"What are you doing here?" Rowdy demanded. "I thought you were headed for Mexico."
"I was waylaid by a discovery," Pa said. He nudged Rowdy's foot back out of the stirrup and used it to dismount. Stood grinning up at him, the usual unlit cheroot poking out of one side of his mouth, caught between his white teeth.
"What kind of discovery?" Rowdy asked tersely. What was the penalty for trampling your own pa? Would it make a difference that he was wanted in four states besides the Arizona Territory? Was there a reward?
"I found out who's been robbing those trains."
"That should have been easy enough. All you had to do was look in a mirror."
Pa looked hurt. Even laid a hand to his chest, fingers splayed. "It grieves me sorely that my own son, my own flesh and blood, doesn't believe a single word that comes out of my mouth. I told you, Rob. I didn 't hold up those trains. But I know who did."
"Who?" Rowdy asked testily. And how had Pappy known about him and Lark? Damnation. He'd been back to Stone Creek, of course, and talked to Gideon.
"Never mind that now. Where the hell were you when that yahoo shot your little brother?"
"I was in Flagstaff," Rowdy said, swinging down from the saddle to face his pa. "Sam and the major and I went because of the holdup on Saturday morning." He paused. "You were right about the rangers. Ruby's place is full of them."
"You hate admitting I'm right about anything," Pa said, jabbing at Rowdy's chest with an angry forefinger.
"Pappy," Rowdy said, "I don't have time to talk about this now. The 'yahoo' who shot Gideon is probably inside that farmhouse over there, right now."
"Of course he is," Pa replied, like it was old news. "How many horses do you see in front of that place?"
"Five," Rowdy said, without looking. "Why?"
"How many riders were waiting when that train stopped for twenty feet of dynamited track?"
"Six," Rowdy answered, annoyed. Then some of the steam went out of him. "One of them was Seth Alden."
"Chessie's brother," Pa said. He didn't sound anywhere near surprised enough to suit Rowdy.
"He took a bullet in the forehead."
Pa heaved out a sigh. "Never figured that kid for an outlaw," he said. "I thought he'd turn out to be a circuit preacher or something."
Rowdy changed the subject, because Seth was at the end of a long line of things he had to think about. "There were a lot of witnesses this time, Pa. One of them was Autry Whitman, the railroad magnate. And he said the man who held him at gunpoint and stripped his car of everything worth a plugged nickel had blue eyes. Real blue eyes."
"So you just automatically decided I was guilty." Pappy threw out his arms and slapped them against his sides, disgruntled.
"Go figure. You're a famous train robber. Three trains have been stopped and stripped in six months. And God help me, you're my pa, so I've got the bad luck to have your eyes."
"They thought it was you, didn't they? Those rangers? But Ruby got you out of it, didn't she?"
"Damn it, you haven't just been to Stone Creek to see Gideon, you've been to Flagstaff, too. Are you crazy?"
Pa shrugged. "There's been some debate about that—my sanity, I mean—for as long as I can remember," he said. "Anyhow, I needed money and a decent horse. So, yes, I went to see Ruby. What the hell business is it of yours, anyhow?"
"I'm trying to keep you from spending the rest of your natural life in the prison at Yuma, you cussed old bastard." Rowdy grabbed his pa by the front of his coat, yanked him up close. "Who robbed the trains?"
Pa inclined his head toward the farmhouse. "They did."
Rowdy let go of his pa. "How do you know that?"
"I just do. For once in your life, you're just going to have to take my word for something."
Rowdy shoved a foot in the stirrup, pulled himself back up into the saddle.
"You can't go in there by yourself," Pa protested, catching hold of the reins. "Go get Sam O'Ballivan and the major and whoever else you can find."
Since he couldn't pull the reins out of his pa's hand without the bit hurting Paint's mouth, Rowdy sat still. "That's a hell of an idea, Pappy," he scoffed. "And, in the meantime, of course, you'll warn them and they'll be up in the hills in some hideout before I get back."
"I might warn one of them," Payton said.
Rowdy's heart missed a beat, started up again with a painful thud. "What are you trying to tell me, Pappy?" he asked.
But he already knew.
