by Jake Logan
He was tall and dark-haired and well-built, and when he walked up to her and stopped, she saw that he was green-eyed.
He didn’t look like a rapist.
But then, you could never be too careful.
“Mind if I hoist this kid with both hands, lady?” he asked over the child’s squall. There was something about his eyes that told her he wasn’t taking her very seriously, even though by this time, she was aiming two guns at him. She thought that he seemed actually amused by her!
I’ll show you amusing, you sonofabitch, she thought and waved the Colt’s nose again.
“Where’d you come by that poor little child?” she demanded over the sound of the baby’s crying. “Is she yours?”
“It’s a ‘him’, and I found him back a few miles,” the cowboy said, indicating the direction with a nod of his clean-shaven jaw. “I was too late to save his mama, but I buried her and brought him along. Don’t figure he’s even a day old, yet.”
He held the child toward her, but Lydia wasn’t that stupid. She backed up a step, keeping Winston’s gun and the derringer aimed at his chest—what part of it wasn’t covered by the baby—and said, “Not so fast, mister.”
“The name’s Slocum, ma’am,” he replied—quite civilly, considering she had two guns aimed at him. Then he peered down into the mewling, squalling bundle cradled in the crook of his arm and said, “Jesus, kid, cut me a little slack, will you?”
She just stared at him.
He looked up again, right into her eyes, and said, “Look, lady, I know you ain’t got a reason in the world to trust me. But you look to be as much a dog in the manger as I feel like. I mean, you bein’ out here with no horse and all. Me? I’m stuck with this baby. Only found one tin of milk in the wagon, and he keeps on cryin’ all the damned time. Why, he’s only slept about an hour altogether since we started out. I figured, you being a woman and all . . .”
Now, how on God’s green earth did men come to conclusions like that? Just because she had the equipment to produce children didn’t mean she knew the slightest thing about them!
“That I’d know something about babies?” she finished, brows lifted.
Oblivious to the sarcasm, Slocum nodded gravely. “That’s about the size of it. When I spied you, I figured maybe the Lord was on this little feller’s side after all.”
Lydia considered this. Slocum certainly looked sincere. She’d thought at first that perhaps he’d killed the child’s parents. But then, why hadn’t he killed the child, too, if that were so?
Maybe he was just what he looked like: a saddle tramp—a good-looking saddle tramp—who had happened across a baby and come to its rescue.
She decided to take a chance.
She lowered both guns and let herself relax. A little.
“Well, I don’t know anything about babies, either,” she said, her voice cracking. Suddenly, her legs wobbled beneath her, and she sank down to the ground, thinking that perhaps she had let herself relax too much, and now it was too late to stop.
Fortunately, Slocum made no move that even she could term aggressive. He knelt down next to her, freed up a hand and felt her forehead.
“You could use some water, lady,” he said, his brow furrowing with concern. “How long you been out here, anyway?”
“Days,” she said. “Four, I think. I don’t know.”
“You got a name?”
“Lydia,” she replied. “Lydia West.” Maybe she should have said “Mrs. Show Low Kid,” but that would have taken too long to explain, and she didn’t feel much like talking right at the moment.
Besides, it required too much energy to be heard over the baby.
Slocum whistled, and his horse started toward him at a trot. Neat trick, she thought. The horse stopped beside him and pushed at him with its nose.
“Okay, Tubac, okay,” he said. Gently, he handed over the baby. “Here,” he said. “You hold on to him for a while.”
And then he looked down at his shirt, which was damp with baby pee.
“Aw, crud,” he said, and pulled down his canteen.
Charlie Frame kicked at one of the wagon wheels.
“Damn!” He breathed. “Hellfire and damnation!”
Somebody had come along, all right, because Mrs. Tyler sure hadn’t up and buried herself. He wondered if she’d had the kid, and if it had survived. He sure hoped so, although that was sort of fighting the odds. Ed said he was always fighting the odds.
He was glad that Mrs. Tyler had kicked the bucket—she’d just saved him a bullet or two—but Jesus, he sure wished that baby of hers had made it through. It would have made things a whole lot easier.
