The Outlaw and the Runaway

by Tatiana March

  So she chose to follow orders and rode in meek silence behind Dale Hunter. Slowly, with the time appearing to expand like a piece of elastic cord, they made their way between the two soaring walls of red rock. The air was getting warmer as the sun climbed higher into the sky, and she felt her skin grow damp inside the elegant velvet riding suit.

  How important it had seemed once, to hold her head high in front of the townspeople, to ride out with her back stiff with pride! Now everything that had happened to her in Rock Springs seemed meaningless. Meaningless, compared to the basic goal of staying alive: to draw another breath, to live another day, to see Roy again, to fight for the happiness she believed they both deserved.

  Gunshots shattered the quiet. Like the thunder rumbling, an echo bounced between the canyon walls. She tried to count out the shots. One... Two... Three... Then a volley of gunfire that merged together. She could tell one of the earlier shots had sounded different, the sharper retort of a rifle.

  The taste of blood filled her mouth. At first, she thought it was a trick of her mind, empathy for Roy, who might be lying wounded somewhere high up within the cliffs, but then she felt the sting in her lower lip and realized she’d bitten into her own flesh, hard enough to draw blood.

  Above her, she could hear a series of thuds. She tipped her head back to look up from beneath the brim of her hat. Like a rag doll, a man’s body tumbled down the rock wall and fell onto the path, spooking the gray mare Celia was seated upon. She pulled at the reins, brought Baldur under control again. As the horse sidestepped the prone body, Celia craned her neck to look down at the fallen man and recognized the reptilian features and the small stature of Franklin, the man who had given her such vile, lustful looks.

  Not Roy. Not Roy. Her heartbeat drummed out the words.

  She forced her breathing to calm down, tried to control her shaking limbs while she lined her mount in an orderly procession after Dale Hunter, who was making his way along the canyon, sitting easily on Dagur. Ahead on the right, peeking out from behind a jutting boulder, something flashed, the glint of metal struck by a ray of sunlight.

  Dale Hunter shifted in the saddle, a quick flash of motion. Two shots rang out. Celia could see Dale flinch, could see a crimson patch spread over his shoulder, staining the canvas fabric of his fawn duster. From farther ahead came a groan of pain, and the lifeless body of another man toppled onto the path.

  Dale twisted around to look back at her, a grim expression on his face. “That’s all of them, for now.”

  “Roy?” Her voice caught in her throat. “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know.” Dale gripped his wounded shoulder, still holding the gun in his hand. A curl of smoke rose from the tip of the barrel.

  In the air around them, Celia could smell the acrid smell of gunfire, the coppery scent of blood, the ugly reek of death and violence. Another wave of terror swept over her, making her feel lost and lonely, unable to bear the uncertainty any longer. “Can I call out for him?”

  Dale Hunter nodded.

  “Roy!” she yelled. “Roy!”

  Every constraint that had in the past curbed noisy outpourings of emotion vanished. Celia kept yelling out his name, her tone shrill with fear. Seconds passed, turned into minutes. Panic closed around her, as if the canyon walls were coming together and crushing her. Her voice grew hoarse. Tears of loss and fear and loneliness streamed down her cheeks.

  “Roy!” she called out. “Roy!” She kept up shouting out his name until her throat grew too sore to release the sound and her words muffled into desolate sobs.

  For there was no reply.

  Only the echo of her own voice.

  * * *

  Celia wasn’t sure how long she had argued with Dale Hunter, but one thing she knew for certain: she was not going to budge. The horses were getting restless, spooked by the bodies on the ground. Dagur tossed his mane and neighed, nostrils flaring. Dale leaned forward in the saddle and stilled the horse with a terse command.

  “We’ve got to go,” he said to Celia once more, as if talking to a recalcitrant child. “They’ll have heard the gunshots at the camp. Someone will be riding out to check. There’s little time.”

  Terror and grief flared up in Celia again, distilling into a flash of anger. “You’d leave a fallen comrade behind? To be jeered over, to be left for the buzzards to pick clean? Damn you, Dale Hunter. I thought you were a friend, a man of honor.”

