Conversation was scarce, but they neither itched nor craved an end to the silence. The world, too, lay quiet around them, except for the wind that sang through the grass. It was enough.
They followed the Frio downcountry. Letting her take the lead, Kings trailed Belle to a bend in the river where a live oak had toppled over onto its side, affording either a hitch rail for horses or a bench for humans. This was their spot, a quiet place to reflect, to listen to each other breathe, and to give themselves over, briefly and rarely, to a shared passion.
He stepped down first, moving as he always did to help her down, though she was the last woman who needed help dismounting. She accepted his hands about her middle, as she always did, and hopped down.
She avoided his eyes when he took her reins, then gave him her back as he saw to the horses. Picking out a spot on the tree that was close to the water’s edge, Belle sat with her hands in her lap, eyes down.
Kings sat beside her and reached for her hand, which she gave, but there was no response to his affectionate squeeze or gentle caress. Something was wrong. Her whole mood had changed from the outset of their ride to the moment of their arrival. She still hadn’t looked at him.
He waited.
There had been times when Belle told herself she hated him, times she had sworn to God and Jesus and all the angels that she had no more love for him, only to plead forgiveness for her sudden anger and bitter outcry. There was a question that seared her heart but one she had never put to him directly, and she thought of it again now. Why had he not quit his ways a long time ago, before the infamy he now enjoyed made it impossible? Why hadn’t he ever asked her to marry him?
She was trying to summon the courage to ask when she felt his hand on her knee.
“How’d you like to watch the sun go down in California?”
Belle looked around, stiffening when she saw that Kings was kneeling in the dirt. “There’s not a sight on this earth like a California sunset,” he said. “When the sun dips down behind them Sierra Nevadas, you’d swear you’d died and gone to heaven.”
She heard one of the horses moving, turned her head to look, but his thumb and forefinger touched her chin and brought her gaze back.
“Few years ago, Sam, Dick, and me took a trip to California—not huntin’ money, just desirin’ a look at the Pacific. Well, third day past the Nevada border we come across this little valley. Got our horses from the depot and just rode right up into it, didn’t even plan on it, just . . . happened into acres and acres of grassland. Trees so tall you could hardly see the tops and big around as a barn—forests of ’em; seemed to go on forever. Wide open skies and meadows for days, like the last unspoiled place on earth.”
Her voice was small. “What are you talkin’ about?”
“I’m about through with this business, Belle,” he said. “Damn close. And damned if it’s taken this long for me to come ’round, but I swear, the last few days—hell, the last few months—have given me half a mind to pull up stakes tomorrow.”
For a moment, Belle’s eyes came alive, but she caught herself. She had been on the cusp of plunging into his arms but settled back onto the creaking live oak. A sudden sense of irritation embittered her tone. “What about that other half, Gabriel?”
In truth, his plan was still in the rudimentary stages, but Kings knew he would never again come across a woman who commanded such honesty from him, or who could ever look at him with such fire that he had no choice but to regard her as an equal. There had to be another job, of course, to make up for Agave Seco’s disappointing haul, and though he knew such vague talk might only incense her further, the outlaw king of Texas pressed on.
“I’ve got one more job in mind, one last bank. Where, I ain’t certain; when, I ain’t certain; but after we take it—and we will take it—I’m through, Belle.”
“But why? Why d’you have to risk it all for one more blessed job? Can’t you just—?”
“I need the money, sugar. Even the lion’s share of all the jobs we pulled don’t look the same after twelve years. ’Sides, I aim to build us a ranch to knock the shine off your daddy’s in that little mountain valley, and stockin’ it won’t be cheap.”
He’d moved closer, staring into her china-blues, and, to calm the storm, he put a hand on one cheek, then rose for a kiss. “I’ve no home to offer you but the one that’s still in my head,” he said when they parted, “and most every dollar I’ve ever had was come by dishonest. But if you’d be willin’ to put them things aside, I’d like to show you California. Would you go with me?”
