“I’ll tell her, Sergeant,” he said gently.
One of the spectators shouted that the wagon was gone, and men merged into the street, silent and curious. Snake Edwards, an army scout and a good friend of Peter’s, helped move Trayner to the shade of the sidewalk. Someone went for the doctor, but Trayner died before the doctor arrived.
Peter closed Trayner’s eyes, covered his face with his vest, and then stood up. There was an unnatural stillness inside him, as if he had not fully realized what had happened.
Snake spat a stream of tobacco into the dirt and shook his head. “Sure wish you had’na butted in the way you did.”
Peter frowned his lack of understanding. “What?”
“Didn’t change nothing. He’s dead just like he woulda been if you’d minded your own business, and now you got yourself a peck of trouble. Those men are on the vigilance committee. They’ll either come back here and get you themselves or put a price on your head—won’t be nothing you can do about it.”
Peter shook his head. “The vigilance committee? I thought that was just storekeepers and property owners.”
“Used to be—at the beginning. But the crews coming up the trail got rougher and wilder until the honest men, even in a pack, couldn’t handle ’em. So’s they let in some of the wild ones and then some more until now the wild ones control.”
“So what now?” Peter demanded.
“Depends on how mad they are…” Snake shrugged, his lean face noncommittal. “But I wouldn’t stay around waiting if I was you. I’d get my woman and head out of town, far as I could get.”
“Run? From a bunch of drunk cowpunchers? There wasn’t a man in the bunch. They were a pack of snot-nosed kids,” Peter said, incredulous.
“Those kids would as soon kill you as look at you,” Snake growled. “You’ve been holed up too long with your pretty little wife. You’re out of touch, Captain.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
They borrowed a wagon and took John Trayner home. Peter broke the news to his wife as gently as he could, and then he and Snake carried Trayner in and laid him on the floor of the small, well-scrubbed parlor.
“How did it happen, Captain Van Vleet?” she asked, holding herself stiffly as if her dignity were the only thing left between her and utter and final hopelessness.
“Your husband was attacked by a pack of sneak thieves, Mrs. Trayner. They killed him and stole the wagon and supplies.”
Her dark eyes searched his face to see if he was lying to her. Then she looked away. “Was he…did he suffer?” she asked softly.
“No, ma’am. He died quickly,” he said.
She stooped down and touched her husband’s hand, lying cool and limp across his chest. “Did these thieves…did they shame John?” She looked up at him, and he could see something hardening and coiling within her at the thought of strange men shaming her husband. She knelt on the floor beside his body protectively, and Peter could see her convulsing with fury and violation, speechless with the welter of emotions that were threatening to overwhelm her.
“He had no reason for shame. He did all that he could have done, Mrs. Trayner,” he said, his voice strangely thick.
She swallowed and closed her eyes, fighting for control. “You see, John was a good man, a gentle man. That’s why I loved him so much. My brother and my father are brutal, hating men, Captain. I never understood them before.”
Dragging in a deep breath, she stood up. “Thank you, Captain. I’d best get busy and tend to John.”
“Mrs. Trayner, if there is anything either I or my wife can do…”
She nodded as if she understood, but he could tell by the look in her eyes that she would never ask. “Thank you, Captain. I think it fitting that he be dressed in his best uniform, don’t you? I’d best get him cleaned up before the children come home from school. You’ll excuse me, please, Captain. They’ll be here soon, and I don’t want them to see him such a mess.”
When Peter had turned the wagon and snapped the ribbons, sending the horses leaping forward, Snake, who was doing his best to hold on to his seat, asked, “Where we going now?”
“I’m going to ask Simone if she will come stay with Mrs. Trayner, then I’m going back to town to settle this thing.”
Snake rolled his eyes and shook his head. “You’re hauling about one brick short of a load, boy.”
“I don’t give a damn. You tell me who else will stay with her. She needs some female companionship, dammit.”
“I ain’t questioning that. I’m questioning how smart it is for you and Simone. Those boys weren’t play-actin’ this afternoon. They’re meaner’n poison.”