  “I’m trying to get you to safety. That’s what Roy would want.”

  Celia met his narrowed eyes, green and icy cold. She saw a flicker of rage in their depths, and a hint of contempt at her outburst. There was pride in the haughty set of the man’s shoulders, in his finely drawn features that carried the heritage of his affluent, educated background. Understanding dawned on her, and a flush of shame heated her cheeks. Of course—he was getting her out of the way first. Then he’d come back for Roy.

  She lifted her hand in a placating gesture while controlling the mare beneath her. “I’m sorry. I know you mean well, but I can’t go on. Not without him. He might be alive, and if he is not, at least I’ll have his body to bury. I want to get him a proper grave, with a headstone, or at least a wooden cross to mark his resting place.”

  When Dale hesitated, she went on, “Please...he once said that with his mismatched eyes some people claimed that God and the Devil were fighting over his soul. If I leave him here, it will seem like the Devil has won. I want him buried in a churchyard, where everyone can see he is with God.”

  Dale contemplated her, then cast a quick glance back down the canyon. Celia could sense his hesitation, pushed for her advantage. “They won’t be coming after us. Not yet. It is our bodies Mr. Smith expects to have landed sprawling in the dust. He doesn’t want his men to find out he ordered the killing of a woman. He’ll wait awhile. It’s only when Franklin and Longhurst don’t ride back to the camp to report success that he’ll feel the need to send someone out to investigate.”

  “Maldita sea, you’re right,” Dale Hunter replied in a tone of respect. “Roy said you have more brains than all the men at the hideout put together.”

  Dale jumped down from Dagur, his long duster flaring wide. He jammed his fingers into his mouth and gave a piercing whistle. A moment later, with a steady clip of hooves his bay gelding trotted over from some hiding place along the path. Dale gave the horse a quick pat of reassurance and took down a coil of rawhide rope fastened to the saddle.

  “Wait here,” he ordered Celia. “I’ll have to go back down the trail. You can’t get into the cave from this end. The cliffs are too steep.”

  Boots crunching on gravel, he jumped over the prone bodies of the fallen outlaws and hurried back down the trail. Celia waited. The sun burned bright in the sky now but it delivered no comforting heat. A chill enveloped her, as if the world had turned into a place without light. Without warmth.

  “Dear God,” she prayed. “Let him live. And if you can’t do that, let me be carrying his child. Let me have something of him, something to cherish, something born of our love.”

  A screech came from overhead. Celia tilted her head and looked up. Buzzards were already circling, high up in the air, drawn by the scent of blood... Waiting, waiting... She knew the scavenger birds could be seen from the camp, alerting the outlaws that the gunfight had left dead bodies on the ground. How long would it be before Mr. Smith started worrying? Had she brought death upon herself and Dale Hunter by insisting they mustn’t leave Roy behind?

  “Celia!”

  The muffled call of her name cut through her fearful thoughts.

  “Over here!” the voice went on. “Up, behind you!”

  She swiveled her head, spotted Dale Hunter peeking out from a dark oval in the rock, a shadow she had thought to be a depression, but now realized must be the opening to the cave.

  “He’s alive, for now,” Dale called out. �
�I can’t carry him out through the tunnel, it’s too cramped. I’ll have to lower him down on a rope. It’ll probably finish him off, but if you want a body to bury, I’ll get him for you.”

  Dale vanished from sight. Seconds later, Roy tumbled out of the cave. His limp body jerked to a stop and swung to an upright position, a rope loop circling his torso beneath his arms. Blood streamed down his face. One of his eyes was a ragged mess. The other eye was closed. Not open and staring in the final look of death.

  From that tiny indication of life, Celia drew a glimmer of hope. She jumped down from Baldur, landed on her feet with a jarring thud. Clearheaded now, filled with purpose, she paused to wrap the bridle reins around a rock. If she allowed the horse to run off, the mistake might cost her the chance of staying alive. Scrambling over boulders and scrubs of thistle, she hurried to stand by the cliffs below the cave.

  “Don’t jolt him,” she instructed Dale.

  “It ain’t exactly easy to haul a heavy body down.”

