Rebel Yell (24 page)

“The trio rode downslope to meet us. Turned out, they were friendlies—three civilian trackers who were working as scouts for Fort Pardee. I'd done some scouting for the Army and to my surprise, I recognized them. Friendly acquaintances, all three. An Indian and two white men. They're the men in the hollow.

“The Indian is named Tonk, short for Tonkawah. The Tonkawah were a tribe of Texas Indians who have been pretty well wiped out by the Comanches over the last half century. The last few survivors have a big hate on for Comanches, as well as being ace trackers and manhunters.

“The white scouts are Noel Maddox and Steve Dirkes. Maddox was born on Christmas Day, hence the name ‘Noel.' Oddly enough, he and his folks pronounced the name so it rhymes with
mole
. He's better known as Mad Dog Maddox, a veteran mountain man and trapper who'd been with Pathfinder Fremont and Kit Carson on one of their last expeditions into the wilderness before the war.

“Dirkes is ten years younger than Maddox but trail-wise and trouble-savvy. He scouted throughout the Southwest for the Army's Surveying and Topographical Corps, mapping and exploring lands acquired from Mexico by war and treaty.

“They joined us in our mission.

“The marauders' tracks told many a story for those of us who knew how to read sign. One of the most intriguing was the progress or rather lack of progress of the stolen howitzer and munitions wagon.

“The howitzer was heavy and so was its accompanying wagon filled with powder and shot. From the beginning of the trek from Fort Pardee, they traveled well behind the rest of the column, even behind the last of the horde of camp followers making the march on foot. I think it was not only because they were weighty and traveled slow but because of fears of an explosion in the munitions wagon.” Sam stopped speaking for a moment, thinking of the disastrous explosion at the Boneyard meet between the Hog Ranch gunrunners and Comanches. He knew such fears could take on a real threat.

“In any case, as the caravan wound its way farther and farther south, the howitzer and wagon steadily fell back more and more, eventually dropping out of sight several miles behind the rear of the column. As we represented Fort Pardee, we resolved to attack the laggard artillery transport should the opportunity present itself.

“Several hours passed and the transport crew lost sight of the column and vice versa. I assume the marauders and auxiliary irregulars got impatient. The Free Company and its trailing rabble horde wanted to get to their main camp so they could get to the all-important task of dividing up the loot. Then they could get on with such all-important matters as drinking, gambling, and wenching.

“The artillery transport crew was out of luck. They'd get to camp as soon as they could but nobody was going to wait for them. They grumbled. All the good shares of loot would be gathered up long before they finally reached camp. The crew whipped and cursed the horses, trying to get more speed out of them. The result was that the animals became overtired and needed ever more frequent rest breaks.

“The twelve-member crew halted at sundown and decided to have some food and drink before completing the rest of their trip. They built a fire and broke out some bottles of whiskey, the last few left undrunk during the long trip south.

“They didn't bother to unhitch the horses but left them in place in harness and yoke. According to the bits and pieces of conversations we overheard, it was the horses' fault—the dumb brutes—for not hauling the heavy load faster, so let them wait while the crew looked after their own needs.” Sam shook his head. Not a way to treat a horse.

“The transporters sat around the fire, eating and drinking, having as good a time as they could without being in camp. No loot and no women tended to put a damper on the festivities, but they carried on, carousing as best they could. But they were not entirely stupid. They set out sentries before starting to eat and drink. One swiftly fell asleep and the other was soon drunk.

“We attacked at nightfall.

“Tonk crept up to them one by one, quietly cutting their throats, then joined the rest of us as we got into position just outside the circle of light shed by the campfire. We opened fire without warning. It was not a game with rules. It was serious business—
war
. Any impulse of restraint was erased by thoughts of the mass poisoning at Fort Pardee. What followed was more of a firing squad than a fight.

“It was over very quickly. Two marauders remained alive when the shooting stopped. I wanted them taken alive for questioning.

“The first wouldn't talk. Otto blew his brains out. The second talked plenty.

“According to him, the Free Company is camped at Sidepocket Canyon, a box canyon west of Wild Horse Canyon. The company was massed in advance of a planned attack on Hangtree town, which would be taken, looted, and burned. The plan is to then roam the countryside, picking off the ranches along the Liberty River in the county's Long Valley.

