Vengeance Trail (10 page)

Afterwards, he placed leg irons on them and allowed them to sit in the shade of the lean-to while he prepared supper.

He built a fire from mesquite and set a pot of beans and a pan of bacon to cooking.

“How about some water, mister? My tongue’s about fried out of my mouth!” Once more the outlaw was complaining.

Pete Winter took one of the canteens he had filled in the trickle of stream and walked it over to the couple. He handed it
to the woman.

“Drink it down slow,” he warned. “You swallow too much or too fast, it’ll bring on cramps.”

The outlaw reached out and snatched the canteen from her grasp. Pete Winter tore it from his hands before he could drink from
it.

“You wait your turn, amigo!”

Johnny Montana’s dark, sullen gaze came to bear on the lawman.

“I won’t suffer your abuse just because you pack a gun and wear that little tin star on your shirt! You touch me again and
I’ll…”

Pete Winter’s instinct was to jerk the man to his feet and knock some respect into him. But he remembered the Captain’s admonishment
about abuse to prisoners and so refrained. Instead, he steadied his youthful gaze upon the outlaw.

“Don’t prod me, mister. My orders don’t say how I have to deliver you to the authorities up in Ardmore. I can just as easily
bring you in slung belly down across your saddle—it’s not a good way to ride.”

The threat seemed enough; the outlaw turned his stare away, looked out toward the open plains as
though something else had suddenly drawn his interest.

Pete Winter returned to his cooking pots and stirred the beans and forked the bacon over. His thinking turned toward the woman.
He felt sorry for her having been subjected to the outlaw’s whims and most likely abuses.

The young lawman had seen much in his day, including women who suffered greatly under the hands of ruthless, insensitive men.

He thought of his own mother, of how before she died so early in life, she had come to bear the withered looks of a woman
twice her age from the hard, unending work. He recalled how, even though he loved his father, the man had been joyless and
single-minded in his determination to scratch out a life from dirt that didn’t produce, and rain that didn’t come, and dreams
that never were.

The old man was good in that he never cussed his wife, never laid a hand upon her, but, he never showed her kindness either.
He never saw how the life was killing her. And when she finally did pass away, the tears that slipped from his eyes were too
little too late—just like the rain he always waited for had been too little too late.

The Ranger understood how his mother’s love for the old man had made her hold on longer than she should. And, even though
he knew practically nothing at all about this woman who was now his prisoner, he knew that it had been
her
love for the outlaw that had brought her to this place. He understood that much about her.

His thoughts were interrupted by her voice.

“Maybe I could help with the cooking,” she offered.
It was the most she had said the whole trip. He turned and looked at her.

“It would be better than just sitting and doing nothing,” she responded to his inquisitive gaze.

“Well, ma’am, we might all appreciate the grub better. I confess that cooking ain’t the dang thing I do best.”

“No reason for you to help out, Kate!” demanded Johnny Montana. “It’d be the same as you helping to get us back to Arkansas
for our hanging.”

“I’m weary of just sitting all day and all evening with nothing to do, Johnny! Helping out will take my mind off things.”
The Ranger was both surprised and pleased by her rebuttal. He moved to where she sat and removed the leg irons.

“Be my guest,” he said. “Anything you can do to make supper set better would get no argument from me.” She smiled. So did
he.

“Hell! I can see what this is all leading to,” complained the outlaw. “Looks to me like he’s in and I’m out as far as you’re
concerned, woman! I’d say you’re being a damn’d fool—you’re playing right into his hands, Katie!”

“You’ve got a bad mouth on you, mister, give it a rest!” ordered the lawman. “Ever since we started out, all you’ve done is
complain and my ears have grown sore from your jawing. You leave off, or I’ll gag you the rest of the trip!”

Johnny Montana fell sullen and silent, pouting like a disappointed child.

But, there was more than met the eye. The outlaw knew one thing for certain: the young Ranger was unable to hide his interest
in Katie. He knew full well how such a distraction could work for his favor.
He knew just as well that a moment’s worth of distraction was all it took to kill any man. He would bide his time, play the
role of the jilted lover, let Katie, unwittingly, do her work. His time would come.

