Prettiest Little Horse Thief

by Gail L. Jenner

  Colt shrugged. “Three hours after the wedding and you’d walk away?”

  “Is that what you call a wedding?” Rebecca cleared her throat. “Remember, I’ve gone through one wedding— ”

  Colt’s hearty laugh startled her. “Ah, you had a wedding. But did you have a marriage? A real marriage?”

  Fighting back tears, Rebecca stammered, “How dare you!”

  “Listen,” said Colt, moving closer, “men and women have been married on less ceremony than ours. And you didn’t walk away when you could have, so don’t be looking to walk away now.”

  She said nothing.

  Colt moved closer still, and his nearness stirred her. It was as if she could feel the heat from his body moving into hers, flowing through her. She straightened and flashed him a hard look.

  He lowered his voice. “Best you know, Mrs. Ryman, I don’t intend to let you leave— on any account.” With that, he turned and walked away.

  ****

  Colt reappeared an hour later, just as the sun dropped against the horizon. The light cast a strange halo over the sun-drenched land surrounding this little piece of earth. He hesitated and took in the vast stretch of emptiness. There was little in the way of interruption aside from the ridges to the south.

  Could this be a place where he could settle? Or, was he wont to move on, towing the beautiful Rebecca along with him? He hadn’t thought much beyond the moment— until now. He hadn’t even considered what she might need— or want. Would she be willing to leave if he insisted?

  Shih-chai stepped out of the cabin and welcomed him. “Becca inside. You eat.”

  Colt thanked him. “What about you?”

  Shih-chai shook his head. “I not eat chicken. Dirty bird.”

  Colt laughed, then entered the dimly-lit cabin. He could see her in the lamplight. How he’d managed to capture this woman had been a stroke of unfettered luck. Apart from the fact that she’d been trapped by circumstance and sorrow, she’d never have glanced his way. He knew that, especially as he looked at her now.

  ****

  “Sit down.” Rebecca said abruptly.

  Colt pulled out one of two chairs positioned near the small table. In the center was a crockery dish filled with chicken and boiled potatoes. A kind of flat bread sat beside the bowl. Two tin plates and forks and spoons rested on the table. “A wedding feast,” he mused.

  “We do the best we can,” Rebecca countered.

  “Forgive me. I did not intend to sound ungracious. On the contrary, this is a feast. Until the last few days, I’ve lived on hardtack, coffee, and beans.”

  Rebecca studied him for what seemed a long minute, but her expression revealed nothing.

  “Will you sit?” he asked her.

  She seemed to hesitate, then sat down opposite him. She pointed to the bowl and said, “Please, help yourself. Shih-chai doesn’t often cook. This was his gift.”

  ****

  They ate in silence, but Rebecca could not help but notice that Colt Ryman cleaned up well. He’d obviously found some decent clothes, albeit well-worn, and he’d groomed his hair and actually shaved. Without the grizz, he was disturbingly handsome.

  Only after they’d finished eating did Rebecca relax. “I know so little about you. Where are you from? Who are your people?”

  Colt shrugged. “Illinois, originally. Near Springfield.”

  Rebecca waited, but the man seemed reluctant to say more. “And?” she quipped.

  “Not much to say.”

  “Tell me about your family.”

  Colt pushed his plate away. “My mother died when I was twelve.”

  “And your father?”

  Colt frowned. “Never knew him. He was a gambler, and apparently, we weren’t worth the gamble.”

  Rebecca resisted asking anything more. It was clear he was uncomfortable. She played with the last bit of food on her plate.

  “Tell me about your people.”

  Rebecca looked up. She hadn’t thought about Iowa in many months— hadn’t wanted to think about it. The past was the past. “I had a perfect childhood.”

  “One of the lucky ones?”

  Rebecca shrugged. “Lucky until Father joined up with the Fifteenth Iowa Volunteers. He was killed at Pittsburg Landing, in April of ’62. Mother never recovered. She said he was too old, should never have gone.”

  Colt said nothing for several moments. “The war took a lot from all of us.” His gaze was steady and riveting.

  Rebecca nodded. No doubt, Colt Ryman had lost something through the war, too.

