Red River Ruse

by James Reasoner

  A buggy was rolling along the tree-shrouded trail. If it had been broad daylight, Maxwell probably would have been able to recognize the vehicle or the horse pulling it, but tonight he could barely make it out in the shadows. There was nothing distinctive about it; dozens of people in the area drove similar buggies. But the question remained—why would anybody be coming to the station at this time of night?

  And the answer was simple, of course, Maxwell realized as he watched the little two-wheeled carriage swing past the station. It was heading for the trading post instead.

  It was a little unusual for Theodore to have customers this late, but not unheard of. He generally stayed open well after dark, since the farmers and ranchers in the area sometimes worked on their spreads from dawn to dusk and didn't have a chance to buy supplies during the day, but Maxwell judged it was midnight or later now. At least it seemed like he had been tossing restlessly in his bunk for several hours.

  Quietly, so as not to disturb Billy Cambridge and Nacho Graves—who had had a hard day, after all—Maxwell opened the door of the station and stepped outside. The buggy was just pulling up in front of the trading post. When it had come to a stop, a man stepped down from it and went to the front door. Maxwell couldn't tell anything about him other than that he seemed to be fairly tall and was wearing dark clothes and a hat. The man lifted his arm and Maxwell supposed he was rapping on the door, but if so he was striking the panel softly enough that Maxwell couldn't hear it.

  Something about the situation struck Maxwell as so strange that he took a step back into the doorway, deeper in shadow but where he could still keep an eye on the trading post. After a moment he saw a dim glow through the front window of the store. Theodore was answering the summons, Maxwell supposed, and was carrying a candle to light his way through the merchandise-crowded room.

  When the door of the trading post opened, Maxwell saw he was right. The circle of light cast by the candle revealed Theodore standing there, his hair rumpled, wearing a jacket over his nightshirt. In his other hand he clutched a handgun, just in case of trouble. The visitor stepped back quickly, as if the light bothered him. Theodore must have recognized him, because he lowered the pistol and quickly blew out the candle.

  Maxwell frowned. What the devil was the boy up to? The visitor went back to the buggy now, and Theodore followed him. The man in the suit stepped up into the vehicle, and Theodore leaned close to it, evidently to carry on a low-voiced conversation.

  Something was wrong. That feeling gnawed at Maxwell's insides and made him draw back even more into the shadows. If the man in the buggy had gone inside the trading post and emerged a few minutes later with a bag of supplies, Maxwell wouldn't have thought there was anything unusual about that except the lateness of the hour, and there could be all sorts of reasons for that.

  Likewise, the visitor wasn't just asking directions, either, as folks sometimes did when they stopped at the trading post. The conversation was going on too long for that, and Theodore wasn't waving his arms around and pointing like he did whenever he was telling somebody how to get to where they were going. No, Maxwell concluded, this encounter was just downright unsettling.

  After about ten minutes, Theodore stepped away from the buggy. Maxwell saw him nod, or at least imagined he did. At this distance, in the dim light, it was hard to be sure. The man in the buggy flapped the reins and got the horse moving again. He pulled the animal's head around and turned the buggy, heading it back down the road. Maxwell quickly closed the door of the station before the vehicle passed, although he would have had a hard time explaining why he did so. It just seemed like the smart thing to do under the circumstances.

  When enough time had passed for the buggy to get out of sight, Maxwell stepped outside again and peered toward the trading post. Theodore had gone back in. The front door was closed, and the building was dark.

  He could ask the boy what was going on, Maxwell thought, but chances were he wouldn't get an answer. Theodore would probably just get mad and accuse his father of spying on him. And that would be true enough, Maxwell realized. He had been spying.

  But if Theodore was up to something he shouldn't be, Maxwell wanted to know about it. Theodore could get himself into trouble if he wanted to, but he had no right to drag Sandra into whatever was going on.

  Maxwell grimaced as he went back into his room. Funny how Sandra always figured in his thinking these days. Most men would have been worried about their sons getting in some sort of trouble, but not him. He was more concerned with how it would affect his daughter-in-law.

