“Pull the wagon up under the trees there, ma’am,” he called back to Annabel as he reined the buckskin back to wait for her to catch up to him.
“Are we going to stop here long enough to fix something to eat?” she asked as she drew up beside him and Larsen.
“Yes, ma’am,” he answered.
“I’m worried about my horse,” she said. “I’ve lost sight of him. He’s been dropping farther and farther back all morning, and now I don’t see him at all. I’m afraid he’s gotten lost.”
“He’s just slowed down in his old age,” Will said. “Maybe he’ll come wanderin’ in after a bit.” He had been unconcerned about the horse and had paid no attention to its progress, figuring it could keep up with the wagon.
“I hope you’re right,” she said. “Caesar’s not just any horse, he’s part of my family. He was my father’s horse for years before he gave him to my husband and me when we got married. I can’t bear to think he may have gotten lost. He was going to be Bobby’s horse when Bobby gets big enough to ride.”
Damn, lady, Will thought, how long do you think that horse is going to live? He caught the amused grin on Larsen’s face out of the corner of his eye. “I doubt he’s lost,” Will said. “He’s just slow—takin’ his time, I reckon—he oughta be able to follow these horses all right.”
“Maybe so,” she allowed reluctantly, and drove her wagon under the trees where Will had indicated. If he had read the determination in her eyes, he would have seen that she had no intention of driving a step farther until Caesar showed up.
While Will picked out a tree and chained his prisoner, Annabel put Bobby to work gathering wood for her cook fire. The youngster seemed to be doing an adequate job, so Will unharnessed the sorrel, unsaddled the other horses, and left them to drink at the stream. When he returned, Annabel had a fire going and her cast-iron pot filled with beans on the ground beside it. They had been soaking since leaving Sallisaw Creek. “I’m afraid it’s going to be pretty simple fare again,” she warned, “since I don’t have the time to fix a proper meal.”
“Anything you cook will be appreciated,” Will said.
“It’ll just be boiled beans and salt pork again,” Annabel said. “But there’s plenty of coffee and I’ll mix up some slapjack to go with it.” Will had never eaten slapjack, but he had heard of it. So, out of curiosity, he paid attention to the preparation of it in case it was something he might make sometime. He watched as Annabel mixed up some flour, sugar, water, and a little yeast until she had a stiff paste. She formed it into patties to fry in grease. When he tried one of the cakes later, he decided they weren’t bad, kind of like fritters. He figured if he ever tried to make them, they would have to be without the yeast. He couldn’t recall ever using yeast in anything he tried to cook.
When the meal had been eaten and washed down with the last of the coffee, Annabel took her cooking utensils to the creek to wash. Will watched her as she got to her feet when she had finished and stood a long time gazing back along the path they had traveled. Looking for that danged old nag, he thought, for there was still no sign of Caesar. It looked as if the horse was going to be a problem, one he didn’t need. He was within twenty or so miles of Fort Smith, and he was ready to get under way again. He figured he’d give it a try. “Well, that was a mighty fine meal, ma’am,” he said when she walked back to the wagon. “The horses are rested up now, so I expect we’d best get goin’. We need to make a few more miles, so we can have a short day tomorrow.”
“I can’t go anywhere until Caesar shows up,” Annabel stated. There was no mistaking the stern resolve in her tone.
“Ma’am, I’m afraid I’m gonna have to insist that we get movin’ again,” Will stated in as official a voice as he could affect. “I’ve got a prisoner on my hands and I’m bound to get him to Fort Smith as soon as I can.”
“You can insist all you want,” Annabel replied. “I’m not going anywhere until Caesar shows up. If you have to go so bad, then go. I’ll stay here until I get my horse back.”
