Chasing Rainbows Read online

  “You! Up in the rocks,” a voice boomed from the stage below, “come on out where we can see you.”

  She managed a weak smile. “You think they’ll remember we were on their side?”

  “I hope so, darlin’.” Jake moved out from behind the boulder and showed himself to the men below. “We’re on our way down.”

  “Take it slow and easy, mister,” the voice replied.

  Jake lifted Annie’s rifle and his own, tucking them both into their respective scabbards on their saddles. Leading Dulcie and Weed behind them, with Cat following alongside, they made their way down the rocky ledge to the lawmen waiting below. They still hadn’t put away their weapons, Annie noted, seeing their rifles hanging loosely at their sides. The five lawmen watched them with wary distrust, looked highly unappreciative of what she and Jake had done for them.

  Between the lawmen and the stage lay the sprawled bodies of the men who had attempted the holdup. Annie tore her gaze away from the dead men, unable to bear the sight of them. As she returned her eyes to the lawmen, one man stepped forward. He had an authoritative air about him and the shiny gold star of a United States marshal pinned to his coat. He looked them over carefully and seemed to find them sufficiently non-threatening to relax his grip on his rifle. He stepped forward and offered his hand, moving first toward Annie.

  “Much obliged for your help,” he said. “I’m Marshal Locke, Will Locke.”

  He looked to be in his late forties. He was of medium height and stocky build. A bushy brown handlebar mustache dominated his features, contrasting with the curiously delicate pair of wire-rimmed spectacles that sat perched on the end of his bulbous nose. His dark eyes showed intelligence, caution, and warmth.

  Annie delicately placed her hand in the marshal’s, deciding it was as good a time as any to practice the proper way to introduce herself. She bent her knees, making a small if somewhat awkward curtsy. “Miss Annabel Foster. How do you do,” she said, noting the expression of surprise on his face. But at least the marshal was tactful enough not to study her body for evidence that she was a woman, which was most men’s usual reaction.

  “How do you do, Miss Foster,” he replied, bowing slightly in return. If he felt at all out of place using ballroom formality on an isolated trail in the middle of nowhere while four men lay dead in the mud behind him, he didn’t show it.

  Annie turned to Jake to complete the introductions. “And this here’s Mr. Jake—”

  “Duquette,” Jake supplied, cutting Annie off as he leaned forward to offer the lawman his hand.

  Surprise shot through Annie. She closed her mouth and risked a glance at Jake. His features displayed nothing but bland, mild politeness.

  “Mr. Duquette,” the marshal said, shaking Jake’s hand. “Good thing for my men and me that the two of you were here.”

  Jake tipped his hat. “Just a couple of good citizens, Marshal. Happy to help out.”

  “We could use more folks like you in this part of the territory.”

  A shadow of a smile flickered across Jake’s face. “Careful what you wish for.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” Jake nodded toward the dead men. “You been having trouble?”

  “You heard about it?”

  “Five heavily armed lawmen don’t usually ride shotgun for a stage line unless there’s been trouble.”

  “True enough, I reckon.” Marshal Locke gestured to one of the dead men. “That there’s Charlie Garvey. Foreman of the Tuttle Mining Company just south of here. The mine’s payroll makes this route from Leadville every month. They’ve been hit a few times now. I figured there was an inside man setting it up, but I never would have guessed it was Garvey.” He let out a deep sigh and shook his head. “Stupid son of a bitch. Man’s got a wife and two children.” He shot a quick glance at Annie. “Beg your pardon, ma’am. I didn’t mean any offense.”

  Annie inclined her head. “None taken, Marshal.”

  “All right, boys,” he called to his deputies, his voice resigned, “let’s clean ’em up and get ’em back to town for a proper burial.”

  Jake held Dulcie’s bridle while Annie mounted, then passed Cat up to her. “We’ll be heading out now, Marshal.”

  Marshal Locke took a thick cigar from inside his coat pocket and chomped down on one end but didn’t light it. Placing his beefy hands on his hips, he studied Jake quietly for a moment. “Which way you say you were headed, Mr. Duquette?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Just asking a friendly question.”

