“Whoa, Colonel, let’s slow down a bit, boy,” he murmured, pulling back on the reins. With that, and several good affectionate pats on the muscular neck, obedience was immediate, from a hard gallop to a trot to a slow walk, hoof beats muffled by the powdery dust underfoot.
Curbed to a full stop, but still willing to run with the wind, Colonel fought his bit just a little. Then submission, and a soft whicker.
“Yeah, I know, fellah.” Matt swung down and dropped the reins. Prepared thus, the stallion would stand until gathered up for action once more. “Gotta take a look around. Hang on, I’ll be back.”
The afternoon was waning, with soft golden light filtering through the trees, turning all it touched to a Midas glow. From rough worn boulder to bushy mesquite to solid trunk of live oak to furry green cypress, Matt moved quickly and stealthily, with hunting knife drawn and Colt at the ready. His boots made no sound, serving only to kick up little puffs of soft dirt with every step.
Noise reached him: the occasional sound of male laughter, raucous and scornful; several voices here and there, conversing in low-toned Spanish, issuing forth taunts or threats or filthy banter; a horse’s whinny, hastily subdued, then another. He was near enough now to see someone dumping an armful of broken branches onto the fire, sending up sparks. Why not? The area was suitably secluded to prevent discovery, far from civilization, tucked into hills where no one would reasonably go exploring, except for a reason.
Matt had a reason.
Squinting against the golden light, so deceptively pleasing, so deceptively obscuring, he cast about this Los Huesos camp, taking careful note of the number of outlaws, their location scattered throughout, and their function.
Several were engaged in some sort of gambling game, with ivory-colored pieces. Ah. That must be the bones. A couple more lay sound asleep atop gaily striped blankets, propped against their saddles, snoring lustily. Another was lounging near the fire, drinking from a bottle of tequila and barking an occasional order. El Jefe, Suarez himself?
Damn. Probably a dozen of the nesting cobras, if not more.
“¿Dónde está la puta?” the drinker wanted to know at one point, while Matt crouched watching and waiting.
“¡Está aquí!” came a response from across the camp. “Es muuuuy bonita,” the bandito finished up, in oily tones of great delight that drew appreciative hoots and hollers from the gamesmen. “We use her pronto, ¿es verdad?”
Small need to pinpoint that voice, because its owner had retreated in the opposite direction from the main camp. Clearly, a guard. Or separated for privacy while he did whatever he planned on doing?
Matt silently counted to ten, banishing the blinding red mist of fury, calming his nerves. Only cool, rational action would win the day and rescue Star from these dangerous hooligans.
He couldn’t help wondering, rather wistfully, if William and a posse of armed, trusted lawmen might even now be on the way.
A movement some feet away; Señor Hot to Trot, whistling some hat dance tune, was wandering away from wherever he had Star confined, off to a grove of shrubbery beyond. And, still whistling, was unbuttoning his trousers as he went.
Ha. A piss in the woods would keep him occupied while Matt sneaked around from the other side. Easily done. And with deep, abiding pleasure.
Thunk!
The butt of Matt’s revolver whacked across the back of el bandito’s skull sent him face downward onto a patch of dead pine needles, without even the hint of a groan. Holstering the Colt, he kept firm hold of his Bowie as he duck-walked backward, in retreat. Returned to his original position, he scanned the area once again.
There she was. Star, trussed up like a Christmastime goose, gagged, wrists bound together, ankles bound together, flung on the ground in a heap of old clothes and misery. A badly bruised face, as far as he could tell: swollen and battered and bloodied from temple to throat; white blouse spattered by dirt and gore, torn apart, gaping free over warm café au lait flesh.
He emerged from cover. No one else in sight yet. Hurry, hurry; but don’t make a hash of it!
Her eyes widened in shock and disbelief when she spied him scurrying closer. Then they closed, as if this nightmare had merely produced another illusion, and a tear slipped free to ooze down her cheek.
At the first sense of a knife slicing through her bonds, Star came to life. First the ankles, then the wrists, and the hated ropes were gone.
Matt touched her shoulder in warning, even as he pulled the gag from between her teeth, and silenced her slightest sound with a finger to his lips.
