"What can I do for you, lady?" he asked in a whiny voice.
"I need to purchase some supplies for a journey," Celia replied. She began reciting the list of items she wanted to purchase, and as she ran them down, the clerk nodded, his head bobbing on his thin neck.
Celia heard several heavy footsteps behind her, but she did not turn around to see who had entered the store. A proper young woman such as the one she was pretending to be would be careful with her eyes. She regretted the little performance she had put on for Fox, but the arrogant twit had deserved it. She knew that he regarded her as not much more than a common slut. He could keep a civil tongue in, his head, though, when he was talking to her.
"Look at that, Lem," a coarse voice said. "You ever seen anything so purty?"
"Don't reckon I have," a man answered, his tone similar to that of his companion. "There's nothin' much nicer to look at, I always say, than a redheaded woman!"
The two newcomers moved up to the counter, splitting up so that one appeared on each side of Celia. She glanced at them just enough to see that they looked vaguely familiar. She couldn't place them, however.
"Mornin', ma'am," one of them said. He reached up and touched the floppy brim of his filthy hat, but the look in his eyes told her that his politeness was only a sham.
Celia nodded infinitesimally and said nothing, hoping they would go away but doubting if they would.
The man went on, "Me and Lem, we was wonderin' if you was Miss Celia Colfax."
"That is my name," Celia admitted in a soft voice. She cast a glance at the skinny clerk, not surprised to see that he had no intention of interfering with whatever the two roughly-clad miners had in mind.
"I-I'd better get those supplies for you," he said nervously, then moved away down the counter.
The one called Lem said, "I told Jase here that we had seen you last night in the Hanging Post. He didn't believe me at first, but I told him there was only one fine-lookin' gal like you in Bozeman."
So that was where she recognized them from. They had been part of the audience for Landrum's little speech the night before. In that case, it might help to remind them of him.
"My brother will be along in a moment," she said. "If you have something to say, I'm sure he will be glad to hear it."
"Naw, our business ain't with him. We was just wantin' to know how long you plan on staying in town. Thought we might see you in the saloon again, maybe get us a dance or two with you."
"I'm afraid that won't be possible. You see, we're all leaving today." Revealing that much couldn't do any harm, she reasoned. All the men had to do was look at the supplies being gathered by the clerk to know that she was preparing for a trip of some kind.
"Well, that's an almighty shame." The one called Jase took a step closer to her and laid a meaty hand on her arm. "Reckon we'll just have to have that dance now. Pull out that mouth harp of your'n, Lem."
As the other man cackled in laughter, Jase pulled a startled Celia closer to him. She gasped as his rough fingers pawed at her body. She was no shrinking virgin, but she was damned if she was going to let this ruffian maul her.
Landrum had taught her a few things during the time they had ridden the trails together, things that were never covered in the curriculum at Miss Parsons'. She made use of that impromptu education now.
Celia brought her knee up hard into Jase's groin.
He let out a yelp of pain and shoved her away, grasping at the injured area. Celia lashed out with a booted foot, driving her toe into his shin. Jase cried out again and started hopping on one foot.
Celia planted both hands in his chest and shoved hard.
He went staggering backward toward the door, unable to catch his balance or slow down his momentum. His bootheel caught on the little lip of the doorsill, throwing him back even harder. He plummeted across the sidewalk and crashed on his back in the street.
His partner, the man called Lem, stared in surprise at Celia as this went on. He dropped the mouth harp he was holding, shook his head, and finally exclaimed, "Hey! You can't do that, gal!"
He lunged at her, arms outstretched.
Vaguely, Celia was aware of Jase bellowing something as he got up and headed back into the store. At the moment, however, she was more concerned with Lem. She could tell by his eyes that the lusty horseplay they had intended for her had suddenly become more serious.
They were mad now, and she might easily get hurt before they regained their senses.
