Chapter Nine

The hard riding, the running and jumping of the day before, had taken their toll on Nacho Graves. The wound on his side hadn't opened up again, but when he got out of bed the next morning he was extremely sore. Billy Cambridge saw the way he was moving as he came into the main room of the stagecoach station, and immediately a look of concern appeared on the lawyer's face.

"Looks like we won't be doing any more tracking today," Cambridge said from the table as he picked up his coffee.

"Because of me?" Nacho asked, a stricken look on his features. "But I'm fine, Billy. I feel healthy as a horse."

"A spavined old nag ready to be put out to pasture, maybe." Cambridge shook his head. "Sorry, Nacho. I won't risk your health like that."

"But, Billy, every day that goes by, the trail gets a little colder. It's going to rain, or the wind will blow hard, or both, and then those tracks will be gone forever. You don't realize how lucky we were, just being able to follow them yesterday."

"Yes, I do." Cambridge pointed at the bench on the other side of the table. "Now sit down and eat. Jake's got flapjacks and bacon on the stove. I'll bring you some."

Nacho sighed, shook his head in disgust, and sank onto the bench. There was never any point in arguing with a lawyer, he thought. Billy had been pretty reasonable so far, but Nacho knew how easily he could get worked up and start flinging around two-bit words and acting like he was in a courtroom. Nacho could do without that.

He had to admit that he felt stronger after he ate. Jake Maxwell came in from outside just as Nacho was ruminating over the last of his coffee. The stationkeeper's face seemed more gaunt and hollow-eyed than usual this morning, and Nacho said, "You look like the night was not kind to you, Jake."

"Didn't sleep much," Maxwell said with a shake of his head. As if to change the subject, he asked quickly, "You boys goin' outlaw huntin' again today?"

"Nacho's in no shape for it," Cambridge declared, not giving his companion a chance to answer the question. "We'll have to postpone it again."

'That's a shame. I know you're anxious to find those outlaws and get as much of that money back as you can. But if you're goin' to be around here today, maybe you can give me a hand with a little chore."

"Sure. We'd be glad for the chance to pay you back some for your hospitality. Wouldn't we, Nacho?"

The vaquero looked up. "What? Oh. Right. Anything we can do, just ask, Jake."

"I just need somebody to sort of keep an eye on the place," Maxwell said. "I'm runnin' a mite low on grain for the horses, and I need to get some. Nearest granary's about ten miles east of here at a little settlement called Antioch. There're no coaches due until late this afternoon, so there wouldn't be any chores you boys would have to do."

"Doesn't your boy Ted keep any grain over at the trading post?" Cambridge asked.

"Usually he does," Maxwell nodded. "But I checked yesterday. He's about out, too. I'll be picking up a load for him as well as for the station."

An idea occurred suddenly to Nacho, a way he might be able to escape a day of boredom sitting around the stage station. "Jake," he said, "why don't you let Billy and me go pick up that grain for you?"

Cambridge turned and glowered at him before Maxwell had a chance to respond to Nacho's suggestion. "Now what kind of an idea is that? I just got through saying that your health isn't good enough yet to go chasing outlaws again, and here you are volunteering to fetch a bunch of heavy sacks of grain."

Nacho leaned forward. He was no lawyer, but he had thought out his argument quickly and thoroughly. "At this granary, they have men to load the bags of feed, right, Jake?"

"Well, that's true," Maxwell admitted. "I usually pitch in and lend a hand, but you wouldn't have to."

"And you have a good wagon, don't you? A wagon with good springs that does not bounce its riders all around?"

Maxwell summoned up a grin. "It's a good wagon, sure enough. I ain't sayin' it's like ridin' on a cloud, but I reckon you'd be pretty comfortable."

Nacho turned back to Cambridge. "So you see, Billy, there is no reason we shouldn't go."

"You just want to see a town again," Cambridge said, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. "Maybe visit a saloon and flirt with a few pretty girls."

"It might help my injury," Nacho said solemnly. "A man in high spirits recovers faster, no?"

Cambridge replied dryly, "So I've heard." He took a deep breath. "All right, I don't suppose it would do any harm. But only if Jake agrees. What about it, Jake?"

