Red River Ruse

by James Reasoner

  Maxwell nodded. "Yeah, she came back to the barn. That's my daughter-in-law, Sandra. Married to Ted—Theodore, he calls himself now. Don't know if you recollect him or not, Billy."

  "He was just a sprout last time I saw him," Cambridge grinned.

  "I gave him the tradin' post as a weddin' present when him and Sandy got hitched. Keepin' up with both places was gettin' to be too much for an old-timer like me, anyway. This station's enough to keep me busy these days."

  Maxwell went out of the room quickly without saying anything else or giving Cambridge a chance to prolong the conversation. Nacho had only glanced up from his bowl a couple of times while the two men were talking, but he had a feeling Jake Maxwell was uncomfortable discussing his daughter-in-law. Maxwell hadn't seemed to want to meet Billy's eyes, and he'd left abruptly, like he was afraid of saying too much. From the frown on Cambridge's face, Nacho thought Maxwell's behavior must have struck his friend as a little strange, too.

  Nobody else had noticed anything unusual, though. The others were still eating hungrily. Thinking that maybe he had been mistaken, Nacho turned his attention back to the stew.

  When Maxwell reappeared, he announced, "Coach is ready to go."

  "Where's the nearest telegraph office?" the drummer asked. "I've got to wire my office."

  "And I need to send a message to my bank," the other man added.

  "That'd be across the river in Indian Territory. There's a Western Union office in Durant, and you'll be goin' through there tomorrow." Maxwell poured himself a cup of coffee, then came over to the table and straddled one of the benches near Cambridge. "It's a shame we didn't get to visit longer, Billy. But I reckon you've got business and have to be movin' on."

  "Not so fast," Cambridge said grimly. "I've got business to take care of, all right, but it's right here. I want to report that holdup to the law, Jake. I figure you can tell me where to find the nearest constable or deputy sheriff."

  Maxwell frowned. "There's a deputy from the sheriff's office down in Sherman that rides up this way every few days, but telling him about the robbery ain't goin' to do much good. Those outlaws are long gone, Billy."

  "They could come back," Cambridge said. "Maybe after today, they'll decide the pickings are good in this part of the country."

  Maxwell looked down at his coffee cup. After a moment's silence, he finally said, "Well, to tell you the truth, this ain't the first time that bunch has hit around here. They've held up stages and robbed stores and generally made life miserable for folks. So you see, the sheriff already knows they're operatin' around here. He don't stand a chance in hell of catchin' 'em, though. He's more politician than manhunter." Maxwell shook his head. "It ain't like the old days when we were ridin' with Rip Ford, Billy."

  "I know that," Cambridge said with a sigh. "Nacho suggested we go after the bandits ourselves. From what you're saying, it's starting to sound like he was right."

  Maxwell's head jerked up, genuine alarm etched on his features. "You're goin' to try to track down those outlaws?" he demanded.

  "I'm thinking about it. They stole a sizable amount of money that belongs to one of my clients, and I can't conclude my business until I recover it."

  The stagecoach driver leaned forward to join the conversation. "Does that mean you two gents won't be goin' on with the rest of us?"

  "That's exactly what it means," Cambridge replied solemnly. He looked back at Maxwell and went on, "I'm hoping that you can put us up for a while, Jake."

  "Sure, sure, that ain't a problem." Something was obviously bothering Maxwell, though. He hesitated, then said, "Are you sure you ain't gettin' a mite . . . old to be chasin' outlaws, Billy?"

  Nacho grinned slightly and waited for the explosion. It didn't come. Cambridge just said quietly, "I'm not as young as I used to be, but none of us are. I can still ride a horse and handle a six-gun, and Nacho here has been tracking since he was a boy. I think between us we'll at least have a chance of locating that gang. When we do, we'll lead the authorities to their hide-out. I haven't totally lost my senses, Jake. I'm not going up against half a dozen bandits unless I have to."

  "You always were a stubborn old cuss, even when you were a youngster," Maxwell said with a grimace. But then a grin spread over his face. "All right, you're welcome to stay, both of you. And I'll do what I can to help out."

  'Thanks, Jake."

