by Shirl Henke
He had the heavy door open and was about to step out when her voice stopped him instantly. “Carrie is in jail for Karl's murder. She shot him with that pistol of hers. The sheriff found them together in a room at the Excelsior. She was undressed and he was dead!” The venomous triumph in her voice grew more unmistakable with each word she hurled at him.
He stared at her with a shuttered expression on his face, watching her hate radiate like a tangible thing across the space between them. “You're lying, Lola.”
“Just go to Circle S and ask Feliz!” Her look of smug assurance left no doubt that Carrie was indeed in jail.
“Somehow, Lola, you arranged this. You killed Krueger. I know you thought you'd inherit K Bar. Now it looks as if you went to a lot of trouble for nothing. Kyle and I will straighten this out. No one's keeping Carrie in that filthy jail!”
As he-spoke she glared at him, all her sense of triumph evaporating. She would not get Karl's wealth; she would not even be revenged on that redheaded bitch; Hawk didn't even believe her lies. Quivering with rage, she screamed at him, “She's not in that filthy jail anymore! Caleb's got her! That's right, Caleb broke her out last night and carried her off to his rustler friend's hideout. He always wanted her, but she was too high and mighty for him—like you were too good for me. Well, we'll just see now who gets the satisfaction, won't we! He and those filthy gunmen will tear her apart by the time they're through with her!”
When he grabbed her she was laughing and crying all at once in bubbling hysteria. “Where, Lola—where has he taken her? Tell me or I swear I'll use every torture my Sioux friends ever devised on you!” He slapped her several times to still her insane laughter, then shook her until her neck cracked and her teeth chattered.
Grinding her jaws together, she said, “I don't know, damn you! He and Karl worked out their dirty little deals about stealing your stupid cows. He just wanted her and took her. If you beat me to death, I can't tell you!” Another maniacal laugh surfaced as she hung like a rag doll in his harsh grip.
Swearing, he threw her roughly against the large leather chair in the corner and whirled, leaving the room with lightning speed.
Lola lay draped across the chair, her hair tangled around her shoulders, her robe torn and askew. Dumbly she looked at the floor where the legal papers Hawk had given her lay. No inheritance. No money or power. Nothing. She considered the future, growing older in poverty, she who had been a Chicago Jameson, the darling of the debutantes, a baroness, now a nobody who Hawk Sinclair would see charged with kidnapping, even murder.
Slowly and unsteadily she stood up and walked over to the liquor cabinet, where she poured herself a very generous glass of whiskey, slugging it down with unaccustomed speed. Then she poured another.
* * * *
Kyle had been gaining ground on Rider for several hours. A horse carrying double always slowed a man down, even if the passenger weighed as little as Carrie. Kyle had found her gelding wandering lame after stumbling in a gopher hole near the trail. The deeper prints of Rider's own mount told the tale as clearly as a road map.
As far as the canny Texan could tell, Rider was taking Carrie to his rendezvous point with the rustlers, on the northern end of K Bar land, near the Dakota border. It was close to the railroad line, an easy drive with stolen cattle to the railhead. Kyle's past weeks of careful tracking and surveillance had allowed him and Hawk to locate the thieves' hideout. They had been in the process of laying an elaborate trap, waiting for reinforcements to arrive from the Nations before they finished the deadly game with Krueger and his foreman.
Now, with Krueger dead, the whole plan had blown up in their faces. Perhaps something could be salvaged, but first Kyle must rescue Carrie unharmed. Just thinking of what Caleb Rider and his cohorts were capable of made his blood run cold!
It was a desperate gamble, but if he took off hell-bent, no longer bothering with the painstaking chore of trailing, he could overtake Rider before he got to his friends. Of course, if he were wrong and Rider wasn't headed there, he risked losing their trail entirely. The Texan swore. Never in his life had a hunch been so much of a risk. He thought of Carrie surrounded by half a dozen leering criminals, and spurred his horse into a furious gallop.
* * * *
Carrie was groggy from the blow to her head. The right side of her scalp throbbed wickedly and her whole body was a mass of scratches and bruises. She had been bouncing against Rider's unyielding body for hours.
