He straightened in the saddle and rode faster along the path. With no other way out of the shallow canyon, he was confident that nobody could break off and ride any other way. The first tracks found were of two women, one booted and one barefoot, and the horse carried double. There was no way he could be wrong. This was their trail for sure. He heeled the horse into a gallop.
Chapter Five
Night breezes stirred the tall Ponderosa pines, causing them to sway gently, creating rasping sandpaper-like sounds that blanketed the cabin. Inside, Shannon and Patti slept lightly. For very different reasons they each were semi-aware of every sound that came to them.
For Shannon, it was simply the way she slept each and every night. She was attuned to her surroundings as naturally as breathing. Patti Baker’s recent capture, rape, and escape heightened the trait as a means of self-protection. Both of the young women were subconsciously aware of every minute change.
Shannon’s eyes sprang open instantly and she silently reached for her rifle, drawing it closer to her body. Rising to a kneeling position, she tipped her head to listen closer to a silence so intense that all the insects and night creatures were suddenly silenced. A look toward Patti confirmed that she too had noticed. She was up and clutched a two-shot derringer in her tense grip, blinking away the cobwebs of sleep.
With a motion to indicate that she should cover the window to the right, Shannon moved to the opposite side of the cabin and slowly, almost imperceptibly, moved her body so she could look through the firing port, first from one side, then ducking under and moving, she looked from the other.
At her assigned window, Patti watched and tried to emulate Shannon. She held the small pistol tightly. The weapon wouldn’t be effective at ranges past a few feet, but at close range, it could kill.
Still moving silently from the window to the leather hinged door, Shannon peered through a very small knothole in one of the planks and saw the silhouette of a man standing near the edge of the tree line, brush and other foliage almost completely distorting his outline; the hat on his head was the only visible item that couldn’t be camouflaged. She moved back to the window, ducked under again and saw the man from the different angle. She motioned to Patti to move away from the window toward the rear of the cabin.
Waiting and watching the man, she nervously glanced from side to side where he stood to keep her eyes from losing focus. Patience not being a trait she inherited, she wanted the man to make a move one way or another. So much so, she began to lift her rifle to the firing port in anticipation. Through either intuition or just plain good fortune, she was in firing position when he did.
* * * *
The tracker watched the cabin for days after he followed the trail leading to it from the ridge line above. He watched as a tall, well-built blonde move from area to area near the cabin; apparently opening it up for the summer. His attention was drawn to the shorter brunette, who appeared from time to time. He recognized her instantly. It was the Baker girl, captured in the second raid in the valley.
He became completely riveted on the younger woman. After the raid, bigger, tougher men excluded him from enjoying a session with either of the captives. Now, however, he was sole heir to, not one, but two women. His libido soared. He would have them all to himself and to Hell with the other men who thought him too old to be of any use.
He judged his progress took most of an hour, slowly moving from tree to tree, bush to bush, to silently make his approach to the front of the cabin. From the position of stars, he determined that false dawn would not be long in coming, a half-hour at most. He watched the cabin for any signs of activity and waited, biding his time. With stars beginning to fade as light took back the darkness, he began his move. Through earlier observance, he noted that the door to the cabin was only stake and slat construction, though it did have a drawstring leading to a latch inside. He saw no crossbar bolts and believed he could easily shatter it with his weight if he hit it with enough force.
He drew both his belt knife and a rusty, fully loaded revolver, and began to run as fast as he could. His idea was to hit the door with a shoulder and crash into the cabin with both women asleep and unaware.
* * * *
With pale light of false dawn creating an illusion of shadows in preparation for the harsh light of the morning sun yet to rise over the mountain to the east, Tucker Prophet and his men were gathering and packing for a move over a low pass to a secluded area near Still Lake. Maryanne had described it as a long, narrow valley, high enough above the snow melt high water mark to avoid flood and protected on both sides by ridge lines that would expose any enemy entering from high on the mountain.
“Are you all right, Maryanne?” Terry asked.
“Yes, Terrance. I’ll be fine.” She smiled. “Tell me something? Why are we leaving the valley, and running away?”
“Well, I don’t really know. Tell you the truth though, I’ve been with Cap’n Tucker a very long time and if he says this is the best way, I trust him. He has the kind of brain that figures out the possible ways a thing, like a battle, can go and makes the right move. I’ve lived through some hellacious fights because of that. If the he says it is best, then that’s what it is.”
“Trust…that’s a very good thing to have. My John, God rest his soul, was where I laid my trust and we had a long and happy life together because of it. I can see that you and the others follow Mister Prophet without question. I’m glad you have that. Since you do trust him, I will too. Terry?”
“Yeah.”
“Can I ask something else? It’s sort of personal, and if you don’t want to answer, I’ll understand.” Maryanne dropped her gaze to the dew-covered grass.
Terry stopped adjusting the load on the pony traded for in their dealings with the Ute brave, Shadow Fox, and turned to face the slender woman.
“You can ask anything, Maryanne. I won’t avoid and I will never lie. Not to you and not to anyone. Let’s go sit for a minute. I need a breather anyway; not as young as I used to be.”
