* * *
"What the hell you got here?" Fingers tangled in Nacho's hair and brutally jerked his head up as he hung helplessly from the horse.
He looked up into a face that was familiar, even though he hadn't seen it before except with a bandanna tied over the lower half. The outlaw was grinning down at him, obviously anticipating the pleasure of killing him.
"Let go of him, Graham," Dove said. "Cut him loose and get him down from there."
"Sure." Graham released Nacho's head and let it sag toward the ground again. He slipped a knife from his belt and bent over to cut the bonds holding the vaquero.
Nacho's hands and feet were numb from being tied over the horse's back for so long, and he couldn't stop himself as he fell loosely to the ground. The breath was jarred out of his lungs. He gasped for air, then winced as the blood began to flow back into his extremities.
Trying to take his mind off that and the pain in his side, he looked around. Without a doubt, this was where the outlaws had been hiding after they pulled their jobs. They were deep in the heavily wooded breaks, a good five miles past Seamus O'Shea's cabin. There was no trail leading here, and if a man wasn't extremely familiar with the landmarks in the area, he'd be hopelessly lost inside of ten minutes. Nacho had noticed a few things while trussed up, but he knew he couldn't hope to find his way out—or back in.
'Take him inside," Dove ordered. She and Livingston had dismounted.
She was wearing the buckskins now, Nacho saw as a couple of the outlaws grasped his arms and jerked him to his feet. She must have changed at her father's cabin, he decided, because he was almost sure she had been wearing a dress when she clouted him back at the church.
The cabin was a simple log structure with a plank porch. Nacho had no way of knowing if the gang had built it to use as a hide-out or if they had just taken over the building after somebody else abandoned it. The distinction didn't matter, of course; he could die here just as easily either way.
The two desperados dragged him into the main room of the cabin and dropped him on the floor. His legs still wouldn't support him. Dove and Livingston strolled into the shack. The preacher was wearing his dark jacket but hadn't bothered with the string tie. And the gunbelt strapped around his waist was another difference.
Nacho forced a grin onto his face and said, "I suppose your flock will have to hold services without you this morning, Reverend. It's Sunday, you know."
"I know," Livingston said. He chuckled. "I think those yokels can manage without me just this once. I want to watch you beg for your life before we kill you, Graves. Then I'll go back and spin some story about being called away to visit a dying man or some such drivel. Nobody will be any the wiser."
"And you'll go right on working with these bandidos."
"Of course. A preacher finds out all the secrets in a community, like who has money and who doesn't. After all, everybody trusts a man of God. You're proof of that."
"Stop gloating," Dove said. She came over to Nacho and knelt so that she could meet his eyes more easily. She slipped a knife from a sheath of soft buckskin at her waist. "I am Comanche. You know what that means, Nacho. You can die quickly and easily, or you can die long and in agony. But either way you will die. You must die. You know that."
"Because I know what you really are." His lips drew back in a grimace of contempt and disgust.
She reached out, put the tip of the knife against his cheek, and drew it down slowly, leaving a thin red line behind it. "Because you know what I am," she agreed. "Did you tell anyone else of John's involvement in our little enterprise?"
Nacho didn't say anything. They were going to torture him anyway, he figured, because they wouldn't believe his first answer, no matter what it was.
Graham slouched into the room, thumbs hooked in his gunbelt. "Hey, you're startin' without me," he protested.
"Shut up!" Dove snapped without taking her eyes off Nacho's. "What is it going to be? Do you talk and die quickly, or be stubborn and make this take all day?"
"Go to hell," Nacho said.
The tip of the blade dug deeper into his cheek.
Livingston grinned and said, "As the only minister present, I think such pronouncements are more in my line. Don't you?"
* * *
"I never thought I'd get her back, y'see," Seamus O'Shea said heavily as he sat down on the steps in front of his cabin. "After Dove's mama . . . died . . . an' I went with the Comancheros, she was raised by this preacher what was there at Fort Griffin. When I finally come back, th' preacher was gone, an' his wife an' his own young 'uns an' Dove with him." O'Shea gazed off into the woods, but he was obviously seeing something else. "Little Dove, that was her name. Purtiest little thing you ever saw. Th' picture of her mama, she was. She'd a had a grown-up name later, o' course, but—we never got around to it." He sighed. "Yep, I figgered she was gone for good. An' prob'ly better off for it. I had too much blood on m' hands. She didn't need me for a pappy."