"It's Levi," Pa answered, after a long silence and a sad look toward the farmhouse. "Or Ethan. One of the twins. Hellfire and spit, I never could tell those two apart."
Rowdy closed his eyes. No, he thought.
And inside the farmhouse, a gun went off.
-19-
Payton held fast to Paint's bridle, even as the report of the gunshot reverberated in Rowdy's ears. "Don't do it, boy," he said. "Don't ride into that nest of outlaws by yourself. Go get Sam O'Ballivan. He doesn't live but a few miles from here, and he's been palavering with a whole pack of rangers ever since this afternoon."
Rowdy leaned in the saddle, broke his pa's hold on the bridle strap.
Shouting erupted inside the farmhouse—or the barn.
He couldn't tell which.
He wondered, feeling strangely detached, if the shot he'd just heard had gone into Levi or Ethan, stopped one of their hearts. Wondered if either one of them wouldn't be better off dead than held to account for three train robberies—and whatever else they might have been up to lately.
"Think about Gideon," Payton persisted, his voice quiet, but urgent, too. "Think about that pretty school-marm. Hell, think about the damn dog. All three of them need you, in their own ways. And they need you alive."
The hinges of Rowdy's jawbones ached. "You must have a horse around here somewhere," he said evenly. "Why don't you make the ride to the O'Ballivan place, since you know right where it is?"
"Because I'm Payton Yarbro, that's why!"
Rowdy shrugged. Waited.
"All right," his pa said, forcing the words between his teeth. He whistled softly, and the black gelding trotted out of the darkness, reins dangling. "But if they shoot me on sight, it will be your fault."
"Get out of here," Rowdy said. He took his pocket watch from the inside pocket of his coat, flipped open the case, checked the time. "You have an hour," he told Pappy, watching as he mounted the gelding and gathered the reins. Through all that, the old man still had the cheroot poking out of the side of his mouth. "Unless they try to ride out—or there's more shooting—I'll wait that long. No longer, though."
Pappy glared at him, reined the horse around and rode for Sam's.
The shouting had died down inside the farmhouse, but there was a charge in the air, the kind that precedes a deafening roll of thunder.
Rowdy considered climbing onto the roof and stuffing something into the chimney pipe to smoke them out. Discounted the idea, because they'd hear him tromping around over their heads for sure, and probably pepper the ceiling with bullets.
So he waited.
And then he waited some more.
He consulted his watch again. Barely ten minutes had gone by.
A cloud drifted across the moon, casting the world into darkness, except for the wavering lantern light shining from the windows of the farmhouse.
Rowdy decided two things in that moment. One, that he couldn't just sit there for another minute; and two, if he or the horse had to get shot, it wasn't going to be the horse.
He got down from the saddle, left Paint to graze on what grass he could forage from the hard, winter-ravaged ground. He made sure the .44 was loose in his holster, then headed for the farmhouse, staying wide of the windows in case the clouds didn't cooperate.
The walls of the farmhouse were thin, and Rowdy leaned lightly against the one closest to the barn.
"You hear something?" an unfamiliar voice asked.
"Hell, who could hear anything?" somebody else replied. "My e
ars are still ringin' from you shootin' that rat!"
Rowdy let out his breath. Wanted to shut his eyes for a moment, too, but he didn't dare.
"I'm tellin' you, I heard something!"
"It's just the wind."
This time Rowdy recognized the voice. It might have been his own.
The pit of his stomach pitched, as if he'd just mounted a bronc set to buck.
"I'm goin' out there and see—"
"I'll do it."
A chair scraped against the floor. The door opened.
Rowdy, having crept to the corner of the house, watched as the man stepped out, standing in a stream of lantern light. His hair gleamed in it, straw-gold. He paused, lit a cheroot, Pappy-style. Shook the match out and cast it aside.
"It's a fine night," he said easily. "Believe I'll take a little stroll."
Oddly, nobody protested. Thieves, in Rowdy's experience, were easily distracted.
He waited.
His brother turned, looked in Rowdy's direction.
The cloud passed, and moonlight poured down on both of them, as sure as if it had been dumped from some celestial bucket.
Levi.
His cheek dimpled as he smiled.
Rowdy didn't smile back. He just inclined his head toward a copse of spindly cottonwoods, not far from the house.
