Rory stopped when he reached the porch and let her step up first. Myra turned to him when she cleared the top step and said, “You know, I can’t help but think that Jessica would have been back by now if she could have been.” As much as it hurt to admit it, he said, “I’m afraid it’s my fault she took off by herself.”
“With Beckworth here I haven’t had time to talk to her privately, nor to you. I feel I owe her an apology for the way I insinuated she might have . . . that you two . . . oh, dear.”
“She told me you guessed we spent the night together after the barn dance.”
“Oh, my. Was she very upset?”
“Just embarrassed. I want you to know I love her, Myra. You asked me once and I didn’t know how to answer. She still can’t decide whether to marry me or not. All she’s worried about now is finding a damned skeleton for Beckworth.”
“The longer I thought about it, the more I realized it was none of my business what happens between you two—as much as I want to see you together, that is. Things work out the way they are intended.” She looked off toward the barn and corral. “I wish I had told Jessica that before she rode off today.”
“We’re going to find her,” Rory said, anger rising at her tone of resignation.
“I overheard what you said to your men. Someone killed Jerome Stoutenburg. That’s what you think, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know for certain. He could have fallen.”
“Who would do such a thing?”
“Someone who didn’t want Stoutenburg on the mesa.”
“That same someone wouldn’t want Jessica there either,” she deduced.
“If that same someone touches as much as a hair on her head, I’ll kill him.”
“Violence never solves anything,” Myra told him.
“No, but it’s a hell of a way to let off steam.”
Chapter Twenty
SLEEP WAS IMPOSSIBLE.
Jessica spent the early hours of the night thinking about two things: how excited Beckworth would be when she gave him the news of the find and how angry Rory would be when he found her. And find her he would. She had never read one dime novel where the cowboy hero hadn’t been able to follow week-old tracks, broken twigs, or listen with his ear to the ground for his quarry.
Of course, she could never admit as much to Rory, especially now that he was already convinced she had only used him to fulfill a fantasy inspired by such reading.
The mouth of the cave was only visible to her when she stretched up to look over her refuge. Wondering if it would hurt to get up and stretch her legs, she decided to stay put when she heard a slow, shuffling sound deep inside the cave.
Jess picked up her gun and curled into a tight ball. She thought her eyes were playing tricks on her when she saw fingers of light licking the walls and ceiling of the cave’s interior.
The light snaked closer accompanied by the now recognizable sound of footsteps. For a moment she was tempted to call out, then decided to wait and see just who was coming.
The light moved closer, arching up and across the walls, accompanied by slow, plodding footsteps. As the light swayed it touched upon huge figures painted on the walls; many of them appeared similar to the ones she had seen in the cliff dwelling Rory had shown her. In the smaller cave the figures had been crudely drawn. Here they were near life size and extraordinary in color and detail.
From where she lay hidden, she could look up at the wide ceiling and see the massive figures clearly. Caught up in the sight of the many pictographs, Jess forgot for a moment she was in danger of being discovered until the footsteps halted somewhere near the mouth of the cave. The smell of lamp oil was pungent, instantly recognizable.
“Miss Stanbridge?” The hushed whisper was magnified in the vaulted, cavernous space. “Miss Stanbridge, are you all right?”
Someone had come from the rear of the cave to find her. There must have been an entrance in the back she had not seen.
Jess sat up and pushed her hair out of her eyes. She peered over the boulder and instantly recognized the Bureau of Indian Affairs agent, Webster Carmichael.
Hearing the rustle of her clothing and the scrape of gunmetal across rock, he turned in her direction and set the lantern on the ground. “There you are, Miss Stanbridge! We’ve been looking for you.”
He reached the boulders and stood waiting for her to climb down. “Here, let me take that before you hurt yourself,” he said, reaching out to relieve her of the gun.
Legs stiff from her cramped position on the stone shelf, she climbed down slowly. “You can’t believe how glad I am to see you.” She brushed off her skirt and then rubbed her dusty palms against it. “Where’s Rory? How did you know where to find me?”
“By searching very thoroughly, of course.”
Jessica smiled up at Carmichael. He didn’t smile back. Nor did he appear any more cordial than he had before.
“I suppose Rory is madder than one of those bulls he likes to ride,” she said.
“I don’t doubt it.”
She waited for him to lead her out into the night. “Well, shall we go?”
At that moment a lean, dark figure silently entered the mouth of the cave. Instantly recognizable in his tall hat with the silver conchos, Piah stood staring down at her with his dark, expressionless eyes. She was startled to see him there, so much so that she failed to hide her reaction. He ignored her and spoke only to Carmichael.
“You found her. Now you will turn over the—”
“Not in front of the woman,” Carmichael said. “I’ve got the shipment in back. We’ll talk after you’ve gotten rid of her.”
The woman? Gotten rid of her? Jessica’s gaze swung to Carmichael and back to Piah. Something was going on here that was not right. These men were not part of a rescue party sent to find her, that much was obvious, and she had just handed her gun over to Carmichael. Think, Jessica. Think.
