by Neil Hunter
‘I don’t see any other way, Luke,’ she said slowly, thoughtfully.
‘It could get us both killed.’
‘So could staying here. Only, it might take longer.’
Kennick couldn’t argue that point. He nodded. ‘Keep watch.’
Handing her the rifle, he rose and pushed into the narrow space between the rocks where the horses stood. He took down two of the full canteens, dumping the others. From his saddlebag, he took a leather pouch and emptied into it as much of the spare ammunition as he could. That was all they could afford to carry. He turned to Kicking Bear, cut him loose from the horse he was on. With a length of rope he made a loop around the Indian’s waist. The free end was wrapped around Kennick’s left hand.
‘Stay smart and play along,’ Kennick told the Comanche. ‘The men out there have no interest in keeping you alive. They’d shoot you down.’
Kicking Bear made no movement or comment. He seemed disinterested. Kennick hoped the Indian wasn’t planning some trick at this stage of the game.
‘Jeannie,’ he called.
She turned from the rock that hid them from the men above. Kennick handed her the canteens and ammunition pouch. He took the rifle.
‘Can you manage those things all right?’
She nodded.
‘All right. Let’s move.’ He turned and pushed Kicking Bear forward.
Before they’d gone three yards, the rocks closed in around them.
‘This is going to be a long walk,’ Kennick muttered.
Jeannie found a narrow slit through which they just managed to squeeze. The effort left them breathless and sore. The pattern repeated itself many times in the next couple of hours. It was a matter of patience and calm. Moving forward slowly, painfully, detouring to get round an impassable blockage. Then forward a ways, only to have to retrace vital yards when they came to a dead end. Far back, they heard occasional shots. Each one made the stomach tighten, the sweat break out. It might only be minutes until Griff and Beecher discovered that they’d gone. Before that happened, they had to be clear of the rocks and far away. It was this that drove Kennick on, forced him to keep up the brutal pace.
Jeannie collapsed twice. Even Kennick found the going hard. And Kicking Bear was beginning to stumble. Jeannie’s second fall left her with a limp. Her face was ashen when she got up. Kennick wanted to halt, but she wouldn’t let him. But he slowed down the pace after that.
Then, thankfully, he noticed the terrain was becoming easier. The rocks were scattered wider apart here. Jeannie saw too. She came up beside him, leaning against him, her head on his shoulder. Kicking Bear fell to his knees, and his head drooped on to his grime-streaked, sweating chest.
‘We made it, Luke,’ Jeannie whispered tiredly.
‘So far,’ he said. ‘Hard part’s to come.’
Kennick allowed enough time for a drink of water they all needed. Uncapping a canteen he let Jeannie drink, then swallowed a quick mouthful himself. This time Kicking Bear was ready to accept Kennick’s water. The Indian gulped greedily and Kennick had to snatch the canteen away before it was drained.
‘Ready?’
Jeannie nodded, and Kennick got Kicking Bear to his feet. He led out, thankful he’d been able to keep their line of travel reasonably straight. Now he led them west, gradually shifting around toward the south as they reached the perimeter of the boulder field.
Suddenly Kennick called a halt, and motioned them to lie down. They sprawled in the sand. Beyond the rise on which they lay, some two hundred yards off, near a pile of smooth boulders, three horses stood, heads bowed. Just in front of the horses a man squatted behind a rock, facing toward the boulder field.
Kennick took off his gun belt, handing it to Jeannie, along with the rifle. He pulled Kicking Bear from the top of the ridge and told him to stand up. The Comanche rose to his feet and faced Kennick. Jeannie watched, questioningly. Kennick turned as if to speak to her, then before Kicking Bear realized what was happening, swung around on him, bringing his right fist up. The Comanche’s head snapped back, with the impact of the blow. His knees buckled and he fell into Kennick’s arms. Lowering the Indian to the ground, Kennick tied his feet with the rope from around his waist. Then he used his kerchief to gag him.
‘Did you have to do that, Luke?’Jeannie asked.
‘I don’t want him yelling his head off, or making a run for it,’ he said. ‘And I didn’t fancy leaving him alone with you. This way, you’ll have no trouble.’
She smiled. ‘I guess I do think like a female at times.’
