by Rue Allyn
Ignoring him, she stepped forward to study the image that supposedly displayed herself in all her horse-stealing, murderous glory.
Kiera shook her head. Guns blazed in the hands of the snaggle-toothed, snarling woman who stared out from the full body portrait. Shaggy hair straggled from underneath a battered ten-gallon. Round eyes, thin lips, and a flat nose completed the face. Overly generous breasts bloomed above a caricature of a waist and hips that any dancehall queen would be proud to own. Crossed gun belts decorated those hips, and holsters hung low against each thigh over sturdy denims, while snakeskin boots with pointy edged rowels on the spurs completed the illustrator’s idea of a hard-riding, female desperado. A brief sentence told observers that the Wildcat had yellow hair and pea green eyes. Anyone with information was requested to contact the Laramie Ledger or the Office of the U.S. Marshal, Wyoming Territory.
No wonder I can walk around an army outpost without anyone taking a second glance. She ran her tongue over her straight even teeth, gave brief thought to her own rail thin frame, her eyes that some said were almond shaped and lake green, and then her formerly white-blonde locks. The color was now a bright, hennaed red, a distasteful concession to disguise. She kept her hair trimmed, clean, and usually pinned neatly beneath her long-brimmed slouch hat, a replacement for the flat crowned dove gray Stetson sacrificed in the canyon gun battle. Without a hat, her formerly blonde locks shone like a beacon. Since Marshal Quinn had a good look at her in the canyon, she decided that remaining blonde was entirely too dangerous. No she looked nothing like the image in the wanted poster. Worse or better, depending on how you thought about it or when you saw her.
Caution caused her to alter her appearance in other ways as well. When entering white settlements, she worked hard not to look like herself, dressing in split skirts and shirtwaists and behaving with a modest, even shy, demeanor. Temporarily she gave up the buckskins and the forthright approach to life that she preferred when with her Shoshone friends.
Kiera squared her shoulders.
“No woman could be that ugly,” she said to the air.
“The Wildcat is,” averred the man in the bowler, stepping closer. He was a skinny man of medium height with a slight paunch. Sparse strands of black hair emerged from beneath his hat.
Kiera stared at him not quite certain how to respond.
He removed his bowler, holding it against his chest and bowed.
“Clem Salter, reporter, managing editor, and owner of the Laramie Ledger, at your service ma’am. Matter of fact, I’m the only person alive who knows what the Wildcat looks like. She don’t take kindly to pictures and such, nor folks who can identify her.”
At his patent lie, Kiera felt her brows lift, so she widened her eyes. Better to appear more curious than suspicious. “Really? Does she look just like that picture? She’s so ugly; must be what made her so mean.”
The man replaced his hat and nodded. “Mean and dangerous. She’s known to have killed at least three men, prob’ly more.”
Behind him, Marshal Quinn and his companion filled the doorway into the mercantile.
“Is she a gunslinger then?” Kiera encouraged the liar, giving him every opportunity to brag in the hope that he’d spill useful information.
“Naw, she’s a coward. All her victims were shot in the back.”
Kiera let her jaw drop. She wanted to break the man’s nose for that insult. She tried not to fight, but when forced, she fought fair. “How vile. Are you trying to catch her?”
Bowler man nodded, slipped his thumbs inside his weskit and rock on his heels. “I will arrest her. Within a month — mebbe less — Wyoming Territory will be a much safer place.”
“Why’s that?”
“‘Cause, I got a posse that’s gonna get the Wildcat where she lives. We’re gonna clean out her entire nest of thieves and cutthroats.”
“Won’t that be dangerous?”
The two other men moved from the doorway out onto the porch, stopping at the rail to stare out at the camp, apparently uninterested in the reporter’s pursuit of a criminal.
“‘Course it’ll be dangerous. But I’ll succeed because unlike all the other men hunting for the Wildcat, I’ve studied the woman’s movements and behavior. I’ll draw my net so tight; she’ll never get past me.”
