With dust clearing, five men are visible in the shadow of the canyon wall: Melchior and Grip stand over two strangers. Sam behind, nearer her and the horses, rifle at his side. One man on the ground clutches his shoulder, blood running between his fingers, cursing horribly. Perhaps he pulled the other down with him when he was shot because the second man appears unhurt besides scrapes and cuts from the fall, his gun belt, revolver, and Bowie knife all in dust at Grip’s feet. He leans away with an ingratiating smile, his hands over his head.
“Can’t blame us—only what we’s told—” the smiler addresses Grip.
“Cállate. I’ve no quarrel with you, Billy—if you hadn’t just emptied a chamber—”
“Told us to, right? We’ve nothing—”
“If you cannot—”
“—mean nothing by—”
Grip bends quickly to press the nose of his revolver between Billy’s eyes. “Close your mouth.”
He does, also drawing a shutter over his wheedling grin.
Grip’s voice is so low, Ivy can hardly hear him over continued moaning of the bleeder. “Where is he going, why, and how long does he mean to remain?”
Billy swallows.
Melchior steps forward, his own revolver in his hand, though not seeming to feel he must cover either man. “Grip...?”
“He ... we’re ... heading,” Billy pants, “to the border.”
“We are past the border,” Grip says.
Are they really? Into Colorado or to Arizona Territory? No wonder the trail felt so long.
“Get a heap more for them alive,” Melchior says.
Billy’s eyes roll toward Melchior, back to Grip. “Lobo ain’t down here....”
“So I have discerned.”
“Only going across the border—don’t know all, do I? He figured you followed so he sent us back. Canyon all night, then run into difficulties what slowed us up. Lagarto spotted them—spineless bastard now running off with our horses at the first sniff of trouble. How do you like that? Leaving two fellows afoot in—”
Grip draws back the hammer on his revolver.
“He was going on about evil spirits. Me and Hoyt go out for a look. Craziest sons of bitches I ever saw. Real pale, silent curly wolves, walking around in rags, wouldn’t call a howdy. Not heeled or nothing. No ride. Just seen them when they’re running at us. Our horses liked to have jumped three counties. Got us all lost. Finally riding in here, meaning to back-trail, but there you was. Don’t even know where Lobo is now, Grip. God’s truth.”
“Which is why you cannot tame your tongue into giving a straight answer regarding his destination?”
But Ivy can hardly hear the men now, ice cold and trembling. She hears her own voice ringing above the cursing man on the ground and Grip’s words. “What happened to the risers?”
All five men look around.
Billy’s jaw drops as the revolver is shifted slightly off his head. “What in hellfire?”
“Those ‘men’ you saw,” Ivy snaps. “Pale, silent men—what happened to them? Where are they?”
“The hell—sorry—the tarnation you doing with a little girl out here?” Billy sounds appalled, not impressed, as he stares again at Grip.
Sam, who looks nearly as shocked as Billy to see her there, hurries to her.
“What did happen?” Melchior asks. “Where’d you see them?”
“I ... I....” Billy says, glancing again at Ivy as she takes Sam’s arm instead of Elsewhere’s neck.
“North and east, low country,” the injured man gasps. “Half a day back, something awful....”
“Ivy?” Sam’s face is chalky as he stares at her bloody arm. “You should not be—”
“Didn’t down any?” Melchior asks.
“Hoyt got a shot off,” Billy says, nodding at his panting companion. “Saw it go clean into his chest as we got away. Didn’t fall—nothing. Didn’t even see blood. Know something about those critters?”
“Where is your horse?” From Sam, though Ivy tries to follow the others.
“She does.” Grip jerks his head at Ivy. “We’ll get to them. If you can manage to explain where Everette—”
“Telling you square, I—”
“We must get out of here,” Ivy addresses all of them, heart pounding, hardly aware of her arm any longer as her whole body feels weightless with fear. “At once.”
Grip remains standing over Billy, questioning him. Melchior looks around from the injured man to Ivy and Sam through his sungoggles. Then back, staring north along the canyon floor.
He lets out a slow breath. “Grip? You ... uh ... looking to meet up with a few more from the outfit?”
Grip turns, leaving Billy to pant as he lies back against the canyon wall.
