“Seeing as how we’re amigos, how about we ride that yellow pony for you,” offered Nine Fingers in English, spurring his horse closer as he spoke. “Then you’ll have time to chase Reno.”
The sound of the revolver being cocked was startlingly clear. Nine Fingers yanked back on the reins. The other Comanchero spoke quickly.
“You no want shoot, Yuma man. Bad men near. Ver’ bad. Hear gun and come hell-running you bet.”
“That won’t be your problem,” Caleb said, looking at the two Comancheros. “You’ll be dead before the first echo comes back from the mountain.”
Nine Fingers smiled. “Short Dog is telling you the truth. Jed Slater is looking for you. He is purely pissed about the moniker you hung on his little brother. Kid Coyote.” Nine Fingers laughed with real amusement. “Old Jed promised to send you to Hell.”
Caleb shrugged. “He isn’t the first.”
“He’s talking about a big bounty on your scalp.”
“Coyotes talk a lot, too.”
Nine Fingers kept talking. “Not like this. Every bounty hunter between here and the Sangre de Cristos will come a helling, hoping to lift your scalp. Four hundred Yankee dollars for the man that kills you. A thousand Yankee dollars for the man who brings you to Jed alive.”
“You’re welcome to try,” Caleb said.
“Much money,” Short Dog said.
“Much trouble,” Caleb retorted. “Dead men spend no dollars.”
Nine Fingers laughed deeply and looked at his companion. “Es muy hombre, no?”
Short Dog grunted and watched the barrel of the shotgun, which Willow had kept pointed between the two Comancheros. He urged his horse a few steps to the side. The shotgun barrel followed him.
“If Short Dog moves his hands, shoot him,” Caleb said to Willow without looking away from Nine Fingers.
She said nothing. She simply cocked the shotgun with a quick motion that spoke of familiarity. The Comancheros traded glances.
“Now don’t get your water hot,” Nine Fingers said, watching Willow intently. “We’re not hunting any tombstones. But think on this, little lady. If you come with us real easy like, we’ll be real easy like with you. If you wait until your man’s killed to be good to us, we won’t be listening to your begging. We’ll take you, strip you naked, and when we get tired of you we’ll sell you to the highest bidder between here and Sonora.”
Willow never looked away from Short Dog’s hands.
Nine Fingers smiled reluctantly. “Takes orders good, don’t she? I like that in a whore.”
“Ride or die,” Caleb said flatly.
“Adios.”
“The Comancheros spun their ponies on their hocks and galloped off in the direction they had come—the same direction Caleb and Willow had to go in order to cross over the Great Divide and pick up the trail into San Juan country.
Caleb watched until the Comancheros angled across to the righthand margin of the clearing and vanished into a fold in the rolling land. As he holstered his six-gun and put the thong in place, the sound of three, closely spaced pistol shots echoed back through the park. Caleb said a savage word under his breath and waited, listening intently. The distant, flat echo of triple rifle shots came from the right. Instants later, from behind and to the right, came the faint sound of more gunfire.
“That tears it,” Caleb said. “Put the shotgun away and get ready to ride like the hounds of Hell are coming after us—because they will be as soon as Nine Fingers meets up with his friends.”
10
F OR several miles Caleb kept the pace at a hard gallop, taking advantage of what cover the land provided and keeping a watch on the gently rolling parkland to the right. They splashed through several small and three large streams. At the fourth big stream he reined in, checked the compass, and turned west to follow the stream back to its source in the towering mountains.
Despite the new direction, for a time the land itself remained unchanged. There were still grassy, gently rolling rises, occasional pine and aspen groves, and snow-shrouded peaks in the distance. Gradually, it became clear that the stream Caleb had chosen to follow cut deeply into the mountain range. Forested mountains began to close in on both sides. In some places the width of the park shrank to less than a mile. At times the forest swept down in long ragged fringes that almost met, choking the meadow grasses.
