THREE DAYS later they crossed into No Man’s Land. Their line of march was due southwest, through desolate country parched by wind and sun. On the fourth day, they sighted Wild Horse Lake.
Rufe Stroud seemed to unwind a little when they neared the outlaw camp. He rode beside the buckboard, suddenly talkative, almost genial, chatting with Fontaine. Lillian got the impression that it was all for her benefit, meant to impress her with the man and the place. He was in a bragging mood.
The remote strip of wilderness, Stroud told them, was all but uninhabited. Centuries ago Spanish explorers had called it Cimarron, which loosely translated meant “wild and unruly.” Through a hodgepodge of confused and poorly written treaties, it now belonged to none of the Western states or territories. So it was aptly dubbed No Man’s Land.
Despite the name, there was nothing confusing about its borders. Texas and Kansas were separated by its depth of some thirty-five miles, while its breadth extended nearly two hundred miles westward from Indian Territory to New Mexico Territory. Along its northwestern fringe, the isolated strip of grasslands formed a juncture with Colorado as well. To a large degree, the raw expanse of wilderness had been forgotten by God and government alike. There was no law, Stroud idly warned them, but his law.
Wild Horse Lake was his headquarters. Known to few white men, the spot was situated on the divide between the Beaver and Cimarron Rivers. A prominent landmark, it was the haunt of renegades and desperadoes from across the West. Those who came there were predators, wanted men on the dodge, and the law of the gun prevailed. A man survived on cunning and nerve and by minding his own business. Too much curiosity, Stroud explained, could get a man killed.
The lake itself was centered in a large basin. Somewhat like a deep bowl, it served as a reservoir for thunderstorms that whipped across the plains. Above the basin, sweeping away on all sides, was a limitless prairie where the grasses grew thick and tall. Wild things, the mustangs that gave the lake its name, no longer came there to feed and water. The basin was now the domain of men.
Outlaws found refuge there. A sanctuary where those who rode the owlhoot could retreat with no fear of pursuit. Not even U.S. marshals dared venture into the isolated stronghold, for lawmen were considered a form of prey anywhere in No Man’s Land. Discretion being the better part of valor, peace officers stayed away, and a man on the run could find no safer place. There was absolute immunity from the law at Wild Horse Lake.
Several cabins dotted the perimeter of the lake. A trail from the east dropped off the plains and followed an incline into the basin. Lillian counted seven cabins and upward of ten men lounging about in the late-afternoon sunshine. Three men on hoseback were watering a herd of longhorns, and she noticed that the cattle wore fresh brands, the hair and hide still singed. She knew nothing of such matters, but it appeared to her that the old brands had somehow been altered. The men watched her with interest as the buckboard rolled past.
Stroud’s headquarters was on the west side of the lake. There were three cabins, one larger than the others, and off on the south side a corral constructed of stout poles. The men hazed the horses into the corral, and a woman came running to slam and bolt the gate. Lillian saw two other women standing outside the larger cabin, and for a moment her spirits soared. But then, looking closer, she was reminded of the prostitutes she’d seen in Dodge City. She would find no friends at Wild Horse Lake.
One of the women walked forward. She was plump and curvaceous, with a mound of dark hair and bold amber eyes. Her gaze touched on Lillian with an instant’s appraisal and then moved to Stroud. Her mouth ovaled in a saucy smile.
“Hello there, lover,” she said. “Glad to see you back.”
“Glad to be back.”
Stroud stepped down from the saddle. The woman put her arms around his neck and kissed him full on the mouth. After a moment, she disengaged and nodded to the buckboard. “What’ve you got here?”
“They’re actors,” Stroud said, his arm around her waist. “The old man’s pure hell on Shakespeare. The boy dances a little and the girl’s a singer. Got a real nice voice.”
“You plan to keep them here?”
“Don’t see why not. We could stand some entertainment. Liven up the place.”
She poked him in the ribs. “Thought I was lively enough for you.”
“Course you are,” Stroud said quickly. “Wait’ll you hear the girl sing, though. She’s damn good.”
“Just make sure singing’s all she does.”
“C’mon now, Sally, don’t get started on me. I’m in no mood for it.”
She laughed a bawdy laugh. “I guess I know how to change your mood.”
The order of things soon became apparent. Stroud and his woman, Sally Keogh, shared one of the smaller cabins. The other small cabin was occupied by Shorty Martin and a frowsy woman with broad hips and red hair. The largest of the cabins was a combination mess hall and bunkhouse for the remaining four men. The third woman appeared to be their communal harlot.
Martin quickly got a rude surprise. Stroud motioned him over to the buckboard. “The actors,” he said, jerking a thumb at the Fontaines, “are takin’ over your place. You and Mae move your stuff into the big cabin.”
“For chrissake!” Martin howled. “You got no call to do that, Rufe.”
“Don’t gimme no argument. Get’em settled and quit your bellyachin’.”
“There ain’t no extra bunk in the big cabin!”
“Work out your own sleepin’ arrangements. Just get it done.”
