“Yeah? And how would you know?” Lake retorted. Miranda stiffened at the sudden tension in the air. She wished Monty Lake would keep quiet. The stranger didn’t seem like the kind of man another should rile.
“I just know, that’s all,” the stranger finally answered.
“What’s your name, mister? I’ve never seen you around here before.”
The stranger turned to pick up a sack of flour. “Jake. Just Jake.”
“Well, mine’s Monty Lake. Don’t mean to be rude, but with all the raiding and such, a man can’t help being cautious around strangers. You pack an awful lot of iron for a common settler. A man doesn’t wear guns like that unless he’s real good at using them.”
“Why I wear them and how I use them are my business,” Jake answered. Miranda sensed his anger rising because of Lake’s nosy comments. “Your business is to start writing up these supplies and tell me what I owe you.”
Miranda remained near the thread, deciding to wait there until the stranger paid for his supplies and left, then bring her things to the counter. Suddenly the front door flew open as though kicked. Miranda jumped back at the sight of the man who entered. He was nearly as big as the one called Jake but had an even more unkempt, frightening appearance about him. Her eyes widened when she noticed the sudden intruder held a rifle in his right hand, already raised and aimed at the mysterious Jake. “Jake Harkner!” the man bellowed.
Jake had already whirled when the door was kicked open, and Miranda backed farther into a corner. Jake’s arms were arched to his sides as though ready to draw a gun, and a look of cunning came into his eyes. He reminded Miranda of a wild animal suddenly corralled, his dark eyes shining. His whole countenance emanated an eagerness to pounce on the one who threatened him.
“Name’s Luke Putnam,” the intruder sneered, a trickle of tobacco oozing out of the corner of his mouth, “and I aim to take you alive for the five thousand dollars on your head, Harkner. It’s only three thousand if you’re dead.” He raised the rifle a little higher. “I don’t really want to lose two thousand by pullin’ this trigger, but if that’s the way it has to be, I can’t do nothin’ about it. Now ease them guns from their holsters. I been followin’ you for two weeks now. Figured if I got you in town, you’d never get away from me.”
Miranda glanced at the counter and saw no sign of Monty Lake. The clerk had apparently ducked down when the second man barged in. Neither Jake nor Luke Putnam noticed her for the moment, and she cautiously slid her hand inside her purse, feeling for her pistol, her heart pounding wildly with fear.
“Those charges are wrong,” Jake told Putnam. “I didn’t do the things they say.”
“That’s for a jury to decide, Harkner,” Putnam answered, grinning through stained teeth. “Fact remains a bank was robbed and money stolen. Innocent people were killed, a young girl abducted and raped, and it’s your mug that’s on the posters. Now let loose of those guns.”
Miranda’s stomach churned at the words—abduction and rape? And she had actually spoken to the man! She gripped the pistol as the one called Jake Harkner slowly lowered his hands to unbuckle his gun belt. She gasped when he suddenly ducked, charging head-on into Putnam’s knees. Putnam’s rifle fired, the bullet shattering the glass at the front of the counter behind which Monty Lake was hiding. Lake let out a yelp, and Miranda pulled her pistol from her handbag, watching Harkner and Putnam struggle for a moment. Harkner had slammed Putnam onto his back, and now Putnam swung his rifle, cracking it across the side of Harkner’s head and splitting the skin.
Everything had happened in a matter of one or two seconds. Harkner fell sideways, and in an instant he pulled a revolver as Putnam struggled to again cock his own rifle. Harkner fired, and a bloody hole exploded in Putnam’s chest. He fell back without a sound against a stack of material and slid to the floor.
Harkner quickly rolled to his knees, then eyed Miranda as he stood up. His dark, angry eyes fell on the pistol she held, and with his own gun still in hand, Miranda was sure he was going to shoot her too. A survival instinct made her pull the trigger. The small pistol cracked, and Jake Harkner stumbled backward but did not fall. His eyes widened in astonishment as he looked down at his middle to see a spot of blood.
