Wild Is the Night

by Colleen Quinn

  “I don’t like it.” The bartender wiped his nose with his sleeve. “A woman means nothing but trouble.”

  “Why that’s the most ridiculous—”

  “Amanda.” Luke shot her a cold look that effectively silenced her, then continued. “As I said, I’ll take responsibility. Anything happens, I’ll handle it. Any objections?” He stared at the cowboys, who had already observed his gun and had drawn their own conclusions.

  There were a few disgruntled mutterings, but no one openly challenged him.

  The bartender shrugged. “All right then. But if there’s any trouble…”

  “She goes.” Luke agreed.

  The bartender shook his head and returned to the counter, while the cowboys resumed talking and drinking the full mugs of beer. Amanda’s eyes lifted and she sent Luke a grateful smile which he promptly ignored.

  “I’ll deal with you later. Don’t move from that spot. If you want to experience life, I’m the last one to stop you. I’ll just give you one word of warning: ‘Be careful of what you pray for. You may get it.’ ”

  Puzzled, Amanda sank back in her chair. “Who said that?”

  “Me.” Luke slammed on his hat and went to the bar and ordered a whiskey.

  Chapter

  5

  Amanda stared across the room at Luke’s back. He was enveloped in a crowd of cowboys and trailhands, drinking his whiskey, effectively ignoring her existence. The men around him did likewise, refusing to allow her presence to interfere with their fun. Leafing through her notebook, Amanda’s eyes kept returning to her handsome partner. He fit in perfectly, his dark, good looks accentuated by his rough attire and the bawdy atmosphere. He laughed at something a saloon girl said, and Amanda forced herself back to her book, amazed to feel a surge of annoyance. If he was trying to get a rise out of her, he was doing a damned good job.

  Determined not to let Luke distract her, Amanda wrote furiously, absorbing herself in everything around her. Unobtrusively, she eavesdropped on nearby conversations. The cowboys, having successfully driven a herd of Longhorns to the stockyards, were flush with money and excitement. They enjoyed whatever benefits they could wring from their pay, while the town businessmen encouraged their presence.

  Not so the ranchers.

  Amanda glanced up as a trailman entered the saloon, wrapped his arm around the shoulders of a young, peach-fuzzed cowboy, and called for whiskey.

  “Must have six hundred cattle out there,” the trail driver said enthusiastically. “Bring us all a pretty penny. McCoy’s paying fifteen dollars a head for a Longhorn. You’ll be a rich boy, Jake, if you stick with me.”

  The youthful cowboy grinned, and downed the proffered whiskey. He choked on the contents, then spewed it out on the floor. The trailman guffawed, pounding his back helpfully while the other cowhands roared.

  A rancher sitting quietly beside Amanda rose, his chair scraping ominously on the floor. His hat was not felt like the businessmen’s, but was made of a cheap sacking material, and his sleeves were worn through, exposing work-toughened hands. His trousers were stained from prairie grass and rough clay, but it was his face that caught Amanda’s attention. Creviced like a mountain pass and beaten from the weather, it was a face that told more about his life than any novel could attempt. He approached the trailman, and at once the laughter died.

  “Fifteen dollars a head is good money,” the ranchman agreed. “Except that you’re killing our cattle. I’ve lost two more just this week.”

  A murmur went through the crowd as the Texans protested, and the local ranchers nodded in approval.

  The trailman tossed back his whiskey and placed the shot glass aside. “There’s no proof that the Longhorns are responsible for your cattle dying.” He stared at the rancher, his eyes an open challenge.

  “The fever started within a month of the first drive,” the ranchman continued. “Spanish fever, they call it. Been raising cattle all my life. Never had trouble before. Same thing’s been happening to other ranches. Herb Wessel lost three so far this season. Bob Rutherford, five.”

  “That’s a pretty grim charge.” A cowboy stood up, his hand brushing past his gun, the holster jutting forth. “You can’t just blame the Longhorns. Anything could’ve started the trouble. Cattle die every day.”

  “Actually, there is proof,” Amanda interjected, fascinated by the discussion and excited that she knew something on the subject. “A veterinarian in England has discovered that splenic fever, also called Spanish fever, is carried by a tick on the Texas Longhorn. His research is well documented.”

