by Eli Easton
He promised himself that once he got to Santa Fe, he would feel better. He’d check in at the fonda as old Mother Harper and hide in his room. There was no reason why anyone would suspect he was not who he claimed to be, or why anyone would expect Robby Riverton to show up in Santa Fe. He’d be fine.
But the journey itself . . . Robby was afraid. It was the kind of blood-level fear that caused a cold sweat to dampen the back of his dress and his heart to pound so forcefully in his chest he could feel every beat against his ribcage. This felt bad. This felt incredibly foolish. The coach was heading for Santa Fe at probably the exact same time the Bowery Boys were heading for Flat Bottom. Robby could only pray that this brass-balls feint would work, and luck would shine on him today.
Please God.
They’d only been on the road for about twenty minutes, the wagon jolting steadily beneath them, when shouts were heard outside. Men’s voices.
“Whoa!” the coachman yelled. The coach slowed.
No, Robby, thought. Keep going. Please.
The wheels came to a standstill. Robby heard multiple riders, their horses circling the coach.
Oh God. Let it be some passing cattleman, bandits, curious Indians, anyone else. Just don’t let it be them.
The wagon swayed as the driver disembarked. There was the sound of a flat accent as a man questioned the driver.
Robby’s heart stopped. He’d know that voice anywhere. He heard it in his nightmares. It was the older of the two men who’d been chasing him, the one with eyes like shards of ice.
“What’s goin’ on?” Mr. Heller asked, pushing aside the curtain on the window.
“Maybe you shouldn’t look,” Mrs. Heller told her husband nervously.
Robby clenched his fists tightly, hunching up his shoulders as though he could draw his own head into his body, like a turtle.
The door was yanked open. “Out!” a man barked.
Robby dared a glance. Cold-Eyes was silhouetted in the doorway, his black coat and stovepipe hat real, far too real, a bogey-man come to life.
“Who are you, sir? And what do you want?” Mr. Heller asked stiffly.
“We’re checking the coach for a fugitive. Get out, all of yous. Come on.”
The guns strapped to both hips discouraged argument. Grumbling, Mr. Heller moved to get out. Once his feet were on the ground, he held out a hand for his wife.
Robby was frozen on the far side of the coach. He tried to think of something, but there was nothing. There was nothing he could do. Nothing but brave it out. Nothing but be Mother Harper. Only he was so frightened, he didn’t think he could move, much less perform.
Why hadn’t he brought a gun? Stolen one of Trace’s perhaps? Not that he’d be a match for a whole gang of gunfighters.
Cold-Eyes stuck his head back in. “That means you too, lady. Out!”
“Let me help her,” Mrs. Heller said reproachfully. She squeezed past Cold-Eyes to look in the carriage. “Come along, Mother Harper. This will only take a few minutes. I’m sure these gentlemen won’t hold us up for long.”
She sounded nervous. She and Mr. Heller probably thought this was a robbery. If only it was. Mrs. Heller reached out her hand.
Move, damn it! You have to move. You’re behaving suspiciously. At least try to act the part.
With a remarkable burst of self-preservation, Robby found the will to simper, “Thank you, dear,” and take Mrs. Heller’s hand.
Robby hunched his shoulders and hobbled his way down the step of the carriage, holding tight to Mrs. Heller as though his bones were made of glass. The morning was warming, and the sunlight was rich but not yet blinding. He squinted into the light, trying to look around discreetly. It seemed as though a small army surrounded the coach. Three, four, five men on horseback. They trotted their horses around and around, like circling vultures.
One of them was the other Bowery Boy, the younger man with the blue feather in his hat. The others had to be the Durby Gang. They were hard-looking men with a range of guns and knife scabbards, wind-worn hats, beards, and flat eyes that flickered between the coach’s inhabitants and the horizon, scanning for trouble.
Mother Harper, the Hellers, and the coach driver stood by the coach, completely vulnerable. Petitioners before a hostile judge. Cold-Eyes kept a gun trained on them while Blue-Feather jumped off his horse and hopped up on top of the coach, searching around the luggage. He came down again and looked underneath the coach at the underpinnings, then he went inside.
