The Unexpected Champion

by Mary Connealy

  The man who’d taken them said he had questions. Which reminded John he was supposed to answer the sheriff’s questions. Had Sheriff Walters missed them? Was he searching?

  John worked the gag out of his mouth. It was hard to move, and he didn’t want to draw attention to himself, but he had to know about Miss Scott. She was a feisty little thing and none too happy about John coming for her nephew. She wore trousers, and—of all the scandalous things—she had even worn them to town. Snapping brown eyes and brown hair streaked with glitters of sunlight and streaks of cinnamon in two dangling braids that seemed to shout that she considered tending her hair a nuisance. There was little feminine about her manner. Even so, she was pretty enough. It was hard to see under the Stetson and the scowl, but John had noticed.

  Though she was an odd character, that didn’t stop his protective instincts from roaring to life. Why hadn’t she run when he’d given her the chance?

  The bad part was, he knew why. He’d offered to shield her from a bullet, and she’d declined to let him die for her. He respected that, but at the same time it made him half-crazed with worry. Where was she? What might men like these do to a woman? What might they have done already while he’d lain here uselessly?

  Fighting to keep his breathing even, as if he were still out cold, he listened for her but heard nothing, sensed nothing. Maybe she lay unconscious right beside him. He eased his right foot to the side and felt the edge of the wagon box. He moved his hands a bit and could tell they were bound to the wagon, wrenched sideways and bound painfully tight. He ached in his wrists, elbows, and shoulders. Not to mention his head.

  Inching to his left, hoping the men who’d kidnapped them weren’t watching too closely, he pressed against something solid but soft.

  “McCall?” Her voice was more a breath than a sound. Wherever the three men were, at least one of them was driving this wagon, which meant an outlaw was only a few feet away from them.

  “Shhh . . . yes.” And that was all they said. But he felt her ease against him, shoulder to shoulder.

  The way she moved close told him she was afraid, and yet the rigid muscles of her arm said she was ready to fight. Since he was both of those things too, he could only respect her for it.

  As they rode on, John became aware of more details. He heard the clopping hooves of two horses pulling the wagon. The occasional slap of the reins sounded like the driver was sitting centered just past and a couple of feet higher than John’s head, which meant the other two men were somewhere else.

  Listening, he located both of them riding along on the left side of the wagon, up close to the driver.

  Time went on. Suddenly he woke up, and that was the first he realized he’d passed out again. No idea for how long a time. The pain in his head was less, still there but not so overwhelming.

  A man’s voice had stirred him.

  “That went smooth.” One of the riders said it. He made no attempt to whisper, and that meant no one was around. They hadn’t driven to another town, then.

  “Yep, it was like pickin’ off a pair of three-legged elk. They never stood a chance.”

  John ignored the insult and waited, straining to listen. Miss Scott was right against him, her right shoulder against his left. He nudged her, and she made a move that told him she knew he was awake again.

  Nothing more passed between them, though he could sense Miss Scott listening to their captors as closely as he was. Any information they learned might be the one detail that saved their lives. John heard the wind blowing past and decided from the clean, steady sound of it, and the scent of dust overlaying the wood of the wagon bed and the musty smell of the tarp, that they weren’t in the forest.

  He felt warmer on the left-hand side. Sunlight. He had no idea how long he’d been unconscious or how far they’d gone. Considering that the day was wearing down before they’d left Dismal, that meant they were headed north with the sun low in the sky to the west. Dismal was a rugged town and a long distance from anywhere.

  Heading north led to Carson City, and beyond that the little town of Ringo, and on past that, Virginia City and the Comstock Lode. John had learned the lay of the land while he waited for the trail to open this spring. He’d spent a long time traveling to get to little Ronnie Scott, to fetch him home to his grandparents. A good chunk of that time he’d been stranded in Virginia City.

  Carson City was the state’s capital. There was law there. If that was where they were headed, help would be close at hand, and John might find a chance to get them to safety.

