The Pursued Page 10

  “Well, I tell you, Bill, we have a fair way to go. I aim to catch this here Southern Pacific railroad and ride it all the way up to San Francisco then head inland from there. We’ll be aiming at a place called Fellows Crossing, Wisconsin. But I want to make a little stopover before we get to that particular town.”

  “Why’s that, Cole?” asked Del.

  “Let’s just say it’s a little necessary incentive I have planned.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Mary’s disappointment about the delay was extreme. The anguish she felt when she heard that Powers had been shot was only mollified by the fact that it was a wound and not fatal. She fretted for days, waiting for news and wishing she could take off and get to Powers as quickly as possible all by herself. It was out of the question without help, of course. A guide and protection were needed through the rough country between Soda falls and Fellows Crossing. She had to be patient, just as Powers had advised in his letters. No help was to be found in the town: all the men she asked were either making their way up through the mountain pass and heading west or just not at all keen to make such a journey.

  He kept her well informed and she was pleased to hear that all his plans for the renovation of the ranch were under way. As she read his letters, it was clear to her that it was an important watershed task for him, some new improvements in his environment to echo his own transformation from lone cattle baron to married man. The only thing that jarred in their relationship was the mysterious secret from the past that he had not yet told her, the thing that had haunted all of the five men, her brother included, and perhaps had been the reason for his murder.

  She busied herself with packing up the house and selling off the things she did not need. It was a distraction that gave her some rest from considering Powers’s condition. Trunks and crates littered the place and were a constant nuisance as she found them getting in her way. It would need a big wagon to move all her furniture and possessions, she realized when she saw them all stacked in the hallway and filling her parlor that Powers’s extension idea had been a good and practical one.

  She sat in her kitchen reading the last missive from Powers in which he promised one more week and he would be on his way to fetch her. His shoulder was healing well and he had recovered almost all movement in it. He had thrown off his sling and was pleased to report that he would now be able to hold her in his two good arms instead of one, a fact that gave her cause to smile.

  She was expecting the now-freed Indian, Tunkan Tobin, to drop by. The sheriff, having taken Powers at his word, held the half-breed in respect of his theft of the Bible until Mary said she would not press the charges and the sheriff released him. Mary hired the Indian to help pack the crates and move heavy items as she closed down the house. He was to pass by this morning to help in the final few tasks that needed accomplishing. So when she heard the knock on her front door, she was not surprised, thinking that the Indian had indeed arrived.

  Her surprise came, when she opened it.

  “Miss Mary, howdo. The name’s Cole Loumis, friend of Powers Brent.”

  Cole doffed his hat and smiled charmingly. He had cleaned up well, his chin shaved and hair trimmed, a new black Stetson hat with a silver band, a striped gray collarless shirt buttoned at the neck and a black leather vest with gleaming silver buttons. The journey north had proved fruitful for his gang of escapees and, after a swift hit and run on a bank in Sacramento, they had all been able to dress well and equip themselves with horse and rifle.

  The color drained from Mary’s face as his identity took hold and she remembered all that Powers had told her about Cole’s vengeful attitude.

  She half closed the door and said, “Powers is not here, you must come back some other time. I am expecting another caller.”

  “Don’t be like that, Miss Mary,” smarmed Cole, grinning easily. “I come a long way just to see you.”

  “Me? What business could you possibly have with me?”

  The smile dropped from Cole’s face. “Oh, you’d be surprised.” His hand reached up quickly and grasped the edge of the door.

  “Leave go!” ordered Mary, anger flashing in her eyes. “Let go my door.”

  “I ain’t going to let go, Miss Mary. I’m coming inside and you and me are going to sit down and have a little convivial about Powers and all that you mean to him.”

  Suddenly, Mary jerked the door back then slammed it forward with all her might. Cole’s hand was caught between the door and jamb. With a howl, he snatched his fingers away and cursed, nursed them under his armpit. Mary turned and ran toward the rear of the house, attempting to make her way through the kitchen and out the back door. But Joe Packer was waiting there for her.

  He caught her up and, despite her struggles, held her under his arm until Cole made it into the kitchen.