They were being very thorough.
Robby felt sick. He squinted his eyes and worked his jaw as if he were chewing something, pursing his lips. It was something his grandmother had done. Then again, she hadn’t any teeth. He buried his hands under the apron as though cold and gave a shiver. But really, his odd chamois gloves would hardly pass inspection as normal wear, and without them his hands would give him away at a glance. He heaved a tired sigh.
“There’s nobody else on the coach,” Blue-feather said, reappearing. “Just these four.”
“Well, all right then,” Cold-Eyes’s voice was bright, and it glittered with malice.
Let us go on our way. Please, God, Robby prayed.
But instead of waving them on, Cold-Eyes went up to the first of them in the line, the coachman. Robby watched as Cold-Eyes got within a few inches of the coachman’s face and stared at him.
“See here,” the coachman said, getting flustered. “We’re not carryin’ the man you’re lookin’ for. You can see that for yourself.”
“Shut. Up.” Cold-Eyes stared at the coachman’s chin. He poked the roll of fat there and the one under his shirt buttons.
The coachman turned red, opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it. He swallowed his complaint.
Slowly, Cold-Eyes stepped to the next in line, Mr. Heller. The young man was tall, thin and blond, with a pencil-thin moustache and black cowboy hat. His eyes widened with alarm and he pulled his wife closer, tucking her under his arm.
“What do you men want?” Mr. Heller asked, trying for defiance and missing it by a mile. “Is it money you’re after?”
“We don’t want your measly blunt, mister,” Cold-Eyes said scathingly. “Just shut your gob.”
Cold-Eyes moved on to Mrs. Heller. He gave her a loathing stare that made Robby’s knees weak.
I’m done for, Robby thought. I’m not going to pass this intense inspection. I’m not.
The morning light was only getting brighter. From such a close distance, the makeup lines of his “wrinkles” would surely be obvious.
Had he thought he was clever? He was an idiot. He should have stayed at the ranch. He’d been a fool to think he could do this on his own, that he could just slip right by them. And he was going to pay with his life.
His eyes watered with panic and terror filled his heart, but he made himself stand still. There was nothing he could do but brazen it out.
Cold-Eyes stepped in front of Robby. He was so close, Robby could smell sour coffee and dirty teeth. Robby dropped his gaze, hoping to disguise his eyes. Even though he was hunched a bit, he was too tall, he realized, much too tall for an old woman.
Cold-Eyes spoke, a cruel smile in his voice. “You know, there’s an old saying. ‘Fool me once, and you’re a smarmy son of a whore. But fool me twice? And you’re a dead man.’”
His hand shot out and grabbed Robby’s genitals through his skirts, pinching them hard enough to make Robby yelp.
“Ain’t that right, Mr. Robby Riverton?” Cold-Eyes chuckled darkly.
Chapter Thirty-Two
“I’m not carrying his fooking head for two thousand miles!” Cold-Eyes said in a contemptuous voice.
“But Mose wants proof,” argued Blue-Feather. “A hand could be anybody’s hand.”
“Not his hands. Just fooking look at ’em.”
The horse Robby was on stopped. He was draped over the back of the beast, face down, bound and gagged. He felt the shift as Cold-Eyes’s leg was swung over the horse’s flank. The
blanket covering him was removed, and he sucked in fresh air through his nose gratefully even though the daylight blinded him.
His hands, tied together behind his back, were yanked up. He let out a muffled yelp at the jolt of pain.
“Look. Tell me these ain’t the hands of some prissy actor.”
“I guess . . .” Blue-Feather hedged.
“Take his dick and bollocks too,” one of the Durby Gang suggested. “His hands are probably used to their company.”
There was much laughter at that.
Robby moaned around the cloth that was stuffed into his mouth. This was like something out of a Shakespearean play, cutting off body parts to send to kings and emperors. Only it was real, and it was happening to him.
What had he done to deserve this fate? Killed at the tender age of twenty-four and cut up like a slaughtered lamb? But feeling sorry for himself was useless, as was lingering on the tragic drama of it all. He’d made mistakes, bad ones, and now he was going to die. If only he could find resignation. Or unconsciousness. Unconsciousness would be a welcome friend. But no, he was fully alert and terrified.
