"Find Sadie."
Collie nodded, donning his poker face beneath his curtain of shaggy hair. Most of the time, Collie eyed women the way he eyed rattlers. Cass figured Sadie's loins-stirring smiles and seductive shimmies would be wasted on the kid—which would be a well-deserved comeuppance for the Devil's Red-haired Daughter. After the way she'd kicked him in the gut, Cass wanted nothing better than to tie his born-again lover to a bedpost and paddle the stuffing out of her.
Too bad Sadie would like it so much.
Grunting farewell to Sid, Collie stomped past Poppy with callous indifference. Vandy flashed his fangs at the senator's wife before scampering into Fourth Street.
Now it was Cass's turn. Unfolding his long legs, he settled his Stetson on his head and reached for the gun belt Sid was extending to him.
"Much obliged."
"I certainly hope so," Poppy breathed.
Cass hid his amusement. He'd been speaking to Sid.
As Poppy hustled him into the bright, cloudless morning, heat waves were already undulating off the sun-bleached planks of the boardwalk. Dia de los Muertos—the Day of the Dead—was only a few days away, and Gringo curiosity-seekers were entertaining themselves in the Public Square by inspecting Tejano handcarts piled high with sugar skulls and ritual toys. As Cass passed street vendors, he could hear haggling in broken English.
Lampasas was a railroad boomtown, thanks to the Gulf, Colorado, and Santa Fe, which had completed its feeder line out of Belton only months ago. The result had been to end cattle droving in central Texas and populate nearby hills with tents.
Lampasas, with its famed mineral springs, was perfectly positioned as a vacation resort, since the governor was talking about calling a special session of the legislature in January, to discuss the state's problem with fence-cutting gunnysackers.
The state's other problem was a covert organization of vigilante grangers, who'd given honest, hard-working sodbusters a bad name. The Southern Farmers Alliance had denounced the guerilla tactics of the anonymous radicals, who festered in their ranks and lynched suspected gunnysackers. But a proclamation from a lobbyist group wasn't going to stop the murderers from attending the convention.
Or assassinating Baron.
"Lampasas is such a barbaric place," Poppy said, as if guessing Cass's thoughts. She shuddered. "I can't wait for this convention to be over. Sid Wright is worse than useless. Yesterday, I approached him with my private concerns about that floating poker game at Aquacia Bathhouse. Contrary to what all the sodbusters think, their wives are perfectly aware that their husbands are sneaking out of the convention to lose their shirts. But when I asked Wright to disband the game, he told me his hands are tied! Can you imagine? Assassins are running amuck, and Wright claims he can't send deputies two miles down the road to arrest them!"
Cass cleared his throat. Baron, himself, had staked that poker game as part of his strategy to undermine Sterne's popularity with voters. Apparently, Wright had been too much of a gentleman to acquaint Poppy with the truth.
"The bathhouse is located outside of town," Cass reminded her politely. "Sid's jurisdiction is limited to Lampasas."
"What a lot of rubbish. A crime is a crime. Who cares if a sheriff, a marshal, or a Ranger makes the arrest? It's a lawman's sworn duty to protect decent folks from outlaws!"
"Well... it is true lawmen need a little help now and then. That's why Baron hired me and Collie."
"Oh, Cass. Don't you see? My husband hired private security to protect us from that overbearing tyrant, Rexford Sterne. You're the only gunfighter in this town with the nerve—and the skill—to stand up to his badge-wearing bullies."
Cass averted his eyes. As much as he wanted to think that Sterne was an unholy bastard, he wanted to cling even more to his ideal that Rangers were noble. All his life, Cass had wanted to be someone whom other men respected. The kind of person whom women loved and little kiddies admired. He knew he could never go back and fix the mistake he'd made at the age of 13, when he'd gone vigilante, drawing too fast and plugging Abel Ainsworth before the Ku Klux Klansman could turn all the way around to face his doom. That split second of adolescent rage, of wanting to avenge Cousin Bobby's brutal murder, had forced Cass to spend his life running from the law, rather than enforcing it.
Still, in his heart, he tried to be worthy of Rangerhood: to fight for right. To protect the innocent. To defend the weak. That's what being a Ranger meant to him.
"You needn't worry about Baron, ma'am," Cass said gruffly. "Tito knows how to handle ruffians. He'll look after Baron when I'm off duty. Besides, most chuckleheads who strap on guns do it for show. They're slow to draw."
