Texas Outlaw (Wild Texas Nights, Book 1)

by Adrienne deWolfe

  "So they went and made a U.S. marshal out of you, eh?" Applegate said, studying the star on Cord's vest. "That explains the gunfighter my deputy saw going inside this saloon. 'Course, it don't explain what you're doing 'round these parts. Ain't seen hide nor hair of you for two years, Cord, not since that wife of yours passed on."

  Cord stiffened, feeling Fancy's speculative gaze upon him. He wished Applegate had kept his mouth shut about Bethany.

  "I'm here to make an arrest."

  "An arrest, eh? Hot damn." Applegate stepped forward and menaced Turk. "What did the mule skinner do this time? Lynch a lawman? Drown a baby?"

  "I didn't do nothing!" Turk wailed.

  "Sure you did, you stinking heap of cow turd. I just didn't find out about it yet."

  Cord shook his head. He was used to Applegate's style of peacekeeping. "Turk's all yours, Sheriff. I came for Miss Holleday."

  "You came to arrest Fancy?" Applegate's brows rose, then he donned a lopsided grin. "Aw, what did she do, son? Steal your heart?"

  The crowd behind Applegate dissolved into back-slapping and guffaws. Cord felt his ears burn, knowing his brothers were probably laughing with everyone else. He tugged a wanted poster from his pocket and thrust it at the sheriff.

  "Train robbery, eh?" Applegate tossed the paper aside, and it fluttered to rest beneath Slade's chair. "Looks like you're roping the wrong steer. Or in this case, the wrong heifer. Miss Fancy don't look nothing like that wanted poster. She's purdier."

  "Why, thank you, Sheriff."

  "Sure 'nuff, sweet thing."

  Cord swallowed his oath. He'd often wondered these last four months how Fancy had escaped two jail cells and a dozen posses before he could arrive in time to haul her back to Carson City. Lawmen all across the west had reported that they'd lost her—and they didn't quite know how. They didn't quite know how, his rear end! If just one of them had thought with his brain instead of his pecker, Cord could be hunting a murderer or counterfeiter worth hanging by now.

  "Look, Applegate. I was there. I saw her crack open the safe on that express car."

  "Well hell. How did she get away then, son? Did she take your gun?"

  He felt his face heat.

  "Clem, really. You're embarrassing Marshal Rawlins," Fancy said in her syrupy alto. "Why don't you tell Sheriff Applegate what really happened, Cord? You can't let him go on thinking that I"—she smirked—"robbed you of your piece."

  He wanted to wring her neck. No, better: he wanted to spank the living daylights out of her. His handprint on her behind ought to keep her biting her tongue when she was bouncing in a saddle back to Carson.

  "The fact is, Sheriff, this woman robbed a train on the Central Pacific Railroad."

  "Well..." Applegate still didn't look convinced. "It serves them prairie diggers right. You know we ain't too partial to the railroad 'round here. Fort Worth's still waiting on its feeder line."

  "It's not that simple, Clem. She stole valuable government property."

  Applegate snorted, hiking his breeches. "Now you'd be talking about the United States government, wouldn't you, Cord? We ain't too partial to that 'round here, neither."

  The crowd rumbled in approval. Twenty pairs of burning rebel eyes drilled into him. Cord's jaw twitched, and he glanced at Fancy. Smirking, she looped a curl around her finger like a hangman's noose.

  "Look, Clem," somehow, he managed to keep the frustration from his voice, "I've got a job to do. I'm talking to you lawman to lawman. Texican to Texican. I've come for my prisoner, and I'm not leaving without her."

  Applegate shifted uncomfortably, his gaze straying to Fancy. "Well, seeing as how you put it that way..."

  She looked stricken, her eyes brimming, and Applegate's resolve weakened visibly. Cord could practically map its retreat across the man's craggy features.

  "I reckon you'll just have to tell that Yankee judge of yours to wait his turn," Applegate finished finally.

  "His turn for what?"

  "Well, you see, Cord, Miss Fancy's done rustled, thieved, and bamboozled half the cowpokes in Tarrant County. If she weren't so goldurned pretty, they'd have strung her up by now. Ain't that right, Slade?"

  "Is a pig's butt pork?" the bounty hunter growled.

  Applegate winked at Fancy. She flashed him the most delightfully wicked smile that any man could hope to withstand and still keep his pants on. Cord struggled with his patience.

