“The hair is enough,” Crystal said, grimacing. “Thanks for the suggestion, though.”
That pleased Daphne and it showed in her smile. “I always have good ideas.”
Crystal glanced at the gloomy sky. “It’s getting dark, and this damned rain doesn’t help. I hope they can see me well enough to recognize me as a female.”
“They’ll see you all right,” Slim Porter said. “A pretty girl like you.”
“Well, here goes.” Looking closely at the mountain, Crystal urged her horse forward. “I sure hope you aren’t nursing any hard feelings, Mrs. Talbot.”
She rode out waving, smiling, a sweet, attractive girl coming for a friendly visit. At least Crystal hoped that’s how she looked. But her hopes were shattered when gunfire again erupted from the mountain’s slope. She turned and galloped back in a hail of bullets.
“She tried to kill me!” Crystal said after she’d reined her horse to a skidding stop. “She tried to shoot me right out of the saddle. For a minute there, I thought I was a goner. Mrs. Talbot can sure hold a grudge.”
Teague shook his head in disappointment. “It didn’t work, did it?”
“No, it didn’t work,” Crystal said, her eyes blazing. “Johnny, don’t ever ask me to do something like that again.”
Townes Pierce and Slim Porter looked glum, and then Dave Quarrels asked the question that was on their minds. “Where do we go from here, Johnny?”
“It seems that Luna Talbot is mighty anxious to keep folks away from the Cornudas. That tells me she’s found the mine and discovered gold in it. Now all we have to do is take it away from her, or at least make her give us our fair share.”
“And how do we do that?” Quarrels said.
“I’ll study on it,” Teague said. “I’ve never been one for nighttime gunfighting, but that doesn’t mean we can’t do some walking in the dark. Let me think it through. In the meantime we’ll camp here. Rustle up anything that will burn and put on the coffee and bacon. I’m mighty hungry.” He looked up at the dark sky. “At least the rain’s stopped.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Arman Broussard raised his nose and sniffed. “Yes, it’s coffee. And bacon frying.”
“I smell it too,” Leah Leighton said. “And there’s a fire right ahead of us. Do you see it?”
“I see it,” Luna Talbot said. “It could be the Rathmores.”
“I don’t think so,” Broussard said. “I never smelled bacon in the arroyo. If they ever had any, it ran out a long time ago. And why would they camp so far off their home range?”
“Well, I’m worn out and hungry enough that I’m willing to take a chance that it’s not the Rathmores,” Luna said.
“Could be Rangers,” Leah said.
“Could be anybody,” Luna said. “Let’s go find out.”
Broussard felt reassured by the weight of the Colt in his waistband and that Luna and Leah were armed. But it was late to be calling on strangers in this wild country that seemed to nurture even wilder men.
Luna must have read his thoughts. “Ride in easy, but be on your guard. We don’t know if we’re about to meet up with friend or foe.”
“Or a little of both,” Broussard said.
With the dark of night tight around them and under a sky without a moon, Luna held up a halting hand and drew rein when they were as yet a good distance from the fire. “Hello, the camp!” she called out.
Silence.
Luna saw shadow figures move in the fire glow and then the distinct click-clack of a Winchester lever.
A moment . . . and then a man’s voice called out, “What do you want? State your intentions.”
“We smelled your coffee and would admire to share your fire,” Luna said.
“How many of you?”
“Three. Two women and a man.”
Another pause, then, “Who’s the man?”
“My name is Broussard. It’s well-known in some quarters.”
The silence dragged on longer before a man said, “Arman Broussard, out of New Orleans?”
“The very same.”
“I heard you’d been hung.”
“You heard wrong.”
“Then come on in real slow. And Broussard, keep your hand well away from your gun. There’s some mighty excitable gents around here, and they ain’t trusting men.”
“We’re coming in,” Broussard said. “Grinning like visiting kinfolk.”
The three riders approached the campfire at a walk, and then as frontier etiquette demanded, sat their saddles until they were asked to step down.
“Light and set,” Johnny Teague said. “There’s coffee in the pot and bacon and cornbread in the pan.”