"I suspect that's how Marshal Wright got his job," Poppy said disdainfully. "Frankly, I don't think that man would recognize a crime unless he stumbled over a corpse!"
Slowing her steps, she peered into the milliner's window, with its tuxedo-wearing scarecrow and cheerful jack-o-lanterns. Each pumpkin was topped with a witch's hat that sported multi-patterned orange bows. Poppy worried her bottom lip as she stared at the display—or perhaps at the wall clock.
"Cass, you were good to me once, when I needed a friend." She turned to face him again, her expression troubled. "I haven't forgotten how you tried to comfort me that day in the calving barn."
Uh-oh. Cass's insides squirmed. He hadn't been expecting her to revisit that topic.
"You were only 17," she murmured. "Remember?"
Yeah, he remembered, all right. He'd found Poppy crying her eyes out after her second miscarriage and trying to slit her wrists with a whittling knife.
"That kind of sensitivity is so rare in a youth..." Her eyes filled with tears. "And now look at you. A full-grown man, putting your life on the line for my husband. I can't let you get hurt, Cass. It wouldn't be just."
"Uh... thanks, Mrs. Westerfield. But it's my job to make sure you and Baron stay safe. It's what I'm good at. That's why Baron hired me."
She nodded reluctantly, giving a watery sniff and tightening her hold on his arm. "I'm so glad my husband found you."
There it is again. That, 'My Husband,' thing.
They continued their stroll toward the half-constructed, limestone courthouse at the center of the Square. The gothic structure was already imposing, even without its clock tower, which the Tejano laborers would eventually erect above the red-slate tiles of the mansard roof.
Poppy grimaced at the Spanish-speaking workers, many of whom were swearing and whipping their mules. Playing the damsel-in-distress, she dragged Cass closer—so close, he couldn't fail to see her flushed skin, dilated eyes, and fluttering pulse. The scent of violets rolled off her breasts like an invisible fog. He was a little surprised by all these sexual signals. Poppy had always seemed too distant for a flirtation.
The truth was, Cass had never been opposed to affairs with married women—or older women, for that matter. Sadie was three years his senior, and when she licked her lips, smiling at his crotch, she could damned near pop the buttons of his fly.
Wilma could shrug off a skimpy lace nightdress in a downright dastardly way—one that never failed to make him salivate, even if she was old enough to be his mother.
But Poppy?
Cass winced to imagine his boss's weepy wife, mourning the ghosts of dead babies and lying like a sack of potatoes in his bed.
Poppy wouldn't be much fun.
Suddenly, she halted between the Commercial Saloon and a driverless wagon, piled high with beer kegs. Cass braced himself, expecting a temperance tirade. To his surprise, she ignored the liquor.
"That footpad at the Globe Hotel got me thinking," she confessed. Tears glimmered on her lashes as she raised beseeching eyes to his. "Baron has so many night meetings. So many mistresses. What if some burglar comes to my hotel room when I'm all alone and defenseless?"
Cass fidgeted. Her reasoning wasn't outside the realm of possibilities. A senator's wife was as much of a target as her husband.
"No one's going to hurt
you on my watch, Mrs. Westerfield."
As if to prove him wrong, a gunshot shattered the morning air. The saloon window behind Poppy's head exploded into a thousand pieces.
"Sniper!" she shrieked, flinging herself into his arms.
Cass muttered an oath, dragging her down behind the buckboard to avoid the shower of glass.
The boardwalk had turned into a chaotic jumble of screaming petticoats and jostling sack suits. Above the sound of a bawling toddler, a Tejano's handcart crashed to the street. Sugar skulls rolled; marigolds got trampled. Cass recognized the second and third reports of a Winchester rifle; he smelled the taint of black powder on the breeze.
Struggling to free his arms from Poppy's clutches, he drew his Colts and squinted to the east. The shooter was strategically positioned across the Public Square on Third Street, his back to the morning sun, his vital organs shielded by the false façade of the grocer's roof. A fire-limned derby was all Cass could clearly discern of the man's appearance.
But derbys are favored by sodbusters.
"Stay down!" Cass barked as Poppy tried to rise from her knees.
She locked her arms around his middle section. "Don't leave me!"
"Let me go!"
"You'll be killed!"