After supper, Johnny feigned tiredness and lay down upon his bedroll and closed his eyes, but not his ears.

“Well, ma’am, I have to tell you that adding a spoonful of sugar to those beans made all the difference,” said the Ranger.

“It would have been better if we would have had some molasses and onions,” said Katie.

“It beat heck out of what I’ve done to the cooking the whole while,” he said, apologetically.

“Don’t know why men can’t cook as well as women,” she said. “I guess it’s just because they’re not taught to do so. I read
that the best cooks in places like France and Spain are all men.”

He stared at her across the flames of the fire, a curious look in his eyes.

“Oh, I once did a lot of reading, when I lived back home with papa. There wasn’t much else to do. I so enjoyed reading about
exotic places. I’ve always thought travel was adventuresome. To sail in a ship across the ocean—that would be so….” Her
voice trailed off. He could see her blinking her eyes, fighting back tears.

“I’m afraid that I will never know such things now.” She failed to fight back all the tears. He could see the wet trace down
her cheeks. He searched for something to say to her, to comfort her.

Seeing the way the soft light of the fire played upon her face caused him to stare.

She sniffled once, straightened her back and wiped her eyes with her fist.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I did not mean to seem like such a ninny. I’ve done what I’ve done, and now I must face up to it.
My only wish would be to see my papa again and tell him how sorry I am for the grief and pain I have caused him. If I have
hurt anyone, it was him.”

“Perhaps things won’t turn out as bad as they seem,” said Pete Winter.

“You are kind for trying to buck up my spirits, Mr. Winter. But, I expect the worst to come of it. I must prepare myself for
that end.”

He was a handsome boy, she thought. Even though they were most likely the same age, she felt much older than him. She saw
Johnny, lying there sleeping as though he had not a care in the world. And even though Johnny was not much older, he seemed
a man far advanced in years. He seemed an outlaw.

“It seems all so strange,” she said, as though speaking aloud to herself rather than directly to the lawman. “Not all that
long ago, I thought that Johnny Montana was my Prince and I the maiden he had come to rescue. He seemed so handsome and daring.
It was his wild daring that I fell for…”

He felt he could not take his eyes off her.

“There was a time, Mr. Winter, when I would have done nearly anything for him…I suppose I did. Except for murder. But,
in truth, Mr. Winter, I am no better than he.”

“I guess we all make mistakes.” He worked a mesquite limb into the coals of the fire. “I reckon we’ve all done things we’re
not proud of.”

His words helped it seemed, or maybe it was just the fact that she had someone to really talk to after all these months. She
sensed her father’s kindness in him and wondered why all men were not possessed of such kindness. Why could Johnny Montana
not have been instilled with such kindness?

“Look at the stars, Mr. Winter. The night is full of stars. They seem to me as exotic and mysterious as France or Spain. Do
you think that after we die that we live among the stars?”

“I don’t reckon I’d know, Miss Swensen. It’s something I confess that I have not given any attention to.”

“Of course not,” she said, a smile greeting his glance as he lowered his eyes from the star-filled night.

“When we’re young, death should not be part of our thoughts. But imagine what it would be like to have wings and fly up there.
. ..”

“It surely would be something,” he said, returning his attention heavenward. He thought of how, exactly, it would feel to
be able to fly. He thought of what it would be like to come to know the woman across the fire from him now. She had a way
of talking, a way of thinking about things that he had had little experience at. It was something that interested him. She
interested him.

“Look, there’s a shooting star,” she said, pointing like an excited child might.

He saw the streak of light, the meteor’s trail, and it captured his imagination. He felt a pang of sorrow in that brief instant,
a sorrow that spoke of a long ago childhood, of a loving mother whose life had been just as brief and fleeting as the comet’s
had
been, of a father who had afterwards delivered him up to the doorstep of Captain Ben Goodlow and said only: “He’s a good boy
but I don’t have it in me to raise him now that his ma has passed,” and then had ridden away.

