Hot Lead and Cold Apple Pie

by Anne Garboczi Evans

  “And now you just left our whole camp site unprotected.” Smith even left off his continual smoking to gesture angrily.

  Cal lifted his shoulders in an easy shrug. “What could Gilman throw at us anyway?” He turned his lip derisively as he said it. If only that statement had less truth to it.

  The anger in Smith’s eyes faded a bit. “Fine. Look there.” He pointed to the tip of the mountain where a morning fog rolled down. “Is that smoke or not, sentries?”

  The younger sentry shifted his boots on the ground, sending several small pine cones flying as his face turned a nervous red. “Is this some kind of trick, Smith?”

  “No.” Smith tugged a new cigar out of his jacket pocket and jammed it into his mouth. “Just answer the question.”

  Puffing up his chest and stuffing his fidgeting hands into his pockets, the young one, a mere lad probably not more than fifteen, put on his most important face. “That’s the best bit of fog I’ve seen all summer. You’d have to be loco to think it was smoke.”

  “Satisfied, Westwood?” Turning, Smith gave him a pointed glare.

  “Completely.” Cal touched the handle of his pistol.

  This was it. Even if he got the drop on them, these men were quick enough gunmen to shoot him if they chose. Nine of them and one of him. They could kill him if they tried, but he’d get the first one to pull the trigger.

  If he died, Ginny and the posse had no one left to rescue them. He hadn’t even been able to tell her good-bye. How had he come to care so much for the girl who had poisoned his food and turned a hapless newcomer over to Mrs. Clinton without a thought of mercy?

  It didn’t matter now. He had a job to do. And Texas lawmen always did their job.

  ~*~

  The cool morning air turned Ginny’s fingers stiff. Shedding the less-than-nose-pleasing coat, she slid toward the imprisoned posse.

  “Psst, Peter.”

  The man’s head bent down, his shoulders tucked up against his knees. Even his lips were purple from cold, and as he tilted his head up to her, the unshaven whiskers on his chin stuck out straight from goose bumps. What would it feel like to kiss purple lips? She didn’t know, and she didn’t think she’d ever look at those lips the same.

  A hopelessness hung its heaviness over Peter’s body like a cloak, but he looked better than the rest of the posse. She spared one sorrowful glance for the shivering Mr. Clinton, whose jacket arm was stained red, and Pokey, who had curled up inside a hollow in the ground, resembling a small woodland creature.

  Then, crouching behind Peter, she slid her knife against the rope binding him. Cold fingers proved clumsy and her blade nicked his wrist.

  As a trickle of hot blood seeped out, he straightened up, eyes questioning.

  “Shh.” Rawhide cut, she pressed the knife into his frozen hand. “You cut the others free and get the guns while I distract the gang. Got it?”

  His velvety-brown eyes grew huge, but he nodded.

  Tugging herself back up on cold legs, she made her way up to the cooking fire where Bloody Joe and his gang members sat in a half circle.

  Suspicious eyes turned from her to the prisoners she’d just spoken to. Never mind, she’d have them thinking of other things in a moment.

  “Is that stench really food?” She grabbed the wooden spoon and dug it deeper into Widow Sullivan’s cauldron. That woman really couldn’t cook. Forget getting kidnapped and threatened with execution, she was surprised Uncle Zak had survived eating the woman’s basket at the Fourth of July picnic.

  “Hush up and be happy we’re feeding you.” Digging two fingers into the brown-colored slime that filled his bowl, Bloody Joe fished out a bit of meat. An extra layer of stain accumulated on his already crusted-over suit sleeve as it dipped into the edge of the bowl.

  Now the stench of stew rose up even stronger from Bloody Joe’s unwashed hands. And life or death situation or not, bad food was just repulsive. A gag reflex forced itself to her throat.

  “Widow Sullivan’s not the best cook, is she?” Leaning forward, she grabbed the man’s bowl out of his hands and dumped the slop on the ground.

  He stood up and cursed. The gang members cowered back.

  With one hand, Ginny flipped her hair back from her face. “You really want to eat that stuff? I mean, go ahead, if you want. I’m sure the dirt couldn’t have made it worse.” She gestured to the earth where a frying pan sat. “Or you could let me cook you something decent.”

