Evelyn flushed again and looked around. "I thought for sure Mrs. Berg would be out here. She usually grills all the gentlemen callers for quite some time."
"Oh, I got the grilling. Yes, indeed," Carstairs said, puffing on the stogie, his gaze lingering on her bosom. He stepped forward and took Evelyn's hands in his, lifting his eyes to hers. "But it was a surprisingly short visit for a woman who so obviously keeps a very watchful eye over her boarders. She must have liked what she saw, eh?" Chuckling, he tendered a charming wink.
"You do cut a fancier figure than most of the callers we get around here, Mr. Carstairs." The strong smell of his cologne, which seemed to cover the entire porch, nearly pinched her windpipe shut, and she found herself inconspicuously gasping for air.
"Please, call me Blade."
"Only if you address me as Evelyn."
"Evelyn it is. And now I think we'd better start walking before you have me blushing like a schoolboy."
He offered his arm, and, taking it, Evelyn rolled her eyes. Meekly, with the air of a girl thoroughly intimidated by her suitor, she let him guide her down the steps of the wide stone veranda and through the gate in the wrought-iron fence surrounding the yard.
“I thought a walk along the river might be nice since it's such a lovely spring evening," Carstairs said. "Then maybe a quiet meal in the Boston?"
"Oh, the Boston!" Evelyn exclaimed. "Really? Oh, I couldn't—it's so expensive!"
"Oh, for heaven's sake, dear girl," Carstairs cooed, patting her hand which he held firmly in the crook of his arm. "That is not for you to worry about. You just leave the tawdry details up to Blade. All you have to do is enjoy yourself. You work hard—I've seen how you work!—but tonight you shall be served."
"Oh, my God!" Evelyn shrilled, her voice catching a little as she choked on a particularly potent whiff of his cologne. "Am I dreaming?"
Arm-in-arm, they walked along Third Avenue to First Street, which they crossed, heading northward down the grassy bank to the Milk River curving between scattered box elders and aspens. Tiny, pale-green leaves were just now opening from the tight buds they'd been sporting for a week. The air was cool but fresh, and the river whispered in its chalky banks.
A perfect night and a perfect place for a lover's stroll, Evelyn thought with a wry pucker of her mouth. She hadn't dated many men since coming to Clantick; she'd had plenty of offers but few that had really interested her. She thought how ironic it was to be strolling along the river now with the very kind of man she'd been avoiding.
"So tell me, Mr. Carstairs," she said abruptly, trying to catch him off guard, "what kind of a salesman are you, anyway?"
He looked at her quickly, vaguely disconcerted. "What ... what do you mean?"
Feigning humor at his reaction, Evelyn laughed and tipped her head against his shoulder. "I mean, what do you sell?"
She felt his shoulders relax slightly, relieved. "Oh... what do I sell? Well... I sell farm equipment. We all do—the other two gentlemen you met in the cafe and myself."
"You mean, you bring farm equipment out here on the train?"
"No, no." Carstairs chuckled. "At least, not right away. We bring catalogs and brochures which we show to the farmers and ranchers we visit. When they decide on a purchase, we fill out order forms and return the forms to the company. The orders are then processed and the machinery sent out, by train, in due time." He'd spoken precisely and automatically, like an actor reciting lines which he'd rehearsed.
Evelyn was feeling plucky, feeling the urge to toy with the arrogant man. "What kind of machinery?"
"What kind?" Glancing up, Evelyn noticed a flush wallow up from his freshly shaved cheeks.
"Yeah, you know—what kind of machinery do you sell to the farmers?"
"Well, all kinds, of course, Evelyn. Our company makes, uh, well over a hundred different types."
"Like ...?"
Carstairs chortled nervously. "Well, there are plows, of course, and hay rakes ... and ... there's the ole harrow." He placed his left hand on hers and squeezed it playfully. "What farmer could get along without the ole harrow, eh?"
Charmed, the simpleminded waitress giggled.
"And there is, of course, a vast array of other implements in our catalogs, and if I got started describing each, you'd never shut me up! No, no. Enough about me, my dear Evelyn. Tell me about yourself."
