Pete (The Cowboys)

by Leigh Greenwood

She had no attachment to the pine bower, even though she was certain that at some time in the future she would look back on it and smile in remembrance. For a few days she’d been able to push her problems, conflicts, and contradictions out of her mind. She’d allowed herself the privilege of thinking only of the here and now, of Pete and herself, of their feelings for each other.

  He loved her. He’d told her so over and over again. He made no promises, offered no excuses, gave no explanations. He said he loved her and that he always would. Despite being stranded in the middle of a forest by a dangerous blizzard, she felt loved. She could see it in his eyes when he looked at her. She could feel it when they sat close to the fire, Pete holding her wrapped inside his coat so their shared body heat could keep them warm. They’d sat that way for hours at a time, sometimes talking about nothing in particular, sometimes not talking at all.

  She no longer told herself all the reasons why she shouldn’t love and trust him. She had finally admitted to herself that all the fears, accusations, implications, made no difference. She loved him, and nothing could change that. Chance had given her an opportunity to escape the rules and restrictions of the world she lived in, a few days in which to pretend nothing was wrong, that love could, and would, triumph over all. For a few days she’d allowed herself to luxuriate in the warmth of his love, in the wonder of gradually realizing she could be the most important person in a man’s life, that he would endanger his own safety to protect her.

  She had reached another conclusion. Pete was not a killer. She didn’t know who was responsible for the deaths of Peter and Belser, but she was certain it wasn’t Pete. Not that he couldn’t kill. She was certain he could kill to protect those he loved, to defend what belonged to him, but he wouldn’t kill to steal from someone else. She didn’t want to leave the protection of the forest, to face all the difficulties that lay ahead, but they couldn’t hide forever. “When can we start?” she asked.

  “As soon as we can pack everything up,” Pete said. “We have a long way to go. The sooner we get started, the sooner we’ll get to Big Bend.”

  There wasn’t much to pack. They’d eaten most of their food and they wore most of their clothes to keep warm.

  The horses sank to their stomachs in the snow.

  “We’ll have to try to stay under the trees or where the wind kept the snow from piling up,” Pete said. “Some of the drifts are ten feet deep.”

  The bright sunlight reflecting off the snow nearly blinded her. She didn’t understand how Pete could find a trail, or solid ground, under all that snow, but they traveled hour after hour without any mishap more serious than the packhorse stepping off the trail and stumbling into a creek coated in ice and covered with snow. Their progress was very slow. It was clear they weren’t going to reach Big Bend that day.

  Despite the cold and the pain of being in a saddle again, Anne found enough positive energy to realize the scenery was absolutely magnificent. All around her, mountain peaks rose skyward, their pink, orange, brown, and red rock strata brilliant in the sunlight. Wind kept the peaks mostly clear of snow, but patches on ledges looked like ermine collars.

  Pristine blankets of snow, unbroken by footprints of man or animal, covered wide mountain meadows. Towering ponderosa pine forests bent low under their weight of snow, the green of their needles made all the more vibrant by the blanket of white.

  If it just hadn’t been so cold, she might have enjoyed it.

  They spent the first night in a grove of cottonwood, box elder, and green ash. Some juniper trees provided a shield from the wind. They cooked dinner and ate, made love and slept, each knowing the end would come soon.

  It came sooner and in a different manner than they expected.

  Next morning, they made it out of the mountains and into the foothills.

  “We’ll spend tonight at the cabin,” Pete called back to her. “It’ll be warm and dry. You’ll be able to sleep under a roof.”

  “Is it very far?”

  “We ought to reach it by midafternoon.”

  Pete had spent hours the night before massaging her sore muscles, but they continued to ache today. She doubted she’d ever learn to like riding horses, certainly not if it continued to make her feel as if every muscle in her lower body was on fire.

  “You know,” Pete said, “I wonder if the men Mason hired to kill your husband are at his ranch.”

  “Would you recognize them?” she asked.