  The driver stood up and motioned for the remaining passengers to follow him. "We got to get rollin'," he said. To Cambridge, he added, "Good luck, mister. I got a feelin' you're goin' to need it."

  Within moments, the stagecoach was on its way, minus the gear belonging to Nacho and Cambridge. If it had been possible, the Red River crossing should have been made before dark, but there was a good ford with a solid bottom, and the river was shallow at this time of year. The driver knew the route quite well, too. The coach would be able to make the crossing without any trouble and push on into the Indian Territory.

  Maxwell helped his two visitors carry their baggage into the station building, saying, "I warn you, the accommodations ain't goin' to be fancy. But since there ain't nobody else stayin' here right now, at least you can each have a room to yourself. The grub's good, that much I can promise you."

  "I may never leave," Nacho said with a grin.

  Despite the front he was putting up, he was getting tired. Suffering a gunshot wound, even a minor one, took a lot out of a man. He was looking forward to a good night's rest. No matter how lumpy the bunk was, it wouldn't keep him from sleeping.

  Several narrow doors opened off the main room of the station, leading into cubicles where passengers could spend the night if the stagecoach could not go on until morning. Maxwell pointed to the door on the left and said, "I bunk in there, if you need anything. You boys can take your pick of the other rooms."

  "These'll do fine," Cambridge said, indicating two doors in the middle of the row. He opened one of the doors and peered into the room, then carried his bags inside. Maxwell followed him.

  Nacho was about to go into the other room when he heard the building's front door open behind him. He glanced over his shoulder, then turned around quickly when he saw Sandra Maxwell entering the main room. She closed the door behind her and turned around, stopping short as she saw Nacho standing there.

  "Hello," she said after a second. "I thought the stagecoach had gone on."

  He realized he was wearing his hat and snatched it off. "It has. But my friend and I, we stayed behind."

  "You've been hurt!" Sandra exclaimed, suddenly stepping closer. "There's blood all over your shirt."

  Nacho grinned. "It looks a lot worse than it really is. It's just a bullet crease. Some men held up the stage."

  "Yes, Jake told me about it. But he didn't say that anyone would be staying behind. Are you hurt too badly to travel?"

  "Oh, no," Nacho said with a shake of his head. "I'm fine, really. My amigo and I just have some business to take care of before we go on to Fort Smith." He wasn't sure how many details of the situation he wanted to give her, but he realized there was no need to be suspicious of her. Maxwell would probably tell her all about it, anyway. Quickly, he sketched in the problem he and Cambridge were facing concerning the stolen money.

  Sandra drew nearer while he was talking, and Nacho suddenly scowled as he noticed the dark, swollen spot on her jaw. When he had first seen her, she was inside the doorway of the building, and the light hadn't been good enough for him to spot the bruise. Now he had no trouble seeing it.

  As if she sensed what he was looking at, Sandra lowered her head and turned away slightly. "I'm sorry you were hurt," she said softly. "If there's anything I can do to help . . ."

  "I just need some sleep," he told her. "I'm getting pretty tired."

  "Of course. Well, I'm sure I'll be seeing you again if you're staying around these parts for a while. Good night, Mr. Graves."

  "Wait a minute," he said quickly. "Weren't you looking for your father-in-law?"

  "I can t
alk to Jake another time. It was nothing important. Good night."

  Before he could stop her again, she was out the door. Nacho frowned at the spot where she had disappeared. He had always considered himself pretty level-headed and certainly not given to imagining things. But he sensed somehow that something was wrong here at the Red River station. Jake Maxwell had seemed surprised and not very enthusiastic about their decision to stay for a while, at least at first, and there was the matter of the bruise on Sandra Maxwell's face. Nacho wondered how it had gotten there.

  None of his business, he told himself. He had to worry about helping Cambridge recover that twenty thousand dollars, or as much as possible of it. If it took them very long to catch up to the outlaws, all the money might already be spent.

  Cambridge and Maxwell came out of the room where they had gone a few minutes earlier. They were chuckling, and Nacho figured they had been talking about old times. Cambridge's features became more serious as he looked at Nacho and said, "You'd better turn in. You're looking a little pale again."