“That's what we needed to know. Maddox slit the prisoner's throat so Otto didn't have to waste a bullet.

“We gave the artillery transport horses enough water to refresh them but not so much that they would be sluggish and slowed. Tonk and Dirkes got the howitzer team back on the trail and moving. Otto climbed up into the driver's seat of the munitions wagon, took up the reins, and followed.

“I set their course for Cross's Cut, following an evasive path to throw off pursuit, first plunging west to clear the outer range of the Breaks, then going south where plains footed the western range. The hills screened us from being seen by Free Company lookouts. We continued south for some miles before turning left into a pass that wound through the Western Breaks and into Wild Horse Canyon, emerging well below and out of sight of Sidepocket Canyon. Eventually, we were on the Wild Horse Canyon trail.

“Two hours later, we arrived at the western opening of Cross's Cut. We followed the pass to its eastern end, coming out on Cross ranch land, and took the dirt road between the ranch house and Hangtree Trail, following it until the ranch was in view, laid out under the moonlight.

“I rode alone the rest of the way to the ranch house, leaving the others in the hollow with the howitzer and powder wagon.

“That's all of it,” Sam concluded.

Johnny went to the cupboard and took out a couple bottles of whiskey. “Take these to your men. They've earned it. Coot'll fix up some grub so y'all can chow down.”

“How come I got to cook?” Coot complained.

“After that poisoned chili, even your cooking won't taste so bad,” Luke said.

With many a groan and grumble, Coot rustled up some grub.

Sam delivered it to his men. While they ate, Steve Dirkes volunteered to ride to Hangtree to warn Marshal Barton and the others in town to spread the alarm. Sam approved the choice. Steve was a level-headed young fellow and a Texan whose word would carry weight with the townsfolk.

When he was finished eating, Dirkes rode off into the night, east toward Hangtree.

Sam and the others sat around drinking and making plans.

The hour was late. The second-floor corridor of the Cattleman Hotel was empty when Ashley Mallory slipped out of the suite of rooms she shared with her father.

The suite had two bedrooms, one for her, one for him. They were connected by a drawing room whose outer door opened into the hallway. Gordon Mallory had retired for the night an hour or two earlier, behind his closed bedroom door.

“What he doesn't know won't hurt him,” Ashley told herself, smiling a secret smile. She wore a robe over a nightdress and a pair of slippers. Her hair was unpinned, hanging loose and free over slim shoulders. Her face was a pale oval in the wan light shed by corridor wall lamps.

Her eyes shone; red dots of color burned in her cheeks. She looked left and right to make sure that the hallway was empty and no one was watching.

She crossed the hall on silent feet to the door opposite her suite, the door to the room occupied by Kale Dancer. Pressing a shoulder against the door, she rapped a knuckle softly on the panel.

No response.

Ashley knocked again, a bit more forcefully. Still no response.

She frowned. Men fortunate enough to be graced by a midnight visit from her were always ready, eager, and waiting. Perhaps Kale hadn't heard her. She knocked again.

Nothing. She put an ear to the door panel, hearing no sounds from within. Was it actually possible that he had fallen asleep while waiting for her?

That would really be too much, intolerable! But she doubted it. Kale was a most ardent suitor, bold to the point of rashness.

He might have been called away on some late errand. Kale Dancer was a very important man, subject to all kinds of unusual appointments and mysterious meetings night and day. It was something she got used to when acting as a traveling companion of her father.

Ashley almost giggled at the thought, but the reality of her position firmed up her self-control. She really couldn't afford to be caught doing what she was doing. She played a dangerous game.

Still, a lady can only stand for so much. She knocked again, a bit more sharply, softly calling out, “Kale? Kale?”

He must have been called away on unexpected business. Of all the damn inconvenient times! Her opportunities for nighttime rambles were few and far between and could not, must not, be wasted.

Light shone through the narrow slit at the bottom of the door where it failed to meet the floor. On impulse, Ashley gripped the doorknob, turning it. The door was unlocked. She opened it, stepping inside.