Her limbs had gone numb from lack of circulation. As he helped her upright, she nearly collapsed with the pain of new blood flowing through her veins. Halting, limping, half-carrying, half-crawling, somehow he got her away from the camp and her captors and off into the woods. There Colonel waited, steady and dependable.
At last, Matt could steal one precious minute to sweep her into his embrace. “Star,” he breathed over the rapid thud of his heartbeat. “Oh, my God. Star!”
“You came,” she whispered, still dazed by her unexpected rescue. “You came for me. Thank you, Matt…Oh, how I—thank you—” and ended there, choking on relief.
Easily he swung her onto the back of his horse, then climbed into the saddle. “Hang on,” he gave warning. “Gotta fly, Star. Hang on tight.”
IX
“Damn. Damn it to hell. Shoulda killed the bastard.”
“What is it, Matt?” Star spoke his name as if she couldn’t repeat it often enough. A woman thoroughly used to and at home in the out-of-doors, she had wrapped her arms around his waist, leaned her poor abraded face against the bracing width of his shoulder blades, and let her heels dangle loose along the stallion’s loins. “Is there a problem?”
“You might say so.” His voice held a disgusted tone. Not worried. Not yet. His acute sense of hearing had caught the sounds behind them; faint, so far, and distant, but approaching. “The fellah I clomped over the head musta come to a lot sooner than I figured, and he raised the alarm. We got company followin’ us.”
Along the whole length of his spine, warmed by the press of her lavish breasts crushed tight and close, he could feel her stiffen with foreboding. “Will they catch us? Matt, if they catch us—if they catch us—” a hitch of breath like a hiccup, “—I won’t survive their taking me a second time.”
He reached down one hand to cover both of hers, clasped together over his midriff. “It won’t happen, Star,” he pledged. “I won’t let it happen.”
She wanted to believe him. She longed to believe him. But his horse was carrying double, at a solid, tooth-jarring gallop, and the outlaw gang behind them were riding fresh mounts.
Soon it wasn’t only the pounding of hoof beats they heard, but jeers and shouts. Closer. Coming closer. Then it was a gunshot. Somewhere off in the distance, the bullet smacked into an ancient tree with stunning force. Another gunshot, still by a wide miss. The rifle shot that whizzed by next was not so wide.
Shivering, Star jounced along like a bag of used laundry, shrunk down and hung onto Matt for dear life. Now he was urging the stallion to greater speed, swinging first to the left, then to the right and back again. No reason to provide an easy target, especially when that target was the girl locked in a death-grip behind him.
“M-M-M-Matt,” she chattered. “Too near. They’re getting too near.”
“I know. I know, Star. Doin’ my best.”
His fingers tightened over hers. Much as she had hoped being next to his big sturdy body would offer reassurance, it wasn’t working. She was terrified. Being thrown willy-nilly into the clutches of depravation, with no hope of escape or rescue, had shown her a great dearth of spirit, the true depths of fear. She had never before known such nerve-jangling, gut-twisting, blood-freezing terror.
“Matt.”
“Yeah, Star.”
“Matt, if they catch us—” she gulped, “—if they catch us, I want you to promise me something.”
“That you will kill me.”
This time it was he who shivered. “For God’s sake, Star—”
“I mean it, Matt. You don’t know what—what they planned to do, what they—what they planned to have me do! Oh, Matt!” she cried, frantic, “promise, if we don’t make it out, that you will do this thing for me!”
“Goldenstar,” he said between his teeth; over the racketing of the horse his voice was barely audible. “We’ll make it out. That much I promise.”
They were in the open now, being carried across a width and length of tangled meadow grass that stretched from horizon to horizon under the lowering sun. Matt had bent low over his saddle, like a jockey, as if to urge the stallion onward, and Star was bent with him. If bullets flew forward from here on, it would be she who took the brunt of their impact.
In the rear, ever gaining upon the fugitives, rode Suarez and his ragged banditos. Furious at this man who had sneaked into his own hidden camp and snatched the prize right from under his very nose, El Jefe was out for blood. Nothing would do but that the woman be recaptured and the man shot dead.
“There!”