"Me?" Evelyn said as he helped her down a particularly steep spot in the trail along the river. She paused a moment, wondering what to tell him, then deciding that the truth about her past was probably just what the doctor ordered for this occasion. "Me? Well, I grew up in Iowa, and, well, I kind of didn't get along with my family too well, and I ran off when I was fifteen with a—oh, what will you think of me?"
"No, no—go on. With whom did you run off?"
"An outlaw." Evelyn gave a self-conscious laugh, flushing with chagrin.
Impressed, Carstairs turned to her with arched brows and humorous eyes. "An outlaw? Well!"
"Oh, he wasn't really an outlaw, but he wanted to be, and I thought he was at the time. Really, he was just a poor, bored farm boy who read too many of those illustrated newspapers and got the notion he wanted to be famous, like William Bonney or Black Bart. I went west with him to Colorado where he and another boy proceeded to rob trains. Well, they only robbed one—or half a one, I should say. They were both killed by the express agent. Cut in half by a shotgun. It was awful!"
"You saw it?"
"No. I was waiting for them in a nearby town, but I read about it in the newspaper a few days later, long after they should've returned." She did not have to feign the sadness in her voice.
She and Carstairs had stopped along the trail, and he watched her with thoughtful surprise. "My goodness, Evelyn—what an interesting tale."
"Yes, well, unfortunately, it's the truth. I don't tell everybody, you understand? What would people think? I've turned my life around now. I have a good job and am making an honest living. One day I might even get married to some nice man and have a whole passel of kids. Maybe raise some chickens and goats."
"Sounds very upstanding."
Evelyn giggled as if slightly amazed at herself. "It does, doesn't it?" Regaining her composure, she looked at Carstairs solemnly. "You don't think any less of me, do you—for the story I told? I was awfully young....”
"Oh, Evelyn, of course not," Carstairs assured her, patting her hand. "We've all done things we're ashamed of. And, like you said, you were young. No, no. Not at all!" He was smiling at her, taking quick darting glances, she noticed, at her breasts. What was it with men and breasts?
"Well, I've certainly turned my life around now," she continued, exaggerating her stiff upper lip. "I sometimes work ten- and eleven-hour days, if Sam needs me."
"It must be rewarding, but also very tiring"
"Oh, it can be tiring, but I like it, Mr. Carstairs—Blade, I mean. Really, I do," she added, as though trying to convince herself as much as him.
"Are you hungry, Evelyn? Shall we head over to the Boston?"
Evelyn put a gloved hand to her mouth to cover a nervous titter. "Oh, gosh, the Boston!"
Carstairs had reserved a table in the back of the hotel's elegant dining room. When he and Evelyn were seated, he ordered a bottle of champagne and made a show of sampling the stuff before he allowed the waiter to fill first Evelyn's glass, then his own.
When the waiter had drifted away, Carstairs lifted his glass, his eyes unconsciously raking Evelyn's bosom again before climbing to meet her eyes, which she had to try her best not to roll. “To a beautiful young woman whom it was my good fortune to meet in the unlikeliest of places."
"Oh, gosh. Thank you, Blade," Evelyn said as demurely as she could, touching her glass to his and bringing the champagne to her lips with a thoughtful air.
"What is it, dear?" Carstairs asked her, concerned.
Evelyn shook her head slightly, ruffling her blond bangs about her forehead. "Oh, I was just thinking about what you
said about the 'unlikeliest of places.' "
"Oh, certainly I didn't mean to denigrate—"
"Oh, of course you didn't. But it is an awfully remote place, isn't it? I mean, even here, in this elegant dining room which you were so kind and generous to bring me to, you can tell we're a long way off the beaten path...a long way from ... interesting things."
She sighed, gazing out the window at the street, virtually empty at this hour but for the occasional duo or trio of cowboys heading for a saloon. "A long way from excitement.”
Carstairs gazed at her over his glass. "You miss excitement, do you, Evelyn?"
"I guess ... a little."
"Well, to tell you the truth—" He paused, set his glass down, and folded his beringed hands on the table. "May I speak frankly, Evelyn?"
"Certainly."
