Outlaw Hearts (3 page)

He headed Outlaw through a thick growth of trees and into a clearing, halting the horse and just listening for several minutes while he pressed a neckerchief to his wound. He heard no sound but the wind and birds. The morning rain had finally cleared, and it seemed as though it might warm up a little. He urged his horse to a grassy rise so he could see better. When he reached the top, he scanned the horizon in all directions, seeing no sign of anyone following. In the distance he could see what looked like a cabin and an outbuilding, as well as a larger building that had been burned. He winced and grasped at his belly, again cursing. He knew he had to get help or die. Maybe someone at the farm below could help him—if not willingly, then at gunpoint.

He urged his horse down the hill, pulling a revolver from its holster as he came closer, waiting for someone to come out and greet him—or shoot at him. Everything was quiet, and no one made an appearance. He approached the cabin. “Hello!” he called out, watching the windows carefully. One of them was broken out and boarded up. No one answered his call. He carefully surveyed the entire area, seeing no wagons, no cattle, no horses. In the distance, fencing around what appeared to be a freshly plowed field was knocked down, as was more fencing around what was once apparently a corral. He rode toward the burned-out building, which he could tell had been some kind of barn. Disaster had most certainly struck here, and from all appearances it had been a man-made disaster.

“Raiders,” he muttered. He knew the signs. He had done some of this kind of work himself when he rode with Bill Kennedy and his gang; but those days were done, and Bill Kennedy and his whole bunch, or what was left of them after Jake's shoot-out with them, were also after Jake's hide. “I not only have the law after me, but
outlaws
too,” he muttered to his horse.

He felt himself growing weaker, knew he at least had to lie down somewhere; and Outlaw also needed to rest. He managed to dismount and he led the horse to a nearby shed, opening the door cautiously at first. Inside were three empty stalls and some feed. “Here you go, boy,” he said quietly to Outlaw. He led the horse inside. “I'm sorry I can't unsaddle you, but at least you can eat.” He holstered his revolver and took a knife from its sheath on his belt, slitting open a sack of oats and grunting with great pain as he managed to hoist it to a feeding trough and dump it in. He stumbled against the stall then, again cursing his luck.

He removed his heavy, wet slicker and threw it over the side of the stall, then made his way back outside, closing the shed doors so his horse would not be spotted. He headed toward the cabin, then stopped for a moment at the sight of what appeared to be a fresh grave out behind the house. So, someone had died in the raid. He tried to remember when he himself had stopped killing only those who challenged him in a gunfight and had allowed himself to use his guns on innocent people. Well, he hadn't really, had he? They had all been shooting back at him at the time they died. Still, it was his own raiding and robbing that had made them raise weapons against him.

Why it bothered him lately to wonder about such things, he wasn't sure. It irked him to no end, and he thought maybe it had something to do with a man getting older and leaving the wild ways of his youth—if thirty could be considered old. Deep inside, whenever he pulled a gun on someone, he felt fourteen again, and the person staring back at him and his gun was his father. Maybe that was why he couldn't stop killing. Each man he shot was like killing his father all over again.

He mounted two low steps to the front porch of the cabin, again taking out a revolver. He knocked at the door, but there was no answer. He carefully opened the door, seeing a tidy but somewhat barren main room. Apparently the raiders had taken plenty, and whoever was left behind had straightened things up as best he or she could—most likely she, from the looks of the braided rugs on the floors and the ruffled curtains at the windows. Even the window that was boarded up still had curtains hanging on it. He figured the glass had been shot out by the raiders, or by someone shooting back at them.

He studied the room: a table and two chairs, a narrow bed in one corner, where a man's clothes hung on hooks. He spotted what looked like a doctor's bag sitting on the bed. On weakening legs he walked over to open it, seeing a doctor's instruments inside. “I'll be damned,” he muttered. Maybe he had picked the right place after all. A doctor would be more likely to help him rather than try to hurt him or even turn him in; but why would a doctor be living way out here on a failing farm?

For the moment he could not afford to stand around and wonder. He could only hope whoever lived here would come back soon and would help him, either out of the goodness of their hearts, or at the point of a gun. He'd have to take the chance. To try to keep going would mean certain death.

