Beyond Betrayal (18 page)

What Samson needed to know was where they were taking them prior to selling them. They had to be holing up somewhere immediately after each raid until the fuss died down enough for them to herd the cattle out of the territory. More than likely, they were using the waiting time to alter the brands on the cattle too. He was going to have to come back out here with his deputy, and a couple of other men if he could round some up, to start combing the hills.

He was also going to keep an eye on Wes Powell. To Samson's way of thinking, the man had not had an adequate explanation for why his distinctive piebald mare had been reported seen near the Bar K when Jaimie Cox was killed. Powell merely claimed that it had to be a case of mistaken identity because neither he nor his horse had left the Lazy M. A couple of other hands had backed him up on that, but Samson was suspicious. It would be pretty hard to mistake that mare. Especially since there just weren't that many in the area.

He frowned. A couple of the hands from the Rocking E might have piebalds, but he didn't think their peculiar coloring could have been mistaken for Wes Powell's mount. Still, maybe Samson would have to swing by and have a talk with Simon Earl on his way back to Red Rock. It might be interesting to see how many more head that ranch had lost to the rustlers recently.

Much as he hated to contemplate it, Samson was pretty much convinced that one of the ranchers had resorted to rustling to survive, and was simply rustling a few of his own cattle too in order to avert suspicion. All the ranchers were in dire straits. Callously, the guilty party's method of survival came at the expense of neighbors who could not afford the loss.

Samson closed his eyes, pondering the problem in that half-sleeping, half-waking state that he'd found often yielded answers that eluded the fully alert mind.

The problem was that his mental list of suspects was almost equal to the number of ranches in the immediate vicinity. He thought he could probably discount the Elk Creek ranch since it was owned by an absentee British landlord. Lord Fallon or something fancy like that. Samson had never met the man. Of course it was possible that the foreman, Rex Turner, had decided to conceal the ranch's losses from his employer in order to preserve his job, but Samson didn't think it likely. Rex was the kind of man you could trust at your back.

And Samson was pretty certain he could discount the Devil's Fork since Tom was incapable of riding and Eve just didn't strike him as the type to stoop to rustling.

He wanted to reject the Flying L—he liked Mr. and Mrs. Harlin—but hadn't quite convinced himself yet. The Flying L had had some hay stores to tide them over the winter, and that had helped. They'd only lost about fifty-percent of their herd to the starvation caused by the deep snows and long winter versus the seventy-five percent losses or higher that had been sustained by the larger ranches which had relied entirely on pasture. The Harlin's were good church-goin' folks, but they were gettin' on in years. Certainly they were too old to start over. And that was what planted the seed of doubt in Samson's mind. There was no tellin' what a fellow might do in Harlin's situation.

His primary suspects, however, were the Rocking E—owned by Mr. Simon Earl who'd always had a very high opinion of himself and his placement in the vast scheme of things—and McTaggert's Lazy M. A secondary suspect was the Bar K, owned by Joshua Kane, where Jaimie Cox had been killed. Somehow, though, he just couldn't see Kane killing one of his own men. Still, stranger things had happened. For all he knew Cox could have been having an affair with Kane's beautiful and amorous young wife. Rumor was that more than one cowhand in the territory had had the pleasure. Kane could have used the rustling as an excuse to get rid of a rival. Maybe Samson would have to have another talk with Kane . . .

Samson awoke with a start. It was still dark as pitch, but long years of experience told him that dawn was only an hour or so away. He instinctively reached beneath the edge of his bedroll, closing his fingers over the butt of his Colt for security before he realized that the noise that had awakened him was simply Fong stoking the fire in the stove. He relaxed, closing his eyes again though he knew he would not sleep.

A few moments later, the door to one of the bedrooms creaked slightly as it opened and he heard the quick light steps of a woman. Delilah? he wondered, though, stubbornly, he refused to heed the inner voice that prompted him to look. Then Eve spoke quietly, greeting Fong, and Samson knew that Delilah was still abed. Deciding that he wanted to be up and dressed before she rose, he rolled from his bedroll, tugged on his boots and stood to recover his shirt from the back of the rocking chair where he'd draped it the previous night.

