Frontier Lady (Lone Star Legacy Book #1)

by Judith Pella

  The wagon stopped on the fringes of the crowd. Caleb did not speak, and no greetings were exchanged. But Pollard knew it was time to begin.

  He gave his prisoner’s arm a little nudge. “You ready, Mrs. Stoner?”

  She said nothing, replying only with a barely perceptible nod of her head. Then they began the ascent. There were six steps in all, but it seemed to take inordinately long to traverse them. Pollard thought he felt a bit more tension against the hand that held the woman’s arm, as if the full impact of what was about to transpire had finally dawned upon her.

  Even steel must bend occasionally.

  Reaching the top, Pollard led his prisoner into position under the dangling noose.

  “You got any last words, Mrs. Stoner?” the sheriff asked, fully expecting her silent shake of the head in reply. “Then Doc here will say a prayer for your soul.”

  For the first time, she looked directly at the sheriff and spoke. “I want no prayers,” she said coldly.

  The sheriff swallowed nervously and took a frayed breath. It would have been nice to maintain some atmosphere of spiritual decorum. What was a hanging without a prayer? Yet, he wasn’t about to deny a woman’s last wish, as it were. He rubbed his whiskered, unwashed face and ventured a glance over the heads of the spectators toward Caleb’s wagon. If he had hoped for some intercession from the town patriarch, he got none. Caleb Stoner focused on the gallows with a fixed, imperturbable gaze. No wonder he and the woman hated each other—they were too much alike.

  Pollard cleared his throat. “Well, then, let us proceed.”

  He nodded toward Washburn, who shuffled forward and took up the dangling rope, hesitating only a moment before he slipped the noose around the woman’s slim, pale neck.

  Doc, not to be put off by the woman’s wanton rebuff, stepped up to the prisoner. He wasn’t about to be cheated from his own moment of glory in this momentous event.

  “Let us pray!” he said grandiosely. But he couldn’t look into the woman’s eyes. “‘Our Father which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors—’” The doctor’s voice gave particular emphasis to that final sentence before continuing. “‘And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil: For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever. Amen!’”

  When the doctor and part-time preacher was certain his words had had time to make their fullest impact, he began again in his most pompous tone. He even ventured a brief look at the prisoner. “Mrs. Leonard Stoner, I commit your spirit into the hands of the Lord. May God have mercy on your soul!”

  Washburn tightened the noose. Pollard noted the drifter’s hands were shaking. The sheriff was feeling a bit queasy himself. The sound he thought he heard next must be his over-wrought imagination. In fact, if he were a man of mystical bent like the doc, he could almost have believed that the Grim Reaper himself was thundering toward town to claim his prize personally. Of course, Pollard knew that was pure bunk. But … it did sound like horses approaching, several of them.

  3

  The crowd heard too, and heads began to turn toward the sound. It wasn’t the sheriff’s imagination. Horses were coming, and at a full gallop!

  In another minute the riders appeared in the billowing clouds of rising dust, cutting a swath of horseflesh and noise right down the main street of Stoner’s Crossing. There were eight of them, all with rifles and pistols drawn. Washburn gave a low whistle and lowered his hands off the noose. If this was some kind of rescue, he didn’t want to be caught in the villainous role of hangman. He slithered back into the shadows. The sheriff couldn’t blame him and would have liked to join him, but instead stood his ground, though his mouth was gaping at the sight.

  The crowd frantically spread apart as the galloping horses showed no sign of slowing. The riders, all masked with bandanas pulled up over their noses, did not rein their mounts until they reached the foot of the gallows where they thundered to a halt. Immediately the drawn weapons were trained all around the throng of townsfolk, with two rifles aimed directly at the passengers of Caleb Stoner’s wagon. Another gun was leveled toward the sheriff, still standing dumbfounded on the gallows’ platform.

  “Well,” said the bearer of that weapon, “looks like we got here in the nick of time!” He was a rugged-looking man, perhaps even somewhat handsome under the layers of trail dust. His crooked nose, notable even beneath the taut kerchief, mediated between eyes filled with acid humor. He sat on his horse straight and tall, giving no doubt as to who commanded the band of riders.

