Anita Mills (3 page)

“You hear that, Bob?” the man closest to the campfire asked nervously.

“What? That coyote?”

“You sure it’s a coyote?”

“Yeah.”

“There you go again, Frank,” Lee Jackson complained. “Damned if you ain’t seeing a Comanche behind every creosote bush. Makes me jumpy just being around you.”

“That’s damned near a full moon, ain’t it?” Frank Beemer countered. “Hell, I don’t have to be a Texan to know what that means. I tell you I don’t like it when the moon’s out like this.”

“I just wish Gib’d get here, that’s all,” Charley Pierce muttered, tossing a broken twig into the fire. “We’re all too damned jumpy, if you ask me.”

“Yeah, but if Frank’s gonna come out of his skin every time a damned coyote howls, I’d just as soon he wasn’t here,” Lee grumbled.

“Yeah.” Bob Simmons turned to Frank Beemer.

“Look—I’m tellin’ you there ain’t an Injun in a hundred miles of here. Hell, we ain’t but ten miles from Fort Concho!”

“I guess so,” Beemer mumbled, obviously unconvinced. “I just want to get out of here with my hair on my head.”

“And the gold,” Lee Jackson reminded him. “I don’t know about you, but I’ve spent damned near eight years of my life waitin’ for my share of it, and I aim to get it.”

“Yeah,” Charley agreed. “I just wish the lyin’ bastard hadn’t died afore I got to him—I’d a killed him real slowlike. I’d a made him tell me what the hell he did with it. Then I’d a blown his brains out his ear.”

“Yeah, well, he’s already dead, and we ain’t no closer to it than we were the day old Jack took off with the whole thing,” Simmons reminded him.

“You think Gib’s found out anything from that lawyer?” Beemer asked abruptly. “There’s nothing as says he’ll talk to Gib any better than to any of the rest of us.”

“Gib’s got his ways—and if they don’t work, he’s always got this,” Jackson spoke up, patting his gun. “One way or another, if the old man knows anything, he’ll spit it out.”

“Mebbe so, but I don’t like sitting out here waiting for the likes of Gib Hannah any more’n I liked letting Jack hold m’money. If I couldn’t trust the major, how do I know I can trust anybody?”

“It was Gib that got wind of where Jack settled,” Pierce pointed out. “He didn’t have to tell any of us—he could’ve just gone for the money and kept it to hisself.”

“Yeah, but by the time he found Jack Howard, the bastard was already dead. You ever notice how many of us is gone now? I mean, there’s Evans and Tate and Connors dying afore their time—and they ain’t never found out what happened to McCormick, have they? And then the major—somebody shot ’im up and left ’im out for the coyotes to pick his bones plumb clean. I tell you I got a bad feelin’, a real bad feelin’, and I—” Beemer froze suddenly. “There it is again. You hear that, Bob? If that’s a coyote, then where’s the rest of the pack? I don’t like this. No, sir, not a-tall.”

“You want out, Frank?”

“You know better’n that, Bob,” Beemer retorted. “I’m just sayin’ something ain’t on the up and up. It ain’t right for a man to make it through the war, then die afore he’s thirty, which is what happened to three of us—that’s all I’m saying. And the major—hell, he was still in his prime, but he’s dead, too. Murdered.”

“Sounds like you’re accusing somebody,” Jackson muttered.

“No, I ain’t. I’m just saying I got a bad feelin’, that’s all.”

“Well, I wish to hell you’d keep it to yourself,” Pierce grumbled. “Pretty soon you’ll have us all jumpin’ every time the damned coyotes howl.”

“I just don’t like the sound of it, that’s all. Ever’ time I hear it, it makes my skin crawl. Ain’t you heard, Charley?—the damned Comanches can howl just like ’em!”

“Maybe it’s a Tonk. You know what Tonks do to you, Frank? They roast a man like he was a pig, and then they eat him. But I don’t guess you got to worry none,” Pierce gibed. “Way I hear it, Tonks don’t eat no cowards.”

“You ain’t got no call to say that. No call at all!”

“Listen—!” Lee Jackson hissed loudly. “Horses!”

“I told you—it’s goddamned Injuns!” Beemer grabbed his shotgun. “You all wasn’t listen’n, but I told you!”