He took off his hat and pushed it on the back of her head.
‘You keep thinking like that. It suits you.’
‘Please be careful, Luke.’
He nodded. ‘I’ll make it fast.’ Kennick turned away and moved along the ridge until he was well to the rear of Bo’s position. Then he topped the ridge and headed down the slope fast. At the base, he worked his way toward Bo in a series of dashes from rock to rock. He had to move fast, but quietly, and it took him ten minutes to get up close. He found himself with twenty yards left to cover, and no more rocks to hide him. There was no time for fancy tricks. Any minute, Griff might find he was shooting at rocks that hid nothing but three horses. When he did, he was going to come out fast. By then, Kennick had to be long gone.
Pushing to his feet, he made for Bo. He moved fast, covering the distance rapidly. Then, with only yards to go, one of the horses, startled by Kennick’s approach, whinnied. Bo jerked around and came to his feet, bringing up his rifle.
Kennick made a desperate leap. The rifle barrel caught him across the forehead as he cannoned into Bo. Together they sprawled full-length in the sand in a fighting tangle.
As Bo strained against him, Kennick made a frantic grab for the rifle. A shot would bring Griff and Beecher on the double. Bo, sensing Kennick’s strategy, hung on to the rifle with both hands. Kennick, though, managed to get his hand around the trigger-guard and keep Bo from firing a warning shot.
Kennick swung his free fist into Bo’s face. Bo grunted in pain as his still sore face exploded in fresh agony. Again Kennick smashed his fist into the raw, bleeding face. Though he cried out, Bo did not let go of the rifle. He swung his aching head from side to side, in an effort to escape Kennick’s pounding fist.
Then, suddenly, Bo let go of the rifle. The unexpected move sent Kennick off balance. In that moment, Bo lashed out blindly, his fists finding Kennick’s face. Kicking free, then rolling, Bo clawed his way upright. He wiped blood from his eyes and turned to face Kennick, who was scrambling to his feet. As Kennick stood, he swung his arm and hurled Bo’s rifle from him.
From Bo’s smashed mouth came a deep-throated cry of raw anger. Hurt, in pain, he was a dangerous opponent. He lunged at Kennick, a solid, hard-muscled hulk. Kennick only just managed to get his arms up in time to block Bo’s attack. One of Bo’s wild punches got through and sent Kennick reeling. He slammed up against a rock and that kept him on his feet. Winded, he was barely able to lift his arms. Bo moved in fast. Savage punches rocked Kennick’s head. The world exploded around him. He could taste blood and it seemed to be choking him. Temporarily blinded, he realized that Bo was out to beat him to death.
A blow hammered into his stomach. Kennick’s eyes filled with tears of pain, and suddenly he could see. He saw Bo standing before him, drawing back a clenched fist. Inside Kennick a voice was yelling at him to move, but he seemed to have lost the power to. Slowly, so slowly it seemed, he brought his arms up. Bo, too, seemed to be moving very slowly, as if he were under water. Then Kennick’s hands were around Bo’s thick neck, his thumbs pressing down hard on Bo’s windpipe. Afterward, Kennick didn’t know how long he stood there, pressing, choking. He saw Bo’s face slowly turning a dark, purplish color, his tongue suddenly protruding between bloody lips.
And then, far off it seemed, he heard a horse snort nervously. The sound brought him out of the slow-motion nightmare, back to reality. Kennick closed his eyes and breathed
deeply. When he opened them, he could see properly. He could feel too. Feel his aching, hurt face and body.
He remembered Bo then.
Bo McBride lay on his back, a few feet away, his arms and legs splayed out. Kennick knelt beside him. Bo wasn’t a pretty sight. His face was a swollen, ruined mask. His eyes bulged blindly from their sockets and his lips were drawn back in a tight snarl. Around his throat were dark, deep bruises. Bo was dead, Kennick saw. Kennick was suddenly very angry. Bo was dead because of Griff’s insane desire for revenge. He felt sick. He’d had to kill to survive, but it didn’t make it any easier. How many more would have to die before Griff was satisfied?
He got up. Now, he thought, Griff really would have something to avenge. Not that he needed the excuse. Griff was crazy, mad, or something very close.
