“This Miss Gilmore, the mayor’s daughter—I’m told she is your sweetheart, Sheriff?” Pennington asked, his pale amber eyes holding a hint of…mischief? Amusement?
Sam felt anger sparking in him, mixed with surprise that Pennington knew anything about his relationship with Prissy. How did he know?
“What does that have to do with anything I spoke about?” he ground out, his gaze boring into Pennington’s. “As sheriff, I won’t stand for disrespect to any of Simpson Creek’s citizens—man, woman or child.”
Pennington rose, his movement smooth and unhurried. “Calm down, Sheriff. What you’ve told us is deplorable, of course. The men involved will be disciplined. It will not happen again.”
The same thing he’d promised about Tolliver’s drunken brawling. “I’ll hold you to that,” Sam said. “And as long as I’m here, I’ll ask why you’re buying up ranches right and left. What’s your game, gentlemen?”
Byrd raised a pale brow. “Game? Land acquisition is hardly a game, Sheriff. And it’s perfectly legal. We find folks who want to sell—the elderly and distressed widows and the like—and we have money to buy. It’s as simple as that.”
Sam remembered the way Prissy had described the old Daugherty couple—fearful, skittish, unwilling to look at the cowboys who sat like vultures as they withdrew their savings—and felt his ire deepen. “You’d better make sure every ‘i’ is dotted and every ‘t’ is crossed in your land dealings, Mr. Byrd.”
“We seem to have unintentionally ruffled your feathers, Sheriff,” Byrd observed. He seemed pleased.
Sam recognized he was being baited and kept his voice level. “I’ll be watching, and I won’t have anyone bullied into selling. Do I make myself plain?”
“Abundantly,” Pennington said, his voice conciliatory as Sam continued to meet Byrd’s basilisk stare. “Sheriff Bishop, I regret we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot, so to speak. As I said, there will be no repeat of any sort of disrespectful behavior from my men. We’re here to benefit the citizens of this part of Texas, not persecute them. Now, let me show you around La Alianza, as I promised I would.”
Sam would have liked to refuse point-blank and stalk out, but he realized he might have more to gain if he let himself appear to be placated and was able to take a look around. Knowledge of this place might prove useful.
He shrugged. “Why not?”
Without a word, Byrd got to his feet and left the room. Sam was relieved to see him go. He didn’t like or trust Pennington any more than Byrd, but Pennington at least put on a pretense of affability.
“Splendid. Allow me to go dress—I won’t be long. Why not reconsider about that cup of coffee, while you’re waiting?” As if he’d been reading his employer’s mind—or hovering outside the door—Wong Tiao reentered the room bearing a fresh pot of hot coffee, and Sam accepted a cup.
Pennington was as good as his word, and soon Sam was following him around as Pennington showed him a large guesthouse, servant cottages, a greenhouse full of flowers, a magnificently appointed stable with its prized stock of thoroughbreds and Arabians, a separate barn housing a fine selection of horses for working cattle, a smithy and a poultry barn. Then another employee wearing a Ranchers’ Alliance vest brought Jackson and a mount for Pennington, and they rode past pastures containing cattle, more horses, fields of cotton with a gin at one end, rows of corn, beans and other vegetables, and peach and apple orchards. Everywhere there were workers bearing the “RA” emblem, tending the cattle and the crops. It was like a feudal fiefdom.
“Quite an operation you have here,” Sam murmured.
Pennington smiled from atop the sixteen-hand thoroughbred he rode, a horse that had tried more than once to take a nip at Jackson, much to Sam’s gelding’s annoyance.
“We have other such holdings between here and the coast, as well—smaller, most of them, but very self-sufficient.”
“Where does the ‘alliance’ part of the Ranchers’ Alliance come in?”
Pennington blinked. “What do you mean?”
Sam shrugged. “Inside the house, you said you were here to benefit the citizens of the area. How’s that, other than buying them out so you can take over their land? That benefits you and your partners.”
Pennington’s smile was urbane. “That’s precisely what many of them are most benefited by, of course—the chance to start over elsewhere with cash in hand. But if they choose to stay on their land, they may ally themselves with us as Alliance employees, and receive the benefits of Alliance protection and the ability to purchase needed goods at a bargain price. We buy in bulk, so we’re able to do this for our members.”
