Suddenly Tom piped up, “Lobo, can I go with you? Please! I could come back and bring messages.”
Lobo grinned at the eager boy. “Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you! And so would I! But I guess right now, your job is to take care of your dad. Maybe next time, Tom.” He saw the eagerness melt away, so he reached out and slapped the boy’s shoulder lightly.
Zach appreciated the way Lobo took time with Tom and treated him with simple respect, like he’d treat another man.
Lobo got up and said, “I’m going to go check about getting my horse shod, Mr. Winslow.” He put on his hat, nodded briefly to Zach and Tom, and left the dining hall.
Tom’s eyes followed Lobo all the way out. “I sure do like him, Dad. And I betcha he’s a dead shot with that gun.”
Zachary Winslow’s eyes were on Lobo, too. “Well, Tom,” he said quietly, “I’ll tell you one thing. He’s my kind of man!”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A Party of Two
When the sun dipped westward, touching the ragged rim of the hills, its livid red ball seemed to break like the yolk of an egg, spilling out against the spires and peaks and rough-cut summits of the mountains far to Lobo’s left. He looked quickly as light flashed in a thousand sharp splinters against the sky, creating a fan-shaped aurora against the upper blue. And then the spectacular burst faded, and the deep purple of twilight began to trickle down against the canyon slopes. Lobo Smith studied the far ridge line closely. He had watched the mountains all day; now they grew vague before his eyes. Hot silence covered the summit as he stared, but, as the twilight began to envelope him, the stillness seemed even greater. Suddenly the staccato beat of a woodpecker clattered, rocketing startling waves of noise out into the distance.
Then, as if he had received a clearly spoken warning, a sense of danger overtook Lobo. He drew his horse in sharply and took shelter behind a large outcropping of rocks. He dismounted, led his horse back into a thicket, tied the animal, and crept back. Inching his way on his belly, he worked to the top of the outcropping of rocks. He lay flat; his outline would be invisible to any onlookers, appearing only as a darker part of the stone. There was still enough light to see, and now he heard what he thought he had heard more than once on that day: the sound of hoofbeats coming from the same direction he had traveled.
Lobo lay as motionless as the rock beneath him. Every nerve was tingling; a familiar sensation, one that he always felt at the approach of danger. More than once since he had left Fort Smith, Lobo could sense that someone was following him. But never—until now—had he caught sight of a horse or heard the sound of pursuit.
The hoofbeats of a single horse sounded along the trail that wound directly beneath the rock. With extreme caution, Lobo moved into a crouch, his legs gathered beneath him, his moccasins gripping the rough surface. He could have used his gun, but he was wary of the sound of gunshots carrying to other ears. Lobo had felt ever since the fiery clash with Perrago that danger was close. Who was sticking so close to his trail?
A horse appeared with a single rider. Lobo tensed his muscles, his rifle ready to fire at the slightest movement. The animal had slowed to a trot. Lobo’s nostrils flared as he tried to judge distance and timing with his one eye. The rider would pass within five feet of him; he could easily ambush the stranger without having to arouse any unwanted attention, he judged. He waited. When the shadowy figure appeared directly in front of him, he released himself in a powerful spring, the muscles of his legs thrusting forcefully, his arms outstretched.
Tearing the rider from the saddle, the two of them flew to the ground. The horse reared and neighed shrilly; from underneath Lobo came a muffled grunt. Lobo pinned the rider down and ran his hands down the sides of the coat, looking for a weapon.
“No gun?” he muttered, then stood up and pulled the man upright by his collar. “Who are you?” he demanded roughly. “Why are you following me?”
Even as he spoke he caught the faint wisp of delicate scent. He whirled the rider around and knocked the low-brimmed hat back, then stared in shock. “Lanie!” he gasped.
Lanie was gasping desperately for a breath. “You didn’t—have to—” she began.
Hot anger coursed through Lobo, and then a chill of fear at what might have happened. “You crazy fool woman!” he shouted. “I almost shot you!” Clutching the lapels of the jacket she wore, he shook her hard and bellowed, “What are you doing out here? Don’t you know you could get killed? Assuming I didn’t shoot you first.” He shook her again. “There are Indians and outlaws and who knows what else in this country!”