  Nacho nodded. "I will. Your daughter-in-law came in looking for you again, Mr. Maxwell." Sandra hadn't asked him to pass along that message, but Nacho didn't see what it could hurt.

  Maxwell nodded curtly, a strange veiled look dropping down over his eyes. "I'll mosey over to the tradin' post and see what she wants," he said. " 'Night, Billy."

  "Good night, Jake." When Maxwell was gone, Cambridge said to Nacho, "You want me to take those bandages off and have a look at that wound again?"

  "It'll keep 'til morning," Nacho told him. "Right now I just want to rest."

  "That's the best idea. Good night."

  The bunk was lumpy, all right, Nacho discovered a few minutes later when he stretched out on it. But that didn't keep him from sleeping. It was something else that kept him staring up at the darkened ceiling for long minutes that turned into an hour or more.

  But damned if Nacho could have said what that something was.

  Chapter Three

  Nacho finally fell asleep, and when he did, he slept soundly. So soundly that he did not awaken until the sun was already a considerable distance above the horizon the next morning and shining brightly through the single small window in the little room.

  The wound and the muscles around it had stiffened up during the night, he discovered as he tried to nimbly swing his feet off the bunk and stand up. Biting back a gasp of pain, he made a second attempt, more slowly this time. He was able to get to his feet, but he was still hunched to one side against the pain. Straightening took another effort, as did pulling on his pants and a clean shirt. Finally, though, he was dressed, and he opened the door and stepped carefully into the main room of the station. The scent of coffee and bacon drew him on and gave him strength.

  There was no one in the room, but the coffee pot was on the stove, as was a-pan of biscuits and bacon. Nacho helped himself, standing up at the stove to eat rather than sitting at the table. Getting up and down was too hard at the moment. He was confident that he would loosen up some as the day went along. He already felt better, the food working quickly to replenish his strength.

  A few minutes later, Billy Cambridge and Jake Maxwell came in, and Nacho raised an eyebrow in surprise when he saw how the lawyer was dressed. Cambridge wore the same Stetson he had been sporting the day before, but the suit had been replaced by denim pants, a light blue work shirt, and a bandanna knotted around Cambridge's throat. A shell belt was fastened around his waist, and in the holster it supported was a blued steel, walnut-butted Colt revolver.

  "Billy!" Nacho exclaimed. "You look like one of the ranch hands!"

  "I was riding the range before you were born, amigo," Cambridge told him. "Jake loaned me the shirt and the gun. The way I see it, I won't be doing much lawyering for a while. I'll put the suit back on when there's a use for it."

  Nacho grinned. "If Señor Nash could see you now, he would be surprised."

  "He'd probably put me to work in the round-up," Cambridge grunted. "How are you feeling this morning?"

  "Like a stampede ran over me. But I'll be all right."

  "You won't be able to ride for a day or two," Cambridge said. "While you're mending a little, I'll hunt up that deputy Jake mentioned and tell him about the robbery. You stay around here and rest."

  A grimace pulled at Nacho's mouth, but he nodded. "I reckon that'd be best. But Billy . . . don't do anything foolish." He grinned again. "At least not until I'm along and can have some fun, too."

  "Sure." Cambridge turned to Maxwell and went on, "I hate to bother you for anything else, Jake, but if I could have the loan of a good saddle horse . . ."

  "I've got one you can use," Maxwell said putting a hand on Cambridge's shoulder as both of them went out.

  Nacho sighed. He didn't like being left behind, and he liked the idea of Billy Cambridge riding around this rugged countryside by himself even less. There was no telling what Billy might run into. But Nacho knew if he got on a horse today, the wound in his side would tear open and he'd be worse off than when he started. He would just have to hope that Cambridge could stay out of trouble for a day or two.

  He poured himself another cup of coffee and picked up another biscuit. If he was going to be stuck here, he might as well enjoy it, he thought.

  * * *

  Billy Cambridge had a lot on his mind as he rode the borrowed saddle horse back along the trail that the stagecoach had covered the day before. He planned to find the spot where the robbery had taken place and see if there were any tracks left to indicate where the bandits might have been headed. When he had done that, he would ride over to the Sand Ridge Baptist Church, about three miles east of the Red River stage station. According to Jake Maxwell, the ladies of the church's congregation provided lunch on the grounds every Wednesday at noon. This was Wednesday, and also according to Maxwell, the church was the most likely spot to find Bart Gilliam, the sheriff's deputy from the county seat at Sherman.

