Cambridge swung down from the saddle and hitched his horse with the others. As he made his way toward the tables, he took off his hat and nodded to the ladies he passed. A man in a black broadcloth suit and a string tie popped up in front of him, and Cambridge knew he had just encountered the local preacher.
"Good day, brother," the minister said heartily, extending his right hand. The left held a Bible. "Glad you could join our little get-together. I'm John Livingston."
"Billy Cambridge," the lawyer replied, shaking hands with Livingston. The preacher had a firm grip.
"I don't believe I've seen you around here before, Mr. Cambridge. Were you just passing through the area when you heard about our regular Wednesday lunch?"
"Actually, I came here looking for somebody, Reverend. Jake Maxwell over at the stagecoach station told me I might find Deputy Gilliam here."
Livingston frowned for a second. "I hope there's no trouble . . ." he began.
"I just need to talk to the deputy for a few minutes," Cambridge said. "If he's here, could you point him out to me?"
"Of course." Livingston turned halfway around and pointed toward a man who was already seated under one of the trees, a plate heaped high with food perched on his knees. "That's Bart over there."
Cambridge nodded. "Much obliged."
As he started to turn away, Livingston said, "Mr. Cambridge . . . I notice you're wearing a gun. We really don't like having people carry firearms at these meetings. Most of the men leave them with their horses or on their wagons."
"Sorry, Reverend. I didn't know." Cambridge went back to his horse, taking off the gunbelt along the way. He coiled it over the saddle horn, thinking that it should be safe there. It wasn't likely anybody would try to steal something right here in front of a church.
Bart Gilliam was a man in his mid-thirties, Cambridge saw as he walked up to the deputy. Gilliam's battered black hat was cuffed back on his head, revealing a thatch of rumpled brown hair. He was gnawing on a chicken leg. His front teeth were large and yellow, with a sizable gap between them.
"Deputy Gilliam?" Cambridge asked.
Gilliam looked up and grinned. "That's me," he admitted. "Somethin' I can do for you, mister?"
"I want to report a robbery."
"Awww . . ." The deputy sounded disappointed. "You're joshin' me, ain't you?"
"I'm afraid not. The northbound stagecoach that passed through these parts yesterday afternoon was stopped, and the passengers' valuables were stolen."
Gilliam put the chicken leg back on his plate and sighed. "Shoot. What'd you say your name was, mister?"
"I didn't say, but it's Billy Cambridge. I'm an attorney, and I was one of the passengers who was robbed. I'd like to know what you intend to do about it."
Standing up and brushing off the seat of his pants, Gilliam asked, "You got any idea who the outlaws were, Mr. Cambridge?"
"None at all. But Jake Maxwell at the Red River stage station said that a gang of outlaws has been operating in this area lately. I'd say there's a good chance the same bunch held us up. They headed southwest."
"Yep, they usually do," the deputy nodded. "Well, I'll tell the sheriff 'bout the hold-up. That's all I can do right now."
Cambridge took a deep breath and suppressed the surge of anger he felt at Gilliam's lackadaisical attitude. "You're not going to try to trail those criminals?"
Gilliam grimaced and rubbed at his beard-stubbled jaw. "Can't very well do that. The sheriff's got to authorize all posses. All I can do is turn the information over to him."
"All right," Cambridge sighed. Maxwell had been right: if anybody was going to catch the outlaws and recover that stolen money, he and Nacho were going to have to do it themselves.
"'Preciate you bringin' this to the law's attention," Gilliam went on, reaching for his plate again. "You bein' a lawyer and all, you probably wouldn't believe how many folks around here seem to figure they can just take the law in their own hands."
Cambridge didn't say anything. But having just seen an example of how the local authorities operated, he had no trouble believing it at all.
* * *
By late morning, Nacho was feeling restless. He might not be able to ride a horse, but that didn't mean he had to sit on his rear end all day. When Jake Maxwell came into the building from doing some chores, Nacho asked him, "Does your son's trading post sell guns? I don't feel right with an empty holster."
