In the next moment, and with a keen, bird-flushing, rat-scurrying bay, the hound announced his victory. A triumphant grin stretched his bewhiskered black muzzle as he turned sharply to his right and settled into a loose-jointed lope over the prairie’s rocky terrain. On a course forever pointed away from the Lawless homestead, Skeeter ran, his long ears flapping in the wind like drying laundry.
Riley marveled at the dog’s stamina. For weeks on end, the faithful hound had mourned atop Old Pete’s grave, risking the cold and the wind, and refusing to leave it or even to eat. They’d all feared he would waste away and die before the month was up. Obviously, they were wrong. But still, today was the first time Riley could recall seeing the hound show any sign that he cared about living—except for when he tried to rip poor old Abel Justice apart for daring to pay his respects inside the Lawless family cemetery.
Skeeter bayed again, pulling Riley back to the moment. Under the low brim of his Stetson, he squinted at the big hound up ahead. The dog’s healed shoulder wound, gleaming bone-white and arrow-thin against his reddish fur, bore witness to his rightful stake in this manhunt. A grim smile split Riley’s face. Could it be that all this time Skeeter, probably under cover of night, had been stretching his legs and hunting his own supper, making himself strong and whole again so he could be a part of this final retribution?
No, Riley chided himself, that was just plain fanciful thinking. Dogs had no notion of hate and revenge … did they? Was Skeeter that intelligent, that conniving even, to stay out all night and then return before daybreak to take up his self-appointed post atop his master’s grave? Had he fooled everyone—including Carter Brown?
Riley found himself hoping so. Found himself again in the grip of some newly forged hardness in his soul, born of the cold acceptance that, to love someone like he loved Glory, rendered him capable of taking the life of anyone who dared threaten hers. And take it without mercy. Without regret.
For Riley, shooting or not shooting the tracker no longer hinged on whether or not Glory and Ma and Miss Biddy were alive. Either way, that worthless scum was dying. Today. In fact, to him, Carter Brown had been a walking dead man from the first instant he’d put a hand on any of the three women Riley loved.
Just then, Skeeter bayed again and wrenched Riley back to the sting of the waning November afternoon’s frigid air on his chafed cheekbones, back to his awareness of the aching soreness in the stiffened muscles across his shoulders. Slowing Pride, Riley sat up tall in his saddle, focusing on the dog. Skeeter took another sharp turn to the right and bounded toward a far hill, a rocky one particularly higher than the surrounding dun-colored swells.
Its very difference captured Riley’s attention, had him throwing up a cautionary hand to his father and Smiley when they bunched in their saddles, preparing to send their mounts after the dog. “Hold on,” he called out.
The two older men hauled back on their reins, setting off an agitated prancing in their horses, already poised for a burst of speed. Ben Thorne didn’t like it any better than his mount did. “Why’d you stop us? Skeeter’s found something over that hill.”
“He sure enough has,” Smiley Rankin seconded. “That caterwaulin’ of his means he’s treed his varmint.”
“I hear him, too,” Riley assured them. Indeed, the dog’s throaty barking carried to them on the wind, and held an unmistakably triumphant note. “No one wants to find the women worse than me—or put a bullet into Carter Brown. But what are we riding into? It could be a trap.”
“Well, hell, son,” Ben entoned, yanking his felt hat off his head and hitting his thigh with it—a signal, Riley knew, of his father’s anger or impatience. “If trouble was waiting over that hill for us, that dog would already be shot dead.”
Riley stuck to his guns. “Maybe not—not if it is Brown and he wants Skeeter to lead us right into an ambush.”
Ben had no comeback for that. He blinked and stared at Riley, as if he hadn’t thought of that, and then resettled his hat on his head. Riley then turned to Smiley. “You know the lay of this land better than anyone. Anything in particular over that hill?”
The foreman frowned as he directed his attention to the far hill. After a reflective moment he said, “Seems to me there’s a falling-down, old, deserted squatter’s shack setting under them oaks. Ran them dirt farmers off years ago.”
Riley tensed. “Then this is it. That shack is exactly what Brown would need to keep the women corraled—and to keep a lookout.”