"I think it's a shame that such a lovely young damsel as yourself has holed herself up in this town. Nothing against Clantick, but it is a little far from the beaten path. It is, to be frank, a backwater. A woman like you, Evelyn, could certainly appreciate the finer things to be offered in places like Denver and New Orleans...."
Evelyn lowered her eyes to her plate and fiddled with a spoon. "I thank you for your compliments, Mr. Carstairs—you certainly know how to make a girl feel special—but how on earth could I ever get to places like Denver or New Orleans?"
"All you need is the right opportunity, my child," Carstairs said in his silky voice with his roguish grin. "Just the right opportunity." With that, he lifted his glass again and clinked it against hers. "To opportunities!"
Over dinner they talked some more about other things, and Evelyn knew he was feeling her out, making sure she was who she said she was and that her motives were genuine—that, indeed, she was with him solely because she found him charming and attractive, not to mention the most suave and interesting human being west of the Mississippi and north of the Equator.
For her part, it wasn't hard to convince him of that. He was guarded and cunning and certainly not whom he was pretending to be. Nevertheless, Carstairs, like most men, was a complete sucker for a girl's veneration. By the time their dessert arrived, Evelyn believed that with a few more demure drops of her eyes and one or two more of the exclamations with which she'd been punctuating his windy lies, she could have had him on his knees, begging for her hand in marriage.
She watched him covertly as he ate his cake and knew he was mulling over an idea. Her heart thumped hopefully. Finally, he set his fork down, sipped his coffee, and wiped his mouth with his napkin. He looked at Evelyn resolutely.
"Evelyn?" he asked. "How badly do you want to get out of here?"
Feigning shock at the question, she shrugged her shoulders and fidgeted around in her chair. "Uh, I don't know, Blade. I..."
He glanced around the room. Seeing that the closest other diners were a safe distance away, he said in a low voice, "What if I told you I'm not really a salesman?"
He waited for this to sink in. Taking her cue, Evelyn frowned curiously. Her heart was increasing its beat, and her ears were beginning to ring.
"Well, if you're not..."
"I don't want to go into detail about what I am. What I can tell you is this: I can get you out of here, with quite a lot of money and more where it came from."
She stared at him bug-eyed.
"Sounds good, eh?" he said alluringly, slitted eyes flashing.
Slowly she nodded, keeping her eyes large. She was a simple, down-and-out girl with a shady past and her eye on a sudden rainbow.
"At noon tomorrow, I'll send an envelope with a stage ticket and travel money to your boardinghouse. We'll meet in a town to be disclosed later. You only have to do one thing."
She swallowed and cleared her throat. "Which is ..."
"Do you know the deputy—McMannigle?"
"Of course," she said tentatively.
"Go to his office or wherever he may be at four o'clock Thursday afternoon—four o'clock sharp—and distract him for about twenty minutes."
"Distract him? How?"
Carstairs dropped his eyes to her well-filled dress and smiled cunningly. "I'm sure, dear Evelyn, you can think of something."
Chapter Sixteen
STILLMAN WOKE THE next morning about an hour before dawn.
Lifting his head from his saddle, he looked around at the silhouetted figures of the Bar 7 men lying here and there around the dully glowing fire. Several were snoring. One smacked his lips and sighed, saying something unintelligible. Another lifted his hand and scratched his nose.
All were asleep, which was exactly what Stillman wanted.
Rising quietly, he slowly reached down for his gun belt, purposefully brought it up, and strapped it around his waist. Breathing quietly and keeping his movements to a minimum, he shrugged into his coat, donned his hat and gloves, picked up his rifle, and crept off down the ravine, watching his step as it was still too dark to make out the terrain.
"Jody, it's Ben," he whispered as he came to the point where the ravine abutted the one in which Shambeau's cabin lay.
He stopped and looked around, seeing only the silhouettes of trees and a few rocks. Gauzy clouds hung low, snuffing the stars. Something rustled to his right, and he turned to see a figure step out from the cedars upon the opposite bank.
"Here, Ben," Jody said, moving down the hill. "I found a better place to watch the cabin—on a rise above the trees."
"Any movement?" Stillman asked. He'd taken the first watch, Jody the second, while the Bar 7 riders snored. Fundamentally lazy, none had protested much about being excused from the night-watch rotation.
