Caress of Fire (26 page)

When Delmar Hitt discovered that Frank Hatch had defied orders and had ridden unsuccessfully into the McLoughlin camp, he curled his lip and muttered to Asher Pierce and Rattler Smith, “It figures.”

“We shouldn't've trusted that feller,” Rattler groused. “He's too dad-blame crazy to keep his mind on the dollar sign.”

On this hot-as-a-firecracker afternoon in early August, the last of the Hitt gang assembled behind a stand of trees. Instead of watching McLoughlin have the headache of getting their cows closer to the railhead, the three saw a wagon–filled with Hatch and his
compadres
–cross the low waters of a brackish stream.

“I have no use for stupid men,” Hitt said to no one in particular. “I count Hatch and Two Toes among the stupidest.”

“What are we gonna do now, Delmar?” asked Pierce.

“Follow their wagon.”

“Then what?” Rattler asked and scratched his ear.

“I'll let you know when I decide.” Hitt took little notice of a half dozen buffalo drinking from the Salt Fork. He put a foot in the stirrup and settled atop his buckskin mare. “C'mon, men, or we'll lose sight of that hoodlum.”

They caught up.

A grizzled oldster drove the wagon, a youngish fellow on the seat beside him. The younger one carried a rifle. Thankfully, Hatch and Two Toes didn't make fools of themselves by acknowledging their partners; the others had never seen them.

“Hold up there,” Hitt called out. “Got a minute?”

“What fer?”

“Since you have four men tied up in the back of this wagon, I assume you've had some trouble.” Hitt reached into his pocket, extracting a badge he kept handy, and handed it to the whiskered old codger. “Sheriff Waldo Prothro of Abilene, Kansas, at your service.”

“Ye be right smart south o' yer area, ain't ye?”

Waiting for an answer, the four men in the back of the wagon watched intently. So did the driver and his shotgun rider.

Hitt smiled the smile that had hustled hundreds of Georgians out of their tax money. “We heard there were some rustlers in the vicinity, so my deputies”–he gestured to Rattler and Pierce–“and I decided we must ride down and help out.”

“That be plumb nice o' ye. 'Cause that be just exac'ly what these varmints are: outlaws. They been cutting the throats o' the cap'n's dogies.”

“An abomination.” Self-proclaimed Sheriff Prothro, a master at deception, summoned a frown of indignation; the “deputies” did likewise, Rattler tugging on his ear. Hitt said, “My deputies and I will see that these blackguards face the full force of the law.”

The shotgun rider finally spoke, a German accent evident. “Don't trust them, Oscar.”

“Aw hush, Matt.”

The squarehead had to be Matthias Gruene, husband to Cactus Blossom. Hitt got uneasy. If that squaw wasn't dead–

“I will not hush. I want to know if–”

“We could use some help,” the codger said, interrupting his companion. “It be a fur piece to Kansas, and I ain't hankerin' to smell these here varmints all the way up there.”

“I
do
not
smell,” Hatch piped up.

You wall after the sun gets to you for a few hours,
thought Hitt.

“Let me see that badge.” Matt reached for the silver star, turned it over in his hand. “Looks authentic.”

“I assure you it is,” Hitt said smoothly. Actually, he'd gotten it off the chest of a sheriff last year, right after he had put a bullet in the back of the lawman's head.

“That man–the one in the corner–is a murderer.” Matt's fingers tightened on the gun stock. “He killed my wife. And I intend to see he pays for it.”

It was good to know the woman was fair and truly dead.

Hitt compelled menace into his features as he glanced at Frank Hatch. It wasn't difficult, since that he was out to teach a lesson.

He cut his eyes back to Gruene. He emitted feigned sympathy now. “He'll pay for his misdeeds, sir. As will all the rest.” He honed in on a particular miscreant, who fidgeted on the floorboard. By the look on that face, Delmar Hitt figured Hatch was smart enough to know that he was hearing the truth on this score. “I guarantee you, sirs, he
will
pay.”

Indecision and reason fought in the German's face, and Hitt figured there would be trouble: Gruene wouldn't turn the captives over.

No problem.

Hitt would kill Gruene and the codger.

But he didn't have to.

The squaw's widower rubbed a hand down his face, then said, “Take them.”

What a fool.

