by Carol Arens
Over the whiskey-primed laughter and the shuffle of the wind he strained to hear the voice of a boy who was too young to know that courage was not enough to triumph over a bullet. Red’s adolescent sense of honor would plant him in the grave unless Matt found him soon.
He tucked his right hand under his armpit and hurried in the direction of the mercantile, his breathing shallow so that the hiss wouldn’t cover the sound of trouble he was listening for.
Slowly his fingers warmed under his arm. Not enough to give him an advantage over a man who had been inside all evening, but with any luck, Hawker had been drinking.
“Punk—” The single word barked out from the south, the direction he was headed. The rest of what the voice said blew away in the wind.
Matt took three long strides with mud slick beneath his boots and then heard, “I’m not too young to put a hole through you!”
Damn! Red’s voice, high-pitched and flushed with excitement, came from a few buildings down. He’d never get there in time.
Matt raced for the boardwalk. Mud-caked footwear slid on the wet wood. He scrambled for balance, then ran past the bank. His boots sounded slow and muffled.
His heart whomped against his ribs in anticipation of a gunshot.
The shot cracked the instant he scooted into the alley that bordered the mercantile. He saw Red standing at the rear of the building. Smoke circled the tip of his gun.
Matt reached for his weapon on the run.
“It’s a fool thing to want to die so young,” an unseen stranger’s voice said.
Reaching the corner of the building, Matt spotted the man who must be Hawker, shaking his head, looking almost sorrowful. In spite of the regret, he lifted his firearm, taking aim at Red’s chest.
Red should have fired again but he stood still, paralyzed by fear.
“Hawker!” Matt yelled, skidding in the mud a few feet in front of Red. Fingers that needed to be flexible felt like frozen twigs.
Hawker fired his gun.
The impact of the bullet knocked Matt back and to his knees. Fire flashed through his arm, from shoulder to wrist. His hand turned useless. Stiff fingers dumped his Colt into the mud.
He glanced behind him, but Red was dazed and continued to stand as he was, his gun fallen nose-first into the muck at his feet.
“Run, boy!” Even Matt’s voice felt on fire.
“Whoa here!” Hawker strode forward, his posture confident with easy victory. “Looks like I’ve got me two for the price of one.”
He kicked Matt’s gun away with his muddy boot toe.
“Let the boy go, Hawker. He’s just a kid.”
“Your kid, is he?” Hawker wiped the rain off his nose with his sleeve. “Seems to me I’ll kill him first, just so you know what it feels like to lose someone.”
He lifted the gun and sighted it, dead center on Red’s chest.
Red’s piece was only two feet behind Matt, but it might have been a mile.
Hawker gave an ugly half-faced smile. Matt lunged aiming his wounded shoulder, the one closest to the killer, at the man’s knees.
Hawker’s arm swung down. Matt felt the scrape of cold metal against his neck. His shoulder exploded in pain when it slammed into Hawker’s leg.
A shot echoed between the buildings.
Hawker’s knees hit the ground. His gun rocked in the crook of his finger before it smacked into the mud. With blank eyes, he crumpled on top of it.
Rain crashed down as though someone had sliced open a cloud.
Matt crawled toward the dead man. He knelt beside him, cradling his own wounded arm and feeling the warm rush of blood.
Water blended with blood under Hawker’s chest. One lifeless eye filled with mud. The other stared out at the night, no longer seeing it.
Matt took off his hat and covered Hawker’s face. He glanced about, searching the dark for the person who had fired the shot. There was only silence and rain.
Matt tried to stand but couldn’t. He felt sick to his stomach and growing weak.
It was Red, though, coming out of his shock, who knelt on the ground retching his guts out.
There seemed to be voices gathering, coming from high and low, swimming around his head in excited exclamations. Darkness weighted his limbs. It smothered his thoughts and choked out the light until he was nothing.
* * *
The hours of dark stretched longer than the hours of light. Every horror that a body imagined seemed true.
The steady pelt of rain made it that much worse.
