He scanned the horizon all around him and studied the upper forests for a sign of life, but there was none. He was well aware that he was not far from the Bavispe—that invisible border line between Apache country and white man’s country. But he was too close to Rand Barker now to quit. His fire would have to be small, just enough to heat a little coffee. He’d eat the jerked meat that Willie Taggart had given him.
He thought about Willie as he walked back to his camp. He’d enjoyed his excursions in bed with that woman, and she’d been a good friend. Now she belonged to Slim Taggart, and that was good. She’d be good to him, and loyal. He wondered about the kind of conversations the woman would have with a girl like Amanda. Surely by now they were well acquainted. Perhaps Willie could talk Amanda into giving consideration to marriage—and above all, talk her into giving Moses Tucker a second chance.
He sighed, getting a trace of the fragrant forests on the hillsides around him when he did so. He dropped the wood and knelt down to build a fire. The snow was gone now, and the freak weather had moved on. Today had been more bearable—in the fifties—more common for this time of year. He’d even taken off his wolf-skin coat earlier, but now he put it back on. Night was never warm in these parts, not even in the middle of summer.
He got a fire going and threw some grounds into a small pot with some water and set it over the flames. He knew the coffee would be terrible—thick and black—but that’s how it always was for a man traveling alone under the sky. He pulled a piece of beef jerky out of his saddlebag and thought to himself how nice it would be to have a house, to see his daughter playing in front of a hearth while Amanda fixed him a woman-cooked meal with all the trimmings. Then they would all sit down together to eat. Perhaps Amanda would be pregnant. Yes. That would be nice, too. He wouldn’t mind having more children. But time was growing short. He was already thirty-eight years old. Perhaps it was too late to start up that kind of life.
He bit off a piece of meat, wondering what made him think he could ever have that kind of life with someone like Amanda in the first place. He wondered what his daughter looked like, hoping she would be small and blond, like Betsy Malone. He thought about Betsy with a heavy heart. He’d left the woman with a burden. And now the burden was his. But it wouldn’t be much of a burden if he could find a mother for the girl and keep his daughter.
The coffee boiled, and Moss removed the pot and poured some into a tin cup. He took a swallow and shuddered. It was worse than he expected; yet it still felt good to drink something hot. He sat there—a lonely man in a lonely land—sipping coffee and chewing on jerked meat while coyotes howled and the stars began to make their appearance. And he thought about Amanda and how much he loved her and how hopeless it was.
Dawn found him on the trail again. Rand Barker had not only viciously stolen Amanda Boone’s virginity, but he had ruined whatever chances Moss Tucker might have had for wooing the woman into marriage. Her experience with men amounted to a few days of savage treatment, which would burn in her mind for the rest of her life and frighten her away from any desire for a sexual relationship with a man. The only thing that would ease the pain of his loss would be to kill Rand Barker and Sollit Weber—and his only chance of winning at least a smile from Amanda would be to present her with the stolen crucifix.
He headed Red down an escarpment, carefully guiding the big animal down the steep embankment as rocks slid and rolled. He’d found a campsite not far from his own that morning—only a day or two old. He’d been right all along. Rand Barker had taken this unused section of land, avoiding both outlaws and civilization. It warmed early enough that Moss could shed his wolf-skin coat for a lighter buckskin jacket. As he neared the bottom of the escarpment, he realized how much he missed Amanda. In those three or four short days of journeying together, he’d become accustomed to her lovely voice, her light laughter, the green eyes so full of questions and excitement. He thought about the feel of her slender body next to his own. Surely he could get his own big hands around her tiny waist without any problem. His groin ached at the thought of her slender thighs and small, flat belly, the memory of holding her beneath him and kissing her. He wondered if perhaps he’d go mad if he could never claim her for his own. He needed to show her how gentle a man could be, and he daydreamed of what it would be like to have Amanda lying naked beneath him, groaning with the pleasure he could give her, whispering his name, her legs open and welcoming him inside. He wondered if anything had occupied his mind as much as Amanda—even Etta Graceland had not been this special. He realized now that even though he’d loved Etta, he’d known down deep inside that she did not truly love him for himself, as Amanda would. She would not have been as kind and forgiving and sweet as Amanda, and their life together would probably not have been a happy one. But he had loved Etta, and it still hurt to think about her sneering words and the revulsion in her eyes when she’d chased him out, screaming “bastard,” “no-good,” and other choice names. Yet she was right. He was a bastard—literally and probably in other ways—and although he’d tried twice to improve himself, his hopes had been smashed to the ground. So perhaps that was how it would be with Amanda Boone, also. He prepared himself mentally—or at least tried to prepare himself—for the fact that Amanda would never accept him. The most he could hope for was that they could at least be friends. So it didn’t much matter to him what happened after he found Rand Barker. The important thing was to get the crucifix for Amanda.
