Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
BITTERROOT VALLEY
Uninvited
“Jesus,” Sheriff Evans said, “the Gunsmith in my town. If word gets out, there’ll be blood in the streets.”
“You’re bein’ too dramatic, Sheriff,” Doc Jacobs said.
“Am I? What do you think will happen if word gets out he was here?”
“I don’t know.”
“Gunmen will come out of the woodwork,” Evans said, “that’s what. How long is he stayin’?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, how bad is he hurt?”
“I don’t want to feed into your drama,” Jacobs said.
“What do you mean?”
“At the moment,” Doc Jacobs said, “the Gunsmith can’t move his hand.”
Evans stared at Jacobs.
“Sheriff?”
“Huh? Oh, uh, you mean . . . his gun hand?”
“That’s what I mean,” Jacobs said. “The puncture wound in his arm has affected the motor functions of his hand.”
“Doc!”
“Like I said,” Jacobs replied, “he can’t use his right hand.”
“Jesus!” Evans said. “If this gets out, we’ll be drowning in gunnies.”
“Why would it get out?” the doctor said. “I’m not going to tell anyone. Are you?”
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
CROSS DRAW
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Jove edition / June 2011
Copyright © 2011 by Robert J. Randisi.
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ONE
When the left rear wheel went, Rosemary Collins wondered what else could go wrong.
“What happened?” Abigail asked from the back of the covered wagon.
Rosemary leaned over to take a look. Sure enough, the wheel was lying on its side, the wagon leaning to the left.
“Everybody out!” she called.
“What?” Abigail’s voice grated on her. The other girls simply got out of the wagon without comment, but Abigail bitched the entire time.
All five women stood and stared down at the wheel.
“What happened?” Jenny, the youngest, asked.
“I’m not sure,” Rosemary said, “but at least the wheel isn’t broken.”
“Is the axle broken?” Delilah asked.
Rosemary bent over to look and said, “I hope not.”
“How could we have left St. Louis without somebody who knew what they’re doing?” Abigail demanded.
The other four women ignored her. It had taken them weeks, but they’d finally come to an agreement that this was the best way to handle her.
“I think that thing that holds the wheel on broke,” Rosemary said, pointing. “If we could lift the wagon we could put the wheel back on. Then we’d just have to slide something in this hole to hold it on.”
“Something like what?” Abigail asked.
Rosemary got down on one knee.
“A piece of wood. We just have to slide it into this hole.”
“You don’t know what you’re doin’,” Abigail said.
“I’m trying to figure it out, Abigail.” Rosemary stood
up. “At least I’m being constructive. All you’re doing is complaining.”
Abigail, the oldest of the five women, crossed her arms and pouted at being criticized.
“What can we do?” Jenny asked.
“We have to figure out a way to raise the wagon,” Rosemary said, “then figure out how to slide the wheel on. And finally, how to get it to stay on.”
“Oh my god,” Abigail said.
“We’re lucky the wheel enclosed by an iron rim,” Rosemary said. “It kept the wood from snapping.”
Rosemary looked at the four other women—Abigail, Jenny, Delilah, and Morgan. She was going to have to assign each a task and hope that, by working together, they could get the wagon fixed.
Because they were out in the middle of the Arizona nowhere.
Clint spotted the group from a ways off. His intention was to skirt around them and mind his own business. However, when he got to the top of a hill, he was close enough to notice two things. One, there were five women and no men in sight. Two, they had a broken wheel.
“Damn it, Eclipse,” he said to his big Darley Arabian. “Can’t very well ride right by them, can we?”
The Darley nodded his big head.
“Yeah, maybe you can ride by them,” he said, “but I can’t.”
Clint directed Eclipse down the hill, toward the covered wagon and the five women who were, apparently, traveling alone.
“Rosemary!”
She turned at the sound of Jenny’s voice, and the panic in it.
“Delilah,” she said, “get me the rifle.”
Delilah ran to the back of the wagon, took out the Winchester, and passed it to Rosemary. She held it in both hands, not pointing it but holding it at the ready as the man came toward them.
“Who is that?” Abigail asked.
They ignored her.
“What does he want?” she demanded.
They ignored her.
“What are you waiting for, Rosemary?” she asked. “Shoot him!”
“Shut up, Abigail.”
“What?”
Rosemary turned to the older woman and shouted, “Shut the hell up!”
Abigail subsided into shocked silence and the five women watched the mounted man approach.
TWO
Clint advanced toward the five women, warily eyeing the one holding the rifle. She looked like she knew how to use it.
The women were of varying ages. The one holding the rifle looked to be in her early thirties. Two of the others looked older, and two younger. Three of the women looked frightened. One—the oldest—looked more annoyed than anything else. The face of the one with the rifle was impassive. Lovely, but impassive.
When he reached them, he was careful to keep both hands in view.
“You ladies look like you need some help,” he said.
“That depends,” Rosemary said.
“On what?” he asked.
“On what you want in return for your assistance?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “I see five women in need of help, I stop.”
“Just out of the goodness of your heart?” the older woman asked.
“Well, actually,” Clint said, “because it’s the right and decent thing to do.”
The older woman rolled her eyes.
The remaining three were looking toward the one with the rifle, waiting for her to make a decision.
“I don’t think the axle is broke, and the wheel is still intact,” she said.
