Forever, Victoria

by Dorothy Garlock

  Victoria sat beside Nellie in the buggy trying to keep the pain in her heart at bay. Through the long night she had tried to visualize her meeting with Robert. Try as she might she couldn’t recall one single feature of his face. She had struggled with the question of why he was here. Somehow it didn’t seem quite right. If he hadn’t sold the ranch to Mason how did be know Mason was at the Double M? The only thing she could do was to go to town and find out.

  She looked up dully when Sage spread the robes over their laps and tucked them around their feet. She was glad Sage and Nellie would be with her. She had dreaded the thought of the long, cold trip to town alone. The buggy springs yielded to Sage’s weight and he sat down beside Nellie. He flicked the reins and they moved out.

  From her vantage point beside the cabin window, Ruby drew a sigh of relief and reported to Stonewall. “They’re gone. Sage’ll look after her. I’m glad we told him, even though Victory must be madder than a hornet.”

  CHAPTER

  * 16 *

  The cattle moved eastward under the low gray sky and swollen clouds. It was a raw, rough land—rocky hills and little grass. The wind tugged at Mason’s hat brim, and his face felt stiff and cold. He hadn’t shaved since the morning he left the Double M and four days of trail dust lay on his clothes. They had made eight miles the first day, then six and a mere five for the last two days. Luckily the cattle were easy to handle going through the cut in the mountains, because there was only one way for them to go. Although it was only fifteen miles from the ranch to the railhead as the crow flies, the route they had to take with the herd was more than twice that distance.

  Needful as it was to keep an eye peeled for trouble, Mason’s thoughts kept straying. The saddle was a good place for daydreaming. There were a thousand sweet memories of Victoria in his mind. He was quite sure there was no other woman like her. To have found her was almost unbelievable, as were the enormous changes that had come into his life in the past year.

  All the time he’d been in the army he could only think of getting out. He disliked sending men on missions when he knew they would never return. He had disliked even more hunting the English privateer, but he had done the distasteful job knowing that when it was over he would have enough money to buy a piece of land for himself. The Double M had turned out to be more than he’d bargained for in many ways. And then there was Victoria. She filled his heart to bursting and the knowledge that she returned his love had given the world a new brightness.

  Lud rode up beside Mason and jarred him out of his reverie. “Gonna be a gawdawful winter. Damn wind’s sharp.”

  They were riding point and moving down onto the plains. The grass was short but good enough to see them through to the stock pens. Mason turned in the saddle to look back at the sea of cattle pouring out of the draw.

  “Be a little warmer once we get lower. Do we figure on stopping once we get on the plains and letting them eat their fill?”

  “Would be what Stonewall’d do. That ’n’ a good drink at the river crossin’ should put ’em in good shape.”

  “That’s what we’ll do then.”

  Mason had come among these men a stranger and had expected some resistance from them, but his willingness to work, doing more than his share, had won him acceptance.

  “A ragtag drifter come in a wantin’ to know which one was Mason Mahaffey. ’Spect he wants a job.”

  “Probably wants a meal more’n a job,” Mason said drily.

  “Well, I tol’ him which one ya was so he’ll be askin’ fer one or the other.”

  Mason grunted a reply and buried his face in the collar of his coat.

  In early afternoon they bunched the cattle between the hills and the river and set up camp. It would be a short drive tomorrow. Mason debated with himself whether or not to ride in to talk with the buyer, but decided his help would be needed to get the herd through the final gap in the hills after they crossed the river. Even though the drive had gone smoothly so far the cattle might be spooked by some unexpected movement or sound. Almost anything could scare them into a stampede and they’d be off and running. Mason had seen stampedes before. A wild steer could cover ground like a scared jackrabbit.

  That evening Doonie carried the coffeepot over to where Mason sat with his plate of beef and beans. The drive had been the adventure of Doonie’s life. He had come along as a sidekick to Gopher, the cook. He took the good-natured ribbing from the men and billy-be-damned back at them. He’d told Mason he was going to spend his first wages on a good mare so he could start a horse ranch nearby someday. He loved the land here and didn’t want to end up back in southwestern Colorado where during a dry year the wind blew the dirt all the way to Montana.

  “Sure as hell beats Colorado, don’t it, Mason?”

  “Parts of Colorado are pretty good, Doonie.”

  “Not the part we was in. Do you reckon we’ll be stayin’ on?”

  “Of course. I’m staying and there’ll be a place for you as long as you want it.”

  “I was thinkin’ about Miss McKenna. What’s she goin’ to do?”

  “She’s going to stay, too. I’m going to marry her.”

  A grin spread across Doonie’s face. “Whoopee! That’s a doin’ er up brown, Mason. I’d a never thought of it. Marry up with ’er and get the ranch!”

