Lady of the Gun

by Faye Adams

  Brett's gray eyes had taken on the color of storm clouds, and she could see the anger behind them, ready to explode like a summer deluge. Ramsey's eyes now glowed with the fire of his temper, a temper she remembered from childhood.

  "Does Twisted Creek have need of a marshal, or are you just snooping around?" Ramsey asked, an innocent tone barely masking the rudeness of his question.

  Brett smiled, a feral stretching of his lips. "I'm here on business," he answered.

  "Really? Do tell. I love small-town gossip. What dangerous criminal are you chasing down?"

  Brett transferred his gaze purposefully to Cass. "Actually, I'm here to investigate the Lady of the Gun," he explained softly.

  Cass's eyes widened. He couldn't mean her, could he?

  "The Lady of the Gun?" inquired Ramsey"

  "Yes," answered Brett, not taking his eyes from Cass's face. "And what I've found so far has me very intrigued."

  Ramsey looked suspiciously from Brett to Cass. His father had never told him she'd acquired a title to go with her reputation. "You don't mean . . ."

  Brett glanced only briefly at Ramsey. "Yes. Cass is the woman I was sent here to find. Now that I've found her, I'll be sticking very close to her for a while."

  Cass could feel Ramsey's fingers stiffen at her back.

  “I do hope you're not planning on being a nuisance when I take her to dinner this evening,"' Ramsey murmured.

  Cass's eyes jerked upward as she fixed Ramsey with a startled glare. "Dinner?"

  Ramsey met her expression with a confident smile. "Yes, Cass. As soon as I saw you again, I realized I'd made a terrible mistake in not getting to know you better when we were children. I intend to correct the oversight, that is, if you'll do me the honor of accompanying me to dinner."

  Brett scowled blackly as Ramsey held Cass's attention. "I don't think it would be a good idea for Cass to spend the evening in town," he interjected.

  Ramsey raised one blond brow in Brett's direction. "I didn't ask you what you thought about it. I'm inviting the lady to dinner, and I don't think she needs your approval."

  "She needs my permission," answered Brett, his voice dropping threateningly.

  Cass looked from one man to the other with exasperation. This verbal parrying over her was ridiculous. Had something happened to the air in Twisted Creek to cause men she barely knew to argue over her? she wondered. "Excuse me, gentlemen," she interrupted coldly. "I have business to attend to today," --she turned toward Ramsey—“and though I’m flattered by your invitation, I'm afraid I'll have to make it another time." She then leveled her gaze on the marshal. "And I ask no man's permission to do anything."

  “I'm merely concerned about Bobby Fleet's whereabouts," Brett told her firmly "As a marshal I have the authority to protect anyone in any way I see fit."

  "I think I proved this morning that I don't need anyone's protection."

  "Bobby Fleet is more dangerous than Henry was," Brett informed her. "I don't think you could best him."

  "I'll take my chances," Cass stated flatly.

  "Henry Fleet?" Ramsey asked, not understanding the conversation he was hearing.

  Brett fixed the blond man with a hard glare. "Cass here killed Henry in a gunfight this morning. I'm concerned Bobby may be in the area. If he is, he'll come looking for her when he hears what happened."

  Ramsey raised a brow in fascination. Looking over Cass's very feminine form, the fullness of her breasts, the rounded hips and long legs, he found it hard to believe she was capable of committing the cold-blooded killings his father had written him about. It was even harder to believe she'd bested a professional gunslinger in a showdown. The others she'd killed had drawn down on her, but none had been very good with a gun. A surge of excitement coursed through his veins. Cass had become more interesting than he'd have imagined possible. "I'm certain, if what you say is true, that Cass can take care of herself." He smiled warmly at her. "And I would be close by to protect her. I'm not entirely ignorant of the use of pistols."

  "I don't need anyone's protection," Cass insisted, glaring at Ramsey. "Not anyone's," she added, switching the direction of her angry gaze to Brett. "Good day, gentlemen," she finished with exasperation. Turning on her heel, she left the two standing next to the stage and headed toward the livery once more.

  Brett tightened his fists at his sides as he watched her leave.