When Justin Tyler had stumbled into his and Ed’s camp a couple of nights before with the hell beaten out of him by the wind, Charlie and Ed had been right nice to him. Shared their hollow in the rocks, out of the wind, with old Justin and everything. Gave him coffee and grub, and pumped him for information.
Until you asked, you never could tell what stories a stranger had.
And you never could tell just what good a fellow might make of those stories for himself.
It turned out that Justin Tyler was chock-full of interesting tales. And that made Charlie and Ed real happy. Why, it seemed that Mister Justin Tyler was so nervous about his wife and his livestock that he just couldn’t shut up once he got started.
Especially since he’d found such a nice couple of fellows to tell his story to.
Charlie and Ed had been a rapt audience.
This morning, when there was no wind anymore and they’d made short work of Mister Justin Tyler and left his body in that hollow in the rock, Charlie and Ed had set off the way Tyler said he’d come. They’d split up after an hour, though. There were no tracks left, and they figured they could cover more ground traveling separately.
Charlie hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Ed since four hours past, although he’d passed what he figured was Tyler’s milk cow. It was dead, and pretty chewed up by coyotes.
Didn’t much matter, though. Mrs. Tyler was in the ground, as dead as her milk cow, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to dig her up to see if that baby was buried with her or still in her belly.
Well, maybe he could salvage the situation. Maybe there were things in the wagon worth taking. That deed had to be in there, didn’t it? Tyler sure as hell hadn’t had it on him.
Ed was going to be real disappointed, though, probably more disappointed than Charlie was right at this minute. Charlie could sure have used a gold mine out in California.
Well, half. When you counted Ed’s half. And it would have been a whole lot easier if they’d turned up with that orphaned baby.
With a grunt, he hoisted himself up inside the wagon’s bed.
He found dried, bloody rags all over the place. She’d had that baby, all right, by the looks of it. Made a bad job of it, too.
He cut as wide a berth as he could around the mess, and began to go through the Tylers’ things. But he hadn’t gone too far before he realized that somebody—probably the same somebody who’d buried Mrs. Tyler—had already ransacked the wagon, albeit neatly.
It wasn’t too much longer before Charlie realized that there weren’t any baby things in the wagon. No nappies, none of those little booties women liked to knit, no teeny tiny clothes. And there sure wasn’t any deed to any gold mine.
“That kid’s still alive,” Charlie said out loud. “The kid’s alive!”
Nobody would bother to take baby fixings if there wasn’t a baby, would they? He didn’t think so, not unless they were cracked in the head.
He went through the rest of the wagon quickly, tossing clothing and packed goods out the back end to the desert floor, looking for a piece of paper that wasn’t there.
Swearing, he climbed down off the wagon and got back up on his bay horse. Whoever had that baby—and that deed—had to be headed toward Cross Point. Why, it was only a two-day ride—well, mayhap a three-day ride, if a man was having to carry a baby and had to
travel easy—and the closest town in any direction.
He set out, following the fresh tracks in the now-still sand and gravel of the desert.
He’d told Ed he’d meet him in Cross Point, anyhow. This was going to work out just fine. ’Course, it’d be finer if he was to come across that helpful sonofabitch who’d buried Mrs. Tyler and saved her baby.
Charlie smiled and snapped his fingers, pop! That’s what he’d like to do to that do-gooder. Charlie would teach that bastard to meddle in other people’s business, and with other folks’ gold mines.
Charlie’d teach him right good, that’s what.
4
Slocum walked along beside Tubac. Lydia and the baby rode. He wasn’t used to walking and didn’t much like it, but it looked like he was stuck with traveling shank’s mare, at least for the time being.
He had something to call the kid, now. That was the first thing Lydia had asked him once she’d hollered at him for not thinning the tinned milk, and for letting the baby stay wet for so long.
Well, hell! He didn’t know!
’Course, she said she didn’t know anything about babies either, but instinct was instinct. He kept the opinion to himself, though.