“Sleep easy tonight, sir,” Hitt said. “You've made the right decision.”

Within minutes, the stupid side of the gang was sprung, the Four Aces duo on their way south. Delmar Hitt found himself as amazed as he'd been in Georgia. People were so gullible. And this time, it had been almost too easy.

 

 

Oscar Yates behind him, Matthias rode the pinto mare that one of the deputies had traded them. Necessity had forced an exchange of the wagon for this mount. How else would Sheriff Prothro and his deputies have gotten Frank Hatch and the others to jail?

“Never thought ye'd let ole Hatch outta yer sight alive.”

“It was your idea to turn them over.”

“Yep, but ‘tweren't my wife what was killed by him. Iffn it'd'a been Susie, I'd a–”

“Why don't you be quiet, Oscar?”

“I ain't gonna. I wanna know why ye let him go.”

“There's too much lawlessness in this land already.” Matthias paused. “I'll let the law . . . and God . . . take care of Frank Hatch.”

 

 

They had even turned over the hoodlum wagon.

Gil McLoughlin shook his head in disgust and rolled his eyes at his wife, who lifted her shoulders as well as her palms in a gesture that said, “It puzzles me, too.”

In the fading light of day, Matthias Gruene and Oscar Yates stood next to a pinto mare that any tin-horn with a lick of sense could tell had had a running iron put to its original brand.

Giving up a valuable piece of property such as a wagon was secondary to Gil's suspicions about the situation. He demanded, “Describe the lawmen.”

“They was three o' them. The sheriff, he was the Yankee type, sorta smooth talkin'. Them other two didn't have much to say. One kept scratchin' his ear. Had a big mole on the end o' it, he did.”

“Was the other deputy bald?”

Yates nodded. “He were. I could see he didn't have no hair, even beneath that hat o' his. 'Tweren't a wisp of it where his sideburns oughta be. My Susie used to say, ‘bald as an egg.' ”

“You didn't give Hatch and his cohorts over to any Sheriff Waldo Prothro.” Gil turned to the big German. “What was the matter with you, Matt? Why the hell weren't you suspicious enough to figure out you turned them over to the Hitt gang?”

Matthias paled. “They'll be in cahoots in no time.”

“They are already,” Gil corrected. “Actually, it wouldn't surprise me if they weren't from the beginning. Delmar Hitt wouldn't have gone to any lengths for a stranger, much less give up a horse.”

Hatch on the loose with the Hitts, the wagon gone.
Damn.

His shoulders slumping, Matthias beat a fist against his dungareed leg. “If I had it to do over again . . .”

Lisette waddled toward Matthias. Lately she'd been using an apron to cover the too-tight shirt she'd borrowed from the largest man in the outfit, Attitude. She still looked beautiful to Gil.

“We don't know for certain about this Hitt gang,” she said to Matthias.

Gil scowled. “I am. And–”

“A lawless land demands taking the law into one's own hands,” Matthias said. “Frank Hatch deserves to die.”

He wouldn't get an argument out of Gil. Hatch's mother and stepsister might have been as vile as their kinsman, but they hadn't deserved to perish at his hands. And Cactus Blossom . . .

Gil turned from the Comanche woman's widower, and made his way toward Tecumseh Billy. Lisette followed behind. The steer lifted his lengthy horns, his bell tinkling, and small black eyes wide-set in a curly white face stared blankly into the night . . . until he caught sight of Lisette.

His tail twitching, T-Bill lumbered over to her. Her hand went to her apron pocket, and she pulled a carrot from it. The steer, fond of such a treat, chewed on the vegetable.

Gil said to his wife, “I've got two choices. We can get on up the cowpath, or I can ask for volunteers, then ride after Hatch and the Hitts.”

Her eyes widening in alarm, she put a hand on his forearm. “If you ride out, Gil, you could get hurt–or killed.”

“If I find them,
they'll
be the ones to suffer.”

“You'd have to leave some of the cowboys behind to watch the herd, even if they all wanted to go. Wouldn't it be better if you could outnumber them?”

“You're trying to outmaneuver me, woman.”

“Possibly. But shall I remind you of something? You said you'd had enough of killing during the war.”

“I did.” Gil paused. “But Matt was right. A lawless land calls for lawless measures.”

