Connie and the Cowboy (Outlaw Gold)

by Mildred Colvin

  She whispered to him, knowing he’d listen if he could. “I would’ve killed the sheriff by now, too, if I thought I could’ve gotten away with it.”

  Her voice sounded loud in the quiet house as she continued to whisper to Davis. “You always told me there was two classes of people in this world, Davis. The ‘haves’ and the ‘have-nots.’ Burns is a ‘have.’ I’m a ‘have-not.’ He’s the loved and respected sheriff of Purgatory. I’m the poor little orphan him and his good wife took in. I’d hang for killin’ the sheriff no matter what he did to me.”

  She sighed. “If I could find some way to get back to the cave where you left that gold for me, then I’d be a ‘have’—a real ‘have.’ I wouldn’t never need to worry ’bout men like Burns and folks wouldn’t talk about me behind my back like I couldn’t hear or somethin’. I’d be just as good as any of ’em. Only I don’t know how to get back there, Davis. I’d get lost sure as anything iffen I tried. It’s too far. There’s too much forestland to go through. Too many hills. I gotta find somebody I can trust to show me the way.”

  She went back downstairs to clean the rest of the house, still muttering under her breath. “But who? Deputy Deems would take me, iffen I asked. He looks at me like he wants to gobble me up. Other times he looks like he knows somethin’ ’bout me and it’s makin’ him mad. He even asked me once to run off with him, but I hit him good with my skillet for his trouble. I can’t figure him out. I can’t trust him no more’n I can trust Burns. They’s one of a kind, far as I can tell.”

  She grabbed the broom and started sweeping the kitchen floor. “I ain’t givin’ up, Davis. You left me my inheritance, and I aim to get it one way or another.”

  Chapter Two

  Brett left the café with the five men. He mounted his horse, and with the others, headed south out of town. Fagan led the way as they rode past a large old two-story farmhouse sitting alone at the edge of town. They continued on for nearly five miles, passing several isolated farms before turning off the road.

  No visible trail went up the steep hillside, yet Fagan found his way in the dense foliage. Brett didn’t question, but guided his mount with care, dodging tree limbs as he tried to see ahead. Surely they would come to a clearing soon, since they couldn’t set up camp in the woods.

  Close to a mile later, Brett’s buckskin lifted his head and nickered a moment before they broke through the trees. Fagan pointed to a patch of water sparkling in the sunshine through a grove of trees across the meadow. “There’s a good place. Let’s go.”

  Brett followed the others and dismounted by the clear stream. Fagan started barking orders before his feet touched the ground.

  “Get a fire going, Norris.” He turned to another man without waiting to see if Brett obeyed. “Grady, you and Billy help gather some firewood and kindlin’. You still got some of that coffee left, Dall?”

  “Yeah, in my saddlebags.”

  “Soon as Norris gets a fire, make some, and then we’ll talk.”

  With Grady and Billy’s help, Brett soon had a campfire ring built from the abundance of loose rocks in the area, and a good blaze started within its perimeters. While Dall made the coffee, Fagan tested Brett’s expertise with a gun. Billy threw sticks and pine cones into the air, and Brett shot them down, seldom missing. Finally, Fagan nodded his approval and reached for a tin cup then motioned for the others to join him. They sat around the blazing fire, sipping coffee.

  Fagan looked from one man to another, his dark eyes shining with suppressed excitement. “Looks like we got us a good layout here. Town ain’t too big. Looks prosperous.”

  “What about that sheriff?” Dall shifted his position.

  “You got a barkin’ iron, ain’t ya?” Fagan spat to the side.

  Dall nodded.

  “Then use the thing and stop askin’ fool questions.” Fagan scowled at him.

  Dall’s hand moved to the gun on his hip, and Grady laughed. “Either end’ll work, Dall, in case you can’t figure out how.”

  Dall turned with a quizzical expression on his face. He stared at Grady for a moment, then frowned and cursed. “If you ain’t careful, I’ll show ya firsthand how well I kin use a gun.”

  “Shut up, the both of ya.” Fagan growled. “We ain’t got time for no fightin’ amongst us.” Regaining their attention, he began to outline his plan.

