Devil in Texas(14)

Sid's bearded, sun-weathered face grew as red as his suspenders, which strained across a beef-fed belly. Ranger or no, Sterne was a man to be reckoned with in Texas. Nowhere in the Lone Star State did the former Adjutant-General hold more sway than in his birthplace of Lampasas. Ever since Baron had gotten the notion to prove his clout by "taking the waters" and wooing Lampasas voters away from Sterne, Sid had been walking a tightrope between two looming shadows: the Ranger's and the senator's.

"Now Mrs. Westerfield, don't go putting words in my mouth," Sid backpedaled. "Retired or no, Rexford Sterne is still called general around these parts."

"Erroneously." Poppy sniffed. "It wouldn't surprise me one bit if he was encouraging those granger assassins you're incapable of controlling in this town."

Sid looked like he wanted to knock her on her bustle. "Allow me to reassure you, Mrs. Westerfield. I hired six extra deputies to supervise the Texas Volunteer Guard as they patrol the convention and the hotels. You are perfectly safe in Lampasas. And so is Senator Westerfield."

"Forgive me if I don't share your faith in your pack of amateur tin-stars." Poppy wrestled a folded paper from her reticule and tossed the document, along with a $20 gold piece, on Sid's desk. "You're wasting my time. My husband and I are due at the luncheon. Release Mr. Cassidy."

Sid grunted when he read the letter. He even looked relieved. "Looks like you got yourself an attorney, Cass. Mrs. Westerfield's attorney," Sid added archly, turning an oversized key in Cass's cell door.

Cass darted a measuring glance at Poppy. She stood like an avenging angel, limned in her triumphant corona of sunbeams beneath the block-style letters that read, Marshal's Office, on Sid's window. When Cass's gaze collided with hers, her great bosom heaved. He was quick to notice the flush rising in her cheeks. A man like him didn't need much imagination to guess what a love-starved matron like Poppy wanted in exchange for her favor.

Next, Cass glanced furtively at Collie. Apparently, Poppy hadn't bothered to post the boy's bond. The kid sat cross-legged on the limestone floor of the adjacent cell with his half-whittled critter and his ring-tailed bunk mate.

"An attorney, huh?" Cass settled more comfortably on his cot with his legs stretched out, his back against the wall, and his coffee cup balanced on his lap. "Why, that's mighty fine, Sid." He took another sip of bellywash. "What'd the law wrangler say about springing my ward?"

"Ward, my ass," Collie muttered.

"Nuthin'," Sid said gamely.

"Nothing, huh? Now that can't be right. Why don't you read that high-falutin' paper again?"

"Mr. Cassidy," Poppy intervened impatiently, "my husband is waiting for us outside the bank."

Cass's coyote instincts were on the alert: they'd noticed a peculiar phenomenon. Whenever Poppy mentioned "my husband" in an official capacity, she seemed to be referring to herself.

"Mrs. Westerfield," he drawled, "I'm beholding to you, ma'am. Really I am." He flashed his most ingratiating smile. "But you see, Collie's my charge. My responsibility. Surely a genteel lady like yourself, who cares about doing good Christian works and helping folks get out of jail, can understand why I can't leave an impressionable boy of 15—"

"Seventeen," Collie growled.

"—In the hoosegow by his lonesome," Cass finished smoothly. "Sid's likely to arrest some cutpurse or road agent! And then all those good Christian morals I've been trying to instill in the boy would get snuffed out like a candle in a hurricane."

Cass couldn't say who looked more annoyed by his speech, Collie the Thief or Poppy the Barracuda. But civility—or at least the appearance of civility—was more important to a senator's wife than to an authority-hating youth.

"Of course, Mr. Cassidy," Poppy said briskly. "I quite see your point. I shall have my attorney correct the oversight. Release the boy, marshal."

"But is that legal, Mrs. Westerfield?" Cass gushed in his best greenhorn's voice.

"My husband will make it legal," she retorted, tossing another double eagle on Sid's desk. "I trust that will cover the expense."

Collie shot him a warning look, and Cass winked. Why, any fella with eyes could see Poppy was eating out of the palm of his hand!

Sid unlocked the kid's door. Collie gathered his hat and boots. As he reached for his knapsack, he leaned his blond head close enough to the cells' shared bars for Cass to whisper:

"Find Sadie."

Collie nodded, donning his poker face beneath his curtain of shaggy hair. Most of the time, Collie eyed women the way he eyed rattlers. Cass figured Sadie's loins-stirring smiles and seductive shimmies would be wasted on the kid—which would be a well-deserved comeuppance for the Devil's Red-haired Daughter. After the way she'd kicked him in the gut, Cass wanted nothing better than to tie his born-again lover to a bedpost and paddle the stuffing out of her.

Too bad Sadie would like it so much.

Grunting farewell to Sid, Collie stomped past Poppy with callous indifference. Vandy flashed his fangs at the senator's wife before scampering into Fourth Street.

Now it was Cass's turn. Unfolding his long legs, he settled his Stetson on his head and reached for the gun belt Sid was extending to him.

"Much obliged."

"I certainly hope so," Poppy breathed.

Cass hid his amusement. He'd been speaking to Sid.

As Poppy hustled him into the bright, cloudless morning, heat waves were already undulating off the sun-bleached planks of the boardwalk. Dia de los Muertos—the Day of the Dead—was only a few days away, and Gringo curiosity-seekers were entertaining themselves in the Public Square by inspecting Tejano handcarts piled high with sugar skulls and ritual toys. As Cass passed street vendors, he could hear haggling in broken English.

Lampasas was a railroad boomtown, thanks to the Gulf, Colorado, and Santa Fe, which had completed its feeder line out of Belton only months ago. The result had been to end cattle droving in central Texas and populate nearby hills with tents.

Lampasas, with its famed mineral springs, was perfectly positioned as a vacation resort, since the governor was talking about calling a special session of the legislature in January, to discuss the state's problem with fence-cutting gunnysackers.

The state's other problem was a covert organization of vigilante grangers, who'd given honest, hard-working sodbusters a bad name. The Southern Farmers Alliance had denounced the guerilla tactics of the anonymous radicals, who festered in their ranks and lynched suspected gunnysackers. But a proclamation from a lobbyist group wasn't going to stop the murderers from attending the convention.

Or assassinating Baron.

"Lampasas is such a barbaric place," Poppy said, as if guessing Cass's thoughts. She shuddered. "I can't wait for this convention to be over. Sid Wright is worse than useless. Yesterday, I approached him with my private concerns about that floating poker game at Aquacia Bathhouse. Contrary to what all the sodbusters think, their wives are perfectly aware that their husbands are sneaking out of the convention to lose their shirts. But when I asked Wright to disband the game, he told me his hands are tied! Can you imagine? Assassins are running amuck, and Wright claims he can't send deputies two miles down the road to arrest them!"

Cass cleared his throat. Baron, himself, had staked that poker game as part of his strategy to undermine Sterne's popularity with voters. Apparently, Wright had been too much of a gentleman to acquaint Poppy with the truth.