  “What do you boys want with us?” asked the sheriff, his voice none too steady—though who could blame him with a cocked rifle pointed at his head.

  “I’ll tell you, Sheriff, my feelings is just plumb hurt, that’s all. Here you are having this fine hanging, and me and my boys wasn’t even invited.”

  “You didn’t need no invitation. Nor them—” Pollard cocked his head toward the weapons.

  “Well, it’s too late now,” said the tall rider. “Our feelings are hurt too bad and ain’t gonna feel better till we spoil all your fun. Right, boys?”

  The other riders responded with several wild hoots and a few shots fired into the air.

  “If you interfere with the law, you won’t get away with it,” said the sheriff lamely. He well knew he could do nothing to stop the man. The masks couldn’t completely hide the fact that this was the Lampasas gang, and their leader, whose real name Pollard didn’t know, had gained a reputation for rustling, bank robbery, and general cain-raising before the war. During the war they concentrated their larceny on the Union Army, perhaps to their credit; but in those months immediately following the war they had returned to their old targets, namely anything that offered the promise of making them a buck. No one could get a positive identification on them, and thus far they had enjoyed full rein in Texas and the territories.

  Thus, the outlaw leader laughed boldly at the sheriff’s words. “Try and stop me, Pollard!” His eyes were bright with challenge, seeming to want nothing more than an excuse to make use of his gun.

  “And if we call your bluff?” A new voice rose, filled with menace and challenge. It was Caleb Stoner, and the force of command he projected was every bit as strong as the outlaw’s, though it was raised in volume only enough to carry across the short distance that separated the two men.

  “I reckon then, Stoner, you’ll be the first to die!” replied the outlaw. “And you’ll still be robbed of the pleasure of seeing your daughter-in-law hang.”

  “Why are you doing this?” asked Stoner, ice infusing his words, fire glinting from his eyes.

  “I’m just a regular killjoy, that’s all!” The outlaw laughed again. “You ain’t hanging no one else, Stoner, as long as I can help it.” He had lost two of his men by the rope last month because of Stoner, who had strung up the boys out on the range without benefit of trial or even listening to their side of it. Maybe they had rustled a couple of cows, but at least the outlaw’s boys had never murdered anyone; he couldn’t say the same for Stoner.

  “You’ll die for this!” spat Stoner, the edge of his reserve crumbling in his fury and in the knowledge that he would indeed be deprived of his long-anticipated revenge.

  The outlaw leader threw back his head and howled. “The Texas Rangers wanted to hang me before the war, Stoner; now it’s the United States Army; and I reckon half the lawmen in three territories wouldn’t mind getting their hands on me. So, pardon me if I don’t tremble at your threat.”

  He then focused his attention toward the sheriff. “Okay, Pollard, take that noose off the lady’s pretty neck, and cut them ropes on her hands.”

  Pollard hesitated only a moment, wondering whose wrath he ought to fear more, the outlaw’s or Caleb’s. Well, reasoned the sheriff logically, the threat from the varmint with the gun was far more immediate. There might still be a chance to lat
er wheedle his way back into Caleb’s good graces if the outlaw didn’t put a bullet in him. Of course, no one had ever proved Caleb had any good graces, but who would blame Pollard for obeying the outlaw with an arsenal of weapons ready to blow his and a score of other heads off—not to mention Caleb’s head, too?

  Pollard lifted the thick noose from around the woman’s neck and, with a knife supplied by the doctor, sliced away the cords that bound her hands.

  The sheriff didn’t expect what happened next. Instead of showing relief at her rescue, the woman actually shrank back.

  This was no less a surprise to the outlaw rescuer. He arched a single bushy eyebrow. “Uh … ma’am, you are welcome to join us. That is, unless you prefer to take the trip Caleb had planned for you.”

  Still, she did not move.

  “You don’t have to be afraid of us, you know,” the outlaw continued, though it was plain that fear was the last emotion discernible in the woman’s eyes.