  Jake swung into the saddle in one easy, lithe move. He rested his hands on his saddle horn and studied the man in silence for a moment. “South.”

  Marshal Locke shrugged. “There’s a reward offered by the Turtle Mining Company for these men. Just wanted to make sure you and your friend there get your share.”

  “You can send my share to Garvey’s widow.”

  “Well, now, that’s mighty generous.” He looked at Annie. “What about you, Miss Foster?”

  Annie glanced at the dead men and repressed a shudder. “Send her mine as well.”

  “Mighty generous of both of you.” The marshal turned back to Jake, his shaggy brows furrowed in thought. “Funny thing is, I can’t help but feel that you look familiar, Mr. Duquette.”

  “That so?” Jake replied. If Annie hadn’t known him so well, she would have missed the tension in his voice. She caught her breath as she saw his hands tighten and move ever so slightly closer to his guns.

  “You play cards, son?”

  “Some.”

  “You any good?”

  Jake shrugged. “My luck comes and goes, just like anybody else’s.”

  “Hmmm.” Marshal Locke thought a minute longer, his frown deepening. “Maybe we played a game together somewheres.”

  “Maybe.”

  “We’re ready, Marshal,” called one of his deputies.

  Marshal Locke glanced over his shoulder. His men had worked quickly and efficiently. The dead men’s bodies were draped over their mounts, their hands and feet tied together beneath the horses’ bellies so they wouldn’t slip off.

  The marshal turned back to Jake and Annie and smiled. “Feels like snow, doesn’t it? You all are welcome to pass the night with my men and me. We got a little line shack just a mile or so north of here. Jones has probably got supper ready by now. The place ain’t fancy, but it’s a hell of a lot cozier than sleeping out in the cold.”

  Annie was certain that Jake would decline the offer. But to her surprise, he nodded pleasantly. “That’s mighty kind of you, Marshal. We’d be obliged.”

  A satisfied smile showed beneath the marshal’s bushy mustache. “Good. That’s the least I can do after what you did for my men and me.” He turned and addressed his deputies. “All right, men, we’re moving out.”

  That was just the way his luck was running, Jake thought. Probably ten stages a week ran the route from Silverton to Abundance, and he had to go and rescue a coach full of lawmen.

  He was still uneasy about the way Marshal Locke had been studying him. For a moment there, he had been sure that the marshal had had him pegged. The question was, if Marshal Locke had recognized him from that damned wanted poster, what would he have done? Tried to shoot his way out of that canyon, killing the marshal and a few of his men? Or maybe getting himself or Annie killed? Or would he have let himself be peaceably taken in, tried, and hanged? Not exactly an appealing choice, no matter which way he moved.

  Fortunately it hadn’t come to that. He had dodged that bullet once again, but he was starting to cut it too damned close for his taste. Sooner or later, his luck was going to run out. And the way things were going, Jake had a strong hunch that it would definitely be sooner rather than later.

  Unfortunately he would have called even more attention to himself had he declined the offer to pass the night with the marshal and his men. Marshal Locke looked like the kind of man who would stew over a problem until he had his answer. He knew tha
t Jake looked familiar. He probably also had a pile of wanted posters that he occasionally glanced through before tucking them into a desk drawer. Unless Jake were to spend some time with the marshal and his men — time he would spend assuring them that he was just another law-abiding citizen passing through — the marshal might just take it into his head to go through that stack of wanted posters a bit more carefully. And that was a risk Jake simply couldn’t afford to take.

  He glanced at Annie. She rode beside him, staring silently ahead. The few times that their eyes had met, she had regarded him with a gaze that was neither condemning nor confused, but simply as though seeing him in a way she never had before. She had said nothing so far, but if he knew Annie, it wouldn’t be long before the questions started coming.

  As they rounded a curve in the trail, he spotted the line shack the marshal had promised. A small stream and a pocket of blue spruce ran alongside it. Light shone from the windows, and smoke curled out of the chimney. The smell of roasting meat made Jake’s stomach growl, and he suddenly realized how long it had been since he and Annie had eaten a hot, home-cooked meal.