“Yeah, awright,” Martin grumped. “Still ain’t fair.”
Stroud turned to the buckboard. “Listen to me real good,” he said, staring hard at Fontaine. “You mixin’ with my men—’specially the girl—that’s liable to cause trouble. So I’m givin’ you a cabin to yourselves.”
Fontaine nodded. “We appreciate the courtesy, Mr. Stroud.”
“You’re gonna see we don’t have no padlock to put on your door. Before long, you might get it in your head to steal some horses and make a run for it.”
“I assure you—”
“Lemme finish,” Stroud said coldly. “You run, I’ll let Shorty have his way with you. Get my drift?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Then don’t do nothin’ stupid.”
By sundown, the Fontaines were settled in the small cabin. Not long afterward, Fontaine and Chester were ordered to carry armloads of firewood into the big cabin. Lillian was assigned to the kitchen, which consisted of a woodburning cookstove and a crude table for preparing food. The other women, who were frying antelope steaks and a huge skillet of potatoes, gave her the silent treatment. But as the men trooped in, taking seats on long benches at a dining table, Sally Keogh sidled up to her. The woman’s features were contorted.
“Stay away from Rufe,” she hissed. “You mess with him and I’ll slit your gullet.”
“Why not tell him that?” Lillian said, suddenly angry. “All I want is to be left alone.”
“Just remember you were warned.”
Stroud broke out the whiskey. He waved Fontaine and Chester to the table and poured them drinks in enamel mugs. His amiable mood left them puzzled until they realized he wanted to celebrate a successful horse raid. He once again began bragging about his operation.
The whiskey and other essentials, he informed them, were imported to Wild Horse Lake from a distant trading post. There were three gangs who made the basin their headquarters, and his was the largest of the bunch. Some rustled cattle, others robbed banks and stagecoaches, but none dealt in stolen horses. Stroud reserved that right to himself, and the other gangs went along, aware that he would fight to protect his interests. No one cared to tangle with him or his outfit.
Fontaine mentioned he’d been told that the Comanche and Cheyenne tribes were active in this part of the country. He alluded specifically to Stroud and his men saving them from certain death at the hands of the Comanche raiding party. He asked how Stroud and the other gangs managed to operate so openly in a land where warlike tribes traveled at will. Stroud laughed loudly.
“We buy ’em off,” he said. “Injuns would trade their souls for repeatin’ rifles. Bastards think we hung the moon.”
Lillian listened as she worked at the stove. She knew all his bragging was like the sounding of their death knell. He would never have brought them here or expounded at such length on his operation if there was any chance they would be released. Or any chance they might escape.
He was telling them that they would never leave Wild Horse Lake.
Stroud threw a party that night. He invited all the members of the other gangs headquartered at Wild Horse Lake. By eight o’clock, some twenty people were jammed into the big cabin.
The announced purpose of the shindig was celebration of still another profitable horse raid. Yet it was apparent to all who attended that Stroud was eager to show off his captives, the Fontaines. Or as he insisted on referring to them in a loud, boastful manner: The Actors.
Jugs of whiskey were liberally dispensed to the revelers. Stroud and the other gang leaders were seated at the head of the long dining table, the position of honor. Their followers were left to stand for the most part, though some took seats on the bunks. The party steadily became more boisterous as they swilled popskull liquor.
One of Stroud’s men whanged away on a Jew’s harp. With the metal instrument clamped between his teeth, he plucked musical tones that were surprisingly melodious. A member of another gang was no less proficient on a harmonica, and the sounds produced on the mouth organ complemented those from the Jew’s harp. They soon had the cabin rollicking with sprightly tunes.
Fontaine felt like he was attending some mad festivity hosted by an ancient feudal lord. The only difference in his mind was that the men were armed with pistols rather than broadswords and crossbows. Somewhat sequestered, he stood watching with Lillian and Chester by the woodstove as liquor flowed and the party got rowdier. He sensed they were about to become the court jesters of Wild Horse Lake.
Not quite an hour into the revelry Stroud rose to his feet. His face was flushed with whiskey and his mouth stretched wide in a drunken grin. He pounded on the table with a thorny fist until the Jew’s harp and the harmonica trailed off in a final note. The crowd fell silent.
“I got a treat for you boys,” he said with a broad gesture directed at the Fontaines. “These here folks are professional actors, come all the way from Dodge City. Song and dance and, believe it or not, Shakespeare!”
Monte Dunn, the leader of a band of robbers, guffawed loudly. He was lean, the welt of an old scar across his eyebrow, with muddy eyes and buttered hair. He gave Stroud a scornful look.
“Shakespeare?” he said caustically. “Who the hell wants to hear Shakespeare? Ain’t no swells in this bunch.”
Stroud glowered at him. “Don’t gimme none of your bullshit, Monte. This here’s my show and I’ll run it any damn way I see fit. Got it?”
“Don’t get your bowels in an uproar. I was just sayin’ it ain’t my cup of tea.”
“Like it or lump it, you’re gonna hear it.”