She sure was a tough little bird. He couldn’t get much out of her, except that she was a rancher’s wife whose man had died. She’d headed out for Cross Point, only to lose her saddle horse to a rattler several days back. By the way she acted, he figured there was quite a bit more to it than that, but once again, he kept his opinion to himself.
And the scenery was better with her along. She was tallish, maybe five-six or five-seven, and he suspected that underneath the desert grime she was real pretty. Her heart-shaped face held large, wide, blue-green eyes, a short, straight nose, and a ripe, pouty mouth, and was surrounded by yellow-gold hair the color of wheat ready to be harvested.
The figure was a nice one, too. Round, but not too round. Narrow in the right places and full where it mattered.
She was better looking than all three of those Cummings sisters put together. Even when you added in the half-Mexican, half-French whore to boot.
Right now she was cooing at the baby. “Who’s a pretty baby, Tyler? Who’s a handsome boy, baby Ty?”
Tyler. That’s what she kept calling him. It was his folks’ surname, after all, and she said that it was a fine first name, too, if a person didn’t happen to have one. And now she’d already shortened it to Ty.
That baby hadn’t cried once since she’d changed him. After he’d sucked down some of that watered milk, he’d slept for a while. But when he’d woken—and Slocum had cringed in expectation of an eardrum-shattering wail—he had only gurgled and blew bubbles and the like, and held on to Lydia’s finger with a tiny, chubby fist.
She said it was because of the movement of the horse—the baby not crying, that was. Better than a rocking chair, she said.
Slocum was thinking that he’d had that kid up on top of Tubac, all morning, too, and that hadn’t stopped him from bawling his fool little head off.
But Slocum wasn’t going to say a word about it, no sir.
Besides, she was too downright pretty. He didn’t want to get her riled up again.
He’d been walking for almost two hours, and he was ready for a stop. Actually, he’d been ready for it a good hour ago. Boots weren’t made to walk in any farther than it took to jump off a horse and run to a roped calf—at least, not the kind that Slocum wore. And his leg muscles, which were used to gripping the sides of a horse, were about to kill him.
He stopped.
“What’s wrong?” Lydia asked.
“Got to rest the horse,” he lied.
She gave no indication that she’d seen through it, and asked, “Could you take Ty for a second so I can get down?”
“Sure,” he said, and reached up to take the gurgling bundle.
Ty started crying again the moment he was in Slocum’s arms.
“Shhh!” he hissed at the baby, who only bawled louder.
Lydia tried to hide a chuckle, but didn’t quite succeed. She slid down from the saddle and held out her arms. “Here, let me have him again.”
“He’s all yours,” replied Slocum, grateful to be rid of him.
And sure enough, the second little Ty felt himself in female arms again, he quieted right down.
Slocum thumbed back his hat and shook his head. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered.
Lydia smiled. “No, you won’t, Mr. Slocum. Not by a long shot.”
Slocum began to loosen Tubac’s girth. “There’s still a good bit of argument over that, Lydia. And knock off the ‘Mister.’ I keep thinking you’re talkin’ to my daddy. It’s just Slocum.”
She smiled, and sat down in the shade of the horse.
“All right, just Slocum.”
He watered Tubac. Then, trying not to limp, he walked around to the other side of the gelding and sank down on his heels across from Lydia, in the horse’s purplish shadow. “You ready to talk about it yet?” he asked.
She arched a brow. “Talk about what?”
“What really happened to you back there. You’ve got bruises on your neck and jaw. Bruises that you couldn’t have got fallin’ off a horse four days ago. They’re too yellow.”
She snorted, and looked a bit annoyed. “Well, aren’t you the observant one?”
He shrugged. “If you’re not ready to talk about it, it’s all right by me. I was just being sociable, that’s all. And it might help you to talk about it. Been my experience that ladies like to say out whatever’s botherin’ ’em. Makes ’em feel better to get if off their chests.”
She just looked at him.
He shrugged again. “Fine,” he said finally. “How long before you gotta feed that little tyke again?”
This time, it was her turn to shrug. “I haven’t the slightest idea. I supposed he’ll let me know.”
