He'd had enough of hunting Shambeau. He wouldn't admit it to anyone else, least of all the hombres he rode with, but he was scared stiff of the crazy mountain man. He had a feeling nothing good at all was going to come of this. Nothing good at all...
Condor had stood against his share of men, bad hombres in some of the worst saloons and brothels north of the Mason-Dixon line, but he'd never run into anyone as savage and slippery as this half-breed trapper. He wished Hendricks would take Stillman's advice and call it quits, but there was little chance of that happening. Hendricks and the other men were fueling each other's fire, and any man suggesting they give up would be branded a coward forevermore.
They wouldn't go home until they had Shambeau's head on the end of a stick. And no one was going to keep them from accomplishing their objective, including Stillman.
Condor glanced around and frowned at something lying several feet away, near several large rocks and a talus patch. Curious, he dismounted, walked over, and kicked at what appeared to be a porcupine hide turned inside-out, the meat and bones gone. Looking around, he saw the bones, which looked like rabbit or coon bones, only stouter, strewn about the talus.
Condor hunkered down on his haunches and pondered the hide. He knew a grizzly would do this—roll a porcupine onto its back and scoop out its meat and innards through its belly, the only place on the hide which didn't sprout quills. But a grizzly would eat the bones as well and leave tracks. Looking around, Condor found no tracks. At least, not grizzly tracks. What he did find were the soft, barely noticeable indentations left by mocassins.
An Indian had been here, caught a porcupine, and eaten it raw. Or a half-breed who hadn't wanted to give his position away with a fire...
A chill started up from Condor's feet and lifted goose bumps on his back. He glanced around cautiously, then returned his gaze to the bones. They were dry, as was the blood, which meant the trapper had passed through here at least an hour ago.
Which meant he was probably a good ways from here by now.
Taking heart from the thought, Condor led his horse back along the trail he'd been following, and on which he now discovered occasional mocassin prints, or half-prints with a stitch or two showing here and there. Condor was wary; a warning pulsed within him, tightening his muscles till they ached. He did not want to follow the trail, but what else could he do—turn tail and run?
He scrunched his face miserably. Why did he have to be the one to have picked up the man's trail?
Reluctantly he followed the trail around a low escarpment and started onto a ledge jutting over a canyon. He'd had enough of this. He had a feeling he was getting too close. Just too damn close ...
As he was about to mount his horse and ride away— to hell with the others—he saw a figure move out from a high rock ahead of him. Condor froze, his saddle horn in one hand, the cantle in the other. It was the worst possible position to get caught in.
His heart rolled over several times and his mouth went dry. Shambeau stood to the right of the rock, facing Condor with no expression on his face. His rifle was snugged up to his cheek, the octagonal barrel yawning wide at Condor's face.
Dave was frozen there, unable to move, every nerve in his body screaming with fright.
"Hey, Condor!" someone yelled from the canyon opening on his left. 'That you?"
A single hopeful note squirmed its way into the cataclysmic symphony thundering and clattering through Condor's ears. He turned his head slightly to his left, peering into the canyon. A man sat his horse there, about fifty yards away. It was the kid. Tommy Falk, his red bandanna orange in the faded sunlight.
Condor slid his eyes back to Shambeau. Falk couldn't see him because of the rock standing between them. The rifle remained snugged up to the trapper's cheek, the barrel yawning wide at Condor, not moving a hair.
Shambeau's eyes communicated instructions to Condor, who understood almost without knowing it.
"Y-yeah, it's me, Tommy."
"What in the hell you doing up there?" The kid's voice was brash, urgent, impatient.
Condor glanced again at the two dark eyes of the trapper, boring down on him along the stock of the Sharp's rifle in his hands.
"I... I... I was stoppin' to take a whizzer."
"Well, get a move on, damnit! You ain't doin' any good just standby there talkin' to your horse."
Condor smiled rigidly, his mouth drawn back in a line across his face. He wanted to say something that would make Falk stay, but he knew that as soon as he did, he would die. But he was going to die, anyway.
Or... maybe not. What was he reading in Shambeau's eyes? Was the man going to let him live, after all? Was he going to let him go?
