The Gallant Outlaw

by Gilbert, Morris

  “No.”

  “Have you ever been engaged?”

  “No.” Then he added, “Have you?”

  Lanie glared at him. “I’ve never been married or engaged.”

  “Guess you’re no expert either, then. Are you, Miss Winslow?” He did not smile, but she knew instantly that he was amusing himself at her expense. She wheeled and walked back toward the camp, Lobo following without another word.

  The others looked at them as they came in, and it was obvious that Lanie was upset. She stalked over to her blanket and sat down, staring into the fire without speaking. Dawkins began talking about outlaws, and the conversation went on for some time.

  Finally, Lobo said, “We better get some rest so we can head out to Perrago’s hideout. He’s probably using that shack he has in the Cherokee Nation. It’ll be a good two-day ride, as I figger it.” He cocked his head to one side and continued pointedly. “I can find the shack. Perrago may or may not be there. But I can tell you one thing, Marshal.”

  “What’s that, Lobo?”

  “You ain’t gonna walk in unexpected on Vic and that bunch. They’re ready for whatever comes.”

  No one answered. Wesley Stone had been listening, trying to stay awake, and now he looked at Lobo. “There’s no way to sneak up on them?”

  “A man don’t make it in the business Perrago’s in unless he learns how to keep folks from sneakin’ up on him. Nope. I expect when we go to fetch Perrago that he’ll be there to furnish the reception,” Lobo said as if he were instructing a child.

  CHAPTER TEN

  No Escape

  Every day was the same. Betsy got up wearily, dressed, ate what she could—although it was hard to choke anything down—and then spent the monotonous days either wandering around the shack, always under strict surveillance, or else sitting on the front porch, staring out over the emptiness of the hills that surrounded the house.

  She had learned within the first few days that she was trapped with an outlaw crew. They made no attempt to hide their exploits from her. It made her blood run cold when they talked about killing the way other men talked about planting crops.

  Almost two weeks had gone by, and Betsy had lost weight. Dark circles emphasized her dull eyes, and she made no attempt to make herself attractive. She wanted to lose her prettiness, for whenever Vic came close to her she felt unclean. She could not avoid him at night. He merely laughed at her attempts to get away from him, at least for the first week. Then he grew tired of it. Night was coming on, and she sat out on the front porch listening to the men inside cursing and yelling. The eternal poker game was going on, and she dreaded for it to be over.

  Betsy knew that she couldn’t just walk away, for usually at least two of the men were watching her. Sometimes they were invisible, but she knew they were there. Tonight Honey Ward, a burly man of thirty-five, was out there somewhere in the falling darkness, perhaps to the hills to the west, watching all the passes that way, while Grat Duvall, a small rider whose eyes almost looked crossed because they were set close together, was probably watching from the east. Jack Masterson, a dark, muscular man with sharp black eyes, frightened her the most—he stared at her constantly.

  The house had been chosen because no one could sneak up on it. There were only the low hills, void of anything except shrub timber that was shriveled by the heat. The only water was a small creek that flowed behind the house, some greenery edging its banks.

  Betsy sat on the porch stoically, her thoughts dull and sad. She had been sitting there for hours, and finally she got up and walked to the creek, scooped some fresh water up in the bucket she carried, and drank deeply. The water was the only good thing here; the cooking was greasy, the food usually half done. But the water in the creek was fed by a spring somewhere, and it was deliciously cool. She sat down stiffly and bathed her face with it. She was well aware that she would never be allowed to get more than a hundred yards away from the shack, and that right now sharp eyes were watching her. Taking off her shoes, she bathed her feet, then took her handkerchief out of her pocket and bathed her face and neck, enjoying the cool water against her hot skin. It was always hot here, and her face was beginning to pick up a golden tan, although the freckles still showed.

  Freckles, she thought dismally. To think I was once worried about freckles and not being tall. Her mind wandered back to the old days, and she dropped her head and ground the heels of her hands into her eyes to shut off the tears. She had cried herself out long ago, and she knew too well that tears would not bring her any sympathy.

