Bounty Hunter

by Michelle E Lowe

  Pierce looked down at the silver ornament pinned to his vest. “You think? S’pose ‘Landcross the Lawman’ has a nice ring to it, eh?”

  “What is on your mind, Landcross?” the chief asked, pouring a glass for his guest.

  Pierce ran his hand through his hair. “I have to cross the Fire Field tomorrow.”

  “I heard,” said the chief, handing over the wine glass.

  Pierce quickly accepted it. “Cheers.”

  He took a drink and the wine blossomed throughout him.

  Not many folks knew that ol’ Chief Sea Wind was a wine snob, only drinking the finest. The French had done that to him. They always gave him crates of good wine whenever he and his crew came to their port.

  Chief Sea Wind seemed agitated. He gazed out the window where the ocean spread out beyond the cliffs. Being anchored for so long must have been trying his patience. The chief let out a groan that sounded eerily similar to that of the ship. It was as if the ship and the man were one soul—and perhaps they were.

  “Have you ever been out in the Fire Field?” Pierce inquired. “Heard it’s pretty nasty.”

  “I’ve heard as much,” the chief admitted, taking a seat at the head of the table. “But I’ve never been that far inland.”

  “I see,” Pierce said glumly.

  He lowered his glass with a slight burp and wiped wine off his chin with his sleeve. The chief refilled his glass.

  Pierce took another drink. “I’m going up against some pretty wicked odds, it seems, Chief. We’ve been doing well so far, my little gang and all, but after hearing about this Fire Field, it’s got me concerned.”

  “You have a gang? Not just Itza-chu? He said nothing about others.”

  “Aye, a pair of volunteers. Well, one volunteer, the other . . . erm, was rather forced to help. Bloody Sheriff Flores, he’s the cause of that. There’s something untrustworthy about the cocker, which brings me to why I’m here.”

  He took another drink. Without any food in his stomach, the wine made an easy passage straight to his head. “I’m doing my damnedest out there, Chief, trying to set things right and keep the tribe safe, but if I fail . . . if I die—”

  The chief stiffened at that.

  Pierce ignored it and continued. “There will be trouble for everyone. I was told that you, Chief Victorio, and Nascha have already discussed an evacuation plan.”

  Chief Sea Wind relaxed his rigid posture. “We have. If the worst happens, the entire tribe shall be loaded onto my ship and taken away to join our brothers and sisters in the north of Alaska.”

  “There’s something else, though,” Pierce went on. “I didn’t mention this before because it was too much at the time, but the sheriff is aware of the Ekta and has threatened to have their navy sink her if you try to flee.”

  The chief breathed in deeply, then sipped his wine. “We will do what we can to escape.”

  Pierce nodded and looked down at his own glass. “And erm, what about my . . .er . . . my—

  “You need not ask, Landcross,” the chief said. “Your wife, parents, and grandmother will all be protected. I shall see to it myself.”

  Pierce blew out a breath. “Cheers, Chief.”

  “Was there any doubt I wouldn’t watch over them, Landcross?”

  “No. I only wanted to hear it, I s’pose. They mean everything to me—especially the one I’ve yet to meet.”

  The wine was making him a tad mushy.

  “I understand. My wife has made it perfectly clear that no harm will befall your wife and unborn child. And you know as well as I do that you don’t go against Waves of Strength’s wishes.”

  “Or shoot her in the arse,” Pierce remarked, rubbing the brand on his chest.

  Pierce guzzled down more wine. It was damn good.

  Although the threat of death still loomed over the Apache tribe, as well as his own family, having Chief Sea Wind prepared for it gave Pierce a little solace.

  “Thanks, Chief. For everything, I mean. I’m fortunate to have a mate like you.” He stood from his seat and wavered. “Best return before it gets dark, eh?”

  “Dusk has already arrived,” Chief Sea Wind pointed out. “Even if you left now, you’ll still be walking through the desert in the dark. You should stay here tonight.”

  Pierce needed little convincing.

  “All right, fine, twist my bleedin’ arm. I’ll stay.”

