The one person in the bar she recognized was Jake Kearney. Without her spectacles she could see Jake clearly for the first time. The sight of him took her breath away.
His features were hard-chiseled, a strong jaw, a sharp blade of nose, blunt cheekbones, and thick-lashed, wide-set eyes framed by dark brows. A small scar slashed through his mouth, drawing it down on one side. She felt a shiver of awareness and realized that her body was responding merely to the sight of him.
Anabeth let out a soft, soughing breath. So this was desire. She hadn’t expected it to be so powerful. Or so indiscriminate. She didn’t particularly like Jake Kearney. So why was she physically attracted to him? Anabeth felt confused and a bit overwhelmed. She was aware of strange stirrings in her body. She slowly, imperceptibly moved to lay a hand on her belly, but that didn’t seem to help.
Anabeth’s lips twisted at the irony of the situation. Finally, she had found a man for whom she felt the first stirrings of desire. Only she was an outlaw, and Jake Kearney was a Texas Ranger. Even worse, he knew her only as stumbling, bumbling Anabeth Smith. He hadn’t been able to get away from her fast enough. This was not exactly a match made in heaven.
Anabeth was turning to leave when Jake noticed her. She stood frozen for a moment. Luckily his attention was distracted when Sierra sat down across from him. Anabeth watched Jake smile at the other woman. Watched him laugh and grin at something Sierra said. Then she watched as Sierra left the table and headed upstairs with Jake following after her.
At first, Anabeth was grateful to Sierra for distracting Jake’s attention from her. Then she realized it was too late to give Sierra a warning about why Jake Kearney had come to Santa Fe. Unless Anabeth wanted to run. she had no choice except to trust Sierra not to give her away.
And Anabeth had no intention of running.
She was leaving when she saw Grier come into the bar. His arm was in a sling and a bloody bandage covered his wrist. He seemed agitated as he crossed to a table in the corner and spoke to a man whose back was to her.
Anabeth recognized the man as he turned around. It was Wat Rankin. She took a step forward to confront him, and realized she couldn’t do that with Jake Kearney upstairs. Any gunplay and the Ranger was liable to come running. After he put his pants on, Anabeth thought with a cynical smile.
In the future she would carefully choose the time and place for any confrontations. Anabeth watched Wat Rankin and Otis Grier head toward the batwing doors of the saloon. She snuck out the back way and hurried down the alley after them.
From now on she would be the hunter, and they would be the hunted.
6
Wat shoved his way through the batwing doors and followed Otis Grier into the night. “I’m telling you the man who shot at you couldn’t have been Booth Calhoun. Booth is dead!”
“It sounded like Booth. And you know Booth was gone when we went back to the shack to search again for the gold. I tell you it was him.”
“And I say you’re crazy,” Wat said to the big man as he stepped into the saddle. “Even assuming he could have survived getting hit by seven bullets, Booth wouldn’t be on his feet yet. Have you forgotten he was shot in both knees?”
“What about those pearl-handled Colts I saw in the alley? How do you explain that?” Grier asked as he slung his heavy weight onto his horse with surprising grace.
Wat was silent for the length of time it took them to get to the last lights of Santa Fe. “I figure the Kid came back and found Booth. He took the body and the guns. The man you met in that dark alley was the Kid. Which means he’s somewhere in Santa Fe.”
Grier grunted and scratched at his beard. “I suppose it coulda been the Kid. I didn’t get a good look at him in the shadows.”
“Where’d you leave the rest of the gang?”
“Camp’s set up a couple miles south of town. We gotta warn ’em about the Kid,” Grier said.
“Yeah, the Kid will have to be taken care of.” This newest crisis made Wat wonder if he had made a mistake manipulating the Calhoun Gang instead of simply hiring someone to murder Sam Chandler.
Then he thought of the look in Chandler’s eyes when he had recognized Will Reardon behind the outlaw’s mask, and the expression on Chandler’s face when he realized he was a dead man. No, it had been worth the risk to do the deed himself.
