The Outlaw's Secret Page 21

  Her indecision ended when Tate slapped the rump of the horse and the beast leaped forward. Clutching the reins, Essie led the animal up and out of the ravine. At the top, she stopped and spun around to look back at Tate. In the moonlight, she saw him lift a hand in parting.

  Swallowing back a sob, Essie squared her shoulders and waved back. Then, pointing the horse south, she spurred him into a gallop. She had a sheriff to find and bring back and only one day to do it.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Tate was in the middle of a dream—one in which Essie had lost her horse and was trying to make it to Casper on foot—when he found himself jerked from his blanket and onto his feet.

  “Where is she, cowboy?” Fletcher snarled into his face, his breath rank. “Where did she go?”

  He blinked in the bright light, trying to understand Fletcher’s words. Over the outlaw’s shoulder, Tate saw Clem and Silas watching them with concerned expressions.

  The sight of a white paper in Fletcher’s fist brought sudden remembrance to his tired brain. “Essie’s gone?” Tate said, playing innocent.

  Fletcher tightened his grip on Tate’s shirtfront. “Yes, she’s gone. Took a horse, too. But not before writing us a pretty little note.” He shoved the page under Tate’s nose.

  “What does it say?”

  Anger flashed in Fletcher’s eyes right before he shoved Tate backward. He stumbled but managed to stay upright. “She says she’s gone for supplies, but I don’t buy it. She’s split, I know it.” Wadding up the paper, he tossed it onto the ground near Tate’s feet.

  He stooped to pick it up and unwrinkled the paper to read Essie’s words. He hadn’t bothered to read them earlier.

  Dear Gentlemen,

  I cannot abide to see Silas suffer any longer or lose his leg because of negligence. Therefore, I have taken it upon myself to ride back to Casper and procure the needed medical supplies. I will return with them by sundown.

  Your companion in travel,

  Essie Vanderfair

  Fighting a smile at the pluck and formality of her words, Tate folded the note and pocketed it. “She says she’ll be back by sundown.”

  “And you believe her?” Fletcher stalked the edge of the camp, his tension palpable. “For all I know, you helped her, cowboy.”

  Tate kept his face impassive. “Guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”

  Fletcher ground to a halt. “Wait and see? Wait and see?” His face had grown red with fury. “We ain’t waitin’ or seein’.”

  For a brief moment Tate thought of Winnifred Paige. Had she been given a real glimpse at this man she pined for? He hoped so; he hated the idea of her stepping blindly into the choice of aligning her life with any outlaw and Fletcher in particular.

  “Clem.” Fletcher whirled on the man who winced in response. “Saddle up your horse. You’re goin’ after the girl.”

  “Now, Fletcher,” Tate said, keeping his voice calm and soothing. “She said she’ll be back. We don’t need to go traipsing—”

  The gun was drawn and pointed at him before Tate could finish. Belatedly he realized it was his revolver. Fletcher must have relieved him of his weapons prior to waking him. “You aren’t traipsin’ anywhere, cowboy. You’re stayin’ here where I can keep an eye on you. But Clem...” Fletcher waved the gun at the other outlaw. “He’s gonna see if he can apprehend Miss Vanderfair. Got it?”

  Tate knew when to keep silent. Now would be one of those times. Dipping his head in a nod, he remained in place, even as Fletcher moved backward to join Clem by the horses. The man never broke eye contact with him.

  Once Clem had ridden off, Fletcher marched back to the ashen campfire and motioned to it with the gun. “You get to make breakfast, since Clem and the girl won’t be doin’ it this morning.”

  Though he wouldn’t admit it to Fletcher, Tate was grateful for the task, for something else to occupy his thoughts. He felt mostly confident Clem wouldn’t reach Essie, not with her four-and-a-half-hour lead. But what if her journey had been impeded by a thrown horseshoe or an encounter with Indians or simple fatigue?

  He closed his mind to the possibilities as he set about starting the fire and heating some beans. Biscuits weren’t his specialty, but he did his best.