  For a long time she sat motionless, her head down, trying not to think of home. But the thoughts came to her, like faint music comes to one who listens. She thought of her mother, hearing her voice again, the Welsh strain so rich in it. She thought of her father and how he had always made a pet of her, thinking that no one knew it, while everyone was totally aware of it. What she would give to see him again, to have him put his arm around her and hold her close! A sob escaped, and she thought, That will never be again. I can never face him, never!

  At last the yells and curses died down, and she knew that most of the gang would be going to sleep soon. They usually drank heavily on idle days like this and fell into a drunken stupor early in the evening. Slowly she picked up the bucket and carried it back to the house. When she got to the porch, she set it down on a small rickety table by her chair and went inside.

  Buckley Ogg sat like a huge idol, staring down at the cards on the table. He was playing solitaire. The rest of the crew seemed to be asleep, except Vic and Angela. They both looked up as she came in. “Well,” Vic said, “you’re too late to join the party, sweetheart.” When she didn’t answer he grew angry. His hazel eyes sharpened and he said, “Did you hear what I said?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then answer me. Blazes! You’re no good; you’re like a dead woman!”

  Betsy stared at him blankly. She knew fear, but she was too exhausted emotionally to do anything about it. When she didn’t say anything, Vic got up and came toward her menacingly. He grabbed her hair, pulled her head back cruelly, and kissed her. She could smell the alcohol and tobacco, and he held her so tightly she could not move.

  Holding on to her hair, he shook her. “Can’t you smile? What kind of a woman are you, anyhow?” He was aware of Ogg and Angela watching them, and without warning he let go of her hair and slapped her sharply across the cheek.

  Betsy was driven sideways by the blow, and she saw bright flashes for a few seconds. But she didn’t utter a sound, nor did she raise a hand to rub her bruised cheek.

  Angela spoke up in a mocking voice, “You’re a tough hombre, aren’t you, Vic? With women, anyway.”

  Perrago whirled catlike and stepped over to Angela, his eyes flashing angrily. She stared at him, her own face smooth and unmoved. Her lips curved with amusement. “Go on,” she taunted. “Why don’t you slap me?”

  Perrago stared at her; he wanted to slap her, but he didn’t. He growled, “Better watch yourself, Angela.”

  Angela Montoya smiled brilliantly. Her teeth were beautiful against her dark skin. There was a feline look about her, more tiger than house cat. “You know better, don’t you, Vic? You know I’d have a knife in you if you laid a hand on me,” she said, her voice as smooth as velvet.

  Perrago cursed and whirled around. He had been drinking heavily and had lost a great deal of money in the poker game. He looked again at Betsy, his eyes narrowing.

  Again Angela mocked him. “Go on, Vic. Hit her again; show us what a big man you are.”

  Perrago turned back to her, furious. “You’re just the one to do it, too, aren’t you, Angela? Stick a knife in a man while he’s asleep!”

  “You know I would,” Angela said calmly. “Now, go sleep it off. We’ve got work to do tomorrow.”

  Vic gave Betsy a venomous look and spat, “Sleep on the floor. See how you like that.” He entered the bedroom and slammed the door.

  Ogg looked up from where he sat, eyed
the door, and murmured in his deep voice, “Vic’s letting himself get out of hand.” His gaze went to Betsy and he added, “He never should have brought you here.”

  Betsy wanted to beg, Let me go home, but she knew it would be useless. She didn’t know what to do, for he had never shut her out of the bedroom before, but she was glad for it anyway, and looked around for a place to lie down.

  “I have an extra blanket,” Angela said in an offhand manner. She went down the hall to her bedroom and came back with a blanket and a pillow. “Curl up over there. He’s too drunk to do any more tonight, and nobody else will bother you. If anyone does, just let out a yell.”

  “Thank you,” Betsy said quietly.

  That night Betsy slept well, curled up on the hard floor with just the blanket. She was bone-weary and emotionally drained, and she simply passed out. She was so exhausted that she didn’t even wake up the next morning when the majority of the band rode out. When she did get up she found only Angela Montoya and Grat Duvall left behind.