She sighed in exasperation.

Drool slipped from Tecumseh Billy's mouth as he opened it to chew the air. Gil scrubbed his knuckles across the space between the steer's eyes. Right then he caught sight of a calf; he pulled his hand away.

The bullock loped by without any spark of recognition. But Gil knew him. He was the calf Lisette had rescued the morning after they had met Cactus Blossom. Cactus Blossom . . .

There was no use trying to forget she'd ever existed.

Gil's memory ran fresher than ever before. As if it were right now, he saw her hand poised to make the now departed Sadie Lou “roast for dinner.” The Comanche woman could have just as easily thrown a knife at him or his wife. Damn, how he had hated having her tag along, but she had been a help to Lisette. And Matthias–a good man, a great strawboss, despite his lack of judgment with “Prothro”–had grown to love her.

Never had Gil felt even a tad of regret over losing her. Until now.

“Gil? You're not thinking about riding out, are you?”

He swung to that softly spoken feminine voice.

“I'm thinking I need a hug.” He opened his arms, and when his wife was there, somewhat clumsily, he buried his face in the coronet of her hair. “Sweet darlin', I've just come to realize something. Cactus Blossom should have been mourned.”

“She is. By Matthias. By me.”

Gil stepped back to brush his hand across his mouth. “If Matt wants to avenge Cactus Blossom, I'll help him.”

Lisette's shoulders stiffened, then slumped as she sighed. “If you go after Hatch, take care of yourself. The babe and I need you.”

“I know.”

A bell tinkled as Tecumseh Billy plodded over to Lisette. He lowed to draw her attention, as if to say, “Why are you paying attention to him? I want another handout.”

Gil and Lisette looked at each other and chuckled. In this, there was communication that needed no words. And it helped to ease the tension.

“Better find another carrot, darlin', or he'll get testy.”

She took the steer by a horn. “T-Bill, time to eat.”

The trio walked back to camp, Lisette to fulfill her promise of carrots, Gil to seek Matthias out.

He could get himself killed.

Lisette may have acquiesced in her husband's decision to let Matthias make the choice in the Hatch debacle, but her nerves skittered like lightning in a midnight sky as she and Gil returned to camp, the lead steer in company. With her shaky knees, it was all she could do to find another carrot for T-Bill.

Feeding the lead steer, she never let her eyes stray from her husband as he spoke to the two cowhands lounging around tonight's campfire. Gil asked Preacher Wilson and Deep Eddy Roland to find Matthias, send the strawboss to camp, then make themselves scarce.

Gil motioned at T-Bill. “Take him with you.”

Men and beast set out.

“I'll fix some coffee,” Lisette said.

“Why don't you sit down, honey? Do some relaxing for a change.”

Relax? At a time like this? “How can–never mind.”

She closed her mouth, since Gil had enough on his mind without wifely naggings. After collecting a couple of bedrolls, she settled them against a wagon wheel. Her back to the spokes, she sighed. It did feel good to rest; never had she felt the burden of her stomach so profoundly.

Gil dumped enough Arbuckle's Coffee into the huge tin coffeepot to brew a barrelful. He filled the pot with water, set it on the cleek above the fire trench. Crouching back on his heels, he stared at the fire, an elbow on his knee, keeping his own counsel. Every once in a while he squinted at the stars.

By the time coffee bubbled, Matthias trudged toward them.

Gil looked up at the approach of those boots. “How about a cuppa?”

“That sounds good.”

Gil poured three. Their fingers touched when he handed Lisette's over; she felt his tension. While she was a wreck, thinking about him stalking Hatch, he, too, was very much uneasy.

Sitting cross-legged, Matthias eased down in front of the fire to drain the mug. The dancing flames reflected each line of his haggard face.

“Matt . . . how 'bout a plug of snakebite medicine?” Gil asked.

An eyebrow quirking, Matthias cocked his head. “You're offering me whisky?”

“Every once in a while it's called for. I could use a shot, and you look as if it would do wonders for you, too.”

“I won't argue.”

Gil collected the Scotch whisky from the chuck wagon. “How 'bout you, honey? Want a shot of Snake Bite?”

Though it sounded like just the medicine to ease the pain of her anxieties, she shook her head. Young Hermann was doing enough gamboling already.