Belle’s ire died with a sigh. “Am I supposed to take this for some kind of proposal, Gabriel Kings?”
“Your name wouldn’t be Kings, where we’re goin’, but as soon as I can, I’ll see to it you have a proper gold band to wear.”
“You’ll be comin’ back for me, then? One last time?”
“With bells on.”
CHAPTER 17
“What are your plans now, Gabriel?” asked the major, leaning an elbow into his bookshelf.
It was the day after Kings’s proposal, and they were seated in Jackson’s study, with only the hounds for company. Brownwell, Yeager, Osborn, and Woods waited below on the veranda, eager to be back in the saddle. The consensus among the outlaws was that, after six days of recovery in this comfortable safe haven, it was time to be heading home.
Kings’s reply came around a lit cigar. It wasn’t a question that demanded particulars, so he gave none. “Well, for the time bein’, I reckon we’ll make ourselves scarce, wait out the season.”
He never discussed future movements with the major, not that he feared betrayal should their link be discovered. It was merely an unspoken agreement, and Jackson was glad to be kept in the dark.
The major’s eyes went to the newspaper on his desk. “The lieutenant brought that with him when he came by for his remounts. There’s something in it, I think, that should make you reconsider doing anything for a while.”
Quizzical, Kings stood and ambled over. He didn’t bother to pick the newspaper up—he just let his fingers start from the top and work their way down the front page. They didn’t have far to go before they came to rest on the words:
KINGS GANG TO BE BROUGHT TO JUSTICE, DECLARES GOVERNOR
Gang member killed, another wounded in gun battle with lawmen;
“It is just a matter of time.”—Gov. R. B. Hubbard
Without thinking to ask permission, Kings sat down in the major’s desk chair and scanned the brief article.
The headline had done nothing but irritate him, and only mildly. There had been a number of headlines over the years, boldly declaring, as this one did, that the gang was living on borrowed time. And shortly afterward the headlines would declare—their publishers hanging heads, no doubt, from the warm safety of their offices—that the hunters had either returned empty-handed, or not at all. So why should Kings fret over an avowal from the lame duck governor of Texas that he and his men were, yet again, to be “brought to justice”?
The subheading was what gave him pause and momentarily took the breath from him.
Tom Seward was dead, reported the broadsheet, gunned down in a scrape with a posse commissioned by both Hubbard and President Hayes. Apparently, the Pinkertons were somehow mixed up in this as well.
At least Dave Zeller had managed to escape with his life, but how far he had gotten was another question entirely.
As Kings folded the paper, his eyes stumbled upon another announcement. Eight men out of ten would have passed it by to read about the Boston Red Stockings defeating the Chicago White Stockings in extra innings, but Kings passed over that report the way a hawk passes over a mouse for a rabbit.
The announcement was situated to the immediate right of the article. It spelled out in clear, fine print that on New Year’s Day the town of Justicia would be holding a celebration “the likes of which the county has never beheld,” with a band, dances from noontime to midnight, a buffet “catering to th
e tastes of our Anglo citizens and Spanish American friends alike,” and fireworks. Justicia’s doors, the paper said, were “open to one and all, and we invite our neighbors to the north, South, east, and west to join in our merriment.”
There was something in that last sentence that rubbed him like sandpaper. Why should “South” have been capitalized when the others were not? Was it a misprint, a simple error? Could it have been intentional, a private joke on the part of a printer with lingering Confederate sympathies? His gut told him no. His gut also told him to wonder why a Texas editorial would be carrying an invitation to an event in Colfax County, which was somewhere in northeastern New Mexico Territory. His gut told him this wasn’t a printing press bungle, but something else entirely.
“Gabriel?”
Kings rattled the paper as he folded it, then stood with it still in hand. There would be time to chew on the peculiarities of that announcement later. “Thank you for this news, Major,” he said, making for the door, “dark as it is.”
Jackson moved with him. “What are you gonna do?”
“Whatever I do, it’ll get done. You can count on that.”