  Cambridge was thinking about other things besides the hold-up and the stolen twenty thousand dollars, though. Jake Maxwell had been cordial enough since the travelers arrived at the station, but the lawyer sensed that something was bothering his old friend. Maxwell had always been an open sort, the type to put all his cards on the table. Now Cambridge had an idea Maxwell was keeping something bothersome to himself, keeping his worries bottled up inside. That would take a toll on an outgoing sort like Jake, Cambridge thought.

  He pushed those speculations aside for the moment as he reached a familiar stretch of road. Seeing the clump of trees and brush where the outlaws had hidden until they rode out to stop the stage, Cambridge reined in and studied the layout.

  From the looks of things, there hadn't been much traffic along here since the previous afternoon. He could see the ruts in the dust that had been laid down by the iron wheels of the stage and the muddled mass of tracks left by the horses while they were stopped and nervously shifting around. Carefully, Cambridge walked his own mount around the scene. He picked out the tracks that had most likely been made by the outlaws' horses. The trail led off from the road at an angle to the southwest, and that jibed with what the driver and the other passengers had told Cambridge after the robbery.

  He leaned forward in his saddle and studied the terrain spread out before him. That was rugged country over there, he knew, full of gullies and creeks and rocky hills. There would be hiding places a-plenty for someone who knew the country, and Cambridge had a feeling those outlaws were quite familiar with it. Tracking them down wouldn't be easy.

  He and Nacho were going to do exactly that, though, unless the authorities could hold out some hope of catching the bandits. And from what Maxwell had said, Cambridge doubted that would happen.

  The attorney started to swing his horse around. He could cut across country from here to reach the church. It had been a while since he had passed through these parts, but he was confident he could still find his way. Suddenly, Cambridge stiffened in the saddle, instinct warn
ing him that someone was watching him. His eyes searched the surrounding countryside, looking for some sign of whoever might be spying on him.

  Was this an ambush? Somehow, he didn't think so. His muscles weren't braced for the impact of a bullet. But he didn't want to take a chance. Quickly, he heeled the horse into the stand of trees at the side of the road, his hand going to the butt of the borrowed revolver at the same time.

  The sound of hoofbeats came to Cambridge's ears. He twisted in the saddle, trying to locate them. They were off to his left, he thought, and heading east. Whoever it had been was in a hurry now. Cambridge rode out of the brush and looked in the direction of the rapidly fading sounds, but he was unable to spot any movement. There were too many trees between him and the rider.

  Cambridge frowned. There was no way of knowing for sure that someone had been spying on him. The rider could have been just another traveler in a hurry.

  But Cambridge's hunches had helped keep him alive for a long time, and his belly was telling him now that somebody was taking an unhealthy interest in him.

  He kept an eye on his back trail, and instead of heading across country, as he had intended to earlier, he followed the road nearly all the way back to the stage station before he turned onto an eastbound cut-off that would take him to the church. A check of his watch told him it was almost noon.

  There were quite a few buggies and wagons parked in front of the church when he arrived, along with several saddle horses. Tables were set up under the trees next to the steepled building of whitewashed clapboard, and ladies in sun bonnets and calico dresses bustled around. Platters of fried chicken, ham, and pot roast were set out on the tables, along with potato salad, black-eyed peas, beans, sweet potatoes, and greens. One table was loaded down with cakes and pies. Cambridge grinned as he looked over the spread. Nacho would be sorry he had missed this meal, but Cambridge hoped to have wrapped up his business in this part of the country and be gone by the next Wednesday.

  Quite a few cowboys were on hand, punchers from the nearby ranches, Cambridge guessed. In exchange for listening to a short sermon from the church's pastor, the waddies would get to partake of food cooked and served by ladies, rather than by some bald-headed, grizzle-bearded, tobacco-chewing ranch cook. From the way the cowboys were crowding around, they considered it a fair exchange.