Chapter Ten

Nacho's head jerked around as the gunshots blasted through the morning air. The wagon and the buckboard had rounded a curve in the trail a couple of minutes earlier, and now a dozen men on horseback were boiling around that same bend, dusters flapping and the rifles in their hands barking viciously.

"It's the same gang!" Nacho shouted as he reached for the Colt on his hip.

Cambridge slapped the reins hard against the backs of the mules and yelled, "Hyyaahh!" at them. To Livingston, he called, "Get that buckboard moving, Reverend!"

Grimacing as he twisted around on the seat, Nacho threw a glance toward the other vehicle. Dove's face was pale as she looked back at the pursuers. Even a girl as self-reliant and competent as she no doubt was would be more than a little nervous to see a gang of hardcases like that coming after her. Anger surged up inside Nacho.

The outlaws would pay for what they had done to him, but more importantly, he would have vengeance on them for frightening Dove O'Shea!

Slugs whined overhead, the sound mixing in a sinister harmony with the explosions of gunpowder. The mules finally broke into a jolting run, and next to the wagon, the buckboard was also traveling faster now. In the fleeting glance he spared Livingston, Nacho saw that the preacher's lips were moving. Probably uttering a prayer, the vaquero thought.

Praying was fine. But shooting straight came in handy, too.

Nacho squeezed off a shot.

It was going to be hard to hit anything; as a difficult platform for shooting, a swaying, bouncing wagon seat ran a close second to the saddle of a galloping horse. But he was going to discourage the men chasing them as much as possible. He was the only one who could put up a fight. Cambridge and Livingston were busy with their respective teams, and Dove was unarmed. He found himself wishing she had that Spencer carbine she'd poked into his neck the day before.

The outlaws had closed the gap considerably during the moments it had taken for Cambridge and Livingston to get their teams running. Now the riders were less than a hundred yards back and coming still closer. Nacho fired again, knowing all too well that his targets were out of range. He had plenty of shells in his belt loops, though, and he wanted the outlaws to know he was armed.

He could see the bandannas tied over their faces as masks, the tips of the colorful scarves fluttering in the wind. The men were still too far away to recognize as individuals, but Nacho was sure this was the same bunch that had stopped the stagecoach. He squeezed off his third shot.

Over the thunder of galloping hooves, Cambridge shouted, "Nacho! That grove of trees up ahead!"

Nacho looked around. The terrain on both sides of the trail was fairly open along this stretch, but fifty yards ahead, a clump of live oaks sat to the right of the road. Nacho knew right away what Cambridge was planning, and he gave the lawyer a nod. There was no way the heavily loaded wagon could outrun the men on horseback, and it was unlikely the buck-board could, either. The only other alternative was to fort up and try to fight off the outlaws, and those trees were the closest cover.

"The trees, Reverend!" Cambridge yelled at Livingston, but Nacho wasn't sure whether or not the minister heard. Livingston was sawing back and forth with the reins, and his eyes were wide with panic as he glanced back at the pursuing gang. Obviously, he wasn't accustomed to anything much more dangerous than his congregation dozing off during the sermon. Cambridge waved toward the live oaks, trying to get his attention.

Nacho's mouth was a tight line. None of the shots being fired by the gang were coming close enough to worry about right now, but sooner or later they would catch up and their marksmanship would improve. If he and Cambridge took cover in the trees and Livingston didn't, the outlaws might decide to continue after the easier prey.

Why the devil were the outlaws after them in the first place? he wondered. Trying to waylay travelers like this was the mark of a gang desperate for money. The outlaws should have had plenty of loot left over from their last job. After all, it had been less than a week since they had stolen twenty thousand dollars.

Like the preacher had said, though, there was no telling what evil, greedy men would do. Nacho started to fire again, then eased off the pressure on the trigger. He only had two bullets left in the cylinder of the Colt, since he always kept one chamber empty, and he wanted to save them until the last minute before the wagon reached the trees. Once he and Cambridge had some cover between them and the outlaws, he would have a chance to replace the spent cartridges.

And in a case like this, he was going to load six, by God!