  “The boys went out on a little job,” Angela informed Betsy, a mocking light in her dark eyes. Looking Betsy up and down, she ordered, “Sit down and have something to eat. You’re going to turn into a skeleton.”

  “I don’t want—”

  “Sit down, I said!” Angela commanded. She pushed Betsy into a chair and began cooking an omelet. When it was finished she slammed it down in front of Betsy, along with a tall glass of milk, and said shortly, “Eat.”

  Surprisingly, Betsy found herself ravenous. She had not eaten, except for a few bites here and there, for several days. Now she devoured the omelet, washing it down with the warm milk. “That was so good,” she sighed, sitting back in her chair. “Thank you, Angela.”

  “I’m not much of a cook. But I’m better than anyone around here.” She was studying Betsy with a scrutinizing gaze and finally asked, “Where did Vic find you, Betsy? Why did you leave with him?”

  Betsy just shook her head and said wearily, “I don’t know. I thought I was in love with him. I thought he loved me.”

  “He never loved anyone but himself.”

  “I know that now. But I didn’t then. I’d never had a boyfriend before, not really. My sister, Lanie, she’s the one all the men liked.” Betsy talked for a long time, unaware that she was revealing a great deal. Angela began playing solitaire, barely glancing at Betsy. For Betsy, speaking openly to Angela was a relief. She was afraid of all the men—most of all Vic Perrago. Though Angela Montoya was a cruel woman, different from anyone in Betsy’s experience, at least she was a woman and wouldn’t hurt her. Or so Betsy thought.

  The next three days went by quickly. There was a peace in the desert that descended upon Betsy. She was allowed to ride her horse, as long as either Angela or Duvall went with her, and she savored this new freedom. She kept her eyes open at all times, seeking an opportunity to escape, but none came.

  Three days later the men arrived back, late in the afternoon. They were covered with desert dust, exhausted, and ravenous. Duvall scrambled around, frying meat, throwing together a quick meal for them. They ate hungrily and then began to drink. Ogg was the one, Betsy had discovered, that planned the jobs. He looked like anything but an outlaw, but she had become aware that there was a shrewd brain ticking away inside his bald head.

  Mateo Río never got drunk like the rest of them. There was always a coldness in his eyes as he watched Betsy, and it frightened her, much more so than Bob Pratt. Río leered at her with open lust. She could never allow herself to be alone with him.

  Honey Ward, big, burly, and simple, said nothing unless spoken to, for the most part. He loved to play cards but was terrible at it, so he always seemed to be broke, having lost his share of the money from their various jobs.

  Late that night, after the rest of them had gone to bed, the moment Betsy dreaded came. She was left alone with Vic. He was studying her with a strange light in his eyes; they looked yellow and feral. He asked casually, “What have you been doing with yourself?”

  Ignoring his question, she looked at him directly and said, “Vic, let me go.”

  He grinned, “You’ll go home pretty soon.”

  Her heart leaped; then she saw the mockery in his eyes and she dropped her head. She wept bitterly, knowing that she was entirely at his mercy. “Please,” she begged, raising her eyes to his. “I’m no good to you out here!” She lifted her eyes, anger flaring in them. “You must know I despise you!”

  Perrago laughed out loud. Perversely, her words seemed to please him. “Well, I’m glad you have a little fight in you! You’ve been like a worn-out dishrag! Oh, you’ll be going back, all right.” His lips curled with disdain. “Your folks just have to get a little bit more lonesome for you. Then they’ll be ready to pay a nice sum to get their little girl back.”

  Betsy’s shoulders sagged. “I can never go home. Not after what—not after what you’ve done to me.” She stumbled over the words, shame rising in her throat thickly. She could not face his eyes, and her head dropped again.

  Again Perrago laughed coarsely. “Sure you can! Lots of girls have fellows!” He stalked over to her and grabbed her shoulders roughly. “Just keep your mouth shut, and your father will never know about our little romance when you get home.”

  She looked up at him hopelessly. “He would know. He couldn’t help but know.”