“And what’s in it for you, if they choose to do this?”
“We merely require service from them from time to time,” Pennington said vaguely. “Most of the workers you see in the fields are satisfying the terms of their contract. Others, such as the ones you saw guarding the gates, are permanent employees.”
As were the ones who’d come to town and harassed Prissy.
“I’ll ask you again, like I did inside—what do y’all hope to gain with this ‘Ranchers’ Alliance,’ Mr. Pennington?”
Pennington met his gaze. “Power,” Pennington said simply. “Control of a region, like Richard King has south of here. He controls a huge chunk of Texas, Sheriff. But why should he be the only one?”
They’d come full circle and were now back at the entrance gate. It struck Sam then that he’d seen no ladies in the big house and only a few Mexican women tending the gardens.
“Are you married, Mr. Pennington? Is Mr. Byrd?”
Pennington raised an eyebrow, as if he found the question intrusive, but Sam didn’t care.
“Yes, I am. Mrs. Pennington still lives in Houston, but I hope to bring her up here soon, now that we have things under way.”
It was an ironic understatement, Sam thought, gazing about him at the carefully organized splendor.
“What about Byrd?”
“His wife has passed on. And you, Sheriff Bishop? Do you hope to tie the knot sometime soon with the beautiful mayor’s daughter?”
It was a fair question after Sam’s inquiry, but Sam was reluctant to speak of Prissy with this man and only nodded.
“Splendid, splendid. She is a prize, by all reports.”
He spoke of her as if she were the spoils of war. Fury clenched Sam’s free hand into a fist at his side.
“Where did you get the money to start all this?” Sam asked, willing to counter rudeness with rudeness.
Pennington stared at him, and for a long moment there was no sound but the buzzing of insects and the stomp of Jackson’s hoof as he sought to dislodge a pesky fly.
“Ah, that’d be telling,” Pennington murmured. “But if you’d care to throw in with us, Sheriff, you can be privy to all our secrets.”
Sam blinked. “Thanks, but I have a job.”
Pennington waved a hand. “Oh, you could continue as sheriff, if you wished. Collect both salaries. It would be good to have the law in our corner, so to speak. Or you could leave the job and throw in with us completely. Miss Gilmore could live in the lap of luxury here as your wife, in an even more opulent house than her father’s, rather than some humble abode you could afford in town on your own. She could be my hostess until my wife joins me. Think of it, Sheriff—isn’t that the sort of home you’d like to provide for her?”
Unbidden, his mind flashed an image of Prissy dining at the long mahogany dining table, dressed in the finest gowns, never wanting for anything, rather than in the ramshackle old house he wanted to fix up for the two of them.
For a moment, Sam could only stare at him, dumbfounded—not only because of the man’s audacity in saying it, but because he knew he once would have jumped at the chance.
But now the idea of accepting filled him with disgust. His father used to quote the old saying, “He who sups with the devil should bring a long spoon.” The offer sounded like just that sort of situation.
“Th
anks, but I’ve always been my own man. Reckon I’ll continue doing that.”
Pennington shrugged, untroubled at the refusal. “Very well, but if you decide to leave genteel poverty behind, the position will be open—at least for a time, Bishop. The sheriff of Richardson is considering it, but I’d rather have you, I believe.”
Sam ignored his last words. “Thanks for the tour, Mr. Pennington. I’d best be getting back to town.”
He started to rein Jackson around and head him out through the gate, but Pennington put up a hand. “Oh, say, Sheriff, you’ll have to come pay us another visit soon when our other partner comes up to visit from Houston. We’ll be having a reception, and I know he’d like to meet the sheriff. Perhaps he could make joining us seem more attractive to you.”
“I doubt it.”
“Oh, don’t be so sure,” Pennington said with a smirk. “Kendall Raney could charm the birds out of the trees, if he had a mind to.”
It took all of Sam’s ability to keep his features blank. The day had become hot enough to wither a fence post, but he suddenly felt cold all over.
