by Pam Crooks
“The carriage.” Sophia took a breath, and her features grew troubled.
“The reward is a fortune, Sophia.” Julio Cortez slurred the words from a back table, his big hand clutched around the neck of a tequila bottle. “Give Landry and his woman to Briggs, then you and Tomas can buy the land you dream of.”
“You can say such things, Julio, because you did not spend time in his filthy prison. Nor did you escape it.” Tomas’ lip curled. “Frank Briggs will recapture me, too, if I let him. Will you spend the reward money, then?”
At the taunt, Julio reddened with rage. “You will regret not listening to me, Tomas. Too many times, you mock me. No more!”
He stood, knocking his chair back with the suddenness of it, and stormed from the cantina, taking the tequila with him.
Tomas moved to follow, but Sophia held him back.
“Let him go, mi querido. He will only find some place to pout. He will be sorry for his actions tomorrow.”
Quinn grasped the leader’s arm.
“We’ve met the terms of our bargain, Tomas.” His harsh glance included Sophia. “You used us to lead Briggs to you. Settle your revenge with him as you choose, but Hannah and I are leaving.”
“No.” Tomas’ black eyes held a dangerous gleam.
“Briggs is heading north toward the pass. Hannah and I will leave from the south.”
Abruptly, the staccato of hoof beats on the road outside the cantina snagged their tense glances. Julio Cortez rode by at breakneck speed, heading toward the mouth of the pass.
Toward Briggs.
Tomas’ expression turned murderous at the betrayal.
“Por Dios! We must stop him, Tomas!” Sophia cried.
“I’m going after him,” Quinn said. “Hannah, stay here.” He jabbed a finger at Tomas. “No one follows me, you hear? I can track him easier by myself.”
And before Hannah could mouth a protest, he sprinted out the cantina toward the corrals.
She could lose him. The thought, the dread, seared Hannah’s brain. She bolted out the door after him, despite the Huertas’ shouts and attempts to stop her.
“I’m coming with you, Quinn,” she called, reaching the corral only moments after he did.
“Like hell you are,” he said with a growl and snatched the reins to a saddled horse.
“You got me into this mess when you took me hostage. I aim to see that you get me out.” She took the reins to a second horse, lifted a foot into the stirrup, and climbed up.
“I don’t want you hurt.” Impatience hissed through his teeth. He stepped toward her, as if he intended to pull her bodily from the saddle.
“And I don’t want you hurt, either.” She evaded his grasp with more luck than skill. “We have to get to Cortez before he gets to Briggs. We’ll do it together. You want to go back to Amarillo, don’t you?”
“Damn it, Hannah!” He shot a glance toward the Mexican, hardly discernible in the distance. “Hell, I don’t have time to argue with you.” He swung onto his horse. “You stay right beside me, understand?”
Briggs was as shrewd and ruthless as any of the inmates in his prison. Cortez was driven by jealousy and fury. Hannah had no intention of letting Quinn face either of them alone.
Quinn kicked his mount into a run. Heart pounding, Hannah did the same, her eyes on the narrow pass ahead.
It didn’t surprise him they’d come after him.
It did surprise him to see only one.
Briggs peered through the shrubs hiding him from view. He studied the stocky Mexican as his horse wound its say over the rocky trail, the sole passage through the range of tree-covered hills. He studied the conchos and leather tooling on the saddle, trimmed in inlaid silver. And he studied the bullet-laden ammunition belt crossed over his burly chest.
An outlaw, just like he figured.
The secluded valley was a perfect hiding place. He’d seen all the fine horses in that corral, and if there was a rider for each one, like the woman said, then the renegade band was formidable. He’d seen Fenwick’s rig, too, and guessed Landry had to be among them.
Unless Fenwick’s Solution had gotten to him first.
Either way, the outlaws laid claim to the rig somehow, and Briggs surmised they’d know about Landry and the nun, whether they were dead or alive--and where they could be found.
He signaled sharply, and Fenwick took up position on one side of the pass; Titus, the other.
They waited.
The Mexican appeared. Three rifles cocked. Briggs burst from the bushes.
