Katherine O’Neal (17 page)

“It occurred to me.”

“And... ?”

“I decided it wasn’t much of a risk. Not
after all we’ve been through.”

Bat smiled tenderly. “I reckon you’re right.
A shame, though. Ten thousand dollars is quite a stake.”

“You didn’t save my life just to turn me in
for ten thousand pieces of silver.”

“I didn’t at that.”

“Do you recall when we met?”

“How could I forget? Was it two or three
years ago now?”

“You and Wyatt, and that dreadful Dr.
Holliday, were pulling that pathetic sham.”

“The one where Doc painted the brick gold and
sold it at a discount to people on the train.”

“And he had the audacity—not to mention lack
of judgment—to attempt to sell it to
me!
”

“And you told him you couldn’t afford it,
but—”

“—If he
did
manage to sell it, he
might split the profits with me. Such indignation!”

He was chuckling softly. “So he sold it to
some greenhorn. When the sucker got off the train, Wyatt and I
flashed phony badges, confiscated the brick
and
the money,
and sent him off with a warning never to show his face again.”

“And when he asked about the money—”

“We told him we needed it for evidence. Then
you showed up and demanded your share for keeping quiet. By God,
you were something. I never saw anyone as good as you.”

They smiled wistfully at each other for a
moment, letting the memories bond them.

“Of course,” he admitted, “we weren’t in the
same league with
your
cons. But those days are long gone.
Now we’re real lawmen. We’ve gone respectable.”

“Which, you must admit, is the most
outrageous con of all. Oh, Bat, things were so much simpler then.
What happened to complicate them?”

“We both took a turn at respectability, I
reckon. Now you’re on the dodge, and I’m too damn busy for my own
good.” He locked the front door. “The only problem with being a
peace officer is they expect you to keep the peace.”

“I saw you buffalo that scamp tonight. A
pretty piece of work, I must say. Although I thought a sheriff
wasn’t supposed to handle town problems.”

“Well, I let it be known if Wyatt couldn’t be
found, I’d help things along.”

“That’s because you’re nicer than Wyatt.”

It was an ongoing battle. Bat revered Wyatt
Earp and Saranda berated him for the sanctimonious way he treated
Bat.

“I just want to stay alive, same as everyone.
But right now, the first order of business is keeping
you
alive.”

She reached into her petticoats, removed a
small file, applied it to the lock of her cell, and let herself
out. The bars squealed as they swung open, capturing his attention.
“Away from Blackwood, you mean,” she said.

“Which reminds me, I’ve got a bone to pick
with that Blackwood. Ever since those stories he did on me, I’ve
become some kind of dadblamed hero. Every jackrabbit with a gun is
pouring into town, wanting to test my reputation. I’m having a
helluva time getting any gambling done.”

“That’s why we have to take care of him. Your
gambling may be suffering, but he’s interfering with my ability to
stay in one piece.”

“Blackwood’s just part of the bigger problem.
What we have to figure out is, what are we going to do with
you?”

“If we can take care of Blackwood, I shall
disappear—”

“It’s not that simple. There’ve already been
a stream of Pinkertons and bounty hunters asking around.”

“Here? Already?”

“I steered ’em wrong. You can stay here for a
while. I’ll do what I can to protect you. But those men are smart,
and they’re determined. They’ll be back.”

The man on the cell floor rolled over,
snorted some air into his lungs, then was still. Bat and Saranda
looked at each other, visibly relaxing.

“You’re jumpy,” he observed. “Not that I
blame you. You’re practically the most wanted woman in America. I
reckon I’d be jumpy too.”

“I’ve never been so visible before. It’s as
if they know my every move before I make it. Do you think
Blackwood’s tipping them off? Setting a trap I can’t get out
of?”

“Could be. If he wants to kill you, he might
be a bit more private about it. But there are ways of arranging
things once the Pinkertons get you.”

She felt the world closing in around her.

“What do you want?” he asked. “Tell me, and
I’ll do what I can to help.”