Condor's heart thumped lightly, and a hopeful spurt of adrenaline warmed his brain.
"Yeah, I'm headin' out now," he called to Falk. He'd lowered his hands to his sides and was facing the trapper with that sick smile on his face.
"See that you do, damnit! Remember, we're all meetin' up again in an hour, back where we started."
With that, Falk turned away and spurred his horse forward. Sliding his gaze back and forth between him and the trapper, Condor watched Falk ride eastward around shrubs and low outcroppings along the canyon floor.
Meanwhile, Shambeau held the rifle steady on Condor's face—at a point, Dave believed, between his eyes and just above the bridge of his nose.
When Falk disappeared around a shaley dike, Condor turned to the trapper. Hopeful, he grinned.
The gun exploded, flashing, the fifty-caliber slug hitting the trapper's target with a thunk and a splash.
Chapter Nineteen
FAY STILLMAN WALKED out the frosted glass doors of the Boston Hotel and stepped onto the wide white veranda. Behind her scuttled the hotel's dapper little manager, Henry Wade. He held the doors with more effort than necessary and smiled with the painful self-consciousness characteristic of most men who found themselves in the celestial presence of the sheriff's lovely wife.
"I think this arrangement will work out well for both you and Mrs. Wheatly," Fay said as she clamped her simple brown reticule under one arm and donned her kid leather gloves.
"I couldn't agree more, Mrs. Stillman. I know that anyone you recommend for employment at the Boston will be a most beneficial addition to my staff." Wade shook Fay's extended hand and gave a little bow, his florid face even more florid than usual. "I can expect her to report for work in one month, then?"
"One month it is, Mr. Wade. She'd be available sooner, but Marie wants to make sure Crystal will be able to manage alone with the baby. It's Crystal's first, you know."
"I completely understand. I'll be watching for Mrs. Wheatly, Mrs. Stillman. Please give her my regards when you see her again."
Fay glanced at the bright, cloudless sky. "I think that'll be today. It looks like a nice day for a ride." She smiled her burnished smile, which had been wrenching male hearts in northern Montana since she and Ben had moved to Clantick, then turned and descended the steps to the boardwalk. Turning right, she headed west along First Street, oblivious to Wade's lusty gaze on her backside.
Still holding one of the doors open, Wade heard a snicker. Turning, he saw one of the hired girls scraping bird dung off a windowsill with a putty knife. He knew the girl had seen him ogling Mrs. Stillman.
Flushing, he muttered curtly, "Be careful you don't scrape the paint, Patty," and headed back inside, the heavy door swinging closed behind him.
As Fay strolled westward along First Street, greeting people she passed, she felt good about securing the housekeeping job for Crystal's sister, Marie. But mostly Fay was thinking about Ben, as she had been doing for the past several days now since he'd headed into the mountains after Shambeau. As she stopped on the corner of Second Avenue for a trash wagon to pass, she hoped against hope she would find him at the jailhouse.
She knew she would not, however. If Ben had returned, she would have known about it by now.
But then again, he might have thought she
was in school, as she normally would be on a weekday, and had decided to wait until noon to look for her....
As she approached the jailhouse, she slowed when she saw Leon heading diagonally across the street, pushing a handcuffed prisoner ahead of him. The man was much shorter than Leon, middle-aged, and dressed like a cowboy—a drover who spent very little of his monthly wages on clothes or baths. What he did spend it on was obvious by his heavy alcohol stench, which grew heavier as he and Leon approached the boardwalk.
"Mornin', Fay," Leon said.
"Good morning, Leon. I see you're, uh ... indisposed." She produced a wry smile.
The drover reached up with his handcuffed wrists and grabbed the rumpled hat from his head. Bleary-eyed, he formed a snaggletoothed grin. "Mornin', ma'am. You sure are a sight for these sore old eyes."
Fay smiled at the man as though deeply charmed.
"Don't mind him, Fay," Leon said. "It was payday yesterday at the Running W, and every payday Roy Luther comes to town to turn his wolf loose."
"I don't mean no harm, ma'am," Roy Luther told Fay with a beseeching expression on his face. "I get to drinkin' and I just can't help myself...."