  A smile touched the corners of Chief Sea Wind’s lips. He poured Pierce another glass.

  * * *

  The following day was not so much fun. Pierce had a hell of a time peeling himself out of the hammock. The struggle to get moving nearly broke him. If it weren’t for Heals with Nature and Leads the Way’s rude and rough awakening, he would’ve slept the entire day away.

  That wasn’t a choice. He had to arrive at Guaymas before noon, which meant he had to leave before sunup.

  As he tiredly walked the mile-long journey, carrying the pillow he’d promised Taisia, he wished he’d brought his horse, after all. His brain was like soup inside his skull, and it was swimming in a broth of wine. Pierce felt all out of sorts and highly suspected he looked like it, too.

  When he reached the village, Itza-chu was waiting for him in front of his and Taisia’s hut.

  “About time you arrived,” griped the native, tossing away a stick he was using to draw patterns in the mud.

  With him were his and Pierce’s horses. His was saddled and ready.

  “It’s early yet,” Pierce reminded him with a yawn.

  Considering his aches and drowsiness, Pierce was rather proud of himself for returning in such a timely manner instead of collapsing by a tumbleweed somewhere.

  “We need all the daylight we have to travel through the Fire Field,” Itza-chu said. “We have to reach the cliffs before dark.”

  “Aye. Give me a tick to gather my gear, eh?”

  He hated that he hoped Taisia wasn’t inside. He wanted to tell her goodbye, but not at the cost of explaining what had happened between him and Emma. But, there she was, sitting on the furs, knitting what looked to be a baby blanket. Pierce hadn’t the foggiest idea that she could knit. He reckoned she’d learned it from the other tribeswomen.

  “What do you think?” she asked, holding it up. “I’ve been working on it all morning.”

  The blanket—a simple woven one with red, white and blue patterns threaded in—looked halfway done. The quality of her work would have made him proud if not for the dread swelling inside his stomach.

  “I brought you a pillow.” He set it down and kissed her on the cheek. “I love you. More than anything in this blasted world.”

  His words carved trenches into his soul, filling them with a purification that drowned his sinful secret.

  “I spoke to Chief Sea Wind,” he said, kneeling next to her. “He’s going to make sure you and the baby flee Mexico in the event I fail.”

  Her jaw hung open. “Pierce.” Her voice was so plaintive, it hurt his ears. “Do you not think you will succeed?”

  He cleared his throat and reached for his rucksack. He opened the flap and searched for his tinted spectacles.

  “The odds are in our favor at the moment,” he explained, slipping them on and standing while shouldering the bag strap. Taisia stood with him. “We snagged two out of the four, and we have a lead on where to find a third. It still doesn’t mean it can’t all go to pot. I’m only preparing for the worst, love.”

  Selfishly, he was happy to talk about this rather than the alternative. This discussion didn’t come without a price, however, for it was raising her worries.

  To soothe her spirits, he added, “Grandmother Fey strengthened my protection.”

  She only stared at him blankly. Taisia had never really understood, nor had any interest, in the supernatural.

  “Everything will work out,” he promised at length. “We’ll find the last two sods, pay off the debt, and then you and I will sail home.”

  Home. To the islands. Pierce
hadn’t been there yet, but calling it home felt right. It would become his little spot to live until his dying day. He couldn’t wait to touch those white sandy beaches.

  Taisia gently clasped his badge and rubbed her thumb over it. An amused smile touched the corners of her mouth.

  “Landcross,” Itza-chu’s impatient voice called from the door-way. “We must go.”

  Taisia sucked in a breath and turned her attention to the exit. “You should leave.”

  Her tone was very dry.

  “Right,” he agreed, rubbing his thumb over her cheek tenderly. “Goodbye, my love.”

  Her cognac eyes shifted from side to side until they finally locked on his. She so desperately wanted to ask her question again.

  Is there something you need to tell me?

  He was robbing her of the answer, and he was a bastard for it.

  They kissed, and he was gone.

