“Just another hour. Maybe two,” Lobo murmured. He looked back at her, his eyebrow cocked. “You ready to pull up and make camp?”
“No!” Lanie said shortly. She said no more and spurred her horse forward in a gesture of defiance.
After the last two weeks of crossing and recrossing the land that made up the Nations, Lanie had grown rather proud of her tenacity. Lorenzo had complimented her on it more than once, saying things like, “Not many gals could make it like you’ve done, Miss Lanie.”
Even now Lorenzo leaned across and said quietly to Lobo, “Pushin’ it a little bit, ain’t we? Maybe that gal ain’t wore out, but I’m here to tell you I am.”
Lobo glanced at the older man, and it was evident that fatigue and weariness had indeed taken a toll on Dawkins. His eyes were droopy and his shoulders were slumped. “Well, I guess another hour won’t help much,” Lobo shrugged. “There’s a ravine up ahead, Lorenzo. Little creek there. We can make camp.”
Lobo touched his horse’s flanks and the party moved ahead. The shadows ran before them longer and longer as the sun dipped, and Lanie turned to catch the last great bursts of flame as the sun dropped below the rim of the mountains, like the explosion of a distant world. After that, the land was changed: blue and still, the smell of pine trees in the hills. Coolness wafted across her face, soothing the sting of the day’s heat from her.
Just at dusk Lobo led them around a bend and down into a small canyon where he pulled up. “This’ll do as good as any,” he announced. “Let’s make camp here.”
Wearily they piled off their horses. Wesley found that his knees were weak and he stared at them as if they had betrayed him. Then, as if to show them that he would not be dominated by a pair of spindly limbs, he announced loudly, “I’ll get the firewood.”
As he staggered off into the gloom, Lorenzo looked after him fondly. “That boy’s got spunk,” he observed. “Not many city folk would stick it out like he does.”
They had begun a ritual in the last few days. Wesley gathered firewood; Dawkins did the cooking. Usually Lobo and Woman Killer took a ride, just to be sure there were no bands of Indians or renegades in the vicinity. Now they pulled away, their horses moving slowly, and made a wide circuit around the camp. When they got back, the smell of frying meat was in the air and they dismounted, tying their horses to the small saplings that lined the bank of the creek.
“Come and get it! What there is of it, anyhow,” Dawkins called. He was squatting in front of the fire, holding the handle of a large black skillet. He stared down into it, made a face, then turned his sharp-featured face to Lobo and said morosely, “Last of that antelope you shot, Lobo. If we don’t get something to eat, we’re gonna have to turn back.”
Dawkins dumped the small portions of meat into the tin plates and added two or three pieces of baked potatoes to each. “This is the last of the potatoes, too,” he said. “Cupboard’s done gone bare. Even the coffee’s done run out.”
Lobo didn’t answer. Moving over to the small fire, he squatted on his heels and took a tobacco pouch from his pocket. As he rolled a cigarette, he let his gaze circle the small group. All of them, he noted—except Woman Killer—were worn down by the chase. He was somewhat surprised by Lorenzo’s obvious fatigue, for he knew the old man could be a tough one. But then, at sixty, Dawkins had been following a hard trade for a long time, and it had taken its toll. Even now he saw the old man sitting with legs crossed, hands in his lap, and barely able to chew the tough meat. Lorenzo can’t make it too much farther, Lobo thought soberly.
Lobo took his plate and began to chomp on the tough meat. After he swallowed he said thoughtfully, “We’ll go to the store tomorrow.”
Woman Killer looked at him and nodded. “Otumka? We go there? That good. I got friends there.”
“What’s Otumka?” Lanie asked. The meat was so tough she could hardly chew it; but she couldn’t remember ever being so hungry, so it tasted good. She had always been a finicky eater, but that had changed now. Chewing on the tough gristle, she extracted from it every bit of savor and strength that it offered. Lanie had learned what it was to live on the edge of starvation. The food that she consumed was only enough to provide energy for the day, and it seemed that she was always hungry. When I get back home, I’ll never take a meal for granted again, she vowed.
