But there was no talking her way out of this predicament. There was no persuading Luke Deal not to kill her if he decided to. He would laugh in her face, as he had laughed in the face of the poor parson, and murder her without a qualm.
What scared Sweet Sally more than anything, the essence of her fear, was her realization that Luke Deal intended to turn her into buzzard bait. That, in fact, he had intended to kill her from the beginning.
She could not say exactly why she was so sure. He had not lifted a finger against her. He had not even threatened her. But her womanly intuition told her that he was only biding his time, that she was as good as dead if she stayed with Deal and his two friends.
Sally made up her mind to flee. She must get away and she must do it at the first opportunity. The problem was, she never had the chance. They were with her every minute of the day and night except when she went into the bushes to heed nature’s call, and then one or another always held her horse for her until she was finished. Until the minister came along, she had thought they were doing it out of simple courtesy. But now she suspected they stuck close to her so she could not elude them.
She had been foolish. She had not regarded the three men any differently than all the others she had been with. They had not seemed to be any worse than Paco Ramirez. Certainly Grutt and Bronk were no different. And since Luke Deal had left her pretty much alone, she had had no cause to suspect she was in dire peril.
Now she knew better.
But how to get away? That was the question. She racked her brain but could not come up with a plan.
Then, about a week and a half after the parson’s death, Sweet Sally thought fate smiled on her.
They had left the settlements far behind and were following a broad trail pockmarked by the prints of the countless cows that had preceded them. When Sweet Sally asked Grutt, he told her it was a route many cattle drives took to Dodge City. She was not all that familiar with the cattle business. Few things bored her more than cows. But from snippets of talk she’d had with the many cowboys who had poked her, she knew that at that time of year a lot of herds were driven north. And since cattle moved a lot slower than men on horseback, she could realistically expect for them to come on a trail herd before too long.
Four days later Sally was proven right.
Tendrils of dust appeared far ahead, rising in a thick column, and it was not long before Sweet Sally heard the lowing of cows and the whistles and yells of cowboys. Soon she saw some of the latter, the dust-caked drag riders who goaded the rear elements of the herd along.
Luke Deal reined to the left to swing wide. Almost immediately a cowhand spotted them, and gave a whoop, and presently two other cowboys came galloping back from up near the front of the herd.
One was tall and rangy and had the stamp of authority about him. The other was middling-sized and wary, and held a rifle across his saddle.
Acting as friendly as could be, Luke Deal came to halt and raised a hand in greeting. “That’s some herd you have there.”
“We think so,” said the tall man. “I’m Gus Shantry, trail boss of this outfit.” He looked at Sweet Sally and touched his hat brim. “Ma’am. It isn’t often we see a female in these parts.”
“Females are always trouble,” said the trail hand with the rifle. “I can do without them.”
“Hush, Buck,” said Gus Shantry. “Pay him no mind, ma’am. He never learned any manners.” Shantry smiled at her, then turned to Luke Deal and the smile died. “Suppose you tell me what you’re doin’ here, friend. And in case you decide not to, all I have to do is give a holler and I’ll have twenty men by my side to help persuade you.”
“No need for threats, mister,” Luke said, still playing at being friendly. “Why, you’d think we were rustlers.”
“You could be,” Shantry said. “They try all kinds of tricks to catch us off our guard.”
“Or you could be sellin’ the woman,” Buck declared, “which is as bad as bein’ a rustler, if not worse.”
“Consarn you,” the trail boss growled.
“Sorry, Gus. But all it takes is one look at her to know she’s a whore.”
Shantry leaned on his saddle horn. “Again, my apologies, ma’am.” To Deal he said, “My men need to keep their minds on their work. If you’re lookin’ to sell her services, you can forget it and be on your way.”
“Why, I’m scandalized,” Luke Deal said. “We’re not after your cows, and we’re sure as hell not in the painted cat business. Fact is, we’re lookin’ for friends of ours from the Bar 40. Maybe you’ve seen them? A few cowboys takin’ a big bull up to Wyoming? The top man is called Owen?”
