THE MINUTE THE SHERIFF’S hand touched Cassidy, Slate was ready to bolt across the lawn and deck the law officer. Only the knowledge that he had to be free, at all costs, prevented such rash behavior. Hard as it was to watch, he knew that he was Cassidy’s only real hope. As much as he wanted to feel his fists connect with Sheriff Owens and Rusty Jones, he couldn’t. The end result would be that he would be locked up beside Cassidy. He shifted deeper into the cover of the shrubs beside the house.
He clenched his hands at his sides in frustration. It seemed that ever since he’d gotten out of prison, his actions had been more restricted than they ever were behind bars.
He watched helplessly as Cassidy was driven away in the back of the sheriffs car. Rusty Jones followed. Only two deputies were left, and Slate watched as they headed inside the ranch house to use the telephone to call the judge.
In a matter of moments, Joker’s fate would be sealed. Slate had no doubt the judge would order the stallion to be destroyed. For all of Cassidy’s brave threats, Slate knew that range animals were valued at the price per pound a meat packer would pay.
He made his decision and hurried back to the patio where he’d stashed Cutter’s saddle and the hackamore bridle. He’d turned the gelding out in the creek pasture as Cassidy had told him. He’d almost left the saddle, but his training had kicked in. A cowboy never left his gear in the dirt. So he’d carried his tack back to the ranch. Now he was going to need it—and a lot of luck.
The plan to pretend he was dead was over. There was no longer time for traps or subterfuge. Cassidy was behind bars, and the prosecutor and law officers were looking for him.
It had become crystal clear to Slate that the person behind his and Cassidy’s troubles was a calculating, clever person. He and Cassidy had thought they could match wits with him, but he was always one step ahead of them. Slate realized that if the gunman who’d shot him in the shoulder had wanted him dead, he would be dead. The flesh wound had been deliberate.
Everything that had happened had been deliberate.
Rusty had released the gun to him only to have it stolen and used to frame Cassidy for murder. It seemed no matter what steps he and Cassidy took, they were always playing into the hands of their enemies.
And now Joker had been handed a death sentence.
Slate picked up the saddle and started toward the barn. He had one opportunity, and each tick of the clock narrowed the chances of his potential success.
At the corral fence, he hefted the saddle and hopped over. So far, no one had seen him. The ranch hands had scattered. None of them wanted to be present when Joker was killed—to stand around and allow it to happen would be a crime. To go up against the law would mean a jail sentence. He understood the dilemma they were in.
He walked directly toward the stallion. There was no time for winning Joker’s confidence. Slate looked over his shoulder. The deputies weren’t headed his way—yet. But it was only a matter of moments.
“If you ever decided to trust a human, you’d better do it now,” Slate said to the horse. He’d always believed that an animal—once it slowed down enough to pay attention—could tell when a human meant to help. He had to put his full faith into believing that Joker would trust him, trust him completely.
“This is going to be more than a little strange,” he said, slipping the hackamore bridle over Joker’s nose. Other than a snort of surprise, Joker seemed willing. He led the horse back to the corral fence and lifted the saddle onto his back.
Joker spooked sideways, but Slate stayed with him and carefully tightened the girth. This was the moment when the horse might explode, but Slate soothed and talked to him as he made the saddle fast and finally put his weight in the stirrup.
It was all happening too quickly. Even the most docile animal would balk at accepting so much at once, and Slate expected Joker to go nuts. Surprisingly, the big bay stood steady as a rock as Slate lifted himself up and into the saddle.
Joker was a strong animal, and Slate felt his power as the horse adjusted to the unfamiliar weight of a human on his back.
“Hey! Hey, you!”
Slate turned to see the deputies running toward him. They were drawing their pistols as they ran.
“I hope to God you can jump,” Slate said as he aimed the stallion at the far fence and squeezed his legs tight.
Joker shot forward as if he’d been propelled from a gun. He never hesitated at the five-foot corral fence. He soared over it and landed on the other side in a full gallop.