Tossing her head, she tried to act as if she hadn’t witnessed their exchange. “Well, if you gentlemen will excuse me . . . ” She started for the entrance. If she could only escape into the darkness, she stood a chance of hiding from them.
Piah moved slightly and blocked her exit. He grabbed her upper arm with a grip of steel. “You go nowhere.”
“Get rid of her, I tell you,” Carmichael urged. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in his reed-thin throat.
Jessica spun to face him. “What are you saying? I demand to know what’s going on here.” Her knees turned to water, but she forced herself to hold on. There had to be a way to escape. If she was alert, if she was ready—
“Too bad your lover won’t be here in time to save you, Miss Stanbridge.” Carmichael reached out, pulled a strand of her hair over her shoulder, and rubbed it between his fingers.
She tried to slap him with her free hand, but Piah jerked her back. “Keep your hands off of her, agent. She’s mine.”
Startled by the venom in his tone, she pulled away. Piah tightened his punishing grip on her arm.
“I want her dead,” Carmichael argued. “Take care of her the way you did the other one.”
Jessica gasped. “You had Jerome killed?” She stared at the fragile-looking man in the fluttering lamplight. “You knew all about his death and yet you went through that charade of having me identify him?”
“Very clever, wasn’t it? No one will ever suspect me, but when and if they do, I’ll be long gone, thanks to my determined friend here.” Carmichael picked up the lamp. His features, lit from below, were twisted, horrifying. “You and your thieving assistant nearly ruined our scheme with your snooping, but thankfully it’s come off without a hitch.”
Realization came swiftly. “You took my horse. You knew exactly where I was, didn’t you?”
Carmichael nodded. “How very astute. We saw the horse
, saw you climb down the hill. All we had to do was wait until you were scared enough to come out and be . . . rescued.”
Jessica was furious at herself for falling into their hands so easily. She glanced toward the entrance to the cave and wondered how she could ever make an escape. Somehow, some way, she had to.
“I have the gold. I want the guns first and then I’ll kill the woman.”
Carmichael looked as if he was about to protest, then said, “I haven’t got all night. Follow me.”
“No!” Jessica struggled to break her hold.
Piah dragged her along as he followed Carmichael through the cave. The lamplight bounced against the walls. The painted figures expanded and contracted with every arc of the lantern’s beam. The strange paintings grew nearer as the walls of the cave narrowed down to a tight passageway. The air inside was getting cooler as they walked deeper into the interior of the mesa.
Jessica tripped on a stone in the middle of the passageway and went down on one knee. Piah jerked her upright. She cried out at the pain, but he pulled her along, unmindful of her discomfort.
She tried to slow them down by hanging back. Frustrated, Piah halted, drew back his hand, and slapped her across the mouth.
Jessica reeled. For a moment she was afraid she was going to black out, but she forced herself to ignore the pain and stay on her feet. She wiped her lip. Her hand came away bloodied. They rushed on, following Carmichael. Following the light.
She smelled dampness and an intense, sour smell as they reached an open area. The floor was deep with bat guano. Her shoes slipped in the stuff and she nearly lost her footing. She grabbed for Piah’s sleeve rather than fall. The thought of hundreds of bats sent a crawling sensation up her spine.
What if the men left her here to die? She knew she would do anything, say anything to escape this hellhole. She stopped struggling and hurried to keep up, all the time careful to avoid sliding on the thick, slippery goo.
The walls narrowed again. The path descended farther into the earth. Stone steps had been carved into the narrowing passage.
She didn’t know if she could stand the closeness, didn’t know how long she could breathe if the walls closed in any tighter. Only a fragment of Carmichael’s light was visible up ahead as he wound his way through the labyrinth. Her breath was coming in rapid gasps. Shielding her face with her hand, Jessica feared that at the next turn she would run smack into the tight rock walls.
Just when she was about to scream, the passageway widened to reveal another room. Carmichael stopped in the center of it and set his lantern on a long, wooden crate. The cave held eight boxes, some coffin-shaped, others square.
Piah pushed her away from him. She fell against a stack of crates. She sat down on the nearest and fought to catch her breath. There were no paintings on the walls, no light anywhere except for the golden glow of the lantern. She let her eyes grow accustomed to the shadowed room.
“I’ve delivered the guns and thrown in some dynamite for good measure. Now give me the gold,” Carmichael told Piah.
Jessica gasped, “Guns?” She looked at crate upon crate of what could be rifles.
“Winchester repeaters.” Carmichael nodded in Piah’s direction. “My friend here has decided the Ghost Dancers might need the help of real guns to do away with the whites. I have obliged him—for a slight fee.”
“But . . . how could you?”
Carmichael took a threatening step toward her. “How could I? Simply because I could care less what becomes of this reservation or of the ranchers around here. I’ve had to fight both sides all along. And for what? The Utes hate being here—they’re constantly arguing among themselves. Piah’s a Weminuche Ute. He and his bunch don’t want anything to do with the Mouache and Capotes bands. The ranchers only want to divvy up the land for their cattle.”
“So you intend to stand by while they all murder each other?”
He shook his head. “No, little lady, I intend to run as far and fast as I can with the gold they’re paying me to turn over these rifles.” He looked at Piah. “Now how about it? Pay up.”
