The boys followed her.
“Ma, we didn’t want to tell you this, but we’ve seen bear tracks out there,” Trace finally told her. “We think it’s the same one that tore up Frank.”
“And I’ve never seen a bear before?”
“This one is dangerous,” Quinn said. “Maybe it’s stalking us.”
“When did you last see its tracks?” she asked.
Quinn shrugged. “A month ago, I guess.”
Kate sighed. “Then it’s long gone. I’ll take along the Henry and my derringer. I assure you I’ll be quite safe.”
“I’ll ride along with you, Ma,” Trace offered. “Just to be safe.”
“No, I want to be alone for a little while. I need to get some fresh air and clear my head.”
Trace protested. “Ma—”
“Don’t you boys have chores to do? Frank and Mose need help with the addition to the cabin they’re building.” She stepped into the sidesaddle and arranged her dress over her legs. She was about to leave when Frank Cobb put a halting hand on the bridle.
“The boys are right, Kate. You should stay close to home for a while.”
“Frank, I’m a grown woman and I can take care of myself. Now give me the road.”
“Then take Trace with you,” Frank said.
As always when Kate Kerrigan got mad, her Irish accent grew stronger. “Let go of my horse this minute, Frank Cobb, or do I have to take my riding crop to you?”
“You’re a strong-willed woman, Kate Kerrigan,” Cobb said, shaking his head.
“And you don’t know the half of it. Will you give me the road?”
Frank smiled, stepped back, and bowed as he swept off his hat. “By all means, dear lady.”
After Kate rode away Trace said, “We should have stopped her.”
Frank said, “You can’t stop a force of nature, and that’s what Kate Kerrigan is . . . a beautiful force of nature.”
Trace smiled. “You love my Ma, don’t you Frank?”
“Madly. And she’s a woman, so she’s well aware of that.”
“Then ask her to marry you,” Quinn said.
“And grab a handful of stars while I’m at it,” Cobb said. “One is quite as impossible as the other. Kate has a much more desirable suitor . . . it’s the fair land we’re standing on and her plans for its future.”
Ah, but it was wonderful to be young and strong and feel the power of the fine horse under her and the wind tangled in her hair. Kate galloped for a couple miles, then held her horse to a canter and finally a trot.
It was good cow country with plenty of grass and water and it was hers. In her mind, that added greatly to its value. The cattle she saw still held their summer fat and looked healthy and content and she anticipated that come spring there would be plenty of calves on the ground.
She drew rein and watched a big grulla steer that must have gone almost two thousand pounds come up out of a draw followed by several lanky youngsters. The grulla was agitated and he tossed his head and snorted, the great sweep of his horns catching the morning sunlight. He stopped, turned, and looked back at the draw, then swung his massive head in Kate’s direction, glaring red-eyed and mean at her. The points of his horns were needle-sharp and as dangerous as cavalry lances and he didn’t seem to be in the mood to be sociable.
If the huge steer charged, she knew she’d be in a world of trouble, but to her relief, after a couple of feints in her direction, the longhorn thought better of it and trotted away. The others followed.
Kate swallowed hard. That had been close, and to her surprise her hands on the reins trembled. Something or someone in the draw had spooked the steer—an animal that feared nothing on earth, animal or human—and it had to be investigated. She slid the Henry from the boot, heeled her horse into a walk, and headed toward the draw, the sun warm on her shoulders. Kate told herself that she was being foolish going it alone and that she should turn around and go for help. But whatever hidden danger lay in the draw would probably be gone by the time she got back.
She sensed a threat to the Kerrigan Ranch and she could not let it go.
She eased into the draw, the Henry across her thighs, and wound her way around a few trees, her pert nose high, testing the breeze. She smelled only cattle and sun-warmed grass. For a few moments, she sat her horse, studying the way ahead. She thought she saw a tawny patch of color in the brush, readied the Henry, and moved slowly toward it. She suspected a cougar, and that would explain the odd behavior of the grulla steer. Whatever it was, her horse wanted no part of it. He acted up, reared, and tried to turn, alarm showing white in his eyes. Kate fought her mount for a few moments then let him swing around and trot out of the draw.
