With a sigh, she picked up her carpetbag and went outside to wait for Roy, who had gone to get Baldur ready for her. In the window of the other adobe cabin a shadow shifted. Miss Gabriela must be watching. By the cook shack, the last stragglers were still finishing their breakfast, but men were already milling about, stealing glances at her. From their increased boldness, she understood they were aware of her departure.
She pressed her hand to the waist of her skirt, imagining the prospect of a new life within her. She and Roy had yet to discuss the potential consequences of last night, but time was slipping away. Perhaps it made no sense to speculate. Until they knew for certain, they lacked a solid basis for making decisions about their future, adjusting their plans to accommodate pregnancy, childbirth and taking care of a baby.
A hard slam of the ranch house door startled Celia out of her thoughts. She turned to look. Dale Hunter strode down the slope, a grim expression on his patrician face. He spotted her but offered no greeting. His gaze veered away, as if he were unwilling to acknowledge her existence.
Two other men followed him, Franklin and a tall, thin man whose name Celia could not recall. Both looked at her, and something in their eyes filled her with terror. Behind them, Mr. Smith stepped out into the morning light, flanked by a pair of bodyguards. It was the first time Celia had seen him leave the sanctuary of his fortress.
“I hope you don’t mind a small delay, Miss Courtwood. Franklin and Longhurst will ride with you and Hunter. Safety in numbers, don’t you agree?”
She swallowed, found her voice. “Yes...perhaps.”
Davies came out, pushed past Mr. Smith’s entourage and hurried toward her, papers clutched in his hand. He came to a halt in front of her. On his face she could see a baffled, troubled look, as if the world around him made even less sense than it normally did.
“Miss Celia, I got an envelope from Mr. Smith, and I have the letter for my ma here, with her address.” He thrust the papers at her. “Will you write the address on the envelope and post the letter for me when you have a chance?”
Celia frowned. “I’m sorry, Mr. Davies. There is no time. We are about to leave. Someone else will have to do it for you.”
A desperate, pleading quality entered his tone. “But you promised...”
Celia stole a glance at Mr. Smith, who had not moved from the open doorway. He met her scrutiny, gave her a small, wry smile. “By all means,” he said. “There is no hurry. The men have yet to saddle their mounts and round up the packhorses.”
With a sigh of resignation, Celia pivoted on her feet, marched back into the cabin and placed her carpetbag on the table. Like a dog on a leash, Davies followed her. He pulled the door until it was barely ajar. It wasn’t proper to have him inside the cabin with her, Celia thought, at the same time wondering what foolish notion made her cling to conventional social norms, even while living in an outlaw camp. With two dozen armed men outside, nothing untoward could happen between her and Davies.
Or could it?
Davies edged closer to her as she rummaged inside her bag, searching for the bottle of ink. He craned his head toward her. For a moment Celia feared he might attempt to kiss her. She tensed her arm, her palm tingling with the hard slap she was about to deliver. But then Davies froze in midmotion, his mouth next to her ear, and she could hear him talking in a cautious whisper.
“Miss Celia, they’ll kill you. I heard Mr. Smith give the order. Don’t go. Find some excuse to stay behind.”
Her fingers clenched around the bottle of ink. The claim was crazy; it made no sense. But like a kick in her gut, she recognized it as the truth. She recognized it in the way Dale Hunter had refused to meet her eyes. In the way Franklin and Longhurst had stared at her. In the way Mr. Smith had come out of his lair, to make sure his orders were obeyed.
With mechanical, clumsy movements, she uncapped the ink bottle, set the two letters side by side on the table and began to copy the sender’s address from the worn envelope onto the new one. Her brain was racing in fevered circles, looking for a solution, while she drew each letter slowly, playing for time, praying that Roy would return from the horse corrals.
Thank you, God, she whispered in her mind when she heard the thud of boot heels on the path outside. Roy burst into the room, took in the sight of Davies standing too close to her and bristled with masculine indignation.
“What is going on in here?”
