Unbroken Hearts

by Anna Murray

  The man went silent, reloading his long, single-shot rifle.

  Cal wondered how many he had out there. Judging from the lack of movement around the bunkhouse, it appeared that most were caught near the corral or in the barn. Cal set his jaw and yammered off more shots, keeping up a barrage, yet at the same time trying to count the shots from other rifles. He and his men were outnumbered, but as best he could judge, none of those outlaws had repeaters.

  "Damn! Boss, must be six men in the house!" yelled the same concerned voice.

  Cal grinned savagely and grunted as he reloaded without even taking the rifle from his shoulder, thankful that the design of it allowed him to quickly shove bullets into the side and keep on shooting. Indeed, he was raining a staggering hail of bullets around the outlaw positions.

  The "boss" waved a red bandanna. A group of men, about thirty yards away, hidden along the creek, suddenly appeared. The group must have marched up the river, sneaking past the house under the protection of the banks. Now they came creeping up from their cover. Cal counted five men.

  Then Cal saw Mineral Creek mounts approaching full tilt from the range, bulging forward from inside a dust cloud.

  Cal smiled grimly. Those five outlaws were going to hell with broken backs.

  Roy, Bailey, and five more cowboys emerged from that cloud like shadows on sweating horses, weapons at the ready. They slowed, chose their targets, and opened fire, and amazingly, their first volley left two of the bandits along the creek eating dirt. Those not hit went scrambling behind trees and rocks.

  The three men hunkered down in the yard opened up on Roy's group, forcing them to ground amidst a clamor of bullets whining and thudding all around. Cal worked the repeater, spitting out a bucket of bullets to distract the enemy.

  It felt like hours had gone by, but the gunfight had been engaged less than fifteen minutes. The outlaws would soon have no retreat, as more of Cal's men were riding hard from the range. They began to position themselves in a wide circle around the ranch buildings to slowly form a tightening noose from which there'd be no escape.

  More shouting and silence from the outlaw guns. Reloading sounds amidst the muffled hoof beats of ranch hands coming in. Cal took the opportunity to move across to the parlor window to shoot from a better angle. Two dust clouds were coming in from the north, and Cal saw another bunch riding hell bent from the west.

  "Sonofabitch, boss! The scurvy gonna have us surrounded!"

  Cal almost laughed out loud upon hearing the whiny voice again. At least the man realized the criminal recklessness of their situation.

  At that point the "boss" saw that overplaying his weaker hand would lead to a sure-fire disaster. He signaled to his men, and the outlaws sent parting shots whizzing into the house and barn. Cal stepped away from the path of bullets singing through the window.

  Firing furiously the cretins tried to run for their mounts, but Mineral Creek's strengthened force answered with hellish vengeance. Cal jumped to the window and squeezed off a salvo. He hit his mark twice, but three men managed to slip past the bombardment using their fallen companion's horses as shields. They rode, crouched between two horses, until they escaped the Easton men's range, then lit into their saddles, dug spurs deep into horseflesh, and hightailed it out of there. They rode low, like burs stuck on mane.

  An eerie silence descended in their wake. Hands spilled out of the barn, and Cal's ears rang as he rose from his position at the window. He loped over to Mama, and seeing her safely curled on the floor he breathed a heavy sigh of relief. She was prone quietly under the desk, just as he'd left her. Gently he picked her up and cradled her in his arms, carried her back to her chair, and all the while he reassured her that he and Roy were fine, and he promised he'd be back as soon as he could. He waited for her to blink 'yes' before he kissed her lightly and bolted to meet up with Roy.

  When he arrived at the corral the men were gathering to make their reports. Emotions ran high and cussing rained down like a hailstorm. Cal held up his hand to quiet them. He waved Billy, the fourteen-year-old wrangler, forward, and ordered the stout young man up to the house to sit with Mama.

  Roy was looking for something to kick. "I'd go after them but our horses need cooling, and we got injured men. We rode like we was fleeing hell just to get here." His voice rose and fell with his frustration.

  "OK, OK." Cal thrust his hand through his hair. "We busted them sheep-biters good. And they're leaving one big trail for us to follow. Let's settle things here quickly. Then we go after them," Cal shot breathlessly.

