Soon he and Coon and O’Grady had the three bodies laid out on the wooden planks of the boardwalk. They were not a pretty sight, neither did any sport the peaceful look that death sometimes afforded. Mangled, shot up, bloody, caked with dirt—just the way Eph figured such outlaws would look in the end. Yet, the young woman was a cipher. She had a pretty-enough face, comely features. He wondered where she was from. Probably Denver City—if she had something to do with the Dutton Gang. Well, he’d get those telegrams sent at daylight.
“G’night, Sheriff,” Coon said, rubbing a fatigued hand across his eyes. His deputies brushed their hands on their trouser legs. O’Grady looked over his roan’s sore foot and rubbed the horse’s ankle.
“He all right?” Eph asked.
“Yeah. I’ll soak it some when I get him home.”
Eph nodded. “You all did good today.” He smiled, and the men stood next to their horses with thoughtful faces, looking at the bodies lying on the boardwalk, the outlaws’ tale over and done. Cloyd and Wymore wouldn’t cause anyone any trouble anymore.
Eph felt a heavy sense of finality with the blanket of night lying over them and the quiet, cool summer night punctuated with the drowsy chirp of crickets. A peaceful feeling seeped into his heart. The niggling threat that had been hanging over him for months—knowing these men were loose and up to more trouble, fearing they’d come into his town and wreak havoc—was gone. A great burden had lifted from his shoulders.
He blew out a long breath, then bid the men good-bye. He watched them until they turned down side streets and vanished from his sight. Then, his thoughts weighed by worry over Connors and the woman and her baby, he strode down Jefferson Street heading to the undertaker’s house on Oak, the crickets serenading his quiet footfalls.
***
Grace wrapped her arms around her chest as she huddled on the cold rock under a murky night sky, her teeth chattering and her bones aching from injury and the freezing temperatures. She could hardly feel her cold bloodied feet, and her hands were so stiff, she thought they’d break if she hit them.
How many hours had passed since they started their trek downriver, Grace had no idea. But it felt as if they’d been walking for years. She was so cold, but refused to give up hope. She would not lose Monty—not now, after all they’d been through. Her mind, although a boggy mash of wandering thoughts, latched on to this one resolve—to not lose hope. It truly was a tenuous anchor to which she clung with her last ounce of strength.
“It can’t be much further now; we’re practically down to the Front Range,” Monty told her, hugging Ben to his chest and keeping him warm. He cast concerned eyes upon her and drew close. As soon as it got dark—when Grace had stumbled and nearly thrown Ben from her arms—Monty had taken the baby from her, brooking no argument.
Stroking her head, he said, “I promised I’d get you and Ben to safety. If I have to carry you both, I will.” He gave her an encouraging smile, and Grace tried to smile back, but she couldn’t muster it. He kissed her forehead and added, “Come. Just one little step at a time. You can tell the air’s a little warmer now that we’re almost down the mountain. Wait here—I need to scout ahead again, see which way to go.”
He looked up at the star-studded sky. “I’m sure we’re heading in the right direction. The river hugs the mountain along the range not that far north of Fort Collins.”
Grace closed her eyes, wishing she could chase away the fear that gripped her. She could tell Monty was doing all he could to cheer her up. But he was hurt, and each step for him was a struggle—holding on to Ben and finding his footing with his head pounding. Twice Monty nearly passed out, and she’d had to wait anxiously for his fuzzy vision to clear before they could set out again. His voice was full of courage and hope, but she imagined he was just as frightened as she.
She watched him stumble off in the dark, and her stomach clenched with fear. How could he see anything? At least the murmur of the river and their steady descent assured her they had to come out on the open range at some point. But when? She couldn’t make it another mile.
Exhaustion lay heavy on her, pushing her to the ground, and every step she took was a monumental effort. They were weak from hunger, but it was the cold that was their undoing. Cold clenched her in a tight fist, and the black bowl of twinkling stars overhead mocked her with their weak sparkles of light. Under other circumstances she might have looked upon this river canyon as stunning wild scenery, with the snow-drenched Rockies as a picturesque backdrop. Tonight, it was the harbinger of her death, sucking the life from her—and from Monty and Ben—without remorse, without noticing.