  Brett listened with growing awareness that the job he’d accepted had nothing to do with a ranch in Texas. In fact, it was unlike anything he’d ever done before.

  “All ya gotta do is hold the horses, this bein’ your first time and all,” Fagan told him.

  His first time. Brett didn’t much like the sound of that. What had he gotten into? While he held the horses, the other men would be inside Farmer’s State Bank relieving the good people in Purgatory, Arkansas of their hard-earned assets.

  Never in his life had he been involved in anything illegal. At least not since he’d grown up and left home. There’d been several scrapes he’d gotten into as a boy. That was a long time ago. A grown man robbing a bank wasn’t the same as stealing apples from the neighbor’s tree.

  “Oughta rake in a few thousand apiece, don’t ya think?” Grady asked, catching Brett’s attention.

  “Least that much.” Fagan agreed. He leaned back against a tree, his arms folded behind his head. His dark eyes glittered, a reflection from the campfire, as he searched each man’s face, finally resting on Brett’s. “Well, Norris, think you can handle them horses without gettin’ scared and runnin’ away?”

  The challenge was clearly there. Was he man enough to do the smallest job, or would he buckle under? His coffee sat heavy on his stomach at the thought. He should saddle his horse and leave right then. Before he got in any deeper. A picture of him riding away toward the forest took shape in his mind. They might let him get to the tree line, but that’s where the image changed. Just before he reached the shelter of the trees, he’d be a dead man, shot in the back by any one of the four men. He glanced around the circle. They all watched him—waiting for his answer.

  He shifted on the hard ground. A pebble poked his leg and he tossed it aside. They assumed he was soft. A weakling who couldn’t even hold a few horses without turning tail and running. He could do the job. That wouldn’t be a problem. If Fagan had asked, “Should you?” the answer would be different. If only he didn’t need the money. It’d been a long time since he’d had any gold in his pockets. He ignored the warning that nagged at his conscience and nodded to Fagan.

  “I reckon I can do my job.”

  “Good.” Fagan’s dark eyes studied him a moment before he turned to his son. “Billy, grab the shotgun and rustle up some supper. You go with him, Norris.”

  Brett took his rifle and went with the boy. Billy didn’t talk much, and Brett didn’t push for conversation. He had plenty to think about, but mostly he wanted the restless feeling in his soul to go away. The queasiness in his stomach, too. There wasn’t much he could do but follow through with Fagan’s plans. He’d hold the horses, and he’d get away, but he wouldn’t accept any more jobs like this one.

  Billy shot a couple of rabbits, and Brett got a squirrel. They took their offerings back to the gang, and Grady cooked them over the open fire. They spent the rest of the afternoon playing cards and lazing around. Brett had plenty of time to regret the decision that had brought him into the clutches of his present companions. Only problem was, now he knew their plans and had agreed to go along with them, how could he get away?

  By the time the meat was ready to eat, his stomach rebelled. One show of weakness would have Fagan on him quicker than he could sidestep, so he forced the surprisingly savory rabbit past his misgivings.

  As darkness crept over the sky, Fagan ordered them to bed. “We got a job to do in the morning,’ and I want every man to be alert.”

  Brett pulled off his boots and slipped into his bedroll. He lay on his back, his head pillowed on his saddle, looking up at a pale moon suspended in a dark, diamond-studde
d sky. Could the folks at home see the same moon? Home seemed so far away. Five years ago, he walked out of his father’s house and set out in search of . . . In search of what? What had he been looking for when he was eighteen years old? Something to fill the emptiness in his life, maybe. Too bad he’d never found what he needed.

  He thought of his stepmother and how she cried when he left. She promised to pray for him every day and told him to come home as soon as he could.

  The first few months he was away, he wrote dozens of letters to his father, his stepmother, and his sisters, but never mailed any of them. He refused to acknowledge the homesickness that ate at his heart. He couldn’t give in to the weakness. Weeks became months, then years, and the homesickness diminished while the emptiness grew as he drifted aimlessly from place to place.

  He hadn’t thought of his family in ages, but tonight they seemed near. What would his father think of his latest adventure? What would he say if he knew that tomorrow morning, his only son would be involved in a bank robbery?