Sam and Ivy squint up the blazing canyon, Ivy realizing she lost her new hat in the fall and shielding her face with her hand.
A small group of riders flies toward them, throwing up dust clouds, now leaving it trailing far behind. Galloping figures rippling in heat waves, yet clear as canyon walls.
“Billy, I recommend you sit with Hoyt to keep yourselves out of the way,” Grip says softly, not taking his gaze from the approaching cloud. “If I suspect you are about to take action to hinder us, you shall be shot.”
Billy hastens to grab Hoyt and tug him off along the wall.
Sam backs Elsewhere behind their former cover outcrop, Ivy shifting to hold the horse for support once more as he turns back to Grip and Melchior, dropping to their stomachs on the rise.
Grip glances at Sam as the latter joins them with the rifle in his hands. “How proficient are you with that weapon, Mr. Samuelson?”
“I am unsure.” Sam picks his way up the rock bank with the Henry aimed in the direction of the approaching riders. “I have never shot it.”
Both Grip and Melchior jerk their gazes from distant horses to the Englishman beside them.
“Damnation, Sam,” Melchior says. “What are you packing it around for?”
Grip clenches his teeth.
Ivy and Elsewhere retreat farther behind the ridge as the three men watch above it. Melchior snatches the Henry out of Sam’s hands, pushes his own Colt at him, and drops to his chest on the rocks, aiming the rifle. Sam and Grip lie flat on either side of him, each now with a revolver, out of range of the approaching riders.
Ivy reaches unconsciously for the blue roan stallion’s reins, more to give herself something else to hang onto than because she thinks he may bolt. Elsewhere stands easy while Chucklehead and El Cohete, the buckskin, lift their heads, ears pricked and nostrils flared, as if they can see riders through the outcrop.
Melchior presses the butt of the rifle against his shoulder and leans his face, eyes protected by sungoggles, into the sight. He pauses, finger already squeezing the trigger.
“Grip? Able to see who that is in front?”
“My eyesight would not be so savvy even had I two.”
“Sure as thunder looks like that Mexican woman on the dark horse.”
“Sard.”
“She ... part of this Lobo’s gang?”
“Do not shoot.” Grip scrambles to his knees.
Melchior does not move, finger on the trigger. “Leading them right at us.”
“She has a carbine in her hands.” Sam sounds alarmed, squinting in dust and sun toward the galloping horses.
“Don’t shoot!” Grip repeats, standing.
“The hell you doing? Kill you if—” Melchior is still aiming the rifle.
Grip whirls, leveling his revolver at Melchior’s skull. “Put it down.” A cold, deadly growl. “That is my sister.”
Tenth
A Reason to Run
The dust cloud builds, descending upon them. Ivy hears pounding hooves, feels earth vibrate beneath her boots.
“Certain that’s going to keep her pals from firing on us?” Melchior shouts to Grip as the latter climbs down the rock and scrub ridge to meet the riders.
The woman calls out as she nears: “G
o! Get out of here!”
Melchior and Sam scramble to their feet. Ivy tightens her right arm across Elsewhere’s neck and her left hand on Chucklehead’s reins.
“Rosalía—” Grip does not move.
“Please, they’ll kill you!” The seal brown horse slides to a halt, along with three others, two of which are being led and riderless: the missing steeds of Billy and Hoyt. On the fourth animal is a wiry man who appears terrified by the sight of Grip.
“If Everette rides behind you—what are you doing with Lagarto?”
“Ran into one another. Listen, all of you, if you do not—” Her horse tosses his head, dancing in place.
“Where is he?” Grip interrupts.
“Grip, please.” She casts a panicked look around to all of them.
Grip also breaks his gaze from her to look at his three companions, then away. “Maldito. Billy, shall I shoot you, or would you like to ride with us?”
Melchior catches Chucklehead’s reins and leaps into the saddle, then turns to help Ivy up behind as Sam lifts her. “Where’s the mare?”
“She ... retreated.” Ivy catches his shoulder to steady herself atop packs and bedroll, hardly aware of pain or blood. “You told me never to hold the reins in a fall.”
“Don’t recall saying ‘never.’”