Caleb slowed to a fast canter, a pace he held even after sweat darkened the horses’ coats and lather began to appear in thin white streaks on shoulder and flank. The Montana horses were breathing deeply but easily. The Arabians found the pace harder to maintain. Dove began breathing audibly, great gulps of air that flared her nostrils as big as fists. Yet she kept running her heart out, spurred on by nothing more than Willow’s voice talking softly in her ear, praising her.
After what seemed an eternity to Willow, Caleb allowed the horses to drop back to a walk. It wasn’t kindness that forced the change, but necessity. The mountains were closing in once more and the land was rising so steeply beneath the horses’ feet that anything more than a walk would be foolish unless the alternative was immediate death. It hadn’t come to that yet, but he was betting it would.
“Get off,” Caleb said, dismounting as he spoke. “We’ll swap horses. Take a walk in the bushes if you need to. You won’t get another chance until full dark.”
Willow was more concerned with her tired mare than with herself. No sooner were Willow’s feet on the ground than she yanked at the cinch and stripped off the saddle so that Dove could breathe more easily.
Caleb looked up, saw that Willow had taken care of Dove, and went to Deuce.
“Put your saddle on Ishmael,” he said when she headed toward Penny, lugging the heavy saddle. “We’ve got a harder ride ahead of us than behind us.”
Willow stopped and stared at Caleb in disbelief. “Don’t you think we lost them?”
“No. I chose the closest pass out of that basin I know, but they’re sure to know about it, too. I can’t guarantee we’ll get over the divide before they catch up. So all we can do is run and keep running. But your horses still aren’t used to the altitude. The Comanchero horses are.”
“We’ve been heading south, haven’t we?”
Caleb nodded.
“The Comancheros rode south,” she said.
“They sure did.”
“What if we run into them before we even turn off for the pass?”
“Then we’ll be flat out of luck.”
Willow bit her lip. “But if we beat them to the pass trail, we’ll be all right?”
“Unless they get there first.”
“But how would they know we took a particular trail unless they came all the way back here and tracked us?”
“It’s the only decent pass for sixty miles in any direction,” Caleb said. “Even a drunken Comanchero can figure out where we’re going to be. Up this creek about ten miles there’s a place where another route comes in from the south and joins with the pass trail. We’ve got to beat them to that fork.”
For an instant Willow closed her eyes. Ten miles. Her horses couldn’t run for ten more miles. The Arabians were doing worse than Caleb’s mounts even though they weren’t carrying as much weight.
Caleb jerked the pack saddle off Deuce and put on the riding saddle, talking while he worked. “Problem is, if we run much more, we’ll start losing the mares. Ishmael is stronger, so you’ll ride him. If the mares can’t keep up, they’re on their own.” Caleb looked at Willow, pinning her with the intensity of his golden eyes. “Tell me now, Willow. If there’s no other way, which would you rather be—dead or with the Comancheros?”
Willow remembered Nine Fingers’ pale blue eyes watching her. Bile rose in her throat.
“Dead,” she said without hesitation.
For a long moment Caleb looked at her. She returned the look unflinchingly.
“So be it,” Caleb said in a low voice. “You would be dead pretty quick anyway. White women don’t last more than a f
ew months with Comancheros, especially blondes. Too many men lust after yellow hair. But the choice had to be yours.”
Willow turned away, saying nothing. There was really nothing she could say.
When she came back from the forest, the horses were saddled. Dove was still breathing hard, but the sweat was drying on her body. Caleb was standing by Ishmael, waiting to help Willow mount.
“That’s not necessary anymore,” she said. “I can get on by myself.”
“I know.”
Caleb held out his hands, forming a stirrup for her. She stepped into it and was lifted into the saddle. For just a moment she felt his palm caress her calf gently, but the touch was so brief, and he turned away so quickly, she wondered if she had imagined it. His face had looked so grim.
“Caleb?”
He turned back toward her.
“No matter what happens,” Willow said in a rush, “don’t blame yourself. You warned me in Denver that my Arabians couldn’t take the pace. You were right.”
