“That’s real interestin’. But me, I don’t give a damn what anybody calls ’em,” Wilby said. ”All I want is to be lookin’ at ’em over my shoulder when we’re ridin’ away from here.”
“Can’t say I’d mind that neither,” agreed Hinkson. Focusing on Macready, he added, “Since you seem to have studied some on the area, how far do you figure we are from the Prophecies, where we want to end up?”
“I’d reckon we’re more than halfway from where we started,” Macready said. “About a day and a half’s ride. Maybe two days, considerin’ how we’ll be ridin’ double at least part of the way.”
Hinkson frowned. “Why only part of the way? You figure we got any chance of stealin’ another horse somewhere out here in all this nothingness?”
“Don’t see why not. There’s bound to be some ranches scattered between here and the Prophecies. That’s what brung folks to this area to begin with, long before the gold got struck up in the hills.”
“A ranch would provide a change of duds, too, if it’s got any crew ridin’ for it,” said Wilby. “Two horses we can get by on if we have to. It’ll just slow us down some. But, in addition to needin’ something warmer to wear, if we expect to mingle in amongst the diggers in one of those Prophecy gold camps, like we planned, we sure as hell can’t be showin’ up in these prison stripes. It’ll mark us plain as day.”
“Yeah, and if we go to robbin’ from some ranch—for horses or clothes, either one—we’ll run the risk of markin’ the fact that we ain’t runnin’ to the west like we want everybody to believe. What about that?” Hinkson said.
“We’ll just have to be careful, that’s all,” Macready replied. “But Wilby’s right. We’ve got to figure out some way to swap these prison stripes if we want to stay unspotted. Maybe we’ll be lucky and come across some clothes hangin’ on a line to dry. We snatch a few without bein’ seen, the ranch wife who hung ’em up will think they blew away in the wind or something.”
Hinkson shook his head in wonderment. “Boy, you are so full of optimism it’s amazin’ you don’t blow up and bust from it. Hell, why not wish for some duds to blow off a clothesline somewhere for real? And then have ’em come swirlin’ down on a breeze and land right here in our laps?”
Macready grinned. “I can wish for that if you want, Dewey. But you know what my ol’ grandmaw used to say?”
“No. I don’t know and I don’t care. But I figure you’re gonna tell me anyway.”
“Wish in one hand and poop in t’other and see which one gets full first. That’s what she’d say.”
Wilby grunted. “Now there’s an old gal who sounds like she had her head on straight. You sure you came out of the same bloodline?”
Chapter 38
“First you try to drown me in all that rain last night, now you’re freezin’ me by pushin’ on in this snow,” complained Arlo Sanders through clenched teeth he was trying to keep from chattering. “If you’re gonna kill me, why not just shoot me and get it over with?”
“Oh, I’m gonna kill you, all right,” Brock replied with a lazy grin. “But shootin’s too fast and too good for you. I got special plans before you suck your last gulp of air.”
Sanders turned his attention to Libby. “And you’re gonna stand by and let him do that? Be part of it?”
Libby canted her head and said in an indifferent tone, “What do you expect me to do—plead mercy for you? Honey, it would have to be a whole lot colder in a place not exactly known for its cool breezes, if you know what I mean, before I’d lift a finger to save you from any kind of grief.”
Sanders curled his lower lip contemptuously. “God, what’s become of you? We were married once, we took vows . . .”
Libby matched his contempt with a short, harsh laugh. “That marriage and those vows were supposed to still be in place when you dumped me in that Colorado mining camp three years ago. What about then? That was the dead of winter, not some freaky little spring snow squall like this. You left me with nothing but the clothes on my back.”
“Yeah, and you don’t have to tell me what you did with your back from there. You made your living off it, didn’t you?”
“It’s called survival, damn you. I did what I had to. You didn’t leave me any choice.”