Along with Ben, Smiley sat straight up in his saddle and stared at Riley. “Danged if that ain’t so.”
“Wait here,” Riley said, already dismounting. He handed his reins to his father. “I’m going to sneak a peak over the top there and see what’s going on. Just watch for my signal.”
Not waiting for an answer or an argument, Riley took off at a sprint. The crisp afternoon’s cold air frosted his lungs and had him breathing hard by the time he reached the slope. Scrabbling up its near side, he dropped to all fours and then finally down onto his belly to slither to the top. Once there, he yanked his tall Stetson off and held it at his side while he risked a peek over the hill’s crest. He swept the scene below with a quick, assessing glance. The only thing moving was Skeeter, who wagged his tail and bayed at the rough-cut door of a pile of sticks some would call a cabin.
But no horses out front. And no men. Or bodies. Calling that good, Riley next considered the sparse stand of blackjack oaks that crowded against the shack’s walls. Leafless, spiny branches reached for the sky. But under them … was the Lawless buckboard wagon. Then something moved. Riley tensed, looked closer. A horse. A roan horse. And another one next to him. Looked like they were hitched together. Biddy’d had two roans pulling the wagon yesterday. His heartbeat picked up. The women were here.
Riley scooted a few feet back down the hill, scraping his hands on sharp rocks in his haste and sending loose gravel sluicing down ahead of his boots. Ignoring the stings of pain in his palms, he turned on his side and signaled for his father and Smiley. Waiting until they reined in at the hill’s bottom, Riley told them, “They’re here. That old buckboard and the team are out back in the trees. But no other horses. And Skeeter’s barking at the front door.”
Smiley Rankin nodded, frowned, and rubbed at his stubbly jaw. “That bloodhound wagging his tail?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.” Then turning to Ben Thorne, Smiley drawled, “Toss your son his reins. We can ride right in. Skeeter’s tail would be stuck plumb up in the air stiffer’n an arrow, if he smelled trouble.”
Heartened by the foreman’s words, and willing at this point to take any good news at face value, Riley came to his feet and accepted the reins from his father. He quickly mounted Pride and took his unopposed position at the head of the threesome as they wheeled their mounts to circumvent the hill. When they approached the cabin, Riley pulled his gun from its holster. Similar noises from the two men flanking him told him they had taken the same precautions.
Remaining vigilant, even in the face of Skeeter’s relaxed stance and swinging tail as he turned his big head to stare back at them, the men rode in slowly, warily. When no shots rang out, when no one challenged them, they dismounted and looped their reins over a left-leaning hitching rail. And then just stood there, unwilling to meet each other’s gazes. Riley thought he knew why. He was no more anxious than they were to face what might await them inside.
“Well,” his father said matter-of-factly, drawing his and Smiley’s attention to himself, “we ain’t accomplishin’ nothing standing out here. What’s in there won’t be changed none in a few minutes.”
“True enough,” the Lawless foreman chimed in.
When neither man still moved, Riley turned on his heel and, his pistol in front of him to lead the way, stalked to the shack’s closed door. The crunching of the gravelly dirt behind him told him that his father and Smiley followed him. When he reached Skeeter, Riley leaned over, patted the waiting dog’s shoulder, and mout
hed, “Good boy.” But only by suspending further thought and denying his roiling emotions could he make himself grip the door’s crude handle and begin slowly to tug it down.
Not hampered by any such reticence, Skeeter excitedly pressed his furry body between Riley and the door. Taking a deep breath, telling himself he was ready for anything, Riley pushed it open, burst inside, and directed his pistol in a sweep of the dim, dank one-room interior. Skeeter bounded off to the left, toward what sounded like muffled cries coming from a corner obscured from view by the open door. Before Riley could even turn in that direction, though, his father and Smiley charged in behind him, taking up their positions to either side of him.
Then, it registered—what they were seeing directly in front of them. For a moment, to Riley, the muffled cries and Skeeter’s whining yelps held no more meaning than a distant babbling brook might have. Because it was the blood spattering the back wall and running in a thick smear down the rough-cut wood, ending at the body slumped in a dead sprawl on the earthen floor, that held his senses prisoner in those first few seconds.