Levi nodded, fell into step with Rowdy as he walked toward the trees.
When they were both safe in the thick shadows, Rowdy turned, grasped Levi by the lapels of his shirt and flung him hard against a tree trunk.
"You," he growled.
Levi's dimple flashed again. He made no move to retaliate, but simply put his hands between Rowdy's and broke his hold. "It's good to see you again, little brother," he said. "But then, you're not so little anymore, are you? Taller than me by a good three inches."
"Did you shoot Seth Alden, Levi?" Rowdy demanded, in no frame of mind for brotherly reminiscences.
Levi looked affably regretful. There was a coldness in him Rowdy had never credited before, steely hard. "I had to, Rob," he said mildly. "He defied my orders. Tried to take a woman off the train, after we robbed it. So I shot him."
"Just like that? You shot him, like he was a rabid coyote? God damn it, Levi, he was Chessie's brother."
"He wasn't the kid you remember," Levi said reasonably. His gaze, ice-blue even in the shadowed moonlight, slid to Rowdy's badge. "You ought to cover that thing up or something. I looked out the window twenty minutes ago, and saw a flash of silver. That must have been what it was."
"You weren't worried?"
Levi grinned. "I might have been, little brother, if I'd known it was you."
"Spare me the bullshit," Rowdy said, once he'd undamped his jaw again. "I'm pretty sure that one of your men, Willie Moran, shot my—our—brother, Gideon. I don't give a damn if the rest of you get a start, but I want Willie Moran."
Levi raised one eyebrow. "You don't give a damn if the rest of us get a start on what?"
Rowdy sighed. "Rangers. Pappy went to get them, and they're probably headed this way right now."
"Suppose I'm weary of running, right down to the soles of my boots?"
"Run or stand, that's your choice. But they're coming. And I'm going to have to take their side, Levi."
"Why? Even with that badge pinned to your coat, you're still a Yarbro. And you've got a price on your head, just like I do."
"You said it yourself," Rowdy replied, thinking of Lark and Gideon and Pardner. "I'm fed up with running."
Levi half turned with an easy grace and glanced toward the house. "Willie shot Gideon?" he asked. He held a hand at waist level, palm down. "The kid was that high the last time I saw him. There was a little girl, too. Followed him around like a pup."
"She died," Rowdy said. "The little girl, I mean. Her name was Rose."
Levi absorbed that. "Damn," he said, finally.
Rowdy heard the sound of approaching horses then, traveling fast, and knew Levi had, too.
"There's a woman," Levi said. "Her name's Polly. I promised I'd get back to her."
"Then you'd better ride," Rowdy replied.
Levi nodded. Then his face changed. "I'm real sorry, Rob," he said.
That was when something struck the back of Rowdy's head—in the split second before he pitched forward into a pit of darkness, he figured it for either a sledgehammer or a pistol butt.
When he came to, all hell had broken loose; bullets ripped through the air, all around him.
Somebody got him by the back of his coat, hauled him roughly to his feet and behind a tree.
It was Payton. "Damn it, I told you to pay attention!" the old man rasped.
Rowdy looked around, still a little dazed, saw Sam, Reston, the major and several other rangers, off their horses, returning fire from in front of the house. The horses had scattered, but their riders were trying to mount them, and flame shot from over the saddles.
"Did he get away?" Payton whispered hoarsely.
Rowdy touched a hand gingerly to the back of his head, looked at the blood on his fingers. "Yeah," he said.
"Which one was it? Ethan or Levi?"
"Levi," Rowdy answered, trying to get his eyes to focus. "But Ethan might have been with him. Somebody sure as hell bashed the back of my skull in." There was a brief cease-fire, as more clouds parted and the moon came out again.
"Willie!" Pa yelled, and one of the riders stopped, stared at him. The stillness was profound. "Did you shoot my boy, Gideon?"
"I did!" Willie yelled back, defiant. "And now I'm going to shoot you, you old fool!"
And all of a sudden, before Rowdy could grab hold of him, his pa ran forward, both .45's blazing like the fires of hell.
Sam raced after him.
Willie took a bullet in the arm, courtesy of Payton's wild spray of gunfire, but held the saddle and shot back.