Emma paced in front of the parlor window. She wore the shine off the hallway floor. She cracked open Lucy’s bedroom door for the fifth time that evening. She forced her bottom down into the rocking chair, but sat with her feet flat and her spine straight. She stared at the front door, willing it to open.
And she listened. This house was full of unsettling sounds that she had never noticed before. Wood creaked. Hot metal from the stove popped as it cooled. Wolves on the prairie howled their wet misery, making the horses whinny in the barn.
But the one sound that she strained to hear would not come. Listen as she might, hoofbeats returning home seemed as far from her ears as town itself.
At eleven o’clock her stomach ached over the danger Matt was riding into. At midnight she felt he was dead. The certainty of it made her weep against the parlor window.
At one o’clock Lucy got out of bed looking for a drink of water.
Now with sunrise only a couple of hours away, she’d give anything to get on Pearl and go to town. The reality of what might be going on could hardly be worse than what she imagined.
Only the promise that she had made Matt kept her here. The promise and the fact that she couldn’t leave Lucy alone.
Heartsick at watching for the door to open, Emma got out of the rocking chair and sat back down on the sofa.
She faced the window in the dress she had put on as soon as Matt had left, needing to be ready for any emergency. She watched for sunrise even though she wouldn’t be able to see it with the bank of rain clouds riding low over the land. Hopefully, daybreak would make her fears manageable.
Everyday chores would be her salvation. She ought to get some sleep in the next couple of hours, but every time she closed her eyes, she saw Matt drawing his gun, but too slowly because she had gotten angry with him during his practice.
Matt’s draw was quick. She’d seen his hands, swift as anything, aiming his Colt and shooting cans off the fence. She’d also seen Hawker catch his hat right out of the wind.
If the worst had happened to Matt or to Red, surely Billy would have raced home to tell her.
That thought made such sense that she hung on to it. She thought it over and over until it didn’t hurt to sit and breathe.
After a while her eyes felt as heavy as her heart. She must have slept for a moment, for when the front door crashed open and Red stumbled in, she bounded off the couch, startled and disoriented.
Only a second before, her dream had put her in Matt’s arms, giving him a welcome-home kiss.
“What’s happened?” she cried.
Through the open front door she saw Thunder standing beside the front porch, winded from an obviously difficult run. His head hung low and steam curled up from his damp hide.
Red was alone. “Where’s Matt?”
The boy looked everywhere but in her eyes.
“Say something!” She turned his face. “Where is he?”
A sudden gasp seemed to come out of Red’s gut rather than his lungs. He covered his face with dripping hands, then collapsed to his knees.
“It’s all my fault!” he wailed. “This never would have happened except for me!”
“Oh, my Lord!” Emma’s knees went weak. She slipped down beside Red. She touched his hair where the rain had matted it to his forehead.
She touched his fists. He resisted her attempt to gently draw them down, so she yanked.
His face, a mass of crimson blotches, showed his misery. Hi
s eyes peered out at her through bloodshot slits, made puffy from apparent weeping.
“He’s dead?”
“Not yet.” He hiccupped. “Just shot in the shoulder. But Pendragon and Bart both claim that Matt killed Hawker in cold blood. Say they witnessed it firsthand. That Matt plugged him while he was on the ground pleading for his life.”
Once again Red covered his face and sobbed. Emma shook him by the shoulders.
Screaming and weeping would feel fine right now. How she longed to toss her head back and howl her despair like the wolves on the prairie did, but such a scene would only throw the situation out of control.
“You tell me everything that happened, young man, and don’t leave anything out.” Her voice, at least, sounded composed. That would do for a start.
“I found Hawker coming out of the saloon. I followed him. Then, when nobody was about but me and him, I called him out.” Red’s voice steadied. He straightened his shoulders. “He laughed at first, but then I called him a yellow coward. We went around back of the mercantile. He called me a fool, punk, kid and I got so hot-mad that I drew my gun.”