“I’m helping Mr. Davies with a letter to his mother.” Celia kept her voice calm, then jerked her chin from Davies to Roy and mouthed, Tell him. A blank look entered Davies’s eyes. She’d noticed before how his mind shut down in panic when he was called upon to make a decision. Poor man, he must have been told all his life that he was stupid, and he had come to believe it, to the extent that he was afraid to think for himself.
“I’ll always remember you as a friend, Mr. Davies,” she said softly. “Thank you.”
Appearing to grow in stature, the short, squat man inched closer to Roy and delivered his message in muffled whispers. A more detailed account by the sound of it, interspaced by questions from Roy. When the two stopped talking, Celia forced a bland tone and spoke in a loud voice.
“Here we are. One completed letter. Now run along, Mr. Davies, so that I can pack my bag once more. Everything is in disarray because the ink was at the bottom.”
“Thank you, Miss Celia.”
She smiled, a stiff, frozen smile, and reached out to clasp Davies’s arm. She gave him a small squeeze to express her gratitude, and then she lifted her hand away from his arm and gestured for him to go back outside.
Left alone with Roy, Celia got up on shaky legs, went to him and slid her arms around his waist. Resting her head on his shoulder, she spoke into his ear. “What can we do?”
“Don’t go,” he whispered back. “Say you’ve changed your mind. Mr. Smith doesn’t trust you. He thinks you might go to the law and offer to be a witness, hoping it might help me, or help your father. If you stay at the hideout, he’ll have nothing to worry about.”
“He is suspicious. If I change my mind, he’ll wonder why.” She frowned, an idea forming in her mind. Outside, someone yelled, another voice replied. Then her name was called, and she recognized the hoarse, disguised voice of Mr. Smith.
“Miss Courtwood! It’s time to go!”
She took Roy by the hand and tugged him toward the cabin door, murmuring her instructions. “Follow me. Don’t say anything. Just listen to me and play along.”
Keep calm, she told herself as they stepped out into the morning sunshine. It may save your life.
With the silent, watchful crowd looking on, she pasted a bright smile on her face, released Roy’s hand and hurried over to Mr. Smith. Before she could reach him, she heard the sound of pistols being cocked, saw the weapons of the two bodyguards pointing at her.
Ignoring the show of force, she halted a few steps from Mr. Smith and spoke with a gushing eagerness. “A change of plan, I am afraid. We have decided to get married before I leave. Isn’t that wonderful?” She clapped her hands, like a silly schoolgirl. “I’ve been waiting for Roy to agree to it, but isn’t it typical for a man to refuse until it is almost too late?”
Mr. Smith contemplated her through the thick lenses of his spectacles. Damn the disguise that made it so difficult to gauge his reaction. Celia cocked her head to one side. “Aren’t you going to congratulate me? It is not every day one of your men takes a bride.”
No reaction. She kept smiling, her cheeks aching with the effort. “I’ll stay here for another week, and Mr. Hunter can bring a preacher back with him when he returns.”
Halloran stepped forward and spoke with the satisfaction of a man who is offering a solution. “There’s a circuit preacher that passes by Miss Mabel’s every month, on the first of the month. It’s only a couple of days away.”
“Splendid!” Celia exclaimed. “Da
le Hunter can fetch him.”
Once again, she felt Mr. Smith’s penetrating gaze upon her. Her smile froze. Those cruel, cruel eyes were measuring her, probing, seeing through the charade she was putting on. Her hands clenched into fists and she hid them in the folds of her velvet riding skirt. She’d been full of excitement when she put on her elegant costume and rode out of Rock Springs with Roy Hagan at her side. And this was what the journey had led her to—pitting her wits against a criminal mastermind, fighting for a chance to stay alive.
“No need to fetch the preacher,” Mr. Smith finally said. “You and Hagan can ride out to Miss Mabel’s, get the reverend to marry you there.”
Craning his neck, he surveyed the crowd, sought out Franklin and Longhurst and Dale Hunter. “You three should ride out now. You’ll be slower, with the packhorses in tow. Hagan and his woman will set off an hour later and catch up with you. Remember your orders. Now it is twice as important to complete the task.”