  Ramsey smiled to himself. Cassidy Wayne had grown into quite a woman. This trip home could prove to be much more interesting than he or his father had bargained for.

  Chapter Four

  Cass rode toward home some time later, her newly repaired saddle tied on behind her. She laughed softly to herself, remembering the way the smithy had fallen all over himself apologizing for being late with the work on the saddle. There were some advantages in having people feel a little afraid of her, she decided.

  Her mirth was short-lived when she saw movement out of the corner of her eye and looked to see a rider-less horse heading in her general direction. Stopping her mount, she waited briefly to be sure it wasn't some sort of trap, then nudged her animal toward the loose horse. As she neared the animal she blew a curse from between her teeth. "Damn, you're the sheriff’s mount, aren't you, boy?"

  The horse shied away nervously as she reached for the trailing reins. "Whoa, fella. I'm not going to hurt you," she cooed. Leaning toward the animal again, she grabbed the reins before he could veer off. “Whoa, boy. Where's Sheriff Jackson? What's happened to him?" she questioned softly, trying to calm the frightened animal with her tone.

  Pulling the reins in slowly, she tugged the horse nearer, feeling pity for the animal as he rolled his eyes in fear and tried to rear against her control. "It's okay, boy. I'm not going to hurt you," she soothed.

  After a few more moments of quiet talking and very gentle pressure on the reins, she was able to bring the horse abreast of her own. Inspecting the sheriff's saddle caused her to narrow her eyes in concern. Smeared across the right latigo, stirrup leather, and fender was a streak of blood. Feeling the hair along the back of her neck rise, she gazed at the horizon in the direction from which the sheriff's horse had come. "The Lazy T," she breathed. Looking back at the horse, she gently rubbed his muzzle. "Sheriff Jackson's dead, isn't he, boy?" she asked.

  Letting out the length of the reins, she tied the ends to her own saddle horn. Then, leading the sheriff’s horse behind her, she gave her mount a gentle prod and guided him toward the Lazy T.

  Brett had tracked Cass's movements around Twisted Creek, then watched her ride out of town. He'd been tempted to follow her but had decided against it, the opportunity to talk to Ramsey Tylo posing an even greater temptation. After securing a room at the hotel and taking a much-needed bath, he went in search of the blond man.

  It didn't take him long to find Ramsey. He'd taken root at one of the card tables in the Best Bet Saloon, a red-haired prostitute at his shoulder, a bottle of whiskey at his elbow, and a hand of five cards gripped tightly between his fingers. "I'll see your fifty and raise you another twenty," he told his fellow players.

  "Too rich for my blood," grumbled one of the players, dropping his cards disgustedly on the table and pushing his chair back loudly, signifying his departure from the game. Two other players merely laid their hands face down in defeat, but remained at the table. The remaining player, an old gentleman, stood his ground, glaring over the top of his hand. "You think you got a winner there, kid?" he challenged.

  "I'm sure of it," Ramsey announced smugly.

  Brett walked quietly to the bar and leaned against it as he watched the scene at the poker table.

  "Are you going to call my additional wager, old man?" Ramsey asked.

  "Just hold on there, young fella. You should let a man savor his victory a bit." The man grinned at his opponent, wrinkling a face already marred by the folds of time.

  Ramsey snorted inelegantly. "Really, sir. Do get on with it. I doubt you have a hand to beat mine, but if so . . ." He s
ighed. "I do have things to do with what's left of this day."

  "I'll call yer bet, sonny. There's no law against a man taking some time to do it." He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out the necessary twenty dollars, and laid it gingerly on the pile of money already making up the pot. “Now let's see whatcha got."

  Brett grinned to himself at the old man's attitude. He enjoyed a good poker game now and then, and it would be fun to play against this old character. He straightened a bit in order to see the cards as the men laid them on the table.

  Ramsey eyed his aged opponent. He was confident his king high straight flush would beat any hand the old man had managed to put together, and it would serve the old fool right to see his money enter someone else's pockets. “I’ll certainly oblige you," he said derisively. Laying his cards face up on the table with one hand, he reached for the pot with the other. "I'm sure you'll understand if I don't let you win back your losses. I really must be getting out to the Lazy T now."