Fear mixed with anger surged through her. As Lem's fingers grabbed her arms and dug brutally into her soft flesh, she screamed. Galvanized by the emotions coursing within her, she tore her right arm loose from his grip and brought her fist up sharply.
The uppercut caught Lem on the jaw, rocking his head to the side. Celia cried out again as pain shot through her knuckles and burned up her arm. The blow slowed Lem down for a moment, but then he bulled ahead, spinning her around and trapping her against the counter. Its edge dug into her back as he leaned against her.
Over Lem's shoulder, she saw Jase advancing toward them, his beard-stubbled face purple with rage. "Lemme at that bitch!" he howled. "I'll teach her a lesson!"
Celia couldn't get her breath with Lem pressing against her. Her head swam. In a few seconds, she knew, she was going to faint.
And then there would be no one to stop them from doing whatever they wanted to her.
* * *
Landrum was running toward the general store almost before his stunned utterance of Celia's name was out of his mouth. It was clear to him that she was in trouble, and as her "brother," he had to go help her out.
And, of course, he would have gone to her aid anyway, no matter what the cover identities they were using.
She was his partner. There was nothing else he could do.
Preston Fox stared after Landrum for an instant, then broke into a run. If there was trouble, he wanted to be in on it — even though his heart had started pounding nervously.
Landrum darted through the mercantile's doorway, spotting Celia struggling against the counter with a burly miner. Another man was nearby, reaching for her.
Two long strides brought Landrum just behind the second man. He grabbed the man's shoulder, his fingers clamping down hard. The man growled a curse and started to turn around, and Landrum helped him with a shove.
Landrum's fist cracked into the man's ugly face.
The man blinked his eyes, shook his head, bunched his shoulders, and roared an oath.
Landrum said, "Damnit!" and started to back up quickly.
A fist like a good-sized ham flew at his head. He ducked in desperation. Luckily, although the miner was big, he wasn't overly fast with his hands. The punch reached only air above Landrum's right shoulder.
Fox entered the store in time to see the miner's blow miss. Landrum seemed to have the matter under control, he thought. It might not be necessary for him to become involved after all.
But then he saw Celia wrestling with another roughneck beside the counter, and worse luck, she saw him.
"Preston!" she called. "Help me!"
Fox cast his eyes around for a weapon. There was no way he could handle the miner unarmed. A few feet away sat an open-topped barrel filled with pick handles. Fox reached for one of them, intending to use it as a cudgel.
Landrum threw another punch, this time pounding his knuckles into the stomach of the man he was facing. That had a little more effect than the blow to the man's face, but not much. Not enough, Landrum thought wildly.
He didn't want gunplay. The miner was bound to have friends, and if he drew his gun and shot the man, he would probably find himself being strung up for murder. But it was beginning to look as if there was no alternative.
Fox snatched up one of the pick handles, lifted it over his head, and shouted, "Unhand that woman!" He charged forward, brandishing the makeshift club.
The clerk ducked out of sight behind the counter, his lips moving in a prayer that the store wouldn't
get torn up too badly in the fight.
Landrum's opponent swung a vicious backhand that caught the Texan on the side of the head and knocked him reeling. He careened right into the path of Fox, who tripped over Landrum's leg and went sprawling.
Landrum caught himself on one knee before going all the way down. He heard the clatter of the pick handle as Fox dropped it. The miner bellowed again and lurched toward Landrum, his massive fists clenched together into a club. He had every intention of pounding Landrum right into the floorboards of the store.
Landrum caught up the fallen pick handle and jabbed out with it, smashing it into the midsection of his attacker. Air puffed out of the man's lungs, and he paled under his deep tan.
Pushing off the floor, Landrum snapped the pick handle across the miner's face, then brought it back in a blow that bounced off the man's skull. The miner tottered for a moment, then crashed to the floor like a fallen tree.