He had set up everything perfectly so that when he got possession of Window Rock, he would get Claire Chandler as well. Only there had been a few hurdles along the way. Booth Calhoun was one.
Booth hadn’t wanted anyone killed during the gang’s robberies, so Wat had been left with no choice except to get rid of him. The Kid was another problem altogether. The Kid would have to die, of course. But not until he had told them where Sam Chandler’s gold was hidden.
Wat didn’t mind the killing. He had gotten an early start at it, having shot his drunken father for beating him when he was only eight years old. At ten, he had stabbed to death the man who pimped for his mother. He had learned early that if he wanted something he had to get it for himself. And he had discovered that the easiest way to deal with an obstacle was to remove it.
Wat had never flinched from the dirty jobs that had to be done. Shooting Booth in the back hadn’t given him a qualm. There was, after all, no honor among thieves. But he had made a serious miscalculation by not making sure Booth had all the gold with him before he ambushed him.
And he should have made sure the scoundrel was dead. He was almost positive that the ghostly specter Otis Grier had seen was the Kid. Since he was hunting the Kid anyway, he planned to hang around Santa Fe long enough to be sure, one way or the other.
Wat would have an appropriate reception waiting no matter who showed up at the outlaws’ campfire.
Jake went upstairs to Sierra’s room with her because it was the one place she said they could talk without being disturbed. Sierra sat in a cushioned chair by the window. Jake stood by the door.
“All right, Ranger. Talk.”
“I was told you know Booth Calhoun,” Jake said.
“What if I do?”
“I’m hunting the Calhoun Gang. I hoped maybe you could tell me where to start looking for them.” He took the poster out of his pocket and crossed to hand it to Sierra. “Have you seen this man?”
Sierra was shocked at how accurate a drawing it was of the Kid, but she kept her features even. She knew by sight all the members of Booth’s gang. Except for Wat Rankin. For a moment she considered agreeing to point them out for the Ranger. At least that way Anabeth Calhoun would be safe. But a lifetime of hard lessons made her cautious. “Why should I help you?”
“Because these men are murderers. Because they need to be brought to justice.”
What kind of justice would the law exact for Booth’s death? Sierra was inclined to believe Anabeth Calhoun’s justice would be more swift and sure. But she wasn’t averse to having the law hound Booth’s murderers, either. “I can tell you where they usually rendezvous when they come to Santa Fe,” Sierra said at last.
Jake followed Sierra’s directions to an isolated spot five miles south of Santa Fe. The fire beside the waterhole at the bottom of the rocky trail was a sure sign of human inhabitants. Ordinarily Jake might expect a welcome there and an offer to “Light and set.”
But there was no one anywhere near the fire. The camp looked deserted. Jake was certain it was not. He suspected that some or all of the Calhoun Gang were out there somewhere. They must have scattered when they heard him coming.
But the danger below wasn’t his only concern. Because ever since he had left Santa Fe, he hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that someone was watching him—that he was somehow being pursued himself. Jake shivered and blamed it on the cold. He nudged his horse with his knees and headed down the slope to the fire below.
The only way to spring the trap was to ride into it.
Jake felt the hairs prickle on his neck only an instant before he heard the first gunshot. He threw himself from the sadd
le, but the shot must have been aimed low because the bullet hit him anyway. Jake’s leg crumpled under him as he collided with the ground. A second shot tore a hole in his sleeve. A third shot sent splinters of rock to blister his face, but by then he was safely concealed in a shallow gully lined with thick sagebrush.
He remained perfectly still, knowing that any movement would give him away. Jake heard murmuring voices and knew the bushwhackers were deciding how and when to make their move. He had plenty of ammunition in his gunbelt. Of more concern was his wound. His pants leg was soaked with blood.
Jake took off his bandanna and tied it around his leg. It stemmed the bleeding, but didn’t stop it. The outlaws wouldn’t have to shoot him. All they had to do was keep him pinned here, and he would eventually bleed to death.
