Adrienne deWolfe Read Free

arrived sooner?
    A pang of guilt stabbed through him.
    "This is the first I've heard of Boudreau's death. Or of any renegades," he added cautiously. "Seems strange no one mentioned it to me while I was walking through town."
    "Maybe no one mentioned it to you 'cause you ain't wearing a badge," Dukker retorted. "I reckon you Rangers get your jollies by strapping on Big Irons and scaring the living daylights out of unarmed folks."
    Wes felt his neck heat. He knew he should allow for Dukker's grief at his cousin's death, but the man was making it hard.
    "You've got a right to be angry. I apologize. Now you want to tell me why I had to bust my britches riding nearly two hundred miles?"
    "I already told you it was renegades," Dukker snapped. "'Course, if those niggers had a lick of sense, they'd be halfway to New Mexico by now."
    Faraday cleared his throat, his shrewd gaze darting to Wes. "You know we can't be entirely sure of that, Hannibal. And the county isn't within your jurisdiction—"
    "A man's got a right to defend his property."
    "Yes, but Mr. Rawlins has the legal authority to enforce the law until our new sheriff is elected. Perhaps before he rides off to track down Gator's killers, Mr. Rawlins can help you settle the trouble on your cousin's spread—you being so busy with the election campaign and all."
    Dukker's face darkened. He seemed on the verge of a virulent protest until a cagey expression flickered in his eyes.
    "Hell, you're right, Faraday. It's just that Gator was my boys' closest relation. Creed spent half the summer working those fields. Gator wanted his homestead to pass to my boy, and I'll be damned if I let some squatters lay a claim."
    "Perfectly understandable, of course," Faraday said briskly. "No Texican is fond of squatters." He flashed Wes an apologetic smile, but his shoulders remained taut. "Perhaps now, Mr. Rawlins, you can see why Hannibal is so... er, quick on the draw. Since Gator's spread's only ten miles west of Elodea, none of us here wants trouble. What we do want is justice. And a Ranger can end this dispute. I can personally attest that Hannibal has been as patient as a man can be these last two weeks, but the Sinclairs—" Faraday sighed, shaking his head, "they're just—"
    "A bunch of damned Yankees," Dukker interrupted, screwing up his face to spit.
    Wes grimaced, pushing aside his plate. He didn't know which turned his stomach more: the greasy beans or Dukker. If Dukker's claim was legitimate—and the town mayor seemed to think it was—then Wes had a legal obligation to ride out to Boudreau's farm. He had a moral one, too, if the story of Boudreau's death was the gospel truth. But damn. Squatters. After riding two hundred miles, he deserved a more exciting mission than ending a property squabble.
    "So what do you want me to do?" he asked, eyeing Dukker in disgust.
    "Round 'em up," Dukker said. "Drive 'em out. Hell, shoot 'em if you have to. But don't hurt none of the livestock," he added quickly, a covetous gleam lighting his wintry gaze. "I plan on selling it. Them goats and chickens ain't much, but they'll help pay for what needs mending. Ol' Gator wasn't good with roofs and windows and such, if you catch my meaning."
    Wes's lip curled. He'd caught Dukker's meaning all right. "How 'bout if I just burn them out?"
    Dukker bristled at Wes's sarcasm, but Faraday's quick laughter diffused the tension.
    "That's a knee-slapper, Rawlins. Burn them out." He chuckled again, slapping Wes on the shoulder. "Tell you what. Instead of eating that day-old hash, why don't you come over to my house? My wife makes the best fried chicken in the county. And my Lorelei, why she's Bandera's prettiest belle."
    Wes managed a thin smile. Any man who was a bachelor—and wanted to stay that way—didn't go sparking a virgin at her father's invitation. But the chicken sure was tempting. He'd gotten mighty tired of canned peaches and roasted rabbit on the trail.
    "Much obliged, Mayor. I'd like to take you