  “Not them, but their horses.”

  “Wouldn’t they recognize you?”

  “Probably.”

  “Wouldn’t they try to kill you?”

  “Probably.”

  “Then what’s the advantage of finding them?”

  “Outside of hanging them for killing Peter Warren, there’s my money and my clothes,” he said. “I could have used them these past few days.” He went on to list everything that had been stolen from him. “But what I most want to find are my saddlebags.”

  “How can you tell one set of saddlebags from another?” she asked. She had never paid particular attention to saddlebags before, but as far as she could remember, they all looked alike.

  “Mine are different. There’s a “J” cut into the leather, and they’ve got some decorative beading. I got the saddlebags made from an elk hide by an Indian woman in Montana. You’d know them the minute you saw them. I think that’s why they took them.”

  Anne’s attention wandered as he went on to describe the saddlebags in detail. The day wore on—cold, monotonous, endless. She was practically asleep in the saddle, lulled by the gentle rocking motion, when several mounted riders burst out of a gully that had appeared to be choked by wild plum and hawthorne. Almost before she knew what had happened, half-a-dozen men had converged on Pete. He fought bravely, but it was a futile effort. One man—a rank coward, Anne was certain—rode up behind and hit Pete over the head with a gun butt.

  Pete tumbled from the saddle into the snow.

  Anne urged her horse forward only to find a man at her side, his firm grip on her mount’s bridle preventing her from moving.

  “You don’t have to run away,” Bill Mason said. “These are my men.”

  Her mind was in turmoil. She’d known she had to return to the real world, that she had to face the charges against Pete, come to grips with the fact that she didn’t have a shred of evidence to support her belief in his innocence. But she’d expected to have more time. This sudden attack threw her off stride.

  Her actions were purely instinctive, and instinct said she had to do anything she could to protect Pete. “I wasn’t going to run away,” Anne said, trying without success to break Mason’s grip on her horse’s bridle. She’d never paid much attention to Bill Mason, but now that he seemed to be taking control of her destiny, she found she didn’t like him. She didn’t trust him, either.

  “We’re going to hang him,” Mason said.

  Panic threatened to scramble her wits entirely, but she knew she had to remain calm. She had to think. Pete needed help right this minute. If she couldn’t provide it, it might soon be too late for anybody to help him. “You can’t hang him,” she said.

  “He’s a killer. He deserves hanging.”

  “I don’t dispute that,” she said, trying not to show the panic she felt. “But you’ve got to take him into Big Bend to the sheriff. They’ll try him and decide what to do with him.”

  “That’s a waste of time. We’ll hang him now and be done with it.”

  “But that will make you as much a murderer as he is.”

  She faced Mason squarely when she said that, but it was difficult not to quail before his fierce glare.

  “It’s not murder to kill a mad dog.”

  “It is when you take the law into your own hands and hang a man who’s not been convicted of any crime.”

  “Nobody will care. They’ll all be glad to see the end of him.”

  “I’ll care.”

  His gaze became granite. “What do you mean by that?”


  “Back at the ranch, you said you wanted to marry me. Do you still want to?”

  “Yes. I’ve always wanted to marry you.”

  Anne had never even guessed at such a long-standing passion, but she let that pass. “Then you have to take him to Big Bend. I will not marry a murderer.”

  “But you married him!” Mason exploded.

  “I married Peter Warren. I accepted that man as my husband because I thought he was Peter. I did not marry a murderer, nor could I accept a man I knew to be a murderer.”

  “Then you admit he killed Peter?”

  “I don’t know what he did. That’s for the court to decide on the basis of evidence. You don’t have any evidence, and you aren’t a court.”

  “I don’t care. Find a limb, boys. We’re going to hang him high.”