"But she finally came back," Cambridge prodded, knowing they probably didn't have the time to listen to this story but also knowing that they would never get O'Shea's help otherwise.
"Couple year ago. Showed up out o' th' blue, she did. I knew her right away, though, even with all th' years that'd gone by. She still looks like her mama. An' there's that scar . . . you can't miss it."
Maxwell asked, "Did she say where she'd been or what she'd been doin' all that time?"
O'Shea shook his head. "Not right away. An' I didn't care, neither. I was just glad t' have her back again. Come t' find out, though, she'd stayed with that preacher fella an' his family when they left th' fort. When she was fourteen, she . . . she got him t' come t' her bed."
Cambridge and Maxwell waited, not knowing what to say as the ugly details of Dove's life story slowly emerged from her father.
"Well, th' two of 'em up an' left. Livingston deserted his own wife an' kids an' took up with Dove. He gave up preachin' th' gospel, 'cept when they was tryin' t' swindle somebody an' they needed him t' play that part. They did whatever they had t' do t' survive. I 'spect they even robbed an' killed some folks. Then they heard I'd settled here an' come t' pay me a visit. Dove showed up first t' get th' lay o' th' land, an' then here come Livingston a little later. When I found out what they'd been doin', I thought for a while 'bout killin' him, but then I decided that wouldn't be fair. It was her." O'Shea's big hands clenched into fists and trembled slightly. "She was th' one who done it all. He was just weak an' went along with her."
Maxwell put a hand on O'Shea's shoulder and said fervently, "God, I'm sorry, Seamus. It must've been hell for you."
"Nope. Worse'n that. I reckon I'll be goin' t' hell when my time comes, but I ain't scared. I've done seen worse."
"How did they round up that bunch of outlaws to work with them?" Cambridge asked.
O'Shea shrugged his massive shoulders. "They'd run into most of 'em over the years in one robbers' roost or another. Dove worked in them places when she had to, you know, servicin' th' men. When her an' Livingston got th' idea o' startin' a gang here, they got in touch with a fella called Graham. He brought most o' th' others with him. Took a while t' set ever'thin' up, but once they did, it was payin' off mighty handsome."
"Until they held up that stage with Nacho and me on it," Cambridge said. "I'm sorry about everything you've been through, O'Shea, but I think they've captured my friend. I've got to find him before they kill him."
"They've got him, all right," O'Shea said. Cambridge stiffened.
"You've seen them?" the lawyer asked.
"Just before sun-up this mornin'. Dove an' Livingston stopped by on their way t' th' hide-out. They had th' Meskin with 'em, an' they wanted me t' stop anybody from trailin' 'em. That's what I was tryin' t' do when I took them potshots at you two."
"But you didn't want to kill us," Maxwell said.
"You've been a friend t' me, Jake, when most folks wouldn't be. An' there's been too much killin'. I've seen it all my life, an' I'm d
amn sick of it."
"Then help us stop them from murdering Nacho," Cambridge said. "It's time to put an end to this, O'Shea. Will you take us to the gang's hide-out?"
"How do y' figger I know where it is?"
Cambridge smiled, even though tension had his belly in a knot. "I don't think there's anything in these breaks that you don't know about."
"Well, I reckon that's true enough." O'Shea sighed and then stood up. "I'll take you there."
"O'Shea . . ." Cambridge put a hand on the man's arm. "I can't make you any promises about Dove."
The old Comanchero—maybe the last Comanchero alive anywhere—just looked at him and said, "It's too late for promises anyway."
Chapter Sixteen
When he was sixteen, a bronc he had been trying to gentle had thrown Nacho and stomped on him a few times, busting him up so that he had to spend three weeks in bed. That had hurt pretty bad. So far, what Dove had done to him hadn't been much worse than getting stomped by that bronc.
But Dove was just getting started.