One long step brought Caleb back to Willow’s side. “Come here,” he said huskily.
When she bent down, his long fingers caught her face, held her for the space of a breath, and then he took her mouth in a swift, fierce kiss that ended before she could respond.
“Your horses have done just fine. In fact, they’ve been one hell of a surprise,” Caleb said against Willow’s lips. “And so have you. Stay right behind me, honey. Those are grand mares, but they aren’t worth dying for.”
Before Willow could say anything, Caleb released her and swung into the saddle. He lifted the reins and the big animal leaped into a canter. To Caleb’s surprise, even without Ishmael’s prodding, the mares clung like burrs to the stallion’s flanks, running free as mustangs. If they lagged, Willow spoke to them and was answered by a flick of ears and a faster pace.
Many times in the next ten miles Caleb heard Willow calling to her Arabians and saw the mares respond, working harder to keep the punishing pace. As the miles raced by, he found himself praying that the mares wouldn’t falter, for he finally understood why Willow had refused to leave them behind. There was a bond between Willow and the Arabians that couldn’t be described. They would run themselves to death for her, with never a whip or a spur laid against their silky hides.
“Almost there,” Caleb said, turning in the saddle until he could look at Willow. “See those trees? All we have to do is—”
Caleb’s words ended abruptly as rifle fire shattered the mountain silence. Deuce stumbled and went down. Caleb grabbed his rifle and kicked free of the stirrups. Three more shots came in rapid succession, then it was quiet again but for the thunder of hooves as the Arabians swept by. Caleb dove behind a fallen tree as a fourth shot rang out.
Willow hauled hard on the reins, spinning Ishmael around so tightly that great chunks of earth flew from beneath his hooves. There was no time for thought, no time for planning, nothing but the knowledge that Caleb was afoot in a place where to be afoot was to die. She bent low over Ishmael’s lathered neck and sent him back down the trail to Caleb, asking the stallion for everything he had. As the Arabian swept past the log, Willow called out to Caleb.
“Get on behind me!”
Rifle in his right hand, Caleb came up off the ground like a mountain cat. As Ishmael surged past, Caleb grabbed the saddle horn with his free hand and leaped on behind Willow. Despite the much greater burden, the stallion hit his full pace within three long strides.
Willow expected bullets to shower around them, but nothing came except a drumroll of hooves as Ishmael raced past the confused mares, sweeping them up in his wake. Trey appeared alongside, running hard. When Caleb looked back, Deuce was on his feet again and running raggedly after his trail mate.
A rifle went off very close, making Willow cringe in the instant before she realized it was Caleb firing.
“Cut right!” he yelled.
Instantly, Willow reined the stallion hard to the right. No sooner had the horse set off on the new course than shots sizzled past, kicking up dirt where Ishmael would have been had he not been turned aside.
“Get to the top of that rise before they can reload!” shouted Caleb.
Bending low over Ishmael’s lathered neck, Willow called to her straining stallion. He answered with a burst of speed despite the steepness of the way and the weight of two riders.
“I’ll drop off at the top in the boulders,” Caleb said. “Take the horses on into the trees. Hear me?”
“Yes,” she said loudly.
“Just another hundred yards,” Caleb said under his breath, looking at a clump of boulders that marked the end of the rise. “Run, you red demon.”
Ishmael’s steel-shod hooves dug into the slope, tearing out clots of earth as the stallion attacked the steep mountainside. By the time Ishmael surged over the top, the horse’s breath was coming in labored groans.
Caleb dropped off and landed running, rifle in hand. He took cover among the boulders as a bullet whined off granite four feet away. Three more shots were fired, but none of the slugs came close enough for Caleb to hear where they hit.
“Too eager, boys,” he muttered. “You have to take your time and aim. Especially when all you have are single-shot rifles.”
Following his own advice, Caleb chose his target carefully from among the seven that were offered. An instant after he squeezed the trigger, he was rewarded by a scream of surprise and pain from down the slope as a Comanchero threw up his hands and fell from his horse. The other six scattered to either side, seeking cover in the meadow. Caleb stood up and fired shot after shot, knowing he would never have a better chance of shortening the odds.
