Fletcher's Woman. Carol Finch
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Four
Leaving Savanna secured in the cave, Fletch mounted Appy. He followed the narrow trail to introduce himself to the five men who had made camp in a meadow. His strategy was to play dumb. If anyone asked, he hadn’t seen Savanna, but he was looking for her, too.
When five rifles snapped into firing position, Fletch waved and smiled like a long lost friend. The rifle barrels angled downward, thank goodness. He wasn’t looking for a firefight. This was a fishing expedition.
There were hardened expressions in the eyes of the men who stared back at him. Fletch had seen those looks on killers’ faces often enough to recognize them for what they were. He had worn the same expression many times himself.
His profession wasn’t for the faint of heart. Kill or be killed was the name of the game—and there were no rules.
“I’m looking for a woman,” Fletch said without preamble.
“Ain’t we all?” This from the man Savanna had identified as Buck Patterson, the horse thief. Also, according to Bill Solomon’s warrants, this man and his friends were wanted for robbery and murder in Texas. Fletch preferred to place them under arrest, but he couldn’t drag them along while he had Savanna in custody.
Fletch appraised the wiry-looking man who was a head shorter and seventy pounds lighter. Buck Patterson had buckteeth, which was probably where he got his nickname. He also had beady eyes and bristly whiskers. He reminded Fletch of a rat, especially with his pointy nose.
Fletch swung down, but used Appy as a shield of defense—in case somebody got trigger happy. “I was hired to find a woman named Savanna Cantrell. She’s wanted for murder.” As if they didn’t know. “Have you seen a misplaced female roaming around?”
“No, but we’re looking for her, too—” The peach-fuzz-faced kid shut his trap when the burly man beside him gouged his ribs, making him grunt uncomfortably. “What was that for?”
Fletch ambled around his mount and grinned wryly. “You were being warned not to divulge more information than necessary,” he told the beanpole kid who looked to be in his early twenties. “But no harm done. I’ve heard that several posses are hunting for this woman. She has dark eyes and dark hair, I’m told.”
“A real looker, too,” the kid blurted.
Fletch decided right there and then that the peach-fuzz-faced kid—who wasn’t on Solomon’s list—would make a lousy outlaw. Every thought running through his head exited through his mouth.
“Well, she is,” the kid said when the man beside him scowled in dismay. “She might be a couple of years older than me, but I wouldn’t turn down a woman who looks as good as she does. She’s got curves in all the right places.”
Fletch didn’t know why the comments offended him quite so much. He’d heard similar remarks dozens of time. Hell, he’d made them himself a time or two. And it wasn’t as if he felt any loyalty or affection for that wily female. But still…
“Where are you men headquartered?” Fletch asked.
“We work on Oliver Draper’s ranch.” The frizzy-haired, gray-eyed older man spoke up. He thrust out his stubby hand—real friendly like—but Fletch wasn’t fooled by the pretend cordiality. “I’m Frank Holmes.” He nodded his bushy red head toward the beanpole kid. “Blabbermouth here is Willy Jefferson.”
Frank directed Fletch’s attention to the grim-faced hombre who seemed vaguely familiar. He suspected he’d seen the man’s sketch on a Wanted poster, besides reading the description from Solomon’s list. Outlaws had a habit of changing names frequently, altering appearance and hiding out in Indian Territory because there weren’t enough law-enforcement officers to go around.
“This is Gib Harper.”
Fletch met Gib’s soulless, green-eyed gaze head-on. Fletch and Gib sized each other up for a few moments then Frank introduced the other vigilante as Harvey Young. While Gib attempted to stare holes in Fletch, he nodded a silent greeting to the raw-boned, long-limbed man named Harvey.
“Did you say you worked at Draper Ranch?” Fletch said, pretending ignorance. “Didn’t the Cantrell woman supposedly kill a man named Draper?”
“Supposedly?” Buck snorted. “She did it, all right. I was with Roark Draper the night it happened.”
“Roark was Oliver Draper’s son,” Frank Holmes clarified.
“Savanna shot Roark in a hotel room in Tishomingo,” Buck went on to say. “She might be a looker, but she’s as deadly as a rattlesnake, believe you me.”
“Why do you think she shot Roark?”
“My guess is a jealous fit and robbery.” Harvey Young spoke up. “Roark’s pockets were picked cleaned.”
“Jealous of whom?” Fletch asked nonchalantly.
Although the other men shrugged evasively, Willy said, “Roark had a lot of lady friends. He also had lots of money to throw around, which makes a man real popular with women. We heard Savanna was infatuated with Roark and that she got upset because he’d taken up with her close friend. Don’t know where the other woman got off to. She might’ve run off to hide. Or could be that Savanna was in such a jealous rage that she blasted both of them and nobody has come across the other woman’s remains yet.”
The other men nodded in agreement with the speculations. Then they wandered off to gather their food supplies and refill their canteens in the stream. Fletch didn’t want to believe their side of the story, but it explained Willow’s lengthy disappearance and Roark’s death.
Fletch had dealt with a similar assignment two years ago in Fort Worth. A scorned woman had gone on a killing spree and hadn’t stopped until her unfaithful lover and his new girlfriend were full of bullets. Yet, Fletch didn’t think Savanna would— He chopped off the thought immediately. It’s not your responsibility to figure out why. Your job is to bring in fugitives and let the court system sort the truth from the lies.
Since the men had gone about their business, Fletch took his cue to leave. He rode off in the same direction the vigilantes had come and didn’t change direction until he was beyond the range of their field glasses. Then he picked his way through the tangle of underbrush and trees to scale the eastern slope of the mountain so he could return to the cavern.
The path he’d chosen took twice as long, but it allowed him time to sort through conflicting information. To hear the vigilantes tell it, Savanna was a spiteful, scorned woman who shot and robbed Roark to cover expenses while she was on the run—riding a dead man’s horse. A horse that might’ve been more accessible than her own horse since she’d fled in a flaming rush to avoid murder charges.
According to Savanna, she’d been privately investigating her friend’s disappearance and her horse had been stolen. She claimed she’d escaped disaster when Roark turned abusive. She had bruises and scrapes to lend credence to her story.
However, those scrapes and bruises might’ve come from scrabbling around in the wilderness, trying to avoid capture.
Fletch frowned speculatively, unsure what to believe. Without question, Savanna’s exceptional skills in the wilderness indicated she could defend herself adequately against a man. The drunken Roark Draper, for instance. She’d certainly outsmarted Fletch, much as it crushed his pride to admit it.
Was she guilty or innocent? Fletch didn’t know for sure. If he knew what was good for him he’d simply do his job and deliver Savanna to Bill Solomon in Tishomingo as requested.
Then he’d begin his search for Grady Mills in earnest.
A host of bad memories buffeted him when Grady’s name popped to mind. Fletch forcefully cast off the bitter thought, just as he’d done so often the past five years. Time-consuming assignments were his way of preoccupying himself so he didn’t dwell on the fateful incident continuously. Still, finding that ruthless