Not that she had any idea of the characteristics of a Mississippi cardsharp. None other than the description in the dime novel Aunt Dorothy had loaned her that she’d read three times. Yet, she felt almost positive they showed no affinity to any kind of regular horseback riding.
“Morning, Uncle.” She returned his infectious good humor. “Having a meeting of the minds out there? They want to elect you mayor or something?”
“Pshaw! The ‘or something’ would be more like it, gal.” He drew her away from the other two women and lowered his voice. “Was tellin’ the boys about runnin’ into Sam Sixkiller.”
“That old Indian who comes into town occasionally?”
Everyone in the county put old Sam and Pete in the same looney category. They could truly hatch some good stories when the two of them got together. Two peas in a pod.
“Yep.” Uncle Pete’s eyes sparkled with excitement.
“You two weren’t drinking cactus juice, were you?”
“Not particularly at the time. You wanna hear or not?”
“Horace mentioned something about buried treasure.”
“Shh.” He drew her closer, casting a suspicious glance around the store. “Keep it down.”
His logic escaped her. She didn’t point out the fact that he’d already told half the town and by now the tale had spread to every home and prairie dog hole in the county.
“Sam said when he was a young brave, his tribe ambushed a group of prospectors somewhere in this area coming back from gold country in the Rockies. They had a powerful lot o’ pack mules and burros with ever’ one loaded down with gold nuggets.”
“So the Comanches took the gold?”
“That part’s kinda fuzzy.” Uncle Pete pressed his mouth to her ear. “Sam thinks they only had eyes for the animals and scalps. Didn’t know nuthin’ about yeller rocks. To the best of his recollection, they emptied the bags onto the ground. Or they might’ve dug a hole and buried ’em.”
“Uncle Pete, you’ve got to quit listening to every fanciful concoction. Sam’s probably laughing his head off for pulling your leg.” Glory gave him a peck on a grizzled cheek that sported at least a week’s worth of bristles. “If there truly was gold, don’t you think Sam would’ve taken it by now?”
“Nope. That ol’ Comanche can’t rightly recollect the spot. Been a lot of years and the land changes.”
She’d learned from experience if you didn’t work for anything, you didn’t deserve it. Could’ves and maybes, or the dreams of an eccentric uncle, wouldn’t keep the wolves from the door. Though for all her struggles, nothing but hard times seemed destined to fall in her lap. Who was to say if one was better than the other?
Unless…
The proposition with McClain shot into mind. Given the man’s skill, they’d have no trouble apprehending Perkins. Her portion would see them debt free and she could concentrate on her father.
One question nagged at her conscience. At what price? Beyond a doubt, he’d hold her to the promise.
A delicious shiver wound around her heart like a clinging wisteria vine.
* * *
Jack Day lay bathed in his own sweat. Not that he minded. It was a welcome relief from chills that normally rattled his bones. He welcomed the pain that came with each breath, for it assured him he hadn’t yet departed this life.
“You awake, Jack?” Dr. John Fletcher laid a hand on his forehead. “Fever’s broken. For now, anyway.”
“Any visitors? My wife…” He asked the same question every day, except the days when he’d been delirious. Lately, the latter descended on him with increasing frequency.
Dr. Fletcher didn’t meet his gaze, but paused before pressing a stethoscope to his chest. “I’m sorry.”
“Just as well.” He sighed wearily. “Wouldn’t want them to see me like this.”
“They’ll come. You have to hold on to that thought.”
“Yeah, for Ruth. She’ll be here. Someway. Somehow.”
The beautiful vision floated into place in his mind. Fragile Ruth. She despised the harsh Texas land with a vengeance, the howling winds, the dry heat, and the blue northers. It stole her spirit little by little, sinking her into a hell of her own making.
Here lies Jack Day, the soul killer. The epitaph carved on his tombstone would surely speak the truth.
He figured killing a person’s soul had to be the worst crime a man could commit. Breaking your lady’s heart, destroying her faith—those were the kinds of deaths that lasted forever.