In the flickering yellow-orange light of the fire, Bob Simmons’s face paled. “Holy Jesus!”

“Somebody’s riding hell for leather—like all hell’s after him! Kick out that fire, Lee—
now
!”

Even as Charley Pierce barked out the order, they heard the first volley of gunfire, and within seconds Gib Hannah was upon them. His tired horse stumbled into camp, then went to its knees, too winded to go on. He kept whipping it, trying to get it up, yelling to the other men, “Comanches! Must be a dozen of ’em! Don’t let ’em stampede the horses! If they get the horses, we’re done for!” Dragging his leg from beneath his downed mount’s belly, he scrambled to his feet.

Frantic now, they all raced for the pickets as the small war party crested the hill. The Indians paused, silhouetted against the moonlit sky for several moments, taking stock of the panic below. Then the leader lifted his war lance, and they swooped downward, filling the night air with their war cries.

His heart pounding, Lee Jackson pulled a Henry rifle out of his saddle roll and started firing. “Mount up, men! We gotta make a run for the river! Come on!” As he swung up into his saddle, he picked a moving target, and his shot found its mark. A Comanche warrior jerked, then pitched forward over the neck of a piebald pony.

“You got ’im! All right—I’m right behind you, Corporal!” Simmons shouted.

“You’re a couple of fools! You ain’t seen an Injun pony go!” Pierce called out. “We got to stand ’em off—take the vinegar out of ’em!” Taking aim with his Sharps, he pulled the trigger. The buffalo gun boomed, and a whoop turned to a howl as an Indian fell from his wooden saddle. “Got one!” he shouted triumphantly. “Gib, cover me while I reload!”

It seemed like whooping Comanches were everywhere, circling the five Anglos, cutting off escape. Having nowhere to go, Jackson and Simmons dismounted and backed almost to the smouldering campfire, shielded by their horses. The other three men joined them for the desperate stand.

Pierce picked off another one; then dropped down to reload while Jackson kept a steady cover with the repeating Henry. Gib Hannah brought down a pinto, throwing its rider to the ground, and Frank Beemer killed the crawling Indian with a single shot from his old Army Colt. Standing again, Charley Pierce rested the heavy Sharps across his horse’s back and took aim, sighting a heavily painted warrior. As the buffalo gun’s report deafened Jackson, the 50 caliber bullet slammed into its target, lifting the Comanche clear out of his wooden saddle. At almost the same moment, Frank Beemer’s body spun around, then fell forward into the coals.

Suddenly, the Indians broke off their attack and retreated out of the buffalo gun’s deadly range. For what seemed like an eternity of nerves, the two sides faced each other until, finally, a pair of warriors raced downhill at breakneck speed, dropped almost to the ground to grab a fallen comrade, then sped off again. As they started back for another, Simmons drew a bead on one of them, but Gib Hannah grabbed his arm. “Save your bullets—they’re carrying off their dead! They’re going!”

“The damned bastards got Frank!”

“Yeah, and now there’s just four of us! If they’ll go, let ’em!”

Reluctantly, Bob Simmons lowered his rifle and watched as the Comanches retrieved the last of their fallen comrades. The war cries were keening death wails now, and as they disappeared over the hill, the eerie sound grew fainter. It wasn’t until he could no longer hear it at all that he realized his forefinger was still tightly curled around his trigger. It took an effort to straighten it out.

Lee Jackson walked over to the smouldering fire, and leaned down. He didn’t have to touch the body to know. “Frank’s dead, Gib,” he managed. “They plumb blew his face off. Poor bastard.”

“Yeah.” Coming closer, Hannah rolled the dead man over with his foot, then looked up at the others. “He never had enough guts to last, anyway.”

“He lived through the war, Gib.” Unable to stand the sight, Simmons kept his eyes on a stunted mesquite tree. “It don’t seem right for a man to come through the war, then die like this.”

“Yeah, but he was sure skeered of Injuns,” Charley Pierce observed. Settling his shoulders, he exhaled. “Well, I reckon we’d better get to burying him.”

“No,” Hannah said curtly.

“You can’t just go off and leave him like this.”

“Coyotes’ll just dig him up before morning. Come on—we’d better head out.”

