Nacho looked over and saw Dove standing there. Trying not to show his surprise, he said, "Of course. I'll get it for you."
He pulled a strand of the black, chewy stuff from the jar and handed it to the girl. She took it and said under her breath, "Thank you for not saying anything to the Reverend about yesterday."
"You mean about that gun you were waving around and using to threaten Billy and me?" Nacho asked quietly as he took out more of the licorice for himself. "I didn't figure it was any of his business."
He glanced past Dove and saw the clerk cutting a large piece off one of the bolts of fabric while Livingston looked on. The minister didn't seem to be paying any attention to the two of them.
Angry lights danced in Dove's dark eyes as she said, "Reverend Livingston may be my minister, but that doesn't mean he has to know everything about me and my father."
Eager to mollify her, Nacho said quickly, "Billy and I just thought that since you didn't bring up any of the details, we shouldn't, either. You see, señorita, we are not out to cause trouble for anybody except those low-down hombres who robbed us."
"You still don't have any idea where to find them?"
"None," Nacho said with a shake of his head. "By now, they could be anywhere from Montana to the Rio Grande."
Dove nodded and keeping her voice low said, "I can see why you and Mr. Cambridge are upset about being held up. In fact, I was a little surprised to see you today. I thought you'd be out in the breaks again, hunting for those men."
Nacho put a hand on his side, over the bullet wound. "The injury would not let me ride today," he said dramatically. "Or at least Billy thought so. Now I can see that my pain was merely the instrument of a kind fate."
"A kind fate?" Dove frowned slightly. "I'm afraid I don't understand."
"If that bullet hole hadn't been hurting like blazes this morning, Billy and I would not have come to this town on the errand for Señor Maxwell. And so we would not have run into you. As I said, fate is kind."
Dove blushed and lowered her eyes slightly, but a smile tugged at her mouth. The expression lit up her face, and once again it was as if the scar was not even there.
"I think you're a bit of a flirt, Mr. Graves."
"The best in all of West Texas. No, wait. I am the best vaquero in West Texas, that is it . . . I am the best flirt in all of the Lone Star State."
Dove gave a stifled giggle, sounding for all the world like a little girl. So that was one more facet of her personality, Nacho thought. She was a fascinating woman, and he was glad he had walked over here to the general store.
It would have been all right with him if the conversation continued indefinitely, but Dove said with a glance over her shoulder, "I have to get back to the reverend. I think he's almost ready to go."
Indeed, Livingston was carrying the thick roll of fabric toward the door. Dove smiled at Nacho again, then paused abruptly and looked down at the licorice in her hand, forgotten until now. Nacho waved her on and said, "I'll take care of it, señorita."
"Thank you," she called back. "Goodbye."
"Hasta la vista," Nacho replied, sadness welling up inside him at the thought of parting from her. Perhaps there would be another time . . .
At that moment, Billy Cambridge came through the door, holding it open for Livingston and tipping his hat to Dove. "Finished your business, Reverend?" he asked.
"Yes, we have," Livingston replied. "What about yourself, Mr. Cambridge?"
"All loaded up and ready to go."
"Well, then, it seems as if Providence wishes us to be companions for a while longer, doesn't it? I trust you'll drive along with Miss O'Shea and myself back to the church?"
Cambridge hesitated, seeming to think about it, then grinned a little at the way Nacho was nodding so emphatically behind the backs of Dove and Livingston. "I think that would be a fine idea," the attorney said.
Quickly, Nacho paid the storekeeper for the licorice, then hurried out the door after Cambridge, Livingston, and Dove. Cambridge had pulled the wagon over in front of the store. It was loaded with big sacks of the grain that Maxwell needed for the stage line's horses.
As the four of them stepped up onto the vehicles, Livingston said, "I don't mind telling you, I'm grateful for the company, sir. Not only for the conversation, mind you, but because you never know when bandits will strike around here. But I think they'll be a great deal less likely to accost us while you and Mr. Graves are with us."
"Chances are they're still lying low after that stagecoach holdup," Cambridge said as he picked up the reins. "They might not pull another job for a couple of weeks."