  Bloody Joe grabbed her arm and pulled her to him. His breath smelled worse than skunk stench, and his body odor was worthy of several years in a federal prison regardless of his other crimes. Thick fingers dug through calico as he imprisoned her inches from himself. “I should kill you right now.” He moved his face down, its expression menacing.

  A flash of fear crossed her insides, but she thought of Fluffy. Small feline that she was, the cat could send people running just as fast as a mountain cat. Posturing, that’s what won battles.

  Ginny brushed off the dirt the man had gotten on her dress. “How does an omelet sound? You do have eggs, don’t you? I could fry up some apple fritters, too, if you have a pinch of flour and sugar.”

  Bloody Joe’s bloodshot eyes glowered into hers, and then he released her. “All right.”

  He plopped back to the earth on her side of the fire, pacified. But the pile of pistols was only a dozen feet behind his back now, and some of the other gang members circled around the fire were half-turned toward the weapons.

  She’d just have to fix that then, wouldn’t she? After being handed a rather dirty leather case that contained eggs, she tapped the first one on the side of cauldron and nudged the frying pan closer to the fire. “Tell me, how did you all get to be so famous?”

  A dumpy gang member jumped to his feet, stomach wobbling. “Let me tell you about the time at canyon’s basin when—”

  Two other gang members grabbed him by the arm and pulled him to ground. “You didn’t shoot the President of the United States.”

  The dumpy man struggled against them, wiggling impressively massive arms that wobbled a bit too much for straight muscle. “I tell you, I had him between the whites of the eyes.”

  “You were drunk, and it was a mule. We had to haul you out of the ditch and go after the federal marshal ourselves.” Letting go of the dumpy man, the gang member on his right-hand side subsided back into the blankets, shaking his head.

  “Marshal? Tell me more.” She cracked another egg and smiled at the little party in front of her. If she just had some lemon, she could make an excellent sauce for these eggs. Oh wait, the gang members would be bound and on their way to prison before these eggs had cooked. Pity. Still, maybe Uncle Zak would like some sustenance after they rescued him.

  The right-hand gang member sat up straighter on his blanket. “I was sittin’ there with my gun, just waiting for the ambush, when a lawman comes up. Big, brave fellow, but you should have heard him squeal like a baby when Smith started chopping his fingers off.”

  A stray bit of wind blew her hair forward, and she used her non-egg-covered hand to brush it back. “How awful. And then how—”

  “No, you tell me something, missy.” Bloody Joe shoved the right-hand gang member out of the way and fixed his gaze on her.

  Was the red in those eyes just from a sleepless night, or were they naturally colored that way? She shivered and then forced a shrug. Him asking her questions would work, too, just as long as the gang kept their eyes focused on her and didn’t look behind.

  Both hands behind his head, Bloody Joe twisted his neck back. Three disgusting cracks came in succession from that portion of his anatomy and then he directed another cool gaze at her. “What’s going on between you and this Cal fellow?”

  “Going on?” She scrunched her eyebrows as she broke another egg.

  “I mean, he’ll do for a puppet cop, but not sure he deserves a gal like you.” The man scooted a little closer to her.

  Fine, just as long as he didn�
�t turn around. Peter moved toward the pile of guns in a hunched-over crawl. “Puppet cop. Interesting.” She cracked the next egg with as much force as possible to cover any leaf rustling Peter might do.

  “You like him?” Bloody Joe continued gawking at her.

  “If you mean am I sweet on him? Absolutely not.” Time to put Cal’s ridiculous story to rest. Now if Peter could just get a little closer to that tarp covering the guns. Behind the gang’s back, he rustled a twig and then froze, his face icy white.

  The gang didn’t react. Back to the left it looked like Peter had succeeded in freeing all the rest, though they made a great pretense of still being bound. Even Silas sat with his hands behind his back, body rigid. The pretense could have worked if every few minutes he didn’t sneak his left hand up to scratch his nose.

  “So, you’re saying you’re available?” Still sitting, Bloody Joe reached across the fire and ran his finger down her leg.