“Ma’am . . . Miz Downin’ . . .” he started, but she stopped him with a shake of her head. Larsen looked on in silent amusement at the deputy’s obvious frustration. The stubborn woman had created a virtual impasse that Will was too much a gentleman to charge through. Seeing no way around it, he had no choice but to yield to her stubbornness. He considered leaving her, as she had demanded. But he could not, even this close to Fort Smith, with no protection, and no horse to pull her wagon. He could leave the sorrel with her, but she and the boy would still be alone. If some harm came to them, he could never live with his conscience. He finally decided there was only one thing to do, and that was to backtrail and find the horse. Otherwise, they might be sitting here waiting who knew how long for the broken-down nag to show. He wasn’t comfortable with the thought of leaving the woman and her child alone with a callous murderer like Brock Larsen. But chained securely to the tree, there was little harm he could do them other than making noise.
“All right,” he said to Annabel. “I’ll go back and see if I can find your horse.” He glanced at the smiling face of his prisoner and continued. “I want you and Bobby to stay on the other side of the wagon. And promise me you won’t have nothin’ to do with my prisoner.” He went to his packhorse and pulled the .44 out of the holster that had belonged to Ben Trout, checked to make sure it was loaded, then handed it to her. “You know how to use this?” She nodded. “Good. The hammer’s restin’ on an empty chamber, so you’ll have to cock it to shoot it.” She nodded again. “That’s for your protection just in case, but there ain’t no way he can get loose from that chain. You and Bobby just stay away from him.” Still uncomfortable with the situation, he nevertheless climbed aboard the buckskin and started back.
Aware that the lady’s lagging horse might not be far behind, Larsen knew he couldn’t count on much time to make his break for freedom. “I surely hate to trouble you, ma’am,” he called out, “but I’ve got a powerful thirst. I’d be most grateful if you or the boy could bring me a dipper of water.” He was fairly confident that she wouldn’t send Bobby.
She had every intention of following the deputy’s orders and staying away from his prisoner, but she found it difficult to ignore his request for water. To do so would fly in the face of her Christian upbringing. Still, she struggled with her emotions for a few moments more before finally surrendering to her conscience and answering him. “Very well, Mr. Larsen, I can certainly give you a drink of water.” She got the dipper from her bucket and gave it to her son to fill at the stream. “Bring it back to me,” she said. “Then I want you to stay here behind the wagon while I take it to Mr. Larsen.”
“Ahh, thank you, ma’am,” Larsen said in contrived appreciation. “I declare, I don’t know why my throat is so parched.” She turned when he handed the dipper back, starting to return to her wagon, but he stopped her when he spoke again. “I surely hope Tanner finds your horse all right. I know how attached to a horse a person can get. I learned to ride on my daddy’s horse, just like you were plannin’ for little Bobby. I reckon Tanner don’t think about things like that. He’s a hard man. I’ve been tryin’ to get him to take me back to Muskogee, so the bartender in that saloon could tell him right off that I didn’t have nothin’ to do with that train robbery.” Pleased by the obvious frown of concern on her forehead, he continued. “But don’t you worry none about me. I won’t be the first innocent man hung by that hangin’ judge at Fort Smith.”
Perplexed by the man’s distress, she could not deny that his plea of innocence had a profound effect upon her. The thought of a man being hanged who had nothing to do with the crime was indeed a most horrible sin. “I believe you when you say you are innocent,” she finally said, after a long moment of thought. “I would help you if I could. I don’t have a key to unlock your chains, but I will talk to Mr. Tanner on your behalf when he comes back. Maybe he will relent and take you to Muskogee to prove your innocence.”
“Oh, I kne
w you were an angel when we first came up on you,” Larsen said. He glanced in the direction Will had ridden, hoping to see no sign of his return. When there was none, he resumed his play upon her conscience. “There is one thing you could do to make it a little easier on me. I asked Tanner to do it, but he told me he didn’t care if I was in pain or not, so I quit askin’ him.”
“What is it?” she asked. “I’ll help you if I can.”
“When he arrested me, he kicked me pretty hard on my knee, and it’s got kinda stiff and painful ever since. I ain’t sure that he didn’t break it. I don’t know if you’ve took notice or not, but I kinda limp when I have to walk.” She replied that she hadn’t. He went on. “Anyway, I asked Tanner if I could cut me a limb to use like a walkin’ stick to take some of the strain offa my knee. I reckon he was afraid I was gonna try to hit him with it or somethin’. It sure would make it a little easier on me.” He paused for a moment to make sure he had all of her sympathy. He pointed to a small limb about the size of a hoe handle above his head. “If I could borrow that ax on the side of your wagon for just a minute, I could chop that limb off and trim me up a walkin’ stick in a jiffy.”
