Capture the Sun (Cheyenne Series) (51 page)

      
“I want to see the baron and Baroness von Krueger immediately,” he said, affixing the haughty servant with his most intimidating Cheyenne stare.

      
“That would be most difficult, Mr. Sinclair,” the English butler said coldly, “considering his lordship is dead. I assume you have been away. I'll ask the dowager baroness if she wishes to see you. Please wait.”

      
Hawk had no intention of waiting in the hall and went into the sitting room, where he helped himself to the baron's fine stock of liquor. Grimly, he mulled over the news. Damn the bitch, she had killed him, and from the look of things, gotten clean away with it. Lola Jameson, as Hawk had well learned from experience, was a very dangerous enemy.

      
“Well, darling, you've just heard the news, I understand. You look beastly. Where have you been?” Lola wore a pale-gray satin dressing robe, her concession to mourning for Karl. It clung sleekly to her breasts and hips and was draped open in front to reveal a gauzy silver gown beneath. She closed the heavy walnut door behind her. “Depressingly dark room,” she said, looking around her at the purple drapes and wood paneling with distaste. “I'll have it done in pale blue, I think.” She tapped her cheek with a long fingernail as she glided across to him, smirking in self-satisfaction.

      
“Don't start redecorating too soon, Lola. You shouldn't have killed your meal ticket, no matter how disagreeable a bastard he was.” After setting the empty glass carelessly on the cabinet top, Hawk leaned against a leather wingback chair.

      
“I'll do whatever I want!” She smiled witheringly at Hawk. “And to think, darling, you could have shared all this with me.”

      
“There's nothing to share, Lola. I just came back from Helena. Krueger didn't trust Mr. Cooper. He kept all his legal papers with his attorneys in the capital.”

      
“He didn't write a will. I asked him,” she spat contemptuously.

      
Hawk smiled. “That's right. But I went to Helena to check on just what does happen when a man like Karl von Krueger dies without a will in this territory. Very interesting point of law. It seems his estate will be turned over to a court-appointed trustee in Helena until they find out just who in the Krueger family is left alive back in Germany. It might take years.” He shrugged. “But even if they finally come up with no one, you will lose. Kin by marriage only inherit when they're spouses, Lola. Karl's estate will go to the court for tax liquidation if no long-lost cousins turn up in the fatherland.”

      
Lola stood stock-still, her eyes widening and her pulse racing as Hawk's words sunk in. He must be lying. Surely he was fabricating the whole thing. Her fingers clenched around the edge of a carved walnut chair, which now served to hold her upright.

      
Relentlessly, as if to forestall her questions, Hawk withdrew an envelope from his coat pocket. “I had Mr. Thrimble write this for your edification. It's simple enough, but I thought Krueger'd be here to elucidate the fine details for you. My mistake,” he finished grimly and started to leave her in frozen misery as she held the papers in a talonlike grip, staring sightlessly at them.

      
He had the heavy door open and was about to step out when her voice stopped him instantly. “Carrie is in jail for Karl's murder. She shot him with that pistol of hers. The sheriff found them together in a room at the Excelsior. She was undressed and he was dead!” The venomous triumph in her voice grew more unmistakable with each word she hurled at him.

      
He stared at her with a shuttered expression on his face, watching her hate radiate like a tangible thing across the space between them. “You're lying, Lola.”

      
“Just go to Circle S and ask Feliz!” Her look of smug assurance left no doubt that Carrie was indeed in jail.

      
“Somehow, Lola, you arranged this. You killed Krueger. I know you thought you'd inherit K Bar. Now it looks as if you went to a lot of trouble for nothing. Kyle and I will straighten this out. No one's keeping Carrie in that filthy jail!”

      
As he-spoke she glared at him, all her sense of triumph evaporating. She would not get Karl's wealth; she would not even be revenged on that redheaded bitch; Hawk didn't even believe her lies. Quivering with rage, she screamed at him, “She's not in that filthy jail anymore! Caleb's got her! That's right, Caleb broke her out last night and carried her off to his rustler friend's hideout. He always wanted her, but she was too high and mighty for him—like you were too good for me. Well, we'll just see now who gets the satisfaction, won't we! He and those filthy gunmen will tear her apart by the time they're through with her!”

