“I don’t understand, Senor.”
“It’s in the Bible.” Joe turned and looked at him with those bright green eyes. “. . . and I looked and beheld a pale horse and his name that sat upon him was Death and Hell followed with him.”
Diego shivered in spite of himself and crossed his chest quickly. “Are you sure it’s a sign from God—or from the Devil?” he asked.
The other gave him a long, serene look. “Only time will tell, Senor Durango. Perhaps young Maverick will never find me.”
“I pray it will be so.” Diego said, and he stood up and walked away. . . .
The noise of laughter and talk drifted from the inside of the ranch to him out there by the fountain. He roused himself from his thoughts and looked around the patio. The sun felt hot on his stooped old shoulders now that it was late morning.
For a year, he thought, for a year I have kept the secret, hoping that Maverick would either give up his search or never find the red-haired preacher. Then, in the least likely place, Maverick had stumbled onto McBride’s daughter and she was leading him innocently to kill her father. The chances of such a thing happening seemed infinitesimal to him and he looked up at the sky, wondering suddenly if God Himself were pulling the strings of the human puppets to bring these people, these events all together? No, of course He would not do anything that would create such tragedy, such horror.
Could anything be done to stop it? He remembered watching McBride shoot in the contest, wondered if Maverick realized the man he hunted was the top rifle in Texas? Despite McBride’s hesitance to defend himself, Diego knew that men changed when under a loaded gun and life suddenly became very precious to them.
He stood, hobbled into the house, and found Sanchez in the kitchen finishing a big plate of chili pepper eggs and beef. “Is anyone else close by?”
“No.” Sanchez wiped his mouth with his crippled hand. “All scattered through the house doing chores.”
“Muy bueno.” Diego rubbed his hands together with relish. He had made his decision and he felt like a young man again. He was needed, he could make a difference. “Amigo, don’t ask any questions, just gather up a few things for us and keep your mouth shut.”
Sanchez paused with a tortilla halfway to his mouth. “What—?”
“No one can really stop us but Trace, and he’s not home.” Diego folded his arms. “Doesn’t the Austin stage leave this afternoon for west Texas?”
“Si, but—”
Diego gestured impatiently. “Quit stuffing your face, compadre, and get a move on! We can be there by Monday night.”
Sanchez blinked. “Be where?”
Diego grabbed his shoulder, pulling him to his feet. It was good to be needed again, to be able to make a difference. “West Texas,” he said. “Now get some things and let’s head for town before anyone suspects. . . .”
got back! I haven’t even really gotten to take my boots off yet!”
Diego grabbed his arm, propelling him out of the kitchen. “We’ll leave a note,” he said as they went down the front hall toward the stairs. “They won’t know until it’s too late to stop us.”
“Stop us from what?” The caudillo tried to dig his boot heels in but the other kept propelling him along.
“Stop Maverick from killing a man,” he answered, then he had a sobering thought, “—or of getting killed himself. The best pistol in Texas is about to go up against the best rifleman in Texas—if it hasn’t already happened.”
Sanchez’s weathered face registered horror. “What is this you say?”
“I say I am not too old to try to stop this tragedy!” He stared back at his old friend. “Don’t you understand? There’s going to be a killing! And we’ve got to get there to see if we can stop it! Now, pack our bags and let’s make that stage!”
Chapter Twenty
Joe McBride got up out of the porch rocker with difficulty. Just how long did it take little girls to get dressed for services? He wished Cayenne were here to hurry them along.
In the distance, the bell at the weathered little church began to toll Sunday service.
“Girls,” he shouted through the open front door, “come on, we’re going to be late!”
Running feet pounded down the inside stairs. “Papa,” Lynnie called, “I can’t help it! Angel’s wet her drawers again and I’ll have to get her dry ones!”
“Besides,” Stevie yelled, “they can’t have services without the preacher!”
“Don’t count on it,” he called back. “They’ll at least start the singing without us!”
Behind him, he heard the old buggy creak to a halt and he turned.
“Senor Joe,” Juan said, “are you ready?”
