Untamed Journey (12 page)

Ruth paused in near shock when she realized
she still thought of herself as unmarried, even though in the eyes
of the law, she was good and properly wed. She’d been so concerned
with mere survival since that fateful night on the train that she’d
almost managed to forget the name Frank Masterson.

T
rudging through six
plus inches of wet, sticky mud on a high strung horse had done
nothing to cool Frank Masterson’s temper since leaving the site of
his muddled train robbery. Smith had yet to wake up and tell him
anything useful about the disappearance of his wife. Added to that,
the midwife he had hired to revive Smith only shrugged in
indifference when asked if she thought he would recover enough from
his wounds to talk.

Masterson had stormed off in the direction of
his ranch after that bitter piece of news, only to be caught in the
worst rainstorm of the season. He spurred his useless horse onward,
knowing the nag would surely lead him toward home and food. At the
insistent dig of newly sharpened spurs, the frightened horse reared
in protest and skidded on his hind quarters.

“God-damned beast – you’ll get us both
killed.”

He pulled tighter on the reins, until the
terrified beast reared one last time and dumped the infuriated man
onto the ground. After trying unsuccessfully to gain his footing to
pull a gun, Masterson threw his riding crop in furry at the
retreating animal.

Ten minutes later, Masterson had his temper
under better control, preferring to hold it inside for his unknown
wife. He spied his homestead in the distance, cursing even the cost
of glass windows he’d spent for his ungrateful new wife. Not that
she’d asked for them, he conceded, but the important neighbors were
impressed. Masterson silently counted the money he’d already spent
on Ruth and swore on his dead father’s grave that she’d pay him
back every penny, one way or another, if she failed to serve his
purpose.

He slammed through his front door, demanding
service from his scurrying servants. He cursed as clumps of mud and
ice littered his entryway, knowing he’d have little chance of
locating his missing wife once the snows started.

If she were dead, her body was long buried by
now, and he’d need proof before he could replace her. No judge he
knew would overlook that little detail less than two weeks after
the proxy marriage, no matter how good the bribe.

And God help her if she were alive. He only
hoped she had the good sense to be looking hard and long for him,
with some damned fine excuse for not being where he’d put her.

“W
ell don’t just
stand there gawking like a virgin on his wedding night.” The
ruddy-faced poker player motioned the gangly clerk inside. “Come
over here and say what you came to say, so Nigel here can get back
to his losing hand.”

Nigel Pierce laughed out loud at his
long-time friend’s bravado. “You’d better hope your mistress loves
your ugly face, Ludwig, because your pocketbook is about to get a
great deal lighter. I call. Full House - Jacks high.”

The onlookers applauded as the railroad mogul
spread three smirking face cards and a pair of fives directly in
front of his opponent. He made a show of channeling straight
through the middle of the large pile of gold coins and Yankee
dollars to make room for his glorious hand.

“Get your greedy hands off my shiny gold
coins, Nigel,” Ludwig demanded. “And pray to your Maker this boy is
bringing you news of a long-lost uncle with no decent relatives to
inherit his cash. This pile is about to be mine - four of a kind,
all deuces.”

“Ahhh!” The crowd of fellow gamblers and
friendly widows reacted in kind to the long-standing rivalry
between the two gamers and lifted their glasses in salute.

Nigel was less than pleased with the results,
and tossed his last good cigar across the room in disgust. His
blood-shot gaze settled on the wary messenger still waiting for
instructions. “Well, boy, you heard the man. Did I inherit
millions?”

The young man pulled at his too-tight collar
before stuttering a reply to the larger-than-life railroad owner.
“Ahhh, n-n-no, sir. I’m sorry sir - terribly sorry. But I don’t
think the news is good. Not that I read your telegram sir. We at
the telegraph office take great pride in our discretion. It’s just
that the operator that took your message didn’t look too happy. And
he made sure I came over straight away to deliver this to you.”

“Well hand it over, boy. Bad news never
waits.” Nigel grabbed the telegraph from the shaking hand of young
man and proceeded to read.

Samuel Wright, Nigel’s right-hand man at the
Union Pacific Railroad, handed the magnate one of his carefully
selected cigars, pre-lit.