  The heat of the sun lessened. They’d entered a stretch that blocked the sun, which probably meant it was wooded. Something scratched the edge of the wagon as they rolled on. Was it a branch? Were they on a narrow trail? The branches scraped again, on both sides this time.

  The hoofbeats to the left of the wagon were gone. The trail must be too tight for them to ride abreast.

  The scratching stopped for a few paces, and then the wagon creaked to a halt. As much as John wanted this ride to be over, because he saw no way to escape until it was, now that they’d stopped, his stomach twisted with dread as he considered the danger they faced.

  John risked a few more words to Miss Scott. “I’m knocked out.”

  He felt her head rest against his shoulder, and she nodded.

  He waited. Thanks to his years as a Pinkerton agent, and his service during the Civil War, he knew too much. He knew just how cruel people could be to one another. He’d heard someone once call it “man’s inhumanity to man,” and it was the pure truth.

  And these outlaws seemed like the type to do their worst.

  The blanket was thrown off.

  Penny saw the deep woods and dusky sunlight filtering through oak and pine.

  Rough hands grabbed her, untied her hands from the wagon edge but left her bound, and dragged her out. Her face scraped along the wood, because with her hands bound she couldn’t protect herself. They stood her up. She fought for balance and stumbled until she hit the end of the wagon box. She wobbled, but she remained upright. They were in a clearing, surrounded by forest. Scrub pines and weeds pushed up between rocks.

  John was thrown out of the wagon and hit the ground. He landed hard, and his head bounced. If he hadn’t been playing possum, they might’ve let him stand. Now she had to wonder if he was faking unconsciousness, or if he was really knocked out . . . again. He’d come around in the wagon, then blacked out and come awake. She saw blood dried on the back of his head and gritted her teeth to keep from crying out in dismay at the ugly wound.

  “Make sure the man’s out,” a man whispered from nearby. Out of sight in the woods somewhere.

  The man nearest her grabbed John’s hair and lifted his head. Blood trickled from a cut above one eyebrow. It bled freely, not like the blackened blood on the back of his head, so it was probably new.

  He had been knocked out. His neck was completely limp, and she didn’t see even a twitch of his eyes. Bright flowing crimson was the only color in his ashen face. No man could pretend this well.

  The man dropped John’s head, and it hit hard again. He didn’t even groan.

  “Cover her eyes,” Whisper Man said.

  One of the men whipped out his kerchief and blindfolded her. Despite this dire mess, Penny felt a surge of hope.

  The men in the alley had worn masks, and they still did. Now there was a fourth man, and he didn’t want to be seen, either. It was a sign that they might be planning to let them go.

  She flexed her wrists as she’d done many times on the drive here. She’d found just a bit of room. If her hands were free, if she could rip off the blindfold and grab the pistol from her bag—they’d never searched it—she might beat them. She had a six-shooter—six bullets and only four men. Unlike before, she didn’t have a gun pointed right at her head, or at least she hadn’t before the kerchief had gone on, and why would they start pointing now?

  The men had no way of knowing how fast she was or how accurate. She jus
t needed a chance.

  “Saw you bring Raddo in.” Whisper Man startled her.

  She’d wondered if the Chiltons were involved, but Raddo? He’d had partners last fall, but since those two men had gone—one by a bullet, one to jail—there’d been no sign of anyone helping him.

  “Yes.” She needed to think. What was this man’s purpose? What might she say that would give him whatever he needed? She’d spent a lot of time with tough men, and some mighty tough women at those forts, too. And she knew about hiding weakness, hiding hurt and suspicion and even happiness. She’d never played it, but Cam, her brother, had told her she’d make a heck of a poker player.

  She had to be very careful to give Whisper Man no notion she knew his identity, and so far that was simple because it was true.

  Still whispering, the newcomer asked, “What did he say before he died?”

  “Nothing. He came in shooting, we shot back.”

  Silence stretched between them.

  “Did your man here talk to him?”

