A Big Sky Christmas (20 page)

Gideon Kane sipped from the glass of champagne and watched the woman cross the room toward him.

Her walk was a thing of sinuous grace. Her blue eyes were full of temptation, and her mane of blond hair draped over her bare shoulders, dipping toward the creamy swells of her breasts exposed by the scandalously low neckline of the gown she wore. She could get away with such an outfit because her family was rich. Her name was Deirdre Burton.

Kane had taken her to his bed a couple times, and she had assumed that meant they would get married, creating a marital and a business relationship between their families. He had other ideas, however. He had quickly become bored with her that first night and given her another tumble later on just to make sure it hadn't been just an off night for him.

That experience only confirmed his first impression. The thought of spending the rest of his life with someone as bland and complacent as Deirdre Burton held no appeal for him at all. Good Lord, he told himself when he considered the idea, he'd have to take a new mistress every few weeks just to keep from dying of boredom.

Savannah McCoy, now, she would be a different story, Kane thought as he took another drink of his champagne. Someone as fiery as she could keep him interested.

She was an actress, after all. From one night to the next, she could be anyone he wanted her to be. . . .

“You give the best parties, Gideon,” Deirdre said as she came up to him. Musicians played softly on the other side of the big ballroom. “I'd love to dance with you.”

“Perhaps later,” he told her. “I have a lot on my mind right now. Business matters.”

He had expected Eli Harrison to be back with Savannah by now. It had been more than a week since the wagon train had left Kansas City.

Deirdre leaned closer to him and said in a throaty voice she thought was seductive, “I can take your mind off of business if you'd like, Gideon. I guarantee, you won't be thinking of anything except—”

He stopped her by pushing the half-empty glass of champagne into her hand. He had spotted Jenkins coming toward him, and he could tell by the expression on the butler's face that something had happened.

“Excuse me,” he said curtly.

She had taken the glass instinctively and stood there with a surprised expression on her face. That look turned angry as he pushed past her and walked away, but he ignored it.

“What is it?” he asked quietly as he and Jenkins met in the crowd of well-dressed men and women—Kansas City's elite—filling the ballroom.

“Mr. Harrison is back,” Jenkins said equally quietly.

Kane's pulse surged as he caught his breath. If Harrison had returned, that meant—

He quickly asked, “Is she with him?”

With a doleful look on his face, Jenkins shook his head.

The anticipation Kane had felt was replaced abruptly with fury. “Where is he?”

“In the study.”

Kane stepped past the butler without another word. Several of his guests smiled and spoke to him as he left the ballroom, but he paid no attention to them. His rudeness might cause a minor scandal among the city's upper crust, but he didn't give a damn.

Harrison had a haggard look on his ugly face when Kane came into the room. His appearance testified that he had spent several long, hard days in the saddle.

Kane closed the door hard behind him and snapped, “What happened?”

“We trailed the wagon train for a while, like you said for us to do. The girl's there with those immigrants. We saw her. Hell, I had my hands on her.”

“But you let her get away?” Kane couldn't believe it.

“MacCallister,” Harrison spat out. “He stuck his nose in. The man's as big as a blasted grizzly bear, and even faster than that. We tangled, and I did good just to get away from him. The fellas I had with me weren't so lucky.”

“If you didn't get Miss McCoy, it doesn't matter if you got away from him,” Kane said coldly. “You failed.”

“This time.” Harrison's right hand clenched into a huge fist. “I didn't take enough men with me the first time. I'm going to round up some more and go after the wagon train again. I've got a score to settle with that big bas—”

“I don't care about your scores,” Kane cut in. “I just want Miss McCoy brought back here, and I won't tolerate another failure, Harrison. Do you understand?”

“You bet I do. I can hire a dozen men?”

“Hire two dozen if you want. Just bring the girl back here.”

“And if anybody else gets hurt along the way? There are a lot of innocent pilgrims on that wagon train.”

The scornful look that Kane gave him was more than enough of an answer to Harrison's question.