“The carter key probably broke, and the wheel slipped off,” Clint said. “May I dismount to have a look?”
Rosemary hesitated, then said, “Please.”
“Rosemary!” the older woman said. “We don’t know who he is!”
“Abigail—”
“She’s right,” Clint said, dismounting. “My name is Clint Adams, ladies.”
“I’m Rosemary,” the woman with the rifle said. “This is Jenny, Delilah, Abigail, and Morgan.”
“Sisters?” Clint asked.
“Not related,” Rosemary said. “We’re just traveling together.”
“I see.”
“That’s a beautiful horse,” Jenny said, moving toward Eclipse.
“Be careful,” Clint warned. “He doesn’t usually like people.”
Jenny rubbed Eclipse’s nose and he leaned into it.
“He’s a sweetie,” she said.
“Well,” Clint said, “in that case, maybe you’d like to hold his reins?”
“Sure,” she said eagerly.
Clint handed Eclipse’s reins over to the girl and walked to the wagon. Rosemary went with him, and they knelt down together.
“Yeah, it’s the carter key,” he said. “We’ll have to find a way to lift the wagon and put the wheel back on, then find a replacement for the key.”
“That’s what I said,” Rosemary commented, “only I didn’t know it was called a carter key.”
“The one we’ll use as a replacement won’t last very long,” he said. “You’ll have to get to the nearest town and have a real one put on.”
“O-okay,” she said. “Where’s the nearest town?”
“Up ahead about ten miles.”
“Will it last that long?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I could ride along with you to make sure you make it, but we can talk about that after we get it fixed.”
“How do we do that?”
“We need something to use as a lever, and something as a fulcrum.”
“Are you an engineer?”
“No,” he said, “but I’ve known some, and I’ve seen it done.”
They stood up, Clint rubbing his hands together to clean the dirt off. He noticed that Rosemary was holding the rifle in a more relaxed manner.
“I was about to assign tasks,” she said.
“Good idea,” he said. “You might also put that rifle away.”
She looked at the rifle then said, “Of course.”
She walked around and put the rifle back in the wagon.
“Rosemary!” Abigail snapped.
“Shut up, Abigail!”
The older woman fell silent again.
“She’s our complainer,” Rosemary explained.
“There’s one in every group,” he told her. “Okay, you want to assign—”
“You can do it,” she said.
“Okay, ladies,” he said, “listen up. I’m going to tell you each what we need, and then you’re going to go out and find it.”
THREE
They needed some stones to use as a fulcrum. One large boulder would have been best, but there was no way they’d be able to carry one to the wagon. They were going to have to stack a bunch of stones to make one big one.
Then they needed a thick enough tree branch to use as a lever. And it had to be strong enough to take the wagon’s weight.
He sent the women out by twos to find those things. When they returned, they all gathered near the wagon with the supplies.
First they built a small mound of stones, stacking it so that they would sit firmly and take the weight.
Next he had to find some way to get a branch free of the tree. They had no saw, and it was too thick to break off.
“How are we going to get it down?” Rosemary asked.
“Well,” Clint said, hands on his hips as he considered the problem, “I guess we’ll have to shoot it down.”
“How do we do that?” Rosemary asked.
“It would help if we had a shotgun,” Clint said. “I’d just fire at the elbow, where the branch meets the tree, try to shred it. I’ll have to try it with a rifle.”
“Wait,” Rosemary said.
She walked to the wagon, reached in and came out with an old Greener shotgun. She carried it, with some extra shells, back to Clint.
“Twelve-gauge,” Clint said. “Is it loaded?”
“Both barrels.”
He broke it open to check anyway. It was loaded.
“Okay,” he said. “Every
body stand back. There may be some ricochet.”
The women stepped back. Clint aimed the shotgun at the tree, fired both barrels. The tree shredded. He reached up and pulled, putting his weight on the branch, bounced up and down with it. There was a crack, but the branch didn’t come loose.
Jenny came over. She was the youngest, but carried more weight than the other women.
“Let me help,” she said. “Maybe God made me fat for a reason.”
“You’re not fat, Jenny,” Clint said.
“Thank you,” she said, “but I’m heavier than the others.”
“Well,” he said, “I’ll accept your help, but I still say you’re not fat.”
He reached up and pulled the branch down so that she could also grab hold, and then they both added their weight to the branch. Just when he thought he might have to fire again, there was a loud crack and the branch came free. They fell to the ground, the branch on top of them.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” she said with a smile. “We did it.”
“Thanks to you,” he said. “Come on. Let’s carry it over to the wagon.”
Rosemary added a hand and they hauled the makeshift lever to the wagon, where their fulcrum was waiting.
“You think this is going to work?” Rosemary asked.
“I hope so.”
They wedged the thick branch underneath the wagon.
“Four of you will have to put your weight on it,” he said. “I need one person to help me with the wagon.”
“Delilah,” Rosemary said, “you’re the strongest.”
She was the tallest and sturdiest looking, so Clint depended on Rosemary to know her people.
“Now we need to find a replacement for the carter key.”
“How do we do that?”
“Wait here,” Clint said. “I’ll look around.”
They needed something that would fit through the hole on the hub—a thick piece of wood, or even the rightshaped stone.
Cross Draw Page 1