by Cotton Smith
But the query brought only a laugh. “I stole it. That four-eyed fella you killed. It was his. Figured he wasn’t going to need it anymore. I saw it tied outside of Holden’s saloon. Slipped loose the reins, pretty as you please, an’ rode out. I figure they owe me at least a horse. A horse for a hand. Not many would make that trade.”
Carlow nodded.
“If you don’t mind, I’m going to call you Ty. Had me a good friend growing up by that name. Time’s a bit much for me. That all right?”
Carlow smiled. He probably wouldn’t see this man again. “Sure. Ty’s fine. Hey, you’ll find a good-looking black horse in the Von Pearce’s corral.” Carlow folded his arms and squeezed them against his chest to reduce the ache that was building. An ache that had nothing to do with his hands or his forehead. It was in his soul. “He’s mine. The widow lent me this buckskin. I nearly wore down my black chasing after Silver. Good horse. Take care of him until I get back, will you?”
“Sure. As long as I’m breathin’,” Nichols said, glancing over at the tied buckskin and letting his eyes rest on the Cradle 6 brand.
“Will?”
“Yeah?”
“You are a good friend yourself. Bea is fortunate to have someone like you on her side. I’m proud to know you.”
Nichols grinned widely. “Well, it’s likely the last time I’ll be seein’ you on this fine earth, Ranger. Ride strong, Ty.”
“You, too, Will. You’ve got a hard ride ahead. It’ll be dark pretty quick now. Rain’s coming, too.”
Nichols stared up at the sky again as if it held significant answers for him. “There’s an overhang an hour back.” He grinned self-consciously. “I-I used to go there when I couldn’t get into the livery to sleep. I’ll wait out the night an’ ride to the ranch in the mornin’.” He pulled on the reins to swing his horse around.
“Wait a minute, Will,” Carlow said, and went to his saddlebags. He returned with the double-action Smith & Wesson revolver he carried as a backup, and handed it to Will. “You might be needing this before you have a chance to get another. It’s fresh loaded. Five in the wheel.”
“Well, thank you, Ty.” Nichols’s face was bright with determination. He laid the reins across his saddle and took the handgun in his right fist, staring at the weapon.
Carlow cocked his head and swallowed the angst swirling in his throat. He felt like a traitor. “Godspeed, Will Nichols. May the good Lord keep you in his hand and never close his fist too tight.” It was one of his uncle’s favorite blessings, one of the few recitations that wasn’t a toast.
“Thank you for that, Ranger. We’ll be needin’ it.” Shoving the gun into his waistband, he retrieved the reins, swung the horse around in one motion, and kicked it into a run.
The young Ranger watched the one-handed Nichols gallop away. He was silent. Until his soul began to talk. Words crawled their way into the darkening air. “Shannon, you’ve got to understand, my friend. I won’t let Silver Mallow get away. I won’t. I’ll find him if it takes the rest of my life. But if I don’t help these folks now . . . If you were here, Shannon, you’d be telling me that we have to help them. I know you would. I know you would.” He touched the blood stones in his vest pocket and wished Jessie Holden were there and could actually make the spirits speak to him.
Once again, the memory reached him of Kileen advising him, a teenager, before Time left to help drive cattle to Dodge City. “One day t’will be a stand ye be makin’, me son.”
“I doubt you’ll be knowin’, Thunder, until it’s too late—but this is the time. I will stand,” he muttered to himself, bent down, and scratched his wolf-dog’s ears. “Chance, you want to see that little girl again? Or do you have better things to do?” He pushed aside the concern of having to explain to Captain McNelly why he hadn’t recaptured the infamous outlaw or trying to rationalize catching up with him later. His soul jumped happily as the decision turned into action.
Yanking free the reins, he sprang onto the buckskin, and they cleared the creek bed in three bounds, with Chance leading the way. The Celtic cross flipped up into Carlow’s face as the horse landed on the level ground. With his left hand, he grabbed the chain and the ancient symbol. A quick shove returned them to the inside of his shirt. His gaze locked onto the silhouette becoming larger in front of him. Was the cross coming free an indication that his father approved of his decision? Or was it a warning? Or was it the fact that his top shirt button had broken off? His fingers assured him it was the latter as he spurred the buckskin into a full gallop, passing the barking Chance. His long coat flapped out behind him like a ghost in the wind.