  “It’s over, but it’s never over entirely,” he added quietly.

  Cautiously, Rebecca slid her hand across the table to touch his. “You can’t change the past,” she said.

  Colt’s expression changed and, without warning, he pushed back from the table. Circling it, he reached down and pulled her to her feet.

  “Enough about the past,” he whispered. “It’s time we settled on the future.”

  “The future, Mr. Ryman?”

  “The future, Mrs. Ryman, starts here and now.”

  Without understanding it, Rebecca felt herself move into Colt’s embrace as easily as if she’d willingly married this man— had been in love with him— had sought him out of a crowd of eligible men.

  The kiss was strong and demanding, and she moaned in response to the moist flavor of his mouth. The smell of him, all leather and sweat and oil, made her hungry for more.

  She pulled back, breathless.

  ****

  The gunshot and the cry that followed spun Colt around. Grabbing the pistol he’d set on the shelf near the door, he raced out the front door.

  Rebecca followed, shrieking, “Shih-chai! Shih-chai!”

  As she reached the porch, Colt yelled, “Get back! No telling where that shot came from!”

  She ignored him and scurried around to the side of the house.

  Colt had already reached the barn, gun extended. Scowling, he waved at her to get down. She dropped to her knees, the pounding in her chest filling her ears with its heavy drumming.

  Shih-chai lay in the dirt not far from the corral.

  Rebecca screamed then raced across the empty space to where he lay. “Shih-chai!”

  Colt slipped his hands under his shoulders. “Easy…he’s bleeding.”

  Rebecca sobbed, and then Shih-chai opened his eyes. Grimacing, he turned to Rebecca and whispered, “He— he took mare. And colt.”

  Rebecca leaned over and pressed her head to his chest. “I don’t care! You— you’re all that matters.”

  Scanning the empty space surrounding the farmstead, Colt nodded to Rebecca. “We’ve got to get him inside.”

  She nodded.

  “You go first,” Colt said, “but keep your head down. You hear me?”

  Rebecca caught the intense and tight-lipped expression on Colt’s face.

  “You hear me?” he repeated.

  She nodded and, raising her skirts to keep from tripping, she retraced her steps, then slipped into the house. Grabbing up Frank’s old hunting rifle, she moved back to the door and raised the long iron.

  Frank had insisted she learn to shoot shortly after coming to Arizona, and for the first time, she was glad she had obeyed.

  Colt half carried, half dragged Shih-chai into the house.

  Shih-chai struggled to keep himself upright, but blood flowed from the gaping wound to his shoulder.

  Rebecca gasped.

  ****

  Colt carried Shih-chai to the bed.

  Rebecca followed him, then dropped to her knees and cradled the old Indian’s gnarled fingers in her own. Tearfully, she kissed the tops of his knuckles.

  Colt stepped away. He could see the strain on Rebecca’s features as she knelt beside the man who was, in so many ways, a real grandfather. And it was clear the old man would do anything for Rebecca.

  That’s probably why Dent shot him; even at his age, Shih-chai would stand his ground and protect Rebecca and whatever
was hers.

  Colt fingered his pistol.

  Then, without saying good-bye, he headed out the door. It was time to finish this.

  ****

  Colt spotted the village from a small rise. It wasn’t much of settlement, but no doubt it had a saloon, and right now, he needed a drink. The sun had sunk low, but the desert heat still hung like a cloak over the landscape.

  If he had guessed right and Dent had headed south to Mexico, the scoundrel might have stopped here. It was worth stopping to ask around. He didn’t want to stir up any unnecessary confrontations, however— none, in fact, except for the one with Dent.

  Aside from the dilapidated saloon made of mud and stone and thatch, there was a church and a few adobe shanties. An old woman, carrying a large basket against one hip, glanced up before scurrying away. A three-legged dog scampered away as quickly in the opposite direction.

  There were only two horses tethered to the twisted piece of ironwood that served as the hitching rail in front of the saloon. One was a sleek dun packhorse, and one, Colt noted, was an Appaloosa.

  He tied his horse up on the far side of the Appy. Patting his horse’s flank, he whispered, “Be back soon, Marse. Just don’t let them slip away.” Then he adjusted his holster and pulled the brim of his hat down over his brow.