  "Reckon we'll be keeping the little darlin' safe till Judge Crowley rides back to town," Applegate continued. "There's a big hanging trial going on out Dallas-way. Crowley won't be back this side of the Trinity River for a month. Mebbe two."

  "Two months!" Cord nearly choked on the string of curse words that he forced back down his throat. "You can't expect me to sit around here just whistling at the moon."

  "Well, son," Applegate patted his Winchester, "I don't see how you got much choice."

  An expectant hush settled over the room. Cord glanced at his brothers. They just might run half-cocked to his rescue and try to tangle with Sheriff Deadeye. He decided he'd better try to reason with the man.

  "All right, Applegate. Supposing I let Tarrant County take first crack at her. Supposing I agree to wait out your trial. What makes you think Miss Holleday won't hightail it down to Mexico the first chance she gets?"

  "I got the lady's word."

  "Her word?" Cord's jaw dropped. "Dadblast it, Clem, her word's about as good as a tin quarter!"

  Applegate frowned. "In case you're forgetting, Mister Yankee Marshal, around these parts, we don't talk about a lady like that. Now, you want to tell Miss Fancy you're sorry? Or you want to step outside?"

  Cord ground his teeth. He should accept Applegate's invitation and lick some sense into the old skirt chaser. Problem was, he had a soft spot for the man. He didn't want to be the one to show Tarrant County what a fool Fancy Holleday was making of its sheriff. So once again, he'd have to bide his time—until night fell, anyway.

  Leaning forward, Cord planted his hands on the table and lowered his face to hers.

  "Reckon you're right pleased with yourself, eh?"

  She tilted her chin, and he was struck again by her eyes, two shimmering violet oases.

  "You're not much of a sport, are you, Marshal?"

  "Cord?" Applegate shouted. "You apologizing over there?"

  "Sure, Sheriff. I'm apologizing."

  He watched the ripple of triumph in those bottomless eyes. "But don't deal me out just yet, sweetheart," he added, lowering his voice so only she could hear.

  "Mmm."

  Her moist cherry-red lips curved in such a tantalizing smile that his traitorous mouth actually watered.

  "Then by all means, Marshal," she said softly, "welcome to my game."

  Chapter 3

  Later that evening, Fancy sat demurely on a jail cell bed. Sipping coffee as thick as a river bottom, she took great pains to look and act at ease. She winked and flirted, coaxing an occasional blush from the two lawmen who guarded her, but on the inside, her stomach was churning fast enough to make butter.

  She kept telling herself that surrendering to the sheriff had been a smart idea. Thanks to Cord Rawlins and that damned wanted poster, jail was now the safest place in town. She'd felt doomed when she saw Slade reach beneath his chair and tuck her likeness into his pocket. A professional manhunter wouldn't have wasted his time tracking her across the country for the original $50 bounty. But the reward for her capture had climbed to $500. Now she worried every cold-blooded killer in Hell's Half Acre would be on her trail.

  Fancy swallowed hard. She needed time, time to find the Wilkerson gang. Then she could make Cord Rawlins pay for killing Diego. She would tell the other outlaws that he had inflicted the wound that eventually caused Bart Wilkerson's death. Hearing that, Bart's cousin Ned should be pleased to get rid of Rawlins for her.

  She smiled, relishing the thought.

  Yes, she would have both of her revenges after all. She had vowed to make Bart ru
e the day he left her to freeze to death in Nevada. Tracking him south, she had figured he was heading for New Mexico and his estranged kinfolk, but his trail had ended in Hell's Half Acre. By the time she'd caught up with Bart, the snake had died of his gunshot wound.

  Fancy had felt cheated of Bart's plates, the silver, and her vengeance until she'd stumbled across Bart's doctor in a saloon. The drunkard had bragged of meeting Bart's cousin, the notorious Ned Wilkerson, when the outlaw had come to Bart's deathbed. Apparently Ned and his gang had been lured all the way from Lincoln County, New Mexico. The ailing Bart had promised to split his profits with his cousin and the other outlaws if they helped Bart get his minting plates to buyers in Mexico City.

