Chapter Two

The pain in Nacho's side had settled down to a dull ache, and Cambridge had wrapped the bandages around him so tightly that he was having a little trouble breathing. Every jolt of the stagecoach sent a twinge of pain through his head. Other than that, he thought, he didn't feel too bad for somebody who'd been shot by a no-good outlaw.

When his mind had started working coherently again after regaining consciousness, his first thoughts had been of going after the bandits and recovering the stolen money. He was glad to discover that Cambridge's thinking was running along the same lines. Anger burned inside Nacho, deeper than the pain from the bullet wound.

"Did you ever get a good look at the leader's face while you were tangling with him?" Cambridge asked.

Nacho shook his head. "I got the impression he was an ugly son-of-a-buck, but that's all."

"Well, he could have killed all of us. I guess we're lucky to be alive."

Luck had nothing to do with it, Nacho thought. Fate had decreed that they survive the encounter with the outlaws, so that they could hunt down the lawless dogs and avenge themselves. He kept himself insulated from the pain with that thought.

He'd been a little uneasy about this trip ever since he and Billy Cambridge had left Pecos. Established as a railroad stop, Pecos was right on the Missouri Pacific and it would have been simple to take a train from there to Fort Worth and then on to Fort Smith to deliver the money. But Cambridge had gotten it into his head that he wanted to go on the stagecoach. "With the way the railroads are expanding, it won't be much longer until the stage lines are all gone," Billy had said. "Besides, it might even be safer. There have been a lot of train robberies lately." Nacho had to admit he was right about that. And it was still possible to travel from West Texas to Arkansas by stage, although you had to change from one small, struggling line to another half a dozen times.

Then there was the matter of the cash. It would have been simpler and safer to send a bank draft, but old Simon Prescott had insisted on cash, and he had insisted that his friend Billy Cambridge bring it to him. They had fought together in the Cortinas War a quarter of a century earlier under the command of Captain Rip Ford, Cambridge as a young man, Prescott already a middle-aged, veteran Ranger at the time. According to Cambridge, Prescott had saved his life a time or two during that bloody border skirmish, and whatever Prescott wanted now, Cambridge was going to do his best to deliver.

The situation had worried Edward Nash, too, and since he was involved in a complicated legal case back in Pecos and couldn't leave at the moment to accompany Cambridge, Nacho had been more than willing to take his place. He and Billy Cambridge had always gotten along well, Cambridge treating him as an equal rather than as a hired hand, and a part-Mexican one at that.

"We'll have to report this outrage to the authorities," the man sitting across from Nacho and Cambridge was saying. "Maybe they can track down those criminals."

The drummer snorted in contempt. "Don't bet on it, friend. I've been through these parts before, and the law around here isn't going to care about some piddling stage holdup. The sheriff'll have other things on his mind—like the next election."

"The robbery has to be reported anyway," Cambridge put in. "That's the thing to do."

"But if the law won't do anything"—the woman spoke up—"what's the use?"

"I'm an attorney, ma'am," Cambridge told her. "It's always best to follow the proper channels, even when the purpose of it isn't readily apparent."

Nacho wasn't so sure about that. Seemed to him that the best way to deal with this problem would be to find those outlaws and take the money back, at gunpoint if necessary, and proper channels be damned. If Billy wanted to talk to the authorities first, though, Nacho supposed it wouldn't do any harm.

As the driver had predicted, night had fallen before the stagecoach reached the Red River. Actually, the river marking the border between Texas and the Indian Territory was still about an eighth of a mile ahead when the coach pulled up in front of a sturdy building made of wide, thick planks. A lantern hung from the ceiling over a porch along the front of the building. Out back was a large barn where spare teams for the coaches were kept.

Another building much like the first one sat about twenty yards away. Its porch was lit by a lantern, too, and its large double doors were open. This building looked to be more neatly kept than its companion, and a sign over the door proclaimed it to be the Red River Trading Post and Mercantile, Theodore Maxwell, Esq., Prop.

