A vast lonely landscape out here. A menacing one, under the circumstances.
“Any sign of ’em?” Slash asked as Pecos drew his buckskin up beside the wagon, to Slash’s left, and followed along even with the driver’s seat.
“Nope.”
Slash looked at him with sharp surprise. “What?”
“No sign. Not a print. Not a single apple.”
“Well, I’ll be hanged.”
“What’s the matter, Slash? Why do you look so glum? That’s good news, not bad news.”
Slash scratched the beard stubble on his cheek as he looked warily around. The young marshal rode point now, roughly fifty yards up the trail. “I don’t believe it.”
“Well, I didn’t see nothin’, and I rode a half mile out in all directions.”
“Well, then, they’re three-quarters to a mile out. They’re doggin’ us, all right.”
“What makes you think so, Slash?” Jenny asked him, sitting to his right.
“That spider crawling around under my right ear is talkin’ to me.”
“I don’t see any spider under your ear,” Jenny said.
“You may not see it, but it’s there, all right. Whenever I feel that spider crawling around, I know I got wolves on my trail.” He looked to the east, beyond Pecos, to the south, which was straight ahead, and then to the west. He wagged his head and scratched behind his ear. “They’re out they’re doggin’ us. I know they are.”
“Maybe those four we seen on the knoll weren’t part of the gang.” Pecos was building a quirley while he rode loosely in his saddle. “Maybe they was ranch hands just givin’ a quick scout. No doubt curious about the jail wagon an’ all.”
Slash glanced into the cage behind him, through the closely woven iron mesh that fronted the bars so the prisoners couldn’t poke their arms through and strangle the driver, or grab a weapon from the driver’s box. “Chaney, did you recognize them four on the hill earlier?”
Chaney gave only a guttural curse. He lay on his side on a straw pallet, curled in the fetal position, clutching his battered ribs.
Black Pot and Beecher sat reclining against the cage’s rear door, ankles crossed before them. The half-breed was chewing a weed he’d plucked through the side bars from along the trail. “Talon ain’t at his best right now. Not after the stompin’ you gave him, old ma—er, I mean, Mr. Slash.”
Black Pot grinned.
“How ’bout you two,” Pecos asked them, hipped around in the saddle to see into the cage. “Did you recognize ’em?”
“Nah,” Beecher said, shaking his shaggy head and blowing cigarette smoke out his nostrils. “They were too far away.”
“You can bet they were our boys, though.” Black Pot drew his thick lips back from his ragged teeth in a seedy smile, his black eyes glinting in the waning sunlight. One long, blueblack braid hung down over his chest while the other one trailed out through the bars behind him. “You can bet your last dollar on that. And I do believe you’re right, Slash. They’re stayin’ just far enough back to keep you guessin’, just like you’re doin’. Probably just waiting for all the others to join ’em before they make their move.”
“If I were you two gentlemen,” Beecher said, “I would stop this cart right now and let us out. You let us go, we’ll let you go . . . as a gesture of our endless appreciation. No harm won’t come to any of you. You can just be on your way unfettered . . . get the pretty teacher and the young marshal to Denver all safe and sound.”
“Don’t go feelin’ too smug,” Slash warned the killer. “If it looks like they’re getting close enough to spring you, I’m gonna shoot all three of you devils through the bars, toss your carcasses to the coyotes. You’d best hope they stay back. Far back!”
“Say, now—that ain’t fair!” Black Pot yelled, glowering at Slash through the iron mesh.
“Shut up!” Slash said. He turned to Pecos. “They’re out there. Guaranteed.”
Pecos drew deeply on his quirley, blew the smoke into the wind, and nodded grimly.
CHAPTER 25
The Thousand Delights’s kitchen was quiet and dark, as Jay had expected it would be. Excepting special occasions, she always closed the kitchen, sent the cooks home, and stopped serving food after nine. Most folks were not at the saloon/ brothel/gambling parlor to dine that late, anyway. They were here for sundry other pleasures of the flesh.