  Brett heard the soft groan of several people in the room as Ramsey's cards were shown. He even felt himself sigh at the old man's apparent loss. He didn't look as if he could afford it.

  "Not so fast, young fella," the old man announced, reaching out to stop Ramsey from taking the pot. "You're pretty fast with your hands there, don't cha think? Hadn't you ought to wait and see if you won before you go grabbing money that don't belong to you?"

  Ramsey stiffened at the touch of the old man's hand on his own. He raised one eyebrow threateningly. "I don't like an uninvited touch," he warned.

  "And I don't like no one stealing my money," the old man answered, laying his cards on the table for all to see.

  Brett's eyes opened wider when he saw the royal flush staring up from the green felt tabletop. "Holy cow," he whispered. The old man had produced the only hand capable of beating Ramsey's.

  Ramsey stiffened. Not an eyelash moved as he digested what had just happened. Seconds ticked by as his anger raged silently within him. He hated losing. He hated the old man for winning. And he hated the fact that he'd been bested in front of a crowd. Finally he released his hold on the pot and slowly pulled back. "It seems Lady Luck was favoring you today," he practically whispered.

  "It weren't luck, sonny. It was just plain better poker playing that did it," the old man boasted while scooping up the money from the table.

  Ramsey lowered his eyelids at the old man's words. "What's your name, if I might ask?" he inquired.

  The old man straightened proudly. "Stanley Draper's the name, young fella, but folks just call me Sharky."

  Brett bit his lower lip to stifle a laugh at the sound of the old man's moniker. It had been years since he'd heard the name Sharky Draper. He'd figured the old man was dead. Apparently not. Ramsey'd been taken by one of the best poker players in the West.

  Laughter and whispers filled the room. The two other participants in the poker game chuckled at their misfortune and left the table.

  Ramsey's rage grew when he realized he'd been taken so completely by the old man. He'd have bet everything - in fact, he had- that the old man was nothing more than some itinerate fool. He clenched his jaw as he rose from the table. "Perhaps we'll meet again." he rasped as he placed his hat levelly on his head.

  "Maybe, maybe not," answered Sharky. "Not too many fellas want to play poker with me more than once." He started to laugh quietly as he scraped the last of the money off the table and into his dusty, tattered hat.

  Brett was still grinning as he watched Ramsey head toward the door of the saloon. He wanted to ask him some questions about the murder of Cass's family, but this was not the time to do it. Ramsey would need some time to cool off before he'd want to talk to anyone about anything.

  The marshal crossed the room instead and stopped at the table where Sharky was counting his winnings. "You already know how much is there, don't you?" he asked.

  Sharky didn't look up. "To the penny, Marshal. To the penny."

  Brett's grin widened. "Then why count it?"

  Sharky raised his gaze for just a second. "To make sure that young fella didn't palm any of it before he left."

  Brett stood still and pondered the old man's words. He didn't think Ramsey was the type to steal a man's poker winnings, but there was something about Hunt Tylo's son that he didn't like, something about the stifled anger that had been so apparent in his stance as he'd left the saloon. "You'd better be careful around here for a while," he advised.

  "Have a seat, Marshal," Sharky offered, pushing a chair out with his boot. "You think I should be worried about that one?" he asked, tipping his head in the direction of the door.

  Brett turned the chair around and straddled it, his arms resting on the back of it. “Maybe."

  "You think he'd do something to me to get even?"

  "Maybe," Brett repeated.

  Sharky leaned back, putting his winnings deep inside his trouser pocket. Meeting the marshal's gaze, he shook his head. "I don't think I have too much to worry about. That one doesn't usually do his own dirty work. Leastways, not when there's a chance of getting caught."

  Brett was surprised. "You know Ramsey?"

  "Yep. He just doesn't remember me. I've been in and out of this town off and on for the last twenty years or so. That boy didn't gamble much before he left town, mostly just drank himself into oblivion and spent his daddy's money on whores." He shook his head in memory. "Never did see a boy set so much store on spending time with whores. Randy as a young bull, he was." He glanced back briefly toward the door. "He's been gone a long time. Didn’t remember me at all, and he didn't spend any money on the whores."