  Fletcher remained in a dark mood as he ate, and neither Tate nor Silas said much through the meal. When they’d finished eating, Tate asked if he could attend to Silas’s leg. Despite a vicious glare from Fletcher, the man gestured with the gun for Tate to go ahead.

  After removing the bandage, Tate rinsed the cloth in the stream. He didn’t like the coloration on the fabric—Silas really did need those supplies. He wrung the bandage out and carried it, dripping, back to Silas.

  “She’s not going for supplies,” Silas whispered in a hoarse voice, his keen eyes on Fletcher.

  Alarm robbed Tate’s mouth of moisture and stilled his hands as he tried not to gape at the injured outlaw. The man was supposed to have been comatose yesterday when they’d discussed the absence of Essie’s ransom and her leaving.

  “You’re wrong,” Tate replied in an equally low voice, bending over the man’s injured leg and doing his best to keep his expression impassive. “She is going for supplies.” At least he suspected Essie would get them in addition to convincing the sheriff to come back with her.

  Silas gave a thoughtful nod, then added, “But that ain’t all she’s going for, is it?”

  For a man of few words, Silas knew how to say the ones that inspired the most fear. Would he speak to Fletcher? Did he know Tate’s true identity? He kept silent as he finished wrapping the man’s leg and tied the ends of the cloth.

  “I ain’t telling.” Silas held Tate’s gaze long enough that he could see the sincerity there. “After this,” the outlaw said, gripping his leg, “I’m out. He don’t care about us. Not anymore. Maybe not ever.”

  Fletcher lumbered to his feet. “What’re you two yappin’ about over there?”

  Without hesitation, Silas said, “Just jawing about the past and our hopes for the future.”

  “Well, quit it.” Waving the gun at a spot near the dying campfire, he growled, “You sit over here, cowboy.”

  Knowing he needed to comply, at least until Essie and the sheriff showed up, Tate obeyed the order.

  The next two hours passed slowly. Fletcher alternated between sitting and pacing the camp in agitation. Silas mostly slept.

  Tate attempted to nap, as well, certain he’d need all his wits about him later on. But it was hard to snatch more than a few minutes of sleep when he wasn’t certain if Fletcher would get fed up and plant a bullet in him, after all. No one spoke. The only sounds were the restless noises of the horses and the distant trill of birds. The sun rose higher. Tate welcomed the warmth.

  Another thirty minutes passed, according to his watch. He tried figuring out where Fletcher had stowed his rifle, but without being allowed to move around the camp, he couldn’t be sure where to look. He was debating if the gun was by the horses or tucked inside Fletcher’s bedroll when the man went suddenly still.

  “Someone’s comin’.” Fletcher lifted the revolver, pointing it down the ravine. The plodding sound of a single horse carried on the morning air.

  Tate tensed. It couldn’t be the sheriff, not yet. Which meant it had to be Clem returning. Did the outlaw have Essie with him?

  Several anxious minutes ticked by before Tate spotted the horse and rider. It was Clem, all right, but he was alone. Tate exhaled with relief.

  “Where is she?” Fletcher hollered, his face creased with wrathful lines.

  Clem stopped the horse. “I didn’t find hide or hair of her, Fletch. She musta been long gone by the time we got up.” He dismounted and led the horse over to the others. “Guess we’ll just have to up and wait like her note said.”

  Wh
eeling around, Fletcher shot Tate a hateful look. “I know you’re behind this, cowboy. So here’s what we’re gonna do.” He barked over his shoulder at Clem, “Tie him up, Clem—good and tight. I don’t want him takin’ off like the girl did.”

  Tate wanted to leap up and have it out with the outlaw leader now. But he couldn’t risk acting irrational and botching up bringing these men to justice. Fighting the instinct to run or defend himself, he allowed Clem to approach and tie his hands in front. Then removing Tate’s boots, Clem tied his feet together at the ankles.

  “Sorry, Tex,” the man apologized in a low voice. But that didn’t deter him from doing a thorough job. The ropes dug into Tate’s wrists and through his socks from Clem’s secure tying.