“I’ve heard of the Bar 40,” Gus Shantry said, “but I can’t say as we’ve seen any sign of a small outfit like you describe.”
“Friends of yours, you say?” Buck probed.
“Known them for years. One of the cowboys, Slim Vrains, is real partial to the lady here.”
“Is that so, ma’am?”
Sweet Sally noticed Luke’s right hand was on his hip, close to his Colt. “Yes, that’s so,” she admitted. “He’s plumb sweet on me.”
Shantry seemed to relax a bit, but not Buck.
“Strange this Slim doesn’t care enough to tell you a cow trail is no place for a female. You should be on a stage.”
“Slim doesn’t know she’s comin’,” Luke Deal said. “It’s a surprise. She decided to accept his proposal after he’d left.” He lowered his voice and leaned toward them as if to impart private information, even though Sweet Sally was right there and could hear every word. “You know how women can be. She told him no, then changed her mind.”
“Still not too smart to bring a woman out here,” Buck said.
Gus Shantry, though, had a romantic nature. “I wish a woman would think that highly of me. Ma’am, you’re welcome to ride with us a while if you’d like. Our cook won’t mind feedin’ a few extra mouths tonight. He’s married.”
Sweet Sally opened her mouth to accept. She saw it all in her mind’s-eye: how she would contrive to whisper to the trail boss about the parson and about how Luke Deal and the others were after the Bar 40 punchers for some other and no doubt sinister reason, and how Shantry would rally his hands and they would draw their guns and tie up Deal and Grutt and Bronk and turn them over to the law at the first town they came to. She had it all worked out, and she tingled with excitement at being shed of them.
Then Luke said, “That’s generous of you, friend, but she’s in a powerful hurry to find her Slim. We need to be pushin’ on.”
“Fine by me,” Buck said.
Gus Shantry touched his hat brim again. “I understand, ma’am, and I wish you and your cowboy all the best.”
Luke clucked to his mount. “Let’s mosey.”
Her chance slipping away, Sweet Sally almost shrieked in dismay and begged the cowboys for help. But as she was about to, she envisioned the outcome, envisioned Shantry and Buck dead on the ground, no match for the quick hands of Luke Deal. She could not bear to be responsible for their deaths. So she smiled and said thank you to the trail boss and rode on after the demon in mortal guise.
When they were well beyond the herd, Grutt snickered and said, “You sure handled them slick, Luke.”
“The Bar 40 boys must be a ways ahead yet,” Bronk commented.
“Doesn’t matter,” Luke said confidently. “We’ll catch up to them sooner or later.”
Sweet Sally fought to keep her voice calm. “What happens when you do? Why are you so interested in them?”
“That’s right. I haven’t told you yet.” Luke turned in his saddle. “The bull they’re takin’ north is a breedin’ bull, missy. That makes him special. A man could get rich ownin’ an animal like that.”
“Somehow I don’t see you becoming a rancher,” Sweet Sally ventured. “Or are you going to turn over a new leaf and work for a living?”
Luke bestowed a thin smile on her. “I never said I would breed the bull myself. I d
on’t need to. There are plenty of ranchers who would pay through the nose for the privilege.”
“You hope.”
“Are you tryin’ to rile me?” Luke asked. “Because if you are, I can make do without the bait.”
“Is that what I am to you?” Sweet Sally had thought it might be something like that. “How does it work, exactly?”
“Simple. We wait for them to make camp for the night, and you go ridin’ in. They’ll gather around, maybe pester you with questions, and be dead before they know it.”
“You’ll shoot them all in the back, I suppose?” Horror seared Sweet Sally like a red-hot poker.
“After what I did to that Bible pusher, you have to ask?”
No, Sally did not. It was a vile plan, well worthy of the walking embodiment of evil who went by the name of Luke Deal. They rode on a while, with her pondering fiercely how she might forewarn Owen and the others, when two things occurred to her simultaneously: One was the welcome thought that Deal intended to keep her alive until they caught up; the other was that when Deal and Grutt and Bronk started blasting, she would be caught in the crossfire. Luke aimed to rub her out with the cowboys.
