He won the hand with three aces and pulled in his money, leaving a five-dollar bill in the pot and waiting for the next man to deal, spitting again and missing again. Juan raked in his own money. “I’m goin’ to find me a woman for the night,” he said in his raspy voice, forever damaged by an old wound that left still another scar on the man, across his throat. So far, no one had gone up against Juan with a knife and won. “One of the men in here told me about a whore at a saloon up the street who likes ugly men.”
Kennedy chuckled. “Go ahead.”
“I think we should go on west, boss. We’ll all get bored sittin’ around here all winter.”
Kennedy glanced at the other men at the table, strangers who looked uneasy at their presence, especially Juan’s. “We’ve got somebody to find yet. If we don’t find him by spring, we’ll leave then.”
“I want to find him as bad as you do, patrón, but you will not find him if he don’t want to be found. You know that.” Juan scowled and pulled on his jacket, walking out.
“You, uh, you in for another hand, mister?” one of the others at the table asked.
Kennedy scratched at the stubble on his face. He supposed he ought to find a bathhouse, hadn’t had a good soak for weeks. “Yeah, deal me one more hand.”
One of the others at the table began dealing, glad the one called Juan had left and wishing the Mexican’s friend would do the same. He had a pretty good idea that this Bill Kennedy and the men who had barged into their little town outside of Omaha a couple of days ago were a bad lot, maybe wanted men; but dangerous enough that nobody around here was willing to go to the law in Omaha and start any trouble. Kennedy was a hard-looking man, with blue eyes that cut into you like a knife, his sandy-colored hair looking greasy, a scar down his right cheek. He was a tall, well-built man, perhaps in his thirties, the dealer guessed, and he could be pretty good-looking if he were cleaned up. Kennedy and his men were heavily armed, and the man couldn’t help wondering if the money they were gambling with was stolen. The one called Juan kept talking about how much money there was in the gold towns out west, how he wished they would head that way before spring.
“Damnedest thing I ever seen,” a man at the next table was saying, his voice growing louder from whiskey.
One of Kennedy’s men who sat at that table turned to look at his boss. “Hey, Bill, come over here and listen to this.”
“I’ve just got dealt another hand,” Kennedy grumped.
“Throw it in. This is important, unless you don’t care this guy over here might know somethin’ about Jake.”
Kennedy straightened, looking over at them. He threw in his hand and grabbed up his money, leaving the table and causing the rest of them there to breathe a sigh of relief. He dragged his chair to the next table and turned it, straddling it and resting his arms on the back of it. He looked at his friend. “This better be good, Jeb. I had a good hand.”
The one called Jeb grinned, showing a missing tooth in front. He laid down his cards and nodded toward a man sitting across the table from him and looking a little nervous now. “That’s Les Stanton. This past spring he was workin’ at a tradin’ post about three weeks west of here.” He leaned back. “Les, this here is Bill Kennedy, a friend of mine, you might say. Tell him what you just told me.”
Stanton swallowed. He didn’t like any of these men any more than the others in this little town did, but he was no more ready to give them trouble than the next man. They all looked mean enough to kill a man for smiling wrong, about as mean as the one who had called himself Jake Turner looked the day he shot things up at the trading post over that woman.
Stanton took a swallow of whiskey. “Well, Mr. Kennedy, I, uh, I was just tellin’ your friend here about somethin’ that happened at the tradin’ post where I’d been workin’. Some travelers came along, a preacher fellow, dropped off a woman name of Miranda Hayes who’d been snakebit. They went on without her, figurin’ she’d most likely die, I expect. The man who owns the tradin’ post, Jack Nemus, he took her in and took care of her.” He grinned. “More than took care of her, if you know what I mean.”
Kennedy scowled. “So? What’s the point?”
“It gets better, boss,” Jeb told him. “Hell, don’t you remember that name, Miranda Hayes? That’s the name of that woman from Kansas City I heard about when I was sniffin’ around there askin’ about Jake. That’s the name of the woman who shot him.”
