teased.

  The marshall’s smile was genuine this time. “And to think you could hear about that way out here. There just don’t seem to be much a woman can’t find out.”

  “I must not be as good as the other women you know. I’m having a lot of trouble finding out why you came out here.” Suddenly a cold chill ran through Pamela. “It’s Dad. You know what happened to him, don’t you?”

  Taylor Alcott nodded.

  “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  Taylor nodded again. “My heart goes out to you. This has to be a terrible blow.”

  Pamela struggled valiantly not to break down in front of him. Her rigid body sat forward in her chair; her eyes stared steadily at him. But not even holding her lips between her teeth could hide the telltale quiver. She tried to speak, but no words came out. She had thought she was prepared, but now she realized nothing can prepare you for the death of someone you love.

  She had expected it, had prepared herself for it. In spite of Slade’s reassurances, she had somehow known her father was dead. But the words hurt her more cruelly than she had ever imagined. Now, more than anything else in the world, she needed the comfort of Slade’s arms.

  Taylor watched Pamela swallow convulsively several times to fight down the wracking sobs that threatened to overwhelm her. With a muttered oath, he got up from his chair, went to the liquor cabinet, poured himself out half a glass, and gulped it down. The huge swallow threatened to take off the top of his head, but he felt better.

  Seeing his anxiety seemed to steady Pamela, and she got herself under control. “I think I have known for some time now,” she said finally, “ever since I got back from the roundup, really. Tell me what happened.”

  “He was killed about a half day’s ride from here. He’d barely gotten off his own land. Whoever did it got up close. He was shot twice, once in the chest and once in the head. Dead center both times.”

  “Why didn’t anybody find his body before now? Surely during the roundup …”

  They killed his horse and caved a bank in over them. We might not have found him for a very long time, if ever, but that storm a few nights ago caused flash floods all up that way. It washed both of them a good ways downstream.”

  “And his body?”

  “We buried him where he was.”

  “I want my father buried in a proper grave,” Pamela cried. “Tell me exactly where he is. I’ll take the buckboard out there first thing tomorrow.”

  “He wasn’t fit to be moved,” the marshall said as kindly as possible. “Maybe you might go after him sometime this fall.”

  Pamela stared at the marshall in horror. She had imagined that her father would always look just as he had in life. That he could have changed so much the marshall didn’t want her to see him stunned her.

  “We covered him real good with stones,” the marshall said. “Wesley carved a real nice marker.”

  “I’ll tell Slade,” Pamela said. She couldn’t think of anything else to say. “He’ll know what to do.”

  “Where is Mr. Morgan? I need to talk to him.”

  “He’s not here.”

  “Where’d he go this time?”

  “I don’t know. Out on the range somewhere.”

  “What’s he doing out there?”

  Pamela forced her mind out of the vacuum into which it had retreated to avoid the horror of reality. She had to keep going until Slade got back.

  “We’re still having trouble with stray cows on our grass. He’s trying to put a stop to it.”

  “When is he coming in?”

  “I don’t know. He went out this morning. He said he might not be back for a few days. Why?”

  “I need to talk to him. I’ll ride back this way in a day or two.” The marshall had Pamela’s full attention now.

  “You wouldn’t ride this far out of town unless something was wrong. What is it, marshall? Slade works for me. I insist that you tell me.” Slade didn’t work for anybody, but she felt justified in glossing over that fact just now.

  “Just some talk, probably nothing more than idle rumor.”

  “You wouldn’t walk as far as the Wagon Wheel for a rumor. Tell me what it is!”

  “You’ll find out soon enough. Damn, I hate doing this behind a fella’s back. But Jud Noble has accused Morgan of killing your father. Said he saw him over that way about the time Josh must have left for Santa Fe.”

  “He’s lying.” The words were out of Pamela’s mouth before she knew it. “He came off the desert from the south, toward Mexico. You can ask Gaddy and Belva. T
hey were here when he arrived.”

  “I’m not accusing him. I just want to talk to him.”

  “He was on foot. His horse had broken a leg. He wouldn’t have killed Dad’s horse. He loves animals. You ought to see him with that old hammerhead. Besides, what reason would he have to kill a man he’d never seen before?”