The other three exchanged glances. Then Lee Jackson spoke up. “Hell, if the Injuns are gone, we might as well post a watch and get some sleep.”

“We’ve got ground to cover—it’s a helluva long way to Galveston.”

“Galveston! What the hell’s in Galveston?”

“Jack left a daughter, and she’s on her way here to settle his affairs.”

“But he didn’t have nuthin’ to settle!” Jackson protested.

“I never knew the major to say anything about having a girl,” Simmons said, shaking his head.

“Well, he did, and she’s coming down by way of New Orleans. And we’re going to be there to welcome her to Texas,” Hannah added significantly. “I figure she’s coming for the gold.”

“I ain’t riding all the way to Galveston,” Jackson grumbled. “I think we oughta wait right here.”

“That’s why you don’t have anything, Lee,” Hannah said impatiently. “You don’t think.”

“I don’t get it.”

Gib Hannah’s expression was pained. “How many times have we been over Jack’s place? If he’d buried a needle there, we’d have it.”

“Yeah.”

“There’s nothing to say it’s not between here and Galveston. While he was running from us, Jack had hiding places all over Texas.” Having said that, Hannah turned to the others. “If you’re in this, you’ll ride with me. Otherwise, you don’t get your cut. Right now, there’s four shares, but—”

“Four? What about Frank’s?” Bob Simmons spoke up.

“What about it?”

“Well, he left a wife back in Illinois, you know. He was always writing to her.”

Hannah shrugged. “She’s nothing to me.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Look, Bob, I don’t care what you do about your quarter—or third, if that’s the way it works out,” Gib added, his eyes on Lee Jackson. “Way I look at it, when Frank took that bullet, he lost his share.”

“All I was saying is I don’t know why we got to go to Galveston if the girl’s coming here,” Jackson protested. “It ain’t giving up my share to say it.”

“And he just told you why,” Pierce pointed out. “Jack left everything to the girl.”

“Including our gold,” Simmons reminded him.

“So the way I’ve got it figured,” Hannah went on, “we get the girl, and we’ve got the money. Any more stupid questions before we hit the trail?”

“How do you know she ain’t coming in at Indianola?” Pierce persisted. “Why don’t we just go into ’Angelo and wait? Be a damned sight easier, you know. Hell, there’s boats coming in both places all the time, so what’s to say we don’t miss her?”

“She wrote Hamer she was coming by Galveston the first or second so she can make it here for the probate June tenth. I don’t aim to wait until the tenth to find out what she knows.”

“Hell, Gib—you ever see one of them boats? Folks is stampedin’ off ’em like cattle!”

“Either you’re in, or you’re out, Charley.”

Pierce paled, then smiled sickly. “You’re funning, ain’t you? I been in since the day we ambushed them Rebs, ain’t I?”

“Leave ’im alone, Gib,” Simmons muttered. “Ain’t but four of us left nohow, and we started with ten, including the major and Billy McCormick. I reckon we all got a right to know what’s goin’ on, and I’d kinda like to know how we find Howard’s girl myself, if you want the truth.”

“She’s traveling alone,” Hannah snapped. “How many women you know fool enough to come out here alone? According to Hamer, she’s about twenty, and her name’s Verena Howard.” Stopping to fumble in his pocket, he drew out a folded paper and tossed it at Bob Simmons. “Here’s the letter she wrote him. Go on—read it.”

“Ain’t nobody can read at night, Gib.”

The bigger man bent down to retrieve the paper, then returned it to his shirt pocket. “It says,” he said evenly, “that she’s five foot four, built slender, and she’s got brown hair.”

“How’d you get ’im to give you that?” Lee Jackson asked curiously.

“I told him I was a ranger.”

“Jesus. He can check that out, Gib.”

Hannah swung up into his saddle, then adjusted his hat carefully before answering, “Not too much he can ask anybody in hell, is there?”

“But—”

Hannah’s jaw tightened visibly. “I haven’t spend eight years of my life hunting down Jack Howard for nothing, Lee.” Using his knee, he turned his horse. “One way or another, I’m going to make his girl lead me to that gold,” he declared grimly. “One way or another, I’m going to get it.”

