Wyoming Wildfire
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Elizabeth Lane
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Chapter One
Felton, Wyoming, May, 1887
Jessie Hammond belly-crawled her way up the muddy bank that rose above the wagon road. Her right hand clawed for purchase on the rain-soaked ground. Her left hand gripped the handle of a long-barreled Colt Peacemaker. The hefty single-action revolver was loaded and Jessie knew how to use it. Only last week, she’d downed a prime buck at a hundred yards with a shot through the heart. But she didn’t intend to fire the weapon today. Not unless she had to.
Digging into the mud with the toes of her worn riding boots, she heaved her way onto the level ground at the crest of the bank. Keeping low, she inched forward through the rabbit brush to the edge, where the ground dropped off fifteen feet to the road below. She anxiously scanned the road’s rutted surface.
Last night’s storm had flooded the wagon tracks and turned the indentations to gleaming puddles. Fresh hoofprints would be easy to spot because they wouldn’t be filled with water. Jessie saw none. Unless the lawman had chosen to take her brother the twenty miles to Sheridan by a different route, she had managed to arrive here ahead of them.
Jessie had watched from behind the Felton general store that morning as Heber Sims, the elderly town marshal, had opened up the makeshift jailhouse and allowed the tall U.S. deputy to lead the manacled prisoner to the spare horse. Jessie knew that Heber would be relieved to see Frank gone. There’d been talk of a lynching, and if a mob had stormed the jail, neither the old man nor the rickety clapboard building would have been strong enough to stop them.
As the two men were mounting up, Jessie had sprinted for her own horse, sneaked quietly out of hearing, and then cut hell for leather across the open hills to intercept them on the road. It was a desperate risk she was taking, but she had to stop the federal deputy from locking Frank up in Sheridan. She had to convince him of the truth—that her brother was innocent of murdering Allister Gates.
The Gates brothers’ ranch occupied a choice spread of land bordering upper Goose Creek. While not as wealthy as the Tollivers, who owned the vast acreage to the north, the family was certainly well-off. Allister, a big, affable man in his early fifties, had looked after the ranch’s financial interests while Virgil, a decade younger, ramrodded the work.
Allister had been well-thought-of by the townspeople and neighboring ranchers. The whole community had been thrown into shock two nights ago by the discovery of his body, sprawled facedown in the horse corral owned by the Gates with a bullet through the back. Frank’s rifle, with his initials, F.H., carved into the stock, had been found lying a few feet away.
Marshal Sims, flanked by two nervous deputies, had come for Frank just as he and Jessie were finishing breakfast the next morning. They had clapped the handcuffs around Frank’s wrists, giving him no time to resist.
“Since when is it a crime for a man to steal back his own horse?” Frank had argued as they led him toward the marshal’s buggy. “Far as I’m concerned, it’s Allister Gates you should be arresting, not me.”
Only then had the marshal told Frank that he was under arrest for Allister’s murder.
Frank’s young face had turned as white as bleached bone. “No!” he’d screamed as the deputies dragged him into the buggy. “I only took the stallion! Allister made me drop my gun, and I rode off without getting it back, but the man was alive when I left the place! I swear it by all that’s holy! On my parents’ graves, I swear I didn’t kill him!” His frantic gaze had swung toward Jessie, who stood frozen in shock. “Help me, sis! Tell them! Make them listen!”
The memory of his cries tore at Jessie’s heart as she crouched in the tall brush, waiting. What she was about to do would likely get her arrested, too. But once Frank was locked up in Sheridan, she would be all but helpless to aid him. With the evidence that stood against him, he could be tried and hanged in a matter of days, giving her no time to clear his name. She had to act now, before it was too late.
A spring breeze skimmed her face, fluttering one jet-black curl that had tumbled loose from beneath her old felt hat. Nervously she tucked it back beneath the brim. She’d disguised herself as a boy because she didn’t want to be recognized. But she’d begun to wonder how well her masquerade would work. Even with her hair out of sight, she didn’t look much like a male. The bandanna over her face would help a little, as would the baggy flannel shirt and muddy bib overalls she wore, but making her voice sound convincing would be more difficult.