  Tate nodded, wanting Clem to know he understood—they were both just doing their jobs. There was goodness in these outlaws, after all. Just like there was goodness, he still believed, in his brother. At least he’d seen it in Silas and Clem. He wasn’t so sure about Fletcher.

  “Get nice and comfortable,” Fletcher mocked as he finally holstered the gun. “You’re gonna be there all day, cowboy. Until Miss Vanderfair decides to show up. And if she doesn’t...” He let the warning float there before continuing. “I already told you at the beginning that her life and yours are tied together. It don’t matter no more if Silas makes it or not. Come sundown, if the girl ain’t back, you won’t live to see sunrise.”

  * * *

  Full sunlight lit the prairie by the time Essie reached Casper. She’d managed to limit her rests to a handful, stopping only when she found a stream. While she’d grown used to riding nearly that far in a day, she felt exhausted in mind and body. Her fears over Tate’s safety had drained her of energy. She’d only been able to stomach a few bites of the biscuit and jerky.

  She nudged the horse to pick up its pace as they headed down the street toward the sheriff’s office. There was no time to dawdle. If there had been, she would’ve liked to stop off at the hotel and freshen up in one of the rooms. But her appearance, or the lack thereof, was a low priority this morning.

  When she reached the office, Essie dismounted and tied the horse’s reins to the hitching post. She hastily ran her fingers through her windblown hair and flicked a mite of dirt from her dress. Then she marched to the door. Twisting the handle didn’t produce the desired effect. Locked. Was the man not in yet? Panic throbbed in her chest as she tried peering through the curtained window. A flicker of movement from within confirmed someone was inside.

  Essie lifted a fist and pounded as hard and loud as she could against the door. She didn’t let up until the door flew open and an older man with graying hair stood there, scowling at her. A napkin had been tucked into the collar of his shirt.

  “What are you causing such a ruckus for at this hour of the morning?”

  Standing at full height, Essie gave him a patient smile and swept past him into the office. “Sheriff, I’m here to collect you and a posse of your best men to ride after some outlaws.”

  The sheriff looked taken aback, but she wasn’t sure if it was from her words or from her barging into his office uninvited. “Come again?”

  “A runaway outlaw gang is a time-sensitive matter, sir, so I ask you to pay careful attention to what I’m going to tell you.” She took a seat in the chair opposite his desk where a breakfast tray sat. “Please, sit down, Sheriff.”

  Frowning still, he shut the door and plunked down into his chair. “You’re interrupting my breakfast, miss.”

  “And for that I do apologize,” she said, bending forward to show her earnestness. “But a man’s life is in danger if we don’t act fast.”

  He blew out a sigh as he picked up his toast and began buttering it. “What seems to be the trouble?”

  “A few days ago, three men robbed your bank.” Essie fought a satisfied smile when the man dropped his toast. “Two of those men are outlaws, but the third isn’t. He’s really a Pinkerton detective posing as his outlaw brother. Now they’re camped about forty—”

  “Hold up a minute.” The sheriff leaned back in his chair, eyeing her suspiciously. “I happen to know for a fact that the Texas Titan was with those two men. I saw him with my own eyes. And that ain’t the first time, either. I shot that man several months back—actually thought I’d taken him out for good.”

  Essie demurely clasped her hands together. “And it did not strike you as odd that he made such a complete recovery only a few months after being almost fatally wounded—and that he’d be addle-brained enough to come back and rob the same bank again?”

  At that, the sheriff’s confidence faltered a little. “Well, he must have,” the man blustered. “I’m telling you I saw him.”

  “You are mistaken, sir. The man you saw two days ago is not the Texas Titan. It was his identical twin brother.”

  The man laughed and picked up his toast again. “Now you’re just joshing me. I never heard anything about the Texas Titan having a brother, let alone a twin.”

  “They look exactly alike,” she said, fighting her growing irritation. She hadn’t expected this meeting to be easy, but the man seemed dead set on not believing her. “The biggest difference is a scar the detective has behind his right ear. I’ve done plenty of reading up on this particular outlaw, and there’s never been a single mention of such a scar in any of the newspapers or on the Wanted posters.”