A scared, restless horse did not make for a steady rifle platform.
Kate stepped out of the saddle and the horse trotted away. After about fifty yards, he figured he’d put enough distance between him and the draw and lowered his head to graze.
By nature, Kate was not a profane woman, but she had a few choice words to say about the equine species as she walked back toward the draw. Once among the trees, she readied her rifle and stepped warily toward the brush where she’d seen the patch of color.
A moment later, her instinct for danger clamored and she stopped. Slowly, a little at a time, she turned her head to the left. The big grulla steer stood glaring at her, his head lowered, his glossy hide the color of a gun barrel. Tension between the animal and the woman stretched taut as a fiddle string. Finally, Kate managed a tight smile and said, “I’ve got no quarrel with you.”
The steer jerked up his head in surprise as sunlight rippled on his horns, scaring her out of her wits.
Nonetheless, Kate straightened her back and walked on. If she had to, she’d use the rifle, but she knew that was a losing proposition. Even with a bullet in him, the longhorn would keep on coming and he wouldn’t stop until he killed her. Half expecting the pound of hooves behind her, she shortened her step, her head slightly tilted toward the danger.
But the grulla steer stayed where he was.
One danger down, another to go . . . Kate Kerrigan still had a cougar to contend with.
But there was no cougar in the brush . . . just a dead old range cow.
The cow’s neck had been broken by what looked like a powerful blow and her belly had been ripped open by sharp claws. Her intestines spilled over the ground, and it looked to Kate that the liver and heart had been eaten. It was not the work of a cougar or even a mountain lion. A bigger, stronger predator had done it.
Kate swallowed hard. The black bear Trace and Quinn had warned her about had not left the Kerrigan range. . . .
It was in the draw and it was close.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Gradually, Kate became aware of two sounds. One was a distant thunder coming up from the Gulf, the other a different kind of thunder and much closer . . . the spine-chilling growl of a bear from hell.
She backed away from the carcass of the cow, her rifle swinging this way and that as she frantically tried to cover all the points of the compass. She needn’t have bothered. The bear’s roaring frontal attack came right for her.
Time and space shattered into fragments just split seconds long.
She fired once. Almost on top of her, she saw the bear’s open, fanged mouth, smelled the rotten meat stench of its breath. Hit by a clawed paw, the Henry spun out of her hand, then razor-sharp claws the size of sickles slashed at her head. The bear roared.
Kate Kerrigan’s life was saved by cow dung.
The heel of her riding boot came down on a ball of dung that had hardened in the sun into the consistency of knotted oak. The ball rolled under her foot, and she lost her balance and stumbled awkwardly to her left. She was spared the full savage power of the bear’s slashing claws that would have killed her, but they raked across the top of her right breast, ripping apart the fabric of her dress and slashing open the skin underneath.
In pain, Kate tumbled onto her back. Her hand dr
opped to the pocket of her riding dress and fumbled for the derringer she kept there. It was gone, lost in her fall. The furious bear loomed over her, poised for the kill. Saliva from its open mouth dripped onto her bare right shoulder and mingled with her blood.
“Dear God, forgive my sins . . .” she whispered.
The bear roared, ready to attack, and then came the sound of another thunder.
Moving at the speed of a galloping racehorse, the grulla longhorn’s lowered head, driven by a ton of bone and muscle, slammed into the bear’s exposed side. Its ribs caved in and the bear was thrown to the ground. The steer was relentless. Its huge anvil-shaped head swung back and forth, plunging his horns deep into the bear’s body.