Clearing her throat, she rehearsed the words she’d planned to say. “Unbuckle your gun belt, Marshal, and throw it up to me. Do it nice and easy, and you won’t get hurt. Now, unlock those handcuffs, and…”
Jessie sighed and shook her head. She sounded like an actress filling in for the villain in a bad melodrama. She wouldn’t need a gun. The marshal would likely be overcome by helpless laughter.
But this was no laughing matter, she reminded herself. And it was too late to change her plans now. She could hear the sound of horses coming up the road from the south. A moment later, two mounted figures, riding side by side with a loose rope connecting their saddles, appeared around the bend in the road.
Frank sat astride a docile-looking bay. His head was bare and his hands were manacled behind his back. He looked rumpled, unshaven and terrified. He was nineteen years old, with his whole life ahead of him. Right now that precious life lay in Jessie’s hands.
The deputy marshal, who moved along beside him on a classy, long-legged chestnut, was a stranger. Like the horse he rode, he was lean, athletic and ruggedly handsome. His eyes were narrowed and alert beneath the brim of his Stetson. His hand rested lightly on the grip of his holstered revolver. The six-point silver star of his office gleamed on his leather vest. Studying him, Jessie could sense the tension that fueled his steel spring reflexes. Such a man would be hard to take by surprise. But surprise was essential if her plan were to succeed. Jessie pulled the bandanna over the lower part of her face. She would wait until they’d passed her hiding place. That would put her at the marshal’s back, giving her a slight advantage when she made her move. What happened after that would be anybody’s guess. But if Frank got away unharmed, she would count it as a victory.
As she crept toward the edge of the bank her index finger settled against the familiar steel curve of the Peacemaker’s trigger. Her thumb eased the hammer back into firing position. She didn’t want to hurt the deputy, but she would do whatever it took to rescue her brother. She could only pray that, when the time came, the lawman would listen to reason.
United States Deputy Marshal Matthew T. Langtry cast a sidelong glance at his prisoner. Frank Hammond didn’t strike him as a killer. The poor devil was painfully young and scared spitless. What was more, he didn’t appear to have a mean bone in his body. Bringing in vicious lawbreakers generally gave Matt a sense of satisfaction. He felt no such satisfaction this morning, only an uneasy premonition that something wasn’t right.
The aging town marshal had given Matt the facts of the case. Frank Hammond and Allister Gates had been at odds over the ownership of a valuable horse. Gates had taken custody of the horse and put it in his corral. Late in the night, young Hammond had come to steal the horse back. Gates had tried to stop him, but somehow Hammond had escaped with the horse and vanished into the darkness. Gates had been found in the corral, shot in the back. The bullet, cut from his body by the undertaker, was matched to Hammond’s rifle, which had been left at the scene.
A tidy little story, Matt mused. Almost too tidy. But that was none of his affair. This wasn’t even his blasted case. Newly arrived at his own post in Sheridan, he’d been paying a courtesy call on Johnson County Sheriff Frank Canton, when word came in that a prisoner needed to be brought in from Felton. Being new to the area and wanting to see more of the country, Matt had offered to go.
All he needed to do now was deliver Frank Hammond to the jail in Sheridan and hand over the legal paperwork. Then he could get back to the paperwork that had piled up on his own desk. Hellfire, if he’d known that working for the federal government involved so damned much paper, he’d have thought twice before taking the job.
But this murder case…against his better judgment, it was pulling him in. The Felton marshal’s story had left a lot of holes to fill. For example…
“Where’s the horse you stole, Frank?” he asked, thinking aloud. “The stallion?”
“Hid.” Frank’s blue eyes flashed beneath his thick, black brows. “And I didn’t steal him. He’s mine, bought and paid for. My sister’s got the bill of sale at home. She can show it to you.”
“Your sister?”
