NINE

ooooo

She'd never been so miserable in all her life.

Julia Griswold huddled in the corner of the line shack Dan Lobaugh had placed her in an hour or so before. Even though the milled planks that composed it were laid tight enough to keep out the chill, she shook from head to foot. She'd seen evil before – when Joe Cartwright had been bushwhacked and the men who wanted him dead had been willing to burn them out to get to him; when Jim Fenton had tried to smother him.

But this…..

Joe had made the outlaws mad. He wouldn't go quietly. So they'd struck him over the head and dragged him out into the cold night where they stripped him of his clothes before flinging him to the ground. While he was lying there, semi-conscious, Dan had driven whatever foreign matter he could find into Joe's wound, contaminating it. After that the men tied Joe's wrists with rawhide bands and strung him between two trees, and then forced her to mount up and ride away, leaving him behind to die.

She was sure he was dead.

Julia's tears flowed as she thought of Joe expending his last ounce of strength to protect her. He knew, as she did, that she would be at the mercy of the unscrupulous and unsavory men who took her. A few hours before they arrived at wherever they were, their party of four had met up with three other men. Each wore a mask and tried to disguise their voice, but she was pretty sure one of them was Amos Pettis. Amos and her Pa had disagreed about just about everything, including the time Orv had asked to court her. She wanted nothing to do with him. Amos told her pa that his son said she was 'uppity' and needed to be taught her place. Pa taught Orv Pettis his place by lifting his belt and escorting him off the property the next time he came to call!

She missed her pa.

She wanted her ma.

But she wanted Joe Cartwright most of all.

Julia had just lowered her head into her hands and begun to weep when she heard a key 'click' in the lock of her cage. She rose and retreated to the mean cot that occupied one corner of the wood structure and took a seat on it just as the door opened and a man stepped in. It was Dan Lobaugh. This was the first time she had seen him unmasked.

It wasn't a pretty sight.

"I'm just checkin' to make sure your accommodations are acceptable," he said.

She didn't reply.

"Is milady distressed?" he sneered.

Julia's jaw tightened. She'd 'milady' him if she had half a chance – just for Joe!

"I was," she shot back. "At least the shack was clear of vermin until now."

The man's dirty brown eyes narrowed. "Now is that any way to talk to the man who's runnin' shot gun for you?" He took a step and closed the door behind him. "Seems to me you owe me somethin', princess."

There was nowhere to go. Her back was literally against the wall.

"Don't you come any closer."

"What're you gonna do, call on that white knight Cartwright to save you?" Dan scoffed. "He's white all right; white as a winding sheet."

"You stay away from me!" she exclaimed as he came to the bedside and loomed over her. "I'll scream!"

"And who do you think's gonna hear you, princess? There's a thousand head of beef bawlin' just outside this shack."

A thousand head?

"You're one of the rustlers!" Julia's mind was racing. ''So you took me to…what? Force my ma's hand? Make her sell her land?" Then she remembered something Joe had told her, about how he'd visited Sheriff Truslow and how Amos Pettis had been there and she fell silent.

Dan's thin lip curled up toward his sketchy mustache. "You're a smart girl. I see you're workin' it out."

"What are you going to do with me?" she demanded.

"Ain't my decision to make. I'm just here to make sure the cattle get where they're going and you stay put. Although…." He took hold of her arm and forced her to her feet. "If you're nice to me, I just might look the other way and let you escape."

Escape so she could be killed. So neither Robert Truslow or Amos Pettis had any hand in her death.

She might be young, but she wasn't stupid.

Dan's fingers dug into her skin. His face came close to hers. So close, she could smell whiskey on his breath.

"How about it, milady?"

She'd pay for it. She knew it. But she did it for her Pa – and for Joe.