The bear rose unsteadily and stood tall. It snarled and raised its paws, shuffling forward to mount an attack. But weakened by the pounding it had taken from the steer’s head and horns, the bear was vulnerable. The big steer lowered its head again for another charge and crashed into the bear’s belly, its horns doing terrible damage. Done, the bear fell on his back and the steer went in for the kill. Its horns plunged again and again into the bear’s body, tearing apart flesh, spilling ropes of entrails into the dust. The grulla steer kept up the attack long after the bear was dead and it did not quit until only a tangled mass of blood, hair, and shattered bone lay on the ground.
Finally satisfied, the longhorn trotted backward a few feet, then swung around to face Kate. The longhorn’s steaming head was covered in gore, and its horns dripped blood.
To her, the animal was an apparition from the lowest mazes of hell.
She looked around and saw with a sinking heart that the Henry was out of reach. Of her derringer there was no sign. She lifted her eyes to the raging steer and knew she must soon face the same fate as the bear.
But to her relief, the steer tossed its head in a defiant, triumphal gesture and turned and trotted away. Its fight had been with the bear, not the frail human.
Kate rose slowly to her feet. She didn’t even glance at the mangled body of the black bear. That danger was over. She retrieved her Henry and then looked around for the derringer. Suddenly, to her surprise, she found herself on her knees. The front of her dress was scarlet with blood and her head felt strangely light. . . .
The ground came rushing up to meet her and Kate knew no more.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Kate Kerrigan woke to candlelight. She tried to rise, but a strong, female hand pushed her back.
“You must rest and gather your strength,” the woman said.
Kate took stock of her surroundings. The single candle did little to banish the smoky gloom that surrounded her and she smelled an odd odor, something like the incense that burned in churches. “Where am I?”
The woman drew closer. “You are safe here. Close to the Brazos and far from harm.”
Kate saw her features for the first time and realized that the woman was stunningly beautiful. The luxuriant hair that cascaded over her shoulders was raven black, but her eyes, even in darkness, were a startling blue, and her full mouth was wide and expressive. She wore a buckskin dress, elaborately beaded, and a narrow headband with the same blue and white pattern.
“There was a bear,” Kate said. “It attacked me.”
The woman nodded. “I have treated your wounds, but you will always remember the bear. Even when you are an old woman, you will still have the scars.”
“You brought me here?” Kate asked.
“Yes. And your horse and Henry rifle.”
“My name is Kate Kerrigan. I have a ranch hereabouts.”
“I know. It is said you are a fine woman and a brave one.”
Kate smiled. “Who told you that?”
“Jason Hunt the rancher and others.” The woman laid her hand on Kate’s forehead. “There is no fever. That is good.” Her smile was slight, almost sad. “My name is Mary Fullerton. I’m a doctor.”
“A real doctor?” Kate said, surprised.
“A real one. According to the Women’s Medical College of Pennsylvania I can put MD after my name.”
“Then why are you all the way out here in cow country?”
“Because like you, people find it hard to believe that a woman can be a real doctor. Back east, I hung out my shingle in several cities, but no patients came. I headed west and hung the same shingle with similar results, so five years ago, I came here to practice medicine among the Indians. At first, the Comanche were suspicious and only allowed me to treat their women and children, but after I patched up a few wounded warriors, they slowly came to accept me.” The woman shrugged. “The Comanche are gone now, but occasionally Apaches come by.”
Kate was apologetic and a little embarrassed. “I didn’t mean—”
“There’s no harm done,” Mary said.
“Yes, there is. I said a very foolish thing and I wholeheartedly take it back . . . Doctor.”
Mary smiled. “Practicing medicine among the Indians has its own rewards. A Comanche woman made this dress and the Apache built this hogan for me, though it’s twice the size of their own.”
Kate’s eyes had become accustomed to the gloom and smoke and she could make out a single room with animal skins on the walls, the floor covered in cushions of various kinds and blankets. A fire burned in the middle of the floor. “It’s very . . . cozy.”
“The Apache build male and female hogans. The male is round, the female has six sides like this one.” Mary rose, a tall, elegant woman who moved easily, and stepped to the fire. She ladled steaming broth into a bowl and brought it to Kate. “Now you must eat. I lack silverware so a horn spoon will have to do.”