Nichols turned in the saddle, hearing the thundering hooves behind him. The look on his face was that of a small boy unwrapping an unexpected birthday present. Carlow nearly ran past him in his eagerness to catch up. Chance skidded to a stop a few yards away from the one-handed cowboy and barked enthusiastically.
“What brings you here this fine evenin’, Ranger Carlow?” Nichols yelled with a lilt in his voice. “You an’ your growlin’ friend here.”
Carlow grinned and blurted, “I didn’t think you’d know how to care for my horse. Thought I’d better come along.”
Nichols rocked in the saddle with laughter. “Mercy upon Red Anklon, the fine doctor—and his witch wife. The wrath o’ God is comin’ for the bastards—an’ they don’t know it.” He frowned. “But what about that Silver fella?”
“He’ll just have to wait to hang.” Carlow grinned. “Can we get to that overhang before it rains?”
“It’ll be close. Follow this ol’ cowhand.”
Carlow remembered the cigars from Holden’s store and offered one to Nichols. It took three matches to get the cowboy’s lit, but he savored the tobacco, almost forgetting they had riding to do.
Looking over his shoulder, Carlow said, “We’d better get moving. That rain is coming fast.”
Nichols blew a white circle and watched it proudly. “Let’s go.”
Barely aware of the storm charging at their rear, Nichols led them on a little-used trail west of Presidio. They were soon drenched but kept riding, both too enthusiastic to stop or find shelter. Carlow tossed aside his cigar, unable to keep it lit in the downpour. But Nichols continued to hold his soaked cigar in his teeth. Carlow couldn’t remember feeling so good. His forehead didn’t ache; neither did his hands. The strange gnarling in his stomach had vanished.
His mind was swirling with ideas about what they must do to stop Dr. Holden from getting the Von Pearce ranch. Jessie Holden kept appearing within the ideas to suggest a seance. He glanced at the angry sky but couldn’t see a moon. What would Kileen say that meant? Carlow wondered how many Cradle 6 riders would still be there and if any could, or would, fight. Was the Comanche wrangler’s statement of only five riders correct? Or Bea’s ten? He was certain now Two-Wolves had stated the situation accurately.
Assuming her cowhands wouldn’t help or couldn’t, Charlie Two-Wolves, Will Nichols, and himself would make three against how many? Red Anklon would be more leery when they met again, more likely to shoot than to fight. He glanced down at his partially swollen hands when the thought reached him. They had to find a way to take the battle to Dr. Holden, instead of waiting to be attacked. He had learned that lesson the hard way in Bennett. The only advantage the three men had would be surprise. It would have to be enough.
Darkness and the rain had managed to shove them back into a weary reality. Even Chance seemed beaten down by the storm, a water-logged ball of fur trailing the two riders with his tail almost dragging on the saturated ground. Carlow glanced back to make certain Chance was close. The wolf-dog was soaked and running hard; his growl told the Ranger that he didn’t like either.
“Come on, boy, you’ve been wet before,” Carlow yelled cheerily.
Nichols pointed with his stump. “It’s not far now, Ty.”
Minutes later, they rounded a hillside littered with boulders that looked like sitting men, swung their horses to the lef
t, and galloped along a narrow spoon of land between hills. Soon they were under the protection of a wide rock shelf that had shoved its way out of the adjoining hillside. Both were sopping wet, but attempts to start a fire proved fruitless. Carlow had used up the kindling in his fire-starter sack the night before.
They unsaddled their horses without talking; Nichols refused help, using the stump of his left arm for leverage and support. Carlow suggested tying their horses to a sprawled bush, and they did. Chance sought a corner of the shelf where it seemed dry and lay down to watch. After caring for the horses, the young Ranger took the extra shirt from his saddlebags, the only thing he had that was still dry. He wiped off the wolf-dog as best he could and checked his paws for any cuts.