As the passengers climbed out of the coach, Cambridge looked over at the trading post sign and frowned. "Theodore Maxwell," he read. "Must be Jake's boy. I hope nothing's happened to Jake. It's been ten years or more since I've seen him."

The words were barely out of Cambridge's mouth when the door of the first building opened and a tall, slender man stepped out, a worried look on his weathered face. "What happened, Rufus?" he called out to the driver. "You're runnin' late."

"We had some trouble, Jake," the driver replied. "Some gents held us up."

"I see now the leaders are gone," Jake Maxwell said as he came closer. "Anybody hurt?"

The driver gestured toward Nacho and Cambridge. "These two gentlemen got roughed up, and the fella who was leadin' the gang shot one of 'em."

Maxwell swore emphatically. As he stepped up to the passengers and saw their faces, he let out another exclamation. "Billy Cambridge!" he said. "What are you doin' in this neck of the woods?"

"Well, I didn't come to look at your ugly face, you old hoss." Cambridge clapped Maxwell on the shoulder. "But I reckon it is good to see you again, Jake." The attorney turned to Nacho. "My friend here caught a bullet during that robbery. He could use some hot food and a little rest."

"Not as much as I could use a chance to even the score with the man who did this," Nacho said.

Cambridge performed the introductions. "Nacho, this is an old friend of mine, Jake Maxwell. Jake, meet Nacho Graves."

The two men shook hands, their work-roughened palms gripping firmly, and Maxwell said, "Glad to meet you, Nacho."

"Ignacio Alexander Rodriguez Graves," Nacho supplied with a grin. "But any old friend of Billy's can call me Nacho, Mr. Maxwell."

"Come on inside, son. Billy patch up that wound of yours?"

Nacho nodded.

"I'm sure he did a good job, but like he said, you could still use some hot grub. I been keepin' the stew warm 'till the stage got here. All of you folks come in and rest a spell."

Nacho felt an instinctive liking for Jake Maxwell. The leathery station keeper was a few years older than Cambridge, but he moved like a much younger man and there were only a few streaks of silver in his thick black hair. Nobody could call Maxwell a particularly handsome man although he had a certain dignity about him.

The married couple babbled to Maxwell about the holdup as everyone went into the station. Inside, the building was furnished simply and functionally, with a long table flanked by benches dominating the big main room. A large, wood-burning, cast iron stove sat in one corner, and there was a fireplace in another corner. A couple of armchairs were pulled up in front of the fireplace, which was not lit on this mild autumn night. In a few weeks, as fall settled in over North Texas, a fire would feel good against the evening chill.

As Nacho caught a whiff of what was simmering in the big pot on the stove, he drew in as deep a breath as he could with the bandages strapped around him and grinned. He was hungrier than he had realized. He guessed losing so much blood was responsible for that. At the moment, he felt just about as wobbly-legged as a newborn calf, and it would be good to sit down and put away some food.

Maxwell ladled out bowls of the savory stew and poured cups of coffee for the hungry passengers and driver, then said, "While you folks are eating, I'll see about changing the team."

"Need a hand, Jake?" Cambridge asked. "I didn't notice any hostlers around."

Maxwell shook his head. "No, thanks, I been changin' teams by myself for so long, I've got it down to an art, Billy." With a grin and a wave, he went out.

Cambridge turned to Nacho, who was already wolfing down his bowl of stew. "Better take it easy there. Your system's already had one shock today. You don't want to give it another one."

"You said I needed to eat, Billy," Nacho replied. "And you know how I like to eat."

That was true enough. Nacho's skill with a knife and fork was legendary around the bunkhouse and in the whole Pecos area, in fact. Hard work kept him from gaining weight, however.

"You're not chasing cows ten hours a day now," Cambridge pointed out. "Anyway, when you get through, we'll go through your gear and find you some clean clothes."

Nacho nodded and went back to the stew. He was just a growing boy with a healthy appetite, he told himself. Besides, he had to recuperate from the bullet wound, and that would take plenty of nourishment.