To conserve her dwindling dollars, Verena had walked the four blocks between Mrs. Harris’s boarding house and Galveston’s train station, and with each step, the carpetbag had seemed heavier and heavier. By the time she reached the ticket window, her carrying arm felt as if it had grown six inches. It was with a great deal of relief that she set the bag down and opened her purse at the ticket window.

“One passage to San Angelo, please,” she told the clerk, taking out carefully folded banknotes.

“Eighteen dollars to Columbus,” he said without looking up.

“Eighteen dollars just to Columbus?” Verena gasped. “Why, that’s outrageous!”

“Yes’m.” If he had a nickel for every time he’d heard the complaint, he’d own the railroad. “But if you’re going to Columbus, you’ll have to pay it.”

“How much more to San Angelo? Perhaps you didn’t hear me right, but I need to buy a ticket to San Angelo, which I understand is some distance past San Antonio. Columbus is this side of it, isn’t it?”

“Yep, but that’s as far as the train goes.” Stamping her ticket, he repeated, “Eighteen dollars.”

She didn’t have to count her money to know she only had sixty-seven dollars left. And even with her return ticket from New Orleans to Philadelphia paid, she had a sinking feeling that unless she realized some money from her father’s estate, she was going to be alone and broke in Texas. Right now, she could think of no worse place to be stranded. But she’d come this far, and she had to go on.

“I don’t suppose you know how I’m supposed to get to San Angelo, do you?” she asked wearily.

“Have to take the stage at Columbus.”

“For eighteen dollars, the train ought to go all the way. How much is it for the stage?”

The fellow shrugged. “Can’t say—never took it. All I know is the stage line don’t go that far neither. It stops ’bout twenty miles t’other side of San Antone.”

It took a moment to digest that; then she declared positively, “You must be mistaken. I was given to understand that there was transportation all the way to EI Paso, and I believe that’s clear across this state.”

“Well, there
used
to be a stage to El Paso, but it ain’t running now. Injuns,” he explained succinctly.

“Then just how am I supposed to get to San Angelo?” she demanded. “On horseback by myself?”

He shrugged again. “I reckon most folks try and get a ride on one of the mail wagons going across to the forts—San Angelo’s right by Concho. If I was you, I’d go into Concho, then cross over the river there. Put you right in the place, what there is of it.”

“I see.” But she didn’t. Where she came from, trains went everywhere, and it didn’t seem possible that there wasn’t even a stagecoach line out here. Indians didn’t seem to be a sufficient explanation.

“You’ll probably have to spend a few days in San Antone, though,” the clerk added more kindly. “The mail don’t go out but two or three times a week, and that’s if the weather’s good. If it ain’t, it don’t go that often.”

“But I’d hoped to be there by Tuesday next. I have an appointment,” she said desperately. “Surely—I mean, there’s got to be another way.”

“No’m. Mebbe you’ll make it—and mebbe you won’t,” he observed philosophically. “Like I said, it depends on the weather—and the damned heathen Comanches. Seems like they’re always stirring up something out there.”

“I thought they didn’t come that close to settlements.”

“Humph! And why d’you think there’s forts out there? Why, them Comanches has even been here, which is about as far east as a body can go. And this is a real town, which San Angelo ain’t.”

“You’re just trying to scare a Yankee,” she decided.

“No’m. Them Comanches does it for us. Why, they don’t think nothing of raiding all the way down into Mexico. Like I was saying, they been right here afore the war.”

“Well, that was quite some time ago,” she said, reassuring herself.

“Ma’am, the U.S. government just got done building Concho, and it sure wasn’t so’s the Army could watch rustlers,” he countered. “And like I said, San Angelo’s right smack across the river there.”

“Then I’d think it’d be safe.”

“Well, it ain’t. Them Comanches has been known to steal U.S. government horses right out of the pens—right under the soldiers’ noses. You know, if I was you, I wouldn’t be going out there by myself. Ain’t no place for a lady, no place at all.”

“Yes, well, I don’t have much choice.” Carefully counting out the money, she slid it under the window. “I still think this amounts to legalized robbery,” she muttered.

“It ain’t me as sets the fares. I just take ’em,” he reminded her, wetting his thumb with spit before he deftly recounted the bills. Satisfied, he stamped her ticket and pushed it toward her. “Train’ll be in any time now.” Looking past her, he beckoned to the incredibly filthy fellow in line behind her. “How far you going this time, Bill?”

