Beyond Betrayal (21 page)

That incident in Delilah's past would determine his next move. He'd been gentle with Delilah, as he was gentle with all women—he was too big not to be, for he was afraid of hurting them—but, he hadn't been. . . slow. If he'd surmised rightly about the incident in her past, Delilah needed consideration and understanding as well as gentleness. She needed time to learn the joy of physical loving all over again. And since
dearest Kenneth
wasn't around to help her, Samson figured he was the next best choice. If there was one thing he knew how to do well, it was make love to a woman. Now, if he could just wrap up this darned rustling business, maybe he could get her to talk to him about something other than the Cameron's stolen cattle.

At that moment, there was a stir in the herd below and Samson shoved his thoughts aside to concentrate on duty. Two riders below held up lanterns as they moved around the periphery of the herd. If they were simply adding more stolen bovines to the herd, they might just be the two of them. If they were moving them out, there'd be more men. Somewhere.

He peered through the impenetrable blackness until his eyes hurt. Then suddenly two more lanterns flared to life. The white patches on the herd below glowed in the light: white faces, white legs, horns. The herd began to move restlessly.

A short distance away, a match flared briefly. Tillis' signal that he was moving down. Samson drew a match from his pocket and returned the signal before quietly summoning Goliath from the dense shadows.

He needed to get close enough to see who was involved before he and Tillis could put their plan into action. It was going to be tricky.

He suspected the rustlers were moving the cattle out, knowing that on a night as dark as this, with a storm brewing, they were unlikely to be seen. That meant there'd probably be about six men. Possibly more, but he doubted it in a rustling operation like this one. More hands meant more mouths to talk and this had been a real closemouthed affair.

Six men against two. Not good odds, but he'd faced worse.

He mounted, slipped his gloves off and tucked them into his jacket pocket. Then, releasing the thong on his gun, he removed the Colt Peacemaker, ensured that it slid easily out of its holster, and began to make his way quietly down the slope to the canyon floor. He wasn't much worried about the men catching sight of him before he was ready for them. It was a black night, Samson wore unrelieved black, and rode a black horse who, despite his size, was part mountain goat. Still, just to be on the safe side, Samson tugged the brim of his hat down a mite and pulled a black bandanna up over the lower part of his face. If the moon should peak out from all the cloud cover, he didn't want his face showing up like a painted target.

As he drew nearer the canyon floor, he noted that the herd began to surge a bit inside the ring of circling men. Calves bawled for their mothers; steers bellowed; mothers lowed, calling for calves from which they'd been separated. The ground began to vibrate slightly with the concentrated movement of the animals. Ignoring it, Samson focused instead on the men. He could now discern two more drovers, neither carrying lanterns, in addition to the four with lanterns.

Who were they?

Knowing that the rustlers would be driving the herd out through the same large natural tunnel that had allowed them to enter, Samson positioned himself in the shadow of a huge boulder next to the path they would have to take. As Tillis silently arrived, Samson signaled for him to do the same on the other side of the trail. Tillis knew Samson's goal was to identify the men involved and take them alive, if at all possible. Now they had only to wait and watch for the right moment.

Samson shivered as the night wind slid down off the surrounding stone walls. It was still early enough in the season for the nights to be downright cold. A meteor flashed by overhead leaving a powdery trail of glowing coals in its wake. Goliath shifted restlessly beneath him. Damn, he was tired. Tired and cold. He blew on his chilled fingers, but dared not put his gloves back on. He'd never been much good at handling a firearm with gloves on.

Then, finally, he heard the bawling cattle coming nearer and tensed, his fatigue forgotten. He stayed unmoving in the shadow of the boulder as a few head of cattle passed him. It was too dark to make out any brands, of course, but he'd already recognized Wes Powell in the light of the lantern he carried as he rode point. He was sitting a bay horse this time and rode on the other side of the trail. Samson would have to leave him to Tillis for one of the other drovers, swaying a lantern high above the milling backs of the cattle, was only a few paces away now, riding swing. Samson studied him closely. The way the man sat a horse was familiar, but he was having trouble placing him.