Lanie was finally able to draw a deep breath, but her knees still shook. The blinding shock of being knocked out of the saddle had sent a lightning bolt of fear through her, and even now she could not speak except in convulsive short bursts. “I was—following you!”
In disgust Lobo muttered, “Fool woman, coulda gotten killed!” He stalked around in a circle, Lanie turning nervously to watch him. “Are you hurt?” he asked roughly.
“N-no. Just had the breath knocked out of me.” She knew he was furious, so she immediately began to plead with him. “I had to come, Lobo! I had to! You’re going into danger, and I didn’t like—I mean, it won’t—” She stopped, trying to calm herself. “I just didn’t think it would work.”
“Does your dad know you’re here?” Lobo asked, his tone still menacing.
“No, I left him a letter telling him what we’re going to do.” Lanie’s voice was studiously even, but the whites of her eyes showed as she warily watched him. He was still stalking around her.
“What we’re going to do!” He jerked to a stop and looked at her squarely. “We’re not gonna do anything! You’re going back to Fort Smith! Right now!”
“Wait a minute! Please, Lobo!” she begged. “Just let me tell you my idea, just give me one minute. Please?” She saw his face soften, and she drew in a deep breath to calm her nerves.
“Oh, for the love of—” He blew an exasperated breath and said, “Well, let me go catch your horse. He’s halfway to the next Territory by now.” He turned and scrambled back up the steep rock outcropping, went back to his horse, and swung into the saddle. It was an easy job to catch her mount, for the little bay had not gone far before she stopped. Lobo found her dawdling along, nibbling at some scrub bushes, reins dragging. On the next rise he could see the form of a rider. Even in the darkness, he recognized Woman Killer’s familiar mount.
Lobo grabbed the reins and went back to Lanie, her mare following him. “Well, let’s get riding,” he grunted. “Woman Killer’s up ahead there.”
“All right,” she said meekly. She swung up into the saddle, proud that she was getting better at it, and the two moved along, Lobo’s eyes relentlessly searching the gloom ahead.
“I hope he doesn’t shoot us,” he grumbled. “Now, what’s this all about?”
Eagerly Lanie said, “I thought of a way that would be better. You were just going in blind, without any plan at all. I don’t think it would have worked, Lobo. You would have been found out. They would watch you every second. You know they’re suspicious.”
The chafing of the leather broke the silence of the night. Ghostlike, the moon began to glow over to their left. Bright moonlight tonight, Lobo thought. Killer’s Moon, to the Indians.
“All right, what’s your great plan, Lanie?” he said sarcastically, still angry at this impossible woman.
She knew Lobo was mocking her, but she began to explain anyway. “All right. I thought about this a lot—and here it is.” She took a long, deep breath. “You take me into the outlaw’s camp. You tell Perrago that I’m the daughter of one of the managers who works for the Western Express Company over at Durango. I was in St. Louis when Vic and Betsy were in Chicago, so he won’t know who I am—we’ve never met. Anyway, they ship gold coins every so often by train.”
“How do you know that?”
“Some of the men were talking at the hotel,” she shrugged. “That’s what made m
e think of it.”
Again there was a short silence. Lanie waited. Finally Lobo said, “All right, what comes next?”
“You tell them,” she explained, “that you’ve kidnapped me, and you’re going to make my father give you the number of the train, and when it’s due to leave with a big shipment of gold on it. A million and a half dollars, or something like that.”
“Well, that oughta be enough to get Vic’s attention,” he admitted. “So how does it work?”
“We’ll locate someplace out here, in the desert, and plant a sealed bottle there. Your story will be that my father is going to send us a message about the train.”
“Yeah, I follow,” he said grudgingly. “Then?”
“So.” Lanie held her hand palm upward, gesturing. “You tell him that you’ve got this big shipment of gold located, but you don’t have a gang to hold the train up. Vic’s got the gang, so the two of you go together. You see?”