  "'Course, by the time Ned got there, ol' Bart was as weak as a newborn," Doc Tate had slurred in his rummy voice, "so I told Bart to stay abed. I told him all his boozin' and whorin' was gonna do him in, and damn if he didn't prove me right. Not an hour later, he knocked hisself clean out. Dropped like a rock, he did, when he hit his head on the stone wall outside of Cattleman's Bank. Meanwhile, Sheriff Applegate got wind of Ned hidin' out in the Acre, and the next thing we knew, Ned was hightailin' it out of town like his britches was on fire."

  Upon hearing this story, Fancy had concluded that Ned must have fled with Bart's plates. Planning her own safe passport out of Texas, she had promptly sent wires to Lincoln County, New Mexico, in the hopes that one would reach Ned. She had offered to cut him in on the deal she would make with Mexican nationals for her own two minting plates if Ned would return and escort her safely across the border.

  Ned was due to ride back into Fort Worth that very night to discuss their partnership. Considering the stakes, Fancy was betting he wouldn't leave her in jail for long.

  A deep rumble of laughter broke her reverie and brought her attention back to her pathetic excuse for a holding cell. She couldn't help but wonder if a strong wind had ever knocked the building down, especially when the roof creaked and groaned.

  "Hey, Fancy's gone and made the news," Applegate said, shaking open an outdated copy of the Dallas Herald. Winking at her, he turned back to the town marshal, a surly, one-eyed war veteran named Brand.

  "Listen here. Says Fort Worth imported itself a lady card-sharper 'cause none of the Tarrant County boys knows how to play a man's game of poker."

  Brand snorted. "That's worse than the Herald's last whopper 'bout a panther falling asleep on Main Street 'cause there weren't nothing better to do in Fort Worth. When are you taking a posse over to Dallas County to put a stop to them cock-and-bull stories?"

  Applegate chuckled, gesturing toward the Fort Worth Democrat that lay on the table beside Brand's freshly cleaned Winchester.

  "I reckon I'll do that after you put some pressure on your friends to quit spinning yarns about Dallas County."

  Fancy only half listened. Her ears had pricked to another series of creaks and groans from the roof. This time, she could have sworn they were accompanied by the muffled jingle of spurs. Her heart quickened. Had Wilkerson's gang finally arrived?

  She cast a nervous glance at the lawmen. She was beginning to wonder if she should somehow lure them into the next room, when a lanky youth burst through the door.

  "Marshal Brand! Sheriff Applegate! You gotta come quick," the boy shouted. He slid to a sudden halt, as if arrested by the sight of her bodice.

  "Yeah?" Brand growled. "What for?"

  The boy seemed to collect himself. Clutching his chest, he made a great show of panting and stumbled to Brand's desk. "The Carson boys just rode into town. They say they're looking for Pete Hancock. They say they've come to even the score after ol' Pete pistol-whipped Jim-Bob Carson!"

  "Tarnation," Brand grumbled. "Can't those boys cheat trouble for a spell? I just arrested the whole Carson clan last Saturday for shooting up the big coffeepot over Jim Bradner's tin store."

  "That was five nights ago," Applegate said. "You know better than to ask a self-respecting cowpoke to pass a whole week without mischief."

  The messenger nodded, his Stetson plunking down over the bridge of his nose. He blushed as red as his hair. Hastily shoving the hat back, he hooked his thumbs over his double-holstered rig.

  Fancy couldn't help but find the youth familiar, even though she had a keen memory for faces and she knew she'd never seen his before.

  "Yeah?" Brand said to Applegate, rising and snatching up his rifle. "And just what are we gonna do with them rowdies once we round 'em up? We can't throw them in the hoosegow with Fancy."

  "Not we, son. You," Applegate said, settling his girth back into his chair and spreading out his paper. "This here's Fort Worth business, not Tarrant County. 'Sides, I kept the peace today at the Diamondback, when you were losing your shirt at craps."

  The young messenger's face fell. For a moment, he looked so crestfallen that Fancy was surprised—and more than a little suspicious—when a scheming look broke across his features. He was quick to hide it.

  "There sure were a lot of them Carson boys, Sheriff," the youth said, sounding grave. "I reckon I could watch your prisoner a spell if Marshal Brand needed a neighborly hand from Tarrant County."

  "Much obliged, son," Brand snapped back, throwing his rifle across his shoulder. "But they'll see snow in San Antone before Applegate squeezes his bulk outta that chair."

  "Aw, you're just sore 'cause you're sweet on Fancy," the sheriff taunted as Brand stalked into the street. The door swung open after him.