The man spat tobacco juice onto the stained floor, just missing Verena’s foot. “Spanish Bend.” As she pulled her skirt hem back, he grinned broadly, and the smell of whiskey on his breath was almost overwhelming. “Well, now, if you ain’t just about the purtiest little thing this side of Nawlins, I’m a—”

“Be seven dollars, Billy,” the ticket agent said, cutting him off. “You got seven dollars left?”

“Yeah, won big last night over at Dub’s Place.” The cowboy fumbled in a bulging pocket on his stained flannel shirt, then produced a big wad of bills. “If Trainor wasn’t expectin’ me, I coulda had me a real good time, huh? I coulda got me a real fancy piece, and—”

“You’re drunk, Billy,” the clerk interrupted him again. “Just give me the seven dollars, then go sit alongside that wall.”

“Ain’t had but half a bottle,” the cowboy mumbled in protest.

“Well, I’d say it was too much.”

“Yeah.” Bill half turned to look for Verena. “Hey, where’d that purty little thang go? I was wantin’ to get acquainted,” he complained loudly.

“If you don’t get that seven dollars through this window, you ain’t going nowhere,” the clerk reminded him.

Clutching her ticket in one gloved hand and her carpetbag in the other, Verena looked for another woman, but the only one she saw was a worn-out, shapeless creature with five pinch-faced children and a dour-looking husband. Casting a quick look back at the ticket window, Verena then hastily made her way to one of the pine benches along the farthest wall, hoping the drunken cowboy wouldn’t find her. She sat down, leaned back, and closed her eyes.

To satisfy her curiosity about a man she’d despised, she’d come to the end of the earth, and it was still a long way to San Angelo. If she’d had any sense, she’d have stayed home and left everything to Mr. Hamer. Instead, she was alone, nearly broke, and exposed to the attentions of the worst sort of riffraff anywhere. And just now she felt terribly vulnerable, as if she were at the mercy of all these uncouth strangers.

“Well, well—if it isn’t Mrs. Howard,” the oddly familiar voice said softly. “World’s getting smaller all the time.”

Her eyes flew open, and she sat up. “What in the world are you doing here, Mr. McCready?” she demanded irritably.

“Is that any way to greet a fellow traveler?” he countered, feigning injury.

It wasn’t, but she was too out of sorts to apologize. Instead, she asked bluntly, “Where are you going?”

Undaunted by the chilly reception, he dropped his tall frame down to the bench beside her and placed his new black felt hat over his knee. “I see you found your wedding ring,” he murmured.

She glanced down at the plain gold band on her left hand. “It wasn’t missing.”

“You weren’t wearing it on the
Norfolk Star”

“You don’t miss much, do you?” she muttered sourly.

“In my business, I can’t afford to.”

She considered retreating behind a wall of icy silence, but she’d already discovered he was beyond discouraging. She sighed. “And just what
is
your business, Mr. McCready?”

“Poker.”

Uncertain she’d heard quite right, she repeated, “Poker? But that’s a game, isn’t it? Is that all you do? I mean, you
surely
don’t do that for a living?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I can’t imagine such a thing.”

“Not too many things out here a man can do without getting himself dirty, and I’ve got a real aversion to dirt—I can’t abide dirty clothes or dirty fingernails,” he admitted, smiling.

Against her better judgment, she allowed herself to look at him. Aside from the devilish light in his dark eyes, he’d obviously cultivated the look if not the manners of a gentleman. Everything from the cut of his black coat and pants, the wine brocade waistcoat with its gold watch fob showing, the impeccable white shirt with the black silk tie, to his well-polished boots contributed to an impression of studied elegance. The hand resting on his knee matched the rest of him—long, tapered fingers with clean, well-buffed nails—and yet there was a decided masculinity to it. Just like his face.

“I see,” she managed.

“When about all a man’s got are quick hands and a steady nerve, he’s either a gunfighter or a gambler,” he added. “I found gambling a whole lot easier than killing.”

“Yes, of course,” she agreed faintly.

“And I’m usually pretty good at sizing up a man—or a woman.” He looked straight into her eyes, his smile broadening. “Where
is
Mr. Howard, by the way?”

The way he said it brought up her guard. “I beg your pardon?”

