CHAPTER 15
Hunter, Powwow, and Bobby Lee pushed hard for the next two days.
The riding was miserable but not nearly as miserable as it had been before Cynthia McCloud had tended his ribs. He didn’t like having to rely on the whiskey because he wanted to be sharp and ready for anything, but the pain was just too intense if he didn’t. So, essentially, he stayed mildly drunk and relied on Powwow and Bobby Lee to help him stay on Machado’s trail, which they still lost from time to time but manage to pick up again soon after.
This was Indian country, and several times they came upon small bands of hunting Indians, most of whom ignored them. They were still after buffalo, which were getting sparser and sparser, the hide hunters having killed most of them for only their hides, to leave the rest of the meat on the prairie to spoil. They crossed several streams with water in them but mainly it was one dry wash after another and monotonous, open expanses of sun-cured grass. The only creatures they saw were scattered antelope, jackrabbits, and coyotes. Occasionally, they spied a buffalo or two, but mostly those poor creatures were gone and seeing one or two alive was like coming upon ghosts of the prairie’s ancient past.
Late in the day of their third day on the trail out from Cynthia McCloud’s place, they found themselves following Machado’s trail along an old, abandoned stage trace. Off the trail’s right side, they came to a worn, tilting wooden sign announcing RIVER BEND STATION.
Hope rose in Hunter.
Machado had likely stopped here. Judging the age of the tracks he and Powwow were following, Machado’s bunch had likely stopped here two or three nights ago, but Hunter should be able to pick up some information here, anyway. At least, how long ago the gang had stopped, if there’ d been a pretty redhead with them, and which way they’d headed after they’d left the road ranch.
Hope rose higher.
By God, he and Powwow were closing the gap. He could feel it in his bones.
Now, he just had to figure out, once he’d caught up to them, how to take them down in the condition he was in. He had Powwow to back his play, but he could rely on the sometime-cow puncher only so far. Bobby Lee was no good in a lead swap.
They rode into the yard and almost instantly a big, long-haired, round-faced man surfaced from the stable to which a corral was attached. Without a word, after Hunter and Powwow had dismounted, he snatched up the reins of both horses and led them both off to the corral around which sat three big lumber drays. A dozen or so mules milled with a dozen or so horses in the paddock. A dozen or so saddles adorned the corral’s top pole. Nasty Pete glanced warily over his shoulder at Hunter, and Hunter gave a dry chuckle and said, “Go with God, boy. Go with God.”
He and Powwow shared an incredulous look.
“You best head out now, Bobby,” Hunter told the coyote sitting nearby, an expectant cast to his long-eyed gaze, ears pricked. “Stay close, though. We’ll head out first thing in the mornin’”
The coyote gave a low, clipped howl then headed off into the brush. Hunter knew he’d likely stand vigil over the roadhouse. He might not have understood the exact details of Hunter’s situation, but he understood instinctively that things were dire . . . and dangerous.
No sooner had Hunter and Powwow gained the front porch than the roadhouse door opened and a woman of considerable girth that a large, loose, flowered dress could not conceal, said, “Come on in an’ name your poison, gents. The more the merrier! You like whiskey, I got whiskey. You like girls, I got girls!”
She clapped her hands, tipped her head back, and roared.
Hunter and Powwow shared another incredulous glance.
Hunter pinched his hat brim to the woman and said, “Much obliged ma’am.”
“Ma’am nothing. It’s Ann-Marie or nothing at all!”
Hunter sidled past the woman as did Powwow, who also pinched his hat brim to the hardy gal. Hunter stepped to one side out of instinct in such matters—not wanting to be outlined by the open doors. Powwow followed his lead. Hunter scanned the large, smoky, low-ceilinged room, picking out the mule skinners who likely belonged to those big drays, cow punchers, and owlhoots. He wasn’t sure how he could tell them all apart, but he could. Especially the owlhoots. They had a guarded, paranoid look, and those obvious owlhoots here now had lowered their hands to their six-shooters as soon as Hunter and Powwow had entered, always on the scout for the law that could ruin their whole day—or their night, as the case was here.