“Hey! Come back here!” one deputy yelled.
A shot rang out and Slate ducked lower against Joker’s flying mane. It didn’t seem possible that the animal could run faster, but Joker lengthened his stride and flew over the rocky ground. Slate headed for the rough country. It was dangerous to ride so fast, but it was even more dangerous to slow down.
Slate smiled to himself at the thought of the two law officers trying to catch horses, saddle them and give chase. They’d get no help from the Double O ranch hands.
Joker instinctively headed northwest, and Slate made no attempt to guide him. When they were several miles away from the Double O, Slate slowed him to a walk. He was amazed that Joker responded to him with such obedience.
He patted the stallion’s neck and looked around, getting his bearings. The terrain was far too rugged for a vehicle. If pursuit came, it would have to be on horseback, which would take a lot of organization.
Joker was safe, for the moment.
CASSIDY KNEW THAT ALL of the plans she and Slate had made were in ruins as she sat in the back seat of the patrol car and watched the familiar scenery pass. They would take her to the jail where they would hold her until…until they charged her. She would have to somehow make bond.
She had to get word to Nita. And to Slate. She rubbed the knot of tension between her eyes and looked up to find the sheriff staring at her in the rearview mirror.
“I’m perfectly willing to believe that your part in Lucky’s murder came about because of Slate Walker,” Sheriff Owens said carefully. “You’ve always been a lawabiding citizen, Cassidy. I can’t help but believe Slate got you into this mess.”
“Slate didn’t get me into anything,” she said. “Here’s a fact for you. Last night, someone shot Slate.” She thought she saw a flicker of surprise in the sheriffs eyes, but she couldn’t be certain. “There is someone out there shooting people and killing them, but it isn’t me or Slate.”
“Your prints are on the gun,” the sheriff said.
“And it was found conveniently near the body, right?” She knew the scenario, and it made her furious that Sheriff Owens was so stupid he never questioned it. “Like I’d drop the murder weapon and leave it, with my fingerprints. What else did you find, my checkbook, maybe a piece of family jewelry?”
His gaze dropped from the mirror.
“What? Was there another piece of evidence?”
The sheriff cleared his throat. “We did, uh, find a ring. A wedding band with an inscription.”
Cassidy knew instantly which ring he’d found. “It read ‘With all my love, forever, Slate.’”
“Then you admit it’s your ring?”
“It was to be my wedding ring. But Slate went to prison. We never married. I gave the ring to Mary, for safekeeping.”
“And the last time you saw it?” the sheriff asked.
Cassidy regarded her options. The truth would not incriminate her or Slate. She leaned against the mesh grill that separated the front seat from the back. “The last time I saw that ring was the day Slate was convicted of attempted armed robbery.”
“Then how did it get to the scene of a murder?” the sheriff asked.
“The same way the gun got there. Someone is framing me.” She lowered her voice. “If you don’t listen to me, innocent people are going to suffer.”
“Is that a threat?” he asked angrily.
“I’m not in a position to threaten anyone.” She held up her cuffed hands. “If y
ou’re not a part of this, then you’re being used, Sheriff,” she said, sitting back.
Her dealings with Sheriff Owens had been few and far between. He wasn’t the brightest man she’d ever met, but until recently she’d never doubted his honesty. It was possible that he was simply being used by someone…like Rusty Jones.
“You honestly expect me to believe the gun with your prints and the ring you admit was to be your wedding ring were deliberately left at the murder scene?”
Cassidy felt her pulse increase. Owens was playing like he didn’t believe her, but there was doubt in his voice. Real doubt. “Think about it Would I accidentally leave two items that would tie me to a murder? That’s too much carelessness even for an idiot.”
In the rearview mirror, she saw his eyes narrow. “Who would frame you for murder?” he asked.
“The same person who framed Slate for attempted bank robbery.” She saw that she was losing him. His eyes went from interested to bored in an instant. “Don’t dismiss me,” she said urgently. It was time for a choice, and one she couldn’t back away from. “I have a witness who says that Slate was framed.” How far was she willing to trust the sheriff? Cassidy swallowed.
