"What's going on, Bishop?" Creed asked.
Carl Bishop shook his head. "Shut up, Maddigan." He jerked his head toward the steps. "Get off the train. I'll be right behind you, so don't try anything."
Creed did as he was told. A few moments later, Jassy stepped off the train and hurried toward him.
Creed's gaze settled on the man wearing the black hat. "Now what?"
"We've got some horses waiting behind the feed store. We're gonna walk over there, nice and slow. And just so's you know how it's gonna be, if you try anything stupid, I'll shoot the woman first. You savvy my meaning?"
"Yeah."
"Good. Let's go."
Minutes later, they reached the rear of the feed store. A young boy stood in the shade, keeping an eye on four horses and a pack mule.
The man in the black hat flipped the kid a coin, and the boy hurried off.
"Hands behind your back, Maddigan," Black Hat ordered brusquely.
"What the hell do you want?"
"Can't you guess?" Black Hat asked.
Pulling a leather thong from the pocket of his jacket, the man tied Creed's hands together, making sure the knots were good and tight.
Creed stared at Bishop, then grimaced. "Never thought you'd take up bounty hunting, Carl."
Black Hat fixed Bishop with a hard stare. "You never told me you knew Maddigan."
"You never asked," Bishop replied succinctly. "Anyway, it was a long time ago."
"So, where do we go from here?" Creed asked.
"We're takin' you back to Harrison," Black Hat said. "Friend of mine doesn't want you runnin' around loose. Said he'd make it worth my while to see you didn't make it to Frisco."
Creed's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Coulter?"
Black Hat nodded as he quickly searched Creed for weapons. "Right the first time. Not only will we collect the reward for bringing you in, but a nice bonus from Ray."
Black Hat stepped back. "The reward says dead or alive, so the first time you give me any trouble, you'll be facedown across your saddle. Understand?"
Creed nodded.
Black Hat leered at Jassy. "Maybe we'd better search her, too."
"Leave her alone," Creed said.
"No way," Black Hat said. Holstering his Colt, he ran his hands over Jassy, his thumbs skimming the curves of her breasts.
Rage exploded through Creed as he watched the bounty hunter paw Jassy. He surged forward, then swore as Bishop grabbed him by the arm.
"Dammit, Carl, let me go!"
"Don't be a fool," Bishop said. "There's nothing you can do."
Jassy's cheeks were bright red when the bounty hunter stepped away from her.
"So, Rimmer, did you find any hidden weapons?" Bishop asked dryly.
"No, but I might have to look again later, just in case."
"Keep your filthy hands off her," Creed warned.
"Shut up, Maddigan," Rimmer snapped. "It don't matter to me if I take you in riding that horse, or facedown over its back."
"Let's ride," Bishop said, lifting Jassy onto the back of a zebra dun.
"I'm in charge here, Bishop," Rimmer snapped, "and don't you forget it."
"As if you'd let me."
Bishop steadied Creed as he stepped into the saddle, then, taking up the reins to Maddigan's mount, he swung onto the back of his horse and headed out of town.
Jassy followed Creed, and Rimmer brought up the rear.
They rode until dark, then made camp in a grove of trees near a shallow stream that was more sand than water.
Rimmer lifted Jassy from the back of her horse, his hands lingering at her waist. "How'd you get hooked up with the 'breed?" he asked.
"We're not 'hooked up'," Jassy retorted, pushing the man's hands away. "We're married."
"Yeah? Well, you'll likely be a widow soon."
"What do you mean?"
Rimmer shrugged. "It's a long ride to Harrison. Anything could happen."
"Is that a threat?" Creed asked, coming up to stand beside Jassy.
"Could be," Rimmer replied with a slow nod. "Just could be." He smiled at Creed, a cold smile laced with venom. "Go sit over yonder," he said, jerking a thumb toward a fallen log. "And you . . ." He gave Jassy a little shove. ''Go fix us something to eat."
"Fix it yourself," she retorted.
Rimmer's cold blue eyes bored into Jassy. "If you're smart, lady, you'll do what I tell you, when I tell you. There's matches and grub in my saddlebag."
He stared at her a moment more, then went to look after the horses.