"Where can we find the sheriff around here?" the husband asked. "I still intend to report that robbery."

"You'd have to go clear back down to Sherman," the drummer replied. "I tell you, it's not worth it. I lost my money, too, you know, but I'm just going to wire my home office to send me an advance."

"I suppose I could wire my bank in St. Louis for traveling expenses," the man mused. "Our tickets are already paid for until we can get back home."

Cambridge said, "We can probably find a deputy or a constable around here who could take our report of the holdup. I'm sure Mr. Maxwell, the station-keeper, can tell us where to find someone in authority.

Before the discussion could continue, a footstep in the doorway made everyone at the table look up. They were all still a little jumpy, Nacho supposed.

But even though he had tensed at the sound of someone entering, he relaxed immediately when he saw who it was. A grin broke out on his face. That was an instinctive reaction on the part of Nacho Graves whenever a pretty girl came into a room.

This girl was pretty, no doubt about that. She had thick blond hair that fell in long, shining waves past her shoulders. Her eyes were a brilliant blue, even in the fairly dim lantern-light of the stage station. The creamy skin of her forehead creased in a frown as she looked around the room and said, "Oh, excuse me. I was looking for Jake."

Billy Cambridge stood up politely, and Nacho was only a second behind him, not wanting to be outdone in manners by his companion, not where a lovely creature like this was concerned. Cambridge introduced himself and Nacho and then said, "Jake went to hitch a fresh team to the stagecoach. Didn't you see him outside?"

The girl shook her head. "No, he must have been out in the barn. I'll go find him."

"If there is anything we can do for you . . .?" Nacho spoke up.

She smiled, and Nacho forgot about the pain in his side and the ache in his head. "No, that's all right," the girl said. "I'll find Jake."

She turned and went out, and Nacho and Cambridge took their seats again. The salesman leaned forward, the smile on his florid face threatening to turn into a leer, and said, "Mighty pretty girl. You reckon she works here?"

"I don't know," Cambridge replied. "But if she comes back in, I hope everyone will be polite to her. Any lady deserves that much respect." He looked meaningfully at the drummer.

"Sure, sure," the man said hurriedly. "I didn't mean anything, mister. Just commenting on the young lady's attractiveness."

"You got to admit she was mighty pretty, Billy," Nacho added.

"Don't you start," Cambridge told him. "Every time you see a pretty girl . . ." He broke off with a shake of his head.

A few minutes later, the door opened again and Jake Maxwell came in. "I'll have that team hitched up in a few minutes," he said, "but you folks just take your time with that meal. I know you've been through a lot today."

"We already lost quite a bit of time on the schedule, Jake," the driver said. "Got to make it up."

Maxwell waved off that objection. "No need bustin' a gut doin' it." He turned back toward the door.

Before he could leave, Cambridge stopped him by saying, "There was a young woman in here a minute ago looking for you, Jake. She find you?"

Maxwell nodded. "Yeah, she came back to the barn. That's my daughter-in-law, Sandra. Married to Ted—Theodore, he calls himself now. Don't know if you recollect him or not, Billy."

"He was just a sprout last time I saw him," Cambridge grinned.

"I gave him the tradin' post as a weddin' present when him and Sandy got hitched. Keepin' up with both places was gettin' to be too much for an old-timer like me, anyway. This station's enough to keep me busy these days."

Maxwell went out of the room quickly without saying anything else or giving Cambridge a chance to prolong the conversation. Nacho had only glanced up from his bowl a couple of times while the two men were talking, but he had a feeling Jake Maxwell was uncomfortable discussing his daughter-in-law. Maxwell hadn't seemed to want to meet Billy's eyes, and he'd left abruptly, like he was afraid of saying too much. From the frown on Cambridge's face, Nacho thought Maxwell's behavior must have struck his friend as a little strange, too.

Nobody else had noticed anything unusual, though. The others were still eating hungrily. Thinking that maybe he had been mistaken, Nacho turned his attention back to the stew.