Finally, he sucked in a breath—laden with shock and no small amount of relief. “Son-of-a-bitch,” he muttered. “Carter Brown. He’s dead.”
“That’d be my guess,” Smiley Rankin offered over Riley’s shoulder. “A bullet to the forehead’s been known to do that.”
As if the sound of the older man’s voice broke a spell that gripped him, Riley blinked and exhaled. Turning, suddenly aware of the significance of the muffled cries filling the room, he holstered his gun and rushed with Smiley and his father to the room’s far corner, where Skeeter backed off when the two older men quickly knelt in front of the struggling women to untie and ungag them.
Fury at seeing his mother and Biddy lying there, tearful and helpless, pumped through Riley’s veins. Only relief that they were alive could supplant the knee-weakening emotion. But the trouble wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. His first thought when he saw Carter Brown dead was that, by some miracle, Glory had shot him. But that couldn’t be. Because she never would have left Biddy and Ma here like this. That meant … someone else was involved. Carter Brown had a partner. Who was it? That was all he wanted to know. Who was it, and did he have Glory?
In only an instant, but what seemed an eternity of waiting to Riley, the women were freed of the ropes and the gags. While Smiley helped Biddy to sit, Ben did the same for his wife. Riley’s mouth worked around his emotion as he watched his father gather his mother in his arms and hug her tightly to his chest as she assured him she was none the worse for wear.
To Smiley’s question of what happened, Biddy sought Riley’s gaze. Her apple-cheeked face crumpled with emotion as she sobbed, “’Twas Abel Justice. He’s got Glory, Riley. He was in cahoots with Carter Brown. They had a fuss over money, and he killed him and took Glory.”
Even as his father and the Lawless foreman jerked in shock and turned to look over their shoulders at him, Riley’s senses quickened, honing in on Biddy’s fright-glazed blue eyes. Her words sounded all the more ominous for her voice being hoarse and whispery. Riley’s mind raced through a jumble of questions as he tried to sort all this out. But uppermost was the only question that really mattered at this moment. “How much of a head start does he have?”
Biddy shook her gray-haired head. “I’m not sure. Not long. Ye have to find her, Riley. That man … he—” Her voice broke, tears spilled out over her lashes and tracked down her grime-streaked cheeks. Smiley pulled her to him, gently tugging her head onto his shoulder.
Even though sympathy for the sweet old woman tugged at Riley’s heart, he instantly turned to his mother. “Where’s he headed with her?”
Her broad face strong and composed, she pulled back from Ben and said, “Mexico. He’s taking her to Mexico.”
“Mexico?” Ben Thorne repeated. “Then he’s heading for the Cimarron Cut-Off. That’ll take him to the Santa Fe Trail.”
Nodding, already picturing the trail in his mind, Riley met his father’s black-eyed gaze. And then frowned as he looked deeper. Surprise at what he saw reflected in their dark depths stilled him. Everything that was in Ben’s heart, things Riley’d never suspected, things he knew the proud, stubborn man would never say to him, shone for a brief instant.
Then, Ben’s mouth worked, his square chin dimpled. “I been wrong for a lot of years, son … like you said … about what’s important. I see that now. And almost losing your mother like this? Well, I—You go after Miss Glory. We’ll take the women to the Lawless place and then go call off the men.” He paused for a deep breath and then added, “We’ll wait for you there. Son, I … just know I…”
His voice trailed off. He sought his wife’s gaze. Her soft smile seemed to encourage him. Firming his lips, he turned again to Riley, saying, “Well, you just be careful, you hear? Your mother’ll be worried.”
Moved in more ways than he could name, Riley squeezed his father’s shoulder, and nodded at his mother. “I’ll be careful.” He then straightened up to his full height, adjusted his Stetson low on his forehead, and looked from one face to the other as the quiet foursome stared up at him. “The Cimarron Cut-Off, huh? He’ll never make it.”
Grim and tight-lipped, he turned on his heel. Calls of “Take care,” “God speed, son,” and “Watch yer back” followed him across the room. But accompanied only by Skeeter, Riley stalked out of the shack and headed for Pride. Before this day was done, Riley vowed to himself, justice would not only be served … but Abel Justice would be dead.