  But was it his fault Theodore had always been cool toward him, he asked himself as he got back into bed. He and Theodore had never been close, and after the boy's mother died, the gap had just grown wider. He loved his son, he told himself—but that wasn't always enough.

  Sleep didn't come any easier now. He was even more restless than before. His watch was lying on the small table next to his bunk, and its ticking seemed to fill the room. Maxwell reached over and picked it up, ran his fingers over the smooth face as if he could somehow sense the hour just by touching it. He was going to be weary from lack of sleep tomorrow, that was for sure.

  Some time had passed since Theodore's conversation with the mysterious visitor, but Maxwell wasn't sure how much. He heard the soft tapping on the little window above his bunk, thinking at first that he was imagining it. Gradually, though, he realized that someone was actually knocking on the glass that had been freighted up from Dallas and fit into the opening that had originally been covered by oilcloth. Maxwell sat up sharply, his hand going to the rifle that lay on the floor next to the bunk. He didn't have much call to use it lately, but he kept the weapon there out of habit, a reminder of the days right after the War when he had established the trading post. There had still been plenty of badmen in the area then.

  And it looked like those days might be coming back, he thought grimly as he stood up to one side of the window, being cautious just in case whoever was out there decided to throw a shot through the glass.

  He saw moonlight shining on long blond hair and knew he was in no danger. No danger of being shot at, anyway.

  Leaning closer to the window, he unlatched it and swung it open. "Sandra?" he hissed. "That you, girl? What are you doin' out there at this time of night?"

  "I need to talk to you, Jake," she answered in a whisper. "Can I come in?"

  Billy and Nacho were probably light sleepers, Maxwell thought. He didn't want to bother them—and he didn't particularly want them knowing that he was talking to Sandra in the middle of the night, either. He said, "I'll meet you out in the barn in a minute."

  She nodded and disappeared.

  Maxwell took a deep breath and reached for his pants. He had stepped outside in just his long johns before, but he couldn't talk to a female dressed like that, not even Sandra. Especially not Sandra.

  When he had his pants on, he poked his feet into his boots, picked up the rifle again, and slipped out of the station. He probably wouldn't need the rifle, but you couldn't ever tell when you'd run into a bobcat prowling around. It was sort of late in the year for snakes to be out and about, too, but he'd seen them before even closer to winter.

  Circling the building, he went to the barn. One of the doors was open a couple of inches, the gap marked by a thick line of blackness seeping from the shadowy interior. Maxwell pushed the door back a little more and eased through.

  A hand touched his arm. "Jake?"

  "I'm here, girl," he said, deliberately making his voice gruff. "What's wrong?"

  "I'm starting to get scared. Theodore . . . There's something strange about him, Jake . . ."

  Maxwell could have told her that a long time ago. But he knew what she meant. Theodore's behavior was getting even more erratic lately. Maxwell had seen him coming and going at odd hours, and that took on added—although still unknown—significance in light of the visit earlier by the man in the buggy.

  "You must've seen that fella, too," Maxw
ell said. Sandra's fingers were still resting on his forearm, just below the sleeve of the long johns. Her touch was warm and bothersome.

  "The man who drove up in the buggy? I didn't know you had seen him."

  His eyes were adjusting to the darkness now, and he could make her out a little better. Amazing how her hair shone, even in this gloom. She was wearing a light-colored nightdress of some sort, and he could see it, too. He said, "I was havin' trouble sleepin' and heard that buggy pull up. Figured it wouldn't hurt to take a look and see what was goin' on. Couldn't tell much, though. I just saw a fella in a dark suit. Ted came out and talked to him for a while. That's all I know."

  "I don't know much more than that." Sandra paused, and he listened to her breathing as she put her thoughts in order. Then she went on, "The knocking woke me up. It was real soft, like whoever it was didn't want to wake up anybody else. Theodore heard it, of course. Maybe he was waiting for it, for all I know. But he got up right away and lit a candle. I asked him where he was going, and he said we must have a late customer. I told him we'd never had a customer that late before, and he said it was none of my business." She made a sound in her throat, a sound of sadness that made Maxwell's mouth tighten into a grim line. "Actually he said it was none of my Goddamned business. And then when I started to get out of bed anyway, he shoved me back down and told me to stay there if I knew what was good for me."

