Kate nodded. “I know it is. I have thirty thousand on hand, but I need to borrow the rest. It has to be done quickly since my son’s life is at stake.”
Clay, big-bellied and florid but robust, accepted the brandy Kate handed to him, asked and was granted her permission to smoke a cigar, and then said, “You must not pay this ransom, Kate. I know that is your intention, but I must forbid it. Since this situation is of the greatest moment, the day after tomorrow I can have a hundred riders, all determined and well-armed men, outside your front door, eagerly awaiting your order to effect a rescue. We will smash this McKenzie upstart and his cohorts with overwhelming force and free young Trace from a dark and dreary dungeon.” Clay raised his hand and thumped down hard on the arm of his chair. “The mailed fist, dear lady, that’s the only medicine the criminal classes understand, and I include nesters of every stripe.”
The big cattleman sat back and gave Kate a self-satisfied smile, as though he’d fairly presented his case and there could be no other solution.
“Mr. Clay—”
“Hiram, please.”
Kate nodded. “Hiram, as soon as McKenzie and his men spot your dust cloud they will shoot my son, and many of the association’s cowboys, young men with wives, children, or sweethearts, will die in the exchange of fire that follows. The cost of trying to free Trace would be counted in the bodies of dead drovers, and I am not willing to pay such a blood price.”
“Kate . . . I—perhaps . . .” Clay’s voice trailed away, unable to express the tangled thoughts that ran through his head. He knew Kate Kerrigan spoke the truth, unpalatable as it was.
“I’ve studied the problem from all angles, and there is only one answer,” Kate said. “I have to pay the ransom. There is no other way.”
“A solution will present itself. I am confident it will,” Clay said.
“And in the meantime?” Kate said.
“Well, as for the Mexicans currently squatting on your range, I will wire General Porfirio Díaz and request that his troops remove them forcibly,” Clay said. “That gentleman owes me many favors since our cattleman’s association supplied his rurales with rifles, horses, and beef during his rebellion.”
“And the raising of the ransom money?” Kate said. She used her body as a perfumed, silken lure, bending forward more than was strictly necessary to push an ashtray closer to Clay. She saw his eyes drop to her deep cleavage and she marveled at the power a woman has over an ardent man.
Clay harrumphed, raised his gaze to Kate’s radiantly beautiful face, and said, “Kate, it will take time to raise such a sum.”
“I have less than a week left,” Kate said.
“Ah, then you shall have it soon, even if I have to furnish the entire amount myself.”
“I will pay after the spring gather,” Kate said.
Clay smiled. “Dearest Kate, your credit is good with me and every rancher in Texas. It will be a great honor to loan you the money you need.”
“Thank you, dearest Hiram. As soon as possible you must visit for tea and sponge cake,” Kate said. She rose to her feet. “Now, you are a busy and important man and I have no wish to detain you longer.”
Clay drained his brandy glass, rose, and kissed Kate’s hand. “My accountant will be in touch, so until we meet again, my dear,” he said. “Let us hope in happier circumstance when Trace is safe and sound in the, ah”—he glanced at the swelling tops of Kate’s breasts—“bosom of his family.”
“Dear Hiram, I will count the hours,” Kate said, allowing the man to kiss her hand again.
* * *
“I wouldn’t put my hopes in Hiram Clay calling in favors from Porfirio Díaz,” Frank Cobb said. “Díaz has a famine on his hands, and he’s dealing with a lot of unrest, not only among the peons but in the military.”
Quinn Kerrigan sat on an empty cot in the bunkhouse, a cup of coffee in his hands and a lot on his mind. “I don’t think Ma gives a damn about Díaz returning favors and wondering about what he’ll do or not do,” he said. “Once she pays the ransom for Trace, she’ll be ruined, and whether or not there are Mexicans on the north bank of the Rio Grande won’t matter. She told me she might head for the New Mexico Territory and start again on a quarter-section.”
“You’d go with her?” Frank said.
“Of course. You?”
Frank nodded. “To hell, if that’s where she wanted to go.”
Quinn smiled. “I don’t think hell enters into Ma’s thinking.” Then, his face suddenly alight, “Wait a minute . . . wait a cotton-picking minute . . . you look like him, Frank. Not in the face, but you have the black hair and the same rangy build.”
