Night Hawk

  “The farm of some friends of mine. We’ll stay there for the night and get back on the train in the morning. That is unless the deputy comes after you for causing that ruckus.”

  “It wasn’t my fault. She was going to hit me. You saw her.”

  “Mayhem like that follow you around often?”

  “No.” Or at least she didn’t think so, but at the moment she was too weary to be absolutely positive. The leather of his coat was soft and smooth against her face and her next thought never materialized because she was asleep.

  Chapter 4

  Ian didn’t realize she had fallen asleep until her body slumped against his back. When he turned around to see about her, she would have tumbled to the ground had he not reacted quickly to keep her upright. Still, her snoring resembled the sound of a fast-moving train. Deciding she was turning out be more faceted than he’d envisioned, he roused her gently. Her eyes popped open and fear flashed in them before she awakened enough to get her bearings.

  “You should ride up here in front of me before you fall off.”

  She dragged her hand across her face and straightened her shoulders. “No. I’m fine.”

  He wondered about the source of the fear she’d masked so quickly.

  “How much longer until we get there?”

  “Hour or so.”

  “Oh.” Her disappointment was plain. “Let’s just go on then. I know how badly I smell, and if I sit in front of you, we’ll both stink to high heaven.”

  “Smelled worse.” Most of the outlaws and bail jumpers he’d dealt with hadn’t placed a priority on personal hygiene, and neither had he when he’d lived on the wrong side of the law.

  “Nice of you to say so, even if you are lying, but I’m all right here. I’ll stay awake.”

  He could see both determination and embarrassment in her manner. He also wondered about all the nicks and cuts on her face.

  She placed her arms around his waist again and he set the horse back on pace.

  After a silence she asked, “Why don’t you just let me go? You heard Sheriff Wells say Hugh Langley’s death was an accident.”

  “Can’t.”

  “You mean, won’t.”

  “No, can’t. I told the sheriff I would drop you off. I’d like to think I’m a man of my word, even if I don’t think you should be here.”

  “The judge isn’t going to see things my way and we both know it.”

  “Depends on the judge.”

  He heard her sigh in what might have been frustration or anger, but he had no way of knowing. What he did know was that he wasn’t going to spend the next hour arguing with her over something he wasn’t going to allow, at least not until he could come up with a way to circumvent her legal dilemma that wouldn’t have him hauled before a judge, too.

  When they rode up, Rand Tanner was out in the field feeding slop to his hogs. He was shaped like a cracker barrel, and the smile that creased his features when he saw Ian showed a few missing teeth within the graying beard that covered his cheeks and chin. His eyes were still as blue and as sharp as they’d always been, however. “I’ll be dammed, if it ain’t the Preacher man.”

  Ian’s face broke into a rare smile. “I’da thought Betsy would’ve gotten herself somebody younger and better-looking by now.”

  Rand had retired from the outlaw business about the same time Ian had. Since those days he’d taken up farming and wound up married to the youngest daughter of a Baptist preacher, a feat much talked about in outlaw circles when word got around. Rand and Betsy had been together over a decade.

  “Ain’t a young stud within five hundred miles can replace this old stallion. Who you got there with you?”

  “Prisoner.” Ian dismounted.

  Rand seemed surprised by the gender. “Well, come on in. Betsy’s got supper almost ready.” He looked the woman over. “She okay to be in the house?”

  Before Ian could respond, she slid from the horse and said, “No, and not because I’m a danger to you or your wife, but because I am far too filthy.” She turned on Ian. “And contrary to what the marshal says, my name is not prisoner. I’m Maggie Freeman. Pleased to meet you.”

  Rand appeared flummoxed.

  Ian took in her cool fire and wondered why she was so puffed up. She was a prisoner.

  Rand had a distinct twinkle in the old blue eyes when he turned back to Ian, but he kept his thoughts to himself, which Ian appreciated because Rand usually had more opinions than the Book of Kings had names.

