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 quiteso 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 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 quiteso 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.
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