Dan Lobaugh would be singing soprano for the foreseeable future.

ooooo

The long drink of water that was Sheriff Damien Strait unfolded from the weather-beaten chair on his front porch and rose to his feet to face the failing light. He'd deliberately built his mud and adobe house directly across from the mud and adobe structure that served as post office, court of law, and jail, so he could see the people who arrived before they saw him. Bridgeport wasn't a big town, but the territory under his badge was, so he never knew who or what was gonna come to call. The pair looking in his windows and trying his door looked harmless enough. Both of them appeared to be mature men, probably in their fifties, and fairly well-heeled, which ruled out most rustlers, horse thieves, and general ne'er-do-wells.

Neither one looked like a gambler.

The older of the two – least he guessed he was older due to his hair being the color of snow – was a man on a mission. He moved from window to window and back to the door with the grace and persistence of a mountain cat on the hunt. Damien watched as the two men exchanged words and then the white-haired fellow moved around the back of the structure.

It didn't have a back door. He'd done that on purpose too.

Twenty heartbeats later the white-haired man reappeared. He wasn't happy things hadn't gone his way. So, he was used to command and immediate obedience. The man's bearing spoke of time spent in the military or maybe at sea. He slapped his hat on his head, placed his fists on his hips, and began to assess the loose collections of adobe houses that they loosely called a 'town'.

Then, he saw him.

And made a beeline over.

Damien ducked as he stepped off the porch, careful not to strike his head on the low beams. The Doc had measured him at six-foot-five, but his five-foot-five wife said that was wrong. She said he was mountain-size, which was funny considering he'd been skinny as a bed slat since he'd been a kid. His height was intimidating. His skeleton frame, unsettling.

Both of which suited him just fine.

The man with the white hair had made it across the dirt path that served as a street.

Damien tipped his hat. "Howdy, stranger."

"Hello. I'm looking for the sheriff. Can you direct me to him?"

Educated too, and rich by the look of his clothes. With what it cost to buy that tooled leather belt and boots, he could have bought the town.

"Mind telling me what you want him for?"

Another man had come up behind him. A familiar man. Damien silenced him with his eyes.

They were blue, by the way. Gun-metal blue.

He glanced at the other man. "We believe there's a nest of cattle rustlers operating out of the box canyon north-west of here."

"That so."

The white-haired man was assessing him now. He could see the wheels turning in those chocolate-brown eyes.

"Yes, that's so."

"What business is it of yours?"

"Other than the fact that the entire operation is illegal?" the man demanded.

The stranger's temper was flaring, which was exactly what he wanted. Angry men forgot what they were saying. "Could be you're one of them. Maybe you just want to lead Sheriff Strait into trouble."

"Do I look like a cattle rustler?!"

"No. But you don't exactly look like a rancher either." He indicated the man's fine linen shirt, buckskin vest with leather pockets and silver conchos, and his worsted trousers. "Those are some mighty fine duds."

The white-haired man sighed. "My name is Ben Cartwright. I own one of the largest spreads in the Nevada territory. Some would call me a rich man."

Damien smiled. "Well, it stands to say you got good taste in clothes."

Ben Cartwright closed his eyes, fighting to master his temper. When he opened them, he looked directly at him. "Sheriff Strait, I presume?"

He smiled. "Damn straight."

"Have I passed muster?"

"I can vouch for him, Damien," Ed Flanders said.

Cartwright pivoted. "You knew?"

"I told him not to say anything."

The rancher turned back and their eyes met. Like bucks battling over a doe, they locked gazes and held on for several seconds. Neither one of them gave in.

They just came to an understanding.

"So, what's this all about?" Damien asked. "I don't see a man like you coming all the way to Bridgeport just to report a group of rustlers. And you, Ed, you got your own law in Lone Pines."

When Ed said nothing, Ben Cartwright spoke up. "We have reason to believe that the law in Lone Pines is corrupt."

He thought a moment. "Truslow, isn't it? Bert?"

"Bob," Ed said.

Robert Truslow. Now there was a man he wished he could forget.

"You think he's dirty?"