Sam mounts. Grip is in the buckskin’s saddle. The woman on the seal brown horse, astride in her dilapidated vaquero saddle, canters past, pushing the prisoners to ride ahead.
Ivy feels nearly unseated with every stride, clutching Melchior for her life. Each tooth will be jarred from her head in a moment, hardly clinging to the powerful animal or her thin cousin. Any second she will fly off—smashed to pieces on the ground below.
Someone calls out beside them. Melchior leans back, pressing against her. Slipping. Going to fall, losing her seat, opening her mouth to shout, scream. Chucklehead slows to a canter, then drops his hindquarters and slides to a stop through dirt. Fresh dust fills nose and eyes and mouth. Choking, unable to scream now if she wished, Ivy falls, the folds of skirt and chemise and petticoat slipping, the rump of the horse vanishing out from under her, she swings through open air like a rag doll in a dust storm.
Thump, landing on her feet. As she hits the ground and crumples, completely blind in the cloud, she realizes she only dropped a foot from the animal as he slid.
“Get her head.”
“Is she hurt?”
“If she can run, she’s dandy.”
“Whoa, Luck, easy. She must have caught her reins and tripped. Ivy?”
Blinking, Ivy clears her eyes enough to see through boiling dust.
Melchior, still mounted, walks Chucklehead up to the trapped mare against a mess of dry canyon brush. It appears to be the only clump of such vegetation in the area, yet she struck it, now tangled by trailing reins. Sam has jumped off Elsewhere, Luck’s reins in hand, trying to undo knots as he talks to the chestnut mare, also looking around for Ivy.
“Shhh, easy....”
“Damnation, Sam, cut her loose. Ain’t got till sunset.”
“I have nothing to cut through leather.” Sam slips one rein free, able to reach the shivering animal’s head, rub her throat.
Melchior leans over to pull a short blade from his boot and presses it into Sam’s hand from the saddle.
Ivy catches motion from the corner of her eye. The rest of their party has reached the trail out of the canyon, slowing to a walk up the narrow cutoff. She glances back to see only a solid wall of dust from their own horses, finding the lack of visible adversary no comfort.
She turns away to conceal spitting dust and blood, then tries to gain her feet with one bad arm, one bad leg, broken whalebone jammed into her sternum. Blood on her sleeve is matted into a black-brown paste with filth. Her legs shake so violently she fears taking many steps, but tries to approach Luck.
Elsewhere flicks an ear at her as she hobbles past, his gaze on his rider. Sam has the mare loose, but she throws her weight back in fright, his boot heels scraping up more dust as he holds on. Melchior knees Chucklehead around to cut her off. She backs into him, kicking out.
“Ivy,” Melchior shouts. “Hop on this critter so we can skin out.”
What does he think she is trying to do?
Sam pulls the unwilling mare toward her, reaching to catch Ivy’s hand. “Can you ride on your own?” His worried eyes sweep her bloody arm.
Melchior again turns the stallion so he can hold Luck’s head, allowing Sam to help Ivy mount.
“I’m all right,” she mutters, though she has never, ever, been less all right in her life.
When he places his hands on her waist to left her, snapped ends of bone dig into her flesh. Tears in her eyes, she hisses out her breath through clenched teeth and gathers her reins, one of which is now so short, she fears losing it.
Melchior and Chucklehead herd Luck toward the canyon wall as Ivy fights with her reins. Sam climbs into his own saddle and follows.
Chucklehead starts up the trail, Ivy leaning forward and clicking to Luck to make her walk on. Elsewhere brings up the rear. It seems their fellows have vanished above, though Ivy dares look at nothing but the ears of her horse as she pushes her on.
The drop grows greater and greater, each shifting pebble falling ten feet, twenty, fifty, each setting down of right hooves crunching against the sheer edge.
Nauseated, praying silently, Ivy fixes her gaze on those ears and leans farther forward. Sixty feet. A yellow jacket buzzes past the mare’s head. Luck balks and takes a step back.
“Pull her left, keep her in,” Sam says behind them. “Talk to her.”
Hands trembling uncontrollably, Ivy pulls the left rein, moving Luck’s head close by the canyon wall. “Walk on, that’s it,” she just manages to gasp, voice shaking.