“You were a tramp right from the get-go,” Sanders accused. “You and your trampy ways, cheating on me with Smithfield like you done, is why I dumped you in the first place. I should’ve killed you like I did him.”
“Yeah, you should have,” said Libby, her eyes narrowing dangerously, “because now I’m going to see you killed. That’s the other thing that drove me to survive. You know the sad irony of it all? There was never a damn thing going on between me and Smithfield or any of the other gang members. You killed a perfectly innocent man.”
“Yeah, well, he ain’t the first, I don’t expect,” Sanders replied bitterly. “I got no regrets—except, like I already said, for not doing you at the same time.”
That exchange was taking place within a stand of tall pines Brock had chosen as a good windbreak and a suitable spot to rest the horses and allow them to find some graze not yet covered by snow. They’d made a small fire and cooked some coffee, a cup of which Sanders had been given grudgingly. Otherwise, no accommodation had been afforded him through the balance of the night. He was still in the clothing, rain-soaked and crusty with flecks of ice, he’d had on in his jail cell.
The former marshal had supplied a pair of handcuffs that, as he clasped them on, he’d sarcastically said were “to help keep your wrists snug and warm.”
Brock, in the meantime, wore a heavy rain slicker with warm flannels underneath. And, as promised, he’d allowed Libby to change into warm, dry garb before they’d vacated the marshal’s office.
The rain had stopped just before daybreak but within a couple hours, the snow had begun to fall. It wasn’t a heavy snow yet, but it was wet and cold and had some wind-whip to it. The kind of early spring twist to the weather that wasn’t uncommon with mountain ranges reaching in on all sides. In another day, maybe by the afternoon, the sun could break through and melt the snow covering to seep into the ground along with the preceding rain.
Whatever twist the weather took, Brock meant to forge on. He had a destination and a purpose and wasn’t about to be deterred. Not when he finally had Arlo Sanders at his mercy.
“I hate to break up this charming lovers’ spat,” he said after taking a cautious sip of scalding coffee, “but you two might be advised to save your energy for other things. We’ll be covering a stretch of miles before the day is done and I don’t intend to do a lot of stopping until then. I also don’t intend to listen to a lot of rehashing and blaming over spilled milk. Especially from you, Sanders. Seems to me you ought to have enough to fret about for what lies ahead, not the past.”
“The past?” Sanders echoed. “Ain’t that what this is all about, Brock? Your past, my past . . . and the way they crossed.”
“You know damn well it is.”
“It was an accident! Can’t you see that?” Sanders’s tone suddenly turned plaintive. “Come on, you know my history as good or better than anybody. You know I never went for shootin’ women.” His eyes cut momentarily to Libby. “Not even when they deserved it.”
“The one you did shoot sure as hell never deserved it,” argued Brock.
“I know that. I was out to ambush you, not her.”
“A double-barreled blast from a twelve-gauge kinda don’t know the difference, does it?”
“My God,” gasped Libby, looking at Sanders like she’d never really seen him before. “You killed a woman with a twelve-gauge shotgun?”
Sanders looked away in shameful exasperation.
“No, he didn’t kill my Adelia. Not right away,” said Brock, his narrowed eyes burning with a sudden intensity and his voice taking on a raspiness that hadn’t been there before.
“The woman was your wife?” Libby asked.
Brock nodded dully and then went on. �
�It wasn’t long after I’d begun marshaling out of the Kansas headquarters. I was hard on Arlo’s trail, had been for months, but he kept slipping away. After one particularly long chase, he dodged me again. I went home, dejected, exhausted. I thought I’d rest, clear my head, spend some time with my wife. What I didn’t know was that Arlo had backtracked, started followin’ me. He decided he was sick of having me dog him all the time and the best way to solve it was to get rid of me.
“He set up a ruckus out back of my house one night and waited in the bushes with a shotgun. What he didn’t know was that I was in the bathtub and so, before I could climb out to go see what was going on, my brave, foolish wife went to the door . . .