“Thanks, my friend. I know you believe we’re doing the right thing.” Carlow boxed the wolf-dog’s head with the shirt. The young Ranger inhaled his emotion. “Thank you, too, Shannon.”
Chance responded with a low purr and licked Carlow’s hand.
Nichols asked if he had any more cigars. Carlow felt for the remaining smoke and withdrew a damp tobacco roll. Nichols took it anyway and laid the cigar carefully beside his bedroll to dry out. They shared what remained of Bea’s food. Carlow handed most of his share of the meat to Chance, who gobbled it eagerly.
Both were soon asleep, with a very wet Chance curled beside Carlow.
Chapter Twenty-two
In Presidio, the night rain pounded against an imposing two-story white house that intimidated the neighboring homes with its sheer size. Occasional lightning made it clear that a line of well-groomed bushes along the front of the house had surrendered to the storm and lay against the soaked earth.
Inside, darkness ruled, except for a lone lamp in the den. Rain splattered relentlessly against glass windows displaying fine silk drapes. Dr. Remington Holden sat in an evergreen overstuffed chair, sipping on a glass of Tennessee sour mash whiskey. Shards of yellow light sliced across his pale face, making him appear angry. But he wasn’t. Not anymore. He was pleased with himself.
Quite pleased, in fact.
His men would drive off the Cradle 6 herd tonight, after taking care of the rest of the Von Pearce riders. The rain would provide perfect cover, leaving no trace. His men didn’t like the idea of going out in the rain, especially Del Gato, but they would go. Even Del Gato. Anklon had asked to lead them like always. The former Confederate officer needed to regain some lost ego, the physician had surmised, and so he had agreed, although he warned his brother-in-law to ride with some padding on the saddle.
Earlier in the evening, Jessie had declared she wanted to ride with her brother. Holden was a little leery of the idea, but she had insisted and he had reluctantly approved. She would have gone anyway. So far, though, she hadn’t left the house. Chuckling, he doubted she would go, even if it stopped raining this instant; she didn’t like rain any more than Del Gato did.
He was certain she remained upstairs, doing whatever it was she did when the moon was full. Some kind of mumbo jumbo. He had never understood any of it. Of course, he was never certain what she might do either. He had his suspicions there were others before they met. She had murdered three people that he knew of since they had been married. The murder of the German couple who owned the Double-R had, at least, been turned into a positive: he owned the Double-R now. But he never did understand why she had killed that stranger who came to town last year. A Frenchman, he thought, and he had a feeling the man had been an old lover from New Orleans. She had never explained. Murder was bad enough, but cutting off ears and drawing on the victims with their own blood was nauseating.
However, she had promised to end that kind of behavior. Today, though, she had become highly agitated over her brother’s beating by the Ranger. She had always been protective of Red Anklon. He shook his head; how could a man the size of Anklon need the protection of a woman? Maybe Jessie knew something about Red that he didn’t.
He took another sip and let the whiskey excite his throat. If she wanted to go on the raid, that would be fine. Even if she went into one of her fits and wanted to cut off an ear of one of the Cradle 6 riders. It was too late for her to mess this up.
Two of the widow’s cowhands had already been bought. They would make it easy to get close. The herd would be held in an out-of-the-way valley until he had purchased the Von Pearce ranch. That would be tomorrow when Bea Von Pearce was alone. After Viceroy killed her fool Indian wrangler. That reminded him of Jessie’s silly comment about that Indian’s having magical powers. We’ll see how magical he is filled with bullets. His own shrill laugh bounced around the room.
Tomorrow.
Today had not gone well, he admitted to himself. He didn’t like events—or people—out of his control. The young Ranger’s showing up was unexpected; his whipping of Red Anklon was an even bigger surprise. Dr. Holden shook his head and giggled. After the agonizing pain subsided, the big man wanted to find the Ranger and shoot him. Dr. Holden had told him the Ranger was on his way to Mexico. Anklon’s injuries, other than to his ego, were relatively minor. His groin, stomach, and face would be sore and bruised for weeks, but his jaw wasn’t broken and only one rib was cracked.
