Outlaw in Paradise

by Patricia Gaffney

  Whap.

  "Ow!"

  He whipped around, holding the back of his neck. He got a fast look at Cady's wide-eyed, furious face just before she slugged him again with her string bag, whap, right in the mouth. "Ow, damn it—Cady, I can explain—"

  Whap. "Okay, start."

  He danced away, shielding his face with his arms, and she hit him in the chest as hard as she could. "Ow. What's in there, rocks?"

  "You're not a gunfighter at all!"

  "Okay, I'm not."

  "Who the hell are you, then? What's your name? It's not even Gault, is it?"

  "No, it's Vaughn."

  Whap on the chin. "Liar! You damn lying son of a—"

  "I didn't lie about the Jesse part," he pointed out, backing up. Whap. "Ow! Damn it, Cady, would you cut that out?"

  She took one last swing, a real roundhouse that, luckily, missed completely. Her momentum took her around in a full circle, and her purse went sailing off into the weeds. She collapsed on the stone wall, mumbling vicious curses, and dropped her head in her hands.

  Jesse's heart rate finally slowed down. He holstered the empty six-gun and, out of habit, checked the beer bottle. Gone—shattered. Wonderful. He was a crack shot with his eyes closed.

  Time passed. Cady never moved, except to clench and unclench her fingers in her hair every once in a while. He kept thinking she'd start the conversational ball rolling soon, but she just sat there. Disgusted or defeated, it was hard to tell which. Probably both. He went toward her a step. She'd dropped her weapon, but he still felt wary. "Cady, honey?"

  "Don't talk to me."

  "That's silly. We have to talk."

  More time passed. Finally she lifted her head and clamped her hands on her knees. He thanked God she wasn't crying. "All right, then. Explain yourself," she commanded, dry-eyed and grim.

  Uh-oh. Maybe not talking wasn't such a bad idea after all. "What do you want to know?" he hedged.

  "Who's Gault?"

  "Uh..."

  "No, I know who he is—a real gunfighter. Where's Gault?"

  "Aha." He clasped his hands under his chin and rocked back on his heels, thinking, thinking. "Where's Gault," he echoed philosophically, rhetorically. "An excellent question. Where could Gault be? Since I'm not Gault, and yet there is a Gault, or there was one at one time, where could the real Gault have gone? That's the question. And an interesting question it is, and very much to the point." Cady's bleak stare held a mix of disbelief and distaste, and never wavered. "The problem with that particular question," he plowed on, "is that I'm not at liberty to answer it."

  "You're not at liberty to answer it." She said that slowly, distinctly, so the full idiocy of it wouldn't be lost on anyone. "And why is that?"

  "Why is that! Another good question." Levi would be good at this; he'd give some circular Buddhist answer that sounded really good, and Cady wouldn't realize it didn't make a lick of sense until days later. "I gave my word," Jesse said without thinking. It slipped out: the truth. How unusual.

  She blew air out of her mouth, a popping sound of utter disgust. "Well, isn't that convenient."

  She didn't believe him! Now, that rankled. The first time he'd ever told her the truth, and she didn't believe it. "I did," he insisted, "I swore a solemn oath."

  "To Gault?"

  Touchy territory. Lamely, he reverted to "I'm not at liberty to say."

  More disgusted air-blowing. She stood up. "The newspaper said Gault got wounded in the hand in Oakland. His gun hand. Is that when you decided to use him—be him? Well, is it?"

  "Yes, but—"

  "And you've been extorting money out of innocent people ever since?"

  "Innocent!" No, that was wrong. Too late, he corrected it. "Extorting!"

  "What a piece of work you are, Mr. Vaughn." Her lips curled with contempt, and Jesse felt cold all over, like she'd ducked him in a tub of ice. "What I can't figure out is why you're still here. You've got everybody's money by now, so what's keeping you in Paradise?"

  "You." Oh, and also the fact that he didn't have any money.

  Before she turned around, he saw pain and confusion crowd out the anger in her eyes. He reached out, touched her stiff spine, but she shrugged his hand off and sidestepped away.

  "Cady, it's true. I stayed for you." He had. Money didn't have a thing to do with it.

  "Well, you can go on now, because I don't even like you anymore."