The hairs on Jake’s neck prickled again, an instant before he felt a hand on his shoulder. Jake brought his gun to bear as he rolled over. He never knew what kept him from firing, but a moment later he was glad he hadn’t.
The lean man who was crouched on the ground beside Jake, the upper half of his face shadowed by his hat, had his finger to his lips, indicating the need for silence. He gestured for Jake to follow him, then began crawling along the gully away from the light of the fire.
Jake didn’t know what to make of it. The stranger could easily have killed him. Apparently the man wasn’t a part of the Calhoun Gang. But if not, then who was he, and what was he doing here? Hell, Jake thought, there would be time enough to find that out once he made good his escape—if he made good his escape.
Jake took one look back toward the fire and made his choice. He rolled over onto his belly and began to slither down the gully after the stranger.
The lean man moved like an Indian, swiftly and silently. Jake might have done a better job of emulating him if it hadn’t been for his wounded leg. It wasn’t cooperating. The distance between them grew larger, until Jake could no longer see the man who had come to rescue him.
Jake stopped for a moment, breathless from exertion and dizzy from loss of blood. He turned to look over his shoulder to see how far he had come from the fire and realized it was no longer visible on the horizon. Jake leaned his forehead on his hand. If he took a moment to catch his breath he would be all right. His eyes drifted closed.
“Well, now, what do we have here? Don’t move an inch or I’ll blow your head off.”
Jake gladly played dead, but his mind was racing, searching for a way to avoid catastrophe.
“Hey! I found the Kid! He’s over here!”
“Is that you, Grier?” one of the outlaws called.
“Yeah,” Grier answered.
“Are you sure it’s him?” someone shouted back.
Grier shoved Jake over with his boot so he could get a look at his face in the moonlight.
“Hey! It ain’t him. It’s somebody else.”
“Kill him, and let’s get out of here.”
Jake shivered at the cold-bloodedness of the command. He knew if he was going to do something it had to be soon. His gun was in his hand at his side. The problem was how to shoot without getting shot first. What he needed was a distraction.
He got it when the stranger who had stopped to help him suddenly stood up in plain sight of the man holding the gun on Jake. The stranger also had a gun in his hand, and it was aimed at Grier.
Grier seemed rooted to the ground, stunned by the apparition that had appeared before him. “It’s the Kid! Somebody do something!” Grier shrieked.
“I thought you said it wasn’t him!” a voice shouted back.
“You have to pay for what you did,” the stranger said to Grier. “I want you to think about the bullet that’s going to kill you. First I’m going to shoot the gun out of your hand. Then I’m going to put a bullet in each of your knees, just like you did to Booth. But I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to let you live as a cripple.”
“Shit. Shit,” Grier muttered.
“If it is the Kid, don’t shoot to kill!” someone shouted. “The Kid’s the only lead we have to that gold! He’s bound to know where his uncle buried it.”
Jake heard pounding footsteps as the members of the gang converged on them. He didn’t understand why the Calhoun Gang wanted to kill the Kid. But one thing was certain. The gang thought the Kid knew where Sam’s gold could be found. Which meant Jake wanted the Kid alive, too.
He could see the big man torn between aiming his gun at his prisoner on the ground, and bringing it to bear on the Kid. It was as though he knew the instant he moved the Kid would shoot.
Grier’s eyes were on the Kid, but his gun was on Jake. Jake figured he had an even chance of getting Grier before Grier could aim and fire at him. He had to do something to get free before the rest of the gang arrived on the scene.
“Grier!” Jake shouted.
Jake’s gamble paid off. Grier made the mistake of swinging his head back around before pulling the trigger. The time it took him to find a target was all the time Jake needed to bring his gun to bear on the big man.
Jake’s bullet hit Grier square in the chest. The outlaw turned his head and looked back at the Kid. “It was better this way, Kid,” he said.
Jake heard the Kid say, “Son of a bitch.” But when he raised himself on his elbows he could see nothing in the darkness. Where had the Kid gone?