The Ute hesitated, then reached for a pouch tied at his waist. Carmichael smiled.
Piah’s hand moved past the pouch and in the blink of an eye he was holding the pistol he carried in his waistband. “Don’t worry about the gold, white man. You will not need it in the spirit land.”
Carmichael blanched. He tried to go for his own weapon, but Piah was faster. A shot thundered off the cavern walls. Jessica screamed and covered her ears with her hands.
Carmichael pitched forward. Blood pooled beneath him. It soaked into the sand floor of the cave. Jessica jumped to her feet, the sound of the shot still reverberating in her ears. She darted for the passageway. As much as she feared the dark, the close confines of the labyrinth, the hall of bats, she feared Piah even more.
He caught her before she reached the opening. Using all of her pent-up fear and loathing, she didn’t stop struggling until he had wrestled her to the floor. She lay beneath him, panting. He lay still, barely having exerted himself, still calm in the face of the cold-blooded murder he’d just committed.
“You like this,” he said as he pressed her against the floor.
She tried to bite the hand that held her wrist. “Let go of me! Let me up.”
He lowered his face until it was inches from hers. She could feel his breath, hot, threatening, against her cheek. The floor of the cave was cold, hard, and unyielding. A sharp stone pressed into her shoulder.
“I saw you with Burnett in the canyon. I watched while you rode him beside the stream.”
“Stop it!” She wanted to crawl inside herself and hide. His admission made what she and Rory shared seem like filth.
“I knew then it was only a matter of time before he gave in and brought you to this place—showed you the bones. I knew then I would have to kill him, and that I would have you for my own. I know what you like. I will please you greatly, as you will please me.”
Jessica screamed. She fought to claw his face with her nails, but he held her back with little effort.
“Save your strength, save the fight you have within for later. You will need it.”
He moved off of her and pulled her to her feet. She fell against his sweat-slick chest and shoved herself away. For some reason he had given her a reprieve. Jessica chose not to question him, but used the time to plan her escape.
He had shoved his gun into his waistband again. She stared at it, coveted it, willed the gun to slip into her hand. She was willing to wait until the time was right. As soon as he let down his guard, she would kill him. If she didn’t succeed, she knew she wouldn’t hesitate to put a bullet through her own head to keep him from ravishing her.
All the secret whispers from her childhood, all she had overheard when her mother and Myra had spoken of the Meeker incident came rushing back.
Did you hear? Josie Meeker was “outraged” by her captor?
There were crowds waiting at every stop along the way when the women were brought home.
Was her mother Arvilla “outraged,” too?
They spent days and nights captive.
Piah tossed his hair over his shoulder. “Move.” He shoved her toward the door. “I must get my men to bury him and take the guns out of the cave before it becomes light.”
“Rory will be looking for me. If you let me go—”
“He won’t ever find you. I will never let you go. You are mine now.”
Refusing to budge, she waited for him to pick up the lantern. “I can’t see where I’m going.”
Lantern in one hand, Jessica’s wrist in the other, Piah started out of the room and back through the winding passages. This time they had to climb up and the going was slower. In the bat room he went more slowly than before and let her pick her way through the slip
pery guano. The smell forced her to choke down a gag.
Once, she stopped to catch her breath. He yanked on her arm. “Keep moving,” Piah commanded.
Jessica forced her legs to move. Don’t think about the dead man in the cave below us, she warned herself. Don’t think about what this one intends to do. Just keep going. Think about the gun. Get the gun away from him.
The plan fired her into action. She struggled to keep up with him, to obey, to lure him into a false confidence. Anything, she thought. Anything to escape.
SLEEP WAS IMPOSSIBLE.
Rory paced the porch, head down, hands behind him. Every few moments he would look toward the mesa. Although he couldn’t see it in the darkness, he knew Jess was out there somewhere, dead or alive, and knew he had to find her.
He had weighed all the options in the last three hours and decided not to wait any longer. Stepping inside the backdoor, he took his hat off a hat rack and shoved it on, then walked to the door of the small room beside the kitchen where Scratchy slept. He could hear the old man snoring inside.
He pushed the door open and walked to the bunk, reached out, and shook Scratchy by the shoulder. The cook sputtered awake and batted at Rory’s hand.
“Whosit? Wha—”
“I’m going out alone. Tell the others to meet me on the mesa. Tell them I’ll leave a sign that a blind man could follow.”
He left before Scratchy could utter a word, ran into the table in the dark, and slammed his way out of the kitchen. It was a relief to be moving, to take action. In the corral he cornered Pancho, his night horse, the most surefooted after dark. The horse was the pick of the remuda, one he saved for riding herd at night on the trail. In no time he was ready, his saddle equipped with bedroll, double canteens, jerky, and some of the biscuits from dinner.
Dressed in black for concealment, he spurred his horse into a gallop and trusted it to cover ground in the dark without stumbling.
As he rode through the night his thoughts echoed in time to the rhythm of the horse’s hoofbeats. Hold on, Jess. Hold on.
Past Promises Page 30