  He bowed his head. If that was true... "Let me try to tell you what happened," he said earnestly.

  "Don't bother."

  "I—after Gault—once I was—" He stopped, stymied. If only he hadn't given his promise! "Gault got shot in the hand in Oakland. That's true." Well, no, it wasn't. "I mean, that's what the papers said—you read it, I read it. So about a week later I'm passing through Stockton, minding my own business, and what happens?"

  "I really don't care. I told—"

  "I'm in a saloon, and this guy comes up to me and says, 'I'll give you six hundred dollars not to shoot me.' I don't say anything; I just sit there trying to figure out if he said what I think he said. The guy looks around, he sees nobody's watching, he pulls out his wallet. Takes out six hundred bucks in cash and slides it across the table. 'Are we square now, Mr. Gault?' Now I can't talk at all, I'm just blinking, trying to keep my chin from hitting the table. He starts to get up, but then he leans over and whispers in my ear, 'She was asking for it; if her old man knew what she's really like, he wouldn't've hired you to kill me—he'd've screwed her himself.' Then he gets up and leaves, and I'm sitting there shaking my head and staring at six hundred bucks. And then it hits me."

  Cady had turned around. "What?" she asked, sullen.

  "He thinks I'm Gault because of the guns." He took one of his pearl-handled revolvers out of the holster and tried to hand it to her. "See the eagle on the grip? Custom-made. Mexican. Very rare."

  "Gault had this kind of gun?"

  "Yeah. No." He squeezed the bridge of his nose. "This is Gault's gun. I, uh... I acquired it."

  "How?" When he didn't answer, she sneered again. "Don't tell me. You're not at liberty to say."

  "I'm not. Cady, I'd tell you if I could, but I can't."

  "Because you're so honorable, such an honest man." That made him blush. "So there was never anything wrong with your eye, nothing wrong with your hand. You're not deaf."

  "Nope." He tried a smile. "I'm a whole man. Healthy as a horse."

  She didn't smile back. "And proud of yourself, too." She whipped around and started walking away.

  He followed, miserable. He didn't know if he was proud of himself or not. He wasn't ashamed exactly, because the people he'd taken money from were all lowlifes, they deserved fleecing. But he could see too clearly what he looked like to Cady: a fake, a cheap opportunist. A coward.

  "Honey, wait. Can't you try to see it from my side?"

  "I already do."

  "No, listen." They'd come to her buggy. She put her foot on the step, but he held her arm so she couldn't spring up. "After I started wearing the eye-patch, people were throwing money at me. Honest to God. And they were crooks, thugs, nuts, the worst kind—every one of 'em with a guilty conscience over some sin or other. What was I supposed to do? Hand it back to 'em? Who wouldn't—"

  "Cherney," she broke in, figuring it out. "You drove him out of town."

  "I sure did. Talk about crooks—"

  "After you swindled him. How much did you get out of him? Plenty. Oh, God, Jesse." She shook her head almost pityingly. "He was a crook, sure, but what are you?" She flung off his hand and jumped up into the seat, started gathering up the reins.

  "No, wait. You're not looking at it right. Cady, don't leave. You're mad, and you have a right to be—I should've told you before."

  "Yeah. Why didn't you?"

  "Because I knew you'd feel just like this. And... also..." He frowned at his thumb as he stroked it across the scarred leather of the trace. "I liked being Gault," he admitted, embarrassed. "I liked
it that you were a little scared of me at first. And then you weren't." He grinned crookedly, not looking at her. "I mean, you know. Would you have given me a second glance if I hadn't been a dangerous killer?"

  "Yes."

  He looked up quickly. Any comfort he might've taken from her answer evaporated when he saw how hard and determined her eyes were. "Wait—would you just think it over?" He held the rein still when she would've jerked it out of his hand. "You're angry, that's understandable. But, Cady, don't throw it all away. Please. Just think about it before you do anything rash, okay?"

  She pressed her lips together. "It's extremely unlikely that I will change my mind about you, Jesse Vaughn. At least when you were Gault you had some kind of a code. A rotten one, but it was something."

  "Hey, I've got a code."

  "Of self-interest and cheating."

  "Cheating! I never cheat. I—"

  "And lying to women."