When Maxwell reappeared, he announced, "Coach is ready to go."

"Where's the nearest telegraph office?" the drummer asked. "I've got to wire my office."

"And I need to send a message to my bank," the other man added.

"That'd be across the river in Indian Territory. There's a Western Union office in Durant, and you'll be goin' through there tomorrow." Maxwell poured himself a cup of coffee, then came over to the table and straddled one of the benches near Cambridge. "It's a shame we didn't get to visit longer, Billy. But I reckon you've got business and have to be movin' on."

"Not so fast," Cambridge said grimly. "I've got business to take care of, all right, but it's right here. I want to report that holdup to the law, Jake. I figure you can tell me where to find the nearest constable or deputy sheriff."

Maxwell frowned. "There's a deputy from the sheriff's office down in Sherman that rides up this way every few days, but telling him about the robbery ain't goin' to do much good. Those outlaws are long gone, Billy."

"They could come back," Cambridge said. "Maybe after today, they'll decide the pickings are good in this part of the country."

Maxwell looked down at his coffee cup. After a moment's silence, he finally said, "Well, to tell you the truth, this ain't the first time that bunch has hit around here. They've held up stages and robbed stores and generally made life miserable for folks. So you see, the sheriff already knows they're operatin' around here. He don't stand a chance in hell of catchin' 'em, though. He's more politician than manhunter." Maxwell shook his head. "It ain't like the old days when we were ridin' with Rip Ford, Billy."

"I know that," Cambridge said with a sigh. "Nacho suggested we go after the bandits ourselves. From what you're saying, it's starting to sound like he was right."

Maxwell's head jerked up, genuine alarm etched on his features. "You're goin' to try to track down those outlaws?" he demanded.

"I'm thinking about it. They stole a sizable amount of money that belongs to one of my clients, and I can't conclude my business until I recover it."

The stagecoach driver leaned forward to join the conversation. "Does that mean you two gents won't be goin' on with the rest of us?"

"That's exactly what it means," Cambridge replied solemnly. He looked back at Maxwell and went on, "I'm hoping that you can put us up for a while, Jake."

"Sure, sure, that ain't a problem." Something was obviously bothering Maxwell, though. He hesitated, then said, "Are you sure you ain't gettin' a mite . . . old to be chasin' outlaws, Billy?"

Nacho grinned slightly and waited for the explosion. It didn't come. Cambridge just said quietly, "I'm not as young as I used to be, but none of us are. I can still ride a horse and handle a six-gun, and Nacho here has been tracking since he was a boy. I think between us we'll at least have a chance of locating that gang. When we do, we'll lead the authorities to their hide-out. I haven't totally lost my senses, Jake. I'm not going up against half a dozen bandits unless I have to."

"You always were a stubborn old cuss, even when you were a youngster," Maxwell said with a grimace. But then a grin spread over his face. "All right, you're welcome to stay, both of you. And I'll do what I can to help out."

'Thanks, Jake."

The driver stood up and motioned for the remaining passengers to follow him. "We got to get rollin'," he said. To Cambridge, he added, "Good luck, mister. I got a feelin' you're goin' to need it."

Within moments, the stagecoach was on its way, minus the gear belonging to Nacho and Cambridge. If it had been possible, the Red River crossing should have been made before dark, but there was a good ford with a solid bottom, and the river was shallow at this time of year. The driver knew the route quite well, too. The coach would be able to make the crossing without any trouble and push on into the Indian Territory.

Maxwell helped his two visitors carry their baggage into the station building, saying, "I warn you, the accommodations ain't goin' to be fancy. But since there ain't nobody else stayin' here right now, at least you can each have a room to yourself. The grub's good, that much I can promise you."

"I may never leave," Nacho said with a grin.

Despite the front he was putting up, he was getting tired. Suffering a gunshot wound, even a minor one, took a lot out of a man. He was looking forward to a good night's rest. No matter how lumpy the bunk was, it wouldn't keep him from sleeping.

