Panic froze Costello’s spine. So they were trying to stop him again…they had succeeded before, but this time he would win. This time he must win, he told himself, for this was his last chance to possess a part of the treasure bequeathed his grandfather and wrongfully kept from him.
Who they were, Armando Costello could have told no one. They originated in his mind and were simply the enemy—the forces of evil which prevented him from obtaining what had become the obsession, the passion, the very essence of his life: his treasure.
“I’ve learned from the past. They won’t get me this time.” He spoke furtively, under his breath.
“Who is it?” Ellie asked.
Costello turned on her fiercely. Fire flared from his eyes; his breath came in spurts. “Shut up, woman! They’ll hear you.”
“Who?”
“Silence!” he raged. The point of his drawn Bowie knife struck her throat. I could do it here, he thought…kill her now and be done with it. It would be so easy.
Caution prevailed. Not here. She would bleed and they would find the blood. She would scream and they would hear her.
He must get her away from here. Take her to the place he had taken Benjamin. The painted cliffs. There coyotes would find her body and devour it long before human feet ever touched the spot again.
Costello grabbed the reins of Ellie’s horse and led it beside him to higher ground. He was consumed with the desire to break and run for his life. Yet at the same time he felt compelled to discover the meaning of the gunfire.
He picketed the horses deeper under the trees and pulled Ellie after him so she could not give warning.
The shots had come from the vicinity of the spring, but the object of the firing could be much closer. It would please him to think someone was hunting. Or that some cowpoke had gotten himself lost and was signaling for help. But he could not allow himself to believe either story. He must find out for sure.
Twenty feet or so up the side of the canyon, he spied a mass of jumbled boulders. He shoved Ellie down behind them and studied his back trail with field glasses. He took his time, examining everything within range. A man’s clothing would blend with the colors of the landscape, so he watched and waited.
Ellie lay huddled against the rocks where Costello pushed her. All day she had remained alert for a chance to escape, for another ravine or draw which would lead quickly out of this canyon and away from Armando Costello, who grew steadily more demented as the day wore on. His sudden swings in mood from joyful to enraged frightened her. She knew he was near a breaking point. When he reached it…She shuddered, recalling the Bowie knife at her throat.
She watched him survey the canyon. His knife was sheathed, but his rifle lay on a rock beside him.
She stared at the rifle. This might be her chance. If she could get to that gun and fire it, whoever was back there would know someone was here. Then they might investigate and find her.
Suddenly another round of firing sounded down the canyon. She dived for the gun. Her left hand closed around the stock. It felt smooth and cool under her palm. Her right hand reached for the barrel…
Costello turned. His powerful hands grabbed the gun. He pushed her away from him, wrenching the rifle from her and throwing it aside.
“Puta! Puta!” he roared. “Whore! Whore!” Then he was on top of her, his face flushed, his eyes aflame, his breathing shallow and quick.
He slapped her face back and forth. He tore at her clothing, ripping a sleeve from her bodice and tearing her riding skirt. He beat his fists into her body.
Finally she managed to roll away from him. He fell forward, hugging his arms to his chest against the cold fear of what might have been, had this whore fired his rifle in warning. Was she to be the end of him? Were his dreams to be crushed beneath the feet of yet another woman?
Armando Costello’s hatred for women had begun long ago in Mexico, when he was still a child. There he learned that his mother was not the fine Spanish lady his father had been expected to marry, but instead a mestizo—half Spanish, half Indian. His grandmother told him, explaining why he was not considered a true member of the Costello family. Even after his mother died by her own hand, young Armando was not accepted as an heir to the family fortune, because his veins did not carry pure blood. So his cousin received the plats to treasure mines in Texas and the Indian Territory.
So afraid was Costello’s grandmother that he and his father would get their hands on the plats that she spirited his cousin away in the night. He was instructed to stay in hiding until Costello and his father were taken care of.
