“Nothing,” he answered quietly. Then he looked at her and murmured, “I haven’t forgotten. That kiss.”
She stared at him and said almost absently, “I haven’t made a habit of doing things like that.” Overhead a bird broke the silence of the desert air with a thin, keening cry. Lanie looked up. “What was that?”
“A hawk, I guess. Late for them, though.” Lobo’s voice, too, seemed distant and unconnected to the words he spoke as he studied her with a piercing gaze. Finally he drew a deep breath and said, “Not safe for you to be out here.”
“You mean outlaws?”
“No. I mean me.”
“You’d never harm me, Lobo.”
“Don’t be too sure of that. You don’t know me.”
Lobo’s voice was low, intense, but Lanie shook her head in an imperious gesture. “I know you. You can be hard—even deadly. But you, Lobo, are never mean or cruel. I know men that much, at least.”
He cocked his head, his forceful gaze never wavering. “How do you know? Where did you learn about men?” Then without waiting for her answer he reached over, put his arms around her, drew her in, and kissed her. As their lips touched, something struck Lobo like the peal of a bell, so clear and complete—the sudden understanding that sometimes passes from man to woman. He had heard of this, disbelieved it, and certainly never imagined it happening to him. He held her for a moment.
Lanie did not struggle, but returned his kiss. Then gently she put her hands against him and pushed him away. “That was a warning, I take it,” she said evenly.
“No,” Lobo said wearily. “You are right. You’re safe with me.” Her nearness made him uncomfortable and he sat up straight. “Tomorrow we’ll start, and I think we’ll find Perrago pretty soon. When we do,” he warned, “I’ll have to treat you rough. You understand that? They won’t believe us otherwise.”
“Be as rough as you have to,” she said firmly. “I’ll understand.”
They lapsed into silence for a few more minutes, then Lanie said, “Good-night, Lobo. Got to get some sleep,” and began tucking her blanket around her. After she was settled, he picked up his blanket, moved to the other side of the fire, and sat down, staring into the flickering flames, drinking coffee until it was cold. Then he poured the rest of the brew over the fire and rolled up in his blanket. Once he heard the high piercing cry of a night bird, but Lobo knew that it was Woman Killer saying that no enemies were near to do harm.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Right Through the Front Door
The band of outlaws that Vic Perrago had put together was not noted for their congeniality. He had picked them carefully for their fighting abilities, sometimes making it difficult to switch off their tempers. Ever since they had lost Honey Ward in the fire fight outside the cabin, the members of the gang had been sullen and irritable. Perhaps some of this was because the last raid had been nearly a total failure, netting just over a thousand dollars which, divided so many ways, left very little for any of them. The day after the gunfight they had fled to a hideout between the Cookson Hills and the Boston Mountains. Even if their attackers hadn’t been marshals, Vic knew enough to get out once they’d been discovered. Anyone could inform the marshals of their whereabouts, especially if someone had gotten hurt in the showdown. The atmosphere in the cabin had grown thick with antagonism. Grat Duvall and Jack Masterson had fallen into an argument about a horse; the mild disagreement had escalated into a vicious, cursing, shouting match, and would have exploded into an all-out gunfight. But Perrago had stepped in and told them disgustedly to shut up and get away from each other.
All of them were tough men, but Perrago held authority by the unmatched swiftness of his gun and the hair-trigger edge of his temper. Duvall and Masterson grudgingly gave up the fight, both still sulking and edgy.
Late one afternoon Buckley Ogg was playing solitaire on the scarred oak table. Vic was pacing the floor. The others were out of the cabin, for once. Ogg looked up and said, “Ain’t no sweetness in this outfit, Vic. It’s fallin’ to pieces.”
Perrago halted and turned his cold hazel eyes on Ogg. He wanted to lash out at him, but Vic knew the man was right. Shrugging, he conceded. “You’re right, Ogg. But it’ll be all right when we get a new job. What have you got for us?”
