Frontier Woman

by Joan Johnston

  Oscar recognized his mistake as soon as he’d made it. Though the band of outlaws had no formal leader, there was a pecking order, and a banty rooster had presumed upon the cock-o’-the-walk. Oscar willed himself to disappear when the man he’d addressed turned his imperious stare down on him. However, once Oscar’s submission was clear, the Mexican cock directed his attention to the tall young woman before him.

  “Hey, puta, put away the gun, and we’ll talk,” his gravel-rough voice cajoled.

  Cricket slowly shifted her focus from Oscar and Clemencio to the man called Alejandro. He sat tall in the saddle and gave an impression of insolent superiority. He was dressed like a vaquero in a wool shirt overlaid by a vibrantly striped poncho and leather calzoneras covering buckskin breeches. As he gestured, a wide silver bracelet flashed in the sunlight. His huge sombrero put his entire face in shadow, making his eyes two dark, fiery hellholes. A bushy mustache covered his upper lip, while the lower lip curved downward disdainfully. He held his broad shoulders ramrod straight, unyielding, and Cricket thought, This man will show no mercy.

  “We have nothing to say to each other,” she said.

  “If you put down the gun, my man won’t have to hurt you. He’s right behind you.”

  It was an old trick, Rip had warned, to threaten another enemy behind you. When you turned around, the enemy in front made his move. Cricket mentally thanked Rip for the lesson, and fearlessly faced the merciless Mexican.

  “I’ll take my chances,” she said.

  The Mexican shrugged, then nodded.

  A tingle of fear raced up Cricket’s spine. She dropped and rolled to the left as the Mexican behind her whipped his gun barrel down where her head had been. She came to her feet running, dodging between the cactus and the sagebrush.

  The bandidos came racing after her, like hounds after a hare, their howls of glee ringing through the air.

  Cricket cursed Rip as she ran. Another lesson gone awry. It seemed this was a day full of disillusionment. She would be overrun if she stopped to aim her gun, so she didn’t waste the time trying. She was fast, but her endurance was no match for the Spanish ponies.

  Cricket had no doubt of her fate once she was caught, so while she ran, she considered whether she should save the last bullet in her Paterson for herself. The thought that Jarrett Creed couldn’t be far behind her decided the matter.

  This was a time to be reckless.

  She spent all five bullets, wounding three Mexicans, before the man called Alejandro lassoed her arms and shoulders with his horsehair reata and dragged her to the ground. The man’s cruelty was confirmed when, rather than loosening the rope when he reached her, he yanked her upright and wound several more tight loops around her body. When her arms were pinned to her sides from shoulder to waist, he forced her up behind him on his pony.

  “The puta’s shots will have revealed our whereabouts to the Rangers chasing us. Ride!” he commanded.

  The two wounded Mexicans who could manage by themselves mounted their horses. The third was pulled up behind a friend. The mood of the bandits was vicious, and Cricket was thankful their revenge had to be postponed. All too soon, she thought, the time would come when they would vent their rage upon her body. Unless she could escape. Or someone rescued her.

  At first Cricket believed Alejandro was referring to Creed when he mentioned the Mexicans were being chased by Rangers. Then she realized he’d referred to more than one Ranger. She couldn’t help the surge of hope that bounced from edge to edge inside her, despite the fact she was now clearly a prisoner of the bandits. Having wounded three of them, she was in serious trouble if the Rangers didn’t ride to the rescue. But it was not for nothing the Mexicans had labeled the Rangers Los Diablos Tejanos. She was counting on the Texas Devils to arrive in the nick of time.

  As late afternoon wore on into evening, Cricket refused to allow despair to overwhelm her. If the band of Rangers chasing the bandits wasn’t right behind them, surely Jarrett Creed was. And one Ranger could whip at least a dozen bandidos. Couldn’t he?

  They rode without stopping until they couldn’t see to ride anymore. Cricket’s whole body ached. She wasn’t sure which bruises were the result of the bronc riding at the días de toros, which were compliments of Oscar and Clemencio, and which she owed to Alejandro, but she vowed that if she got out of this alive, she would try to take things a little easier for a while.

