Red River Ruse

by James Reasoner

  Nacho shook his head. "No, it's coming from a chimney. See, there's a cabin over there in those cottonwoods along that creek."

  Cambridge looked again and nodded after a moment. "You're right. I guess my eyes are going in my old age."

  "Don't feel bad, Billy. You weren't supposed to see it."

  Indeed, the log cabin was build right among the cottonwoods and blended in with its background. The only thing that stood out was the rock chimney, and it didn't extend very far above the level of the cabin roof.

  "You see that bay horse anywhere?" Cambridge asked.

  "Nope, but it could be tied up on the other side of the cabin. We can't just ride up there in the open, Billy."

  "We sure as hell can't. That'd be asking to get shot. We'll circle around, come in from behind and keep an eye on the place for a while."

  Nacho nodded in agreement with the attorney's plan and turned his horse to the left. They veered wide of the cabin. This maneuver might not fool whoever was in there, but at least they would have a chance.

  They took their time approaching the building, slipping down from their horses and covering the last stretch on foot. There was a good chance this was the hide-out of the bandits who had robbed the stagecoach, Nacho knew, so he and Cambridge couldn't go busting in there. That would just get them killed. They had to keep an eye on the cabin until they could be sure who was inside, then they could ride for help.

  Settling down behind some brush about a hundred feet from the cabin, they studied the scene eagerly. There was still no sign of the bay horse had been following, but now they could see a big lean-to behind the cabin. Several mounts could be concealed there.

  "No way of knowing how many men are in there," Cambridge whispered. "We may have to wait a long time."

  "I'm in no hurry," Nacho replied. He stretched out on his belly, hoping there weren't too many fleas and chiggers and ticks around here, and fastened his gaze on the log cabin. The building looked old, but it wasn't run down at all. Somebody took good care of it.

  They had been lying there watching the cabin for less than ten minutes when something touched Nacho on the neck. Thinking it was a flea, he started to reach up to brush it away. That was when a hard ring of metal pressed into his flesh.

  "Don't move, either one of you, or I'll blow this man's head off."

  Nacho stiffened in shock, and his surprise wasn't entirely due to the fact that somebody had been able to sneak up on him.

  The voice was female.

  Chapter Seven

  Cambridge was lying just as still as Nacho. Without moving his head, he said, "Just take it easy, whoever you are. We don't mean any harm."

  "Sure," the girl said sarcastically. "Two gun-hung gents come skulking around in the brush, but they don't mean any harm. Tell me another."

  "It's true, señorita," Nacho insisted. He swallowed nervously. He liked to think he was as brave as most men, but there was something about having a gun barrel pressed against your neck . . . He went on hurriedly, "We were lost, and when we saw that cabin, we thought whoever lived there might be able to tell us how to get back to the main trail."

  "Then why didn't you just ride up and ask for directions?"

  Cambridge answered that question, picking up on Nacho's story. "This is a rough country, miss. We were trying to see who was around before we went barging in. Some folks get nervous and quick on the trigger whenever strangers come around."

  "That's true enough, I suppose." The gun barrel went away from Nacho's neck, and he felt relief wash through him. "You can turn over and sit up. Just do it slow and easy, and keep your hands away from those guns."

  From her voice, Nacho knew she was young, but the tone of easy command in her words told him she was experienced in the ways of the frontier. He wasn't prepared, however, for what he saw when he rolled over and sat up.

  The girl probably wasn't quite out of her teens, and she was lovely. Long, straight hair the color of midnight hung down her back. Eyes almost as dark regarded the two men warily. A dress of soft buckskin clung to her slender figure. The Indian blood in her veins was obvious, but her features were those of a white girl. The only thing marring her beauty was a thin white scar that ran across her cheek from her nose nearly to her left ear.

  "You!" Cambridge exclaimed in surprise.

  The girl frowned, shifting slightly the muzzle of the Spencer carbine she held. "Do I know you?" she demanded.

  "I saw you yesterday over at the Sand Ridge Baptist Church, while they were having their weekly dinner on the grounds," Cambridge replied. "You were, ah, dressed differently, but I'm sure it was you. I couldn't be mistaken about . . ."