  Then he strode over to Paco, the wounded ranch hand in the corral. A gaggle of men were around the man, some pressing bandannas against wounds on his arm and leg. Lucky it wasn't a gut-shot, thought Cal. He removed his shirt and ripped it into strips to bandage the wounds. The act calmed moaning Paco some; the man doubtless figured his boss wouldn't bother to tend to him if he wasn't going to live.

  "What about the other man?"

  Roy looked past his brother, stone sober. "Sam's dead. Bailey's taking care of it. And he sent Hanson and Taylor to get Doc Rutherford."

  Cal slapped his hand against his leg. His eyes slid along the dead outlaws littering the property.

  "Know these bastards?" Looking at them made Cal angry all over again.

  Roy cussed. "Seen them in town. The no-goods work for Dullen," he clipped.

  Cal yanked his hat from his head. "Dullen's crazy, sure. But I never thought he'd start a range war."

  "It don't surprise me." Roy shrugged. He cocked his head.

  Cal heard the hoof beats, too. Both men were as edgy as mares in heat. Lightning fast they unshucked their weapons. They saw a lone rider leading another horse, rushing up the main path to beat the stage into town.

  A man was slung belly down over the horse behind.

  Roy and Cal immediately recognized both mounts as Mineral Creek geldings, and they holstered their guns. At the same time Bailey called out that it was Red Hanson, one of the men Roy had sent to town to fetch the doctor. Hanson's face was white as a new store-bought sheet.

  He stopped when he reached Cal and Roy.

  They gaped at the man strung over the second mount.

  "Oh, God," Roy moaned, his face crumpling.

  Cal's involuntary gasp whistled through clenched teeth. "Ned."

  Chapter 29

  The shot had leapt from a tangle of barbed bushes. Slapping his hand to his thigh, Ned pitched forward in the wagon seat. The pain seared a grimace across his sunburned face.

  No time to think, Sarah grabbed the lines from his hands. She paid no heed to the rough leather burn biting into her palms.

  Horses were coaxed into a steady gait. Frantically she pulled at Ned's arm to lean his body against her.

  Then Sarah's stomach lurched into her throat.

  An outlaw, face half covered in bandanna, dashed up to stop her team. Another brushed alongside the wagon, six-shooter drawn. Smug eyes betrayed the amused grin lurking beneath his bandanna.

  Emily was gasping like a wheezing calf, her face pale as fresh snow.

  The man pointed at Sarah.

  "Stop yer team," he commanded, "or we'll shoot the all of ya'."

  "Whoa, whoa." Her voice squeaked. Sarah brought the pair of geldings to a halt.

  Swiftly the men swung from their mounts and loped to the wagon. The taller one grabbed a handful of Ned's duster, and he jerked Ned's half conscious body to the ground. Ned's limp body didn't have the strength to fight back.

  Sarah jumped to her feet in the wagon box.

  "What's wrong with you! He's wounded," she shouted. She flew down to Ned, who was lying in the dust, groaning.

  But before she could tend Ned the short one seized her arms and half dragged her back through the dirt. He pushed her roughly into the wagon bed. Then he gripped Sarah's wrists tightly and bound them with rope.

  "Yer man's the lucky one," he snarled fiercely.

  He can't die. Ned can't die. Sarah chanted the words s
ilently, a wish and a prayer. The other outlaw was tying Emily's squirming hands and kicking feet, and she was added to the wagon bed.

  "Let her go. For heaven's sake, she's a little girl." Sarah argued breathlessly. "Take me. I'm what you want."

  "Shut her up," yelled the man behind them.

  The outlaw tying her hands removed his bandanna and twisted it, pushed it into her mouth. He tied it round the back of her head, brushing a chubby hand through her loose hair.

  When he finished Sarah turned her head and saw her kidnapper's full face for the first time. She choked on the whiskey and sweat-dried gag. His hand held three fingers.

  Her heart sank. She turned around and looked at the other man, also now fully revealed. Scar-face.

  The nightmare was back.

  Scar-face saw recognition flash in her eyes.

  "Hank, I think she remembers."

  Hank scowled. "Sonofabitch, Suds. I knews she saw us. Aiken told the boss she didn't see nothing, but I knews," he spat out angrily.