The wagon jolted roughly as Cambridge veered right and swung it off the trail. Nacho hung on tightly with his left hand as he emptied the Colt in his right, trying to brace himself against the seat back so that his body wouldn't be jerked from side to side. So far, the wound in his side didn't seem to be bleeding again.

Of course, if the bandits caught up with them, he would have a lot more to worry about than a single bullet graze.

Thankfully, Livingston seemed to have gotten the idea. The buckboard followed the wagon, circling behind the trees. Cambridge yanked his team of mules to a stop and dropped from the seat. Nacho followed. Livingston was hauling back frantically on the reins, trying to bring the horses to a halt before they went too far and dragged the buckboard out of the shelter of the trees. Seeing what was happening, Nacho leaped forward and grabbed at the two horses' harness. He set his feet, digging the high heels of his boots into the dirt. The added weight made the team stop just short of the open.

Cambridge took Dove's arm and helped her down from the seat of the buckboard, then hustled her around to the other side. Crouched there, she had not only the trees but the bulk of the vehicle between her and the outlaws. Cambridge crouched at the rear corner of the buckboard, his gun up and ready.

Nacho darted around the horses, hoping they weren't so skittish that they'd take off again. The stolid mules weren't just about to stampede once they had stopped. Livingston was still on the seat of the buckboard, so Nacho reached up to grab the sleeve of his coat.

"Get down off there, Reverend!" he said urgently, pulling on the pallid-faced minister.

With a little shake of his head, Livingston seemed to realize what was going on. He practically rolled off the seat, stumbling as his feet hit the dusty ground. He might have fallen if Nacho hadn't had hold of him.

"Stay down!" Nacho told him. The vaquero could still hear the hoof-beats of the horses bringing the outlaws closer and closer, and when he peered over the buckboard, he caught glimpses of them through the trees.

"We've got to slow them down, Nacho," Cambridge said. "Come on!"

The lawyer left the shelter of the buckboard and ran into the trees. His gun began barking. Nacho hesitated just long enough to look down at Dove and say, "If they get past us, you and the reverend take cover between the buckboard and the wagon. It's not much, but it's the best we can do."

She jerked her head in a nod. Nacho could tell how frightened she was, and he wanted to take her into his arms and comfort her, tell her that everything was going to be all right. But there was no time for that and anyway, it would be a lie. He didn't know that everything was going to be all right, not by a long shot.

He darted into the trees to join Cambridge. Pressing himself behind the trunk of one of the live oaks, he thumbed open the Colt's loading gate and finished ejecting the spent shells, then reached for fresh cartridges.

The trunk wasn't wide enough to conceal all of his body, and he felt terribly exposed. None of the trees were big enough to serve as really effective cover. Nacho forced the fear to the back of his mind and glanced around the trunk. The outlaws were about thirty yards off, and they were pulling their horses to a halt.

"Hit any of them, Billy?" Nacho called to Cambridge.

The lawyer shook his head. "Range is too damned far. Watch out, Nacho! They're going to sit back there and cut loose with those rifles!"

Nacho crouched, then stretched out on the ground behind the tree as the Winchesters began their spiteful cracking. Slugs tore through the branches over his head with a wicked sound, and he wasn't just about to look up to see how close they were coming. He hoped Dove and Livingston had the sense to stay down.

'This is hopeless!" Cambridge said during a momentary lull in the firing. "They can keep us pinned down as long as their ammunition holds out. We're outgunned, all the way around."

"That didn't stop you and the other Rangers in the old days," Nacho reminded. "Los Tejanos Diablos never gave up."

Cambridge looked over and gave him a grim smile. "You're right. I may not be a Texas Ranger anymore, but I don't feel much like surrendering." With that, he rolled slightly to one side, lifted his revolver, and began firing at the outlaws as fast as he could work the hammer and trigger.

Nacho joined in, and to his surprise he saw their slugs begin to kick up dust near the feet of the outlaws' horses. The animals shied nervously, and the riders lowered the rifles and tightened their reins, pulling the horses back a little. Then, as Nacho and Cambridge watched in amazement, the outlaws wheeled their horses and spurred them into a gallop, riding away from the grove of trees and their intended victims as fast as they could.

