Gunpowder Tea (The Brides Of Last Chance Ranch Series) (23 page)

O.T. dipped his finger in the water trough and raised it to his lips. “Salt!” He spit out the word with a stream of saliva.

Annie looked from one man to another. No one moved and she was the first to speak. “What does that mean?”

Stretch slammed his hat on his head. “It means that someone poisoned the cattle on purpose.”

Poisoned?
Annie felt sick to her stomach. “I don’t understand. Don’t cattle need salt to live?” They had passed several salt licks so far that morning.

“Yeah, but too much salt will kill ’em,” Feedbag explained.

“Who’d want to go and do a thing like that?” Taggert asked. He looked every bit as shaken as she felt.

“I don’t know, but let’s stop jawing and get to work.” O.T. spun around and walked away, issuing orders. “Bury these bodies and keep the live ones away from that water.”

Stretch thrust a shovel in her hands. The sound of spades hitting the soil reminded her of the day her father had been buried. It had been cold and rainy that morning, a fitting atmosphere for a sorrowful event.

Today, in contrast, the sun blazed merrily overhead and the unrelenting heat made her feel lightheaded.

“Here.” Taggert held out a canteen of water. “Better drink this.”

Perhaps it was the shimmering air rising from the desert floor, or maybe it was the stench of death all around her. Suddenly she had the craziest feeling that Taggert wanted to take her in his arms. She was equally positive that had he done so, she wouldn’t have objected.

It was a dangerous notion and not one she could afford to entertain. She did not dare think about anything but putting him and his cohorts away for good.

She stood her shovel upright and took the canteen. The water soothed her throat but did nothing to banish her dark thoughts.

“Thank you,” she said in a shaky voice and handed the canteen back.

“Maybe you’d better sit,” he said.

She shook her head. An operative never backed down from a job, no matter how unpleasant. Right now her job was to make the others believe she was capable of becoming Miss Walker’s heiress. “I’m all right.”

He stepped away without a word but the concern on his face spoke volumes. Looking at him, she felt as if her breath had been cut off.

He hung the canteen from his saddle, rolled up his sleeves, and reached into the back of a wagon for a shovel. From beneath lowered lashes, she watched him dig, admiring his power and strength.

Stop
it,
she screamed silently. Swallowing hard, she tore her gaze away.

A glance at a nearby carcass turned her stomach. She gripped the handle of her shovel tight. It was times like this that she wished she’d followed her father’s wishes and had become a teacher. Or married what’s-his-name, the law student her father liked so much. She hesitated momentarily as she remembered something Ruckus said.
“It’s
not my son’s job to please me. It’s his job to please God.”
Why his words came back to her at that particular moment she had no idea.

With grim determination, she plunged her spade into the soft sandy soil and tried to put her troubled thoughts to rest.

Chapter 19

Wells Fargo Detective Agency: We never forget.

A
half-moon lit the nighttime sky, but it was warmer than in previous weeks. For this, Annie was grateful. She shifted in her saddle and Caper nickered. She had been sitting on her horse for the last two hours, waiting. Stakeouts were her least favorite part of the job. She preferred action to sitting around and hoping for something to happen.

Of course, stakeouts in the city were far different from stakeouts in the desert, where there were so few places to hide. She stayed in the shadow of the barn so as not to be seen from the bunkhouse, but should Miss Walker happen to look out the window, she might well wonder what Annie was doing.

It had been a horrible day. It was late afternoon by the time the corpses were buried, the salt water replaced with fresh, and the other water outlets checked.

Miss Walker had taken the loss of cattle in stride. She blamed the other ranchers in the area. “I install and maintain windmills and they want my water,” she said by way of explanation.

It didn’t seem that far-fetched to think that some mean-spirited rancher might have dumped salt into the water trough. The fight for water rights was not new and the recent drought had made things progressively worse.

Still, something about the whole affair didn’t sit right with Annie. For one thing, the location of the windmill seemed all wrong. An outside rancher would have had to pass two windmills before reaching the one called Job. It made no sense. Why not poison the water closest to the property line? Why take a chance on trespassing and being caught?

Her guess was that the perpetrator was someone from the Last Chance and she intended to find out who that person was—if it killed her.

A light flashed in the distance and her thoughts scattered like field mice. Feet pressed hard into the stirrups, she rose half out of the saddle. Another light flicked on and off, followed by a steady glow. She lowered herself. Someone was out there.

The question was, did that same someone poison the water? And if so, what, if anything, did it have to do with the Phantom?

Mr. Pinkerton’s voice echoed in her head.
“I mean it—you’re to
take no unnecessary chances.”

She hesitated, and as if sensing her indecision, Caper whickered and bobbed her head.

The pinpoint of light beckoned like a beacon and the temptation grew too strong to ignore.

Making up her mind, she jerked on her horse’s reins and kicked her sides. “Gid-up!” Caper sprang forward and carried her swiftly along the dusty trail.

She traveled for about a mile before the light went out. “Whoa.” She brought her horse to a standstill, her gaze focused straight ahead. Caper gave a low whicker. “It’s okay, girl.”

The stars were bright, the half-moon orange, and the air still. The lone cry of a wolf broke the silence, followed by a cattle’s long lowing as if to warn the herd of danger.

At first, she thought the pounding was her heart. She then realized the sound was coming from behind. Stretch’s tale of a red camel came to mind but she quickly pushed the thought away. Unless camels wore iron shoes, the racing hooves belonged to a shod horse.

Not wanting to be caught out at this time of night, she slapped the reins and Caper took off. The light in the distance flashed again and she headed straight for it.