  Cricket’s heart lost a beat when she realized the Mexicans were stopping. Alejandro helped her to dismount and released her from the coils of his reata, while the other Mexicans tethered their horses and then dropped exhausted to the ground nearby. By the time she stood unfettered before their glittering gazes, her racing heart threatened to force its way out her throat which, fortunately, was far too constricted to allow it such an easy escape.

  Clemencio rose and took a step toward her but was brought up short when Alejandro announced, “We stop only until the moon is up. Meanwhile, the puta stays with me.”

  Cricket might have been relieved, except as Alejandro spoke, his hand punishingly gripped her neck and his callused fingertips probed the quicksilver pulse at her throat. Cricket turned her head away from Alejandro’s wool poncho, which smelled of horse and rancid male sweat, but couldn’t dodge the sexual heat which emanated from a body coiled in readiness for wild animal thrusting.

  Cricket shuddered. Even the hope of a respite from rape died when Alejandro brought his mouth to her ear and murmured too low for the others to hear, “You want me, eh, puta? Every bit of me, sí? ”

  Both Cricket and Alejandro had been oblivious to the rest of the Mexicans, but their muted grumbling found voice when one of them demanded, “You must share the puta. She belongs to all of us!” His cry was joined by several others, as the Mexicans left their horses and surrounded the couple. It appeared Alejandro might have to relinquish his prize when a series of gunshots erupted in the darkness. An equal number of Mexicans at the edge of the circle fell where they stood.

  “Los Diablos Tejanos!”

  The shouted warning that the Rangers had found them sent the bandits scurrying for their horses. In the melee that ensued, Cricket tore from Alejandro’s grasp and raced toward where Valor was hobbled.

  “Cricket!”

  There was no mistaking that commanding Tennessee voice, yet Cricket ignored it and kept on running. She was not leaving without her money and her horse.

  “Dammit, Brava, get over here,” Creed shouted.

  Cricket ignored him, but several of the Mexicans did not. Creed found himself the focus of heavy gunfire and had to concentrate on sliding away on his belly to a safer spot.

  Meanwhile, Cricket reached Valor at about the same time as Clemencio, who blocked her avenue of escape. The Mexican grinned before he reached out confidently for her with his right arm. Cricket was in no mood for games. She curved her foot deftly behind his ankle as she ducked under his arm, then shoved as hard as she could at his chest with both hands.

  Clemencio gave a howl as he lost his balance and toppled over backwards. She grabbed her gun from his hand as he fell and pointed it at him.

  “Don’t bother getting up,” she warned, “or I’ll put a bullet hole right between your eyes.”

  She quickly checked her saddlebag, and from the chink of coins inside, determined that her días de toros purse was where she’d left it. Then, giving the Mexican one last warning to “Stay right where you are, if you want to live,” she mounted Valor and headed back toward where she’d last heard Creed.

  “I’ll see you at Three Oaks,” she yelled, as she galloped past him at a speed horrifyingly dangerous in the darkness.

  The Mexicans were in full rout, too fearful of Los Diablos Tejanos to stop long enough to ascertain there was only one Ranger shooting at them. However, both Alejandro and Clemencio noted the direction of Cricket’s escape and soon were on the trail behind her.

  Creed slipped away to his chestnut and was after them in moments. He was furious with Cric
ket and at the same time frightened for her. What if her horse stumbled and fell? What if the Mexicans decided to stop her with a bullet? He kicked his chestnut into a faster gallop, praying the animal could see better in the dark than he could. Soon he perceived one of the Mexicans in front of him. He feared to shoot in the dark, not knowing how close Cricket might be.

  Cricket could hear the pounding hooves of the horses that followed. She could feel Valor tiring and knew that unless she could come up with a plan, the bandidos would recapture her, and she’d have to endure the embarrassment of being rescued by Creed all over again. She remembered they’d passed a deep arroyo not long before they’d stopped, and she strained her eyes to find it again in the dark. There it was! She brought Valor to a sliding stop, threw the reins around his neck, grabbed her saddlebag and canteen, and then slapped him on the haunch, ordering, “Go!”