“Look like who?” Frank said. Then warily, “You’re not getting another of your bright ideas?”
“You look like Slide McKenzie. You could get close, real close.”
“Close? You mean close to Bat and Sky Boswell?”
“Yeah. Close enough to draw down on them.”
“And get my head blown off,” Frank said. “Maybe I could shade one of them—and that’s a big maybe—but not them both. I shoot Bat, Sky will drill me or vice versa. Depend on it.”
“But it’s something to think about though,” Quinn said. “Wearing McKenzie’s clothes, you could pass for him at a distance, and I’ll be with you.”
“Has Slide seen you?” Frank said.
“I don’t think so,” Quinn said. “Suppose I dress like a saddle tramp and ride with you. Maybe the Boswell boys will think I’m somebody McKenzie picked up on the trail. Especially if we’re leading a packhorse with Ma’s big steamer trunk tied to its back.” Quinn’s young face glowed with enthusiasm. “The Boswells might reckon McKenzie needed help to carry the money.”
“And he hired a man to guard it,” Frank said. “Is that right?”
“Damn sure it’s right,” Quinn said, clapping his hands. “It’s a plan.”
“It’s a lousy, half-assed plan that will get us both killed,” Frank said.
“So you don’t like it?” Quinn said, disappointment slumping his shoulders.
“I don’t want any part of it, but, God help me, I’ll study on it for a spell,” Frank said. “Bad as it is, and it’s real bad, right now it’s the only plan we have.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
As was her habit before retiring, Kate Kerrigan threw open her bedroom window and stared out into the mother-of-pearl night illuminated by a waxing moon. Doctors said night air was bad for the lungs, but Kate did not hold with that. In the gloom she could not see her land, but for a few minutes she breathed deeply of its smell, the odor of grass, of cows and horses, and, delicate as a baby’s breath, the fragrance of sagebrush and distant pine borne on the breeze. It was the smell of the living land, the land that roused the Irish in her and whispered in her ear that hers was “a rich and rare land, a fresh and fair land, a dear and rare land,” this land of hers.
A long-dead Irish poet wrote that line and Kate never tired of calling it to mind.
After a while she leaned forward to close the window and her silk nightdress fluttered in the breeze as though she was about to take flight. She stopped suddenly and stared into the darkness. There! A man walking, not out for a stroll before bed but striding purposely, knowing where he was going and hurrying to get there. From the lofty viewpoint of her window Kate recognized the shadowy figure, short, slender, wearing a ditto suit and plug hat. It was Josiah Mosely, and where was he going this time of night?
Unbidden, a disturbing thought barged its way into her head: Could Josiah be the cowboy killer, bent on getting even for the beating they’d given him? Was he now hunting for Buck Nolan to make his revenge complete?
It was possible, and Kate knew she had to act to stop him. Fearing she’d lose him in the darkness, she threw on her robe, stepped into her slippers, and, as an afterthought, dropped her derringer into her pocket.
Kate hurried downstairs, moving through the dark house like a candle flame, and stepped outside. She stood for a fe
w moments, her eyes searching into the darkness. There was no sign of Josiah Mosely. The young man had been swallowed by the night. But Kate had been around Frank Cobb enough to learn the ways and skills of the tracker, and after she scouted the area where she’d last seen Mosely she picked up his trail. But he was heading due north, away from the Cody encampment.
Puzzled, helped by the moonlight, Kate followed the man’s tracks that after several hundred yards began a gradual swing to the northwest toward the tree line. Had Josiah stashed his balloon there and was going to work on it? But at night? And in the dark? It didn’t add up.
Ahead of her, Kate heard an owl hoot. A few moments later the call was answered by another, farther away. But these were no owls. Mosely had signaled to someone, warning of his approach, and the hidden man—she was sure the hoot had been made by a male—had answered.
Mosely moved again and Kate followed, drawing close.
A dark cloud glided across the face of the moon, dimming the light. Kate waited, her face turned to the sky, watching as the silver-rimmed cloud slowly sailed on. The moonlight brightened . . . and solved one mystery but created another.