  “Damn you, Mary McArthur!” Cole snarled, holding up his wounded fingers. “That sure smarts.”

  Cole nodded at Joe and he dropped Mary unceremoniously into a chair. Cole looked around the kitchen and noted the parcels and packages. “Why, it seems to be you’re moving on, Mary. Old Powers going to come get you? He all hot and bothered over you, is he? Well…” He paused a moment. “If he ain’t now, he will be soon enough.”

  “What … what are you going to do?” asked Mary.

  Cole snorted a low laugh and sucked at his bruised fingers. “Actually, whatever I damned well please, Miss Mary. Say, by the way, real sorry to hear about Red. I liked your brother. Shame he had to go out like that.”

  She arched an eyebrow, “Yes, it’s a pity it wasn’t you instead,” she said, her eyes full of spite.

  “Oooh,” said Cole with fake hurt on his face. “That stings, Mary, that’s real mean, that really is. No call for that at all. You know what they say, only the good die young and by all accounts your brother was a real good person. Least, in his latter days, that is. Of course, I knew him in another time. He was a little different then.”

  Mary could feel the silent pressure of Joe Packer’s presence behind her and between the two of them she felt hemmed in and oppressed. “How so?” she asked

  “Oh,” said Cole calmly. “Just a little rape and murder.”

  Mary looked up in disbelief.

  “It’s a fact,” Cole went on. “We were all in on it. Every one of us, Glenn, Bubba, Red and even your stalwart lover, Powers Brent. We were quite a crew back then, hell-raising boys in blue who served the Union flag. We cut a dash, we certainly did.”

  “What is it you’re talking about?” asked Mary. “Was it some act of war you’re speaking of?”

  “Certainly was.” Cole leaned back against the kitchen wall and checked each of his damaged fingers carefully as he spoke. “Not strictly military, you understand. A private family thing. Mother, daughter – pretty little daughter too. That is, until Bubba and your brother were done with her. The daddy and his two little boys. They were all sent on their way, Miss Mary. Every one of them killed. And it was your brother and your new lover boy who were as busy as the rest of us in that little action.”

  Cole leered at her.

  Mary lowered her gaze and tears began to form. Despite her desire not to, Mary found she believed him.

  “Then there was the money,” he went on.

  Mary looked up sharply. “The money?”

  “Sure, didn’t you ever wonder where the very reverend Red got all his goodwill and charity from?”

  “Of course I did,” Mary snapped.

  “Confederate gold, Missy,” Cole said arrogantly, leaning over, his face close to hers.

  She sat crouched on the kitchen chair, cringing as each revelation hit her.

  “The Rebs left it at that farm where we had our little party and we found it all. A pretty fortune it was, too. We all had a piece of it. Powers put his into the cattle spread, Bubba made a mint trading railroad shares. I don’t know what Glenn did but he ended up comfortable. Your brother, as you know, gave it all away. And me…” He smiled, a long thin smile
that creased his gaunt jawline. “Well, I just spent it all as I wished. Fast women, fast cards and fast times.”

  “And now you’re broke,” observed Mary.

  “That’s a fact,” agreed Cole. “Barely enough to get by on.”

  Mary nodded, getting the full picture now. “So, it’s Powers’s money you’re after really, is that it?”

  “Well,” said Cole with a shrug. “A little consideration to help out an old veteran and friend who’s fallen on hard times. That shouldn’t go amiss, now should it? After all, the others have all passed on. Glenn, Red, Bubba. One way and another, they’ve all gone, and their fortunes with them. Powers is the only old pal I have left who’s worth a dollar or two.”

  “You really are a lowdown thieving sort, aren’t you?” Mary snapped. “Why should he ever help the likes of you?”

  “My my, you do have a sharp tongue, Mary McArthur. You really do. I think I take objection to your attitude.”

  The kitchen door creaked open and Tunkan, the half-breed Indian stood there.

  Joe Packer swung around quickly, his pistol drawn. “Raise them up,” he said to Tunkan.

  Quizzically, the Indian raised his hands and Joe pulled out the knife held in the Indian’s belt and threw it across the kitchen.

