by Pam Crooks
She stood still, so still he wished he could see inside her brain to know what she was thinking.
“Fine. Fine.” She lifted her skirt hems with a resigned swish and strode toward her horse.
“Fine what?” Ross demanded.
She halted. Swung toward him. Bitterness shone in her features. That god-awful despair, too.
“You win, Santana,” she said. “I’ll take you to the money.”
From a tree-covered ridge above the riverbank, Catfish Jack watched Sheriff Sternberg and his men mount up.
“I’ll be damned,” he whispered, stunned. “They’re leavin’.”
Pure relief rushed through him. He could track Wild Red for sure easier without an entire posse breathing down his neck. Santana had been jawin’ with the sheriff for a spell. What plan had he hatched to convince them to go?
Even more strange, why was Sternberg letting Wild Red stay with Santana when he’d had the perfect chance to arrest her?
Not that ol’ Catfish was disappointed. No, sirree. He needed Wild Red to lead him to the money, all right. She couldn’t do that when she was holed up in a jail cell.
Might be a trap to catch ol’ Catfish, he thought suddenly. The hairs on his scalp rose. He’d have to watch his back even more careful from here on out.
He couldn’t figure why they’d been heading toward Omaha, though. Far as he knew, Wild Red never rode with the Renos this far west, so why would Santana take her?
They were climbing into their saddles, and Catfish hurried for the reins of his own mount. He kept his gaze glued onto their horses, illuminated by the golden glow of torchlight. They turned away from the riverbank and took off in a whole new direction.
Understanding dawned, and a slow grin of delight spread on Catfish Jack’s mouth.
December 19, 1867
The three riders rode hard into the black, wintry night, as if Lucifer himself was hot on their trail.
Which would’ve been fitting after what they’d just done.
It was Wild Red’s idea to head to Illinois after busting into the county treasury in Iowa. Farlow’s Grove Cemetery southeast of Matherville, not far from the state line, would be the safest place to hide the loot.
Not that she wanted to hide it at all. She wanted to go to South America, but John would have none of it.
He’d gotten real jittery from the string of heists they’d pulled. Folks in a half-dozen states were talking about the Reno gang. Which meant the law just about everywhere was looking for them, thirsting for justice.
Might be they were right to come out here after all. How far would they get with three canvas bags heavy with thousands of dollars in gold, bank notes and greenbacks strapped to their horses?
Holy hellfire, the risk. Wild Red shivered, but she blamed it on the cold. She was glad to see the small plot of land appear on the horizon. A few trees and a thin wire fence marked off the place, and their horses slowed in approach.
She knew where to go, even in the dark, and she led Frank and John through the entrance. Only a scattering of headstones poked up from the ground. Uncle Wil had been dead since the spring past. The loot would rest easy, right along with him.
She pulled up in front of the plain marker bearing the Reno name; Frank and John did the same. Puffs of air billowed from the horses’ nostrils. Their muscles twitched.
“Queer feelin’ to use the old man’s burial pit like this,” Frank muttered.
“You hear him complaining?” John yanked up his collar against the wind and ran a nervous glance around them, but the bone orchard sat alone in the Illinois countryside, and this time of night, no one was around.
Wild Red ignored a bite of grief for the man who’d taken her in as his own. “He wouldn’t want us getting lynched. He’d understand why we’re doing it.”
“He’d think we’d gone plumb crazy to leave the loot behind,” Frank shot back.
Red secretly agreed. Planning the heist, pulling it off, had taken plenty of raw nerve and guts. Now, they’d just ride away and have nothing to show for their trouble.
“We got to lay low for awhile,” John said. “You want to hightail it south, don’t you? The money will get us there. We just can’t go yet. Not with them Pinks and money-hungry bounty hunters after us.” He swung down from the saddle. “Now quit your whinin’ and let’s set to work. We got to haul out of here before the sun comes up.”
Red and Frank exchanged a look, but dismounted. In grim silence, they took their shovels and began to dig.
