campfire in the valley between two steep embankments in the Osage Hills. Despite the thick fog that cloaked the valley, Gideon hadn’t had trouble tracking Pecos Clem—thanks to the man’s cohorts. They had been all too happy to offer Gideon directions—after he’d applied some unfriendly persuasion.
Clem whistled while he worked. The former Texas cowboy and his brigands had turned to cattle rustling and horse thieving and had been hiding out in Indian Territory for several months. But very soon, Clem would rejoin his two friends, who were sitting in the jail wagon at marshal headquarters.
Gideon crept closer to the stubble-faced, scraggly-haired outlaw. When Gideon noticed the trip wire six inches in front of his boot, he stopped dead in his tracks. He glanced speculatively from the wire to Clem. No wonder the wily outlaw was lounging by the campfire, looking carefree and unconcerned while he brewed his morning coffee. The sneaky bastard was inviting Gideon to come closer and fall into a trap.
Giving Clem more credit than he did previously, Gideon stepped over the booby trap and surveyed the area. If he were Clem, he’d set another trip wire. Sure enough, partially concealed by fallen leaves and twigs, another trip wire awaited Gideon. But he carefully avoided it.
He’d seen all kinds of schemes and traps during his years as a member of the Osage Reservation Police Force and then as a commissioned deputy marshal serving the federal court in Fort Smith. Dealing with Clem served to remind Gideon of his motto: Don’t believe everything you hear or see. And don’t trust anyone but yourself and your own family.
Gideon had seen too many men die with stunned expressions on their faces. He didn’t plan to join the ranks of the departed.
Crouching in the underbrush near a tree, Gideon grabbed his dagger from his boot then hurled it into the tree stump where Clem sat. Wheeling quickly, Clem fired off three shots that sailed ten feet over Gideon’s hiding place. Then Gideon tossed a broken tree limb to his left and watched Clem fire off two more shots. The outlaw was lightning-quick with his pistol.
“Show yourself!” Clem barked. “Only cowards crawl and slither on their bellies in the grass.”
Gideon had been taunted, ridiculed and baited scores of times and he really didn’t give a damn about an outlaw’s opinion of him. Clem could call him The Devil Himself and it wouldn’t faze Gideon. His objective was to rid his people’s land of the thieves and murderers that invaded the territory to escape the law from neighboring states.
“You gonna show yourself, yellow-belly?” Clem taunted.
Gideon didn’t reply, just surveyed the campsite once again. Since Clem wore double hostlers on his hips, Gideon figured the outlaw had seven shots left in his six-shooters. Plus, he had access to Gideon’s dagger—and perhaps a dagger of his own. Also, there was an empty scabbard on the saddle Clem had used as his pillow for sleeping. Gideon predicted there was also a rifle tucked under the pallet.
“Friend or foe?” Clem demanded impatiently. “Coffee’s ready. You coming in or not?”
Gideon glanced overhead then grabbed another broken limb to hurl upward.
“Hell!” Clem growled when he heard the clatter in the tree above him.
Since Clem expected someone to drop down on him, Gideon took advantage of the distraction and charged forward. By the time Clem realized the threat was behind him, not above him, Gideon slammed into his back and knocked away the pistol. Clem went down with a grunt and groan then spewed profanity. Before Clem could roll away to grab a dagger or his pistol, Gideon snatched up his knife and pressed it into Clem’s throat.
“Wanted dead or alive, according to Judge Parker,” Gideon snarled threateningly. “You decide how you want to meet him. As for me, I’d just as soon toss your sorry carcass over the back of a horse and let the undertaker deal with you.”
Clem glanced over his thick shoulder. “Who are you?”
“Deputy U.S. Marshal Gideon Fox.” He manacled Clem’s wrists then hauled him to his feet.
“Well damn,” Clem muttered. “I ain’t been in the territory too long but I’ve heard of you and none of it’s good. A real bastard who’ll chase a man to the gates of hell…and beyond, I’m told. A blue-eyed half-breed to boot. I never did care much for Injuns.”
“Quit flattering me. It’ll get you nowhere.”
From Lori’s hiding place behind a boulder on the hillside, she watched the tall, muscular man, wearing black breeches, a dark shirt, leather vest and boots move through the soupy fog like a shadow within a shadow to capture the outlaw. The man who claimed to be a Deputy U.S. Marshal was exceptionally quick on his feet and handy with weapons.
Although Lori had overheard the conversation, she was leery about approaching the lawman. But after holing up in caves for five days—and encountering one unsociable panther, while dodging Sonny Hathaway and Teddy Collins—she decided a lawman could offer legal protection. She needed to tell her side of the story about the murder and clear her name. Plus, whoever had killed Tony was running loose, which meant she was still in danger.
Lori had grieved the loss of her friend as she had washed his blood from her shirt in a nearby stream.
Unfortunately, she hadn’t been able to wash away the torturous memory of that tragic night.
Several of Tony’s comments continued to baffle her. She welcomed a formal investigation that would give her the opportunity to make her statement and find the man who shot Tony. Whatever had been going on that fateful night, Lori owed her life to Tony, who’d taken the fatal bullet for her.
Her regretful thoughts trailed off and she came to attention after the lawman had captured the outlaw. Now was the time to pick her way down the rugged hillside to introduce herself to the lawman. Mentally rehearsing what she intended to say, Lori led Drifter around the trees and boulders, then tethered him. She could only hope the Deputy U.S. Marshal would offer protection and agree to accompany her back to Russell Trading Post to clear her name and reassure her father that she was alive.
Gideon pushed Clem ahead of him, just in case there was another booby trap strategically situated between Clem and his stolen horse. When Clem halted, trying to lure Gideon into taking the lead and dragging him forward to spring the trap, Gideon stayed put.
“We can still do this the easy way,” Gideon breathed down Clem’s neck. “I can shove you into the trip wire and you can shoot yourself. You’ll be as dead as a man can get. Not me. I’ll be around to collect your bounty and the reward.”
“You’re all heart, Fox,” Clem said and scowled.
“I hear that a lot… Now move.”
Muttering, Clem stepped over the booby trap.
“Where’d you learn to set traps?” Gideon asked conversationally as he quick-marched Clem to his stolen horse—the evidence needed to stick him in Judge Parker’s jail, awaiting a prison sentence.
“I rode with Confederate raiders in Kansas during the war.” Clem glanced back at Gideon and smirked disrespectfully. “Where’d you learn to avoid ’em? In Injun warrior training school?”
“Sure. I graduated at the head of my class,” Gideon replied without missing a beat. “I get even better at it while dealing with former guerilla fighters like you. I have a lot of practical experience