  "About this?" she broke in, tilting her head to bring the scar on her cheek into prominence. Her mouth tightened into a bitter line.

  "I was going to say, I couldn't be mistaken about such an attractive young lady."

  Nacho spoke up, trying to keep his tone light. "I'm the one who is supposed to tell the girls how pretty they are, remember, Billy?"

  "Both of you shut up," the girl snapped. "I'm trying to figure out what to do with you."

  "You could let us go," Nacho suggested, then abruptly fell silent as the muzzle of the Spencer centered on his forehead.

  He glanced over at Cambridge and saw the frown on the lawyer's face. Cambridge had to be just as baffled by this unexpected development as he was. What connection, if any, did this girl have with the man they had been chasing? Did she live in the log cabin? Was she part of the outlaw band, kept by the outlaws to cook and clean for them—and to satisfy their lust whenever they felt like it?

  Those questions raced through Nacho's brain. Unfortunately, he didn't have an answer for any of them.

  The girl backed away several steps, the barrel of the carbine never wavering as she did so. "I'm going to let the old man decide what to do with you," she said.

  Nacho and Cambridge exchanged a quick look. What old man? Maybe the buckskin-clad hombre they had been chasing? That made sense.

  "Put your guns on the ground and then stand up," the girl ordered. "And just so you don't get any ideas, you ought to know I've been shooting squirrels and rabbits since I was five years old. There's seven bullets in this repeater; that'd be plenty for both of you."

  "You're a very dangerous young lady," Nacho said dryly, wanting to see how she would react to a little prodding. "Shooting squirrels is not like shooting men."

  "You're right. Men are a lot bigger targets. Easier to hit."

  Nacho shrugged and reached across his body to use his left hand to ease the Colt from its holster. He laid the gun on the ground beside him. Cambridge did likewise, and then both men climbed slowly to their feet.

  "Now back off."

  They did so, stopping when they were a dozen feet from the pistols. The girl darted forward, holding the Spencer with one hand while she scooped up the revolvers with the other. As she was bent over, Nacho looked at Cambridge again and saw the lawyer give a tiny shake of his head. They wouldn't try jumping her. They'd probably find out more, faster, by playing along.

  The girl held the Colts by the trigger guards in her left hand and used the right to gesture with the barrel of the carbine. "You were so interested in the cabin. Now lift your arms and get moving toward it."

  The two men walked out of the brush with the girl following behind them. They held their empty hands at shoulder height. Their path wound through the trees around the cabin, and as they drew nearer, the rear door of the building swung open.

  A man stepped into view in the doorway, cradling a Winchester in his arms. He was hatless, but even without the feather-decorated headgear, Nacho recognized the buckskins of the man he and Cambridge had pursued for the last hour. The man's face was lined and leathery from a lifetime spent in the sun. His hair was still dark, but the short beard on his chin was mostly silver. As Nacho came closer, he saw that the man's shaggy hair had been twisted into two short braids, one lying on each shoulder. He studied Nacho and Cambridge with i
ntent blue eyes as the girl marched them up to the cabin.

  "What you caught there, Dove?" the man rasped.

  "Stop," the girl told her captives. To the old man, she said, "They were snooping out there in the brush, Pa, just like we figured they'd be. City fellas, more than likely. They never heard me slipping around behind them."

  "I am no . . . no tenderfoot!" Nacho declared angrily. "I am Ignacio Alexander Rodriguez Graves, and I am the best vaquero in all of West Texas!"

  "West Texas is a long way off, boy," the man in buckskins said. "What are you doin' pokin' around this part of the country?"

  Cambridge pointed out, "We could ask you the same question, sir. And in addition, we could ask you why you were spying on us."

  The old-timer squinted suspiciously at the attorney. "You look like a cowhand who's seen better days, mister, but you talk like one of them lawyer fellas. Just who the hell are you?"

  "My name is Billy Cambridge, and I'm an attorney, all right. My friend Nacho has already introduced himself. We seem to be at a disadvantage where you're concerned, however."

  "You mean you want to know my name? What business is it of yours?"