“Otumka? It’s just a little trading post about ten miles from here.” Lobo studied Lanie, his hat pulled down low over his brow so that the gleam of his eye could not be seen. The girl was a puzzle for him. He had never been around a city woman before, and somehow this one had been different from all his expectations. He admired the sheen of her cheeks, noting that they were more sunken than when the chase had begun. He had never thought she could take this kind of punishment; in fact, he had deliberately kept the pace up, hoping that she would cave in so he could send her back to Fort Smith, along with Wesley Stone.
Wesley devoured the small morsel of meat and the potato, then looked sorrowfully at his empty plate. “I’d like to have a steak big enough to choke a horse,” he murmured.
Woman Killer grinned suddenly. Ordinarily he was a sober man, smooth-faced and expressionless, but now the smile that appeared broke the solemnity of his features. “Maybe we kill spare horse. Pony’s good eating,” he said, rubbing his stomach.
Lanie laughed. “You know, if we don’t get something pretty soon, I’ll vote in favor of that, Woman Killer.”
Silence then fell upon the small group, broken by the crackling of the dry wood that sent red and yellow flames leaping high. The creek made a bubbling sound, soothing, as it flowed across the rocks. Lorenzo put his plate down and said, “I’m goin’ to sleep.” Without further ado he stood up, walked slowly to his horse, and pulled a blanket from his gear. Spreading it on the ground, he tossed his hat beside it, sat down, took his boots off, then pulled the blanket about him.
The marshal’s collapse was as sudden as if he had been struck in the head, and Woman Killer said in a muted whisper, “Lobo, Dawkins no make it on long trip.”
Lobo could offer no remedy. “We’ll see how it goes,” he murmured.
“Well,” Wesley said, “I’m worn out myself.” He pulled his blankets from his horse, rolled up in them, and was soon snoring loudly.
Lanie was tired, but she sat in front of the fire, her legs crossed. “There’s just something about a fire, outside, in the open . . .” she said softly. “It’s not quite the same as a fire in the fireplace, is it?”
No one answered. Woman Killer stared at her, his eyes solemn. “You like it here?” he asked.
Lanie shot him a surprised glance. “Like it?” she repeated. The question puzzled her. She had not liked it at all. The weather and the heat and the poor food had all combined to drag her down, and at times she wondered if she could stand it. And yet as she considered the question, the answer did not come easily. Her whole life had been the city; only a few rides on stable horses had been the closest she had been to open country. But here—there was something about the desert and the far-off mountains, the openness, even the very wildness, that drew her. “I don’t know, Woman Killer,” she sighed, staring into the fire. “It’s hard on a city woman like me. And yet, if I’d been raised out here, I know I’d love it.” Lanie looked up at the Indian and suddenly asked the question that had been on her mind since she had met him. “Why do they call you Woman Killer?”
The grave face of the Indian broke into a grin. “They gave me that name because the squaws like me so good,” he answered.
Lanie’s face grew skeptical. The Indian did not seem like one who would be given to practical jokes. But as he sat there, short and muscular, holding the rifle across his knees, she became aware of the glint of humor—almost mischief—in his dark eyes. “Oh, really?” she answered blandly. “We call those ‘lady-killers’ in our world.”
The Indian got to his feet suddenly, then disappeared as silently as a ghost, without another word. Lanie stared after him, disconcerted by
his abrupt departure. Looking across at Lobo she asked, “Do you think I hurt his feelings?”
“Not likely.”
“Well, I guess I—I didn’t—I guess I was a little afraid of that name,” she said lamely.
“Indians like names like that,” Lobo shrugged. “Have you heard of the one called ‘Young Man Afraid of His Horses’?”
“No! Is there really an Indian with a name like that?”
“Sure is.” Lobo idly poked the fire with a stick, his hat shading his single eye. “But if he was afraid of his horses, he sure wasn’t afraid of anything else. Great war chief.”
