Rue Allyn Page 3

  Together they returned to the main part of the village.

  Spirit Talker caught her arm before allowing her friends to surround her. “When you are done here, my daughter and I will assist you and Muh’Weda at the sweat lodge.”

  “Ah, so we will celebrate tonight. Thank you for thinking of our needs.”

  “Of course,” the old man smiled. “But before that we will eat, and you and Muh’Weda will tell of your adventures.

  Kiera turned from Spirit Talker to greet her friends and was soon engulfed in hugs and backslapping. She was a bit embarrassed, for she hadn’t gone with Muh’Weda for glory. She’d only wanted to help a friend and had hoped to talk him out of an action that — despite Spirit Talker’s assurances — could very well bring more trouble than the horses were worth. Nonetheless, she accepted the praise of the villagers, for she loved and admired them. To reject their thanks would be churlish and rude. They believed her deserving, and that was all that mattered.

  Soon enough she emerged from the crowd and waited on the edge for Muh’Weda to finish his greetings. He loved his sisters as much as Kiera loved her own, and she would not grudge him a minute of the time he spent with them. What did it matter, if she missed her family a little more on this occasion or if an empty place in her heart held nameless longing.

  Unbidden the face of the marshal came to mind. Honey brown eyes that might melt a woman’s heart, if kindness ever shone in them. Thick, feathery red hair just a shade off copper that looked soft as a dove’s wing. A three day shadow of the same hue softened the sharp planes of his face. Long, lean, broad and strong. Strong most of all, in both body and mind. For even when she’d struck him where it hurt most, long moments passed before he fell. The promise of retribution in his hard gaze had grabbed her and shook her, refusing to let go even when she was weak and limp inside. Because their encounter had been short and not an occasion for smiles, he should have been frightening. Nonetheless, her mind conjured a grin on that beard-shadowed visage.

  Quinn, that’s what the other man had called him. He was a U.S. Marshal, with both personal and professional reasons to hunt her down like a rabbit. She’d do well to remember that. Thankfully, a full month would pass until she had to leave the mountains to get supplies. She hoped the marshal would give up searching for her long before then, but she wouldn’t take any chances. She was prepared to fight if need be, although she’d much rather not. Distraction had always worked best for her, so she’d do what she could to change her appearance and make herself unrecognizable. She’d done it before; she could do it again. Her photographer’s eye for image and the tricks learned in San Francisco would help. When she went for supplies, she’d test the result on Muh’Weda. If she could fool him, she could fool anyone.

  CHAPTER TWO

  North and East of Lake Yellow Stone, Late July 1870

  Ev cast a grim smile at the buildings of Brown’s Camp, grown larger as he and Boyd approached. Big Si insisted that the gunslinger come with Quinn to “help and bring back news to the ranch, the moment the murdering thieves were dealt with.” The rancher had been certain that the marshal would have more tasks to perform than to carry messages. Although Van Demer hoped Ev would visit often once this unpleasant business was over. According to Si, Elise had been asking about the marshal, and Ev would want to settle down some day with a pretty, well-bred girl. Big Si was wrong. Ev had no intention of planting roots, ever.

  In that respect alone, he was like his traveling preacher father. If by some miracle in some distant future, Ev did decide to settle, he wouldn’t chose a flighty, high strung female like Elise Van Demer. She’d approached him three times prior to shouts of fire and horse stealing disturbed the party. Each time she acted like she had something to say but would only stammer, blush, and run off before she said anything. Any woman he settled with would speak her mind.

  High noon heated the day, but Ev didn’t want to spend tonight in the open. He wanted a bed. In truth, he was mighty tired of trail food, too. Beans and fatback, fatback and beans, with a little jerky and rock hard biscuit thrown in for lunch. Save for a day or two spent at the Flying V, Ev had been on the trail close to five weeks with no sign of the blonde or her Shoshone friend. This time of year the Shoshone were splintered into small groups of several families each and spread out from the continental divide to the Missouri, nor did they always stay in one place. He’d been slowly working his way west, traveling north to south and checking every Shoshone camp he came across. Nonetheless, his quarry eluded him. No one had seen or heard of a blonde woman riding with a young Shoshone male. The days stretched to weeks. Ev grew more frustrated. Every day spent looking for that woman was one more day he had to spend thinking about her. Ev frowned. He didn’t understand it. He’d never obsessed about a suspect before. Of course, no other suspect had punched him in the balls.

