To make matters worse, his arm hurt so bad, that he was tempted to gnaw it off. He suspected it was fractured. He suspected his skull was cracked. He suspected he'd be visiting hell by noon.
But I won't be going there alone, he vowed grimly.
He wiped his left shirt sleeve over his face for the umpteenth time. The trouble was, every time he moved his hand from his Winchester, he had to line up the sight again. That took steely nerves. It took steady hands.
He had neither at the moment.
Even if he didn't have a hangover, a bullet crease, or a broken arm; even if the sun and the wind had been in his favor and he'd been as comfortable as a clam, lying on his belly without little limestone daggers jabbing into his ribs, Cass would have suffered a rare moment of self-doubt.
He liked to brag that he never missed. And it was true. He never missed by more than a hairsbreadth. Usually, a hairsbreadth didn't matter when he was aiming for a head, or a heart, or a kneecap.
But this time, Cass was aiming for an inch-thick hemp rope. And that rope was attached to a hangman's noose. The noose was looped around the neck of his best friend, who sat helplessly on a horse with his wrists tied behind his back, about 100 yards away.
To miss that lynching rope by a hairsbreadth would seal Jesse's doom.
Sonuvabitch, Lynx. Can't I leave you alone for a minute?
Cass steadied his breathing. He ignored the flies and the ants and the acid churning in his gut. He didn't have many options. If he shot Taggart in the back—which he was sorely tempted to do—he'd have to line up another shot. He didn't know that he could do that fast enough to keep McCoy from plugging Jesse. Or Sera. Or Collie.
His other option was to shoot McCoy. Unfortunately, the same problem would result: only this time, Taggart would be the one who killed the people whom Cass loved.
Surprise was all he had in his favor. And that "surprise" would last only long enough for his enemies to hear his rifle report.
He watched narrowly as Sera struggled beside Collie in the handcuffs and bandanna gag that Taggart had used to restrain her. Taggart was ignoring her and the boy. He was too busy insulting McCoy to notice that Collie—the cagey little pup—had worked his right hand free of his bonds and had slipped his whittling knife from his pocket.
Come to think of it, Collie may have received help. The boy's ropes looked frayed. And what should be perched in the cottonwood canopy above Collie's head? That overfed coon.
Grimly, Cass bided his time. He waited for his shot.
Suddenly, oily, snake-eyed Taggart was on the move. He stepped into the shadow of that cottonwood and stood at Sera's feet.
Chapter 21
"Where's the fun in that, Taggart?" Kit was demanding about ten yards from Sera's boots.
He held the reins of his horse—the horse that Jesse was seated upon—beneath a sturdy maple. It had been Kit who'd prepared the hangman's knot, draped the noose over Jesse's head, and tossed the rope's other end high into the tree. In fact, Kit had volunteered for the gruesome task.
"I say we hump his whore and make him watch. Then we lynch him."
The mustachioed man with the crazed, black eyes—the horrible, evil man whom Sera's half-sight had shown ambushing Jesse in Bedroom #2—sneered at his accomplice.
Thorn Taggart was a gaunt, middle-aged viper, whose sallow complexion suggested he had a liver ailment. The round scars on his face suggested that he'd had pox at some point in his life. Sera could see the madness lurking in his eyes.
It appalled her to have any psychic connection with this man. But thanks to his metal manacles, she saw him ringing a school bell and reading to his students from the Bible. She saw his switch leave bloody stripes on trembling, bare behinds. She saw a town council dismiss him for breaking the fingers of a disobedient child with the rap of a ruler.
Apparently, Taggart had always suffered from a violent disposition.
Sera had other visions of Taggart, too: Like how he'd sobbed at his father's graveside. How he'd practiced relentlessly to become a crack shot. How he'd vowed to punish his wife.
Polly had been the name of Taggart's unfortunate wife. She'd been so terrified of him, that she'd fled from Arkansas to Kansas. She'd kept a roof over her head the only way an average-looking, middle-aged woman with no prospects knew how: she'd sold her body to men. When vengeance-minded Taggart had caught up with Polly two years later, he'd coerced her to cooperate with him. To steal Jesse's craps winnings.
Then Taggart had raped and strangled his ex-wife, pistol-whipping Jesse from behind when Jesse had entered the bedroom. It had been Taggart who'd rallied all of Wichita against Jesse, forcing him to flee with a $1,000 bounty on his head—a bounty that Taggart fully intended to collect for the murder that he committed.
