by kps
Despite Dev's doubts concerning the success of such a mission, he had silently been grateful and almost over-whelmed by Jared's generosity when the man left the next morning driving a wagon whose bed was packed full of provisions.
Mariah, sensing that Dev was still puzzled over Jared's confidence that Gray Hawk would accept the offered bounty, explained Jared's previous association with Gray Hawk. She told him of her own Blackfoot heritage and hesitantly touched on the reasons for the split long ago between Jared and his blood brother, Gray Hawk.
Perhaps it was the tenderness in her attitude as she cared for him or possibly the simple fact that he considered her the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, but by the time Jared returned from the trip north, Dev was more than half in love with Mariah Bryant. It was a case of a boy's first love, idealistic and chaste, and he hid it well, unwilling to embarrass a woman who was obviously very much in love with her husband.
Dev found he was actually reluctant to leave when he was finally well enough to travel. Jared and Mariah made sure he had adequate provisions and then joined him in the long, shaded gallery that ran the length of the front of the house to bid farewell. Jared had extracted a promise from him that he return to visit them as often as he could and had added that if he ever needed anything, to let him know.
When at last Dev returned to the village, Gray Hawk had concerned himself with his adopted son's healing head injury and well-being, adamantly refusing to discuss Jared Bryant's visit or the food that had helped to ease the tribe's hunger. Though not one critical comment ever escaped the chiefs lips, Dev knew the second visit he paid the Bryants before they returned to England and the time he spent with them each year troubled Gray Hawk. Still, Dev enjoyed seeing Mariah and was drawn into easy companionship with Jared. At the end of each winter's snows, he looked forward to their arrival with warm anticipation.
He and Jared grew closer with the passing years, and though the Indian life he'd been living for the past six or seven years was deeply ingrained, each time he headed for the Bryants'
house, he had a feeling he was going home. The couple had only one child, a daughter Dev had never met, and though they were immensely proud of her, both of them treated him as if he were the son they had never had.
One day during the third spring Dev had spent with them, Jared sat him down for a talk. He complimented Devon his ability to learn quickly, praising the sharp, natural intelligence he displayed, but reminding him that although he had been raised by the Blackfoot, his heritage was white, not Indian.
"I know your loyalty to the tribe, son," he said and added sadly, "don't forget I once lived with them, too. They're good people, but I'm only being realistic when I say their time is running out. I saw it over twenty years ago ... believe me, Gray Hawk knows it, too." He went on to say that Dev owed it to himself to make a place in the world in which his true parents had belonged. "With a little tutoring, you'd be fine college material, Dev. I'll see to it that you have everything you need. There are several good schools in the East. All I ask is that you give it a try ... as a favor to Mariah and me."
Dev protested, offering a number of objections, but in the end he had agreed, unwilling to disappoint either Jared or Mariah. The school they selected was in Massachusetts, a small college with a good reputation among the more elite. He lasted a year, found that he enjoyed the classes and absorbed as much learning as he could before the confining atmosphere of the city and the proper, conservative sons of wealthy men began to make him feel stifled. When his longing for the open country of Montana and the company of more earthy, honest people became too strong to resist, he quit, wrote a letter to Jared explaining his reasons and headed home.
Jared had never in any way condemned him for quitting. In fact, when he saw him again that spring, he praised Dev for sticking it out for a full year and told him he noticed a difference in his bearing, an assurance that had come from exposure to a different type of people, a different set of values.
After a while Dev too came to understand what Jared meant. He had changed. Before, his lack of trust had made him uneasy in the company of whites, despite the fact that he was white himself. Now, though he liked them no better, he was easy in their midst, knowing he could handle himself as well as he could in the Indian life he had grown up with.
Nearing the town, his horse whinnied as he caught the scent of people and other animals, and Dev was drawn from his daydreams. They had reminded him of what he owed Jared, and his ill humor dropped away. The very least he could do was be polite to the girl and make sure she had nothing to worry about during her stay. Jared had not gone into the specific reasons for the visit, other than to say that his usually level-headed daughter had developed an exceptionally strong sense of independence since she had been widowed, and perhaps Dev could talk some sense into her.