“Jessie. We’ve got a homestead back in the hills. The two of us have worked it since our folks died four years ago. Land’s too poor for crops, so we breed and break horses. We were betting everything we had on that stallion and the colts he could sire. Allister Gates had no right to take him!”
“Did you kill Allister?” Matt’s gaze drilled into the pupils of Frank’s bloodshot eyes, probing for the truth.
“No!” Frank shook his head vehemently. “I swear it by the Almighty, I’d never—”
“Stop right there, Marshal. Unfasten that gun belt and throw it up here!” The throaty voice rasped out from behind and above them, on the high bank.
Matt swore under his breath. One glance at Frank Hammond’s transfixed, hopeful face was enough to give Matt a fair idea of who was up there; and the faked masculine snarl bore out his suspicions. He knew a woman’s voice when he heard one.
His hand tensed on the grip of his holstered Smith & Wesson .44. He could turn swiftly and hope to get the drop on her. But that would be a risky proposition, and he sure as hell didn’t want to end up shooting her.
“I said take off that gun belt, Marshal.” The husky, oddly sensual voice was raw with strain. “I’ve got your back in my sights, and at this range I never miss!”
Matt decided to gamble. “Don’t be a fool, Jessie,” he said. “If you want to save your brother, let me take him in. I’ll do everything I can to make sure he gets a fair—”
The report of the six-shooter exploded in Matt’s ears, blasting the Stetson off his head. He sat stunned, his ears ringing. The hellcat wasn’t bluffing. She could shoot.
“Mind what I say, or the next bullet will be lower.” She was speaking in a flat, cold tone now, making no effort to disguise her voice. “Toss the gun belt up here. Then climb down off your horse.”
Again Matt chose to stall. “You’ve already broken the law, Jessie—aiding a fugitive, assaulting a federal officer and Lord knows what else. You can’t help your brother if you’re in jail. Back off now, before anybody gets hurt, and I’m willing to forget what you’ve—”
“Just do it.” He heard the click as she thumbed back the hammer. “I don’t want to shoot you, Marshal, but I’d rather spill your blood than see my brother hang for a murder he didn’t commit.”
“If he runs, nobody will ever believe he’s innocent.”
“They don’t believe it now. Half the town is out to lynch him—and I’ll bet money the judge in Sheridan won’t believe him, either. This is the only way. Now, toss me the gun belt before you make us both sorry.”
Frank cleared his throat. “Better do as she says, Marshal. Jessie’s got a mean temper, and she’s a helluva good shot.”
Matt’s curses purpled the air as he unbuckled the gun belt. He didn’t like being bested by anyone, let alone a female. This incident would go on his record and make him the butt of some merciless ribbing. But he didn’t want to shoot either of these young people. And he sure as blazes didn’t want to get shot himself.
The belt and holster fell free. Turning toward the high, brushy bank, he swung it back and tossed it upward. The throw was short, as Matt had intended it to be. It bounced off the high slope of the bank and dropped into the sludge that the storm had washed along the road’s lower edge. The last thing he wanted was to make it easy for her.
The rabbit brush moved as she rose to her feet, giving him his first good look at her. If it hadn’t been for the sight of the cocked Peacemaker pointing straight at his chest, he might have smiled, or even chuckled. By now he knew better.
She was a little thing, not a shade over five foot one. Aside from that, he could see almost nothing of Jessie Hammond. A battered old felt hat hid her hair and forehead, and the lower part of her face was masked by a crimson bandanna. Whatever figure she might possess was lost beneath a faded flannel shirt and a baggy, mud-streaked pair of bib overalls. Something about her reminded him of a little girl playing dress-up in her grandfather’s old work clothes. But there was nothing make-believe about the cocked pistol in her hand.
“That wasn’t funny.” She jerked her head toward Matt’s gun belt, which was already settling into the ooze. “I ought to shoot you right now.”
“I can get it for you.” Matt squinted up at her, wondering whether the black powder bullets in his pistol would be too wet to fire by the time he got his hands on the gun. He’d hoped she might make the mistake of climbing down to the road, but she stayed above him, keeping the advantage.