Several narrow doors opened off the main room of the station, leading into cubicles where passengers could spend the night if the stagecoach could not go on until morning. Maxwell pointed to the door on the left and said, "I bunk in there, if you need anything. You boys can take your pick of the other rooms."

"These'll do fine," Cambridge said, indicating two doors in the middle of the row. He opened one of the doors and peered into the room, then carried his bags inside. Maxwell followed him.

Nacho was about to go into the other room when he heard the building's front door open behind him. He glanced over his shoulder, then turned around quickly when he saw Sandra Maxwell entering the main room. She closed the door behind her and turned around, stopping short as she saw Nacho standing there.

"Hello," she said after a second. "I thought the stagecoach had gone on."

He realized he was wearing his hat and snatched it off. "It has. But my friend and I, we stayed behind."

"You've been hurt!" Sandra exclaimed, suddenly stepping closer. "There's blood all over your shirt."

Nacho grinned. "It looks a lot worse than it really is. It's just a bullet crease. Some men held up the stage."

"Yes, Jake told me about it. But he didn't say that anyone would be staying behind. Are you hurt too badly to travel?"

"Oh, no," Nacho said with a shake of his head. "I'm fine, really. My amigo and I just have some business to take care of before we go on to Fort Smith." He wasn't sure how many details of the situation he wanted to give her, but he realized there was no need to be suspicious of her. Maxwell would probably tell her all about it, anyway. Quickly, he sketched in the problem he and Cambridge were facing concerning the stolen money.

Sandra drew nearer while he was talking, and Nacho suddenly scowled as he noticed the dark, swollen spot on her jaw. When he had first seen her, she was inside the doorway of the building, and the light hadn't been good enough for him to spot the bruise. Now he had no trouble seeing it.

As if she sensed what he was looking at, Sandra lowered her head and turned away slightly. "I'm sorry you were hurt," she said softly. "If there's anything I can do to help . . ."

"I just need some sleep," he told her. "I'm getting pretty tired."

"Of course. Well, I'm sure I'll be seeing you again if you're staying around these parts for a while. Good night, Mr. Graves."

"Wait a minute," he said quickly. "Weren't you looking for your father-in-law?"

"I can talk to Jake another time. It was nothing important. Good night."

Before he could stop her again, she was out the door. Nacho frowned at the spot where she had disappeared. He had always considered himself pretty level-headed and certainly not given to imagining things. But he sensed somehow that something was wrong here at the Red River station. Jake Maxwell had seemed surprised and not very enthusiastic about their decision to stay for a while, at least at first, and there was the matter of the bruise on Sandra Maxwell's face. Nacho wondered how it had gotten there.

None of his business, he told himself. He had to worry about helping Cambridge recover that twenty thousand dollars, or as much as possible of it. If it took them very long to catch up to the outlaws, all the money might already be spent.

Cambridge and Maxwell came out of the room where they had gone a few minutes earlier. They were chuckling, and Nacho figured they had been talking about old times. Cambridge's features became more serious as he looked at Nacho and said, "You'd better turn in. You're looking a little pale again."

Nacho nodded. "I will. Your daughter-in-law came in looking for you again, Mr. Maxwell." Sandra hadn't asked him to pass along that message, but Nacho didn't see what it could hurt.

Maxwell nodded curtly, a strange veiled look dropping down over his eyes. "I'll mosey over to the tradin' post and see what she wants," he said. " 'Night, Billy."

"Good night, Jake." When Maxwell was gone, Cambridge said to Nacho, "You want me to take those bandages off and have a look at that wound again?"

"It'll keep 'til morning," Nacho told him. "Right now I just want to rest."

"That's the best idea. Good night."

The bunk was lumpy, all right, Nacho discovered a few minutes later when he stretched out on it. But that didn't keep him from sleeping. It was something else that kept him staring up at the darkened ceiling for long minutes that turned into an hour or more.

But damned if Nacho could have said what that something was.