  “Take it easy,” the marshall said as soothingly as he knew how. “I told you I wasn’t accusing Slade. But I have to talk to him. There has to be a reason Jud Noble said what he did.”

  “He did it for Mongo,” Pamela said without hesitation. “He’s mad that Slade backed him down. And he’s jealous, too. Mongo wanted to marry me, but I refused.”

  “You going to marry Slade?”

  Pamela stared at him like she didn’t understand what he had asked. Then she answered in a hollow voice. “No. He said he’d stay until Dad got back and this trouble was over, but he’s leaving for California first chance he gets.”

  “Won’t he stay now that your father’s dead?”

  “That won’t make any difference.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Me?” Pamela asked, almost as though she was surprised anyone would be interested in her. “I’ll probably sell the ranch and move back to Baltimore.”

  Chapter 19

  Marshall Alcott had anticipated several reactions, but not that one. “You can’t sell the ranch.”

  “Why not? My mother hated it. I sometimes think the loneliness and bleakness of this country killed her as much as the overturned wagon. Of course Dad loved this place. He enjoyed the struggle and the success. He loved looking out on this valley knowing it belonged to him, but someone killed him because of it. I hate Arizona, and I don’t want to live here!” A spasm shook her body, but no tears came into her eyes.

  The marshall had never felt terribly comfortable around women. It was one of the reasons he hadn’t married. But he felt particularly ineffective in times of crisis, the exact situation he found himself in now. He usually turned tail and ran when things got difficult. And that’s what he did.

  “I have to be getting back to town,” he said. He gave Pamela a perfunctory pat on the shoulder, told her she’d feel better for a good cry, and left as quickly as he could.

  Shock kept Pamela from collapsing.

  She watched the marshall leave, taking her shattered hopes with him. Her hand flew to her mouth to stop a choking sob that never came. She staggered back into the house, running into walls and doorways, blindly searching for the comfort of her room. But it was Slade’s door she opened and Slade’s bed she collapsed on.

  But she didn’t cry. She couldn’t. Everything inside her seemed all dried up. Her father was dead; Slade was leaving; she would be alone. She had been telling herself something must have happened to her father, but she hadn’t realized until now how heavily she had depended on the hope he would come back.

  Why wasn’t Slade here? Why did he have to choose this morning to leave? How could she stand it until he came back? She didn’t even know where he had gone. She couldn’t have sent Gaddy after him even if he had been at the ranch.

  The pain in her chest was excruciating, but she couldn’t do anything to relieve it; she couldn’t cry.

  She couldn’t lie still any longer, but getting up didn’t help. She paced the room, but that only seemed to cause the pressure to build. It was almost impossible to breathe.

  With sudden decision, she hurried into her father’s office. She never drank whiskey, she didn’t like the smell of it, but she knew it helped people endure pain. She was hurt, and she was suffering. She would do almost anything if she could get the pain to go away, to numb the crushing weight on her chest, to block out the reality of her father’s death.

  Pamela poured a small amount of amber liquid into the glass. She stared at it. The familiar smell, that hateful smell she could remember on the breath of men on several occasions, was strong. Her stomach threatened to rebel. She cast about in her mind seeking for some other way to relieve the pressure of the pain, but she had no other choice.

  It didn’t look like much whiskey. It was the same amount she had seen her father use, but then her father never got drunk. She poured until the glass was half full, but that was still only twice as much as she had in the first place. She wanted to be completely numb.

  She filled the glass. Then not wanting to give herself time to change her mind, Pamela picked it up and drank deeply.

  Before the first swallow could slide down her throat, her entire body went into a spasm of rejection. The glass slid from her hands and shattered on the stone floor as the fiery liquid violently exploded from her mouth. Pamela sank helplessly to her knees, her body heaving in furious rejection of the few drops of whiskey that had managed to slide down her throat.

  Finally, exhausted by the endless retching that still gripped her body, Pamela managed to crawl over to a chair and pull herself into it. She lay there, gasping for breath, waiting for the last of the spasms to leave her.

  But once she no longer felt sick, the weight of her grief descended upon her again, and Pamela groaned aloud in her agony. Staggering to her feet, she rushed outside.