  The cowboys were silent, stunned by Amanda’s little speech. Luke cursed softly, then got up from the bar, not at all surprised to see the ranchmen getting to their feet and the Texans fumbling for their guns.

  “That so?” The trailman, feeling the tension, tried to avoid the coming battle. “Then why aren’t the Longhorns killed?” He grinned, sensing a victory.

  Amanda piped up confidently. “It’s obvious, of course. The Texas cattle, having been exposed to the virus for decades, are now immune. What is an annoyance to a Longhorn is deadly to the domestic breed. Just read Professor Gamgee’s treatise on the subject. It’s fascinating—”

  “Southern scum.” A ranchman spat. “Go the hell back to Texas and take them filthy things with you.”

  Any pretense of civility shattered as the ranchman threw the first punch. Amanda’s mouth dropped in shock as a cowboy fell across her table, scattering her notes. The gaslights shattered as guns blasted, and glass tinkled to the floor. The bargirls screamed, holding onto their plumed fans as if for protection, while the Texans fought back with obvious relish.

  “Come on, dammit!” Luke grabbed Amanda, even as she bent down to scoop up her papers. She barely had time to snatch up her bag when Luke hauled her toward the door. Glancing back, Amanda gasped as another fusillade of fire shattered the whiskey bottles behind the bar, and the floor was doused with an amber rush of liquor.

  “Jesus.” Luke shoved her through the door as the cattlemen scooped up the whiskey with their hands, gulping down the liquor between punches. Fascinated, Amanda tried to sneak another glance, but Luke pushed her resolutely through the door and out to the dusty boardwalk.

  “Where are we going?” Amanda struggled to break free, but Luke held tightly onto her wrist.

  “Out of town. Thanks to you, we no longer have a place to stay. When word gets around as to what started that fight, we won’t exactly be welcome. And I have no intention of paying for the damage.”

  Amanda grimaced. She hadn’t thought of that. She hadn’t thought of anything except her own interest in the conversation. Clutching her carpetbag, she suddenly realized that she was missing something.

  “Wait!” Stopping in the middle of the street, she saw Luke glance back in disgust as she indicated the hotel. “Aesop! I can’t leave without him!”

  “Amanda! Forget that stupid owl!” Luke shouted, but she had turned and was heading toward the hotel. Gritting his teeth, he was momentarily tempted to let her go, to take the advantage and head out of town. But as she stood outside the hotel, gunfire blasted through the saloon window. Amanda gasped, then flattened herself against the wall as a cowboy tumbled out of the saloon doors.

  “Let’s go! Jesus…” Luke swore, then grabbed her hand and took the stairs two at a time. Amanda struggled to keep up with him while the noise below gave her an added incentive to try. Luke stopped at the door, gave it a swift kick, then reached inside and snatched up the bird cage.

  “Here!” He thrust the owl at her, as if not trusting himself to carry the bird. Footsteps sounded below, and even over the noise from the bar, Amanda could make out the sheriff’s voice.

  “Great. Now how do we get out of here?” Luke shot her a sarcastic look.

  Amanda thought for a moment. “Lou said they did laundry. I should think there would be a laundry chute, or some kind of entrance for the wash women to gain access to these rooms, other than the lobby below.�
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  Luke shrugged. He had to admit the idea had merit—and anything was better than spending the night in the county jail. “All right, lady, you got us into this. Let’s give it a try.” Snatching up her carpetbag, he indicated the hall. “After you.”

  Encouraged, Amanda crept down the hallway, not at all surprised to see a narrow door at the end of the corridor. Pushing the panel open, she was even less amazed at the sight of a long wooden ramp that descended down into what looked like a basement. Taking a link of Aesop’s cage between her fingers, Amanda fastened the owl’s cage to her dress, using the rumpled sash tied around her waist as an anchor. She then took a seat at the top of the chute.

  “See? There is nothing to it,” Amanda said confidently, then gasped as she lost her balance and slid into the darkness below.

  “Luukke!” Amanda screamed. Blackness enveloped her, and she hurtled down through the musty stillness, her bottom thumped on the wooden slates beneath her, her arms and legs banged by the force of the ride.