  “Any man who participates in this hanging is a murderer!” Anne shouted. “I know your faces, and I will find out your names. As soon as I reach Big Bend, I’ll have the sheriff arrest all of you on the charge of murder.” The men had slowed when she began to speak. Not one of them moved a muscle now. “I will also testify that you went ahead with this murder despite the fact that you’d been warned not to proceed, that you weren’t a duly constituted court, and you presented absolutely no evidence to support your charges.”

  “He kidnaped you,” Mason said. “That’s a hanging offense.”

  “I’ll testify that I went willingly.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “If you marry me, you will become the father of my children. What kind of mother would I be if I brought children into this world knowing their father was a murderer? What man will marry my daughters? What woman will trust my sons?”

  “Thousands of men will be eager to marry them. They’ll be the daughters of a rich man.”

  “I want my daughters to marry men of character, men who marry them because they cherish and honor them, not for their wealth.”

  “That’s why he wanted you.”

  “I married a man I thought I’d loved since I was six. Not this man.”

  “Then you don’t love him?”

  “No. I realized I loved a boy.. Peter Warren vanished years ago.”

  For a moment she thought she’d lost. His chin seemed jutted in defiance of everything she said. She wondered if she could take his gun, force him to take Pete to Big Bend.

  “We’ll take him to my ranch,” Mason said. “Once we’re there, I’ll decide what to do.”

  That wasn’t the clear victory Anne had been hoping for, but she didn’t dare push him further now. Mason had given her more time. She had to use it to figure out how to save Pete.

  Mason’s ranch came into sight shortly before midafternoon. Anne felt she was being drawn further and further into a trap. Several hours in Bill Mason’s company hadn’t caused her to like him any better. He was a rough, cruel man, who treated his cowhands with thoughtless disregard. His treatment of Pete was even worse. Pete had been bound hand and foot to his horse and driven over the plain at a trot that bounced him painfully and caused the rawhide to cut into his wrists. When Anne pointed that out, Mason had replied that it was better to suffer a few cuts than a broken neck.

  Anne decided silence would be better for both her and Pete. If she made Mason angry by continued opposition, he would take it out on Pete.

  Much to her surprise, Ray came down the steps of the ranch house when they arrived.

  “I been looking everywhere for Mrs. Warren,” he said to Mason. “I been waiting here to see if you knew where she was.”

  “As you can see, I’ve brought her safely home. I caught the low-down murdering dog who pretended to be her husband.”

  Anne had an idea. “Thank goodness you’re here,” she said, walking up to Ray. “I need some fresh clothes. I feel like these have grown to my skin.”

  “Git on your horse and go get the lady her things,” Mason said.

  “I need to make a list,” Anne said. “I need much more than dresses. Do you have a table where I can write?”

  “Inside. The cook will show you. Okay, boys, bring our prisoner to the barn. Make sure you tie him up nice and tight. I’d hate to see him get loose and have someone shoot him by accident.”

  He cast Anne a mocking look, but she returned it with what she hoped was unsuspecting innocence.

  “I don’t need clothes,” Anne whispered as soon as Mason went off with his men. “I need you to ride into Big Bend and tell the sheriff that Mason has captured the man who pretended to be my husband and that they plan to hang him. Then I want you to go to Mrs. Dean’s home. Tell her I apologize for doubting her, that she was right about Pete from the beginning. Then beg her to come to Mason’s ranch as soon as possible to act as my chaperone. He means to keep me here until I’m free to marry him, but there’s no female here to give me countenance.”

  “What about the clothes?”

  “Take my messages to town first. Then get my clothes.”

  “What about the list?”

  “Forget the list. Just bring everything. I don’t know when I’ll be able to leave here.”

  “You don’t think he’s guilty, do you?”

  Ray’s question went to the heart of what she was doing, of his helping her. “No, I don’t, but I don’t have any proof.”

  “I don’t think he’s guilty either.”

  “Then we’ve got to do our best to save him. Now go quickly, before Mason comes back.”