“The state had two witnesses who put Slate in that bank with a gun. They testified under oath.”
“And one is recanting,” Cassidy whispered. “Amanda admitted to me this morning that she lied under oath.”
Owens tipped up the brim of his hat and wiped his hot forehead. “You better not be fooling around with me,” he said, as he drove into the sheriff’s parking lot. “I’m not in the mood to be made a fool of.”
“Believe me, Sheriff, I’m not in the mood to kid around.”
When he opened the back door, she sprang out. “I need to use the phone,” she said. “You’ve got to stop them from shooting my horse.”
Owens looked at his watch. “I don’t know…the horse doesn’t have anything to do with this.”
“Of course he does. This is all part of—” She held out her hands. “I don’t have time to explain. You have to believe me.”
“I don’t know.”
Cassidy grasped his forearm. “I am begging you to listen to me. That horse didn’t hurt anyone. At least postpone this until all the issues can be sorted through. That isn’t asking a lot.” She wanted to threaten, but she knew that would be the wrong tactic. “Please, Sheriff.”
“Okay.” He unlocked the cuffs and led the way into the courthouse. He picked up the first phone he saw and dialed the number Cassidy gave him. In a moment he had one of the deputies on the line.
“Hold off on shooting the horse,” he said. He paused. “Yeah, is that right?” He looked at Cassidy. “I thought you said Slate had been shot.”
“In the shoulder.”
“Well, he wasn’t hurt bad. He just took off on that stallion. Roscoe said he was headed for the ravines.”
“Thank God,” Cassidy said, more relieved than she could say.
“See if you can get a lead on where Walker might be taking that stud horse. It’s not the animal we’re interested in now, it’s Slate Walker. He’s still wanted as an accessory to murder,” the sheriff said before he hung up the phone.
He looked at Cassidy. “Now, tell me about that false testimony,” he said, settling back into a chair. “I’ve got the rest of the afternoon and you’re not going anywhere.”
SLATE HAD TWO immediate options, and he liked neither of them. He could turn Joker loose and hope the stallion didn’t stray over onto Blue Vista land, or he could try to confine the horse in the small arroyo near Sycamore Ridge. But that would mean Joker would be a sitting duck if anyone came after him.
Slate got off the horse and removed the saddle. He led Joker with the hackamore bridle, but it might as well have been a silk string. Joker followed as if he were the best-trained animal in Texas.
Slate stopped at the arroyo and made up his mind. Joker would be safer there, at least overnight. They’d stopped for water when they crossed Raging Creek, and Joker would have to make do with the grass that was foragable. “You’ll be fine,” Slate told him as he unbridled him and went about blocking off the entrance. If Joker was determined, he could easily escape. Slate didn’t have the time or material to construct a solid fence.
It was a good three-mile walk back to the ranch, and Slate took off at a brisk pace. His shoulder throbbed, but it hadn’t started bleeding. Worse than his physical pain was his worry over Cassidy. She’d been framed for Lucky Hill’s murder. The first thing Slate had to do was find out what had really happened.
Forty minutes later he was walking across the back lawn of the ranch. He noticed that Nita was back with Lindsey, but he bypassed the ranch house and went to the bunkhouse.
“Slate!” Randy Patrick nearly dropped the bridle he was cleaning as Slate walked in the door.
“What happened with Lucky? I need the details, if you have any,” Slate said.
There was a moment of silence before Randy spoke up. “Best we can tell he was shot on Highway 51. That’s the talk, anyway. He’d gone into town and filed a complaint against Joker, and he was headed west when he was killed.” Randy shrugged. “The sheriff is saying that Miss Cassidy killed him.”
“That’s hogwash and you know it,” Slate answered angrily.
“I know,” Randy said, gathering the nodding approval of three other hands. “Miss Cassidy wouldn’t hurt a fly. So what did you do with Joker?” Randy’s grin reflected everyone’s there. “That was some stunt. We heard you rode him over the fence.”