Maxwell shrugged. "I don't care who goes and gets the grain, as long as I don't run out. I've got to keep the horses well fed and as healthy as possible."

Nacho's grin widened. "Then we go, right, Billy?"

"We go," Cambridge agreed.

Now that the question of who would pick up the grain was settled, it didn't take Maxwell long to hitch a team of mules to his wagon and drive it out of the barn. As he hauled the animals to a stop in front of the station, he asked Cambridge, "You sure you can handle these long-eared jackasses?"

"I've driven a mule team plenty of times before, if you remember right," Cambridge replied. He stepped up to the driver's seat and took the reins while Maxwell climbed down. Nacho followed the lawyer, settling down on the seat with a smile on his face. Even injured, he wasn't the type to sit around and do nothing. The prospect of having a job to accomplish again made him feel better right away.

"Don't know if Antioch was there the last time you came through this country or not, Billy," Maxwell said, "but it ain't hard to find. Just head south a little ways and take the cut-off that goes by the Baptist church. Stay on that road and it'll bring you right into the settlement. Granary's on the left as you go into town. Fella name of Barlow runs it. He knows my wagon, so just tell him you're pickin' up a load for me and one for the tradin' post. He'll fix you right up."

Cambridge nodded, then flapped the reins and shouted at the team. The mules hesitated for a second before stepping out in their plodding but steady gait. Nacho turned around on the seat, moving carefully so as not to put too much strain on the wound in his side, and lifted a hand in farewell to Jake Maxwell. Glancing past the stationkeeper, he saw Sandra step out onto the porch of the trading post. The morning sun struck highlights on her blond hair. She was unquestionably beautiful, Nacho thought.

But not as beautiful as Dove O'Shea.

As Nacho settled back on the seat next to Cambridge, he thought about the young half-breed girl. He wasn't sure why he felt such an instinctive attraction to her. Most men would be interested in that lithe body of hers, he supposed, but they would also be bothered by the scar on her face. Somehow, although he was well aware of it being there, it didn't make Dove any less appealing to him. She had experienced a great deal of tragedy in her young life, and now that he knew more about her, he decided that the expression in her dark eyes the day before had been one of haunting sadness. Maybe he was reading more into this than he should, he told himself. But that was all right; after all, he was impulsive, especially when it came to the señoritas.

"Well, you're about a million miles away," Cambridge said from beside him on the wagon seat, breaking into his thoughts and dispelling his mental image of Dove. "And from that little smile on your face, I'd wager there's a pretty girl there with you."

Nacho shrugged, the smile widening into a grin. He drew in a lungful of the crisp, cool air. "Just thinking that it's good to be alive on such a day," he said. "I nearly wasn't, you know."

"I seem to remember being there when you got shot," Cambridge said. "But you're going to heal up as good as new. I did quite a job of doctoring, if I do say so myself."

"Billy . . . Do you think we will really get that money back?"

Cambridge sighed. "I hope so. If we don't, I'm going to feel obliged to pay it back to Simon out of my own funds. It may take a while, but I can do it. Edward would probably offer to help me out, might even be willing to borrow against the ranch, but I'd never let him do that."

That was exactly what Edward Nash would do, Nacho thought. His patron and Cambridge had been friends and partners in the law practice for a long time. There was nothing Nash wouldn't do for Cambridge, and as his foreman, that same obligation held true for Nacho. But you could only help someone as much as they would let you.

Both men rode along in silence for a few minutes, but Cambridge spoke up again as the wagon reached the cut-off and he swung the team onto the other road. "I've been thinking about that O'Shea girl," he said.

"So was I, a little while ago."

Cambridge smiled. "Somehow, that doesn't surprise me. Anyway, I was wondering what she was doing over here at the Baptist church a couple of days ago. She never did explain that."

"Anybody can go to church." Nacho shrugged. "Even I have been to the mission in Pecos many times."

"Well, you've got a lot to confess . . . The girl looked almost like a different person. Out there in the woods, she was almost all Comanche, but at the church she was as prim and proper as you please. I wonder which one is the real Dove O'Shea."