It was the cousin’s misfortune, however, that the grandmother died shortly thereafter. Costello set out to find those plats then, and to this day he had not let up in his search.
Now he was close to the last of the treasures, so close he could taste the wine and feel the pleasure. Now it was almost in his hand, and another woman had stepped in.
But this time would be different, he vowed…this time he would win. He would destroy this whore before she got him. He turned his attention back to the trail, away from Ellie’s frightened body, crumpled on the rocks at his feet.
The effort of studying the trail calmed his nerves somewhat. His breathing became regular, and he began to think in a more rational way.
He knew he would have to figure on some of those shots being fired by Kale Jarrett. He would like to believe Abe and Martin had done their job, but he dared not rely on hope. If Jarrett had escaped death, he would certainly trail Costello and Ellie.
And the bastard would then lead the Raineys to their trail as well.
Costello felt a chill return to his body. The possibility of the Raineys and Kale Jarrett following him into the canyon alarmed him. He did not want to die in this Godforsaken country. He did not want to die poor as a beggar. He did not want to die mere hours away from riches.
He clamped his jaw against a shudder. He would not die here. They would not get him.
Costello’s mood changed suddenly; it occurred to him that the men back there might kill each other—or at least cut down the odds.
Either way, while they were occupied with their own fight, he had time to get to the painted cliffs, kill this whore, and return to the ranch to claim his treasure.
When he turned back to Ellie, the fire was gone from his eyes, replaced by a look as cold and hard as the rocks around them. He was composed now, confident.
By dusk they had found their way out of the canyon and camped in a ravine surrounded by a shin oak thicket.
Although he had not slept in many hours, sleep was now out of the question. His assailants might come in the night. The whore might try to escape. He must be on guard against either.
Sitting back from the fire he kept watch, dreaming his dreams of being rich and famous, able to spit in the face of anyone who dared look down on him again.
He didn’t expect to be followed tonight. The men in the canyon would be too busy with each other. Tomorrow the ones who survived would find his trail, but that didn’t matter. If they arrived at the painted cliffs before he finished with the whore, so much the better.
There he would have a perfect view from which to shoot them down one by one, before they could cross the river.
A smile curved his lips. Tomorrow he would have his treasure. No one could stop him now.
Kale Jarrett packed up and left the rock shelter before dawn the next morning. He scouted for sign of the Circle R men. Although he found none, he knew they were out there. Matt Rainey didn’t pay men to give up. And Holt—well, he was a coyote of a different stripe. A man looking to carve notches on his gun wasn’t likely to run off when the quarry got within easy distance.
Half a mile up the canyon he cut sign, all right, but it was not the Rainey crowd. Costello and Ellie had stopped here and taken to the brush. A few feet on he found where the horses had been staked, then up the cliff he found the boulders behind which Costello had studied the trail below.
Kale’s knees went weak at sight o
f the blood, bright and red on the limestone rocks, and the sleeve from a woman’s costume, a buff-colored sleeve, the color of Poppy’s riding suit, which Lavender had said Ellie wore when she left the Lady Bug.
All thought of the Circle R men fled from Kale’s mind. He had to get to Ellie now, and soon, before Costello killed her. The pain from his wounds was as nothing compared to the pain in his heart—the fear he felt for Ellie.
He found their trail and followed it easily. They were traveling faster now. Costello would have ample time to kill Ellie and escape—if he abandoned the treasure.
But after all the man had done to get his hands on that treasure, Kale doubted he’d leave the country without it. He could kill Ellie, then hide out until the fervor died down before taking the treasure, though.
Kale hurried on. The canyon ended and rolling hills began. It had rained good here; the summer grass was dried now and knee-high to the bay. Mesquite and oak trees abounded, with occasional cedars and shin oak thickets along the ravines.
The sun was high overhead when he came upon their camp. From the small footprints around the site, he figured Ellie was mobile. His anxiety over her was relieved somewhat. But time was growing short. Armando Costello was a madman.