Red wiped his face with his sleeve. “Guess I am a fool kid. I got so riled that I shot wide. Hawker stood there with his shot unfired, aiming his gun at me and I…I couldn’t even move!
“He meant to kill me, even though he seemed like maybe he didn’t want to. Just then Matt came running between the buildings and yelled. He stood in front of me, saving my life while I just stood there too scared to move.
“Matt could have taken him easy, but he was off balance from slipping in the mud. That’s when Hawker got him in the shoulder. Hawker thought to kill me first to make Matt suffer, but Matt knocked him with his hurt shoulder and then a shot came out of somewhere and killed Hawker on the spot.”
“Praise be, Matt’s safe and so are you. Only Hawker’s dead.”
“For now. Pendragon’s pushing the marshal to yank Matt out of Doc Brown’s office and hang him right after sunup.”
“They won’t hang him for defending you.” Emma took a deep breath and closed her eyes, trying to sort things out in her mind. Matt was alive and Hawker was not. For the moment that’s all that mattered.
“Not in a regular town, maybe. But you know how the marshal sits in Pendragon’s pocket.”
She’d think of a way out of this as soon as her insides quit spinning.
“Where’s Billy?” She had nearly forgotten about Matt’s cousin in all the upheaval.
“He’s with Matt at the doc’s.”
“I’m going to town.” She stood up, pressing her palm against Red’s shoulder. “I need you to care for Lucy.”
“I’m sorry, Emma.” He snuffled. “I only thought I could make everything right.”
“Everything will be all right.” Emma kissed the top of his head. “See if I don’t bring Matt home.”
She rushed outside and grabbed Thunder’s reins. Steam still curled up from his neck and back. The poor beast had barely caught his breath.
She stared up at his tall back and firmed her resolve. The horse was much too big for her. She’d ridden him only sitting securely in front of Matt.
“Come on over here to the step, boy. I can’t quite reach the stirrup.”
It was a stretch, but she made it up onto his broad saddle. She leaned forward, toward his flicking ear. “I wouldn’t ask this of you, but it’s Matt’s life.”
The horse lunged forward. It was all Emma could do to hold on. Maybe Thunder understood the urgency. Pearl would have. Even without knowing words, she felt things.
“Good horse,” she whispered, hanging tight to a bolt of lightning.
Chapter Seventeen
Morning sunlight slanted through the lace curtains beside the recovery bed in Doc Brown’s office. With his thumb, Matt traced the lacy pattern that it cast on the blanket. At home, the sun would be doing the same through Emma’s curtains.
He half wished he hadn’t made her promise to stay put, but some things were for the best. For all that he’d give a lifetime to see her smile, what he would see is her grief. Hanging was not something that a woman should see her husband do.
What he needed now was a song, but even if he could dig deep enough to find the notes, bringing them up would hurt like the devil.
At least he wasn’t dead, not yet.
Billy strode in with a cup of coffee and sat in a chair beside the bed.
“Doc says you can’t have any,” he said. “At least for a while.”
“In a while I’ll be hanged,” Matt grumbled. “Pass it over here.”
“If I believed that, I would.” Billy took a long swallow. “Guess you’ll have to just smell it.”
“I’m going home.” Matt sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The image of Emma’s smile was becoming irresistible, and as yet he wasn’t under arrest.
The room spun like a lasso twisting through the air. The next thing he knew Doc Brown was bent over the bed telling him he was too weak to do anything but lie still.
“Hell.” Matt pushed himself up with his elbows until the room settled enough to feel like nothing more challenging than a rocking boat. “I’m going home to kiss my wife goodbye.”
“There will be no goodbyes, young man, as long as you follow doctor’s orders.” The doctor eased him up so that he reclined against a pair of pillows.
He felt as if he might be sick, but the dizziness passed in a moment.
“I wasn’t the one who shot Hawker, Doc. But Pendragon will make sure I hang for it, anyway. Might as well give me some coffee and send me home.”
“You didn’t see anything?” Billy asked one more time.
“I saw my life pass before my eyes.”
