McKettrick's Choice - Linda Lael Miller [120]
“Vaya con Dios,” Frank’s father said, looking up at his son.
Frank nodded, but he didn’t speak. Maybe he couldn’t, just then.
They set off at a walk, and Frank didn’t look back, but Holt noticed he was clasping that old rosary in one hand. “My papacito’s donkey moves faster than this,” Frank complained. “At this rate, Gabe’ll be dead and buried before we get back to San Antonio.”
Neither Holt nor the Captain applied the heels of his boots.
“Holt hired a lawyer,” the Captain said, as they ambled along. “Gabe’s getting a new trial.”
Holt was thoughtful. “You mentioned John Cavanagh in your letter. How’d you know he was in trouble?”
“I heard Templeton’s bunch talking about it, while they were trussing me up like a Christmas goose,” Frank answered.
“What was their beef with you and Gabe?” the Captain wanted to know.
“They killed those settlers so Templeton could have their land. They needed somebody to blame, and Gabe probably seemed a likely choice since he’d had a run-in with the dead folks maybe a week before we got jumped. The rancher sold him a wind-broke horse, and when he went back to make it right, some heated words got swapped. Gabe, being Gabe, helped himself to a different horse, leaving the bad one behind, and the homesteader, he went to town and filed a complaint. Said Gabe was a horse thief.”
“Damn fool Indian,” the Captain muttered.
“I’d say it was the rancher who was the fool,” Frank replied. “He made it mighty convenient for Templeton’s men to cut him and the wife up and call it Gabe’s handiwork.”
Holt frowned. “According to the court records, when the marshal and his men rode out there and found the bodies, they found Gabe’s knife, too.”
“Wasn’t Gabe’s knife,” Frank said. He was still sweating, but with every step the Captain’s horse took, he seemed to sit a little taller, and he was sucking in fresh air like he’d been starved for it. “I’ve got it in my saddlebags. That’s what I used to cut the rope when those murdering bastards were dragging me through the sagebrush.”
Holt had been riding ahead. Now, he drew back on the reins, fell in alongside the Captain and Frank. “It’s a pretty unusual blade, Frank,” he said. “I remember when Gabe got it. He had it made special.”
Frank looked impatient, which meant he wasn’t as banged up as he looked. It was usual for Frank to be testy, especially when he thought somebody was challenging his word. “Get it out and look at it, if you don’t believe me.”
“Hell,” Holt rasped, “I didn’t say that.”
“It’s on the left side,” Frank pressed. “Wrapped in a bandana. Get it out, Holt, and then tell me it isn’t Gabe’s knife.”
Holt sighed. “If you say it’s Gabe’s, you ornery cuss, then it’s Gabe’s.”
Frank smiled, but he was supporting his rib cage with one arm now, and clasping the front of the Captain’s shirt with the other. “How’ve you been faring, up there in the Arizona Territory?” he asked, with the geniality of a man who has just won an argument. “You got a wife yet?”
“No,” Holt said, but he couldn’t help thinking of Lorelei, back at the inn. Most likely, she’d had herself a bath by now, and maybe even put on a dress. He knew she had one stashed in that too-heavy pack of hers. It made his groin hurt, just to imagine the ordinary things she might be doing. “No wife.”
“He’s got a woman, though,” the Captain said, and spared Holt a half grin. “Pretty thing. She’s got a gift for poker.”
Frank gave a hoot of delight at that, though Holt wasn’t sure whether it was her being pretty that pleased him so much or her affinity for poker. “What’s her name?” Frank demanded.
“Lorelei,” the Captain drawled, when Holt set his jaw and said nothing.
Frank’s grin broadened. “Fancy,” he said.
“Oh, Lorelei’s fancy, all right,” the Captain allowed, as if Lorelei was any of his damn business. “Whenever the two of them get within six feet of each other, the sky splits open and the rest of us have to dodge the blue lightning.”
“With all due respect, Captain,” Holt said evenly, “that’s more bullshit than the herd left behind between the rancho