  She had him there. "I was going to tell you," he insisted, mumbling.

  "Sure you were."

  "Aw, Cady—"

  "This is not a little white lie, Jess. You've crossed a line. There's such a thing as trust and—decency between two people who—who sleep together," she finished tightly, shiny-eyed, and he wondered if that was what she'd been going to say.

  "I know it. I don't have any excuse. Except that I didn't want to lose you." But he was losing her; it was happening right now. "Cady?"

  "What."

  As bad as things were, he had to know the worst. "Do you think I'm a coward?"

  Color bloomed on her cheeks; she put her hand on her throat as if it hurt. In a soft, strangled voice she said, "I don't know, Jesse. I guess—I guess I don't know what else to call it."

  He hung his head, ready to cry with her. He'd never felt so miserable in his life.

  "Well," she said after an endless minute. "So long, Jess."

  "So long." But he didn't move. "Cady?"

  "What."

  "Can I have a ride back to town?"

  She shook her head in disbelief.

  "I walked all the way out here." He'd needed to think. "Feet hurt. C'mon, give me a ride back."

  "Damn you, Jesse—" Now she was mad because he was ruining her dignified exit. "Oh, hell. Get up, then. Hurry the hell up." She scooted away and he climbed up beside her. "Don't say a word, though. Not one word, or I'll put you out." She turned the mare in a tight, skillful circle—she was good with horses; it was one of the things he loved about her— and they trotted down River Farm's long, curving drive to the road.

  He obeyed and kept quiet. What was left to say? A sick feeling in his stomach told him that all the talking he'd done had only dug him a deeper grave anyway. It was a gray, warm, lifeless day, with low clouds bulging in a listless sky. Silent and wretched, he turned his head away from Cady and watched dusty wildflowers and patchy scrub pass by the buggy wheels.

  The dreary scene slowed down; Cady said "Whoa," softly and the mare changed gaits to a walk. Jesse looked up to see a man standing in the middle of the road, opposite the turnoff to the Seven Dollar Mine. He saw them at the same time and made as if to turn, run, but then he stopped again. His hunched shoulders relaxed; he stuck one hand in his pocket and tipped his hat back, smiling a nervous greeting. "Howdy," he said as they rolled slowly past.

  "Hey, George," Cady greeted him neutrally.

  "I was just out taking a walk," George explained, although nobody had asked him. "Stretching my legs, getting some fresh air. Nice day."

  "Yeah. Well, see you."

  "See you." He poked his hat with his finger and waved.

  "Who was that?" Jesse asked when they were out of earshot.

  "George Sample. Wylie's mine foreman."

  "Wylie's man? Why was he standing around your mine?"

  She smiled thinly. "I figure he was either relieving himself or sneaking a drink on the job. Or both. He sure looked guilty."

  "How far from the road is the entrance to the Seven Dollar?"

  "Quarter of a mile, maybe less. If it weren't for the trees, you could see it."

  He thought about that for a second, and then he said, "Stop the buggy."

  "Why?"

  "Stop." She stopped, and he vaulted to the ground. "You go on, Cady, I'll walk back."

  "Why? What are you going to do?"

  "I just want to see something. Go on, it's okay. Go." He slapped the mare's side, pivoted, and sprinted back up the road.

  The lane was empty, George nowhere in sight. Jesse approached the turnoff to Cady's mine cautiously, staying close to the weeds at the side of the road. Using a tree for a shield, he peered around at the narrow wagon track to the Seven Dollar.

  Empty. Silent.

  He walked out into the open. Grass and thistles jutted up between the old wheel ruts, overgrown and undisturbed. Okay, nobody used this road, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. Keeping close to the thickety edges again, he crept up the lane, sharp-eyed, ears cocked. At every turn, he half expected somebody to jump out at him. He thought about drawing his guns, but discarded the idea. He'd probably shoot his own hand off if he had to fire. Then he remembered—he was out of bullets anyway.

  After the last bend, what was left of Cady's mine came into view. He stopped and stared, his nervousness gradually giving way to depression. There wasn't a much bleaker sight on earth than an abandoned mine, he reflected as he took in the rotting outbuildings, leaning timber scaffolds, and rusting machinery in the dusty clearing. He kicked at a stone in the dirt, disconsolate. He'd had a crazy idea, but the devastation all around mocked him, telling him just how stupid it had been. Now all he would get for his trouble was a long walk back to town.