  “Hush up!” Mason said sharply. “You talk like I’m marrying her to get the property.”

  “Well, ain’t you?”

  “I’m sure as hell not! I figure some will say so, but I’d’ve thought better of my own family.” Mason studied Doonie’s red face. “I don’t want to hear any more talk like that. I’m going to marry Victoria because I want to, because she’s the only woman I ever met that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.”

  Doonie looked at him incredulously. He didn’t know what to say, so he said the first thing that came to his mind. “Pete likes her.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “I dunno. She’s bossy ’bout napkins and such.”

  Mason laughed and held out his cup for more coffee. “You’ll get used to that. It’s time you learned some manners.”

  The crossing of the river began with the first faint streaks of red over the eastern hilltops. The air was alive with excitement, for at the end of this day the men would ride into town with their pay in their pockets, a thirst in their throats and a couple of days to carouse in the saloons and sporting houses. At the point of their crossing the riverbed was solid rock and though the water barely came up to mid belly of the tallest steer it was icy cold and the current was swift.

  Mason crossed the river, helped get the lead steers started through the gap in the hills and then rode off down a draw. When he was sure that he was far enough away so that his horse would be out of the path of the herd he dismounted and tied the bay gelding so he could crop the green grass growing in the bottom of the draw. Mason climbed up and over the peak of the hill so he could watch the crossing.

  The chuck wagon was the last to cross. Even with Doonie guiding the team and the extra precaution of heavy ropes the wagon skidded on the moss-covered stones. Finally, though, it rolled safely onto the river bank and Mason went back down the hill to retrieve the bay gelding.

  “What the hell!” His horse was gone. He looked down the draw and saw him, still cropping grass, dragging his halter rope. Mason went after him. When he reached to pick up the rope the gelding shied off a little, and Mason walked after the rope.

  As he straightened up he saw a faint hint of movement out of the corner of his eye. Suddenly he felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck.

  The man appeared from behind the nearest clump of brush, a gun trained on Mason. He was small and wiry and of middle age. A snuff stick stuck out of the corner of his mouth. “You Mason Mahaffey?”

  “And if I am?”

  “I’m Runt Tallard. Or Harry Sutton or John Crosser, if you like ’em better. I’ve heard some about you. You worried me some when I was given yore name, so I t
hought I’d see how ya looked when you sweated a little.”

  He stood no more than thirty feet away and Mason knew there was almost no chance that a bullet fired at that range would miss him. Especially if it was fired by a professional killer like Runt Tallard. Mason had heard of him—hired gun who would kill his own mother if the price was right. Another thought entered his mind. He’d not be going home to Victoria! That thought angered him and cleared his head.

  “I’ve heard of Runt Tallard. I heard he worked alone.”

  “Always have, always will.”

  “Then whose horse—”

  “Horseshit! I’d give Mason Mahaffey more credit than to try…”

  Mason dived. He considered it harder for a man to shoot quickly to his right. So he dived to the left as his hand went to his gun. Runt shot and missed and shot again. The second bullet hit home. Mason rolled into the underbrush. He was hurt, but the shock was keeping him from feeling the pain. Bracing himself for another round he steadied his hand and fired where he thought Runt might be. He heard him scramble for cover and fired again. There was blood on his hands from the thornbushes. He turned around and crawled deeper into the sparse covering. He lifted his gun and the six-shooter was knocked from his hand by one of the bullets Runt was spraying into the bushes.

  His gun was gone! His rifle was on his saddle and his horse was at least fifty feet away. It might as well have been fifty miles. When the pistol was shot from his hand it had left his arm numb to the elbow. But Runt didn’t know his gun was gone or he would have been on to him by now. Runt had him cold. He had to figure a way out. The only reason he was alive was because of Runt’s pride. The cocky little bastard wanted to look the man he was going to bring down in the eye.

  The thought crossed Mason’s mind that the boys would have heard the shooting, but they wouldn’t have thought much about it. A few shots were nothing to get excited about. Someone could be shooting jackrabbits. Don’t figure on any help, he told himself. It’ll be a while before anyone comes looking for you.

  The place where he lay in the brush was fairly large, but there were lots of blackberry bushes covered with thorns that would catch and tear at a man’s clothing. Mason lay absolutely still, not moving a muscle. Runt would be listening, and at the slightest sound he would open fire.

  He wanted to live, to feel Victoria’s body next to his again, to taste her lips, to see in her eyes her acceptance, her giving. Victoria my love! Will I ever hold you in my arms again?

  He could feel blood running down into his crotch. The bullet must have gone into his side. Somehow he had thought it was his leg that had been hit. With infinite care he lifted his hand and eased it back for his bowie knife. He might not have a gun, but if he could get within reach of the slimy, little runt he’d cut his heart out!