  In another moment she seemed to make her decision and, stepping clear of her guards, approached the gallows’ steps. The tall outlaw motioned to one of his men, who bounded up the steps, gave the lady a hand, and escorted her down and to his leader’s horse. The outlaw leader reached down a long, muscular arm, grasped her firmly by the waist and hitched her up onto his horse. When she was settled in front of him, he returned his attention to the townsfolk.

  “I don’t figure any of you are crazy enough to follow us,” he said, “but be warned, my men don’t miss when they shoot, so at least eight of you are sure to die right off. If you’re sure you won’t be one of those unlucky ones, then come ahead.”

  His words sank in, and no one moved as the outlaws thundered away in another choking wall of dust. Mrs. Stoner was just one woman, after all, and no one was willing to risk his life just to see her die in the end, anyway. Even Caleb Stoner did not move, though his dark, foreboding eyes shot hate like venom after the retreating riders.

  4

  The torpid prairie sun had dipped low in the sky before the gang of rescuers began to show signs of pausing in their flight. A couple of hours before, they had slowed their pace to a leisurely trot. But as confident as the imposing outlaw leader appeared, he knew it would take many more miles before they were adequately insulated from pursuit.

  Tall yellow grass seemed to stretch endlessly out before them, sometimes flat, sometimes in low undulating hills that rolled like a golden sea. Occasionally broken by a stand of trees, a misplaced boulder or the gorge of a dried stream bed, the grassland went on for miles in every direction.

  Travelers feared the prairie, and with good reason. There were plenty of stories about lost men who would follow their own tracks in circles for days, thinking they had happened upon another traveler who would lead them out of the grassy maze to civilization, only to die by a landmark they had passed several times. More than this, however, the heat and the scarcity of water plagued even the ablest of frontiersmen.

  Griff McCulloch, seasoned outlaw, was not afraid of getting lost or of dying of thirst. He knew the land well enough, as one whose life depends on such knowledge must. He knew exactly where he was going and where to find the best water along the way. His main concern at the moment was far more perplexing—namely, what was he to do with his pretty little prize now that he had her. A woman was bound to slow them down eventually. And, besides all the other hazards of this land, they were in Indian country. There would be Comanches for certain, and Kiowa and Shawnee. This being the hunting season, they might also run into some Cheyenne, who had been none too friendly of late. Griff might be a cold-blooded outlaw, but he wouldn’t leave a helpless woman stranded on the prairie. Despite the fact that this particular woman looked like she might be able to handle an Indian, he figured even she would be hard pressed in a pitched battle with a Comanche warrior.

  “We’ll be making camp shortly,” McCulloch said, mainly to hear something besides the sounds of the horses. The woman hadn’t said a word since leaving Stoner’s Crossing. He reckoned she’d talk when she was ready, but he couldn’t wait that long. It was too much having a woman that pretty so close and not even to be able to talk to her. “By the way,” he added, “I’m Griff McCulloch, if you’re interested.”

  She must have been tired of the silence too, because she finally responded.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “I got me a hideout up by the Red River. It’ll take a spell to get there.”

  Another long silence followed. Griff had always believed women to be powerfully curious creatures, and full of talk. He’d had an Indian squaw for a while, and even she could have talked the horns off a buffalo. He did not think it possible that a woman could be silent for four solid hours. It was enough to drive him to distraction.

  “You want some water?” he asked.

  When she gave her usual silent nod, he reached down to his saddlebag and got the canteen. It was nearly empty, and he hoped the spot where he planned to make camp still had water. He hadn’t been there in a while. The woman drank a short swallow and handed back the canteen.