Miranda wondered which of them was the most surprised, Harkner at being shot by a woman, or she, for pulling the trigger in the first place. She waited, expecting him to shoot back, but he just shook his head. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered. He turned and stumbled out of the store, nearly tripping over Putnam’s body. Miranda stood frozen. The rain had let up slightly, and she heard shouted voices, heard someone riding away.
“Mrs. Hayes! Dear God!” Monty Lake was coming from behind the counter, his face bleeding from where flying glass had cut him. “You shot him! I saw it! You shot that one called Jake Harkner. That bounty hunter said he was worth five thousand dollars!”
Miranda looked down at her pistol, wondering if she had just dreamed all of this.
“I’ll get the sheriff,” Lake told her. By then several people had gathered outside. Lake hurried out and began explaining what had happened. Miranda heard more shouts as men quickly gathered to form a posse to try to find the wounded outlaw, who had ridden off before anyone realized what had happened.
“Mrs. Hayes! Are you all right?”
It was Sheriff McCleave. The middle-aged, big-bellied lawman had been sweet on her for a year now, but Miranda had no desire to be courted by anyone. She saw the genuine concern in his kind brown eyes.
“I’m fine, Sheriff.” She looked over at the counter, wondering what the sheriff would think if he knew she was actually feeling sorry that Jake Harkner had left without being able to collect the supplies he had apparently needed. Stranger still, she felt sorry for having shot him. She couldn’t understand why she should, after hearing the things he was wanted for—robbery, murder, abduction, and rape. Hadn’t he denied being guilty? But then what man wouldn’t try to deny it? It was ridiculous to feel sorry about what she had done. Maybe it was the fact that her father had been a doctor in Illinois before they had come to Kansas. She had grown up being taught it was important to save lives, not take them.
People were pressed around her now, praising her, telling her that if the posse could catch Jake Harkner, she would be a rich woman. She watched some men carry off Luke Putnam’s body, heard someone say he was dead. She thought about how quickly Harkner had acted, lunging fearlessly at a man who was ready to shoot him. He had drawn his revolver with such lightning quickness that she was hardly aware he had moved his hand. Most vividly, she remembered the look in the outlaw’s eyes after she shot him, such astonishment, even a hint of respect. He could so easily have shot her, or he could have threatened her, used her for a shield in order to get out of town. Instead, he had just left her there unharmed.
The sheriff rode off with a posse, and a friend from church, Bonnie Kent, was suddenly at Miranda’s side. “Randy!” she exclaimed, using the more familiar shortened form of Miranda that her father had used for her practically from birth, the name by which all her friends knew her. “Oh, you poor thing! Are you hurt? Are you okay?”
“I don’t know.” Miranda put a hand to her eyes. “It all happened so fast!”
“Oh, this is terrible, and you still in mourning! Come to the house for a while and rest, Randy. I’ll give Mrs. Denver your list and she can see that you get everything you need here.”
In a kind of daze, Randy followed Bonnie out of the store. A crowd of curious people followed, and she answered their questions as best she could while hurrying with Bonnie through a now-steady downpour. By the time they reached Bonnie’s house at the west end of town, two men who reported for the Kansas City paper had also reached her. They peppered her with questions until Bonnie told everyone they must leave and let Randy rest.
Finally the door was closed, and both women removed their rain-soaked capes. Bonnie le
d Randy into the parlor of the small frame home she shared with her husband of one year. “I’ll get you some tea,” she told Miranda. “You sit right there in front of the hearth and warm yourself.” She left, and Miranda remained standing, staring at the flickering flames of a small fire in the fireplace.
Suddenly everything was quiet, except for the ticking of a mantle clock. She looked up at the timepiece, shocked that it was still only ten o’clock in the morning. So much violence in one short, spring morning! And she had been a part of it! Out there somewhere rode the dangerous-looking stranger named Jake Harkner, with her bullet in his belly.
She shivered, rubbing at the backs of her arms. Would he live? He was out there suffering alone. Who would help him? Would the posse shoot him? Could she in good conscience take the reward money if they caught him? There was something barbaric about that—taking money for a man’s body, dead or alive. Apparently Luke Putnam had thought nothing of it, but it gave her the chills.