The shushing of water rippled over her. She closed her eyes and slipped off the rock to the sandy hard ground. Memories of the day Monty had been swept downstream haunted her. She recalled the way the water had churned with its splashing brown waves, the tumbling logs careening off its overflowing banks. She could hear the clamor of the river’s rage, and the loud squeal and crash of the bridge as ground gave way beneath it and it heaved into the maelstrom of water.
Monty had loved rivers. He lived to explore them. Wild water ran in his blood. Yet, this river—the Cache la Poudre—had been her nemesis from the first day she set eyes upon it. It was a demon, a beast that strove to rip from her hands everything she loved. It had taken her husband—twice—and her child. It had taken her wagon with all her belongings. Of all the trials she’d thought she would encounter in the Wild West, she never imagined her greatest foe would be a river. Wild Indians, disease, blizzards, drought and dust—she’d anticipated those, and they had been the stuff of her nightmares in the weeks preceding their departure for Colorado Territory.
She let her mind drift off and felt a stupor of calm envelop her. Soon, the last vestiges of pain dissipated from her body, and her teeth stopped chattering. She hardly felt the cold now. So tired, so tired. All she needed was sleep, sweet sleep . . .
“Grace. Grace!”
She felt someone shaking her, but she couldn’t open her eyes. Where was she? She had been floating, floating. Drifting along on slow-moving water, warm and peaceful. Leave me alone, she wanted to say. So peaceful, so quiet . . .
***
“Grace!”
Malcolm shook her shoulder, at first gently, but then with more urgency. Ben slept hard in his arms, his body radiating feverish heat, and Malcolm jostled him as he dropped to his knees on the sand beside Grace.
Fear gripped his chest. She had slipped unconscious. What was he to do?
He peered into the darkness at the river valley they’d entered. Only small shrubs and grass grew amid the strewn rocks. There were no trees other than spindly aspens and cottonwoods. Nothing he could use to make a shelter.
“Oh, Grace, please. You must wake up.” He ran his hands over her arms. She was freezing, and her breathing was shallow and thready. Please, he begged, don’t die on me!
Fighting down the panic fomenting in his gut, he strained to think of some way to save her. His head felt like a box of lead; thinking took more effort and strength than he could muster. He cursed his uselessness, his lack of a rope, of supplies, extra clothing, a blanket.
But he could not afford to sit there cursing his bad luck. He would not give up, or give in to the hopelessness strangling him. Like a noose, he felt it tightening around his neck. He knew the only way they would all survive was if he carried them both. Yet, he hardly had the strength to carry Ben much further. How could he carry Grace?
But he had to. He had no other options. He could not leave her here. Neither could he abandon Ben to carry Grace to safety. He refused to choose between the two.
“I will not play God!” he yelled into the night. “Don’t make me choose!”
He felt his mind unhinging. He heard laughter and spun around, but no one was there. Cold coated his skin; he felt encased in ice. It was so tempting to curl up on the ground next to Grace and close his eyes too. Sleep beckoned like a temptress, casting alluring glances at him and gesturin
g him to her side. His eyelids, so heavy, began to close, his thoughts wandering off to the memory of that woman he had picnicked with, in the sunny warm park, surrounded by pink and yellow flowers next to a bridle path—
Malcolm’s eyes opened wide. He now saw the woman’s face. She was the same woman he’d kept seeing, the one who flitted in and out of his dreams. She was Grace, and he remembered that day in the park. He saw the place clearly in his mind, as if it were yesterday.
He looked down at her as she lay there unmoving, barely breathing. She had maybe minutes left before she would succumb to the cold. All the answers to his past lay with her. And all the hope for his future. He could not let her die. He loved her. He had always loved her. Heaven had somehow returned her to him. And if that was true, then God could not intend for him to lose her now.
