The Gallant Outlaw

by Gilbert, Morris

  Perrago stared thoughtfully at the map, then looked back up at Lobo questioningly. “That way,” Lobo went on, “nobody has to come nosin’ around the hideout here to get the money to you. So you turn loose the girl and the lawyer, and I turn loose the Johnson girl. You’ll have the money from Winslow, we’ll all have the money from the train, and we don’t have to worry about those three anymore. We’re finished—” Lobo leaned back in his chair and grinned again, “and we’re rich.”

  Ogg at once began to drill Lobo with questions, who fielded them easily. He had known they would pick him to pieces, and he had known that it would be Buckley Ogg who would be the toughest to please. He and Lanie had spent long hours trying to anticipate every contingency, every factor, every possible result; they had studied the maps and asked each other every question they could think of. Occasionally Lobo was careful to say, “I don’t know. Didn’t think about that.” It would give Ogg some room to manipulate, and soon no one interrupted Buckley Ogg as he grilled Lobo.

  Finally Ogg took a deep breath, leaned back in his chair, and buckled his hands over his massive paunch. “Reckon it’s all right, Vic,” he nodded. “If we do it right, it’s gonna go.”

  Grat Duvall spoke up for the first time. “I don’t like it,” he muttered in an ugly tone. “If we let ’em go, they’re gonna squeal on us.”

  Lobo laughed out loud. “Squeal on you?” he said with derision. “Be a little late, won’t it? It’s all over with, and they’re free! What, do you think they might run and tell Judge Parker that you’re a bad boy? Why, Grat, the judge would be more than happy to hang you right now for that man you shot up in the Osage reserve!”

  “He was just an Indian,” Grat said sulkily.

  “No, he wasn’t,” Lobo said, still grinning. Angela Montoya knew how deadly his grin was. “He was a half-breed, and he was under white man’s law.” Lobo continued, “You know that, Grat, and you know you don’t have anything to lose anyway.” He shot a look around the room and added meaningfully, “But the rest of us do—”

  To his satisfaction, the others glanced furtively around, avoiding Grat Duvall’s eyes. Though the others might have killed, so far no one except Duvall was actually tagged. Lobo continued. “If we kill those three people, it’ll be murder, pure and simple. Parker will send Heck Thomas and twenty marshals after us. And I’m tellin’ you right now, I ain’t got no intention of decoratin’ Maledon’s scaffold.”

  Ogg nodded sagely, “I agree with you, Lobo. Let’s keep this as easy and simple as we can. Vic, you get the money from Winslow, we get the goods from the train, and turn ’em all loose.”

  Perrago sat like a statue, and for one moment Lobo was afraid he was going to argue. If he did, it was all off. Finally Perrago shrugged. “If there’s enough money in it, I don’t care about ’em. Let ’em go.”

  Lobo said with satisfaction, “That’s smart, Vic. We’ll make a fortune outta this, and get any woman we want. Right?”

  Vic Perrago turned a cold gaze on him. For long moments he didn’t answer, and the chilling silence touched everyone in the room. “I don’t trust you, Smith,” he said, the words dropping like stones in the quiet room. “Never did. Everywhere we go, I’m going right with you. When we hold up the train, I’ll be right beside you. The first thing that goes wrong, I’ll put a bullet right in your head.”

  “If anything goes wrong, I’ll know it about one second before you do, Vic,” Lobo said calmly. “I’m that much smarter than you are.”

  Ogg snickered quietly and Angela Montoya smiled faintly. The inference of who might get shot first was wasted on the rest of the room; the men’s faces were blank, as was Perrago’s for a moment. Then his face grew ugly and he opened his mouth to speak, but Lobo interrupted in the same quiet voice.

  “Make up your mind, Vic. I’m in because, in case you’ve forgotten, this is my job. And I’m not gonna dawdle around and wait for you to blow my brains out. So,” Lobo sighed delicately, “I’m gonna give you the same warning you gave me. You even look sideways at me, and you won’t live to spend a dime of that million dollars.”