  “Come on in, Miss Freeman. We’ll see what Betsy can do to help you clean up.” He asked Ian, “She is allowed a bath, ain’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  Why Rand made it sound as if Ian was playing the role of villain he didn’t know but followed them into the house.

  His mood lightened when Betsy hurried over to give him a hug that he returned genuinely.

  “Oh, Preacher, it’s so good to see you again. Been too long.”

  He agreed, and when she stepped back he felt warmed by her smile. The feeling brought to mind his late wife, Tilda, and he immediately buried the thought. “Told Rand, I was surprised you still keep him around.”

  She glanced her husband’s way and her eyes shone with deep affection. “I could do much worse.”

  Rand grinned.

  Only then did Betsy seem to notice his prisoner. “I’m so sorry. I’m Betsy Tanner, and you are?”

  “Maggie Freeman. The marshal’s prisoner.”

  Betsy’s surprise was as plain as her husband’s had been. She turned to Ian for an explanation, to which he responded, “Tell them why you’re under arrest.”

  “For defending myself against an attacker. I walloped him across the face with a rolling pin. He fell, hit his temple against the corner of a table, and died.”

  “Good for him,” Betsy declared. She then peered at the cuts and scrapes covering Maggie’s face. “He do that to your face?”

  “No, the sheriff.”

  Ian’s eyes spun to hers.

  “I tried to escape. He lassoed me and dragged me behind his horse. Teaching me a lesson, I suppose.”

  Betsy gasped, “My heavens, that couldn’t have been necessary.”

  Ian expected Freeman to agree but to his surprise she said, “He’s a lawman, ma’am, and I was trying to get away.”

  Betsy didn’t look as if she agreed. “First thing we need to do is get you a bath. You smell terrible, honey.”

  “I know, my apologies. There was no place to bathe at the Dowd jail and I was dragged through quite a bit of manure.”

  “How long were you there?” Rand asked.

  “Four days.”

  Betsy shook her head as if she found the entire episode disturbing. “Why on earth would the sheriff lock up a woman for defending herself? Probably for the same reason half the population of this country can’t vote,” she added pointedly.

  Ian and Rand kept their mouths shut. They knew what a crusader she was, and they didn’t want to get her started.

  “Come on, Maggie.” She turned to the men. “You two make yourselves useful and heat up some water. Once she’s had her bath, then we’ll eat.”

  “Mrs. Tanner, please don’t delay your supper for me. I can sit outside until you all are done.”

  “Nonsense. I’m not letting you spend another minute smelling or looking this way.”

  So Ian watched his tight-lipped prisoner be led down the hall. She glanced back at him for a second and then refocused her attention on whatever Betsy was saying.

  Rand’s voice made him look up. “Let’s get the water started and we can sit and talk.”

  Ian followed him out to the pump.

  Once Maggie and Betsy were alone in Betsy’s bedroom, Maggie discreetly studied the room. It looked so normal and lived in, with its patchwork quilt covering the big bed. An upholstered wingback chair had a crocheted doily spread over the back and there were framed pictures of painted birds on the white plaster wa
lls. Maggie couldn’t remember the last time she’d been in a real home where a person could sense the love within its walls. She corrected herself. She’d been twelve years old and living with her parents. She buried those thoughts and concentrated on what Betsy was saying while looking through a large wooden armoire. “You and I are about the same size, so here’s a shift, a blouse, and a skirt.”

  “I can’t take your things, Mrs. Tanner.”

  “Sure you can, and call me Betsy.”

  “But—”

  “No buts, Maggie Freeman,” she countered with a look that was both stern and gentle. “I may not know you, but you’re in this mess because you defended yourself, and the least I can do is offer you a bath, supper, and clean clothing before you move on to wherever you’re going.”

  “I think Abilene. The marshal was supposed to bring me here and leave me with the sheriff but the deputy wouldn’t take me.” Maggie told her about Hank Langley and the vigilantes and what happened when Langley met the marshal.

  “Leave it to the Preacher to scare the pants off someone. He’s good at that from what I hear.”

  “You heard right.” The shock on the faces of the men he’d shot would have been comical had the situation not been so serious. “He wasn’t pleased when Sheriff Wells gave me over to him, though.”

