Katherine O’Neal (18 page)

But Bat wouldn’t be swayed where his friend
and hero was concerned. “Let’s just hear what he has to say.”

Wyatt met them at the jailhouse, a relatively
quiet place during the day. He was tall with golden hair and a full
drooping mustache, looking like a gruff and shaggy lion. Eight
years older than Bat, he radiated a hard-edged aura of danger and
unflappability. He wasn’t a man to talk without cause. He wasn’t
even particularly well liked. On the western plains, Wyatt was
considered an educated man, and this, compounded by his tough
silences, afforded him few friends. When he pushed too hard and
offended someone, Bat stepped in with his easy smile and smoothed
the way. Saranda’s problem with Earp stemmed from the fact that
Wyatt never seemed to appreciate the contribution Bat made to the
great Wyatt Earp’s reputation.

Wyatt listened to the story quietly, then
sneered, twisting his mustache. “You pups!” he spat. It was another
of Saranda’s grievances against the man. Being older, and having
introduced Bat to much of life on the frontier, he never ceased to
talk down to him as a teacher might a wayward pupil. But in all her
years with Bat, she’d never heard him say one uncomplimentary thing
about Wyatt.

“Don’t start with us, Wyatt,” she warned.

“Start with you? I ought to finish the two of
you off. As usual, you’re looking at the situation from a cockeyed
point of view.”

“And just how do you suggest we look at it?”
she challenged.

“Logically. You’ve got to get the man to
confess, so you can hold your head up. Then you won’t
have
to run.”

“I’m a shuck artist,” she pointed out. “I
don’t stay and fight.”

“You’ll be a dead shuck artist if you
don’t.”

“That’s beside the point. You don’t know
Blackwood. He talks people into doing things they’d never dream of
doing. Frankly, he’s more clever than the two of you put together.
You can’t expect a man like him to volunteer the information you’re
after—”

Wyatt gave a sour smile. “I have yet to meet
the man who could argue with a pair of fists. Me and Bat’ll just
beat all Hades out of him until he gives us a confession.”

“Oh, that’s just like you! You think you can
brutalize everyone into submission.”

“Saranda—”

“Bat, you know it’s true. He either clubs
someone with his gun or brawls in the street with his fists.
Everyone exclaims over what a great fighter he is. But they forget
to mention he always makes sure he’s got you and your handy sixgun
to back his play.”

“Do you want my help or don’t you?” Wyatt
growled.

“Not that way.”

“You got a better idea?”

Reluctantly, she exchanged looks with Bat.
“No,” she admitted.

“Good,” said Wyatt, grinning in anticipation.
“You’d best stay clear. We may be hard-pressed not to kill the
sonofabitch.”

“I want his confession,” she insisted, “not
his death.”

Wyatt gave her a keen look. “Sweet on him,
are you? In that case, I reckon Bat will enjoy getting in a few
extra licks.”

* * *

Though she’d been warned to stay away,
Saranda followed at a distance. She watched as Bat and Wyatt
dragged the unsuspecting Blackwood from the jubilation of the Long
Branch Saloon. As they carted him, struggling the whole way, to the
livery. As Ham Bell was expelled from his barn and the door bolted
closed. Creeping closer, she cringed as the sound of a fist hitting
flesh echoed through the structure.

Sickened, she reeled back to the jail house,
torn between her emotions and her good sense. She knew what Wyatt
was capable of. She’d seen a man’s face turned to pulp under the
merciless assault of his hamlike fists. She couldn’t bear to think
of Blackwood’s handsome features bloodied and rearranged. Yet
something had to be done. He wasn’t going to get away with killing
the Van Slykes. The Blackwood string of murders must end here.

Still, she couldn’t help shuddering at what
Wyatt and Bat might do to him. Why did she have to feel this way
about him? Why couldn’t she happily wish him dead?

On her way, she spotted a man in an eastern
suit whom she recognized instantly as a Pinkerton agent. He was
smoking a cigar with a thoughtful look on his face, gazing up and
down the street as if wondering where she might hide. Flattening
herself back against the wall of the closest building, she
backtracked and took another route. The trap was closing around
her. If she didn’t leave Dodge soon, she risked being caught. If
only Bat and Wyatt could get the confession she needed!