Maxwell nodded. "Sure, Ted—I mean Theodore—has some guns for sale. You ought to be able to find a pistol that suits you. Or I might could scare up one to loan to you, like I did with Billy."
"No, thanks," Nacho said with a shake of his head. "I'd feel better with a gun of my own." He scowled. "Except I just remembered I don't have any money. Those masked hombres took all I had."
"Don't worry about that," Maxwell assured him. "You tell my boy I'll stand good for the gun. You can pay me back whenever you get a chance, Nacho."
The foreman grinned. "That's mighty nice of you, Mr. Maxwell. I could understand if it was Billy, since the two of you are old friends . . ."
"I'm not worried about the money. And call me Jake. I feel old enough without being called Mr. Maxwell all the time."
"All right, Jake. Muchas gracias. I'll go over there now and pick out a gun."
"Won't be long until lunch time," Maxwell reminded him. "It's just stew again, but I reckon that's better than nothing."
"Much better." Nacho grinned. "I will be here, don't worry."
He picked up his hat and walked out of the station building. Outside, the sun shone warm on his face, and it felt good. The crisp, clean air felt even better. Nacho strolled across the gap separating the stage station and the trading post, wondering if he would see the lovely Sandra Maxwell again.
The attractive young blonde was nowhere in sight as he climbed the steps to the porch of the trading post, then went through the open double doors into the building.
The smell inside was unmistakable. A trading post such as this one carried almost as wide a variety of goods as did the general mercantiles located in towns, only in smaller quantities. The aroma was a blend of coffee, spices, tobacco, leather, horse liniment, vinegar from the pickle barrel, and dust. The shelves along the aisles in the center of the building held crockery and cutlery, hardware, bolts of cloth, boots and shoes, and a few ready-made shirts and pants. Sawhorses sat along the right-hand wall with saddles perched on them, while harnesses, bridles, and assorted pieces of tack hung on pegs on the wall above them. On the left-hand wall was a glass-fronted counter, and the shelves under it were filled with candy and gaudy jewelry.
Nacho spotted the guns in the back, arranged in another of the glass display cases. As he came closer, he saw there was an assortment of handguns, rifles, and shotguns in it.
There didn't seem to be anybody around. Nacho frowned as he leaned over and studied the weapons arranged in the display case. It wasn't very common for folks to go off and leave a well-stocked trading post like this unattended.
He had settled on a Colt Single Action Army revolver like the one he had lost to the outlaws when he heard voices coming from behind a door on the other side of the counter. Nacho wasn't the eavesdropping sort, but the words were loud and angry and hard to miss.
"I don't believe you," a man said heatedly. "You might as well tell me where you went, Sandra. I know you've been sneaking out at night!"
"Don't be ridiculous. I haven't been anywhere except here at the trading post or over at the stage station in weeks."
That was Sandra Maxwell's voice, all right, Nacho thought, and the man arguing with her was no doubt her husband Theodore. Nacho's frown deepened. Why anybody would want to exchange harsh words with such a beauty was beyond him. Women like Sandra were meant for softly whispered messages of romance, of moonlight and gentle breezes—
Nacho grimaced and forced that train of thought out of his head. He had no business thinking such things about a married woman. But from the sound of what was
going on in the back room of the trading post, Sandra's marriage was not a happy one, at least not at the moment.
"Don't lie to me!" Theodore Maxwell snapped. "I woke up last night and you were gone. Didn't know that, did you?" Sandra let out a little gasp of pain and surprise as Theodore went on, "Dammit, tell me the truth! Where the hell were you?"
Nacho straightened sharply. There had been no sound of a blow, so Theodore hadn't slapped his wife, but he could have grabbed her roughly and shaken her. That would have caused her reaction.
He couldn't go behind the counter and barge into that back room, whether he wanted to or not. What went on between a man and his wife was their personal business, and an outsider had no right to interfere. That was what Nacho had always believed. But it was becoming more difficult to stand here and listen to the argument without becoming involved.
"Let go of me!" Sandra exclaimed, confirming Nacho's guess about what was going on, and he took an involuntary step toward the door leading into the rear before he stopped himself. Quickly, he turned on his heel and strode soundlessly to the front of the store.