  Cambridge didn't answer right away, and neither did Nacho. The foreman's mind was working swiftly. He hadn't heard any other voices or sounds of movement from inside the cabin, and it was looking more likely that the old man and the girl were alone here. That didn't mean they weren't connected with the outlaws anyway, but somehow Nacho didn't think that was the case. Maybe he just didn't want to believe anything too bad of a girl as pretty as the one called Dove.

  Cambridge finally spoke, his words revealing that he had come to the same conclusion as Nacho. "It's our business if your name is Seamus O'Shea," Cambridge said. "We have a mutual friend—Jake Maxwell."

  The eyes of the buckskin-clad man widened. "Friends of Maxwell's, are you?" he demanded. "You got any proof of that?"

  "We're staying with him at the Red River stage station." Cambridge inclined his head toward the brush behind them. "The horses we're riding are tied up back there. They carry Maxwell's brand."

  The old man snorted in derision. "You wouldn't be the first horse thieves to try to lie their way out of trouble with some fancy story."

  "Dammit, I'm getting tired of this," Cambridge snapped. "Either you're O'Shea or you're not. If you are, you've got nothing to fear from us. If you're not, and if you're mixed up with a bunch of outlaws who are using this area as their headquarters, then you'd better just go ahead and shoot us. Or have your daughter do it. She seems quite capable of shooting two men in the back."

  "Here now! You got no call to talk about my girl that way." The man glowered at them. "I'm Seamus O'Shea. Speak your piece." He glanced over their shoulders at the girl. "Dove, lower that carbine. But keep it handy."

  "Yes, Pa," she said.

  "Can we put our hands down now?" Cambridge asked O'Shea. The old man nodded curtly.

  "Thanks," Nacho said as he lowered his arms. "I was getting tired. I got shot a couple of days ago, you know."

  "How the hell would I know that? Don't try to trick me, boy. I seen and heard it all. I seen the elephant a dozen times 'fore you was even thought of."

  Before Nacho could respond, Cambridge said, "I think we can settle this peacefully. A couple of days ago, Nacho and I were passengers on a northbound stagecoach that was stopped and held up by bandits. The outlaws wounded Nacho, knocked me out, and stole a great deal of money, money that I was delivering to a client. The stage went on, but we stayed to try to find those outlaws. They fled in this direction. I'm taking a chance and telling you the truth because Jake Maxwell is an old friend of mine from the days we were both Rangers, and he seems to think you're an honest man, O'Shea."

  For a long moment, O'Shea didn't say anything. Finally, he grunted, "Come out here huntin' outlaws, did you? Well, it's a good place for it. I hear tell there's a bunch around here somewheres, but I wouldn't know nothin' about 'em."

  "Why were you watching us from that hill?" Nacho wanted to know.

  "I was out huntin' and saw a couple of strangers." O'Shea rubbed his grizzled jaw. "Reckon I'm just naturally curious."

  Cambridge said, "We saw sunlight reflecting off a gun barrel and thought somebody was about to ambush us."

  O'Shea snorted again and tapped the pocket of his buckskin shirt. "You saw sunlight hittin' my spyglass, that's what you saw. If I'd been interested in bushwhackin' you, you wouldn't've knowed I was anywheres about until the bullet hit you."

  "Why did you run when we spotted you?" Nacho asked.

  "Hell, you went to divin' around and pullin' guns. For all I knew, you was a pair of road agents yourselves. All I knew for sure was that I didn't have any business with you, and I didn't see the point of hangin' around for a bunch of worthless palaver." O'Shea spat into the dirt beside the back door. " 'Course, that's what I wound up gettin' anyway."

  "All right, we've all told our stories," Cambridge said. "I think it's time to call a truce and put away the guns. Jake thought maybe you could help us."

  O'Shea shook his head. "Jake thought wrong. I already told you I don't know nothin' about any outlaws. If you want to keep pokin' around these woods, that's your own look-out. Don't strike me as a real sensible thing to do, but I ain't never been one to tell another fella how to live his life. Long as you don't bother us, we won't bother you."

  "Pa!" the girl exclaimed. "You don't believe them, do you? After the way they chased you?"