  Perrago cocked his head to one side. He had known many women, but there was something about this small young girl that baffled him. “You’re taking all this too seriously,” he said. “A man’s a man, a woman’s a woman. We don’t have too long down here. Have some fun, Betsy!” His grip on her shoulders tightened and he shook her lightly. “You didn’t have any fun back in Chicago. Remember how you told me that! How your sister got all the men, and all you got to do was go to church?”

  Betsy burst out, “Oh, how I wish I was back there now! I wish all this had never happened!”

  Perrago grew impatient. “Never mind all that. I’m tired of hearing you complain. C’mon, let’s go to bed.”

  Betsy drew back and stiffened. “No. I know you’re gonna whip me, so you might as well start in. But I’m going to scream and fight until you kill me! So go on and start!”

  Perrago’s eyes flared with anger. Then somehow, the humor of it hit him. He grinned. “Well, a little more of that kind of spirit and you’ll be a fit woman for me after all!” He shrugged, then turned. “Suit yourself. I’m tired of fooling with you,” he said and went down the hall.

  Betsy sighed with relief. She had fully expected him to grab her and haul her into the bedroom by brute force, and she had prepared herself to fight him until she was unconscious. Feeling somehow liberated, she started to tremble. At first, when the realization of the intolerable situation she was in began to come home to her, she had prayed; then she had grown bitter. But now she said simply, “Oh, God, thank you, thank you!” She blew out the light, then curled up in Angela’s blanket and pillow on the floor, where she had been sleeping since the night before Vic had left. Somehow, while Vic was gone, she couldn’t willingly force herself to sleep in the bed in which Vic had defiled her.

  As she lay there on the bare floor, hugging the blanket tightly, she began to pray, feeling hopeless and faithless. Yet she prayed.

  ****

  The next day when Angela and Vic were alone, he told her his scheme. “I’ll hang on to the girl for a while. Let her old man sizzle a little bit. He’ll be glad to pay plenty to get her back.”

  Angela’s lips twisted—a red slash across her olive face. “That trick will get you killed,” she said. She was smoking a little black cigar as she often did, and now she took a puff and blew the smoke at him. “You can get away with stealing money. But this sort of thing men don’t forget. She’s told me a little bit about this father of hers. He was quite a man in his day, I understand. And he’ll be coming after you, Vic. And he probably won’t come alone.”

  Perrago laughed disdainfully. “Let him come,” he said ca
relessly. “Nobody knows the Nations better than I do. There’s a thousand places we can hide out.” He moved over toward her. “What are you so mad about, Angela?” He reached out and ran his hand down her glossy black hair. “Maybe you and I can get together after we get rid of her. How would you like that?”

  “Take your hand off me, Vic. If you ever touch me again, I’ll kill you. I swear it,” she said smoothly.

  He jerked his hand back as if it had been burned, and Angela Montoya watched him indifferently, taking a drag from the little cigar. Without another word, he turned and walked out of the room.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “Some Things Are Lost Forever”

  The afternoon was half gone and the heat had reached its unbearable intensity as the four riders moved eastward. There was no relief from the sweltering sun. In all the days they had followed the trail, this one held the most punishment to Lanie.

  She labored for breath and her nerves grew raw. Must be a hundred and twenty out here, she thought. The edges of her saddle were too hot for comfort, and the metal pieces of the bridle shimmered in the bright sunlight, making her eyes hurt from the intensity of it.

  Finally, at five o’clock, the countryside rose from its flatness into rolling dunes of sand and clay gulches. Here and there a pine tree stood as an advance, announcing the rolling hills far away to the north. The hills before them were black and bulky and high, with the yellow streak of a road or trail running in crisscrosses up them, then vanishing into the distance. The riders crossed a shallow creek, pausing long enough to let the horses have a short drink, then started the roundabout climb into the benchlands.

  “How much farther?” Lanie asked wearily. Her lips were so dry she had to lick them before she could form the brief sentence. The heat devils danced before her eyes across the broken land, distorting the view of the horizon with its steamy haze.