Cutthroats

by William W. Johnstone

  “The frog might be a little tender, but not too bad . . . Jimmy. I’ll smear a little salve on it, then tap the shoe back on the hoof. She’ll be good to go in no time. I got some nails in my saddlebags.” Pecos dropped the mare’s hoof and started walking back in the direction from which he and Slash had come. “I’ll fetch the hosses.”

  Sitting on the log she’d tripped over, Myra started pulling her sock back on her foot. She shifted her concerned gaze from Pecos back to Slash and said, “You two gonna pull out, then? As soon as Mr. Baker . . . I mean, Melvin . . . has set the shoe?”

  She glanced around as though looking for some nightmare creature that might be lurking in the forest around them.

  Slash studied the obviously frightened, lonely gal for a time and then glanced at the sky. He turned to where Pecos was walking back through the trees toward the horses, and called, “Hey, uh, Melvin?”

  Pecos stopped and looked back.

  “It’s gettin’ purty late in the day. We’ll no sooner get started back up the trail before it’ll be time to camp. Why don’t we sink a picket pin right here for the night? I see a nice little clearing over there by that stream yonder.”

  Pecos stared back toward Slash and the girl. He gave a knowing nod and a shrug, and said, “I don’t see why not. Like you said, it’s getting late, and this canyon’ll be good dark in an hour, I s’pect.”

  He turned and continued striding back toward the horses.

  Slash turned to Myra and said, “I do apologize, Myra, but it looks like you got a couple of old devils as camp mates for the night.”

  “Oh, that’s all right,” Myra said, smiling cheerfully up at Slash as she pulled on her boot. “I got some jerked rabbit meat in my saddlebags—enough for all three of us. And I ain’t a half-bad cook, neither!”

  * * *

  “Well, if you fellas will excuse me,” Myra said an hour later, as she set the lid on the tin pot in which she’d just prepared a hearty stew. “While that simmers nice and slow, I’m gonna hobble over yonder and have a swim.”

  “A swim?” Slash said in exasperation, holding his cup of fresh, piping hot coffee against his chest. “Why, it’s gettin’ right cold out here, girl. The sun’s been down behind yonder peak for nigh on a half hour!”

  “Gettin’ colder by the minute,” Pecos added from where he sat across the cook fire from Slash, propping his own coffee on an upraised knee.

  “Don’t you worry about me,” Myra said, reaching into a war sack for a towel and a cake of soap wrapped in burlap. “I was raised in these mountains. Compared to the long winters up here, this cold ain’t nothin’. Hell, up where Pa and I lived since only a few weeks after I was born, we often saw snow on the Fourth of July! I find swimming in a good, cold stream right healthy and invigorating. Makes me sleep real peaceful like.

  “This stream here is the one that runs past our cabin. I followed it down here to this valley. It’s a tributary of the Animas. Pa once told me a Spanish explorer gave the Animas its full name—Rio de las Animas, which means ‘River of Souls.’ Pretty, ain’t it?”

  “Couldn’t be purtier,” Pecos said, smiling at the girl.

  Myra glanced at her war bag, which sat on the ground with her saddlebags. “I bet I know what you two might find even purtier.”

  “What’s that, darlin’?” Slash asked her.

  Myra reached into the canvas sack and withdrew a package wrapped in wool and burlap. “I don’t imbibe myself, but I grabbed this bottle off a shelf before I left the cabin. Not sure why. It’s Pa’s own brew. Last bottle. He tended a still out back of our cabin. Men from all around these mountains used to come and buy jugs from him, real often. They said they couldn’t get whiskey as good as Pa’s even down South in Tennessee and Kentucky, where some of them hailed from, as did Pa.”

  Myra handed the corked, brown bottle to Slash. “Here you go. Drink up. Take the chill off.”

  She winked coquettishly, tossed the towel over her shoulder, then tramped off toward the stream gurgling and splashing about forty yards northwest of the camp.

  When she’d taken half a dozen steps, Myra stopped and flashed another coquettish smile over her shoulder. “No peekin’ now, boys. I swim in my birthday suit, don’t ya know.”

  She chuckled, then drifted off through the trees toward the stream.

  Slash looked at Pecos, who stared after the girl, frowning. “Whew!” he said.