She could still smell the lingering delightful aroma of the duck à l’orange she’d put on special earlier that evening, and suppressed a hunger pang. She walked out from the mouth of the stairs and across the rear corner of the dark kitchen. She banged her right knee against a stool someone had left where it shouldn’t be, and stopped to suck a sharp breath through her teeth, bending over to clutch the bone in question, trying to squeeze the pain out of it.
She cursed the cook or houseboy who’d left the stool there but was happy when the pain quickly subsided. Limping only slightly, she continued to the outside door and lifted the steel locking bar that was always placed in the brackets once the kitchen was closed, to keep anyone from entering through the rear door. She leaned the bar in the corner by the door, then opened the door and stepped out into the dark alley. She looked around furtively.
Nearly as dark as the inside of a glove out here. It was almost one thirty by now, for after Cisco Walsh had left in a huff, she’d gone upstairs to change into a simpler, more comfortable, dark-colored day dress and black sweater, as well as a black hat so she’d be less visible. The Thousand Delights was probably the last place in town still open except for the seedier hurdy-gurdy parlors out by the now-defunct military fort and the river, so she thought her chances of being seen outside and on the prowl were slim.
She’d intended to take the back way to the freight yard, but she hadn’t counted on it being this dark in the narrower alleyways, so she walked around the rear of the Thousand Delights and made her way to the front, her way lighted by the lamplit windows on her right, which she ducked under so no one inside would see her. Being seen by anyone out of doors this time of the night would start the rumor mill churning. By now, half the town probably knew about her blowup with Walsh at the bar. Now she was stealing around outside, dressed in black.
What could she possibly be up to at this unseemly hour? Perhaps heading for a tryst with some mystery man?
Jay didn’t know if Walsh had anyone spying on her, but since he’d had the livery hostler watching for her, she didn’t count it out. If the crooked marshal knew she was stealing around outside in the dark of the night, he’d likely assume it was on account of the robbery he had planned. Not that Jay knew the robbery was why Myra had summoned her with the note, but what other reason could there be?
When she’d gained the main street, she looked around to make sure no one else was around or on the saloon’s high front veranda, then hurried across the street and, clinging to the dense shadows of the false-fronted façades on that side, made her way east, occasionally weaving around telegraph poles. The broad street was penetrated by the flickering lights of millions of stars awash across the black sky arching over the town, so she had little trouble making it to the northeast side street she’d headed for. She’d seen no one but a couple of stray dogs scavenging for scraps in a trash heap by the Bon-Ton Café.
Turning north on this narrower side street, she slowed her pace. It was darker here, for trees and warehouses blocked the starlight. She didn’t want to trip over something and further hurt herself. She’d walked only a few feet, heading north, when she stopped suddenly with a slight gasp and whipped around to face the main street again.
She’d heard something. She wasn’t sure what it was, but it had been a stealthy sound. A man-made one. As though someone were stealing up behind her. Jay stared back toward the main street, which she could barely make out in the darkness. It was all so dark here on the side street that she couldn’t see much better than in the alley behind the saloon.
She heard it again—a soft, scraping sound. Som
eone dragging a spur on the ground?
Her heart quickened. Cisco had followed her out here. She remembered her dream, the chilling, suffocating sensation of his hands around her neck, trying to squeeze the life out of her.
“Who’s there?” she said, hearing a quiver in her voice.
Silence followed by a shuffling sound.
Louder, putting some anger in her voice, Jay said, “Who’s there? Come out where I can see you!”
Silence.
Jay’s heart beat faster. Her mouth went dry. She half waited for the flash of a gunshot in the darkness. No, he wouldn’t shoot her. Too loud. It would draw others. He’d likely use a knife or maybe, as in her dream, he’d try to strangle her....
“Cisco?” she called, louder, wondering if she should scream for help. “Is that you?” Pause. She moved forward, toward the break between two small, wood-frame grain warehouses. “It is, isn’t—” Her voice broke into a clipped scream just before she closed her hand over her mouth.