  He went closer anyway, drawn by an illegible sign at the mine entrance. $7, he made out when he got near enough to spit on it. And under that, GUSTAF SHLEGEL, OWNER. Cady hadn't bothered to change the sign, and small wonder. If ever a place was finished and done with, it was the Seven Dollar Mine.

  A rickety, three-sided timber fence guarded the black entrance. He folded his arms over the top rail and squinted down, following the line of a broken ladder that disappeared in darkness. The smell of raw earth was overpowering and unpleasant. He picked up a pebble on the rail beside his elbow, held it over the hole, dropped it. He heard it hit rock and slither away into silence. The entrance sloped, then, didn't drop straight down.

  He'd never been in a gold mine before. Unless you owned it, it looked like a god-awful way to make a living. Shrimp Malone didn't mine, he prospected, panned along the river and streambeds. He'd probably never get rich, but at least he wasn't shut up in the airless dark all day, day after day. Jesse shivered, trying to imagine a life like that. Nothing was worth it, no amount of gold. He'd as soon be buried alive.

  He turned around—and jumped half a foot in the air. He let out a yelp that startled Cady so much, she jumped a whole foot. "Damn it!" they yelled in unison. "What the hell do you—" "Don't you ever—" "You scared the spit out of me!" They stood there glaring at each other, holding their hearts. Jesse laughed first. Cady grinned, but caught herself before she could laugh back. She wasn't speaking to him, she remembered.

  "What are you doing here? I wanted you to go on, Cady, ride back to town. You shouldn't be here."

  "Why not? It's my mine. What are you doing here?"

  "I just wanted to check something."

  "What?"

  "Nothing. I had a hunch, that's all. I was wrong."

  She narrowed her eyes. "You think it's funny that Wylie's mine captain was hanging around the Seven Dollar."

  He shrugged. "I think it's funny that Wylie keeps trying to buy a mine you tell me is worthless. And just happens to be next to his. What does he want it for?"

  She'd always assumed he wanted it because that was the kind of man he was—he wanted everything. But Jesse's idea, if he was thinking the same thing she was thinking, made more sense. She moved closer to the shaft, leaning over the splintery post to listen.

 
"Nothing to hear," he told her. "I already—"

  "Sh." He was right, though; after half a minute of intense listening, she agreed with him; there was nothing to hear. But there was something to smell. "Holy smoke."

  "What?"

  "Ammonium nitrate. Smell it?"

  He leaned over and inhaled deeply. "What's ammonium nitrate?"

  "It's dynamite."

  Jesse straightened. "You mean I was right?"

  "Even if Wylie's blasting, it shouldn't come up from this adit. In fact it couldn't, unless—"

  "Unless he's tunneled over from his mine to yours."

  She nodded, staring at nothing, thinking hard. "I know a way to find out."

  "How?"

  "Come on." She might not be speaking to him, but just now she was awfully glad for his company. She led the way through the littered yard, past the long, slant-sided mill building, the rusted-out husks of jiggers, grinders, sluice tables, and steam hoists, to a cinder track that led into the woods behind the mine. She thought of the last time she'd walked along this quiet, shadowy trail—in the company of Mr. Shlegel, who had wanted to show her his mining property. It hadn't been completely paid out then; he'd still had men placering along the riverbed.

  "Where are we going?" Jesse asked in a low voice, trying to catch her hand.

  She pulled away. "Can't you hear it?"

  "What?"

  "The river." A few minutes later the trail broke out of the trees, thinning to a path that stopped at the edge of the cliff. "Wait," she cautioned when Jesse started into the open. "In case somebody's there." They went slowly, side by side, glancing in every direction. It wasn't necessary to be quiet; the roar of the Rogue a hundred feet below drowned out everything.

  Not everything. A low, chugging sound grew louder with every step they took toward the cliff edge. Cady figured out what it was a second before it came into view. "Steam dredger," she said loud enough for Jesse to hear. "That goddamn—polecat!"

  "Is that your property?"