 

 

Harrison spent the evening in some of the worst saloons, taverns, and dives in Kansas City, scouring them for gunmen who would be willing to sign on for the job of taking Savannah McCoy away from that wagon train.

He had tried being stealthy, sneaking in and carrying off the girl with no one the wiser until it was too late to stop them, and that hadn't worked at all. Things were going to get ugly next time. There would be gunplay, and people would die. And Harrison didn't care as long as he got what his boss was after.

If he let Gideon Kane down again, he knew he might as well keep going and never come back to Kansas City. He had seen Kane fly into a rage once when a drunken freighter had bumped into him on the street and his filthy boots had gotten dung on Kane's shoes. Kane had beaten the man to death with his walking stick, right then and there.

That wouldn't happen to him; Harrison wouldn't stand still for such an attack, and Kane no doubt knew that. He would just hire as many men as it took to beat Harrison to death rather than do it himself.

Harrison was in a squalid saloon, looking for hardcases willing to hire on to use their guns, when two men sidled up to him at the bar. Harrison barely spared them a glance. They were tough enough in a way, he supposed, but not really the sort of ruthless professionals he was after.

But the smaller one, who had eyes like a pig and a swinish face, said, “Word's gettin' around that you're hirin' men.”

Harrison shook his head. “You must have heard wrong, mister.”

The man got a shrewd look on his face—if a pig could be said to look shrewd. “You're not goin' after that wagon train Jamie MacCallister's leadin' to Montana Territory?”

Harrison stiffened. He supposed he had let a few too many hints slip when he was making the rounds of the saloons. But what did it really matter? Where he and the men he recruited would be going, there wasn't much law. In most places, there wasn't any. “What if I am?”

The short, squat man said, “My name's Keeler.” He jerked a thumb at his taller companion. “This is Holcomb. We signed on as scouts to go with that wagon train when our pard Jeb Ralston was supposed to be the wagon master. That was before MacCallister broke his leg and stole the job for himself.”

That was interesting, Harrison thought. “So you've got a grudge against MacCallister?”

“Damn right we do. But there's more than that, mister. We went over the route with Jeb more'n once. I'd say we know where MacCallister's takin' those wagons just as well as he does. Maybe better.”

Going by what he'd heard about Jamie MacCallister, Harrison doubted that, but he was intrigued anyway. “You think you could help me catch up to them?”

“I know we could,” Keeler said confidently. “And if you plan on tanglin' with MacCallister . . . well, we wouldn't mind gettin' in on that, too.”

He and his men would be able to travel faster if they knew where the wagon train was going, Harrison thought. They might even be able to get ahead of the wagons and set up an ambush. MacCallister would be watching his back trail, but he probably wouldn't expect death to be waiting in front of him.

“Keeler,” Harrison said as he stuck out a big paw, “you've got a deal.”

Days of searching hadn't turned up any clues to the whereabouts of the men who had stolen the loot from the train robbery. The failure filled Eldon Swint with a fury he was barely able to contain.

When he finally found Lucas, Mahaffey, and Pearsoll—and he
would
find them, he had no doubt about that—he would see to it that they died long and painfully for daring to steal from him. Before he was through with them, they would wish a bunch of bloodthirsty Apaches had gotten hold of them instead.

The problem was . . . he didn't know where they were. The frontier was a mighty big place. Without some sort of trail to follow, it might take months, maybe even years, to locate the thieves.

Swint was sitting in the Bella Royale, seething as usual and trying to distract himself with a bottle of whiskey. It wasn't working. He glanced up as Charley Green entered the saloon and crossed the room toward him. Green looked a little excited about something, which was unusual for him. He was usually about as stolid as a lump of stone.

Without waiting to be invited to sit down, Green pulled back one of the chairs and lowered himself into it. He reached for the bottle, but Swint pulled it out of reach.

“You look like you've got something to say, Charley,” Swint told his second in command. “Spit it out first, then maybe you can have a drink.”

“I might have a line on where those three varmints took off to with our money.”

