Devil in Texas(46)

Chapter 15



Sadie didn't speak a word during their eight-minute jog back to town. But that was fine by Cass. If she'd accused Baron of hiring contract killers another second longer, he might have stuffed his handkerchief in her mouth. Baron was the victim here! Hank Sharpe had broken out of jail—or he'd been miraculously paroled.

In either event, Cass didn't need much imagination to guess why Hank was in Lampasas: to seek revenge. Baron had kicked him off the ranch, and he'd stopped paying Hank in jail. So of course Hank was blackmailing Baron. Hank liked to torture folks right before he watched the light go out in their eyes. Extortion was just the beginning.

But Cass wasn't the only man familiar with Hank's history as Baron's hired hand. In fact, he was willing to wager that Pendleton knew more than he did. Recalling his conversation with Marisol, Cass wondered if Pendleton had been following Baron's order to pay Hank's extortion fee.

Or did Pendleton use his own money to hire Hank?

The latter possibility chilled Cass's blood. Baron trusted few men as thoroughly as he did Pendleton. The secretary knew every detail of Baron's ranching business, political funding, and campaign schedule. Pendleton could be as dangerous as Hank was. And if the two men were conspiring against Baron...

Cass's stomach roiled. He honestly didn't know if he could stop The Ventilator.

Eight years ago, on Baron's ranch, Cass had suspected Hank of pinning a theft on Lynx. When matters escalated, Cass had lost control of his tongue. Hank had demanded a high-noon showdown to "repair his honor."

Lynx had been horrified by the news. He'd threatened to confront Hank first—knowing he wouldn't survive the shootout—if Cass refused to flee Burnet County with him. So grudgingly, Cass had left the Rocking W. At the time, he'd blamed the Cherokee for making him look like a coward. But secretly, Cass had been afraid. He'd known Hank possessed the faster quickdraw and the steelier nerve. At 17, Cass hadn't been able to compete with The Ventilator.

At 25, Cass still didn't know if he was fast enough.

But he kept his tongue firmly between his teeth. He didn't confide his worries to Sadie. Nor did he confess his private vow to stop Hank or get killed trying.

At Western Avenue, when she wheeled her horse and left him choking on her dust, Cass figured she was heading for Sterne's hotel so she could warn him about Hank. Cass followed discreetly, until he was certain she got safely inside the Globe.

Then Cass spurred Pancake toward the Grand Park, one mile further west. He figured no matter what he asked Pendleton, the secretary would lie. So Cass's strategy was to question Collie. The boy might know where Hank had gone after leaving the bathhouse. With nothing but suspicion and circumstantial evidence to pin on Pendleton, Cass was disadvantaged. If he wanted Baron to believe his allegations, he'd have to find concrete proof. However, a fussbudget like Pendleton would have buried the evidence, and Cass didn't have time to search for it.

That's why Cass figured that neutralizing Hank was the quickest way to guarantee Baron's safety—at least for the night.

So Cass set off to question Collie. He expected to find the boy sucking down Wild Turkey outside the Westerfield's suite and grousing about having bodyguard duty on Devil's Eve. But Collie wasn't in the hotel's hall. Nor was he in the bedroom.

Cass frowned. No light spilled from the crack under the Westerfields' suite. Maybe Baron had dragged Collie off to one of the hotel's myriad gaming rooms. Considering the size of the grounds, Cass could have spent more than an hour, searching fruitlessly for Collie.

Feeling pressured for time, Cass abandoned his plan to confer with his sidekick. Mounting up again, he cantered the half-mile back to Third Street and Wilma's boarding house. He hoped Cotton or Gator would have news about The Ventilator.

But Cass's strategy changed again when he led Pancake into the brothel's livery. Sterne's dappled-gray Quarter Horse was snoozing in a stall. Like its rider, the gelding was legendary in these parts. Steel could run down any four-legged renegade in Texas. He had the spirit of a Comanche warrior and the stamina of a locomotive. He suffered no one to sit on his back except Sterne.

By comparison, Pancake was a big lovable moocher who didn't care who rode him, as long as a bag of oats was at the end of the journey.

Wistfully, Cass ran his hand over Steel's rump and received a snort for his impertinence. Collie and Baron were right: Cass needed to be more choosey about his horseflesh if he wanted to be a tin-star, whom outlaws feared.

That notion put the spurs to his already straining temper.

So Ranger Holier-Than-Thou is cheating on Sadie and dandying Wilma's bawds on his knee? Why doesn't that surprise me?

Cass's intent wasn't clear when he decided to confront Sterne. On the one hand, he was pragmatic enough to want Sterne's cool head, seasoned tracking skills, and legendary quickdraw on his side during a manhunt for The Ventilator. On the other hand, Cass was so full of piss and vinegar, he couldn't pass up this opportunity for his long-awaited reckoning with the man who'd ruined his life. The trouble was, Wilma prided herself on protecting her clientele. Nothing short of a crowbar could have pried Sterne's room number from Cotton's or Gator's mouth.

So Cass decided to sneak through a second-story window.

Breaking and entering was child's play for an outlaw of Cass's accomplishments. Tracking Sterne to the appropriate bedroom proved more challenging, but Cass eventually arrived at the ornately carved cherry wood of Wilma's boudoir door. When Sterne's laughter floated into the hall, Cass's hackles rose.

Stooping, he peeked through the keyhole. The room was well-lighted with tapers and gas lamps; even so, he couldn't see much from his angle, just that Sterne and Wilma were still clothed and Sterne had shed his gun belt. For what Cass had in mind, he didn't need to know more.

He rapped once and pushed inside.

Shock registered on Wilma's face. Her eyes flew from his scowl to his tethered .45s. When she leaped to her feet, tangerine chiffon billowed around her olive skin like a tropical storm.

"Cass! What—"

"I have business with Sterne."

"How dare you come bursting through my—"

Cass yanked his buckle. His cartridge belt swung off his hips. He tossed it across a plump, wingback chair, and Wilma's sputtering paused. She darted anxious eyes toward Sterne.

The old Wolf stood beside a small table, littered with the remnants of a late-night repast. To his right could be glimpsed Wilma's towering, half-tester bed. Behind him was a silk dressing screen, depicting naked lovers, entangled in the throes of lust. The subject was fitting, considering how Sterne had stolen Sadie from his arms in Dodge.

Cass had never hidden the fact that he hated Sterne; what he did keep secret was how he envied him. The specter of Cass's dirt-poor, share-cropper heritage rose now to haunt him as he glowered at his rival. If the Yankees hadn't confiscated all Confederate holdings during the war, Cass figured that tonight, Sterne would be sipping Glenmorangie in a gilded parlor beneath a crystal chandelier and smoking a Cleopatra Federal cigar, infused with cognac.

Maybe there is such a thing as Divine Justice.

Sterne had shed his swallowtails, but not his satin vest, frilled shirt, or bowtie. Only his plain brown, Justin boots hinted that he'd once walked among Texicans with the power of a god and the badge of a Ranger.

A no-good, lying Ranger, Cass thought darkly when he spied Sterne's gun belt hanging from a brass peg beside Wilma's door. Sterne was embezzling money from the good citizens of Texas. He was a bigger crook than Cass had ever been!

"You know I forbid weapons in my house," Wilma scolded. She was shielding Sterne with her body. "And I know you pack a lot more than six-shooters."