  “Amanda!” Luke pushed on the back of the door, then followed, his large body shooting downward at even a faster rate than Amanda.

  The laundry chute seemed to go on forever, down into a pitch black basement that Amanda could smell long before she landed in a pile of dirty laundry. Coughing on the mildewy odor, she stood up, amazed to find that no bones were broken and that her legs still worked. Dirty clothes and tablecloths clung to her, and as she wrestled with the laundry and the squawking owl, Luke tumbled down the chute and landed directly behind her.

  “Luke! Are you all right?”

  The look he gave her was murderous. Even in the dim light, she could see his expression and had enough sense to back up several feet.

  “Oh, I’m just fine. Couldn’t be better. You?” Luke responded.

  Amanda sensed the sarcasm in his voice, but didn’t know how to respond to it. “Well, I feel all right, nothing’s broken. Aesop seems to be fine, too. I appreciate you asking—”

  “Amanda,” he snapped. “Find a damned light.”

  Uncertain of why he was so angry, she found a candle on a table and lit the slender taper, throwing the room into a painful illumination.

  “Great,” Luke grumbled, throwing a stained tablecloth across the floor. Wading through the wash, he tried to find an exit, some kind of small entranceway for the maids, but found nothing. “What an idea! Lost in a goddamned wash bin. The next time you get a brainstorm, do us both a favor. Stop thinking.”

  “It wasn’t my fault,” Amanda said defensively. “You agreed. Besides, there has to be a way out of here. How else would the laundry women get in?” She kicked at the laundry, trying to clear a path. Light fell on the wall, revealing a door that was locked on the outside. Amanda tugged on the round metal ring that hung from the center, but it was firmly secured. Turning to Luke, she shrugged helplessly.

  Without a word, he flipped open his holster and shot at the latch. Amanda dove for cover as the wood shattered and flew across the room. Aesop squawked and rustled in his cage as Luke kicked the door, rewarded by a glimmer of the night sky outside.

  Amanda peeked out from beneath a pair of trousers. “Do you always go shooting your gun off like that? No doubt that will bring the sheriff, if nothing else.” She brushed the soiled clothing off with an injured expression.

  Luke shrugged. Used to responding with action, he hadn’t given the consequences a thought. It was annoying sometimes, the way this woman was always right. “It got us out, didn’t it?” he said defensively. “Get the damned owl and let’s go. We’ve got to make time now, before the fight’s over.”

  Amanda stepped through the clothes, and out into the star-studded night. Grimly, she stared at the open fields where the sky seemed to meet the land in one continuous line of crushed black velvet.

  “Wichita is about eighty miles from here, isn’t it?” Amanda asked.

  Luke nodded.

  “How are we going to get there?” She dreaded his response.

  This time, he didn’t even smile. “We walk.”

  Howard Fisher froze as he felt the sharp, keen edge of a razor pressed against his soft, round throat. It was long past business hours when he had come down from his comfortable home on top of his barber shop to clean up for the next day. He was proud of his establishment, with its sparkling clean windows, soft accomodating chairs, and rows of lime-scented lotion and cologne lining the counter. He had been in the process of sweeping the dark wads of hair from the floor when he’d heard the door softly close behind him.

  “Shop’s closed.” Before he could even turn and acknowledge the stranger, his arm was wrenched behind his back and the cool metal blade touched his neck.

  “Closed, is it?” the man chuckled, his sour breath hot against the barber’s face. “I guess I’m in luck, then. I ain’t looking for a shave or a haircut. I’m looking for you.”

  “Who…” The barber sputtered in fear as the man released him abruptly, then took a seat in one of the chairs.

  “Remember me, hairdresser?” Damien grinned as the barber stared at him, recognition slowly dawning. “That’s right, we were here last summer. My friend hasn’t forgotten your haircut. His ear still bleeds every once in a while.”

  “What do you want?” Dread filled the barber’s eyes as the blade twitched in the lamplight. He watched it in horrified fascination as Damien tested the sharp edge, drawing a bright bead of blood.

  “Just thought since you did my friend such a disservice, you might be eager to help us out now. We’re looking for someone.”

  Howard relaxed. So he hadn’t come to kill him after all. A wavery smile came to his face and he nodded. “Who?”

