Daisies In The Wind (33 page)

* * *

The snow fell faster and ever more frenziedly
as inky blackness clamped down over the hills. Russ and Homer never
slowed their mounts, instead riding at the breakneck pace of
outlaws on the run. Hunched in the saddle before Homer’s thin,
muscular frame, Rebeccah tried to keep track of her surroundings,
but the land was unfamiliar to her, and after a while she gave up
trying to find a landmark in the endless clumps of woods, the
twisting ravines, and the narrow, coiling trails her captors
followed.

When she felt certain that she would surely
freeze or faint from weariness if they traveled another mile, they
halted before a rambling log shack set on a high bluff. Below was a
frozen stream. In the distance rose the gray-and-purple mountains,
their sharp peaks frosted in snow.

Rebeccah glanced about as Homer yanked her
down from the saddle. The rickety wooden building he was dragging
her toward appeared to be in even worse shape than her cabin had
been when she’d first seen it. There were huge chinks in the walls
and roof, which must let in a good deal of rain and sleet and wind,
and the weeds surrounding the place were waist high.

The moment she stepped through the scarred
wooden door and saw the thick smoke curling through the air, the
long knotted-pine bar along the far wall, the scattered tables and
chairs, and the profusion of glasses and whiskey bottles, Rebeccah
recognized what kind of a place it was—she had been in many such as
this one in her lifetime. A hideout saloon, frequented solely by
outlaws, rustlers, gunfighters, and their ilk, a place where men
who flouted and fled the law could meet, drink, and rest—or count
their loot—while they planned their next move.

“Come on into the back room and have a drink,
Reb,” Homer invited coldly, dragging her by the arm across the dirt
floor. A few seedy-looking men glanced up from their whiskey and
cards to stare as he propelled her past their tables and pushed her
into a dim hallway, but as Russ followed, yelling for Redeye, no
one said a word or even showed much interest. Rebeccah knew better
than to seek help from any of the men in this place. No one would
pay her any attention, at least not the kind of attention that
would help. Minding your own business was the way an outlaw stayed
alive. Only a fool would risk his neck to save a stranger.

She would have to save herself. But at the
moment she wasn’t sure exactly how she would do it. The knowledge
that she still had a derringer tucked inside her right boot gave
her only a small measure of reassurance. One little hideout gun
against her captors’ powerful revolvers wouldn’t necessarily get
her out of this alive. And even if she killed them, how did she
know that the other men in this place would let her leave?

Rebeccah had no choice but to bide her time
and watch for a chance—but a chance to do what? She would just have
to see when the time came, move quickly, and pray her reactions
were quick and sure enough to guarantee her survival.

Russ Gaglin pushed her into a dingy back room
furnished with a lumpy bed, a three-legged chair, and an oil lamp
set on a small table. The table was littered with whiskey bottles
and tin cups. A greasy burlap curtain hung lopsided across the
window.

“Have a seat, Reb.” Russ shoved her backward
so that she stumbled down onto the bed. It was crawling with ants.
And probably fleas as well, Rebeccah thought in disgust. She sprang
up again.

Russ chuckled meanly and shook his finger in
her face. “Kid, it’s damn lucky for you that you’re Bear’s
daughter, or I’d give you a whipping right now that you wouldn’t
soon forget. Pulling a gun on me, yore old pard. That’s no way to
act. And killing Fred. What’s got into you?”

“I don’t exactly take kindly to being held up
on the road by three of my old ‘pards’,” Rebeccah retorted. She
flashed a furious glance at Homer, who was standing with his feet
planted apart and his thumbs curled around his gunbelt. “And there
was no need to shoot at that boy in the woods—he’s only sixteen, he
didn’t have a gun, and he’s one of my students! Besides that, he
has nothing to do with any of this!”

But Homer had latched onto her words with
contemptuous disbelief. “Students! We heard you was a
schoolteacher! If that don’t beat all! Little scruffy Reb Rawlings
teachin’ school!”

“Well, you’ve sure growed up real pretty—and
you must be smart too. Bear was right proud, you know.” Russ leered
at her and tossed his lank reddish hair back from his brow.