Kiera had to wonder what exactly he’d studied. She’d never been to Laramie. On the few occasions when she’d fired a pistol in practice, her shots had fallen so far wide of the mark that Muh’Weda had shaken his head in disgust. He’d taken the pistol away from her, saying she couldn’t hit a buffalo if it was standing on top of her. If she’d murdered anyone, it hadn’t been by shooting them in the back. She might have planned and executed a few shady escapades — love, or what passed for it to a naïve young woman, could lead that woman to do many foolish things. She disagreed that returning horses to their original owners was the same as horse stealing, and she left the firearms to those with more experience and better aim. As to murder, well, the less said the better, but if caught, she might honestly be unable to plead completely innocent, and contrary to the implications of the poster, honesty was important to her.
“Er, how many men are hunting the Wildcat?”
“Oh, seven or eight. Among ‘em are a US Marshal, a couple bounty hunters, and one reporter — that’s me,” he said and puffed out his scrawny chest. “Also, a squad of soldiers from Fort Sanders, and that don’t include my posse.”
“So many all for one woman.”
“One woman who’s killed and robbed for too long. Dang female’s left a trail of destruction from here to San Francisco.”
“I’ll sleep much better, knowing you’re on the job. Will you be leaving soon?” She fluttered her lashes at him. His type would see the silly move as flattery.
“Soon’s the rest of my men arrive. Should be any day now.”
“Dear me, I certainly don’t want to risk encountering this desperado. Which direction did you say you’d be tracking her?”
“Didn’t say. But if I was you, I’d not head east from here. Heard the Wildcat’s got it in for some ranchers and railroad men outta Rawlins.”
“Oh what a blessing, sir.” She fanned herself, imitating relief. “Our ranch is straight southeast of here, and I’ll be heading back immediately. My mother-in-law is coming to visit. I only came up to Camp Brown for extra supplies.”
He cast a distracted glance beyond her, squinting as if his eyesight were bad. “You go south for a day or so ‘fore you cut east, you prob’ly won’t have no trouble ma’am. There’s one of my boys now. If you’ll excuse me.”
“By all means, sir. Thank you for your kind advice and good luck. We need more heroes like you willing to risk life and limb to keep the territory safe.”
He doffed his bowler and moved past her down the steps, striding across the dirt to the opposite side of the camp.
She watched him leave and approach a man in a creased hat, black flannel shirt and well-worn denims with a wicked looking six shooter in a holster hanging against his left thigh. After removing his saddle bags, the man in denims gave his horse over to a stable hand. Kiera noted the careful way the fellow manipulated the bags with only his right hand, leaving his left hand free to pull that pistol at any time. That, and the way his narrow-eyed gaze constantly shifted, keeping watch on all movement, fairly shouted GUNSLINGER!
Kiera shivered. That reporter, Salter, didn’t bother her one whit, but if the other men hunting her were like the denim man or Marshal Quinn, she was in serious trouble.
She waited until the two men walked away then hurried across to the stable.
• • •
She had her package securely stowed and both horses saddled when Muh’Weda came in through the building’s back door.
“Thank the Lord. I was beginning to worry about you.”
Kiera nodded. “So you know about the wanted poster and all the people looking for me.”
“Yep, that’s worrisome, but we knew when we arrived that coming here was a risk.”
She told him about her encounters with Quinn and Salter. “Can’t tell exactly how much Mr. Salter really knows. He got so much wrong. May be all of it’s wrong. Quinn didn’t seem to recognize me. Looks like my disguise is holding.”
“Maybe, but I wouldn’t take Salter or his posse lightly. I saw that gunslinger he met up with. Of them all, that marshal worries me most.”
Kiera nodded. “Worries me a lot too. He won’t be as stupid as that reporter. The last time we ran up against Quinn, we were lucky because we were able to surprise him and his friend ran out of bullets. They won’t let that happen again.”