To see so many macabre scenes whirl so fast through her mind made Sera's gut heave. She thought she would be violently ill. Desperately, she kept swallowing her breakfast as Kit and Taggart argued.
"One week ago, you were planning on marrying the girl," Taggart said in disgust.
"Hell, she ain't a maid no more. Why would I want to get hitched to used meat?"
Taggart gazed at Kit like he was an idiot. "She's related to a silver mining fortune."
"That's what ransom notes are for."
Taggart hiked a bushy, gray eyebrow. "You sent a ransom note?"
"Sure. Telegraphed it to Raphael Jones last night. Right before I killed Cassidy."
Taggart grinned, shaking his head. His amusement escalated to a chuckle. Then to a full-out belly laugh.
"What's so funny?" Kit demanded.
"Your stupidity. Which is exceeded only by your incompetence."
Bristling with insult, Kit stalked forward. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Sera's eyes bugged out to watch the gelding stomp its hoof, taking a step or two after its master—and tightening the rope around Jesse's neck. His breaths harsh and ragged as he struggled against strangulation, Jesse wrestled the animal back with his knees.
"You tell me," Taggart challenged Kit. "Did the telegraph operator send the message?"
"Well, sure. I don't know how to tap code into one of those clicker things."
"And is the operator still alive to tell the tale?"
Kit opened his mouth, thought better of his response, and frowned. "I didn't actually use the word, 'ransom,' in the wire."
Taggart seemed to think this defense was hilarious. He guffawed, turning with his rifle toward Sera. "My dear, I can see why you sent the moron packing.
"And while we're on the subject"—Taggart was taunting Kit again—"did you find Cassidy's corpse?"
"Now see here, you sumbitch." Kit stalked another few feet toward the cottonwood and Taggart, who stood with his rifle resting over his arm, just beyond the tree's circle of shade. "I did you a favor."
"Not if Cassidy is still alive."
"He ain't."
"You said the same thing about Truitt—and you shot him in broad daylight."
"Well, you said you were going to clean up that mess while I fetched MacAffee!"
"I did say that, didn't I? How remiss of me."
Taggart's rifle blast tore a hole in Kit's chest. Blood sprayed in every direction, spattering Sera's forehead and Collie's cheek. The boy flinched. Sera gagged. She thought she would suffocate on the vomit she was trying to force back down her throat.
"You should thank me, my dear," Taggart told her mildly as the echoes of the gun blast receded. "Outlaws make wretched husbands."
"Taggart," Jesse wheezed, struggling to keep his horse from widening the circle in which it was grazing—and thus, from strangling him. "Leave her alone! Your quarrel is with me."
"Patience, boy. You'll be joining Cassidy in hell soon."
Taggart gave Sera a paternal smile as he stooped, tugging the gag below her chin. "There. I expect you can breathe better now. Let's forego the histrionics, shall we? I quite lost my patience when Polly lost her head. But then, that woman had always
been flawed. Couldn't cook. Couldn't bear children. It was high time I returned her to her Maker."
Sera struggled with her horror. Her loathing. She wanted nothing more than to spit in Taggart's face.
But she remembered Hiawassee's words: "You, too, will choose between compassion and hate. Choose wisely."
She swallowed. Her mouth was as dry as kindling and tasted just about as dusty. But somehow, she had to buy time. She had to convince Taggart to untie Collie and set Jesse free.
She couldn't bear to think past those goals. She couldn't bear to imagine what might happen if Jesse got his hands on a gun.
"Thank you, Mr. Taggart," she rasped in meek tones. She could feel Gabriel's wings wrapped around her as a thin buffer of electrical energy—a buffer, unfortunately, that Taggart could cross. He had removed her gag, hadn't he? That meant he could do a lot worse.
"You have always been a good person," she murmured. "A decent, Christian man. You care about children. That is why you were a school master. You've always known that boys will be boys. Kit... well, he crossed the line. In so many ways. But Collie's not like Kit. Collie turned his life around. He has a job now at Aunt Claudia's store. And a sweetheart named Becky."
Collie glared at her above his gag.
She ignored his silent protest. "Mr. Taggart, it's no secret around these parts that I can see the future. Like which pony will win the race. Or if rain will fall on Tuesday.