“Mr. Mosely,” Kate said, her voice loud in the stillness, “I hope you have a good explanation for this.”
Kate’s words froze Josiah Mosely and Cloud Passing in place, an immobile tableau of a white man handing a bulging burlap sack to an Indian.
“Well?” Kate said, emphasizing her demand by palming the derringer.
Mosely finally found some words. “I can explain,” he said.
“I think you’d better,” Kate said.
* * *
“So Bill Cody believes someone else committed the murders,” Kate Kerrigan said, returning the derringer to her robe pocket. “I wonder if he has anyone in mind.”
“I don’t think so,” Josiah Mosely said. “Or if he suspects someone he’s keeping it to himself.”
Kate glanced at Cloud Passing, who stood aloof eating the roast beef and bread Mosely had brought him from the kitchen. “He’s the obvious suspect,” Kate said.
Mosely nodded. “Maybe too obvious, there’s no doubt about that. Earlier today I saw a posse looking for him. We’d already brought the balloon basket and envelope deeper into the trees, and just as well, because a couple of men rode pretty close, looked around, and thankfully kept on going.”
“Were they cowboys?” Kate said.
“Yes, big hats and spurred boots,” Mosely said.
“You were lucky. Punchers won’t walk when they don’t have to. That’s why they didn’t dismount and search the trees. Roustabouts and others would have beat the bushes.”
Mosely’s voice held a tone of urgency. “Mrs. Kerrigan, you won’t sell us out, will you?”
Kate shivered, the thin stuff of her night attire providing little protection against the cool night air. “I will think about this and pray for guidance,” she said. “Then I’ll make my decision.”
“I feel responsible for Cloud Passing, and I don’t want to see him hanged for something he didn’t do,” Mosely said.
“None of us do, except the real killer if there is one,” Kate said. “Be careful, Josiah. You’re dealing with a Cheyenne Dog Soldier, and from what I’ve been told, he can turn on you.”
“He won’t. Cloud Passing knows his time is over, and that’s why he allows Bill Cody to exhibit him like one of his wild animals.”
“I must go now,” Kate said. “The night is getting decidedly cold.”
“I was just bringing food to Cloud Passing,” Mosely said. “I’ll escort you home, Mrs. Kerrigan, since there is a killer still at large.”
As she and Mosely walked through the darkness, Kate turned and saw Cloud Passing watch them go. The thought came to her then that thanks to Buffalo Bill Cody and others like him the proud Cheyenne warrior was gone and in his place stood a cigar store Indian. Like Mosely she didn’t want the man to hang—his life was already a living death.
* * *
“Mrs. Kerrigan, before we retire, could I interest you in a cup of coffee?” Josiah Mosely said.
“I am very tired,” Kate said.
“I just want to talk to you,” Mosely said. “It won’t take long.”
The young man’s face was pleading, and Kate smiled and said, “Very well, then. One half cup and then I must turn in.”
For the convenience of the drovers, Kate insisted that a pot of coffee simmer on the kitchen stove day and night, and she bade Mosely sit at the table while she poured a cup for them both.
Once she was seated she smiled and said, “Now Mr. Mosely, what can be so important that it’s keeping me from my beauty sleep?”
The young man gathered his thoughts and said, “Mrs. Kerrigan, I’m a rainmaker who has never made it rain. I’ve never traveled on a steam train, never visited a big city, and I have never seen a great ocean. I have no loved ones, folks who are glad at my coming and sad at my leaving. Horses don’t like me and neither do dogs and most children.”
Kate’s eyelids drooped as Mosely talked, but they popped wide open when he said, “I have never slept with a woman or even held one in my arms.”
“Mr. Mosely,” she said, “that is hardly a matter for polite discussion.”
“There is nothing to discuss, Mrs. Kerrigan. Please, hear me out. I am small and skinny and not very strong, and that’s why tough and rugged men like Frank Cobb can barely tolerate me. I can read and write and do my ciphers, but I can’t sing a love song or make pleasant parlor conversation. To sum up, I live in this world, but I don’t matter a damn.”
“Mr. Mosely, I—” a flustered Kate began, but Mosely cut her off.