  A few times, when Theodore was a boy, Maxwell had been forced to take a strap to him. He felt like doing the same thing right now.

  "I waited until he had gone outside before I slipped up to the front. I wanted to do like he had told me and not make him angry again, but I felt like I had to know what was going on. You can understand that, can't you, Jake?"

  "Sure," he said. He had skulked around in the dark himself for the same reason.

  "Theodore left the front door open a little when he went out. I was able to hear them talking. I couldn't make out the words, but I heard the voices."

  "Ted's—I mean Theodore's and the other man's?"

  "And the woman, too."

  Maxwell frowned. "Woman? What woman?"

  "I don't know. I thought when I first looked out that there were two people in the buggy, not just one, and then after a few minutes, she said something. Her voice was very soft, even quieter than the others. But I'm sure it was a woman's voice. I couldn't see her. I couldn't see much of anything in the buggy, the canopy made it so dark."

  His fingers tightening on the breech of the rifle, Maxwell asked, "You say you couldn't tell what they were talkin' about?"

  "Not at all. I couldn't understand any of the words. But I heard three distinct voices. I know there was a third person."

  "A woman . . ." Maxwell mused. "I wonder who the hell. . . Sorry."

  "It's all right," Sandra told him. "Compared to some of the things Theodore's said to me, your language doesn't bother me at all, Jake. I like to hear you talk." Her own voice took on a strange huskiness as she spoke.

  Maxwell wanted to get her mind back on what they had been discussing. "What happened then?"

  "When I saw Theodore step away from the buggy, I figured the conversation was over and that I'd better get back to bed before he caught me spying on him. I hurried back through the store and into our bedroom. I almost knocked over a box of nails in the darkness, but I caught it in time. Only a few of them spilled, and I think I got them all picked up. Then I went back to bed and pretended to be asleep when Theodore came in."

  "He believe that?"

  "I've had a lot of practice at pretending to be asleep the last few months," she said, and Maxwell felt his face turning red and warm as he figured out what she was talking about. She continued, "I waited until Theodore was good and asleep again, then I slipped out and came over here to tell you what had happened. I didn't know you already knew about it."

  "Didn't know about the woman," he said, his forehead creasing in thought. He couldn't think of anybody, man or woman, who would have a reason to come sneaking around and talking to Theodore in the middle of the night.

  "What are we going to do?" Sandra asked.

  "What can we do? Ain't against the law to talk to folks, even if it is mighty strange for 'em to come visitin' this late."

  "But Theodore's doing something. Maybe something illegal."

  She had just voiced the main worry that had been going through Maxwell's brain. It was a hell of a thing when a man was this suspicious of his own son, he thought.

  "Reckon you could be right," he said slowly. "But even if he is, what do you want to do? He's your husband, after all."

  "And I'm supposed to stand by him, no matter what he's done." Sandra sighed. "I've tried, Jake. I've tried to be a good wife to him. But it's hard when he treats me like . . . like he doesn't even love me anymore."

  Maxwell wasn't sure Theodore had ever loved her. Maybe he had just married her so that folks could talk about what a pretty wife Theodore Maxwell had. The boy's mind seemed to work that way sometimes.

  But he couldn't say that to Sandra, not as upset as she already was. And he didn't blame her for being upset. If Theodore wound up in trouble with the law, chances were she'd wind up part of it, too.

  He didn't know what the devil to say, so he didn't say anything. He reached out in the darkness with his free hand and found her shoulder, soft and warm under the thin nightdress. He pulled her against him, let her rest her head against his chest. As they stood there, the heat of her body seeming to burn his skin, he awkwardly patted her back. Finally, he said, "I'm sorry."

