Night Hawk (2 page)

The depot was only a few short miles away over wide-open land so she didn't have much time to get herself positioned to make a run for it. It was a struggle for her to get the reins to fit her partially immobilized grip just right and not telegraph her intent to the sheriff riding silently at her side. Unlike her old mare back at the livery, this horse was younger and stronger. She could feel the black stallion's strength and power beneath her and knew that at full gallop the animal would fly like the wind her mother's people, the Kaw, were named for.

A hawk circled lazily overhead and then swooped down after something hidden in the tall grass. While the sheriff's vision followed the bird's flight, Maggie dug her heels hard into the stallion's flank and yelled at the animal to go. The big stallion took off. As it accelerated and adrenaline rushed through Maggie's blood, she leaned low over his neck as if they'd been riding together all their lives. Suddenly she was brought up short. A lariat was imprisoning her arms. Eyes wide, she was yanked backwards out of the saddle and was airborne just long enough to scream with alarm before hitting the ground hard. Then she was being dragged behind the sheriff's galloping horse over the rocky road. Stones scraped her face, dust filled her mouth and lungs. She twisted and cried out but there was no way to escape the sharp stones, sticks, clods of horse manure, and mud from last night's rain. When the ordeal finally ended, she lay there with her lungs pumping like eagle wings. Pain screamed everywhere. She opened her eyes and saw him standing above her glaring down.

“Get up!” he snapped. “Be glad I didn't shoot you.”

She wasn't sure she could, but managed somehow and met his angry eyes with her chin raised.

“I've done my best to treat you nice, and this is what I get?”

“The judge isn't going to let me go, and you know it. Once Langley and the others tell their lies, I'm going to hang.” Regardless of the extenuating circumstances, she'd caused the death of a White man, and for a person of color punishment would be severe. She could see her words taking effect, but his sworn duty apparently overrode whatever his conscience might have harbored.

“Have to admit, I didn't expect this much spunk.”

She took that as a compliment.

“Gotta tie you up for real this time, miss.”

Maggie nodded and stood motionlessly while he twined the rope around her torso so that her arms were positioned flat against her sides, and her hands bound uselessly behind her. He cinched the knot tight before helping her back up on the stallion that had been waiting obediently. Trussed and defiant, Maggie rode the rest of the way to the depot trailered behind the lawman like a captured prize of war.

Chapter 2

A
s the Kansas Pacific slowly wound its way west, Ian gazed out the window at the flat, monotonous plains of Kansas and longed for the rugged mountains of Wyoming and home. After leaving Scotland last month, his ship had docked in Boston and he'd been riding trains across the continent for what felt like an eternity ever since. Jim Crow laws were making it difficult for people of color to travel, and he'd encountered some of the prejudiced attitudes from a few passengers and railroad agents along the way, but his imposing stature and all-black attire seemed to make the bigots think twice about voicing their displeasure at his presence in the main car, so no confrontations had been necessary. That suited him fine because he wasn't looking for a fight. All he wanted was to put the years he'd spent tracking down murderers and bail jumpers as the Preacher behind him so he could reclaim his identity as Ian Vance, return to his ranch, and spend the rest of his life enjoying the mountains, his horses and cattle.

The tall, red-haired conductor walked through the car to announce the next train stop, a small Kansas town called Dowd. Ian glanced out of the window and was about to return his attention to the
Harper's
magazine he picked up in St. Louis, but was brought up short by the sight of a mounted woman waiting at the Dowd depot. Her arms and hands were bound by a length of rope. She was wearing a battered, blue Union jacket, a long skirt covered with mud, and boots. She appeared to be of mixed race. Black and Native, he thought possibly. There were cuts and scrapes on her autumn-colored face as if she'd been in a fight, and her long black hair hung down her back in an unruly plait. The older man mounted beside her wore a lawman's star, so Ian assumed the woman to be his prisoner and wondered what the story on her was. Was she wanted, or simply under arrest for a recent incident? As if sensing his scrutiny, she glanced up and met his gaze with dark eyes that blazed contempt. The fiery contact lasted just long enough to pierce him before she looked away. For reasons he couldn't explain he wanted her to look up at him again, but she'd apparently given him all the attention she intended to spare. The lawman was conversing with the conductor, who seemed to be gauging the female prisoner warily.

His curiosity high, Ian watched the lawman lead her and her mount towards the back of the train. The sound of gunshots startled him. Through the window he saw five riders racing hell-bent for leather towards the depot. The other passengers crowded around the windows and panic swept through the car. Women began pulling off their jewelry and hiding it in their bosoms. The men quickly opened the windows closest to where they sat and waited to see if they'd be adding themselves to the fight. Ian cursed inwardly and got to his feet. In the same motion he reached into the inner pocket of his duster and smoothly withdrew the sawed-off pump action rifle he always carried. He set off to find the conductor. Even though train robberies were declining near the larger cities, out on the plains lawmen were stretched so thin there were still outlaws looking to prey on trains and help themselves to whatever valuables it or the passengers carried. He knew this to be true because at one point in his life, he'd been one of them.