  The knife was bloody and he wiped the shaft carefully on his shirtfront, then gripped it in his right hand and waited.

  The runt would be getting worried, because the longer it took to find him the greater risk that some of the drovers would come looking for him.

  Stealthily Mason began to inch forward. He wanted to get to a place almost out in the open that the eye would pass over quickly. A man lying still, unmoving, can easily be overlooked. Eyes naturally tend to look across a clearing and sometimes the obvious goes unnoticed.

  The earth beneath him was damp and cold. He had lost his hat when he first dived into the bush, and he debated with himself about shrugging out of his sheepskin coat, but decided against it. It was dark and blended with the damp leaves. Easing himself along, he chose a spot. There was a stump and brush, none of it over a couple feet high. He lay close to the brush, almost in the open, closest to the place he thought Runt would pass.

  If he sees me, I’m a dead man, Mason thought. He’ll be good at stalking, he’s had plenty of experience. I’m lucky the little bastard wanted to kill me face to face or he’d have shot me in the back when he had the chance.

  I’d sure like to know who hired him, though. Just then a terrible thought struck Mason. If he kills me he’ll go for Victoria! There’s got to be a connection between Tallard and the bushwhackers that tried to kill us before.

  Lying absolutely still, afraid even to breathe, he waited. With his ear against the ground Mason listened.

  Runt came out of the brush not half a dozen feet from where Mason lay, his gun half-lifted for a shot, his eyes ranging the brush on the far side of the clearing. All of Mason’s muscles tensed. As Runt stepped past him he raised himself up and threw the knife hard into the man’s lower back. It went in clean to the haft.

  Runt’s body stiffened sharply and Mason dove after the knife, catching hold of the hilt just as Runt started to turn. With a hard wrench, the knife came free. They came face to face for an instant, their eyes only inches apart.

  Runt looked astonished. “You bastard! You knifed me in the back.”

  “I ought to cut your goddamn heart out!”

  “Why? I was only doin’ my job.” He fell then and lay there on the grass, staring up at Mason. “Mason Mahaffey. I always wondered who’d be the one to get me.”

  Mason took the gun out of Runt’s hand and walked across the clearing. When he got to the far side he looked back. The small figure was lying in the dust, the wisps of hair on the top of his head stirring in the slight breeze. The sight reminded Mason of a small, deadly rattlesnake. You don’t let a man like that live. You kill him like a snake because he’ll always be waiting around for you.

  With his hand pressed to his side, Mason staggered down into the draw. He didn’t bother to look for his own gun, it was probably good for nothing now, anyway. Then he saw Pete coming on the run, leading the bay gelding.

  “Gawd, Mason! What happened? I heard the shootin’ then pretty soon the bay was running alongside the herd.”

  Sweating and trembling, his body wracked with pain, Mason took a tight grip on the saddle horn and leaned against the horse until his head stopped spinning.

  “My hat is over there in the brush. Will you get it?”

  Pete was back in minutes and Mason settled his hat on his head.

  “You hurt bad?”

  “Dunno.” He paused, gathering his strength. “There’s a dead man up there about forty feet. Go up and see what he’s got on him. Bring me everything out of his pockets. He was sent to kill me and I want to know who hired him.”

  Mason had hoisted himself into the saddle by the time Pete returned and the horse began to move slowly back down the draw. Pete raced on ahead to stop the chuck wagon, and then rode back to ride beside Mason.

  Doonie and Gopher were waiting beside the wagon. A small fire was going and a can of water was heating beside it. Mason got off the horse and handed the reins to Doonie.

  “There’s a horse up the draw a ways. Bring him in and he’s yours.”

  Pete threw out a bedroll and eased Mason down on it just as he started to crumple. Mason fought to stay conscious. Pete motioned for Doonie to go get the horse, and he and Gopher stripped back Mason’s clothes so they could look at the wound. There was so much blood you couldn’t tell where it was coming from until Gopher sponged it away with a cloth dipped in hot water. The bullet had gone into his side and out again at an angle.

  “Could a been worser,” Gopher said. “Get that jug of whiskey out from under the wagon seat.” Mason had begun to shake so violently his teeth were chattering. “Hurry up and get some of it down him,” Gopher commanded sharply.

  Through the years the old camp cook had treated many gunshot wounds. At first he had feared Mason had been gut shot and wondered how the man had been able to get on the horse, much less ride it. Pete lifted Mason’s head and forced him to gulp the whiskey while Gopher poured a quantity of it into the wound in his side. They were wrapping a clean white cloth tightly around his middle when Lud and another hand rode back to see what was delaying the wagon.