Livingston shook his head. "You can never tell with miscreants like that, Mr. Cambridge. Evil men do things that don't always make sense."
"True enough, Reverend."
Nacho knew better than to expect many opportunities to talk to Dove on the return trip, not with the loquacious minister around, but he contented himself with looking at her and seeing the shy smiles she directed back at him. Her attitude was entirely different than it had been the day before, probably because the surroundings were so different, he thought. Out in the rugged country to the southwest, people had to be harder and colder to survive. Here, twenty miles to the east, there was less danger, less need to be hard-bitten. That would account for Dove's new friendliness, the thawing of what Nacho had first taken to be a pretty icy personality.
Dove rode with the fabric on her lap, and Livingston talked more about the new baptistry. The cloth was heavy and thick and a subdued blue in color, entirely appropriate for its intended use, Nacho thought, although he didn't know much about such things. His mother had been Catholic, his father Episcopalian, but you couldn't go very far in Texas without tripping over a Baptist or two. And anytime you ran into more than two Baptists, one of them was bound to be dunking the others in a river or a creek. Nacho sometimes wondered if they took turns. Theology, he supposed, was one of those mysteries he'd never figure out—like women.
He was looking at Dove and musing about such things when the shooting started.
Chapter Ten
Nacho's head jerked around as the gunshots blasted through the morning air. The wagon and the buckboard had rounded a curve in the trail a couple of minutes earlier, and now a dozen men on horseback were boiling around that same bend, dusters flapping and the rifles in their hands barking viciously.
"It's the same gang!" Nacho shouted as he reached for the Colt on his hip.
Cambridge slapped the reins hard against the backs of the mules and yelled, "Hyyaahh!" at them. To Livingston, he called, "Get that buckboard moving, Reverend!"
Grimacing as he twisted around on the seat, Nacho threw a glance toward the other vehicle. Dove's face was pale as she looked back at the pursuers. Even a girl as self-reliant and competent as she no doubt was would be more than a little nervous to see a gang of hardcases like that coming after her. Anger surged up inside Nacho.
The outlaws would pay for what they had done to him, but more importantly, he would have vengeance on them for frightening Dove O'Shea!
Slugs whined overhead, the sound mixing in a sinister harmony with the explosions of gunpowder. The mules finally broke into a jolting run, and next to the wagon, the buckboard was also traveling faster now. In the fleeting glance he spared Livingston, Nacho saw that the preacher's lips were moving. Probably uttering a prayer, the vaquero thought.
Praying was fine. But shooting straight came in handy, too.
Nacho squeezed off a shot.
It was going to be hard to hit anything; as a difficult platform for shooting, a swaying, bouncing wagon seat ran a close second to the saddle of a galloping horse. But he was going to discourage the men chasing them as much as possible. He was the only one who could put up a fight. Cambridge and Livingston were busy with their respective teams, and Dove was unarmed. He found himself wishing she had that Spencer carbine she'd poked into his neck the day before.
The outlaws had closed the gap consid
erably during the moments it had taken for Cambridge and Livingston to get their teams running. Now the riders were less than a hundred yards back and coming still closer. Nacho fired again, knowing all too well that his targets were out of range. He had plenty of shells in his belt loops, though, and he wanted the outlaws to know he was armed.
He could see the bandannas tied over their faces as masks, the tips of the colorful scarves fluttering in the wind. The men were still too far away to recognize as individuals, but Nacho was sure this was the same bunch that had stopped the stagecoach. He squeezed off his third shot.
Over the thunder of galloping hooves, Cambridge shouted, "Nacho! That grove of trees up ahead!"
Nacho looked around. The terrain on both sides of the trail was fairly open along this stretch, but fifty yards ahead, a clump of live oaks sat to the right of the road. Nacho knew right away what Cambridge was planning, and he gave the lawyer a nod. There was no way the heavily loaded wagon could outrun the men on horseback, and it was unlikely the buck-board could, either. The only other alternative was to fort up and try to fight off the outlaws, and those trees were the closest cover.