“You’re right. I’ve heard Evrett Quinn is good with a six-gun and better with a rifle. Learned tracking from the Lakota.”
“He’s too much trouble to have following us. Maybe we should split up for a while.”
“Now Kiera, we talked about this earlier.”
“I’m not asking you to desert me. Just listen, I let Salter think I was headed southeast. He may not have identified me with the Wildcat, but then he’s a liar and a braggart. Any of those men could figure it out, and the Wildcat’s known to travel with a partner. They won’t be looking for a lone woman, especially one going home to prepare for a visit from her mother-in-law. So I head south like Salter advised, and you head west. When I’ve laid a solid trail south, I’ll cut back west and north and meet up with you at that spot near the Big Wind River where we usually camp for the night.”
“I’m thinking we should avoid any place we usually go.”
“You’re probably right. I’ll meet you at the Wind River campsite, and we can go on from there. Plenty of streams in the area, even if the drought has them down to a trickle, we can lose our trail easy.
“I still don’t like the idea of you riding off alone with so many men hunting you.”
“It’s only for a few hours, and I’ve been on my own before. I can take care of myself, thanks to you and your family teaching me how.”
He stared at her as she opened the stable doors wide enough to lead the horses out. “I can’t talk you out of this, can I?”
Kiera smiled. “Waste of breath.”
“Then be careful, Dabai’Waipi.” He used the name the Shoshone had given her, reminding her that she was precious to his entire family and respected by his people.
“You too, Muh’Weda. I’m not the only person taking a risk here.” She mounted her dapple-gray mare and kneed the horse into motion.
Muh’Weda nodded and took to the saddle of his paint pony. He watched her ride off, waiting to be certain no one followed, before he rode west.
• • •
Tossing the ruby earbobs in one hand, Ev settled his Stetson over his hair and watched the dust trail of the woman disappear to the south.
“Pretty woman,” remarked Boyd. “Some rancher’s a lucky man to have that in his bed. Seems vaguely familiar. You know her?”
Quinn shook his head, biting his tongue on the temper that flared over the gunman’s remarks. “I don’t know that woman, but I got the same feeling you did, and I’ve only once heard a voice like hers.”
He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out the worn photographs sent by express rider shortly after the robbery, fire, and murder at Big Si’s ranch. One image was of an elegant Boston blue blood. The dark serviceable dress obscured her figure, her expression was serious, but the beauty of that face was as undeniable as the gleam of light in the woman’s pale hair. The other picture showed a slim young man with a shock of white blonde hair.
Ev studied the face and stature of each figure, marveling at the story that had come in the files that accompanied the picture. Kiera Elizabeth Alden, Boston heiress, ran away from home at age nineteen. Pinkertons followed her but had no contact at the request of Carlton Alden, her grandfather and guardian. The girl then disappeared from San Francisco where, according to the madam of a bordello, Miss Alden murdered one of the madam’s clients. Alden resurfaced in Wyoming approximately eighteen months back. Disguised as a man, she’d earned a living as a photographer’s assistant for a US government exploratory expedition of the Wyoming Territory. That’s when the second picture had been taken. Eventually her deception was discovered, and the expedition’s leader abandoned her in the mountains where Pinkertons once again lost track of her. The leader’s actions were criminal. Ev didn’t know if the man should be shot for his inhumane treatment of a woman or sheer stupidity. How anyone could imagine the youth in the photograph was male was beyond understanding.
“You looking at those pictures of the Wildcat again?” Boyd asked. “I swear you spend as much time looking at the photographs as you do in the saddle trying to find her.”
Quinn ignored Boyd’s jab and continued his examination of the photograph. He did a mental comparison with his memory of the Wildcat and her image in the photograph. Each was slim through the shoulders and pale skinned. Each had enchanting smiles that lit the eyes and identical delicate eyebrows. The only resemblance to the woman from the mercantile was the eyebrows. The Wildcat had a scar at her temple that didn’t show in either image. He hadn’t seen the mercantile woman’s hair color, but hadn’t needed to, once his suspicions were roused by her voice and Boyd’s comment. How many women in Wyoming would be picking up a package of silver nitrate, an essential chemical for photographic work?
