Devil in Texas (Lady Law & The Gunslinger Series, Book 1) (36 page)

Amusement vied with the authoritative scowl on Sid's face. "You
think
you were lost?"

Somebody snickered.

"I'm not going to find any rotten eggs or flour residue if I ride out to that cottage.
Am
I, Luis?"

"Oh no,
señor
," the older, taller rascal lied. "Flour bombs are for babies."

"Yeah?" Sid lowered bristling, black eyebrows. "Then what do you know about the surrey on my roof?"

Luis gulped and bolted. So did a half-dozen other adolescents, scattering in every direction.

"I'll lock you up and throw away the key!" Sid hollered after the mischief-makers. "Don't think I won't!"

Cass snickered behind his hand.

Sid caught his eye and reddened. "Shut up." Hiking his trousers, the marshal bellowed to the rest of the crowd, "All right, folks! The show's over! Move along, or you'll be doing all your trick-or-treating from jail!"

Well,
that
lit a fire under the macabrely curious. Before Cass could count to ten, the sidewalk beside Boomer's barber pole looked like a ghost town.

Sid chuckled. "Works every time," he confided to no one in particular.

Cass swung from the saddle.

"What're you doing here?" Sid demanded, hooking his thumbs over his gun belt.

"I came to get my boots shined. Is that a crime?"

"Maybe," the marshal said ominously. "I can sure make it one."

"Hey!" Joaquin protested.

"Aren't you just a little curious about what those boys saw at the cemetery last night?" Cass demanded.

"You telling me how to do my job?"

"Nope. Just asking a civil question of a peace officer."

Sid grunted. He didn't look convinced. "Well, seeing as how you're a stranger to these parts, I reckon you wouldn't know about local Halloween traditions," he said. "The fact is, I hear the same cock-n-bull story every year. Ghosts dancing 'round the lynching tree. Goblin faces peeking out the windows.

"'Course, I might be troubled to investigate further for a good reason," he added grimly. "Like, you think McAffee was causing mischief at the Oldham place. Or maybe you got wind he was poisoning folks."

"Aw, c'mon, Sid. Who put a bug in your ear about that boy? Collie's a good kid."

"Not according to your boss's wife."

"Poppy?"

"That's right. I couldn't say anything last night 'cause she swore me to secrecy. She was afraid for her life."

Cass frowned.

"Look, Cass. I should be keeping my mouth shut, but we go back a long way. So I'll tell it to you straight. About two days ago, Mrs. Westerfield came to me in a hand-wringing tizzy. Said she'd sent Tito on an errand. He was supposed to walk to the post office and mail her correspondence. He should have been gone 20 minutes, but he never came back. He missed his appointment to drive her to a Suffragette meeting. He missed lunch and dinner, too, which she claimed was unlike him. She was deeply worried. She said she doted on that boy."

Ignoring the skepticism on Cass's face, Sid continued, "Mrs. Westerfield checked the livery. Tito's horse was missing, and he'd cleared his carpetbag from the hotel room. At first, she thought he'd quit his job. But then she remembered how he and Collie had argued. How the boy had threatened to make him pay. And then she noticed that Collie was whittling with Tito's knife."

"What?"

"I know you think the kid's reformed. So I did a little investigating. Sent out wires to marshals in surrounding towns. Tito's horse showed up in Belton yesterday. The circuit preacher, who was riding the nag, claimed he bought it in Lampasas for $100. From a fella named McAffee."

"That's ridiculous!"

Sid hiked an eyebrow. "Are you saying a
senator's wife
is telling whoppers?"

"No," Cass ground out reluctantly. "I'm saying there has to be another explanation."

"Well, I've got a poisoned corpse on my hands, a sworn testimony from a senator's wife, a missing suspect, and a sick senator—whom Collie had plenty of time to poison last night," Sid added grimly. "The longer McAffee hides, the more suspicious he looks. If you care about that kid, then convince him to pay me a call. With an alibi."