  She put her arms around his waist, hugged him tighter, lifted her head so that her lips grazed the line of his jaw.

  From there it only took a second for their mouths to come together, and Maxwell was lost. There was no fighting it and damned if he even wanted to anymore. He let the butt of the rifle sag to the ground and then released the barrel, not even caring that it might discharge from being dropped that way. It didn't, but if it had, he might not have known it, wrapped up in Sandra the way he was.

  This might make him the worst sinner on God's green earth, but he wasn't turning back this time. He couldn't. He didn't have the strength anymore.

  There was a pile of hay in one of the stalls. Not the most comfortable bed in the world, he thought.

  But it would do.

  Chapter Nine

  The hard riding, the running and jumping of the day before, had taken their toll on Nacho Graves. The wound on his side hadn't opened up again, but when he got out of bed the next morning he was extremely sore. Billy Cambridge saw the way he was moving as he came into the main room of the stagecoach station, and immediately a look of concern appeared on the lawyer's face.

  "Looks like we won't be doing any more tracking today," Cambridge said from the table as he picked up his coffee.

  "Because of me?" Nacho asked, a stricken look on his features. "But I'm fine, Billy. I feel healthy as a horse."

  "A spavined old nag ready to be put out to pasture, maybe." Cambridge shook his head. "Sorry, Nacho. I won't risk your health like that."

  "But, Billy, every day that goes by, the trail gets a little colder. It's going to rain, or the wind will blow hard, or both, and then those tracks will be gone forever. You don't realize how lucky we were, just being able to follow them yesterday."

  "Yes, I do." Cambridge pointed at the bench on the other side of the table. "Now sit down and eat. Jake's got flapjacks and bacon on the stove. I'll bring you some."

  Nacho sighed, shook his head in disgust, and sank onto the bench. There was never any point in arguing with a lawyer, he thought. Billy had been pretty reasonable so far, but Nacho knew how easily he could get worked up and start flinging around two-bit words and acting like he was in a courtroom. Nacho could do without that.

  He had to admit that he felt stronger after he ate. Jake Maxwell came in from outside just as Nacho was ruminating over the last of his coffee. The stationkeeper's face seemed more gaunt and hollow-eyed than usual this m
orning, and Nacho said, "You look like the night was not kind to you, Jake."

  "Didn't sleep much," Maxwell said with a shake of his head. As if to change the subject, he asked quickly, "You boys goin' outlaw huntin' again today?"

  "Nacho's in no shape for it," Cambridge declared, not giving his companion a chance to answer the question. "We'll have to postpone it again."

  'That's a shame. I know you're anxious to find those outlaws and get as much of that money back as you can. But if you're goin' to be around here today, maybe you can give me a hand with a little chore."

  "Sure. We'd be glad for the chance to pay you back some for your hospitality. Wouldn't we, Nacho?"

  The vaquero looked up. "What? Oh. Right. Anything we can do, just ask, Jake."

  "I just need somebody to sort of keep an eye on the place," Maxwell said. "I'm runnin' a mite low on grain for the horses, and I need to get some. Nearest granary's about ten miles east of here at a little settlement called Antioch. There're no coaches due until late this afternoon, so there wouldn't be any chores you boys would have to do."

  "Doesn't your boy Ted keep any grain over at the trading post?" Cambridge asked.

  "Usually he does," Maxwell nodded. "But I checked yesterday. He's about out, too. I'll be picking up a load for him as well as for the station."

  An idea occurred suddenly to Nacho, a way he might be able to escape a day of boredom sitting around the stage station. "Jake," he said, "why don't you let Billy and me go pick up that grain for you?"

  Cambridge turned and glowered at him before Maxwell had a chance to respond to Nacho's suggestion. "Now what kind of an idea is that? I just got through saying that your health isn't good enough yet to go chasing outlaws again, and here you are volunteering to fetch a bunch of heavy sacks of grain."

  Nacho leaned forward. He was no lawyer, but he had thought out his argument quickly and thoroughly. "At this granary, they have men to load the bags of feed, right, Jake?"