Buckley Ogg, for all of his almost three hundred pounds and simple demeanor, had a brain as keen as a scalpel, and wielded the power it gave him as skillfully as a surgeon. He could sit in the cabin, or walk around outside, staring up into the skies, apparently a fat, harmless old man. Yet beneath the seemingly aimless, worthless exterior, that cunning brain of his would be reaching out—all over Indian Territory, or into Fort Smith, or Missouri, or Arkansas—for Buckley Ogg knew this corner of the world better than anyone. He would think of banks, payrolls, trains, possibilities of banditry and robbery, and all the permutations. An astute general he was; and that was why he had lasted much longer than others who had operated out of the Territory.
True enough, it was Vic Perrago who made it work and held the band together by the sheer animal force of his will. But it was Buckley Ogg who envisioned and planned the jobs.
Now he laboriously laid a black four down on a red five and stared down at the coupling. His face was round and smooth and unlined, almost youthful in its appearance, even though he was over fifty. Ogg never mentioned the past, including how old he was. In a fight he wasn’t much, but his keen brain made him priceless. Perrago was waiting impatiently. “Well? What about it, Buck? Have you got anything in mind for us?” He paced again, up and down, and still Buckley Ogg didn’t speak. “You’re right about the boys,” Vic went on. “They’re mean and jumpy. If we don’t do something pretty soon, they’re sure gonna start shooting each other.”
Ogg looked up from the dog-eared cards. “What about that young woman of yours?” he asked mildly. The deep-set black eyes studied Vic Perrago like a thick curtain, hiding what went on in his brain. “I thought you were gonna get a ransom for her.”
“I’ll take care of that!” Vic snapped. “That wouldn’t solve our problem. We need to get the boys involved in something useful. We need action.”
Ogg sighed, his huge chest and stomach billowing. “I’m working on it, Vic. Not as easy as it used to be, you know. Those marshals are plumb touchy now. But I’m thinking on it.”
At that moment the door opened and Betsy walked in, carrying a load of wood. Briefly she glanced at the pair, strode over to the fireplace, and dumped the wood in the tinderbox. Straightening up, she walked to the single kitchen cabinet that held most of the cooking supplies and began pulling out the ingredients for biscuits she had decided to make for the evening meal.
Perrago watched her thoughtfully. Her back was to him, and he moved across the room silently. Without warning, he put his arms around her and pulled her back. She did not fight, but remained motionless in his arms, holding a box of baking powder in one hand. Cruelly Perrago squeezed until he heard her gasp as the breath was forced out of her, but still she said nothing. Angrily he whirled her around and grabbed her forearms, his fingers digging into her flesh. Perrago had done everything he could to shame Betsy, to humiliate her, to break her spirit; but still she looked at him as fearlessly as ever.
In one sense Vic admired her stamina, but he was a man well accustomed to women obeying his bidding. This small girl defied him constantly, and it continually grated on him. He could do as he pleased with her bodily, but never could he get inside that strong spirit. Now he said savagely, “What’s the matter with you? You don’t know how to appreciate a man!”
Betsy’s gaze was steady, her blue eyes veiled, and she remained silent. With a curse he shoved her away so that she fell against the cabinet and spilled the baking powder in a long streak of white, tracing her fall. From across the room Ogg watched and listened. She’s got the best of that boy, he thought shrewdly. A woman never outsmarted Vic before. It’s made him downright mean. If we don’t watch out, he’ll do something crazy and we all m
ight get shot up. Got to get that girl out of here.
Betsy picked up a towel, stooped and cleaned up the baking powder. Composed, she turned and took a large bowl, dumped some flour into it, and started adding ingredients for biscuits. Betsy had given up on escape; she knew they all watched every move she made. She was also aware that if it weren’t for Vic Perrago, she would have been attacked long ago. These men were cruel, remorseless, and would never have shown her a moment’s mercy. But knowledge of this dependency on Perrago inspired no gratitude in Betsy’s heart. She had come to despise Vic Perrago more than she ever thought she could another human being.
The door creaked open again and Jack Masterson entered. In the gunfight with Lobo a bullet had creased his side and bounced off a rib, inflicting a painful wound. They had bound him up to stop the bleeding, and he had begun to heal almost at once. A very tall man with haggard, wolflike features, Masterson’s slanted eyes glittered malevolently; together with his V-shaped face and cavernous cheeks, he indeed looked like a lean wolf. Jack Masterson spoke in a soft voice and smiled from time to time, but the smile never reached his eyes. He grabbed a chair, leaning it back against the wall, sat down and intoned, “After the fight, I went out and looked around. Those tracks. That wasn’t no Indians that hit us.”