Jackson was generally a temperate fellow, but today he was in no mood for subtlety, word games, or secrets. “I’m not a bettin’ man, son. I don’t believe in luck or chance, nor do I agree with goin’ off on some reckless escapade at half-cock.”
“Neither do I, Major.” Kings put forth his hand to shake, a sign that he was through talking.
“I hope we have many more handshakes ahead of us,” Jackson said. It was meant to be an order of sorts, but it came out sounding more like a question. A penny tossed into a wishing well.
Kings nodded and left the room but stopped halfway down the stairs as Jackson addressed him, suddenly, by rank. It was the first time anyone had done so in a very long time, and it had the desired effect. “You take care of yourself, Captain. I wouldn’t be the only one in this house to take it hard should some disaster befall you.”
“Yes,” Kings said, without turning, “I imagine them little ones would light a few candles for my soul.”
Jackson’s voice cut like a knife. “Belle would do more’n light candles. You may not bat an eye at the thought of a noose or goin’ down in some haze of death and gore. I can’t say what all kind of gloomy thoughts you entertain. You may even be lookin’ forward to the day, but—”
“Sir, I have no intention of gettin’ myself killed. Not today or tomorrow, not in Texas or anywhere. Fact is, I plan on disappearin’, but first I’ve got a loose end or two needs tyin’ up. After that, I mean to do just what you and I discussed the other day—change my name, put away my guns, and try to rebuild.”
“Hell, you and I both know how long that’d last. You’d starve, Gabriel! You haven’t known any other work but soldierin’ and stealin’, and one of those is out of the question for you. And even if you could keep your hands clean and your guns quiet, d’you think the government would just forget you and your men ever existed? That they’d give up the hunt, no matter where you go? I don’t want my daughter worryin’ herself sick over these things, but worry she does, and it makes me sick for her. Ah! You didn’t think I knew, did you? Well, I’ve had my suspicions for some time now. Don’t you worry, though—Martha ain’t got the faintest idea. Be no end of racket in this house if she did, Lord knows.”
He came down the steps. “Now, you listen to me, mister, and listen well. I love my daughter. I had to, I’d give my life for her, and I know you would, too. If there’s anything left for me to want in this life, it’s for Belle to find happiness. Her heart and soul are in this place, but she’s not finding happiness here. There’s a good chance she never will, not as another brush-country spinster.
“I think my daughter could and would find happiness with you, but for how long? Till her nerves are ruined, or until you get what you feel’s been comin’ all these years?” Jackson paused. “Dammit, man, don’t you have anything to say?”
Kings set his cigar, weakly smoldering, on the newel near his elbow with such precision one might have thought he was arranging some kind of exhibit. For a moment, it seemed as if he was about to speak. Instead, he put on his hat, tightened the strap, and went the rest of the way down, taking the newspaper with him.
Belle was waiting for him in the parlor, looking drained. She had overheard the last of their conversation and felt a horrible knot in her stomach at the revelation from her father’s own mouth that they had been discovered. She did not fear him, only what he would say to her when Kings had gone . . . what that would mean. Was this the last time he was ever to be made welcome, their last good-bye?
“Miss Jackson,” Kings said simply, taking her hand in his, “it’s been a great pleasure.”
She was aware of her father’s presence at the head of the staircase. “Thank you, Mr. Kings,” she managed, searching his face for some sign of encouragement—a crease, a crinkle, a glimmer that said everything would be fine. His features were somber, his mouth drawn in a tight line, completely unreadable.
He was silent for a moment, and then, bending down to kiss her hand, he said in a low whisper, “With bells on.”
On the veranda, slouches straightened, coats were buttoned, and cigarettes went flying as Kings appeared and nodded all around. Apparently, their departure would be to little fanfare—the only well-wishers gathered were the Elías family, who stood in a cluster at the bottom of the steps to offer parting words of “Vaya con Dios.” Little Sofía, clutching her flute, appeared to have tears in her eyes.