  “What?” She wanted to kick him, only that would probably make him turn his head and look back where Peter was. “Oh no. You’ve got it all wrong. Actually, I’m madly in love with Cal. Just madly. We’re absolutely made for each other.”

  Shame Peter had to overhear that bit. Though she’d never realized how boring he could be. Their conversation up the mountain had been downright slow.

  “Why?” Bloody Joe didn’t remove his hand from her leg. Peter had a rifle in his hands and was retreating to the trees behind. Now the cowhands crept closer. Pokey put his fingers to his lips and mouthed a hush.

  Just a few more minutes. She twisted her leg back, but his fingers didn’t let go of flesh easily. “I don’t know, Cal’s just so…” She took up another egg.

  “So…what?” Bloody Joe’s gaze was on her. That much was good. He stood. That part wasn’t so good. The wood on the campfire shifted as his heavy foot hit the ground next to her.

  An egg she attempted to crack slipped out of her hand and landed in a sizzling burst of steam on a flaming log. “Understanding,” she said and gulped, her eyes on Bloody Joe’s all-too-close face.

  He stroked his greasy palm down her cheek. His muscular fingers felt warm, not icy, which had some advantages over the chilling mountain breeze, but he made her shiver all the same. “I can be a very understanding man. Might even let you live.”

  Now Mr. Clinton crept forward on hands and knees, his little chin up as he moved toward the gun pile.

  “And Cal’s smart about shooting and plans and such.” She tugged one hand free from Bloody Joe to grab a replacement egg.

  The remaining gang members guffawed. They too stared at her, which was becoming quite disturbing.

  Bloody Joe laughed along, though his face was so close the laugh sent rank-smelling air up her nose. “Now I don’t know if that’s a point for Westwood. I’ve planned some mighty good raids myself. Ever hear tell about how I got that whole row of stage coaches once, and a mighty bundle of federal bills, too?”

  His meaty hand touched her waist now, probably leaving a filthy smudge. But if she yanked away, he might turn and look toward the gun pile. She cracked another egg and tried not to let the gang members’ gazes agitate her. “Cal’s handsome. Not tall, dark, and handsome, you know, but he’s got two of the three. Also, there’s the whole lawman bearing, which is really quite attractive.” Her tongue moved faster than she meant it to as the words spilled over each other.

  “You hear that? She’s saying I’m ugly, boys.” Bloody Joe threw his head back and roared. With his head back, one couldn’t smell his breath quite as much.

  Another egg clacked with rhythmic preciseness and she plopped it in with the rest. “Not to be rude, but you are missing teeth.”

  Joe chortled. “I don’t think she likes me.”

  “I wouldn’t say dislike exactly.” More abhorred what he stood for and needed to save Uncle Zak. Oh, and the rank odors, maybe dislike did apply for those. Wiping her hands on her skirt, she stepped closer to him.

  Resting one hand on his disgusting arm, she pointed to the pistol grip coming up out of Bloody Joe’s holster with her other. “For instance, you have very good tastes in guns. What’s that design on the handle, a spider?”

  “No. A longhorn. I drew it myself. I’m quite the artist, wouldn’t you agree?” His broken teeth showed as he smiled at her. He touched her waist again.

  “I think it looks more like a spider.” Hand playing at the hair around her ear in a jumpy attempt to distract herself, she watched Peter and the rest of the posse spread out their armed line of offense.

  “What would a pretty little thing like you care about guns?” Bloody Joe ran his chapped knuckles across her cheek.

  Ginny dug deep, trying to remember every bit of knowledge Cherry had ever imparted upon her. “May I see it closer? I’ve always loved an artistic man.” She tilted her head and smiled prettily at him. She could almost feel the steel in her hands. “Maybe you could draw me something after?”

  Bloody Joe extracted the gun and held the muzzle toward her.

  She reached for it, and he let her take it. Twisting it between her hands, she studied the silver design. “I love how you’ve—”

  Behind the gang, all but one posse member had taken their gun—Silas. He stooped over the pile and scratched his cheeks. “I still don’t think this will work as good as my flintlock,” he said to himself.

  Bloody Joe spun to the voice. The host of armed posse members pointed their gun barrels toward him. He went for his holster.