Chapter Fourteen
Roy listened to the clatter of hoofbeats echoing from the canyon walls. He’d been too young to fight in the war, but this was how he imagined the battle drums would sound—a steady rat-tat-tat that seeped into your very heartbeat.
During their final hour at the outlaw camp, while he and Celia had been waiting to ride out, they had barely spoken, too aware of the attention from the men who seemed to sense something in the air—a foretaste of violence about to break out.
The path widened where the canyon walls drew apart. A thick layer of sand on the ground muffled the sound of their passage, allowing them to stop without others realizing that they were no longer in motion. Roy brought Dagur to a halt, waited for Celia to pull up alongside him. He wasn’t sure whether to speak up, but she deserved to know what lay ahead. It was better to be prepared.
“You understood what Mr. Smith said?” he asked. “That it is twice as important to complete the task?”
“Yes.” She met his gaze without a flinch. “They must kill both of us.”
Roy studied her pale face, saw how the scar blended in perfectly now, difficult to notice unless you knew it was there and could home in on the slight unevenness of the skin. The weeks they had shared flashed through his mind. And now he had brought her to this—to die the death of an outlaw. It was his fault.
“I’m sorry...”
“Don’t,” Celia replied fiercely. “Don’t ever say that. I wouldn’t exchange what we had together for a lifetime of safe existence. I’d choose this. I’d choose you.”
Not dismounting, Roy reached over and pulled her out of the saddle to rest across his lap. He kissed her—hungry, desperate kisses. The words could no longer remain unsaid, and he told her that he loved her, had not understood that such a depth of feeling could exist. “It’s like I didn’t even live before. I was just drifting. Nothing mattered.”
“I love you, too. And in a way I’m grateful...” Celia leaned back in his arms, reached up to touch his face. “In a way I’m glad it will end like this...it is better for us to die together than for one of us to be left alone to mourn.”
Roy smiled down at her, grim and wistful at the same time. “Don’t go burying us just yet. Dale Hunter is on our side. That makes two against two. The odds are better than even.”
A spark of rebellion flashed in Celia’s eyes. “Three against two. Don’t overlook my contribution to the battle. But can you be absolutely sure about Dale Hunter? How strong is your friendship?”
“I’m sure about Dale. As sure as I am of you.” Talking quietly, Roy relayed what Dale Hunter had told him, about working together with the law, in the hope of a pardon. “He has just as much to lose as we have.”
After one final, lingering kiss, Roy lifted Celia out of his lap and onto her own horse. “I want you to stay back, whatever happens. I’ll fight better if I know you’re not in the firing line.”
Before they set off again, he checked his guns. Normally, he wore the pistol on his left hip butt forward, for a cross draw with his right hand, but now he placed it in the standard position, allowing him to draw both guns at the same time. He replaced the weapons in their holsters and reached out with his arm, laced his fingers into Celia’s and held her hand for a moment, one final gesture of farewell in case luck was not on their side.
Then they set their mounts in motion again, riding at a slow walk. The canyon narrowed, and Celia fell into line behind him. Once they left the thick, sandy wash, they were on solid rock again, and the steady clip of the horses’ hooves marked their passage. The battle drums were beating, Roy thought as he swept the trail with his single blue eye, searching every shadow, every contour, alert for the slightest flicker of motion.
Behind a big stone, a hand poked out, flapping a white handkerchief. A second later, Dale Hunter slid into view. With a few long strides, he reached Dagur’s side. Moving sideways, he looked up at Roy and spoke urgently.
“Don’t slow down. Don’t let the rhythm of your passage alter. They are a few hundred yards ahead. Franklin is on the left, in that tunnel that forms a cave. Longhurst is fifty paces farther out, behind a boulder on the right. Franklin is meant to shoot you. I’m supposed to kill Celia, and I expect Longhurst has orders to gun me down. Mr. Smith must suspect I’ve betrayed him.”
Roy glanced back at Celia, to make sure she was holding her nerve. She lifted one gloved hand and nodded at Dale, a calm, ladylike greeting. Reassured, Roy turned back to his friend. Quickly, he told Dale how he had heard someone in the darkness the night before, while they had been talking by the corrals.