Creed sat with his back against the fallen log, his mind racing. He swore under his breath as he watched Rimmer walk away. John Rimmer. Creed swore again, cursing his bad luck. Rimmer was a bounty hunter to be reckoned with. It was said he had collected bounties on more than twenty men in the last three years, and he had brought them all in facedown.
Damn!
Face impassive, he began to work his hands back and forth. He had to get Jassy out of here, and soon.
"I'll fix the coffee."
Jassy looked over her shoulder to find Bishop squatting on his heels behind her. With a shrug, she thrust the coffeepot at him. She was frightened, more frightened than she had ever been in her life, but she was determined not to let it show. She had to keep her wits about her; she had to be strong. But it wasn't easy, not when Rimmer's threat kept ringing in her ears.
She glanced over her shoulder. Rimmer was a few yards away, unsaddling Creed's mount.
"If you're smart, Miz Maddigan, you won't provoke Rimmer," Bishop said quietly. "He's got a vicious temper, and he likes hurting people, especially women."
"What do you care?"
Bishop grunted. "I'd just hate to see you get hurt, that's all."
"Why are you riding with him?"
"He knows his business. Times are hard, but we've made a bundle of money in the last three years.
"Blood money."
Bishop leveled her with a hard look. I wouldn't think you'd be in any position to throw stones," he said, filling the coffeepot with water from his canteen. "What with being married to Maddigan and all."
Sharp words sprang to Jassy's lips, but she bit them back. As much as it rankled, she was in no position to judge Bishop, not when Creed himself had once been a bounty hunter.
"What's going on?" Rimmer asked. He glanced from Bishop to Jassy.
"Nothing," Bishop replied, dumping a handful of Arbuckles into the pot. "Just making some coffee. She don't seem too familiar with cooking over a campfire."
"Shell learn. Go keep an eye on the 'breed."
"Why? He ain't goin' anywhere."
"Just do it," Rimmer said curtly.
With a nod, Bishop went to sit on the end of the log, his hand resting on the butt of his gun. So, Maddigan, how's it going?"
"How do you think?" Creed retorted sarcastically. "Are you gonna let him take me in?"
Bishop's hand caressed the butt of his gun. "I don't know if I can stop him. He's got a draw like greased lightning."
"You owe me one, Bishop."
"Go to hell."
Creed looked over at Jassy. She was kneeling beside the fire, slicing potatoes into a small, cast-iron skillet. Rimmer sat beside her, his cold blue gaze moving over her face and figure like a snake waiting to strike.
"Looks like John's taken a fancy to your lady," Bishop remarked, following Creed's gaze.
"If he touches her, he's dead."
Bishop laughed softly. "How you gonna manage that?" he asked. Then he looked more closely at Maddigan's face, at the hatred glittering in the man's black eyes, and he knew the half-breed wasn't making an idle threat.
"You owe me," Creed said again.
"What do you want me to do?"
"Turn me loose."
"I can't do that!"
"Dammit, Carl, if that bastard lays a hand on her, I'll come after you, too."
Bishop's hand closed over the butt of his gun for reassurance. "I ain't afraid of you," he retorted.
But it was a lie, and they both knew it.
Creed's anger grew steadily as the hours passed. Rimmer stayed close to Jassy, forcing her to eat from his plate, his arm frequently brushing against her thigh or her breast. He refused to let her give Creed anything to eat, saying they didn't have enough food for the four of them.
After dinner, Rimmer tied Jassy's hands behind her back, then draped one of his blankets around her shoulders. At Rimmer's orders, Bishop tied Creed's ankles together and checked the rope binding his wrists. Bishop hesitated a minute, then offered Maddigan a drink from his canteen.
"Thanks," Creed muttered.
"Forget it," Bishop said, capping his canteen.
"Unlike some people," Creed said, fixing Bishop with a hard stare, I never forget a favor."
"Damn you, Maddigan, what do you want from me?"
"You know what," Creed said.
"I can't!" Bishop hissed. He glanced over his shoulder at Rimmer. "I'm no match for Rimmer, and you know it."
"I'm not asking you to face him in a fair fight."