She stumbled straight backward as a loud growl was followed by a yip, and two short, shadowy figures bounded out of the gap and into her path. They ran past her and into the street—two skirmishing dogs. They appeared to be a large, shaggy dog and a smaller dog with shorter fur. The larger one had something in its jaws, a bone of some kind, and it was teasing the smaller dog with it.
They ran off together, the dog with the bone growling and prancing, and the shorter one yipping angrily and leaping against the larger one, trying to dislodge the bone from its mouth. They disappeared into a gap on the street’s other side, and their soft foot thuds and growling and yipping faded as they disappeared.
Jay threw her head back and drew a relieved breath, released it slowly. Her knees were still shaking. She thought for a moment they would buckle and she’d fall to the street. She chuckled and, relief still washing over her, her heart still beating quickly, she swung around and continued walking north.
Just dogs. A couple of silly dogs fighting over a bone . . .
She took three steps and stopped again.
A man had just stepped out of the gap on the other side of the warehouse. This was a man, all right. Not a dog. She could see his silhouetted figure in the darkness ten feet ahead of her. He wore a broad-brimmed hat and a long coat. Something glistened around his middle. A gun. He was holding a gun, aiming it at her.
“Make one sound and I’ll shoot,” he said softly with quiet menace. “You’re coming with us.”
That “us” should have tipped her off. But she hadn’t been able to override her impulse to turn and run, which she did—right into the second man who’d stolen up behind her. Jay gave a startled “Oh!” and pushed away from the man. She backed into the first one, who now stood unyielding behind her. She started to twist around toward him, and as she did, he stuffed a gag between her lips and quickly tied it tightly behind her head, squelching her cries.
She smelled the burlap of a gunnysack as one or maybe both of her assailants pulled it down over her head, turning the night even darker, blacker, horrifying. She struggled madly, her heart really racing now, but there was nothing she could do. They wrapped ropes around her chest and waist, tying the sack over her. They tied another rope around her ankles, tying them together. Then one of them slung her up and over his shoulder.
She’d never been as frightened as she was now, suddenly wrapped and bound like a cut of beef, and carried off like a sack of grain. She couldn’t punch, kick, scream, or fight in any way. She was totally at the mercy of her captors. If they wanted to throw her in a river to drown, there was nothing she could do about it.
They carried her off. She could hear the harsh breathing of the man carrying her. He jogged, tripped, almost dropped her—almost fell!—before he righted himself. She heard the other man say, “Careful, Anders!”
“Shut up,” Anders grunted, breathing hard again as he ran.
Jay heard a horse give a nervous whicker. Anders stopped.
She felt his hands around her waist, hurting her, pulling her down off his shoulder and then giving her a heave. She landed hard on a rough board surface. Her ears rang with the sudden impact against the back of her head. Pain knifed through her brain. She felt the boards jerk around beneath her.
A wagon. They’d thrown her into a wagon.
Hinges squawked. That sound was followed by the sharp thud of an end gate being closed and then bolted shut.
“All right,” one of the men said nervously, keeping his voice down. “Let’s go!”
Jay thrashed. Or tried to. They’d tied the bag over her. It came down to just above her waist. They’d tied her ankles, as well, so all she could really do was wriggle around like a worm impaled on a fishhook. She jerked as the wagon bolted forward. It rocked and rattled beneath her, banging her around. She rolled to one side and felt something relatively soft. Possibly a feed sack of some kind. She wriggled around, shoving upward with her heels, and got her head and shoulder far enough atop the feed sack that it offered at least enough cushion to render a braining not quite as imminent as a minute ago.
She struggled against the bindings around her waist but made no headway. Her captors had tied them tight. There was no give in the ropes tying her ankles, either. Beneath her, the wagon rocked, pitched, hammered over chuckholes, and swayed to and fro. She gritted her teeth against the discomfort. Rolling onto her back seemed to make it easiest on her bones. Wherever they were taking her, she hoped it wasn’t far. On the other hand, what if they were taking her somewhere private to kill her?