“Some might say she was lucky. Arlo’s aim was off, and he didn’t kill her. Not right away. She took the blast to her legs. It crippled her, naturally, left her in terrible pain for the rest of her days. She fought for as long as she could against having her beautiful legs amputated. But the doctors couldn’t keep the infections away. They had to take ’em. Even after they were gone, though, she could feel them—feel the pain in them. Finally, it was all too much for her to bear. She just gave up.”
“I never meant for any of that to happen. I swear!” Sanders wailed.
“It don’t matter what you meant, damn you,” Brock snarled. “What matters is what happened. On account of you, my wife died a slow, painful death . . . and now you’re gonna get the same.”
Except for the sigh of the wind through the pines and the crackle of the fire, everything went very quiet for a time.
Finally Libby said, “Yours is a tragic tale. Much more so than mine. But why wait any longer for whatever it is you’re going to do? We’re out here in the middle of nowhere, hours ahead of any posse that marshal might have put together. And, even if he did, what are the chances they could track us after the rain and now the snow? So why push so hard to get somewhere else?”
Brock shook his head. “You don’t understand. There’s more to it. There’s a special kind of fate involved.”
“Fate? What are you talking about?” sneered Sanders. “All that’s involved is pure hate—yours for me. I don’t like bein’ on the wrong end of it, but at least I can understand it bein’ that way. Call it what it is, I say, and then, much as I hate to agree with this tramp you’ve partnered up with about anything, go ahead and be done with it.”
“Like I already told you, this ain’t the time or place. I’ll tell you when and where,” said Brock. “And until then—even though you think you’re cold and freezing—you can sweat wondering about it.”
“What are you gonna do? Kill me with riddles? Now I’m supposed to wonder about some special place where I’m gonna meet my fate?”
Brock’s mouth curved into a smile without a trace of humor in it. “See, you’re starting to sweat already.” The smile fell away and his expression turned flat and hard as he continued on. “If you’d been paying attention to what I said before, you would’ve caught it when I mentioned how I’d been marshaling down in Kansas for only a short time before I locked my sights on bringing you down. Before then, it so happens, I was working out of the Cheyenne office right here in Wyoming Territory. Laramie is where I met and married my wife. You starting to see why I talk of fate, of things coming full circle?
“When I got the offer to transfer to Dodge, Adelia never really wanted to leave Wyoming, but it seemed like a good career move for me, so she stuck by my side. I’ve asked myself at least once a day every day since I lost her, ‘What would have happened if I’d turned down that Kansas offer?’ Would she still be alive today?”
Sanders looked uncomfortable, uncertain. “You’re the one’s been talkin’ about fate. Don’t that tell you the answer?”
“It wasn’t Adelia’s fate to die!” Brock said vehemently. “Part of the fate I’m talking about is the fate that brought me back up this way to attend the funeral of an old friend. That’s what caused me to be in Laramie the day news hit town about you being captured in Rattlesnake Wells. And that, you belly-crawlin’ slime, is what brings us to the here and now.”
“But that still don’t explain,” spoke up Libby, “why here and now ain’t good enough for you to finish your business with him.”
“Enough talk,” said Brock, flinging away the remains of his coffee, which had grown cold inside the cup. He started kicking out the fire. “I’ve explained all I mean to. Leastways for now. You’ll know more when we reach where we’re headed. Get ready to ride.”
Chapter 39
Bob Hatfield was well aware he was playing a long shot in his attempt to overtake the fugitives. Their head start and the inclement weather made it impossible to track them by ground sign, presenting obstacles that might very well prove insurmountable. The odds soared even higher against him being able to catch up before they’d already dispatched Sanders.
But being as he was the marshal, he had to try. He was banking on two things—endurance and a hunch. His own personal endurance, supplemented by riding out with two horses so he could switch off every few hours in order to always have a fresh mount, would take him faster and farther than Brock could progress with a captive—handcuffed or bound, most likely—and a woman on only one horse each. That would matter only if his hunch was right about which way the fugitives had fled. He tried not to think about the inaccuracy of the last hunch he’d played—figuring the Sanders gang would hit the jail rather than make another attempt on the bank.