His feet smeared with blood from the razor-thin slashes all over them, Nacho sagged against the ropes that held him to the chair. Dove had gone outside, taking Livingston with her, in an effort to curb her impatience and anger. If she let her temper run away with her, she might kill the prisoner too soon, before they found out what they wanted to know. That rage was the white side of her coming out, Nacho decided, trying to make some sense out of the fog of pain that had descended on his brain. The Comanche side wouldn't have any trouble staying cool and calm through the torture.
Graham was the only member of the gang inside the cabin at the moment. All the others had found excuses to go outside when Dove started working on Nacho with the knife. Now Graham stood in front of the captive and said, "Mister, you're crazy. You'd better give Dove what she wants, or she's liable to take until tomorrow to kill you."
Nacho managed to shake his head. "You should have killed me . . . when you had the chance . . . that day when you held up the stagecoach."
"Yeah, I should have. Reckon I felt grateful. It's not every day you run across twenty thousand dollars in one place."
"What did you do . . . with the money?"
"What could I do with it? You see any place to spend it in these woods? We've still got it cached under the floor, 'cept for a few hundred Dove and the preacher took for expense money. They've got to stay lookin' respectable, you know."
"Respectable," Nacho repeated bitterly. "I'll never tell them anything."
"Hell, then I'd be doin' you a favor if I put a bullet through your brain right now." Graham gave a snort of derisive laughter. "But then she might take that knife after me, and I wouldn't want that."
"Wouldn't want what?" Dove asked as she stepped in the door, Livingston following behind her.
Graham moved quickly away from Nacho. "Nothin'. Just pesterin' the prisoner so that he wouldn't get any rest while you were outside."
Dove gave him a hard stare. "He's my prisoner. I'll decide what to do with him."
"Sure," Graham murmured in reply to the rebuke. He went back to the wall and leaned against it.
Dove stood in front of the chair and lightly touched a fingertip to the gash on Nacho's cheek. So far, that was all she had done to his face, concentrating her efforts on his feet instead. Now she frowned in thought and said after a moment, "I think we'll move on to your hands next. Then the chest, and then your face. Unless you want to talk to me now."
He sat there, silent, his features stony.
"All right," she sighed, slipping the knife out of its sheath. "If that's what you want."
She must have cleaned the blade, Nacho thought. All the bloodstains were gone.
"Rider comin'!" one of the other men called from outside.
Dove whirled around, tensing. Livingston reached for his gun, and so did Graham. But then came another shout from the sentry. "It's your pa, Dove!"
"What does the old man want now?" she muttered, sliding the knife into its sheath.
"You'd better send him back to his cabin," Livingston told her. "I don't like the idea of our back trail being unprotected."
"Neither do I. Come on."
She stepped outside, accompanied by Livingston and Graham. Nacho could see them through the door that she left open behind her.
The three of them stopped and waited on the porch. Looking past them, Nacho caught a glimpse of a big, bearded man on horseback approaching the cabin. He recognized Seamus O'Shea. The old Comanchero rode right up to the porch before he reined in.
"What do you want?" Dove asked him sharply. "I told you to keep an eye on the trails and get rid of anybody who followed us."
"That's what I done," O'Shea grumbled, leaning forward in the saddle, shifting the Sharps he carried across the cantle and easing his old bones. "Figured you'd want t' know that lawyer fella an' Jake Maxwell showed up, lookin' for th' Meskin."
"You ran them off, didn't you?"
'Told 'em to go home. Had t' take a couple shots at 'em 'fore they got th' idea. But I reckon they'll be back, an' they'll bring a sheriff's posse with 'em next time." O'Shea took off his battered black hat and ran blunt fingers through his tangled hair. "Dove, I been thinkin'. You can't keep this up. From what Cambridge an' Maxwell said, they know th' preacher's mixed up in this, an' I reckon they even suspicion you are, too. It's time t' cut an' run, darlin'."
She glared at him and shook her head. "I don't run. Not anymore. I don't care what anyone knows about me."
"But if you stay, th' sheriff'll root you out sooner or later. Even ol' Massey ain't totally useless. But if you leave now, head for the high plains or the Panhandle, maybe, you got a chance t' get away clean. Just leave th' Meskin with me. You ain't killed him yet, have you?"