  Then Roy was there, booted feet swaying as he descended, the gun belt around his hips with one revolver missing, the long duster bunched up beneath the rope that cut into his torso beneath his arms, and finally his pale, blood-smeared face lined up with hers.

  “Your eye, what happened to your eye?” Celia wailed as she studied the damage, saw the scattering of small, bleeding cuts on his forehead and on his left cheek.

  The rope went slack, and Roy toppled to the ground. Celia sank to her knees, pressed her fingers to his throat. His skin was warm, warm with life. She found a pulse, measured the rhythm of it. It was weak, but even. Pausing, she smoothed back his golden hair, a tiny caress to give her strength, to give her hope. By some miracle, his thick, wavy hair was clean of blood, and she relished the cool, clean texture of it before she withdrew her hand.

  Only vaguely was she aware that the rope still attached to Roy was jerking while she examined his clothing, looking for telltale holes from bullets, looking for patches of blood. One wound on his thigh. The bullet had gone right through, did not remain embedded in his flesh. Another wound in his shoulder. No entry or exit hole, merely a groove where the bullet had grazed the skin. She found no other injuries, apart from those small cuts she’d already seen on his face and the damage to his left eye.

  Dale slid down, jumped aside and let go of the rope. “I reckon a rifle shot inside the cave bounced between the rock walls and sent out a shower of stone chips. Bad luck—one must have hit him in the eye.”

  Reaching inside his shirt, Dale pulled out Roy’s missing revolver and replaced it in the holster. “An outlaw likes to be fully armed, even in his grave.” He took out a knife, reached up with his arms to cut away the rope as high as he could, and then he put the knife back into the scabbard on his belt. Bending down, he hoisted Roy’s inert body onto his shoulder and straightened, grunting with the effort.

  “Dagur, boy, come here,” he called out. “You can carry your master.”

  With an eager whinny, the horse sauntered over and turned sideways, ready for the rider to mount. “Sorry, boy, it’s not quite that easy.” Dale gave another grunt, heaved Roy’s inert body up and arranged him to dangle on his belly across the saddle, arms and legs hanging on either side. Using the loose end of the rope still tied around Roy’s waist, Dale secured him in place.

  “He’ll die if we don’t tend to his injuries,” Celia protested.

  “He’ll die no matter what,” Dale replied.

  After yanking the final knot in place. Dale led Dagur to the other horses. He waited for Celia to follow, helped her to mount on Baldur and handed Dagur’s reins to her.

  “Ride out and never come back. Don’t stop at Miss Mabel’s. Follow the trail and take the right fork. It leads to a ferry crossing on the Colorado River. There’s a sign, Lees Ferry. If by some miracle Roy lives that far, there’s a mining town another twenty miles south. They have a doctor there.”

  She looked down from the saddle at him. “What about you?”

  “I’ll stay here, gain you some time.”

  “They’ll kill you.”

  A wry smile hovered around Dale Hunter’s mouth. Raven-black hair skimmed his shoulders as he jerked his chin toward the man strapped across the saddle. “Just like my amigo here, I’m already dead. Adios, querida. Vaya con Dios.”

  Despite all the horror and bloodshed, Celia managed a faint smile in return. “You are no more Mexican than I am. Roy told me. You’re part French Creole and part Yankee.”

  Dale gave a courtly bow. “Mais oui, ma chérie. And now get your ass out of here, before you too turn into crow bait.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Celia strained her ears as she led the way through a cool, shady passage where the canyon walls drew close together. What a terrible choice she faced—to ride fast, causing a jolting in the saddle that would aggravate Roy’s injuries, or to keep the pace easy and increase the risk that the killers might catch up with them.

  It occurred to her that although she’d shouldered the responsibility of caring for her sick mother and keeping house for her ailing father, she’d never had to make decisions alone. After Papa went to prison, she had barricaded herself inside the house until Roy came along and told her what to do. For the first time in her life, she was in sole charge. Her judgment, the choices she made, might make the difference between life and death.

  The canyon widened again. Two saddled horses stood by a cluster of rocks. Celia halted, uncertain. She recognized the mounts from the hideout remuda—a dun with a dark mane and tail and a big chestnut with a blaze on its forehead. Franklin and Longhurst had ridden out on those horses and had picketed them out of the way.