  Applegate chuckled. Fancy forced herself to join him, if only to ignore the lonely, wistful feeling that arose whenever she considered her odds for a proper courtship. For at least the hundredth time, she comforted herself with the thought that Diego would have wed her—eventually. Cord Rawlins had stolen her one and only chance for happiness, and she would never forgive him for that. Never.

  The redhead was fidgeting. Suspicion pushed aside Fancy's grief. She wondered why he hadn't run after Brand to get a front-row view of the excitement. Frowning, she watched the boy. He was gesturing urgently, albeit furtively, and she realized he was communicating with a masked man who had appeared at the front window. The man shook his head as if in disgust. Fancy felt her heart leap.

  So Ned Wilkerson had come to break her out of jail! He must have sent the boy to lure Brand and Applegate away from her cell.

  "Something ailing you, boy?" the sheriff demanded, craning his neck over his shoulder. The masked man ducked hurriedly out of sight.

  "Er... no, sir. What makes you think that?"

  Applegate pursed his lips and glared at the youth. "'Cause you're jumpier than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs."

  "Well, I... just thought I heard something, is all."

  "Heard something, eh?" Applegate's eyes narrowed as he studied the youth from head to toe. "I reckon you ain't from 'round these parts, son. 'Cause if you were, you'd know we don't cotton to firearms in Fort Worth." Applegate jabbed a finger toward the Y-shaped stick protruding from the youth's rear pocket. "We ain't especially fond of slingshots, either. So it's a darn good thing you've come here, to the marshal and me, to hand over your weapons."

  The youth's chin jutted. He looked ready to square off for a fight.

  "Heavens, Sheriff. A slingshot?" Fancy intervened quickly, fearing the youth's flare of temper might spoil her rescue. "You can't really believe this young man's a threat to law and order. Why, he ran all the way over here to warn you about the Carson boys."

  "Now don't you be taking sides, Fancy," Applegate said. "I've seen more fools than I can count get their heads blown off 'cause they sport fancy shooting irons that they can't aim."

  "Well, I can aim. And damned straight too," the boy said.

  Fancy cringed at his outburst. No, no, no! she wanted to shout. Stupid boy, you'll ruin everything!

  Suddenly a nerve-jarring whoop shook the walls of the jail. That Rebel yell echoed again and again, keening above the thunder of gunfire and the pounding of hooves.

  "What the devil?
" Applegate heaved himself to his feet as a frightened team of horses galloped down the road, hauling their careening wagon after them.

  "I bet that's those Carson boys," Fancy said, praying that Applegate hadn't noticed, as she had, that the wagon carried no driver.

  "Yep, that was them," the youth chimed in. "Looks like Marshal Brand's been out-coyoted."

  "Confound it." The sheriff muttered a second, bawdier oath. "Send a boy to do a man's job..."

  Applegate hiked his breeches over his belly, crammed his hat on his head, and stomped onto the porch. He'd no sooner stepped across the threshold than gun barrels appeared at either side of his head. He froze in midstride.

  "We're not looking for trouble, Sheriff," a muffled voice warned. "We just want the girl."

  Fancy nearly crowed with relief. "Wilkerson! Thank God. I knew you would come. I knew you wouldn't let me—"

  "Shut up," that muffled voice snapped. Its owner gestured to another youthful accomplice. "Take the sheriff's Peacemaker."

  "Now hold on a minute, mister. You're barking up the wrong tree if you think I'm gonna—"

  A .45 jammed into Applegate's ruddy neck. The sheriff tensed, slowly raising his hands. His gun belt fell away.

  "Good," came the distorted voice again. "Like I said, we don't want any trouble."

  The masked man waved to the redhead. The boy grinned, snapping to attention.

  "Get the horses."

  A scowl replaced the boy's mirth. "Aw, why do I always have to—"

  "Get the damned horses!"

  Sulking, the redhead waited for his cronies to back Applegate into the room before he ran off on his errand.

  Fancy clasped her hands, hard-pressed not to clap with glee. They were really doing it. They were breaking her out of jail!

  "All right, son. Get the keys."

  The younger-looking of the two masked men hurried past the window with the black painted letters, "Sheriff's Office," arcing across it, to Brand's battered three-legged desk. Rummaging through the drawers, the youth scattered dice, faro markers, and the calling cards of a dozen scantily dressed bawds. He'd turned as red as his neckerchief before he finally emerged with his prize.