by Gem Sivad
She held her breath and tried to think clearly. Harvey's Wagon of Interesting Items was pulled up next to the only scrub pine in the small clearing, but she couldn't catch sight of any of the girls. She inched sideways, flat against the ground, watching, gaze steadily scanning the terrain, but not touching those she surveyed.
Suddenly, the smell of coffee hit her, and her stomach growled loudly. Had the volume of the argument not increased, they might have heard it.
"I'm telling you boys, use that one you've ruined already, but leave the rest of the healthy ones alone. I can't get nothin’ out of ‘em if you've poked em to death first."
"Sheeet,” he drew the expletive out incongruously. Naomi froze as he spat in her direction. “You boys have any idea how much these females are worth? I've got the children of the territory's wealthiest in that wagon. The mighty will pay through the nose to get their flesh and blood back. I'll be rich as a king.” He smacked his lips over broken teeth and cackled at the thought.
Use the one you've ruined already. Dear God, what had they done? Naomi slithered on her belly, crawling toward the wagon, desperate to reach the girls before the outlaw camp came fully awake. A mounded bundle by the side of the back cart wheel was enough to send her in that direction.
It was Justine. Naomi shinnied under the wagon and slipped as close to the injured child as she could, scrunching into the shadows to study the girl. Justine breathed shallowly, dried blood streaked through her hair and across her face.
"Justine,” Naomi whispered the name with little hope of a response, so she was shocked when the eye nearest her popped open, and then closed in a distinct wink. Well, that surely makes a difference. Suddenly, Naomi didn't feel so hopeless.
Then Justine's finger twitched the slightest bit and seemed to be pointing above Naomi. Save your strength, Naomi wanted to warn her. I know the girls are in the wagon. She nodded reassuringly and began her retreat, planning to crawl around to the unguarded side, climb inside the wagon, and free the other students.
She heard nothing, but as she eased backward through the wet morning dew, a hand came over her mouth.
At the same time a hard body sprawled on top of her, pinning her to the ground. Naomi bucked upward trying to free herself. “Naomi."
It was a feather-like stroke of air that settled her fight, before he took his hand away. As soon as he freed her, she rolled over and stared into the face of Charlie Wolf. He crawled backward beside her, shinnying quicker than she could keep up. When they were on the outside of the camp, he pulled her to her feet and motioned her to follow him.
They remained silent, until reaching two horses, his and the one Naomi had ridden in on. His stallion's reins trailed the ground; the mare's leathers were looped over his pommel. When she would have spoken, he shook his head and handed her the reins, boosting her into her saddle.
She followed where he led, wondering if she would have to return his gun before she had her show-down with Harvey Collins, because sin or not, she intended to kill the old man.
As soon as they were far enough from the camp to talk, he slid down from his horse, and lifted her down, without waiting for her to use the stirrups. “Teacher, did I not tell you to stay put?"
Shocking both of them, she wrapped her arms around his waist and hugged.
"Mr. Wolf, I am so glad you're here. Justine is playing hurt, and the other girls are tied up in the wagon. I so hoped you would come.” Her words tumbled out as he held her, squeezing her to him until she thought her ribs might crack.
She didn't care. He could hug her as tightly to him as he wanted. She squeezed him right back, liking the feel of his power in her arms.
The girls were alive, Justine wasn't as badly hurt as Naomi had feared, and Charlie Wolf had arrived in time to help her with the rescue. She leaned her head against his chest for just a moment, drawing upon his strength, and then she stepped away, dropping her arms. “I have a plan,” she said briskly.
His eyebrows beetled into a frown, and impulsively she touched his arm again. “I came to help. The girl who's on the ground beside the wagon is playing possum. She's not nearly as hurt as they think.” She drew a deep breath and then whispered softly.
"I heard the Comanchero leader arguing with Harvey Collins. For once in his no-good life, Harvey Collins did something right, even if for the wrong reasons. At least till now he's kept the other girls unharmed."
"How do you know this man, Harvey Collins?” Charlie's feral gaze looked more wolf than man as he listened.
