by Jake Logan
He kissed her lips again, even as she felt her internal muscles contracting, releasing, contracting, releasing, hugging him tight, from the intensity and might of her orgasm.
Against his lips, she whispered, “My God, Slocum. Thank you.” She knew then that he was exactly what she had needed in this time and this place, exactly what she had needed to make sense of her life again. “Thank you so very much.”
And before he had a chance to reply, she kissed him.
14
Charlie and Ed Frame rose early the next morning. Well, Charlie, anyway. Ed hadn’t slept a wink. He’d been concentrating on the fierce pain in his leg all night, and it was still pounding as they gathered up what was left of their possessions and started east, toward Cross Point. At least it wasn’t bleeding anymore. That was, until he stood up and let go of it long enough to take a lengthy piss.
A rough-hewn crutch made of hastily whittled palo verde under his arm, Ed joined Charlie again. Squinting against the sun, he said, “Don’t see what the goldurn rush is. I’m bleedin’ again. And they’re long gone, Charlie.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” replied his brother. He was just finishing up loading their water, bedrolls, and saddlebags onto a crudely made travois. “Just twist that thing tighter.”
Ed hoped Charlie intended to lug that travois. He knew he was in no condition. Hell, he was afraid he’d fall down with every faltering step he took!
Thankfully, Charlie tied down the last of their belongings, then stepped between the traces. Ed relaxed a little.
“Well?” asked Charlie, in that accusatory tone Ed loathed.
“Well, what?”
Charlie rolled his eye skyward. “You comin’ or not, gimp?”
Ed frowned. “Soon’s you start out, Mr. Shot-Through-the-Shoulder, I’ll follow.”
Charlie muttered “Jesus” beneath his breath, and started forward, dragging the travois behind him.
Slocum’s trail was easy to follow, even for two crippled low-life criminals on foot. And, Ed reminded himself, they were following their own stolen horses. Maybe that helped.
Although Charlie had packed Ed’s leg wounds and bandaged them up tight last night, when Charlie got to pulling that travois too fast—and Ed had to hobble double-time just to keep up—it got to oozing and seeping worse than ever, and Ed got a touch more worried.
“Charlie?” he said.
Charlie didn’t look back. He didn’t have to. His arm wasn’t bleeding at all this morning.
“Charlie!” he repeated, more plaintively this time.
“What!” Charlie snapped.
“Charlie, my leg’s bleedin’ a bit. Mayhap we could slow down some. Or take us a rest.”
Still, Charlie didn’t look back. Or stop. He simply said, “You lunatic! We only been walkin’ ten minutes. You want me to shoot you right here like a lame horse? I could make a lot better time, you know.”
Ed didn’t need to think about this too much, and he said, “No, I guess I don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t want you should shoot me. But I don’t like to think about bleedin’ to death, neither.”
Charlie finally stopped, and for a minute Ed was a little scared that maybe Charlie was going to pull that Smith & Wesson and shoot him in the head. Put him out of his misery, so to speak.
Except he didn’t want to be put out of his misery, he just wanted Charlie to slow the hell down!
But Charlie didn’t go for his gun. Looking awful cranky, he snapped, “Just take that bandana off’n your neck again and tie it round your leg. Get you a stick. Hell,” he added with a grumbling growl, “I’ll go fetch one. You’ll take all damned day.”
Charlie bent down until his eye fell on part of a branch, and he tossed it to Ed, who missed it. It bounced off his chest and fell at his feet.
“Make a tourniquet, like last night,” Charlie went on. “I’ll give you a couple’a minutes. But not more.” He crossed his arms over his chest and began to tap his toe. “Snap it up, Eddie.”
“I’m snappin’, dammit, I’m snappin’,” Ed grumbled as he slid the bandana off his neck and tied it around his thigh.
While Ed and Charlie Frame were grumbling over tourniquets, Billy Cree was well on his way toward them.
He had risen before dawn, and was in the saddle when the sun was just peeking over the horizon. It was enough light to trail by, he reasoned, and that was all he needed.