“I know that,” Perrago said shortly. He had looked over the grounds himself. “The horses were all shod. No such thing as an Indian war party shoeing their horses.”
“We got one of them,” Masterson nodded with satisfaction. “Left blood all over the place. Hope we killed the dirty dog.” His soft voice clashed with his hateful words.
Perrago looked at him straight-faced, then turned to Ogg. “Who do you think it was, Buck? What were they doing way out there? You think they were looking for us?”
With great deliberation Ogg laid down a red queen on a black king, then systematically filed through the cards by threes. His movements were sluggish as his mind raced. “It’s hard to say. Marshals wouldn’t have run off like that—unless someone was hurt bad. I don’t know, Vic. Maybe just some hardcases who ran blind into something a little harder than they thought and got drove off.”
Perrago was unconvinced. He had a suspicious mind and he nurtured it; suspicion had kept him alive so far. It seemed that Vic had a sixth sense for danger.
Ogg continued playing cards, never glancing up. He concentrated laboriously on the simple game, which was typical of the man. Whatever he did, he did with the whole power and force of his intellect.
Perrago went outside. Betsy became uncomfortably aware of the slate-colored eyes of Jack Masterson as he leaned back in the chair, watching her intently. Ignoring him, she continued to work on the meal. Somehow, Betsy had learned to operate inside herself by building a barrier as protection against the abuse around her. Once she had visited a science laboratory where a glass bell jar had captured her imagination. It was a round, curving, symmetrical piece of glass that served as a cap for an animal used in an experiment. That memory had helped Betsy during a time when her spirit was almost broken. She had cried out to God hopelessly, ready to do away with herself, when a vision of the bell jar had risen in her mind. Just get under that kind of protection. Don’t think of anything outside of it. Picture yourself covered with a bell jar. They can beat you and abuse you, threaten you and humiliate you, but inside there, underneath the glass, you’ll be safe.
Once Betsy had learned to think this way, the protection had become a tangible thing to her, and she had realized that it was a matter of the spirit, not the mind alone. Never before had she faced such trouble, and never had she been a girl to pray. Like her sister, she had been dutiful in her religious obligations. But after that vision, it seemed that she could just call out and God’s globe of protection would descend on her, invisible to everyone. And as it settled over her, no matter what went on outside, there was an inner peace that kept her safe. Betsy had learned to be humbly grateful for it, realizing that it came from God.
She went about her work preparing the meal. When it was ready the men all trooped in and sat down. Bob Pratt was the only one who had ever shown any sign of decency toward her. He helped her set the table and bring the food in. Grat Duvall watched him and smirked maliciously. “You’d make a mighty fine waiter, Bob. If you don’t get rich bein’ an outlaw, you kin always git a job waitin’ tables in a fancy restaurant.”
Pratt’s face flushed with anger and he turned with a heated retort on his lips. But Duvall grinned up at him with mocking innocence and Pratt shrugged it off.
Bob Pratt was the youngest of the band and had been with Perrago the shortest time. Some redeeming qualities were still there, down deep, although there was no doubt he was a rough young man and had led a violent life. Once, as he was helping Betsy clean up a mountain of dirty dishes, he had told her about himself. Pratt had come from a good family. His father and mother were godly and kind people; but they had died together from some sickness, leaving their only son alone. Rough people had taken him in, and the young orphan had followed in their ways.
“I sure do miss Ma and Pa,” he had said almost plaintively. “They was good folks.”
“I can see that, Bob,” Betsy said gently. She smiled at him. “You’re too good for this kind of life. I wish you’d get out of it.”
Pratt stared at her, flushed, then muttered, “Too late for me. I ain’t got no education nor nothin’.”
Betsy said little more to him, but she thought of him often. If she ever made her escape, it would require help. And Bob Pratt, she realized, was the only one who had any semblance of human kindness left in him. He might, just might, help her if she needed it.