Dark had given way to the faint warming glow of sunrise when her horse stumbled and threw her. Her hands had been tied in front of her. It was fortunate she had not broken an arm or even her neck. Rider had sworn vilely as he stopped and dragged her dazed, aching body off the rocky earth. The horse had to be abandoned, and he carried her in front of him, squeezed in loathsome proximity to his body. It slowed their progress considerably, and Carrie began to gather enough of her wits by midmorning to hope this piece of luck might give Hawk and Kyle time to catch them.
Finally, Caleb pulled his tiring horse off the trail by an outcropping of rocks. Carrie was disoriented, but it seemed to her he had doubled back for the past quarter hour or so. Why?
As if in answer to her silent question, he dismounted, quickly dragging her bound form with him. He shoved her roughly to a thick, grassy mound of earth behind a large rock. Looming over Carrie like an incarnation from hell, he began to untie his neckerchief. Before she could cry out, he knelt and gagged her cruelly with the large cotton scarf. Then he took a length of rope and tied her booted feet securely, binding them to her wrists as well—hogtying her tightly. She lay on the ground, glaring up at him with fierce hate in her eyes. Living with Noah had taught her a great deal about intimidation. God, don't let me give way now!
“Think I'll just leave you here to contemplate the pleasures of tonight when we reach a nice cozy bed at the shack. I don't want to chance any unexpected visitors. I'd swear I've heard someone back a ways. You'll stay put now while I check it out.”
Rider pulled his rifle from its scabbard on the saddle and walked over to the steep, rocky cliff that hid them from the road. With considerable agility he began to climb through the brushy crevices. When he crested the natural lookout point and scanned the trail below, a quick scowl spread across his face. A dim speck on the horizon was gradually increasing in size. When Rider could make out who the horseman was, the squinty frown was replaced by an evil smile.
“Payback time, you scrawny little son of a bitch! I get your lady boss there and you get a slug.” He sighted his rifle and waited as the fast-moving horse galloped closer.
Kyle was certain he would overtake them within an hour at the outside. He had just decided to slow down and check to see if any of Rider's pals were nearby when the shot cracked from the rock pile to his left, knocking him off his terrified horse. As the animal bolted away, Hunnicut rolled across the dusty ground, his eyes searching for cover as he scrambled to regain his footing. Fortunately the area was brushy, with a twisting, dried-up creek bed off the trail to his right. He half rolled, half fell into it. He could not be certain where the shot had come from, but assumed it was across the road. Leave it to Rider to take the high ground.
He was no novice when it came to gunshot wounds, and the Texan knew this was a bad one. As he checked his Colt, he listened for another rifle report. None came. “Yew come to me, Caleb boy. Yew jist do thet,” he whispered to himself as he poked a sweat-soaked scarf against the widening red stain on his chest.
Carrie lay on the hard earth, struggling with her bonds, listening to the report of Rider's rifle. One shot. God, was it Hawk or Kyle? She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed that Rider had missed, then continued to roll herself awkwardly off the grass to the nearby rocks. If she could only get a sharp piece of stone to saw her bonds!
Caleb did not return. That was a good sign. He must not have made his shot. Frantically she searched the ground for something against which to rub the ropes. Her wrists were bloody and raw and the cord
binding them to the ropes on her ankles was pulled tight, making it impossible for her to stand or even roll without pain. Despite nearly dislocating both shoulders, she made three more turns and reached a jagged outcrop of rock.
Rider swore as he saw the curled figure of the Texan vanish into the brushy streambed. The impact of his shot had knocked him most of the way, but long experience at killing made Rider sure that his prey wasn't dead. He had rolled that last turn-on his own. Still, it had been a hit, and it would be only a matter of time until he bled to death. Hunnicut had come alone, but never one to leave matters to chance, Rider scanned the horizon for possible backup. Should he risk staying to finish the Texan or grab the woman and take off?
He wanted to see Kyle Hunnicut die. Slowly he climbed down the side of the hill. If he circled to the east where the trail dipped, he could come back down the creek bed and nail his quarry from behind. As badly shot as he must be, not even that tough little rooster would be doing much moving.
Ten minutes ticked off slowly as Rider circled and Kyle bled. He was sweating profusely and growing lightheaded. Soon he'd pass out, maybe for good. How to draw Rider?