  The stage driver reined in the horses and called out to the line shack. A man appeared at the doorway, scowling in displeasure. He had long, kinky gray hair that fell halfway down his back, a scraggly beard with bits of food caught in it, and the lost, wild-eyed look of a man who had lived too long by himself. “All right, all right, I hear you,” he shouted at the driver. “No need to wake the dead.”

  The marshal stepped out of the stage as Jake and Annie dismounted. He ushered them inside. “Get on in and warm yourselves up. My men will take care of bedding down the horses.”

  They stepped inside the cabin. It consisted entirely of one large rather dark and musty room with a dirt floor, illuminated by a three low-burning kerosene lanterns. A rough-hewn table with a dozen crudely constructed chairs dominated the space. Narrow cots sectioned off sleeping quarters in the back. A potbellied stove sat to the right, near the room’s only window. It was flanked by shelves stacked high with bags of flour, cornmeal, onions, and potatoes. Except for a small pile of wood and kindling, a fishing pole, and a few tools and cooking implements, the room was barren. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness of the interior, Jake noted the pot of stew bubbling over a large stone fireplace, and the pan of stove-top biscuits cooking on the wood-burning oven.

  The marshal performed the introductions. “Mr. Duquette, Miss Foster, this here’s Mr. Jones. Grumble Jones, we call him. Lived his whole life in this part of the country. Best scout the Army ever had. Now he manages the station house for the stage.”

  “Not for long,” Jones muttered. “Getting too danged crowded hereabouts. You’re the third group to pester me this month.” His eyes, so pale a gray they were almost colorless, narrowed on the marshal. “You find the men who’ve been robbing the payroll?”

  “Charlie Garvey and some others.”

  Jones snorted. “Figures. I always said that Garvey weren’t no good.”

  “Miss Foster and Mr. Duquette will be staying the night,” Marshal Locke said, ignoring the man’s surly words.

  The man’s piercing gaze swept over Jake and Annie. “Reckon I ain’t got much say in that,” he said and turned away to focus his attention on the pot that bubbled over the fire. “Food’ll be ready soon enough.”

  The marshal’s deputies, finished with the chore of bedding down the horses, followed them into the cabin after a few minutes. As the heat from the fire and the stove began to warm them, the deputies began to peel off their coats and hats. Annie followed suit, taking off her battered hat and thick jacket. As she did, Jake noted various reactions of surprise to her looks. The deputies’ gazes quickly changed from mild curiosity to outright appreciation.

  Jake couldn’t blame the men for staring. Annie’s hair shone like molten gold in the firelight. Her cheeks were flushed and rosy from the cold, her eyes had a rich chestnut glow, and her lips looked as ripe and inviting as midsummer cherries. Despite the men’s obvious gawking, Annie remained unmindful of their stares. She straightened the collar of her worn flannel shirt and smoothed her hand over her hair in an attempt to make herself look more presentable, then settled in at the table with the marshal and his deputies.

  “You from around these parts, Miss Foster?” Marshal Locke asked in a tone that sounded more polite than prying.

  Annie shook her head. “Not really, but I plan to stay,” she answered. “You ever hear of The Palace Hotel?” she asked. “I’m the new owner. I’ll be running the place from here on out.”

  The marshal’s eyebrows shot skyward. “Out in Cooperton?”

  “That’s the one,” Annie proudly affirmed. She glanced around the room, her smile fading at the men’s various reactions to her news.

  Jake was puzzled as well. He had expected surprise, perhaps, given the way he and Annie were dressed, but not outright shock. The men looked away, obviously uncomfortable. They coughed, cleared their throats, and studied the dirt floor as though it were the most fascinating thing they had ever seen. Only the youngest deputy kept his gaze on Annie. He studied her in rapt fascination, as though seeing her in a whole new light.

  “I wonder,” he said, “that is, do you ever—”

  “That’s enough, Curtis,” the marshal said, cutting him off. He came abruptly to his feet and called over to Jones, “How about that grub now?”

  A moment of awkward silence passed as the meal was served, then the men got down to the business of eating. Jake wasn’t surprised to discover that Grumble Jones’s cooking flair matched his social skills. A thin layer of grease floated over the top of the stew, the meat was tough and stringy. The biscuits were burned on the bottom, raw and doughy inside. That was the downside. The plus side was that the meal was hot and filling, and he didn’t have to cook it. That and the fact that the coffee was smooth, rich, and dark. Jones even offered the surprising luxury of sugar to sweeten the brew.