Angry that his peaceful ride home was being delayed by men bent on who knew what, Ian heard the train's whistle blow. When he felt the cars begin to move he hoped the engine would be able to get up to full speed before the riders caught them.

The harried-looking conductor was so distracted he ran right into Ian's chest. Before the man could begin apologizing, Ian cut him off. “Are you carrying gold?”

“No. The sheriff says they're after his prisoner.”

“The woman?”

He nodded hastily. “I need to get to the front.”

But before he could depart, Ian stayed him. “Where is he?”

“Cattle car.”

Ian headed for the end of the train.

Inside the cattle car, he found the tense-looking sheriff feeding shells into his Colt while keeping an eye on the approaching riders through the opened door of the car. Ian surveyed the woman. The rope was no longer binding her but her hands were cuffed.

The sheriff looked up and scanned him silently before saying, “You're Vance Bigelow, the Preacher.”

Ian adopted the Bigelow name when he became an outlaw in order to hide his true identity, and continued to use it when the death of his wife, Tilda, turned him into a bounty hunter. He acknowledged the sheriff's words with a nod. “Came to see if you needed my gun.”

“Heard Judge Parker made you a deputy marshal.”

It was true, and although Ian still had the star, the appointment wasn't something he crowed about.

“My name's Wells, by the way. I'm the sheriff over in Dowd. The riders belong to Hank Langley. He's holding her responsible for his son's death.”

The sound of gunfire was steady and close.

“I didn't kill him,” the woman said hotly, “but Langley wants me to hang anyway. Give me my gun, Sheriff, so I can defend myself.”

“And have you maybe shoot me and the marshal and make a run for it? No, miss.”

Ian studied her while loading his gun. Was she a deadly beauty? The sultry set of her mouth alone could set brother against brother, and even with the fresh-looking scars and scrapes marring her skin, she was stunning.

He was about to ask for more details on the riders when the scream of the emergency brakes filled the air and they were thrown off balance as the train screeched to a halt.

“Now what?” Ian grumbled. “Stay with her, Sheriff. I'll be back soon as I can.”

There were three mounted men in the middle of the track. The brakes had been applied to keep the train from mowing them down. Surveying them from the engineers' station at the front of the train, Ian sighed. At this rate, he wasn't ever going to get home.

One of the men yelled, “Send out the squaw and we'll let you pass!”

Ian assumed they meant Wells's prisoner. To hear her called a word as demeaning as the ugly word
nigger
didn't improve his mood.

The scared-looking conductor whined, “I have a schedule to keep and lives in my hands. Tell the sheriff to send her out.”

“How about we send you out instead?”

The man drew back.

Ian stepped out of the car and down onto the track. As he did, he noticed that the five riders had caught up with the back of the train. They had their guns leveled on the sheriff and the woman and were forcing them to walk up the tracks while the wide-eyed train passengers looked on.

Ian added the number of men with the sheriff to the three waiting on the track. Eight against one, or maybe two, if the sheriff was able to wade in. Still, Ian liked the odds.

When he reached the three riders on the tracks, the big bearded man positioned in the middle, who appeared to be too heavy for such a small mount, asked disdainfully, “And who are you?”

Ian ignored the derisive tone and held up his star. “United States deputy marshal. You?”

The man quickly covered his shock with bluster. “Hank Langley. That squaw murdered my son.”

“And what are you going to do with her?”

Wells and the woman arrived. Wells looked angry. The woman did, too, and Ian saw her meet Langley's mocking eyes with disgust.

“Gonna teach her about justice.”

“Justice doesn't need a mob.”

Langley turned red as the conductor's hair. “You calling me a coward?”

“Sure am. Also advising you and your boys to head home before you get hurt. I've been on a train for weeks and my temper's not real good. I'm liable to shoot you just for making us late.”

Langley stared at his fellows as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

Ian quoted, “ ‘There is a way that seemeth right unto a man, but the end thereof are the ways of death.' Proverbs 16:25.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the men by the sheriff raise his gun. Ian whirled and fired. Horses reared, men cried out, and when the quiet resettled three of the five were on the ground writhing in pain from the bullets in their shoulders and arms. The two wide-eyed men still mounted slapped the reins across their horses and hightailed it out of there.

Ian watched them riding hard across the plains.

The three he'd shot slowly clambered to their feet. From the pain and fear on their faces, it was apparent they hadn't been expecting resistance when they joined Langley's merry band of vigilantes.

Ian announced to them, “Boys, you have one minute to hand the sheriff your guns, mount up, and ride away.”

They needed only a portion of the allotted time, and escaped on their mounts.

