by Matt Braun
“Those are all of our weapons. May I ask your intentions, Mr. Stroud?”
Stroud ignored him. “Shorty,” he said to one of the men. “Get them into the buckboard and let’s make tracks. Them Comanche might have friends hereabouts.”
Shorty Martin was well named. He was hardly taller than a stump post, a thickset man with beady eyes. “Whyn’t we kill’em now?” he said flatly. “They’re just gonna slow us down.”
Lillian’s heart skipped a beat. She seemed unable to catch her breath as Stroud inspected them as if they were lame horses that might slow his progress. His eyes suddenly locked onto her and held her in a gaze that was at once assessment and raw lust. The look lasted a mere instant, though she felt stripped naked, and his eyes again went cold. He glanced at Martin.
“Do like you’re told.”
Martin knew an order when he heard one. Within minutes, the outfit proceeded west along the river. The Fontaines were in the buckboard, and the bloodbay gelding, now unsaddled, ran with the herd. Fontaine, nagged by a worrisome thought, wished he had kept the pistol.
He’d seen the way Stroud looked at Lillian.
The sun was high when they crossed the Arkansas. At a wide spot in the river, where the water ran shallow, they forded through a rocky streambed. Their direction was now almost due southwest.
Fontaine watched the operation with increasing vigilance. His mind was already exploring how they might escape, and he was committing the terrain and their direction to memory. Yet he discerned that the gang functioned like a military unit, relentlessly on guard and with an economy of commands. The men clearly knew what was expected of them.
The chain of command was clear as well. Stroud was the leader, and his orders were not open to question. The other men, though a rough lot, seemed wary of incurring his anger. Shorty Martin was apparently Stroud’s lieutenant and nominally the second in command. But there was little doubt as to his place in the scheme of things. Every order originated with Stroud.
Lillian was frightened into stony silence. Her intuition told her that these men were far more dangerous than the Comanche warriors they’d fought off just last night. Their abductors were callous and openly cold-blooded, evidenced by the one who had so calmly suggested that killing them was the better alternative. Only by the whim of the gang leader were they still alive.
Their deliverance from the Indians seemed to her a harsher fate. She knew lust when she saw it, and she’d seen it all too plainly in Stroud’s cool gaze. She thought they’d jumped from the frying pan into the fire, and all because of her. Some inner voice warned her that the lives of her father and Chester were hostage to how she behaved. She sensed it was only a matter of time until her virtue was tested.
Stroud called a halt at noon. A narrow creek lay across their path, and he ordered the horses watered. The men took turns watching the herd, some rolling themselves smokes while the horses crowded around the stream. Others dismounted, pulling their puds as if there weren’t a woman within a hundred miles, and relieved themselves on the ground. Lillian kept her eyes averted.
Stroud rode over to the buckboard. Chester, whose face was white with fury, erupted in anger. “Don’t your men have any decency? How can you let them… . do that! … in front of a woman?”
“Sonny, you’d best shut your mouth. I won’t be barked at by pups.”
“Listen here—”
“That’s enough!” Fontaine broke in. “Do as he says, Chet. Say nothing more.”
“Good advice,” Stroud said. “Don’t speak till you’re spoke to. Savvy?”
“We understand,” Fontaine assured him. “It won’t happen again.”
Stroud nodded. He hooked one leg around the saddlehorn and pulled the makings from his shirt pocket. After spilling tobacco from a sack into the paper, he licked the edges and rolled it tight. He popped a sulphurhead on his thumbnail and lit up in a haze of smoke. His gaze lingered on Lillian a moment as he exhaled. Then he looked back at Fontaine.
“I never met an actor,” he said. “Go ahead, do something.”
“Pardon me?”
“Let’s see you act.”
“Seated in a buckboard?”
“I ain’t in the habit of repeatin’ myself. Show me your stuff.”
Fontaine realized it was a crude test of some sort. He knew he would have only one chance to make good and decided to give it his all. The other men, drawn by the spectacle, moved closer to the buckboard. His voice rose in a booming baritone.