"Cass!" It was Baron's voice, booming from a mess of toppled handcarts, several doors up the street. "Tito was hit!"
Cass cursed at this news. "Take cover!" he shouted at his boss.
But Baron, being as stubborn as his prized longhorn bull, ignored this advice. He was returning the fire, trying to protect Tito. The pirate sprawled on his butt amidst smashed pumpkin rinds, while Pendleton cowered in his boss's shadow, wielding an utterly useless derringer. Baron's .45 wasn't much more effective under the circumstances. A Peacemaker's range was only 50 yards, while a Winchester could strike a target at 400.
Cass broke free of Poppy's frantic hold and tried to draw the sniper's fire. His strategy succeeded a little too well. Cartridges plowed into the kegs; wood chips exploded around his hat; beer foamed around his boots. Half blinded by sawdust and sun, he nevertheless heard a pinging sound. One of his own bullets had struck sparks from the brass receiver of the sniper's Winchester.
That deadly close-call must have enraged the assassin. He turned his rifle on the beer wagon's horse. The frightened animal neighed and bolted. Cass cursed as his cover began galloping away. To complicate matters, Poppy chose that exact moment to faint. He had to get the confounded woman inside the saloon before the dust settled!
"Cass! Take cover!"
A lanky youth with blond hair was trying to draw the sniper's fire. Collie had entrenched himself with his rifle and coon behind a stack of slate tiles on the courthouse's construction site. The boy's fire blew the sniper's derby off his head. In retaliation, the sniper sheared off the top few layers of slate. Cass could hear the boy cursing like a muleskinner as sharp, red shards rained down around him.
"Take him out, boys!" bellowed an authoritative voice from the south side of the Square. Shielded from the sniper's view, Sid Wright ducked into Third Street. He was sprinting beneath porch roofs with his deputies.
As the tin-stars opened fire, the grocer's sign quickly turned into the wooden equivalent of Swiss cheese. Outgunned and out of cartridges, the sniper fled, ducking behind façades as he headed west. Cass finally had the diversion he needed to drag Poppy through the batwings of the saloon. He emerged a heartbeat later with both guns and a vengeance.
"Baron!"
The senator waved. He appeared to be all right. He was squatting beside the pasty-faced Pendleton, who looked like he might spew his breakfast as he tied a neckerchief around Tito's bloody arm.
Cass muttered an oath when he realized Sid's panting, pot-bellied deputies had become less concerned with apprehending the sniper than a passel of looting adolescents. The Public Square was in chaos. Matrons were shrieking; toddlers were wailing; and sodbusters were raging against "the depraved morality of city folk." If Cass wanted the sniper caught, he'd have to do it himself.
Squinting against the sun, he scanned the eastern skyline until his watering eyes spied a two-legged shadow, sprinting through the undulating heat waves.
Found you, you bastard!
Charging into the middle of the Square, Cass nearly got flattened by a rearing horse and its surrey before he reached his destination: the grocer's porch. Ignoring the red-faced merchant's threat to press charges, Cass vaulted for the rain spout and scrambled onto the roof.
"What the hell are you doing, Cass?" Baron yelled. "You're not deputized!"
Sid yelled something similar, but Cass was burning with vigilante vengeance. The sniper had made him look like a gun-waving bumpkin. Worse, the renegade had nearly plugged Baron and Poppy, who were counting on him for protection. No way was Cass going to let that gunman escape!
The sniper was four stores ahead, bounding toward Live Oak Street like a suicidal jackrabbit. Gritting his teeth, Cass did the same, clawing for purchase at chimneys, ripping shingles from roofs with his spurs. Collie was sprinting across the construction site, firing his Winchester, because Cass's .45 was out of range.
"Hey, kid!" Cass yelled when Collie's cartridge pinged off Boomer's barber pole. "Who taught you how to aim?"
"You did!"
"Then you didn't learn squat! Toss the rifle here!"
Collie obliged, and Cass caught it on the run, snapping the breechblock.
"It's only got one cartridge left!" Collie shouted, his voice fading as he fell behind.
Never warn the enemy, kid.
Cass slid to a halt on the building's edge. He had seconds—fractions of seconds—to steady his stance and take aim before the sniper jumped down to the hay wagon parked conveniently outside the livery. Cass could see a saddled bay, waiting patiently in the shadow of the iron horse sign that wobbled in the wind.