“I’m not seeking sympathy. I’m just telling you the truth. I’m as significant as a lit candle on the prairie during a lightning storm, and that means I’m of no consequence whatsoever. When I die no one will grieve for me because it will be like I never lived.”
“Mr. Mosely, why are you telling me all this?” Kate said. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”
Mosely smiled and shook his head. “Many men would view that as an invitation.”
“It’s not,” Kate said.
“Of course it’s not, because that’s not how it was intended.”
“Now I really must get to bed,” Kate said. “We’ll talk of this again sometime.”
“No, we won’t, because I will not mention it again,” Mosely said. “But I want to ask you to do one thing for me, a small favor. When you hear of my death, and you will, say my name out loud. Please say ‘Josiah Mosely’ when there are others present so they know that such a man as me once existed, that he felt the sun on his back and turned his face to the rain.”
After a while Kate said, “I must go now.” She rose to her slippered feet and glided across the kitchen’s flagstoned floor. When she reached the door she opened it a little, then turned and said, “Josiah Mosely I will say your name. I will say it aloud. And tonight I will pray a rosary for you.” Kate dashed a tear from her eye. “Josiah, as you talked I came to believe that you and Cloud Passing were destined to meet because you are both poor, tormented creatures.” She shook her beautiful head and said, “And oh, how my heart breaks for you.”
After Kate left, taking the moonlight with her, Mosely sat in the dark kitchen and steeled himself for what he had to do.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“Beef and beans, Kerrigan,” Slide McKenzie said. “Hell, you’re eating better than the Mexicans out there.”
“That’s because we need you alive,” Bat Boswell said. He smiled. “For the time being anyway.”
The gunman stood on the stairs, a handsome man wearing a frilled white shirt and tight pants tucked into English riding boots. A tooled cartridge belt circled his slim hips, an ivory-handled Colt in the holster. Appearances were deceptive. Boswell had the savage mind of a predator, a killer without conscience, and his brother Sky matched him in every regard.
McKenzie passed a tin plate and fork to Trace and s
aid, “Just a few more days and you’ll be out of here. Unless I don’t get the hundred thousand from your ma, and then you’ll be dead.”
“Then that’s how it will be,” Trace said. Looking into McKenzie’s eyes was like staring into the mud of a fetid swamp. “But in the end you’ll lose, McKenzie. The Mexicans camped out there will never follow a lowlife like you onto the KK range. They’re human beings, and you can’t use them as a weapon.”
McKenzie grinned. “You’re right, Kerrigan, maybe they won’t follow me, but they will follow the Santa Muerte.”
“What the hell are you talking about, McKenzie?” Trace said.
“I found her in this very room stashed over there in a corner. I guess the Comanche took one look and left her alone. She’s like one of them Madonna statues you see in the Mexican churches, but her head is a skull. The one I got has a real skull, some gal who died hundreds of years ago, I guess. The Mexicans called it a miracle that the statue survived all these years, and I told them that Santa Muerte had come to me in a vision and swore to me that she will lead them all to the promised land.” McKenzie smiled. “And they believed me. Hell, they got down on their knees and prayed. Now the word has spread deep into Mexico that a miracle was performed here and more and more folks are arriving every day.”
“You idiot, McKenzie, Santa Muerte is the Angel of Death,” Trace said. “She’ll end up killing you. Get rid of that statue. This is a warning you should heed.”
“Like I give a damn,” McKenzie said. “A wooden idol worshiped by a bunch of ignorant popish peasants ain’t gonna kill a good Protestant like Slide McKenzie, no sir.”
“McKenzie, if the angel doesn’t kill you I’ll live to wring your scrawny neck,” Trace said. “Depend on it.”
“Big talk, kinda what I’d expect from a rich woman’s son,” McKenzie said. “Well let me tell you this, Kerrigan, a week from now your ma won’t be so rich. Fact is, she’ll have to sell her body to all comers just to buy her daily bread.” McKenzie dredged up a smile from the slimy depths of his soul. “I already offered her two dollars for a screw, and she turned me down. But soon she’ll be right glad to take it and beg for more.”
Hate Thy Neighbor Page 13