* * *
Glory wanted to cry. She wanted to give up, to admit defeat. Her bottom was numb. Her thighs ached. Her complaining spine refused to hold her erect in the saddle. Worse, her nose was running, her heart pounded with fear, and her cheeks burned from the cold wind. Add to that the rubbed-raw skin over her wrists, again roped together and secured around her saddle horn, and she was one sad girl.
She stared at Abel Justice’s narrow back. Hateful man. He’d looped Daisy’s reins to his saddle horn and was leading the little mare at a bone-jarring, teeth-rattling trot over the uneven and rocky terrain. As like as not, Glory feared, Daisy would soon tire and stumble and fall, crushing her in the saddle. Then what? Why, as determined as Abel Justice was to get her to Mexico, he’d probably stuff her broken body into a flour sack and deliver her like that.
Heading west as they were, Glory took note of the pale light cast by the afternoon sun. Judging by its position, she figured they’d left Biddy and Mrs. Thorne behind less than an hour ago. At least the tracker had kept his word about letting them live if she cooperated. Still, he’d not allowed her to untie them. Glory pursed her lips. Hopefully, they’d be found quickly and wouldn’t have to spend the night in that cold, drafty shack with no food and water.
Even though their well-being was uppermost in her heart, her mind also clung to the knowledge that the sooner Biddy and Mrs. Thorne were found and could tell the men what had happened, the quicker they’d come after her.
Thinking of her own rescue, praying yet fearing to see Riley, Glory pivoted her shoulders first one way and then the other, trying to see behind her. Nothing but flat prairie and waving tallgrass greeted her straining efforts. A wave of dejection swamped her spirits, had her slumping in her saddle as she faced forward again. She couldn’t do this, this bumping along for weeks on end. Nor could she face this Señor Calderon in Mexico, much less think about killing him. She was only kidding herself when she thought otherwise.
Shying from that image—herself in a death struggle with her enemy—Glory quirked her mouth around her next admission. She didn’t really want to see Riley riding up to rescue her. His smiling black eyes, set in his handsome face, stared back at her in her mind’s eye. Glory realized she felt warm inside, and tender, just thinking about him. He was so good and noble. And he loved her. So how could it be any worse? Because she didn’t doubt for a moment that as soon as he found out what had happened, he’d be riding after Abel Justice.
&
nbsp; No one would be able to stop him, either. He’d rescue her, or die trying. Glory grimaced, feeling the ache of physical pain from just the thought. She couldn’t live if he was killed trying to save her. But as flat and open as this prairie was, offering no hiding places, no defensive shelter, the advantage and the odds went to Justice. All he had to do was wait for Riley to get close enough … and then shoot. As if she could already hear the sharp report of a pistol firing, and see Riley jerking backward off his gray gelding, Glory hunched her shoulders against the stab of tightness in her chest.
No. She couldn’t allow that to happen. She’d rather die. This was her battle. And too many innocent people already had died trying to fight it for her. Well, no more. She’d not have another death on her head. She’d ridden out on her own, on purpose, this morning to prevent that very thing. And tied up and trapped though she might be, nothing in her heart had changed. She’d gotten herself into this predicament, and she’d get herself out. Somehow. Somehow soon—before Riley showed up and got himself shot.
Looking down at the rope around her wrists, Glory reminded herself of her mother’s favorite saying. The Good Lord always helps those who help themselves. Lifting that prayer heavenward, Glory began picking at the rope’s knots. Biting down on her bottom lip in concentration, frowning so deeply her head hurt, she divided her attention between her nail-breaking, frustratingly tedious efforts and Justice’s back. If she got her hands free, she could use the rope, her only weapon, on the man. Maybe surprise him, get it around his neck. And then squeeze real hard.
A sudden memory from her childhood of the only time she’d seen a man being choked—two drovers got into a fight out in the wagon yard and Papa’d broken it up—had her gulping back her distaste. Again she saw that man’s eyes bulging and his tongue poked out, his face turning purple. And remembered her screaming nightmares for weeks after. Could she overpower Justice and hold on until she’d actually choked the life out of him? Glory stole a glance at the back of Justice’s scrawny neck, just visible above his coat’s collar.
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