Lark remembered as if it were yesterday.
Farlow’s Grove Cemetery brought the heist alive with appalling realism. But instead of riding out with Frank and John in a frenzied race against time, Ross rode with her, close and protective, one hand on the Winchester he rested against his thigh. No cold December wind blew; rather, summer stars twinkled in the sky. Far from being a notorious gang leader, Ross planned their destination with care, acutely aware of the risks involved, a plan that insisted they ride out well after the midnight hour for the darkness that would shield them from curious eyes.
And now, as she’d done then, she rode through the wire gate and straight to Uncle Wil’s marker. In the silver-gray moonlight, Ross studied the Reno name etched in the stone.
“You hid the money in the old man’s grave,” he said and shook his head, as if he still couldn’t believe it.
“I’m afraid so.”
He frowned. “Well, it was clever, if nothing else.”
She bit her lip and said nothing.
“Let’s see if he’s kept your secret all these years, shall we?”
“I’d rather not.”
“I know.” His low voice revealed his understanding. “But we have to.” He swung out of the saddle and rolled up his shirt sleeves, never relinquishing the hold on his rifle. “This is going to take awhile. Might as well get down and keep me company.”
Did he think she intended anything else? Holy hellfire, she was more than a little spooked about the whole thing. Was there a task more irreverent? Her imagination had kicked in, too, making the headstones look like stubby fingers pushing through the grass. The breeze slid through the leaves with an eerie whistling sound, and oh, those deep, dark shadows could hide anything.
Or anyone.
She hastily dismounted to get the deed done. Ross lit a lantern and laid it next to the grave, then did the same with his rifle. The flickering light added to their macabre surroundings, but he seemed unaffected by it.
His shovel scooped dirt again and again, the scraping of metal against earth the only sound in the night. For the hundredth time, she regretted doing what she’d done. She regretted, too, that Ross was thrust back into a bounty hunter’s world, leaving the peace of his own to track a man who’d rather see her dead except for the riches he craved.
Throughout their journey east, they’d seen nothing of Catfish Jack. Not even a hint of a glimpse, and a sense of urgency swept through her, the possibility that they might, after all, beat him at his own game.
She and Ross were almost there. Hours from turning the money back over to the county treasury. Restitution. Deeper and deeper Ross dug, just like she’d dug with Frank and John, until the anticipation, the need to free herself of the guilt dropped her to her knees to scrape up mounds of dirt with her bare hands.
Suddenly, the digging took on a different sound, and Ross halted. He stood thigh-deep in the hole. Sweat glistened on his brow, and his glance met hers.
“It’s here,” he said.
“Yes.”
She sat back on her heels. She’d known it would be. There wasn’t a better place to stash the loot. None more bizarre, certainly, and no one in their wildest imaginings would think to look in a Reno’s grave.
She held the lantern over the pit. Ross scraped away the last layers of dirt with the tip of the shovel, and then, finally, the lamplight caught on a brass latch.
The first of the canvas bags. Lark herself had laid them on top of her uncle’s pin
e casket, neatly, side by side.
“Two more after this one,” she said, suppressing a shiver. “Hurry, Ross, so we can get out of here.”
He bent, grasped the handle and lifted. Dirt fell away, and he hefted the bag up to the ground, and seeing it now, exactly as she remembered, made her crime more awful than ever.
The cavity revealed the presence of the second, and in moments, he had all three out.
“Get the rope off my horse,” he ordered. Clods of earth fell back onto the casket, rushed along by broad sweeps of his shovel. “We’ll tie two bags to my saddle, the other to yours.”
The sorrel whinnied low at her approach, and she patted his neck to calm his skittish nature while she unhooked the lariat. She freed one end and returned to the bags.
Her fingers moved swiftly forming the same knot around the leather-covered handle that she’d made all those years ago. Tonight, however, she needed both hands to lift the case aside to repeat the process on the second. How had she managed to hoist the thing out of the treasury and onto her horse? Sheer adrenaline?