Her husband poured generous portions of whisky into Matthias's cup as well as his own. He took a sip; the strawboss quaffed his, then held up a hand for another portion.

The bottle neck at the rim of Matthias's cup, Gil said, “There's something I should have said before, but in all honesty, I didn't feel . . . until now. Matt, I am truly sorry about your wife. She was a good woman.”

“Ja,
she was.” Her widower ran a hand down his face. “I don't know if I'll ever quite understand about Weeping Willow, but you don't know how I miss my wife.”

Tears burned Lisette's eyes.

“We all miss her, Matt. You, me, my wife.” Gil took another swallow of liquor. “That's why I called you here.” He set the cup aside. “Way I see it, we've got a couple of choices. We can leave the herd in camp and ride out looking for Hatch and the others. Or we can try to evade them.” A second passed. “What do you think we ought to do?”

“What if I say, ‘Let's string Hatch up'?”

“We ask if any of the boys want to go along. Whether they do or not, we saddle our horses, tonight–before Hatch gets farther away.”

“How would we know where to find him?”

Gil reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a cigar. For a moment he studied it. Then, taking the burning end of a campfire twig to the end of his cigar, he dragged it toward his mouth. On a cloud of expelled smoke, he closed one eye and studied his second-in-command. “I don't imagine we'll have too much trouble finding Hatch. The way I see it, Delmar Hitt is after my cows. That's why he tied in with Frank Hatch. Hitt and his boys are hiding somewhere along the Chisholm Trail, waiting for us.”

Standing, Lisette hugged her arms rather than going by the instinct to cover her ears against the deep meaning of Gil's words.

Matthias asked, “You'd put yourself and your men in jeopardy, in memory of Cactus Blossom?”

Another puff from the cigar. “Partially.”

“What do you mean, partially?” Matthias asked, echoing Lisette's thoughts.

“Your wife is gone and there's nothing that'll bring her back.” Gil's words were slow. “But we–you, me, my wife–live on. We can't let that Georgian take another life.”

“What about
your
wife?” Matthias asked. “Are you willing to jeopardize Lise?”

“She stays right here till we get back.”

“If
we get back.” Matthias reached for the whisky bottle. “For Lise's sake, I think we should try to make Kansas before confronting Hatch.”

She watched her husband's reaction, seeing that he was in agreement, even before he tossed the cigar into the fire, and said, “We'd better stay off the Chisholm's established route. Even so, it'll be hard to cover our tracks, but we've got to try. Before first light, let's beat for Abilene.”

Matthias Gruene left the campground; he was glad the trail boss had listened to reason. Their hunting down Frank Hatch would have put a strain on Lisette, which Matthias was wont to do. He still loved her, but his affection had returned to the pure kind.

If something happened to McLoughlin, she would suffer as he suffered for his dead wife.

Recalling his boss's words of heartfelt sympathy, he took comfort. Gil McLoughlin was a hard, cruel man at times, but at others he proved more considerate.

As a man racked by regrets where his own wife was concerned, Matthias hoped the Scotsman would continue being decent to Lisette, but somehow he wasn't convinced that would happen. He had nothing specific in mind, nothing but instinct.

The next morning, before sunup, Matthias saddled up, and before riding out, he took a sidelong glance at Lisette. In all haste she was packing the chuck wagon. Her husband wouldn't be going after Hatch, yet Matthias could see worry and concern in her features. He yearned to go to her and offer his shoulder, but he didn't. It was her husband's place to offer reassurance.

Tapping his heel to his mount's flank, Matthias took off to help her husband get his herd to Abilene.

The Scotsman changed course, veering off the Chisholm Trail. Through the hot summer days, into the equally stifling nights, each man worked extra shifts. From way before dawn until far after nightfall, they pushed through the Territory, Tecumseh Billy at the lead.

They encountered a few buffalo–very few–but little else beyond desolation. The outfit neared the Kansas border, and everyone began to think they would make the state line without trouble. They were wrong. But trouble didn't come from Hatch and the Hitt gang.

A quarter hour earlier, they had pulled away from the afternoon rest stop. At a stand of cottonwoods and blackjacks to the east of the rounded hills, T-Bill stalled and refused to go on. Trouble appeared atop a rise.

It took the form of a half-hundred Indians.