  He shifted trying to find a comfortable position. The lonesome call of a hoot owl sounded in the night.

  A father can give his children no greater gift than that of a good name, un-besmirched by scandal.

  His father’s words came back to him as clear and strong as they had been on the night five years ago when he first spoke them.

  My grandfather’s father bestowed on him a good name, my grandfather passed that name on to my father, and my father in his turn gave it to me. I bequeath that gift to you, Brett. Someday, you will pass the name of Norris to your children. Strive always to make the Norris name a gift they will cherish.

  That night, his father had sat with his spine straight, his carriage demanding respect and obedience. He’d left no doubt he expected Brett, his only son, to follow in his footsteps and those of their ancestors as president of Norris Metal Works.

  Brett sat up and pulled a tiny, sharp rock from under his blanket. He tossed it aside and slumped with his elbows on his bended knees. The gentle rustle of the treetops, accompanied by the night song of a hundred crickets serenaded him. The hard work his father put into the business was for him, because he expected his son to take over someday. Brett had other ideas that didn’t include sitting in an office day in and day out. That’s why he’d run away from home and from the responsibilities that had been his from birth.

  In the near-distance, the dark shape of an owl swooped down on an unsuspecting creature. The small animal’s cries of fear and anguish as the owl’s talons dug into its soft body were quickly silenced. The labored beat of the predator’s wings, climbing aloft with its prey, filled the night sky.

  A chill swept over Brett’s body, and he broke out in a cold sweat. Just as the owl had caught a small animal, he found himself in the clutches of a gang of outlaws with no way to break free. When had he become captive of this way of life? He’d lost his way long ago when death took his mother. He felt so lost without her. Even the stepmother he soon came to call Mom couldn’t take her place.

  One of the men jerked and snorted in his sleep. His uneven snoring sounded loud in the night before he settled back into a smooth, open-mouthed rhythm.

  Brett lay down again and cradled his head on his saddle. He touched the saddlebags resting beside him. They held nothing of value except the leather-covered Bible given to him by his sister, Elizabeth. Her eyes filled with tears when she pressed it into his hands and made him promise he’d keep God’s Word and read it every day. He’d kept one promise. He still had the Bible. He also had enough knowledge of its pages to know that his present situation displeased his creator.

  Just this one time. I won’t actually be robbing the bank. I’ll only hold the horses. And I promise, I’ll never do anything like this again. Brett rationalized while his conscience continued to grow increasingly uneasy. He rolled from side to side trying to find rest. His stomach felt as if he’d swallowed a peck of lead, and his head throbbed.

  Just before dawn, he fell into a restless sleep. In what seemed like mere moments later, with an instinct born of hard years on the trail, Brett awoke with a start. His saddlebags had moved. His hand flew from under the blanket, his gun cocked and ready. His eyes narrowed as he looked into Grady’s face.

  Grady straightened, a cocky grin stretching his mouth, his arms raised on either side. “Careful with that there thing. You could hurt a body iffen it goes off.”

  “That’s the idea.” Brett kept his voice hard. “You mind tellin’ me what you’re doin’ riflin’ through my belongings?”

  Grady’s eyes widened in a look of innocence. “I didn’t do no such thing. I was just tryin’ to wake you up like the boss said. He wants you to fix us some breakfast.”

  Brett lowered his gun and nodded. “All right, but don’t bother my bags again.”

  Grady shrugged, his innocent look gone. “Better get a move on iffen you know what’s good fer ya.”

  Brett rolled from bed and groaned when his head pounded at the quick movement. He reached for his boots and held his stomach as a wave of nausea hit. His face felt feverish. Moving slower now, he pulled on his boots and stood. He braced himself and waited until his stomach settled before he moved to build up the fire. As soon as he slapped bacon in the hot skillet, the smell rose and gagged him. He tried to swallow the acid filling his throat. It burned all the way down into his heaving stomach. He ran toward the nearest tree.

  “Watch the bacon.” He yelled at Billy as he rushed past.

  Four pairs of eyes stared at him when, weak-kneed and pale, he made his way back to camp and slumped on a large boulder. He buried his burning face in shaking hands.