Sweet Sally’s fear eased a smidgen. She had a while to live yet. She would use the time to think, to plot how to turn the tables on the killers she had unwittingly thrown in with. There had to be a way. There just had to.
But as the hours went by and turned into days and the days turned into another week, Sweet Sally began to despair. Deal and his friends never let her out of their sight. There was always one or another close by.
Sally considered sneaking off on foot in the middle of the night and decided against it. She could not move fast, given her size, and anyway, her ankles had always been weak. They would catch her before she went a hundred yards. Even if by some extraordinary miracle she succeeded in escaping, she was left with the daunting challenge of surviving alone and without food or water or weapons. She wouldn’t kid herself. She would be lucky if she lasted three or four days.
Sally’s only recourse was to stay and hope and pray something happened.
Twice they came upon trail herds. Luke always asked about the Bar 40 punchers and their bull, but no one had seen them.
“Maybe they took another trail,” Grutt suggested.
“Not if they’re bound for Wyoming Territory,” Luke said.
Then came the worst moment in Sweet Sally’s life.
It was the middle of a hot morning. Dust devils were being stirred by a vagrant breeze. Luke Deal was in the lead, as always, riding slouched over, his hat low against the sun, when he abruptly straightened and glanced down. “What’s this?”
“I’ll be,” Bronk said. “How long ago, do you reckon?”
“Not more than an hour, if that,” Grutt guessed.
Sally did not understand why they sounded so excited. They were staring at wagon tracks, at ruts that crossed the trail from side to side. She could not tell if the wagon had gone east or west but apparently Luke could. He reined his horse west and then sat with a peculiar little smirk on his face.
“Do we or don’t we?” Grutt asked.
Sally’s curiosity got the better of her. “Do you or don’t you what?”
“It’s only one wagon,” Bronk said. “Should be easy.”
Comprehension washed over Sally like freezing rain. “You can’t. Whoever they are, they don’t deserve it.”
“None of us deserve to die but we all do,” Luke Deal said. “And if us dyin’ is good enough for the Almighty, it’s good enough for me.”
“Please,” Sweet Sally said.
As if to spite her, Luke gigged his chestnut, saying, “Come on, boys. We’re goin’ to have us a look-see.”
Grutt snickered wickedly and followed. Sweet Sally hesitated, desperately wishing she could forestall them somehow.
“After you,” Bronk said.
“How can you?” Sally asked him. “How can you stay with him and stand idly by while he commits the atrocious deeds he does?”
“I’ve done the same many a time,” Bronk told her.
“He’ll kill you one day. You know that, don’t you? You and Grutt, both. He doesn’t care about either of you. I’m surprised you have lasted as long as you have.”
“Nice try, lady. But Luke and us go back a long ways. We’re the only pards he has. He’s not about to buck us out in gore.”
Sweet Sally’s temper flared. “You’re a fool. It’s right in front of you and you refuse to see.”
“After you,” Bronk repeated sourly. “And keep your mouth shut, if you know what’s good for you.”
“I hate you,” Sweet Sally said. “I hate all three of you.”
“Want me to tell Luke that?” Bronk asked, and laughed.
The wagon tracks bore to the southwest. Luke was in no great hurry, and hummed to himself. Presently dust rose in the distance. Then a canvas hump became visible. Made of hemp and waterproofed with linseed oil, it resembled an oversized turtle shell.
“A prairie schooner,” Grutt said gleefully. “Some pilgrims have gone and lost their way.”
“Could be rich pickin’s,” Bronk remarked.
Luke Deal gestured. “Who cares about that?”
The wagon was one of the larger Conestogas more common east of the Mississippi. Judging by the depth of its tracks, it was much too heavily loaded, a typical mistake made by those who valued their possessions more than common sense. Two children were perched on the rear gate, girls in cute bonnets, bright cherubs who saw them and smiled and waved and called out to let their parents know.