Rebeccah met his appraisal coldly, though she
shuddered inwardly at the filth of these two men, at their unkempt,
desperate appearance and at the queer, vicious lights in both of
their eyes. “What do you think Bear would say about your grabbing
me and bringing me here like a sack of loot?” she demanded, hoping
to cow them by the mere mention of her father’s name, but as she
suspected, their fear of Bear’s wrath had only endured until he was
set in his grave.

“He wouldn’t like it much, but there ain’t a
hell of a lot he can do about it now,” Homer pointed out, his milky
blue eyes shining.

Russ went to the table where a bottle of
whiskey sat amid a clutter of tin cups. “Here, Reb, reckon you
could do with a bit of refreshment after all that riding. You’re
not used to it, no more, I’ll wager. See, we can still take good
care of you. Just like Bear would want. Only thing is, you got to
cooperate. When you’re part of a gang, everyone looks out for the
others. But it works both ways—you’ve got to look out for us
too.”

“That means sharing the profits from that
silver mine,” Homer muttered darkly.

Russ held up a grimy, nail-bitten hand.
“Maybe Reb here got the idea we wanted the whole thing for
ourselves. Hell, kid, that’s not it at all. We’ll be happy to split
with you, Reb. ‘Specially now that Fred ain’t in on the deal no
more, there’s plenty to go around.”

He held out a cup of whiskey to her,
regarding her with what she gathered was an avuncular expression.
She wanted to hurl the contents in his face, but thought better of
it. Instead she accepted the cup without a word, took a tiny sip to
quench the painful dryness of her throat, and decided that was
enough. She was unaccustomed to liquor, and if two glasses of wine
had made her drunk as a skunk, she shuddered to think what a single
glass of whiskey would do to her. No, she needed quick wits and
luck to extricate herself from this situation.

If it was possible to extricate herself from
this situation.

During the entire time they’d been riding
through the foothills, Rebeccah had been thinking. No doubt Toby
and Louisa had run to the Pritchard ranch, which was closest, for
help. Word would have been sent right away to Wolf in town, and
when he heard what had happened, he would follow her. Wouldn’t
he?

A tiny sliver of hope pierced her heart. Yes,
he would. He would never abandon her, or anyone else, to face
trouble alone—no matter how bad it was, how dangerous or difficult.
That was not in his nature. It would violate the stringent code of
honor by which he lived.

She thought briefly of how she had once
scorned him for being a lawman—yet coming to know Wolf Bodine,
really know him, she had learned that being a lawman meant far more
to him than just wearing a badge and locking people up in jail. His
dedication to protecting honest citizens was deeply ingrained in
him. It governed him more strictly than any written law or rule or
official code of behavior ever could. Perhaps it was because of
that crooked sheriff, the one who had killed his brother, Jimmy. Or
maybe it was the memory and influence of his father, the Texas
Ranger, who had died when Wolf was young. Or maybe it was just the
way he’d been born. But he was a man of courage and honor, who
would not desert her when she needed him.

And she needed him now.

Russ and Homer were getting restless with her
continued silence. They paced the room, drinking cup after cup of
whiskey, muttering between themselves and casting her dark looks.
Well, she would have to stall them until Wolf got there and could
help her. Probably it would be dark before the Pritchards even
reached him, and he’d have to wait until morning to start.

Suddenly the brief flicker of hope in her
snuffed out, and in its place flared a new fear.

What if something happened to Wolf when he
tried to rescue her? What if Homer and Russ and the outlaws in the
saloon killed him? He could hardly take on every single one of them
at once—and all alone.

Dread clawed through her.
There has to be
a way to better the odds
, Rebeccah thought frantically.
It’s up to you
.

“Russ.” She slanted him a friendly smile.
“How about some food? Maybe we can talk business over a good meal.
I don’t know about you and Homer, but I’m hungry enough to eat a
horse.”

The two men exchanged glances. Then Russ
fingered his rust-colored beard. “Sure, Reb, sure. We’ll eat. And
talk. We’re all friends, right? Come on out and we’ll see what Zack
can rustle up.”