Kennick moved off to where the horses stood. He dragged himself into a saddle and gathered up the reins of the other two mounts. He slapped his horse into movement, heading for the distant ridge.
He didn’t even bother to look back to see if he’d been spotted. He didn’t think about it. Right then, he didn’t give a damn.
Chapter Fourteen
Kicking Bear was still unconscious. Kennick humped the Comanche’s dead weight and slung him belly down over one of the horses, using the coiled rope on the saddle to secure him. Ignoring Jeannie’s questions, and her pleas to let her attend to his face, he got her on the second horse. Then he strapped on his gun and mounted up. He led them out at a steady trot, circling the boulder field and then swinging back on to his route as darkness fell. The moon came up early, and Kennick kept going, pushing hard. It was a long, cold night. By dawn, horses and riders were exhausted.
They were in easier country now. The rock-strewn land of the previous day had given way to near desert. Sweeping expanses of sand spread around them. High sandstone mesas and cliffs, towering hundreds of sheer feet into the sky, dotted the landscape. Here and there were thick growths of mesquite, and the occasional cactus stood out against the dun-colored backdrop of the land.
They rode until the sun was well up, when Kennick finally called a halt at the base of a high mesa.
He dismounted slowly and crossed over to Kicking Bear. He untied the rope and lowered the Comanche to the ground. Kicking Bear lay on his side, staring up at Kennick. The Indian’s face and body were coated with fine white dust. His eyes shone dark and wet in the smooth, white mask of his face. Kennick stared down at him for a minute, hoping the Indian would start something. He was in that kind of mood.
‘Luke, what happened back there?’ Jeannie asked quietly.
Kennick glanced round at her, saw the concern in her lovely face. Suddenly, he realized just how glad he was to have someone along he could talk to. And as he looked at her, he felt his anger subsiding. And he felt a stab of guilt. Since moving out, he’d barely spoken to her.
He took her arm and led her a few yards off, seating her on a sandy slope from where he could watch Kicking Bear.
‘Was it bad?’ she asked.
‘As bad as it could be,’ he said bluntly.
‘Bo?’
‘He’s dead, Jeannie. I killed him. Strangled him.’ He raised his hands and stared at them. ‘I must have gone crazy. I remember we were slugging it out. Bo was too much for me. I was about ready to pass out. Then I remember lifting my hands to his throat.... The next thing Bo was at my feet, dead.’ He ran his hands over his face, feeling the soreness there.
‘I didn’t want it to come to that. Not more killing.’
‘Luke, you had no choice. He would have killed you.’
‘It doesn’t make it any easier to take.’
Jeannie rose to her feet. She put her hands out to him.
‘Luke,’ she said softly.
He felt the gentle, cool touch of her fingers on his raw face. Her eyes were misty as she stepped confidently into the closeness of his arms. And then suddenly her arms came about him and her body was pressed against his. Her face was against his chest and he could feel the silken touch of her hair against his face. For Luke Kennick, in that moment, all troubles fled. All problems, all hurts vanished. His world was suddenly, wonderfully whole. Raising a hand, he tilted her head back and gazed down at her loveliness. Then they both moved. Her lips touched his with a gentleness, born of compassion, that turned swiftly to surprising fierceness.
In their closeness, they found comfort.
‘This really isn’t the way for a lady from Layersville to act,’ Jeannie said softly after a while.
Kennick smiled at her. ‘No? Then the hell with Layersville.’
He meant it too. At that moment, Luke Kennick didn’t give a damn for anything or anyone except this woman in his arms. A woman he wanted to stay in his arms. He considered, a moment, the fact that they’d only know each other a short time, but dismissed it as being of no importance. He figured that when two people found they were right for each other, time was no matter. Life—and especially life on the frontier—was too short for waiting, debating. Luke Kennick knew this woman was right for him without having to be told or have it tested. He bent his face to kiss her again. The way she moved to meet him, the way her arms tightened about him, told him that her feelings were the same as his.
Luke Kennick had found the missing part of his life.