"But what most of my friends and neighbors don't know, is that I can see the past, too. Kit was the only person I dared to confide in and... well, that was clearly a mistake. Kit wasn't a good Christian like you are. He wasn't as trustworthy as you. It was the smartest thing I ever did, not telling him about my vision of Black Bart, burying his loot out by Quiller's Creek. Kit didn't deserve that money like you do."
She definitely had Taggart's attention now. He loomed over her and Collie with his rifle, his expression a mixture of amusement, skepticism, and greed.
Her heart crashing in her ears, she plunged deeper into her lie.
"I can help you find the payroll that Black Bart stole, Mr. Taggart. That money would be a just reward for all you've suffered. For all your pain. I daresay you would become the most famous lawman these parts have ever known, if you solved the mystery of Black Bart's payroll robbery.
"I want to help you get what you deserve, Mr. Taggart," she continued sweetly. "But please understand, I'm only a girl. I don't have the strength to dig up an old metal strongbox for you. To unearth that money, you'll need strong backs and arms. You wouldn't want your injured knee to hurt you, after standing so long and digging so deep. And I wouldn't want your knee to hurt you either, Mr. Taggart. So let Collie and Jesse come to Quiller's Creek with us. They can excavate the strongbox for you."
"Now aren't you a considerate pet." Taggart stroked her hair. He stooped low over her shoulder. His breath was hot and rank when he whispered in her ear, "I shall be merciful when your time comes."
He straightened, fixing his stern, glittery eyes on Collie. "Well? What say you, boy? Dig or die?"
Collie mumbled something through his gag. It sounded suspiciously like, "Pansy."
No, no, no! Sera wanted to shout at him. We need Jesse freed! Play along!
Taggart frowned. He stepped closer to the boy. "What was that, whelp?"
Collie's eyes burned with defiance. He locked stares with Taggart's black, unnerving glare.
"Pansy," he spit out much more clearly this time.
Taggart's face mottled. His arm swung back to strike the boy.
Everything happened at once, then.
Bellowing a battle cry,Vandy hurled his 30, hefty pounds from the canopy to protect the boy he loved.
Taggart screamed as the vengeful coon landed squarely on his head. Spinning in circles, Taggart tried to heave the biting, scratching fury from his face. His rifle fired haphazardly.
The bullet struck the flank of Jesse's horse, which reared, throwing him backwards. Sera screamed as the rope grew taut and Jesse toppled from the saddle.
A rifle blast came from out of nowhere. The bullet sawed the rope in two, allowing Jesse—miracle of miracles—to land squarely on his booted feet.
By this time, the shrieking bounty hunter had grabbed a hold of Vandy's ruff and flung the coon to the ground.
Jesse bellowed, "Cass!" as he ran, plowing his shoulder into Taggart's hip, saving the fleeing Vandy from getting plugged. The bounty hunter stumbled, but he managed to keep his balance—and his Winchester.
Collie struggled out of his bonds. As the cursing, snarling Taggart turned his rifle on Jesse, Collie rose up on his knees and threw his knife. The blade flipped once in the air, plunging into Taggart's windpipe.
A second rifle blast rolled down from the hills.
Taggart jerked like a marionette. Blood spread across his chest. By the time he hit the ground, he was stone, cold dead.
"Jesse," Sera sobbed.
He dropped to his knees before her, the bullet wound in his thigh oozing blood. "Widdy," he wheezed to Collie. "Right boot heel."
The boy found the lock pick. He freed Sera from her manacles before retrieving his knife and cutting the rope around Jesse's wrists.
Sera clung to Jesse's shuddering length for a fleet and precious moment before she wrenched herself free, dragging Taggart's bandanna off her neck. With shaking hands, she knotted her former gag to Jesse's neckerchief. She tied the makeshift tourniquet as tightly as she could around Jesse's tree-trunk of a thigh.
"Cass!" Collie bellowed this time.
But no voice except Collie's reverberated through the hills.
Sera sickened at the shattered look on Jesse's face.
"You... you really think he's up there?" she whispered.
"Has to be," Jesse growled, using Taggart's Winchester like a crutch, heaving himself to his feet. "No one can trick shoot like Cass. No one."
The three of them hurried up the trail, beating the bushes, calling Cass's name. Minute after harrowing minute dragged by.