That was a good question, Nacho thought, and one he didn't have an answer for. He wouldn't have minded getting to know her better, though, and maybe he could figure it out, given enough time.

* * *

A little later, Nacho spotted the steeple of the church up ahead and pointed it out. "You said we wouldn't be here next Wednesday to have dinner with them," Nacho commented, "but at the rate we are going, we might be."

"I'm afraid you're right," Cambridge grunted. He inclined his head toward the whitewashed building. "Wonder who that is?"

A buckboard was coming up the short dirt road that led to the church, heading toward the main trail. A man and a woman were on the seat, and as Nacho and Cambridge came closer, both of them recognized the woman.

"That's Dove!" Nacho exclaimed.

"And the man with her is Reverend Livingston," Cambridge added. "That girl keeps turning up. This is three days in a row I've run into her."

He pulled back on the reins, calling to the mules to stop as they reached the spot where the church driveway joined the road. John Livingston brought his own team to a halt and smiled across at Cambridge and Nacho. "Good morning, gentlemen," he said heartily. "Mr. Cambridge, isn't it? You had dinner on the grounds with us a couple of days ago."

"That's right, Reverend," Cambridge replied. "How are you today?"

"Just fine, praise the Lord. Who's your friend, if you don't mind my asking?"

Dove answered the question. "His name is Nacho Graves," she said softly.

"That's right," Nacho said, taken a little by surprise. "Ignacio Alexander Rodriguez Graves, Reverend. Pleased to meet you." He tipped his hat to Dove and went on, "Good morning, Miss O'Shea."

Livingston said, "Pleased to meet you as well, Mr. Graves," then glanced curiously at the girl. "I wasn't aware that you were acquainted with these two gentlemen, Dove."

'They came to see my father yesterday," she said. "And of course, I saw Mr. Cambridge here at the church on Wednesday."

She was keeping her eyes slightly downcast, as any proper young lady would, and not looking directly at them. That was quite a contrast to the bold, none too friendly stare she had given them while holding a gun on them the day before. She wore a gingham dress, a lightweight shawl, and a sun bonnet, and the outfit and her attitude made Nacho understand what Cambridge had been talking about earlier. It was like this Dove and the buckskin-clad Comanche maiden were two completely different people. And yet they were unmistakably the same. There couldn't be two such women in the world, Nacho thought.

Surprisingly, he decided he preferred the Comanche version to the white. The dangerous, gun-toting girl in buckskin seemed more true to what he thought was Dove's actual nature. But he noticed that she didn't mention any details about their encounter the day before to the minister. Livingston probably didn't know what she was really like.

"Are you on your way to Antioch?" Livingston asked, and when Cambridge nodded, he went on, "So are we. The church is planning to build a baptistry instead of continuing to use the river or one of the creeks nearby, and Miss O'Shea is going to help me choose the fabric for the curtains. A new general store that should carry what we need recently opened in the settlement."

"Sounds like a fine idea, Reverend," Cambridge said. "We're on our way to pick up some grain for Jake Maxwell's stage station and his son's trading post."

Livingston's smile turned into a grin. "Why don't we drive along together, then? It'll give us all a chance to get to know each other better."

Nacho had been hoping for an excuse to spend more time with Dove O'Shea, but somehow he hadn't envisioned a preacher as part of the deal. Still, any chance was better than none. Quickly, he said, "Billy and I would like that, Reverend. Wouldn't we, Billy?"

"Sure," the lawyer agreed. "There's room for two wagons on this road. If we meet anybody coming the other way, though, we'll have to stop and let them pass."

Nacho wished Cambridge would stop worrying about such minor details. "Plenty of room," he said. "You'll see, Billy. Let's go, Jake's waiting for us to get back with that grain."

Cambridge gave him a sidelong look, then got the team of mules moving again. Livingston guided the buckboard alongside on the left. Wishing that he could somehow trade seats with Cambridge without looking too obvious, Nacho contented himself with leaning back slightly and looking past the attorney at the girl riding in the other vehicle.

Like most preachers, Livingston never seemed to be at a loss for words. As the wagon and the buckboard rolled along the trail, he told Cambridge and Nacho about his plans for the church. He had been called to serve as its pastor only a few months earlier, but already he was trying to put his own stamp on the congregation and the services. The weekly dinner on the grounds had been his idea, to attract more visitors—and therefore more potential converts. He also had in mind expanding the sanctuary itself, in addition to building a baptistry.