      
When he grabbed her she was laughing and crying all at once in bubbling hysteria. “Where, Lola—where has he taken her? Tell me or I swear I'll use every torture my Sioux friends ever devised on you!” He slapped her several times to still her insane laughter, then shook her until her neck cracked and her teeth chattered.

      
Grinding her jaws together, she said, “I don't know, damn you! He and Karl worked out their dirty little deals about stealing your stupid cows. He just wanted her and took her. If you beat me to death, I can't tell you!” Another maniacal laugh surfaced as she hung like a rag doll in his harsh grip.

      
Swearing, he threw her roughly against the large leather chair in the corner and whirled, leaving the room with lightning speed.

      
Lola lay draped across the chair, her hair tangled around her shoulders, her robe torn and askew. Dumbly she looked at the floor where the legal papers Hawk had given her lay. No inheritance. No money or power. Nothing. She considered the future, growing older in poverty, she who had been a Chicago Jameson, the darling of the debutantes, a baroness, now a nobody who Hawk Sinclair would see charged with kidnapping, even murder.

      
Slowly and unsteadily she stood up and walked over to the liquor cabinet, where she poured herself a very generous glass of whiskey, slugging it down with unaccustomed speed. Then she poured another.

* * * *

      
Kyle had been gaining ground on Rider for several hours. A horse carrying double always slowed a man down, even if the passenger weighed as little as Carrie. Kyle had found her gelding wandering lame after stumbling in a gopher hole near the trail. The deeper prints of Rider's own mount told the tale as clearly as a road map.

      
As far as the canny Texan could tell, Rider was taking Carrie to his rendezvous point with the rustlers, on the northern end of K Bar land, near the Dakota border. It was close to the railroad line, an easy drive with stolen cattle to the railhead. Kyle's past weeks of careful tracking and surveillance had allowed him and Hawk to locate the thieves' hideout. They had been in the process of laying an elaborate trap, waiting for reinforcements to arrive from the Nations before they finished the deadly game with Krueger and his foreman.

      
Now, with Krueger dead, the whole plan had blown up in their faces. Perhaps something could be salvaged, but first Kyle must rescue Carrie unharmed. Just thinking of what Caleb Rider and his cohorts were capable of made his blood run cold!

      
It was a desperate gamble, but if he took off hell-bent, no longer bothering with the painstaking chore of trailing, he could overtake Rider before he got to his friends. Of course, if he were wrong and Rider wasn't headed there, he risked losing their trail entirely. The Texan swore. Never in his life had a hunch been so much of a risk. He thought of Carrie surrounded by half a dozen leering criminals, and spurred his horse into a furious gallop.

* * * *

      
Carrie was groggy from the blow to her head. The right side of her scalp throbbed wickedly and her whole body was a mass of scratches and bruises. She had been bouncing against Rider's unyielding body for hours.

      
Dark had given way to the faint warming glow of sunrise when her horse stumbled and threw her. Her hands had been tied in front of her. It was fortunate she had not broken an arm or even her neck. Rider had sworn vilely as he stopped and dragged her dazed, aching body off the rocky earth. The horse had to be abandoned, and he carried her in front of him, squeezed in loathsome proximity to his body. It slowed their progress considerably, and Carrie began to gather enough of her wits by midmorning to hope this piece of luck might give Hawk and Kyle time to catch them.

      
Finally, Caleb pulled his tiring horse off the trail by an outcropping of rocks. Carrie was disoriented, but it seemed to her he had doubled back for the past quarter hour or so. Why?

      
As if in answer to her silent question, he dismounted, quickly dragging her bound form with him. He shoved her roughly to a thick, grassy mound of earth behind a large rock. Looming over Carrie like an incarnation from hell, he began to untie his neckerchief. Before she could cry out, he knelt and gagged her cruelly with the large cotton scarf. Then he took a length of rope and tied her booted feet securely, binding them to her wrists as well—hogtying her tightly. She lay on the ground, glaring up at him with fierce hate in her eyes. Living with Noah had taught her a great deal about intimidation.
God, don't let me give way now!