The other man thrust Celia away from him and leaped at Landrum from behind, yelling curses. On the floor, Fox pushed himself to all fours, shaking his head to try to clear it. He reached out as the man rushed by him, grabbing his foot and pulling.
The second miner went down, arms windmilling. Landrum spun around and cracked the pick handle against his head. The man sprawled on the floor, limp and out cold.
Landrum dropped the pick handle and went over to Celia, who was leaning weakly against the counter. He took her arm to support her and asked, "Are you all right?"
After a moment, she nodded. "I'm fine, just a little shaken up. That could have gotten ugly, but you got here in time to stop it."
Fox was on his feet again, breathing hard but regaining his composure. "No need for thanks," he said pompously. "We were just doing our job."
"Yeah." Landrum shot him a slitted glance, warning him not to make any more comments like that. "It's a brother's job to look out for his sister."
The timid clerk peeked out from behind the counter. "Fight over?" he asked.
"Fight's over," Landrum confirmed coldly. "Are you in the habit of hiding while ladies are being molested, friend?"
"I'm in the habit of protecting my own hide," the clerk replied, showing more spunk than Landrum had expected. No doubt he sensed that he was no longer in any danger.
"All right," Celia snapped. "Just finish filling our order."
As the clerk started doing just that, another figure appeared in the open doorway. Gerald Ghdinghawk surveyed the scene, his impassive eyes taking in the sprawled bodies of the unconscious miners.
"White men have trouble avoiding trouble," he said dryly.
"Shut up," Landrum muttered. There were other bystanders gathering on the sidewalk, and he knew that the story of the fight would be all over town shortly. It seemed like there was some sort of conspiracy to keep them from being able to operate inconspicuously.
Davis told the Omaha to go down the street and bring up the wagon and the horses so the vehicle could be loaded. The clerk was piling a considerable stack of beans, jerky, flour, sugar, coffee, and other staples on the counter.
The two miners were still sleeping soundly on the floor when Glidinghawk arrived with the wagon. Landrum paid the clerk for the supplies, then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.
"Get these goods loaded up," he told Fox and Glidinghawk. "I've got one more thing to do before we pull out."
"Oh? And what would that be?" Glidinghawk asked.
"See a man about a dog," Landrum muttered. The need for a drink was on him. He could see that Celia felt the same way, but she was just going to have to do without this time. He didn't feel like dragging her along with him to the saloon.
As Landrum left the store, Fox tried to fall in step beside him. Landrum waved curtly at the wagon. "Help Glidinghawk," he ordered.
With a sulky look on his face, Fox grudgingly did as he was told. He didn't understand why Landrum was being so rough on him. He had joined right in the fracas, hadn't he? He had pitched in and made it possible for them to save Celia from a fate worse than death, perhaps.
Although in Celia's case, Fox thought uncharitably, it would hardly be a new experience for her.
He and Glidinghawk loaded the wagon in silence.
Landrum stalked down the street toward the Hanging Post, thirst eating at his insides. He knew he had a weakness for liquor, and action and danger seemed to make it worse.
As he walked, he caught the sly glances of the townspeople, heard the whispered comments. The story of the fight in the general store had already gotten around. There was a good chance that the news would have reached the saloon before he got there.
He might be headed right into more trouble if any friends of the unconscious miners were waiting for him.
But when he pushed through the batwings and entered the Hanging Post, no one seemed to pay much attention to him. He went to the bar and ordered a shot and a beer, already tasting the smooth bite of the whiskey in his mind.
The barroom wasn't full at this hour of the day, but there was probably more than a dozen men in attendance. Most of them were miners, but there were a couple of blue-coated soldiers leaning on the mahogany as well.
Landrum let his gaze play over them for a second, then ignored them. Soldiers were a common sight around here. These two were probably on a pass from the fort; either that, or they were slacking off on some job that had brought them into Bozeman.
One of the bluecoats was young and pasty-faced. He would have reminded Landrum of Fox if he had been wearing an officer's uniform instead of the simple private's garb. The other soldier was much older, in his forties, his uniform shirt bearing the single stripe of the perpetual corporal.