Bonnie returned from her kitchen. “I’ll have some water boiling soon,” she told Miranda. “I wonder if my husband knows what has happened. The sawmill is on the other end of town, and those men don’t always hear right away what’s going on.” The woman, only a year younger than Miranda, led her to a brocade love seat and made her sit down. “Randy, do you realize how rich you’ll be if they catch that man?”
Miranda shuddered and immediately rose again, feeling restless. “I don’t think I could take money for shooting someone, Bonnie.” She turned to face her friend, and Bonnie was concerned at how pale she looked. “What frightens me is the possibility that Jake Harkner will not be caught! Do you think he would try to find me, to seek revenge? He’s an outlaw, wanted for murder and robbery and…and rape!”
Bonnie rose, grasping her arms. “Randy, the man would be crazy to come back and look for you. For one thing, he’s hurt. To come back here would only spell disaster for him. He’d be caught for certain. Besides, everyone would know who did it, and he’d have another crime added to the list of things he’s wanted for.”
Randy put a hand to her forehead and walked to a window. He was out there somewhere, bleeding, hurting. Why did she care? “He told that bounty hunter that he didn’t do the things he’s wanted for.”
“Of course he did. Randy, a man in a pinch will say anything.” Bonnie walked up behind her and patted her shoulder. “You shouldn’t feel guilty about any of this, Randy. You just relax and I’ll get you a sweater. You look so cold. And I think you should stay here tonight. As far as I’m concerned, you shouldn’t go home at all, after what happened to your father. This just shows you, you shouldn’t be living out there alone. Look what happened right here in town! I wish you’d sell that farm and get yourself a place here. I’ve told you before you can stay with us.”
“No.” Randy rubbed at her arms again, turning grateful blue-gray eyes to meet Bonnie’s. “I won’t intrude on young marrieds. I remember…” She smiled sadly, “You’re lucky you met Charles toward the end of the war and that his duty was already over with. Now you can have him for a good long time.”
Bonnie gave her a look of pity. “I’m sorry about your husband, Randy. You’ve lost so much.”
Randy sighed deeply, keeping her arms folded in an unconscious protective stance. “I’ll survive. I am going to sell the farm. That’s part of the reason I came to town. I’m going to find someone who can take me to Nevada to try to find Wesley. I was at the supply store to try to decide what I might need for the trip.”
Bonnie sniffed in a gesture of disgust, her taffeta dress rustling as she moved toward the doorway to go back to the kitchen. “Your brother doesn’t deserve your risking your neck going to wild country like that to find him. If he cared anything at all for either you or his father, he never would have left.”
Randy shrugged. “He’s my brother, Bonnie. He should know what has happened. And he’s all I have left.”
Bonnie shook her head. “I’ll go fix your tea.”
The woman left, and Randy walked back to the window, which faced away from town. Somewhere out there rode Jake Harkner. What was it like to be so alone? Why did he live the way he lived? He had told Monty Lake that it took more than the war to make a man an outlaw. What had he meant? She would surely never know. He would either die from her bullet or be caught and hanged. Either way, it was her fault; and whether he was an outlaw or not, she could not help feeling she had done something terrible. She closed her eyes and whispered, “God forgive me for pulling that trigger.”
***
Jake wasn’t sure how far he had ridden in the creek. He could only hope it was far enough that anyone following him had lost his tracks. Besides that, the water washed away the blood trail he might have left if he’d stuck to land, and all the overgrowth along the creek had given him lots of protective cover.
He was almost to the point of going back and allowing himself to be caught if it meant finding someone to treat his wound. His gut felt on fire, and he was still bleeding. “Damn slip of a woman!” he grumbled. He still could not quite get over it, that young, innocent woman he had watched tying those horses had shot him! If she’d been a man, he could have blown her away before she ever found the courage to pull that trigger. But a woman! He’d done a lot of things, but he’d never killed a woman. He was just lucky she’d carried a tiny pistol in that handbag and not something like the Army .44s he used, or he would most certainly already be dead.