The red dirt beneath the horse grew blurry as his eyes filled with tears. Would Trace find his body? They weren’t that far from Flat Bottom. Robby pictured birds circling in the desert air and Trace riding up on what was left of his remains. Minus his hand, cock, and balls. God, he’d spare Trace that if he could.
“You’re payin’ us the same, even though we never went to that ranch. Right?” Robby didn’t recognize the voice. It was probably one of the Durby Gang. It sounded a bit high and broken, like there’d been damage to the man’s windpipe.
“Yeah. That was the deal,” Cold-Eyes agreed.
“Then just kill the damned molly, and let’s get back to Santa Fe.”
“I think we should question him,” Blue-Feather said insistently.
“What for?” Cold-Eyes asked.
“See if he told anyone.”
“So what if he did?” Cold-Eyes scoffed. “The lawyers want an eyewitness. It ain’t the same if you just heard a story. You have a point, though. I’m not eager to end the bastard. Chased this lousy foxy all the way from New York. Then he makes a fool out of us with that dress trick. Maybe I want to take my time with this one.”
“So, take ’im along,” the Durby Gang member said. “We got a hideout not far from Santa Fe you can use. You can kill ’im real slow there.”
That seemed to settle the matter. Cold-Eyes tossed the blanket back over Robby, swung up onto the horse, and they started out again. The riding was hard. Robby’s stomach and ribs hurt from taking all his weight over the horse’s backside. And he wasn’t secured either—with his arms tied behind his back, and his ankles bound, he had no way to hold on other than try to clench his body around the horse. It was exhausting.
Then he wondered: why bother? There was no way he could fall off and not be noticed. But maybe he could manage to break his own neck. That would be a cleaner death than whatever Cold-Eyes had in mind.
Could he bring himself to do it? His goose was cooked anyway. But there was still a chance. The smallest chance . . .
He was trying to build up his nerve when he heard a distant pop. He felt Cold-Eyes jerk, heard him expel a low gasp, then his body slid sideways off the horse.
It was all Robby could do not to go with him. He tightened himself around the horse as it danced and whinnied, fearful because—
Gunshot. Cold-Eyes had been shot. It had to be Trace!
The men around Robby started to fire. Round after round blasted in Robby’s ears. He was still covered by the blanket, so he couldn’t see a damned thing. Hoof beats pounded close to his head as another horse came up alongside him.
“Shit! Shit!” shouted Blue-Feather. “We’re under attack! Make a circle.”
“No! Make for those rocks!” the man with the high voice shouted.
Then they were galloping. Someone must have grabbed the reins on Robby’s horse because he was jolted, could scarcely catch his breath as his chest and stomach pounded against horseflesh. He fought to stay on the animal, digging in his chin and knees. A moment ago, he’d been contemplating how best to fall off in order to break his neck. Now it was the last thing he wanted.
Trace had come. Robby had a chance of surviving this.
Please don’t let him be shot.
They must have reached the rocks because the horses stopped abruptly. Robby’s horse spun around, making him slide off the side. He tried to slow himself with his chin, but his feet, and then his knees, hit the ground and he fell in a heap of blanket. He was jarred, but it didn’t feel like anything was broken.
A hoof kicked his thigh hard, and Robby choked on a scream. He fought to dislodge the blanket, so he could see where he was and avoid getting trampled. He managed to free his head and blinked to get his bearings.
They were at a mound of dirt and sharp-pointed stones. At the top of a mound was a cluster of tall, brown, pillar-like rocks, pitted with age. The Durby Gang had taken cover behind the rocks and were shooting into the distance.
Blue-Feather shouted at the other men to cover him and ran back for Robby. He grabbed Robby’s arms, still bound, and yanked him on his back up the hill. The stones cut into Robby’s shoulder blades, his hands. There was a deep jab in his hip. Robby yelped but couldn’t get away. The gunfire was deafening, and Blue-Feather cursed like a drunken sailor. Then Robby was behind the rocks and Blue-Feather let him go.
“How many are there?” one of the Durby Gang shouted.