“Get your hands up!” he roared. “Try anything stupid and you’re a dead man!”
The outlaw hesitated. His bloodshot eyes darted all around him, but he obeyed, lifting his arms slowly into the air.
“Take off your gun belt and throw it to the ground, real careful-like. Your ammunition belt, too.” The Mexican complied, and Briggs nodded. “Now, pull that rifle from its scabbard and drop it.” Again, the Mexican complied. Briggs gestured toward the ground with his weapon. “All right, then. Get down from that horse, and don’t do nothin’ fancy.”
Saddle leather creaked. The outlaw eased his bulk from his mount and kept his hands raised.
“Take off that sombrero. I want to see your ugly face. Titus, search him! Make sure he don’t have no more guns inside his coat.”
Keeping his weapon level with one hand, Titus searched the outlaw with the other. He found nothing more than a half-empty bottle of tequila, which he promptly uncorked and brought to his lips.
The Mexican tossed back his sombrero on its chin cord. Briggs stared at him, at the slash running across his cheek.
The wound wasn’t much different than his own. Same side of the face, same angle of assault, as if their attackers had been of equal height . . ..
The nun.
“She knifed you, didn’t she?” he demanded, stunned, thinking of the night Landry escaped. Her eyes had been hazel-green . . ..
Like the woman at the pump.
Angered that she’d duped him, that he hadn’t seen beyond the wimple and veil and recognized her, he swore vehemently.
“Senora Landry?” The Mexican spat the name. “Si, she knifed me.”
Briggs’ eyes closed to near slits. “What’re you talking about? She ain’t married to Landry.”
“He calls her his wife,” the Mexican sneered.
“It’s a lie.”
“He’s alive then,” Fenwick said, stepping closer, his features rapt. Excited.
The Mexican angled his dark head toward him. “Alive, si. Unfortunately.”
Briggs caught the unmistakable hate the words.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Titus said. “They were in the valley the whole time. Right under our noses.”
“Shut up, Titus!” Briggs snapped. “Don’t you think I’m just figuring that out?”
The guard clamped his mouth shut and glared at him, but said nothing more.
Briggs turned back to the Mexican.
“What’s your name?” he demanded.
“Julio Cortez.”
“Who’re you holing up with?”
For a moment, Cortez didn’t answer.
Fenwick jabbed him in the gut with his rifle.
“Answer the question, Mr. Cortez” he ordered. “We don’t have all day.”
Cortez wetted his bottom lip with his tongue. “Tomas Huerta.”
Huerta. The name rocked Briggs. The Mexican who’d escaped the prison a few years back. The only man to do so besides Landry. His brain fought to make the connection, to figure out how the two men knew each other. Were they working together?
He stepped closer to Cortez.
“You know who I am, don’t you?” he asked softly. “Or else you wouldn’t have followed us all the way through that pass. You took a helluva chance, y’know that?”
“I knew what I was doing,” Cortez said.
“What do you want from us?”
Again, he delayed answering, as if he’d begun t
o question the wisdom of his intentions.
Stupid Mexican.
It was too late to question anything. Especially with Landry and Huerta within reach.
“Reckon he’s got a hankering for that reward money, Fenwick?” he drawled.
Fenwick shrugged. “Could be.”
“Or maybe he’s got a hankering for Landry’s woman.” He chuckled at the thought, at the wickedness of it.
“Pah!” The taunt raised Cortez’s rage. He touched the wound on his cheek. “The bitch! She cuts me. She robs me. She deserves to die, like Landry.”
“My thinking exactly.”
“I come out here to tell you they are down there.” He pointed a grimy finger toward the valley. “I did not want you to ride away without them.”
Briggs was skeptical, but he let the Mexican talk.
“I will help you capture Landry and Hannah. On one condition.”
He eyed the outlaw with disdain. Who the hell did he think he was, making his own rules?
“What condition?” he demanded.
“Tomas goes free,” Cortez said.
A snort erupted from him. “And if I refuse?”