“Your husband,” he reminded her. “I don’t see the lucky fellow.”

“I fail to see that it’s any of your business, Mr. McCready,” she responded stiffly.

“The way I’ve got it figured, he’s your defense against importunity.”

“I don’t know what you mean by that, but I can assure you—”

“Importunity?” His smile spread into an outright grin, enhancing his handsomeness. “It’s annoyance—troublesome persistence.”

“I
know
what the word means,” she snapped, “and you convey it perfectly.”

“Well,
is
there a Mr. Howard? Or am I right about that ring?”

“Of course, there’s a Mr. Howard, sir,” she retorted. As one of his eyebrows lifted, she felt compelled to defend the lie. “Look, my hands swell sometimes when I travel, that’s all, so I keep my wedding ring in my purse. And—and because I was late arriving, he went on ahead to confer with Papa’s lawyer in San Angelo. He wanted to make sure that at least one of us would be present for the probate hearing. He left a message for me at Mrs. Harris’s boarding house, if you must persist in prying.”

He knew she was lying, but he couldn’t blame her, not out here. Nor could he resist needling her a little. “You know, if I were Howard, I sure as hell wouldn’t go off and leave my wife alone in a place like this. I’d be worried about her safety.”

“Well, you aren’t.” Feeling utterly foolish for responding at all, she took a deep breath and exhaled it fully. “So you needn’t concern yourself, Mr. McCready.”

“I was just thinking maybe you’d be better off sharing a seat with somebody you know.” He nodded toward where the man called Bill had joined a raucous bunch of cowboys. They were loud, profane, and obviously drunk. “At least I had a bath this morning.”

“So you’re going to San Antonio.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I might have known.”

“The way I look at it, we’re both strangers to Texas, and we both could use a little company on the trip.”

“We’re both strangers to each other,” she declared flatly. “And, speaking quite frankly, I prefer to leave it that way. I’m not the sort of woman who dallies behind her husband’s back, Mr. McCready. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“You know, you’re a lot like some of those shiny red apples—real pretty to look at, but downright sour on the inside,” he complained.

“I’m not a fool,” she shot back. “You obviously saw a woman alone, and you tried to take advantage of the situation.”

“I was sort of hoping the advantage would be mutual,” he said, rising. “I thought maybe we could help each other out, but I guess not.”

“I assure you I am not the weak, defenseless creature you think I am. I don’t need the sort of help you are offering.”

Towering over her, he looked down for a moment, his dark eyes mocking her. “Drunk cowboys don’t look for wedding rings. I’d keep that in mind, if I were you.”

“Good day, Mr. McCready.”

He put his black felt hat on with one hand, then tipped it back slightly, exposing a fringe of black hair. “Well, if you change your mind, I’ll be at the back of the car—I always like to see what’s going on in front of me.”

As he walked toward the platform outside, she was both relieved and annoyed. Yet as her mind repeated his words, she was momentarily intrigued by them.
I
thought maybe we could help each other out. . . .
Now that she actually thought about it, they seemed more than a little odd to her. No, she was being ridiculous, trying to see something that wasn’t there. What he’d really wanted was pretty obvious.

“Train’s coming!” the clerk called out. “Passengers outside!”

She grabbed her carpetbag and headed for the waiting passenger car. As she crossed the station’s threshold onto the platform, another large splat of tobacco juice just missed her foot. Looking up, she realized she was facing the group McCready had pointed out, and they all had the look of starving men drooling over a big beefsteak. She was wearing at least three layers of clothing, but as their eyes raked over her, she felt downright naked.

“Whooeee, Billy, would you look at that! If that little filly ain’t a sight for m’eyes, I don’t know what is!” one of them declared loudly. For emphasis, he punched the cowboy she’d seen at the ticket counter. “Hey, little lady, what’re you doing out here all alone?” he asked, coming closer. When she didn’t answer, he moved in front of her, blocking her way. “Whatsa matter, honey—cat got your purty little tongue? Wanna have some of this?” He waved a half-empty whiskey bottle under her nose. “I’d give ya some fer a little kissin’.”

“No, thank you.” Her heart pounding, she spoke with a calmness she didn’t feel. “Please, if you’ll stand aside, I’ve got to find my husband. He—he’s already aboard.”