His hat pulled low over his eyes against the rising sun, he had followed the trail up into the hills and their maze. And now, after just two hours of up and down and looping around, he came upon the site of a bonafide ruckus.
He dismounted and followed the tracks all around, trying to make sense of them.
Now, Billy Cree was a pretty fair tracker, even if he did say so himself. And he did. Often. It didn’t take him very long to discern that there had been an ambush, and that one of the riders—the newest one that Lydia had picked up—hadn’t been a part of it.
It looked like this new boy’d had a partner up on top of the canyon, too. Lydia and the other fellow had galloped back up the canyon, retracing their steps, and skittered into a cave, which proved to have been used, but was now deserted.
Also, it looked like the man had tried to make a run for it on foot. Fresh bullet marks scarred the canyon walls, peppered them. The man had made it back inside, though. Tracks didn’t lie.
Neither did the blood that Billy found spattered on the rocks and inside the cave.
But the man must not have been hurt too bad. He’d come out again later. He’d followed the wall of the canyon, then cut across and gone up.
Must have been quite a show up there, from what Billy could tell. There was blood all over the place, for one thing, and more down below, where it looked like the ambushers had made camp. He found the remains of a fire, at least, when he went down. He also found the signs of bedrolls having been laid out and lots of feet stomping around.
Whoever this galoot was that Lydia had hooked up with, he was a tough bird. It appeared to Billy that he’d bested his attackers—hadn’t killed them though, which sort of puzzled Billy—and he’d made off with their horses.
At least he had found Lydia’s tiny boot prints there in their camp, half hidden by the ambushers’ big footprints, and Lydia had led their horses away.
Billy worked his way out of the rocks that had sheltered the ambushers, walked back to his horse, and pushed back his hat. Damn! This was surely a puzzlement! He knew why he was after Lydia, but why the hell would those other fellas be after her?
On the other hand, maybe they were after her traveling companion.
Billy snorted. By the looks of it, it’d take more than the two of those yahoos to take this tough old pelican out. He seemed to have made goddamn fools out of them last night.
He mounted up, saddle leather complaining. And straightened out the lead rope on the spare horse. Well, maybe the two bushwhackers couldn’t handle this fellow of Lydia’s, but then, they weren’t Billy Cree, were they? He figured to find out just who they were in a matter of perhaps an hour, an hour and a half: They had set out on foot.
One was dragging a travois behind him, and one was walking with a crutch. He was still losing blood, too. There was a little trickle of it every now and then, turning the dust and gravel rust-colored. They wouldn’t be making very good time.
And their tracks were fresh, almost brand-new. They were on top of the horses’ tracks, and he knew that Lydia was on one of those horses.
He jogged along, following the trail with ease. And he thought that it would sure be nice if those yahoos didn’t turn out to be such yahoos after all. Maybe they’d be lucky enough to catch up to Lydia and her man and kill him. After all, he was only interested in Lydia.
That murdering bitch.
Slocum and Lydia had gotten an early start, too, although they were somewhat the worse for wear for not having had much sleep the night before. However, Slocum thought that Lydia l
ooked, well, all glowy. She couldn’t seem to keep from smiling.
And frankly, neither could he. He’d be glad to get into Cross Point—which he figured to do around mid-afternoon—turn in the baby, have himself a bath, then settle down in a nice hotel bed with Lydia.
By the looks of it, he didn’t imagine her complaining.
They were still leading the spare horse. Well, Slocum was leading him, anyway. He trailed along behind Tubac, his head down, his ribs showing through his dull coat. The one Lydia was riding wasn’t much better looking. It seemed those Frame boys had been down on their luck for quite some time.
Well, Slocum would have to be a whole lot more beat up and beat back before he’d ever let a horse of his get into that state! When they got into town, he was going to put those Frame horses at the livery on full grain feed for a few days. That ought to put a little spark back in their eyes, all right.
Might shine up those old coats a tad, too.
“What time is it?”
He looked over at Lydia, who was still smiling softly. He returned the expression, then checked his pocket watch.