With a prayer on his lips, he felt a burst of energy infuse his limbs. Lord, you are able to provide abundantly more than anything I could ever ask or imagine. Please, give me the strength I need. Show me the way to your safe place of refuge.
He gently lay Ben down, then with a sharp intake of breath, he reached for Grace and hefted her over his shoulder. Oddly, she felt as light as a feather. The determination coursing through his blood pushed the fog from his mind, and his thoughts were sharp and clear.
Carefully squatting, he reached over with his free right arm and lifted Ben to his chest, the sick infant’s breath wheezing against his shoulder. Then, he stood, getting his balance with this bulky weight in his arms. His legs newly invigorated, he took a hesitant step, then another.
As he walked he felt the warmth of his body, heated by the exertion of movement, seep into Grace’s chilled skin. He fought off his trepidation with faith—the only weapon he had left in his arsenal. He had been stripped of everything, even of hope. But now he realized the reason, for it was faith alone that would see him through.
When all else failed, faith remained. That, and love.
With those two powerful divine gifts clutched in his heart, Malcolm marched resolutely down the gently sloping hillside, feeling renewed strength in his thighs and back. Soon sand and rock turned to grassy swales that rolled into pastureland. And under the canopy of a million winking stars, Malcolm came to a promontory that overlooked a wide lush valley filled with thousands of dark shifting shapes he guessed were cattle. His gaze swept the prairieland until it settled on the faint outlines of buildings.
A ranch lay below him, and a few tiny lights glowed in soft amber through windows.
Encouraged by the sight, Malcolm quickened his step, hugging Grace and Ben tightly against his chest, Grace’s head hanging over his shoulder and her hair tickling his neck. Her skin was warm now against his body, and Ben’s little snores were the sweetest music to his ears. As he stumbled his way down a deer track leading toward the ranch, he heard the soft sound of cattle lowing, and the nicker of horses.
Through the haze of his exhaustion, as he kept his eyes riveted to the ground, careful not to trip and fall as his last reserve of strength petered out, he heard men’s voices. Shouts of alarm. Excited conversation. He swore he even heard the voices of the trackers—Eli and LeRoy Banks.
I must be delirious. Malcolm struggled to keep his eyes open, then felt his knees begin to buckle.
Flashes of bright light flickered through the brush ahead. He stopped, unable to take another step, and dropped to the ground. But as he fell, the dizziness consuming him, strong arms grasped his. Arms hefted him, took Ben and Grace from his deathlike clutch, led him in slow steps.
His arms felt empty and cold without Grace and Ben to hold against his bare chest. His head hung lifeless. He couldn’t raise it to look at the men who supported his weight in their arms, helping him stumble along, the rough cloth and leather of their coats and sleeves abrading his raw, bruised body. He wanted to say something, to thank them, to ask them where he was, to tell them Grace was hurt and Ben was feverish and needed tending . . .
“Shh,” someone with a deep, soothing voice said. “You’re safe now. We’ve been looking for you . . .”
Malcolm heard no more. A sigh rattled his chest—a sigh of relief and exhaustion and utter joy. A blast of heat met his face as he heard a door swing open. His rescuers lowered him down onto a soft cushion. Tears wet his cheeks as his thoughts drifted off.
He could sleep now. Now that they were safe.
Safe. Grace and Ben are safe. Thank you, Lord. Thank you, thank you . . .
Chapter 31
The photographer’s flash momentarily blinded Eph as he stood at the back of the large room in the courthouse that was serving as a makeshift viewing arena for the three bodies he and his men had brought back to town. The room was a flurry of agitation and wonder, filled with town officials talking in excited voices. Soon the photographs of the wanted men would be plastered on the front page of every newspaper west of the Mississippi.
The undertaker had stayed up with Eph long into the night, preparing the bodies. Making Clayton Wymore presentable had been a challenge, and since most of his face had been crushed, they mutually agreed, for the sake of those with weak stomachs, that a shroud should be placed over the outlaw’s head. Eph had already wired the Denver City sheriff’s office, as well as numerous county agencies. Soon, news reporters from every town in the territory would descend upon Fort Collins, eager to catch a glimpse of the bodies of the last of the Dutton Gang.