"Oh, Sheriff Chambers. . . you are awake," Eve remarked quietly upon seeing him. She walked silently toward him. "I wonder if you would be so kind as to go in and visit Tom for a while? He wants to speak with you, but I'm afraid he's not well enough to join us for breakfast this morning."

Samson studied Eve's face, searching for a clue as to what was in the offing, but saw nothing in her expression beyond fatigue and worry. "Sure thing, ma'am."

"Thank you," she said, offering him a weak smile. "Fong has the coffee ready, so I'll pour you and Tom each a cup and, if you don't mind, I'll let you deliver it when you go in?"

"I don't mind."

A moment later, Eve handed him two steaming cups laced with sugar and fresh cream and he turned toward the bedroom he'd seen Tom enter the previous evening. Eve opened the door for him to enter and then closed it firmly behind him.

A lamp, it's flame burning low, did little to dispel the gloom, but it provided enough light to see. In addition to the bed, the small bedroom contained a dresser with a scarred mirror, a wardrobe, a narrow wash stand and a chair which had been positioned next to the bed. Bright yellow curtains adorned the single window and the homemade quilt that covered the bed sported a flowered design of a corresponding yellow hue against a dark blue background. Tom, looking even more pale than he had the previous evening, was propped against a pile of pillows in bed.

He didn't even try to smile. "Have a seat Sheriff," he said, gesturing weakly toward the chair.

Samson sat and placed Tom's coffee within easy reach on the edge of the wash stand. He eyed the man on the bed gravely. "How are you feeling, Tom?"

Tom grimaced. "You've heard the rumors?"

Samson nodded, sipped his coffee and said nothing. What could he say?

"Well, they're true. Unless the good Lord sees fit to deliver a miracle, it looks like I'm dying.” Tom waved a hand weakly. "Oh, I still have the occasional good day, but they're getting farther apart. You know," he mused aloud, almost as though he was talking to himself, "death is a strange thing. It's a fact of life. We all recognize it and know that someday it will happen to us. And yet, I think there's a part of each and every one of us that believes we'll somehow escape it. Until. . . one day you find yerself starin' down its throat."

The expression in Tom's fever-glazed eyes suddenly sharpened. "I heard that before you became Sheriff, you were a hired gun. That right, Matt?"

Samson nodded. "On occasion, if I believed in the cause, I took employment as a hired gun."

"Never heard of a Chambers before, but that was probably because you were down South. Right?"

"Mostly," Samson conceded, not to mention the fact that he'd gone by another name then too. "I was never a hired killer though," he added. "Folks tend to hear about those fellows a bit more often. There is a difference between a hired gun and a hired killer."

"I know. And it's a hired gun I'd be looking for.” Tom coughed slightly and then spent a moment catching his breath.

"Why would you be looking for a gunhand?"

"For Eve."

"I don't follow."

"She won't leave this place, Matt—even after I'm gone. She says she belongs here. But there are a few people out there who don't agree with her. I've already had two crazy-low offers from thoughtful neighbors tryin' to buy me out. This valley has some of the best grazin' land in the territory, and they know it. But even if the price had been fair, I would have refused. . . for Eve's sake."

Tom fell silent and Samson read between the lines. "You think somebody will try to force her out."

Tom nodded. "I'm sure of it. Like I said, this valley is rich and it borders on three other ranches. Two of those, the Rocking E and the Lazy M, could certainly use the pasture. The Rocking E wouldn't mind access to the river either. Earl's creeks tend to dry up in mid-season. Then there's the Elk Creek. I haven't heard anything from Lord What's-'is-name, but he lost more head this past winter than any other rancher in the area. Near to ninety-percent I heard. He could very well turn his eyes this way.” Tom looked at Samson. "One way or another, I think it's a pretty safe bet to assume that at least one of those ranches will try to get this land. And I don't want my wife to be forced out."

