The Man from Stone Creek. Linda Miller Lael

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      CHAPTER TWO

      ESTEBAN VIERRA waited until well after nightfall before crossing the river from the Mexican side; he prided himself on his ability to move freely in the darkness, like a cat. Leaving his horse to graze on the bank, he made his way through the cottonwoods and thistly underbrush to the schoolhouse, pausing to admire the Ranger’s mount. The click of a pistol cylinder, somewhere behind him, made him freeze.

      It stung him, this chink in his prowess, and he felt more irritation than fear.

      “Hold your hands out from your sides,” a voice instructed.

      Vierra obeyed calmly. “O’Ballivan?” he asked.

      He heard the revolver slide back into the holster with a deftness that spoke volumes about the man at his back. “Yes.”

      He turned. “That’s a fine horse,” he said cordially. “I hope it’s fast.”

      O’Ballivan’s expression was grim, his craggy features defined by the play of light and shadow. “What are you doing here? My instructions were to meet you tomorrow night, on the other side of the river.”

      Vierra smiled. “I got curious,” he said.

      The Ranger parted with the briefest of grins, his teeth flashing white in the gloom. “You could have got dead,” he replied. “And if you’ve no better sense than to come prowling around another man’s horse in the night, this whole plan might need some review.”

      “Don’t you trust me?” Vierra asked, his aggrieved tone at some variance with his easy smile.

      “I don’t know you from Adam’s Aunt Bessie,” O’Ballivan responded, one hand still resting lightly on the butt of his revolver. “Of course I don’t trust you.”

      “That could be a problem. Maybe we ought to get better acquainted.”

      O’Ballivan looked him over. “Maybe,” he said cautiously. “You’re Mexican. How is it that you don’t have an accent?”

      Vierra shrugged. “I think in Spanish,” he said. “And I do have an accent. I borrowed yours.”

      “What do you know about these outlaws we’re after?” O’Ballivan asked after a long and pensive silence.

      “Ah,” Vierra said, folding his arms. “You just said you don’t trust me. Why should I trust you?”

      “I don’t reckon you do,” O’Ballivan observed dryly.

      Vierra was pleased. Here was a worthy opponent, a rare phenomenon in his experience, one he could spar with. “I have been offered a very large reward, in gold, if I bring these banditos back to certain anxious rancheros in my country,” he said. Often, he’d discovered, a superficial truth was the most effective means of deception. It made most people complacent.

      Of course, O’Ballivan clearly wasn’t most people.

      “They’ve done plenty on this side of the border,” the Ranger said. “My orders are to turn them in to a certain federal judge in Tucson.”

      “Two men, working toward the same end, but with very different objectives,” Vierra allowed, still smiling. “Tell me—are the Americanos offering a bounty? Is that why you are doing this?”

      O’Ballivan shook his head. “A man I respect asked me to track the murdering bastards down and bring them in, dead or alive. That’s payment enough for me.”

      Vierra spread his hands. “Then there is no misunderstanding,” he said.

      “No misunderstanding at all,” O’Ballivan agreed. “Good night, Señor Vierra.”

      “You will be at the meeting place tomorrow night? The cantina in Refugio?”

      O’Ballivan, turning to go, paused to look back over one brawny shoulder and nod. “Tomorrow night,” he confirmed, and moved toward the schoolhouse.

      Vierra watched him out of sight, then gave a low whistle through his teeth. The Ranger’s horse came to him, and he stroked its fine neck with one hand before retreating into the darkness.

      * * *

      SAM ASSESSED HIS CROP of pupils as they filed obediently into the schoolroom the next morning and took their places without a word or a glance in his direction.

      Terran Chancelor’s presence surprised him a little; he’d half expected Maddie to undertake the remainder of her brother’s education personally, if only to keep him safe from the fiendish new schoolteacher. But here he was, faced scrubbed, hair brushed, hands folded, sitting square in the middle at the front table.

      There were four girls, of varying ages, the youngest barely larger than a china doll he’d seen once in a store window, the eldest nearly grown and already taking his measure as husband material, unless he missed his guess. The two in between, eight or nine years old by his estimate, looked enough alike to be sisters.

      The boys added up to nine, and they, too, ranged from near babyhood to strapping.

      When they were settled, Sam turned to the blackboard and picked up a nubbin of chalk. “My name,” he told them, “is Sam O’Ballivan.” On the board he signed his name the way he always did.

      SO’B.

      A few snickers rose, as expected.

      Sam faced the gathering, careful to keep his expression sober.

      The blond boy sitting next to Terran was still grinning.

      “Your name?” Sam inquired.

      “Ben Donagher,” the lad replied.

      “You’re amused, Mr. Donagher?”

      Donagher’s grin widened. “Well, it’s just that SOB means—”

      Sam pointed the bit of chalk at him. “Yes?”

      “Son of a bitch,” the boy said.

      Sam nodded. “You’d do well to remember that,” he replied.

      Donagher flushed and lowered his gaze.

      Terran gave his seatmate a subtle jab of the elbow.

      “You have something to add, Mr. Chancelor?” Sam wanted to know.

      More giggles, mostly stifled.

      “No, sir,” Terran said, but his eyes glittered and it was clearly all he could do not to laugh.

      Sam put down the chalk and rested a hip on the edge of his desk. “When I arrived yesterday,” he began, “there was an incident under way. Mr. Chancelor had the misfortune to be caught, but I’ve got a pretty good idea who else was involved.”

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