  Pete tried to shift his position so the weight of his body wouldn’t pull on the rawhide that tied him to the inside of a stall. Mason had intentionally tied him in a manner guaranteed to make the rawhide strips cut deeply into his skin. Despite the pain, he had few thoughts to spare for his wrists. Anne’s intervention had saved him from being hanged. He knew she loved him. That must mean she believed him.

  He didn’t know how a man could be happy tied to a wall with his captor itching to hang him at the first opportunity, but he had been. However, the euphoria he first felt had been replaced by calm acceptance of the fact his life was in grave danger. If he didn’t do something soon, Anne was going to be in love with a dead man.

  For the second time within a month.

  But tied up as he was, he didn’t have any options. He had to wait for an opportunity. He knew Bill Mason was going to do his best not to give him one.

  Anne didn’t like the way Bill Mason looked at her, as though she were prey and he a hungry predator. Mason was so happy with his capture of Pete, he’d given the men the rest of the day off. A constant flow of men had come through the house all afternoon and evening, but soon everyone would be moseying out to the bunkhouse, and she’d be left alone with Mason. There was no woman in the house. The cook was a thin, silent man who moved about the place like a shadow.

  She longed to go see Pete, but she couldn’t think of a way that wouldn’t arouse Mason’s suspicion. She’d mentioned him once during dinner—asked the foreman how the prisoner was doing—and Mason had turned on her with the speed of a striking snake, demanded to know why she should be asking about a murderer. She passed it off as idle curiosity.

  “After all, I did live with the man for several weeks. I can’t forget him as if he never existed.”

  “That’s exactly what you’re going to do,” Mason replied. He’d then started asking about their relationship, wanting to know if they’d been intimate. Anne thought it was inexcusable of him to expect her to answer in front of several hired hands.

  “I’ve told you before, I felt uneasy,” she said. “Peter and I hadn’t seen each other in years. We decided to keep to ourselves until we became better acquainted.”

  “Eddie said you slept in the same bed.”

  A bell rang in the back of her head. Pete had said he thought Eddie and Mason were somehow working together. This proved it. There couldn’t be any other reason for Eddie to pass along such personal information.

  “We didn’t have any choice, not with Belser accusing Pete of being an im
poster and me of marrying him only to get a rich husband. But Pete never once crossed the center of that bed.”

  The men had looked embarrassed, had kept their gazes on their plates. She didn’t think Mason even noticed.

  She was forced to pass the time after supper in complete idleness. Mason ignored her for his card games. Finally, in desperation, she went to the kitchen and begged the cook to allow her to prepare the coffee, serve it, wash cups, anything to keep busy.

  “Okay.”

  That was all he would say. If she asked where to find something, he either got it or pointed to it. She gradually limited herself to questions that could be answered by a shake or nod of the head.

  That was how the situation remained until she saw the saddlebags.

  They were lying in the corner of the storage room. Saddlebags with a J stenciled on the side and decorated with Indian beadwork. Pete’s saddlebags! The ones he said had been stolen by the men who shot him and killed Peter. It was the first piece of evidence she’d found that might corroborate Pete’s story, might help prove he didn’t kill Peter.

  “What attractive saddlebags,” she said to the cook, trying to control the excitement in her voice. “Are they yours?”

  He shook his head.

  “Who do they belong to?”

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  She picked them up. They were empty. Whatever had been in them had been removed. She turned the saddlebags around, pretending to inspect them. The seams hadn’t been cut. If Pete really had put the money inside, it was still there.

  “I think they’re very pretty. I’d love to have some like this.”

  He looked at her with no interest.

  “Who do they belong to? I want to see if he’ll sell them.”

  “They don’t belong to anybody,” he said, speaking at last.

  “Someone must own them. They’re too nice to be cast off.”

  “They belonged to a man who stopped at our chuck wagon one night. He said he didn’t like bead-work.”

  “That’s why I like them.”

  “He left them in the chuck wagon, said it was in exchange for feeding him and his friend. None of the boys wanted them, so I threw them in there. I don’t want them, either, but they look too good to waste.”