"Sand Ridge is a growing ministry, Mr. Cambridge," Livingston said proudly. "I expect to be spreading the Word of God for a long time around these parts."

"With your enthusiasm, I expect you're right, Reverend," Cambridge replied. He directed his next question to Dove—for which Nacho was very grateful. He hadn't counted on having to listen to Livingston all the way to Antioch. "Have you been attending services at Sand Ridge for very long, Miss O'Shea?"

"Not long," she answered with a shake of her head. Nacho watched the way the gesture made her long black hair sway as it hung down her back. "I was led to the Lord by Reverend Livingston."

"That's right," the minister said proudly. "Why, poor Dove was little more than a heathen savage when the hand of God guided her into our sanctuary one Sunday morning. She's half-Comanche, you know, and her father is this rough-hewn frontiersman . . . Well, of course you know that, since you know Mr. O'Shea. I'm sure he's a fine man, but Dove and I have been unsuccessful so far in persuading him to attend services with us."

"I'm not well acquainted with Seamus O'Shea," Cambridge said, "but somehow I do have a hard time imagining him in church, Reverend."

"He'll see the light. Sooner or later, the Lord will work His wondrous way on old Seamus, just as He does with all of us poor sinners."

Nacho was rapidly forming a dislike for Reverend Livingston. The man was not only pompous and bombastic, he wouldn't let Dove join in the conversation. Maybe when they got to the settlement, Nacho thought, he would get the chance to have a word or two alone with her. He had a legitimate reason for wanting to talk to her—besides his usual habit of flirting with every pretty girl he ran across, that is. He and Cambridge were both convinced that Seamus O'Shea knew more about the outlaw gang operating in the territory than he had revealed the day before. If he could manage to get closer to Dove, that might lead to the information they needed to locate the outlaws.

A little after mid-morning, the wagon and the buckboard reached Antioch. Traffic had been light on the road, and the two vehicles had managed to stay abreast most of the way. Now, as they entered the settlement, Livingston swung the buckboard to the right, crossing in front of the wagon as Cambridge held up his team momentarily. "See you in church, gentlemen?" he called.

"Maybe," Cambridge said.

Nacho waved at Dove as Livingston pointed the buckboard toward a newly-built general store. He noted the location of the mercantile and decided that once the granary workers were loading the feed onto the wagon, he would stroll over there and try to pry Dove away from the preacher for a few minutes. She didn't return his wave, but as he lowered his arm, she glanced back, and for the first time today, her eyes met Nacho's.

The dark-eyed gaze went right to the center of him. He couldn't read her expression, but he sensed the power of it. Then she was looking away again, and he felt the loss.

Yes, he was definitely going to have to get to know Dove O'Shea better.

"There's the granary," Cambridge said, pointing to a large building with a silo behind it on the left side of the road. "Like Jake said, it's not hard to find."

"Nothing in this town would be," Nacho commented. Antioch certainly wasn't very big, at least not yet. It had one main street and a couple of lanes branching off to either side. No more than a dozen businesses made up the heart of the town, and there were perhaps thirty houses scattered around. A man could stand in one spot, turn around in a circle, and see the whole community. Someday, if the town grew, it might turn into something more substantial. On the other hand, the people might all move away, and the abandoned buildings might fall into ruin. People thought of ghost towns as being connected with mining and rich veins that played out, but there were plenty of other reasons a settlement could die. A place like Antioch could go either way.

Cambridge brought the wagon to a stop in front of the granary. As he and Nacho were climbing down from the seat, a short, stocky man in a dirty jacket and a knitted cap came out of the building. "Somethin' I can do for you gents?" he asked. "Say, that's Jake Maxwell's wagon you're drivin', ain't it?"

"Jake said you'd probably recognize it," Cambridge replied. "He sent us to pick up a load of grain for the stage station and one for his son's trading post. You'd be Mister Barlow?"

'That's right."