The quality of mercy is not strained,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice bless’d;
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:
’Tis mightest in the mightiest; it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown;
His scepter shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings
Stroud was silent a moment. He took a drag and exhaled a wad of smoke. Then he smiled. “I like that,” he said. “ ‘The dread and fear of kings.’ You just pick that out of thin air?”
Fontaine spread his hands. “I thought it appropriate to the occasion.”
“The part about mercy wasn’t bad, either. I can see you’ve got a sly way about you.”
“A supplicant often petitions mercy. Under the circumstances, it seemed fitting.”
Stroud turned to the men. “You boys ever hear Shakespeare before?”
The men traded sheepish glances, shook their heads. “Thought not,” he said, flicking an ash off his cigarette. “Well, Mr. Fontaine, mebbe we won’t have to kill you, after all. We’re plumb shy on entertainment out our way.”
Lillian thought he was evil incarnate. He was lithe and muscular, with square features and a bristly ginger mustache. His eyes were hooded and seemed to emanate menace. She found herself staring into them now.
“Your pa says you’re—how’d he put it?—an exceptional singer.”
“I try,” she replied softly. “Some people think I have a nice voice.”
“You be thinkin’ up a good tune for when we camp tonight. I’ll let you sing for the boys.”
Stroud shifted his gaze to Chester. “What is it you do, sonny?”
Chester reddened. “I act in melodramas. And I do a soft-shoe routine.”
“You’ll be dancin’ for your supper before we’re done. Just don’t gimme no more of your sass.”
“We understand perfectly,” Fontaine interjected. “You may depend on us for the spirit of cooperation.”
Stroud snuffed his cigarette between thumb and forefinger. He gestured to his men. “Awright, we been jawbonin’ long enough. Let’s get them horses on the trail.”
The men jumped to obey. Stroud swung his leg over the saddlehorn and jammed his boot in the stirrup. Fontaine cleared his throat.
“May I ask you something, Mr. Stroud?”
“Try me and see.”
“Where, exactly, are you taking us?”
Stroud smiled. “Folks call it No Man’s Land.”
CHAPTER 13
THREE DAYS later they crossed into No Man’s Land. Their line of march was due southwest, through desolate country parched by wind and sun. On the fourth day, they sighted Wild Horse Lake.
Rufe Stroud seemed to unwind a little when they neared the outlaw camp. He rode beside the buckboard, suddenly talkative, almost genial, chatting with Fontaine. Lillian got the impression that it was all for her benefit, meant to impress her with the man and the place. He was in a bragging mood.
The remote strip of wilderness, Stroud told them, was all but uninhabited. Centuries ago Spanish explorers had called it Cimarron, which loosely translated meant “wild and unruly.” Through a hodgepodge of confused and poorly written treaties, it now belonged to none of the Western states or territories. So it was aptly dubbed No Man’s Land.
Despite the name, there was noth
ing confusing about its borders. Texas and Kansas were separated by its depth of some thirty-five miles, while its breadth extended nearly two hundred miles westward from Indian Territory to New Mexico Territory. Along its northwestern fringe, the isolated strip of grasslands formed a juncture with Colorado as well. To a large degree, the raw expanse of wilderness had been forgotten by God and government alike. There was no law, Stroud idly warned them, but his law.
Wild Horse Lake was his headquarters. Known to few white men, the spot was situated on the divide between the Beaver and Cimarron Rivers. A prominent landmark, it was the haunt of renegades and desperadoes from across the West. Those who came there were predators, wanted men on the dodge, and the law of the gun prevailed. A man survived on cunning and nerve and by minding his own business. Too much curiosity, Stroud explained, could get a man killed.
The lake itself was centered in a large basin. Somewhat like a deep bowl, it served as a reservoir for thunderstorms that whipped across the plains. Above the basin, sweeping away on all sides, was a limitless prairie where the grasses grew thick and tall. Wild things, the mustangs that gave the lake its name, no longer came there to feed and water. The basin was now the domain of men.