  As he peered into the saloon, he immediately spotted Dent leaning against the bar, a bottle in front of him. Colt noticed that his pistol also lay on the surface of the bar, just out of reach. His holster was empty.

  Dent was flanked by a small Mexican barmaid who held a glass out in front of him. Apart from her and a short man who stood behind the bar, the dismal, dank room was empty.

  “Por favor,” she whimpered, “a little more...”

  Dent shrugged. “You ain’t showed me enough to earn yourself another drink.”

  “Ahhh— ”

  Not wasting any time, Colt stepped inside, his hand on the pistol at his side.

  Dent turned.

  “You’re coming with me,” Colt said.

  Dent laughed. “Yeah? I don’t think so.”

  Immediately, the bartender and the barmaid stepped out of the way, but before Dent could reach his own gun, Colt drew his. He cocked it. “Don’t do anything you’ll regret.”

  Dent hesitated, but then, just as Colt began to relax, he lunged.

  Simultaneously, Colt fired.

  The barmaid screamed as Dent fell, and Colt grabbed Dent’s gun from the floor where it had fallen. He pressed the barrel of his gun to Dent’s temple. “You’re under arrest, you son-of-a-bitch.”

  Dent snarled, “Yeah? You’re nothin’ but a two-bit cowboy.”

  It was Colt’s turn to laugh as he drew back the edge of his jacket. “Actually,” he said, “I’m the new deputy in Carter Springs.”

  ****

  Rebecca continued her vigil. Shih-chai had not moved in five days, and in spite of her prayers, had paled and grown weaker. She’d managed to wrangle the bullet from his shoulder, and though it hadn’t lodged deeply into his flesh, the wound was raw and bled easily.

  Naomi had come out for the first two days— sitting with her, brewing coffee, and stirring beans— but her sister’s incessant chatter had nearly driven Rebecca to distraction. She had finally asked Naomi to leave.

  “I know you want to help,” she had told her sister through her tears, “but I can do this— alone. I’m better off alone.”

  Naomi had shaken her head. “You are mistaken, Becca. You are not better off alone. None of us are better off alone.”

  “Please,” Rebecca had groaned, “no lectures today.”

  Naomi, indignant, had turned away then, pulling on her sunbonnet and donning her shawl. Her words stung. “I guess it’ll be up to Mr. Ryman, your husband, to see to your needs. I wish him luck. As it is, I’m done here.”

  Rebecca had mumbled some semblance of thanks, knowing she’d angered her sister— again; however, she simply refused to speak about Colt Ryman with Naomi. That her sister and brother-in-law had fallen under his spell was a bitter pill to swallow. The man had been unbelievably conniving.

  Besides, it was doubtful Mr. Ryman would return. He had left without a word— not a word— so why she should feel even a tad of loyalty was beyond her. He’d humiliated her— first by marrying her, and now by abandoning her. Clearly, he’d proven his true colors, and he was a cad if there ever was one.

  ****

  Crossing her arms, Naomi had stood by the door for a long moment, as if waiting for Rebecca to beg her to stay. But Rebecca had no intention of placating her sister. She’d spent a lifetime trying to please her folks, her sister, and most of all, her arrogant husband— Frank Williams. She was done with it.

  Finally, with an exaggerated sigh of disgust, Naomi had swung the plank door open and marched out.

  Now, three days later, Rebecca wondered if she’d made a mistake sending Naomi away. She was lonely, and she was alone. And— God forbid— if Shih-chai should not survive, she would surely have to reconcile herself to that aloneness.

  ****

  The ride back to Carter Springs was made slower by Dent’s injury. He’d bled considerably the first two days of travel, so Colt stopped early on the third day and made camp near a small copse of sagebrush. He applied a new poultice and rewrapped the leg.

  Setting off at daybreak the next morning, Dent soon begged him for whisky to dull the pain.

  “You can beg for all the gut-warmer you want,” snapped Colt, “but you earned that bloody badge. I’m done caring for that leg. Doc can look at it after we get back to Carter Springs.”

  Dent spat and murmured, “You ain’t got anything to hang your hat on,” Dent said. “It’s my word against yours.”