"The trees, Reverend!" Cambridge yelled at Livingston, but Nacho wasn't sure whether or not the minister heard. Livingston was sawing back and forth with the reins, and his eyes were wide with panic as he glanced back at the pursuing gang. Obviously, he wasn't accustomed to anything much more dangerous than his congregation dozing off during the sermon. Cambridge waved toward the live oaks, trying to get his attention.
Nacho's mouth was a tight line. None of the shots being fired by the gang were coming close enough to worry about right now, but sooner or later they would catch up and their marksmanship would improve. If he and Cambridge took cover in the trees and Livingston didn't, the outlaws might decide to continue after the easier prey.
Why the devil were the outlaws after them in the first place? he wondered. Trying to waylay travelers like this was the mark of a gang desperate for money. The outlaws should have had plenty of loot left over from their last job. After all, it had been less than a week since they had stolen twenty thousand dollars.
Like the preacher had said, though, there was no telling what evil, greedy men would do. Nacho started to fire again, then eased off the pressure on the trigger. He only had two bullets left in the cylinder of the Colt, since he always kept one chamber empty, and he wanted to save them until the last minute before the wagon reached the trees. Once he and Cambridge had some cover between them and the outlaws, he would have a chance to replace the spent cartridges.
And in a case like this, he was going to load six, by God!
The wagon jolted roughly as Cambridge veered right and swung it off the trail. Nacho hung on tightly with his left hand as he emptied the Colt in his right, trying to brace himself against the seat back so that his body wouldn't be jerked from side to side. So far, the wound in his side didn't seem to be bleeding again.
Of course, if the bandits caught up with them, he would have a lot more to worry about than a single bullet graze.
Thankfully, Livingston seemed to have gotten the idea. The buckboard followed the wagon, circling behind the trees. Cambridge yanked his team of mules to a stop and dropped from the seat. Nacho followed. Livingston was hauling back frantically on the reins, trying to bring the horses to a halt before they went too far and dragged the buckboard out of the shelter of the trees. Seeing what was happening, Nacho leaped forward and grabbed at the two horses' harness. He set his feet, digging the high heels of his boots into the dirt. The added weight made the team stop just short of the open.
Cambridge took Dove's arm and helped her down from the seat of the buckboard, then hustled her around to the other side. Crouched there, she had not only the trees but the bulk of the vehicle between her and the outlaws. Cambridge crouched at the rear corner of the buckboard, his gun up and ready.
Nacho darted around the horses, hoping they weren't so skittish that they'd take off again. The stolid mules weren't just about to stampede once they had stopped. Livingston was still on the seat of the buckboard, so Nacho reached up to grab the sleeve of his coat.
"Get down off there, Reverend!" he said urgently, pulling on the pallid-faced minister.
With a little shake of his head, Livingston seemed to realize what was going on. He practically rolled off the seat, stumbling as his feet hit the dusty ground. He might have fallen if Nacho hadn't had hold of him.
"Stay down!" Nacho told him. The vaquero could still hear the hoof-beats of the horses bringing the outlaws closer and closer, and when he peered over the buckboard, he caught glimpses of them through the trees.
"We've got to slow them down, Nacho," Cambridge said. "Come on!"
The lawyer left the shelter of the buckboard and ran into the trees. His gun began barking. Nacho hesitated just long enough to look down at Dove and say, "If they get past us, you and the reverend take cover between the buckboard and the wagon. It's not much, but it's the best we can do."
She jerked her head in a nod. Nacho could tell how frightened she was, and he wanted to take her into his arms and comfort her, tell her that everything was going to be all right. But there was no time for that and anyway, it would be a lie. He didn't know that everything was going to be all right, not by a long shot.
He darted into the trees to join Cambridge. Pressing himself behind the trunk of one of the live oaks, he thumbed open the Colt's loading gate and finished ejecting the spent shells, then reached for fresh cartridges.
