Diablo

by Potter, Patricia;

  Then she saw Sarah Ann. She was standing there just feet away. She tried to reach out, but she couldn’t. “Sarah,” she whispered. “Sarah …”

  It took Ben thirty minutes of intense effort to free himself. O’Brien had been too much in a hurry to do an expert job of tying him.

  What in the hell had prompted O’Brien’s attack? Or who?

  Ben had seen the horror in his face, then the anguish. It had been so stark that his blows had been totally unexpected. Ben wished like hell the man trusted him, but then he really had no reason to do so. As far as O’Brien knew, Ben Masters wanted only to use him, and had dangled a life in front of him to accomplish that aim. Ben wouldn’t trust a man who’d done the same to him, but it had seemed the best way at the time to accomplish two very difficult and different objectives.

  Now O’Brien was gone, and Ben doubted seriously that he would return. O’Brien would be hunted and his friend would die. As for his own career, it would be ruined, but he really didn’t care at this point. He had one chance to salvage things, and that was Mary May. She knew something. If she could only guide him in the right direction, he might be able to find O’Brien before it was too late.

  He rubbed his wrists as he made his way to the Blazing Star. Mary May wasn’t there. He asked Sam, the bartender, who looked at him with amazement.

  “She went to see you. Right after you sent the message.”

  Ben went rigid. “I didn’t send a message.”

  “Somebody did, and she lit up like she always does when she sees you. Said she would be gone a few hours.”

  “Upstairs?”

  “She went out the front in a real hurry.”

  “Who brought the message?”

  “Sandy … you know the old drunk that waits outside hoping someone will buy him a drink. Well, someone paid him to bring the message, ’cause he bought two drinks. He’s down at the end of the bar now.”

  Ben saw the man and went directly to him. “You brought a message for Mary May,” he said abruptly. “Who gave it to you?”

  Sandy looked at him through bleary eyes. “What business is it of yourn?”

  Ben fought to keep his temper. He dug in his pocket and brought out a five-dollar piece. “What about this?”

  “Sounds like your business all right,” the man said with a drunken grin. “Tall, thin gent. Been hanging around the last few days. Pale blue eyes. Real gent, though.”

  Ben felt sick. Yancy! He’d bet anything he had on that. But why? Unless he wanted information, and Mary May knew about both him and Sanctuary. “Where did he go?” he asked the old man.

  Sandy shrugged indifferently.

  Christ, how could everything be going so wrong? First O’Brien. Now Mary May.

  He would try Mary May’s room first. He made for the stairs and walked swiftly to her room, stopping abruptly as he heard noises inside. He drew his six-shooter and tried the door. It was unlocked. Ben threw it open and stared at Yancy, who was tearing the bed apart. Yancy turned, saw Ben and went for his gun. Ben shot, aiming for the shoulder. He didn’t want Yancy dead, not yet.

  Yancy dropped his gun, his hand going to his shoulder, as he swore a string of oaths. Ben moved next to him, and put a gun to his chin. “Where’s Mary May?”

  Yancy spit at him, and Ben hooked a leg around Yancy’s, tumbling him to the floor. Then he quickly went over and closed the door and locked it. “Don’t care about dying, huh?” Ben said when he returned. “What about something real sensitive?” He lowered the gun, aiming it at Yancy’s crotch.

  “You won’t. You’re a lawman.”

  “Hell, I won’t. You’re wanted dead or alive. I don’t mind taking you back in pieces. Where is she?”

  Yancy’s face turned pale. Ben meant every word, and Yancy heard the ring of conviction in it. “The old livery at the end of town. She’s all right.”

  Ben knew the building; it had been partially burned, and what remained was none too solid. He heard voices outside the door, a crowd drawn apparently by the shot. Moving toward Yancy, he used the butt of his pistol on the back of the man’s head. Yancy collapsed into unconsciousness.

  Ben opened the door to face a hallway full of men. “Caught the bastard rifling Mary May’s room,” he said. “I suggest you take him outside of town and leave him there. I’ll find Mary May.”