Ben Cartwright hesitated. "It's not my place to accuse any man without clear and concrete evidence. What I have is circumstantial. I'd like to lay it out before you and see if you come to the same conclusion I – we – have come to."

If he'd been cleaning his gun, Cartwright would have just moved up one chamber in his estimation.

"All right." Damien tossed his head at the simple structure behind him. "Come on in. My wife's got supper on the table. You can join us."

"We don't want to be any trouble," Ben insisted.

"Mister Cartwright, we got us some eighty buildings in this town, all of which are mud and adobe, and most of which aren't tall enough for a grasshopper to jump in. Mine's got a foot or two on the others because I've got a foot or two on the others."

"Still, we'd be perfectly content in a hotel."

Damien chewed on that a minute. "First of all, my wife would have my head if I sent you off to Old Piss-pots. Secondly," he nodded to the structure two down from the jail, "that's it."

Both men turned to look. Lutie, who ran the place for Piss-pot, was standing outside. She was a forty-year-old prostitute with one leg who looked right eager to bed a rich cattle baron.

Ben Cartwright cleared his throat. "Thank you. We accept your invitation."

Damien raised a hand to his throat and made a cutting gesture. Lutie snorted and went inside.

"Thought you would."

ooooo

Supper turned out to be a simple repast of tortillas with a variety of delicious fillings and fruit. Mrs. Strait, Ben came to find out, was the daughter of a Spaniard who had lost his land in the war and removed to Mexico. Isla, which was of both Spanish and Scottish origin, meant 'island'. She was as beautiful as a breeze blowing off of one and reminded him of some of the beauties he'd known during his wild and misspent youth. He'd never confess it to Joseph, but a weakness for women was one thing he shared with his youngest son. He'd known his fair share – with propriety and without – before he'd settled down and married.

Joseph.

He wondered for the thousandth time how the boy was doing.

They'd finished the meal and he'd laid out his suspicions. Damien Strait was digesting them along with his food. The sheriff of Bridgeport was an interesting man to put it mildly. Taller than Hoss, he might have weighed what Joseph did. He was lean and, he suspected, mean when he wanted to be. His tanned skin was stretched taut over a bony structure like hide wetted and dried and then pulled over poles to make a wigwam. Strait's eyes were uncanny. They were the blue of gun-metal and were set off by his jet-black hair, which was a touch shaggy and fell around his ears. He put his age at thirty-eight or so, but he might have been older.

Ben shifted in his chair. His eyes went to the tabletop, which Isla had cleared. He'd written down the progression of his thoughts before they got here. It was that the sheriff was looking at now.

"I got a few questions, if you don't mind," Strait said as he pushed it away.

"Anything."

"That first time, two years or so back, do you think Robert Truslow deliberately attempted to stop the investigation into who shot your son?"

He wanted to be completely honest. "At the time I just thought he was inept. We'd been there for half a day and he'd done nothing. When I questioned him, Truslow became belligerent and stomped off. Every time I asked him to do something there was an excuse as to why he couldn't. I think I became suspicious when he refused to use dogs to track down the men and did everything in his power that he could to stop me from doing it."

"Bob's a wily old fox," Damien said. "There's more to him than meets the eye."

Ben thought of Roy Coffee, who pretended to bumble and fumble to put criminals off.

"So how did your son run into him the second time?"

He let out a sigh. "Joseph is…impulsive. He suspected Truslow had something to do with Tom Griswold's death and went to confront him."

A smile curled the sheriff's lips. "So you got all the brains in the family?"

"My youngest is smart, but he wears his heart on his sleeve. He can't abide injustice, and the combination of those two things gets him into trouble." Ben let out a sigh. "Frequently."

"So, after Joe talked to Truslow, he was attacked on the way back to the Griswold homestead."

"Yes."

Damien looked from him to Ed Flanders and back. "I'm taking a risk here, but I'm going to trust you two. You seem like honest men."

He was being honest, though he hadn't mentioned Julia's kidnapping yet. The opportunity had not come up.