Broussard didn’t dismount with the women. His eyes hard on Teague he said, “It’s been a while, Johnny.”
“Four years. That time in Galveston,” Teague said. His hand hung close to his gun. “You were dealing faro in the First Chance saloon when I shot Charlie Banks.”
“I recollect, Johnny,” Broussard said. “Banks was no good. Neither was his brother.”
“You joined the posse that went after me though, Arman. Ran me for three days before y’all gave up.”
“Johnny, I was a pillar of the community, a new experience for me. I was expected to do my duty. The others took pots at you, but I didn’t. I always figured that Banks only got what was coming to him.”
“Well, let bygones be bygones, I say. Water under the bridge, huh? Now light and set.”
“We still got a problem, Johnny. I have to say it straight out, no holding back.”
“Tell it. I’m listening.”
“I killed a man in New Orleans, a rich man’s son, and his pa put a price on my head,” Broussard said. “I’ve been dogged by bounty hunters ever since.”
“I figured that’s why I thought you’d been hung already,” Teague said. “I got my information wrong.”
“Seems like. The thing is, I’d take it real hard if you try to collect that bounty. I mean, given our past history and all.”
“Men in my profession don’t cotton to bounty hunters. Too close to the law for our liking,” Teague said. “If there’s a bounty on you, I won’t be the one cutting off your head and taking it to New Orleans. You savvy? You have my word on it.”
Broussard nodded. “Your word is good enough for me.” He swung out of the saddle. “Now where’s the coffee?”
“Aren’t you going to introduce the ladies first?” Teague said.
“Of course. That was remiss of me. Johnny Teague, this is Mrs. Luna Talbot and Miss Leah Leighton, her ranch segundo.” Broussard might have said more, but the stunned expression on Teague’s face stopped him in his tracks.
“But . . . Mrs. Talbot . . . but you shot at us,” the outlaw said.
“When, Mr. Teague? Recently or at some time in the past?”
“Just before sundown when we rode up on the mountains,” Teague said. “And then you shot at Crystal Casey, who used to work for you.”
Luna smiled. “I see you, Crystal. You look well.”
The woman smiled. “No hard feelings, Mrs. Talbot.”
“Not hard enough to shoot you, my dear.” Luna looked back at Teague and said, “I assure you, I didn’t shoot at you, either, nor did Miss Leighton or Mr. Broussard.”
Teague looked doubtful, as though he was unconvinced. “Arman, give me the right of it.”
“Mrs. Talbot didn’t shoot at you, Johnny. But I can tell you who did.”
“Who?” Teague was angry. “Give me names.”
Broussard shook his head. “All in due time. Johnny, as a host you leave much to be desired. Do I ever get the coffee you promised?”
“Mrs. Talbot, I’ll get your coffee, and yours too, Leah,” Crystal said, anxious to make amends for her betrayal.
“Arman, help yourself and then tell me who I can add to my list of enemies,” Teague said. “It seems to grows longer by the day.”
“And of course you’ll want to know all about
the Lucky Cuss gold mine, won’t you, Mr. Teague?” Luna said.
That caught the outlaw flat-footed, but he managed to say, “It had crossed my mind.”
Luna smiled. “I’m sure it had. And I’m afraid you’re in for a huge disappointment.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
“Well, I got no reason to doubt what you and Broussard told us about them Rathmores, Mrs. Talbot,” Dave Quarrels said. “So my question is for you, Johnny . . . what the hell do we do now?”
“Do?” Teague said. “We pickax our way into the rock and see if the gold vein is really disappearing. That’s one thing we can do. Only I’m not about to fight a war with them Rathmores to do it.”
“So what the hell do we do now, Johnny?” Quarrels repeated.
“Head back to east Texas and take up our profession again,” Teague said. “We cut our teeth in the bank- and train-robbing business. That’s where we belong.”
“We’ll need to hire more men,” Quarrels said.
“I know Brad Ward and Mitch Mills are still around,” Teague said. “Those fellers are train specialists, especially Mills, but he’s a cantankerous cuss when he’s in drink.”
