Pale Moon Stalker (The Nymph Trilogy) (19 page)

He read, "'Cures loss of memory, lassitude, nocturnal emissions, noises in the head, dimness of vision and aversion to society.'" He then leaned closer to her and whispered, "If it cured my 'aversion to society,' it might also deprive you of my 'nocturnal emissions.' Best if we don't risk it, love."

"You are a vulgar lout, m'lord." Sky pouted with mock reproof, but squeezed his arm, delighted that she had succeeded in easing his tension. They rode to the edge of town, where the gunfire grew distant and the houses more lavish. Finally, Eustace pulled up in front of a grand-looking two-story place made of gray stone with a large turret jutting above the steeply pitched roof. A spacious porch stretched from the tower around the front to the opposite side of the house. Comfortable-looking rockers and swings flanked small tables, perfect places to enjoy afternoon tea. The white picket fence and meticulous yard completed the picture of homey elegance.

"It's like something from a small town in Missouri, Max. Not at all what I expected."

"I told you Mrs. Simmons' enterprise would be quite different from the Bucket of Blood," he replied with amusement as he helped her from the carriage and asked Eustace to wait.

"Happy to oblige, Capt'n," the little man said with a broad smile. If he was curious about why an English gentleman was taking his lady to a parlor house, he gave no indication.

When Max used the ornate brass door knocker, a large man opened the door. His formal dress did not conceal the fact that he was employed as a protector as well as a butler. His face was creased from sun and wind, his manner wary but polite. When Max offered him his card, saying, "We have an appointment with Mrs. Simmons," the man bowed and ushered them inside.

"I'll give this to the lady. Please wait in there," he replied, gesturing to a beautifully appointed sitting room immediately off the foyer. It contained lovely oak furniture and a settee and chairs upholstered in pale blue silk. The wallpaper was a rose floral pattern with several oil paintings of excellent quality spaced neatly around the room. Sunlight filtered through lace curtains.

"Mrs. Simmons could teach some Colorado millionaires a thing or two about good taste," she said to Max.

"Thank you, Lady Ruxton. I do fear many in England—as well as America—confuse garishness with opulence," said a tall blonde woman stood in the doorway. She had angular features and shrewd gray eyes.

Max stepped forward, bowing as he saluted their hostess' hand. "A pleasure to meet a countrywoman so far from home, Mrs. Simmons."

As Max introduced his wife and they exchanged pleasantries, Sky noted the cultivated tone of Frances Simmons' voice and her confident self-possession. She possessed excellent taste in clothing as well as home decor. Her simple day dress of pale gray linen was only adorned by pearl buttons running from the high-collared neckline to the waist. It was well tailored and elegant, just as the lady herself.

"Please seat yourself and I shall ring for tea. I have it imported from London, a special blend. Would you prefer cream or lemon?"

"Cream for me, lemon for my wife, if you please," Max replied.

Seconds after she used the bellpull, a young maid curtsied at the door and was instructed to fetch the beverage and freshly baked scones. "A proper English tea is never complete without Marie's scones and marmalade."

"A touch of home," Max said with a nod of appreciation, although he'd grown to prefer coffee and sourdough bread.

Sky and Frances made small talk until the heavy sterling tea tray was brought in and the maid dismissed, closing the door behind her as instructed. As their hostess poured for them, she asked, "Now, shall we indulge ourselves in the deliciously crude American habit of speaking directly to the point?"

Max smiled grimly. "Yes, that would be best, considering why we're here."

Sky sat silently, her earlier animation stifled. She merely listened as Mrs. Simmons spoke.

"I have been given to understand by my friend, Mr. Drago, rapscallion Irishman that he is, that you are seeking Jonathan Framme, commonly known as Johnny Deuce. May I push crudeness to the limit and inquire why?"

"I intend to kill him," Max said calmly.

"Capital idea," Frances Simmons murmured, taking a sip of tea.

"Then you've met the man," Sky said, her mouth dry.