“Mr. Smith must have someone spying on you,” Roy finished.
Dale nodded. “It’s clear to me that he no longer trusts me. If I had escorted Celia out alone, I could have simply let her go, and Mr. Smith would have been none the wiser. But he sent Franklin and Longhurst along, to make sure that I’m forced to kill her.”
He gestured for Roy to slip his foot out of the stirrup. “I’ll get into the saddle behind you, and then you can climb down. Use the rear entrance to the tunnel. With the sound of two riders approaching, Franklin won’t feel the need to watch his back. You’ll enjoy the advantage of surprise.”
Roy waited for Dale to swing up behind him on the horse, and then he lifted one leg over Dagur’s head, slid down from the saddle and jogged a few steps alongside Dagur to reassure the horse.
“Good boy. Ride with Dale. I’ll be back soon.”
Roy studied his friend, now seated in the saddle. He and Dale were about the same size and their long canvas dusters were identical, bought at the same time. Dale was leaner, but the bulky coat disguised the difference in their build. Roy pulled off his battered hat, held it up to Dale. “Give me yours. The silver band glints in the sunlight. And tuck your hair under your collar, and pull the hat brim low so they can’t see you don’t have a patch over your left eye.”
With one final look at Celia, Roy laid the flat of his palm against his heart, the way they had done on the night he made her his wife, Indian fashion. From the tremulous smile that came and went on Celia’s face, he knew she had understood the meaning of the gesture.
Without another word, he darted forward, skirting the rock wall. Trying not to make a sound, he raced ahead along the narrow canyon, heading for the rear entrance of the tunnel where Franklin was waiting to kill him.
* * *
The patch that normally covered his brown eye pulled aside, Roy stared at the solid darkness inside the narrow passage in the rock wall. Originally, the tunnel had been too cramped for a man to fit through, but the outlaws had enlarged it over the years, creating a sentry post in the cave that opened up at the other end of the tunnel, overlooking the canyon. The ambition of Lom Curtis had been to get hold of a Gatling gun and station it in the cave, turning the hideout into an impregnable fortress.
Roy eased forward, his left hand trailing along the rough rock wall to guide h
im, his right hand holding a pistol, ready to fire. The air smelled acrid, evidence that men had used the rear section of the tunnel for a latrine. Faint light came ahead, and then the narrow passage twisted sharply to the right. Where the cave opened up into the canyon, Roy could see a man silhouetted against the light, cautiously leaning forward to peer outside.
Roy took aim with his Smith & Wesson, moved another step forward. Something clanked on the ground, tangled around his boots. He pulled the trigger, but his balance was off. The shot went wide. Franklin spun around, lifted his rifle and fired. The shot missed, ricocheted within the confines of the tunnel. Stone chips flew in the air. A sharp flash of pain pierced Roy’s left eye. His vision blurred.
Agony pounded through his head. He could feel the blood running down his left cheek, a warm trail that reminded him of the scent of death. He blinked to clear his vision, took aim once more. Franklin had pulled out his pistol by now and was shooting into the tunnel without aim, unable to see into the darkness. Roy felt a bullet hit his thigh.
He threw himself against the rock wall, fired his handgun again. Two shots rang out, overlapping. He felt an impact in his shoulder, spun around with the force of the blow and lost his balance. Just before his head crashed against the jagged stone floor beneath him, he could see Franklin spread his arms wide and topple backward, falling out of the cave like an eagle launching into flight.
Dale can take out Longhurst, the last remaining killer. Celia is safe.
That was the last thought in Roy’s mind.
Then there was nothing more.
* * *
In all her born days, Celia had never felt so frightened. Life had been unkind to her before, but her intellect had always allowed her to make sense of the danger. An illness could be understood, even if not conquered. Prejudice and superstition could be explained. But the evil around her now—she could not relate to it, could not comprehend the cause of such violence and find the right way to combat it.
The Outlaw and the Runaway Page 20