“And he can be quick to go to the trigger,” Slim Porter said. “Remember he shot Danny Elliot that time for laughing at his new top hat.”
“Good man, though, Mitch,” Townes Pierce said. “Dependable, and he never demands more than his fair share. Got a widowed sister in Fort Worth that he supports. Her name’s Mildred, I think.”
“Gentlemen, the Lucky Cuss wasn’t much to begin with, and now it’s played out,” Luna Talbot said. “We three are here for two reasons. One is that I want to even the score with the animal who calls himself Papa Mace—”
“And the other is that we want to rescue two men from his clutches before he kills them,” Broussard said.
“And that would that be the stage driver and the shotgun guard,” Quarrels said.
“It would,” Broussard said. “I set store by them.”
“With all that in mind, I have a proposition for you and your men, Mr. Teague,” Luna said.
“I’m listening,” Teague said.
“Help us, and I’ll give each of you a hundred dollars,” Luna said.
“What kind of help?”
“It won’t be easy,” Luna said. “I’ve told you how savage the Rathmores are.”
“What kind of help?” Teague repeated.
“Mrs. Talbot means gun help, Johnny,” Broussard said. “There’s no way around the matter. It will all come down to a shooting scrape.”
Suddenly Teague looked serious. “I got burned, Arman, burned bad. Now I’m wary. I’ve turned cautious and kinda lost my taste for gunfighting.”
“How burned?” Broussard said.
“Had it out with four wolfers. I didn’t think it would come to a gunfight, but they fooled me. I lost five good men that day. I got burned bad.” Teague shook his head. “And it was a yellow butterfly lost me those men. Don’t that beat all?”
“With or without the butterfly, the fight would’ve happened anyway, Johnny,” Quarrels said. “Arch Storm wanted the women. Simple as that.”
Juan Sanchez listened and then said, “The Sioux and the Blackfoot say the butterfly brings luck and will not allow it to be killed. Maybe some good will come of this, I think.”
“Of course it will. Mr. Teague, a man in your line of work can expect to get burned now and then,” Luna said. “Jesse James got burned at Northfield, but he hired more men and kept on going. Sure, the new men he hired were trash, but you can do better.”
“Ward and Mills are good men, Johnny,” Quarrels said. “They’re mighty rough in speech and deed, but they ain’t trash like Bob Ford and Charlie Pitts and them.”
“Mrs. Talbot, do you have a plan in mind for them Rathmores?” Teague said.
Before she answered, Luna took a sip of coffee and then carefully laid the cup on the ground beside her. “I have no clever plan. We just hit them hard, go in with guns blazing, and kill them all. But leave Papa Mace to me.”
“After what you told us about him, I’ve a mind to gun him myself,” Porter said.
“Well, Mr. Teague, do we have a deal?” Luna said.
“We can’t do anything until sunup,” Teague said. “Until then I’ll study on it for a spell. I got burned. I have scars, Mrs. Talbot, deep scars.”
“Yes, I know you have burn scars,” Luna said. “One way or another we’ve all been burned, Mr. Teague.”
The drizzle had long stopped, and the clouds melted into starlight.
“Someday you’ll have to tell me about the butterfly, Johnny,” Broussard said.
“But not tonight. I’ve got some thinking to do.”
* * *
On the eastern side of the Cornudas Mountains another man was deep in thought.
Sleepless, Ben Kane lay in his bed and stared at the ceiling. The rain had stopped, and the moon was high in the sky, adding points of crystal light to the water drops that dripped from the roof of the ranch house.
He had no illusions about what the dawn would bring. He would conduct a massacre, a mass slaughter that would remove the loathsome Rathmores from the face of the earth and end the pestilence that had for too long threatened to destroy his ranch
In the pearly gloom his eyes were drawn to the portrait of his wife, dead these two years. Martha had been a gentle soul and she’d abhorred violence of any kind. Even when he and the hands had fought Apaches, she’d cried over the Indian dead. Martha would not approve of what was to happen come morning.
“Ben,” she’d say, “you must find common ground with the Rathmores. Let us have peace, not war.”