  “That’s okay. Sheriff Wells put you in good hands.”

  Maggie scratched at what were probably the fleas she’d picked up from the straw-filled mattress in the Dowd jail, and was immediately embarrassed.

  “Let’s get you in some water.”

  Maggie had no idea what kind of bathing room the house had but finding herself outside was unexpected.

  “Rand likes to tinker, and this is one of his contraptions.”

  It was built like a tall, closed-in horse stall. Betsy opened the door. “The water is placed in that barrel up top there.”

  Maggie looked up at the barrel curiously. The base of it was attached to a short piece of wood. Connected to the wood were two long lengths of rope.

  “You pull this rope to tip the barrel so that water comes down like a rain shower. Then pull this one to return the barrel to an upright position.”

  Maggie had never seen anything like it before.

  “The ground can get kind of muddy so he built that short platform of slats to stand on. It keeps your feet out of the muck.”

  “This is very ingenious.”

  “Works like a charm, too.”

  Betsy gave her soap and a washrag, some towels, and a robe to put on once she was finished. “I’ll get them to start filling the bucket. They’ll have to climb up there to fill it each time, so make sure you cover yourself until they’re done. And we have plenty of water, so don’t worry over how much you’re using. You get as clean as you need.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. I’ll send them right out.”

  Shortly after Betsy’s departure, Maggie heard Rand calling, “You ready, Miss Maggie?”

  “Yes.” She was as giddy as a child.

  “Okay. Coming up the ladder out here to fill you up.”

  “This is a wonderful invention, Mr. Tanner.”

  Next she knew he was at the top of the stall and looking down. They both grinned.

  He filled the barrel from another barrel of water about the same size.

  “All done. Betsy show you how to work the ropes?”

  “Yes, she did.”

  “Then happy washing. Yell if you want more. Preacher man and I’ll hear you.” He offered a parting nod and disappeared back down the ladder.

  Maggie quickly undressed and placed her dirty clothes on the ground in a corner. She tugged on the rope and sure enough, the barrel tipped and the water began to cascade down. It took her a moment to get the flow right, but the idea was to get wet, soap up, and rinse off. The rope didn’t allow for the water to flow in a continuous steady stream but she imagined Mr. Tanner would figure out a way to perfect that before long.

  All in all it was wonderful. Even though she could only douse herself a portion at a time, the water was hot and glorious. She used the first two barrels on her hair. Because of her mixed heritage it was thick and long. And filthy, having not been washed in weeks. When she was done soaping and rinsing it, her head felt ten pounds lighter and her jet black hair was sleek and running down her back like an African stream.

  Ian and Rand were seated on the back porch within shouting distance of what Rand called his washing tower. Tired and worn out from all the traveling, Ian hadn’t protested when Rand took it upon himself to be the Freeman woman’s water bearer. So far, he’d delivered four barrels.

  “You get the next two. I’m old and getting tired.”

  “Sure.”

  Settling himself back into his seat, Rand picked up the conversation where they’d left it before he’d gone to deliver more water. “So, tell me about this marshal business I’ve been hearing about. Is Judge Parker getting feebleminded?”

  “No,” Ian replied while slowly savoring the cigar Rand offered him when they first sat down. “I was really sworn in by Griffin Blake.”

  “Oklahoma Red? Who in the hell was crazy enough to make him a marshal?”

  Griffin Blake was a good friend. At one time he’d been one of the most notorious outlaws west of the Mississippi, and like many in the profession answered to various names, most of which had the word red in them due to his coloring and hair. “He was in a Kansas jail when Seminole Marshal Dixon Wildhorse got him freed in exchange for help with an investigation Wildhorse and Judge Parker were working on down in Texas last year.”

  “Blake as a lawman. If I was dead, I’d be spinning in my grave.”

  “Gets worse. The other two deputies he swore in were the Twins.”

  Rand choked on his whiskey. In a strangled voice he asked, “Neil and Shafts?”