The sun rose higher. Moss was so lost in thought about Amanda that it was midday before it struck him that Rand Barker was leaving him a very easy-to-read trail.
He slowed Red and eyed the jagged rocks around him.
“Whoa. Hold up there, Red,” he said quietly. His experienced senses told him something lurked some-where. He’d been following the tracks of three horses all morning: tracks left in the softest parts of the ground rather than the rockier portions, which might throw him off.
A ground squirrel chittered nearby and scurried to its hole; Red snorted and pricked up his ears.
“You smell it too, boy?”
Moss pulled his rifle from its case at the side of the saddle. Holding it on one hand and the reins in the other, he nudged Red forward. He rode several hundred yards more. An eagle flew overhead and screeched. The bird had come from rocks several yards ahead and to the right of Moss.
In this country a man had to use not only his own senses, but the movements and sounds of animals. Red was skittish, and the eagle had flown up suddenly, as though startled. Moss had been eyeing a creek bed to his left for several yards, his experienced mind already looking for cover, if needed. He was close now. Too close. And Rand Barker was smart. At least when it came to plotting schemes he was smart, and he knew the land as well as Moss did.
Moss nudged Red to the left now, first slowly, then at an all-out run. He did not need to see them to know. Someone was up ahead, waiting for him. He headed for the creek bed. The only sounds to penetrate the silence were his own breathing, Red’s snorting, and the swishy creak of his saddle as he headed for cover. Red’s hooves swooshed into soft sand as he hit the edge of the creek bed. Moss was off the horse before the animal came to a full halt. He hung on to the reins as he hit the dirt with a grunt, and in the next second he wrestled and talked Red to the ground in front of him. The animal snorted and kicked for a moment, then lay still. Moss gently stroked the animal’s neck and talked quietly to the horse, while at the same time continuing to scan the horizon. He waited. Just as someone out there also waited. The game of hide and seek would soon come to a conclusion. Moss decided he could wait as long as it took to make Barker—or whoever else was out there—come out from hiding into the open. All this time he’d been the hunter, and that was the way he’d keep it. He did not intend to become the hunted.
He checked his ammunition and cocked his rifle. Red snorted again.
“You just take it easy, boy. I’m not about to let you stand up and make yourself an easy target so they can sho
ot you and leave me without a horse—not out in this country. We’ve got a while to wait, so you just lay real still and let ’em come. Just let ’em come for ole Moss Tucker.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The afternoon dragged, and Moss spent it smoking and waiting. He contemplated getting up and going on, but his senses told him to stay put. If he continued on at all, it would be after dark. His stomach growled, and he reached carefully into his saddlebag to get a piece of jerky. That was when he saw movement. In a flash his rifle was in his hands and aimed steadily at the rock where something had fluttered.
A moment later there was a bloodcurdling scream, as a painted savage leaped from the rock and began charging. Others followed. The fluttering Moss had seen had been a feather, worn in the hair of an Apache. Although more were coming at him, he drew a bead on the leader and squeezed the trigger. The Indian’s chest exploded, and he flew backward. Moss smiled.