A numbing calm swept over him.
"That's bully, Pa," he remembered his 10-year-old self praising the 12-point buck his father had felled. "Caught him on the run, too! Not even a Ranger could shoot so good! You could be a Ranger, Pa. Why don't you wear a badge?"
"Cause I got family, Billy. A Ranger would never risk the people he loves. Too many vengeance-minded outlaws prey on a lawman's kin. 'Sides. It takes more than fancy shooting to be a Ranger."
"It does? Like what?"
"Like respect for life, boy. Like knowing right from wrong. A Ranger keeps the peace. He doesn't take the law into his own hands."
Not long after that, Matthew Cassidy had been caught in the crossfire as feuding neighbors did the very thing that he'd warned his son not to do.
And Pa wasn't the only Cassidy who got murdered by a menace the law was too chicken-livered to punish.
Hardening his jaw at the bitter memories, Cass squinted through the rifle sight. Shooting a man in the back was a death sentence. He'd learned that the hard way. Since the fleeing sniper wasn't likely to turn around and make the shot defensible in court, Cass had to devise another plan. And fast. The bastard was getting ready to jump. Cass didn't have the protection of a badge if he missed.
So it's a good thing I never miss.
With a feral snarl, he pulled the trigger. Sparks flew as the cartridge ripped the iron horse from its mooring. The swinging sign slammed into the sniper with a clang. He yiked, dropping his Winchester. The rifle clattered down the shingles and plunged into a watering trough. A heartbeat later, both the sniper and the sign went crashing through the damaged timbers of the roof.
"Cassidy!" It was Sid's voice. "So help me God, I'll throw away the key to your cell this time!"
Cass gave the lawman a cheeky salute. "He's all yours, marshal. Wrapped up nice and pretty with a bow."
Lumbering into the livery yard with a deputy, Sid warned Collie and Vandy to stay out of harm's way, a warning which they obeyed for roughly 90 seconds.
In the meantime, Cass shimmied down a porch pillar. When he caught up with Collie inside the stable, he was dumbfounded to s
ee Sid and his deputy wading through straw, poking their rifles into hay bales, and generally looking perplexed.
"He got away?" Cass said incredulously. "What the hell happened?"
Collie rolled his eyes. "Your lawman friend moves slower than a three-legged tortoise. My guess is, the sniper was disguised. He threw off his granger clothes and disappeared through the tack room into the crowd."
About two minutes later, Vandy proved Collie right by sniffing out a ratty brown wig and sack coat, stashed under the straw.
But by that time, the sniper was long gone.
Chapter 6
Cass had two things on his mind the rest of that day: identifying the sniper and tracking down Sadie.
In Cass's opinion, the sniper had been a professional. He'd positioned himself so anyone returning his fire would be sunblind. He'd even pre-planned his escape. So why had the bastard been such a lousy shot?
That question plagued Cass for hours. Baron hypothesized that his would-be assassin had hit Tito because the big man was in the way, but Cass wasn't so sure. The sniper had taken numerous potshots at Tito, while Baron, who'd been returning fire, only dodged two bullets.
In any event, Baron was too canny not to milk the incident for every ounce of publicity he could get. He awarded Tito a medal. Poppy all but smothered the big man with her maternal fussing. She dressed his wounds and vowed she would only have a hero as her bodyguard.
Thus, while Cass was relegated to Baron Duty, he kept his ears pricked—and not just for sniper news. He figured he owed Sadie a colossal comeuppance.
Cass couldn't forgive the Devil's Daughter for kicking him in the gut, and worse, for laughing at him while he'd flailed like an oaf on the hotel carpet. He imagined how the hellcat must have hidden in the stairwell, watching in delight as Rexford Sterne slapped him with cuffs.
But Cass's good humor was restored around dinnertime, when Collie returned from his Sadie Hunt. Apparently while whittling critters and trading quips with Joaquin, the shoeshine boy from Boomer's Barbershop, Collie had heard some juicy gossip:
A sodbuster with "cat's eyes and goat whiskers" liked to play poker at a boardinghouse near Silk Stocking Row. The granger wasn't much good at cards, which got him lots of invitations, and his losses were something of a joke in that establishment, since he never seemed able to afford a rut. As a result, he often got served "consolation shots" by the proprietess, a spooky Cajun with red and blue snakes crawling on her hands.
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