  “What’s ailin’ you, Norris?” Fagan growled.

  Brett ached all over. With more effort than he wanted to expend, he lifted his head and met the gang leader’s cold black eyes. “I don’t know. I’ve got the runs, and I’m heavin’ up my insides. Maybe something I ate didn’t agree.” A shiver coursed through his body. “I think I’ve got a fever, but I’m freezin’.”

  Fagan opened his mouth, but nothing came out before Brett staggered to his feet and barely made it back to the tree. There the remaining contents of his stomach came up in a rush. He vomited until his eyes watered, then leaned against the tree, and ran a trembling hand over his face.

  “We’re headin’ out of here soon’s we eat, with or without ya.” Fagan’s voice sounded from far away. “I took a chance on you and now look at ya. Heavin’ up your insides like some nervous Nelly.”

  “It isn’t that. I’ll be fine soon as—” Brett turned as another wave of nausea hit. He retched little more than bile.

  From beyond the fringes of his focus, Brett heard the men’s voices. He couldn’t understand what they said, but he knew they were packing up to leave. He didn’t care. All he wanted was to collapse in his bed at home. He wanted to feel Mom’s cool, gentle hand on his forehead. She’d take care of him. If only he hadn’t left home. As soon as he felt better, he’d saddle up and head north. Five years was long enough. The time had come to go home.

  He heard the men mount and head out. He turned and stumbled back to his bedroll still laid out where he’d slept. His saddle and bags appeared untouched, and his tethered horse grazed nearby. He fell to his bed and pulled the cover to his chin.

  ~*~

  The mid-day sun reached bright fingers through the trees and caressed Brett’s face. He slowly opened his eyes, then blinked against the brightness. Pushing the blanket to one side, he sat up. Air stirred against his cold, sweat-dampened shirt. His stomach twisted with hunger.

  Brett looked down and saw he still had on his boots. He reached into his pocket and pulled out two quarters. That would be plenty for a bowl of beans at Blue’s Café back in Purgatory. After he ate he’d head north, maybe find work to do along the way until he got home to Springfield, Missouri.

  He stood on weak legs and took a moment to find the strength to move before filling his canteen with clear water from the nearby str
eam and pouring it over the glowing coals. The fire sizzled under the onslaught of the water. He repeated the action until he had the fire completely extinguished. He saddled and packed his buckskin, then mounted, and followed the trail left by Fagan’s gang. They would lead him to the road and town.

  As he neared Purgatory, a column of dust approached in the distance. He pulled the buckskin to the side of the road and waited with his hand near his six-shooter. No telling who might be coming. As five men drew near, Bret recognized the sheriff and his deputy riding in front.

  “They must be after Fagan and his gang.” Brett grinned and relaxed. He patted the horse’s neck. “Good thing I don’t have the stomach for robbing banks, or they’d be after me.”

  The sheriff drew his mount to a stop almost nose-to-nose with Brett’s buckskin. The other members of the posse formed a watchful semi-circle enclosing him.

  “Good afternoon, Sheriff.” Brett nodded to the men then looked down the barrel of Sheriff Burn’s gun.

  “Get your hands above your head and keep ’em there.” The big man growled. “Deems, get his gun belt.”

  The scrawny little deputy hesitated. “I don’t think he was with them, Sheriff.”

  “I didn’t ask you to think,” the sheriff snapped. “I asked you to get this man’s side arms.”

  The deputy’s Adam’s apple jumped when he swallowed before he scrambled down from his horse with a quick nod toward the sheriff. “Yes, sir.”

  “I don’t know what you think I’ve done, Sheriff.” Brett kept his hands up as the deputy took his gun belt. “I haven’t been into town since yesterday morning.”

  “I don’t never forget a face,” the sheriff said. “And you was with that bunch that robbed the bank.”

  “I was with them.” Brett admitted. “But that was yesterday.”

  “You can put your hands down now.” The sheriff glared at Brett and grunted. “I’m takin’ ya in for the robbery of the Farmer’s State Bank of Purgatory, Arkansas, and for the murder of Clyde Bruce.”