"What do you expect me to do? Shoot him in the back?"
"If you have to."
"No."
"Then turn me loose."
I can't do that. Dammit, Maddigan . . ."
"I killed an unarmed kid because of you, Creed said, his voice frigid.
All the color drained out of Bishop's face. And then, shoulders slumped, he nodded and turned away.
Creed watched Bishop walk away, the memory of killing that kid as fresh in his mind as if it had happened only yesterday. They'd been in a saloon in Dodge, playing poker, when Bishop had been caught cheating, something Creed had constantly warned him against, something Carl couldn't seem to resist. Bishop had drawn his gun, warning the other players to keep their hands where he could see them while he scooped up the cash on the table. One of the men had reached for his gun, and Bishop had shot him. Creed had been standing at the bar.
He had drawn his own weapon to discourage anyone else from interfering, and then Carl had yelled, "Creed, on your right!" He had turned and fired instinctively at Bishop's warning, then felt his blood run cold when he realized that the young man he had killed had been reaching for his hat, not a gun.
They rode hard for three days. Rimmer refused to allow Jassy to speak to Creed or to get near him. He was constantly at her side, rubbing up against her, making crude remarks, promising they'd "get to know each other better" once Maddigan was out of the way. He continued to insist that she eat from his plate and drink from his canteen.
Creed endured Rimmer's animosity and Bishop's seeming indifference in tight-lipped silence. Nights, he sat awake long after the others were asleep, trying to free his hands, trying to think of some way to persuade Bishop to cut him loose before it was too late, before he found himself dead or behind bars, before Jassy was totally at the mercy of John Rimmer.
Carl Bishop kept to himself. Once a day, he shared his canteen with Maddigan. At night, he offered Creed another drink from his canteen, then made sure Creed got something to eat, even if it was no more than a chunk of jerky. And each night he read the same tacit words in the half-breed's mind: I killed an unarmed kid because of you. You owe me.
And it was true, Bishop thought. He owed Maddigan a debt he could never repay.
Rimmer teased Bishop unmercifully about what he called Bishop's "soft streak."
"You gonna cry for him when he's crow bait?" Rimmer asked one evening.
Bishop refused to answer, but Jassy stayed awake far into the night, Rimmer's unspoken threat repeating itself over and over again in the back of her mind.
They'd been on the trail almost a week when the Indians appeared. There were about twenty of them, armed and painted for war.
"Let me talk to them," Creed said.
"You?" Rimmer shook his head. "I don't think so."
"They're Lakota," Creed said.
"What the hell difference does that make?"
"They're my people."
"Why doesn't that make me feel better?" Rimmer mused. "Forget it. We'll make a run for it."
"Don't be a fool!"
"What kind of fool would I be to trust you?" Rimmer retorted. "Let's ride!"
Grabbing the reins to Jassy's horse, Rimmer raked his spurs across his mount's flanks.
"Bishop, listen to me!" Creed called, but to no avail.
With a muttered curse, Bishop yanked on the reins to Creed's horse and urged his own mount after Rimmer's, which was galloping toward a low rise surrounded by boulders.
As soon as Rimmer took off, the Indians gave chase. Their hellish cries sent shivers of fear skittering along Jassy's spine as she fought to stay in the saddle. Once she risked a glance over her shoulder. She could see Bishop and Creed following close behind, and hard on their heels came the Indians, their faces hideously streaked with paint.
And then the Indians started shooting at them, and Jassy stopped worrying about falling out of the saddle and started worrying about being shot.
Rimmer and Bishop both drew their guns and began firing at the Indians, until her ears rang with the sharp staccato sound of gunfire. They had almost reached the point where Rimmer hoped to make a stand when he toppled from the back of his horse.
She heard one of the Indians shriek in triumph, and then the world spun out of focus as her horse went down.
She screamed as the ground rushed up to meet her.
Chapter Twenty-Four
For a moment, time and space ceased to exist. Then, without remembering how it had happened, Jassy found herself lying facedown in the dirt, the breath knocked from her body.
For a moment, she didn't move, and then she realized that the shooting had stopped. Heart pounding with trepidation, she sat up and looked around.