  “I say we kill him,” one man said. Mary May was a real favorite. There were murmurs of assent.

  Ben shook his head. “We don’t want the law here. Just dump him outside town.”

  There was an authority to his voice that overrode the budding vigilante spirit. Several of the men nodded; they liked Gooden as it was.

  Ben passed by them. He had to get out of Gooden before Yancy could tell the self-appointed vigilantes who Ben was, or they stopped long enough to listen to him. If Yancy was lying about Mary May, he would search the outlaw out and kill him, inch by inch. But now he had two other people to worry about: Mary May and O’Brien.

  He had some time. Yancy would be out for a while, and then he would have to worry about that shoulder. The fact that he was caught in Mary May’s room would make every explanation suspect, particularly any charge against the man who had shot him.

  Ben moved as quickly as he could toward the ramshackle remains of the livery, only barely aware that other men were following him. He tore off the door, which was half on hinges. Ben lit a match and searched the large building. The roof was off and burned timbers made walking difficult, but then he saw her in a corner. Trussed and covered with blood, she looked like a broken toy. He swallowed.

  “Get the doctor,” he told several men who had followed him, and they disappeared out the door. He struck another match, lit a half-used candle in the corner, and knelt, cutting the ropes around Mary May’s ankles and wrists. His hand felt her cheek. It was warm, but her eyes were closed and her breathing shallow. Blood was everywhere. He wished now he had killed Yancy. He knew he would in the near future.

  He leaned down. “Mary May,” he said softly, then again in a louder voice, his hand stroking her cheek. No response. He tried again, his voice choking. She’d lost so much blood. Even that fine, fiery red hair was covered with it.

  Ben’s hands smoothed back her hair, then touched her cheek. “Mary May,” he said again. “Don’t give up.”

  Her eyes flickered open then, and she tried to smile. “I knew you would come.”

  Ben swallowed hard. “A doctor’s coming,” he said. “Hold on.”

  She sighed, her body slowly expelling air.

  “Why?” he asked. “What was he after?”

  “Sanc … tuary. He wanted Sanctuary. I … didn’t tell him.”

  “You wouldn’t,” he said holding her tightly.

  She swallowed, and he held her tighter. He hated to ask, but he had to. “Mary May. A man who saved my life years back is in danger. He’s headed to Sanctuary, and …”

  “Wichita Mountains,” she whispered.

  Ben could barely hear her. He bent closer to her, holding her tight, wishing he could transfer his strength into her. “Sarah …,” she said. “Promise you’ll take … care of Sarah. Money … Dan has some money in the safe.”

  “You can take care of her yourself,” he said.

  She shook her head slightly. “Promise,” she said, trying to move. More blood poured from her body. He tore off his shirt to tie some of the wounds, but there were so many. “Promise,” she insisted again.

  “I promise,” he said softly, and she relaxed, closing her eyes.

  “Mary May,” he said, refusing to let her go. The very sound of her name ripped agonizingly through him.

  She opened her eyes again. “Thank … you for taking care of my baby.” Her hand fell away, and he heard the breath slip from her mouth and the life from her body.

  “Mary May,” he whispered harshly. “Damn you, Mary May. Damn you.” And he sat there holding her until the others came.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Broken and weary,
Nicky kept moving. She didn’t have food, but she didn’t care. She didn’t think she could eat without getting sick. She drank enough to keep her alive, all the time wondering why she bothered. Instinct, she thought dully. Instinct keeps the most miserable of creatures alive.

  She had ridden all night, then stopped for several hours in the morning at a stream to rest Molly. She’d tried to sleep, with little luck at first. She kept hearing those voices. Over and over again. At some point, though, she had finally drifted off, only to wake to Molly’s nuzzling.

  How could she have been so wrong? Her uncle so wrong? She understood Robin’s gullibility. He’d been so eager for any kind of male friendship, he’d taken up with the Yancy brothers. She had done the same with Kane O’Brien, who was worse than either of them. He just hid his snake scales better than most.