“Right in the brisket!” he whispered to himself, quickly cocking the rifle again. “Come on, you bastards! Somebody’s payin’ you for this, so earn your money!” he hollered, firing again. Another screeching warrior hit the dust, tumbling head over heels.
Two down. About six more came at him. He quickly fired twice more, his aim always sure. Now four were dead, but by then the other four were almost on top of him. Red reared up at the last moment, causing the Indians to dart back quickly for a moment, but in a flash one of them was around the horse and coming at Moss.
Moss swung the rifle hard, slamming it across the man’s face. Blood gushed out of the Apache’s mouth and nose and he went down. Moss felt a horrible pain in his upper left arm just then, but didn’t have the time to worry about what it was. He swung around, ramming his rifle butt into an Indian’s middle, then swiftly pulled his side arm and fired point-blank. The Indian’s face disappeared. He fell with a tomahawk in his hand, and Moss still did not realize that the weapon had been used on himself.
By then the remaining two Indians had backed up. This white man was a good warrior—brave and sure in his movements. The Apaches admired bravery and skill above all things in a man. Moss stared at them, and they stared back. Moss did not fire. For the most part he liked Indians, and these two had seemed to change their thinking. There was no sense killing them if it wasn’t necessary.
They held out their arms. This white man had killed six of their best warriors, mostly by being fast and sure and not hesitating once in his movements. Now the white man was gravely wounded, though he didn’t even realize it. It would be cowardly to now attack this brave fighter, from whose left arm blood ran in an almost steady stream. They turned and walked away.
Moss’s head reeled slightly. He watched the Indians walk off, and they became hazy in front of him.
“Barker!” he thought to himself, stumbling over to where Red had wandered. “Barker paid them off with whiskey or somethin’ to lay in wait for me. Figured they’d knock me off and save him the trouble.”
The problem was, he knew the two remaining warriors would go to Rand Barker and tell him the scheme had failed. And Barker would either send more warriors, or come for Moss himself this time. That would be fine. He could handle Barker. He reached up to mount Red, and that was when the pain hit him. He cried out and fell to the ground, grasping his arm. He looked down.
“Jesus Christ!” he whispered. The sleeve of his buckskin coat was soaked with blood. He looked back, and a solid trail of blood led to his horse—his own blood. The dizziness hit him again. And he knew at that moment he was bleeding to death.
He rammed his rifle into its holder and quickly ripped the rawhide strings from his shirt, working desperately against his own fading senses. He placed the rawhide under his arm near the armpit, grabbing one end with his teeth and reaching around with his good arm to tie it. He pulled tightly, groaning with pain as he did so. He tied a knot. Then with his good arm he pulled himself into his saddle. He leaned forward to grab the reins, but he could not reach them. He could not even sit up straight. He lay with his head against Red’s neck.
“Take me…someplace, boy. Just…someplace. I need…help. This can’t happen. I…gotta get that cross…for…Mandy.”
The horse whinnied and bent down to eat some grass, waiting for a heel or a rein to tell him what to do. But Moses Tucker could not give his horse a signal. He simply slid off the horse and landed with a grunt on the ground.
“God, help me,” he groaned. “I…gotta get back up.”
He wondered if the buzzards would pick at him before he was completely dead. He moved to get up, but nothing would work. Too much blood had flowed from his veins. And there was no feeling in his left arm. He put his head back and closed his eyes.
“So…it’ll end…here,” he whispered. “Mandy. I sure did…love you.”
It was the cold, combined with pain, that woke him. He opened his eyes slowly, wondering why he was so cold. Two men stood a slight distance away, but they were blurry at first. He could feel gravel against his face, and the moment he tried to move, he realized he could not. He was tied spread-eagled to stakes, lying on his stomach. He had no feeling in his left arm. He struggled to gather his thoughts, when suddenly something horribly sharp stabbed at the bottom of his foot. He screamed out in pain.