  Cole looked at Mary. “Who is he?”

  “He comes by to help me pack up. He’s harmless. A mixed-blood Indian is all.”

  “Get over there,” growled Joe, waving the Indian to stand against the wall next to her large square kitchen stove. “Can’t abide Indians, let alone half-an’-half. Like drinking coffee with milk. You ain’t either one thing or the other, are you, Breed?”

  Tunkan looked back at Joe, his face expressionless.

  “Dumb Injun,” muttered Joe.

  “All right, Mary my girl,” sighed Cole. “You’d better pack yourself a few possibles because you’re coming along with us.”

  “Oh, no I’m not!” Mary cried out in distress.

  “Lady,” said Cole, “one way or the other, you’re coming. Best do it easy. Get your things and we’ll leave peaceable, start a fuss and I’ll let Joe bring you along.”

  Mary saw Joe Packer look at her balefully, without a flicker of expression on his scarred face and her shoulders dropped as she gave in to the inevitable and got up to do as she was told.

  Tunkan uttered a sudden high-pitched ear-piercing shriek and swept up a cast iron frying pan from the stove top and swung it in a wide arc. The heavy metal base connected hard alongside Joe’s skull with a dull bong and Joe twisted away, his eyes glazing as he fell across the kitchen table, scattering cups and plates laid out all ready for packing.

  Cole’s pistol was out in a fast draw as Tunkan turned back toward him, the metal pan raised. Cole fired two shots fast. Close together, they were deafening in the small room. Tunkan stumbled, his mouth working as he slammed back against the hot stove. The frying pan fell from his fingers as he buckled and slid to the floor, blood flowing from wounds in his chest.

  Mary let out a shocked gasp and quickly leaned over as the men were distracted and picked up a sharp carving knife from among the cutlery on the table. She swung it at Cole’s neck but he caught her raised arm in his fist and twisted harshly until she dropped the blade.

  “You certainly are a game one, Mary. I can see Powers’s interest.” Cole’s eyes were blazing as he looked from her to the fallen Indian, whose shirt was already beginning to smolder where it lay pressed against the hot metal.

  Joe got groggily to his feet and rubbed at his sore head as he looked down at the fallen half-breed. “Is he done for?”

  “He is,” said Cole.

  Joe kicked the dead Indian in the side. “Pesky breed, you died before I could kill you myself,” he growled.

  “Take her,” Cole said, thrusting Mary toward him. “Get her outside on a horse while I finish up in here.”

  “What … what are you going to do in here?” Mary screamed. “Don’t you do anything to my house. Don’t you dare!”

  Cole pulled the smoking body of Tunkan aside and opened the lid on top of the stove. The wood fire inside was burning brightly and Cole gave a small grin of satisfaction. He picked up a hooked poker iron hanging alongside the stove and knocked away the tin chimney that rose from the rear of the stove. It fell in clattering sections and a cloud of hot soot. Using the poker as a lever, he dragged the stove over on its cast iron feet until it landed with a crash on the wooden floorboards. Red embers dropped from the open top and scattered across the floor. Cole watched them smolder for a while until the boards took the heat and flames formed. There was a roar as the bone-dry wooden floor ignited and fire crackled into life. Flames climbed up the walls and ran like living creatures over the legs of chairs and table, until the tablecloth vanished in a fiery whoof of flame.

  Shaking in frustration and anger, with tears streaming down her face, Mary struggled in Joe’s strong grip. Calmly, he tucked her under one arm and carried her bodily out through the kitchen door.

  “You won’t be needing this place no more anyways, Miss Mary McArthur,” Cole shouted as he closed the door softly behind him.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Rider coming!”

  Powers heard the cry clear across the corral and climbed the fence rails to get a good look at the stranger. At that distance, he could not say he recognized the lone rider although there was something vaguely familiar about him.

  “You know him?” asked Demas, who had climbed up beside him.

  Powers shook his head. “I don’t think so. It may be nothing.”

  “We’d best be careful.” Demas was still cautious after the shooting some weeks before and Powers found him to be a little overprotective.