“ ’Bout eleven,” he said. “Ten-to, to be exact about it.
Why? You got a hot date waitin’ in town?”
She pursed her lips in a mock reprimand, but her eyes were still smiling. “As a matter of fact, I do have myself a date with a beau. But he won’t arrive until I do.”
Slocum reached over and cupped a wide hand around her thigh. “Just exactly when you do, Lydia.” Then he pulled back, rested his hand on the saddle horn, and asked, “How’s Tyler doin’ today?”
The thinned-down peach juice had held him for a while last night, but she’d had to give him more of it, more frequently, than she had the milk.
“We’ve only got enough milk left for one watery feeding,” she said. “Thank God we’re nearly there. About three, you think?”
He nodded. “Or thereabouts.”
“I hope we can find him a wet nurse,” she went on. “Breast milk is what he really needs.”
Slocum almost commented that it didn’t sound too bad to him, either, but withheld the remark. Things were going pretty good with Lydia right at the moment, and he didn’t want to take a chance on lousing them up, and maybe losing his bedmate for the night.
Slocum wasn’t stupid.
They were having to travel at a walk. Going any faster seemed to make the baby cry, and if there was one thing Slocum was sick of, it was that.
’Course, he figured that it likely wasn’t the kid’s fault. Only a few days old, already orphaned, and on starvation rations to boot. Hell, he should’ve been born in a nice, soft bed. He should have been spending his nights in a cradle, built by his daddy’s own two hands, instead of on the hard desert floor, holed up in caves.
“They can’t catch up to us, can they?” Lydia asked, out of the blue.
Slocum snorted. “Those Frame brothers? No way in hell!”
Billy Cree heard them before he saw them.
He rode quietly around a bend in a shallow canyon to spy the two misfits he’d been trailing, arguing and shouting to beat the band. One of them—the one pulling the travois—had his hat off and, with it, was slapping the holy shit out of the other man.
Billy whoaed up his horse and scowled. Now, what in the hell had he gotten himself into?
It crossed his mind that he might be doing the whole Southwest a big favor if he just skinned his gun and shot them, right here and now.
But then, they might have some interesting things to say about this fellow that the Kid’s woman had gotten mixed up with.
Whoever he was, he’d sure done them some damage, all right. Not only was the one with the crutch still bleeding from time to time, but his friend was shot in the shoulder, too. At least he appeared to be since his shoulder was bandaged.
Billy urged his horse forward again.
But he drew his gun, just in case these boys were the nervous sort. You never could tell.
He rode within twenty feet of them before the fellow getting hit with the hat peeked up long enough to spot him.
He rode up another ten feet and stopped his mount before the fellow getting beat could get the other one’s attention.
By the time the fellow doing the whomping stopped what he was doing and looked over at Billy, Billy was all relaxed, leaning forward in the saddle, his forearm on the saddle horn, and grinning.
“You boys are right entertainin’,” he said, by way of hello. “You put on this show for all your company, or is this here just for me?”
The one with the crutch squinted at him and said, “Huh?”
The other slapped his hat back on his head and said, “Who the hell are you?”
Well, Billy thought with a smug little grin, I guess we know who’s in charge now, don’t’ we?
“Billy Cree,” Billy said right out, “and proud of it. You yokels got monikers?”
“We ain’t yokels,” said the one with the crutch. “We’re from Texarkana.”
Billy couldn’t hold back a roll of his eyes, which only pinched the scab on his forehead and made him wince. “That right?” he said dryly.
“Yeah,” said the other man. To his companion, he snarled, “And shut up, Ed, for Christ’s sake.”
Billy tipped his hat. “Howdy, Ed. You got a last name?”
Ed scrunched his mouth up and turned his head away like he wasn’t going to talk, no matter what, but the other one said, “Frame. I’m Charlie. This here idiot’s my brother.”
“Pleased, boys,” Billy said, smooth as butter. “Looked to me like you might be in a peck of trouble from the look of the trail back aways.” He poked a thumb back over his shoulder.