  “Thank the lord for a roof over our heads and a mattress under our backs tonight. With luck we’ll have whiskey with our dinner. Heaven knows you need something to cheer you,” uttered Boyd.

  Ev glared at the man. “Just because I don’t spend every minute of the day flapping my jaws doesn’t mean I’m not cheerful.”

  The gunman nodded and pursed his lips. “No, you’re right; simple silence doesn’t mean you have no cheer. However, I’ve been riding with you long enough now to know, even without conversation, that your long johns are in a twist and have been ever since the Shoshone and that woman got away.”

  Ev grunted as they rode through the gates of the stockade, heading for the stable. “Anyone would be a mite grumpy who had to deal with all I’ve had to tolerate over the past five weeks.”

  “Ha! A mite grumpy is putting it mildly. You’re a U.S. Marshal. Dealing with problems, irate citizens, and risky customers is your meat and drink. So don’t try to tell me your plate’s too full.” Dismounting, Boyd led his mount into the stable.

  “And a gunslinger isn’t inclined to violence and mayhem?”

  “Maybe I’m not your typical gunman. I know my conscience is clear. I plan for it to stay that way.”

  Ev followed, leading his horse to the next stall. He had to work harder each day to dislike and distrust Boyd.

  “I suppose you think I should be happy that Big Si Van Demer is trying to start a war with the Shoshone, because two supposed Indians stole his horses, might have set fire to his barn, and may have shot the Laramie sheriff.”

  “No. Big Si’s intentions are nothing to be happy about, which is why I’ll tell you plain and simple, I’ve no interest in killing a woman, white or not, who’s taken up with the Shoshone. Hurting that woman would be just the spark Si needs to start that war he wants.”

  “What if she’s the horse-thief, arsonist, and murderer Si claims? What about the reward?” Ev needed to know how far he could trust Boyd.

  “There’s no reward until she’s caught or killed, and I don’t kill women. My mama was a woman, so I’ve got a soft spot for all of ‘em. No one knows who committed those crimes, and while this woman and her Shoshone friend are the most likely suspects, we won’t know the extent of their involvement until we catch up with them and hear their side. Still, there’s no reason to get huffy because I ask a few questions.”

  “There certainly wasn’t any evidence I could find in the barn ashes that could identify the guilty party or parties,” Ev nodded then continued. “Maybe I should be jumping for joy that I needed the army’s help to convince Si to settle for sending a negotiator instead of thirty hired guns, or that I was asked by the Army — which can’t spare any men for several weeks — to escort said negotiator from Denver to Van Demer’s ranch, which would delay pursuit of that couple by a two months. Thank the lord I could claim pressing business and decline to do the Army’s job. Maybe you think it’s funny that Van Demer’s sixteen-year-old daughter kept trying to get me alone. If she’d succeeded, I’d be a married man. ‘Course, all of that fun doesn’t include chasing down one of the slickest desperados I’ve ever encountered and br
inging her back for trial or convincing the Shoshone to not only sit down with the negotiator and take him seriously but also to give back the ponies they stole.”

  Eyes wide, mouth hanging open, Boyd stared at Ev.

  “What?” Ev looked at his stunned companion.

  “I didn’t know you had that many words in you. But since you’ve explained, I can see why you’re a bit miffed.” The gunman commenced tending his mount.

  Ev rolled his eyes and turned to his horse — a companion who never talked too much or cared how much his rider said. He removed saddle, bags, and blanket, then curried the bay and found a few oats to reward the animal for the grinding work of riding the range.

  “Miffed? Is that what you call it?”

  “Same as being a mite grumpy. I hired on with Big Si, so I know the difference between miffed and true anger.”

  Quinn grinned. “Point taken. You deal with his temperament pretty well. C’mon, I’m in the mood for that whiskey and a steak to go with it.”

  “Dealing with Big Si is easier at a distance. Doesn’t sound like you’re miffed any longer.”