The sorrel whinnied again, but this time, Lark froze. A faint noise, hauntingly like the clink of a bridle bit, threw her pulse into a jerky rhythm. Or had the sound only been Ross’s shovel working the dirt?
Her senses screamed alarm. The rope fell from her grasp. She shot a glance into the deepest, darkest corner of the cemetery.
And there he was. Catfish Jack, riding toward them with his rifle to his shoulder and his finger steady on the trigger. The lantern’s light cast him into a spine-chilling glow.
Or maybe it was the greed that did.
“Now, don’t you two go and do anything stupid, y’hear?” He halted, only a few yards away from the money. “You just do what ol’ Catfish tells you to do, and no one’s going to get hurt.”
She straightened slow and easy. Forced herself to breathe the same way.
The barrel jabbed in Ross’s direction. “Set that shovel down, Santana. Over there a spell. You ain’t going to be needing it anymore, are you?”
“Reckon not,” Ross said and tossed the tool aside without looking where it landed. He waited. Let Catfish make the next move.
Lark marveled at Ross’s control. They’d suspected the outlaw would be tailing them. Had known he would. But to have him show up now, when they’d been so close to taking the money…
The rifle lowered with the barrel aimed right at Ross’s chest. “Take off your hardware next.” Ross complied, and the holster and Colts landed in the grass with a soft thud. The rifle jerked again. “Now, get your hands up. Both of you.”
Lark obeyed, despairing that she wasn’t armed, and now Ross wasn’t, either. Catfish eased his hold on his weapon, but only a little. “All right, then, Red, honey. Long as you’re getting them bags ready to ride, you might as well give ’em a throw right here in ol’ Catfish’s direction.”
She shook her head, stalling, giving herself and Ross time to think their way out. “I can’t. They’re too heavy.”
The rifle cocked. “Do it!”
She flinched but gave the nearest one a kick with the toe of her shoe. The case didn’t budge. “See? Heavy.”
“She’s right, Catfish,” Ross said. “Took three horses to haul this loot out of Muscatine. You think you’re going to do it with one?”
The outlaw dropped his gaze to the canvas. Lifted it back up to Ross. Swung it sideways to Lark.
Those shifty eyes unnerved her. She had to concentrate to figure which one was looking where.
Catfish smiled, showing the stain of tobacco on his teeth. “Well, hell, Red, honey, you’re coming with me, ain’t you? To South America? We’ll split the loot, just like we talked about. You can help me carry it out of here, just the two of us.”
Lark shook her head. “I didn’t agree to go there with you. Don’t say that I did.”
The smile vanished. “Never took you for a fool, Red, but I guess you are. You’re going to rot in prison, y’know that? I’m giving you a chance to save yourself.”
A detestable word, rot. Lark had the sick feeling it’d be true one day. “The money belongs to the lawful owners. You’ve no more right to it than I do. You don’t really think you’re going to get away with this, do you?”
Those crazy eyes turned a little wild. “If it’s the last thing I do.”
She cocked her head and kept talking. “Ross is an expert bounty hunter. You know that he is. He tracked you all the way to Canada, remember? He’ll find you in South America, too.”
Ross appeared amused. “And if I don’t, well, I guess the sheriff and his posse will stop you before you get there.”
A full heartbeat passed before Lark realized what he meant. Only then did she hear the thunder of hooves in the distance.
Chapter Nineteen
Armed with rifles cocked and leveled, they pulled up in a grim circle around Wilkinson Reno’s grave, holding Ross captive in the middle with Lark and Catfish Jack.
They were all there. The same six men who had tracked her to the Missouri River with Sheriff Sternberg.
The same men who should’ve returned to their homes in Ida Grove.
But hadn’t.
Satisfaction rolled through Ross. Soon, the covert plan he’d devised with the sheriff would be complete.
The idea had come to him the night Jo-Jo was killed. Ross needed a way to set Catfish up for arrest. The wires he sent every morning on the trip east and the wires waiting for him when he did had fine-tuned the plan.