Wrought with sleeplessness, Eph had gathered his deputies at the onset of dawn and gave them the task of keeping order while he sent off the many telegrams. He’d told Jenkins in the telegraph office he’d be expecting replies, and to watch in particular for one from the Denver City sheriff. Eph sent a query with a brief description of the dead woman, but he doubted he’d learn anything. He knew as much about the Dutton Gang as most anyone, and although the outlaws had engaged plenty with women—mostly of the unsavory type—he’d not heard of any so close to the gang that she’d be privy to the location of the stash of gold. But they’d spent months in hiding, and there was no telling who Hank Dutton had brought into his confidences.
Tired of the sweaty, sweltering room full of gawkers—and soon to get even more packed and claustrophobic—Eph squeezed through the crush of onlookers to get a breath of fresh morning air. He worked his way past jubilant townsfolk who showered praise and gratitude on him as he walked the narrow hall and exited onto the boardwalk. A crowd had gathered at the corner in front of the Old Grout, and upon seeing him emerge from the courthouse door, they cheered in an uproarious manner.
Eph tipped his hat at the smiling faces, but his joy was still dampened by the lack of word about his missing persons. He’d sent Coon out early, before dawn—after finding the hotel owner sitting in his lobby with a shot glass of whiskey in his hand. Coon made no apology for his premature imbibing. Only raised the glass at Eph in a celebratory salute. Eph figured Coon was still making up for all the years of prohibition that he’d had to endure until recently. Coon, though, comfortably situated in a large leather chair, was quick to his feet at Eph’s request to ride up to Whitcomb’s ranch and see if the cattle rancher would spare some of his men to search the river canyon for signs of Connors and the woman.
Now all Eph could do was wait. He had to stay in town and field the questions and respond to the telegrams. He doubted Fort Collins had had this much excitement in many a year.
Just as he was about to duck into the telegraph office, he spotted Alan Patterson, the courthouse clerk, rushing toward him. The small bespectacled man waved his arm and called to him.
“Sheriff, Sheriff!”
He came pounding to a halt in front of Eph, his face flushed and his curly hair flying out from under his hat. Eph smoothed his moustache and waited for the serious-faced clerk to catch his breath.
“Where’s the fire, Patterson?” he asked with a chuckle. Surely there’d be no more kidnappings today.
Patterson glanced left, then right, as if on the scout for another member of the Dutton G
ang. “I have something I need to show you,” he said. Then his face soured. “Has anyone seen Malcolm Connors yet?”
Eph could tell by the clerk’s expression that he’d already heard the entire tale of their pursuit and return of the prior day. He gestured Patterson to follow him, and they walked down the boardwalk and turned in at the alley behind the courthouse, where ears would have trouble listening in on their conversation.
“Nope,” Eph told him. “And to be frank, I hold little hope he’s alive. He and the woman were caught in an avalanche—”
“Grace. Grace Cunningham,” Patterson said, his face chalky and perspiring in the cool morning breeze. “And Connors—that’s not his real name. He’s Montgomery Cunningham. Grace’s husband.”
Eph’s eyes widened. “What are you talking about?” While Patterson slipped a satchel from his shoulder and opened the ties, Eph chewed on Patterson’s words. He recalled Connors coming into the assessor’s office that day, inquiring about employment. He seemed to remember the fella was married too. But not to Grace Cunningham. Odd.
Patterson pulled out some sheaves of paper. “Here. Look. This here’s his offer of employment. And this here’s his marriage certificate, showing he and Grace were married in Bloomington, Illinois, back in 1874. And this here’s her ring.” He handed Eph a small wooden box.
“I don’t understand,” Eph said. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Connors—I mean, Montgomery Cunningham—was swept away in that flood last year—when that bridge R. V. Cloud built over the Poudre was washed out, remember? He lost his memory, and somehow he ended up married to a woman named Stella. They purchased a homestead south of town last fall.”
Colorado Hope (The Front Range Series Book 2) Page 33