“Geezus in a dress,” cussed Quinn. “We let her get away again.”
“Who?”
“The woman from the mercantile is the Wildcat.”
“The one just talking to Salter? Not possible.”
“Boyd you said yourself she seemed familiar.”
“And you said you didn’t know her.”
“I didn’t. However, I recognized her voice and began to wonder. Look at these pictures and then think about that woman’s face.”
Boyd took the photograph and gave it a long look. “Her face was shadowed by her hat, so I didn’t get a good look at her. Are you sure?”
“I got a real close look when I bumped into her. I should have recognized her then.” Ev wasn’t about to admit that he’d been too dazzled by the woman’s green eyes to think, let alone make the connection between a rancher’s wife and a horse thief.
He felt like a damn fool. One look into those endless green depths and he’d clean forgotten about the silver nitrate or the suspicions that prompted him to get in her way. His body had gotten hard, and his heart wondered if anyone so beautiful, delicate, and guileless could possibly be interested in a saddle bum like himself. The realization that she was anything but guileless left him feeling ill used. He shook his head at himself. What did I expect her to do? Waltz up to me, smile, and say, “Hi Marshal, I’m the Wildcat. Please arrest me.”
“Guess we better get our horses.” The gunman man handed the photograph back to Ev and moved to the stairs leading from the porch of the mercantile.
“Nope.”
“No?”
Ev tilted his head toward where Clem Salter and the gunslinger also watched the fading dust trail. “I’d prefer not to have them following. No sense in having a shoot-out over a piece like the Wildcat. Either of us rides out of here now, that gunslinger’s not gonna wait for Salter or his posse. Better leave after they bed down for the night.”
“Good idea.” Boyd turned back and joined Quinn at the porch rail.
The gunman eyed Quinn, who still juggled the earrings in one hand while he returned the photographs to his pocket with the other.
“How much did that clerk get from you for those earbobs?” asked Boyd.
“Two double eagles.”
“You’ve been robbed, friend. Don’t know why you’d want them anyway, ‘less you got a woman pinning for you somewhere and you want to give her a present.” Boyd probed.
“No woman and not a gift. These earrings are evidence.”
“Evidence? You mean the Wildcat steals more’n cattle and horses.”
“No, according to the files I received these earbobs actually belong to her. I thought the woman in the mercantile might have got them from the Wildcat. I didn’t realize ‘til just now that she was trading with her own earrings.”
Boyd snorted. “Where’d a desperado like the Wildcat get something that valuable?”
“Inheritance. The Wildcat’s not who she appears to be.”
“Shee-it. I know that. Every wanted poster I’ve seen of her makes her look like a gun-toting madwoman. One look at her photograph and you can see she’s sane. Knows she’s a pretty little thing too. You saw how she manipulated Salter by just blinking her eyes.”
It shamed Ev mightily that those eyes had lured him into staring when he should be more discreet and a whole lot less fascinated. The more he stared the more his body reacted to the look of her. Luckily, he’d gotten himself under control and turned aside before she found him staring.
“No, I mean she really isn’t an outlaw. At least she didn’t start that way. She’s a socialite by the name of Kiera Alden who ran away from her home in Boston.”
“You’re kidding. How does a city-bred woman become a criminal like the Wildcat? Unless maybe she isn’t.”
“I’m pretty certain she’s not as bad as she’s been painted. Regardless of what I believe, there’s witnesses who’ll swear to murder, the arson, and the horse-stealing, and that makes it my job to arrest her.”
“Maybe, but what kind of criminal orders packages of silver nitrate and pays for it with family heirlooms?” wondered Boyd. “If stealing doesn’t bother her, why not just take the package and run? She can’t be a thief.”