“At least four. Maybe more.” That was the man with the high voice. He sounded utterly calm. He wasn’t firing wildly like the other men. He squinted into the distance, looking for his targets. He fired off three shots in a row then hunkered down as bullets hit the rock where his head had just been.
“Who is it?” Blue-Feather demanded. “Who the fook would come after this waste of skin?”
“Probably them ranchers he was stayin’ with,” High-Voice said coolly. “Guess we’re gonna earn that money after all.” He looked around the rock, aimed, and fired.
“They killed Ronnie!” Blue-Feather whined.
“Roscoe too. They got a dead shot out there. Now shut up and shoot!” High-Voice snapped.
Blue-Feather drew his gun and joined the fight, positioning himself behind a rock on Robby’s other side. There were only three Durby Gang members left. One of them had been killed.
You got two, Trace. Only four more to go.
Robby lay there, panting up at the sky. If he could get his feet free, he could make a run for it. Maybe they wouldn’t notice with all the shooting. He concentrated on his bindings. Cold-Eyes had tied his ankles and wrists with a rough twine rope. The rope was tight and the knots secure. The fibers dug into his skin, tearing into his flesh. Still, Robby worked his ankles, hoping to loosen them. But there was no give at all.
A bullet hit the rock high above his head, sending fragments of stone and dust down into his face. Shit.
Giving up on his bindings, Robby worked his way to sitting and started worming backwards, pushing with his heels and sliding on his ass. If he could just get out from behind the rocks. If Trace saw him . . .
But it was Blue-Feather who saw him. He turned to look at Robby, enraged. He clutched his arm, blood crimson against his white shirt and blunt, stocky fingers. He must have been shot—or hit by a rock fragment. The look he gave Robby was one of pure and utter hatred.
“Riverton. You ain’t going anywhere but to hell.”
He pulled a long, wicked-looking knife from a scabbard at his side and stalked toward Robby, his eyes wild.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Trace was in pure battle mode. He was a black storm cloud on the horizon—heavy, menacing, and ready to let go. He was prepared to do anything, anything at all. Whatever it took. Robby was in the hands of the Bowery Boys, and that was all Trace needed to know. He would rend heaven and earth. He would spill acres of blood. There was no possible ou
tcome other than getting Robby back.
With his first shot he took out Cold-Eyes, because he had Robby on his horse. Trace hoped the horse would spook and run away, separating from the group. Then Trace could take out anyone who went after the horse while one of his brothers grabbed it and Robby. Only it didn’t work out that way. Instead, one of the Durby Gang had grabbed the horse and they’d galloped for cover. He’d taken out one more as they rode.
Now they were sheltered in a group of rocks.
Trace, his brothers, and Pa had no cover. They stayed just out of bullet range, pacing back and forth on their horses in the open landscape.
“Well?” Pa asked Trace. “We got ’em cornered, but that ain’t a hell of a lot of use. We could be here all day. You’re the army man. What do we do now?”
“The longer they have to think about it, the worse her chances are. Er—his chances,” said Wayne, sitting anxiously upright in the saddle.
“I know that, Wayne,” Trace said impatiently. “Let me think.”
There were four men left—one of the Bowery Boys and three hired guns. Against five Crabtrees. Those were good odds, but now their opponents had the protected spot. Trace should have foreseen it. He should have noticed those rocks in the distance, but he’d been too anxious, too het up after seeing they had Robby.
Robby—under a blanket, slung over the back of a horse. Trace hadn’t even been sure Robby was alive until he saw him move. There was a part of Trace, deep inside, that screamed and raged. But he had to lock that part away. He had to be smart now—deadly but smart. Anything less would get Robby killed.
He searched the landscape. What he wanted was higher ground, a vantage point from where he could shoot down into the rocks. But there was nothing like that. The rocks were the highest point for miles.
He looked them over, wishing he had General Armstrong’s seeing glass. The rocks appeared to be a single upright row, tall but flat. The gang was behind the rocks—they only had cover on one side.
“You four put up a distraction,” Trace ordered. “Ride in and out of range. Fire at them. Keep their attention. And try not to get yourselves shot.”