He stumbled over to a curtained-off room to make sure no one was hiding there. The room held a homemade log bed that was neatly made and covered with a bright quilt. A single chest of drawers stood against a wall, and a washstand held a bowl and pitcher in the corner of the room. A gold-colored trunk sat against one wall. It looked old and well used. It had a deep gouge in the front of it, and the lid was painted with flowers, the colors now faded. A small table and lamp sat beside the bed.

He grunted again with pain as he walked to the bed and threw back the covers, caring little if he got blood on the blankets. He fell onto the bed, still wearing his woolen jacket and his boots. He rolled to his back, dearly wanting to stay awake and remain alert, but a blackness kept flooding over him. Finally the blackness stayed. His grip loosened on the revolver and the gun remained resting on his stomach as his hand slipped to his side.

The sun was beginning to set by the time Miranda pulled her wagon to the front of her cabin. Sheriff McCleave, who had accompanied her home, rode up beside her. “Awful sorry the posse lost that man today, Mrs. Hayes,” the sheriff told her. “But we aren't through searching. You sure you shouldn't have stayed in town?” The lawman dismounted and hurried over to help Miranda climb down from the wagon.

“I'll be fine, Sheriff. For one thing, Jake Harkner doesn't know anything about me or where I live, and he certainly can't go back to Kansas City and ask around now, can he?” She walked to the back of the wagon. “The man has either ridden as far from here as he can get, or he's lying dead somewhere.” The words brought a sick feeling to her stomach. “Either way, I have nothing to fear from him.”

“But you've got money coming to you if we can find him, dead or alive. We'll keep scouring the countryside, ma'am.”

Miranda picked up a basket of supplies from the wagon and turned to face the man. “You do what you have to do, Sheriff; but if you do find him, give the money to the Methodist church. I wouldn't feel right taking it.”

McCleave shook his head. “Not many folks would turn it down, and you'll need it if you still plan to go to Nevada.”

“Phil Albright at the bank said he would give me what my father had put into the farm and would take it over and resell it. It won't be much, but with what my father had left in his savings, it will be enough.”

The sheriff frowned. “I don't like the idea at all, Mrs. Hayes. How is a widow woman like yourself going to get all the way to Nevada?”

“Where there is a will, there is a way, Sheriff. I just need a week or so to get things in order. Then I'll come back to town and look into perhaps going to Independence and seeing if there are some parties leaving for Nevada with whom I could travel. With all that gold and silver out there, there are new people heading to that area every spring.”

The sheriff took the basket from her, shaking his head. “You're a brave lady to think about traveling all that way with strangers to find a wayward brother you don't even know will be there anymore.”

Miranda turned and picked up another basket. “I don't know what else to do. The four years we've been here in Kansas have been filled with nothing but loss and heartache for me. I met my husband here and lost him to the war, Wes ran off, Father was killed, the farm has gone under.” They were walking as she spoke and they both stepped up onto the porch of the cabin. “I need to get away from here, Sheriff.” Miranda looked up at the man, studying the hard lines of his face. She guessed him to be perhaps forty. He was not tall, but he was brawny, his only soft spot being his hefty middle. He was neither handsome nor ugly, a rather ordinary-looking man who was always watching out for her, hoping for more than friendship. She smiled. “I think I've proven I can take care of myself.”

McCleave grinned back at her. “Well, I'd agree with that.” The two of them went inside and set the baskets on the table. McCleave touched Miranda's arm as she turned to go back outside for more supplies. Miranda stopped and met his gaze, seeing a mixture of concern and desire there. “I, uh, I admire you a lot, Mrs. Hayes. You're a right handsome woman, except that you could use more meat on these small bones.”

Miranda blushed at the awkward compliment. “I try to put on some weight, but no matter how much I eat…” Her smile faded. “I know what you're saying, Sheriff, and I appreciate the compliment and the concern.” She felt a tiny flash of desire, and she knew it was not because she was attracted to the sheriff, but more from the distant longings she had experienced lately of just wanting to be with a man again, to have a man love her, hold her, protect her, share her bed. “This is something I have to do, Sheriff. I'll be fine.” She patted his arm. “If things don't work out, maybe I'll come back.”