‘‘Always figgered yew fer a sidewinder, Caleb. Bush-whackin' ‘stead o' facin' a man down.” He took a breath. Yelling was taking more energy than he had in reserve. “Yew shoot Frank like thet? Yer a yeller dog coward, Rider!”
Just then the faint scuffling noise of a boot dislodging a small rock sounded in the still noon heat. Kyle turned painfully as Rider rounded the curved trail of the stream bed. Both men shot simultaneously. Both missed. The Texan's hands were shaking and weak from loss of blood. The bushwhacker was caught by surprise that the gore-covered man could still move so quickly. They took cover in the tangled undergrowth.
“You'll bleed to death real quick in this heat, Hunnicut. All I have to do is wait.”
“Mebbe. But till I do, yew cain't cross thet road ta git yer hoss 'er Carrie, kin ya?”
“Maybe I don't have Carrie. Ever consider that, runt?” He edged through the grass, trying to pinpoint exactly where his adversary was hidden. With the rifle he had a decided advantage.
“Yew got 'er, right 'nough, jist th' way yew'd have ta git any woman, bound 'n' gagged,” Kyle taunted.
Rider swore and lunged out of the bushes, crashing toward the sound of the drawling voice. “Time to finish this,” he yelled as he sighted on the crouched form of the. wounded man, propped up against the side of a rock. It was a bad tactical blunder. He had to aim the rifle, awkward in the close confines of the narrow creek bed. Before he could do so Kyle got off one shot, which knocked Rider backward as it slammed into his left arm. The killer scrambled for cover when he hit the ground.
Hunnicut swore as he pitched forward. “Purely meant thet bullet ta hit center.” Then everything went black.
Hawk heard the shots. He had left K Bar to take a desperate gamble, guessing, as Hunnicut did, that Rider would head for his border hideout with Carrie. He had no time to backtrack to town in hopes of picking up a trail. Now as he pushed his exhausted bay nearer, he feared what he would find. Had Rider had a run-in with some of his fellow rustlers, or had Carrie somehow gotten hold of a gun? Either way he didn't like the direction of his thoughts as he came upon the sharp outcropping of rocks on the hillock overlooking the. dry stream bed.
Catching the glint of a gun barrel, he slid off Redskin, with practiced ease, rolling quickly into some thick dry brush with his rifle in his hand. A bullet glanced off the rock over his head, causing the soft shale to flake, showering him with fine particles. Rider was across the trail in the gully, but where was Carrie? Who else had exchanged shots with Rider?
The killer answered his unspoken question. “That little bastard you ride with is dead, half-breed. You're next. Think of me and your woman, all cozy in my cabin tonight—after I kill you.”
So it had been Kyle. Hawk could see what a natural place this was for an ambush. Hunnicut would have, too, if he had not been so intent on galloping after Carrie. Of course, he had been doing the same thing himself. If Kyle hadn't stopped Rider first, he, not his friend, might be the one dead now. Quickly Hawk slipped off his boots and dropped the rifle noiselessly to the ground. Never in all his years with the Cheyenne had Hunting Hawk stalked his prey with such single-minded concentration, forcing grief for Kyle and fear for Carrie out of his mind.
After almost half an hour, Caleb Rider began to sweat. It was as if the rivers of perspiration rolling off him took his bravado along with them. He had been under fire many times in his life, faced uneven odds and deadly killers. And he had always walked away from death. But after Hunnicut got off that last lucky shot and then pitched face forward, Rider had been shaken. Not by the bullet, for the wound in his arm was slight and had already stopped bleeding. He had taken far worse punishment in the past, but no sooner had he recovered his rifle and seen the still form of the Texan lying in the dust than Redskin's pounding hoofbeats foretold Sinclair's arrival.
Some gut instinct told Rider that Sinclair would come. That was what unnerved him, the premonition and the fact that his adversary was fighting on his terms, in close quarters on rough terrain that could hide a dozen armed men. His own perfect ambush site now became an insidious trap. Carrie and his horse were across a wide-open space in the rocks beyond. Why didn't that damned savage make his move? Since he had vanished in the brush, dropping from his horse as if he knew Rider had a bead on him, Sinclair had not made a sound. Was he still over there waiting? Or was he coming after his prey?