Her fingers clenched around the reins. “Years ago, he was run out of my home county in Alabama for misdeeds—he says he's a peddler of small household necessaries, but it's more commonly thought that he's a merchant of sin and evil. Young girls had a way of turning up missing when Harvey was in the area."
Charlie didn't exact details, just nodded at her assessment as if he understood. There were flesh-peddlers who roamed the territory, run out of most decent places, but always ready to do business with the outcasts from society, who always found them.
"Now that you're here, it will be easier. I'm going back into that camp and crawl up on the wagon seat and drive the wagon out. They've left the mule hitched up, and they won't be expecting trouble. You can climb onto that shelf above the canyon and use your rifle.” She paused for breath and then asked, “You can shoot, can't you?"
Charlie Wolf stood listening to her with arms folded across his chest and no expression on his face.
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Chapter Eight
There were six outlaws representing varying degrees of evil in the camp. Seven, if he counted Harvey Collins. After listening to the fat windbag, Charlie had no trouble adding him to the potential body count at the end of the forthcoming shoot-out.
Deacon had circled around to the other side of the ravine, so he had a clear shot from above, into the clearing. Sam was busy cutting loose the remuda of horses the gang used for travel.
Waiting for the call of a mourning dove, Sam's signal, Charlie gave Naomi her directions. He wanted nothing more than to turn her over his knee and wale the daylights out of her.
She'd belly-crawled like an Indian right up to the camp. Part of him swelled with pride—he'd chosen well—another part of him long dormant trembled from aftershocks at seeing her so close to death. For thirty-two years he'd waited for a woman to claim his interest. Miss Naomi Parker had his full attention, and he didn't plan on losing her to her own stupidity.
"Stay here.” When she started to shake her head, he asked, “You still have my .45?” When she fumbled it out of her pocket, he frowned. It had a hair-trigger and it was loaded. “You know how to use this?” Without waiting for a reply, he took it out of her hand, checked to make sure that the cylinder was fully loaded, including the chamber that was usually kept empty for the hammer to rest on, and handed it back.
"Anyone besides Sam, Deak, or me comes running this way, pull the hammer until it cocks, and shoot ‘em.” Then he left her standing behind a boulder, holding the reins of the horses in one hand and his Colt .45 in the other.
Timing was important. Charlie acknowledged the weakness of his plan to himself as he walked into the boxed canyon. If the girls were unable to help themselves, it would be hard getting them out alive. But if they died in the shootout, it was better than leaving them in the hands of the Comancheros.
While Naomi was crawling around risking her life, he'd had time to watch the six gang members. Jericho wouldn't be able to hold them back much longer. If the old man didn't deliver what cargo he'd promised, the girls would be forfeit.
"Hola!” Charlie called as he walked into the camp, his six-shooter drawn and ready. It was enough to stop the tirade being delivered upon Harvey Collins.
"Jericho, your guard's asleep at his post. A child could steal your remuda and gut you at the same time.” In fact, the guard, a Mescalero killer with a hefty bounty on his head, wouldn't be waking up—ever.
Jericho whirled, g
oing for his gun as he turned to face the voice he knew well. As soon as he saw the aim of Charlie's gun, he stopped in mid-draw and finished his turn, a smile on his face.
"My old friend, Charlie Wolf! What brings you to my camp this morning?” The hand that had been resting on his holster carefully lowered to his thigh and remained still. The smile on the Comanchero's face broadened as he took in Charlie's horseless state. “Dropping in for coffee?"
"You have something that belongs to me.” Charlie nodded at the wagon as he spoke.
The outlaw leader turned on Harvey Collins. “What is this? You sold the merchandise more than once?"
"No,” Charlie answered for the old man. “He was stupid enough to steal from me. I came to get my own back.” No one in the clearing doubted that he spoke of more than the contents of the wagon. The scar on Charlie's back demanded retribution.
He nodded toward the wagon and continued, “The flesh-peddler's cart and what it carries is mine."
A hiss of anger was the only warning. Jericho palmed his knife and in one fluid motion, poised to throw it at Charlie. When Harvey Collins gurgled in fear, the outlaw swore. “Old man, I will kill your useless hide right now."