She urged her horse to go faster but the horse behind her still gained. Spotting the dark outline of a windmill a short distance away, she made a quick decision. She veered off the trail and made her way through the milling cattle and reached the windmill without mishap. Dismounting, she hid in the shadow of the water tank, though it probably wasn’t necessary since several cattle stood between her and the trail. With luck, the horseman would whiz by too fast to notice her or her horse.

She got her wish. The black steed shot past, and though she only got a glimpse of the rider’s dark form, she knew it was Taggert. No question.

So what was he doing out here this time of night? Who was he in such a hurry to meet?

She slid her gun into the holster at her thigh and mounted. She then followed in Taggert’s wake.

Taggert dismounted and pulled his Peacemaker out of his holster. This was where he thought he saw the light, but maybe not. It was hard to tell. Distances could be deceiving at night, especially in the
desert. He staked his horse and circled the granite wall rising from the desert floor. The jagged spires stood out against the star-pocked sky. The shadows of the lower buttes looked like animals ready to spring.

He crept forward slowly, cautiously, stopping from time to time to listen. Every desert creature seemed to be holding its breath. He stayed in the shadow of the granite peaks and was just about to turn back when he heard something: the slow, steady drip of water.

He holstered the gun and reached into his pocket for safety matches. Striking a match on the sole of his boot, he held it shoulder high. The flickering flame revealed what looked like the mouth of a cave. It was hard to tell how deep the cave went, but he guessed it was deep enough for a hideout. Was this where the Phantom lived? He would know more tomorrow when he checked out the cave in the light of day.

He blew out the match before it burned his fingers.

The crunch of gravel made him reach for his gun again.

Something or someone was coming from behind. He pulled his Peacemaker from his holster and whirled about.

Staying close to the rocky wall, Taggert walked ever so slowly. Something snapped beneath his boot and he froze. Whoever was on the trail had obviously heard it, too, and stopped moving.

Taggert’s ears strained to pick up the softest sound. From a distance came the muffled beat of hooves. Someone was getting away but there was nothing he could do about it. Someone else stood between him and his horse.

He gripped his gun, but otherwise didn’t move a muscle.
Come
out, come out, whoever you are.

At long last the shadow moved forward and stepped into the stream of moonlight.

Taggert practically dropped his gun. “Miss Beckman?”

She froze, her gun pointed straight at him. “Hello, Taggert.”

They stared at each other like two wily animals meeting at a watering hole.

He drew in his breath. “I didn’t expect to see you here.” She was, in fact, the last person he expected to see. The moonlight bounced off her weapon but it was too dark to make out much more than its pocket size. “Plan on shooting anything with that toy?”

“John Wilkes Booth managed and his was a Deringer with one
r
. This one has two.”

She was right in that regard. The original derringers were spelled differently and had only one shot. Imitations such as hers had two shots. “You might be interested to know that this is a Peacemaker—with one
r
—and I’ve got a good mind to arrest you. I believe that’s two
r
’s.”

She surprised him by laughing. “You’re joking, right?”

“No, I’m pretty sure that’s the correct spelling,” he said.

“You have no authority to arrest anyone.”

He hadn’t expected to blow his cover so soon, but his investigation was going nowhere, fast. He didn’t know how Miss Beckman fit in the scheme of things, but he meant to find out and there was no time like the present.

“I’m working undercover. As you unfortunately know, my name is Taggert. Jeremy Taggert. I’m a Wells Fargo detective.” He held up his badge with his free hand.

Even in the pale moonlight the shock was evident on her face. It took her a full moment to recover or at least lower her weapon.

“Th-that still gives you no authority to arrest me,” she stammered.

She was right, of course, but he had no intention of letting such a small detail deter him. “We can remedy that by a trip to town. The marshal has all the authority we need. Not only are you a nuisance, but your presence here tonight allowed someone, perhaps even the
Phantom, to get away. So I suggest you start talking and begin by telling me your real name.”

“Arresting me would be a grave mistake,” she said, “even if you could.”

“Really. Suppose you give me one good reason why.”

She reached into her waistband and held up her palm, revealing a shiny shield. “I’m also working undercover. Pinkerton National Detective agency.”

That was a good reason, all right, but a blow to the head couldn’t have stunned him more. “A Pinkerton?” He could barely get the words out. “You’re kidding, right? But . . . but you’re a woman.”

“Yes, that has been brought to my attention,” she said.

Of all things, a woman detective. Great guns! What an unexpected turn of events. He holstered his weapon. “Okay, I take it back. I won’t arrest you.”

“How considerate of you.” She tilted her head. “So that’s how you escaped jail. Am I right in assuming that the marshal knows your true identity?”

“He does.” The hanging was a setup from the start and it worked like a charm. “And so does the bank president.”

“Mr. Stackman.” She frowned. “It seems like everyone knew your true identity but me.”

“I consider it a compliment to my skills that you didn’t figure it out,” he said. No doubt she was just as annoyed as he for failing to pick out a fellow detective.

“No one told me there was a second undercover agent.”

She sounded angry and he couldn’t blame her. It was imperative that a detective be aware of any other agents in the environment. A lack of such information could result in embarrassment or even tragedy. He knew that from painful experience.

“Did you inform the marshal of your presence?” he asked. Notifying local law enforcement was the first order of business for a Wells Fargo detective. He would be willing to bet Pinkerton operatives were required to follow the same procedure.

“I suspected you and the marshal were in cahoots, but never did I imagine the possibility that you were working on the right side of the law.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You thought Morris was a crook?”