Finally, Jesse whistled the signal. He'd found Cass collapsed beside the stump of a lightning-felled oak tree. Cass's Winchester had fallen from his limp hands. Blood stained the length of the bandage that wrapped his forehead. His lips were blue. His chest was barely rising.
Jesse's eyes glistened with tears. He hugged his long-time friend to his heart.
"Cass," he whispered brokenly, his hand shaking as he smoothed the lank, crimson-stained locks from the younger man's cheek. "Can you hear me?"
Cass's golden eyelashes flickered. Glazed blue eyes struggled to focus.
"Lynx?"
Jesse nodded, swallowing hard.
"You were my brother."
Tears streamed freely down Jesse's face now. "Don't do this, Cass. Don't die. Fight the devil off, dammit!"
"Are you... going to... marry... Sera?"
Jesse squeezed his eyes closed, pressing his cheek to Cass's hair, rocking him in his arms.
"Promise," Cass wheezed. "Promise me."
"I promise."
"'Cause if you don't, I'm gonna haunt your ass."
A sob bubbled past Jesse's lips. He began to mutter what must surely have been a Cherokee prayer.
"Hey," Cass interrupted with a hint of annoyance. "Who're ya talkin' to, Injun? I'm the one who's dying down here."
Jesse frowned.
Collie snickered.
Sera bit her lip.
His eyes narrowing to sparking, green slits, Jesse glared down at his Coyote pal's smug, pale face. "So help me, God, if you're faking, you unholy piece of—"
"Ow." Cass's grin was feeble but cheeky as Jesse shook his shoulders. "Okay. That hurt. Now I need a doctor."
"I'll find him a horse," Collie said dryly.
"First, find me a switch!" Jesse shouted after the boy.
Cass chuckled with the ghost of his old mischief. Turning his head with an effort, he winked up at Sera.
"Just like in the fairy stories, huh, angel? Wher
e they all live happily ever after..."
Chapter 22
The long, summer days sped by too fast. With every setting sun, Jesse was more in love with Sera. Never in his life had he dreamed that life could be so sweet.
Of course, there were the minor incidents that needed his attention as a lawman. Like the afternoon when Rafe burst, unannounced, into Michael's home, waving the ransom telegram and threatening to kill his brother for being a negligent guardian.
While Jesse tried valiantly to assure Rafe that Sera hadn't been abducted—not for long, anyway—Eden frantically telegraphed Lydia to send Sera home. Thank God that a safer ferry had been constructed, so Sera could return from the orphanage before Jesse was forced to throw the wild-eyed, crimson-faced Rafe in jail.
A few days later, Jesse mustered the nerve to ask Michael for Sera's hand. The sawbones didn't bat an eye. Jesse liked to think that his part in keeping Rafe from cracking open Michael's skull had decided the doc in his favor.
But then Jesse learned from a conspiratorial Eden that his wedding petition had been advanced by a couple of friends. Claudia had waylaid Michael, confessing her connection to the Wolf Clan. (Why should it surprise Jesse that Claudia's Cherokee descendants were members of the War Clan?) The wily old trouble-maker threatened to wallop Michael if he didn't welcome her "Panther Brother" to the family.
Cass also went behind Jesse's back, petitioning Michael. Cass swore that Jesse was a hero who'd saved his life 10 times. In truth, Jesse had only saved Cass from certain death six times. However, he had broken Cass out of jail 10 times.
But then, who was counting?
Perhaps the biggest shock of the summer was Cass's budding friendship with Claudia. Somehow, during all the weeks he spent recovering from that bullet crease, Cass and Claudia grew thicker than thieves. They traded tales about Collie (much to the boy's annoyance,) the varmints that they'd hunted (Claudia swore she'd winged Big Foot in the Cumberland Gap,) their family recipes for White Lightning, and tips for mastering mumblety-peg.
One Saturday night, Claudia even smuggled a jug of moonshine into Cass's sickroom because Blue Thunder's "lousy excuse for a saloon" shut down at 8 p.m. Imagine Sera's shock when she found Cass and her 76-year-old neighbor three sheets to the wind. They were perching side by side on Cass's bed, snickering like adolescents over Sera's volume of Alice in Wonderland, with its colored illustrations of The Mad Hatter, the White Rabbit, and the Queen of Hearts.
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