Nigel grunted by way of thanks and took three
long drags before clearing the room of nearly everyone with a
simple look and a wave of his brick-layer hands. “You, Jonas, stay
behind, if you will.”

The retired lawman-turned-judge nodded and
resumed his seat.

Samuel waited until the room emptied before
inquiring, “Bad news?”

“What else?” Nigel took the time to re-read
every line of the telegraph before forming his thoughts. He might
be rash in poker, but never in business. “It’s news of another damn
robbery. There’s seven dead on the tracks, including the engineer
and two passengers. Another civilian – an old woman no less – is
severely injured. The highly recommended Marshal Beauregard Jackson
showed up smack in the middle of the commotion and managed to take
down three of theirs before the rest escaped.”

“Where were our men?” Judge Mills asked
carefully.

“According to this, they were lagging behind
the good Marshal.” Nigel replied. “You got an explanation for this
screw up?” Nigel demanded of Judge Mills, the man who had hired all
the men, with the notable exception of Jackson.

“My bet is the conductor got his facts mixed
up. Could be the Marshal himself sent that telegraph and tried to
shift their late arrival as the fault of my men. He’s the damn
tracker, after all. If they were late, it was probably because he
was chasing after the wrong damn train. He’s a Confederate, after
all. They can’t be trusted.”

Samuel stood up to face Jonas Mills. “Judge,
you’ve got absolutely no basis for your facts - none at all.
Jackson is a damn fine man and one hundred percent reliable. If he
says your hired men broke ranks and chased their tails out of pure
stubbornness at following a
former
Confederate soldier -
discharged with honors, I might add - then that’s what damn well
happened. And your men are the ones we should be replacing -
immediately. If they can’t follow orders, what use are they to us a
thousand miles away?”

Mills turned three shades of purple and took
a step closer to Samuel. “Damn you, Wright. Those are good men -
all from the Pennsylvania Regulars. You got no cause to accuse them
of insubordination. I tell you, it was this Jackson fella. His
pride couldn’t stand a paycheck coming from his betters on the
right side of the War.”

“Jonas, you’re full of hot air,” Samuel
replied with the utmost calm. “I can personally swear to this man’s
loyalty and tracking skills. Were you aware that in ‘63 he came
across his cousin’s unit while on a scouting mission before the
Battle of Chickamauga? And that after doing his duty to his
commanding officer and country, and reporting back on enemy lines,
he located his cousin not two hours before dawn and ambushed him.
He saved his damn life, no doubt in my mind. And then when his kin
was locked up in Blackshear Prison, Jackson arranged for his escape
- bribed the near starving guards with three good Virginia
hogs.”

“War tales,” Judge Mills scoffed. “At best,
that was exaggerated greatly in the telling. Could even be pure
fiction. How do I know it’s true?”

“Because I was the prisoner and he’s my
cousin.” Samuel replied. “And seeing as our family ties survived
the War intact, you can bet your last dollar they’ll survive your
unfounded accusations too.”

Nigel intervened as this argument was getting
them nowhere. “Enough guesswork,” he ordered sharply. “Mills, we
fire no one - yet. No point in sending new men into strange
territory to start over. What we need is good information, not
piecemeal telegraphs and petty guesswork. I’m going out there
myself and you both are coming with me. If there’s a problem in the
ranks, it’ll be over when I show up. They can all follow my orders
or collect a paycheck elsewhere. My private car will be ready to
leave in one hour, gentlemen. Don’t be late.”

“S
it down, gentlemen.
This rain should clear up in an hour, two at most.” Marshal Abel
Wyman glanced with little energy at the solid silver pocket watch
he pulled out of his wool vest. “I’ll figure out our next move
then,” he added in the general direction of Mike and Emmett.

If Wyman had bothered to make eye contact
when handing down the verdict to sit and wait, he would have seen
the look of disgust and frustration on both men’s faces.

“We can’t sit and wait doing nothing,” Mike
protested. “This here’s a prime tracking opportunity. Those
bastards we’re after are no doubt lazing away their time in some
other watering hole - and giving us the chance to catch up.”