  “No, the same as me, we heard gunfire and came running. We opened up as soon as we had a shot.” Her voice trembled, and she let it. Let the man think she was a fragile little woman, upset over a shooting. In truth, she was upset. As that thought swept through her, she trembled harder, and her throat closed. She’d use all this emotion to distract the man from more questions.

  “No one talked to him?” Whisper Man asked. “He left nothing behind?”

  Penny fell silent, trying to think what to say. Someone shoved her hard. She cried out in pain as she staggered into the sharp tailgate of the wagon, and she nearly fell.

  “No, I’m not refusing to talk. I’m just trying to think. He didn’t even have a horse, not that we saw. No saddlebags, nothing in his pockets.” She had a vision of that tattoo. What had it said? Luth. She remembered that. Something about . . . a jewel?

  She swept her mind back to fear and admitted nothing. While the blindfold covered much of her face, she did her best to show no expression, even one they couldn’t see.

  “We never spoke to him.” She wanted to demand to know why, but maybe she already knew. This man who was so careful to keep himself a secret might just think Raddo had mentioned him.

  Instead, she said, “P-Please don’t hurt us.” Her voice broke, and that was all phony. Penny wasn’t a woman to cry when she was in trouble. She was a lot more likely to make a fist or grab a gun.

  She sure hoped she didn’t have to conjure any tears.

  “Sit her in the wagon box for a spell,” Whisper Man snapped. “I don’t like her answers, and I may need to ask my questions a little harder. We’ll see what her man has to say when he wakes up—a little pain for his woman might make him talk.”

  Someone grabbed her with two hands on her waist and threw her into the wagon. She landed on her back. Her hands, twisted as they were from being bound behind her, scraped and made her back arch, and her head hit with a crack. She cried out in pain, something she’d’ve normally bit back, but not for these coyotes. She wanted them to think of her as helpless. And sure not as a woman who had a gun hidden in the leather bag draped around her neck and shoulder.

  “He’s out,” Whisper Man said. “She’s tied up. We need to make some plans.” She heard footsteps walking away, crackling on twigs and rustling over last fall’s leaves.

  She rolled to the side, doing her best to get the pressure off her arms and back. The sound of retreating footsteps sounded like four men. The three who’d kidnapped her and Whisper Man.

  Silence made her hope she was alone.

  Struggling with the blindfold, she rubbed the side of her face against the rough wagon floor, then stopped. Maybe she didn’t want to see anyone? It went against the grain not to fight, not to try and loosen her bonds and regain her sight.

  But maybe, by letting them be in control, she had a chance to live. It didn’t suit her at all. This might be her only chance to get away. But how would she carry off an unconscious man? She couldn’t escape and leave McCall behind.

  Because her nature was too strong, she scraped off the blindfold, then fought to free her hands. She began enlarging the wiggle room she’d spent the whole drive working on.

  As she worked, she prayed.

  She had a mighty God. And she’d never needed Him more than right now.

  CHAPTER

  3

  John got his hands free and peeked over the edge of the wagon just as Penny sat up, untied, gun in her hand. Their eyes met, then hers slid to his bleeding forehead and all the color drained from her face. She must really be upset about this. He didn’t have time to calm her down, so he lifted her out of the wagon.

  He didn’t mean to be heroic, he just wanted quiet.

  He set her on her feet, grabbed her hand, and they slipped into the woods in the opposite direction of where he’d seen those outlaws step out of sight.

  No doubt so that the whispering fool could talk out loud. Well, they had just badly underestimated their prisoners.

  John led the way, moving fast. Miss Scott was absolutely silent. John was doing his best and his best was decent, but if he hadn’t held her hand, he would have glanced back to see if she was there.

  Every second counted. Every step they took put space between them and the kidnappers. John hadn’t passed out when he was on the ground, so he had a glimpse of the fourth man’s legs, and he suspected that alone would buy him a death sentence.