He was impatient to gather the information he was after but decided to wait a few hours, when the liquor had been running and possibly loosened a few tongues and the other diners and drinkers had gotten accustomed to his and Powwow’s presence. He and his partner would have a few drinks, some food—he could smell something cooking in the kitchen that appeared to open through a doorway flanking the bar on the room’s left wall—and then he’d broach the topic.
When he was relatively sure he wasn’t about to be back-shot, he and Powwow moseyed up to the bar. Only three other men stood at it—two bearded muleskinners with trail dirt crusting the deep lines in their weathered faces and speaking in hushed Scandinavian brogues. There was also a dandy, likely a gambler, in a three-piece suit complete with black and gold brocade vest and gold watch chain. In the back bar mirror, Hunter could see he had one of those mustaches that appeared nothing so much as a dead raccoon, albeit a well-groomed one, mantling his upper lip. A pearl-handled, silver-capped knife jutted up from inside his right, black boot into which his red-checked twill trousers were tucked.
The bartender appeared Mexican, short and big-gutted with a black mustache and one wandering eye, but judging by his accent he was Scandinavian. He set Hunter and Powwow up with beers and whiskey shots and when they’d finished the first round, Hunter inquired about the food whose aromas he could smell issuing from the kitchen. He’d seen several of the drinkers enjoying wooden bowls of some kind of chunky, clear-broth stew but he hadn’t been able to tell what it was.
“Mr. Courtney’s got a big kettle of turtle stew back there. Locally famous. He’s a little long in the face, however, because someone ran off with the boat he goes out to trap his turtles in.” The Swede shook his head. “Practical jokers, tsk, tsk, tsk.”
“Ah, too bad,” Hunter said. “What the hell? I’m brave. Set us each up with a bowl of the stew.”
Not ten minutes later, he dropped his spoon into his empty bowl and said, “I’ll be hanged if that wasn’t half bad.”
Powwow agreed with a mouthful of the last of his stew in his mouth. He swallowed the stew quickly and with a start when a pretty, little blond doxie clad in so little that Hunter thought he could stuff the whole outfit in his mouth and still have room to chew, sidled up to him, giving his shoulder a playful nudge with his own.
“Hello there, you,” she said. “You got a friendly face.”
Powwow choked a little, cleared his throat. Hunter saw his ears turn red.
“I . . . do . . . ?”
“Yes, you do. Don’t you know that? I can tell a friendly face as soon one walks through the door ’cause there’s so many that ain’t friendly. Why, I got bruises where the sun don’t shine, if you must know. Still, you can’t beat Mr. Courtney’s stew, can you?”
“It sure was good stew. Not that I’m an expert, but . . .”
“What’s your name? I’m Henrietta.”
Powwow fumbled his hat off his head, held it over his chest. “I’m, uh . . . Billy Lancaster. Folks call me Powwow since I got about that much Sioux blood in my veins.” He held his right hand up, thumb and index finger about a half inch apart. He gave a laugh like a mule braying.
“Powwow, I like that.”
“I like Henrietta, too. That’s purty.”
“You got any money, Powwow?”
“Uh . . . uh . . .” He glanced self-consciously at Hunter and said, “Well . . . I got me a little jingle. Likely gonna need it on the trail, though.”
“No time for a dalliance, Powwow?”
Hunter gave the younger man a playful nudge with his elbow. Powwow ignored him as he gave a regretful wince. “Uh . . . well . . . uh . . . prob’ly not. If I had any extry, though, I spend it on you, Miss Henrietta. You sure are purty . . . to go along with your purty name.”
“Why, thank you, Powwow. You’re so nice I’m tempted to give you a free one.” Henrietta pressed two fingers to her lips, dramatically. “Shhh! Mustn’t tell Ann-Marie!” She cupped her hand to her mouth and gave a devilish giggle. “Are you spending the night? Ann-Marie rents rooms upstairs even if you’re not . . . you know . . . partaking.”
“Uh . . .”
Powwow glanced at Hunter, who nodded. They might as well sleep in beds here, get a fresh start in the morning. Besides, if he was going to learn anything about where Machado was headed, he’d likely find it here as anywhere. Machado had to have stopped here at least for food and drinks. Hunter had a feeling every traveler to this remote end of the territory stopped here for drinks, food, and women . . . not necessarily in that order.