Langdon was a small town that had been built up to serve a scattered community of ranchers. Its main street was bedraggled and dusty, a hodgepodge of false-fronted stores that made the small buildings look far more imposing than they were. On one side of the street, the livery, dry goods store, dressmaker's, and several other small businesses seemed to huddle together in respectability. On the opposite side a saloon-dancehall mocked the town's more conservative merchants. Next to it were the sheriff's office, the stage depot, and the small drugstore run by Langdon's often inebriated doctor, Grayson T. Gibbs.
At the far end of town, a small, spired church shared a rise of land with Langdon's cemetery.
The few children in the surrounding area used the church's Sunday Bible classroom as a school.
As usual, the early afternoon was quiet. There were a few townspeople on the streets, some elderly men playing checkers in front of the store, and as he pulled his mount , to a half and tied the reins to a post by the stage depot, Dev was amused to see Doc Gibbs enter his office, his stride characteristically unsteady.
He looked up the street, wondering if the stage would be on time today. It stopped here from Helena every two days' and generally managed to arrive about the same time. There was time for a drink at the saloon in the half-hour until it was due, and as he ambled along the boarded sidewalk that edged the buildings his thoughts turned to the girl he was supposed to meet.
He gave a cursory glance to the few occupants of the room, noting the card game in the back comer and the dance girl who draped herself close to one of the players. The long polished bar to his left was empty except for one rough-looking character who stared morosely into his beer.
The bartender recognized Dev and called, "Be right with ya!' before he laid down the glasses he was polishing in anticipation of the night's business. Dev ordered a whisky neat, and when the man sensed that he was too preoccupied to feel like talking, he wisely returned to his polishing.
Jennifer-he liked the sound of her name, anyway. Nice and soft, ladylike. About all he really knew of her was that she'd married young, and Jared and Mariah hadn't been too happy with her choice. Now she was a former Duchess, a widow; and as he contemplated the time he'd have to spend with her, Dev only hoped she was as good-looking as her mother.
No, that was too much to hope for, Dev told himself. Since he'd met Mariah Bryant, he'd seen a lot of girls, taken more than his share of women to bed, and not a one could compare with that special beauty she had. Lord, he had a sudden thought, what if this girl took after Jared? His features were handsome, but as Dev tried to picture them on a girl, the idea brought a broad grin to his face.
"Huh." The deep guttural exclamation interrupted Dev's thoughts and he glanced down the length of the bar to find the solitary drinker staring at him, his plain, weathered face wearing an ugly expression. Dev didn't know the man, but he'd seen that look before and it always meant trouble. "What'cha smilin' 'bout, Injun-lover?" The man had obviously been drinking for some time and it showed in his movements as he gestured to the empty saloon in general and added, more loudly, "Why don't'cha share it with ever'body, boy? You thinkin'
a
bout how them squaws kin get ya hot without usin' a blanket?"
By now the room was totally silent, the cardplayers watching to see Dev's reaction, the bartender's hand poised in the air as he stopped his work. The only sound was the loud, vulgar guffaw from the stupid fool who was taunting Dev. Several years earlier he might have instantly challenged his tormenter and drawn a gun to still his tongue.
Those years with Jared had made a difference, though, and Dev recognized the man for what he was a drifter whose big mouth issued insults he was in· no condition to back up. He was all the more dangerous, though, because he was too deeply into his drinking to realize that he didn't stand a chance against a younger man who was a far more competent shot than he.
Dev chose to ignore him, taking a sip of his whisky and continuing to stare straight ahead into the mirror that ran the length of the wall behind the bar. To everyone watching, he gave the appearance of being completely at ease, undaunted by the belligerent drinker. Only another ' man skilled at gunplay would have observed the telltale signs of tenseness in his body-the way he had carefully set his glass down to free his hands or the narrowed gaze that flicked the length of the reflective mirror to watch the other's actions.