“He will fight you.” Cortez’s thick moustache quivered in defiance. “His men are loyal. They will die for him!”
Watching him coldly, Briggs stroked the rifle’s trigger with his thumb. “Would you die for him, Cortez?”
The outlaw stiffened, his cheeks purpling. “Do not underestimate Tomas and Sophia.”
“Sophia?”
“Tomas’ wife. My cousin.”
Hell. Blood ran thick. Briggs took in the information. Her presence could make things interesting.
And complicated.
A plan bloomed in his mind. He glanced at Titus and Fenwick, including them in his decision.
“We’ll move into the valley at midnight,” he said. “Cortez will be our ticket in.”
The Mexican’s head jerked. “No!”
“I’m saying you will!” Briggs snapped.
“I told you about Landry.” Cortez took a step backward. “I will do no more for you.”
Briggs’ pulse quickened with merciless resolve.
“I have the Federales coming,” he lied. “They’ll be here in a few hours. We’ll charge the place. You won’t be arrested if you get us to Landry.”
“Federales?” Panic leapt onto Cortez’s face. He shook his head vehemently, turned, and with surprising agility, leapt into the saddle to flee. Before he could take the reins, before his heels even kicked the horse’s flanks, Briggs pulled the rifle’s trigger.
Cortez lurched. A crimson stain spread across his back. He slumped forward, then sideways, and landed with a dull thud into the dirt.
Fenwick cursed.
“Gawd, Warden!” Titus choked, gaping at the lifeless heap. “What’d you have to go and shoot him for?”
Briggs flicked an impassive glance over the outlaw, thrust a boot toe into his fleshy ribs and flipped him over. “How do I know he wasn’t working with Landry, setting me up for an ambush?” He cast a heavy-lidded glance toward the pass, half-imagining Landry, Huerta and his band of renegade outlaws storming through it.
The tinny taste of dread coated his tongue. He snatched the heavily-laden ammunition and gun belts from the ground, tossed them to Fenwick and Titus, and kept the rifle for himself.
“Strap those belts to your person,” he ordered them. He peered into the sky, into the sun that would set soon. “I have a feeling you’re gonna need ‘em.”
The single gunshot echoed through the valley. Quinn grimaced as Cortez fell from his horse. He curled his fingers around Hannah’s forearm, pulling her with him as they shimmied on their bellies through the thicket for a closer look.
Cortez was dead.
They were too late. The Mexican had gotten to Briggs before Quinn could stop him. And then, Briggs had gotten to Cortez.
Shit.
Quinn rolled to his back, made a quick study of the rough terrain, knew the steep, rock-strewn hill and tangled brush surrounding them would make reaching the warden damn near impossible.
The only way to get to him was the pass--a single trail leading from the valley to the other side, hardly wide enough to allow horse and rider three abreast.
Briggs knew it. The pass was his advantage, the ace up his sleeve, and he’d be waiting to play the card.
If Quinn had been alone, he might have attempted to shoot his way through with more guts than brains and waylay all three of them.
But he couldn’t. Not with Hannah along.
Cortez had done a helluva lot of damage running to Briggs. The warden knew of their presence in the Huertas’ hideout. The hunt, the cold-blooded pursuit to recapture them, would intensify a hundredfold.
Quinn needed more time, a diversion, to stall Briggs. He had to escape with Hannah without the warden breathing hot and ruthless down their necks. He had to get back to Amarillo.
He had to. For Hannah’s sake. For his own.
The mood in the cantina was grim.
Rifles and carbines, oiled and fully loaded, lay on every table top. Bowie knives gleamed. Ammunition belts were stocked with bullets and slung over the shoulders of every man present.
Quinn’s nerves hummed with tension. Dusk had already fallen. Nightfall would settle upon them within minutes.
Any time after that, Briggs could make his move.
Quinn’s brisk announcement of Cortez’s death had unleashed Tomas’ rage and Sophia’s grief-stricken dismay. At her command, the bandeleros erupted into action, pulling provisions from the shelves and packing them into saddlebags, rolling blankets into bedrolls and readying their weaponry. In an amazingly short period of time, the Mexicans were prepared to vacate the hideout.