Swint's bushy, almost colorless eyebrows crawled up his forehead in surprise. He pushed the bottle back where Green could reach it. “Tell me.”

“Bodie Cantrell.”

Swint's eyebrows came back down in a frown. “What about him?”

“He disappeared the same night, didn't he?”

“Well, yeah,” Swint admitted. “But he told me he was leaving the gang. He wouldn't have done that if he was mixed up with Lucas and those other two. That was just a, what do you call it, coincidence.”

“Maybe, but Cantrell and Lucas were friends. Lucas could've told Cantrell what he and Mahaffey and Pearsoll were plannin' to do. Shoot, for all we know, stealin' those double eagles might've been Cantrell's idea.”

Swint restrained his impatience and the urge to take the bottle away from Green again. “I've been over and over this in my head, Charley. You're not tellin' me anything that I don't already know. Let's say you're right and Cantrell was part of the whole scheme, maybe even the mastermind, although I still don't know why he'd draw attention to himself ahead of time. We don't know where Cantrell went any more than we do Lucas, Mahaffey, and Pearsoll.”

“Maybe we do,” Green said with a self-satisfied smile. “I talked to a fella who saw Cantrell ride out with a wagon train the same morning that the others vanished with our loot.”

Swint leaned forward sharply in his chair, sensing with his predator's instincts that this might be the lead they had been looking for. “How'd you happen to do that?”

“I've still been goin' around town askin' questions, describin' all four of those hombres, not just Lucas and the other two but Cantrell as well, on the chance that he might've been involved. I found a fella who saw him with those pilgrims who were headed to Montana. It was just pure luck, I reckon, Eldon. Luck, and bein' stubborn about it.”

“But the man you talked to, he didn't see Lucas, Mahaffey, and Pearsoll with the wagon train?”

Green shook his head. “No, but that don't mean anything. They could've rendezvoused with it later, after the wagons left town. That probably would've been the smart thing to do.”

Swint considered the theory. It made sense, but it was far from what he'd consider proof. On the other hand, they hadn't found any other leads so far. . . .

“But that ain't all,” Green went on. “There's a fella goin' around town puttin' together a crew of hired guns to go after that wagon train.”

Swint's nostrils flared as he took a sharp, angry breath. “Going after
our
money?” he demanded.

Green shook his head again. “No, from what I hear, they're after a girl who joined up with the immigrants here in Kansas City. She's some sort of actress, and they're workin' for a fella who's stuck on her and wants her brought back.”

“I don't see what this has to do with us and that missing money,” Swint said.

“I talked to some of the boys about Cantrell. They said that
he
was stuck on an actress from that show, too, and I figure it's got to be the same one, boss.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Because he quit the gang with no warnin', and then he shows up with that wagon train, too. It's all got to be connected.”

Green was a good man, plenty tough, and he followed orders well and could be depended on. Swint had never considered him to be all that smart, though. But as he followed his lieutenant's reasoning, he had to give Green some grudging credit for his intelligence. The theory Green had worked out actually made sense, and it was the best explanation so far for what had happened.

Plus it sure beat nothing, which was what they had come up with so far.

“So what are you saying, that we need to follow that wagon train?”

“Well, it's a place to start, anyway,” Green said.

“And if you're wrong,” Swint snapped, “we'll have lost a lot of time. Enough time that we might never be able to find those blasted thieves.”

“It's up to you, Eldon,” Green replied with a shake of his head. “I've never pretended to be in charge of this gang and don't want to be. You're the boss and we'll do whatever you say. I just thought—”

“And you did a good job. I'll admit that.” Swint took the bottle back from Green, tilted it to his mouth, and swallowed a long swig of the fiery liquor before thumping the mostly empty bottle down on the tabletop. He had reached a decision. “Round up the rest of the boys. Get some pack animals and lay in plenty of supplies. We're liable to be on the trail for quite a while.”

“So we're goin' after the wagon train?” Green asked excitedly.

“We're going after the wagon train,” Swint agreed. “And it's a long way from here to Montana Territory.”