  “Nope, mildly irritated, and most of that’s hunger.” Trustworthy or not, Quinn decided Boyd didn’t need to know how much of the irritation had to do with the image of a blonde, green-eyed, she-wolf. Day or night, drunk or sober, under the stars or inside walls, her image wouldn’t go away no matter what he did. He had little reason to expect this night to be different.

  • • •

  Kiera slipped from the stable door then studied the dusty ground and scattered buildings that made up Brown’s Camp. Muh’Weda paused beside her. This late in the afternoon she’d expected few people to be stirring. Indeed, only a few of the soldiers at the Army outpost that formed part of the camp were in evidence. However, a group of men — twenty or so — crowded around the raised porch of the mercantile, directly across from the stable, where a man in a black bowler nailed something to the post.

  “I wish that crowd wasn’t there.” She shook dust from her split riding skirt.

  “They are inconvenient, and probably wouldn’t take kindly to a Shoshone escorting a lone white woman. We could wait until they leave.”

  “Might be some time before they all lose interest in whatever it is that man is putting up.”

  “True.”

  “The plan was to get in and out quick, not to linger all afternoon.”

  Muh’Weda cast a glance skyward. “We do want to be on our way before sundown.”

  Which they both knew was several hours off.

  A few of the men blocking the stairs to the mercantile looked their way. From the Army quarters, a sergeant headed in their direction. “We’re drawing attention by just standing here.” Kiera worried her lower lip. “I’m going to get the photographic supplies I came for. You head off that sergeant, and I’ll meet you back at the horses.”

  “Right.”

  “Muh’Weda,” she put her hand on his arm as he started to walk away. “If I’m not there when you get back, don’t come looking for me. I’ll handle any trouble I find on my own, understand.”

  “I do, but I don’t desert my friends, Kiera, and you should know that by now.”

  “You’re right.” She nodded. “You do what you have to.”

  “Same goes.” He gave a nod of his head and moved toward the sergeant.

  Kiera headed for the mercantile. Once within reach of the crowd, most of whom had their backs to her, she tapped the nearest man, on the shoulder. A miner from the look of his pack and clothing, he turned his head. She gave him her most brilliant smile. “Excuse me, sir, but I need to get into the mercantile.”

  “Why sure thing, little lady.” He issued a gap-toothed grin then shifted, waving his arms. “Fellas make way, this little thing needs to use the steps.”

  Kiera choked back a laugh, she was 5’ 9" in her stocking feet, and the miner couldn’t have been more than 5’ 3" with his boots on.

  His size didn’t seem to matter, the mass of men parted with murmurs of “Sorry ma’am; ‘scuse us; beg pardon, miss.”

  She continued to smile and nodded acknowledgement of their apologies as she mounted the stairs and moved between the groups of men.

  Behind her, one of the men spoke. “Wonder if the Wildcat really looks like that.”

  Startled, she paused in the doorway of the mercantile and looked over her shoulder. Through the sea of male heads and faces she caught sight of the announcement nailed to the porch post.

  Huge lettering announced, “Wanted Dead or Alive, the Wildcat aka Kiera Whitson, for Murder, Horse Stealing and Other Crimes, Reward $2,000.00.” They’d gotten her name half wrong, but how had they gotten any part of her name? Beneath the lettering was an illustration.

  “Don’t think anyone knows for sure what she rightly looks like, but that drawing’s gotta be close or they wouldn’t put it up for us t’ look at.”

  Kiera couldn’t see the drawing clearly, and pushing her way through that crowd to get a closer look would garner too much attention. She tugged down the brim of her slouch hat and continued into the dim interior of the mercantile. With luck the crowd would thin by the time she left, and she’d be able to get a good look at the drawing.

  Inside, Kiera marched past two men with their backs to the room then straight to the clerk manning the counter. “I’m expecting a package of silver nitrate. Do you have it?”

  The clerk bent, searched beneath the counter and lifted a mid-size parcel onto the counter. “This it?”

  Kiera examined the shipping information. “Yes. Thank you very much. What’s the charge?”

  Behind her the two men spoke quietly to each other.

  “That’ll be one double eagle.”