  Jake’s earlier apprehensions eased somewhat as the evening wore on. Conversation flowed smoothly around the table, running with the ease of talk among men who knew one another well. As usual, the discussion centered on local gossip, politics, and the Indian problem. The deputies couldn’t quite understand why the Indians weren’t content to stay on the reservations like they had been told to do. Instead, they kept wandering off and creating problems for the good folks who were trying to move in and settle the land. As far as politics was concerned, there seemed to be unanimous dislike for the newly elected Governor Hunt, who was pushing a bill through the territorial legislature which would mandate five hours of schooling a day for children between the ages of six and thirteen — regardless of whether the parent needed that child to work the farm or not.

  The meal finished, the talk moved on to ranching, cattle, and horses. “There’s a ranch out in Leesville,” Jake commented, “owned by a man named Ben Davidson. Best horseflesh I ever saw west of Kentucky.”

  “You mean Grantsville,” the young deputy named Curtis corrected sharply. “That’s Grantsville now.”

  Jake thought about that. He hadn’t been out there in a while, but he remembered hearing something about the town changing sides after the war. “I believe you’re right,” he conceded easily.

  “Damned straight I am. That’s Grantsville now.”

  The deputy was perhaps nineteen or twenty, tall and rangy, with a sullen, hotheaded look about him. He glared across the table, studying Jake with an air of blatant hostility. Jake returned his glare with an expression of mild curiosity. “Something wrong, Deputy?”

  “You’re a reb, ain’t you, mister?”

  Jake had expected questions from the marshal’s men, but that wasn’t one he had anticipated. He sensed what was coming next but hoped he was wrong. “I’m from New Orleans, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “You fight in the war?”

  “I did.”

  “Now, you. just settle down, Curtis,” the marshal warned. “We ain’t gonna ge
t into this now.”

  The boy’s face puckered in disgust. “Damned rebels killed my pa and my brother. They both fought with Grant, died at a place called Lookout Mountain.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it,” Jake replied evenly. “Lots of good men died.”

  “And a lot of stinkin’ rebs lived.” Curtis fingered the butt of his gun. Shadows from the kerosene lanterns played over his face, making him look far more bitter than warranted by his age. “I been practicing shooting every day since I was ten, you know that, mister?”

  “Is that a fact.”

  “I’m good too. I could of wiped out a whole damned army of rebs all by myself.”

  “I’m sure you could have.”

  “You any good with a gun?”

  “Slowest man in my company.”

  Disappointment showed in the young deputy’s face. “You want to try me?” he asked anyway.

  “Not particularly. I think I’ll just sit here and drink my coffee.”

  “Let it go, Curtis,” warned the marshal again.

  Curtis ignored him, his eyes intent on Jake. “Let me hear it, mister. I want to hear that rebel yell.”

  “War’s over, son.”

  “Just once. I want to hear it.”

  Jake eased back in his chair, leveling a cool, flat stare at the boy. “I better educate you on something here,” he said slowly. “Fact is, once a Southerner lets out the rebel yell, a madness gets into him. Especially if he’s facing a Yank. He can’t see straight, his mind gets all twisted up, and his trigger finger starts throbbing. If I let out the rebel yell, you know what would happen?”

  “What?”

  “I’d have to kill you.”

  The boy looked startled while uneasy laughter broke out among the rest of the men.

  As the laughter rose, Curtis’s face flamed bright red and his lips tightened into a thin line. He leapt to his feet, his fury evident. “Why don’t you try me, you stinking reb? No shooting, just draw.”

  “Dammit, Curtis,” broke in the marshal. “I said that’s enough.”

  “You afraid, reb?”

  Jake sighed. “Why don’t we all just—” he began, but he didn’t have a chance to finish. Curtis made a move for his gun. The rest was instinctive. Jake had his gun in his hand — cocked, ready to fire, pointed directly at the deputy’s chest — before the boy had lifted his from his holster.