Honey Ward—who had been killed—had seemed simple enough, but the others could not be trusted. Ogg would never help her, under any circumstance. Masterson frightened her, as did Mateo Río, the tall, immaculate Mexican. Grat Duvall was a snake, she knew, for all his smiling. He was a man of fifty, homely, with a sly sharpness that would let nothing get by.
After the meal, the men shoved back from the table and smoked cigarettes. When their bellies were full, there was usually a short respite from the tensions of close-quartered living. Masterson finally said, “When are we gonna get out on a job? I’m broke, Vic. We can’t stay around this place forever!” Duvall and Pratt jumped in the conversation, more than ready to break the monotony.
A loud argument was in full swing when suddenly Vic glanced out the window. Betsy saw his face change, and he jumped to his feet. As he stalked to the door, his hand fell to his gun, freeing it from its leather sheath with incredible speed. “Somebody comin’,” he growled. Immediately all of them leaped to their feet. Every man was always at the ready, expecting the law to ride over the hills, or another band of outlaws, or renegade Indians. Betsy backed up against the wall, her heart thudding, hopeful that this might be someone sent to find her.
“Who is it?” Ogg asked. “I can’t see so good anymore.”
Vic Perrago could see very well. His eyes were almost as good as an Indian’s. “Two of them,” he answered. “Not marshals, I don’t think. They wouldn’t come ridin’ up to the front door like this. C’mon—get out there and get ready. There may be more of ’em,” he warned.
They all filed outside and spread out, Pratt stopping to pick up a rifle on the way. “If they move, or if they give any signals, put ’em down, Bob,” Perrago ordered harshly, then turned to face the approaching riders.
When the horsemen had gotten two hundred yards out, Vic squinted his eyes and said in astonishment, “I know one of ’em, anyhow. That’s Lobo Smith.”
“Lobo!” Pratt lowered his rifle. “Haven’t seen him in a long time. Who’s that with him?”
Perrago squinted, trying to see Lobo’s companion. “Got a woman with him.” Suspicion darkened his deceptively handsome face and he muttered, “Never heard of Lobo takin’ up with any woman.” They waited, guns ready.
When the riders were fifty feet away, they stopped. “Hello, Vic!” Lobo call
ed out. “Got our welcomin’ party all ready, I see!”
The two riders pulled up. They sat calmly on their horses as Perrago stared up at them, masking his suspicion with a smile. “Hello, Lobo. What are you doing out here, in the middle of nowhere? And who’s your lady friend there?”
Lobo slipped off his horse and stretched indolently, like a cat, and arched his back stiffly. “Came lookin’ for you, Vic.” He turned around and indicated the still figure of the woman. “Like for you to meet Miss Irene Johnson.”
Perrago and all the other members of the band zeroed in on the woman. It was a hard moment for Lanie. She had never seen Perrago, but as his intense gaze turned full force on her, she was afraid he would see the anger in her. It had become a flame, burning inside her, in the weeks since he had deceived her sister. She glanced at him briefly, then looked back down at her hands, which she kept folded on the saddle.
“You don’t come visitin’ very often,” Perrago said as he turned back to Lobo. The note of suspicion marked his voice. “But come on in and bring your lady with you. We were just eatin’.” “Sounds good to me,” Lobo said with a languid grin. “My stomach’s been rumblin’ some time.” He grabbed the reins of Lanie’s horse and barked, “Get off that horse, lady.” When Lanie did not move his face grew stern. Moving around his own horse he reached up, grabbed her arm, and dragged her from the saddle. “Didn’t you hear me? I said, get off that horse!”
Lobo kept his hold on her arm and half dragged her across the yard, talking to Vic all the while. “She’s a little bit . . . shy, Vic. But she’ll be all right after I’ve had a chance to tame her down. You know how it is with a spooky filly. Just have to use the spurs on ’em until they learn who’s boss.”
Vic was staring at the girl, and when Lanie raised her eyes there was one terror-filled moment when she thought he recognized her. For the very first time the thought came to her that Vic may have seen a picture of her at their house. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see the man pull his gun and blast them into the dust.
The Gallant Outlaw Page 20