  'The yarn they tell makes sense, Dove," O'Shea replied. "They look just dumb enough to be chasin' outlaws through these breaks."

  Nacho was about to frame a resentful retort when Cambridge shot him a warning look. The lawyer said, "We could do with a cup of hot coffee before we go."

  "I'm sure you could," O'Shea shot back, "but I ain't offerin'. I want both of you to git."

  Cambridge shrugged and nodded. "Let's go, Nacho." As he turned around, he said to Dove, "We'd like our guns back now, please."

  "Mighty polite, aren't you?" the girl asked scornfully. She lowered the butt of the Spencer to the ground and leaned the carbine against her hip. With practiced ease, she thumbed the cartridges out of both Colts, then handed them over. As she dropped the bullets into each man's outstretched palm, she said, "Don't try to reload until you're a long way from here. I may be watching, and if I see you putting shells back in those guns, I'll shoot you out of the saddle."

  Nacho slid his Colt back into its holster and put the cartridges into the pocket of his charro jacket. He looked over at Seamus O'Shea and said, "Your daughter, she is one tough señorita."

  "Damn right," the old-timer growled. "Ain't nobody can say I don't know how to bring up a young'un."

  Nacho and Cambridge exchanged a look, then walked back into the brush under the watchful eyes of O'Shea and Dove. They went to their horses, untied the animals, and mounted up. "What now, Billy?" Nacho asked.

  "I think we've done enough for one day," Cambridge replied. "Let's go back to Jake's."

  The two men rode in silence for the most part, each of them thinking their own thoughts about what had happened since they had left the stage station that morning. They followed the gully back to the spot where they had first found it, then gradually retraced the path they had taken while pursuing Seamus O'Shea. A few times, they were unsure which turn to take, but Nacho's dependable instincts when it came to directions continued to be correct. Just past the middle of the afternoon, they reached the place where they had stopped for lunch.

  "I can pick up the tracks of those outlaws again," Nacho offered.

  Cambridge shook his head. "It's too late in the day. We'll be doing good to get back to Jake's before nightfall. If you're able, we'll come back here tomorrow and bring more supplies next time."

  "I'll be able," Nacho promised. "I still want to find those no-good crooks." He hesitated, then added, "Unless we already did."

  "You mean O'Shea?" Cambridge asked. He looked a little relieved that one of t
hem had finally brought up the subject. "What did you think of the old man's story?"

  "I do not know, Billy," Nacho answered honestly. "I think he may have been telling the truth about not trying to ambush us. But I think a man like that would know what was going on around him. If there are outlaws operating in these parts—and we know there are—I think O'Shea would probably know where their hide-out is."

  "I agree. Even if he doesn't have any connection with the gang, he knows more than he told us." Cambridge shrugged. "But we couldn't very well force him to reveal anything more than he chose to. Not under the circumstances."

  "Not with that girl pointing a rifle at our backs, you mean." Nacho grinned. "She was quite a spitfire, eh?"

  "That's for sure. I'm a little surprised she didn't just shoot us and not bother the old man with it." Cambridge looked suspiciously over at Nacho as they walked their horses along the trail. "I've heard that tone in your voice before, Nacho. You're not getting sweet on her, are you?"

  "She was very beautiful," Nacho mused. "Even that scar just made the rest of her seem more elegant."

  Cambridge laughed shortly. "He mother was probably a Comanche squaw, Nacho, and she's just about as civilized as a Comanche—not much!" He paused and scowled in thought. "At least that's the way she seemed today. But I suppose I could be jumping to a conclusion. She seemed perfectly respectable when I saw her at the church yesterday."

  "She never did say what she was doing there."

  "Maybe she's a member of the congregation. I can check with Reverend Livingston." Cambridge pushed back his hat. "To tell you the truth, I'm not sure what to make of Miss Dove O'Shea."

  "I know one thing: I would like to see her again." Nacho added fervently, "The next time without a gun in her hand!"

  As Cambridge had predicted, it was almost dark before they reached the Red River station. A band of crimson stretched along the western horizon, marking the spot where the sun had disappeared earlier. As they rode into the yard in front of the station, Jake Maxwell opened the door and stepped outside to greet them.