As the workers below settled down to an early sleep and the half-moon edged toward the horizon, the night chill gathered around them. They didn’t dare light a fire, so they opened the bottle. An hour later, a pleasant lethargy was overcoming the boredom and the worry of being involved in an attempt to steal twenty thousand dollars from the railroad.
“What are we waiting for?” Grace said, her voice slurring as she sloshed the whiskey in the bottom of the bottle, and then covered a polite hiccup with her hand.
“We are waiting for anything unusual,” Trip said, taking the bottle from her. Grace shuffled to her feet and lurched a few paces toward the edge of the bluff, making him laugh. “Do you not drink whiskey that often?”
“I only do it to satisfy my customers, but I have no need to let liquor dull my life.” She shrugged, the action knocking her back a pace. “Not yet, anyhow.”
“Do you not enjoy what you do?”
“It’s all right, but there has to. . . .” She walked toward him and flopped down on to her knees. “That’s enough of me. How do you reckon we pass the time after we’ve drank the whiskey?”
Trip took a deep breath of cooling night air, noticing that on an empty stomach he was more light-headed than he expected.
He shrugged. “We have our orders. We keep watch.”
Grace smiled, her teeth dazzling in the gloom as she leaned toward him and breathed pleasant whiskey fumes over him.
“I reckon we’d already established we’re keeping watch.” She leaned a mite closer, the action making her right arm give way so that she tumbled to her elbows. She snapped back up, but still leaned in to him with an errant lock of hair now dangling over her face. “I meant what are we going to do while we keep watch?”
“I can’t think of anything.”
She snorted and shuffled around on her haunches to sit beside him, but her foot slipped from under her and she stumbled into him. She moved to get up, but then sighed and leaned her head on his shoulder.
“You haven’t got much of an imagination, have you, Trip Kincaid?” she mused, her voice light and wistful.
“I haven’t had much need for one.” He sighed. “I guess we could talk.”
“Talk!” She raised her head and chuckled. “You sure aren’t like any man I’ve ever met before.”
“How so?”
“What am I right now?”
Trip leaned back. “Is this some kind of guessing game?”
“No.”
She slapped his arm and then took the bottle from him. She raised it to her lips, hiccupped and returned it to him without drinking.
“I reckon one answer is that you’re a little drunk.”
“That’s right, but not the answer I wanted.” She fluffed at her hair and tucked the errant lock of hair behind her ear. “What do I do?”
“You’re a . . . a saloon-girl.”
She nodded vigorously, freeing the tangle of hair again.
“How long have we known each other?”
“It’s been six, maybe seven days.”
“Most men don’t go six, maybe seven minutes before they’re inviting me to . . . to get to know them better, but you haven’t done that and not even when I’m a little bit. . . .” She held out a shaking hand. “A little bit. . . .”
“A little bit what?”
She moistened her lips. “A little bit suggestible as to what we could be doing while we keep watch.”
Trip couldn’t help but gulp. “Then you’re right. I’m not like those other men. I wouldn’t take no advantage of no woman when she’d had whiskey on an empty stomach.”
Her eyes widened as she snorted her breath.
“You take advantage of me. Now let me tell you something, Trip Kincaid, I—” She flinched and turned around. “Did you hear that?”
Rustling sounded, as of someone or something pushing through the trees and approaching the house.
“Animal?”
“Animals hear you, not you hear them.”
“Baxter?”
“The same.”
“Then it could be someone from the bridge coming to look for Adam?”
“Or Adam himself, or perhaps someone hearing us making noise and coming to investigate.”
“Either way, us being here looks mighty suspicious. We’ve got to hide.”
“It’s too late,” Grace said as the masked glow of a brand appeared through the trees, the glow already enlightening the side of the building as the holder approached.
“Then think up an excuse for us being here.”
Grace nodded. “I have a good one.”
“Then tell me what it is,” Trip said, as the glow from the approaching brand spread out to light Grace’s wicked smile.
“It doesn’t involve words. It’d be quicker if I just showed you.”
“Then do it quickly before—”
Trip didn’t get to complete his order as Grace looped an arm around his neck and dragged him backward. Trip struggled for a moment, but by then he was lying flat on his back and Grace was lying on top of him.
By the time the approaching man stopped twenty yards from the building and had them in full sight, Ryan Trimble’s ghost could have paraded around him with a loaded Peacemaker and he’d have still ignored him.
THE HEAVY MORNING CLOUDS were lifting with the promise of a warm day when Trip shuffled to the doorway. The river’s soft gurgling drifted to him on the morning breeze.
Grace joined him at the door. “What are you thinking?” she asked.
“Nothing. I’m just enjoying watching the day get started.”
“It’s already done that.” Grace stretched. “What will it bring?”
Trip turned toward the bridge. “I have no idea, but I hope it’s better than yesterday.”
She slapped his arm. “Did you not enjoy last night?”
“I did, but. . . .”
“You’re not worrying that you took advantage of me or some other damn fool notion, are you, Trip Kincaid?” She kneaded her forehead and clapped her mouth. “Although I won’t hurry to drink our whiskey again.”