McCleave studied her delicate, pretty face, the eyes that sometimes looked gray and sometimes looked blue, the honey-blond hair that he liked to picture hanging loose around her bare shoulders. She had to be so lonely, he thought. He missed his own dead wife, had often thought what a pleasant wife the widow Hayes would make. The late afternoon had grown much warmer, and Miranda wasn't wearing her cape. His eyes moved over the pale blue flowered calico dress she wore, a dress that fit her nicely rounded figure temptingly, flattering her slender waist and a bosom surprisingly generous for her small frame.

The man sighed, wishing he could have sparked enough interest to make her stay around; but Miranda Hayes was a woman who had her mind set on something else, a woman who stuck to her decisions. He nodded resignedly. “Well, I hope you do come back. You just be sure to wire us at Kansas City and let all your friends know you're all right once you reach Nevada.”

“I'll do that.” Miranda walked back outside with him. “I can finish up here, Sheriff. You'd better get back to your duties.”

“You sure?” The man looked around, his eyes resting on the burned-out barn for a moment, then to the boarded-up window of the cabin. “Mrs. Hayes, it's awful dangerous out here for you.”

“Those raiders have taken what they came for. They hit most of the farms around here, and they know there's nothing left to take. Stop worrying, Sheriff. I really would like to be alone now. It's been a long day, and I just want to go inside and rest.”

“You should have stayed the night at Mrs. Kent's, like she offered.”

“I don't like to put people out. In fact, you didn't need to follow me out here. It really wasn't necessary.”

“Well, I just thought I'd make sure there weren't any problems.” The sheriff tipped his hat to her. “You take care now. Keep your door bolted once you're inside, and you get packed up and back to town as soon as you can.”

“I will. I promise. And you take care of yourself.”

The man smiled and walked to his horse, mounting up. “See you in a few days then.”

“Yes. And keep those reporters and other nosy people away from here,” she told him, shading her eyes as she looked at him against a setting sun. “I don't like being a celebrity because I shot a man. I don't want to talk any more about it.”

The man tipped his hat. “I understand, but I don't think you understand the significance of what you did, Mrs. Hayes. Jake Harkner is known for his expertise with those revolvers he wears. He's got quite a reputation—rode with Bill Kennedy and his bunch for a while. Rumor has it he started out by killing his own pa down in Texas. Don't know if that's true, but I've never heard anything good about the man. Don't you be feeling sorry for what you did. If that man is dead, you did society a favor.”

He winked and rode off, and Miranda turned back to get a gunnysack full of more supplies from the wagon. She carried them inside, her stomach still in knots. She still could not quite settle her own feelings over what she had done. But—killed his own father! Was it true? What kind of man would do a thing like that? She had loved her own father so dearly, still mourned his loss. How could a man live with himself after doing such a thing? Maybe the sheriff was right. Maybe if Jake Harkner were dead from her gunshot, it was best for all. Maybe the Lord had directed her to fire that pistol.

She walked back outside and sat down on the steps for a moment, watching the sun sink behind a hill to the west. After a day of answering constant questions, telling her story again and again, she felt spent. Dangerous or not, it felt good to be here alone, to have nothing but quiet. She studied the horizon. Where was Jake Harkner? She almost hoped he was dead. She could rest easier knowing that than to think he was lying alone somewhere, bleeding, in pain, dying slowly with no help. Did a man like him deserve to die that way? Probably. He had lived by the gun and should die by the gun, the way his innocent victims had died, especially his poor father.

She sat thinking and enjoying the quiet for several minutes before deciding she had better put up the horses before it got too dark. She rose and took hold of the harness to one of the draft horses, leading the animals toward the shed and thinking how easily either horse could crush her small bones if he got the notion to be ornery. But the two gelded animals were as gentle as kittens, obedient and always willing. They had been easy to sell. Next week she would deliver them to the owner of a hardware store, and they would be used to pull delivery wagons for the business. She would miss them.

She stopped and patted the neck of each horse. “I'll have your harness off in a minute, boys.” She opened the shed door, then gasped when she saw a strange horse inside the shed, nibbling away at fresh oats. The animal was still saddled, a rifle and a shotgun resting in boots on either side of the saddle.

Fear gripped Miranda in the form of real pain in her chest. Whose horse was this? She noticed a dark green slicker tossed over the side of the stall. It looked familiar. Hadn't Jake Harkner been wearing a slicker like that when she saw him in the store?

