by Jory Sherman
“Sounded like it,” the other man said.
“Let’s go finish him off.”
“Wait.”
Lew saw a head poke from behind the rocks. It would have been a snap shot, and he didn’t want to risk it. He would wait until both men showed themselves and then try to bring them both down.
He waited, listening.
Then, he began to moan loudly.
“Help me,” he whined.
“He’s wounded,” one of the men said. “Pretty bad, I’d say.”
“Maybe. I don’t trust the bastard.”
Lew moaned some more, then gave out a loud groan and what he hoped was a rattling sigh. He gurgled in his throat, and then was quiet.
“We got the bastard,” one of the men said.
Lew heard a rustling from the other side of the rocky outcropping.
One of the men stood up.
Then, from the road, he heard a rifle shot. Before he could squeeze the trigger, the man grabbed for his shoulder and then fell to the ground. He rolled a few yards. The other man stood up, just a little, but enough so that Lew had a shot. He lined up the front blade in the center of the buckhorn rear sight and gently squeezed the trigger. The Winchester barked and spat lead and flame, sparks flittering like fireflies in the low clouds.
“Ah,” the man said. Just that one word, and he fell across one of the rocks. The rifle in his hands slipped free of his grip and clattered on the rocks before it struck the ground.
Lew gazed downward at the road, and there stood the girl, her rifle still pressed to her shoulder, a wisp of smoke spiraling from the barrel.
“Did I get him?” she said.
“You got him.”
She pulled the rifle away from her shoulder and started walking back toward the place he had left her, as if she had no interest. As Lew scrambled forward, levering another cartridge into the chamber, he heard the horses clopping up the road. Their hoofbeats were muffled in the still, oppressive, cloud-laden air.
He bent over the man he had shot, turned him over. He was dead, a bullet hole in his chest just above his heart.
“They left their horses down here by the side of the road,” Marylynn said. “I’ll fetch ’em. We can sell ’em in Taos.”
Lew did not reply. Marylynn was practical, if nothing else. She was also a pretty good shot, he thought.
The man she had shot was dead, too, a hole in the side of his neck. He hadn’t bled much, because his heart had stopped pumping soon after he had struck the ground.
There was a folded piece of his paper in the man’s pocket. Curious, Lew slipped it free, opened it up, and in the dim light began to read.
Fritz, you and Billy meet up with us in Santa Fe at the Tecolote Cantina. Wait for us.
The note was signed by Wayne Smith.
Lew’s heart dropped a foot.
He folded the paper back up and stuck it in his pocket.
“What did you find?” Marylynn called up to him. He stood up.
“Nothing,” he said.
“Get their guns. We can sell those, too.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, a sarcastic twang to his voice.
He stripped the men of their pistols and gunbelts, picked up their rifles, and walked down to the road. The clouds were even thicker now, lower in the approach to the pass. There wasn’t a trace of sun and he shivered in the chill.
He slid the rifles into their scabbards and rolled up the gunbelts and shoved them in two saddlebags while Marylynn looked on, a faint smile on her face.
“Maybe the money will make up for some of the goods they stole from me and my father,” she said.
“Ever kill a man before, Marylynn?” Lew asked, taking the reins of his horse from her hand.
She shook her head.
“No, never did.”
“You seem pretty cool about it.”
“I was mad,” she said. “About what they did to my father. And I didn’t want you to get killed, either.”
“That might be quite a heavy load for a gal to carry. Killing a man like that. How old are you, anyway?”
“I’m nineteen,” she said.
“And your father taught you to shoot like that?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t feel bad about killing a man?”
She shook her head again.
“Not about that man. He killed my father in cold blood.”
“I would have gotten him. I was just about to squeeze the trigger when you fired your rifle.”
“I couldn’t see you. I just saw that man.”
“And you don’t have buck fever over it?”
“I might later. Not now. I’m just glad he’s dead. I’m glad they’re both dead.”
Lew shivered, and it was not from the chill.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said.
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean it’s hard killing a man. Especially for a woman, I would think.”
“You’ve killed a man before,” she said. It was not a question.
“I reckon.”
“And how did you feel?”
“I was plumb sick,” he said. “And I still get the shakes afterward. Inside. As if I’ve done something wrong.”
“But they were trying to kill you, Lew.”
“I know. That doesn’t make it any easier. Call it conscience, I guess.”
“Well, of course I have a conscience. I sure don’t go around killing people.”
“Thank God,” he said under his breath.
“What did you say?” she asked.
“Nothing. Let’s get up to that pass. Over it, if we can. It’ll be dark soon and it may come a snowstorm.”
“We’ll have to find shelter,” she said.
Almost too eagerly, he thought as he put the spurs to Ruben. They each pulled a horse, and the going was slow. The road steepened and the silence closed in around them with the clouds.
After a time, they could see only a few feet ahead and there was no way Lew could tell if they had reached the top of the pass or not. But he began to scout for a place to hole up until morning.
He knew one thing.
He would sleep with his pistol close at hand. For all he knew, Marylynn might do away with him so she would have another horse and saddle to sell, plus more weapons to lay on the trader’s table.