“I wasn’t worrying about that, but I did want to ask you about. . . .” Trip sighed and lowered his voice. “About what we did last night after we broke in here and . . . and about whether it means we’ll do it again.”
Grace smiled and looped an arm in his. “We might do it again sometime, if that’s what you mean.”
“It wasn’t exactly,” Trip said. “I was wondering. . . .”
She flinched away and walked out through the door to stand outside.
“Why is it always the same? You have some fun with a man. Then he spoils it all by getting serious.” She turned to him with her hands on hips. “I’m a saloon-girl. I earn a living by doing what we did last night, but that’s work and sometimes I fancy playing a little, understand?”
“I know what you used to do, but I thought you wouldn’t do that again unless you. . . .” Trip sighed. “I just hoped you’d want something more.”
“I want nothing more, Trip Kincaid. I’ve got a living to earn.”
Trip slapped the side of the doorframe. “Then find another way, something that doesn’t—”
“Something that doesn’t let men paw and grope me? Something that’ll let me keep my dignity?”
“If you have to put it like that, yeah.”
“I keep that. It’s the men who lose their dignity, and their money, and while they’ve busy making fools of themselves, I learn plenty about them. Take Adam Calloway, for instance. He’s a man who I wouldn’t expect to go missing and yet—”
“You’ve been with Adam?”
“Yeah.”
“And many of the other men around here?”
“To name the ones you know, Adam and Milton and Marshal—”
“That’s enough,” Trip said, slapping his hands over his ears. “I don’t want to know, and I don’t want to know what you learned about me last night either.”
“I wasn’t looki
ng to learn anything. I was enjoying myself and before you go and get a mind to get all serious again, Trip Kincaid, remember that.”
Trip whistled through his teeth. “You aren’t like any woman I’ve ever met.”
“You aren’t like any man I’ve ever met. So let’s keep it like that.” Grace padded away to stand on the edge of the bluff. She coughed and gestured over her shoulder. “Trip, you have to come and see this.”
Trip pushed himself from the door and when he joined her, mayhem had broken out on the bridge site with people running in all directions, their cries carrying up to him on the morning breeze and they didn’t sound happy.
“Could it be the money?”
Grace turned to the east. Dense clouds still obscured the sun, but a focus of light was high in the sky, suggesting it was mid-morning.
“I reckon we slept in too long. Baxter’s already stolen it.”
Trip had to agree that this was the most likely explanation. So they headed down to the bridge and quickly confirmed that Grace’s assumption was correct. In fact, Frank was already organizing a quest to reclaim the money, but despite the chaos, nobody appeared to have been killed or injured, so Baxter must have accomplished his raid in a bloodless manner that Trip hadn’t expected.
They reached the bridge as two groups of men headed off in different directions, one upriver and in the general direction of Calloway’s Crossing, and the other toward Wagon Creek. This left around a dozen men at the gulch, including Frank, who, as silence returned, hailed them.
“What’s happened?” Trip asked, riding up to him.
“The money’s gone, that’s what’s happened,” Frank wailed, wringing his hands.
“Did you see who stole it?”
“No. Just after the blue coats had left, this strut on the bridge fell into the river. I organized the men to stop the whole bridge falling down, but it was a distraction and somebody stole the money.”
Trip dismounted and gave a sympathetic smile. “Have you got any idea who the raiders were?”
“No.” Frank pointed at the bluff. “Did you see anything from up there?”
“Nothing.”
Frank turned away, but then swung back. “Why were you up at Adam’s place last night?”
“Well, we don’t like to say,” Trip said, coughing and having no trouble in appearing sheepish.
Frank firmed his jaw and the veneer of accusation overcame his eyes and tone.
“Yeah, I heard about what you were doing, but you didn’t need to come all the way out here to do that.”
Trip lowered his voice. “We had nothing to do with the raid if that’s what you’re suggesting.”
“I don’t know what I’m suggesting, but yesterday you asked a whole heap of questions about the arrangements for today, and you spent the night here.” Frank pointed at Grace, Trip and then Trip’s saddlebag, which contained only the empty bottle of whiskey. “Do you mind if I search you?”
“I don’t reckon. . . .” Trip sighed, accepting that their actions did appear suspicious and that allaying those suspicions was the only way they could move on quickly. “Go on. We have nothing to hide.”
Frank gestured for one of the workers to frisk them and stood back. He eyed them with continued suspicion, but when the man confirmed that Trip wasn’t hiding anything and moved on to Grace, he relaxed his shoulders.
“I’m sorry about this,” he said. “I guess I’m jumpy. I’m suspecting everyone now.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’d probably do the same in your position. As soon as this is over, we’ll help you track down who did it.”
Frank nodded as the man finished searching Grace and turned to their horses. Grace met Trip’s eye, silently asking whether his offer was serious, and Trip winked, which said they could look but they didn’t have to find anybody.
“I’m obliged,” Frank said. “I need all the help I can—”
“What’s this?” the man said behind Trip and Trip turned to find he was holding his saddlebag high. Clutched in his other hand was a large folded wad of bills.
Trip reckoned there had to be at least a thousand dollars there.