Lobo had an active imagination. He rode along without speaking, the clopping of the horses’ hooves on the dusty ground the only sound. The dust rose in the air, and Lobo could smell the spicy aroma of sagebrush, and the thousand other indefinable scents of the desert that he had grown to love. His mind toyed with what Lanie had told him, turning it over, prodding and poking at it. At length he said reluctantly, “Well, it might work. It has possibilities anyway.” His head snapped up sharply and he said, “There’s Woman Killer up ahead. Guess I better ask him not to shoot us.” Pulling the horses up he cried out, “Woman Killer! Come in here.”
Out of the darkness the Indian appeared. How does he sneak up like that? Lanie thought with irritation. Even his horse doesn’t make noise! A rifle was slung across his saddle, and he greeted Lobo almost cheerfully. “As soon as I found out about her lame idea, I took out to follow you. I can take her back to Fort Smith in the morning.” He nodded toward Lanie. The moonlight was strong now and his white teeth gleamed in his bronzed face.
“It’s a good thing you knew where I was headed,” Lobo said drily. “Me and Miss Winslow’s been talkin’ about this great plan of hers—to get Betsy back. Actually, it sounds promising. I don’t think you’ll need to be takin’ her back just yet. Now, let’s find a place and make camp. We can’t ride all night.”
Within an hour the three were sitting around a small campfire, eating a brace of rabbits and a stock of biscuits that Woman Killer had proudly produced. They ate hungrily and washed everything down with cool creek water from a small spring. When they finished, Woman Killer stood, picked up his rifle, and disappeared as usual, without saying a word.
“That’s what an Indian likes,” Lobo observed, watching him go. “To prowl around, ’specially in the night. Woman Killer’s a Christian, but he still likes the hunt. Still got that battle thirst that so many Indians have.”
“You ever wish you could go back to them?” Lanie asked quietly.
“Nothing to go back to,” Lobo murmured. “It’s all gone now. It was good while it lasted. But everything changes, and most things disappear.”
“Not everything,” Lanie said quickly. “Some things last.”
“Like what?”
“Some say,” she said hesitantly, “that love never changes. That it’s eternal.”
Across the fire he searched her face, curious. “That’s an odd thing to say. Everywhere I look I see love breaking up and going off in different directions.”
“I know that happens,” Lanie shrugged, “but sometimes it doesn’t. There’s my father and mother—why, they’re just like one person. I can’t even imagine one without the other! They love each other now more than they ever did.”
Lobo didn’t answer. He dropped his head and, as was his custom, picked up a stick and began poking at the fire. Red and yellow sparks shot up, grew cold, and died out—and Lobo watched, reflecting on Lanie’s words. “That’s nice,” he finally grunted. “I admire your dad.”
Lanie sat quietly for a while. There was a hardness about Lobo, but underneath she thought she sensed a tenderness. She hesitated to call it that, for there was nothing feminine about him. It was the same quality, she suddenly realized, that she admired so much in her father, who was also a tough man. Lanie sought for words to express this to Lobo, but looking across at him, she knew she could not form the words so that he would understand her. Finally she asked, “What about my great plan?”
“Been thinking about it.” He tossed the stick into the fire, leaned over and picked up the coffeepot and poured some of the tar-black liquid into a tin cup. After replacing the coffeepot, he drank a swallow, and continued, measuring his words. “I think it’ll work. But I hate to see you go into it, Lanie. You just don’t know what rough characters those men are. They don’t think about killing—they just kill you, like swattin’ a fly.”
Lobo’s concern for her safety warmed her, and she said, “You’re taking the same chance I am, and Betsy’s not even your sister.”
“Different with a man,” he shrugged. He was restless and fidgeted with the cup, now empty, his eye roving continually around them. “Your dad and your mother, they’ll blame me if anything goes wrong.”
“No they won’t, Lobo. They know what I’m like.” She smiled suddenly, looking very young. Her cheeks were the smoothest he had ever seen, and her eyes were alight and glimmering in the shadowed night. Leaning forward she said earnestly, “I told them in the letter that you didn’t take me, that I had to waylay you. And that it wasn’t your fault, whatever happened. It was what I had to do.”