Then, he looked up and the lantern light fell directly onto his craggy features. Spade Johnson!

Samson frowned. Well, hell! He hadn't expected that. A Bar K hand rustling cattle with a Lazy M hand? The rivalry between ranches, good-natured though it usually was, was often pretty stiff, and it tended to extend right down to the hands that worked for each brand. Something curious was going on here. Real curious.

"Git on up there!" Spade yelled at a dawdling heifer as his cow pony nipped the steer on the flank to propel it forward. Samson looked beyond Spade, pin-pointing the whereabouts of his comrades as Spade moved by Samson's concealing boulder toward the canyon entrance. The two men riding drag were not carrying lanterns. They were just shadowy forms in the night, barely discernible from the milling herd. He'd have no chance of identifying them until they'd been caught. The problem was that because they were bringing up the rear, if he came out of concealment before they'd passed by, they could catch him and Tillis from behind. Not a good option.

He frowned as he watched the next swaying lantern approach. He and Tillis would have to make their move soon, or risk losing the men up front. He pulled his Colt from its holster in readiness and watched the second lantern-carrying drover draw nearer. This man he identified as One-Eyed Jim Irish. Jim rode for the Elk Creek brand.

Three identified men. Three different brands. Samson was beginning to get a picture of this operation, and he didn't like it. It smacked of a level of organization he hadn't suspected. From his vantage point, it looked like whoever was behind the rustling had recruited hands from different targeted ranches. The hands, working from inside, would know when the best time to hit would be. If he was right, he suspected he would not catch the ringleader tonight. A man smart enough to organize this and tough enough to keep these drovers from cheating him was unlikely to dirty himself by coming anywhere near the actual work.

God, he hoped he was wrong. Because if he wasn't, his best chance of getting anywhere near the fellow behind it all would be to coerce his identity from one of these men. And drovers were, by nature, a closemouthed lot. Even the outlaw ones.

He waited until One-Eyed Jim was almost upon him, and then he gave the signal he and Tillis had agreed upon: three waves of a large square of white cloth. He only hoped there was enough moonlight, feeble though it was, for Tillis to see it. But he couldn't worry about that now. . . because One-Eyed Jim had seen something. And just as Samson had hoped, the man was guiding his horse a little nearer Sam's concealing boulder as he peered into the darkness, trying to decide just exactly what it was he'd seen.

Before he knew what had happened, the rustler felt the cold, steel of Samson's gun-barrel pressing against his neck just below his left ear. "No sudden moves," Samson warned coldly, his voice low. "Unless you want me to pull this trigger."

Jim raised his hands carefully away from his sides. "Evenin' Sheriff," he said cordially. "Any chance we can talk about this?"

"None," Samson replied. "Dismount," he ordered. As Jim began to move a bit too eagerly, he cautioned, "
Carefully
! Where I can see you. And put the lantern down over there.” He indicated a flat-topped boulder a few feet off the trail that would nevertheless be readily visible to the man bringing up the rear on this side of the trail.

When Jim had complied, Samson waved him back into the shadow of the boulder with a single meaningful gesture of the Colt. "Turn around," he ordered.

The drover turned slowly as Samson dismounted. "Ah, Sheriff, come on. . ."

"Shut up!" Samson interrupted him, prodding him with his gun for emphasis. He didn't know how much time he had before that lantern would be investigated.

Jim obeyed, and Samson hastily tied the drover's hands behind his back then ordered him to his knees and secured the end of the rope to his ankles for good measure. That done, he jerked One-Eyed Jim's bandanna from around his neck and stuffed it in his mouth. "Quiet, now!" he warned.

He saw the glint of the man's good eye in the darkness and knew it was filled with an intense anger. One-Eye had been bested. His pride had taken a blow. But Samson didn't have time to worry about that now.