  “A man and a woman. He’s a gun—Luke somebody, I hear. Good looking, big…a gun. Southern, they say.” Damien shrugged, wiping the blood on his pants. “You wouldn’t forget the woman. Looks like a spinster, or a school marm. Back’s as straight as if a ramrod’s been stuck down it. Carries a carpetbag and a caged bird.”

  “I’ve seen them.” Howard spoke quickly as Damien fingered the razor. “They came into town this morning. The shooting started right after they arrived—seems someone’s gunning for the lady.” The barber’s eyes widened as he realized what he’d just said. “You?”

  “Where they headed?”

  “I don’t know. I heard they tried to hook up with a wagon train, but no one wanted to take them on. You riding with Haskwell now?”

  “You don’t know where I can find them?” Damien ignored his question and continued ruthlessly.

  “Try the hotel.” The barber wet his mouth nervously. “Maybe they plan to take the stage in the morning. There’s a ruckus at the saloon, so I don’t think they’d be there. They’re in enough trouble without barroom fights. Going?” The barber couldn’t hide his relief as the outlaw started for the door.

  The outlaw turned slowly. “Sure. Say, you’ve been a real help, friend. I’ll tell old Butch you ain’t as bad as we thought you were. One thing’s only fair, though. Since you made old Butch bleed, I don’t think he’d like it if I left you in one piece.” Damien grinned, his dark eyes empty and lifeless, like an idiot’s.

  “But…” Howard gasped as the razor slashed across his throat. Crashing into the counter, he was hardly aware of the lotion spilling, cementing the hair to the floor in a sticky wash of lime scented liquid. Warm blood flowed over his white shirt, and the barber slowly sank to the floor as the lime cologne dripped steadily from the counter.

  Damien strode from the barbership with a grin. Butch would love this one—and he couldn’t wait to tell him.

  Morning dawned as softly and smoothly as the opening of a red rose. A thin flush of light sparkled the prairie grass, then crept over the endless, undulating field like a sheer gold covering on a green silk dress. Dew glittered like casually tossed diamonds, and the brilliant purple of the larkspur, the scathing pink of the geranium, and the bright yellow bloom of the sunflowers dotted the plain like well-chosen ornaments. The sk
y seemed to touch the land, blending at once with the softly waving grass, then continuing upward to dance with the clouds. It was beautiful, restless and wild, much like the horse Luke had been watching for the past half hour.

  He had spotted the animal upon waking, amazed to see the sinewy dark creature gamboling through the open field as if at home in a grassy meadow. The horse was obviously young, not even three years if he could estimate, and was having a grand time rushing up to the small prairie dogs and frightening the tiny animals back into their burrows. Racing along the horizon, the horse embodied the freedom of the plains and the spirit of the open land.

  Amanda woke, blinking at the sudden rush of sunlight and the sweet scent of the warm, waving grass. Aesop rustled in his cage, and with regret, she remembered she hadn’t fed him last night. In their rush to put as much distance between themselves and Abilene, they had traveled through much of the night, stopping only when Amanda needed a rest. Luke wouldn’t permit her more than a few minutes before he had her back on her feet, heading always south.

  Yawning, she struggled to reach for the carpetbag, oblivious to everything else. Raising the cover on the bird cage, she winced as Aesop shot her an injured expression, then proceeded to turn his head around backwards in total rejection. Amanda sighed, then opened the tin which was punctured with small air holes and removed the best of the mice. There were only 3 left. They’d have to catch more mice soon, or perhaps a tiny lizard. Idly, Amanda wondered if Kansas had lizards. She opened the cage and offered Aesop the fat mouse.

  The owl hooted, his head appearing suddenly as hunger overtook pride and he snapped at the rodent. Crunching and squawking, he rustled in his cage, letting Amanda know he wasn’t too happy with her, even though he would eat.

  “Will you shut that damned bird up?” Luke snapped.

  Amanda glanced over at him, surprised at the vehemence in his tone. “But…”

  The bird rustled and Luke gave her a disgusted look. “Can’t you see it?”

  “See what?” Amanda slid down to her belly, the way he was doing, and looked toward the horizon. “Oh, it’s a horse. Isn’t he pretty?”