  “Uh-huh,” Slash said. “Hey, stop lookin’. You’re old enough to be her—”

  “Slightly more mature brother,” Pecos said, grinning.

  Slash laughed as he uncorked the bottle and laced his coffee liberally with Myra’s old man’s whiskey. He corked the bottle, then handed it over to Pecos, who laced his own mud with the brew. Both men sank back against their saddles, relaxing after a long day of shooting and riding.

  Pecos sipped his coffee, then cast a puzzled look over to Slash. “Did you notice she wasn’t even limping on that injured foot?”

  “Yeah, I did notice,” Slash said. “Like I said, I think she was frightened more than anything. Fearful of being alone out here.” He sipped his own spiced mud, swallowed, then turned to Pecos. “How’s her hoss?”

  “Just fine. The frog might’ve been a little swollen, but I think the main problem was the missing shoe.”

  “Yeah. She was just frightened,” Slash said. “Scared and alone and making mountains out of molehills.”

  “For sure.” Pecos took another sip of his coffee.

  A splash sounded from the direction of the stream. It was followed by a raucous whoop, then delighted laughter.

  “Oh, Lordy, that feels good!” Myra cried, splashing around in the stream.

  Slash glanced toward the stream. The forest was all hazy shadows, but there was still enough light in the sky that he could see the silvery water and the silhouette of the girl kicking about between the low banks.

  “Damn,” Slash said.

  “Yeah,” Pecos said. “Damn is right. The years ain’t been kind to us, Slash.”

  “The years are kind to no one, mi amigo.”

  “Not all that long ago, you an’ me would’ve been over there, swimmin’ and frolickin’ with a girl who looked like that.”

  “Yeah, and likely comin’ to blows over her.”

  Pecos chuckled. “Yeah, that, too.”

  “Besides,” Slash said, “it was a long time ago, you old geezer. It just don’t seem like it. But if you look back, it was a long time ago, all right.”

  “A man still has thoughts, though. Urges.”

  The girl gave another low whoop as she splashed in the stream. She shivered audibly but delightedly, chuckling to herself, cooing luxuriously as the cold stream wrapped itself around her supple, young flesh.

  “Hey, you told me not to look,” Pecos scolded Slash. “That means you can’t look, neither, you old goat!”

  Slash hadn’t realized he’d been staring through the trees toward the stream again. He looked away now, and took another sip and then several more sips of his whiskey-laced mud.

  “I wasn’t lookin’,” he said, squirming around uncomfortably.

  “Yes, you were.”

  “Well, I didn’t see anything.”

  “Yeah, but you were tryin’!”

  “Oh, shut up.” Slash set his coffee down. “Hand me that damn bottle!”

  “Ohhhh,” Myra cooed, splashing. “Feels . . . sooo . . . gooooodddddd!”

  Slash and Pecos both turned to stare toward the stream through the trees. Myra was standing up in the knee-deep water, standing sideways toward the camp, her female body silhouetted against the soft salmon light bleeding out of the sky beyond.

  “Crap,” Pecos said dreamily.

  “Holy moly.”

  Pecos tossed the coffee from his cup, uncorked the bottle, and filled the cup three-quarters full of straight whiskey. Corking the bottle again, he handed it back to Slash. “There you go. Hellfire!”

  Slash tossed out his own coffee a
nd replaced it with straight whiskey.

  He leaned far back against his saddle, took several deep sips of the whiskey, and sighed. “There,” he said, crossing his ankles. “That’s better.”

  “You fellas oughta join me,” Myra called. “It feels soooo good!”

  “So we hear,” Slash grumbled in frustration, taking another deep pull from his cup.

  “No thanks, honey,” Pecos called. “We’ll just sit here and let this fire seep into our old bones.”

  “Thanks for the invite, though,” Slash said, pouring more whiskey into his cup.

  “Scaredy cats!” the girl returned, chuckling.

  As she continued splashing around in the stream, groaning and grunting and making several other provocative sounds, Pecos looked over his cup of whiskey at his partner and said, “I think she’s intentionally torturing us, Slash!”

  “What was your first clue?” Slash chuckled. “It’s women’s way of getting back at men in general for all our scoundrel-like ways.”

  Pecos chuckled and wagged his head. “Women.” He reached forward. “Stop hoggin’ the bottle.”