  “I don’t think there’s going to be much of a contest, Dent. Your reputation has grown since you decided Rebecca— my wife— was fair game. The only thing you got coming to you now is a date with a nice warm cell.”

  With his hands bound snugly, Dent hunkered down over his saddle horn, a deep frown creasing his freckled face.

  The rest of the trip went smoothly. Dent remained silent and somber, occasionally cursing when his horse stumbled over the rough sod or cracked, dry earth. They stopped to eat and sleep that night, but they ate only hardtack and canned meat.

  By the time they reached Carter Springs, it was late in the day. Colt jumped off his horse in front of the jailhouse and pulled Dent’s Appaloosa up to the hitching rail. He called out to Pope, “Les!”

  Sheriff Les Pope stepped out onto the narrow boardwalk, fingering his suspenders as he glanced from Colt to Dent. “You ain’t looking too good,” he said to the young man as he stepped down and circled the exhausted horse.

  “This ain’t gonna set well,” grumbled Dent, as he tried to wrench free of the saddle horn. “The boys’ll be around to nail both of you.”

  Colt cut the ropes around Dent’s wrists with his knife. He shrugged. “I think those cowards you call friends will think twice before coming to your aid. The word is out that you assault women and old men.”

  “Old men? That Old Pod has lived past his time,” Dent snapped. “He wouldn’t be a loss to nobody.”

  Colt pulled Dent off his horse, letting him land in the dirt near his feet.

  Dent cried out. “Dammit, my leg!”

  Les wrangled him up to his feet and Colt, with his gun now drawn, followed the pair into the jailhouse.

  A small crowd was gathering outside the door, eager to see what would happen next.

  Les turned briefly. “This ain’t a show,” he said. “So you can put the word out that anybody thinks this son-of-a-bitch is worth the effort to try and wrestle free will have to face me— and Colt here. He’s been deputized, and acts with my authority.”

  Not waiting for a response from the crowd, Les pushed Dent forward, while Colt turned and walked in backward, his gun now on the throng outside the door. A strange foreboding had taken hold of him, and he suddenly wondered if a few of Dent’s blu
nderbluss companions might just take it into their heads to rush the sheriff and his prisoner.

  A gunshot confirmed Colt’s premonition.

  Shrieking and running in all directions, the crowd dispersed, leaving two men huddled together behind a wagon on the far side of the street.

  Colt slammed the door, yelling to Les. “Get him locked up!”

  “Done!” returned Les, rushing forward to grab a shotgun from the rack on the far wall.

  Two more shots were fired, one fracturing the window over Colt’s left shoulder. He cried out, cursing. “Dammit!” A piece of glass had grazed his cheek.

  Les slunk closer. “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” Colt snapped, even as he jumped to his feet and leaned forward to shove his pistol through the broken window. He fired at the crouching men then retreated. The cry that followed indicated his bullet had hit its target.

  He rose up and emptied his pistol. There was no returned fire.

  The silence continued, and finally, Les rose up to peer out the window. “You got one,” he said. “The other one must’ve high-tailed it.”

  Colt relaxed and rose to his feet. “Better not get too curious yet,” he said, scanning the street. One man lay in the dirt near the wagon, not moving.

  Les agreed. “But we better get you taken care of,” he said, pointing to Colt’s wound.

  “It’s nothing.”

  Just then a call from the street brought them back to the window. George Harmon and Horace Tucker, the blacksmith, held a bearded man between them. The man seemed dazed.

  Tucker raised his hand, which held a sawed off shotgun, triumphantly. “Got him!”

  Les pulled the door open and called out, “Nice job, fellows!”

  Colt rushed across the empty street. Stepping up to the man held fast by the two townsmen, he snarled, “You just earned your ticket to jail.”

  The grizzled young man, not much more than thirty years old, spat, deliberately sending a ribbon of brown spittle across the tip of Colt’s boot. Turning his clownish face on Colt, he smiled.

  It was all Colt could do to keep from knocking him to the ground. Instead he grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and half-dragged him back to the jailhouse.

  Harmon and Tucker followed, regaling Colt with the details of their capture.