Silence fell again, only the hissing and the crackling of the fire breaking the hush as Lobo poked at the burning timbers from time to time. After a while he looked up and said, “You know, this probably is not going to get any better, Miss Winslow.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said irritably, “you can call me Lanie.” Then she leaned back, removed her hat, and ran her hand through her hair. It felt dirty, stiff, and gritty. Lanie was usually fastidious about her hair, but lately she had let it go, as she had all other items of personal care. “You’re hoping I’ll give up, aren’t you? That Wes and I will go back and let you handle this alone? That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”
Lobo was taken by surprise. This young woman is not only beautiful, he thought, but has a quick and active mind. He nodded now in agreement. “Be best,” he said succinctly. “We’ve had good luck so far, but if we ever meet up with Perrago it might not be so easy.”
“I didn’t come out here to fight the man. I think there are ways to get my sister back without that.”
“Not if Vic wants her. He always hangs on to what he wants. Stubborn hombre.”
Lanie looked across at the motionless form of Lobo and said, “You’re a stubborn fellow yourself, Lobo.”
“Have to be in this country, I guess.”
“Have you lived here always?” Lanie inquired curiously. She knew almost nothing about him, he rarely spoke of his past. “Do you come from the West?”
At first she thought he would not answer, but at length he nodded. “Born in Texas,” he said. There was a hesitation then, and Lanie did not move or speak, hoping that he would go on. She let the silence run on and finally he added, “I didn’t have a very good life. My mother—she gave me away when I was three years old.”
“Gave you away!” Lanie was astonished and horrified. “What do you mean, she gave you away? Women don’t do that with their children!”
“Mine did.” His voice was even and calm, and yet there was a desperation, or hopelessness, in his voice that Lanie had not heard before. “I don’t fault her for it,” he went on quietly. “She must have had a hard time. My old man was killed by a wild bull, and there were two other children, a brother and a sister of mine. I don’t know the real story about it. I only remember her a little bit. Remember she always wore a blue dress.” He lifted his head; his face was tense. A bitterness lined his mouth as he continued. “I can remember the shack we lived in, the well out back, and we kept chickens. It was my job to feed the chickens, I remember that much. Then something happened, I never knew what. But one day she came in and told me, ‘I gotta leave you kids with the neighbors.’ She’d been crying, and we all were scared. I said, ‘Don’t go. I’ll help you, Ma.’ ”
Far away a coyote lifted its plaintive voice, sending the mournful sound over the desert air. When it died down, Lobo suddenly broke the stick he’d been poking the fire with, threw it into the blaze, and pulled his hat down over his eyes again. “She never came back. So the neighbors kept us for a while, but I ran away when I was fourteen.”
“What did you do then?” Lanie whispered.
“Cowboy’d some. Went to Oklahoma, that country right over there, the Territory. The Indians took me in and I stayed with them for five years.”
“You—you never heard from your family again?”
“I went back one time,” he said, his voice distant, “where I was born. Tried to pick up my mother’s trail, but nobody even remembered her. It was like the earth just swallowed her up. My brother and sister had been given away and were gone. Don’t know where they are now.”
“I’m sorry.”
Lobo glanced up sharply and saw tears in her eyes. He shook his head, his lips tight. “Shouldn’t have bothered you with all that. Don’t know why I did. Never told anybody else.”
Lanie said, “I’m glad you did.” She desperately wanted to say more but couldn’t think of anything. Lanie had never had the kind of trouble he’d had, and she knew from that moment on that she would not be as quick to fault the man. He had been forged in a hard school, and what had come out now was pure steel—hard and vengeful.
“I think I’ll go to bed,” she said. “I’m tired.” She went to her horse, unstrapped her blankets, made a place for herself a few feet away from the men, and lay down on the hard ground. The exhaustion that was her companion now washed across her. She felt her muscles relax, and she looked up at the sky. The stars were swarming like a million fireflies overhead. For a long time Lanie thought of Betsy. She had spent a lot of time lately thinking of how she had failed to be a good sister, and the thoughts pricked her spirit with pain. I’ll make it up to her, Lanie promised herself. I’ll find her and get her away—and take her home—and I’ll be good to her . . . Her thoughts trailed off.