Kendall Raney was coming to San Saba County. Kendall Raney, who had overseen Sam’s being beaten to a pulp, and who had planned to feed him to the gators. Kendall Raney, whose safe Sam had cracked, whose valuable ring he had stolen.
“Are y’all having a big braggin’ party to see which of you has gobbled up the most land from down-on-their-luck ranchers?” He asked the question lightly, while all the while his mind raced. Raney had only seen him the one time, at night, and his features had been covered in blood by the end of it. Sam’s injuries had mostly healed, and if they met at all, Raney wasn’t likely to remember the hapless gambler he’d once decided to dump into a bayou for the gators when he saw the sheriff of Simpson Creek. He might not even come into town, but be content to stay in the sumptuous luxury of La Alianza.
“Among other things,” Pennington said. “But he mainly wants to set up a gambling palace in Simpson Creek, such as the ones he runs in Houston. Profitable places.”
Profitable for the house, Sam knew. Not for the gambler. “We already have a saloon, if anyone wants to play poker or monte,” Sam said dismissively. “Simpson Creek isn’t a rowdy town. He ought to try his luck in San Francisco or New Orleans.”
“Oh, but he sees the possibilities, Sheriff. If Simpson Creek’s saloon owner doesn’t want to sell, he can always erect his gambling palace elsewhere in the town. Gamblers would flock to such a place, the only one of its kind in the hill country. You might find yourself sheriff of a booming city, Bishop.”
“We’ll see about that,” Sam said as he headed through the gate, ignoring the fear that had taken hold in his stomach.
Chapter Twelve
Sam unlocked the sheriff’s office, taking down the “Sheriff Is Out” sign, eager to do some quiet work at his desk after his return from La Alianza. He’d stopped at Gilmore House to tell the mayor about his visit, and Prissy’s father had decided to call a council meeting to discuss the matter.
Sam wanted to get his thoughts and recommendations down on paper while his impressions were still fresh. He planned to urge the council to call a town meeting to warn against the Ranchers’ Alliance, to urge the townspeople to neither sell their property to them nor join. He wondered if they could pass an ordinance against new saloons or gambling halls. Was such a thing legal, and would it be enough to discourage the scheming Raney? He outlined his thoughts on a sheet of paper, point by point.
The idea of encountering his tormentor again had rankled his nerves at first, but during the ride back to town, Sam’s resolve had stiffened. Even in the unlikely event Raney recognized him, he had no power over the sheriff of Simpson Creek. If he harmed a lawman, it would bring the federals down on him and his cabal. He wouldn’t want that, for they’d poke their noses into the land-buying scheme.
And he couldn’t prove Sam had taken the ring. He might not have even realized that Sam was the one who had taken it, for Sam had left the safe locked up again, and he might not have missed the ring right away. Sam only hoped some unlucky employee of Raney’s gambling emporium hadn’t taken the blame for the theft instead.
He’d known the so-called Ranchers’ Alliance was a bad thing, but now that he knew Raney was part of it, it was even worse. He had to defeat Raney and his coconspirators, not only to achieve his own revenge, but for the sake of the town and San Saba County.
And for the sake of the life he was trying to build here. With Prissy.
Sam began writing with such force that the lead broke in the pencil he’d so painstakingly sharpened to a point. Thunderation. Now he’d have to whittle it down again.
He’d just pulled his knife out of his pocket when the door was wrenched open. William Waters III burst in, slamming the door behind him.
“Sheriff, it’s about time you put in an appearance!” he cried. “I’ve been looking for you all morning.”
Sam had heard the term “purple with rage” before, and he judged the easterner’s complexion was only a couple of shades away from that. His eyes bulged as if someone had a chokehold around his neck. He was practically hopping from foot to foot in his fury.
“The very least you could do if you’re out is to have a deputy here to take your place,” Waters went on. “But no doubt you were lollygagging at the mayor’s mansion, mooning over his daughter.”
Sam smothered his irritation at the accusation. So the little banty rooster was jealous, was he? It wouldn’t do him any good. He’d never have had a chance with a woman like Prissy Gilmore, even if Sam and she had never met. Sam said in a mild tone, “Happens I was out investigating a citizen’s complaint, Mr. Waters.” The man didn’t need to know the citizen was Prissy. “Sorry I wasn’t here. What can I do for you, now that I am?”