“Spend half our life waitin’ for women, don’t we?” Joe grinned good-naturedly as the little girls pushed breathlessly through the creaky screen, fat old Rosita puffing along behind them.
“Here we are, Papa!”
Lynnie took his arm and helped him limp down the creaking steps into the buggy. The little girls piled in around them, along with Juan and the fat housekeeper.
“Angel,” Lynnie scolded, “get your thumb out of your mouth and, Gracious, your sash is untied!”
Joe smiled to himself. The serious, smart one was stepping into Cayenne’s spot.
Lynnie leaned over conspiratorially, whispering in his ear. “I just saw Trask mount up over at the barn.”
Joe shrugged. “Doesn’t he go everywhere we go?”
He didn’t look back as the man rode up behind the buggy. Joe had other things to think about rather than whether Trask accompanied them everywhere they went. The trio knew he wouldn’t alert the law. Besides his position, he had four little girls and his gentle Mexican help to protect. All night he had struggled with his conscience, trying to decide what to do. He’d heard Slade and his friends talking late last night, had sneaked down to listen to the conversation. He should have known they were up to no good. The Austin stage Monday evening would be carrying a secret strongbox with pay for all those troops up north of here. The message had come by wire from Wichita through some secret code they’d worked out. The trio planned to take the stage by surprise when it stopped to change horses in the sleepy little community, then escape up to their old hideout in the Indian Territory.
Sighing, he slipped both hands in his pockets. In one was his worn Bible, in the other a willow whistle he’d carved for that child at church. All these weeks he’d behaved himself, keeping his mouth shut to protect this town, his children, and maybe most of all his reputation.
But what was he going to do now? He thought about it as the buggy bumped along, the red-haired, freckle-faced little girls laughing and giggling while Juan drove the patient old mule. After all, it wasn’t Joe’s gold. If he kept his mouth shut, the robbery would go off as planned just before sundown tomorrow night and then they’d ride out of his life and no one would be the wiser.
Decisions. You could tell a lot about a man’s character by the decisions he made. Ten years ago, he’d made a wrong decision and now he might have to pay the consequences. Because of Hannah’s threat, he’d wasted valuable time going to Swen for help in finding Annie. And now her son, like an avenging angel, was coming to get him. No, maybe not.
Joe ran his fingers through his red beard thoughtfully as the buggy moved along. Maybe the Lord had been with him and the wire had reached Cayenne. Maybe the man she described was not Maverick Durango. No man wants to die, even the most religious, he thought ruefully. But if it came to a showdown, what would Joe do?
Annie. Joe sighed, deep in thought. He knew the little girls paid him no mind as they laughed and chattered in the moving buggy. He always used the time driving to church for prayer and contemplation. Twenty-five years ago, his beloved Annie had been carried off. And for fifteen of them, he had thought her dead, mourning over a faceless body in a graveyard.
But ten years ago, a young man had come to the house, asking to see him and his wife.
Sensing this wa
s something serious, Joe escorted the half-grown boy into the parlor. He chased Cayenne out to play, motioned Hannah to a seat on the Victorian horsehair sofa, and closed the door. “Now what is this all about, young man?”
What was that boy’s name? Well, it didn’t matter anyhow, Joe shook his head as the buggy bumped along. He’d left the area right after that; just a skinny, scared kid who’d been captured by the Comanche.
The boy looked from Hannah to Joe. “She—she sent me.”
Joe looked into his face blankly. “Who?”
“The woman who helped me escape while the braves was gone huntin’.”
Joe stared at the boy. “Who are you talking about?”
The boy ran his hand through his tousled hair, looking at Hannah a long moment. “Your wife,” he said.
Hannah’s homely face frowned. “You must be loco, young man. I never saw you before in my—”
“The other one,” the boy blurted out, “the one with the pretty smile.”
Joe felt his heart contract painfully in his chest and he stood up, giving a gesture of dismissal. “What a cruel thing to do! You’re after money, right? You heard about that, think you can extract money from me somehow! Well, it won’t work! She’s buried in the little cemetery. . . .”