Charlie shot the knife from Jericho's hand before he could release it. “Another move and you die."
The outlaw turned slowly and looked at him in amazement. “You can't walk into my camp and kill me."
"I'm not planning on killing you.” The barrel of the gun was now trained on Jericho's crotch. “I'll just leave you with something to remember me by.” The two men stared at each other, hatred so deep it was a tangible force between them.
Jericho froze, not even turning his head. He gritted through clenched teeth, as much to his outlaw friends as to Charlie, “Don't shoot.” He glared at the bounty hunter. “What do you want?"
"The wagon and its contents belong to me,” Charlie repeated.
Harvey Collins chose that moment to join the discussion. “That's my wagon, and it sure as hell don't carry nothin’ that belongs to you."
Charlie ignored him and spoke again to Jericho. “Have one of your men put that bundle laying over there into the wagon with the rest of what you stole.” The gun never wavered from its aim.
The Comanchero leader yelled, “Pete, do it!” and one of the remaining five gang members bent to lift the girl from the ground. Charlie held his breath, hoping. The blanket remained limp as the man settled it inside the wagon and out of sight.
"We're going to walk over there now, and we're going to drive the wagon out of this camp, and if you're fortunate, I might let you live."
Charlie lifted his gun so that it was again aimed at Jericho's heart and then stepped close, whirling him around and jamming the gun against the outlaw's back as he pushed him.
"Move it,” he ordered.
The Comanchero leader smirked. “You're surrounded. How do you think you're going to get me into that wagon and out of this camp while my friends are here to stop you? You are a dead man."
"Not today, I'm not,” Charlie disagreed. “But keep running your mouth, and you won't be so lucky."
Charlie had reason to appreciate Naomi's earlier visit, although it stuck in his craw to admit it. “Justine,” he called out.
A young girl, blood matting the side of her face, poked her head through the canvas opening. “Untie the ropes on the other girls, and one of you get up top and drive this rig."
The daughters of Texas didn't falter or faint, as Justine, the little girl who'd played possum for three days, came alive to free her classmates, one by one.
Charlie kept the gun buried in Jericho's ribs, waiting. Quickly another girl crawled to the wagon seat and picked up the reins.
"I'm Ambrosia Quince.” She introduced herself as if they were at afternoon tea. And then she added, “And I'm very glad to meet you."
Charlie eased the gun out of Jericho's holster and handed it to the driver. Then he called back to the other girl, “Justine, you got a length of that rope they used on your friends?"
The little girl waved a loop at him. “Drop that right here...” He shoved Jericho forward, forcing his head into the noose until it circled his arms.
Two loops and the outlaw couldn't move. “Now give me another one, Justine.” Again the head popped out. This time she dropped the rope around Jericho's neck. “We're gonna walk out of here, Miss Quince.” Charlie nodded reassuringly at the driver who held the reins with confidence. “Your teacher hired me to get you to safety. Let's get started. If things go bad, run this old mule and don't stop till you get to Flat Rock."
Naomi's girls were better than he'd hoped for. One of them slid a noose around Jericho's neck from the back and tightened it, while another wrapped another length of rope around the outlaw until he was trussed up and unable to move anything but his legs.
As Ambrosia Quince slapped the leathers against the old mule, the wagon rolled out of the camp. Jericho stumbled along beside it, his choice to keep up or be dragged behind and choke to death.
Charlie kept his back to the wagon and shifted his gun, training it on the remaining outlaws. On schedule, Sam hazed the remuda of horses into frenzy, chasing them from the box canyon where they'd been corralled. They stampeded through the camp.
The old mule broke into a run to get out of their way. Charlie used the chaos for cover and leapt on a passing bay, leaving the other seven outlaws behind for his cousins to deal with.
He grabbed Jericho, who was running beside the Wagon of Interesting Items, trying to keep from being strangled. Charlie hauled him up, slinging him face-down across the back of a passing animal. Jericho agilely rolled until he straddled the mount, wrapping his legs around the horse's sides. He was smiling until Justine tugged on the noose around his neck.