And then, right on cue, the baby started to fuss a little, then a little more. Slocum retrieved his bottle again, and this time Lydia thinned the milk down with even more water.
“Sorry, little Ty,” he heard her mutter as she gave the infant his bottle. “We’ve got to make this silly stuff stretch till we get to Cross Point. Maybe they’ll have a cow there. Or a goat! Wouldn’t you like some nice goat milk, baby?”
It didn’t seem to matter. Hungrily, Ty suckled at his watered milk.
Slocum took a drink from the canteen, then offered it to Lydia. She shook her head no. “Later,” she said, her attention on the baby.
“Fine,” Slocum grumbled. “Don’t talk. Don’t drink. Don’t suppose you want anything to eat, either.”
She looked up. “Eat? What do you have?”
“Not much. But I’ve got some jerky to spare if you want somethin’ to gnaw on. Don’t usually stop for a midday meal.”
“What do you do for supper when you’re . . . out here?” she asked
“Figured on stew,” he replied, standing up. Christ, his legs were sore! Tubac was just going to have to carry double for a while, that was all there was to it. “When it gets around time to camp, I’ll shoot a jackrabbit or a couple of quail.”
“I have a few vegetables,” she offered. “And some seasonings. Not much, but enough to fix a pot of stew. I had to leave so much behind when my horse died. I couldn’t carry it all.”
“And water was more important,” Slocum said for her. He went to Tubac and rifled around in the saddlebag until he found a couple good-sized chunks of jerky. He brushed the lint off of one of them, and picked off a glob of dried fat.
“Yes, it was,” she said. “Especially when I lost my bearings in the dust storm and fell and spilled half of it. I knew it was dry country, but back home we had a well. There was always enough.”
Slocum handed her the cleaned piece of jerky. “Don’t matter. I’ve got plenty.”
She took the dried meat with a nod of thanks, but she didn’t eat it. She just held it while she steadied the nursing Tyler.
Staring
at his little face and not at Slocum, she said quietly, “My husband’s name was Winston West. At least, that’s what he told me. We had a ranch outside of a town that isn’t there anymore. I should have known. I should have known when he didn’t move on with the rest of them. I should have known when he didn’t seem to know a shoat from a boar hog or a bull from a steer.”
Slocum furrowed his brow, but held his silence. He just waited.
“Turned out he wasn’t Winston West at all,” she went on, still looking at the baby. “He also wasn’t a rancher.” She looked up, at last, and directly into Slocum’s eyes. “Would you like to know what he was? Who he was?”
Slocum said quietly, “If you’re of a mind to tell me.”
“His name was the Show Low Kid, and he was a bank robber and a murderer.”
Stunned into silence, Slocum said nothing. He knew about Billy Cree, all right.
“I found it out the day he died,” she said. She spoke matter-of-factly, without any display of emotion. “Some of his old gang tracked him down, trailed him right down to our ranch. And they killed him thirty feet from our front door. Just shot him dead, without a word. Billy Cree was the one in charge. There were two others with him.”
“I’m sorry, Lydia,” Slocum managed to say. “Right sorry. How’d you find out? Cree?”
She nodded.
“I heard of the Show Low Kid. Heard tell that his true name was Bob Winston. So he told you a part truth, anyway.”
“Bob Winston. It’s a small comfort,” she said as she hoisted baby Tyler up on her shoulder and began to pat his back, jerky still in her hand, and rock him gently. Then, in the same tone, she resumed.
“They raped me,” she said, just like another woman might say it rained today. “All three of them, over and over. It was pretty bad, but not so bad as you might think. Before Winston married me, I . . .” She paused, biting at her lower lip for an instant.
“Well,” she continued at last, “I was in a line of work where I was used to being used and shoved around. Can’t say I liked being reminded of it, though.”
She paused again and pursed her lips. “No, I didn’t like being reminded of it at all. And they’d killed my husband. Even though he’d lied to me from the day we met about dang near everything, and even if I never really loved him, I . . . I still owed him something, didn’t I?”