The older woman nodded. "Yes, I've had that misfortune. Had he not been born into a family of consequence, he should have trod the boards of the Drury. Such a superb actor when first we met, lamenting the absence of stimulating conversation in the barbaric American West. After interviewing the vile little rodent, I felt confident in introducing him to one of the young ladies in my employ. After all, he is an Oxford scholar and the son of an earl."

"Son of an earl, yes, but scarcely a 'scholar,' our Johnny. He was sent down from university after a fortnight and banished on remittance from England by his own father," Max said.

"Considering his abominable behavior here, I am not surprised. He attempted to molest my employee. Please understand, Lord and Lady Ruxton, my home is a respectable place where only polite conversation and musical diversions are offered. Nothing of a more...personal nature is permitted—ever," she added sternly.

While Max doubted the absolute veracity of that statement, he did not show it, but only nodded.

Sky gasped. "What happened to the poor young lady?"

"She was distressed, but unharmed. You may have noted when my assistant, Mr. Laughlin, ushered you in, that he is a large and most capable man. He ejected that scurrilous vermin before he could do more than tear one of the child's gowns and threaten her with a small quirt he had concealed inside his suit coat."

"I hope Mr. Laughlin gave him a sound thrashing," Max ventured. Frances nodded. "Do you know where he went to lick his wounds?" he asked.

"I have it on good authority that Framme, or Deuce as he is more appropriately called, spent several days recuperating in a house of ill repute near the center of town, on State Street, I believe. But he was ejected from there when he beat a young serving girl with that selfsame riding instrument. He then set out for the Indian Nations, announcing that no one would say him nay if he treated 'squaws' as he wished." She shuddered with revulsion. Then noting Sky's narrowed eyes, she quickly added, "Please forgive me, m'lady, for repeating his vulgar and racially repugnant language. I do so hope I have not offended you."

Sky nodded and managed a smile. "No offense taken, Mrs. Simmons. Going someplace where he can beat and torture Indian girls is exactly what I would expect of Johnny Deuce."

* * * *

The following morning they rode out of Leadville. Sky observed the way Max calmed as soon as the incessant sounds of gunfire faded in the distance. His grip on the reins to their packhorse loosened and his posture in the saddle relaxed as he moved as one with the splendid gray gelding from Steve Loring's stables. She marveled at his natural horsemanship. He was as good as the finest Sioux warrior.

But then, he had been a warrior, too, in a far distant place. Pushing aside troubling thoughts about his nightmares and his unwillingness to share his past with her, Sky said, "I suppose you learned to ride as a boy in England."

He turned in the saddle and looked at her. She was clad in those same soft buckskins she'd worn the day they met. The wide-brimmed hat shaded her face from the bright morning sun. She wore a gun belt on her hip and her custom Yellow Boy was secure in the scabbard on her saddle. "Riding English is quite different from riding out West, but, yes, I did my share of jumping hedgerows as a boy, chasing after my brother."

"Did you hunt foxes?"

"My parents were keen on the hunt, but I never acquired a taste for killing innocents—animals or people."

She could see a fleeting look of pain in old memories, but he quickly turned ahead and kicked his mount to a slightly swifter pace as they started to climb a steep hill. When they crested the ridge, they paused to rest their winded horses and surveyed the panorama of jagged, snow-covered mountains dotted with golden aspens and deep green pines at the lower levels.

"I never tire of this," he said thoughtfully, removing his hat and wiping the perspiration from his forehead. The sun glinted on his hair, so pale against the bronzed skin of his face and neck. "Quite a remarkable country."

"Do you want to spend the rest of your life out West?" she asked.
Do you want to live here with me?

"I've finished with the Queen's empire and don't much fancy Eastern American cities. Yes, I'd like to live here. This is a magnificent land, as yet not totally spoiled by the hand of civilization." He pronounced the last word with mockingly soft English sibilance.

"Whites have poured West, lured by free land, the quick riches of gold and silver, the desire to conquer the wilderness...and destroy its original inhabitants," she said.