The marshal's tin star flashed as he swung up into the saddle. Pinching his hat brim, he gave Cass a grim nod before he spurred his gelding.

Cass stood scowling after Sid's cloud of dust. None of Poppy's story made sense. First of all, why would she go to Sid? She had no faith in him as a lawman.

Secondly, Collie had his own whittling knife, one of the few gifts his Pa had given him. Collie wasn't likely to covet someone else's blade.

Third, the kid wasn't any horse trader, but if he'd been trying to raise cash fast, he sure as hell wouldn't have sold a sweet-tempered, reliable mare for a measly $100!

Cass felt a tentative tug on his sleeve. Joaquin stood beside him, a dab of bootblack on his nose. A small cross, make of bone, peeked from the open laces of his orange and green
serape.
He was crumpling the brim of his
sombrero
as he turned the hat nervously in his hands.

"
Seňor
Cass, Collie is
mi amigo.
Did he really do all those bad things the gringo lawman said?"

"No,
niňo.
"
Cass forced a smile for the youngster, whose butternut face was creased with worry. "Sometimes, lawmen have to sort through a lot of gossip and misunderstandings to find the truth. Kind of like Marshal Wright did today, when you were too afraid to tell him what you really saw at the cemetery."

Joaquin's chin jutted. "You saw how he was! He thinks I'm a baby! He wouldn't believe anything I said!"

Cass dropped to one knee and squeezed the boy's shoulder. "
I
think you're man enough to tell me the truth."

Joaquin fidgeted. He averted his eyes.

"Marshal Wright's gone now, son. You can speak your piece. Tell me about this fire and thunder that blasted a hole through the door at the Oldham place. Was it a rifle shot?"

Joaquin nodded reluctantly. "I saw a shadowy figure, wearing a Stetson. He was inside the house. He was a mean
hombre.
He kept laughing and shooting at us
niňos!
"

Cass's jaw hardened. "Did he hit anyone?"

"Only Collie."

Cass must have blanched, because Joaquin added hastily, "I mean, he hit Collie's liquor bottle when he was running past the fountain."

"What else can you tell me?"

"He kept shouting at Collie. Something like, 'I owe you a slug for putting a hole in my bowler!' Then Collie got kind of squeamish. He lost his dinner."

Squeamish?
Cass frowned. That wasn't a word he would normally use to describe Collie. "Where?"

"On the steps of the Villarreal tomb. About a 100 yards southeast of the central fountain," Joaquin added helpfully.

"Did Collie come back to town with you?"

Tears glistened in the boy's eyes. He shook his head.

Something cold settled in the pit of Cass's stomach. He would have bet his badge that Hank was the sniper in the cemetery.

"Joaquin," he said grimly, pressing a nickel into the youngster's palm, "I want you to do me a favor."

Joaquin nodded eagerly.

"Go and find General Sterne. Tell him
Señor
Cass sent you with an urgent message. Tell him everything you saw and heard at the cottage. Tell him the truth, just like you told me. Then tell the general I'll be at the boneyard, scouting around. Can you remember all that?"

"Si, señor!"

"Gracias,
niňo.
"

Sheet lightning illuminated swollen thunderheads as Cass cantered toward the cemetery. The wind was picking up, tearing red and brown leaves from thrashing trees. Along the road, he encountered several
Tejano
families. Huddled for warmth in their mule-drawn carts, they were headed back to town after their ritual grave-decorating. He waved them to a halt so he could question them in Spanish.

None of the
Tejanos
remembered seeing a youth of Collie's description, much less a sniper trespassing on the Oldham property. The general consensus was that the cemetery had emptied of all revelers, because preparations must be made for the Feast of the Dead, which
Tejanos
typically served in their homes at sundown.

His uneasiness mounting, Cass thanked them for their help and rode on.

Judging by the disc of brilliance that tried, unsuccessfully, to burn through the overhead gloom, Cass guessed he reached the cemetery's gate around half-past four. Orange marigolds and rusty leaves tumbled across his path as he hid Pancake in a shrubby area, partly to protect the buckskin from the brewing storm, and partly to avoid discovery. His
Tejano
informants might not have seen Hank, but that didn't mean the bastard had abandoned the premises.