It was a chilling thought, but it was there, and he slipped into his winter coat, hoping he was wrong about Marylynn and her propensity to kill.
7
THE CLIMB UP TO THE PASS WAS HARD, GETTING HARDER. LEW spotted a game trail as the clouds began to hem them in, dropping visibility down to just a few yards. He turned his horse to the right, looked back to see if Marylynn would follow.
“What are you doing?” she said.
“We’ve got to find shelter. I think it’s going to snow.”
“Feels like it,” she said, and turned her horse.
Lew nodded and tapped Ruben in the flanks. The horse humped up and climbed the even steeper game trail. It wound through thick stands of pine, spruce, fir, and juniper, then leveled off at a point where Lew thought they might have a chance to get out of the wind and, if they built a shelter, keep most of the snow off them during the night.
“Here?” Marylynn asked.
“As good as any. There are dead trees for firewood, rocks to reflect heat, plenty of spruce boughs for a shelter.”
“You know how to do all this?”
“I grew up in the woods.”
They climbed down from their horses and tied them up while Lew broke out ropes from the dead men’s saddles and started running one of them through the O rings on the bridles. Marylynn did the same with the horse she was riding and Ruben, using another rope. Lew helped her wrap the rope around a pine trunk and tie it securely. Then he secured the other horses in a different place, sheltered enough by spruce and juniper to keep the wind from doing its worst.
He found a rocky outcropping and spread the bedrolls
next to it, scraped out a place for a fire, and ringed it with loose stones. Then he took his knife and began to cut spruce bows.
“What can I do?” she asked.
“Go around to the pines and break off the dry branches below the boughs. An old hunter I met up in Leadville told me they call this ‘squaw wood.’ It’ll help us start a fire. Then you can start gathering any dry wood on the ground. I’ll do the same after I build us a small lean-to.”
“It’s getting cold,” she said.
“See if you can find a coat on one of those horses and slip into it,” he said.
When he saw her a few minutes later, he almost didn’t recognize her. She had on a big sheepskin coat that was too large for her. He could not see her hands or wrists. He suppressed a laugh as he continued to strip boughs from a spruce.
He sliced off the limbs from several spruce trees until he had enough poles to lean against the rock wall. He saved the cuttings and spread those over the ground underneath, putting the bedrolls on top. Then he cut more boughs and wove them into the poles until he had a fairly tight surface. The boughs were springy, but the weaving made them stronger.
He helped Marylynn gather more firewood, then started the fire just outside the lean-to. He piled rocks on one side so that the heat would reflect and keep the inside of their shelter warm.
He felt a dab of moisture on his face and looked up from the fire. A few small flakes of snow drifted down from the mountains above them.
“There was grain in their saddlebags,” Marylynn said. “I fed the horses some corn and oats.”
“Good. You warm enough?”
“I feel the chill. I found some airtights, too—beans and peaches. One of the men had some jerky. I didn’t look in your saddlebags.”
“There’s some hardtack in a flour sack, and some beef jerky. I could eat a horse, but I’ll settle for some beans and jerky.”
“There’s water in their canteens, too,” she said, and marched off to start bringing goods to set inside the lean-to.
Small snowflakes fluttered down from the clouds. None of them stuck to the ground at first. They were weak and wet by the time they reached earth, but the fire sputtered until Lew got it going strong. He opened the airtight and set the beans next to the flames. He munched on hardtack and dipped it into the can. Marylynn followed his lead as they sat together next to the rock wall. She looked up into the maw of the storm, saw the swirling flakes mingle with the sparks from the fire.
“It’s really quite beautiful, isn’t it?” she said.
Lew looked up.
“Beautiful and mysterious. Sparks going up, flakes coming down.”
“Never to meet,” she said, in a musing tone. “Or if they do, they destroy each other.”
Lew nodded, struck by the simplicity and truth of her observation.
They finished eating and washed their food down with water from the canteens. Marylynn crawled into the lean-to and slipped into her bedroll, pulling the covers up around her neck.
“I’ll check on the horses,” Lew said, feeding the fire with small sticks of dead wood. “See if I can find a big log to put on here to last the night.”
The horses were fine, if a bit restless, but he tested the ropes. They would not run off. His only worry was that a bear or a cougar might come their way and either kill or spook them. It could not be helped. He would have to trust to Providence, divine or otherwise. He scouted the surrounding terrain and found a big heavy deadfall and lugged it back to camp. He put one end of it into the fire, sending a shower of sparks skyward. He could move the log during the night as it shortened from the burning.
By then the snow was falling more heavily. The flakes were larger, almost the size of a quarter, and they were sticking to the moistened ground. There was a white blanket of snow all around them, and the spruce boughs began to freckle with flakes.
Marylynn had brought the rifles inside the lean-to, and had set one by her bedroll, the other by his. He lay down and pulled the light blanket over him. By then it was dark and he could not see if Marylynn was awake or asleep. He could just hear her breathing in the silence of the snowfall.