The house was neat and orderly and smelled of the strong lye soap Simone used to clean, but Peter could tell immediately that the place was deserted. He also knew that it would do no good to go looking for her. She had many friends in Fort Dodge. She could be anywhere. He searched his memory to see if he could remember what she had said that morning. She usually told him what she was planning to do, but, husbandlike, he usually didn’t listen too closely.
They returned the wagon to its owner and spent the afternoon going from saloon to saloon looking for the men who had killed Trayner. It was nine o’clock, almost full dark when Peter decided they might as well give up their vigil and return home. Snake insisted on riding with him. “You were lucky, boy. Those men could have made a lot of trouble for you.”
“Wonder what happened to them.”
“Maybe somewhere sleeping off their drunk. Don’t rightly understand it myself. Any other time they woulda been right back, raring to finish what they started,” Snake grunted.
There was a light burning in the cabin, lighting the windows with a warm, cheery, luminous glow that shone out at him and quickened that little leap of gladness he always felt when he saw the house he and Simone shared together. It was an automatic but welcome response. He smiled into the darkness.
As they drew closer, Peter became aware that something did not feel the same. It was elusive and oppressive. On the surface everything looked like it always did, but the smile faded and he slowed his horse, tightening his legs around the animal’s heaving sides. His eyes narrowed as he tried to penetrate the darkness. They drew closer, and the same nerve-end tingle that had made him such an effective Indian fighter now sent an alarm racing along his nerves. He reached out to signal his friend.
“Get down!” he hissed, throwing himself sideways off his own horse just as bullets whined over his head, puncturing the air where his body had been only a split-second before.
The night was torn apart by gunfire. Peter dashed for the cabin. His hand was on the door when he heard Snake drop. He spun around and threw himself in the direction of the sound. Bullets were spewing up a cloud of dirt and dust that blinded him. Gropingly, he located his friend, and with bullets spanging and whining all around them, he dragged him into the cabin. He kicked the door shut and crawled over to the table to put out the light and froze in mid-breath. Simone’s arm, clearly visible through the doorway into the bedroom, dangled from the bed onto the floor, white and limp.
Ignoring the crash of gunfire that filled the small cabin with frightful, strident concussions, he crawled into the bedroom. Simone was naked, sprawled across the bed. Her pale skin was blotched with bruises. Her throat gaped where a knife had opened it. The bedclothes were drenched in her blood. The smell of it was sweet, intimate, and cloying in his nostrils.
Peter curled over, unable or unwilling to breathe, his lungs filled with heaviness and clamped by icy bands. Forgetting the men outside, he stood up and pulled the coverlet over Simone, as if that simple act would somehow comfort her. He huddled there on the floor, holding her cold hand, overwhelmed by a welter of emotions, blaming himself. If he had been here…If he hadn’t left her alone…If he hadn’t gotten involved in something that wasn’t his problem…If he had listened to Snake, found her, and left town instead of trying to play the hero…
“Come out, you nigger-lovin
g bastard!” a loud voice called out to him. “Light those torches! He’ll come out then.”
Snake groaned, and Peter roused a little. He forced himself to crawl back to Snake’s side. He didn’t bother to put out the lamp. The shooting had stopped momentarily. Snake’s eyes were glazed and unfocused. He had taken one bullet in the stomach and one in the chest, high up. Blood mixed with a frothy spittle dribbled from his mouth, creeping toward his ear.
“Simone…okay?” Snake whispered.
“Yeah,” he lied, moving to wad his vest up and put it under Snake’s head.
“I need a…drink.”
Peter crawled to the cupboard where Simone kept their lone bottle of whiskey, tucked it under his arm, and scooted back to Snake’s side. He uncapped the bottle and held Snake’s head so he could take a swallow. Snake groaned, then coughed. The ragged, tearing sound in Snake’s lungs grated through him the way chalk grated on a blackboard, setting every nerve in his body on edge.