Kate pushed herself to a sitting position. “When did you bring me here?”
“Yesterday, after dark.”
“I must get home. My family will be worried.”
“It’s night,” Mary said. “Rest until first light and then leave. You lost a lot of blood and you’ll feel weak for a while. Now open your mouth. Eat this beef broth while it’s hot.”
“I want to thank you for bringing me here,” Kate said.
“That’s what doctors are for.”
In the dead of night, Dr. Mary Fullerton’s voice woke Kate. “The only thing of value I have inside is a sick patient. Now be off with you before you wake her.”
Kate was wide awake and listening.
“You got a five-hunnerd-dollar hoss there, lady,” a man said. “What else do you have inside that hovel?”
“Nothing that would interest you,” Mary answered.
“You interest me. That might be enough.”
Kate sat up, waited until her head stopped swimming, then got unsteadily to her feet. The poultice Mary had put on her chest dropped off, and Kate saw parallel red slashes across the top of her breasts. She had no time to grieve about that. The man, whoever he might be, was speaking again.
“I’m a plain-speaking man, blunt you might say, so I’ll keep this simple. I want you and I want your hoss. Do we do this sociable, like, or do I get rough? Of course, you might want me rough, huh?”
The door to an Apache dwelling always faces east. Kate stepped outside into moonlight, the Henry ready in her hands, knowing Mary and the unknown man were on the opposite side of the hogan.
As she rounded the structure, she heard the doctor say, “Mister, touch me and I’ll kill you.”
Kate stepped forward. “Let me say that a different way. Touch her and I’ll kill you.”
The man was big, bearded, and dressed in bits and pieces of an army uniform. Kate pegged him as a deserter and a murderer, rapist, and robber. If she had to, she’d shoot him.
It looked like that would be the case.
“So what’s this? A little sick lady with a big rifle. You ain’t gonna pull the trigger on that there Henry, now are you?” He had mean little eyes, but they were crafty and showed neither fear nor apprehension, only what could have been lust and the certainty of getting his own way by force.
“See, I need a hoss and a woman,
and now I’ve got one of the first an’ two of t’other. My name is Bill Hobson, by the way. So now we’re acquainted, ain’t you gonna invite me inside for tea and cake?”
The man who called himself Hobson wore a Colt butt forward in a flapped holster for a cavalry draw. He would be slow, and both he and Kate knew it.
“You back away and go elsewhere.” Kate pulled her tattered dress together. “You’re not welcome here.” She swayed a little as a wave of weakness washed over her. “Go . . . go away.” The rifle muzzle dropped, the Henry suddenly too heavy for her.
A born predator, Hobson saw vulnerability and took command.
Three fast steps brought him to Kate, and he wrenched the rifle from her grasp, tossed it aside, and followed up with a backhanded slap. The blow had little behind it, but it was enough to drop Kate to her knees.
Hobson grabbed her by the upper arm, pulled her roughly to her feet, and pushed her toward the hogan. “Get inside and wait for me there.”
He turned his attention to Mary Fullerton just as a cloud scudded across the face of the moon. In the momentary gloom, he saw the flare of the derringer even as the .41 bullet thudded into his chest. That stopped him in his tracks, but the second shot Mary fired from Kate’s gun missed and the big man moved toward her again, his right hand fumbling with the flap of his holster.
Despite her weakness, Kate saw the man’s killing intent and dived for the Henry, landing on her right side. Pain jolted through her body, but she had the rifle. She fired, shoving the rifle out in front of her like a pistol. It was a shot she had to make. She knew she’d have no time to rack the lever for a second.
Her bullet hit Hobson between the top of his ear and the rim of his kepi. The man didn’t cry out. He hit the ground in a heap like a puppet that just had its strings cut. The rifle’s roar echoed through the moonlit darkness and flocks of alarmed birds exploded out of the oaks and mesquite.
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