“He’s safe enough.” Slate looked at the men. “I need your help.”
He saw the shifting of gazes. They didn’t trust him. They didn’t know him. But if he was going to help Cassidy, he needed them.
Slate had done a lot of thinking on his walk back to the Double O, and he had come to several conclusions. Amanda and Dray Tyree had been in on his frame-up. Clyde Barlow had also been involved in some manner. The wild card was the man he’d seen in Dray’s office.
In all of the trial testimony, there had been no mention of the stranger. Even with his memory returning, Slate had only a glimpse of the back of his head, covered by a cowboy hat. It wasn’t much to go on, but Slate was positive this stranger held the key.
“I need Kip to take Nita and Lindsey to the sheriff’s office and make bond for Cassidy. Clay, you and two other men follow them in a separate vehicle. Take your guns, and if anyone threatens Cassidy or that little girl, I expect you to defend them.”
He felt the tension in the room. The ranch hands had no reason to trust him. He was a convicted felon, a man who had been publicly convicted of a crime, but he knew they would come to Cassidy’s aid.
“I need a couple of men to go up and guard Joker. He’s in a dry gulch near Sycamore Ridge.”
“I know the place,” Randy said. “I’ll go.”
“Me, too,” another hand volunteered.
“The rest of you keep your weapons ready and watch out for the ranch. Ride the boundaries. I don’t know who’s doing this, but there’s every chance they’ll strike while Cassidy is down.”
The remaining hands nodded.
“I’m ready,” Kip said, walking to the gun rack on the wall and hefting a shotgun. “If anyone tries to harm a hair on Cassidy’s head, they’ll answer to me.”
Chapter Fifteen
In the truck he’d borrowed from Clay, Slate headed for the Tyree home. Expecting roadblocks as the sheriff began a search for him, Slate knew that he would not allow anyone to stop him. He would find the person responsible for Lucky’s death, and he would prevent Cassidy from standing trial in a mockery of justice. He knew too well how it felt to be unjustly accused.
The garage door of the Tyree house was open, and Slate saw that both cars were gone. He’d expected Dray to be at the bank, but Amanda was another issue. His jaw tightened. He didn’t have time to wait for her to return. He needed to talk to her now!
He parked around a curve in the street
and made his way through backyards to the house. It was a simple matter to slip into the garage. Halfway across the cement floor, he stopped. The back door was open.
Dread crept over Slate. Folks didn’t drive off and leave their houses wide open. Unless there was an emergency.
Moving carefully, he slipped inside and stopped at the kitchen doorway. The house was a wreck. Dishes had been pulled out of the cabinets and smashed on the floor. It looked as if someone had thrown a tantrum and destroyed everything in his path.
Slate followed the destruction through the house. With each room he left behind, his dread grew. In the back of his mind, he feared Amanda was dead. He didn’t want to find her body. He didn’t want to witness another scene of ugly violence. But he had to know.
As he entered the bedroom, he found the destruction more selective. It appeared that only expensive items had been trashed. Clothes were ripped from the closet and thrown to the floor. A cloying mixture of scents came from what was obviously Amanda’s dressing room, and when Slate peered into the elegantly furnished room, he found bottle after bottle of expensive perfume smashed on the marble floor.
The demolition of the house was clearly personal. Amanda had deeply angered someone, and they had struck back.
But where was Amanda?
That was the question that propelled Slate through the rest of the house. As he finished his search of the second floor, he was relieved to find the house empty. Somehow, Amanda had escaped. Or been taken.
He was headed down the stairs when he heard the sirens and knew the police were headed for the Tyree home. Perhaps a neighbor had tipped the law about someone in the house.
He tried to remember if he’d touched any surface, left any fingerprints, but it was too late. Two sheriffs cars skidded to a halt in the driveway, and through the lace kitchen curtains that were spattered with ketchup, Slate saw four deputies get out of the cars and crouch behind the open car doors, pistols trained on the house.
Remember Me, Cowboy Page 20
