Chapter Twenty-five
Steele righted the surrey and hitched up the Morgan again. He was about to lift Bird and put him in the back seat of the surrey when a flicker of movement and a flash of metal in the direction of the Apache Hills caught his eye. Was it more of Condor’s gunmen on the prowl?
He punched out the empty shells from his Colt and reloaded all six chambers. It paid a man to be careful and the extra shot might make the difference.
Chastity followed his gaze and Steele heard her sharp intake of breath. “Is it more night riders?”
“I don’t know,” Steele said, his eyes on the hills. “If it is, I’ll make my fight right here. Can you handle a gun?”
“No . . . I can’t.”
“Pity. But I must say, most ladylike.”
The sun was higher and he shaded his eyes, scanning the distance. Whoever had moved back there was showing no inclination to come closer.
“Chastity, Maurice will have to wait a little longer. I’m going to take a look-see over there. I wonder—”
“Dallas, I’m not staying here with three dead men,” the girl interrupted, giving him no time to finish his thought. “I’ll come with you.”
“Dead man can’t hurt you,” Steele said. “And Maurice couldn’t have hurt you dead or alive.”
“I don’t care. I don’t want to be here alone. Their eyes will look at me.”
“All right. Let me help you into the carriage.”
As they drove toward the hills, Chastity said, “Who do you think is there?”
“If I’m guessing right, miners. And if my second guess is right, I bet they’re hiding something.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Just a hunch.”
“Do you get these hunches often?”
“Sure do. That’s why I’ve stayed alive so long.”
A sudden, spinning wind picked up. For a few moments, it rattled angrily in the brush and lifted veils of sand that tossed grit and dust into the surrey. Chastity and Steele bowed their heads against driving grains that stung their unprotected faces like hornets.
Then, as fast is it had begun, the wind died and the brush flats lay still again under the blazing sun.
“Where the heck did that come from?” Chastity asked.
“It just happens,” Steele said. “The Sioux call it Mato Wamniyomi, the desert wind that comes out of nowhere.”
Chastity did her best to wipe off her face with a scrap of lace handkerchief, but Steele contented himself by taking off his hat and pouring water from the canteen over his dusty head.
The purple silhouettes of the Apache Hills loomed close, near enough for Steele to see a man and woman standing on the bank of a dry wash, close to the white skeleton of a dead piñon. Fifteen feet from the couple, he reined up the Morgan and said, “Howdy.” He turned his head to the woman and touched the brim of his hat. “Ma’am.”
The woman was no more than a slip of a girl about the same age as Chastity, but much prettier with a tumbling mass of auburn hair, hazel eyes, and the kind of body that keeps a thinking man awake of nights. She had something in common with the man, the hostile expression on her beautiful face and the equally hostile Henry rifle she held in her hands.
“What do you want, mister?” The man was past middle age, grizzled and sun browned, his gray beard falling to the waistband of his canvas pants. He had gray eyes that showed memories of distant laughter, but at the moment, they were cold as hoar frost.
“I guess you heard the shooting, huh?” Steele said.
“Heard it,” the man said. “Didn’t think much of it, though.”
“It was night riders. I drove over to make sure you were all right.”
“Heard o’ them night riders. They don’t bother me none.”
“They might, if you’ve got a claim back there somewhere.”
“I’ve got me a claim,” the man said. The muzzle of his Winchester lifted an inch. “Nobody is taking it from me.”
“Glad to hear that.” Steele smiled, trying to take the ice out of the air. “My name is Dallas Steele and this is Miss Chastity Ludsthorpe.”
“Dallas Steele?” the old man said. “I’ve heard o’ you. You’re the man they call the Fighting Pink. I read about you in one o’ them dime novels.”
“Don’t believe everything you read. I never in my life held off a bloodthirsty band of Apaches with my trusty revolver while the captive prairie maiden escaped.” Steele smiled. “Unless, of course, it happened and I forgot about it.”
“Well, this will test your memory as well,” the old man said. “You ever hear tell of a ranny by the name o’ Skate Sutton?”
Steele shook his head. “Can’t say as I do.”
“Well, you should. You shot him up Colorado way, in a town they called Graham’s Flat. He was kin o’ mine.”
“Sorry about that. You have my deepest condolences.”
“No need for that. He was treacherous and needed killin’.” The old man seemed to make up his mind about something, then said, “Name’s Lum Park and this here is my daughter Rhody.”
“Pleased to make both your acquaintances,” Steele said.
“What you doin’ in this neck o’ the woods?” Park asked. “There ain’t no wild towns around here to tame as far as I know.”
“I’m just here on boring Pinkerton and government business,” Steele said. “Mostly about water and grazing rights.”
“Strange that. There not being many ranches around these parts.”
“Ah, well it only takes one troublemaker, you know,” Steele said, blinking.
“It wouldn’t be that you’ve been listening to wild stories, now would it, Steele?” Park said. “Maybe one wild story in particular got you headed in this direction?”
“What kind of story in particular? A man in my line of work hears a lot of stories.”
“Oh, let’s say about the army an’ Apaches an’ a lost pay wagon filled with gold? That kind of wild story.”
Steele hesitated, and Park read the signs. “You have heard about it.”
“I believe I was told something about a stolen pay wagon that was stashed around these parts by the Apaches,” Steele said. “I don’t quite remember where or when.”
“You got a real bad memory for stuff, ain’t you?” Park said. “It’s a kind of affliction with you, huh?”
“I think you could safely say that.”
“Well, the story about the pay wagon is just that, a big story. There’s not a word of truth in it. Probably got started by a drunk tinpan and some folks took him serious.”
Steele nodded. “That’s always the case, isn’t it? Tall tales about lost gold mines and such that don’t have a word of truth to them.”
Rhody spoke for the first time. “Pa, I’ve got a stew on the stove. Best I get back before it burns.”
“These folks were just leavin’ anyhow.” Park pretended an affability he obviously didn’t feel. “Well, Mr. Steele, I guess you’ll be on your way an’ thankee fer the visit. Me an’ Rhody don’t get many visitors.”
Steele didn’t push it. “I’m glad you’re safe here. Maybe I’ll drop by sometime just to check on you.”
“No need fer that. Me an’ Rhody can take care of ourselves just fine.”
Steele smiled and touched his hat. “Well, so long. Nice meeting you, Miss Rhody.”
“It’s Mrs.,” the girl said, her voice cold. “Skate Sutton was my husband.”