  “Hey, wait a minute,” Ogg said soothingly. “Let’s don’t be a-carryin’ on like this. Vic, what’s wrong with you? This is the biggest chance we’ve ever had!” Ogg’s voice was mild, but his face shone with perspiration, his tiny eyes gleaming with excitement. “But if all you’re payin’ attention to is how quick you can shoot Lobo, you ain’t gonna be worth a dime! And what good is it gonna do to put a bullet in Vic, Lobo? That what’s gonna put any money in your pocket? No. So you two settle down.”

  Vic Perrago listened to Ogg, a surly look on his face. Taking a deep breath he said, “All right. Forget it, Lobo.”

  “Sure.”

  Pratt, Río, Masterson, and Duvall proceeded to get drunk, bragging about what they were going to do with their money. Ogg, Perrago, Lobo, and Angela continued to sit at the table, talking quietly about the job.

  Back in the room where the three captives were, Lanie said, “If he hurts you, Betsy, Father will have the bones hot from his body,” using the same Welsh expression her mother had spoken.

  Betsy looked at Wesley, and he knew what she was thinking. Neither of them said anything, but Lanie noticed that Betsy was staying close beside Stone as though she needed his nearness as reassurance. Right you, girl, Lanie thought, there would be a man for you! Then her heart went heavy as she thought of the dangers that lay ahead—and the room was silent.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  A Woman Can Change

  “Everything’s moving quickly,” Lobo murmured. “When things break, they’ll go fast, so we need to be straight about what to do.”

  He was standing by the corral, Lanie close beside him, watching the horses as they moved aimlessly around inside the stout posts and crosspieces. He had wanted to talk to her alone. “I expect we’ll be pullin’ out in the morning.”

  Lanie looked at him, and once again a ghost of apprehension swept her face. Now that the time was actually upon them—they were standing on the very edge of violence—her voice echoed her uncertainty as she asked, “How much chance do we have to get away, Lobo?”

  “Better chance than some I’ve had.”

  The stark realism and harshness of his reply did not encourage her. She picked out a splinter of wood from the corral rail, toyed with it for a moment, then tossed it down. Turning to face him, she drew his glance, saying quietly, “It’s something we had to do. If it doesn’t work—if someone—” She drew a deep breath and began again. “If I get hurt, you mustn’t blame yourself.”

  The sweeping feminine curve of her cheek drew his eye. He studied her carefully, not speaking his thoughts, but finally stated flatly, “How could a man help that? If something happened to you—”

  He stopped, and Lanie waited, but Lobo stared across the corral and said no more. She turned and began to walk slowly around the corral. Lobo followed her, grabbed her arm, and gave her a shake. “You do as I say!” he yelled. She looked up at him, startled. He said, “Masterson’s watching us over there. He thinks we’re having an argument. Gotta make it look real.” Lobo’s back was to the gunman, and he smiled down at Lanie. “Be hard to have an argument with a girl as pretty as you.”

  His comment startled her. Lobo was different from most men that way; Lanie had learned to accept compliments from men as a matter of course. From him it seemed out of place, but in his eye, she saw sincerity. Now she frowned and shook his hand off—for Masterson’s benefit—and said, “You just don’t know me. I’m impossible to live with! Ask anyone. My father, for one.”

  “You’ve got him wrapped around your little finger, Lanie,” Lobo grinned. “I saw that even in the time I was with you both.”

  Lanie reached up and covered her mouth as if she were coughing. “I guess you’re right. I learned when I was a little girl how to handle Dad. If I wanted something, I’d go sit in his lap, and stroke his hair, or rub his shoulders. Sometimes he’d say no.” A fond smile to
uched her wide lips. “So I wouldn’t argue, I’d just go away. But the next day I’d be back, trying something different.”

  “Bet you usually ended up getting it, too.”

  “Yes, I did. Dad said he’d look up, and there I’d be, with whatever it was I was pestering him for. And he was never quite sure how I wiggled it out of him.”