  Brett looked at the women, who were standing against the bar, waiting for their next customers. "I guess he's changed," he offered.

  "Guess so.”

  "Which is why I think you should be a little careful for a while."

  "Aw hell. I didn't get this old by bein' careless."

  Brett grinned again "All right, Sharky. I won't pester you about it anymore."

  Sharky smiled his wrinkled smile at the younger man. "You don't feel like a game, do you?"

  "I don't think so," Brett declined. "I don't make enough money at this job that I can afford to give some of it to you."

  Sharky chuckled and began picking up the cards still lying across the table. "Too bad, I reckon you'd be a real challenge. I doubt I could beat you."

  "Don't try to hustle me," Brett warned in a friendly tone. "By the way, how'd you know I was a marshal when I walked over? You didn't look up."

  "I make it my business to know the law before the law knows me."

  Brett raised his eyebrows.

  "I was in here earlier, when that gunfighter, Henry Fleet, was looking for Cass. Went outside in time to see the whole thing," Sharky explained. "I ain't never seen anyone as fast as that girl. 'Course, I can't blame her. Not after what happened to her family."

  "You know about that?"

  Sharky gave the marshal an incredulous stare. "Everybody around here knows about it."

  "Were you here when the family was murdered?" Brett questioned.

  Sharky remembered for a moment and nodded. "Yeah, I was here. I was even part of the posse that went out looking for the murderin' bastards that did it," he said, his eyes vacant with the memory. “It was real strange,” he mumbled.

  "What was?" Brett asked, grasping at the old man's words.

  "The way we lost 'em." He raised his eyes to meet the marshal's. "They all scattered, every one of 'em. You'd think some of 'em would have stuck together. Criminals usually do have partners. But these fellas just went their separate ways. It was almost as if they'd come together just to commit the one crime, then went off about their business." He shook his head again. "And poor Cass was left behind. Terrible thing. Never saw her cry, though."

  Brett remembered that Sheriff Jackson had said the same thing. It was odd she'd never cried. Instead, she had strapped on the twin Colts and become one of the deadliest shots in the West. She'd man
aged to track down four of the killers and was now back in Twisted Creek, hoping to find the last one. And she thought it might be Hunt Tylo, the father of the man Sharky had just beaten badly in a poker game. The man who'd just come home after a five-year absence. Was his return a coincidence? Suddenly Brett wanted very badly to see Cass, to see if she was all right. Pushing himself up from the chair, he looked down at Sharky. "I've got a few things I need to take care of. Are you planning on being in town for long?"

  "You asking me to leave, Marshal?"

  Brett smiled down at him. "Just the opposite. I was hoping you'd stay around for a while, in case I start feeling like I need to play a hand or two""

  "Sure thing, Marshal. I'll be here when you want me. I've got a room at the hotel."

  Brett nodded good-bye quickly and headed out of the saloon. As he walked toward the sheriff's office, his thoughts continued to focus on Cass. Was she on the right track with Tylo? Did Ramsey's coming home now have anything to do with her? His gut tightened with dread. "Damn it," he fumed, realizing he had no idea where the Wayne ranch was.

  Cass followed the fresh horse tracks down a wash along the base of a ridge. The sheriff's horse was getting more and more skittish by the minute, and her own mount had begun sidestepping nervously. "Calm down, boy," she soothed. "Just keep going a little farther. I think we're about to find something." Nudging her horse to increase his gait, she felt the sheriff’s horse pulling on the lead.

  "You had a real scare, didn't you?" she asked, turning in the saddle. The horse's eyes rolled wildly, seemingly in response.

  The tracks led Cass up out of the wash and along a narrow path at the very base of the ridge. She was definitely on a course leading to the Lazy T. Her blue eyes narrowed as the path widened and turned away from the ridge, curving into a more open area of the range. Ahead of her was a dark bump on the landscape. A bump that looked, sadly, as if it could be the curled-up body of a man. "Come on, boys," she urged as she spurred her mount, leading the sheriff's horse along behind.