Now Rider's adversary was not a wounded, weakening man, but a deadly alert killer, a savage. Terror clawed at his guts, but Rider forced it down, tasting the sour bile in his throat as he swallowed.
Hawk could hear the faint sounds Rider made from his crouched hiding place. No matter how quiet a veho tried to be, he could never truly succeed. He recalled Iron Heart's words to him as a youth. White men disturb the spirits of the earth. Listen, and you will hear their complaint.
Grimly he moved closer. When he caught sight of Rider's boot heel, sticking out from behind the rock where he was squatted, Hawk stopped and knelt. Then he took a small stone and tossed it between them. It landed with a loud thunk in the dust, causing Rider to whirl at the sudden noise behind him and fire wildly. It also led him to abandon his cover as he stood up, his eyes frantically searching for the source of the noise.
By the time he saw Sinclair, it was too late. He had no time to draw a bead on his target, and his bullet only grazed Hawk's shoulder. Hawk's shot found its mark, dead center. He was only six yards away, and the impact carried Rider's body back into the rocks, sprawling his broken corpse grotesquely over them. Hawk approached cautiously to make sure Caleb was dead. Then he heard the moan, faint and low, coming from around the bend of the narrow stream bed. Kicking at Rider's body and satisfied that he would never kill again, Hawk rushed toward the sound.
“Kyle!” He spied Hunnicut in the dust, a widening stain of red across his upper body. Carefully he turned the small man over, laying him flat and checking for a heartbeat. He barely found it. “Tough old rooster, don't you go and die on me now,” he said as he frantically tore off his own shirt and wadded it against the hole in Kyle's chest. In answer to his friend's words, the Texan's eyes opened in an unsteady flutter. “I missed, but yew didn't, I reckon.” His voice was as faint as his pulse. “Leave me be 'n' find Carrie,” he attempted to command, but only succeeded in croaking.
Carrie had spent the past half hour in frantic exertion, rubbing her bloody wrists and arms against a rough piece of rock, all the while listening to the sounds of the ensuing fight. Forcing down her tears when she heard Rider's claim to have killed Kyle, she persevered.
Hawk found her just as she finally broke the last of the bonds off her wrists and was fumbling with the ones on her ankles. When he cut her free and pulled her up, her numbed legs gave way. She collapsed against him. “Where's Kyle? Oh, Hawk, is he—”
“He's not dead yet, but i
t's bad. If I put you on Rider's horse, can you hold on?”
She nodded. “Yes. Just get back to Kyle. I'll manage. We've got to get him to a doctor!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The nightmarish ride to Miles City took until well past dark. Carrie clung stubbornly to Rider's horse, dizzy and aching but desperate in her determination not to further slow their progress by passing out. Hawk held Kyle in his arms, torn between a desire to urge Redskin to gallop and the need for a gentler pace lest the Texan start to bleed once more. Hawk had stopped the hemorrhage with some herbal concoction he gathered near the dry creek bed, bandaging the wound with his own shirt. Both he and Carrie prayed the crude remedy would work.
Phineas Lark was less than overjoyed to see the bedraggled trio—the bare-chested half-breed soaked in Kyle's blood, the gravely wounded Texas gunman, and the scarlet woman who was now wanted for murder. After seeing a light in the doctor's front parlor, Hawk had kicked open the door to Lark's private residence. By the time the irate, pompous physician came puffing up to them, Hawk was already depositing his burden on a table in Lark's home examining room.
If Lark had even fleetingly considered ordering Sinclair to take his stricken friend elsewhere, one look into those savage black eyes choked his indignation in his throat. Wordlessly he went to work, peeling away Kyle's soaked clothing and the makeshift bandage Hawk had made from his own shirt. He removed the grass poultice, muttering something beneath his breath, but seemed surprised that the bleeding was now so slight. While he dug the slug out, disinfected the wound, and sewed up the torn flesh, Hawk assisted him calmly. Carrie collapsed in a chair, fighting to remain conscious as her head injury and exhaustion took their toll.
After he had finished with Kyle, Lark looked up at Hawk and spoke somewhat hesitantly, uneasy now that his technical skills no longer put him in command of the situation. “He's lost a lot of blood and his collarbone's fractured badly. Frankly, I'm amazed he's still alive, but after surviving this long, well, he might make it. Incredibly tough man.”