Stopping only to water the bay, Kale hurried on. The scraps of Ellie’s clothing and the blood on those rocks, even though there were only a couple of spots, worried him. For the first time in his life Kale wanted to kill a man. He could not recall ever wanting to before.
He ached inside, thinking how frightened Ellie must be. Likely she thought him dead, since Costello thought that. She wouldn’t have much hope of being rescued.
He spurred the bay. Even if she didn’t know it, her life depended on him. And he’d be damned if he was going to let her down—neither for her sake, nor his.
As soon as he sent his two hired guns along with Holt after Kale Jarrett and Costello and the girl, Matt Rainey got things rolling. Ira and Till started the cattle moving toward the Jarrett range; by noon, camp had been set up for the hands down by Plum Creek. Cookie had a steer on the spit and beans on the fire.
Rainey established his headquarters inside Ellie Jarrett’s house. He’d had a hankerin’ to get hold of this place ever since Benjamin Jarrett settled here, and now that he had it, he intended to direct the whole operation.
Before the elder Jarrett arrived, Rainey had assumed ownership of Plum Creek and had planned to stock the ranch one day. As Rainey saw things, land was power, and the man who controlled the most land was the most powerful. Not that he wanted more power, he told himself, but he damned sure didn’t want a lot of little people banding together against him.
Ira Wilson approached the porch where Rainey stood surveying his new property. “What’d we do about the Jarrett cattle, sir?”
“Brand ’em,” Rainey barked. “Circle R goes on everything.”
“But sir, if we’re questioned…I mean, come sellin’ time?” Branding another man’s livestock, whether that man was dead or alive, was not an offense Ira Wilson cared to be accused of.
“Judge Cranston from over in Llano County will be out directly; we’ll take care of that. You give me an accurate head count, hear?”
“Yes, sir.” Ira turned toward the pens.
“Ira,” Rainey called after him. “You and Till will be staying on here to look after things. Move your belongings into the house first chance you get.”
While waiting for Cranston, Rainey walked out to the pens where the men had started branding Jarrett’s cattle. Time was, not long ago, when he’d have been in the thick of things, right in the middle of all the dust and bawling cattle. The acrid smell of fire and flesh burning under the iron still stirred excitement in his blood. It always would, he reckoned. Lately, though, he left the physical work to others.
The activity in the pens also stirred memories within Matt Rainey. Memories of Mary, of their life together starting the Circle R, of their hopes and dreams. There wasn’t even an heir to show for their time together. His son had died before he was even born, taking Mary along with him.
Only Holt remained to inherit, and Matt hated the thought. Though he carried the name, Holt was no Rainey. Not in inclination, anyhow, nor in disposition. All Holt was interested in was gaining a “reputation.”
Rainey spat furiously to the ground. Where the hell was that judge, anyhow?
As if on cue, a buckboard bounced over the rocks and rolled up to the house. Rainey met the judge with a handshake. “Let’s have a look at those papers.”
Judge Cranston followed Rainey into the house and spread the papers on Ellie’s table.
“This one here is a bill of sale for Benjamin Jarrett’s cattle. I’ve signed his name, copied it from some papers over at the bank.”
Rainey grunted. “Where do I sign?”
The judge pointed to a blank space on the document, then another. “Here’s where we add the number of cattle.”
Rainey signed the bill of sale, set it aside, and studied the other document.
“That’s a deed to this property,” Cranston said. “It isn’t exactly legal, but it’ll do until you can get down to Austin and file on the land yourself.”
“You sure Jarrett didn’t file on this place?”
“If he had, he’d have kept the deed in the bank with all his other papers. I checked with Holcomb.”
“Makes me uneasy.”
“I know you like the loose ends taken care of, Matt, and they will be. In no time you’ll have a deed that’ll hold up in court. You’re not going to need one sooner.”
Rainey grunted again. “Long as my boys take care of Jarrett’s brother.”
“I’ve never seen you worry like this. Why, we oughta be having a drink to celebrate.”