      
“Think I'll just leave you here to contemplate the pleasures of tonight when we reach a nice cozy bed at the shack. I don't want to chance any unexpected visitors. I'd swear I've heard someone back a ways. You'll stay put now while I check it out.”

      
Rider pulled his rifle from its scabbard on the saddle and walked over to the steep, rocky cliff that hid them from the road. With considerable agility he began to climb through the brushy crevices. When he crested the natural lookout point and scanned the trail below, a quick scowl spread across his face. A dim speck on the horizon was gradually increasing in size. When Rider could make out who the horseman was, the squinty frown was replaced by an evil smile.

      
“Payback time, you scrawny little son of a bitch! I get your lady boss there and you get a slug.” He sighted his rifle and waited as the fast-moving horse galloped closer.

      
Kyle was certain he would overtake them within an hour at the outside. He had just decided to slow down and check to see if any of Rider's pals were nearby when the shot cracked from the rock pile to his left, knocking him off his terrified horse. As the animal bolted away, Hunnicut rolled across the dusty ground, his eyes searching for cover as he scrambled to regain his footing. Fortunately the area was brushy, with a twisting, dried-up creek bed off the trail to his right. He half rolled, half fell into it. He could not be certain where the shot had come from, but assumed it was across the road. Leave it to Rider to take the high ground.

      
He was no novice when it came to gunshot wounds, and the Texan knew this was a bad one. As he checked his Colt, he listened for another rifle report. None came. “Yew come to me, Caleb boy. Yew jist do thet,” he whispered to himself as he poked a sweat-soaked scarf against the widening red stain on his chest.

      
Carrie lay on the hard earth, struggling with her bonds, listening to the report of Rider's rifle. One shot. God, was it Hawk or Kyle? She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed that Rider had missed, then continued to roll herself awkwardly off the grass to the nearby rocks. If she could only get a sharp piece of stone to saw her bonds!
 

      
Caleb did not return. That was a good sign. He must not have made his shot. Frantically she searched the ground for something against which to rub the ropes. Her wrists were bloody and raw and the cord binding them to the ropes on her ankles was pulled tight, making it impossible for her to stand or even roll without pain. Despite nearly dislocating both shoulders, she made three more turns and reached a jagged outcrop of rock.

      
Rider swore as he saw the curled figure of the Texan vanish into the brushy streambed. The impact of his shot had knocked him most of the way, but long experience at killing made Rider sure that his prey wasn't dead. He had rolled that last turn-on his own. Still, it had been a hit, and it would be only a matter of time until he bled to death. Hunnicut had come alone, but never one to leave matters to chance, Rider scanned the horizon for possible backup. Should he risk staying to finish the Texan or grab the woman and take off?

      
He wanted to see Kyle Hunnicut die. Slowly he climbed down the side of the hill. If he circled to the east where the trail dipped, he could come back down the creek bed and nail his quarry from behind. As badly shot as he must be, not even that tough little rooster would be doing much moving.

      
Ten minutes ticked off slowly as Rider circled and Kyle bled. He was sweating profusely and growing lightheaded. Soon he'd pass out, maybe for good. How to draw Rider?

      
‘‘Always figgered yew fer a sidewinder, Caleb. Bush-whackin' ‘stead o' facin' a man down.” He took a breath. Yelling was taking more energy than he had in reserve. “Yew shoot Frank like thet? Yer a yeller dog coward, Rider!”

      
Just then the faint scuffling noise of a boot dislodging a small rock sounded in the still noon heat. Kyle turned painfully as Rider rounded the curved trail of the stream bed. Both men shot simultaneously. Both missed. The Texan's hands were shaking and weak from loss of blood. The bushwhacker was caught by surprise that the gore-covered man could still move so quickly. They took cover in the tangled undergrowth.

      
“You'll bleed to death real quick in this heat, Hunnicut. All I have to do is wait.”