"What the devil . . .?!" Cambridge exclaimed.

"They're pulling out!" Nacho said.

"Don't be too sure of that," Cambridge warned. "Could be this is some kind of trick."

It quickly became obvious that it wasn't, however. The outlaws disappeared back down the trail, vanishing almost as quickly and unexpectedly as they had shown up.

"What's happening?" Livingston called in an anxious voice. "Why has the shooting stopped?"

Cambridge and Nacho both stood up. "The outlaws are gone, Reverend," Cambridge replied to the questions. "Looks like they gave up."

Livingston peered over the buckboard with a look of disbelief on his face. "Gone?" he echoed. "Then we're safe?"

"That seems to be the case."

"Praise the Lord! Our prayers were answered."

As Nacho watched the rapidly dissipating cloud of dust that had been raised by the gang's departure, he wondered if Livingston might be right. They had been outnumbered, outgunned, and pinned down in bad cover. It must have been divine intervention that had made the outlaws turn tail and run.

Somehow, though, he had a hard time believing that. There had to be something else, some other reason . . .

"The important thing is that we're all safe," Cambridge said. "You and Miss O'Shea aren't hurt, are you?"

"I'm fine," Dove replied. "A little shaky, perhaps, but I'm not wounded."

"None of the bullets touched me, either," Livingston said. "The hand of the Lord turned them aside."

"That, or poor aim," Cambridge muttered so that only Nacho could hear him. Nacho could tell from the look on the lawyer's face that Cambridge was very puzzled by what had just happened.

"Maybe they were just playing with us," Nacho suggested. "You know, trying to throw a scare into us."

"Well, if that was the case, they succeeded admirably." Cambridge reloaded his gun and then holstered it. "We'd better get moving again before they change their minds and come back."

Nacho agreed completely with that suggestion. He seized the opportunity to help Dove up onto the buckboard, taking her arm as he did so. This was the first time he had actually touched her, and he was amazed at the way the warmth of her flesh came right through her clothes. If he hadn't already been a little winded from all the excitement, she would have taken his breath away.

Without wasting any time, they got the two vehicles moving again, and the rest of the trip back to the church was uneventful. There was no sign of the outlaws along the way.

"I think we'll be safe enough now," Livingston said as he brought the buckboard to a stop in front of the sanctuary. "I hate to think about what might have happened if you and Mr. Graves hadn't been with us, Mr. Cambridge. Those thieves would have surely been disappointed with any booty they could steal from us, and they might have taken their anger out on Miss O'Shea."

"I'm just glad we were in the right place at the right time, Reverend. You might consider taking some of your male parishioners with you next time you have to travel around the countryside. Unless that gang has been apprehended by then, of course."

'That's a fine suggestion, brother. Good day to you . . . and thanks again."

Cambridge touched the brim of his hat, then got the mules moving again. Nacho waved, and this time, Dove returned the gesture. There was a silly grin on his face, Nacho knew, but he couldn't help it.

After a couple of minutes, Cambridge said, "Looks like you made a little progress. That girl was downright friendly to you today. That's a far cry from threatening to kill you."

"Ah, Billy, you just do not understand women. One day they want to kill you, the next day they are in love with you." Nacho shrugged. "It is all part of their feminine charm."

"Hold on a minute. I said she was friendly. I didn't say she was in love with you."

"But isn't it obvious?"

Cambridge snorted. "About as obvious as the reason behind that attack on us."

Nacho glanced over at him. "What do you mean, Billy?"

"I mean there's something mighty strange going on around here. There was no reason for that gang to jump us." The lawyer inclined his head toward the load of grain in the back. "You think they were after that?"

"Well. . . no."

"And Livingston and the girl didn't have anything worth stealing with them. Actually, your idea about them chasing us just for the fun of it makes as much sense as anything. But I don't think they'd do that, either."

Nacho had to agree. If these were the same men who had held up the stage—and he was still convinced that they were—those desperados weren't the type to be pulling such pranks. They had been deadly serious about their work.