  A sob escaped her. They had been escaping for the past two days, no matter how hard she tried to hold them back. The tears were gone, emptied. Dried. But the dry, racking sobs remained whenever she thought of him. She would never trust a man again. Never.

  She leaned down over Molly’s neck. The mare was plodding on. In a few minutes, she would change again to the gray, but she preferred riding Molly. She didn’t want to be reminded of Kane. She didn’t want to remember how he sat the gray. She never wanted to think of him again.

  They had been traveling since that morning, but Nicky was afraid to stop, afraid that numbness and inertia would steal the last crumbs of determination that kept her going.

  She pulled Kane’s coat tighter around her as the sun began to set and the air grew chilly. She would have to stop soon; the horses needed rest, and her own endurance was fading fast. She’d not gone back to her room after hearing Kane, and she had neither food nor bedroll. Running like that had probably been foolish, but the hurt and shock had replaced all reason.

  If only she could find an outcropping of some kind to shield her and the horses from the cold wind. She pulled out the rough map still in her pocket. She was staying away from the route she and Kane had taken from Sanctuary, deviating enough, she hoped, that he couldn’t find her trail.

  There should be a river nearby, and that might mean trees, something to cut the wind. Molly stumbled, and Nicky dismounted. She started to mount the gray bareback, but she was tired, so tired that she couldn’t reach its back. Suddenly, the horse shied, tossed its head, and jerked away from her. Before she could grab the lead rope, the big gray galloped off back toward Gooden. She could only watch helplessly. Molly could not possibly catch him.

  Swallowing hard, she took Molly’s reins and led her toward the river. She and Molly would have to go on alone. It had been two days since she’d had any food. Her body needed it, but she still didn’t think she could keep it down.

  Walk. One step after another. She tried to push images of Kane from her mind. The crooked smile. The warmth in his dark gray eyes. The tenderness of his touch. Lies. All lies. Concentrate on getting home. Home. Lonely, lonely home.

  Kane cursed as he searched the ground for tracks. Where was she?

  He felt hollow, empty, desperate. He had ridden along the route he and Nicky had taken because that was the only route he knew. No sign of her. He’d stopped at the few isolated homesteads, hoping she might have stopped for supplies. But no one had seen a young boy or girl with two horses.

  It was as if she’d disappeared from the face of the earth.

  He tried to think as she would think. She would, of course, believe he would come after her, so she would do her best to confound him. How? Kane knew she had little experience outside Sanctuary. She had little or no money. No food. No blanket roll. She would move as fast as she could towards Sanctuary and, because she wasn’t that familiar with the route, would have to stick fairly close to the trail they had taken.

  Kane had mentally memorized every rock, every rut. He followed the river as long as he could and then retraced the trail he and Nicky had taken. But she wouldn’t follow it exactly. She would be trying to outguess him, and that always took time.

  What would he do if he were Nicky? Move parallel, about a mile distant, so she could still see the landmarks. But left or right? If he guessed wrong, he would surely miss her. He had one advantage: Nicky had the desperation of the betrayed, but he had the even greater desperation of the damned.

  Kane decided he would ride as fast and hard as he could during the night, along the river, then when the trail left the waterway, he would cross left to right until he found tracks, some sign of horses. He had two days to find her. Just two days. If he didn’t, Davy would die, and Nicky would always believe he used her for his own benefit. He couldn’t let either happen.

  Nicky decided to risk a rifle shot on the evening of the second day. She had reached the limit of her endurance. Although she still felt too ill inside to eat, she knew she could no longer go without food.

  She had stopped at a waterhole and noticed the animal tracks, some small. Whatever had made them would be back in the dark of night. She drank her fill and washed her face, then found a hiding place behind bushes, hoping the slight breeze would wash away her scent.

  She lay still, warding off sleep, knowing that food was even more important. Finally, she heard a rustling. She peered around, wishing there were more light. Something moved and she aimed at it and shot. The noise seemed to echo in the vast loneliness of the place, but the movement stopped.