"You say that, yet you're more white than Sioux. Where do you choose to belong, Sky Eyes? Do you want to return to Dakota Territory when we've finished our business?" he asked, not certain if he would ever be free of Will Brewster's shadow there.

"My father's family accepts me. You've seen how most whites treat me, not quite certain of my origins, whether I'm a 'squaw' or a lady."

"You are your own woman. Better than any 'lady' I've ever met. Don't try to be anything but true to yourself."

"Does being true to myself mean giving up my search for Deuce?" The words came as a knee-jerk reaction, spoiling the tender moment. She regretted them the instant they left her lips.

Max simply shrugged, his expression unreadable. "Only you know what will give you peace." With that he turned the gray about and headed down the ridge...ever closer to Johnny Deuce.

Sky followed the packhorse, deep in thought, feeling more confused by her conflicting emotions than ever.

* * * *

They reached the Nations after nearly a week on the trail, during which time they shared camp chores and slept beneath the stars, making love in their blankets while lying on the hard earth. No more was spoken about giving up the quest to kill Deuce...or what would happen to their marriage after the deed was done.

If it could be done. They rode through a nameless host of squalid settlements composed of mud huts and ragged tents. Crude wooden saloons were the most substantial structures, serving dusty cattlemen who stopped on their way from Texas to the railheads in Kansas. Life here was short, cheap and violent. Outlaws from everywhere fled to the isolated no-man's land known as the Indian Nations. No single tribe owned the land and no government kept order. It was not an organized territory, but rather a vague jurisdiction contested by Kansas farmers, Eastern railroad barons, Texas cattlemen and the scores of tribes of Indians herded there by the Great White Father in Washington.

No one recalled an Englishman with a fetish for whipping "Injun squaws." As they neared the Red River, the boundary line with Texas, the tension growing between Max and Sky drew close to the boiling point. How long could they continue on? Had Frances Simmons' information been wrong?

Max's nightmares roused them both from sleep repeatedly. When she attempted to soothe him, he withdrew, walking into the darkness far from their campfire, unwilling to speak of the demons eating away at his soul. Often he would not reappear until dawn. Then, haggard and sullen, he would pretend nothing had happened during the night. They would break camp and resume their journey.

At times, Sky wondered if she, too, would end up seeing the face of Johnny Deuce in nightmares for the rest of her life. Will had told her killing his murderer would destroy her life. Perhaps he had been right. Was she throwing away a chance to redeem not only Max's life but also her own because of her thirst for vengeance?

When they rode into the town of Tumbleweed, it appeared little different from a dozen before it, rough, dirty and mean-spirited, as evidenced by a trio of drunks who surrounded a wizened Indian man in the dusty street. They had pulled him from his horse and were shouting curses as they punched and kicked him.

Sky and Max exchanged glances and rode toward the fracas, both noting that none of the men or whores standing on the sidelines appeared the least sympathetic to the old man's plight. The residents simply watched the "show."

"Back me up," he whispered harshly as he dismounted. "Watch the crowd in case anyone tries to interfere." With that he walked up behind the tall, lanky bully rearing back for another kick at their victim. The Limey's Smith & Wesson came from his holster with blurring speed. He quickly brought the barrel down across the back of the man's head, dropping him to the ground, out cold.

Then the weapon pointed levelly at the unconscious man's two associates. One, overly fond of biscuits and gravy judging by the size of the paunch overhanging his belt buckle, touched the handle of the Colt Thuer Conversion revolver in his holster. "Well you might get lucky, old chap," Max said conversationally.

Behind him Sky sat on her horse, the Yellow Boy's barrel moving back and forth in warning. The hammer of the Winchester was cocked. "Are you going to shoot him, Limey?" she asked, mimicking his casual tone.

The fat man jerked his hand away from his Colt as if it were the top of a red-hot cookstove and raised both arms so quickly one filthy flannel shirtsleeve ripped, revealing a malodorous hairy armpit. "Are you the...the Limey?" he croaked.