  The sheriff lifted his shoulders in a shrug as he took a bite from his toast. “Don’t mean he doesn’t have it.” He swallowed and patted his mouth with his napkin. “What did you say your name was?”

  Essie forced another cordial smile. “I didn’t. I am Essie Vanderfair.”

  “Like the millionaire Vanderfair?” he asked, his eyebrows rising.

  “Distantly related. Now, we still need to discuss your plans for riding back—”

  He held up his hand to stop her. “How do you know anything about these men?”

  It was a fair question, though she didn’t relish answering it. What would he think of her actions? “I am a dime novelist.” She sat straighter and kept her chin lifted in confidence. “While returning to Evanston after a visit to my publisher, six days ago, my train was beset by a gang of outlaws.”

  “I heard the train was robbed by five men,” the man said around another bite of breakfast, “down Medicine Bow way.”

  “Yes, and the outlaws included a man who I mistook to be the Texas Titan, not knowing he was really a Pinkerton agent posing as his outlaw brother.”

  When the sheriff made no further comment, she continued. “Being at a crossroads in my writing career, I seized what seemed to be a fortuitous opportunity to ride with these men and interview them. This way I could collect, in person, valuable research.”

  His eyebrows shot upward again. “Let me see if I have this right, Miss Vanderfair.” She nodded for him to go on. “You are a woman writer of dime novels who knowingly went with a group of wanted men. And now, for some reason that you still haven’t told me, you’re asking for me and my men to ride off with you to meet up with these five outlaws.”

  She tried not to grimace at his incredulous tone. “Three outlaws, actually. One of them ran off with the money from the train robbery during the storm a few days back—that’s why the leader decided to rob your bank.”

  “That still leaves four,” the sheriff replied.

  Essie shook her head. “Remember, one of them is a detective.”

  The sheriff shot her a placating smile. “Forgive me. One is supposedly a detective who no one has ever heard of, posing as his outlaw twin brother.”

  “Put like that, sir...”

  “I’m just stating the facts, Miss Vanderfair.” He bent over the desk, his napkin dragging through his eggs. “And where exactly am I gonna find these men?”

  Was he warming to her? Essie couldn’t tell, but she plunge
d on, anyway. “They are camped forty miles north of here. One of them, the man you shot two days ago, is seriously injured. The other two, along with the detective, were in good health when I left them this morning.”

  “You rode forty miles to Casper this morning?”

  “Well, I did leave at two o’clock.”

  Instead of looking suitably impressed or concerned, the sheriff hooted with laughter. “I can’t tell where the fiction begins and ends with you, Miss Vanderfair.”

  “I assure you, sir,” she declared, not bothering to hide her frustration any longer, “that none of what I’m telling you is fiction. This detective, Tate Beckett, needs the law’s help to apprehend these men before they reach their hideout for the winter. He charged me to ride and fetch you.”

  “Fetch me, huh?” He sniffed and folded his arms over his napkin-clad chest. “How do I know you aren’t leading me into a trap?” His gaze narrowed on her.

  Essie matched his penetrating look. “I am not making this up. The lives of two men depend on my errand this morning.”

  He pushed up from his chair, jerking the napkin from under his chin as he did so. Tossing it on the breakfast tray, he loomed over her. “I need proof, Miss Vanderfair.”

  “Proof,” she echoed, dismayed. “I’m afraid I don’t have any other proof besides my word.”

  “Then I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

  “But—”

  He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “Not without sending a telegram to the Pinkertons, verifying your story about this Beckett fellow.”

  Essie glowered at him. “I don’t have time to send a telegram, sir.” Her voice hitched when she spoke of Tate. “The detective, who is a brave and kind man, is in very real danger if Fletcher discovers who he is before I can get back there with help.”

  “Fletcher?” He looked suitably surprised. “As in the Fletcher gang? That’s who you tagged along with?”