But the range was five hundred yards and increasing with every second. In the end Caleb managed to hit only two more men before he had to take cover again himself. As he dropped behind the boulders he mentally counted the bullets left in the rifle. Five. He would have to let the remaining Comancheros get in damned close and then finish them off with the pistol. At least he could reload that weapon with bullets from his belt. And when he ran out of bullets for the six-gun, there was always his knife.
Caleb smiled sourly at his own thoughts. The raiders were greedy and over-eager, but not totally stupid. They wouldn’t make things easy for him. Either they would wait until dark and rush him, or they would spread out and come in from all sides at once. They might easily have reinforcements on the way. Numbers, time, and geography were on the raiders’ side. They had taken cover smack across the route to the only pass around.
Deuce’s ringing whinny came up the slope and was answered by Trey. Like the Arabians, the Montana horses had been raised together. They would stick close to each other if they could. Trotting raggedly, Deuce struggled up the slope despite the bullet wound gleaming redly across his chest.
Caleb thought longingly of the extra ammunition tucked into the saddlebags that Deuce carried. He considered making an attempt to get into them, but discarded the idea. If he whistled the horse over, the raiders would guess he was going after more ammunition or weapons and would shoot Deuce dead before the horse got close. If he tried to get to Deuce, Caleb would be shot dead. The horse was a hundred yards wide of the boulders and there was nothing but grass for cover in between.
Caleb watched Deuce vanish into the trees, then turned his attention back to the raiders. Nothing was moving. The men had gone to ground in whatever cover they could find. Methodically, Caleb began checking the field of fire on all sides, sighting on possible bits of cover and gauging the range.
When Deuce limped up to his trail mate, Willow grabbed the reins and spoke soothingly to the frightened animal. As soon as Deuce would allow it, she unfastened the saddlebags, knowing that was where Caleb kept his spare ammunition. She wanted to loosen the cinch to ease Deuce’s breathing, but was afraid to. They might have to mount up and ride with no warning.
Deuce was too edgy to allow Willow close to his chest, but she saw enough. The wound was shallow, as much a burn as a gouge.
It was the swelling on the horse’s left foreleg that spelled trouble. She doubted that Deuce would be able to carry a rider at all, much less one of Caleb’s size.
Nor could the mares carry Caleb. Not right away. They were still breathing hard, trembling, all but run into the ground. Ishmael was hard used. So was Trey, but of them all, Trey was in the best shape.
Don’t think about the horses, Willow told herself grimly. You can’t do anything for them now. What you can do is get these cartridges to Caleb.
As Willow dug quickly through the heavy saddlebags, she found five boxes of ammunition. Two contained shotgun shells. Three contained cartridges, but one of the boxes had a different size of ammunition than the other two. She didn’t know which would go with the rifle and which with Caleb’s pistol. There was also the spyglass, a compass, and other miscellaneous personal items.
In the end Willow decided to take everything, not knowing what might be useful to Caleb. She grabbed the saddlebags, dragged them into place on her shoulder, picked up the shotgun, and walked cautiously to the edge of the trees. Caleb was a hundred feet away from her at almost the same elevation, separated from her by a low runoff channel. The distance was too great for her to throw a box of ammunition, much less the saddlebags. But if she crawled and was quick about it, she shouldn’t be visible from below for more than a few seconds.
“Caleb,” Willow called softly, “I’m coming in behind you.”
He spun around, ready to tell her to do no such fool thing.
It was too late. She was on her hands and knees already, crawling toward him with no more cover around her than the low ditch could provide.
Swiftly, Caleb turned back and began firing at places where raiders had gone to ground, hoping to pin them down while Willow crossed the trough. Realizing what he was doing, Willow scrambled to her feet and raced toward the rocks. Just as she threw herself down beside Caleb, bullets began whining off the nearby boulders.
“You little fool!” Caleb said savagely. “You could have been killed!”
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