Stroud nodded to Fontaine, motioning him forward. Fontaine walked to a cleared area at the end of the table and bowed with a grandiose air. “For your edification,” he said, glancing about the room, “I shall present the most famous passage from Julius Caesar.”
The outlaws stared back at him with blank expressions. The thought crossed his mind that he might as well be a minister preaching to a congregation of deaf imbeciles. Yet he knew that his audience was Stroud alone, a man with the power of life and death. His eloquent baritone lifted with emotion.
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them,
The good is oft interred with their bones;
So let it be with Caesar …
Fontaine labored on to the end of the soliloquy. When he finished, the crowd swapped baffled glances, as though he’d spoken in Mandarin Chinese. But Stroud laughed and pounded the table with hearty exuberance. “You hear that!” he whooped. “That there’s art!”
No one appeared to share the sentiment. Chester was the next to perform, accompanied by the Jew’s harp and the harmonica. He went into a soft-shoe routine, which was made all the more effective by the sandpaper scrape of his soles against dirt on the floor. He shuffled in place, executed a few lazy whirls, and ended with legs extended and arms spread wide. The outlaws whistled and hooted their approval.
Lillian was to close with a song. She asked the men on the Jew’s harp and harmonica if they knew the ballad Molly Bawn. When they shook their heads, she suggested they follow her lead and try to catch the melody as she went along. She moved to the end of the table, hands folded at her waist, and avoided the leering stares of a crowd now gone quiet. Her husky alto flooded the room.
Oh, Molly Bawn, why leave me pining,
All lonely, waiting here for you?
The stars above are brightly shining,
Because they’ve nothing else to do.
The flowers so gay were keeping,
To try a rival blush with you;
But Mother Nature set them sleeping,
Their rosy faces washed with dew.
Oh, Molly Bawn! Oh, Molly Bawn!
The ballad ended on a heartrending note. There was a moment’s silence; then the outlaws rocked the cabin with applause and cheers. Stroud looked proud enough to bust his buttons, grinning and nodding until the commotion died down. He climbed to his feet.
“Listen here, Lilly,” he said expansively. “Let’s give these boys a real show. What say?”
“I don’t understand,” Lillian said.
“That old rag you’re wearin’ don’t do you justice. Go change into one of them pretty silk gowns. The ones I saw in your trunk.”
“Now?”
“Yeah, right now,” Stroud said. “Get dolled up and come give us another song.”
Lillian looked at Fontaine, who shrugged helplessly. She turned away from the table, unwilling to anger Stroud, and moved toward the door, As she went out, the Jew’s harp twanged and the harmonica chimed in on The Tenderfoot. The men poured a fresh round of drinks, clapping in time to the music.
“Good-lookin’ gal,” Monte Dunn said, glancing at Stroud. “How’d you like to sell that little buttercup, Rufe? I’d pay you a handsome price.”
“What d’you think I am?” Stroud said indignantly. “I don’t sell humans like some gawddamn slave trader.”
“Well, I don’t know why not. You stole her just like you stole them horses out in the corral. You’re gonna sell them horses for a profit. Why not her?”
“She ain’t for sale.”
Dunn laughed. “Hell, anything’s for sale. Name a price.”
“Monte, you stink up a place worse’n a polecat. Think I’ll get myself some fresh air.”
Stroud walked to the door. Sally started after him and he waved her off. She’d overheard his conversation with Dunn, and she didn’t believe a word of it. She thought he was after more than fresh air.
Outside, Stroud hurried off in the direction of the Fontaines’ cabin. A coal-oil lamp lighted the window, and he paused, darting a look over his shoulder, before he opened the door. Lillian was clothed only in her chemise, about to slip into her blue silk gown. She backed away, holding the gown to cover her breasts. He closed the door behind him.
“Well, looky here,” he said, advancing on her. “I knew you was hidin’ something special under that dress.”
“Get out!” Lillian backed up against the wall. “Get out or I’ll scream.”
“Naw, you ain’t gonna scream. That’d bring your pa runnin’ and I’d have to kill him.”
“Please don’t do this, I beg you. I’m not that kind of woman.”
“You’re my kind of woman,” Stroud said, reaching for her. “You and me are gonna have some good times.”
Lillian swatted his hand away. “Leave me alone! Don’t touch me!”
“I’m gonna do more’n touch you.”
The door burst open. Before Stroud could turn, Sally whapped him over the head with a gnarled stick of firewood. The blow drove him to his knees, and he saved himself from falling by planting a hand against the floor. She shook the log in his face.
“You son-of-a-bitch!” she screeched. “You try any strange pussy and I’ll cut your balls off. You hear me?”
Stroud wobbled to his feet. “You ought’nt have hit me like that, Sal. I was just talkin’ to her, that’s all.”
“You’re a lying no-good two-timin’ bastard!”
She shoved him out the door and slammed it behind her. Lillian sat down on the bunk, the gown still clutched to her breasts. Her heart was in her throat, and she had to gulp to get her breath. Yet a small vixenish smile dimpled the corner of her mouth.
She thought Sally really would cut off his balls.