When he reached the doors, he turned again, this time letting his steps thump heavily on the broad planks of the floor. "Anybody here?" he called loudly.
For a moment, there was no response, but then the door to the back room creaked open. A man stepped out, stared along the length of the building at Nacho, and asked, "What can I do for you, mister?"
"I'm looking for Mr. Theodore Maxwell." Nacho started forward as he spoke.
"That's me."
Nacho walked up to the counter. "Pleased to meet you, Señor. I'm Nacho Graves. I'm staying over at the stage station with your father, and I'm in need of a new pistol. Jake said he would take care of the cost for the time being, since I am, ah, without funds at the moment."
Theodore regarded his customer with a suspicious stare. He was a few years younger than Nacho, but there was something old-looking about his eyes. He was clean-shaven and had the same thick dark hair as his father. His mouth was set in what Nacho feared might be a perpetually sour expression. He wore a tan work shirt and the same sort of bibbed apron worn by storekeepers all over the West.
"My father said he'd buy you a gun?" Theodore asked in disbelief. "I'm going to have to ask him about that, mister. And if I find out you're lying, I won't appreciate it."
Nacho kept a tight rein on his temper. "You go ahead and do that, friend," he told Theodore. "I just left him over at the station."
Theodore started to come out from behind the counter, but he stopped when Sandra emerged from the back room. She smiled when she saw Nacho and said, "Good morning, Mr. Graves. How are you feeling today?"
Nacho quickly tugged his hat off. "Better, ma'am, thank you. I came to look at your guns. Jake said he would loan me the price of a pistol."
"I'm sure that would be fine." Sandra turned to her husband, and there was no sign in her expression or voice that they had just been fighting as she went on, "Mr. Graves is traveling with an old friend of Father's, Theodore. You've heard him speak about Billy Cambridge. They were in the Rangers together."
Theodore nodded curtly. "Yeah, I guess so. That sounds familiar. I don't listen to all of the old man's stories anymore. You get tired of them after a while." He waved a hand and indicated the guns in the display case. "Pick out whatever you want, Graves. Just don't take off for the tall and uncut until somebody pays me for it."
"Gracias," Nacho muttered, wondering if Theodore Maxwell had to work at being such an unpleasant bastard. From what he had seen of the man's father, the trait wasn't inherited.
Even though he had already made up his mind which gun he wanted, he made a show of studying them for several moments before pointing out the Colt he had selected. Theodore took it out from under the counter and handed it to Nacho. He hefted the gun, checking its balance and the feel of its grips against his palm, then nodded in satisfaction. In the meantime, Sandra was moving around the store, straightening and dusting merchandise.
Nacho glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and saw that she was moving stiffly, as if the anger she had covered up with a bright smile was being expressed instead by a rigid spine.
"This will do fine," Nacho told Theodore as he slipped the revolver into his empty holster. The fit was as close to perfect as a new gun could get. "I'll need a box of forty-fives, too."
Theodore slid the cartridges across the counter. "I suppose my father is paying for these, too," he commented sarcastically.
"I will pay him back," Nacho declared, finding it more and more difficult to hold his temper.
"I hope you do."
Nacho's fingers tightened on the box of bullets, but he didn't say anything more to Theodore. Turning to Sandra, he tipped his hat again and said, "Good day to you, ma'am."
"Good day to you, Mr. Graves . . . Oh, would you tell Jake that I've gathered the eggs, and I'll bring some over to him later?"
"Sure."
They had probably been out in the little barn behind the trading post when he first came in, Nacho thought. Sandra had gone out there to gather the eggs, and Theodore had followed to harangue her about his suspicions.
He listened closely as he left the building, wondering if Theodore was going to start in on his wife again. Nacho hoped that wouldn't be the case. It was difficult to leave, knowing that Theodore might become even more obnoxious as soon as he was gone.
Nacho sighed. He had done all he could, distracting Theodore for a few minutes that way and in the process sparing Sandra the embarrassment of knowing that the argument had been overheard. She'd had the chance to leave the trading post on some excuse while he was there, and since she hadn't taken it, she probably wasn't that frightened of her husband.