“No, she’ ain’t.” The boy looked up at him, his eyes clear and honest. “No, she ain’t, mister. She told me if I made it back to come to you, tell you she’s wondering why you never ransomed her. . . .”
Joe swore suddenly and Hannah started, looking at him. Joe seldom swore. “Get out of my house, you rascal!” Joe said. “You’ll not play on my feelings to get money. . . .”
“Her name’s Annie Laurie,” the boy said quickly, fumbling with his hat, obviously determined to finish his mission. “She has gray eyes and the sweetest smile I ever saw.”
For a long moment, Joe thought he would faint. He swayed and grabbed at the stone fireplace for support. Of course there was nothing to it, couldn’t be. Hannah had identified the body fifteen years ago while Joe was in St. Joe involved in a bank robbery to get money to ransom Annie. “Go on.”
Hannah flounced to her feet. “Joe, don’t encourage this—this scoundrel,” she gestured, just a little too angry, a little too indignant. “He’s heard the stories, that’s all.” She faced down the young man. “Let’s get right to it. You know I inherited the Adams money, thought that we might pay you for bogus information.”
“No, I—”
“Don’t lie to me!” Hannah shrieked at him. “I’ll give you money to get you to leave, but it’s cruel of you to hurt my husband so!”
The boy stood up slowly, looking from one to the other. “I ain’t after money,” he said slowly, moving awkwardly toward the door. “And I’m leavin’ Texas forever when I walk out of this place.”
Joe still gripped the stone of the fireplace so hard his fingers hurt. His emotions were torn with indecisions, disbelief. “Wait, boy, tell me—”
“There ain’t much more to tell, mister,” the boy fumbled with his hat. “Annie helped me escape, even though I’ll bet the Comanche might do something terrible to her for doin’ it.” He named a band of the tribe to the north. “I told her if I made it back, I’d bring you the message.”
He looked from Joe to Hannah. “I guess she didn’t know you’d remarried. By the way, she’s got a half-breed son a little younger than I am.”
Joe’s guts twisted at the images that came to his mind of his Annie beneath some dark-skinned Comanche savage. Someday, I’ll give you my son, she had said.
The boy paused a long moment in the doorway, looking from Hannah to Joe. “I can’t do any more than I’ve done, mister. Now it’s up to you.”
The boy turned and went out the front door. Joe leaned against the fireplace with his eyes closed, listening to the horse trotting away from the ranch.
Hannah’s skirts rustled as she came over to him. “Joe, there’s bound to be a mistake. . . .”
“Is there?” He looked into her homely, plump face. “You identified that body, Hannah, buried it before I got back from St. Joe.”
“I—I—” She twisted her short fingers together. “I thought it was her. . . .”
“Thought!” He confronted her, “Thought!”
Hannah bit her lip. “It . . . she was about the same size. . . brown hair. The body was in pretty bad shape by the time the Rangers brought it in, Joe, but I recognized that old faded dress she always wore.”
“I always meant to buy her a new one,” he said absently, going over to stare out the window as if he could see the grave from here. He wondered suddenly who the nameless woman in Annie’s grave was, why she might have been wearing Annie’s clothes. “Fifteen years,” he muttered, “for fifteen years, Annie’s been a captive, going through hell and me not even knowing she’s alive.”
Hannah caught his arm. “I—I thought it was her, honest! And all I could think of was that if she was dead, you might marry me! I did it because I loved you, Joe, always loved you!”
He looked down at her coldly and shook her arm off. “So you were only too eager to identify that body, even though you weren’t sure, so you could step into her place.”
“And what about you?” she screamed at him. “Weren’t you eager to marry me, get your hands on my father’s ranch, his money? Do you think I’m so stupid I didn’t realize you wouldn’t have looked at me twice without my inheritance?”
“You’re right, of course.” Joe ran his hand through his red hair. “God is not mocked,” he said softly. “Someone told me that once and I guess we’ll both pay the price for our sins.”