"Keep moving,” Charlie called to the young girl driving, but it was unnecessary. She was running that old mule hell-bent for leather and would have trampled the outlaw who jumped in front of them, had he not jumped to safety.
Behind them, shots sounded, and she urged the mule faster on the trail. The wagon bounced over hardscrabble rock and dirt, and Charlie feared it might shake itself apart at the pace she'd set.
But it hung together, and when she reached the boulder where he'd left Naomi standing, Charlie didn't stop, but shouted at Naomi, “Bring the horses and get a move on."
She was already mounted and leading Old Mossy at a run as she urged her horse close to the wagon, craning her neck to see inside and count her students. “We're all here,” the girl driving the rig assured her.
On seeing the cart loaded with his hostages, Jericho laughed, “Keep them rounded up for me in that wagon. I'll have them back in my hands by the end of the day."
Charlie brought the gun up and slammed it against the man's head, shutting him up effectively. Then he pulled the mule to a halt and slid from the saddle.
"We need to go to Buffalo Creek,” Naomi told him. He ignored her, talking to the girls in the wagon instead.
"Mr. Wolf. I can get help for the girls in Buffalo Creek."
Finally, he looked at her and said, “That's the wrong direction.” He turned back to the Quince girl driving and instructed her.
"Keep driving the wagon toward the sun.” He tied the limp body of the Comanchero leader across the horse he was mounted on, while Naomi nudged her horse into a lope, following close to the wagon's rear axle.
"Is everyone back there?” she called anxiously.
One by one, as Charlie watched, three girls poked their heads out of the flap covering that closed off the back of the wagon from view. “We knew you'd save us, Miss Parker,” a young girl piped, looking out the opening at Naomi. “Justine was playing possum, but she is really hurt."
Before Naomi could jerk the reins and pull the mare to a stop, Charlie slapped her horse's hind quarters and shouted, “Keep moving, don't stop for anything."
Then he dropped behind them and rode next to Jericho who, tied head down and ass up in the air, was conscious and c
ursing. The thunder of hooves followed behind, and Charlie hoped it was Sam and Deak.
"Head to Flat Rock—toward the sun,” he directed the females again. “Keep that gun handy,” he ordered Naomi. “If the prisoner wakes up and gives you any trouble, shoot him.” Then, as an afterthought he added, “Don't kill the horse."
He spurred back toward the gunfire, aware that he'd left his cousins outnumbered three to one. He needn't have worried. Deacon was strapping bodies across one of the gang's mounts. Four from the camp were wounded, three were dead, including the Mescalero guard, and neither Sam nor his brother had caught lead.
"Where's that fat windbag that set up the kidnapping?” Harvey Collins was nowhere to be seen.
"...Took off running when he saw us come into camp. I let him go. Figured if the snakes don't get him, the sun will.” Deak was right, and Charlie had more pressing worries than a crooked old man.
"By my count, we've got another five or six thousand to divide up, not to mention the price on Jericho's head. Sure was fine of your schoolmarm to lead us to these outlaws.” Sam offered a sly grin and emphasized your schoolmarm, claiming Naomi for Charlie.
Charlie didn't deny the claim. Instead he advised his cousins, “Better move fast and get this bunch back to Flat Rock. There were only seven wanteds and an old man in camp with Jericho. Half the men who ride with him were gone."
Sam and Deak mounted and strung the lead line behind them. Then they spurred their animals to a gallop, accompanied by the sound of Jericho's men groaning and protesting at the pace being set and the thud of hard leather against their wounds.
They soon caught up with Naomi, who instead of following directions, was heading away from the sun toward Buffalo Creek.
She was pushing that old mule to go as fast as he would oblige. Three of the girls clung to the bench as it rocked and swayed across the range, and five more were inside the wagon.
When Charlie rode up next to her buckskin, he expected her to pull up. Instead she dug in her heels and tried to get more speed out of the mare without leaving the raggedy merchant cart and her students behind. A stunned Charlie stopped in the middle of the trail staring.