Emmett waited in patient silence for the
arrogant Easterner to be predictable. He was not disappointed.

“Sit down and have a drink, gentlemen.” Wyman
waved his hand absently in the direction of the rickety tables
behind him. “There’s no point in tracking now. The signs are washed
out and the local sheriff’s gone to ground twenty miles south of
here. The men here say he’s waiting out the weather with a warm
woman, and we should be too. Robbers aren’t going anywhere in this
storm.”

The highly-decorated lawman barely spared
them a glance while dismissing their objections. He ordered up a
second drink, tossed a coin to the bartender, and took his ruined
custom-made bowler up the nearest flight of stairs, to partake of
the second floor entertainment with the rest of his men.

Before Mike completely lost his temper at the
lazy fool they’d been saddled with, Emmett tapped the old man on
the shoulder and motioned him out the front. They only had to take
a few steps away from the swinging doors of the saloon to have
their voices drowned out by the pouring rain.

“Who do we know in town that could help us?”
Emmett asked, handing Mike a steaming mug of coffee he’d charmed
from the nearest saloon girl, while Marshal Wyman was dousing his
frustration in liquor.

“Give me a minute,” Mike replied. “I can’t
think straight with my temper boiling. Can’t imagine why your
cousin hired that jackass to do men’s work.”

Emmett had been wondering that himself, but
remained quiet. More conjecture would not get them closer to their
goal. He rolled them both a cigarette, to give Mike time to think
over his long list of acquaintances.

“Don’t know too many decent folks here about
- mostly because there ain’t many. This sorry excuse for a town
ain’t got much to recommend it, unless you’re up to no good. Full
of too many saloons serving tired women and watered down
liquor.”

Emmett took a long drag, grateful for what
looked to be the only warmth he’d be feeling this night. “Wasn’t
that a cross I spotted on the building next to the General
Store?”

“My point exactly,” Mike grumbled in
response. “Do-gooder church goers don’t necessarily fall on the
decent side of my list, you know.”

Emmett could tell Mike had recalled someone
who could help them. But what he couldn’t figure out was why Mike
was reluctant to tell him. “I don’t disagree,” Emmett replied
carefully. “But I can see on your face that you’ve thought of
someone who might help us. Why aren’t you giving me a name?”

“Humph,” Mike grunted. “If there was anyone
else, I’d go to them first. We’d like as not get a better bargain
from Lucifer himself.”

Mike tossed his cigarette butt aside and
headed out to the stable, not waiting to see if Emmett would
follow.

“Where we headed, boss?” Emmett asked, his
curiosity piqued. There weren’t too many folks Mike didn’t get
along with, at least well enough to ferret needed information out
of them.

“Straight to Hell,” Mike muttered. “We’re
headed straight down to bargain with the Devil herself.”

“But which way are we going?” Emmett asked as
he struggled to keep up with Mike’s stomping mad pace.

“To the Widow Thornton’s place, my boy,” Mike
shouted to be heard over the pouring rain.

Emmett chuckled to himself at the mention of
a woman who’d been flirting with Old Mike for more years than
Emmett could remember. That explained the old man’s foul temper. As
he struggled through the boot-deep mud after Mike, he wondered how
his brother was faring, bargaining with his woman.

R
uth quickly piled on
as much dry clothing as she owned, before quietly telling Jackson
he could turn around.

He finished pouring Ruth a hot cup of coffee
before meeting her unsure gaze. He knew she was still a bit
nervous. He supposed her instincts were right, since he was still
struggling with himself not to reach out and touch her smooth skin.
He handed her coffee instead and contented himself with a light
stroke along her fingers when he passed the tin cup to her. He
quickly went back to dividing out the food when he saw Ruth’s eyes
dilate at the contact.

“Sorry there’s no sugar for the coffee. I
admit to being soft and packing some on short trips around my
ranch, but this trip was Marshal-business from the beginning, so I
packed light.” Jackson placed her share of the food on the small
rock in front of her, avoiding temptation altogether. It was too
damned cold to spend energy on anything but getting warm, he
thought, trying to convince himself not to touch. He shifted
uncomfortably, and got down to the business of eating.