He headed Outlaw through a thick growth of trees and into a clearing, halting the horse and just listening for several minutes while he pressed a neckerchief to his wound. He heard no sound but the wind and birds. The morning rain had finally cleared, and it seemed as though it might warm up a little. He urged his horse to a grassy rise so he could see better. When he reached the top, he scanned the horizon in all directions, seeing no sign of anyone following. In the distance he could see what looked like a cabin and an outbuilding, as well as a larger building that had been burned. He winced and grasped at his belly, again cursing. He knew he had to get help or die. Maybe someone at the farm below could help him—if not willingly, then at gunpoint.
He urged his horse down the hill, pulling a revolver from its holster as he came closer, waiting for someone to come out and greet him—or shoot at him. Everything was quiet, and no one made an appearance. He approached the cabin. “Hello!” he called out, watching the windows carefully. One of them was broken out and boarded up. No one answered his call. He carefully surveyed the entire area, seeing no wagons, no cattle, no horses. In the distance, fencing around what appeared to be a freshly plowed field was knocked down, as was more fencing around what was once apparently a corral. He rode toward the burned-out building, which he could tell had been some kind of barn. Disaster had most certainly struck here, and from all appearances it had been a man-made disaster.
“Raiders,” he muttered. He knew the signs. He had done some of this kind of work himself when he rode with Bill Kennedy and his gang; but those days were done, and Bill Kennedy and his whole bunch, or what was left of them after Jake’s shoot-out with them, were also after Jake’s hide. “I not only have the law after me, but outlaws too,” he muttered to his horse.
He felt himself growing weaker, knew he at least had to lie down somewhere; and Outlaw also needed to rest. He managed to dismount and he led the horse to a nearby shed, opening the door cautiously at first. Inside were three empty stalls and some feed. “Here you go, boy,” he said quietly to Outlaw. He led the horse inside. “I’m sorry I can’t unsaddle you, but at least you can eat.” He holstered his revolver and took a knife from its sheath on his belt, slitting open a sack of oats and grunting with great pain as he managed to hoist it to a feeding trough and dump it in. He stumbled against the stall then, again cursing his luck.
He removed his heavy, wet slicker and threw it over the side of the stall, then made his way back outside, closing the shed doors so his horse wou
ld not be spotted. He headed toward the cabin, then stopped for a moment at the sight of what appeared to be a fresh grave out behind the house. So, someone had died in the raid. He tried to remember when he himself had stopped killing only those who challenged him in a gunfight and had allowed himself to use his guns on innocent people. Well, he hadn’t really, had he? They had all been shooting back at him at the time they died. Still, it was his own raiding and robbing that had made them raise weapons against him.
Why it bothered him lately to wonder about such things, he wasn’t sure. It irked him to no end, and he thought maybe it had something to do with a man getting older and leaving the wild ways of his youth—if thirty could be considered old. Deep inside, whenever he pulled a gun on someone, he felt fourteen again, and the person staring back at him and his gun was his father. Maybe that was why he couldn’t stop killing. Each man he shot was like killing his father all over again.
He mounted two low steps to the front porch of the cabin, again taking out a revolver. He knocked at the door, but there was no answer. He carefully opened the door, seeing a tidy but somewhat barren main room. Apparently the raiders had taken plenty, and whoever was left behind had straightened things up as best he or she could—most likely she, from the looks of the braided rugs on the floors and the ruffled curtains at the windows. Even the window that was boarded up still had curtains hanging on it. He figured the glass had been shot out by the raiders, or by someone shooting back at them.
He studied the room: a table and two chairs, a narrow bed in one corner, where a man’s clothes hung on hooks. He spotted what looked like a doctor’s bag sitting on the bed. On weakening legs he walked over to open it, seeing a doctor’s instruments inside. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered. Maybe he had picked the right place after all. A doctor would be more likely to help him rather than try to hurt him or even turn him in; but why would a doctor be living way out here on a failing farm?
Outlaw Hearts Page 2