“Never mind. Get off your horse.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Matt eased out of the saddle and dropped to the ground.
“Now get your key and unlock my brother’s handcuffs.”
“Sorry. The key’s hooked to the gun belt.” It wasn’t true, but it gave him an excuse to stall while he plotted his next move. Strangely enough, he’d begun to enjoy this little sparring match.
“He’s lying, sis,” Frank said. “I saw the tricky bastard put the key in his pocket.”
Her eyes flashed above the red bandanna. Even at a distance, Matt could see that they were the color of violets, almost purple, and framed with luxuriant ebony lashes. “Don’t play games with me, Marshal!” she snapped. “I’m running out of patience, and my trigger finger’s getting itchier by the minute!”
“Whatever you say, lady.” Matt fumbled in his pocket, thinking that he’d give a new saddle and his Sunday hat to know what was underneath that silly costume of hers. If the rest of Jessie Hammond matched those eyes…Lord Almighty!
His fingers found the small key and the ring that held it. Still he hesitated, stalling as he searched for some way to salvage this debacle.
He glanced up at Jessie, then back at her brother. “You know, Frank, if you ride out of here, you’ll have a whole troop of vigilantes on your trail. And if they find you before the law does, you’ll be swinging on a rope before you can say your prayers.”
“I’ll be swinging anyway,” Frank muttered. “At least, if I run, I’ll have a fighting chance. Do what she says, Marshal.”
Matt sighed as he pulled the keys out of his pocket. “I just wish you’d—”
The rest of the sentence died in his throat as he sensed a slight tremor in the mud beneath his boots and heard, from beyond the bend in the road, the rumble of galloping horses—many horses—coming from the direction of the town. Matt’s instincts slammed into high alert. Only one thing would bring a large band of riders onto the road this morning.
“Vigilantes!” Frank’s face had gone chalky. Still handcuffed, he leaned forward in the saddle and, gripping with his knees, jabbed his boots into the side of the horse he was riding. The startled bay shot off the road and up the hill, with Frank clinging Indian-style to its back.
Roped to the other horse’s saddle, Copper, Matt’s chestnut gelding was yanked into motion. Copper snorted, jumped, and broke into a gallop, keeping even with the bay. Matt swore as his prisoner and both horses vanished over the top of the wooded ridge. He could hear the riders approaching the bend in the road. Seconds from now they would be in sight.
Jessie stood on the high bank, her pistol arm hanging slack as she stared after her brother.
“Get out of here, damn it!” Matt snapped, lunging for his gun. “You’re the last person I want those hotheaded fools to find!”
He found the gun belt in the muddy roadside ditch and jerked his pistol out of the holster. When he looked up again, Jessie Hammond had disappeared behind the top of the bank. He hoped she’d have the good sense to run. If the vigilantes failed to find Frank, they could turn their fury on his sister. Whatever happened after that was bound to be ugly.
He took a split second to examine the gun. The leather had kept the weapon relatively clean of mud, but it hadn’t kept out the moisture. There was no way of knowing whether the bullets would fire except to pull the trigger, and there was no time for that. Any second now, the riders would be thundering around the bend—and right now he had a fast decision to make.
The high-minded course of action would be to face them down and use his authority as a federal marshal to turn them back. But when the vigilantes saw him on foot, without his prisoner, they’d likely guess what had happened. If they picked up Frank Hammond’s trail, they’d be off like a herd of banshees and Frank would be as good as dead.
If, on the other hand, he took the coward’s way out and hid, they might gallop right on past, thinking he and Frank were ahead of them on the road. With luck, they’d ride all the way to Sheridan, break up and head for the saloons to cool their thirst. That would give him time to round up Frank and bring him in by another route.
There were times when cowardice made more sense than bravery. This was one of them.
The riders were getting close. With a hasty glance toward the bend in the road, Matt clawed his way up the steep bank, dived between two clumps of rabbit brush and tumbled headlong over the top.