Despite the shouts of one man exhorting the other gang members to finish Jake off, the outlaws mounted their horses and fled. Jake watched them race away as though the hounds of hell were chasing them. He turned to search for the man who had saved his life.
Only the Kid had disappeared.
Jake was confused. Was the stranger who had led him to safety really the Kid he was searching for? Why did Kid Calhoun know where the gold was, and not the other members of the gang? And what had the Kid meant, when he said Grier had to pay for what he had done to Booth? Exactly what had happened to Booth Calhoun?
Jake whistled for his horse and the buckskin gelding came on the run. He used a stirrup to pull himself upright and grabbed the horn to help him into the saddle. Finding the Kid would have to wait until he could get his leg patched up. Jake turned the buckskin north and headed back to Santa Fe.
It wasn’t long before that same prickly feeling assaulted him again. He was being followed, which wouldn’t be difficult, considering the trail of blood he was leaving on the rocky ground. But he never heard a sound, nor saw so much as a blade of grass move behind him. Whoever was on his trail was awful damned invisible.
Jake felt himself slipping out of the saddle. Suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder to steady him. When Jake recognized the figure beside him, he frowned. “Who the hell are you?”
The stranger hesitated an instant, then said, “I’m Kid Calhoun.”
The young outlaw tensed, waiting to see whether Jake would draw on him. It was hard for Jake to pull his gun on a man who had just saved his life. He resisted the urge and instead asked, “Why did you help me?”
“I’ve got no use for the Calhoun Gang anymore.”
“Why not?”
“They murdered my uncle, Booth Calhoun.”
“Why did you follow me?”
The Kid shrugged. “I figured you might need some help. I was right.”
Jake reminded himself that although he had acted the Good Samaritan, Kid Calhoun was also a wanted man. “What do you know about Sam Chandler’s death?”
“I know that Wat Rankin killed him,” the Kid said.
“You were there?”
The Kid looked down at white-knuckled hands, then back up at Jake. “I was there.”
“What about Sam’s gold?”
“Booth hid it. He died without telling where.”
Jake wondered whether he could believe such a tale. It made a very convenient lie.
There was a long silence. Finally the Kid said, “We’d better get to shelter. Storm’s coming.”
Jake still hadn’t pulled a gun. But he didn’t trust the Kid any farther than he
could throw him. He had made the mistake once upon a time of trusting an outlaw’s word and five innocent people had died. Never again.
Besides, he didn’t intend to let the Kid out of his sight until he found out for sure whether the Kid knew where Sam’s gold was hidden. “All right. Let’s ride.”
The wind sent tumbleweed blowing. Clouds darkened the moon. Lightning streaked through the sky in jagged patterns. Thunder rumbled down the rocky hills. The air smelled like rain.
The icy water came down first in fat drops. Soon it fell in thick sheets, rolling off Jake’s hat and down the yellow slicker he had donned. Jake followed where the Kid led and was relieved when they entered a shallow cave. He slid off his horse, but his wounded leg wouldn’t hold him. He would have fallen except the Kid slid an arm around him to keep him upright.
“Lean on me,” the Kid said.
A flash of lightning lit the Kid’s face and Jake was surprised at how young the outlaw was. But he knew as well as anyone that the looks of a man had little to do with what was on the inside. A clean scab could hide an ugly sore.
The Kid helped Jake to the rear of the cave well out of the wind and rain and settled him with his back to the rock wall. A ring of stones held brush and firewood that had been left ready so that only a match was needed to provide both heat and light. The Kid had obviously used this hideout in the past.
Jake watched as the Kid lit the fire, then unsaddled the horses and wiped them dry with handfuls of the grass that also had been left in the cave against a future need. Once the animals had been tended, the Kid turned to Jake.
The Kid didn’t ask permission, simply knelt beside Jake and used a Bowie knife to cut away his pants leg, exposing the wound in Jake’s thigh. He probed the gunshot with gentle hands.
“That bullet has to come out,” the Kid said after he had finished his examination.
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