* * *

They hadn’t yet returned an hour later, after
she’d nearly worn a groove in the floor with her pacing. She
couldn’t stay waiting any longer. She had to go see what was
happening. It was dangerous, with the Pinkerton man out on the
streets. But a glance out the window told her it was growing dark.
Slipping into her boy’s outfit, piling her hair beneath the hat,
she stealthily made her way to the livery by use of the back
roads.

The area was deserted. Which meant people on
the streets knew something was going on. It was too quiet. Afraid
they’d killed him, she raced to the barn and put her ear to the
outside wall. There wasn’t a sound.

Suddenly, the bolt slid back. Saranda leapt
around the side of the structure just in time to see Blackwood walk
out. As he passed under a lantern, she could see that his face, far
from being mashed to pulp, was absolutely intact. There was some
sort of scratch around his mouth, but otherwise he looked perfect.
As he walked away, without the slightest trace of a limp, Saranda
caught the slight, smug tuggings of a smile.

When he’d disappeared into the night, Bat and
Wyatt walked through the door. They looked abnormally cheerful,
which, if she hadn’t seen him, she’d suspect didn’t bode well for
Blackwood. With intentional sarcasm, she asked, “You didn’t hurt
him
too
much, I hope?”

“Naw,” said Bat. “He’s fine.”

“He’s a sight better than fine,” stated
Wyatt. “He’s innocent.”

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
“What are you talking about?”

“He didn’t kill them. He told us.”

“He—
told
you?”

“You’ll never guess who did it.”

“Oh, please. Tell me.”

“His brother.”

She was quiet for a long time, her features
hardening. “His brother, Lance?”

“That’s it. He wants him caught as much as
you do. A helluva man, that Blackwood. Makes me sorry I had to
throw that first punch.”

Saranda put her hand to her aching head. “Let
me understand this. You hit him
once
—”

“In the mouth.”

“And he told you he didn’t do it, so you
stopped?
”

Wyatt, looking satisfied, nodded. “That’s
about the size of it.”

“Fools! Did you forget you’re dealing with a
supreme confidence man? He conned you!”

“Now look. I consider myself a decent judge
of character. That Blackwood’s a fine fellow. And he didn’t kill
those easterners.”

“You mean he convinced you he didn’t.”

Bat, who’d been quiet all this time, spoke
sheepishly. “I think he may be telling the truth.”

"Bat, Lance Blackwood is dead. Now Mace has
convinced you clowns that a dead man committed those murders.”

“He says he’s alive.”

“I don’t believe I’m hearing this. For an
hour, I’ve been pacing that floor praying you weren’t killing the
man. And all this time, he was suckering you.”

“He says he wants to clear your name. Says he
has evidence that’ll do it.”

“Did he show you the evidence?”

“No.”

“Of course not. There
is
no evidence.
If he wants to do anything, it’s dispose of me where the body won’t
be found.”

“He wants to take you back to New York and
prove—”

“Bat, Blackwood is the most gifted bluff
artist since—me! You can’t believe a thing this man says. If he
does want to take me back, it’s to turn me over to the police so I
can be tried for murder. If that happens, you know as well as I
that I shall hang.”

“He seemed sincere to me,” Wyatt said
stubbornly.

“Of course he did. That’s his job.” She
heaved a sigh. “Never mind. Thank you for your help. But I can see
I’ll have to take care of him myself.”

She had to think of something. The Pinkertons
knew she was in Dodge. It wouldn’t be long before others followed,
bent on her capture and conviction. But of all these threats,
Blackwood was the most immediate. He’d proven himself adept at
trailing her, and even more skilled at talking his way out of
difficulties. She had to think of a way to put him out of
commission once and for all.

All she could do was use his strengths
against him. If he was so hot on her trail, she might be able to
lure him up to Canada. There, it would be a simple matter to notify
authorities of his presence in the country. Back home, he was still
a wanted man. In a British commonwealth, he could be extradited and
sent back to England.

If she was lucky, he’d be so intent on
trailing her, he wouldn’t guess her plan. He’d assume she was
heading for Canada as a way of avoiding United States officials
herself. Once Blackwood was in custody, she could take some time
and figure out what to do next. It might well be, as Bat had
suggested, that her days in America were over.