Ian was liking the odds more and more. He turned a wintry gaze on the wide-eyed Langley. “Are you going to let the train pass or do I shoot you three, too?”

The two men flanking Langley didn't need the question repeated. One rode off without a word, while the other, eyeing Ian warily, stayed just long enough to say to his boss, “Sorry, Mr. Langley,” before wheeling his horse around and riding after the others.

“Need your answer right now,” Ian told Langley.

Sheriff Wells declared, “I'll answer for him.” Irritation filled his face. A big Colt filled his hand. “Langley, you're under arrest.”

“The hell I am!”

Wells shot him in the leg. The big man yelled out in pain as he tumbled from the horse. While he lay writhing and cursing, Wells walked over to his female prisoner. “Miss, if you'd hold out your arms, I need my bracelets back.”

She obliged and while she massaged her freed wrists, Wells snapped the cuffs on Langley and hauled him to his feet.

With a bullet wound in his leg, standing appeared to be difficult for Langley, but it wasn't Ian's concern. None of it was. He'd neutralized the situation and could now return to his seat. He gave the woman a passing glance and started back to the train.

The sheriff's voice followed his steps. “Bigelow, I'm going to take this vermin back to Dowd. Need you to take my prisoner to the sheriff in Kansas City.”

Thinking he must have misheard him, Ian stopped and turned back. “Excuse me?”

“Langley's going to jail for impeding a train, assault on peace officers, and anything else I can come up with, but I can't be in two places at once.”

Ian stared between the watching woman, the mutinous-looking Langley, and the sheriff. “Who says I'm going to Kansas City?”

“The train schedule says Kansas City is the next stop, and you are a peace officer.”

Ian sighed. He'd taken the oath a few years back to help out a friend, nothing more. He didn't even know if the appointment was still valid.

“And make sure you keep a tight rein on her. She's already tried to escape once.”

Wonderful, he thought and glanced over at the dirty-faced woman. “Tell me what happened between you and his son.”

She calmly detailed the times Hugh Langley attempted to force his way into her bed, and the sequence of events that led to his death. Having met Hugh's father, Ian was inclined to believe every word, but he wasn't the judge.

“Bitch is lying!” Langley snarled.

Wells glared. “Coroner says she's telling the truth. I'd've already dropped the charges, but knew I'd have to deal with this one,” and he indicated Langley, “so I wanted to wait and have the judge rule.”

“I need a doc, dammit!” Langley bellowed. Blood was beginning to seep through the hole in his trousers, but his demands were ignored as Ian mulled over the sheriff's words. He could either argue with the sheriff and further delay his journey home or he could agree and get the train moving again. “All right,” he said to her. “Come on.”

It was easy to see from her tightly set features that she'd rather not, but she had no choice and so fell in beside him for the walk back to the train.

Once aboard, the conductor said breathlessly, “Thank you! Are you taking her back to the cattle car?”

“No, she'll be in the seat by me.” He pulled a pair of cuffs from his coat and clapped one ring on her wrist and the other on his.

The startled man looked at her mud-stained skirt and boots. “But she can't ride in the main car.”

Ian shot him a dark look.

“Um, well maybe she can, as long as you take full responsibility for the safety of the other passengers.”

“Isn't that what just happened?”

The man cleared his throat. “I, um, I'll have the engineer get us under way.”

“You do that.”

So the female prisoner now under his care took Ian's seat by the window. Ignoring the outraged faces of the other passengers, he settled into the aisle beside her and the train resumed its journey to the next stop. Kansas City.

M
aggie didn't know what to make of the marshal seated beside her, but she did know that she'd never witnessed anyone take down three men in the space of a breath the way he'd done back there. If Sheriff Wells had his way and all the charges against Langley stood, she'd never have to worry about Langley threatening her life ever again. But that left the problem of how to escape from Bigelow, or better still, convince him to let her go. After the astounding display of his gun prowess an escape attempt didn't seem real smart. Convincing him to let her go might prove the better idea, but in truth, she was stuck with him, at least for the present.

The train got under way and she was glad to be away from Dowd. She could see only a portion of Bigelow's face because of the brim of his black hat, but the green eyes were memorable. He had a faded scar that ran vertically down his unshaven cheek. She looked around the car and found herself being scrutinized by the other well-dressed passengers. There wasn't a friendly face in the bunch. Admittedly she looked like something the cat dragged in because she had been dragged through mud and manure and heaven only knew what else. Her hair had come loose of its single plait and was wild as an eagle's nest, and she was so dirty she could smell herself from a mile away. Like the conductor, the paying customers probably wanted her in the cattle car, but she had the marshal to thank for not agreeing. He could have just as easily retied her, tossed her in with the cows and horses, and fetched her when they reached Kansas City. That he hadn't made her wonder what kind of man he was.