A quick scan of the main path allowed Cass to find Collie's tracks. They were easy to recognize, thanks to the coon prints accompanying them. Unlike the vast majority of foot traffic, Collie's trail traveled south, following the fence and its hedgerows. For some reason, the boy had skirted the central fountain, which still smoldered with the pungent aroma of burnt cedar. Cass guessed the kid had wanted to avoid Joaquin's gang of
Tejano
revelers. Until Cass had gotten the boy interested in Texas and Rangerhood, Collie used to shun most human company.

Straining his senses for bushwhackers, Cass followed Collie's trail to a lightning-sheared oak. Or maybe the tree's limbs had been sheared by gunfire, Cass mused, spying a slug in the trunk about a foot above his head. A large, rotted limb had crashed across a tombstone, where coon prints abounded, suggesting Vandy had frisked for treats. A crushed patch of grass told where Collie had parked his rear; broken marigold planters marked where Hank's potshots had struck pay dirt.

Tamping down a surge of rage, Cass continued tracking. He spotted an orange napkin fluttering in a bush; the scattered shards of a bourbon bottle; and long, running strides where Collie had dodged bullets. Then Cass found the vomit on the mausoleum stoop.

About three feet further south, twin gouges told the story of boot heels being dragged off the stoop onto the lawn.

Five yards further, Hank had heaved Collie onto his shoulder.

Sick with dread, Cass picked up his pace, loping through the rain-starved grasses. He soon realized Hank's tracks weren't heading toward the caretaker's cottage; instead, they were leading toward a park-like area, dominated by a ponderous, granite structure.

Good God. Was Collie locked inside that mausoleum?

As if in answer, a ring-tailed wraith lumbered back and forth along the building's stoop. Every so often, Vandy would rise on his haunches, scratch the door, and whine in a pitiful manner.

Cass's heart wrenched.

The rustic little house of death looked as gloomy as the lowering thunderheads. Mildew-colored lichen dotted the weathered stone and the twin colonnades that flanked the entry; the weeping angel topping the roof was missing several fingers and toes. Unlike most Victorian mausoleums, which incorporated light to uplift the spirits within, this tomb had no windows. Nor was it engraved with a family name, although Cass suspected the bones inside belonged to White men. He found himself missing the colorful skeleton dolls that lent a festive, almost
friendly
feel to the
Tejano
tombs.

He forced his feet forward.

To approach a mausoleum—with the intention of entering it—would have been spooky on any day of the year. On Halloween, the proposition was downright ghoulish. Cass's palms grew damp as he removed the trigger guards from his guns.

Suddenly, Vandy grew excited. The door was beginning to move; its rusted hinges squealed in protest. The eager coon galloped into the shaft of candlelight that pierced the cemetery's gloom. Scratching and wriggling, he squeezed his girth past the door.

Cass held his breath. He expected to hear Collie's muffled greeting.

Instead, the sound that reverberated through the ruddy interior was Vandy's growl.

"Quit playing around," a female voice snapped. "And hurry! We have preparations to make at the house."

Cass slowed his strides. His hands flexed instinctively over his holsters.

Within moments, Poppy pushed her way onto the lawn. She was dressed in a peculiar fashion: a black monk's robe with bell-shaped sleeves. Cass hiked an eyebrow. Why was she wearing a Halloween costume in a mausoleum? Why wasn't she at the hospital with Baron?

He halted a judicious 20 yards from the tomb's doorway. When she turned and saw him, she shrieked, making a great show of clutching her heart and fanning her face.

"Good heavens, Cass! You gave me such a fright!"

"Did I?" he countered in gravelly tones. He had no patience for her theatrics today, not after the whoppers she'd been telling Sid about Collie. Part of Cass wanted to believe she was prone to hysterics, that she'd merely leaped to some unflattering conclusions about an insolent young man, whom she considered backwards and crass.