CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Maria Ana slept, her head resting on Kate Kerrigan’s shoulder as the long night wore on and bathed the silent ranch in moonlight. The hands dozed on their feet at their positions by the bunkhouse windows, and every now and then one of them jerked his head upright and then peered outside with renewed interest, as though to convince the wakeful Kate that he hadn’t been sleeping at all.
Gabe Dancer, rifle in hand, tiptoed his way through the slumbering maids and crossed the floor to where a pale Biddy Kelly sat with her back against a wall. The girl’s eyes were wide, unblinking, as she stared into the middle distance, seeing nothing but the cold gray ashes of what had been her own searing fear. She seemed numb, resigned to her fate whatever it might be.
Kate’s gaze followed Dancer as, his knees cracking, he groaned and took a seat beside Biddy.
He put his arm around her shoulders and said, “How are you feeling, pretty Irish girl?”
The girl yielded to his comforting arm but remained stiff, distant as though she hadn’t heard him. After a few moments she said, “When will they come and will they kill us all, Gabe?”
Dancer smiled and hugged her closer. “Not much chance of that happening, girl. They’ll have to get past me first, and that ain’t an easy thing to do. I’ve been in a fix like this afore.”
Biddy looked into his grizzled face and whispered, “I’m scared, Gabe.”
“We’re all scared,” Dancer said. “Look over there at the tall gent by the window.”
“It’s Mr. Cobb.”
“Right, it is. In his day, outlaw, shootist, all-round hell-raiser and as near as I can figure, a brave man. Know something?”
“What, Gabe?”
“Frank is just as scared as you are, and that’s a natural fact. But like the rest of us, he shoves his fear to the back of the stove and lets it simmer there while he does what has to be done.”
“Gabe, you won’t let them hurt me?” Biddy said.
“Nobody’s gonna hurt you, little girl. Believe me. I won’t let them.”
“Gabe, have you ever been scared? I mean really scared, as scared as me?”
“Sure, plenty of times. Apaches spooked me a time or three, and once a war party of Utes, kind of like the Comanche only nastier, kept me and three other tin-pans holed up in a rock cabin for the best part of a week . . . around Christmastime as I recollect.”
Biddy showed unexpected interest. “And what happened?”
“Oh, they finally gave up and rode away, but only after they ate my mule and wounded ol’ Lanky Lawson with an arrow. Funny thing was, Lanky had been hit by arrows two times afore, but he always said the Ute arrow hurt the most.” He leaned closer to Biddy and whispered. “Maybe because it was stuck in his ass.”
The girl giggled, and Dancer said, “There, that’s better. Now you’re smiling again like I remember.”
“Gabe, tell me another story,” Biddy said. “I don’t feel as afraid when you talk to me.”
“Well, all right then, Biddy, here’s a story that’s as true as the day is long. One time me, Jesse James, and Billy the Kid was up on the Platte, panning for gold nuggets as big as your fist and . . .”
Kate smiled, her own fear abating as a straight-faced Dancer told his big windy. Maria Ana stirred restlessly in her sleep and whispered words of endearment to a long-forgotten lover, and over by a window Frank Cobb turned and smiled. The oil lamps smoked and created shifting shadows in the corners and over at Kate’s mansion the grandfather clock in the hallway chimed two . . . but there was no one there to hear it.
* * *
Rodolfo Aragon, who had stood alone, talking to no one, left the bunkhouse about two hours before sunup and stepped out into the darkness. Frank Cobb watched him leave and after a discreet couple minutes followed, aware that Kate’s eyes were on him, her expression puzzled.
Frank didn’t doubt the Mexican’s loyalty, not when Maria Ana’s life was in danger, but the man’s actions were strange. The door’s barricades were not yet in place, but it wasn’t the time to go wandering outside unless Aragon was answering an urgent call of nature. Frank smiled at his own distrust. He could be following a man who only wanted to take a piss. Yet something niggled at him, a strange feeling that all was not well with Aragon. Was the famous shootist showing yellow? A fast draw would not be of any help in the coming battle and Aragon knew it.
Frank stood in the shadows and his eyes reached into the darkness. Nothing moved. There was no sign of Aragon. And then, from the direction of the wild oak that grew near the cookhouse, a whisper, a string of words spoken in Spanish, soft, but with a tone of urgency. Aware that there was no future in surprising a draw fighter by walking silently up behind him unannounced, Frank moved to his left on cat feet, drawing a little closer to the oak but still hidden in shadow.
A lilac cloud edged in silver glided past the face of the moon and in the waxing light Frank saw Aragon outlined under the oak. The man was on his knees, head bowed, whispering what sounded like a prayer. Frank listened for a while, decided he was intruding on Aragon’s devotions, and retreated toward the bunkhouse. He was at a loss. Why was the Mexican praying? For the success of the upcoming battle? For the safety of Maria Ana? Or for something else? Frank had no answers for those questions. But whatever the reason, he hoped Aragon’s God was listening.