“Hey, boss, he’s finally awake!” someone shouted. Then Moss heard laughter. There was a stab to his foot again, and again Moss cried out. Again came the laughter. Clyde Monroe. The man back at Moab had said the one called Monroe laughed a lot. The two figures walked closer.
“Well, well, well,” came the familiar voice. Rand Barker. “So, the great Moses Tucker has finally awakened. We’ve been waiting for this moment, Tucker. You know, without your gun, you’re not worth much, are you?”
“You let me…fight you like a man, Barker…and you’ll find out how much…I’m worth. You…yellow bastard! How does it feel…to fight…weak women…and men who are…wounded and tied. It don’t take much…of a man…to do that!”
Something stabbed his foot again and Moss grunted. Monroe laughed and came around to hold a knife in front of Moss’s face.
“This thing is sharp!” he said with a smile. “Hurts, don’t it?” The man chuckled.
“Move back, Clyde,” Barker told the man.
“When can I whip him, boss?”
“Soon, Clyde. Soon.”
Barker knelt down near Moss.
“I, uh, suppose you know I intend to kill you.”
“I suppose,” Moss muttered, caring only that he would not be able to kill the man who had put his hands on Amanda Boone.
“I thought I’d see if we couldn’t bring you around first,” Barker went on casually, “just to be sure you knew who was doing the killing. Your, uh, feet are pretty raw on the bottom. Clyde here has been stabbing at them for hours, trying to get you to wake up.” He laughed lightly. “Of course, you should want to die, Tucker. After all, this left arm of yours has had it. We wrapped it for you, only because we didn’t want you to bleed to death before you came to and knew who was going to put you completely out of your misery. But I’m afraid we didn’t do a very good job. If you were to live, that arm would have to come off anyway. Then you wouldn’t be much of a man, would you? And that pretty little filly you were trying to impress wouldn’t get too excited over a man with only one arm, would she? A woman needs two arms around her, Tucker. And I sure enjoyed putting my arms around Amanda Boone.”
Moss jerked at his ropes in rage, but it was hopeless. Barker laughed again and stood up.
“She was good, Tucker,” he went on, lighting a cigarette and walking in circles around Moss. “Real good. ’Course any virgin is bound to be good. Her screamin’ was music to my ears. That was the most excitin’ time I’ve ever had.”
“You’re lower than dirt under a snake’s belly!” Moss growled.
Barker only laughed again. “She’s fresh and pink, Moss. Like tasting fresh fruit, you know?”
They all snickered, and Moss realized the third man
must be Sollit Weber, although he could not move his head to see him. He squirmed again, and realized his shirt was off. That was why he felt so cold. He sensed it was early morning. Had he lain there all night this way? Most likely. If only he could get loose! Injured arm or not, his own rage was all he would need to kill Rand Barker with his bare hands! His head swam with the ugly picture of this man with his precious Amanda.
The thought of Amanda made him realize his last hope was that God of hers—the God she’d said loved men like himself and forgave them. Would that God help Moses Tucker now?
“Go ahead, Clyde,” Barker was saying. “Have your fun.”
Moss heard laughter, and in the next moment a horrible pain gripped his back, and he heard the terrible snap of a whip. He cried out with the sudden and unexpected cut. Seconds later it came again, and Clyde Monroe laughed with glee at Moss’s pain. Barker casually stepped away to talk with Sollit Weber, as though nothing at all were happening.
Moss closed his eyes and began praying, not knowing what else to do. Again and again the whip lashed across his back, until numbness set in. Sweat poured from Moss’s brow, in spite of the cold. And again, he felt death close at hand and began to welcome it. He tried to concentrate on praying, and on Amanda, wanting her face to be the last thing in his mind.
Then several seconds passed without another lash. What was to come now? He heard the clicking of guns. Would they blow him to pieces then?
“Why do you do this?” he heard a voice ask.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, redskin?” came Barker’s voice.
“This man fought my warriors bravely. We left him alive because he deserved to be left alive. Why do you now beat on him this way?”
Lawless Love Page 18