  As he and Itza-chu headed for Guaymas, Pierce sank deep into his despair. He’d avoided the conversation like a child by going off to Chief Sea Wind’s ship, and now a feeling of anguish burned in his stomach. For all Taisia knew, something romantic was happening between him and Emma. If the shoe was on the other foot, Pierce would be going mad. Tai didn’t deserve this.

  “What’s on your mind, Landcross?” Itza-chu asked. “You’re unusually quiet.”

  Pierce sighed. He didn’t know what to say.

  * * *

  Her side and abdomen hurt from organ damage. Her face felt no better.

  Nata had told the truth about the location of the money. She’d had no reason to lie about it. Inside the safe. Room 21. That’s where she’d kept it. It was not her fault it wasn’t there now.

  She kept telling the sheriff and the deputy that it should have been there—but they beat her anyway. Why couldn’t they believe her instead of hurting her? She suggested the hotel manager, the only other person who knew the combination to the safe, might have taken it. They still beat her. It got so bad that even that lowlife, Harvey Nickel, protested. The sheriff needed to transfer Harvey to trial, which was probably the only reason they’d stopped. Harvey was found guilty to no one’s surprise and was now heading for the gallows.

  Since the attack, Nata hadn’t moved much, aside from shivering. Instead, she lay on her side on the hard cot, staring at the wall. Her dreams about fleeing east were gone. She had come to terms with it the moment she regained consciousness in the clothing store and discovered herself in cuffs. She realized it even while she tried to convince the bounty hunters that she was innocent. If that stupid bank teller had just put the money into the bag instead of sniveling like a pathetic child, he wouldn’t have gotten himself shot. The lawmen charged Nata with attempted murder. That alone would earn her the rope.

  Unlike Harvey, though, Nata would not make it to trial. Her beaten insides would soon do her in. The only thing keeping her alive was her efforts to hold herself and sustain whatever organ was bleeding. But, she was only delaying the inevitable.

  The attack was a blessing. The sheriff and his deputy had unknowingly given her the power to choose when to die. She would not stand before a judge—at least, not a mortal one. As a child, growing up with her people, Nata was taught about the Great Spirit, and how only the Great Spirit permitted those who were worthy to journey into the afterlife. The unworthy were cast back to Earth and reborn into a life of misery and hardship in order to learn how to be humble and kind. Whether it was true or not, Nata hadn’t given it much thought until now.

  This moment of her dying was the longest she’d ever spent thinking about life beyond death. Nata had always focused on living and all the things she wanted to do. She never cared about what she needed to do to achieve it, the things she needed to steal, or the people she’d hurt. In her mind’s eye, she deserved it all. And her youthful arrogance had kept thoughts about death at a distance. She never expected that dying would happen to her. At least she wouldn’t die with a noose around her neck like Harvey, who was probably swinging by now.

  As the lawmen beat her, calling her all sorts of filthy names, Nata suspected they wouldn’t have hurt her so brutally if she wasn’t an Indian. After all, natives were deemed subhuman. Nata had thought the same thing about her own people. She had grown to resent them and their ancient ways. She had left to become more than any of them had ever dared. Those dreams were eons out of reach now.

  At least she had a sliver of freedom left. The liberty to die on her own.

  Nata unwound her arms from around herself and folded them down in front of her face. A broken rib shifted and cut into something inside her like cake, making her yelp. The pain subsided, and she lay there, staring at the pretty fabric of her dress sleeves. She rubbed the cuff fondly, the sight soothing her as she began slipping away from her broken body.

  * * *

  “She’s dead, Sheriff,” reported Officer Adrián José when Flores returned after overseeing the gringo’s hanging. The sheriff went to the cell, grasped the woman’s shoulder, and turned her over. Her head rolled with lifeless, half-opened eyes that stared back at him but didn’t see.

  “Puta,” he cursed.

  Sheriff Flores assumed he and his deputy were the cause of her death. In the process, he had robbed himself of the satisfaction of seeing her hanged. Not to mention there was still the matter of the missing bank funds. Whatever she had done with them, they were lost forever.

  “Remove this savage from my jailhouse,” he ordered Officer José.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Message from New York

  Pierce was both relieved and not so relieved to find Emma waiting inside the Sun Buscador Hotel lobby.

