The Outlaw And The Runaway. Tatiana March
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more faded. The bank stood at the northern end, just before the boardwalk started. A square building of adobe brick, it had three tall windows that glinted in the midday sun, however the frosted glass prevented prying eyes from seeing inside.
Roy rode past the bank, reined his buckskin to a halt outside the mercantile and dismounted. The two men with him, Zeke Davies and Joe Saldana, also got off their horses.
After tying their mounts to the hitching rail, all three men stepped up to the boardwalk, boots thudding in an unhurried cadence. Saldana wore Mexican spurs with big rowels that made an arrogant jangle as he walked. All three wore their hats pulled low and long dusters that covered their gun belts.
“You stay here,” Roy ordered, talking in a guarded voice that carried no more than a whisper. “Roll a smoke, light up. Keep your eyes on the street. Count the number of people you see—men, women, children. Pay extra attention to anyone who goes into the bank.”
The other two nodded. Neither of them spoke.
“I’ll check out the store,” Roy went on. “Then I’ll come back outside and we’ll sit down over there.” He gestured at a timber bench near the saloon entrance. “I’ll go into the saloon, buy three glasses of beer and bring them out. For an hour, we laugh and joke while we survey the town. We don’t get drunk. We don’t get into arguments. If anyone approaches us, we’ll be friendly and polite. Is that clear?”
His associates nodded again. Saldana was tall and thin, with a droopy mustache and a long, pointed chin. Davies was compact and muscular, with a square face that gave him the belligerent air of a bulldog. Roy hardly knew either of the pair. All but one of his former associates had been shot to pieces while robbing a train in New Mexico a few months ago. Roy and the only other survivor, Dale Hunter, had taken refuge in the maze of canyons between Utah and Arizona, where they had drifted into joining the Red Bluff Gang.
Most of the outlaws in the gang had a bounty on their head and only left their remote hideout to do a job. Roy had no wanted poster out on him, for despite his distinctive looks he’d never been identified in the course of a robbery. The lack of notoriety served him well, for it allowed him to ride from town to town, scouting out potential targets.
Alert and tense, Roy cast another glance along the somnolent street. A stray dog lay panting in the shade of the water trough by the hitching rail. A tall man in a leather apron had stepped out of the barbershop and stood on the boardwalk, drinking coffee from a china mug. Somewhere in the distance, a woman’s voice was calling for a child to come inside and eat.
Satisfied everything remained peaceful, Roy turned around and strode in through the open doorway of the mercantile. As he stepped up to the counter, he kept his hands pressed against the unbuttoned edges of his duster to stop the garment from flaring wide and exposing his pair of Smith & Wesson revolvers.
Inside the store, homely scents—coffee, peppermint, lamp oil—tugged at some distant corners of his memory. Roy crushed the sudden yearning for a normal, peaceful life. He would enjoy the few moments he could glimpse into that long-forgotten world and discard any pointless dreams of making it his again.
Behind the store counter, the elderly clerk climbed down from the ladder he’d used to stack bolts of calico on the higher shelves. He jumped down the last step, turned toward Roy and greeted him with a polite nod. “Good afternoon, sir. How can I help you?”
Alert and nimble despite his advanced years, the clerk appeared prosperous. His white shirt was pristine, his sparse hair neatly combed, the lenses of his steel wire spectacles sparkling. A man who took pride in himself and his profession. Roy felt another stab of regret, accompanied by some vague emotion that might have been shame.
“Matches,” he said. “In a waterproof tin.”
“Certainly, sir.”
While the clerk bustled about, taking a small metal box from a drawer and filling it with wooden phosphorus matches, Roy felt a prickle at the back of his neck. Slowly, he shifted on his feet. His right hand eased to the pistol hidden beneath his duster, while his left hand went to the brim of his hat, making the twisting motion appear natural as he turned sideways to survey the store.
Between the aisles of merchandise, a young woman had paused in her task of sweeping the floor, and now she stood still, fingers clasped around the long handle of the broom. Medium height, middle twenties, she wore a faded green dress that revealed a full figure with feminine curves. Her hair was light brown, with a touch of gold where it had been exposed to the sun. From the few strands that fluttered free from her upsweep, Roy could tell her hair would pull into a riot of curls if left unconfined.
He tugged at the brim of his hat. “Ma’am.”
Still and silent, the girl stared at him from the corner of her eye, not facing him squarely. Roy’s posture stiffened. He was used to women staring at him, but there was something different in this girl’s perusal.
Usually, women stared at him with a mix of pity and curiosity, wondering what damage he might be hiding beneath the black patch that covered his left eye. Some studied him with undisguised feminine interest, drawn by the thick waves of golden hair and the vivid blue of his single eye, fascinated by the contrast they made with the air of danger that surrounded him, hinting at his outlaw status, even while his pair of guns remained out of sight.
A fallen angel, a saloon girl had once called him.
But he could detect no pity in this girl’s expression, and neither did he sense the invitation some women conveyed through their bold inspection. She was contemplating him with a hopeful, earnest look, as if in him she might have recognized a missing relation, or perhaps some long-lost friend.
But it could not be.
Roy knew it couldn’t. He had no family, and no friends, except perhaps Dale Hunter. Could he have met her before? It was uncommon for a sporting girl to reform, but even that possibility Roy was able to rule out, for he could remember each one of the few women he had ever followed into an upstairs room.
Silently cursing in his mind, Roy returned his attention to the elderly store clerk and paid for his tin of matches. It might be a problem about the girl. Someone who had stared at him with such intensity might remember his features, could furnish a lawman with a description.
Too bad, Roy thought as he strolled back out to the boardwalk, however it was bound to happen one day. He couldn’t expect to remain unknown forever—not since he had joined the Red Bluff Gang and was forced to take an active part in the raids. Earlier, before his former outfit got wiped out, his role had been limited to training horses for the robbers, but now both he and Dale Hunter had sunk one notch deeper into the outlaw life.
* * *
During the week that followed, twice more Roy rode into town and stopped at the mercantile. The first time the girl was nowhere to be seen, but from behind the aisles Roy could hear the rustle of skirts and the soft clatter of feminine footsteps.
A few moments later, while he was loitering outside on the boardwalk with his associates, Roy noticed the girl staring at him through the big plate glass window of the mercantile. Again, she kept her face averted, slanting a sideways look at him.
Roy couldn’t figure out what bothered him about the girl so much. It was not just the allure of a pretty female with the kind of figure that could send a man’s blood boiling in his veins. Neither was it the danger she posed, in terms of recognizing him.
It was those strange looks she was sending him.
As if they knew each other.
As if they had something in common.
The second time Roy returned to the store, the elderly clerk was alone, with no other customers to overhear the conversation. Roy bought a bag of Arbuckle’s roasted coffee beans. As he dug in his pocket for coins, he spoke in a casual tone.
“The girl who works here, she your daughter?”
The clerk snapped to attention. “Celia Courtwood?”
“The