"We all have our vices, Roy Luther," Fay said reassuringly. She lifted her gaze to Leon. "I won't keep you. I just thought I'd stop and see—"
"He's not back yet," Leon said, obviously troubled. "I sure am sorry. If I hadn't—"
"Leon, please. It wasn't your fault."
"Well, of course it was my fault! If I hadn't let the doc talk me into drinkin' with him, Shambeau would be keep-in' house with ole Roy Luther right now."
The cowboy gained a fearful, wide-eyed expression. "I don't wanna be jailed with the likes o' that savage! Why, crossin' that killer's as dangerous as walkin' in quicksand over hell!"
Leon glanced at Fay. "Shut your mouth, Roy Luther!"
The cowboy looked sheepishly at Fay. "Oh ... sorry, Mrs. Stillman. I'm sure your husband, uh... I'm sure your husband can handle him."
"Come on, Roy Luther," Leon said, jerking the man toward the jailhouse. "Ben'll get him, Fay. You can bet on it. And I'll be sure and let you know just as soon as he and Jody hit town."
"Thanks, Leon," Fay said, turning away, not feeling heartened by the deputy's reassurances.
Stiff and lethargic with worry, she wasn't sure what to do now. She didn't want to go home and listen to all that silence. She could go over to the school and grade some papers, but then she remembered her idea to ride out to the Harmon ranch, to visit Crystal and inform Marie that Henry Wade had agreed to employ her at the Boston.
Glancing at her timepiece, Fay saw that it was nearly noon. She'd better have lunch before leaving town. With that thought in mind, she headed over to Sam Wa's Cafe where she hoped she'd find someone she could talk to while she ate and who could keep her distracted from her worries over Ben.
She was in luck. As she let the cafe door swing shut behind her, she saw Katherine Kemmett wave at the back of the room, which was already beginning to bustle with the noon dinner crowd. Katherine sat across from Doc Evans, who glanced over his shoulder at Fay sheepishly.
"Doctor, Katherine," Fay greeted as she approached the table. "Mind if I join you?"
"Of course you may, Mrs. Stillman," Katherine said. Glancing at the doctor with a look of scorching rebuke, she said, "If you don't mind the company I've been keeping of late. Shall I send him away?"
His eyes on his plate, the doctor wrinkled his nose.
"No, he can stay," Fay said, giving Evans a look of mock disapproval as she sat down. "I'm fairly incorruptible."
It was nice, having lunch with Mrs. Kemmett and the doctor. They talked about school and church and about the job Fay had landed for Marie Wheatly. They talked about the weather and how lovely the river looked this time of year and how nice it was to see and hear the Canada geese heading north again.
The conversation ended swiftly, however, when one of the Hemphill boys came in to inform the doctor and Mrs. Kemmett that his father had been kicked by their mule and was "seeing two of everything." After the doctor and Katherine had hurried away, Fay finished her sandwich and soup then gathered her reticule and gloves and headed for the counter to pay her bill.
"Thanks, Sam. See you soon," she said when she'd paid the proprietor.
She was heading for the door as Evelyn Vincent sprang out of the kitchen with two steaming platters in her hands.
"Good-bye, Mrs. Stillman. I hope the sheriff gets back to town soon."
"I do, too, Evelyn. When he does, we'll have you over for supper again."
"I'd like—" Evelyn stopped, her eyes sliding to the door opening behind Fay.
Fay turned. Three men entered—strangers, all. They were all dressed in suits, derby hats, and boots polished to high shines.
"Well, hello there, Miss Evelyn," the first man said grandly, lifting his hat. He was the best looking of the three, but there was something about him—his cunning eyes, foxlike grin, and superior posture—that put Fay off immediately.
Evelyn greeted the men a little stiffly, her cheeks flushing, her eyes darting self-consciously between them and Fay.
"And hello to you too, ma'am," the first man said to Fay, lifting his hat and grinning down at her with his azure eyes flashing. She didn't approve of the way the man looked at her, his gaze quickly traveling the length of her body, measuring her with a subtly lascivious gleam in his eyes.