But not before they confronted Frank Briggs.
“I do not believe the warden is working with the Federales,” Sophia said stubbornly, oblivious to the frenzied activity around her. Her haughty features showed the strain of her cousin’s betrayal and the impending risks of a shoot-out with Briggs, the anguish of the blood that would spill.
“It is what he claims,” Tomas said simply, buckling a holster around his hips. “Senor Landry heard him say it.”
“If it is true, Tomas, then how can we fight them? The Federales will outnumber us. We will not have a chance with all of them.”
“What choice do we have?”
“We can leave. Now. We will wait for another time to kill Briggs, a time when we are sure he works alone.” Her voice carried a thread of pleading.
Quinn agreed with Sophia. Briggs had stumbled into the hideout by accident, but what measures he would use against them, Quinn couldn’t be sure.
“For all we know, he’s sent Titus or Fenwick for reinforcements,” Quinn said. “We can’t assume it’s the three of them against all of us. And we can’t assume he’ll strike at midnight.”
“Which is why we must act quickly.” Tomas glanced upward as Ramon entered the cantina, a wooden box in his arms. “Put it down by my rifle, Padre,” he said, indicating a table next to him. “I will secure the black powder to the saddle myself.”
Hannah’s head came up. She stopped wrapping tortillas in a towel.
“What is this about black powder?” she demanded.
Sophia strode over to the box, lifted the lid and peered at the powder-filled paper cartridges inside. She shuddered and let the lid drop back into place. “They fascinate Tomas. Por Dios, they scare me.”
“When I find them abandoned in the old mine last spring, Tomas is happy,” Ramon said. “He knows the cartridges are dangerous, but he knows, also, they are a valuable weapon.” His somber gaze settled on his son. Clearly, he shared the sentiment.
Hannah went to the box. She took a cartridge and rested it in her palm. She held the explosive with reverence, with respect.
But without fear.
“What do you intend to do with them, Tomas?” Quinn demanded.
“There is nothing better t
o stop Frank Briggs from capturing us.”
“How? By blowing him and the other two to bits?”
“Si. If I must.”
“Then you’ll have the damned Federales on our asses for sure.” Impatience, fierce disagreement with the idea, soared through Quinn.
“There is no other way,” Tomas shot back.
“Yes,” Hannah said firmly. “There is.”
The cantina fell silent. Sombreroed heads turned toward her.
She strode forward. “The only way Briggs can reach us is by way of the pass. We can use the black powder to blow it shut.”
“Blowing up a mountain pass is a helluva lot different than blowing a bank safe, Hannah,” Quinn grated.
She faced him. “Only because the bank safe is smaller. The premise is the same.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head for emphasis. “Absolutely not.”
“The plan is brilliant!” Sophia’s eyes shone with excitement, as if Quinn had never spoken. “You will do this for us?”
“Yes.” Hannah nodded once.
“No, she won’t,” Quinn nodded firmly.
“I’ve used powder before. It’s a good plan, Quinn.”
“Si.” Tomas stroked the thin line of his moustache, his dark-skinned features intent. “A good plan. If the pass is closed, Briggs must circle from the north and reach us from the south. A day’s hard ride, at least.”
“By the time he comes, we will be long gone.” Ramon beamed.
“It is decided, then.” Tomas reached for the box on the table.
“No!” Quinn’s roar shook the rafters.
Tomas spun toward him. “Your wife helps to save our lives, gringo! Yours, too, and her own.”
“She is not my wife.” Quinn spat the truth through his teeth. “I took her hostage the night I escaped from prison. She is innocent of anything I have ever done, and I do not want her involved in this.”
Hannah froze at his blurted revelation.
Sophia gasped in shock. A tumultuous shadow crossed her expression.
“Not your wife, Senor?” She repeated his words with deceptive softness. “You have lied to us, then. And we all believed you.
Tomas threw his hands up in masculine exasperation and scooped the wooden box into his arms. “Por Dios, Sophia! What does it matter who she is? We do not have time to discuss it!”