Hesitant, she thought of Will’s warning to stay away from Larsen. It was certainly not wise to put an ax in a criminal’s hands—if he was a criminal. The trouble was she believed him to be innocent, as he so fervently pleaded. She tried to think of the possible harm he could do with the ax. He couldn’t cut the chain with the ax. The blade would break before the chain did. In the worst case, if he was evil, he might have notions of attacking her with the ax, but that would still leave him chained to the tree.
He watched her patiently for a few moments, as she struggled with it in her mind, then tried to ease her dismay. He reached up and took hold of the limb and made a show of bending it down as if testing it. “I was thinkin’ about breakin’ it off, but it’s a little too stout.” He looked back at her and gave her an innocent smile. “If it wasn’t stout, it wouldn’t make much of a walkin’ stick, would it? I could make short work of it with that ax, though.”
“All right,” she finally decided. “I’ll get the ax, if you’ll promise me you’ll give it right back as soon as you cut that limb off.”
“Oh yes, ma’am,” he replied at once. “I’ll promise on my dead mother’s grave, and there ain’t no promise more sacred to me than that.” She searched his eyes intently, looking for sincerity. “And I know my poor old mother is lookin’ down from Heaven and blessin’ you for your kindness,” he added, knowing that his mother was still alive and could care less if he lived or died.
She promptly turned on her heel and went to the wagon to fetch the ax. He watched her as she left, a smug grin on his face, scarcely able to believe how easily she was manipulated. Then he shifted his eyes to the hills along their back trail, looking for Will. Hurry up, woman, he thought, even though there was still no sign of the deputy. It took only a minute before she returned from the wagon and handed the ax to him. He took the handle in his handcuffed hands. Although awkward, he managed to hold it firmly.
She stepped back to watch him cut off the limb. Moments later, she was shocked to see him attack the trunk of the tree, violently chopping with all the strength he could muster. “What are you doing?” she cried. “You’re not cutting the limb!”
“I need a bigger walkin’ stick,” he cracked, without pausing, and already breathing hard. Rendered helpless, she could not speak. “When’s the last time you sharpened this damn ax?” he grunted between blows against the trunk, his voice no longer hinting the humbleness he had contrived before.
“You promised me!” she wailed when she was able to speak again.
“I’ve promised a lot of women a lot of things,” he huffed, never pausing in his eagerness to chop the tree down. Even though the trunk was no more than about nine inches in diameter, it was taking a little longer because of the dullness of the ax. But the tree had to surrender to his relentless attack, and soon it began to lean over until at last it fell. Frantic and confused, Annabel finally realized what he had in mind, and remembering the pistol that Will had left for her, she turned and ran to the wagon. Larsen paid her no mind, instead hacking away at the split part of the trunk that remained attached to the stump. He chopped the last of the trunk away and pulled the chain up over the stump just as Annabel came running back with the .44 in her hand.
“I trusted you,” she admonished him sternly, sick with the realization that she had once again been deceived by a man, this time putting her and her son in danger. She pointed the pistol at him.
Busy trying to decide what he could do about his chain, for it was still locked to his cuffs, he ignored the gun aimed at him by the frantic woman. He decided that the first order of business was to get away before Will returned, and find a way to free himself later. He turned to Annabel then. “What are you gonna do, shoot me?” he taunted, feeling confident that she didn’t have the nerve to do it.
“I want you to sit down on the ground and don’t move until Mr. Tanner gets back,” she directed as sternly as she could.