  Nicky moved cautiously toward her target and leaned down. A rabbit. It still moved, and she closed her eyes for a moment. Dear God, how she hated this, hated to kill anything. She pulled the trigger again, and the rabbit was still.

  Now a fire. A small fire. She had some matches in her trousers, put there from when she had taken several from her saddlebags to light the oil lamp in the hotel. She gathered some kindling and one fair-size branch, breaking it into pieces with her foot. Then she cleaned the rabbit, and put it on a spit she made from another branch.

  She huddled close to the fire, watching grease drip from the meat and sizzle in the flames. Ordinarily the aroma would make her mouth water, but she could just stare at it. She had never gotten drunk, but she had heard curses from men who did, and she suspected she felt a little as they had. Her mouth was like cotton, her eyes strained and weak and hurting.

  As soon as the rabbit was cooked, she quenched the fire, kicking dirt into it and stomping on it to smother the coals and smoke. Only then did she eat, taking big bites because she had to, because she had to get home. When she was finished, she mounted again. She didn’t want to stay anywhere close to that fire and the shot that must have echoed across the plains.

  She would sleep at dawn, in one of the arroyos that pitted the area.

  Nicky put her head against Molly’s neck. They should be back home late tomorrow. What would she tell her uncle? Robin? Could she really sign Kane’s death warrant? But she had to tell them something. She had to warn them.

  She would think about that tomorrow. She couldn’t think now. She couldn’t even feel any longer. No, that was wrong. She could feel. She did feel. She just wished she didn’t.

  Kane heard a shot. It came from a long distance away to the north. He kicked his tired horse into a gallop and wished for his gray.

  It was dawn when he found the ashes of a fire. He had criss-crossed the area, finally heading for the small clump of trees that indicated a waterhole.

  The ashes were cold. He knew from the small boot prints that the rider was probably Nicky. At least she was still alive. He found several bullets and one small bone, probably rabbit. So she had killed something. Thank God. His admiration for her grit—and wiliness—grew.

  But now he could pick up her tracks. He was exhausted, but she must be even more so. He was used to going days without sleep, disciplining himself to stay alert, learning the art of grabbing a few minutes’ rest in the saddle. He tried not to think of the feeling of betrayal that must now be pushing her. He didn’t know what he would say to her when—and if—he found her. She had been a
hopeless dream, and he’d been a fool to think he could ever free Davy and still have her.

  She would hate him now, and he couldn’t blame her. She might even kill him, and he wouldn’t blame her for that, either. But before she did, he had to explain; she had to know why he acted as he had. She had to know he hadn’t betrayed her and her uncle for money or to save himself.

  Not that it would probably make any difference, he thought. Lies were lies, and betrayal was betrayal. No reasons—no matter how noble—changed that. An overwhelming sorrow for what might have been filled him. He ached for a passion he knew would never be repeated. He ached for an innocence that was gone forever.

  Damn it, he couldn’t let it all be for naught. He had to save Davy and still get Robin and Nicky away from Sanctuary before it was raided. He didn’t know how, but he knew he had to try.

  For much too long, he had allowed others to control his life: his father, the army, the prison officials, the carpetbaggers in Texas who had nudged him into banditry, and now Masters. By God, he was taking his life back—starting right now. He was goddamned tired of playing Masters’s game. He would play his own from now on.

  Kane watered his horse, then searched for tracks and finally found them heading north. There was only one horse now, and it wasn’t the gray; he knew its hoof markings. Still, it had to be Nicky. He stayed on foot for a while, making sure they didn’t change direction. Then he mounted and spurred his tired mount into a canter.

  Ben Masters hesitated at the door of Mrs. Culworthy’s cottage. He had some money with him. He only hoped to hell it was enough to convince Mrs. Culworthy to keep the child a few more weeks.

  And then what?

  He wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure of anything at the moment. Grief still leadened his heart, and he functioned only on sheer will. He had lost Mary May. He wasn’t going to lose Kane O’Brien, dammit. He couldn’t.

  And Mary May had given him the key: the Wichita Mountains.