"A pair of federal marshals came to me not long ago, out of Stockton. Seems they caught wind of some type of syndicate in this area rustling thousands of head of cattle. They pick them up north of here and then sell them south where no one will think to look. The marshals think they've got a hidey-hole somewhere close to here where they change the brands before moving them out."

"The box canyon," Ed said.

Strait nodded. "Seems you found by accident what I've been looking for on purpose." He paused. "There's another thing."

"What is that?" Ben asked.

"These men have got a lot of money. They aren't spare with it. Just about every law officer on this side of the California border has been bought."

"Except you."

"They tried," he said and then grinned. "I pretended I was dumb and didn't get it." Damien looked at his wife and she came over and took his hand. "Then they threatened my family."

"Our little ones, they are not here," Isla said. "We sent them to live with their abuelo in Mexico."

Ben was aghast. "Then we've put you in further danger by coming here!"

"Ben, I think you and I understand one another," the lawman said. "These men have to be stopped and it won't be done without sacrifice. I mean to take them down, and I'd like your help."

Ed nudged him. "Ben…."

The sheriff didn't miss it. "What? Is there something you haven't told me?"

"Not because I was hiding it. I agree. This syndicate has to be taken down. There's just one problem."

"What's that?"

"The life of a young woman is on the line."

ooooo

Julia remained huddled in the shack, unmolested for the time being. Dan had grabbed her and forced his lips against hers. Just as that happened, someone called him. He growled and she fell back to the low bed as he suddenly released her. With barely contained rage the outlaw strode to the door and threw it open and then slammed it shut behind him. A second later she heard the lock 'click' into place.

Thank God!

It was foolish, but she couldn't help but compare the rustler's rough handling to the way Joe had touched her. Joe's hands were calloused, but gentle. His touch, respectful and loving. He'd brushed her lips with his own and let her lean into the kiss, as if waiting for permission. She loved Joe Cartwright as if he was bone of her bone and flesh of her flesh.

And he was dead.

A sob burst from her as her eyes flooded with tears. She'd never forget the last image she had of Joe, hanging between those trees; his head dangling on his chest and his tanned skin gray as the evening mist.

All because there were men who thought power and money were everything.

After Dan left, she'd counted to twenty and then risen and gone to the door. Looking out, she couldn't see much, but there had been men moving around, some of whom seemed familiar. Julia remembered how hard it had been to accept the fact that some of her neighbors had been involved in changing the brands on her parents' cattle. She'd always wondered how they got by with it since everyone knew everyone. Now, it seemed, since she'd recognized Amos Pettis – and Sheriff Truslow was involved – that maybe, just maybe even more of the men her father had called friends had been in on the rustling.

Maybe…just maybe, that was why he'd died.

From her position, she'd watched a hundred head or more of cattle moving through. She couldn't read their brands, but from the shape of the marks she could tell there were at least a dozen different ones. After Orv and Jim were caught and killed, the rustling had stopped. Then, slowly, over the last year or so it had started up again. A couple of the smaller ranches had been bled dry and their owners packed up and left. Before he passed, Pa had mentioned someone was buying up the land. She wondered now if they were the owners of the syndicate and were trying to build some kind of an empire.

She rose and went to the door again and looked through the crack between it and the wall. The light was fading. Without warning, two men appeared outside the shack – so close that instinct told her to take a step back. She held her ground. It was two of the men she'd ridden with earlier. The pair had abandoned their masks and the light of their unshuttered lamps struck their faces. One was Amos Pettis and, as Joe had suspected, the other was Robert Truslow.

Driven by fear and grief, Julia returned to the bed and took up a position in the corner against the wall where she felt she had command of the room. From what Amos and Sheriff Truslow had said, it seemed some of the men would soon be moving out. She prayed Dan Lobaugh would not be among them. As the day turned to night, a resolve had begun to build in her.

The men who hurt Joe needed to pay. They had to pay for what they had done.

She would make them pay.

Come Hell or high water.

ooooo

To be continued…..