She slipped in the back door of the Dodge
House and packed her bag. She left the money for her room on the
dresser, not wanting to be seen entering or leaving the hotel. The
fewer people who knew about her plans, the more chance she had of
sneaking out of town under the Pinkerton’s nose.

She crept down the hall toward the back
stairs. Most of the guests were either in the dining room having
their dollar meals or had already drifted up the street to toss
down some drinks or try their hand at faro or chuck-a-luck. Once
she’d maneuvered the hallways successfully, she paused outside to
breathe a sigh of relief.

Already, Dodge was in full swing. Music and
laughter drifted up the street, and an occasional round of gunfire.
She felt safer in the dark, the evening clatter assuring her that
life continued as always, and her escape was of no consequence to
anyone but herself. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling she was
being watched. Blackwood, no doubt. Good, she decided. He wouldn’t
have a horse handy. If she hurried, she could leave with enough of
a head start that he couldn’t harm her yet could easily follow her
trail. Let him track her, she gloated. All the way to Canada.

She flattened herself against the wall as
some groups of cowboys drifted past. Poking her head around the
corner of the building, she saw the horse she’d ordered waiting in
the alley beside the billiard hall, pawing impatiently at the
ground. When the coast was clear, she edged around the corner and
made a run for it. She hooked her bag over the saddle horn, untied
the reins, and put her foot in the stirrup.

Before she could mount, she was grabbed from
behind. A hand clamped itself over her mouth, and she was yanked
back so forcefully, the air left her lungs. On the brink of
freedom, she found herself pinned back against a masculine frame as
hard and unyielding as stone.

“Nice of the sheriff to provide
transportation,” Blackwood said in her ear.

She felt something cold close over her wrist.
He pulled it behind her and grappled for the other arm. Her fear
made her strong, and she yanked it from his grasp, only to be
hauled around so he could reach in front. Cold metal clamped over
the other wrist, binding the two together before her. Struggling to
free herself, she realized with a sick feeling that he’d used Bat’s
handcuffs to restrain her.

She broke into a sweat. Fear shot up her
spine. This was the man who’d cold-bloodedly killed Winston and his
father as they’d sat drinking brandy. He’d already shown himself to
be a clever opponent. She fought down the panic, endeavoring to
think. She didn’t doubt she could escape, given an opportunity. Her
main concern was he wouldn’t keep her alive long enough for her to
outsmart him.

He settled her back against him again,
fighting to keep her still. She could feel his massive body against
her back. An arm like steel held her pinned to him, angling across
her shoulders so it grazed her breasts. His other hand crushed the
soft corners of her mouth.

Bedlam reined over the surrounding town, yet
she felt for an instant that they were in their own quiet pocket,
the air hushed and expectant as she waited for him to speak. He
held her patiently, giving her time to stop kicking and squirming,
to settle down before he conveyed his demands. The quiet, deadly
calm was more frightening than the inescapable grip of his arms, or
any threat he might make. It showed him to be a man of infinite
forbearance, a man who would bide his time until he achieved his
objective.

On the verge of surrender, she gave a
rebellious jerk in his arms. He put his mouth to her ear, so close
she could feel him smile. “Go ahead,” he whispered. “Struggle. If
it isn’t a challenge, it isn’t worth the trouble.”

Inflamed by his bloated superiority, by the
arrogant assumption that he’d already won this game of wits, she
kicked backward and landed a wicked blow to his shin. She heard the
slight intake of his breath before he chuckled in her ear.

“You disappoint me. I expected something more
imaginative from a woman of your talents.” Her professional pride
insulted, she struggled harder as his arms tightened, hugging her
close. “That’s it. Vent your frustration. I have all the time in
the world. I’ve waited a long time to get you like this. If I have
to, I can wait a lifetime.”

His voice, as caressing as a lover’s, lent a
chilling note to his words. The smell of him, that clean, male
scent devoid of any telltale colognes, overwhelmed her. She
cautioned herself to keep her head. She must play to his weakness.
If he assumed he’d beaten her, by all means play up the delusion.
It could only work to her favor in the end.