“Tell me about your girls. You rarely speak of them.”
A coughing spasm suddenly engulfed him. He gasped for air, tasting the sickening blob that stuck in his throat.
“Spit it out, Jack. Just relax and let it come up.” The doctor lifted him to an upright position and wiped the bloody phlegm from his mouth.
“Don’t have much time left, do I, Doc?”
“The good Lord hasn’t seen fit to give me your departure date, son. Guess when He gets ready, He’ll take you home.”
“Reckon so.” Jack leaned weakly against the pillows. “You asked about my girls. Still want to humor a dyin’ man?”
“An old sawbones like me always loves hearing about pretty little ladies.”
“Glory, Hope, and Patience—my pride and joy. Each is special in her own way. Glory is strong of mind and spirit. She’s the provider now. Underneath Hope’s calm sweetness lies surprising strength. And Patience, my baby daughter, took her time comin’ into this world. Twenty-one hours to be exact. But don’t let her name fool you. That little girl can put a Texas whirlwind to shame. Curious and full of excitement.”
The prison doctor patted his shoulder. The touch of human kindness brought a measure of warmth to his cold fear.
“If I was a bettin’ man, Jack, I’d lay odds you’ll see them all soon.”
A hopeless sigh escaped his lips. The dice he’d rolled had come up snake eyes. Thank the Lord the doc hadn’t put up a stake on his prediction.
Jack’s despair wore like a pair of long johns—clinging and personal.
The state of Texas served him an unjust fate. A higher power robbed him of ever setting eyes on his loved ones again this side of the shore. And cruel destiny made certain he would die alone inside these dark prison walls.
* * *
Twenty-five cents jingled in the pocket of Glory’s dress. That’s what a dozen eggs and a gallon of milk fetched. A mental tally of their finances now had them within eighty-one dollars and fifty-seven cents of their goal.
Two weeks, and then the bank would put a no-trespassing sign on the farm, making it a crime to step foot on their land. Her grandfather had fought Indians, pestilence, and outlaws to settle there.
To lose it now would mean she’d failed in every single way.
Glory left her mother visiting with Aunt Dorothy and strode purposefully toward the Santa Anna Gazette. Charlie Gimble, the paper’s editor and her only true friend besides Horace Simon, usually lent an ear no matter how much type needed setting.
The onslaught of a dust cloud swirled in the wake of three horseback riders who galloped past. She fanned the air to keep the grit from her mouth and tried to separate the yelling from the jangle of noise.
“They robbed the stage! The driver’s been killed!” The men jumped from their saddles almost before their mounts stopped. A crowd quickly assembled.
“What’s that you say?” Glory heard a man ask as she drew closer.
“Over by Post Oak Springs. A gang of masked, murderin’, thievin’ outlaws robbed the stage and shot the driver. Blood ’n’ guts everwhere.”
“Joseph, ride over to Abilene town for the marshal. Quick,” Fieldings ordered, waddling from his bank doorway.
“What this town needs is a sheriff,” a woman piped up.
“Why, even if Coleman had o
ne, it’d help,” whined another.
“With a whole cavalry at Fort Concho practically camped on our doorstep?”
“The cutthroats haven’t let that little item stop them, now, have they?”
“Go peddle your notions elsewhere, Mrs. Woody. This is man’s work.”
Glory watched the woman flounce up the street in a huff. Though suffering from a self-righteous disposition, Mrs. Woody had a point. The robbers’ boldness had everyone asking questions, including Glory. She couldn’t shake the suspicion that McClain might be involved. Perhaps he considered Perkins the gang’s ringleader. That could explain Luke’s obsession with the man. After what he let slip to Squirt, only to deny it, he hid more than he told. Why say he was a lawman if he wasn’t? It certainly made a person suspicious.
The next thought brought nausea. Was he with them or against?
“Another stage holdup.” A man she recognized as Henry Sackett spoke to Cap Bailey, shaking his head sadly. “What’s that make now? Seven, eight in the last two months?”