"He's alive," Dove said contemptuously. "But he won't be for long. What you just told me means there's no reason not to go ahead and kill him."
"I'm askin' you, Dove . . . don't do it."
She laughed. "Why the hell not?"
O'Shea's grip tightened on the Sharps as he brought the barrel around. "'Cause I'll stop you, girl."
She stared at him in amazement for a second, then laughed again and said, "Somebody kill this old fool."
Graham stepped forward, a savage grin on his face. "Be glad to, Dove," he said, and then his hand whipped toward the gun on his hip.
From the woods on the right side of the cabin, Jake Maxwell fired his Winchester.
The slug took Graham in the chest, driving him back against the wall of the cabin with a shocked look on his face. He hung there for an instant, his hand still reaching instinctively for his gun, then fell forward, dead before he crashed to the planks of the porch.
O'Shea twisted in the saddle, ignoring Dove and Livingston for the moment and going for one of the other outlaws who already had his gun out. The Sharps boomed. The heavy caliber bullet blew a fist-sized hole through the desperado and flung him backward. O'Shea kicked his feet free from the stirrups and tumbled out of the saddle.
Cambridge came in from the left, triggering his Colt. Two more outlaws dropped and the others who had been spread out in front of the cabin darted for cover. Livingston finally got his gun out as Cambridge reached the end of the porch. O'Shea had told the lawyer that Livingston wasn't very fast with a gun, and Cambridge saw now that was true. But the preacher managed to get a shot off as Dove ducked back inside.
The bullet whined past Cambridge's ear. Cambridge threw himself full-length on the porch and fired. Livingston staggered back a step, a bright red splash appearing on his white shirtfront. He groaned as he twisted sideways and collapsed.
Maxwell was still peppering the rest of the gang with rifle fire from the trees. Kneeling on one knee, O'Shea hauled out an ancient revolver and joined the exchange. Some of the outlaws tried to fight back, but others grabbed their horses and lit out. They were hardcases when the odds were overwhelmingly on their side, but they weren't willing to go up against the three grim-faced atta
ckers.
Inside the cabin, Nacho had heard the sudden outbreak of gunfire and guessed that somehow Billy Cambridge had found him. He thought he recognized the sound of Jake Maxwell's Winchester, too. As Dove ran back inside, he caught a glimpse of Livingston shooting at something, then the phony minister was jolted back out of Nacho's line of sight by a bullet.
Dove headed straight for him, the knife appearing in her hand as she came, and for an instant, Nacho thought she was going to drive the blade into his heart. But then she went past him, crouching behind the chair and putting the razor-sharp edge to his throat.
Seamus O'Shea appeared in the doorway, with Cambridge at his side. "Back away from him, Dove," O'Shea ordered.
She was pressed so close against the chair that Nacho could feel the shake of her head. "You back away," she said. "Let me ride clear or I'll slit his throat."
O'Shea looked over at Cambridge. Sweat trickled down Nacho's brow and into his eyes, even though it wasn't hot at all today. A muscle twitched in Cambridge's cheek, and then he said, "She can go. Nacho's life is worth more to me than hers."
"You heard th' man, Dove," O'Shea said. "Let him go."
"Get out of here first, all of you. I want everyone to ride away. Then you can have him back."
Nacho met Cambridge's eyes and somehow conveyed the message to go along with her. She had proven over and over that she couldn't be trusted, but they had no choice now.
"You'll be all right, Nacho," Cambridge said, trying to sound reassuring.
"Sure, Billy." Nacho forced some of his former jauntiness into his voice. "I'll be fine."
Cambridge and O'Shea backed up, but before they got out of sight, the lawyer called out, "All the rest of the gang took off for the tall and uncut, Dove, the ones that still could. You'll be leaving alone."
"Get the hell out of here!" she cried in response, and Nacho could tell from the quiver in her voice that she was walking a fine line now.
Cambridge and O'Shea disappeared, but a few minutes later they rode into sight again, this time accompanied by Jake Maxwell. Turning so that Dove could still see them from the cabin, they rode away, not looking back.
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