  Miss Scott tugged on his hand. He looked back to see her pointing for some reason. She changed to leading and went off at a right angle from the way they’d been going. He couldn’t yell at her, nor get in a wrestling match about who went first, so he followed instead. It took him five minutes before he realized they were on a trail.

  It was so thin it only became a trail when a man added a powerful imagination. Overgrown with grass, with branches stretched clean across it. It must’ve been a trail for a mighty short deer, because limbs slapped at them down to about knee-high.

  Mainly imitating Miss Scott, he did his best to stay low, every slapping limb making a sound. He watched for twigs and carefully didn’t kick any stones that could go tumbling.

  Minutes passed, not enough of them, and a shout sounded from the wagon. They’d been discovered missing.

  Every survival instinct John owned came roaring to life. Miss Scott kept up the same pace, though he noticed she had her gun out again. He wanted to take over leading and run like mad. But she didn’t even speed up. If anything, she was more silent . . . except what was more silent than silent?

  John didn’t think there were footprints visible on this grassy trail. At least not to his eye, and he’d had a little experience with tracking in the war.

  Not a lot, but enough . . . he hoped.

  He noticed that dusk was settling in. Good. Better to hide in the dark.

  They moved on. John wasn’t even sure which direction they were headed. On and on they went, dodging limbs, fighting for silence.

  The trail twisted and curved. It went up, then around, then back down again. John had no idea where they were. He thought they’d come north from Dismal, but he wasn’t at all sure.

  A gun fired behind them. John kept moving.

  “Found our trail,” Miss Scott hissed, sounding furious.

  The gunshot was an alert. The men had split up, and now one man was telling them all to come running.

  “Gunshot’s a ways off. We’ve gained some space.” She was breathing hard, yet her pace didn’t slacken. John didn’t know how long he could keep running—he’d never tested himself. But a gunman on your trail would push you past all your limits.

  A very female squeak from ahead was his only warning. Miss Scott vanished. John had no chance to stop. He went over the gully edge, tumbling, sliding, trying to protect his head from further injury. For a second he fell clean, no contact with the earth at all, and then he hit an outcropping.

  He caught sight of Miss Scott below, saw her skidding along, then sudde
nly she was on her feet and running, almost straight down . . . well no, but a real sharp descent. Still, better than what they’d been falling down. John gathered himself for the instant he reached the slightly less steep section. Sure enough, he hit it and went head over heels. His head was already wounded, and he felt every bump. Then he struck a large root jutting out of the slope. It stopped him with the force of hitting a brick wall. For a second.

  But that second let him get his balance and he lost hold of the root, this time with his feet under him. Going at full speed was stupid and reckless, but he saw no way to stop and honestly no point. They had to be making a racket, and those men would be coming soon.

  But maybe the men behind them wouldn’t risk jumping over a cliff.

  And that was the last coherent thought John could muster. He ran like he had a grizzly on his tail. Below, he saw the woods thicken. The slope was finally ending. He braced himself to slam into an oncoming tree. He missed the first one, and the land leveled. He dodged three more trees and forced his speed down until a low branch hit him like a clothesline against the face.

  His feet flipped forward while his body stayed behind. He landed on the dirt with a thud that knocked a grunt out of him.

  He seemed to be alive still. He jumped to his feet, thinking to find Miss Scott, just in time to be slugged in the stomach. He tried to see the men—they must be here. They must be attacking.

  Then he noticed it, lying at his feet. A pistol. If he wasn’t mistaken, it was Miss Scott’s pistol. She’d lost it, and it’d gotten behind her somehow . . . and went straight into his belly. He picked it up, then saw her.

  She’d lost her hat too, and her braids were unbound. A quick look behind him showed no hat for her, but his wasn’t too far off and would be visible from the top of the cliff, so he grabbed it. He didn’t want to leave a trail so clear. He saw nothing else, and she was on her feet and moving. He walked after her.

  They’d taken his pistol but not his holster, so he put her gun away and turned to find Miss Scott rushing into the woods.