Once seated, on the same bench used the day they met, she lowered her gaze again and began twisting the knotted ends of her hand-woven wool shawl. Softly, her voice barely discernible, she spoke.
“I love you, Terry. Over the last week I have slowly come to know you and respect you and, more importantly, to care deeply for you. I want to be part of your life. I know that I’m no longer young and attractive like I used to be, but…
Terry laid his finger lightly upon her lips.
“Hush now. Maryanne, you are everything any man would ever need or want. I am just happy that it’s me that you chose. When we get to a place we can settle down, and not be troubled with chasin’ outlaws and gunfights and such, would you do me the honor of staying with me as my wife? I love you too, Maryanne. I have since that first day.”
“Terry? I don’t know your last name. May I ask what it is?”
“It’s Wheeler, Terrance Jonathan Wheeler.”
He took her hand away from the shawl and placed it on his heart. Their eyes locked and they kissed. Tenderly at first, slowly building as the intensity of overwhelming feelings took them. They stood as one, each enfolding the other in the warmth of their love. The kiss deepened and both fell into an abyss of comfort.
Tucker Prophet walked up and stood silently, smiling, holding another parcel out to his friend to be loaded.
“If you two lovebirds are done, we need to get moving. I want to be camped at that lake by nightfall.”
Maryanne blushed hotly and turned toward her roan gelding. Terrance took the sack and nodded to his leader. He was too embarrassed by the display in the courtyard to trust speaking for a moment. With a last glance at the retreating woman, he turned.
“Yes, Sir, we’re done.”
“Let’s get to it. Mount up.”
* * * *
The
roar of the gunshot made the tracker duck his head and run faster toward the cabin. With a scream and burst of adrenalin-reinforced determination, he lowered his shoulder and crashed into and through the door. It splintered into oblivion.
His momentum carried him into the main room of the small building and through it, almost to the iron stove. Parts of the door still attached to the leather hinges swung inward to strike Shannon, knocking the rifle from her hands.
She drew her skinning knife; her pistol and holster were out of reach, hanging on a peg near the bed. Her lips retreated into an almost animal snarl, baring her teeth as anger seethed within. Slowly, watching the man’s every move, she stalked forward. He rolled onto his back, his eyes flared with fear; he remembered the condition of his friends’ nearly decapitated body where he began trailing these two women. He raised the pistol and pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened. He cycled the revolver again. The powder was wet and useless. The stalking blonde was closer now. He dropped the handgun, rolled away quickly and jumped to his feet; holding his own knife out in a fighters stance. He was facing the younger brunette. She had backed her thinly clad body tightly into the corner of the dovetailed walls, her eyes wide. She wasn’t a threat to him or anyone.
He spun back, flipped the knife to his right hand and lunged at the wild-eyed blonde. He slashed viciously, causing her to hesitate. With his other hand balled into a fist, he lashed out and connected with a satisfying crunch on her jaw. She didn’t go down. Instead, her look became more determined; hatred filled her eyes. One Ball backed a step and lunged again with the knife. He connected.
Blood shot from the wound he placed in the blonde’s shoulder. He slammed his fist into her face again. This time he watched as she fell backwards into a rough-hewn chair. She hit her head in the fall and appeared to be knocked out. An evil grin spread across One Ball’s face as he turned on the object of his lust; the younger girl he was denied in the raids.
“Little gal, you jus’ put that ol’ pop gun on tha’ floor, ya hear? You ain’t gonna want ol’ One Ball ta’ hurt ya none if’n I have ta’ take it from ya.” The leer on the old tracker’s face became more sinister.
Patti’s hands trembled as she clutched the weapon tighter. The man facing her was one she knew from her captivity. He made an effort to take his turn with her like all the others, but he was dragged off by men half his age, twice his size and tossed headfirst into the mud of the camp.
She remembered too, the stench of the man, the unwashed filth of his appearance, the ghastly smell of rotted teeth; her stomach roiled at the memory. Patti clinched and unclenched her finger on the trigger of the derringer. She raised the weapon higher and pointed it directly at his chest.
“Stay back. I’ll shoot. I’m not going back. I’m not!” Her shaking worsened.
“Aw, little gal, ol’ One Ball ain’t a-gonna be takin’ ya back. Ol’ One Ball jus’ gonna give you better lovin’ than all them othah boys put together. You gonna like that, I guarantee. Yes Ma’am, you gonna like that real good. When I’s done with you gal, you gonna wondah why you even let them othah boys take ya. Ol’ One Ball gonna pleasure you real good.” He glanced back to make sure the blonde was still out. Satisfied, he returned his attention to Patti Baker. “Now you jus’ come on ovah here ta’ ol’ One Ball, ya hear? Come on now.”
He needed three more strides and he’d have her. He kept inching forward. All he needed to do was keep her talking and not thinking about using the small pistol. He became impatient, more intent than before on his raging tumescence, obvious to any that observed his filthy, baggy trousers. His lust was more than he could control. He lunged forward.
Flinching at the suddenness of the man’s move, Patti turned her head, squinted her eyes shut and jerked the trigger. She dropped the pistol and covered her face with her hands, anticipating that she would be quickly in the leering man’s grasp.