Rainey agreed. “Come on outside. I’ll get the whiskey.”
They sat on the porch, enjoying the shade and taking turns at the bottle of rye. Cranston broke the silence. “What about the treasure?”
“Hogwash!”
“The story’s intriguing, you’ll have to admit.”
“If that talk were true, somebody would have found something by this time,” Rainey argued.
“I agree that most of those stories don’t hold water, Matt, but this one’s bound to have some truth in it. Zofie Wiginton told it to me herself.”
Rainey looked surprised. “Why didn’t she go after it?”
“She’s a lot like you. She doesn’t believe in it, either. But I’d lay you odds Benjamin Jarrett found it. Otherwise, why’d he pick this particular piece of land?”
“It’s a good place.”
“Sure it is, but would you expect a nester like Jarrett to recognize that?”
“Sounds like you have it all figured out.”
“Not all, but I’m sure that treasure is here. What it is, I don’t know. And I don’t know exactly where it is, but there’s treasure on this place somewhere. We’re sitting on rich land, Matt.”
“You’re right about that,” Rainey agreed. “This soil is as rich as any you’re apt to find. The grass it grows will feed cattle for hundreds of years, if it isn’t stripped clean. Now, if you cut up the range into little pieces where each man has to overstock in order to make ends meet, you’re going to strip the ground of any cover, wash the topsoil clean away, leave nothing except bedrock. But if you run it like I plan to, not overgrazing, moving herds around, the range will reseed itself and we’ll have grass forever. Take buffalo, they don’t ruin a place. There’s a damned sight more of them in a herd than there are cattle, but buffalo move around. Don’t make sense to me why people can’t learn from nature at least once in a while.”
“Well said, Matt. You’ve done some thinking on this.”
“You bet I have, only I usually keep it to myself.” Matt took a swig of rye. “I’ve been giving thought to something else, too.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m obliged for your help in this matter, Cranston. I asked you to go against the law—hel
l, even against your own oath of office—and you did it without a whimper.”
“We agreed on this thing. Twenty percent of Matt Rainey’s profits for the next five years is reward enough.”
“Even so, you went out on a limb, and I’m obliged. The treasure’s yours.”
“What?”
“The treasure. If it’s here, it’s yours. Don’t bother the range or livestock, that’s all I ask. Fair enough?”
Judge Cranston’s mouth fell open. “You sure about this, Matt?”
“Hell, yes, I’m sure. Let’s shake on it and be done.”
Chapter Sixteen
When they reached the Concho River, Armando Costello drew rein and pulled Ellie’s mount to a halt behind his own.
She sat quietly. They hadn’t spoken for several hours, and she had no desire to talk now. Fatigue amplified her hopelessness; it settled over her like a pall. Being led to her death, she found no power to resist.
The small measure of hope she had felt back in the canyon disappeared when they saw no further sign of pursuit. Likely the shooting they heard bore no relation to her frightful state of affairs.
The thought that she had caused Kale’s death by sending him away that night at the Lady Bug depressed her, but the impact was lessened by a numbness which gripped her brain.
Without warning, Costello jerked the reins of her horse, pulling the animal alongside his own. When she was within reach, he ripped a scrap of lace from her chemise, which, although she tried to conceal it, still peeked through her torn bodice.
She watched him sight on a boulder on the far cliff, then snag the piece of cloth on a limb within his line of vision.
Ellie’s head cleared somewhat with this action. She studied the line Costello marked from the cliff to this spot. A rifleman behind that boulder could…
Armando Costello was setting a trap. A trap must have prey. Her heart beat faster than it had since they heard gunshots in the canyon, pumping hope into her, glorious hope. She might have given up being pursued, but obviously Armando had not.
They forded the river to the east and picketed their horses in a thicket. Costello steered her roughly by her upper arm, but she hardly noticed. Neither did she pay attention to the paintings which had always held such interest for her.
Sweet Autumn Surrender Page 28