  Another quiet, monotonous hour passed before the party of outlaws drew up to a grove of cottonwoods clinging to the edge of a spindly chocolate-colored stream. They’d just have to make do. They dismounted, and while three men were dispatched immediately as lookouts, the others began to set up camp. The horses were picketed and guarded, a small fire was built, and a pot of coffee set over it. McCulloch didn’t like building a fire and tried to take care that it was smokeless. He wasn’t too worried about a posse from Stoner’s Crossing, for he felt certain his doubling-back maneuver a few hours ago had thrown them off—at least he had seen no sign of them. He was more concerned about Indians. Since the Sand Creek massacre in the winter of ’64 when Colonel Chivington’s Colorado Volunteers had slaughtered over four hundred peaceful Cheyenne, all the Plains tribes had become restive and dangerous. Griff hadn’t seen any fresh Indian signs, but they had passed a sizable herd of buffalo a couple hours ago, and at this time of year you could almost count on Indians being where the buffalo were. He didn’t want to take any chances, but he had been craving a cup of coffee all day and thought the risk was worth it. He stamped out the blaze the minute the coffee grounds had made a good, strong brew. The remainder of their dinner consisted of hardtack and dried beef.

  He brought a tin plate of food and a tin cup of steaming coffee to the woman. She took it without comment.

  At last his patience gave way.

  “I suppose a fine-bred woman like yourself is too good to say thanks to a no-account varmint, even if he did save her life!”

  “Thank you, Mr. McCulloch.” Her voice was even, her tone contained little gratitude.

  “Well, you are dad-blamed welcome!” he shot back, hardly mollified.

  She spent a moment nibbling on the hard biscuit and sipping at her coffee. Then she looked over at McCulloch, who had seated himself on the ground a few feet from her with his own plate in his lap.

  “Why did you do it, Mr. McCulloch?” she asked.

  He knew she was talking about the rescue and not her dinner; he did wonder why it had taken so long for her to get around to it.

  “It seemed like the thing to do at the time,” he answered, his previous ire somewhat softened.

  “You do not even know me.”

  “But I do know Caleb Stoner.” He paused and, deciding to take advantage of the woman’s uncharacteristic talkativeness, went on again. “Maybe you can answer me a question, Mrs. Stoner?” He didn’t wait for her permission, doubting she’d give it. “You didn’t seem none too anxious to leave that gallows today, and I been wondering why. I figured it was because you was feeling guilty over killing your husband and took it in your head that you deserved to die. But that Stoner bunch is as ornery as you’ll find, and I’ll lay odds that Leonard Stoner deserved shooting.”

  “Are there any innocents in this world, Mr. McCulloch?”

  “Some more’n others.” He bit
off a large chunk of jerky and, talking around it, continued. “Now, take me for instance. I’ve rustled my share of horses and cattle, and knocked over a bank or two, and a few Union pay shipments. And I reckon if they ever catch me I’ll hang for what I’ve done. But I ain’t never killed no one who didn’t rightly deserve it, and I ain’t never hurt no woman before, either. I ain’t never been ornery just for the sake of being ornery.”

  One of the men who had been listening in on the conversation chuckled. “You’re a regular saint, you are, Griff! Ha! Ha!”

  “Aw shut up, Slim! I’m trying to have an intelligent conversation here.”

  “Now that’s something I got to hear from you!” Slim laughed.

  Griff was not amused. He had more in mind than mere talk with the woman and didn’t like his plans interrupted, nor did he like being made to look foolish in front of the lovely lady whom he hoped to seduce. He drew his gun and aimed it at Slim’s head.

  “Seems to me, Slim,” said Griff, with a low growl, “that it’s your turn to take lookout.”

  “I was just having a little fun, Griff. No need to get touchy!” Despite his protests, Slim lurched to his feet and stalked away.

  Griff holstered his gun and quickly returned his attention to the lady. “So, you see, ma’am, you don’t need to feel remorse over what you done. Any man that hurts a woman ought to be shot.”

  “What makes you think he hurt me?”

  “You don’t look like no cold-blooded killer, ma’am. You would have had to have a good reason for what you done.”

  “The court did not take that into account.”

  “That’s because they was all in Caleb’s hip pocket. They believed what he wanted them to believe.” Griff drained off the last of his coffee, spitting out a mouthful of grounds. “So, you really did kill him, then … ?”