Payton went down, still whooping like a wild Indian racing to glory.
Willie raised his rifle and took aim at Sam, who was right out in the open, trying to get to the old outlaw sprawled facedown on the ground.
Before he'd even made sense of it all, Rowdy drew and put a bullet between Willie's eyes. He flew backward off his horse, arms spread, flailing for balance even as he fell.
The two remaining outlaws threw down their guns and put up their hands. One was Harlan Speeks, and Rowdy didn't recognize the other. He knew, in a spark of detached logic, quite apart from everything else that was happening, that Roland Franks had been the one to knock him down from behind and ride out with Levi.
Sam crouched beside Payton, apparently unaware that he'd almost been shot, and rolled the old man over onto his back.
Rowdy knelt across from him, at his pa's side. Watched as blood gurgled up out of his mouth.
"Damn it," Payton said, spitting. "I'm hit."
"Lie still," Sam told him gravely, before looking up at Rowdy.
Rowdy saw pity in the other man's eyes, and something else, too. Something he'd known was there all along, but had chosen to ignore, because he didn't want it to be true.
"I'll have your gun, Rowdy," O'Ballivan said.
Rowdy, having shifted his gaze back to his pa's face, didn't look away again. He just handed over his pistol, butt first, to Sam. The barrel was still hot.
Sam stood, very slowly, and walked away. "Why'd you do a stupid thing like that, Pappy?" Rowdy asked, his voice harsh as gravel in his throat.
"The bastard shot Gideon," Payton Yarbro choked out. "He shot my boy."
Rowdy closed his eyes for a moment, opened them again.
"I'm dying, I figure," said the old outlaw. The man Rowdy had loved—and hated—by turns. The man he'd wanted to be other than what he was. A father, like John T. would have been, if he'd ever gotten the chance.
Rowdy nodded once. "I figure you are," he agreed.
Pappy gave a strangled laugh, groped for Rowdy's hand. "Damn, if this isn't a hell of a way to go," he said. "Thought I'd die in my bed when I was pushing ninet
y."
Rowdy was silent. His eyes burned and the back of his head hurt like a son of a bitch and his stomach threatened to roll right up out of his mouth.
His pa squeezed his hand, hard. "I was the best man I knew how to be, Rob," he said.
"I know, Pa," Rowdy answered, running the back of his free hand across his face. "I know."
Payton stiffened slightly, expelled a last rattling breath, and then closed his eyes. Rowdy didn't move, just stayed there on one knee, wondering how it was that he could wish things were different, even after it was too late for anything to change.
Reston approached. Waited.
Rowdy got to his feet. Put his hands together and lifted them a little.
Without a word, Reston snapped a pair of cuffs on him.
Sam brought a blanket out of the farmhouse, laid it over Payton.
"You knew all along?" Rowdy asked him.
Sam nodded, taking no discernible pleasure in the triumph. At some signal from him, Reston turned and walked away.
"When?" Rowdy prompted.
"After the first robbery I gathered all the posters I could with the name Yarbro printed on them," Sam said, looking down at Payton's still, shrouded form with something like regretful admiration. "And there was your face. It was just a sketch, but I knew it was you. So I sent for you. The major and I figured you'd lead us to your pa if we gave you a chance."
"And I did," Rowdy said bleakly. Even Jolene Bell had seen that poster. What had he been thinking, staying in Stone Creek when he knew the danger, could feel it, like the eyes of a stalking panther, raising the small hairs on his nape?
The answer was simple. He'd been thinking of Lark, and not much else.
Sam nodded. "I'm sorry," he said. And he sounded as though he meant it. He looked down at Payton again. "I didn't expect it to turn out like this."
"I need to talk to Lark Morgan," Rowdy told him.
Sam gave a second nod. Started to walk away.
"My pa wasn't in on any of those robberies," Rowdy said to Sam's back.
Sam stopped. Turned around. "I know," he said.
And Rowdy knew then why Sam had run after Pappy the way he had. Payton Yarbro hadn't been innocent— far from it—but he'd gone for the rangers, at considerable risk to himself, and he'd brought them back. He'd finally done the right thing, the old man had, and he'd paid for it with his life.
A Wanted Man Page 27