Her horse was thrashing on the ground a few feet away, an arrow through its neck.
Rimmer was dead. Three of the Indians shouted something as they struck his body with feathered sticks.
A few feet behind her, she saw Bishop's body sprawled on the ground. It was obvious that he, too, was dead. She turned away, choking back the urge to vomit, as one of the warriors bent over Rimmer's body, knife in hand.
Where was Creed?
She stood up, concern for Creed overriding fear for her own safety. And then she saw him, lying facedown in the dirt, the back of his shirt soaked with blood. Several Indians were gathered around him, their faces menacing under layers of hideous war paint.
"Leave him alone!" Jassy screamed, and ran toward Creed.
A warrior wearing three eagle feathers in his long black hair grabbed her by the arm before she reached Creed's side.
"Let me go!" Jassy cried. She struck the warrior in the face and kicked him in the shins, but to no avail. "Let me go to him!"
"Inila, winyan." The Indian spoke quietly, but there was no mistaking the authority in his voice or the fact that he was admonishing her to be quiet.
"Please," Jassy said. "Please let me go to him."
The warrior stared at her, his gaze lingering on the beaded choker at her throat before returning to her face.
"Where did you get that?" he asked, his voice sharp.
"He gave it to me," Jassy replied, too worried about Creed to wonder at the Indian's use of English.
The warrior looked at her skeptically, as if he didn't believe Creed would give a white woman an Indian-made trinket.
Jassy blinked back her tears. ''Is he dead?"
"Not yet."
Jassy looked over at Creed. Two Indians knelt beside him. It took a moment for her to realize that they weren't going to hurt him, that they were helping him. While she watched, they bound his wounds, wrapped him in a blanket, and handed him up to a burly warrior mounted on a big piebald gelding.
The warrior holding Jassy released her arm. "Go home, winyan," he said.
"I'm going with you," Jassy said.
"No."
"But he's my husband!"
The warrior made a sound of disbelief l
ow in his throat.
"It's true!" Jassy exclaimed, the thought of being left behind in this wild place almost as frightening as the thought of being parted from Creed.
She gave a little start when one of the Indians fired a bullet into her horse's head, putting the animal out of its misery. Then the warrior was lifting her onto the back of Rimmer's horse.
She felt the bile rise in her throat again as they rode by Bishop's body, and she saw the raw, bloody patch on the back of his head. As they rode past Rimmer's body, she couldn't help seeing that he, too, had been scalped.
She glanced at the warrior riding beside her.
Were they just going to leave the bodies lying in the dirt?
"Aren't you going to bury them?"
The warrior looked at her curiously. "Bury?"
"You know, bury? Put them in the ground?"
The warrior shook his head, his expression telling her more clearly than words what he thought of such a silly idea. The white men were the enemy, undeserving of a proper Lakota burial. Their blood would nourish the earth, their flesh would feed the scavengers.
"How did you learn to speak English?" Jassy asked, her curiosity coming to the fore now that Creed seemed out of danger.
The warrior looked at her as if she weren't too bright. "From a wasichu." He paused a moment. "From the whites," he said flatly. "At the reservation.''
"Is that where we're going?" Jassy asked hopefully. "To the reservation?"
The warrior looked at her for a long moment. "You ask many questions, white woman."
With a nod, Jassy stared ahead once more, her thoughts turning to Creed. How badly was he hurt? What would happen to them at the hands of these Indians?
They rode all that day, stopping only once to rest and water the horses. Creed was still unconscious, his face deathly pale.
It was dark when they reached the Lakota village. Several men and women gathered around to meet the returning war party. Jassy watched anxiously as Creed was carried into a large tipi near the center of the village. She stood beside her horse for a few moments, and when no one approached her, she ducked into the tipi where they had taken Creed.
No one paid her any attention, so she stood near the doorway, watching quietly. There were three Indians in the lodge. One of them, a stocky man with long gray braids, sat beside a small fire, chanting softly as he sprinkled some kind of ground leaves into the flames. When a pungent aroma filled the air, he reached for an eagle feather, which he passed through the smoke several times.
Madeline Baker - Lakota Renegade Page 20