  “Not so fast.” She trained Bloody Joe’s own gun at him. “Surrender position everyone.”

  “Why you conniving—” Bloody Joe lunged toward her.

  Without bothering to raise the gun, she pulled the trigger. The bullet blazed through his knee cap.

  He stumbled back, cursing.

  “Surrender position.” She moved the pistol back and forth.

  Slowly, Bloody Joe crept his hands up and the other gang members followed his lead.

  “No, I said surrender position. Don’t you even know what that means?” Ginny rolled her eyes. These men had obviously not read enough crime novels. “Noses in the dust.”

  The dumpy gang member’s limp eyebrows shot up. “You serious, missy?”

  “Deadly so.” She clicked the hammer back and aimed the gun at Bloody Joe’s skull. With a disgusted look, he lowered himself to the ground.

  “Gather the weapons, Peter.” She indicated the gang’s holsters with her chin.

  Just as Bloody Joe and the gang hit the dust and Peter stepped forward, Silas, both hands extended, pointed his pistol toward the prostrate gang members with a proud expression on his face.

  A shot rang out.

  18

  The sound of a bullet leaving a gun cracked from an undetermined location followed by another close on its heels from the hills beyond. Cal watched the trail of gun smoke rise above the trees.

  “And here’s to one less lawman in the world.” Smith yawned and scooted his thin shoulders into a crevice in the tree behind him. “Now back to sentry duty, boys.”

  Sheriff Thompson dead. Well this was the best way to mourn him. Cal drew his gun. “Drop your weapons.”

  Shock riddled the cold air like the holes in Swiss cheese, though the gang likely wouldn’t have wanted their emotions compared to that food source. The sentries looked to Smith as the young one took a sharp step back. “Ain’t he on our side?”

  “Now.” Cal swiveled his gun back and forth, gaze on all at once. They could kill him. Kill him with only one casualty—the first man to shoot. How much did they value their individual lives?

  Apparently, a lot.

  The men’s guns clattered to the earth, bouncing on pine needles. “Hands in the air.” Cal knelt to collect the firearms into a pile.

  “I knew you were a traitor.” Hot breath hit the back of Cal’s neck as an arm went around his front. The full force of Smith’s body hit him. Shoving forward, the man wrestled for the upper hold.

  For one cruc
ial second, the other eight stood in shock. Thrusting his elbow back, Cal hit the man in the stomach, pounded the back of his head against the man’s face, kicked up with his feet. Smith fell away, but now the young man lunged for a gun.

  Cal pulled his own trigger. One bullet out of six gone and the man fell to the forest floor. Smith dove toward the gun pile, but Cal made it there first. “Back up, Smith.” He pointed the muzzle of his gun right at the man.

  “You’re from that Houston gang division, aren’t you?” Smith narrowed his eyes as he stood, not moving backward or forward.

  “Hands in the air.”

  “Your friend, Isaacs, was screaming at the end.” Smith laughed.

  Cal’s gun hand shook as he struggled to control the blood that surged through his veins. “Hands in the air.”

  A grin parted Smith’s thin lips. “Last thing he said was ‘just shoot me,’ but I—”

  Charging, Cal threw the smaller man to the ground. The pistol flew from Smith’s hand as he hit a rock. Cal gathered that one and the rest and moved them away from the prisoners. Then, yanking the belt from Smith’s waist, he pinioned the man’s hands behind him.

  Even as Smith’s face slammed against the ground, he cackled. “You miscounted. There’s one more sentry.”

  “Hands in the air, lawman.” The ninth sentry strode out of the northern trees, pistol aimed.

  This was no time for counting the cost. Cal pulled his trigger at the same time the sentry did.

  A searing pain tore through his own shoulder as the bullet ripped through flesh, but the ninth sentry dropped to the earth.

  In the space of a few more minutes and he had all ten men immobilized by rawhide belts.

  Stringing the guns together in an easily maneuvered bunch, he checked to ensure each hitch knot bond would hold. That done, he took a deep breath. Isaacs was avenged.

  But was Ginny safe? He started off at a full sprint toward the campfire.

  ~*~

  Tearing through the undergrowth, he stopped at the last row of trees that walled off the campsite. Pistols raised, he moved one branch.