Star raised her head. Something visible, far away. Some sort of wooden structure, out here in the wilds. “Refuge, Matt? Someone’s house?”
“Not a house. Line shack, maybe. We can fight ’em off from there, Star. Y’ know how t’ fire a gun?”
Her expression was grim but determined. “Do I!”
He turned his head, long enough to send her a flash of the old confident grin. “Then we’ll give ’em hell, girl. C’mon, stick with me.”
“Always,” she whispered, so low that the word was almost inaudible. Almost.
Some sort of shack it was, indeed, they discovered, clattering and crashing up to its very door. Not necessarily line, and not necessarily even habitable. Half small building, half stable, half some other edifice of no discernible purpose. For theirs, for now, it would do.
Paused outside, Star hastily slid to the ground, with Matt in similar haste throwing one leg over the horse’s rump and dismounting. Then inside, Colonel and all, with the door slammed shut and a bar flung across.
Both stopped, breathing hard, to exchange disbelieving glances before taking stock of what lay around them, this empty and abandoned place.
“Not much t’ look at,” observed Matt grudgingly.
Large enough, certainly, with plenty of room to move throughout, even filled though it was by the stallion’s very solid presence. Colonel’s expression seemed as grudging as his owner’s voice.
Several windows, half-covered by heavy wooden shutters. Walls whose planks fit together unevenly and awkwardly and, in some places, not at all. Walls, thought the Ranger, that could have used more substance when there was about to be a gun battle going on outside them. A stack of moldy straw in one corner, a couple of twig chairs, a roof through which glimpses of what promised to be a glorious sunset could be seen.
“Been a helluva day,” was Matt’s mild comment.
Star wasn’t about to argue with that. “Helluva day,” she agreed, with a tentative smile.
He grinned back. “Sit down for a bit, Star. May as well get settled in. C’mon, Colonel, hike yourself over and give us some space.”
After the whirlwind events of the past hour or so, it was a relief to take a seat in one of the wobbly chairs, lean back, and simply let emotion wash away and exhaustion take over. She had hardly had time to think, since her handover from Franklin Bower to Suarez and his band of cutthroats. She had only reacted. And that from a position of panic, rather than strength.
While she engaged in some quiet time, highlighted by a golden ray of the dying sun, Matt took care of immediate chores. That meant he needed to uncinch and unsaddle the restive horse, remove the bit, and work over the lathered muscles with a currycomb.
“Here, Star,” he broke softly into her meditations. “Your turn.”
She opened her eyes, questioning, and looked up. Only to find him kneeling before her on the packed-earth floor, heavy brows furrowed and dark gaze intent.
“Yeah. That gang’ll prob’ly be here any minute, and we need t’ be ready for ’em. So let me look you over.”
Both his saddlebag and war bag lay open beside him, with supplies out for use. Wetting the scarf sparingly with cool water from his canteen, he gently sponged her face and applied dabs of ointment to several of the more severe cuts. Injuries aplenty, but apparently superficial; none that would cause permanent scarring or flaws.
“Worked you over pretty good,” he said, doing his best to remain impartial.
“Nothing,” she returned quietly, “compared to what—to what—could have—”
“I’ll see ’em all in jail for that. Or dead. All right, let’s move on.”
The ropes binding her had been tied tightly, and she had fought. The proof of that showed in the raw bloody marks encircling both wrists, angry as a chunk of fresh-cut beef. More ointment, this time patted onto the strips of soft old cotton he wrapped as bandages.
“Any place else?”
She shook her head. “No, that’s about the worst. Thank you, Matt. I must look—quite a sight.”
He had risen to stand nearby, surveying her with an unreadable expression. Long hair black and shiny as obsidian, bosom half-bared right down to a beribboned camisole by damage done, brave and beautiful and regal still despite all the wear and tear of her night to day ordeal.
“Oh, yeah, Miss Mendoza. You are that, all right—quite a sight.”
An apricot flush crept over the high cheekbones, and unconsciously she tried to shrink down into her ruined shirtwaist.
“Oh. Sorry. Damn, Star, I always seem t’ be apologizin’ to you. Here, this should help.”