Cambridge extended his hand. "Bill Cambridge. I'm an old friend of Jake's. We're staying at the station for a while, and we wanted to lend him a hand."

Barlow shook hands with him, then said, "I'll bet you're that lawyer fella. Heard about that stage hold-up and the money you lost. Mighty rough."

"Well, we haven't given up hopes of recovering it yet."

"Just as long as you don't hold your breath waitin' for Sheriff Massey to get around to it." Barlow got down to business. "I reckon this'll go on Jake's and Ted's accounts?"

'That's the way Jake wanted it."

Barlow nodded. "Me'n my brothers'll get busy loadin' you up, then."

As the granary operator turned to go back into the building, Nacho caught Cambridge's arm and said, "I think I will take a little walk, Billy."

"Over to the saloon? I only saw one in town. Or did you have a visit to the general store in mind?"

Nacho shrugged. "I might need to pick up a few things. A man can never tell."

"Go on," Cambridge said with a chuckle. "I'll keep an eye on things here." As Nacho turned away, the lawyer added, "You ought to be safe enough. I don't see how the O'Shea girl could hide a rifle in that dress of hers. A knife or a derringer, maybe."

"Billy!" Nacho sounded offended. "You misjudge her. She's really a sweet girl."

"She put the barrel of that gun against your spine and threatened to blow your head off," Cambridge reminded him.

"Well, I won't give her cause to do that again," Nacho declared firmly. "After all, we were sneaking around her father's house."

Cambridge nodded. "Just watch yourself."

Nacho straightened his jacket and ambled across the street toward the general store. As he went inside, he saw Dove and Reverend Livingston standing next to a counter on his left. They were looking through bolts of cloth that were spread out on the long surface. Dove had a look of concentration on her face as she tried to decide which fabric would be the most appropriate for the curtains in the church's new baptistry. Nacho thought the expression made her even more attractive—but he would have thought that no matter how she looked, he supposed.

"Hello again," he said, and both of them glanced up at him. He was only vaguely aware of the greeting that Livingston gave him, just as he was paying little attention to the other customers in the store or the white-aproned clerk who was standing near Dove and Livingston, waiting for them to make up their minds.

"I thought you came to town to buy grain, Mr. Graves," Livingston went on.

"Billy can handle that," Nacho said with a negligent wave of his hand. "I have more important things to do."

"Such as?" Dove asked, and he thought he detected a hint of mockery in her voice.

Solemnly, Nacho said, "I have come to buy licorice."

The clerk pointed a knobby finger toward another counter. "In that jar over there. Help yourself, mister, and I'll be with you in a few minutes to weigh it."

Nacho turned and tried to walk to the licorice jar with as much dignity as he could muster. It was the first thing he had thought of when Dove asked him what sort of important things had brought him into the store. He loved licorice, of course, and had ever since he was a boy, childish though it might be for a grown man to be eating the stuff. But it was hardly what anyone would consider a pressing errand, and the outlaws had only left a few coins on him.

He took the lid off the huge glass jar and had just reached inside when a voice said beside him, "I wouldn't mind having some licorice myself."

Nacho looked over and saw Dove standing there. Trying not to show his surprise, he said, "Of course. I'll get it for you."

He pulled a strand of the black, chewy stuff from the jar and handed it to the girl. She took it and said under her breath, "Thank you for not saying anything to the Reverend about yesterday."

"You mean about that gun you were waving around and using to threaten Billy and me?" Nacho asked quietly as he took out more of the licorice for himself. "I didn't figure it was any of his business."

He glanced past Dove and saw the clerk cutting a large piece off one of the bolts of fabric while Livingston looked on. The minister didn't seem to be paying any attention to the two of them.

Angry lights danced in Dove's dark eyes as she said, "Reverend Livingston may be my minister, but that doesn't mean he has to know everything about me and my father."

Eager to mollify her, Nacho said quickly, "Billy and I just thought that since you didn't bring up any of the details, we shouldn't, either. You see, señorita, we are not out to cause trouble for anybody except those low-down hombres who robbed us."

"You still don't have any idea where to find them?"

"None," Nacho said with a shake of his head. "By now, they could be anywhere from Montana to the Rio Grande."

