Devil in Texas(57)

"What?"

"I know you think the kid's reformed. So I did a little investigating. Sent out wires to marshals in surrounding towns. Tito's horse showed up in Belton yesterday. The circuit preacher, who was riding the nag, claimed he bought it in Lampasas for $100. From a fella named McAffee."

"That's ridiculous!"

Sid hiked an eyebrow. "Are you saying a senator's wife is telling whoppers?"

"No," Cass ground out reluctantly. "I'm saying there has to be another explanation."

"Well, I've got a poisoned corpse on my hands, a sworn testimony from a senator's wife, a missing suspect, and a sick senator—whom Collie had plenty of time to poison last night," Sid added grimly. "The longer McAffee hides, the more suspicious he looks. If you care about that kid, then convince him to pay me a call. With an alibi."

The marshal's tin star flashed as he swung up into the saddle. Pinching his hat brim, he gave Cass a grim nod before he spurred his gelding.

Cass stood scowling after Sid's cloud of dust. None of Poppy's story made sense. First of all, why would she go to Sid? She had no faith in him as a lawman.

Secondly, Collie had his own whittling knife, one of the few gifts his Pa had given him. Collie wasn't likely to covet someone else's blade.

Third, the kid wasn't any horse trader, but if he'd been trying to raise cash fast, he sure as hell wouldn't have sold a sweet-tempered, reliable mare for a measly $100!

Cass felt a tentative tug on his sleeve. Joaquin stood beside him, a dab of bootblack on his nose. A small cross, make of bone, peeked from the open laces of his orange and green serape. He was crumpling the brim of his sombrero as he turned the hat nervously in his hands.

"Seňor Cass, Collie is mi amigo. Did he really do all those bad things the gringo lawman said?"

"No, niňo." Cass forced a smile for the youngster, whose butternut face was creased with worry. "Sometimes, lawmen have to sort through a lot of gossip and misunderstandings to find the truth. Kind of like Marshal Wright did today, when you were too afraid to tell him what you really saw at the cemetery."

Joaquin's chin jutted. "You saw how he was! He thinks I'm a baby! He wouldn't believe anything I said!"

Cass dropped to one knee and squeezed the boy's shoulder. "I think you're man enough to tell me the truth."

Joaquin fidgeted. He averted his eyes.

"Marshal Wright's gone now, son. You can speak your piece. Tell me about this fire and thunder that blasted a hole through the door at the Oldham place. Was it a rifle shot?"

Joaquin nodded reluctantly. "I saw a shadowy figure, wearing a Stetson. He was inside the house. He was a mean hombre. He kept laughing and shooting at us niňos!"

Cass's jaw hardened. "Did he hit anyone?"

"Only Collie."

Cass must have blanched, because Joaquin added hastily, "I mean, he hit Collie's liquor bottle when he was running past the fountain."

"What else can you tell me?"

"He kept shouting at Collie. Something like, 'I owe you a slug for putting a hole in my bowler!' Then Collie got kind of squeamish. He lost his dinner."

Squeamish? Cass frowned. That wasn't a word he would normally use to describe Collie. "Where?"

"On the steps of the Villarreal tomb. About a 100 yards southeast of the central fountain," Joaquin added helpfully.

"Did Collie come back to town with you?"

Tears glistened in the boy's eyes. He shook his head.

Something cold settled in the pit of Cass's stomach. He would have bet his badge that Hank was the sniper in the cemetery.

"Joaquin," he said grimly, pressing a nickel into the youngster's palm, "I want you to do me a favor."

Joaquin nodded eagerly.

"Go and find General Sterne. Tell him Señor Cass sent you with an urgent message. Tell him everything you saw and heard at the cottage. Tell him the truth, just like you told me. Then tell the general I'll be at the boneyard, scouting around. Can you remember all that?"

"Si, señor!"

"Gracias, niňo."

Sheet lightning illuminated swollen thunderheads as Cass cantered toward the cemetery. The wind was picking up, tearing red and brown leaves from thrashing trees. Along the road, he encountered several Tejano families. Huddled for warmth in their mule-drawn carts, they were headed back to town after their ritual grave-decorating. He waved them to a halt so he could question them in Spanish.

None of the Tejanos remembered seeing a youth of Collie's description, much less a sniper trespassing on the Oldham property. The general consensus was that the cemetery had emptied of all revelers, because preparations must be made for the Feast of the Dead, which Tejanos typically served in their homes at sundown.

His uneasiness mounting, Cass thanked them for their help and rode on.

Judging by the disc of brilliance that tried, unsuccessfully, to burn through the overhead gloom, Cass guessed he reached the cemetery's gate around half-past four. Orange marigolds and rusty leaves tumbled across his path as he hid Pancake in a shrubby area, partly to protect the buckskin from the brewing storm, and partly to avoid discovery. His Tejano informants might not have seen Hank, but that didn't mean the bastard had abandoned the premises.

A quick scan of the main path allowed Cass to find Collie's tracks. They were easy to recognize, thanks to the coon prints accompanying them. Unlike the vast majority of foot traffic, Collie's trail traveled south, following the fence and its hedgerows. For some reason, the boy had skirted the central fountain, which still smoldered with the pungent aroma of burnt cedar. Cass guessed the kid had wanted to avoid Joaquin's gang of Tejano revelers. Until Cass had gotten the boy interested in Texas and Rangerhood, Collie used to shun most human company.

Straining his senses for bushwhackers, Cass followed Collie's trail to a lightning-sheared oak. Or maybe the tree's limbs had been sheared by gunfire, Cass mused, spying a slug in the trunk about a foot above his head. A large, rotted limb had crashed across a tombstone, where coon prints abounded, suggesting Vandy had frisked for treats. A crushed patch of grass told where Collie had parked his rear; broken marigold planters marked where Hank's potshots had struck pay dirt.

Tamping down a surge of rage, Cass continued tracking. He spotted an orange napkin fluttering in a bush; the scattered shards of a bourbon bottle; and long, running strides where Collie had dodged bullets. Then Cass found the vomit on the mausoleum stoop.

About three feet further south, twin gouges told the story of boot heels being dragged off the stoop onto the lawn.

Five yards further, Hank had heaved Collie onto his shoulder.

Sick with dread, Cass picked up his pace, loping through the rain-starved grasses. He soon realized Hank's tracks weren't heading toward the caretaker's cottage; instead, they were leading toward a park-like area, dominated by a ponderous, granite structure.

Good God. Was Collie locked inside that mausoleum?

As if in answer, a ring-tailed wraith lumbered back and forth along the building's stoop. Every so often, Vandy would rise on his haunches, scratch the door, and whine in a pitiful manner.

Cass's heart wrenched.

The rustic little house of death looked as gloomy as the lowering thunderheads. Mildew-colored lichen dotted the weathered stone and the twin colonnades that flanked the entry; the weeping angel topping the roof was missing several fingers and toes. Unlike most Victorian mausoleums, which incorporated light to uplift the spirits within, this tomb had no windows. Nor was it engraved with a family name, although Cass suspected the bones inside belonged to White men. He found himself missing the colorful skeleton dolls that lent a festive, almost friendly feel to the Tejano tombs.