Outlaws found refuge there. A sanctuary where those who rode the owlhoot could retreat with no fear of pursuit. Not even U.S. marshals dared venture into the isolated stronghold, for lawmen were considered a form of prey anywhere in No Man’s Land. Discretion being the better part of valor, peace officers stayed away, and a man on the run could find no safer place. There was absolute immunity from the law at Wild Horse Lake.
Several cabins dotted the perimeter of the lake. A trail from the east dropped off the plains and followed an incline into the basin. Lillian counted seven cabins and upward of ten men lounging about in the late-afternoon sunshine. Three men on hoseback were watering a herd of longhorns, and she noticed that the cattle wore fresh brands, the hair and hide still singed. She knew nothing of such matters, but it appeared to her that the old brands had somehow been altered. The men watched her with interest as the buckboard rolled past.
Stroud’s headquarters was on the west side of the lake. There were three cabins, one larger than the others, and off on the south side a corral constructed of stout poles. The men hazed the horses into the corral, and a woman came running to slam and bolt the gate. Lillian saw two other women standing outside the larger cabin, and for a moment her spirits soared. But then, looking closer, she was reminded of the prostitutes she’d seen in Dodge City. She would find no friends at Wild Horse Lake.
One of the women walked forward. She was plump and curvaceous, with a mound of dark hair and bold amber eyes. Her gaze touched on Lillian with an instant’s appraisal and then moved to Stroud. Her mouth ovaled in a saucy smile.
“Hello there, lover,” she said. “Glad to see you back.”
“Glad to be back.”
Stroud stepped down from the saddle. The woman put her arms around his neck and kissed him full on the mouth. After a moment, she disengaged and nodded to the buckboard. “What’ve you got here?”
“They’re actors,” Stroud said, his arm around her waist. “The old man’s pure hell on Shakespeare. The boy dances a little and the girl’s a singer. Got a real nice voice.”
“You plan to keep them here?”
“Don’t see why not. We could stand some entertainment. Liven up the place.”
She poked him in the ribs. “Thought I was lively enough for you.”
“Course you are,” Stroud said quickly. “Wait’ll you hear the girl sing, though. She’s damn good.”
“Just make sure singing’s all she does.”
“C’mon now, Sally, don’t get started on me. I’m in no mood for it.”
She laughed a bawdy laugh. “I guess I know how to change your mood.”
The order of things soon became apparent. Stroud and his woman, Sally Keogh, shared one of the smaller cabins. The other small cabin was occupied by Shorty Martin and a frowsy woman with broad hips and red hair. The largest of the cabins was a combination mess hall and bunkhouse for the remaining four men. The third woman appeared to be their communal harlot.
Martin quickly got a rude surprise. Stroud motioned him over to the buckboard. “The actors,” he said, jerking a thumb at the Fontaines, “are takin’ over your place. You and Mae move your stuff into the big cabin.”
“For chrissake!” Martin howled. “You got no call to do that, Rufe.”
“Don’t gimme no argument. Get’em settled and quit your bellyachin’.”
“There ain’t no extra bunk in the big cabin!”
“Work out your own sleepin’ arrangements. Just get it done.”
“Yeah, awright,” Martin grumped. “Still ain’t fair.”
Stroud turned to the buckboard. “Listen to me real good,” he said, staring hard at Fontaine. “You mixin’ with my men—’specially the girl—that’s liable to cause trouble. So I’m givin’ you a cabin to yourselves.”
Fontaine nodded. “We appreciate the courtesy, Mr. Stroud.”
“You’re gonna see we don’t have no padlock to put on your door. Before long, you might get it in your head to steal some horses and make a run for it.”
“I assure you—”
“Lemme finish,” Stroud said coldly. “You run, I’ll let Shorty have his way with you. Get my drift?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Then don’t do nothin’ stupid.”