Matt reached once more into the saddlebag for the spare shirt he always carried and held it out for her. Gratefully she slipped into the long sleeves, for cover and for warmth, and fastened the buttons firmly together over all that had drawn his attention and obvious admiration.
“Hey, you—inside! I wanna talk with you!”
He sent her a significant glance. “Company, Star.” Revolver held cocked and ready, Matt moved to the front window, slightly shifted the shutter, and called out, “Don’t wanna talk t’ you, Suarez, unless it’s through the bars of a jail cell. Take a powder.”
“Hey, gringo! You got the girl, right?”
“What business is it of yours who I got? Get lost.”
Talk, so the phrase goes, is cheap. While that cheap talk was going on, Matt was keeping a close eye on movement outside. Tall grass rustled, some thirty yards away, stood silent and still, rustled again. Only then did a bullet zing in to smack into the wood above his head. Instantly he returned fire. One, twice, again and again.
Shots rang out from the perimeter, in several directions. One of Matt’s targets let out a howl and crashed onto the ground. More shots, from the back of the rickety building. Colonel, distinctly and decidedly uneasy, thumped around and whickered a little. Damned if he wanted to be served up as a bulls’-eye!
Another one down, bleeding profusely right out in the open.
In the pause to reload his Colt, he heard Suarez yell out one more challenge. “Hey, you gringo! I want that little puta! How about you hand her over to me, and maybe I let you live, eh?”
“Besa mi culo, bastardo!”
Star gasped.
“Oh, hell,” mumbled Matt, shamefaced. “I forgot you speak Spanish. Sorry if I shocked your sensibilities.”
A half-smile, more of tenderness than of amusement. “My sensibilities will have to go much farther than that to be shocked, Matthew Yancey. I was surprised, that’s all.”
Ziiiiiinnnng, splat! Like the sting of a nasty-tempered hornet, another bullet hurtled in. Then several, all at once.
Matt peered cautiously past the edge of the shutter. Nothing. The field was empty of banditos; even their horses were out of sight. Where had they disappeared to?
> Suddenly another barrage hit the structure, like deadly hailstones. Matt fired valiantly away, hoping all the while that their refuge wouldn’t fall apart.
More gunfire, but this time from inside. And not his. Startled, he turned for a quick look, only to discover Star at the opposite window, making good and efficient use of his Henry rifle. As evidenced by the scream of another outlaw, hit and apparently in a bad way.
Damn. Matt couldn’t help grinning. This was some woman.
Three down and out of commission. How many left? Eight? Ten? Only half a dozen? Whatever the number, Suarez, witnessing the strength of their firepower, seemingly decided on a temporary reprieve. The bullets stopped, the shouting stopped. Los banditos had pulled back.
After a few minutes of absolute silence, during which not even the grasshoppers in the field dared make a sound, Star leaned against the wall she had been defending so valiantly and slid slowly to the ground. “Do you think they’ve gone?” she whispered.
Matt was still scrutinizing the area outside, shifting his scan from side to side. “Couldn’t be so lucky. They’re reconnoiterin’. Tryin’ to wait us out. Later on, when it’s full dark, and we’re not seein’ so well, and both of us are too tired t’ think, I’m guessin’ they’ll try again.”
The horse stamped a hoof, shifted position, rolled his eyes in his master’s direction. Are we about finished with all this? His expression clearly asked. I’m ready to hit the road.
“Oh, Matt, I’m so sorry,” she said sadly.
“Sorry?” Dumbfounded, he stared across the small space at her in the waning light. “What for?”
“For getting you mixed up in all this. For putting your life at risk. If not for my falling into Bower’s trap, you wouldn’t have come to my rescue, and you wouldn’t be in this danger right now.”
“Star. Sweet jumpin’ Jesus.” He scooted over, concerned that she might break down—might really break down—and who could blame her? After all this, most women would have been throwing a royal hissy fit of hysterics about now. Settled in beside her, nice and snug, Matt wrapped his strong left arm carefully around her shoulders and pulled her even closer. “We haven’t had a chance yet t’ talk things through. Like I said, it’s been a helluva day. Let me tell you how mine started.”
A Western Romance: Matthew Yancey: Taking the High Road (Book 2) (Taking the High Road series) Page 9