“I want Blackwood—”

“Christ, Saranda! Can’t you think of anything
else?” She looked up at him, startled by the outburst. “Honey,
listen to me. If you don’t take care of yourself, they’re going to
get you. If worse comes to worst, I can use my authority and say
I’ve got you in custody and will turn you over myself. But I can’t
protect you for long. Sooner or later, a U.S. marshal’s going to
show up with a warrant. Now, by God, what do you want? Do you want
to prove your innocence?”

“I don’t care about that. I just want to go
somewhere where they don’t know my face.”

“What about the Van Slyke money?”

“I didn’t get in it for the money. I can
always make money.”

She’d done it to pay Blackwood back. And now
here she was, running from him and half the lawmen in the country.
It rankled so her teeth ached from clenching them.

He slumped down in his chair. “Okay. We might
have to get you out of the country. Down to Mexico. Lay low until
the fuss dies down.”

“Mace Blackwood can slit my throat in some
alley in Mexico as well as anywhere else.”

Every time she thought of Blackwood, she felt
bottled up with frustrated rage. How could she have been such a
fool?

She looked up at Bat, her battling emotions
showing all too vulnerably in her enormous eyes. “Blackwood gunned
down two people who really loved me. Would you have me forget all
that to save myself?”

Bat could read the deeper meaning in her
eyes. She loved Blackwood, and he’d betrayed her. He sighed,
exasperated. “Okay. You won’t cooperate till Blackwood’s taken care
of; let’s take care of him.”

“I knew I could count on you.” She sat atop
the desk with her legs crossed Indian fashion and leaned forward in
her enthusiasm. “What do you have planned?”

He stroked his mustache as he considered.
“We’ll just have to put a scare into him he’ll never forget.”

Saranda spent the night locked in the cell
with Bat dozing in his chair, watching over her. The next morning
he brought breakfast, then went out on what he called a “hunting
spree.” He returned late in the afternoon with some men’s clothes
in his hands and a mischievous look in his eyes.

“I found him,” he informed her. “Watching the
calaboose, no doubt waiting for your exit. Don’t worry. I fixed him
good.”

“Fixed him? How?”

“Spread it around town he’s one of them
eastern dandies too set on himself. Told the boys he’s one with a
Fifth Avenue swagger and strut. Goes around bad-mouthing cowboys.
That should do it.”

“Do what?”

“You’ll see. Here.” He tossed her the bundle
of clothes. “Get into these. We’ll go watch the fun.”

She dressed hurriedly as he kept his back
turned. The pants were too long, so she rolled them up and cinched
the waist in folds beneath the belt. The jacket fit a little
better. With her hair piled up beneath a sombrero, she could pass
for a boy at a distance. When she was ready, he put his derby on
his head, took up his cane, and grandly offered her his arm.

“I’d better not,” she declined, indicating
her clothes. “The boys might start wondering about
you.
”

They were just in time. Out on Front Street,
amid the congestion of horses, oxen, and mules jamming the wide
thoroughfare, a large group of Dodgers were wrestling Blackwood to
the ground. They tied his hands behind his back with a kerchief,
but in the struggle he pulled free. Bat removed a pair of handcuffs
from his back pocket and tossed them over, following them with the
keys. The stranger’s hands were then jerked behind his back and his
wrists snapped together in the steel restraints. None too gently,
they lowered a rope around his neck, heaved him up onto the back of
a horse, mounted their own animals, and rode off with him in
tow.

Saranda’s heart lurched at the brutal
display. “They’re going to hang him?” she cried. “For putting on
airs?” It was just this sort of senseless cruelty that had soured
her on the West.

Bat was smiling. “You wanted him out of your
hair, didn’t you? Let’s go see what happens.”

He’d thought to provide horses, which they
mounted, following at a distance. The crowd stopped at one of the
few big trees by the river. There, they hoisted the rope over a
branch and set their victim in place.

Amid a barrage of razzing, Blackwood sat
straight and tall in the saddle. They’d removed his hat, and his
black hair curled wildly about his head. His strong jaw set, his
eyes revealing nothing, he sat with such placid self-possession
that he might have arranged the spectacle himself. But she noticed
he watched them closely the whole time. She could almost feel his
brain working as the instant of his death drew near.