By sundown, the Fontaines were settled in the small cabin. Not long afterward, Fontaine and Chester were ordered to carry armloads of firewood into the big cabin. Lillian was assigned to the kitchen, which consisted of a woodburning cookstove and a crude table for preparing food. The other women, who were frying antelope steaks and a huge skillet of potatoes, gave her the silent treatment. But as the men trooped in, taking seats on long benches at a dining table, Sally Keogh sidled up to her. The woman’s features were contorted.
“Stay away from Rufe,” she hissed. “You mess with him and I’ll slit your gullet.”
“Why not tell him that?” Lillian said, suddenly angry. “All I want is to be left alone.”
“Just remember you were warned.”
Stroud broke out the whiskey. He waved Fontaine and Chester to the table and poured them drinks in enamel mugs. His amiable mood left them puzzled until they realized he wanted to celebrate a successful horse raid. He once again began bragging about his operation.
The whiskey and other essentials, he informed them, were imported to Wild Horse Lake from a distant trading post. There were three gangs who made the basin their headquarters, and his was the largest of the bunch. Some rustled cattle, others robbed banks and stagecoaches, but none dealt in stolen horses. Stroud reserved that right to himself, and the other gangs went along, aware that he would fight to protect his interests. No one cared to tangle with him or his outfit.
Fontaine mentioned he’d been told that the Comanche and Cheyenne tribes were active in this part of the country. He alluded specifically to Stroud and his men saving them from certain death at the hands of the Comanche raiding party. He asked how Stroud and the other gangs managed to operate so openly in a land where warlike tribes traveled at will. Stroud laughed loudly.
“We buy ’em off,” he said. “Injuns would trade their souls for repeatin’ rifles. Bastards think we hung the moon.”
Lillian listened as she worked at the stove. She knew all his bragging was like the sounding of their death knell. He would never have brought them here or expounded at such length on his operation if there was any chance they would be released. Or any chance they might escape.
He was telling them that they would never leave Wild Horse Lake.
Stroud threw a party that night. He invited all the members of the other gangs headquartered at Wild Horse Lake. By eight o’clock, some twenty people were jammed into the big cabin.
The announced purpose of the shindig was celebration of still another profitable horse raid. Yet
it was apparent to all who attended that Stroud was eager to show off his captives, the Fontaines. Or as he insisted on referring to them in a loud, boastful manner: The Actors.
Jugs of whiskey were liberally dispensed to the revelers. Stroud and the other gang leaders were seated at the head of the long dining table, the position of honor. Their followers were left to stand for the most part, though some took seats on the bunks. The party steadily became more boisterous as they swilled popskull liquor.
One of Stroud’s men whanged away on a Jew’s harp. With the metal instrument clamped between his teeth, he plucked musical tones that were surprisingly melodious. A member of another gang was no less proficient on a harmonica, and the sounds produced on the mouth organ complemented those from the Jew’s harp. They soon had the cabin rollicking with sprightly tunes.
Fontaine felt like he was attending some mad festivity hosted by an ancient feudal lord. The only difference in his mind was that the men were armed with pistols rather than broadswords and crossbows. Somewhat sequestered, he stood watching with Lillian and Chester by the woodstove as liquor flowed and the party got rowdier. He sensed they were about to become the court jesters of Wild Horse Lake.
Not quite an hour into the revelry Stroud rose to his feet. His face was flushed with whiskey and his mouth stretched wide in a drunken grin. He pounded on the table with a thorny fist until the Jew’s harp and the harmonica trailed off in a final note. The crowd fell silent.
“I got a treat for you boys,” he said with a broad gesture directed at the Fontaines. “These here folks are professional actors, come all the way from Dodge City. Song and dance and, believe it or not, Shakespeare!”
Monte Dunn, the leader of a band of robbers, guffawed loudly. He was lean, the welt of an old scar across his eyebrow, with muddy eyes and buttered hair. He gave Stroud a scornful look.
“Shakespeare?” he said caustically. “Who the hell wants to hear Shakespeare? Ain’t no swells in this bunch.”