  The stallion snorted once and then flipped his tail and broke into a gallop. Cricket slipped into the arroyo near the trail and waited with bated breath for the enemies who followed. She saw Alejandro fly by, followed closely by Clemencio, and then Creed. She started to shout to Creed, but realized she would likely be heard by Clemencio and Alejandro, as well.

  Cricket settled down to wait. When Creed had disposed of Clemencio and Alejandro he would head for Three Oaks, expecting to find her there ahead of him. She smiled, thinking of his consternation when he discovered she wasn’t there. She sighed and closed her eyes to rest for a moment before she recalled her horse and headed home.

  Cricket awoke disoriented. The moon had risen fully in the sky, providing a blue-white light that revealed the world in shapes, rather than colors. She was surprised by the quiet. She told herself she had nothing to be frightened of. The bandidos were long gone, and there was nothing she needed to fear in the dark. But she’d never been more aware of being alone. Absolutely alone.

  She fought her creeping uneasiness by standing up and stretching the stiffness out of her arms and legs. Her right hand had that awful dead feeling because she’d lain on it, and it tingled unpleasantly as the blood flooded back through its leaden weight.

  She whistled for Valor, but her horse didn’t appear. She wondered how long she’d been asleep. Well, she could walk home, if she had to.

  The warm water in her canteen quenched her thirst, but it wasn’t very refreshing. She poured some out, dabbed it on her eyes, and felt a little better. She pulled the canteen strap over her head and arranged it on one shoulder while she settled the saddlebag on the other. There was nothing to fear in the dark, she repeated, as she began walking. Nothing at all. In fact, she was probably safer traveling in the dark. She only wished it wasn’t quite so far to Three Oaks.

  Cricket had been traveling for some time when she saw the campfire in the distance. At this point, she would’ve welcomed any form of company, and she sought out the warmth and light of that faraway fire the way a rattler sought out a sunbaked rock in autumn. She had no doubt the travelers would share their campfire. How good a cup of coffee would taste! It was only as she got closer and made out the three figures hunched around the flickering light that Rip’s lessons on using caution with strangers came back to her.

  So, instead of approaching the camp directly, she dropped to her hands and knees to slither through the brush and grass toward the beacon of light. She was still too far away to clearly see the faces of the men by the fire when she heard the murmur of voices. She inched closer and listened.

  “You’re the only Ranger I’ve got available. Can you do it, Luke?”

  Cricket tensed. She’d recognize that voice anywhere. She started to stand up but ducked back down when she heard the response of the man Creed had addressed as Luke.

  “I don’t see why not. Do you think Sloan suspects we’re watching her?”

  Sloan was being watched by the Rangers? What for?

  “No, I don’t think she knows we’re on to her. On the other hand, she disappeared for a while during the Guerreros’ fandango and was damned careful nobody followed her,” Creed said.

  Sloan had said she was going to meet Tonio. . . .

  “How deeply is she involved with Antonio Guerrero?” a third voice asked.

  “If you’re asking if she’s a part of his efforts to help the Mexican government work out plans to invade Texas again,” Creed said, “I’m not convinced she’s involved at all. But they are lovers.”

  They knew Sloan and Antonio were lovers?

  Cricket couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Sloan, a traitor? Sloan, involved in a Mexican plot to invade Texas? Impossible! Yet hadn’t Sloan wanted to talk with her only this morning about something very important? And Sloan had met secretly with Tonio at the Guerreros’ fandango. Cricket wished she’d taken a minute before she left Three Oaks to hear what Sloan had to say. Well, there was no help for that now. She’d have to listen closely without letting on she was here. When she’d found out all she could about the Rangers’ plans, she’d confront Sloan and get this mess straightened out.

  Ever so quietly she moved close enough to make out the faces of the three men by the fire. She pursed her lips in disgust when she saw Rogue lying on the ground beside Creed, who scratched the wolf’s chin unconcernedly, and Valor picketed with the other horses. Her eyes widened in consternation when she recognized one of the other two men as the half-breed Comanche, Long Quiet. She’d heard three distinct voices, but one of them hadn’t been the broken English the half-breed had used at the corral.

  “How soon do you want me to take over for you at Three Oaks?” the man called Luke asked.