  Making a snap decision, Celia jumped down from the saddle, eased over to the animals. Having spare horses might come in handy, and by taking them away she would reduce the chances that they would break loose and return to the hideout without a rider, raising the alarm.

  “Good horse. Good boy.”

  She’d spent enough time by the corrals for the horses to be familiar with her scent and her soft, female voice. Holding out one hand, she let each animal nuzzle her palm in turn, their breath moist against her skin. When she could be sure they had recognized her, she pulled out their picket pins and led the horses over to Baldur and Dagur. Arranging the animals nose to tail, she tied the bridle of each one to the saddle of the one before, creating a four-horse string.

  After completing the task, Celia went to Roy, pressed her fingers to his throat and felt for the pulse. Still beating. Still alive. She longed to stop, cut away his torn and dusty clothing, clean and dress his wounds, but there was no time. It made no sense to tend to him, just to hand him over to the killers in better shape.

  She remounted on Baldur, urged the horses into motion. The trail started rising now. Twice more, she paused to measure Roy’s heartbeat. The cadence of it seemed unchanged—faint but steady. She drew courage from the feel of the small, regular throbbing beneath her fingertips. It seemed like a promise that he would hold on, that he would fight to stay alive, provided she did her part and got him to a doctor.

  When the trail forked, every instinct pulled her toward Miss Mabel’s Sunset Saloon, a familiar sanctuary with friends, with comfortable lodgings and medical care. Resisting the temptation, Celia took the right fork. She couldn’t tell if it was her intellect ruling her, or if following Dale Hunter’s instructions came easier than disregarding them.

  Up on the plateau, the cool breeze revived her, and the open vista calmed her nerves after the oppressive closeness of the maze of canyons. Something moved in the distance, creating a cloud of dust. She squinted ahead, a hand lifted to shade her eyes.

  A wagon. A wagon drawn by two horses. Quickly, Celia untied Dagur’s bridle from her saddle and turned back to look at the buckskin.

  “Stay, boy. Stay, Dagur. Don’t move.”

  She knew the horse
would obey. The only time the gelding had ever ignored an order to remain still was when she’d tricked him with an offering of oats and sugar. A recollection flashed through her mind of their bet while Roy was shaving, the mirror propped against the pommel of Dagur’s saddle. She could hear Roy’s voice, could hear his laughter, could feel his lips against hers as they kissed.

  “Please, God,” she prayed in her mind. “Let him live.”

  She kicked Baldur into a canter and raced up to the wagon. Loaded with a mountain of goods covered with a tarpaulin, the vehicle was driven by a grizzly old man with a thick, gray-streaked beard and a wrinkled face. His skin was coppery brown, perhaps a sign of Indian blood, or merely a thick layer of the desert dust.

  Celia wheeled Baldur around and rode alongside the man, leaning toward him in the saddle. “Stop!” she called out. “I want to buy your wagon.”

  The man burst into a cackling laughter. “Me wagon’s me home, young lady. I’ll sell it no more than I would sell the skin on my back.”

  “How much?”

  The man’s eyes, almost hidden by the folds of his wizened complexion, narrowed in a shrewd look. “I told you. Me wagon’s not for sale.”

  She gestured at the tarpaulin-covered load. “What do you have in there?”

  “Trade goods. Tools. Yard goods. Vittles. No rifles or guns, mind you, if you suspect I’m selling to the Injuns. A drop of whiskey, but I’ll not risk a prison sentence by selling hard liquor to the natives.”

  “You’re a trader. Fine. I’ll buy everything. And then I’ll buy your wagon.”

  The man gave another burst of wheezing laughter. “Lady, you’re out of your mind. There’s a thousand dollars’ worth of goods in there, including me profit, of course.”

  “Fine. I’ll give you a thousand dollars for the goods, and another thousand for the wagon. I’ll throw in two fine horses with saddles and bridles. You can keep the goods I don’t want. We’ll unload them right here. You might be able to sell some to the settlers passing by along the trail.”