“I keep thinking of my poor daddy lying back there in the cold ground,” she said, and the sound of her voice startled him.
“Such thoughts will do you no good, Marylynn.”
“I know. But I can’t help it.”
“Best to think of the good times you had with your daddy.”
“I will. I will dream about him.”
“Better go to sleep then. The other thoughts will keep you awake. The bad thoughts.”
“You are so wise for a young man.”
Lew said nothing. He listened to the tink of snow on the spruce boughs, so soft and lulling. He hoped the struts would hold even if it snowed a great deal. Perhaps the warmth of the fire would keep most of it melting. He could feel the heat inside their shelter. It was not much, but it was better than nothing.
“You are, you know. You’re not much older than me. You must have had an interesting life.”
“Be quiet, Marylynn. I want to go to sleep.”
“I can’t sleep.”
“Then let me, will you?”
“How can you sleep? Those men are out there, too, not even in the ground. The wolves will probably get at them.”
“Worms are probably already at work.”
“Oooh. What a horrible thought.”
“Shhh.”
“I wish I were back home,” she said.
He knew she wasn’t going to shut up. He turned over and away from her, wishing she would.
“You’re not going to ask me where I’m from, are you, Lew?”
“No, I’m not. I don’t care. I’m tired and I’m sleepy.”
“We’re from Kansas. My mother died years ago, and my pa raised me. We had a farm and it dried up on us. My daddy wanted to come west to Santa Fe. He met a man who told him it was a rich city and that a man could get on well there.”
“That’s a hell of a thing to go on, make you leave your home. Where you grew up. Like following a pipe dream.”
“My daddy was something of a dreamer, I reckon.”
If he let her talk on, her voice might lull him to sleep. It was that soft. And hypnotic. But she paused, as if waiting for him to comment. He decided not to.
“Where are you from, Lew?”
“Mmmmf.”
“Huh?”
“Arkansas,” he said, his voice sizzling with irritation.
“Like Kansas, only with an a-r in front of it.”
He did not reply.
“I’ll bet it’s pretty there. Kansas isn’t pretty. It’s just flat and has no trees. Not many, anyway. I just love these trees, the trees here in the mountains. I love the mountains, too, don’t you?”
He grunted and pulled the blanket over his head.
“Just outside Abilene,” she said. “Maybe five, six mile.”
Lew didn’t make a sound.
“That’s where our home was. We started out with a big wagon, sold it and a lot of things in St. Louis. Daddy bought that little cart in Denver. We stayed there for a time—through the winter. I worked in a dry goods store, Daddy did blacksmithing. He thought he might do that in Santa Fe. But all his tools were in that cart, and I’m not much good with a hammer. I don’t know what I’ll do in Santa Fe.”
“You got kin there?”
“No. I just don’t know where else to go. Except where my daddy was going.”
Then her voice broke off and he heard her muffled sobs coming from under her blanket. He clenched his fists. He wanted to knock her in the head to shut her up. She had ruined his sleep and would probably stay up all night pining for her pa. He got up and put more wood on the fire, just to get away from her.
When he came back, she had moved her bedroll next to his. He stumbled over her, not knowing she had done that.
“What the hell…”
“Lew, I want to be close to you. I miss my daddy.”
He resisted the impulse to tell her that at least her daddy was sleeping undisturbed.
“All right,” he said, and lay down next to her.
She was quiet for a while and he thought that she might have gone to sleep.
No such luck.
“Lew?”
“Yes.”
“Are you still awake?”
“Obviously,” he said.
“Do you think my daddy’s in Heaven?”
“I don’t know where he is, Marylynn. Can’t you sleep?”
“No. My mind is just racing with thoughts about him and about those men we killed. Do you think God will punish us for that?”
“I don’t think God punishes anyone. I think people punish each other and themselves. That’s all the punishment they’ll get.”
“In this life, maybe. But what about afterward?”
“I don’t think God is bent on revenge. Not my God anyways.”
“You believe in God?”
“If you look at this earth and at the sky, it’s hard to believe there isn’t a God—someone or something that made it all.”
“You are wise,” she said.
“And you’re a damned blabbermouth, Marylynn. Now, for God’s sake, go to sleep.”
“For God’s sake…,” she said in a dreamy voice. He closed his eyes and heard her breathing. The snow was still falling, and the silence was blessed. And he was wide awake, wondering about the girl lying next to him. What Fate had brought them together? What would she do in Santa Fe? She had almost been raped by three bad men out on the trail. She’d be a sitting duck in a town like Santa Fe.
Well, he wasn’t going to worry about her. Not now. He had his own concerns, Wayne Smith being foremost. Perhaps Blackhawk would catch Smith, put him in jail, hang him. He hoped so. Then Lew could go on with his life and stop being a damned vigilante.
He fell asleep, finally. Later, he woke up because Marylynn had snuggled next to him. Her body was warm and soft. Her arm lay across his chest, and one of her legs was over his. He could feel her warm breath in his ear. He turned over, away from her, but she clasped both arms around him and pulled him tight against her. He could feel her young breasts pushing into his back.
“Marylynn,” he said.