Kennedy straightened further. Of course! Was it the same woman? “Might just be someone with the same name,” he said. “Even if she was the same one, what good does that do us now?”
“Somebody name of Jake came lookin’ for the woman,” Jeb answered.
Kennedy’s steely blue eyes narrowed, and he targeted them at Les Stanton. “Jake Harkner?”
“Called himself Jake Turner,” Stanton answered. “Big man, dark, like maybe he was part Mexican or part Indian, wore his guns on two belts crisscrossed low on his hips and carried a rifle and a shotgun on his horse. He damn well knew how to use those guns.”
Kennedy rose and leaned closer over the table, all ears. “What did he do?”
“Like I say, he was lookin’ for that woman. Nemus, he tried to say she wasn’t there, but somehow he knew she was. Damned if he didn’t draw his gun and shoot Nemus right across the side of the face and told him he’d better take him to the woman. They went outside, and another man there drew on this Jake fella and Jake shot him down easy as you please. The whole thing scared the hell out of me. This Jake, he took Nemus into his cabin where the woman was. We wasn’t sure what went on in there till later. We found Nemus pistol-whipped and tied to a chair, but layin’ on the floor, hurt pretty bad. Turner shot down another one of us when we tried to come in after him, wounded another in the arm. Another man rode off, scared shitless. I’m the only one who didn’t get hurt. Turner, he brought the woman out and put her in one of Nemus’s wagons, had us hitch up his horse and packhorse to pull it. Stole the wagon and lit out of there.”
Stanton squirmed a little under Bill Kennedy’s piercing stare. “None of us was about to go after him,” he added. “Figured he’d shoot us down if we did. He claimed the woman belonged to him. Headed west with her, far as I know. She’d been on her way to Virginia City to find her brother. That’s what the preacher told us. I don’t know what the hell Turner had in mind for her—whether he was gonna help her or hurt her; but from the way he acted, I figure he had a soft spot for her and meant to help her.”
Jeb Donner chuckled. “Sounds like ol’ Jake is still into helpin’ women in distress.”
Kennedy straightened, his eyes bright with the thought of revenge. “It had to be Jake Harkner! I knew he’d give himself away with those guns!” He looked at Jeb. “Why in hell do you think he went after that woman? Hell, she’s the one who shot him. I don’t get it. The way he behaved over that woman—” He caught himself, not wanting to say too much in front of Stanton and the other strangers in the saloon. “Jake wouldn’t hurt her. Then again, maybe he was pissed over her shootin’ him and figured to get paid back—take it out of her flesh, so to speak.”
Jeb shook his head. “Not Jake. He’s gone soft lately, over women, anyway. Don’t sound like he’s gone soft when it comes to them guns.”
Kennedy looked at Stanton. “Where’s this tradin’ post again?”
“About three weeks west of here, on the Oregon Trail.”
“How long ago did this happen?”
Stanton shrugged. “Must have been a couple months. If they went on west, they’d be clear to Wyoming by now, I expect, unless Indians or the weather or an injury got them. Hell, all kinds of things can kill a man on that trip. The woman, she might have died from that snakebite.”
Kennedy sat down and faced Jeb. “He’s headed west, just like we were gonna do. Goddamn it! We should have thought of that sooner. Whatever he’s got in mind for the woman, if she’s
dead or alive, he’ll keep goin’ west to avoid the law. And that’s where we’re goin’! We might not make it all the way this winter, but we can get pretty far before winter sets into the mountains. On horseback we can travel faster, maybe cut the distance between him and us.” He rose, looking excited. “Jeb, you round up the rest of the boys. I’ll go find Juan. Tell the others to meet tomorrow mornin’ at sunup behind this saloon. We’ll head out then.” He reached into his pocket, slapping a twenty-dollar bill onto the table in front of Les Stanton. “Mister, you earned this. Thanks for the information.”