Blowhards like Theodore would usually back off in a hurry once somebody stood up to them. Sandra would do that when she got tired enough of his unwarranted suspicions, Nacho told himself.
At the moment, he had other concerns on his mind. He felt better now that he was armed again, but instead of calming his restlessness, the visit to the trading post had only increased it. As soon as Billy thought it would be all right, he wanted to be on the back of a horse, tracking down the men who had raided the stagecoach.
He wouldn't feel right until that score was settled.
Chapter Four
Billy Cambridge accepted the hospitality of the Baptist ladies and stayed for lunch. He had told Jake Maxwell before leaving the stage station earlier that he might not be back in time for the noon meal, so he assumed that Jake and Nacho would go ahead and eat without him. The food was good, especially out-of-doors on a pleasant autumn day, and Cambridge tried not to let Bart Gilliam annoy him. The deputy kept casting resentful glances toward him, like he was angry that Cambridge had disturbed his meal with the news of fresh lawbreaking.
Cambridge was sitting on a bench next to one of the heavily laden tables when John Livingston walked over and sat down beside him. "I hope you're enjoying your meal, Mr. Cambridge," he said.
"It's excellent, pastor. If I, ah, had any money at the moment, I'd feel moved to make a donation to the church."
Livingston waved away the offer. "Don't worry about that. These meals are free for any who care to partake. And if you're short of money, the church has a sort of fund to help out those in need . . ."
Cambridge shook his head quickly. "That's not it at all. You see, I was robbed yesterday. I was on the northbound stage when outlaws stopped it and held us up."
"I see." Livingston smiled slightly. "I was wondering what you had to say to Deputy Gilliam that disturbed him so. Now I understand. You wanted him to actually do some law enforcement work."
"I take it you don't have a very high opinion of the deputy."
"Don't misunderstand me. Bart is a good man, an honest man. So is Sheriff Massey. But they don't seem to be able to find the gang that's been wreaking havoc around here for the past few months." The minister shrugged. "I don't hold that against them. They're do
ing their best."
"Well, that's not good enough. I lost a considerable amount of money that belongs to a client of mine in that robbery. I plan to get it back before I go on to Fort Smith. That's where I was heading with a friend."
Livingston stood up and held out his hand. As Cambridge shook it, the pastor said, "I wish you good luck in your quest, Mr. Cambridge. I'm no manhunter, but if I can help you in any way, please let me know."
"I'll do that, Reverend," Cambridge promised.
He finished his meal, conveyed his thanks to the ladies of the church, then headed for his horse. As he walked toward the hitch rack where several other mounts were tied, he suddenly heard hoofbeats to his left. Glancing up, he saw a buggy rolling rapidly toward him as the woman at the reins tried to control the skittish horse pulling the vehicle.
Cambridge quickly stepped back out of the way, and as the horse danced past him, he reached up and grabbed the animal's bridle. He hauled down on it, stopping the horse short and bringing it under control. "Hold on there, boy," he said soothingly.
"Thank you," the woman called from the seat of the buggy. "I didn't mean to nearly run you down, mister. I don't know how the horse got away from me like that." She tightened up on the reins gripped in her slender fingers to prevent another such incident.
"That's all right," Cambridge told her. "I'm just glad I was here to grab him before he got too wound up."
The woman nodded. Cambridge couldn't see her face very well, since it was partially concealed by a large sun bonnet, but she seemed to be young. The lithe figure in her calico dress was that of a young woman, at any rate.
"I can handle it now," she told him. "Thanks again."
Cambridge let go of the horse's bridle and stepped back. He tipped his hat as the woman drove the buggy past him, and she turned her head enough to give him a smile. The glimpse he got of her features was a quick one, but it confirmed his impression. She was no more than twenty, with skin the color of honey. Her eyes were dark and flashing, and the only thing that detracted from her beauty was a scar of some sort running horizontally across her left cheek. Cambridge didn't get a good look at it, since that side of her face was turned away from him for the most part. As she passed, he saw the long, straight, raven-black hair hanging down her back.
Red River Ruse Page 4