And the corporal was drunk, no doubt about that.
"Tell us about it again, Clancy," a townsman standing nearby urged the old soldier. "Tell us about how you stood up to the desperadoes." There was cruel mockery in the townie's voice, but the corporal didn't seem to notice.
"Aye, and desperadoes they were," the soldier said thickly, his huge hand wrapped around an empty glass. He gestured sharply to the bartender as he went on, "As vicious a band o' highwaymen as ye'll ever see, laddies. They come at us a-whoopin' and a-shootin', yellin' like banshees. I seen men goin' down all about me, but I kept me head and tried to open up on 'em wi' my rifle. Worthless piece of machinery jammed on me, though."
The private caught at Clancy's sleeve, his earnest face looking concerned. The corporal shrugged him off.
"I'll talk however I please about this man's army, bucko," Clancy boomed, evidently knowing in advance what the private was about to say "I been an enlisted man since before ye was piddlin' on your mother's knee." He downed the whiskey from his refilled glass. "All the troopers were gallant, but we was no match for them spalpeens. We had to leave the wagon to save our own lives, and even at that, not all the laddies made it."
Landrum had moved closer during the corporal's oration. The facts of the soldier's story matched those contained in the dispatch from Amos Powell. Landrum decided to risk a question.
He said, "That was the payroll wagon bound for Ellis that you're talking about, right?"
The corporal glanced at him, not really seeming to see him with his bloodshot, piggy eyes. "Sure an' it was," he confirmed. "What business is it o' yours?"
Landrum sipped the whiskey he held in his right hand and held up the left in a gesture of peace. "None of my business, friend. I was just curious. Reckon just about everybody heard about that robbery."
Clancy nodded. "Aye. And I'm thinkin' to too many people heard about the money bein' on that wagon beforehand. Somebody did too much talkin'."
The private had finally listened too much. He exploded, "It could've been you, you drunken old chowderhead! All you do is talk!"
The corporal swung toward him, lifting his arm almost lazily. The back of his hand smacked across the young soldier's face, knocking him stumbling back over one of the poker tables, scattering chips and disrupting a desultory game between several
miners.
The poker players leaped out of the way and shouted angrily. One of them started hitting the private, while a couple of others jumped Clancy from behind. The massive old corporal let out a roar and started swinging tree-like arms.
Landrum downed the rest of his whiskey, thirstily followed it with the beer, and backed off while the getting was good. This brawl was none of his business, but the last-minute trip to the saloon had paid an unexpected dividend.
The intelligence that had been gathered by Powell and passed on to them had now been confirmed. Someone had informed the outlaws of the time and route of the payroll shipment. The trail of the money stretched a long way, from Washington across the middle to the country, up the Union Pacific tracks and then across the frontier to Fort C.F. Ellis.
The leak could have been anywhere along that trail, Landrum knew, and the chance of finding the bandits from that end was slim. But if he and his partners could locate the outlaws and the payroll-what was left of it-they might be able to work backward and discover who had set up the robbery.
Landrum ducked a flying chair as the brouhaha in the Hanging Post erupted into a full-scale battle. He slipped out through the batwings, his last sight of the corporal called Clancy coming as the old soldier was buried under a veritable mountain of brawling miners.
CHAPTER SEVEN
"I'll never learn to make flapjacks," Celia moaned as she regarded the sticky mess in the pan she was holding.
"Just do your best," Landrum told her. "Once we get to our claim, you'll have to do all the cooking. Anything else wouldn't look right."
"You just don't want to have to do all the work," Celia pouted.
Landrum sat down across the campfire from her, leaning his back against one of the wagon wheels. "That's the way things are out here, sis. The women wind up with all the really dirty jobs." There was a grin on his lean face.
"That's the way it is everywhere," Celia muttered.
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