"I'm not a hired gun anymore, Tom," Samson said. "I can keep an eye out for her, but I'm not sure what else I can do."

"I know. I know.” Tom closed his eyes and swallowed as though in pain. Then slowly, he reached out a trembling hand to grasp the coffee cup on the wash stand. Samson, knowing the strength of a man's pride, particularly in front of another man, didn't help him but merely sipped his own coffee as Tom moistened his throat. Finally Tom spoke again. "Do you know anyone, Matt?" he asked. "Someone you'd trust enough to safeguard your own wife if you had one."

"That's a tall order, Tom."

"Yeah, it is. But do you?"

Samson leaned back in his chair, thoughtfully eyeing the ceiling as his mind turned back over the years and the men he'd encountered. "I can only think of one man who might be right for what you have in mind," he said. "Last I heard, he was in Dodge City, I think. But I don't even know if he's still alive."

"Who is he?"

"His name is Adam Colton. He's not a man you'd ever want to cross, but he's a good man where it counts."

"Adam Colton . . ." Tom repeated. He frowned as though trying to place the name. Then his expression cleared and Samson knew he'd either recognized the name and was satisfied with what his memory told him, or he'd decided to simply take Samson's word concerning Colton's character. "Can you contact him?"

"If he's still alive, I'll find him."

Tom's brow cleared, and for the first time since Samson had entered the room, he seemed to relax slightly. Then, reaching under the edge of the mattress, he removed a small package wrapped in brown paper. "Here," he said, passing it to Samson. "Give that to him. It should be enough to pay him for about four months. Two if he's expensive."

"Won't Eve need this?"

Tom shrugged. "There's not enough there to make much of a difference as far as the ranch goes. Besides, the first thing she has to do is hold on to this place."

Samson nodded and slid the package into his shirt pocket. Then he regarded the once vital young man lying in the bed. "I'll do my best to watch over her, Tom. You have my word on it."

Tom smiled weakly and extended a hand in thanks. As the two men shook hands a wealth of meaning passed between them, unspoken but understood.

*   *   *

Two days later, Eve and Rattlesnake Joe escorted Delilah on her return to Red Rock. They planned to get some supplies for the ranch while they were there, thus Joe drove the wagon while Eve rode her favorite gelding, dubbed Sundance. Delilah might have stayed another day had things at the ranch been better, but she knew that Eve continually neglected chores on the ranch in order to visit with her. Besides, she didn't feel she had the right to rob Eve and Tom of any of the private time they had remaining. And if she was to help them, it was time to begin her work at the Lucky Strike.

Delilah and Eve had talked over the situation concerning the bank during her visit, and it had been decided the Delilah would simply deposit what funds she could directly into Eve's account at the bank. With luck, it would be enough to make the mortgage payment when it came due. If not, Eve would be forced to sell some of her cattle to make up the shortfall in order to meet the payment, which would leave the ranch unable to generate the operating capital it needed for the next year. Still, such a move, if it became necessary, would at least buy Eve and the Devil's Fork some time. Time enough for Delilah to try to increase the funds available to help her.

Tom, Delilah had learned, was not aware of the dire straits the ranch was in. Determined that he not waste his precious strength on worry, Eve had concealed as much of the reality from him as possible during his illness, shouldering the burden alone as she had begun to shoulder so much. Delilah worried about her. It would take a very strong person, man or woman, to weather what now faced Eve. Still, she had come from strong stock. They both had. They already had come through a lot, and survived.

"We're almost there," Eve said, her words drawing Delilah from her thoughts. "There's O'Hara's Lumber Mill.” The lumber mill was on the outskirts of Red Rock, separated from the town by a swift, cold mountain creek dubbed Silver Creek. Past the lumber mill and across the bridge, on opposing sides of the road were the white-washed school house and church, easily visible in the distance against the verdant backdrop of rich meadow grass. "Civilization," Eve said. "Somehow it doesn't hold the same appeal it once did. Still Red Rock is better than some of the places we lived—it's a nice quiet town, for the most part—especially since Sheriff Chambers took over."