Stillman hoped the kid slept until he and Jody had Shambeau in hand. He hoped they all did. He didn't want the hammer-headed drovers interfering with his arrest.
"No movement," Jody said. "It was so still and quiet, I think I would have heard him if he'd left."
"Let's hope he's asleep. He rode hard yesterday with that shoulder." Stillman looked at Jody. "You ready?"
"Ready and rarin'," Jody said with an eager grin.
"Now, remember," Stillman cajoled, holding up a finger for emphasis. "You're stayin' outside while I bust into the cabin."
Jody sighed tolerantly. "You've told me, Ben, eight or nine times now."
"If there's any shootin' and ole Louis happens to be the one to walk out alive, you take him if you have an easy shot. Otherwise, turn around and run like hell."
"I know, I know—don't take any chances. Have I ever mentioned you sound like my old man?"
"Ain't no call to get nasty," Stillman said with a grin.
Turning, he headed into the abutting ravine, climbing across the uneven, water-cut terrain and pushing quietly through pine branches and bramble. At the bottom of the ravine, there was a stream just wide enough to make jumping it impossible. Not wanting to get his boots wet, for wet boots squeaked, Stillman found a rocky ford, and skipped across cleanly.
Young Harmon wasn't so fortunate. His left foot slipped off the last rock, soaking his boot to the ankle.
Stillman looked at him sourly. "You're better at trackin' than walkin'—I'll say that for you, kid."
"Sorry."
"Come on—quietly."
They climbed the slope through the pines and cedars, Stillman slowing his pace so Jody could keep up without his soaked boot squeaking like a rusty wheel. The sheriff paused occasionally to get his bearings. It was hard to tell where the cabin was, for he couldn't see it in the darkness and from this deep in the ravine. He had to reckon by his memory of where he'd seen it last night before the light had died.
He paused behind the bole of a pine tree. When Jody had come up behind him, he pointed left and headed that way, his rifle in his right hand, breathing through his mouth, which was quieter than breathing through his nose. He also watched the ground for loose rocks and twigs he could kick or snap. A man of the mountains and forests, Shambeau probably slept as lightly as a sow grizzly with cubs.
Stillman paused, catching a whiff
of pine smoke. It seemed to be floating down the side of the ravine to his right, where the bank sloped up through bushes and scattered rocks and chalky outcroppings. Heading that way about fifty yards, Stillman paused when he came to a small clearing and crouched behind a lightning-topped cottonwood.
He looked up the grade and saw the cabin humping darkly against a slab of granite topping the ravine wall. It was a small affair, with a lean-to shed off its right side and shrouded in pines and cedars. Smoke puffed from a chimney pipe and flattened out across the sod roof, tattering under a downdraft.
A woodpile sat to the left, offering cover close to the cabin. Before heading for it, Stillman wanted to know if Shambeau's horse was in the lean-to. One whinny from the horse could blow the whole thing.
Jody came up beside him, limping on the wet boot. "That’s it, eh?"
"Yeah. Do you see a horse—?"
A sound cut him off. It had been the sound of a pebble rolling, and it had come from the cabin. Simultaneously, he and Jody crouched low, casting their glances toward the hovel and the rock slab pushing up behind.
"Did you hear it?" Stillman whispered.
"Yep."
They waited, staring. Shortly. Stillman saw a figure move atop the granite slab to the left of the cabin and about thirty feet above its chimney pipe. At first Stillman thought the figure was a hunting cat. Then it rose on two feet, and another figure appeared to its right. Both "cats" were carrying rifles.
Stillman was rock still. His voice was a tight rasp. "Son of a duck."
"Who is it?" Jody whispered.
Stillman watched the two men descend a narrow trough in the slab behind the cabin, rustling bushes as they did so. His stomach felt like lead and his chest ached with apprehension and anger.
As the figures stole around the right side of the cabin, moving from rear to Irani, keeping under the overhanging eave, Stillman saw that one was wearing something red atop his head—the same red as Tommy Falk's bandanna. Silently Stillman reprimanded himself. He should have checked to make sure all the riders were in the camp before he'd left. Instead, he'd been satisfied with a cursory glance and had obviously missed the absence of these two.
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