"You deaf 'n' dumb, boy? 'Tha's what livin' with Injuns does toya. You done forgot how civilized folk talk, ain't that right, barkeep?" There was no answer. The bartender's sympathies were with Dev, but he had seen too many men die over just such foolish words.
Safety lay in neutrality.
Dev was watching every movement at the end of the bar, and while the man's left hand was in sight, fingers flicking in an excited, nervous gesture, his right hand was not reflected in the mirror. Though Dev hadn't turned his head, he was sure that hand was also flexing, hanging near his holster in readiness should his calculated insults have their desired effect.
The tension in the room was almost visible, like flashes of heat lightning on a hot summer's night. All but Dev seemed to be holding their breath, as the scene built toward a climax, waiting; waiting to hear the sharp explosive bark of a handgun, the muffled thud of fallen body. The watchers were not cold-hearted but merely men whose senses had been dulled by countless scenes such as this. It remained only to be seen which man still stood, his death-dealing weapon still extended when the final curtain closed.
Two
The man had a date with death, Dev thought, it was just a matter of time until he picked the wrong adversary, until his big mouth got him involved with somebody who, without batting an eyelash, would silence him for good. Easy as it would be, Dev wasn't sure he cared to expend the effort. Besides, what kind of impression would it make on Jared's daughter, to arrive in town and find him at the sheriff's office, making a statement about the man he'd just killed?
The barkeeper anxiously cleared his throat. His business was suffering while everyone waited and watched. As far as he was concerned, Cantrell would be doing him and the town a favor by ridding the town of one of the good-for-nothing drifters passing through Langdon lately. One more wouldn't crowd the cemetery.
This time, though, the audience was not destined to see the finale. Later Dev might wonder if he would have finally allowed the man to goad him into drawing in anger, but as the disgruntled drunk stepped away from the bar and opened his mouth to add another jibe, a young boy burst past the double doors of the saloon and drew attention away from the confrontation.
His blue eyes were wide with an excitement that had
The tension of the barroom brawl evaporated in the face of a more exciting event. It wasn't every day that the stage from Helena was robbed. Dev forgot the drunk, who even now pounded his glass for another round. The boy turned to go, anxious to spread the word throughout the town.
Dev called to him to wait, tossed the money for his drink on the bar, and was at his side in seconds, anxious to discover what had happened to Jennifer Bryant. The boy was happy enough to offer what sketchy information he'd gathered before he'd run to spread the word.
The stage had been held up ten miles south of town, a gold shipment taken, and the driver wounded in the right shoulder when he'd tried to defend two ladies against the masked thieves.
"An' they took the ladies, too," the boy suddenly remembered to add. "Buck tried t'stop 'em.
He's awful brave, y'know, but the leader shot him faster'n' a jack-rabbit an' he didn't have a chance!" He finally stopped to take a breath and then, his eyes widening further in a freckled, too-thin face, he tugged at Dev's sleeve and I leaned closer to whisper in an awed voice, "Buck says it I was the Starmer gang that did it, says it was Cap'n Beau, hisself, that shot him!"
Dev frowned at the news, absently tousling the boy's unruly thatch of sandy hair. He dug in his pocket and produced a penny, tossing it for the lad to catch as he thanked him. He hardly heard the boy's surprised, "Gee, thanks, mister!" or saw him take flight immediately for the general store and its large candy display.
The back of Dev's neck had begun to ache, and he rubbed it as he made his way through the crowd milling about the sheriff's office. On a lazy afternoon, people had appeared out of thin air at the news of the daring robbery.
He knew Sheriff Crandall well enough, having tracked for him from time to time when the lawman needed a trained eye to pick out an outlaw's trail. Crandall was interviewing the shaken passengers and glanced up to exchange a grim nod with Dev. He was an older man, and as he leaned against his desk and listened attentively, he wore a weary expression that seemed to say he had not needed this extra burden.