That meant Annabelle must have stopped here, too.
“I reckon we are, Miss Henrietta,” Powwow said.
“All right, then.” Henrietta gave a smile no less alluring for appearing so girlish. “Maybe see you later . . . upstairs. Shhh!”
She giggled and flounced away.
Hunter chuckled. “‘You sure are purty . . . to go along with your purty name’ . . . ?”
Powwow’s ears turned red again. “I thought that was purty good. Leastways, it was all I could come up with spur-o’-the-moment . . . an’ with you standin’ here.”
Again, Hunter chuckled. “Go for it, kid. Life is short.” He threw back the last of his beer, set the mug on the bar, and said, “Meanwhile, I got some business to tend to.”
He picked up his spoon as well as his beer mug and turned to the room.
“Attention, please,” he said, loudly. “Attention, everyone. Attention, please!” He rapped the spoon against the glass until he had the attention of everyone in the smoky watering hole. Faces turned to him, incredulous, some with quirleys or cigars dangling from between their lips, drinks being set back down on tables, two poker games halting, the poker players freezing in mid-call and casting the big, Viking-handsome blond man in denims and buckskins the woolly eyeball.
“I happen to be missing a very precious possession of mine. My wife. She was taken by a big ugly half-Mex lout named Saguaro Machado and the rest of his gang. If anyone can tell me he’s been here and where you think he might be heading—which direction he did head when he left—I have one hundred crisp dollar bills for you!”
The room was as quiet as a Lutheran church on Saturday night.
All eyes regarded him skeptically.
Some with downright shock.
One man’s mouth opened involuntarily, and the cigarette that had been dangling from between his lips dropped to the table before him and sparked.
The rotund Ann-Marie in her flowered tent dress had been hovering over a poker game at the rear of the room. Now she regarded Hunter with wide-eyed exasperation, pushing off the table she’d been leaning against, and hurried over to Hunter, making swishing sounds as she strode, her cloying perfume growing heavier and heavier as she approached.
She smiled broadly and turned to the room saying, “Carry on, everyone. Carry on. The big reb has just had a little too much to drink is all. You know how they are. Carry on!”
She turned back to Hunter and her suety face became a rogue grizzly’s mask of bald disdain and exasperation. “Are you out of your mind?” she hissed, getting right up close to Hunter and keeping her voice low. “No one mentions Machado’s name here or anywhere else. He has spies everywhere! You’re liable to get yourself shot and my place shot up!”
The low hum of conversation had returned to the room but more stiffly, tensely than before, men fatefully conferring.
“So he has been here,” Hunter said. “Did he have my wife with him? A pretty redhead?”
“That is not a question you ask me or anyone else. You ask it again, I’ll have to tell you to leave!”
“All right, all right—don’t get your bloomers in a twist, lady. You got a room for me an’ Casanova here?”
* * *
Hunter was enduring a fistful sleep, slumbering beside Powwow in a too-small bed, listening to the sometimes-drover’s raucous snores grind up from the very bottom of his lungs to rumble out of him like a freight train trundling out of a deep tunnel into the open.
He was about to get up and go out and sleep in the stable with the horses when he heard a floorboard creak outside his room. Three soft taps on his door.
Instantly, the big LeMat was in his hand, his thumb ratcheting the hammer back.
He tossed back the covers, rose, and padded barefoot to the door, pressing his shoulder against the wall to the left of it. He didn’t want to stand in front of it in case someone decided to pump lead through it. This wasn’t his first rodeo.
Again came three soft taps.
“Who is it?” Hunter said, his voice sounding inordinately loud between Powwow’s snores.
“Henrietta,” came the girl’s soft voice on the other side of the door.
Holding the LeMat in his right hand, Hunter twisted the knob and opened the door one foot with his left, scowling curiously at the delicate, shadowy little figure standing on the other side of it.
“Let me in!” she whispered and rammed the door wide with her shoulder.
Hunter quickly closed the door, turned to the girl who was mostly in shadow, and said, “Romeo’s asleep.”
She shook her head. “I’m not hear about him. I’m hear about Machado . . . an’ Annabelle.”