“You can order those Ranchers’ Alliance fellows not to push me around, that’s what!”
Sam straightened. “Simmer down, take a seat, and tell me what you’re talking about,” he said, pointing to the chair on the other side of the scarred old desk. “What did they do to you?”
Waters sat down with a huff of breath. “I hadn’t been here twenty-four hours before that Pennington fellow paid me a call at my hotel room offering to buy my ranch. Said he’d do me the favor of taking it off of my hands, if you can believe the effrontery!”
“You told him you didn’t want to sell, didn’t you?” Sam wasn’t sure the man wouldn’t be wiser to sell to someone, as ill-suited as he was to be a rancher in this rough country, but Waters’s land abutted the Brookfields’ and Sam certainly didn’t want Nick and his wife to have the Ranchers’ Alliance as a neighbor.
“He offered me a pittance compared to what it’s worth, and I said no and thought no more of it,” Waters said. “Then he sent some of his men out yesterday—dangerous-looking fellows, ‘hired guns,’ I believe you’d call them. They repeated the offer to buy me out, though for less money than the day before, with their hands on their pistol butts the whole time. Today all the men I’d hired to do the work have either disappeared or are dead drunk in the saloon—and when I went to claim the lumber I’d ordered at the mill, the mill owner told me the order had been cancelled—but not by me, you may be sure I told him!”
“Sounds like someone’s trying to discourage you from settling down out there,” Sam murmured. “Mr. Waters, I’ll be attending a council meeting called to discuss this very subject tonight, and—”
“Fine, I’ll be there. At Gilmore House?”
“Hold your horses a second,” Sam advised. “I wasn’t asking you to attend. I can bring your report to the council, along with those of others who’ve been pressured to sell their land. Then we’ll be calling a meeting of concerned citizens, and you’re welcome to attend that—”
“And in the meantime, I’m to cool my heels?” Waters yelped, jumping to his feet and pounding on Sam’s desk. “Allow these ruffians to threaten me?” He was fairly jumping up and down in his agitation.
S
am stood, extending his hand palm down. “Now, I didn’t say that. I was just out to Pennington’s ranch this morning, and I was about to say I would pay another call there and officially order them to leave you in peace because you don’t want to sell.”
Waters stared at him, his beady eyes narrowed into mere slits. “How do I know I can trust you?” he demanded. “How do I know you’re not in league with them to defraud me of my land?”
Sam took a deep breath, knowing he towered over Waters. As sheriff, he’d taken an oath to defend obnoxious people like William Waters just as much as kind, pleasant folks like Mrs. Detwiler. “You don’t,” he said shortly, “except that I’m wearing this—” He jabbed his thumb into the five-pointed star he wore on his shirt. “And out here, if a man says he’s going to do something, we trust he will. As an easterner, you might not have been aware of that.”
Waters took a step back. “I…I apologize, Sheriff,” he said. “I suppose I spoke too hastily. I-I’d be grateful if you’d speak to Mr. Pennington.”
“I’ll do that. Now, in the meantime, who did you hire to bring the lumber out to your property? I’ll mosey down to the saloon and have a word with them about starting the work they promised.”
“Thank you, Sheriff,” Waters said, all the fight gone out of him.
Sam took down the names, realizing they were going to need more than a council meeting to rein in the Alliance.
Prissy smiled in triumph as she took two apple pies out of the oven and saw that both were evenly browned.
“Ah, señorita,” Flora said, coming back into the kitchen. “They smell so good!”
“Even Sarah wouldn’t be ashamed to claim these as her own,” Prissy said, pride at her accomplishment welling up in her. She had definitely come a long way in her cooking ability.
At Prissy’s feet, Houston gave a yip, his liquid eyes pleading for a sample. But she’d already given him scraps of dough left over from the piecrust she’d rolled out. “Sorry, boy, no more for you. I’m leaving one here for Papa, Flora and Antonio.” She would cover the other with a napkin and take it down to the jail as a treat for Sam.
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