Chapter Eleven
“THAT’S NOT WHAT IT looks like,” Trip said, pointing at the wad of bills. “Someone’s planted that money.”
“They didn’t,” Frank snorted. “That’s your cut for keeping lookout.”
Trip gulped, his guts churning with the fact that Frank’s guess could be right. He hadn’t figured that Baxter would leave him with anything, but maybe he had. Frank advanced on Trip. Behind him, the workers who were still at the bridge were eyeing developments with interest as they walked in toward Trip.
“I have no idea what’s happened here,” Trip said, backing away a pace toward his horse.
“The railroad won’t deliver another payroll, so we’ve all worked for nothing.” Frank gestured at his advancing men. “Do you want to explain to us how sorry you are?”
None of the approaching arc of men appeared willing to listen to an explanation as they moved purposefully toward him, rolling their shoulders. He backed away another pace, but one man lunged in and grabbed his arms, and another lunged for his gun and tossed it to the ground.
“You can’t blame us,” Trip said.
“I’m not blaming her. You just paid her to keep you company last night, but I am blaming you.”
“Then I’m glad we got that cleared up.”
Trip went limp and then threw out his arms, knocking the man holding him away, and turned toward his horse, but two men moved around to stand between him and his steed. Trip still broke into a run and headed straight for them. They closed ranks with two other men joining him to block his route, but at the last moment Trip dug a heel in, skidded to a halt and then ran off in the opposite direction toward the bridge.
“Get him!” Frank shouted, but Trip thrust his head forward and pumped his arms as he ran as fast he could.
He confirmed Frank’s men were only holding Grace and not accosting her, and then concentrated on running. The first slim planks now stretched across the gulch and, in a less desperate situation than he was in, he would have headed across them, but he judged that the workers had more skill at balancing than he had and veered to the side.
He headed upriver toward Calloway’s Crossing. The workers had cleared trees for several hundred yards around the bridge and he aimed to get into the wood and lose his pursuers in the dense undergrowth.
Before he’d even halved the distance, hoofs pounded behind him. Three of the workers had hurried to their horses and were galloping after him. They swirled lassos over their heads as they swooped in at him from three different directions.
Men were chasing on foot behind them, but the riders were only thirty yards away and would cut him off within seconds and long before he reached the trees. Still, Trip ran on, hoping he might get lucky, as the hoofs pounded closer until rope whistled through the air.
He dropped his head, the lasso closing on air as the first pursuer galloped by. Trip dug in a heel, did an abrupt right turn and headed for the river. The rider who had surged by him pulled back on the reins and closed in on him again, and the other two riders swooped in.
The men on foot milled around them, closing off Trip’s escape routes in case he kept out of the riders’ clutches. The next rider hurled his lasso and again Trip flinched out of the way, but the third man had him in his sights and bore down on him.
The rope swirled straight for Trip’s head. He threw himself to the ground, rolling over a shoulder, and the rope missed his head, but caught a trailing foot and dragged him to a grinding halt.
On his back, he grabbed his foot and peeled the rope away before the rider could take advantage of the situation, and came back up on his feet and running for the river. Now he was just fifty yards from the slope down to the river, the trees 200 yards to his side and impossible to reach.
Behind him, the riders and men chased him, and Trip reckoned they would intercept h
im before he reached the slope. Even with his breath coming in harsh gasps as he failed to gain more speed, they didn’t close.
Trip enjoyed a moment of elation before he realized they were letting him reach the river. There, all escape routes ended. He ran to the edge of the slope, the mass of men still around twenty yards back, and then hurried down the side.
Several hundred yards away from the bridge, the slope wasn’t so steep but the sides were crumbling so that Trip had to fight to keep his balance, leaning back as he waded downward through the shifting dirt. Behind him, the men fanned out, slowing to ensure he couldn’t head to the gulch or to the trees.
So when Trip stomped to a halt before the river, he had a few moments to search for a way out before they advanced on him. As the river had appeared negotiable from on high, on the way down he’d entertained the thought of jumping into the water.
Closer to, he accepted that it had none of the gurgling pleasantness of Calloway’s Crossing. Here, the narrow sides converted the river into a roaring, swirling mass filled with boulders and white-foamed breakwaters that’d drag a man under in seconds.
He turned around, confirmed that Grace hadn’t been able to follow him, and then faced the approaching mass of men, who moved in and surrounded him, even cutting him off from the river. Frank stood before him, but Trip didn’t meet his eye, preferring to try to convince the other men he was innocent with his pleasant smile. Nobody met his eye and pace by pace, they closed in.
“Hey,” Trip said, turning on the spot while ensuring he remained in the center of the circle. “I know you’re all annoyed about not getting paid, but I didn’t steal your money.”
“You know what happened to it,” Frank said.
“You have to believe me,” Trip said, holding his hands high. “I wouldn’t steal from you. I’m a bartender, nothing more.”
“We haven’t got time to argue. We have got time to beat you to a pulp.”
Frank stormed in and hurled a huge round-armed blow at Trip’s head. Trip ducked the blow and, deciding he couldn’t talk his way out of this predicament, stood his ground and returned a flurry of blows to Frank’s chest.
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