Fay gave a cursory greeting, unable to pretend she liked the man, and turned back to Evelyn, who still held the platters in her hands, smiling woodenly. "We'll see you soon, I hope, Evelyn."
"See you soon, Mrs. Stillman."
When Fay had stepped onto the boardwalk, she glanced back through the window and saw Evelyn talking to the leader of the three men, smiling and laughing nervously before excusing herself to serve the platters.
Fay turned away, knowing something wasn't right but uncertain what it was. She hoped the young waitress wasn't falling for the dapper gent with the wolfish grin. He had trouble written all over him.
Knowing it wasn't any of her business, Fay sighed fatefully and headed home where she quickly changed into her green riding habit and black felt hat, then saddled her black mare, Dorothy, in the stable connected to the chicken coop.
Shortly, she was riding south of town, the Two-Bears looming before her on their straw-colored pedestal of prairie, brushed with bright spring sunshine. The two places Fay felt most at home were in Ben's arms and riding out here on her frisky mare, and since she couldn't at the moment have the former, she set herself to fully appreciating the latter.
She galloped along benches, climbed knolls from where she sat and gazed across the foothills, and rested in hollows where Dorothy drank from the cool, rushing streams. Fay admired the season's first wildflowers, crocuses, showing their lilac-blue petals amidst the sage and blue stem, and smiled at the several large flocks of Canada geese splashing and barking in sloughs still flooded with the water left from the deep winter snows.
Red-winged blackbirds set the prairie alive with their ratchety nesting cries, nearly drowning out the more melodic notes of the meadowlarks. The air smelled earthy and fresh and wild.
"Hello, Mrs. Stillman," one of the Wheatly boys called as Fay galloped Dorothy through the main gate of the Harmon ranch.
"Good morning, Albert. Are your mother and Aunt Crystal home?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Wonderful." Fay reined up at the corral, and the boy followed her over from where he'd been loading salt blocks into a short-bedded work wagon harnessed to two mules. "I see ranch chores are keeping you busy, Albert."
"Yes, ma'am. Especially with Uncle Jody gone. I hope he's back by next week, though. That's when calving's due to start."
"Oh, I'm sure he will," Fay said, giving voice to her own wishful thinking.
The fair-haired Albert, who was twelve, took Dorothy's reins. "Want me to grain her and give her a rubdown for ye, Mrs. Stillman?"
"Would it be too mu
ch trouble?"
Albert grinned, flushing. "Not at all, ma'am."
"Much obliged, kind sir."
Breathing heavily from the ride and throwing her hair out from the collar of her wool riding vest, she headed for the two-story cabin with its wide stoop upon which two cane-bottom chairs and a large washtub sat. Smoke poured from the stone chimney, no doubt keeping the cabin warm for the baby, whom Fay could hear crying inside.
The door opened as Fay approached the stoop. It was Marie Wheatly, Crystal's older sister, looking as shy and demure as usual. Fay assumed the woman's perpetually cowed demeanor was the result of her having been abused for years by her drunken, temperamental husband, who had burned their ranch buildings and disappeared after Crystal had urged Marie and the children away from the place.
"Hello, Mrs. Stillman," Marie said in her soft, sing-songy voice. It was a pretty voice but seemed always to be lacking in vigor. "What a nice surprise."
"Hello, Marie. How are you?"
"I'm just fine. Would you like to come in?"
"I would at that," Fay said, approaching the door which Marie held open. Entering the cabin, she removed her hat and turned to see Crystal standing and holding her crying baby before the enormous fieldstone hearth in the living room.
"You came just in the nick of time," Crystal said as she bounced the child in her arms, caressing his cheek with hers. "I was just about to throw this little varmint down the privy."
"Crystal!" Marie chided as loudly as Fay had ever heard the woman raise her voice.
"Oh, I'm just jokin', Marie," Crystal said, walking toward Fay and extending the baby in her arms. "Here— you wanna cuddle the little demon?"
"I'd love to take him!"
"Sucker." Crystal snorted. Mockingly, she said to her sister, "These women without children are the biggest suckers for a crying baby I've ever seen. I bet in a few minutes we'll have her changing his diaper, too, Marie."
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