They rested for an hour, then mounted up and headed out again. Kennick saw that they made good time without unduly tiring the horses. By his reckoning, they were nearing the halfway mark in the journey. If they were able to keep up this steady pace, the Brazos should be within their reach in two more days and nights of riding. That was providing there were no more interruptions. But Kennick knew only too well that Griff wouldn’t be far behind. He just hoped their trail hadn’t been too easy to find. Joe Beecher was a good tracker though. If there were tracks around, he would find them.
Around them the country was sterile and still. Though empty, it still gave the appearance of being hostile to anyone who entered it. Kennick didn’t mind. He’d spent many of his younger years in this wild land. He’d been on his own since he was seventeen, and in those first lonely years before he’d joined the Army, he’d roved around drifting from job to job. He’d worked on trail drives as a drover for a while. He’d done some bronc-busting, done a six-month stint as a mule-skinner. He’d even tried gold prospecting, but had given up after a couple of frustrating back-breaking months.
The prospecting had been a self-imposed cure for a broken heart, or so he’d thought at the time. Now he always had a laugh, remembering. But at the time it had been deadly serious to the young man, hardly more than a boy, who had met and fallen for a dark-eyed senorita who lived in a dusty border town on the Rio Grande. He couldn’t recall her name now, but he remembered the beauty of her deep brown eyes and long jet-black hair. And he remembered, too, the few wonderful nights they’d shared. The soft, river-cooled warmth of the night competing with her naked, scented warmth. He remembered the thrusting breasts, the silken, trembling thighs and slim, caressing hands.
The wonder of it all had been shattered one day when he returned to the town after a month away on the trail, to be told that she had married and had gone with her wealthy husband to his ranchero in Sonora.
Kennick shook his head slowly, remembering those things of so long ago. He chuckled softly. He could laugh at it now. Then, he’d felt as if the sun had gone out for good. He raised his head and looked across at Jeannie and felt that good feeling come over him.
He was very glad that dark-eyed senorita had married and gone away.
The day passed without incident. Kennick kept a close eye on the back trail but saw nothing. That didn’t mean a thing. Griff and Beecher were undoubtedly back there somewhere. They would be playing it careful now. Bo’s death would have made them cautious, but not cautious enough to give up. Things just didn’t happen like that. Then, toward sundown, Kennick spotted a line of tracks running from east to west. Dismounting, he knelt by the tracks and read what they had to tel
l him.
A party of horsemen, near twenty or so, moving at a slow walk. The mounts were unshod and lightly ridden. This added another worry to Kennick’s load. These tracks were made by Indian ponies. A bunch of Comanche, maybe Kiowa, or both. Heading west. To where? Maybe they weren’t heading for anywhere in particular. Maybe they were out looking for Kicking Bear.
Kennick glanced across at his prisoner. He saw the Comanche had already made up his own mind about the tracks, and had his suspicions confirmed. Their troubles were only just beginning. Kennick had hoped that by taking this route to the Brazos he would be able to keep away from any roving Indians. Now, it seemed, the Indians had decided to ride away from the normal trails and come into the back country.
Kennick stood and remounted. He twisted in the saddle and looked back the way they’d come, and saw Jeannie watching him.
‘More trouble, Luke?’ she asked.
Kennick pointed to the tracks. ‘If the Indians who made these are still around, there may be.’
Her face paled and he saw her stiffen.
‘At the moment they seem to be heading way out of our vicinity,’ he said calmly, ‘but I don’t feel inclined to take any chances. Keep your eyes open from now on, Jeannie. You see anything that doesn’t look right, you let me know.’
He edged his horse close to Kicking Bear’s. The Comanche sat straight, face muscles unmoving but the dark eyes bright and alive.
‘You will surely never reach the river now, Kennick,’ he said arrogantly. ‘The Comanche will find you. No man can hide from them.’
‘We haven’t done too bad up to now,’ Kennick said lazily. He removed his kerchief as he spoke and used it to gag Kicking Bear again. To Jeannie he said, ‘A man’s shout carries a hell of a way in this country. I don’t figure on giving him the chance.’
He led out, Jeannie falling in behind and to one side. Kennick drew in on the reins of Kicking Bear’s mount. He wanted the Comanche close. With the chance of his warriors being in the area, he was going to bear watching. If he was going to pull anything, it would be soon now.