“Yep.” Cap released a stream of tobacco juice. The hardened earth greedily accepted the brown blob as if grateful for whatever form of moisture came.
Glory turned back toward the paper office. At least no one could blame this crime on Jack Day. Though they would dearly love to try. Maybe her father’s situation had a bright side. He’d never fully know the hate this town harbored.
Charlie peered over his horn-rimmed spectacles when she opened the door. “What’s all the ruckus?”
“Another stage robbed and driver killed. Makes you wonder what this world’s coming to.”
“Whoever is behind these keeps me in a helluva lot of printing material.” He shifted the short stub of a cigar to the other side of his mouth, pushed back the bill of his green visor, and wiped the back of his neck with a handkerchief.
She didn’t bother to tell him about the ink he smeared on the side of his temple. A waste of good breath. Ink and Charlie went together and she accepted that as gospel.
“Timmy, get your tablet, boy!” At Charlie’s beckoning call, his young apprentice ran from the back room. “This is your chance. Get out there and get the lowdown on this stage robbery and murder.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Gimble.” Timmy tucked a tablet under his arm and grabbed a pencil. He paused for a second at the door to jam a hat over his bright-red spikes.
Glory suppressed a grin. She’d never seen the twelve-year-old without them. Even in church, his mother’s efforts failed to slick the rebellious mess into neat order. All the spit and hair tonic in the world couldn’t glue it down. Unhindered, the spikes sprang back like toy soldiers on a march to save Texas from combs and spit.
“My name’s Charlie, not Mr. Gimble. Make me proud, boy.”
The shine on Timmy’s teeth matched the sparkle in his eyes. “Okay, Charlie.”
He tripped over his own feet and fell against the counter before he made it through the door.
Charlie groaned. “I’m training the lad. If he don’t kill himself first.”
“You’re a saint. Not many in this town would give him a chance to learn a trade.”
“Timmy’s a good lad.” He pulled out a chair for her. “Wonder why the criminal element picked Coleman County to terrorize.”
“It’s a shame law-abiding folks have to risk life and limb to travel through these parts.”
“Yep. Can’t complain too loud though. Sure makes interesting reading. My sales have shot up.”
“Guess they get tired of reading about Uncle Pete’s latest debacles and the dry spell.”
“That’s the honest truth. Why, I haven’t even had to resort to filling space with Elmer Knox’s hog farm or the perils of Josephine Baker’s scandalous bloomers in the last three months.”
Glory smiled at the mention of Josephine Baker. The rough-and-tumble woman owned the only boardinghouse. A freethinker, she stayed in hot water with the townsfolk for shedding dresses in favor of baggy bloomers and tunic shirts. Though she’d never had the pleasure of the rebel woman’s acquaintance, Glory admired her spunk just the same. It took courage to swim upstream.
“Speaking of old Pete, what’s this newest rumor?”
“He claims Sam Sixkiller babbled about some gold his tribe lifted off some prospectors. Between you, me, and the fence post, I’m pretty sure it’s simply liquor talk.”
Charlie squinted over his horn-rims. “I wouldn’t be too quick to toss it out the window with the bathwater. Isn’t the first time I heard such.”
“From who?”
“Newspapermen never tell.” He gave her a sly wink.
“And I know my uncle. I don’t have enough fingers and toes to count the stories he’s spouted. I love him dearly, but he’s a big bag of wind.” She sighed.
No, bad as she could use a hole full of gold, she’d have to rely on a more stable means…
The skills of a certain mischievous stranger would do for starters.
There went her stomach again.
Nine
“That double-crossing, yellow-bellied four-flusher!” Glory kicked a bucket. The tumbling crash made Caesar skitter.
Patience quickly grabbed Miss Minnie, who’d come to rub against her legs.
“I told Mr. Luke you’d be mad at him leavin’ that way.” The girl flipped her pigtails and sniffed. Injured innocence shielded her about as much as a tattered, moth-eaten cloak.