Appalled, she gawked at the scene. There, by
a river, under a lone tree, with more spectators flocking by the
minute to witness the sight, these ruffians were going to hang a
man because he was different. They didn’t know that he was pursuing
Saranda. They didn’t know her life might hang in the balance,
dependent on their whims. They knew only what they’d been told, and
that
had been a fabrication. As always, they’d been easily
fooled.

She’d never witnessed such a shocking
indifference for the sanctity of life. This treatment, afforded a
stranger, would have shocked her. But this wasn’t some impersonal
criminal whose retribution she was witnessing. This was Mace
Blackwood. The only man she’d ever truly made love to. Looking at
his handsome face, she knew that in spite of everything, she loved
him still.

Loathing herself for her weakness, she
nevertheless reached across her horse and clutched Bat’s hand.
“Bat, stop this. Now.”

“Too late, sugar.”

The rope was tightened about Blackwood’s
neck. The sun beat down mercilessly. Saranda felt the perspiration
trickling from her breasts and down her sides. Even as the rope was
jerked tight, cutting into his windpipe, Blackwood sat stubbornly
composed, determined not to show the terror that any sane person
would feel.

“All right, boys,” one of them cried out.
“Let’s get on with it.”

“Got any last words, mister?” another
queried.

It was a moment before he spoke. Then, in a
voice made hoarse by the rope around his neck, he said with an air
of supreme confidence, “I could say them better at the nearest
saloon.”

The boys laughed then, some of them slapping
each other on the backs or nudging their neighbors with their
elbows.

“Yer a cool customer, mister, fer a dude.
What do you wanta be called? I reckon anyone cool as you deserves a
tombstone fer his pains.”

“You want my name?” Blackwood asked.

An expectant hush settled on the plains,
broken only by the rushing river. By some odd twist of fate, the
stranger held them all in the palm of his hand. Then he uttered the
deciding words.

“Luke McGlue’s my name, gentlemen. But, by
all means, call me Luke.”

It was too much even for the most seasoned
pranksters. The roar from the riverbank was so deafening, it seemed
even the residents of Boot Hill must have heard. Men fell down in
the grass, rolling as they howled. All around, there was a
rollicking cheer. Some of them came up to the stranger and slapped
him on the back so hard, his horse threatened to bolt and hang him
by default. Eventually, the rope was removed from his neck, his
hands were freed, and the cuffs proffered to him as a souvenir. It
was agreed that, for once, the drinks would be on the Dodgers.

As Saranda stared disbelievingly after them,
they carted him off toward the Long Branch and a good stiff round
of drinks.

Eventually, Bat and Saranda were the only two
left. She was so shaken by the experience that she sat still in her
saddle, staring vacantly at the now-deserted tree. “What
happened?”

Bat shook his head admiringly. “I gotta hand
it to that Blackwood.”

“I don’t understand. What did he do?”

“You might recall the Dodgers are fond of a
good joke. As hard as life is in these parts, any excuse for levity
is welcomed.”

“Yes, yes, but what—”

“Luke McGlue doesn’t exist. The boys made him
up and blame every hoax perpetuated in town on him. When the
preacher’s horse was stolen, they told him Luke McGlue’d done it.
When a cigar drummer’s wares were passed around and smoked behind
his back, it was Luke McGlue who did it. Last week, they put a
notice in the paper addressing Luke McGlue, mayor. That Blackwood’s
quick, I’ll grant you that. Picked up on the joke his first day in
town.”

Saranda’s heart was still racing dangerously.
“I must say, when you offer to fix someone, you keep your word.
Isn’t hanging a bit extreme?”

“Oh, they wouldn’t have hanged him,” Bat
assured her with a shrug. “Just put a scare into him.”

“A fine job they did of scaring him!
Nothing’s changed. If anything, he’s won the hearts of your
townspeople with this ridiculous charade. There’s no telling what
he might try next, with the aid of his new chums.”

“You got to admire his cool,” he said
resentfully.

“I certainly do not.” But she did. In a
lifetime of associating with grifters, she’d never seen anyone as
cool under pressure as Blackwood had been just now. “Now what? Any
more brilliant ideas?”

“I reckon we bring Wyatt in on this.”

“No. I never knew Wyatt to come up with a
decent idea—unless, of course, he stole it and took credit for it
himself. His idea of taking care of someone is to have that awful
Holliday slit his throat with a knife.”