Dove nodded and keeping her voice low said, "I can see why you and Mr. Cambridge are upset about being held up. In fact, I was a little surprised to see you today. I thought you'd be out in the breaks again, hunting for those men."

Nacho put a hand on his side, over the bullet wound. "The injury would not let me ride today," he said dramatically. "Or at least Billy thought so. Now I can see that my pain was merely the instrument of a kind fate."

"A kind fate?" Dove frowned slightly. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

"If that bullet hole hadn't been hurting like blazes this morning, Billy and I would not have come to this town on the errand for Señor Maxwell. And so we would not have run into you. As I said, fate is kind."

Dove blushed and lowered her eyes slightly, but a smile tugged at her mouth. The expression lit up her face, and once again it was as if the scar was not even there.

"I think you're a bit of a flirt, Mr. Graves."

"The best in all of West Texas. No, wait. I am the best vaquero in West Texas, that is it . . . I am the best flirt in all of the Lone Star State."

Dove gave a stifled giggle, sounding for all the world like a little girl. So that was one more facet of her personality, Nacho thought. She was a fascinating woman, and he was glad he had walked over here to the general store.

It would have been all right with him if the conversation continued indefinitely, but Dove said with a glance over her shoulder, "I have to get back to the reverend. I think he's almost ready to go."

Indeed, Livingston was carrying the thick roll of fabric toward the door. Dove smiled at Nacho again, then paused abruptly and looked down at the licorice in her hand, forgotten until now. Nacho waved her on and said, "I'll take care of it, señorita."

"Thank you," she called back. "Goodbye."

"Hasta la vista," Nacho replied, sadness welling up inside him at the thought of parting from her. Perhaps there would be another time . . .

At that moment, Billy Cambridge came through the door, holding it open for Livingston and tipping his hat to Dove. "Finished your business, Reverend?" he asked.

"Yes, we have," Livingston replied. "What about yourself, Mr. Cambridge?"

"All loaded up and ready to go."

"Well, then, it seems as if Providence wishes us to be companions for a while longer, doesn't it? I trust you'll drive along with Miss O'Shea and myself back to the church?"

Cambridge hesitated, seeming to think about it, then grinned a little at the way Nacho was nodding so emphatically behind the backs of Dove and Livingston. "I think that would be a fine idea," the attorney said.

Quickly, Nacho paid the storekeeper for the licorice, then hurried out the door after Cambridge, Livingston, and Dove. Cambridge had pulled the wagon over in front of the store. It was loaded with big sacks of the grain that Maxwell needed for the stage line's horses.

As the four of them stepped up onto the vehicles, Livingston said, "I don't mind telling you, I'm grateful for the company, sir. Not only for the conversation, mind you, but because you never know when bandits will strike around here. But I think they'll be a great deal less likely to accost us while you and Mr. Graves are with us."

"Chances are they're still lying low after that stagecoach holdup," Cambridge said as he picked up the reins. "They might not pull another job for a couple of weeks."

Livingston shook his head. "You can never tell with miscreants like that, Mr. Cambridge. Evil men do things that don't always make sense."

"True enough, Reverend."

Nacho knew better than to expect many opportunities to talk to Dove on the return trip, not with the loquacious minister around, but he contented himself with looking at her and seeing the shy smiles she directed back at him. Her attitude was entirely different than it had been the day before, probably because the surroundings were so different, he thought. Out in the rugged country to the southwest, people had to be harder and colder to survive. Here, twenty miles to the east, there was less danger, less need to be hard-bitten. That would account for Dove's new friendliness, the thawing of what Nacho had first taken to be a pretty icy personality.

Dove rode with the fabric on her lap, and Livingston talked more about the new baptistry. The cloth was heavy and thick and a subdued blue in color, entirely appropriate for its intended use, Nacho thought, although he didn't know much about such things. His mother had been Catholic, his father Episcopalian, but you couldn't go very far in Texas without tripping over a Baptist or two. And anytime you ran into more than two Baptists, one of them was bound to be dunking the others in a river or a creek. Nacho sometimes wondered if they took turns. Theology, he supposed, was one of those mysteries he'd never figure out—like women.

He was looking at Dove and musing about such things when the shooting started.