Devil in Texas(12)

"You mean, Collie and Cass," the boy retorted, squatting to retrieve a mostly burned scrap of paper from Vandy's mouth. "Looks like he found something."

"Yeah. An ashtray."

"This isn't cig paper." Collie tilted the scrap to catch the moonlight. "There's a symbol here. Looks like a backwards seven with a boot. The words are mostly blacked out."

Cass joined him by the window. "Let's see."

Sure enough, a neatly lettered scrawl had been all but obliterated by Sterne's match. To Cass's mind, the remaining scrap looked like it had been part of the bottom, right-hand corner of the message: 'Trouble... arrived... meet here MN.' The 'MN' was probably shorthand for midnight. But the backwards seven reminded Cass of a musical symbol that Sadie used to write.

"I think the seven is part of a signature," Cass said thoughtfully.

Collie grunted. "A code name?"

"Maybe. What time is it?"

Collie glanced out the window, calculating by the position of the moon. "Midnight, I reckon."

"Damn. If that rendezvous's tonight, Sterne's on his way to this room. We're out of time."

Cass cracked open the hall door. He wanted to make sure no one would witness two vandals and a varmint hotfooting it down the hall.

Gold velvet fleurs-de-lis decorated the rich, burgundy wallpaper, which shimmered in the flickers of the frosted sconces. The matching reds of the carpet amplified the illusion that he'd stepped inside the belly of a dragon. Or maybe a long furnace. The heat of Texas's ongoing drought was barely relieved by the languid breeze that stirred the draperies, framing the windows at each end of the corridor. It wasn't difficult for Cass to imagine himself headed down the road to Hell.

But then, a life like his didn't usually end with an invitation to join the saints.

"All right, the hall's clear," Cass said.

He stepped across the threshold while Collie rummaged between his watermelons, presumably to reposition his .38.

"Quit messing around in there!" Cass grabbed the boy's arm and dragged him toward the L-shaped bend that led to the stairs. "And hunch your shoulders. You're supposed to be a doddering old Mee-Maw. How come you're waddling like a pregnant duck?"

"I don't want to step on Vandy's tail!"

A whiskered snout was poking out from under Collie's hem.

"Honest to God, I can't take you any—"

A muffled thump reached Cass's ears. It was followed by a suspicious scuffling.

Collie cocked his head, a sure sign he was listening. "Window," he mouthed silently.

Cass nodded, removing the trigger guards from his .45s. He'd learned to trust Collie's weasel ears. The kid's sense of hearing would have been downright legendary if he hadn't considered it one of his greatest weapons—and therefore, his biggest secret.

"Stay here," Cass whispered, edging along the wall.

When he poked his head around the corner, he spied a figure with chestnut sideburns. Dressed in a sodbuster's bowler and a brown linen sack suit, the man was emerging from the hardy camouflage of a live oak and swinging a leg over the window sill. A perverse sense of amusement curved Cass's lips. He'd caught a thief breaking into the hotel.

All his life, he'd wanted to be a Ranger. To fight for right. To make the world a safe place for little kiddies to play. That altruistic side couldn't let some desperado barge into the hotel and loot innocent folks.

Cass waited until the thief had committed himself, swinging his second leg over the sill and landing on catlike feet. Only then did Cass swagger around the corner.

"What's the matter, mister? Stairs aren't enough exercise?"

The thief caught his breath, his body going rigid. Cass had a revolver in his fist before the man could think about his own weapons.

"Hands," Cass barked.

Slowly, reluctantly, the thief spread his gloves in the universal sign of surrender. His demeanor was docile enough, but the rapid flutter of the linen draping his chest betrayed his agitation. The globe of an oil lamp burned behind his shoulders, so Cass couldn't see the intruder's eyes beneath the shadows of his hat.

"Not your lucky day, eh, compadre? I'm thinking your guardian angel up and skedaddled."

"I'll frisk him," Collie volunteered, lurching around the corner like Frankenstein's monster, thanks to the 50-pound coon cavorting between his boots.

Cass had half a mind to wallop them both. "Confound it, Miss McAffee, is that how your mama taught a lady to behave?"

The thief chuckled, a low, husky sound that reminded Cass of whiskey, scarlet, and sin all rolled into one.

"Looks like McAffee found Admiral Farragut's lost torpedoes."

"Shut up," Collie said.

"Mind your manners, cockroach," Cass growled at the thief. "You're talking to a lady."

Straight white teeth flashed in that graying beard. "Somebody's got his facts all tangled."

Cass frowned. Something about the thief's voice wasn't right. For one thing, it wasn't scratchy enough to be old. For another, it was more contralto than tenor.

In fact, the more Cass studied his captive, the more things didn't add up. The thief's graying, auburn hair and sideburns suggested a man past his prime, yet the intruder's gloves and boots were far from man-sized; his shoulders were as slender as a girl's; and his baggy coat made the average sack suit look tailored.

Cass took a step forward. He couldn't tell from the drape of the linen if the thief wore a six-shooter strapped to his hip, but Cass wouldn't have bet against those odds. Besides, a .45 wasn't his only danger. Knives, blinding powders, knuckle dusters and all manner of other weapons could be hidden up a man's sleeve—including a one-shot derringer that was just as deadly as a Peacemaker at close range.

He glared at the thief. "So you're a wise guy, eh?"

"Just shoot him," Collie interjected, knowing full well Cass wouldn't.

"Junior's awful grumpy," the thief drawled. "Must've missed his baby nap."

"I'll plug you myself!"

"Settle down," Cass snapped at Collie, but he was only half listening to the boy's rant. Something about the thief kept niggling at the back of his mind. Cass thought it might have been the man's wit. It reminded him poignantly of Sadie.

He cursed himself. Now wasn't the time to let grief distract him. Sadie had made a fool of him more than once. She'd even betrayed him, telling Sterne about his murder warrant when the Ranger had ridden into Dodge City, bearing a Special Deputy U.S. Marshal's commission. After a hurt like that, Cass shouldn't have cared what happened to Sadie.

But no matter how he tried, Cass couldn't stop thinking about the first woman he'd ever kissed, about those long-lost days of star-gazing, berry-picking, and infatuated innocence back in their childhood home of Pilot Grove. A yawning emptiness consumed his soul. The nights had lost their thrill because he could never love, war, and make up again with the Devil's Red-Haired Daughter.

Dragging a ragged breath into his lungs, he forced himself to rein in such useless conjectures.

"What's under your coat?" he snapped at the thief.

The ghost of a dimple peeked from the shadows beneath the man's derby. "The usual."

"Want to be more specific?"

"See for yourself."

Cass's pulse quickened. This conversation was familiar—macabrely familiar. The only difference was, his memory had to do with a Dodge City brothel and a skimpy lace negligee that had all but stopped his heart.

"I'll make you want me, Sadie," he'd threatened, his loins hurting even worse than his pride.