“That’s better,” Snake whispered. “Now, boy, you get the hell outta here. They’re gonna burn this place.”
“I’m not leaving you,” Peter said firmly.
“I’m a goner, boy. You git. Before it’s too late.”
Peter shook his head. His eyes fell on something small and blue. It was the baby bootie. Without thinking, he put it into his pants pocket. Snake groaned, and Peter clamped his teeth together, praying for an end to his friend’s pain. He felt numb and insulated against his own feelings.
“Gimme another drink.”
Peter held his friend’s head, let the whiskey trickle into his mouth. Snake started to cough—a ragged, tearing ugliness that twisted inside Peter like some crazed reptile, coiling and lashing. Snake’s hand groped for his, and Peter held it tight. Snake returned the pressure for a second, and then his eyes rolled back in his head. The rattle of his breathing stopped. Peter sat on the floor of the lighted cabin, holding his friend’s hand. He didn’t know how long he sat there. The firing had stopped, and he could hear the sound of a few crickets chirping off in the distance as if this were any normal evening.
A hoarse yell rent the stillness. There was the crash of glass breaking, and a torch arced into the room, sailed over his head and struck the lamp, to send kerosene spraying over the other half of the room.
“Come on out, nigger lover!”
Another voice joined the first. “Get a rope! Bring a rope with yuh! We’re gonna hang this lily-livered bastard.” Others joined in, until a dozen men were yelling obscenities.
The flames caught and leaped up, illuminating the inside of the cabin and filling the small room with a wild roaring sound like a waterfall, close up. Heat slammed into him like a wall that could not be walked through. Peter stood up slowly and walked to the mantel, where his shotgun hung. He scooped up a handful of shells and loaded quickly. He knew he couldn’t get all of them, but he was sure he could get some of them before they got him. Flames were licking at his legs; he walked toward the door, the shotgun hanging alongside his right thigh.
“Here he comes! Wing him! We’re gonna hang that nigger lover! Teach him a lesson!”
The men were either drunk or overeager. Three of them rushed forward, ignoring or not seeing the shotgun. Peter waited until they were close together, melded into one tight target, and then he swung the gun up and pulled both triggers. The men flew backward as if they had been jerked by hidden wires. The night was shattered by the crash of answering gunfire. Peter reloaded and kept walking. Two men to the left of Peter stood up and yelled. Peter swung around and they caught the twin blasts in chest and belly. A man to the right of Peter panicked and stood up to run. Peter dropped the empty shotgun, drew his revolver, and shot the man in the back. At that point, it turned into a rout, with Peter clearly outlined against the burning house, his gun blazing. When the hammer landed on an empty cartridge, he was the only one standing.
They weren’t all dead. He could hear someone groaning, but the fine white fury had drained out of him. He could hear the roar of the fire and smell the acrid, heated smoke, but he could not feel the warmth. He holstered his gun, walked slowly to his horse, mounted stiffly, and kicked the horse into a trot.
He didn’t have a single scratch on his body. He rode most of that night, only stopping when the moon set and it was too dark to continue without endangering his horse. He had no food or water. He unsaddled the mare, tied her close to a lush patch of tall grass, and gathered twigs to build a small fire to take the chill out of his bones.
Blind to the threat of pursuit, he kicked a small depression in the earth, arranged the dried limbs and bark, and reached into his pocket for a small tin of matches. The fire caught, and he sat down, shivering with a mixture of shock, exhaustion, and cold. Damp wood popped and crackled in the flames. A coyote yipped in the distance, and the mare snorted in response. Stars blinked overhead. The fire leaped, spreading warmth and light. Something on the ground caught his eye. Puzzled, he picked it up and recognized the small misshapen bootie that Simone had struggled over. He had touched it without recognizing it, but now a whole passel of memories rushed into the void of his numb mind as if they had been somehow attached to the yarn. He was seeing Trayner and Snake dying, Simone and his unborn child dead, and Mrs. Trayner’s grief, with sights and sounds and smells and the helplessness and anger all mixed up together so that he felt paralyzed. The memory cut like a razor into soft flesh until it grated against the bone, and he groaned softly and doubled over, unable to free himself from the pain of it, rocking with helplessness.