Kane asked himself why, at this late stage, was his conscience troubling him?
Of course he knew the answer.
In his time he’d killed many men. He’d shot them, hanged them, dragged them behind horses until their flesh ripped from their bones . . . but women and children . . . he’d never in his life killed a woman or harmed a child.
Kane got out of bed, took his Colt from the holster on the table beside him, and stepped to the window. The wheels were already in motion and there was no stopping them. The hands would assemble at dawn, heavily armed, and Dave Sloan and a few others would push it, wanting it done. Anse Dryden, a decent man with quiet eyes, would go along with the rest.
The old man gazed out at the still, moonlit night and the deep, almost mystical shadows by the corrals, the bunkhouse, the outbuilding. They were made dark by darker memories.
Dead men. Skinned cowboys. The bloody bodies of hard-rock miners pretending to be gunmen. Hanged rustlers, piss running down their kicking legs, tongues sticking out of mouths with ashen lips . . . all the black memories of the passing years from which shadows were made.
Ben Kane turned his head and looked at the portrait on the wall. “I don’t want to do this any longer, Martha. I’ve lived too long at war. I want peace. I need to close my eyes and sleep.”
And Martha said, “Then sleep, Ben. Good night, my old friend.”
Kane smiled. “Good night, Martha.”
He clicked back the hammer, shoved the muzzle of the Colt into his mouth, and pulled the trigger.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The gunshot woke Dave Sloan. His room was at the back of the ranch house, far enough away that his nighttime coughing didn’t keep others awake. Ben Kane was slightly deaf and didn’t seem to mind.
But the gunshot had seemed to come from Ben’s room.
Sloan jumped out of bed, put on his hat—a habit of his long-gone cowboying days—and pulled on his pants. Gun in hand, he made his way through the dark house toward Kane’s room. From outside, he heard the hands yelling to one another and the sound of pounding feet. The bedroom door was ajar, and its hinges creaked when Sloan opened it.
Helped by the moonlight that streamed through the windows, he took in the scene at a glance, a stark image that burned itself on his consciousness . . . the dishevele
d bed, the Navajo rug on the floor, the polished furniture and trimmed oil lamps, the painting of Robert E. Lee on the wall and the picture of Kane’s dead wife Martha. Ben had once told him he wanted to remove her portrait because it broke his heart to look at her as she was in life, but he never did.
The focus of Sloan’s attention was the body on the floor. Ben Kane, never a big man, looked even smaller in death. He lay on his back, the Colt still clutched in his right hand. Blood spread from under his head like a pool of spilled ink. Sloan took a knee and placed his hand flat on Kane’s chest. The old man’s breathing had stopped, his heart had stopped . . . and the stillness of death was on him. His face showed no pain. His features were serene, as though he was sound asleep.
Sloan heard footsteps behind him, looked up, and saw Ansley Dryden looming over him, a revolver in his hand.
“Ben killed himself.” Sloan rose to his feet and started to cough, his frail body racked by hacking, choking barks that doubled him over, sent him staggering across the room, and stained scarlet the handkerchief he’d hurriedly pulled from his pocket.
The other hands drifted into the room and gathered around their boss’s body. No one said a word or looked at Sloan until his coughing attack ended and he straightened up, his face a white, bleached skull.
“You are wrong, Dave,” Dryden said. “Ben Kane didn’t kill himself. The Rathmores killed him.”
No one questioned that statement.
One young puncher said, “Mr. Kane was getting old and couldn’t take it any longer.” Then slightly embarrassed for speaking up, “It seems to me.”
Dryden nodded. “I saw it on him. He was getting worn out. The Rathmores were wearing him out.”
Breathing hard, Sloan said, “For a spell there, we were the same, Ben and me, but at different levels. He was ahead of me in the race, dealing with the same hell but different demons.”
“Well, he’s at peace now,” Dryden said. “If a man who blows his brains out can find peace.”
“Ben served his time in hell. The Rathmores saw to that,” Sloan said. “He’s at peace.”
“I say we bury the boss with a Rathmore at his feet,” the young cowboy said.
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