There was nothing to do for the busted tooth, except laudanum. At least it wasn’t a front tooth. Jessie’s brother had been effective in the physician’s careful land grab; there was no reason to doubt him now.
The young Ranger had proved to be a tough man to get rid of. The best idea was to get him out of town. Way out of town. And make it his own decision. Mexico had a nice ring to it. That was Holden’s idea—with help from Kahn and the outlaw Silver Mallow himself. He took another sip of his whiskey and stared at the window.
He liked Mallow; the outlaw could be useful, perhaps, sometime. The man owed him. Big time. Even though the attempted ambush in the whorehouse had failed. The young Ranger would definitely had cornered Mallow if the doctor hadn’t decided to intervene.
It was a spur of the moment decision; Anklon had agreed. Del Gato didn’t like the idea—but he hadn’t liked hiring Viceroy either. Holden figured it was an insult to the halfbreed’s reputation, but he didn’t care. Having a killer to direct was the ultimate weapon; he could always see that the man was arrested and destroyed, leaving Holden free of the situation.
Lightning flashed and declared the rain was letting up. Definitely letting up. Anklon and his men should be on their way by now.
In the five years since his parents had died, he had done well. A lot better than his stern father had. “The son of a bitch deserved to die,” he muttered. His father had never suspected the poison in his food. Neither had his mother. He felt a twinge of guilt about her death; she had been the one who supported his becoming a doctor. But his mother’s continued presence would have only complicated things. Jessie had been steadfast on that point.
“Besides, she always sided with the old man, except about my becoming a doctor,” he muttered again, and poured himself more whiskey.
At least his father had been right about a physician’s never becoming wealthy. Too many of them got paid in eggs, chickens, and baked goods. My fool of a mother thought it was a noble profession, regardless. He raised his glass in tribute to her memory.
He remembered clearly the day Jessie told him they should return to Presidio and use medicine to gain immense power, initially over his parents, and then over the region. Power over the region. The fire of that idea fed him daily. Most in town thought he was simply a caring doctor who had inherited his parents’ wealth but had continued serving the people’s needs. The charade had kept him close to town news, provided a wonderful way to remove an occasional obstacle, and given him the appearance of respectability.
That would be important later. When he ran for governor. Governor Holden. What a wonderful sound.
The underwriting of Kahn’s pleasure house had been his first investment after his parents were gone. Something neither would ever have done—or come close to understanding. The investment had yielded
significant profits as well as enjoyable diversions—and, once in a while, important information. It had been kept silent; Rellena Kahn was a woman who knew how to keep secrets. She had also been helpful with the Silver Mallow situation and getting the young Ranger out of town without further trouble.
Holden’s taste for black women had been ignited at medical school in New Orleans and had been fully flamed by his dalliances with Black Bethinia. His loins responded favorably with the thought. Bedtime with his beautiful wife had become colder as her interest in moon magic and seances grew and took her warmth from him.
Yet, she had been an effective partner in his scheming. An enthusiastic partner.
They had met in New Orleans and he had been engulfed in lust for her immediately. At the time, her interests in witchcraft and the like were minor annoyances in his enjoyment of her body. Now she was becoming a liability—to a growing degree—to his image of respectability. He knew she wouldn’t be able to quit her obsessions, no matter the goal. At least he was able to cover up the killing of the German couple by presenting it as an Indian raid—and managed to explain the death of the Frenchman as a random hotel robbery gone bad.
But some in town feared her. To some degree, he did, too.
When the time was right, she would come down with some incurable illness that was beyond his skills and prayers. He had even practiced his mournful presentation to the town. Might even help his campaign for governor; people liked to vote for a man dealing with grief.
But using poison disguised as medicine was effective only if it was applied rarely. And it always had to look like the person was nearing death before the doctor was involved or appeared to be. Otherwise, it would be self-defeating. That’s where Red Anklon, Del Gato, and their small band of outlaws came in. Anklon’s men had proved effective in changing brands and blending stolen cattle with the Bar H herd. Of course, no one ever thought the kind doctor was being anything but helpful by buying out a beleaguered rancher.