Her face paled. “Joe, what do you intend to do? If she’s been with the Injuns for fifteen years, she’s changed, might not even be sane. . . .”
“After fifteen years with the Comanche, she’d be lucky to even be alive, much less sane.” He wrung his hands together with indecision, staring out the window. His beloved Cayenne swung in a big rope swing hanging from the limb of a chinaberry tree to the side of the house.
Hannah came over, looking out with him at the laughing red-haired child. “And what about her?” Her tone was bitter, jealous. “If you don’t give a damn about me, what about her?”
“What do you mean?”
“If your first wife is still alive, Joe, we aren’t married. That makes Cayenne a bastard.”
He winced at the word, the cruel memories it brought back of children chasing him home from school, throwing stones and taunting him. Bastard! Bastard! Joe carries his mama’s name ’cause he ain’t got no pa!
He had a sudden image of the local children taunting and ostracizing his beloved daughter.
Hannah seemed to sense her advantage. “And there’s that boy, too, a half-breed savage boy. What would you do about him?”
“I—I don’t know.” He watched his daughter swing higher and higher, singing that old folk tune he had taught her. . . . and for darlin’ Annie Laurie . . .
“We’ll go away somewhere,” he babbled desperately. “I don’t know how, but maybe we can work all this out. . .”
“I ain’t gonna raise no half-breed brat,” Hannah crossed her arms contemptuously.
Joe turned, eyeing her coldly. “Then I’ll take Annie and her boy, take Cayenne. The four of us will go away. . . .”
“Take my child! Likely chance!”
Joe looked at her. “You’ve never really cared about Cayenne, always been jealous of the love I have for her.”
Hannah paced the floor. “I can’t help it, Joe. I resent havin’ to share you with anyone, even my own child.”
“Then I could take her, and maybe Annie and her son, and we’ll go away, start over. . . .”
“You think any Texas court would let you have her with all the Adams influence and money?”
He looked out the window again, struggling with the decision. I—I can’t just not do anything.”
“Why not?” Hannah shrugged. “As far as everyone’s concerned, she’s been dead fi
fteen years. Nobody but you, me, and that boy who’s leavin’ Texas knows about this. She may be dead by now anyway. The Injuns probably killed her for helpin’ that boy escape!”
Joe McBride was a proud man and he had grieved for a dead wife all these long years. The innocent, laughing Annie he had known would not be the same person, might not even be sane. And what was he to do with a savage Comanche son?
The thought of the son brought to mind his Annie lying under some dark brute. She could have killed herself rather than submit. Lots of captured women did. Then he felt deep shame at his thoughts. Cayenne laughed again out in the swing, and tears came to his eyes as he watched his beloved child playing.
Hannah must have read his thoughts. “You can’t keep Cayenne if you bring that Annie and her half-breed boy here, I’ll see to that!”
He had a choice to make, and he let his pride, his love for his own child, make that choice. In this little nameless community, Joe was a rich and influential man. And that was very important to him. He had been a poor, nameless boy with others chasing him home, mistreating him because his pa was not legally married to his mother. They’d not do that to little Cayenne. Joe struggled with his decision for weeks before he finally went in to see “Swen” Swenson of the Rangers. The man was older, gray in the blond hair now, and he’d been promoted. Swen said he’d be on the lookout, but not to expect too much. Joe checked back with Swenson many times and the man always discouraged him, told him to forget about Annie. And finally, Joe quit asking.
After that, Hannah seemed to get pregnant often, as if trying to bind him to her with more children. As he never loved her before, he did not love her now. But there are many empty, bitter marriages that are held together by the love of little children.
And then three years ago, as her life slipped away after the birth of Angel, Hannah had motioned him to her side. “I—I was wrong, Joe,” she whispered. “I’ve felt so guilty, but I loved you so. . . .”
“No, we was both wrong,” Joe patted her short, plump hands. “It was me as much as you; my pride. I said it was love for the child but I think now it was purdee pride, thinking how people would whisper about Annie, how other men would laugh behind my back, what people would wonder about and say.”
Comanche Cowboy (The Durango Family) Page 36