Stanton grinned, picking up the bill and feeling a little more at ease. Kennedy turned and left, looking for Juan. He’ll love to hear this, he thought. Juan would like nothin’ better than to carve Jake Harkner into a hundred pieces and feed him to the wolves! And what if Jake was sweet on that Hayes woman? How in hell could that have happened? If it was true, and Jake had the woman with him, she would just be the icing on the cake for them once they found them. He and Juan and the others would lick that icing, right in front of Jake Harkner’s eyes!
***
The Mormon women fussed over Miranda, helping her bathe, pressing the yellow dress Jake liked best on her, pinning her hair up into curls.
“Ah, you vill make beautiful bride,” Esther Carlson said in her musical Swedish accent. “This vill be first time I see vedding in America.” She ended the sentence with an up-note, as though it were a question, always making Miranda feel as though she was supposed to answer.
“Do you miss Sweden?” Miranda asked, holding still while the older woman pinned another curl.
“There has not been time to miss my home. Since ve come here, ve get right off boat and start out in vagon. There vill be time for settling and for missing home once ve reach Salt Lake. Soon ve vill think of that as home. This is good place, this America.”
“Yes.” Miranda wondered what these Mormons would think if they knew the truth about Jake. To them he was a hero, a daring, adventurous American who had saved them from certain death. Jake and Miranda had come upon their wagon train while it was being attacked by a small band of Sioux Indians. None of the Mormon men were experienced at shooting at other human beings, no matter how savage; only a few even knew how to use a gun, and had used them only to hunt game. They had apparently not even done a very good job of that, since Jake and Miranda found them all near starvation.
Miranda could smile now at the memory. Jake really had been a hero that day, but she remembered the terror she felt, sure he would be killed himself. He had heard the shooting and had sneaked up onto a rise near the surrounded wagon train. He had picked off several of the Indians with his Winchester, startling them with shots coming from another direction. Those remaining were frightened and rode off, except for two, who came at Jake after his rifle was empty. Jake rose and whipped out one of his revolvers, and with one quick shot he had downed one of the Indians. A second shot hit its mark also, but that Indian did not go down easily. He kept coming, and Jake fired twice more as the painted warrior whacked at him with a tomahawk. Miranda remembered the sick feeling the sight had given her, but Jake had managed to dodge the weapon, and the Indian finally fell dead from his horse.
It had been a harrowing experience, and the Mormons had treated Jake and Miranda like a king and queen ever since. Although Jake had wanted to continue traveling alone, both knew it was impossible. Because of the likelihood of further Indian attacks, they could not take the risk of being caught alone. There was only so much one man could do if it happened again. They had joined the Mormons and would stay with them to Salt Lake, where they hoped to find traders or settlers traveling on to Virginia City.
All the way here to Fort Laramie Jake had taken time to show the Mormon men how to shoot, had hunted game for them, helped with two different wagons that broke down. Miranda had nursed a little boy who broke his arm in a fall from a wagon, and had won the friendship of the other women. Because she and Jake wanted to get married as soon as they found a priest or a minister, they had been forced to admit to the Mormons that they were not married but planned to be when they reached Laramie. Miranda had explained that Jake was a “friend of the family” who had found her dying from a snakebite and had agreed to see her safely to Nevada.
Here at Laramie, they had found a Catholic priest who ministered to the Indians. Today he would marry them, and the weather was perfect, beautiful, as though God had designed the day just for this special moment. There would be no fancy church, but they would be surrounded by new friends who truly seemed to want the very best for them.
Finally, tonight, after being unable to make love for the last three weeks, they would be free to be together. The Mormons had prepared a place for them to spend the night with a little privacy. They had cleared out one of their own wagons, one which was much bigger than Jake and Miranda’s own wagon, and it had been pulled several yards from the fort grounds and covered with mosquito netting. A feather mattress and blankets, water and a wash pan, and other necessities were left inside, and Miranda thought how that wagon would seem just as wonderful to her tonight as a fancy hotel. She would be with Jake, would be his wife, and that was all that mattered. The wagon was the Mormons’ thank-you to Jake for all he had done for them. The women had baked a cake over a campfire in a Dutch oven; the fort commander had offered a four-piece band consisting of two fiddles, a trumpet, and a guitar; and the Mormons had offered some of their own precious belongings as gifts—handmade quilts, a few dishes and blankets, even a hand-crocheted lace tablecloth.