After she’d endured the ride for ten or so minutes, she realized they were in the country. They were heading down a relatively narrow track, moving steadily forward without slowing. That meant they were in the countryside beyond Camp Collins.
How far would they go? What would happen when they arrived at their destination? Who were these men and who had sent them? She wasn’t sure why, but something told her they weren’t acting on their own.
Cisco Walsh.
Of course. He’d sent them. But how had he known where she was heading? Had he somehow managed to read the note that Myra had sent her? That couldn’t be possible. She’d seen him when he’d come into the saloon, and she’d immediately concealed the note in her hand.
A spy. Yes, that was it. He’d had someone spying on her. Maybe the two men driving the wagon. When and if she left the Thousand Delights, they were to grab her and . . .
Do what?
She supposed she was going to learn the answer to that question soon.
Walsh. These men had to be working for Walsh.
Cocooned inside the stinky gunnysack, bound and gagged, she had no option but to endure the misery and the fear that came along with the predicament. It was true. When death threatens, you really do see your life in bits and pieces flashing through the eye in your mind. She saw many scenes from her girlhood on a farm in Nebraska . . . from the time she ran away from an abusive father and made her way to St. Louis . . . from Hayes and Dodge City, where she survived any way she could, ways that she wasn’t so proud of now . . . from her first meeting with Pistol Pete, when the charming old outlaw, drunk as a lord, drew her onto his lap after he’d watched her dance in the One-Legged Rooster, and took her under his wing.
When Pete died, she’d been bereft, but she’d pushed on . . . continuing to live in their old outlaw cabin in the San Juan Mountains, giving shelter to Slash and Pecos from time to time when they found themselves on the run, as they so often had back in those days.
Slash.
She was going to miss him. Did she love him? She’d thought until now that she did, but maybe she’d only been fooling herself because she’d wanted to love him, to settle down with him. If the truth be known—and there was nothing like knowing the truth when you thought your life was near its end—she wasn’t sure she was capable of love anymore. She’d been through too many ups and downs . . . too many forks in the trail . . . too many men . . . too many disappointments.
Mayb
e that right there was what had attracted her to Slash. He’d been through the mill himself. If anyone had a solid understanding of the term “ridden hard and put up wet,” that man was Slash. He understood her. And she understood him. Deep down, she’d always known it and maybe he did, too, though he wasn’t the kind of man who could speak his true feelings.
That’s what had surprised her about Cisco. She’d be damned if she really hadn’t started to believe him earlier, when he so earnestly and vehemently professed his love for her. She’d damn near fallen for it. But now she was being carted into the mountains—she could feel the wagon climbing and causing her to keep squirming forward to remain on the sack—to possibly be killed for what she’d learned about Cisco’s corruption.
The rocking and rattling, the incessant jerking from side to side, finally stopped after what had seemed a long, long journey from town. She knew it had seemed a lot longer than it actually had been, which was probably around an hour, but it had felt like a week. Several times, Jay had honestly thought she would go mad.
Despite that the end of the journey might very well mean the end of her life, she was glad when the wagon finally rocked to a stop and she heard the brake being slid into place. She heard the thuds of the men’s boots and their grunts as they leaped to the ground.
Jay tried to speak through the gag, but instead of it sounding like, “Where the hell am I and what do you intend to do with me?” it sounded like a cat being strangled.
“Grab her,” said one of the men.
Jay knew it was pointless fighting, so she merely endured the brusque way they pulled her out over the open tailgate. One of them drew her up over his arm again. His shoulder was a hard lump against her belly, making it hard to breath. More jostling as the man carried her. His boots crunched gravel, then thumped on wood. They were rising, climbing steps. She heard a door latch click. Hinges squawked. A door shuddered in a frame.
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