  The fresh air helped to calm her stomach, but it did nothing for the misery in her soul. And everything around her only made it worse. The house, the corrals, the bunk-house, even the valley itself, everything bore her father’s stamp. It was his triumph, it carried the imprint of his personality, and it was all around her. With a cry of torment, Pamela ran toward the corral.

  She had to find Slade. She needed him.

  She didn’t remember saddling her horse. She only remembered riding for what seemed like hours and hours. Where would Slade be? What was he doing? She didn’t know, but there were no line cabins in the valley. He had to have crossed the ridge and ridden into the desert.

  She rode on and on. Unconscious of time or distance, she drove her horse forward until the heaving of the animal’s sides as it climbed the steep ridge warned her to slow down, or the horse would give out before she found Slade. Pamela topped out on the ridge, and the glorious panorama of the desert lay before her.

  She dropped from the saddle to give her horse a breather. Any other time she would have been in awe of the sight before her.

  The ridge fell away before her giving her an uninterrupted view from the mountains in the north down to the river which divided her land from the other ranchers. Purple lupine, owl clover, and brilliant red Mexican poppies created a colorful mosaic in the desert below. From this carpet emerged the towering green spines of cactus or the gnarled brown-and-black branches of mesquite and iron-wood trees. Nourished by rich, volcanic soil and plentiful winter rains, the desert was alive with bloom.

  But Pamela stared straight ahead out of sightless eyes, her only thought to reach the comfort of Slade’s arms. She racked her brain trying to remember the location of the line cabins. There were several, maybe as many as a dozen, but she could only remember two. No matter. If Slade hadn’t stopped at the first one, somebody else would be there and he would take her to Slade.

  If she could just find the first cabin.

  Pamela didn’t know how long it had been since she left the house, but by now it must have been at least midafternoon. She knew very little about this part of the ranch. It lay a long way from the house. Only once did she have any reason to ride this far. A couple of years ago she had accompanied her father to take care of one of the men who lay seriously ill in the closest cabin. Pamela thought she could remember how to get there.

  But everything looked different. Now that she didn’t have her father to guide her, she was uncertain of every turn; she questioned every landmark. She forced herself to keep calm, to consider each turn in the trail, each canyon or butte meticulously. She had her reward when the cabin finally came into view.

  But there was no one there. And no one had used the cabin for some time. It appeared to have been empty for months. Pamela climbed down from her horse. She had to think.

>   She hesitated to go back, to face the prospect of a night alone in the ranch house with all its painful memories. She would far rather spend the night in the cabin.

  But she hadn’t brought any food.

  She had been in such a hurry to leave she hadn’t done any planning. She hadn’t brought any blankets or a change of clothes. She didn’t even have a canteen for water. She could quench her thirst at a stream, but she had eaten very little for some time, nothing at all that day. She didn’t feel hungry—she guessed she was still too upset—but she could hear her stomach growl.

  She couldn’t stay here, and even if she had wanted to go back, she would never reach home before dark overtook her. She had to go on. But she didn’t know where to look for the next cabin. She remembered her father saying it was over the next ridge, along the spine of the ridge that ran down to the river, but she had never crossed the ridge.

  Pamela caught her horse and mounted. If she had to go, she had to start now. She prayed there would be someone at the second cabin.

  Two hours later the sun had begun to sink in the sky, and Pamela had still not found the ridge that ran down to the river. Twice she rounded the tumbled rocks at the edge of the fingers of the mountains that ran down into the desert, and twice she had seen the river disappear beyond yet another ridge that stopped far short of its sandy banks.

  She had to face it. She would have to spend the night in the desert. Alone. She had nothing to build a fire and nothing to keep her warm. Even now the temperature was falling rapidly. She knew it would be very cold before long. She had to find shelter.

  She turned inward, toward the gentle incline between the two ridges. Surely up there she would be able to find some place safe. If not a cave, maybe a sheltered spot behind a rock or under a ledge. At least she didn’t have to fear rain. There were no clouds in the sky. She could already see the morning star.

  Her horse walked slowly, its strength nearly gone after hours of following steep paths and scrambling down precipitous trails.

  Tree growth increased abruptly as she left the desert floor. Where before Pamela had been surrounded by creosote bush and mesquite, she now traveled under the spreading limbs of oaks and tall pines that blocked out the waning sunlight.