Kale Dancer's suite, smaller than hers and Mallory's, had an outer drawing room, inner bedroom, and bath. A globe lamp sat on a drum table in the drawing room. The light was low, the room dim and shadowy.

Kale Dancer sat slumped in an overstuffed armchair beside the table. He wore dark pants and a maroon velvet smoking jacket with quilted golden lapels and collar over a white ruffled shirt. His bare feet were tucked into a pair of expensive backless Moroccan leather slippers. His head was bowed, chin resting on chest, face hidden by shadows.

So . . . he was sleeping after all!

“Well, he will have to exert himself to extra efforts before I allow him back into my good graces,” Ashley whispered. But she must not play too hard to get. Time was precious. Time was fleeting!

Standing over him, she gripped his shoulder, giving him a good shake to waken him. Kale failed to rouse. Not even a murmur came from him.

Was he drunk? He had certainly consumed enough whiskey after dinner.

But that was impossible. He was all man. A real man. She had never known him to be unable to hold his liquor.

She shook him again.

Dancer's upper body slumped to the side, sagging against a cushioned chair arm. His head tilted, rolling to the side, exposing his face and neck.

He was dead. His eyes were open in horror, staring, sightless. His face was a gray, corpselike pallor. A gaping wound showed below his chin where his throat had been cut from ear to ear.

Ashley would have screamed, but she lacked the breath. Her heart lurched in her chest, skipping a beat. Dizziness crashed over her. She feared she might faint—but of course she could not, must not!

Deep down she was a survivor, and her well-practiced instincts came rushing to the fore. Raising a hand to her open gaping mouth, she bit a knuckle to keep from shrieking.

She must not be found in Kale's room alone with his dead body. Dead—murdered! How would she explain her presence?

She had to get out. She staggered to the door, throwing it open.

Standing on the other side of the doorway, blocking her way, was Gordon Mallory. She was surprised to see him, but not surprised that he could stand.

Their eyes met and she knew,
knew
! His was the face of death.

Mallory advanced, crossing the threshold. Ashley stepped back, retreating. He closed the door behind him, sealing them in together, off from the rest of the hotel, the world.

His eyes shone, no longer seeing her as a daughter. Little flecks of saliva clung to his lips. “I fear your lover is in no condition to receive you,” Mallory said, husky-voiced. He spoke slowly, relishing the sound of each word. “I paid him a visit first. So sorry, my dear.

“Well, not really,” he added, his hands coming up. They were large hands, thick-fingered and steady. Not a tremor disturbed them.

His hands fastened on her long swanlike neck, squeezing with great strength, strength born of mania and mad love thwarted. He lifted her into the air, holding her at arm's length with her feet off the floor.

His hands were strangler's hands. He did what had to be done....

When Mallory was finished, he set her down gently on the floor, quite dead. He looked down, studying her. “Faithless slut!” he whispered almost tenderly.

Quarles found them later. The perfect manservant, quick-witted, efficient, he stepped inside, locking the door from within.

Mallory stood in the same place he had been when he lowered her to the floor.

“Good Lord, Commander, what have you done?” Quarles asked.

The comedy was finished, the masquerade done. Gordon Mallory was really Jimbo Turlock, Supreme Commander of the Free Company.

Kale Dancer was Turlock's second in command.

Ashley Mallory was Osage Sally Potts, only recently the prettiest kept woman in the Oklahoma Territory.

Turlock had been on a secret mission concerning the upcoming Hangtree venture. He'd taken the role of Mallory, pretending to be a wheelchair-bound war veteran so none would suspect his real identity.

Sally Potts, Turlock's woman, impersonated his daughter, while Kale Dancer took the role of family advisor.

All would have gone well, but Sally and Dancer had a secret plot of their own. Just not so secret that Turlock hadn't found out about it.

He looked up, eyes focusing on Quarles, noticing him for the first time. “I had to do it, Quarles. They were conspiring against me. They were conspiring against me and, what is worse, against the Company. That is unforgiveable.”

“Certainly, sir,” Quarles agreed. He set about arranging their getaway.

Within the hour, Turlock, Quarles, and Piney were mounted on fast horses, riding west out of town on the Hangtree Trail.