"If they were really trying to kill us," Nacho mused, "they would not have left like that. We might have downed a few of them when they closed in, but they would have gotten us. The same thing is true if they were after Dove and the preacher for whatever reason."

"That's right. So we're left with something that doesn't make any sense at all—but it almost got us killed anyway."

Nacho sighed. His side hurt a little, and so did his head. He was a simple man, he told himself, and unaccustomed to all this heavy thinking.

"Billy . . ." he said, "I am starting to wish we had taken the train."

* * *

Theodore Maxwell stood on the porch of the trading post and looked out at the night. There was more of a chill in the air this evening than there had been previously, and Theodore was glad he was wearing a jacket.

He glanced over at his father's stage station. A southbound coach had come through earlier, meaning that the place was a beehive of activity for a little while, but the stagecoach was long gone now and the station was quiet again. The glow of a lamp came through the windows of the building. Supper would be over, and more than likely, his father and the two visitors would be sitting around discussing the morning's run-in with the outlaws.

Theodore had heard all about it from Sandra after lunch. He had pretended disinterest, but actually he had listened keenly to everything she had to say. According to her, Cambridge and Graves had narrowly escaped death at the hands of the desperados, and Reverend Livingston and that half-breed O'Shea girl had been in danger, too.

It was a shame the two men from West Texas hadn't caught bullets, Theodore thought. That would have simplified matters a great deal. He was getting tired of their poking around.

He was getting tired of other people's suspicions, too, come to think of it.

The door of the trading post opened and someone stepped out onto the porch behind him. It had to be Sandra; there weren't any customers in the place at the moment. After a few seconds of silence, she asked, "What are you doing, Theodore?"

"Getting some air," he said. "Anything wrong with that?"

Hastily, she answered, "No, not at all. I was just wondering—"

"Nothing to wonder about," he interrupted sharply. "A man wants a little air, he steps out and gets some. All there is to it."

"Of course."

Still without turning to face her, he went on, "Why don't you close the store for the night? I don't think we're going to get any more customers."

"We usually stay open a little later than this," she began tentatively.

"I don't care, dammit! I said we're closed for the night. Go ahead and lock up and then go to bed."

"Will . . . will you be coming along soon?"

He pretended he hadn't heard the question as he went down the two steps to the ground. There was a small barn behind the trading post where he kept his horse. He intended to throw a saddle on the animal now and take a ride, but he wasn't going to explain that to Sandra. She had no right to know everything about his comings and goings, he thought.

She didn't call after him or ask any more foolish questions. That was the way he liked it. She would learn to keep her nose out of his business—or she would regret it for the rest of her days.

When he rode away from the trading post a few minutes later, he headed north, following the road toward the Red River. Fallen leaves crackled under the horse's hooves as Theodore kept it at a steady trot. At this time of night, the trail was practically deserted. It was unusual whenever he met anyone during one of these nocturnal rides.

He had been to enough of these nighttime rendezvous that he had no trouble recognizing the proper place to turn off the road, even in the darkness. Making his way along an even narrower trail, in a few minutes he reached a bluff overlooking the broad, shallow river. He could see starlight reflecting off its muddy, slow-moving surface.

As he drew rein, a voice said, "Right on time, Maxwell."

Theodore started, involuntarily jumping a little in the saddle and then mentally cursing himself. He didn't want the other man to think that he was nervous. He shouldn't have reacted that way, he told himself. After all, he had been expecting the man to meet him.

"I try to be punctual, Graham. Now do me the favor of telling me why you insisted on this meeting."

A man on horseback moved out of the shadows of the trees into the faint light of the moon and stars. Theodore could make out the flat-crowned hat and the long duster, the right hand flap of which was pushed back at the moment to allow the man easy access to his gun. Theodore swallowed. When Asa Graham wore his duster like that, trouble was usually in the offing.

'Take it easy," Graham advised. He was doing something with his hands, and a moment later Theodore found out what. The outlaw tipped a cigarette into his mouth and reached into his shirt pocket for a light.