  He flexed his arm and climbed down. The arm felt good and, as the Doc had told him, he was lucky he had been at the extremity of range for the old-fashioned Sharps and the bullet had been losing power. If he’d been any closer, he certainly might have lost the arm. A fifty-caliber bullet was a weighty thing and not a slug to argue with.

  The rider approached at an easy pace, casually, as if he hadn’t a problem in the world. Demas meanwhile called out two of the hands, Lee Stoffer and the diminutive Jimmy Bob and told them to get their rifles and take a position either side of the ranch house.

  “He makes a wrong move,” Demas ordered, “blow his socks off, you hear?”

  The rider pulled into the clearing in front of the ranch house and sat there waiting. Powers and Demas watched for a minute from under the covered porch.

  “Let me go,” said Demas.

  Powers looked at him, “It’s all right,” he said, a little irritated by the fussing. “I can handle it.” He walked out, taking care not to block off the view of his two riflemen.

  “Howdy,” he said as he approached the rider.

  The man was young and handsome in a rough sort of way, maybe in his twenty-third or twenty-fourth year. He looked a little cocky and stared back as if in the possession of something that Powers was not.

  “Have we met?” Powers asked, trying to place the man.

  “Not so as you’d notice,” said the rider with a supercilious curl of his lip. “The name’s Del Tate. I saw you back at Yuma, at the jailhouse there. You remember, don’t you, your memory ain’t that far gone yet, has it? There were six of us in that cell.”

  “You were with Cole. All of you, and then what, you busted out?”

  Del nodded. “That’s right. He sent me up here right off. Got a message for you.”

  A cold chill ran through Powers and he wondered if he was ever going to escape from all these problems from a past so long removed. “Step on down,” he offered.

  “That’s okay,” said Del. “I’ll set here, if you don’t mind. You can hear me fine, can’t you?”

  “I can hear you.”

  “Just that you being so old, and all. I wondered.”

  Powers looked up the complacent grin and tensed angrily. “There’s two rifles on you right now
, buckaroo. I give the word and you are an unpleasant memory, so don’t give me any of your prison lip because I don’t care for it. In fact, I don’t care if you live or die right now, so you say your piece and get on out of here.”

  Del leaned forward with exaggerated confidentiality. “You might care a whole lot who lives or dies when I tell you what I have to say,” he said smugly.

  “Then stop prattling like a prissy schoolgirl and spit it out,” ordered Powers, annoyed by the man’s continued arrogance.

  “Cole has your woman, Brent. He has her fast, you understand? He says he’s not going to mess with her as long as you do as he says.”

  A hollow feeling sank into the pit of Powers’s stomach and cold hate flowed up into his eyes. “What does he want?” His voice was as savagely cold as ice water on a frosty day and Del’s eyes widened at the obvious intensity.

  “Well,” Del went on, with a chuckle. “That one sure got to you, didn’t it? Yeah, she’s a pretty thing, ain’t she? That is, if you like the older sort. You know, me, I don’t care so much either way. The other guys neither.” He leered an insulting grin down at Powers. “If you know what I mean.”

  In a rage, Powers suddenly leaped up at Del, grabbed the unsuspecting man by the front of his shirt and with bunched fists dragged him down from the saddle, ripping the shirt buttons open as he did so. They fell in a heap in the dust and, with a pile-driving force, Powers hit Del a blow in the face. It was a satisfying punch, solid and true, with the fist bunched hard, a packed mass with no loose fingers, and Powers was glad to see he had not forgotten his earlier fist fighting skills. So he did it again. And again. Del was groggy, his head flopping from side to side as each blow struck.

  Demas and Jimmy Bob pulled Powers off the stunned Del. “Leave it be,” said Demas. “You’ll kill him.”

  “Maybe I should,” snarled Powers. “Where is she?” he shouted at the fallen man, who still lay dazed in the dust.

  Del looked up at him, surprise written in his eyes. Powers recognized he had obviously thought he would just waltz in and have a little fun, rile the old fellow a little before delivering his message. Powers also knew that Del was too stupid to read the signals and too slow to recognize the line he crossed.