The team consisted of six oxen. Some emigrants preferred mules. Oxen were slower but a lot stronger.
A large, brawny, bearded man was walking beside the left rear animal when the girls yelled. He glanced back, then brought the oxen to a stop and handed his whip to his wife. She handed down a rifle.
“Get up here with me,” Luke Deal commanded Sally out of a corner of his mouth, “and be quick about it.”
Reluctantly, Sweet Sally flicked her reins. The man and the woman were watching uneasily. The woman said something and the girls scooted forward and sat on the seat beside her.
Sally could not take her eyes off the girls. They were so adorable. They made her think of the children she had always wanted and could never have. New fear spiked through her, fear so potent she nearly swooned.
Luke drew rein a dozen yards out. He flashed his most disarming smile. “Didn’t mean to frighten you folks. Saw your tracks and figured you might be in some kind of trouble.”
“No trouble,” the man replied. “We are on our way to Santa Fe.”
“All by yourselves?” Luke clucked in disapproval. “It’s not my business to tell you how to do things, mister, but you’re takin’ an awful chance. This country is crawlin’ with hostiles and outlaws. If I had a wife and kids, I’d hook up with a wagon train.”
The wife glanced at the husband. “See? But you wouldn’t listen to me.”
“Don’t start in on me again, woman,” the man rebuffed her. “By doing it on our own we save the fee.” His chest swelled. “I can protect you just fine my own self.”
“You must have been in the army,” Luke Deal said.
“Not ever. Wearing a uniform and having to march all day isn’t for me.” The man lowered his rifle a trifle. “I’m a farmer. I like being able to do what I want when I want, and not take orders from anyone.”
“Why, I feel the same way,” Luke cheerfully declared.
The older girl, who was not much over twelve, whispered to her mother and the woman smiled at Sweet Sally. “Rebecca says she thinks you have pretty hair, miss.”
“How kind of her,” Sweet Sally said. “But I’m afraid it’s a mess from the wind and the dust.” She had a sudden idea and added, “You wouldn’t happen to have a brush, would you?” She was sure they would. “Would you mind if I climbed down and borrowed it for a minute?” They were bound to say yes, and she could secretly warn them
about her companions.
“Better save your brushin’ for when we stop for the night,” Luke Deal quickly said. “Your hair will only be a mess again by then.”
“We have a brush if you want to use it,” the woman said.
Sweet Sally was torn. Should she or shouldn’t she? With the farmer standing there holding a rifle, she doubted Luke would start anything. “I would love to use it. Thank you very much.” She shifted her sweaty legs to climb down.
Luke Deal drew his Colt and shot the farmer in the right shoulder. The crack of the shot was like the crack of a whip. The impact spun the farmer half around and crumpled him to his knees. His wife and daughters screamed, and the wife swung down from the seat to leap to his aid. But Bronk was quicker. Spurring his horse in close, he wrapped an arm around her waist and lifted her into the air.
“Let go of me!” The woman struggled and reached back to claw at his face but could not reach him.
“Mama!” The older daughter launched herself at Bronk. She landed squarely on his back. Her small fists pounded his head and neck in an vain bid to force him to drop her mother.
The smaller girl was not to be left out. She scrambled over the edge, dropped lightly to the ground, and was turning toward her father when Luke Deal shot her through the head.
Everyone froze—Bronk, Grutt, the mother, the oldest daughter. Even the father looked up in shock, his shattered collarbone forgotten.
Then the mother let out a wail worthy of a panther and twisted sharply to rake her fingernails across Bronk’s face. The ferocity of her attack caught him unawares, and she ripped him open from above his eyebrow to his chin. Enraged, he hurled her to the earth. The older daughter screeched and hooked a thumb in his eye. Seizing her wrist, Bronk bellowed like a mad bull and hurled her to the earth, too. But where the mother had landed on her shoulder and was only stunned, the older daughter hit on the crown of her head. The crunch of her vertebrae breaking explained why she did not move after she hit.
By the Horns Page 20