  After the unpleasantness between him and Taisia, Pierce felt uneasy around Emma. He thought about telling Emma to stay behind, but changed his mind the moment he saw her. She had bought new duds, including black trousers that hugged her perfect hips and thighs and flared widely at the bottom. Her gun belt looked more like a fashion statement than a means for protection. The pistol hung lovingly from her hip as if the weapon was a pet cuddling up for attention. Her top was a sleeveless leather overbust vest fastened down the front with sterling silver buckles. She even sported a new wide-brimmed hat that curved up on one side with colorfully dyed feathers nestled into the band. Her hands were cloaked in calfskin gloves. The marks on her face from the fight and the bruise around her eye did nothing to tarnish her beauty. She stood with more confidence than ever before as if the scrap with Nata had awakened her inner warrior.

  Then there was Jaxton, who was looking more or less the same as ever. He had on the same plaid suit, white shirt, and red suspenders under his vest. He wore his more sensible steel-toed boots, which he’d acquired after trading in his ankle boots. He’d replaced his stovepipe hat with a simple, wide-brimmed brown one similar to Emma’s. He carried Harvey’s bayonet pistol tucked under his belt. He looked none too happy to be there. Unlike Emma, he seemed more annoyed than anything else—with a dash of concern.

  Pierce almost pulled Jaxton aside to ask if he wanted to stay behind. That tosser, Sheriff Flores, would be none the wiser.

  Then Jaxton slung his rucksack strap over his shoulder and flashed a smile. “G’day. Ready for another hunt, mate? I took the liberty of supplying us with canned food and some cooking utensils.”

  His voice, unlike his demeanor, was rather chipper.

  “And I got us tents and bedrolls,” Emma chimed in. “I also made these.”

  She reached into her bag and brought out something made of leather stitched with coarse, almost ropelike, thread. It had large, round, glass lenses outlined in steel. The thing was long, with buckled belts hanging down.

  Pierce leaned in closer to examine it. “Is it a mask?”

  “Sí. For the horses. There aren’t any to be found, so I sewed these together.”

  “I bloody well helped, too,” Jaxton griped.

  Itza-chu took the mask and studied it. “It’s very well made.”

  A smil
e touched the corners of Emma’s lips. She looked over to Pierce as though waiting for a pat on the back from him. Pierce opened his mouth to tell her the masks were a brilliant idea, but snapped his jaw shut at the last second. He was highly aware of her affection toward him, and it didn’t help matters that he fancied her, as well. Things between them needed to change.

  “We ought to crack on,” he said, turning on his heel and heading toward the door.

  They headed out of Guaymas more or less ready for the dangers ahead.

  * * *

  A servant of the hotel had summoned Gabriela down to the lobby. The resort was the same sort of filthy place she and Emma always stayed in. With her share of the winnings, Gabriela could easily afford a swankier establishment, but she’d rather save the money, for she had plans. There were many projects that needed funding, which was the key reason she’d wanted to enter the Wheel in the Industrial Race in the first place. That, and to show off her handiwork. With Emma by her side, they had built a beautifully crafted, fully functional machine that had proved its salt against all the other racing machines.

  Gabriela was exceptionally intelligent. She could calculate any mathematical problem in her head and disassemble and reassemble engines and other mechanical parts without a second thought. As a hobby, she studied human anatomy. The human body was the perfect machine. It fascinated her that the simple task of holding the stem of a flower between the index finger and thumb was a precise scientific act. She found it a shame that the main engine—the brain—was often flawed.

  Gabriela strove to tear away what she felt were people’s imperfect qualities from herself. She never allowed herself alcohol consumption, never interacted with people outside of her small intellectual circle, and—the top offence—never allowed love to steer her away from her studies. Gabriela hated love. She had seen firsthand what it did to people. Love invaded people’s minds unlike any other emotion. It threw a cover over basic common sense and turned friend against friend. Love was a trickster that fooled that flawed engine into believing it needed a mate, a brilliant scheme constructed by nature to convince the human race to reproduce.