Justice, in all its glory.
Sternberg was as determined to arrest Catfish as Ross. They both wanted the money recovered in full, too. Made sense to work together to close the cases for good. Making Catfish believe the posse had gone home helped get the job done.
Sternberg had already ordered the outlaw down from his horse and to stand a short distance away with his hands in the air, his rifle out of reach in the grass. The lawman shucked his own weapon and swung a leg over the saddle. He moved a little slow once he was down; Ross figured too many days on the back of a horse tightened up the man’s muscles.
“Reckon you know what charges I’m bringing against you, Catfish, but I’m going to tell you, anyway.” Sternberg walked closer, pulling a sheet of folded paper out of his pocket as he went. “There’s a whole list of ’em. Assault and battery, burglary, swindling, grand larceny and so on.” Sternberg halted. “Anything you don’t understand that needs explaining?”
“Not a damn thing,” the outlaw scowled.
“Plenty of reward money out for you, too.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“You’ll be going to jail for a long time.”
“That so?” Catfish taunted.
“I got six men here that are going to take you there.”
The outlaw slashed a contemptuous gaze around the circle holding him trapped, one man after the other, letting them see his hate for what they were about to do.
Until he got to Eb Sumner.
Those shifty fish eyes lingered, and Ross saw trouble.
He moved closer to Lark, thought of his rifle lying in the dirt on the other side of the Reno grave, his holster by another. Eb fidgeted, as if Catfish made him uneasy.
But then the look ended. Catfish snatched the arrest papers from Sternberg.
“Let me see that,” he snapped and angled his body slightly, to see better in the lantern light.
Ross chanced another glance at Eb while the outlaw read the charges. The man was nervous about something all right, but before Ross could put his finger on the reason, Lark suddenly screamed.
He whirled. Catfish whipped out a knife. The lawman reacted a split second too late, and the blade sank deep into his side. Catfish yanked it out again. Sternberg doubled over and went down with a moan.
Rage slammed through Ross. Before he could act on it, Catfish leapt toward Lark with a snarl and hauled her against him, pushing the blade against her throat and smearing Sternberg’s blood on the creamy-smooth ski
n.
Ross’s heart dropped to his toes.
The posse scrambled to aim their weapons.
“Nobody shoot!” he yelled. “Nobody shoot!”
“That’s right.” Catfish let loose with a slimy cackle. “Don’t shoot if you don’t want her dead.”
Ross swallowed down a vehement curse for the half vision that handicapped him. For the crippling dark of the night, too. He had to think more than he could see. Had to know what could happen before it ever did to save Lark’s life.
It was his fault she was at Catfish’s mercy. If not for Ross’s setup to get him arrested, she sure as blazes wouldn’t be in a cemetery in the middle of the night with a blade at her throat.
She’d gone pale and held herself rigid against the outlaw. Only the hitch in her breathing revealed her terror, and if Ross did nothing else in his sorry, justice-seeking life, he couldn’t fail her now.
“Throw your rifles down, boys,” the outlaw commanded. “Way back into the dark, y’hear? Just like you made ol’ Catfish do.”
Nobody moved.
The rage built in the outlaw’s features. “You want her dead? Drop ’em, I said!”
This time, the posse showed signs of wavering right along with Ross. Losing all those rifles, become defenseless, unable to protect Lark—
But to refuse would only force Catfish to see his threat through. He’d have nothing to lose.
“Eb!” Desperation grated in Catfish’s voice. “You want a cut of the loot, don’t you? I’ll give you a cut. Make ’em drop the guns!”
Eb’s glance dragged over the bags, stayed on them for a little too long.
Like a buzzard smelling raw meat, Catfish went in for the kill. “Lot of money sitting there, Eb. Yours and mine. We’ll go to South America.”
“Don’t listen to him, Eb,” Ross said. He had to keep the outlaw talking. Distract him a little. “He’s not going to give you a dime.”
“That’s right,” Joe Rinehart said. “He’s just airin’ his lungs at you is all.”