“Still, I feel responsible,” Lobo argued. “Better not do it.”
“Oh, I’m going to do it,” Lanie said stoutly. “They’ve stolen my sister, and somehow, some way, I’ll have them for it.”
Lobo searched her face and smiled briefly. “I always liked stubbornness. Even in a horse. Somehow I got the idea that it means a strong character.” A faint tinge of mischief touched his voice as he went on, “Maybe not. Maybe it’s just orneriness, wanting your own way. I think you’ve got some of that in you, Lanie Winslow.”
“I didn’t ask your opinion of me!” she said defiantly. “Now—tell me what we’re gonna do.”
“All right. We can plan some, but most of it—well, we’ll just have to see how the cards fall, and be sharp.” His tone was light, but now he leaned forward and his face grew grave. “One thing that bothers me, Lanie . . . Here we go, galloping in. Suppose Betsy looks up, sees you, and calls out to you before we can stop her?” He snapped his fingers and it rang out like a shot. “Game’s over,” he finished soberly.
“I know. I’ll try to do something—give her a sign.” Lanie lifted her chin and met Lobo’s gaze undaunted. “But Betsy’s very sharp. I think she’ll realize something’s up as soon as we parade in there. Of course, she’s got to know Dad’s sent someone after her.”
“It’s taking a big chance,” Lobo said tensely.
“It’ll be all right. Betsy’s quick,” Lanie said with a dismissive gesture. “So now what?”
They huddled close to the small fire and talked for a long time, Lobo outlining his plan. Then silence settled on them like a cloak. It was a night full of stars. The little fire snapped and crackled merrily between them, lending cheer to the moment. After a while, Lobo stood up and stretched restlessly, looking around.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“Nowhere. Just can’t rest easy, next to a fire,” he answered carelessly. “Not good strategy, usually. Draws everybody from a hundred miles, seems like. Could be all kinds of Cherokees, Choctaws, Osages lurkin’ around. They’d shoot us for the horses and think they were rich.” He paused for a moment, then said, “Come on, let’s pull the blankets back. ’Course, I guess with Woman Killer out there it doesn’t really matter, but . . .”
Lanie obediently rose and they moved the blankets back a ways, then sat down again and wordlessly watched the fire dwindle. As the flames flickered lower Lanie shivered.
“Are you cold?” Lobo asked.
/> “No. To be truthful, I guess I’m—I’m a bit afraid.”
He turned toward her, drawn by her closeness. She was a woman, full and rich in a femininity that some women never know. There was nothing bold or crude about Lanie; on the contrary, gentleness and softness were in and around her, permeating her being.
Lanie could feel his eye on her and was aware of his scrutiny. After some hesitancy, she voiced the difficult question. “Why haven’t you ever married, Lobo?”
He turned her words over in his mind, then finally said, “Guess I haven’t found anyone I’d like to get hitched to—for life, that is. Oh, I’ve known a few women, but nothing—permanent. I haven’t lived that kind of a life, you might say. What about you?”
Lanie shrugged slightly. “I never found a man I trusted enough to put myself in his hands.”
“That’s a funny way to put it,” he mused. She had a way of speaking that made him want to get inside her brain, to discern her thoughts. The way she said things, expressed herself, revealed a quick mind, capable of dredging up old things and making them new. After he mused on that for a few moments he asked, “Do you think you’ll wind up an old maid?”
She laughed, a gentle and kind sound that rippled right into Lobo’s heart. “If that ever happens, look for me on the floor! No! I’ll never be an old maid!” She sobered and gazed back to the dying coals. “A woman’s made for a man, and a man’s made for a woman.”
The boldness of her words caught him by surprise. Her lips were parted slightly and, to him, looked most inviting.
His face betrayed a struggle, and she asked pertly, “I can see something’s in that mind of yours! What is it?”
Lobo wanted to ask Lanie if she would ever consider such a man as himself. But even as the words took form in his mind, he forced them back into oblivion. Lanie came from a prominent family, was used to privilege and having the best of all things. He had known nothing but difficulty, hardship, and a life of danger.
The Gallant Outlaw Page 19