  “Hold on.” Slash refilled his own cup before he handed the bottle back to his partner. Leaning back against his saddle, he suddenly grew light-headed. He looked at the fire. There appeared to be several fires now, one overlying the other. He felt a little queasy.

  “Damn,” he said, shaking his head to try to clear his vision. “That lightnin’ has some kick to it!”

  “I just noticed that myself.”

  Slash looked across the fire at Pecos, who sat six feet away, arms draped over his raised knees. His head was hanging, as though it had suddenly doubled or tripled in weight. His eyes looked bleary, out of focus, the pupils enormous. Or so Slash thought. He couldn’t be sure, though, because his own vision was swimming even more than it had been before.

  He looked around.

  The camp with the piled gear and the three horses tied to a picket rope to his right spun around him. It was as though he were on a merry-go-round. He dropped the cup. It clinked to the ground. He dropped a hand to the ground beside him, trying to steady himself, to slow the merry-go-round.

  It didn’t work.

  “Hold on,” Slash said, heart quickening, fear racing through him. “Some . . . somethin’ ain’t . . . right here . . . partner.”

  “I’ll say it ain’t!” Pecos shook his head. He dropped his own cup and sagged back against his saddle, knocking his hat off his head. “I think . . . I think I’m . . . gonna . . . take . . . a little . . . nap. . . .”

  Slash leaned forward, both hands on the ground. He tried to get his feet beneath him. He’d suddenly felt the overwhelming urge to stand. “I don’t think . . . that’s a good idea . . . partner!”

  His blurred vision darkened. Liquid lead seemed to fill his veins, his bones, his entire body, making him extremely heavy.

  Sleepy.

  “Ah, hell!” He flopped back against his saddle.

  He heard himself rake out a deep snore and then that was all he was aware of before he sensed a presence in front of him, heard the menacing click of a gun being cocked.

  Slash opened his eyes.

  Myra stood before him. She was wrapped in a blanket. Her legs and feet were bare. Her wet hair dripped. Flash felt the coldness of some of those drops soak through his pants leg.

  Myra raised her old hogleg. She extended it toward Slash, who tried to raise his arms, to reach for her, but it was as though his arms were pinned to the ground by an enormous weight.

  “Damn you!” the girl cried, scrunching up her face, gritting her teeth. “You would’ve made this a whole lot easier if you’d tried to savage me!” she sobbed. Her hand quivered. She narrowed one eye as she aimed down the revolver’s barrel at Slash. “I’m sorry!”

  Her head jerked sharply.

  The gun roared and flashed. Myra swayed, then sagged to one side, knees buckling, falling....

  Another person now stood just behind where Myra had been standing. A small, slender man, extremely clean-shaven except for a large mustache—the mustache too large for the strange, effeminate delicateness of the man’s face. He lowered the pistol whose butt he’d just rapped against Myra’s head.

  Staring at Slash, the strange little man drew his mouth corners down and gave his head a disapproving shake.

  “Who . . . ? Who . . . ?” Slash tried.

  But then the warm darkness of sleep washed over him.

  When he opened his eyes again, the copper-haired beauty, Jaycee Breckenridge, was spooning pancake batter into a cast-iron skillet over the fire.

  CHAPTER 29

  “Wait,” Slash said, trying to sit up, staring at Jay but knowing he was only dreaming. “Why, uh . . . why do I . . . ?”

  Jay glanced over the fire at him. “Why do you think you see the lovely and sophisticated Jaycee Breckenridge making breakfast this bright and sunny mountain morning?” she asked. “Because you do. She is.” She arched a brow and, the batter sputtering in the skillet perched on an iron spider, raised a steaming coffee cup to her lips.

  Slash still wasn’t convinced he wasn’t dreaming. He had to be. Jay had betrayed him and Pecos, taken Bleed-’Em-So’s gifts and money, and started a new life for herself in San Francisco.

  The Jay in his dream set down her coffee cup. She plucked something out of a saddlebag to her right and lifted it to her lips. It was a thick, black mustache. Holding the mustache above her mouth with one hand, she drew her thick, long, copper hair back behind her neck with her other hand, out of sight.