  “Right away. I’m supposed to be in Galveston in a few weeks. The navy’s sloop-of-war Austin should be rigged out and ready by then to take me on to New Orleans. I’d as soon leave now as later,” Creed said.

  Creed was leaving Three Oaks. Why did she find that such a desolate thought?

  “This is awful sudden, isn’t it?” Luke asked.

  “President Lamar wants to get his version of the Council House massacre to the highest-ranking American diplomat he can as soon as he can.”

  “And who’s that?”

  “There’s no ambassador to Texas, since the United States hasn’t officially recognized our government. The best they’d give us was a chargé d’affaires, a sort of one-man diplomatic liaison. The man Andrew Jackson appointed as chargé, Beaufort LeFevre, lives in New Orleans, which is where I’m headed.”

  Luke shook his head. “So why the big hurry?”

  “President Lamar’s afraid the chargé will read about the Council House massacre in the papers and use it as an excuse to curtail discussions on trade agreements between the United States and Texas. We need those trade concessions, especially for cotton exports.”

  “How’d you get picked for this job, anyway?” Luke asked.

  “I know the chargé.”

  “Really? How’d you meet him?”

  Creed grinned. “Through his daughter.”

  The other two men laughed.

  “I’d forgotten about Angelique,” Long Quiet said. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy seeing her again. But what can you say to Beaufort LeFevre to make the Council House massacre sound like less than the travesty it was?”

  The half-breed Comanche was speaking perfect English!

  “Not a thing,” Creed admitted cynically. “I’m just supposed to talk him into coming here to see the situation in Texas for himself. That’s why Lamar wants this business with Guerrero tied up in a hurry. He doesn’t want a Mexican invasion materializing in the middle of the American chargé’s visit.”

  “I’ll do my part at Three Oaks,” Luke said. “Do you suppose Cricket’s done gallivanting around by now? I’d hate to get there and have Rip Stewart ask me where his daughter is.”

  Creed snorted. “Don’t get me started, Luke. I’d like to wring that she-wolf’s neck. She flew out of that bandit camp on her horse and lit a shuck for Three Oaks, leaving me in her dust. By the time I made sure those two Mexicans following her
weren’t going to be any threat, all I could find of her was her horse. She’s probably been home in bed—or wherever it is she’s sleeping these days—for hours.”

  Cricket ground her teeth. So Jarrett Creed would like to wring her neck, would he. The feeling was definitely mutual.

  “Be grateful, my friend, that your coltish filly isn’t around to tempt you into bed with her again,” Long Quiet said with a chuckle. “You were lucky to escape with your honor the last time.”

  Cricket gasped. Creed couldn’t have told Long Quiet about that! She quickly covered her mouth with her hand to prevent the escape of any further sound, but it was too late to avoid discovery. The three men at the fire fanned out instantly, and in moments she found herself imprisoned in Jarrett Creed’s iron grasp.

  “What are you doing here?”

  There was no mistaking the fury in his voice, but Cricket snarled back, “I could ask the same thing. Who are you to accuse Sloan of plotting with the Mexicans? What does Antonio Guerrero have to do with all this? And how come that half-breed can suddenly speak perfect English?”

  Creed swore under his breath.

  “Now the fat’s in the fire. What are we going to do with her?” Luke asked.

  “Send her home to Rip. Let him handle her,” Creed snapped.

  “We can’t send her home,” Long Quiet said. “She knows too much.”

  Creed dropped his chin to his chest, as though to ease the tension in the back of his neck, and sighed as he raised his head again. “I know that,” he said wearily. “She’d warn her sister in a—”

  “You bet I’ll warn Sloan. Try and stop me,” Cricket cried. “Wait till Rip hears what you—”

  Cricket’s tirade was shut off when Creed clamped his hand over her mouth and tucked her bodily under his arm so she couldn’t move. “Shut up, Brava, and let us think.”

  Cricket struggled futilely against Creed’s strength, all the while glaring at Rogue, who sat complacently at Creed’s feet, while the Ranger held her helpless in his arms. How different from their very first confrontation. Well, she wasn’t done fighting by a long shot.