The way Bob saw it, the trio wouldn’t go east or south because there were too many towns and ranches within a relatively short distance where they’d run the risk of being spotted once the weather broke. If they went north, there’d be the traffic and activity associated with the gold strike in the Prophecies. Plus, word about the jailbreak would spread out of Rattlesnake Wells the quickest in that direction. They could head north and veer toward the Shirley Mountains, but that was terrain almost too desolate and harsh to be a reasonable destination—nowhere for Brock and Libby to go after they’d dealt with Arlo.
That left west—the direction Bob’s hunch told him they were most likely to have gone. The area all the way to the Great Divide Basin and beyond was wide open. They could avoid been seen simply by skirting a few scattered ranches. And after they were finished with Arlo, Brock and Libby could continue on to Rock Springs or Green River and use either as a jumping-off point to lose themselves, perhaps forever.
Bob was set on preventing that. If he couldn’t save Sanders, he at least meant to catch up with the other two . . . or maybe only one. Without knowing the exact relationship between the pair, it had crossed Bob’s mind that a former lawman as ruthless as Brock appeared to be could very well see himself as someone with a lot more to lose than the estranged wife of a notorious outlaw. If Brock left behind a witness to the cruel and cold-blooded act he planned, he would also be leaving himself vulnerable in a way he might decide he couldn’t afford.
The possibilities kept getting uglier . . . which made Bob all the more determined to keep on.
In order to hold to his intended course as he rode through the swirling snow, he checked the compass he’d dug out of his war bag. Like the bag itself, the compass had once served the Devil’s River Kid down in Texas. The irony of using it in pursuit of fugitives, in contrast to when he’d used it to avoid those pursuing him, was hardly lost on Bob. In fact, as he held his horses to a steady pace against the cold, wet flakes, his mind drifted some and began swirling like the snow itself, swirling back . . .
Texas, five years earlier
Throughout the fall and into the winter, Bob Hammond—also known as the Devil’s River Kid—continued to plague and harass Bell interests and associates all across Calderone County. Cameron Bell brought in more hired guns, but the Kid always managed to elude them. Finally, throwing away all pretense of being anything but a hireling to Bell, Sam Ramsey turned in his deputy’s badge and went to work directly for the cattle baron, acting as captain over the small army of gunmen. Sheriff Garwo
od basically stood back out of the way and left it to that bunch to deal with Hammond.
Through the Christmas season, Bob had to stay farther away from his family than ever, due to the close scrutiny they were under in case any such contact was attempted. Not being able to spend Christmas with his wife and son pained him greatly, nearly destroying his spirit to continue with what he’d started.
When he did see his family again, long after the new year had turned over, he was shocked and more dispirited to see the further deterioration in his frail wife.
The decision was made then and there that Priscilla and Bucky, accompanied by Consuela to care for both, would go back east—to Chicago—as soon as the weather broke. Since it was certain they would be kept under surveillance for a time, Bob would hold off joining them until he could be reasonably sure the coast was clear. When it was, he would give up his outlaw ways and his continued harassment of Cameron Bell’s interests and reunite with his wife and child. After that, they would move on to someplace where they could assume different identities and start a new life together.
That was the plan.
In the spring, shortly before Priscilla and Bucky were scheduled to embark for Chicago, the Devil’s River Kid attempted one more poke to remind Bell he could never let down his guard.
The morning was bright and sunny, but off to the northwest, dark clouds were sliding in over the horizon. They had a look that could mean either rain or maybe a late spring snowstorm. Neither held any particular concern for Bob as he aimed to have his business finished and be on his way back to his hideout in the Devil’s River wilderness before any kind of bad weather hit.
Rattlesnake Wells, Wyoming Page 22