  The hot breeze caused the tops of the cottonwoods to tremble. Far off in the desert a trail of dust was rising faintly. Lobo studied it and murmured, “Probably an Indian headed for Fort Smith.” Then he turned back to Lanie. “I’ve wondered what it was like to have a family. Fella that has that—why, he has everything.”

  There was a hint of sadness in his voice, but his face remained undisturbed. Lobo had learned, she knew very well, to cover his emotions. But during their brief time together she had been able to read some of what went on inside Lobo’s mind. Her brow wrinkled and she asked, “Lobo, do you think you’ll ever marry?”

  The question caught him off guard. Lifting his eyebrows he glanced at her. “You sure seem to have my marital status on your mind a lot.” Then he shook his head briefly. “Doubt it.”

  His reply was laconic, but Lanie wasn’t satisfied. She had always been able to manipulate people; this man, however, was beyond her reach. Drawn to him in a way she could not explain, she started to question him further. But even as she began to speak she looked up to see Angela Montoya coming out of the house, dressed for riding. “There comes Angela,” she said, studying Lobo’s face as he watched the dark, beautiful girl approach. “You might marry her,” Lanie said flatly.

  “Marry Angela?” he echoed in amazement. “I don’t think so,” he said, shaking his head forcefully. “Angela will never marry anybody. She wants her own way all the time—and no wife can have that.”

  “She is beautiful,” Lanie remarked, but by now Angela had reached them and she could say no more.

  “Lobo, let’s take a little ride. I want to talk to you about tomorrow,” she commanded, pulling on leather riding gloves.

  “It’s on then?” he asked.

  Surprise touched Angela’s face. “Of course! You didn’t think we’d back out, did you?”

  Lobo shrugged. “Vic’s not too hot on the whole thing. You have a talk with him?”

  Angela glanced at Lanie before answering. “Let’s go saddle up,” she said brusquely and headed for the barn.

  When she was out of hearing distance, Lobo murmured to Lanie, his voice summer-soft, “I better go with her. She’s the key to this whole thing. Angela can handle Perrago in a way not even Ogg can.”

  “I guess she can handle most men.”

  There was a clipped edge to Lanie’s voice, which surprised Lobo. “You’re not—” Then he caught himself and walked away.

  Lanie stalked back to the cabin, as though angry, for Masterson was watching her with narrowed eyes. “Looks like them two are gettin’ real thick again, don’t it?” He grinned wickedly. “Lobo better watch his back. Vic’s a little touchy about somebody stealin’ his woman.”

  “That’s all any of you men want—women and money!” Lanie said curtly and went inside. As soon as she closed the door she looked out the window to watch the pair lead their horses out of the barn, mount up, and ride out toward the east.

  Angela was wearing an outfit Lobo had not seen: a black riding skirt with a white silk blouse, and a low-crowned, wide-brimmed riding hat, tied on by a leather lanyard. As always she looked fresh; fatigue never seemed to overcome her as it did other women. Lobo admired her endless supply of energy. She would have been the object of admiration of many men, he knew, with her full-bodied beauty and classic features.

  “Good-looking woman you brought, Lobo,” Angela commented with studied casualness.

  “Yeah,” he readily agreed, “but she’s a pretty cold number.”

  “No, she’s not cold,” Angela pronounced firmly. They had been riding along for the best part of an hour and had reached one of the few stands of timber of any size. It was a small forest of cottonwoods, with a few stunted pines, and they had found a small creek and had stopped to water the horses. Angela slipped from her horse and stood quietly, looking at the small stream as it trickled over the rocks.

  Lobo dismounted and stood beside her. There seemed to be no way to crack this woman’s shell; if there was, Lobo had never found it. Suddenly he said, “I never know what’s going on inside you, Angela. It was always hard for me to guess. Why don’t you let a man know what you’re thinking?”

  She turned to him, her eyes questioning. “I don’t think most men really want to know what’s going on inside a woman,” she said abruptly. “Most men are interested only in what’s on the outside.” She looked back up at him with the same peculiar expression. “I thought at one time you were different.”

  Lobo was watching her carefully; she was very beautiful. “We were pretty close, once,” he said quietly. “I’ve never forgotten those days.”