Every nerve end came alert as her gaze quickly darted around the shed, but she saw no sign of human life. She put her hand to the strange horse's flank and could feel that the animal was cool. Apparently it had been there for several hours. If so, where was the man who had ridden it?

She moved closer to study the animal, noticing dried blood on the saddle and stuck to the left side of the horse's coat. Whoever had ridden it was bleeding, which made it even more likely it was Jake Harkner! But why here? The man couldn't possibly know where she lived! And where was he? Waiting for her? Hiding somewhere, ready to shoot her down in revenge? Still, why would he put his horse up in her own shed, knowing she would surely see it?

She put a hand to her head, which suddenly ached fiercely. Her heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in her chest. She felt like a fool for not checking everything more thoroughly before Sheriff McCleave left. Now he was too far away to even hear a gunshot.

She was here alone, with a stranger, most likely a man bent on revenge, somewhere on her property, but where? She told herself not to panic. She had to think logically, be cautious. She moved past the draft horses to the wagon and reached under the seat to take out her father's Winchester. She cocked the rifle and looked around, holding the gun in a ready position.

“Wherever you are, come out now!” she said sternly, trying to sound unafraid. Her only reply was the soft quiet of the early evening. She checked around the shed once more, then walked back outside, her eyes glancing in every direction, her ears alert. She decided the horses would just have to wait in harness for a while. There was no time now to tend to them.

She checked behind the shed, scanned the open land all around the cabin. Since the raid, there were really no buildings left but the shed and the cabin, and the land was so flat, except for the high hill to the west, that there really were no good hiding places outside. Even the hill itself was treeless. That left only the cabin.

The cabin! Surely whoever owned the horse wasn't inside the cabin! And to think that she and Sheriff McCleave had been inside there themselves! Was it possible someone could have been lurking in there the whole time the sheriff was with her? If so, he was either unconscious from his wound, or lying in wait for her to be alone.

She slowly approached her tiny log home, walking completely around it, seeing nothing. She approached the root cellar at the north wall of the building, swallowing back her fear as she reached down and flung open one door, then pointed her rifle into the cellar. “Come on out if you're in there!” she demanded. “Just get out and ride away and no one has to be hurt!”

Again her reply was only silence. She moved around to fling open the other heavy metal door, wishing it was brighter outside so she could see better down into the small dugout. “Did you hear me? Come out of there!” She reached down and picked up a couple of medium-sized rocks, flinging them into the dark hole, but all she heard were thuds as they hit the dirt floor. She knew from the size of the cellar and the small space in the middle of the surrounding shelves that if someone were down there, she could hardly have missed him with the rocks.

She cautiously stepped closer and kicked one door up with her foot, sending it back over and slamming closed. With her rifle aimed at what was left at the opening, she moved around to the other side and kicked that door shut. She backed away then, watching the cellar a moment longer, before turning and heading for the cabin's front door, her heart pounding even more wildly. Unless the owner of the horse had just wandered off, the cabin was the only place left where he could be. She looked down and saw a couple of spots of what could be blood on her porch. Why hadn't she or the sheriff noticed it before? How could they both have been so careless?

She cautiously pushed open the door with the barrel of her rifle, then stepped inside. Everything still appeared to be in order. Raising the rifle to a ready position then, she headed for her curtained-off bedroom, hoping she wasn't so worked up with fright that she would pass out if confronted. She moved to the wall and pressed her back against it, then peered around just far enough to peek through a crack between the edge of the curtain and the door frame.

At that moment, Miranda Hayes thought perhaps her heart would stop beating altogether, and she found it impossible to stifle a gasp. “My God!” she whispered. There on her own bed lay Jake Harkner, apparently unconscious, one of his infamous revolvers lying on his belly. He must have been there the whole time, even when Sheriff McCleave was inside the cabin! How had he ended up here, in her own house? Did he know she lived here? Had he come to kill her but been overcome by his own wound? Was he faking now, waiting for her to get closer?

She stepped inside the room, quickly raising her rifle again when he moaned. She studied him a moment, noticing that his forehead and the skin around his eyes looked sickly pale. Blood stained the cotton blankets beneath him, and his forehead and hair were bathed in sweat as well as more blood from where Luke Putnam had slammed his rifle across Jake's head. She had worked enough with her father to know this was not a man ready to rise up and shoot her. He looked more like a dying man.