The trunk wasn't wide enough to conceal all of his body, and he felt terribly exposed. None of the trees were big enough to serve as really effective cover. Nacho forced the fear to the back of his mind and glanced around the trunk. The outlaws were about thirty yards off, and they were pulling their horses to a halt.
"Hit any of them, Billy?" Nacho called to Cambridge.
The lawyer shook his head. "Range is too damned far. Watch out, Nacho! They're going to sit back there and cut loose with those rifles!"
Nacho crouched, then stretched out on the ground behind the tree as the Winchesters began their spiteful cracking. Slugs tore through the branches over his head with a wicked sound, and he wasn't just about to look up to see how close they were coming. He hoped Dove and Livingston had the sense to stay down.
'This is hopeless!" Cambridge said during a momentary lull in the firing. "They can keep us pinned down as long as their ammunition holds out. We're outgunned, all the way around."
"That didn't stop you and the other Rangers in the old days," Nacho reminded. "Los Tejanos Diablos never gave up."
Cambridge looked over and gave him a grim smile. "You're right. I may not be a Texas Ranger anymore, but I don't feel much like surrendering." With that, he rolled slightly to one side, lifted his revolver, and began firing at the outlaws as fast as he could work the hammer and trigger.
Nacho joined in, and to his surprise he saw their slugs begin to kick up dust near the feet of the outlaws' horses. The animals shied nervously, and the riders lowered the rifles and tightened their reins, pulling the horses back a little. Then, as Nacho and Cambridge watched in amazement, the outlaws wheeled their horses and spurred them into a gallop, riding away from the grove of trees and their intended victims as fast as they could.
"What the devil . . .?!" Cambridge exclaimed.
"They're pulling out!" Nacho said.
"Don't be too sure of that," Cambridge warned. "Could be this is some kind of trick."
It quickly became obvious that it wasn't, however. The outlaws disappeared back down the trail, vanishing almost as quickly and unexpectedly as they had shown up.
"What's happening?" Livingston called in an anxious voice. "Why has the shooting stopped?"
Cambridge and Nacho both stood up. "The outlaws are gone, Reverend," Cambridge replied to the questions. "Looks like they gave up."
Livingston peered over the buckboard with a look of disbelief on his face. "Gone?" he echoed. "Then we're safe?
"
"That seems to be the case."
"Praise the Lord! Our prayers were answered."
As Nacho watched the rapidly dissipating cloud of dust that had been raised by the gang's departure, he wondered if Livingston might be right. They had been outnumbered, outgunned, and pinned down in bad cover. It must have been divine intervention that had made the outlaws turn tail and run.
Somehow, though, he had a hard time believing that. There had to be something else, some other reason . . .
"The important thing is that we're all safe," Cambridge said. "You and Miss O'Shea aren't hurt, are you?"
"I'm fine," Dove replied. "A little shaky, perhaps, but I'm not wounded."
"None of the bullets touched me, either," Livingston said. "The hand of the Lord turned them aside."
"That, or poor aim," Cambridge muttered so that only Nacho could hear him. Nacho could tell from the look on the lawyer's face that Cambridge was very puzzled by what had just happened.
"Maybe they were just playing with us," Nacho suggested. "You know, trying to throw a scare into us."
"Well, if that was the case, they succeeded admirably." Cambridge reloaded his gun and then holstered it. "We'd better get moving again before they change their minds and come back."
Nacho agreed completely with that suggestion. He seized the opportunity to help Dove up onto the buckboard, taking her arm as he did so. This was the first time he had actually touched her, and he was amazed at the way the warmth of her flesh came right through her clothes. If he hadn't already been a little winded from all the excitement, she would have taken his breath away.
Without wasting any time, they got the two vehicles moving again, and the rest of the trip back to the church was uneventful. There was no sign of the outlaws along the way.
"I think we'll be safe enough now," Livingston said as he brought the buckboard to a stop in front of the sanctuary. "I hate to think about what might have happened if you and Mr. Graves hadn't been with us, Mr. Cambridge. Those thieves would have surely been disappointed with any booty they could steal from us, and they might have taken their anger out on Miss O'Shea."
Red River Ruse Page 12