It seemed as though the woman’s sorrow had become his own. But, just as he was unable to rid himself of his own pain, he knew
of no good way to help her get rid of hers.

“My papa used to tell me that if you saw a shooting star and made a wish before it disappeared, your wish would come true,”
she said.

“Did you make a wish?” he asked.

“No,” she said.

“Why not?”

“I guess because I don’t believe that it would happen. I believe that my papa was only a man who loved to tell his little
girl stories that would make her happy. I’m no longer a little girl, Mr. Winter. And, I am no longer happy.”

It wasn’t until the next morning, when he awoke, lying in the small sleigh bed, his head on a turkey feather pillow, awoke
to the sound of her singing down the hallway, that he realized that he never asked her her name.

He had wanted to call out to her, to tell her to come back to the bedroom and sit on the side of the bed so he could look
at her, so he could touch her hand once more, or stroke her hair, which had been soft and fragrant and womanly. It was then
that he realized that he did not know her name.

He realized too that he was sleeping in another man’s bed, and that the woman singing in the other room was another man’s
wife. What ever thoughts he was having of her were thoughts he had no right thinking.

But still, he lingered for a moment more before rising and dressing.

“Good morning, Mr. Dollar,” she said brightly as he entered the kitchen; the smell of coffee and frying ham, along with the
sound of her singing, had drawn him to find her there.

“Ma’am,” he said, now embarrassed that he could not call her by name.

“Seems like we ought to be past, ma’am,” she
said. “My name is Josepeth, but I’d be offended if you called me that. Josie is what I prefer.”

“Josie,” he said, settling on a high back chair at the table, the one he had sat on the evening before to eat the supper she
had provided him.

She poured him a mug of coffee and came and set it before him before drawing a chair close and sitting by him. She smelled
fresh, smelled of soap and rosewater. Her hair was still down; she wore a cotton night dress that had lace at the neck and
at the wrists.

“Do you find me shameless, Mr. Dollar?”

“No, ma…no, Josie, I don’t find you so in any way.”

She leaned forward and kissed him lightly. He had not shaved, his face was rough with an old growth of whiskers. She had not
complained.

“Would you go for a ride with me after breakfast?” she asked.

“Mr. Miller?” he asked.

“Probably won’t come home until toward evening,” she said. He could see disappointment cross her face at the mention of her
husband.

“His usual pattern when he rides to Mobeetie is to spend the night, and ride back the next day, but, as you know, it is a
full day’s ride. And that’s if he doesn’t decide to stay a second night in Mobeetie. He usually doesn’t.” She leaned and kissed
him again. He didn’t mind how it felt. He reached and touched her hair, felt its long smoothness against the palm of his hand.

“Besides, Mr. Dollar, you do have business to discuss with him, so it would not be all that unusual if you were waiting for
him when he arrived.”

“I must admit, Josie, that the idea of spending the day with you is appealing. I find myself favoring you and being here more
than I have a right to.”

“Mr. Dollar, I will not put up a fuss if you feel it goes against your grain to stay the day. I believe you a man of good
moral character, did from the minute you rode up yesterday, or I would not have offered that you stay. In spite of what has
taken place, I do not consider myself a loose woman. But, you have to know, I am feeling as beautiful and desirable as any
woman could possible feel, and I’d like to hold on to that feeling as long as I can.”

Whether it was her plain wholesome looks, or her way of speaking matter-of-factly with him about her feelings, everything
about her agreed with him.

“Josie,” he began. “I don’t know what your man is like, but he must be the biggest fool in the Panhandle to spend his time
anywhere else other than here.”

Her eyes teared, she blinked quickly.

“Did I say the wrong thing?”

“No, Mr. Dollar. You said exactly the right thing.”

After breakfast he saddled the buckskin and a chestnut mare she said was hers and they rode for several miles to where the
tributaries of the Canadian and the Rita Blanca forked. She had brought along a picnic lunch and they allowed the horses to
graze on the tall grass along the banks while they spread a black and red checked blanket on the ground.