  “Twenty dollars? That’s robbery.” She didn’t have ten dollars let alone twenty. With an inward sigh she knew she had no options.

  “Nope, it’s a delivery surcharge the shipping company tacked on ‘cause of all the robberies in the territory. They had to hire extra men to protect the freight wagons, so prices went up to pay for the guards.”

  Reaching into the pouch attached to her belt, she extracted an earring. “This is really valuable. I’ll trade it to you for the package.”

  “Ain’t got no use for one ear-bob.”

  “But that’s a genuine ruby.” She shook the dangling gem at him. “Worth much more than a double eagle.”

  “Ain’t got no use for rubies neither. Now if you had a pair of ear-bobs. Mebbe I’d be innerested.”

  “Very well. I need that silver nitrate.” She extracted the matching earring and laid it on the counter. Kiera would have paid with gold, but she didn’t dare for fear of starting another rush. She hated giving up the earrings. They were the last of the few items she’d taken with her from home — the last reminder of her sisters and mother. Lord she missed her family. However, she couldn’t afford to be sentimental right now. Later she’d think about her sisters and mourn the loss of this small connection.

  The clerk gave over her package with one hand and scooped up the jewelry with the other.

  Kiera didn’t waste time thanking him but turned to leave the mercantile as quickly as possible. A collision with a blue flannel and black leather wall stopped her short.

  A pair of large hands reached out and steadied her before the wall stepped away to become a long-legged, tall, well-muscled man. A man who annoyed her no end by sticking firmly in her mind day and night for close to five weeks.

  “Beg pardon, ma’am.” Marshal Evrett Quinn spoke with deep, slightly raspy tones that caused every nerve in her body to cry out for attention.

  Scared spitless that he would recognize her, despite changes to her appearance, Kiera looked up into honey brown eyes wide set under a broad brow. His narrow nose sat between angled cheekbones shadowed with a day’s growth of beard. A square jaw framed a generous mouth that wore such a beguiling grin that Kiera tilted her head in fascination.

  Nothing about his expression or demeanor indica
ted he associated her red hair and practical feminine riding clothes with a blonde desperado in buckskins.

  He bent, broke that mesmerizing gaze and plucked his black Stetson from the floor. He must have dropped it when she bumped into him.

  “No pardon me, please. I should pay closer attention to where I’m going.” She sounded breathless and felt slightly dizzy. What in the world is wrong with me? I wasn’t moving that fast.

  “Let’s agree that we should both be a bit more careful,” he suggested.

  “By all means.”

  He was staring at her again.

  Kiera forced herself to look away.

  “Ahem. We should finish making our purchases.”

  Kiera blinked. The voice came from the man just to the right of the marshal, the same man who’d been with Quinn at the canyon.

  The marshal shook his head and gestured with his hat to the other man. “If you’ll excuse me, my friend here insists on leaving.”

  “By all means.”

  The men stepped aside to let her pass.

  Kiera left the building but paused on the porch to catch her breath. Something was definitely wrong with her. She wasn’t normally clumsy or short-winded. She stared out at nothing for a moment. She wanted to run, but instead moved with slow deliberation. Best not to attract attention. She became aware of a fluttering sound and turned to see the sides of the wanted poster flapping against the breeze.

  The porch had cleared, save for the man in the black bowler, who leaned against the far rail, smoking a cigar.

  Ignoring him, she stepped forward to study the image that supposedly displayed herself in all her horse-stealing, murderous glory.

  Kiera shook her head. Guns blazed in the hands of the snaggle-toothed, snarling woman who stared out from the full body portrait. Shaggy hair straggled from underneath a battered ten-gallon. Round eyes, thin lips, and a flat nose completed the face. Overly generous breasts bloomed above a caricature of a waist and hips that any dancehall queen would be proud to own. Crossed gun belts decorated those hips, and holsters hung low against each thigh over sturdy denims, while snakeskin boots with pointy edged rowels on the spurs completed the illustrator’s idea of a hard-riding, female desperado. A brief sentence told observers that the Wildcat had yellow hair and pea green eyes. Anyone with information was requested to contact the Laramie Ledger or the Office of the U.S. Marshal, Wyoming Territory.