  "Then we was right, Hank, tryin' to rattle her out of the whorehouse. Damn them Eastons."

  Suds loosed a string of scorching curses. "An' damn. If the bossman weren't wantin' to poke her hisself I'd have kilt her over at Mineral Creek. We could've taken care of Easton, too," he boasted.

  Sarah's eyes widened.

  Suds looked at her, tossed back his head and laughed devilishly.

  "That's right fancy lady. It was us." He eyed her slowly and licked his lips, like a wolf moving in on an abandoned buffalo carcass. "Heard you married up with old Easton." He leered, and spit shot from between his missing teeth as he spoke.

  Sarah glared. Heat rose in her chest. Emily curled into a ball and pushed her face into Sarah's side.

  Sarah thought about the derringer hidden in her skirt pocket. If she could work the ropes off her hands . . .

  The one called Hank hoisted himself up to the seat and took up the reins. Suds tied Hank's horse behind the wagon and stepped into his saddle behind. They rode along the trail a mile or so and then Hank turned toward the west and a bone-jarring trek across open prairie.

  Sarah furiously worked at the ropes binding her wrists by rubbing them against a rough nail on the side of the wagon box.

  They crossed the creek and continued west for what Sarah judged to be two miles until they came to an abandoned sod hut near a cottonwood grove. Hank reined in the horses.

  Sarah and Emily were plucked from the back of the wagon like seed sacks. The men carried them over their shoulders to the hut, and they entered, clearing cobwebs and grunting through the musty dryness of the place. Sarah and Emily were hastily deposited on the dirt floor.

  Hank peered down at them through narrow slits. "Don't go gettin notions about no rescue. Eastons'll never find you here." He removed the bandanna gags from their mouths. "No use buckin' or screamin'. Not a soul fer miles."

  He yanked off his hat but kept his gun belt fastened about his girth, and he opened the dusty shutters on the two small windows. Slices of sunlight poured into the small space, and Sarah could see crude furniture: a table and four chairs, two bunks, some shelves. She sat with Emily close, and again she twisted at the ropes behind her back.

  Hank poked his head out the open front door and yelled to Suds who was outside tending the horses.

  "When's Dullen gettin' here?"

  Suds reeled around to face Hank, and he grinned. "Dunno." "I got a fire started and coffee brewin'. Dullen will come round when he finishes at Eastons."

  "What we doing til then?" Hank yelled out but kept his eyes fixed on Sarah.

  "We wait," came the answer.

  Hank's eyes raked Sarah again. He kicked the dirt, pulled his hat on, and went out to dig for tobacco in his saddlebag.

  Sarah scooted to the table where she'd spied a rough edge. She rubbed the hemp against it. Her wrists were soon bloody-raw, and sticky.

  Half an hour passed. Sarah heard the sounds of the men laughing and eating.

  She whispered to Emily. "Roy and Cal will be here soon. They are on their way."

  But she couldn't even be sure that Cal and Roy were alive. They had to be. She closed her eyes and felt Cal's lips brush across her cheek, as they had when he kissed her goodbye at the house that morning.

  Thank God he had the repeater rifle, and lots of armed hands on the ranch. By now someone surely would have gone looking for her and Ned and Emily. By now they must know Emily never made it to school.

  And God please help Ned.

  * * *

  The sun sank lower. Sarah heard muffled hoofs approaching. Hank and Suds instinctively drew their weapons but shucked them back again when Dullen whistled the arranged signal.

  Suds motioned toward the hut. "We got 'em boss."

  But Dullen was in a foul mood. He spat and cursed.

  "Damn good, damn those fools! They beat a retreat from Easton's," he growled. "They got the jump on Easton after Kingman left the place, but damn, men was inside the house, and in the barn. The bastards had guns and fired at our side and four were wounded," he admitted more to himself than to anyone else. "The good-for-nothings came running back when Easton's guard rode in from the range. Claimed they were surrounded."

  Dullen was red with anger.

  But now he had his ace. Cal Easton's pride would do him in as he died fighting for his woman and the young sister. Dullen's lips turned up in a smile as he strode confidently to the sod hut.

  His dark figure filled the small doorway, large enough to block the low orange sun.