  Her eyes were fixed almost hungrily on his face. “Lobo,” she said, desperation in her voice, “you know what I am, and what I have been. But there’s some part of me, deep inside, that is good.” Her mouth twisted in a harsh, bitter smile. “That sounds funny, coming from me; but I know it’s true.”

  Without thinking, Lobo reached out to touch her cheek, letting his fingers run down its smoothness. “I’ve always known that, Angela,” he said, his voice gravelly. “You’re a lot like me, I guess. We’ve lived like the devil, but deep inside we’ve always been looking for something better. Never found it,” he shrugged, “but I saw little bits of it in you. And it’s still there.” Impulsively Lobo wanted to do something for her. He had ridden away from her before because of inadequacies he saw in himself—not in Angela. He would’ve married her in a moment if he had loved her. But the time had come when he knew he could never help her break out of the circle of crime they had fallen in to.

  She reached out, caught his hand, and pressed it to her cheek. Her voice, when it came, was a raw whisper. “Could we forget? Isn’t there some way we can go back, start over, and be new and clean again? Wipe out the past?”

  “I don’t know,” Lobo said, wishing he could reassure her. He smelled lavender, the scent she always wore. He was very much aware of her beauty; it drew him like a magnet. Thoughtfully he went on. “That’s the way people of God are. Always clean,” he said. “Friend of mine used those words: ‘always clean before God.’ Get all refreshed every morning, just like the dew on the grass. Go to God, all forgiven, and your wrongs all taken care of.” Lobo was thinking of Lorenzo Dawkins.

  Angela had once had a dream that someday she’d find a man—and for that man she’d fill all his needs and desires, and he would fill the empty place in her heart. She hated to see that dream slip away. Placing her hand on his chest, she asked, “Could we go back and start over again, Lobo?” There was a breathless quality in her voice and suddenly Lobo knew that she was—for that moment—a helpless child.

  He wanted to agree, but the knowledge that he was betraying her burned in him like a hot iron. He had always been a man of single ideas, and now he was caught between two terrible forces. He thought of Lanie and Betsy and Stone, their lives held by a thin thread; part of the price of saving them was deceiving Angela. But as he looked at her, the old days reached for him and the smoothness of her cheeks and the desire in her eyes caught at him as well, its seductive tentacles pulling him back—back—

  Suddenly the choice was taken from him. She came into his arms, her lips lifted and, hating himself, he kissed her. She clung to him, taking his kiss as some sort of sign, and when she pulled back, her eyes sparkled with happiness. “We’ll find what we had once. After this is all over, you and I, we’ll go away, maybe St. Louis. Do you remember St. Louis?”

  Lobo murmured, “Yes, I do.” In his heart, he knew he’d never be able to forgive himself for what he was about to do to this woman.

  They mounted up and she talked cheerfully on the way back, like a young g
irl again. When they dismounted and met Perrago on the porch, he glared at her, saying merely, “You two had a good ride, I see.” He had not missed the flush in Angela’s cheeks, the happiness in her eyes. He grunted, “Come on in, get this thing straight. We’re pulling out before dawn.”

  Angela laughed, holding on to Lobo’s arm. “Don’t worry, Vic, we’ll be rich, and that’s what you’ve always wanted.”

  When they entered the room, Lobo glanced at Lanie on the far side of the room. She had seen the change in Angela Montoya, but Lobo made no sign to her at all.

  She still loves him, and he must love her. The thought closed about Lanie’s heart with a desolate barrenness she could almost touch. She moved over to the window, staring out but seeing nothing, shutting her mind to everything that went on inside the room.

  ****

  Marshal Heck Thomas rarely had any trouble with anyone except outlaws. His personality was so forceful that the mere statement of what he intended to do was sufficient to stop those set on wrongdoing. But now the calm demeanor of Marshal Thomas was ruffled and anger flashed in his steady black eyes. He stared across the desk at the man who sat with his leg propped up on a chair and said bluntly, “Why don’t you leave the law work to us, Mr. Winslow? We’ve done a pretty good job of it in the past, I reckon.”