Seeing this, Kings approached the family, knelt, and opened his arms to beckon the tearful child. She came, sniffling, as did her older sister. He hugged them both tightly, then held the younger at arm’s length to smear the wetness from her cheek with a gentle thumb. “Adios, chiquita,” he said, then turned and mounted. He waited while the others rode out of the yard, and with one last look at the woman standing in the doorway, he turned his horse and fell in at the rear of the column.
Belle watched him go for a precious moment more, then closed her eyes at the sound of her father’s voice behind her: “Honey, let’s talk.”
The men rode westward, their tracks lost in the sleet that fell behind them. The first night out Kings told them of Seward’s death but held off on voicing any designs of retaliation. The following days crept by in utter bleakness, though there was plenty of discussion by firelight. Kings himself sat apart, squinting and deliberating over the same margin of newspaper without volunteering a word or a thought. No man dared ask him to, as there were more than enough words and anger to go around.
One thing was clear—after twelve long years, a significant threat to the gang’s security had finally arisen. Two gun-handy professionals like Dapper Tom and Yankee Dave had been put to flight, one of them killed, and, as Dick Osborn uttered just once before being hushed up by Leroy Brownwell, there now existed a possibility that the same could happen to every one of them.
Every one of them, of course, but Kings.
These men had spent a lot of time in the saddle with him, dodging bullets and the law’s long arm. They had seen him sweat, seen him pray—however futile that may have been—and seen him go days without sleep. They knew that what flowed through his veins was just as red as theirs and just as easy to spill, and, Lord, had they seen him bleed, leaking till they’d thought he could leak no more. But always, he’d kept coming, charging into whatever fray they faced like a man bedeviled. Had he been any other, they might have thought him suicidal.
They were men who had survived and scratched a hard living out of hard times, who had earned some degree of respect in the world by taking it. They had not come by it easily, and neither did they dispense it liberally. In spite of their intimacy with his character, there was still something about Gabriel Kings that made each member of the gang look at him through the eyes of a child.
The entire panorama through which they rode was lightly dusted with a whiteness that clung to the catcla
w and brush like bad luck. The sleet was a constant—not a downpour, but a continual, steady drizzle. They came in sight of the Chisos Mountains by noontime on the fifth day and the Rocking Chair by a weak-sunned one o’clock.
It was around then that Yeager urged his smoke-gray mare to the head of the column. He leaned into the gap to resume a private conversation initiated earlier that morning. “When you want me to leave for Acuña?” he asked Kings.
“Creasy ain’t likely to have wandered too far, but on the off chance you have to do a little huntin’ . . . sooner, the better.”
“Day after tomorrow?”
“Well, they won’t miss us for another two weeks,” Kings said, “but you and your gal there feel up to it, go on.”
Since leaving the Jackson ranch, Kings had had more than enough time to ponder the incongruity of that New Mexican proclamation, but it was no less confounding than when he’d first slapped eyes on it. The longer he stared at it, the more he reread the words, the more it resembled some kind of trap. It was anything but apparent, but if it was indeed a challenge, it just showed how truly desperate they had become, those bastards in Austin. He might have allowed himself to chuckle were he not still stewing over Seward’s death.
After all these years of wasted time, manpower, and money, was this what they’d resorted to—a practical invitation to a necktie party, with himself as the guest of honor? Did President Hayes, Allan Pinkerton, Governor Hubbard, and whoever else hold him in so little regard as to even hope he might accept this invitation of theirs?
And yet . . .
The recklessness of his distant but not forgotten youth had only been watered down, not completely washed away. The game of life—and yes, death—wasn’t just allegorical. And if his service under Stuart had taught Gabriel Kings anything, it was that life is a game, and it was imperative for those people whom circumstances cast as opponents to study the others’ moves, as though actually sitting at either end of a chessboard. Feints, flanking maneuvers, bluffs, and all-out assaults were key elements in games like the one Kings was contemplating now.
The Avenging Angels Page 17