  "Welcome to my hell Mrs. Easton," Dullen hurled the words at her. "Make yourself at home, 'cause you'll be staying a while." Sarah couldn't see his face, but there was no mistaking the sharp bitterness in his voice.

  Dullen sidled up to her position on the floor, squatted by her side, and raked a soft hand through her hair. She leaned away.

  "You'll be here long as it takes for your husband and good-for-mules brother-in-law to give up their property." Color crept up his neck, and he clenched his hands into fists. "Which is rightly mine," he hissed like a wildcat. "After that damn lawyer stepped up with a will and claim deed I had to pay them off. Then the bastards used my money to double the size of their herd."

  He bent over, stroked her cheek.

  She jerked away.

  Evil laughter spewed from his thin lips. "Oh I got them good though," he continued the torment. "John Easton died in an accident. Oh yes, oh yes, I helped it along just a mite. Should've run them out of business long ago. Damned Cal Easton was smarter than I took him for," he muttered.

  Sarah stiffened. Her expression fed his fire and he grew bolder. He ran a hand over her bodice and up along her throat. She barely appeared to notice.

  Mama knew, she thought.

  Dullen sputtered on with his loathing croon. "You think you're something special, don't ya? Not to Cal Easton you ain't," he growled. "He ever tell you about his pretty little Gracey?" He wagged his head violently. "Whoa no. I wasn't good enough for her. But she was whore enough to spread her legs for your husband."

  He stopped and laughed at the tight expression creeping across Sarah's face.

  Sarah turned her head away from the awful words spewing out of the evil man but Dullen grasped her jaw angrily, and he pulled her to face him. His eyes glared down into hers.

  "You know how I know? Doc Chandler works for me! So I knew your bastard husband put a baby on my Grace." He scowled. "Hell, Easton didn't even know it; she was going to tell him. But I followed along to take care of that problem -- the same as I can take care of you!" Spit was streaming down his lip and glistened on his chin. "Would you rather fall off a horse or down a well?" He hitched his hand into her hair and wound the strands between his fingers. "Oh, but don't you worry . . . yet. You'll be here a good, good long while. We'll have a dandy time together . . . you'll be as you were meant to be . . . a whore." His eyes raked her powerfully, hungrily. "Now you're mine, just as you'd have been if Roy Easton hadn't butted in wit
h his damn pranks." He vice-gripped her upper arms, pulled her close. "I got so many bones to pick with the Eastons I could fill a damn graveyard."

  Which, it seemed to Sarah, was exactly what the man had already done. She closed her eyes, but felt the steep angles of his sour face inches from hers, heated and shaking with anger.

  He unlocked his bony fingers and thrust his hands painfully over her arms.

  Sarah jerked angrily at the ropes around her wrists.

  Dullen, satisfied he'd riled her to an intense discomfort, slowly rose and went back outside to talk with the other men.

  Fiercely driven by the encounter, Sarah repeatedly jerked her hands apart, and suddenly she hit pay dirt with the bindings. The hemp snapped and her hands were freed.

  She listened to the rattling of men cleaning up from their meal. Emily was mute and shaking.

  The sun crawled down, and shadows lengthened. Suddenly they heard an odd whoosh followed by a thud. Sarah scrambled to her knees and peered out the window in time to see a new horror: Suds, groaning and staggering, fell forward with an arrow stuck clean through his back. As he hit the ground he heard another swoosh, and Hank shouted and clutched at his shoulder. Dullen ran into the hut.

  "Savages!" he screamed.

  Hank was running for the hut, too, and he had to battle against Dullen to get inside. Hank's weight against the pine door prevailed, and he staggered through, groped at the dank air, and fell to the dirt floor.

  Dullen knocked the table over and used it to barricade the door. Then he squatted behind to protect himself from the horrors lurking outside.

  "We'll give you the women! You can have our women!" he shouted. Sweat broke out across his forehead, and the moist beads grew to heavy drops and ran down his face. He unholstered his Colt and waved it frantically at Sarah and Emily.

  "Git out there! Git!" he screamed.

  Sarah faced a terrible dilemma. She'd seen Indians once before, and they'd helped her. But that thought offered little comfort. These were obviously the attack-first and talk-later kind.