Dev had arrived in the middle of the questioning, but he heard enough to confirm his suspicions that Jennifer Bryant had, indeed, been on this particular stage from Helena.
There had been five passengers aboard, and only three now sat in the sheriff's office.
Crandall had addressed his inquiries to the lone male passenger, a rancher from Langdon who had boarded the stagecoach at Penbwy, a town halfway between Helena and Langdon.
The two white-faced ladies with him were his wife and daughter. The daughter was about eighteen and more than passably pretty, though, at the moment, her face was pale and drawn with shock. She, at least, was in control of her emotions while her mother seemed unable to cease her weeping. The girl did her best to comfort her mother as her father related the details of the trip and robbery.
"As I said, we were enjoyin' the ride an' the little woman here an' m'daughter, Corey, was havin' a high time talkin' with the young English lady. The other girl, a mousy, dark-lookin'
foreigner, was this lady's maid. Miss Bryant now, she was a real looker, Sheriff ... nothin'
snooty or high-falutin' 'bout her, either! Class, if y'catch my drift." The rancher winked as if to intimate that he was a connoisseur of such things.
"The facts, please, Mr. Brackston. Time is wastin'!" Crandall tried to keep his voice even and respectful even though he felt as though he were plucking a large goose, feather by feather.
Brackston shrugged, reluctant to hurry his moment of importance. "Well, we just got done invitin' her to come visit, when ... did you know her folks are those English people who bought up Jensen's land?" He saw the anger in the sheriff's expression and the rising impatience of the young man who listened to his story so intently, and he backtracked to what was important. "Anyway, she was just about to answer when there come a shout from the driver's seat and we took off like the very devil was after us."
"Finally, I guess Buck figured he couldn't outrun who's ever chasin' us so we slowed up to a stop and suddenly the stage was surrounded!"
"Pa, there was only four of them!" Corey patted her mother's back as she let out a wail at the memory, turning to the sheriff with an apologetic expression. "By surrounded, sheriff, my Pa means there was two on each side. They ordered Buck to drop the strongbox, an' I heard it fall. We thought that's all there was to it, 'til they ordere
d everyone out of the coach." Dev and Crandall exchanged a look, wishing the girl had spoken from the beginning.
"They took Pa's watch «an' stopped to ask Miss Bryant for her reticule. The leader was tall 'n'
slim, wearin' dark clothes. I didn't see his face, but he sure had a nice way of talkin'. Like a gentleman, but Southern. Then, Miss Bryant, I almost fainted dead away when she said it, she said, 'Only a coward preys on defenseless women!' She tossed the reticule in his face and I think she called him a ... a high-wayman." Corey's face brightened and she nodded.
"Yes, that was it, a highwayman. It sounded so grand!" It was clear she admired Jennifer Bryant's spirit.
"We thought they'd rob me an' Ma, too, but the leader just laughed and grabbed her. She was strugglin' t'get away an' that little maid of hers started screechin' in some foreign language and hittin' at him. Next thing we knew one of them grabbed the maid and hauled her over his saddle an' that ... highwayman picked up Miss Bryant and managed to mount up, even with her kickin' and tryin' t'scratch. I guess that's when Buck tried to reach his shotgun an' they shot him!"
Dev had heard enough. They had already wasted valuable time. "Which direction did they go?" he said quickly before Crandall even had a chance to speak.
"I think it was south by west," Corey answered, sensing by the urgency in Dev's voice that he had a personal stake in the English girl's safety. A deputy came through the door then, informing the sheriff that he had ten men for a posse.
"Let's get to it, the day ain't gettin' any younger." Brackston stood up, somewhat put out by his daughter's independence in taking up the tale. He cleared his throat, volunteering to go along. "I feel sorta responsible for the little lady ... seem' how I wasn't able to help stop those dirty thieves."
