CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A horned moon nudged aside the stars and the strong prairie wind rippled the grass like the shallows of a dark sea as Estella Sweet stood alone in the gloom and stared into the distance.
Clint Cooley stepped beside her, handed her a cup of coffee, and said, “What do you see out there?”
The girl smiled. “It’s dark. I see nothing but moonlight . . . like a pearly mist on the grass.”
Cooley said, “You see more than that, young lady. I’m a man and you’re a woman and you can see things I can’t.”
“Do you believe that?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Then I’m a cat,” Estella said. She tried her coffee. “Good,” she said.
“No one knows what a cat sees,” Cooley said. “But the Ancient Egyptians worshipped cats because they believed they could see the dead.”
“I can’t see the dead,” Estella said.
“No, but you’re seeing something tonight,” Cooley said. “Not with your eyes but with what my Irish mother called the second sight. It’s a rare gift usually given to women. But it’s no gift at all . . . it’s a curse.”
“What does second sight do?”
“It makes you see a thing that’s about to happen or has happened.”
“Like a gypsy fortune-teller?”
“Something like that.”
Estella looked into the black depths of her coffee cup. “Dan Caine is in terrible danger.”
“You see it?” Cooley said.
“No, I don’t see it. I feel it.” Estella’s eyes were troubled when she looked at Cooley. “It hurts . . . a pain in my belly. I think . . . I know . . . that Deputy Caine is going to die.” Her gaze searched the gambler’s face. “Do you believe me?”
Cooley nodded. “Yes, I believe you. My mother could foretell death.”
“Future events are not written in stone,” Estella said. “Clint, we can change what is to come. Maybe there’s still time to save Dan.”
Cooley thought that through and then said, “I’ll go after him.” He smiled, stretched out his right arm, and pointed with a bladed hand. “Thataway, due east, with two sets of tracks to follow. I’ll find him.”
“We’ll all find him,” Estella said. “The Thunder Creek vigilantes must stick together.”
Cooley said, “No, you’ll stay here with the others. This is my kind of business, Estella. Look at your vigilantes sleeping by the fire, Estella. A half-grown boy, a drunken newspaperman, Fish Lee, game but old, and somewhere out there in the darkness an Indian who doesn’t give a damn.” He shook his head. “Without Dan Caine there are no vigilantes.”
“Then find him, Clint,” Estella said. “Bring him back.”
“Wait two days,” Cooley said. “If Dan and me don’t return by then, ride for Thunder Creek and don’t look back.”
“Where will you be?” the girl said.
“I reckon we’ll be nowhere,” Cooley said. “We’ll be dead.”
* * *
To Clint Cooley’s surprise, as he prepared to ride into the night, the Kiowa grabbed the bridle of his big American stud and said, “I scouted the trail and it’s good, well-marked in the long grass. You should reach the big house by morning.”
“If such exists,” the gambler said.
“It exists. Rich men go there to enjoy fancy women.”
“Then it’s a cat house.”
“Or a hell house.” A random gust of prairie wind streamed long black hair across the Kiowa’s face that he made no effort to remove. “The young woman who sees the future is right. Deputy Caine may already be dead.”
Cooley nodded. “I aim to find out.” He touched the brim of his hat. “Much obliged.”
“I will look after the others until your return,” the Kiowa said. He saw that Cooley was taken aback by that promise and said, “I have no liking for whites, but when I’m paid to do a job, I do it.”
“Well, thank—”
The Indian dropped his hand from Cooley’s bridle as though it was suddenly red hot. “No! I want no thanks from a white man,” he said. “His words are as honest as the smile on the face of a rattlesnake and signify nothing. Go now, gambler. Do what you have to do.”
Cooley nodded and kicked his horse into motion. He looked back just once and all of them, Estella Sweet, Fish Lee, Cornelius Massey, and young Holt Peters were on their feet, silently watching him go. In the darkness and the red fire glow Clint Cooley thought they looked like mourners at a funeral . . . his funeral.