A short while later she chewed tasteless
dried beef, hardtack, and burned slabs of salt pork, washing it
down with several cups of strong black coffee. She kept her cloak
wrapped tightly around her, for the shack was cold. Outside, snow
tumbled from the heavens in a froth of white. No one could follow
tracks in such a blizzard, she realized dismally, yet against all
reason a part of her still clung to hope.

Russ and Homer ate ravenously and chewed
their food as if they were in a race to see who swallowed each
mouthful first.

Rebeccah had an opportunity to survey the
saloon.

There were only three other men here, besides
the stout, graying bartender. They all seemed to be keeping pretty
much to themselves. But who knew what would happen when a lawman
burst in and everyone reached in panic for their guns?

“Russ,” she said suddenly, “I’m going to be
honest with you. I do know something about that mine. But not
enough. Otherwise don’t you think I’d have claimed it by now and be
living rich as a queen in San Francisco or New Orleans or somewhere
else nice and fancy instead of teaching school in a one-horse town
like Powder Creek?”

“We did kind of wonder about that,” Russ
nodded, leaning forward on his elbows.

Homer smeared his napkin across the grease
dripping from his lips and all the way down his blond, stubbled
chin. “Fred figured you was just biding your time, waiting to cash
in on the mine so that you could throw us off the scent.”

“No, that’s not it at all. I’m more than
happy to share with you. The only problem is”—Rebeccah set her fork
down carefully on her plate and regarded them with a helpless
shrug—“I’ve misplaced the deed and map.”

“You ...
what
?” Both men shouted at
her.

The outlaws at the other tables glanced up,
stared hard, then quickly turned away.

Rebeccah lifted her hands imploringly. “I was
afraid you’d be angry,” she murmured. “But it wasn’t my fault. It
was Neely Stoner.”

“Stoner?”

“That’s right. He sent a man—a horrible
man—to try to get the deed and the map from me when I was still in
Boston. Fortunately I was able to chase him off. You must know, I’d
rather eat nails than share one cent with Neely Stoner!”

They both nodded at this, remembering how
Bear had beaten the man to a bloody pulp over some slight that he’d
offered Reb when she was just a kid—but no one ever knew exactly
what had happened. There was bad blood left over, that’s all they
knew. And Stoner was kicked out of the gang for good. Everyone had
considered him lucky to get away with his life.

“Well, I packed up all my belongings and my
papers quick as could be and left Boston, because obviously Neely
Stoner knew where I was and might come after me again! That’s when
I went to Powder Creek,” she explained, smiling confidingly at each
of the men in turn, “to live on the ranch Bear left me.”

“The mine, Reb. Get to the mine,” Homer
growled. He banged both fists on the table before him.

Rebeccah hurried on with her tale, her brain
racing to concoct it a split second before the words tripped from
her tongue. “Of course I meant to claim the silver mine right away,
but when I unpacked my belongings, I found that there was no map or
deed. All I had to go on was a little paragraph in Bear’s will,
mentioning them both.”

“What did that will say?” Russ inquired,
scratching his jaw.

“Only that the mine was in the Nevada
Territory.”

“Mighty big territory. Are you sure, Reb,
that the deed and map weren’t there?” Homer demanded
suspiciously.

“If they ever were among Bear’s papers, they
were gone by then, lost or misplaced in my haste to get out of
Boston.”

Russ’s eyes flashed. “Did you see a map or
didn’t you?”

“I can’t remember, and that’s the truth.” She
sighed. “There were so many papers from Bear’s solicitor. I don’t
seem to recall a map or a deed. So maybe I haven’t misplaced them
at all—maybe the solicitor missed them when he collected everything
Bear had tucked away. As a matter of fact he did tell me that he
had to collect a great many papers and stock certificates and cash
and other assets Bear had accumulated, all deposited in various
banks across the West. It was quite tiresome for him, but Bear had
given him a list of, oh, two or three different banks and the
aliases under which he’d left accounts. If there was a map, it
would have been in one of those, wouldn’t it? So maybe the
solicitor missed something—or maybe I had the map and the deed at
one time, but they’re missing now. And without them I can’t find
the mine any easier than you can. Believe me, I wish I could.”

“Son of a bitch. They have to be there
somewhere.” Russ ground his teeth in frustration and gulped down
another cup of whiskey. “You wouldn’t have lost something so
important, Reb.”