Miranda was overwhelmed by their generosity, and she knew Jake was still trying to get used to such niceties. He could not quite believe people existed who could be so kind, and he took his role as their hero with a grain of salt, totally embarrassed by all the attention and, Miranda knew, feeling unworthy of any of it. Miranda had to keep encouraging him to stop living in the past and accept the good things of the present, and although she trusted in the fact that he truly loved her, she prayed daily that he would learn to love himself. To her that was more important even than his learning to love others, and it was something she was not sure he would ever accomplish. He would be forever haunted by his childhood.
Today was not a day to dwell on the past, or on the fact that her husband-to-be had his face on wanted posters back in Missouri. Today there would be a wedding, and in the morning they would leave Fort Laramie and head for Salt Lake. She knew Jake would be glad to get away from the soldiers, always worried about being recognized when he was in such places.
“There now,” Esther said. “Don’t ve look beautiful! You are a picture, Randy! I think I have never seen a young voman so pretty. Your Jake vill not be able to take his eyes off you.”
Miranda felt her cheeks flushing, not so much at the compliment as at the thought of lying with Jake tonight as his wife. They had had only that one night of making love; had come upon the Mormons later that next day after their long talk about Jake’s father. The journey had been difficult, draining them physically from battling the elements and stubborn animals, crossing the river several times, bearing up to intense prairie heat, and fighting off insects at night. They had lived with the constant fear that the Indians would return, maybe in a bigger force the next time, and it felt so good to be within the safety of the fort, to have this little reprieve. Tonight, in spite of their weary bones and muscles, they would most certainly find the energy to share their bodies as husband and wife.
The little orchestra began playing the wedding march, and Miranda came out from behind the wagon where the women had been fussing over her. She walked toward the musicians, where Jake stood waiting with the priest. She carried a few wildflowers the Mormon children had picked for her, and she wore the yellow dress Jake liked best. A couple of the wildflowers had been stuck into her hair, and she had applied just a touch of rouge to her cheeks. She knew she had grown thinner from the hardship of their journey and from being so sick a
fter the snakebite. Her dress was a little big on her, and she hoped she looked all right to Jake.
When she came closer, her heart soared at the look of love there in the eyes of a man who three months ago hadn’t known the first thing about loving and caring. She saw something else in those eyes, that hint of fear, that little-boy look that made her heart ache for him. He was so afraid to care, so afraid that he would ruin her life by being a part of it. How handsome he looked, wearing clean denim pants, a white ruffled shirt, and a silk suit jacket loaned to him by one of the bigger Mormon men. A black string tie decorated the neck of the shirt, and he wore no weapons. He had bathed and shaved in the fort bathhouse, and his leather boots had been polished by soldiers. He wore a new black felt hat purchased at the fort supply store, a hat he removed as she came closer. He handed it out to a soldier who stood nearby and he reached out to take her hand. He squeezed it tightly. “You sure about this?”
“Very sure.” She felt him trembling, wondered at her own daring to marry a wanted man. Everything they were discovering together could be destroyed so quickly, by a bounty hunter, or the law, or even other outlaws. Surely things would be different when they got beyond the Rockies. She smiled for him, felt like crying at the thought of how much she loved him.
The priest moved through his rituals, and they spoke their vows, Jake reddening and grinning a little on the words “for better, for worse.” He felt removed from himself, as though it was a different man marrying this slip of a woman who had totally messed up his thinking. In a sense, it was a different man, one who wanted nothing to do with the life he had led up to now, one who wanted to put the past behind him, if that was possible, and settle with a good woman, find some peace.
Outlaw Hearts Page 19