Across the fire, Lobo Smith sat, his hat pulled low over his forehead, studying the flickering fire. Long hours passed as he watched it die down to a solid red glow. He held his hand out to it, felt the heat, and thought about the days to come. He rose and out of habit made a quick survey around the camp but saw nothing ominous. Returning to the small circle, he found the others still sleeping peacefully, and he too pulled his blankets out and joined them.
****
Otumka was not really a town, Lanie saw, but merely a small collection of rude huts and shacks, made primarily of warping cottonwood planks. The most impressive building—if it could be called that—was the General Store, where they pulled up wearily.
Slipping from her horse to the ground, Lanie joined the others as they trooped inside. One look around convinced her that although they would not have silks and satins, they would have food and a few items she longed for. The proprietor, named Slim John, was a lean man with a cadaverous face—a Cherokee, Lanie was informed. Silently he began to pull out the items Lobo named off: coffee, bacon, flour, cans of peaches. Lanie noted that Slim John was watching them carefully. She expected Lobo or Marshal Dawkins to ask the Indian something about Perrago; but they did not mention his name. That puzzled her, but she said nothing.
After the supplies were all ready, Lanie wandered around the tiny store, looking at the scant selection of clothes. She managed to find some men’s socks in a small enough size to fit her, or almost fit her, and also a pair of moccasins, which she held up with delight. “Look!” she breathed to Wesley. “Look how soft these are!”
Wesley watched as she slipped them onto her feet. “Do they fit?” he asked. Receiving her nod, he said wistfully, “I wish they had some big enough for me! But I’ve got feet like logs. These boots—I’ll never get used to them.”
They looked over the supply of footware and indeed could find nothing that would fit Wesley. But he did buy three pairs of the heavy wool socks. “Maybe they’ll cushion some,” he told Lanie resignedly. “Save me from some blisters.”
Meanwhile, Lobo and Lorenzo Dawkins had retired to a corner table after instructing the proprietor to fix them something to eat. As the Indian disappeared into the back room, they began drinking long drafts of the tepid water. “Come on and sit down, Miss Lanie,” Dawkins called to her. Lanie sat down at the table and Dawkins grinned. “Take a load off your feet. I reckon we’ll stay here tonight—might even find a bed somewheres.”
“That would be wonderful,” Lanie said, but after looking around, her expression grew doubtful. “But it doesn’t look like they have much along
that line.”
“I don’t guess they do,” Lobo shrugged. “But at least we can rest up a day while we try to get some kind of word on Perrago.” His eye searched the store. “Where did Woman Killer get off to?”
“He has some friends here, I think.” Dawkins took another sip of the water and made a face. “Water sure tastes bad here. I’m gonna see if Slim John’s got any of that beer he sells when no marshals are around. See if I can convince him that he won’t get arrested if he sells me some.”
After Dawkins had disappeared into the back room, Lanie poured herself some water from the container and took a sip. She wrinkled her nose and said, “Dawkins’s right. Water’s bad.” She looked at Lobo, aware in a new way of the man across from her. “I thought about what you said last night, Lobo. How you were raised.” Her lips softened and she folded her hands in front of her, lacing them together. She noted the broken fingernails and the beginning of calluses from the reins, then raised her eyes to his. “It’s been a hard life for you, hasn’t it?”
Lobo gave her a searching look. That one eye of his seemed to penetrate her thoughts, its indigo color making it shine even brighter. Lanie had discovered that out of that one eye, he had amazing vision—no depth perception, of course—but with that one eye, he could see as far as she could with a pair of binoculars.
Lobo seemed embarrassed about the reference to what he had told her of his life. Lanie knew that he was not a man to speak freely of himself. Then he smiled at her, which made him look much younger. “I guess I’m getting to be a blabbermouth,” he said. “Shouldn’t have told you all that.” He studied the glass of water in front of him, then met her eyes. “I envy men like Dawkins,” he murmured. “And your friend Mr. Stone.”
“Envy them? Why?”
“Because they believe in God.” He hesitated, then added almost tonelessly, “I’d like to believe in God. But how can I when He lets such bad things happen?”
The Gallant Outlaw Page 13