Certain that he had correctly judged her likelihood to act, he said, “I’d oblige you, lady, but right now I’ve got things to do.” Throwing his chain over his shoulder, he walked past her, heading for the horses, still standing, saddled, and packed. Since time was critical, he looked quickly through Will’s packs until he found his gun belt, as well as the empty holster that had belonged to Ben Trout. He hung his gun belt over the saddle horn on his sorrel, since he couldn’t put the belt on with his hands cuffed together. After that, he pulled his Winchester rifle from the straps of the pack saddle and replaced it in the empty scabbard on his saddle. Then, working clumsily with his cuffed hands, he managed to tie Will’s packhorse to his saddle. When he was ready to ride, he turned around to find Annabel facing him, her pistol aimed at his face.
“You’re not going anywhere,” she warned. “I’ll shoot you.”
“No, you won’t, lady, you ain’t got the guts,” he scoffed, and walked past her to untie Trout’s roan from the tailgate of the wagon. She tried to follow him, but he suddenly stepped to the side and whipped his chain around her, pinning her arms to her sides as he pulled the end of the chain tight. Trapping her hard up against his body, he kept pulling the chain tighter and tighter until she cried out in pain. “Drop the gun,” he ordered, “or I’ll cut you in two.” She had no choice but to drop it. “There you go,” he smirked, loosening the chain just a little. “You know, you’re kinda homely, but you feel pretty good. I’d take you with me, but you’d be too much trouble right now, and I’m in a hurry.” He released her then and threw her to the ground. “Crawl on back to the wagon and take care of your brat.” He picked up the pistol and made one futile effort to chase the roan away, but the horse would run only a few yards before stopping again. Aware that his time was running out, he finally gave it up and climbed into the saddle. Dazed and bruised on her arms where the chain had pinched them, Annabel sat on the ground watching him ride off up the stream. The horrible mistake she had made was resounding in her brain, and she was at a loss as to how she could possibly explain her actions to the deputy. She couldn’t help wondering if she was going to be arrested now for helping his prisoner escape. In that event, what would become of Bobby? Resigned to her fate, whatever it was, she got up from the ground and walked back to her wagon. Her son was peeking over the wagon seat, afraid to make a sound after he had seen his mother thrown to the ground.
* * *
After backtracking for approximately two miles, there was still no sign of the wayward horse, and Will was just about ready to end the search. The old nag had evidently wandered off in a different direction. He didn’t look forward to telling Annabel that Caesar was gone for good, but he couldn’t take the time to search the whole Cherokee Nation for him. He turned Buster back toward the wagon and nudged him into a gentle lope. Ten minutes later, he spotted Caesar standing in a patch of pines off to his right. “Well, I�
�ll be . . .” Will muttered. He had to have missed him when he rode by in the opposite direction. Thank the Lord, was his next thought, for he was concerned that he might have had to hog-tie Annabel and haul her to Fort Smith had he returned without her beloved Caesar.
The old horse stood motionless, its head hanging low with drooping ears. It did not even respond to Buster’s greeting nicker. It was the perfect picture of a horse totally used up, Will thought. A bullet to the brain would be the kindest thing he could do for the horse, but he didn’t care to try to convince Annabel of that. So he rode Buster up beside the unresisting horse, slipped a noose over its head, and started back, leading Caesar behind him.
When still fifty yards short of the stream where he had left the wagon, Will reined Buster back to a halt, alarmed by what he saw. Larsen’s horse and the packhorse were gone! He looked at once toward the tree where he had left his prisoner, only to find the tree no longer standing and no sign of Larsen. “Dammit, dammit, dammit,” he muttered, not willing to believe his eyes. Larsen had escaped. That much was blatantly apparent, and the next thought that leaped to his mind was the safety of Annabel and the boy. Brock Larsen would not hesitate to kill them both if they stood in his way. He drew the Winchester from his saddle scabbard and cocked it, alert for the possibility of an ambush awaiting him. A movement in the trees below the camp caught his eye, causing him to jerk the rifle to his shoulder, prepared to fire. But it was only the roan that had belonged to Ben Trout, somehow free from the wagon. Returning his gaze to the wagon, he spotted Annabel, with her son beside her, seated on a blanket by the remains of the campfire. Thank goodness for that, he thought, and continued to scan the clearing in search of a possible hiding spot for a sniper. He decided that Larsen had chosen flight instead of fight.
A Stranger in Town Page 15