"One-Eye?" a voice called out of the darkness.

"Yeah?" Samson returned in a deep generic tone that would be identifiable as male but not much else as he hastily remounted.

He heard the scrape of a horse's hoof on stone as the caller moved his horse off the trail in search of One-Eyed Jim. "What the hell are you doin' you stupid son of a. . .?"

The click of a revolver being cocked next to his ear cut the man off in mid-sentence. His gun-hand jerked toward his pistol. "I wouldn't," Samson warned.

"Who the fuck are you?" the man growled.

Samson could have asked the same question. "Get down!" he ordered, not bothering to reply. "
Slowly!
"

He repeated the process he'd used with One-Eyed Jim. As soon as the unknown rustler was securely tied next to Jim, he hastily returned to his surveillance of the trail. The last of the cattle had gone by. It wouldn't be long before the first drovers, Wes Powell and Spade Johnson came back to investigate the disappearance of their comrades. Samson was ready. He just hoped Tillis was too.

In the next instant though, a gunshot cleaved the night, its echo ominous and cold within the canyon walls. Then another rang out.

Something had gone wrong.

Samson quickly reached over to douse the wick in the coal-oil lantern: It wasn't going to work as bait again. His eyes straining ahead, he spurred Goliath from cover, staying low over the horse's neck. He knew where Bill Tillis had been before the fracas, and he headed toward that spot now. Bill's camouflage had consisted of the dense shadow afforded by a clump of ancient cedars. Samson ducked beneath one of the boughs as Goliath moved into the trees. "Bill," Sam called quietly, searching the darkness for the hint of a human presence.

"Over here.” The voice sounded labored.

A moment later Samson found him. "You okay?"

"Took one in the leg."

"Bad?" Samson asked, dismounting to kneel at Tillis' side.

"Feels worse than it is, I think. Musta hit the bone. I'll live, but I ain't walkin' anywhere real soon."

Hastily Samson folded the white cloth he'd used to signal Tillis earlier into a thick bandage and tied it as well as possible around the wound. There wasn't time to do more. "How'd you make out before you got shot?" he asked.

"I got Dick Burnett and another fella tied up back there.” He indicated a dense shadow back from the trail. "Just like we planned. But one o' them others came back 'fore I was ready."

"Do you know who it was?"

"Powell I think, but I couldn't swear to it."

Samson considered. So Wes Powell and Spade Johnson were still out there, and now they knew something had gone wrong. "Any idea where he is now?"

"You see that funny lookin' tree on the bluff over yonder?"

Samson peered into the open space beyond the cedars. Just as he was about to give up, the moon slid from behind the clouds and he finally perceived the misshapen shadow, a black void against an indigo sky. "Yeah," he acknowledged.

"Below that," Tillis said. "And about ten or fifteen feet to your left."

"Got it.” Leaving Goliath in the shadows with Tillis, he pulled his gun and began moving. He'd have to make his way around behind the area and see if he could locate the men. Then, he could decide how to take them.

He was crouching behind a small boulder, peering into the shadowy night for his quarry when he heard a bullet whine past his ear. He dove for cover.

~~~*  *  *~~~

________________________

Cautiously bringing his head up, Samson studied the area.

"Well, now, if it ain't the good Sheriff Chambers," a voice drawled loudly out of the night.

Samson tried to pinpoint the man's position. "Evenin' Powell," he returned.

"I sure wish you hadn't took it into your head to come by, Sheriff."

Had he seen a head move in the shadow of that large sycamore across the way? "Why's that, Wes?"

"I really
hate
the idea of killin' a lawman. But orders is orders.” Samson heard the sound of him spitting. "No witnesses."

"That why you killed Jaimie Cox?"

No answer.

Samson heard the crunch of boots on stone as Powell, emboldened now, tried to work his way into a better position for a shot. Samson fired in the direction of that noise. The bullet ricocheted off a rock and whined into the distance. He heard a faint curse a bit more distant and further to his right than he'd expected.