  Ian nodded. “And believe it or not, we got the job done. Griff even wound up marrying the lady rancher we were there to help.”

  “You’re pulling my leg. Blake? Married? Is the woman blind?”

  “Nope. Name’s Jessi Rose. She’s a pistol.”

  Rand shook his head. “Will wonders never cease.”

  Silence crept between them for a moment as they both thought back on the past.

  “Once I get back to Wyoming, I’m going to put the Preacher to rest.”

  Rand studied him and then nodded as if he understood. “Preacher was a force to be reckoned with, but there comes a time when who we were no longer fits who we’ve become.”

  “Amen. And I’m hoping I’ve balanced the scales enough to make the man upstairs forgive me for my earlier sins.” In the years since coming to the States, he’d been an outlaw, a hired gun, and had ridden with gangs that robbed trains and banks. In one of those banks he’d met Matilda Lawson and his entire world shifted.

  “You need another woman,” Rand offered sagely, as if he knew Ian had been thinking about Tilda.

  “No, I don’t. Never letting that happen to anybody I love ever again.” Tilda was killed by a member of a gang Ian had been riding with. It took him a year to track down Bivens, the man responsible. The bounty on Bivens said dead or alive, so Ian sent him to hell.

  “Another woman will heal you just like Betsy healed me.”

  “You’re awfully philosophical these days.”

  “Betsy says the same thing.”

  The two friends shared a smile, and a past few could imagine.

  “We had some fun, didn’t we?” Rand asked in a wistful tone.

  “That we did.”

  “Bet you never thought an Edinburgh-educated lawyer would wind up robbing banks just so he could eat.” Rand was one of the few people who knew Ian’s life story.

  “Not in a hundred years.” But the prejudice in places like the large cities on the East Coast had let him know early on that making his living as a lawyer would rarely be allowed. Within six months he’d used up nearly all the funds he’d brought with him from S
cotland, so he took the last bit of it and purchased a train ticket west. As luck would have it, he found himself on a train to Denver sitting next to a man of color who introduced himself as Neil. They struck up a conversation, and over the course of the next few hours, Ian told him his tale of woe. Neil was easy to talk to and listened well. Ian had been enjoying his company when all of a sudden Neil stood up and announced a robbery. In reality he was Neil July, one half of the outlaw siblings known as the Terrible Twins. In fact, the twins had members of their gang positioned in seats throughout the train. After they finished relieving the passengers of their valuables and the train of its gold, the smiling Neil asked Ian if he wanted to join them. A lover of adventure his entire life, Ian didn’t hesitate. He rode with the twins and their lawless associates on and off for the next five years. “The law degree came in handy when I represented Neil in his fight against the railroad last fall.”

  “Heard about that, too.”

  “May I have more water please, Mr. Tanner!”

  Rand called back to her. “Sure can!” He looked over at Ian. “Your turn.”

  Ian stuck the cigar in the corner of his mouth and got to his feet.

  When he reached the top of the ladder, she was standing below him looking up. He sensed she’d been expecting Rand because her eyes widened with surprise for a moment and she put a firmer grip on the towel she had wrapped around her body. Her transformation from filthy to fresh was so dramatic, the cigar fell from his lips. He saw her hop out of the way so she wouldn’t be burned by the glowing tip and then look up at him as if he’d lost his mind.

  “Sorry.” But he couldn’t stop staring.

  “Something wrong?” she asked tightly.

  Realizing his eyes were stuck on the smooth tops of her breasts rising discreetly above the towel, he shook himself free and looked away. “No. How does this contraption work?”

  “Pour the water in the barrel.”

  He complied.

  “Thank you,” she said. “That should be the last barrel. I don’t think I’ll be needing any more water.”

  Ian knew he’d been dismissed but he couldn’t seem to move. She was so clean that her bared shoulders and arms outside of the towel glowed like newly minted copper, as did her face. When he first saw her back at the Dowd depot, he’d sensed the beauty beneath the dirty coating, but he had no idea she was beautiful enough to turn a man into stone. And below his belt he was just that—stone hard.