Doc Brown snatched the coffee cup from Billy and took a deep swallow. “I always wondered about—”
The door to the front office opened, then banged closed. Arguing voices carried through the walls.
Doc Brown mumbled something about no respect for the sickroom and marched toward the door that separated the rooms. He had to jump back when it flew open and Lawrence Pendragon charged in with Bart close on his heels.
Marshal Deeds followed seconds later with a scowl on his face.
“See here, Marshal.” Doc Brown ignored Pendragon and Bart, lodging his protest with the lawman. “This is a sickroom. You can’t come barging in.”
“You’ve got a killer in your bed, Dr. Brown,” Pendragon said, his sneer mean to the core. “You wouldn’t want it known that you are harboring a fugitive. That’s illegal, is it not, Mr. Deeds?”
Billy jumped up with his fist clenched. “Matt’s no criminal and you know it.”
“I know for a fact that he is.” Pendragon’s fancy clothes smelled of nicotine when he moved. His grin bore the stains of his habit. “So does Bart. We both witnessed Mr. Suede gun down a man in cold blood.”
“Hawker was pleading for his life,” Bart put in. “Groveling in the dirt with his hands over his face and weeping like a woman. Didn’t make no never mind to Suede, though. He plugged him, anyway. Yes, sir, then he laughed in the dead man’s face. Told him to go to hell.”
“Pendragon,” Matt said, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He stood up even though he didn’t know if his legs could do what his mind ordered, but hell would freeze over before he’d face these accusations sitting down.
“You’re lying because you want my land,” Matt said. Billy stood beside him, shoulder touching shoulder so that Matt could stand tall without being held up. “Bart was probably too drunk to know a thing that you didn’t pay him to know.”
“Marshal,” Pendragon ordered. “Take this man into custody. We can see justice done within the hour.”
“Whooeee!” Bart scraped his nose across his sleeve, grinning and giggling. “The noose has barely quit swinging from yesterday.”
The marshal stood still. He glared from Bart to Pendragon and back with his arms folded across his chest.
“Suede is in no
condition to face justice.”
“I hardly see what difference it makes, Marshal.” Pendragon reached for Matt.
Marshal Deeds stepped between Matt and Pendragon’s reaching fist. “I’ll take charge of my own prisoner.”
For half a heartbeat the land baron’s eyes widened. Then they narrowed, glaring menace. “Do your duty, then.”
“My patient shouldn’t be moved!” Doc Brown appealed to the marshal.
“Shut up, old man,” Bart snarled. “He ain’t your patient no more.”
The marshal took Matt’s good arm with more support than force and led him toward the front door.
“Mighty sorry, Suede,” he mumbled so low that Matt figured he had heard wrong.
Pendragon marched in the lead. Red faced, he opened the front door and let it slam against the wall. Maybe he wasn’t used to the marshal trying to wriggle out from under his thumb.
Matt had to blink against the sudden glare of daylight as sunshine glinted off a colorful group of people strutting and puffing up the street. Bonnets and feathers, cowboy hats and derbies bounced with their long strides.
Calico-clad ladies brushed elbows with satin draped ladies of the night. Merchants and farmers marched together. Damned if they weren’t followed by the bankers.
He must be sicker than he thought to bring on this hallucination. He closed his eyes, willing the bizarre scene to go away, but soon he heard the grumble of the crowd coming closer.
Grumble?
He had expected to hang, but not at the hands of a brightly hued lynch mob.
Footsteps rushed up the porch steps, tapping lightly on the wood. A hand stroked his cheek. Gentle fingers touched his sling from injured shoulder to protruding fingertips
If this was a trick of the mind, he gave himself up to it.
He felt his head being lowered by a pair of tender hands near his ears. Petticoats rustled as though the wearer had risen to her toes. A pair of lips touched his.
“Emma?” Did he dare open his eyes and ruin the hallucination?
She hugged him around the middle and it hurt. Great blessed pain! “Emma!”
He pulled her in tight with his good arm, trying to make the feel of her last forever, but the mob did sound angry.