“And you might be in some yourself, Mister Billy Cree, if’n you don’t holster that smokewagon,” said Charlie, bold as brass.
Now, Billy couldn’t figure out how Charlie figured to get the drop on him, but he smiled good-naturedly and slid his gun home. He didn’t replace the trigger strap, though.
“Better?” he asked.
“Some,” replied Charlie.
“So,” Billy said, “now that we’re through with the amenities and pleasantries and stuff, who’d you run into back there that left you all shot to hell and on foot to boot?”
“A feller,” piped up Ed. “He could’a done worse, though. Could’a killed us.”
“Shut up, Ed,” said Charlie and made like he was going to grab his hat again.
Ed ducked.
But Charlie didn’t grab his hat. Instead, he said, “Big fella. Meaner than sin. Mayhap you heard of him?”
“Might have, if I knew his name,” Billy replied. These boys were too stupid to live. He figured he just might shoot them after all, on general principle.
“Slocum,” said Charlie, with some degree of pride. “The Slocum.”
If Billy hadn’t had a good hold on his saddle, he just might have fallen clean off his horse.
15
He recovered himself, though. He leaned farther forward, over his horse’s neck, and said, “Aw, you’re joshin’ me, ain’t you, boys?”
These two had survived a run-in with the famous Slocum? He could scarcely believe it!
Now, Billy Cree had been around. He’d never run into Slocum, but he’d heard plenty of things about him. And all over the West, not just here in the Arizona Territory. He’d listened to stories about Slocum stopping range wars single-handedly and Slocum taking down this man or another, Slocum’s love for the ladies, and just tales about Slocum, the man.
Why, he’d sort of secretly hoped that one day he’d be as well-known—and feared—as Slocum!
One thing was sure: From the yarns he’d heard, Billy figured Slocum wasn’t the type to allow the likes of these two bedbugs to live once they’d crossed him.
“What?” asked Charlie. He looked a mite irritated. “You callin’ us liars?”
“No, sir, wouldn’t do that.” Billy scratched the back of his ear. “What did this Slocum feller
look like?”
“Big,” said Ed. He took advantage of the respite to sit down on the desert floor and rest his leg. He seemed overly interested in the tourniquet he had on it, and fiddled with it constantly. “Big feller. Not fat-big, just tall and real stronglike. Dark hair. Mean-lookin’.”
“Funny eyes,” Charlie added reluctantly. “Funny color, I mean. Can’t remember exactly. Might have been green.”
“Scarred up?” asked Billy.
“Seen a few where his duds didn’t cover ’em,” Charlie said. “Listen mister, you can just get the hell on your way if’n you don’t believe me. Run into him for your own self. You’ll see.”
Well, it sure sounded like the Slocum that Billy’d been hearing about all these years. Hot damn!
He asked, “He have anybody with him?”
Ed nodded. “A lady and a baby.”
“Shut up, Ed,” Charlie growled, and kicked at Ed’s hurt leg.
Ed yelped, but said no more.
Now, that was odd, Billy thought. Why the hell would they care whether or not he knew who Slocum’s traveling companion was? And where in the devil did they pick up a baby? Of course, the lady fit the legend of Slocum. It figured that the whore would pick up with somebody like him.
It didn’t much matter right at the moment, he guessed. He said, “That lady with Slocum. Her name Lydia? Lydia West?”
Ed nodded his head in the affirmative, but kept his mouth shut. Tears were still welling in his eyes from the last kick administered by his brother.
“What’s it to you, Mr. Billy Cree?” Charlie demanded. “You got you some business with this woman?”
Billy gathered his reins and sat up straight. “Maybe.” His scalp was itching again where he’d sewn it together, but he didn’t take the time to scratch it. He flexed the fingers on his gun hand.
“Ain’t you gonna help us?” Ed asked at last from the ground. There was a little trickle of blood slowly working its way down his leg toward the ground, and his voice sounded pitiful.
“ ’Fraid not, boys,” Billy said. He pointed toward Ed’s leg. “You know, you’re gonna bleed to death if’n you don’t cauterize that.”