Two days later, when he stopped at an isolated ranch house to buy supplies off a settler, he heard that ex-army Captain Peter Van Vleet was wanted for the murder of his wife, her lover Snake Edwards, and eight members of the posse who had tried to capture him.
He couldn’t get honest work because someone always recognized him. The blaze of silver-streaked flaxen hair made him an easy target. Easy to describe. Easy to recognize. And once he had started running, there wasn’t any way to stop.
Now Ward Cantrell, the former Peter Van Vleet, stood by the barred window, looking out at the dark, quiet shapes of the buildings outside the jail, smelling the sage from the desert, letting the soft night winds cool his face, feeling that perhaps there hadn’t been anything he could have done, except be someone else entirely. Someone smarter and wiser and more cautious…
He could hear a dog yipping off in the distance and the faint sounds of dance hall music. The sky was beginning to lighten on the eastern horizon—dark purple instead of black. Purple, a few shades darker than Jennifer’s eyes.
At twenty he hadn’t been able to forgive Jenn for falling in love with Kincaid, but in the last eight years he had learned a lot about women. Too many of them didn’t seem to have any control over whom they fell in love with. Sometimes a man’s just standing in the right place at the right time seemed reason enough. Too bad he hadn’t bothered to recognize this fact about women earlier so that he could have forgiven Jenn before he died…
That thought brought a sardonic gleam into his eyes and a smile to his lean face. They couldn’t help themselves any more than Leslie Powers could stifle the passion and fire in her wild little body. She was all woman, definitely unique in the best sense of the word, and every inch a lady.
Leslie Powers. Her name conjured up a well of turbulent emotions, not the least of which was guilt. He had wronged her in every possible way. He had taken her virginity, destroyed her reputation, and left her vulnerable to Younger and others like him. And amazingly, after all that, she had faced them in the jail with courage that bespoke an indomitable spirit. She had shown herself as a woman who would not be cowed. There was something very rare in that one. It was unfortunate that he had met her too late and under the worst possible circumstances.
He sighed. Had he fallen in love with her? Was that why his heart leaped when she walked into the jail?
He closed his eyes, unwilling to answer either question. There was nothing he could do
about it now. He glanced at the eastern sky. The horizon had lightened to violet. It was almost time.
His heart constricted. Realization was like a net closing around him. Fear was like a wild thing inside him. He did not want to die. He wanted to live! He gripped the bars, pressing his face against the cold metal, eyes closed, fighting for control.
He had faced death many times before, but this, locked up and waiting to be executed by men he hated, was the worst. Much worse than when Mama Mendoza had taken him in. He’d lain on her lumpy pallet for days in a near coma, wracked with fever and pain. Then death would have been a relief. On the field of combat it would have been at least quick. It was a very different thing to contemplate your own death by hanging. It was a simple thing to die after a lengthy illness and quite another to die when you were young and healthy and the blood in your veins could still sing at the mere thought of a pretty girl.
He watched the sky turn from violet to gray; then he sat down at the small table and took up the quill.
Dear Jenn,
There is far too much to say and too little time to say it in, but I feel compelled to tell you that I left New York in a childish fury when you married Kincaid, and I realize now that it is I who should have begged your forgiveness. Forgiveness for judging you harshly and for waiting until it was too late to come to my senses and to realize that no matter what has gone before, we are still brother and sister. I hope when you think of me it will be without bitterness. I love you more than anything or anyone. Please forgive me. I was and still am a stubborn fool. By the time you read this letter I will be dead. There is no way I can explain all that brought me to this moment, except to say that I did the best I knew how to do. It just didn’t work out. Please take care of yourself. It gives me comfort to know that you are happy, so please endeavor to stay that way. The key is to my safe deposit box at the First National in Phoenix. Use the money in any way that will increase your happiness. I love you.
The Lady and the Outlaw Page 20