“How long has he been gone?” She’d ride after him. With the bank painting them into a corner, she had nowhere else to go and nothing to lose. They’d struck a deal. They hadn’t shaken on it or anything, but it’d been a firm proposition in any event.
“How long?” she asked again through gritted teeth, taking a step toward her sister.
Hope intervened with an outstretched hand. “He’s gone. There’s nothing we can do about it.”
“Like hell.” She unhitched the mule from the backboard.
“Glory! Watch your mouth.”
“Not my mouth I’m worried about, it’s the knife in my back.” Instant remorse for her temper flitted like an antsy butterfly, refusing to light. But McClain made her mad enough to eat a sackful of rotten apples and she wasn’t about to apologize. Not yet.
“Why? I don’t understand.”
Hope’s wan face mirrored not only confusion but alarm that came from intuition that a storm cloud poised above their heads and nothing whatsoever could avert it. Glory swung the saddle onto Caesar’s back, then drew her aside out of Patience’s range.
“McClain and I had an agreement of sorts. I would help him catch Perkins in exchange for splitting the reward. We were to leave in the morning.”
“Mama gave strict orders to forget that crazy plan!”
She gave Hope a quick shake. “That was before the bank called in our note and Fieldings thought more of scratching his itch than granting more time.”
Should necessity force her into accepting such attentions, she’d choose better. She had her principles. And if she had to degrade herself, she wouldn’t do it with a stuffed mattress. Even a low-down cheat like McClain would be better than that.
“But—”
“Besides, Mama’s not thinking clearly at the moment. This is the only way.”
“Still—”
“Do you want them to turn us out of our home? Where do you think we’d go? Mad Dog Perkins can save us. Can’t you see?”
“Surely, there’s something else…”
“No.” She turned back to the task of saddling the mule. “Only the double-dealing scoundrel snuck off when I turned my back for a few hours.”
“Could you have been mistaken in thinking he intended to let you go along?” Hope chewed on her bottom lip. “Much as I love you, sometimes you assume a person says one thing when he means the opposite.”
The roguish-eyed R
omeo leaped from memory’s shadows. Her whispered vow lingered plain as day. I’ll agree to anything you want. I need that money.
And his questions. Anything, huh? Know what that means?
Painfully well. If she lived to be a hundred, she’d not forget Luke McClain’s taunting grin that set off every bell, bugle, and whistle.
Sudden tightness caught in the back of her throat. Maybe he didn’t consider her offer good enough. Maybe he’d spoken words he hadn’t meant. Or maybe he thought her too plain for his taste. He did seem more taken with the fashion queens.
We’ll leave tomorrow at first light. The lie returned to haunt her. He never meant to stick around.
She pulled the straps under the mule’s belly and cinched them tight. “No. I didn’t imagine our deal.”
* * *
The best way to catch a man is to backtrack. Return to the point of origin, where the knowns merge with unknowns.
A westerly wind kicked up a fuss as Luke slid from his horse at the base of Bead Mountain. Dust swirled, stinging his eyes—an avenging angel out to punish those who dared reach for justice. He held little hope of finding any tracks. A week’s worth of wind would’ve blown away what Perkins might’ve left.
Still, dogged persistence brought him. It’d always gotten him what he needed. Wiping the blinding grit from his face, he knelt on the sunbaked landscape. Pain knifed through his right leg as the muscle flexed. It was a reminder of just how much he owed Perkins. Repayment would bring great satisfaction.
But you wouldn’t have met the golden-haired woman who’s turned you inside out. The small voice in his ear whispered gospel truth. Getting shot had certain merit.
He figured Glory would be mighty put out with him when she returned. Didn’t matter that his intentions were purely of the honorable sort.
Well, maybe not that pure.
Please don’t make me beg, she’d said.
At least part of his aims had square shooting in mind.
But, the other half?
Ah. He entertained no doubts that he would have taken great pleasure in picking up the gauntlet.
If he could’ve stayed longer…
The Cowboy Who Came Calling Page 9