  “Holy . . .” The face Slash was staring at was the face of the mustachioed little man he’d spied first in the Lucky Lady in Morrisville. The feminine-looking little man who’d insisted that Arnell Squires was really the Pecos River Kid.

  Jay lowered the fake mustache and drew the thick tresses of her hair forward over her shoulder.

  Slash slid his gaze to the right of Jay. Pecos lay on his side beneath a wool blanket, curled slightly, snoring loudly. In the periphery of his still somewhat blurred vision, Slash saw another figure. He shuttled his gaze to his right and drew a sharp, angry breath. Myra Thompson was sitting on the ground, her back against an aspen. Her hands were drawn behind her back. A rope had been coiled three times around her belly and chest, tying her to the tree.

  She returned Slash’s gaze with a guilty one of her own, then stared down at the ground between her legs. She was dressed in the wool shirt and denims she’d worn the previous evening, before she’d gone swimming.

  “You little polecat,” Pecos said, having to clear his throat first. Still, he sounded froggy. “You . . .” Gradually, he remembered, but it was like staring back a long ways through time, though it had likely occurred only the night before. In his mind, he saw Myra standing soaking wet before him, clad in only a towel, aiming the old hogleg at him. “You was gonna . . .”

  “Blow your head off.” Jay had gained her feet. She walked around the fire, holding a fresh cup of hot coffee in her hand. She stopped before Slash, held the coffee down to him.

  He gazed at her skeptically, accepting the cup of hot mud.

  Jay crossed her arms on her chest, cocked one foot forward. “How’s your head?”

  “It hurts like hell.” In fact, he couldn’t remember ever having such a throbbing ache in his head as the one he was currently experiencing. He felt as though a powerful little man were inside his skull, smashing the tender, exposed nerve of his brain with a big hammer.

  Over and over and over again . . .

  “No,” he said. “Hurts worse than hell.” He remembered the whiskey, looked around for the bottle, and saw it lying on its side near where Pecos lay beneath the blanket, loudly snoring.

  He returned his deeply puzzled gaze to Jay. “What the hell happened?”

  Jay canted her head toward Myra. “She drugged both you idiots. She laced the whiskey with raw opium.”

  Angry and befuddled, Slash scowled at Myra, who continued to stare at
the ground between her legs. “Why?”

  “She wanted to kill you.”

  “Why?”

  Jay glanced at Myra again. “Would you like to tell him?”

  “Jay?” Pecos had woken suddenly, with a start, and turned his head to stare up in shock at the copper-haired beauty standing by Slash. “What in God’s—ahhhh!” he cried, gritting his teeth and clamping a hand to the crown of his skull.

  “Yeah, it was quite a party,” Slash told him.

  Pecos glared up at Jay. “You double-crossed us! Sold us out to Bledsoe!”

  “Shut up,” Slash said. “We’ll get to that.”

  “Don’t tell me to shut up,” Pecos said, indignant. “I want to get to it right now.”

  “Shut up!”

  Pecos just groaned against the pain in his head, leaning back on his saddle.

  Slash turned to Myra. “Why’d you want to kill us, you little puma? Was you gonna rob us? If so, boy, I sure had you read wrong.”

  Myra sucked in her cheeks a little but kept her eyes on the ground, not saying anything.

  “Rob us?” Pecos said, turning to Myra. “Hey, why is Myra tied up?”

  “I told you to shut up,” Slash said, wincing against the blows of the little man and his hammer.

  “Stop tellin’ me to shut up, Slash!”

  “Shut up! She was about to kill us both last night. She would have killed us both if . . . well, if Jay hadn’t stepped in and brained her.”

  “Brained her?”

  “You were asleep,” Slash said. “Passed out. That wasn’t just whiskey in the bottle. It was opium, Jay thinks.”

  “Oh, I know,” Jay said. “I found the little blue bottle of the deadly stuff in her saddlebags.”

  Slash glared at the shame-faced Myra. “I’d still like to know why she drugged us and was gonna kill us.” He glanced at Jay. “Then we’ll get to you.”

  Jay drew a deep breath. Her own cheeks were touched with the soft blush of shame. Glancing at Myra again, she said, “The girl was working for the Snake River Marauders.”

  “What?” Pecos and Slash said at the same time.

  “That ain’t possible,” Pecos said.

  “Why?” Jay asked him. “Because she’s young and pretty?”