One Ball Brown stood rooted to the floor. He’d felt the tug of the bullet as it hit and looked down to see the extent of his injury. Folds in his loose fitting trousers hid the wound itself below his softening erection. Blood poured from his body and a spreading stain showed where it soaked through his pants.
A high-pitched scream slowly joined, and matched, the increasing pain in his groin. His thoughts of lust were forgotten as he realized where and what the bullet had hit. Fire shot through his scrotum and began to travel upward, registering in his muddled brain. He lost control over his bodily functions as well and salty urine joined with blood to enter his wound.
The scream was frightening to hear. It took a moment for the tracker to realize that it was he who was making the horrific noise. He dropped his knife and clutched his private parts, causing even more pain. The man, the tracker, the luckless One Ball Brown would need a new name. A shy, frightened, young woman removed his remaining manhood and shattered it forever with a blind shot that, in her fear, she was unaware she made. The tracker stumbled from the cabin, disappearing into the woods beyond.
* * * *
Blood slowly dripped from the leather and wood stirrup and belly of One Ball’s lathered horse. The gelded animal was walking again. Fatigue was bringing him near to foundering. His rider was drifting in and out of consciousness.
One Ball Brown was dying. He could only ride belly down, draped across the age-smoothened leather of his saddle. With the toe of his boot hooked in a stirrup and his knife belt around his body and the off side stirrup, he couldn’t fall. In his slide into oblivion, the gentle swaying of the horse’s ambling walk was lulling him into sleep. Within, he knew that to sleep would be his end.
Vaguely aware the horse had stopped, he was helpless to make the animal move again, and he thought it funny that he didn’t really care. He felt hands roughly unbind and lower him to the ground. He could hear their voices, but couldn’t make out who would be shouting his name.
“One Ball, dammit, boy, come on, come out of it,” Fred Zimmer shouted at the dying man.
It was all for naught. The tracker was dead. Zimmer motioned Paco Ramirez over, and the two of them tossed the limp body back on the gelding. They set out on the trail toward Gunner’s camp.
* * * *
Four burly, tough-looking men met them as they rode into the camp with the unlucky tracker’s body in tow. Gunner Farren was far from pleased. He knew deep in his gut that he had to end the attrition he and his men were facing.
He walked out into the sunlight among what was left of his gang. He stopped beside Lefty Morgan.
“You boys is all we got left. Four of us done been killed, two ain’t been seen or heard from since that scout at the big farm, an’ we ain’t no closer to that gold than we was when we got here. From now on, y’all gotta watch out for each other; somebody in these mountains is out to kill us all. When you ride, you ride in pairs. Theys seven of us left. Lefty? You an’ Fred backtrack an’ find out where One Ball took that bullet, then ride back. Don’t try to take ‘em on, ya hear me? Only if I say fight, do you fight.” Gunner looked around.
“All right then, get this body buried. We move at first light. Seems somebody done up and moved in when I warn’t lookin’. That’s pure bullshit. We took that valley; we own the damn thing, right? We gonna take it back and I want the skins of those what killed our men hangin’ in the passes… Move!”
“You don’t really care if those men get killed. You just want that gold for yourself. Hell, you’ll probably kill me too,” Carmen said softly.
“Shut up, bitch,” Gunner hissed. “Don’t ever let any of those men ever hear you say that! If you do, and I hear about it, you really will be dead. Got me?”
“Yes, Gunner.” Carmen turned and went back inside the cabin.
She tried to hide her black eye and split lips; mute testimony to the passion of Gunner Farren.
* * * *
“What’s Stan doing?” Tucker
asked as he and Terry watched Rosenthal walk along the base of a low, rocky ridge.
“I don’t know. He mumbled something and walked out across that field.”
“Well, what was it he said?”
“He said he was going prospecting. Strange, isn’t it?”
Prophet walked across the open field to where his friend was on one knee, scraping dirt away to expose the rock below. He stood near and watched as the older man moved from one spot to another, repeating the process.
Standing, Rosenthal dusted his hands against his pants and turned back toward the lake.
“These ridges are laced with quartz. There’s gold here, I know it. Over there,” he added, pointing, “someone has the start of a mine shaft. I picked this up just inside the tunnel.” He handed Tucker a white quartz rock traced with fine wire gold.
“Here?” Tucker asked.
“Yes. Over there, at the base of the ridge.”
“Any claim markers?”
“Not that I’ve seen, but if there is gold here and someone got wind of it, word would spread to people like Farren and that would explain why he’s up here instead of robbing stages and banks.”
“I think it’s time to talk to Maryanne again. If her husband had a mine or a hoard of gold here, we need to know. Farren won’t give up if there is a big payoff.”
Stan smiled. “That’s why you’re a leader. You always get it right. That’s what I was looking for out here. If you look very closely at that sample, you can see where it’s scratched by the pick used to break it out.”
“Stan, I don’t know what to say.”
“Well, you could say ‘Thank You’. It may take a while to find our own claim, but that would make this the perfect place to live out our lives.”
Prophet's Rest Page 5