Devil in Texas(56)

His lips twisted in a silent snarl.

After those headlines in the Dispatch, he didn't need a crystal ball to know Baron was responsible. Cass now understood why Sadie had hidden in the shadows—and why Wilma had tried to send him away. Their efforts had only delayed the inevitable. Cass didn't give a rat's ass if Baron was sick. Or a senator. The bastard was not going to get away with hitting his woman!

With the stealth of his canine namesake, Cass slipped from the bed and gathered his clothes. In a brothel, nobody cared about the proprieties, so he dressed in the hall and buckled on his guns. The familiar weight of his six-shooters brought to mind another problem.

Hank.

Cass muttered an oath as the name rolled through his mind. He'd almost forgotten his vow to determine what had really happened between Baron and The Ventilator at Aquacia Bathhouse.

Well, Baron can tell me himself when I drag him out of that hospital bed.

Retrieving one of his three widdies—in this case, the decoy he liked to let lawmen find in his hatband—Cass relocked Sadie's door. Grimacing with the effort, he bent the slender pick and snapped off its tip in the keyhole.

That should keep the spitfire from tracking killers by her lonesome.

As he descended to the first landing, he glanced out the vaulted windows. Shafts of light punched through pewter storm clouds. He figured the hour was after four o'clock. Sundown was about 90 minutes away. Across the street, candle flames flickered in the jack o' lanterns, smiling so gruesomely from a neighbor's porch steps. Silhouetted by the setting sun, a man in a chocolate Stetson loitered in that yard. He perched on a hay bale like some reckless scarecrow, tapping cigarette ash and blowing rings of smoke into the breeze.

Other than daring the devil by smoking on a flammable seat, the man wasn't remarkable. He had a brown duster. Brown boots. Brown hair. Nevertheless, prickles of warning sprinkled Cass's scalp.

Hank?

Cass couldn't see the man's face, but his instincts had never failed him. Determined to confront his nemesis, Cass crawled out the parlor window to avoid Cotton.

But when Cass rounded the building, a buckboard of whooping, dark-skinned children rolled down the center of Third Street. The boys were throwing straw at each other. The girls were eating soul cakes and sugar skulls. Cass guessed the black-robed padre was driving the orphans to a Halloween fandango.

Only a few seconds ticked by as the church wagon trundled past, but when the dust settled, Cass realized the man on the hay bale had vanished.

Muttering an oath, Cass checked the bullets in his guns and headed for the livery. He hoped to challenge Hank there, but when he reached the stable yard, he realized he'd followed a dead trail, at least where The Ventilator was concerned. Cass did find a roan tethered next to Pancake; however, the gelding wasn't Rhubarb.

A fresh wave of worry plagued Cass's gut. Where the hell was Collie? And why hadn't he stopped Baron from hitting Sadie? Collie could be a surly cuss, but he had his priorities straight. If he'd thought Baron was in a fist-swinging mood, the kid would have protected Sadie, not abandoned her.

Mounting up, Cass turned Pancake toward the town's hospital. But he hadn't cantered more than a block when he spied a commotion near the Public Square. A small but noisy crowd of Tejanos had gathered beside the red-and-white pole of Boomer's Barbershop. By the time Cass had ridden the distance, Sid had arrived on the scene.

"All right, all right, simmer down," the marshal boomed. "Silencio!" he added, wading through the anxious Tejanos. "There are no such things as goblins. Not even in cemeteries."

"But little Pedro saw a monster!" cried a chubby señora.

"And evil fire magic!" a youthful voice chimed in.

"The monster called down thunder," shouted another boy from the rear. "He blasted a hole in the old caretaker's door!"

"Sí!" shouted several niňos.

Sid snorted, folding brawny arms across his chest. "And just what were you boys doing on Mr. Oldham's property? After dark?"

A guilty hush settled over the younger members of the audience.

Sid drilled his gunfighter's glare into one of the shorter hecklers. "Well, Joaquin?"

The boy fidgeted, averting his eyes. "Er... I think I was lost, señor. On my way home from church."

Amusement vied with the authoritative scowl on Sid's face. "You think you were lost?"

Somebody snickered.

"I'm not going to find any rotten eggs or flour residue if I ride out to that cottage. Am I, Luis?"

"Oh no, señor," the older, taller rascal lied. "Flour bombs are for babies."

"Yeah?" Sid lowered bristling, black eyebrows. "Then what do you know about the surrey on my roof?"

Luis gulped and bolted. So did a half-dozen other adolescents, scattering in every direction.

"I'll lock you up and throw away the key!" Sid hollered after the mischief-makers. "Don't think I won't!"

Cass snickered behind his hand.

Sid caught his eye and reddened. "Shut up." Hiking his trousers, the marshal bellowed to the rest of the crowd, "All right, folks! The show's over! Move along, or you'll be doing all your trick-or-treating from jail!"

Well, that lit a fire under the macabrely curious. Before Cass could count to ten, the sidewalk beside Boomer's barber pole looked like a ghost town.

Sid chuckled. "Works every time," he confided to no one in particular.

Cass swung from the saddle.

"What're you doing here?" Sid demanded, hooking his thumbs over his gun belt.

"I came to get my boots shined. Is that a crime?"

"Maybe," the marshal said ominously. "I can sure make it one."

"Hey!" Joaquin protested.

"Aren't you just a little curious about what those boys saw at the cemetery last night?" Cass demanded.

"You telling me how to do my job?"

"Nope. Just asking a civil question of a peace officer."

Sid grunted. He didn't look convinced. "Well, seeing as how you're a stranger to these parts, I reckon you wouldn't know about local Halloween traditions," he said. "The fact is, I hear the same cock-n-bull story every year. Ghosts dancing 'round the lynching tree. Goblin faces peeking out the windows.

"'Course, I might be troubled to investigate further for a good reason," he added grimly. "Like, you think McAffee was causing mischief at the Oldham place. Or maybe you got wind he was poisoning folks."

"Aw, c'mon, Sid. Who put a bug in your ear about that boy? Collie's a good kid."

"Not according to your boss's wife."

"Poppy?"

"That's right. I couldn't say anything last night 'cause she swore me to secrecy. She was afraid for her life."

Cass frowned.

"Look, Cass. I should be keeping my mouth shut, but we go back a long way. So I'll tell it to you straight. About two days ago, Mrs. Westerfield came to me in a hand-wringing tizzy. Said she'd sent Tito on an errand. He was supposed to walk to the post office and mail her correspondence. He should have been gone 20 minutes, but he never came back. He missed his appointment to drive her to a Suffragette meeting. He missed lunch and dinner, too, which she claimed was unlike him. She was deeply worried. She said she doted on that boy."

Ignoring the skepticism on Cass's face, Sid continued, "Mrs. Westerfield checked the livery. Tito's horse was missing, and he'd cleared his carpetbag from the hotel room. At first, she thought he'd quit his job. But then she remembered how he and Collie had argued. How the boy had threatened to make him pay. And then she noticed that Collie was whittling with Tito's knife."