"You're not going to strike a match, are you?"

"Why the hell not?" Graham asked around the cigarette. He found a lucifer and scratched it into life. It threw harsh illumination over the hard planes of his face as it flared up and he held the flame to the cigarette. "There's nobody around to see me but you."

Trying to suppress his impatience as Graham casually shook out the match, Theodore said, "Look, I've done everything you've asked of me. If you want something else, all you have to do is tell me. I'll do it if I possibly can."

"Yeah, you've done a good job, Maxwell," Graham drawled. "You've helped us get rid of some of the money and goods we've stolen. But don't start thinkin' that gives you the right to order folks around. Somebody else is callin' the shots in this operation, and don't you forget it."

Theodore's impatience was turning into irritation now. "I'm well aware of that," he snapped, "and I'm not trying to give orders."

Graham drew in on the cigarette, making the tip glow. As he blew the smoke out, he said, "Reckon you heard about that lawyer and his Meskin pardner gettin' shot at today. We were tryin' to throw a scare into 'em. You know whether or not it worked?"

"If you mean are they going to give up their quest to recover the money you stole from them—no, they aren't. In fact, from what I hear I'd say they're more determined than ever to catch up to you."

"Damn!" Graham rasped. "I don't know why the hell I didn't just go ahead and kill those bastards when I had the chance. That'll teach me, won't it?"

"What happened today? Instead of trying to scare them off, why didn't you just kill them then?"

Graham shook his head. "We had orders to shoot high and back off after we'd shook 'em up a mite."

"Was that all you wanted from me?" Theodore asked. "Just to find out if Cambridge and Graves were planning to give up?"

Graham shrugged and said, "That's it."

"And for that you dragged me off up here to the river?"

The outlaw's voice hardened as he replied, "It wasn't my idea. I do what I'm told, just like you—most of the time, anyway."

"Well, tell the boss that I'm getting tired of this arrangement. I can play a bigger role in all of this, and I want a face to face meeting with him to talk about it."

Graham gave a short bark of laughter. "You sure you want me to pass along that message?" he asked. "You're forgettin', Maxwell—havin' you workin' with us may come in handy sometimes, but we could get along without you just fine."

Theodore took a deep breath and controlled his temper with an effort. "Just tell him."

"Whatever you say." Graham turned his horse around and rode back into the shadows, disappearing within a few seconds.

Theodore stayed where he was for several moments, his hands clenched tightly on the saddle horn. He hated being forced to deal with a crude, uneducated killer like Graham, but for the moment that was all he could do if he wanted to remain a part of the gang's lucrative activities. He sighed again and lifted the reins, ready to turn around and ride back to the trading post.

The rattle of dried leaves made him stop short.

His muscles tensing, Theodore sat up straighter in the saddle and peered around him in the night, listening and looking intently. He had a small pistol shoved into the top of his boot—he seldom went anywhere without it these days—but the little revolver didn't have much stopping power. Suddenly he wished he had brought along a bigger handgun or a rifle.

Again the rustle of leaves came to his ears, and this time he was able to pinpoint it better. The telltale sound came from his right, from a thick clump of brush. With his pulse hammering wildly in his head, he reached down, pulled up his pants leg, and plucked the pistol from his boot. "Who's out there?" he demanded as he straightened and leveled the gun at the bushes. "Who's spying on me, dammit?"

There was no answer, and Theodore suddenly found his anger overwhelming his fear. He spurred forward, sending his mount crashing through the brush. Moonlight flashed on something light-colored to the right. Theodore jerked the muzzle of the gun in that direction and his finger started to tighten on the trigger.

"No! Don't shoot!"

He stopped at the last instant as the familiar female voice pleaded with him. "Sandra?" he gasped in surprise, dropping out of the saddle and grabbing at her. His fingers caught the shoulder of her dress and jerked her closer to him.

Her terrified face stared up at him, the blue eyes wide with fear.

Theodore began to smile as he felt coldness seeping through his body. "Come along, my dear," he said in deceptively gentle tones. "We're going to have to talk about this."