Chucklehead gives a hop with his forelegs and climbs onto level ground. A moment later, Luck has followed with a final bounce, jarring Ivy backward.
Five riders move toward the timberline ahead. Melchior hisses, prodding Chucklehead with his spurs, and the stallion flies after them. Luck chases him without signal from her rider.
More galloping, more teeth-jarring, muscle-tearing flight. Now she wishes they had left both her and Luck behind. She cannot keep this up.
Uphill through scrubby, rocky country, across the stream they paused at coming in, a slow canter to maneuver safely, fifty yards behind the others, then tortuous wood trail up a slope into foothills before true mountains lift beyond. At last, they must slow to a jog.
The woman rider has disappeared, though Ivy sees Grip through trees, pushing the three outlaws ahead on their tired horses. Over a crest, into a slight valley before reaching the mountain trail. Here, Ivy glances back with streaming eyes, still seeing nothing in pursuit.
Running water, spring streams flowing fast down rocks and slopes. Slowing to a walk, horses puffing, Ivy shaking so much she can hardly keep her seat. Up, along the mountain trail, water runs louder, faster, feeding a small waterfall plummeting into a rocky pool, then sliding on down its narrow way.
In a wooded spot full of shade and sun patches like a quilt, Grip allows the three men to slide from their horses for a drink and breath for the winded mounts.
“Rosalía,” he calls up the slope. “¡Vuelve aquí!”
Ivy nudges Luck up the trail to the top of the waterfall, away from the men—though the fall is only as high as her head and this ridge does not exactly place her out of sight. With careful, agonized motions, she slides from her saddle, crumpling to earth as she touches down, legs folding like wet paper. Tears run down her filthy cheeks as she wraps Luck’s long rein around a young poplar, then eases herself to shallow water.
She lowers her face to the icy mountain stream, rinsing out blood from her bitten cheek. She soaks two handkerchiefs to scrub her face, working on hands and neck, drenching sleeves and collar as she tries to wipe dirt from her skin. Finally, she leans down to rest her whole left elbow in the stream as the current turns
the color of rust.
When she looks up, Rosalía has graced them with her presence, returning to face Grip. He pulls pieces of frayed rope from his packs, presumably to tie the captives. Melchior stands over them while Sam tries to find a cloth to cover Hoyt’s wound.
“Yes?” Grip asks, apparently to Rosalía as she only dismounts and says nothing.
“We should keep moving,” she says, glancing back the way they came.
“Why is that?” He throws a length of rope at Melchior.
This makes Billy’s eyes widen, following the rope. “Can’t be fixing to take us in?”
Grip looks at him.
“Me and Hoyt and Lagarto ... just in for dimes. Lobo and Vin and Buitre the trouble ... who you want. You know that. Can’t be meaning—”
“What can I not mean?” Grip faces him.
Billy opens and closes his mouth. “You know we ain’t the bad ones.”
Lagarto, the wiry newcomer, older than the other two, who nearly made it away with all their horses, looks from Billy to Grip. “¿Quieres que nos cuelguen?”
“Sure he don’t,” Billy cuts in, tone and expression slightly manic now. “Don’t mean to fetch us to a necktie party, does he? We’re not the—”
“Tell the sheriff.” Grip faces the young woman. “What happened?”
“I saved all your lives. You’re welcome.”
Grip waits, but she appears finished. “Yet ... I heard from Billy that Everette was far ahead. A full day even?” He jerks his left thumb over his shoulder to indicate....
Ivy blinks, her own daze making her unsure of her sight. The yellow cur approaches along their trail, huge tongue dangling out one side of his mouth, though Ivy never saw him follow them out. He laps water and flops down in the shade. The young woman’s dark eyes follow him until Grip speaks once more.
“He was not in the canyon.”
Ivy cannot think if he means the dog or Everette or Lobo ... both the same person? Losing track of words as faces blur.
Rosalía says nothing.
“So why,” Grip says, tone softer, yet more menacing with each syllable. “Why did we run?”
She stares back into his one eye. “We must all head in the right direction at least some of the time.”
Lightfall One: Clock, Cloak, Candle (Lightfall, Book 1) Page 11