by R. Kent
And that kiss. I’d never forget her kiss. Sweet like candy and salty like pork beans. Perfect.
The calf suckled her dam’s udder. The noises reminded my stomach it hadn’t been fed. I stirred the bucket of cold milk, dipped a cup in, then gulped long swallows. Next, I rummaged jerky from stored packs. With my hands full, I went to the fire and sat down. The heat of the flames and a full belly made me drowsy. At some point, I let myself drift into an exhausted sleep.
“I know you’re going after Charlie.”
Charlie Horse. And I don’t care how much I fancied her. Anyone screeching at me early in the morning, before coffee, was on my dislike list.
“And I brought you coffee.”
Forgiven.
I cracked my eyelids to slits, shielding myself from the bright morning sunshine. My body complained as I stretched for the coffee. I swear Sahara was moving it out of reach. The cup floated back and forth in front of my narrowed sight. I growled and made a lunge for her legs.
She evaded my grasp with a squeal. Coffee splashed onto my head. “Oopsie,” she said. “Sorry.”
She didn’t sound apologetic.
Her screams of giggles broke the pleasant morning stillness.
“Coffee,” I grunted.
Sahara stuffed the scalding cup into my hands. I jostled it from one to the other until I found the handle. With the open weeping blisters and oozing cuts, my palms smarted from the hot heat. I didn’t know whether to blow on the steaming liquid or at my re-bubbling blisters.
“I’m going with you. For Charlie. I’m going with you. And I won’t let go this time. Not unless my very life depends on it. And even then, I’ll really try to hold on tight.” She bounced on the balls of her feet with too much enthusiasm for early morning.
I think I used to be a morning person. Once upon a time.
“I’ll be your faithful sidekick,” she screeched, clapping her hands together. She clearly read way too many dime novels.
Sahara was dressed for the part. Her boy’s chore coat gaped to show a buttoned shirt over long handles—one should never refer to undergarments in polite company. Her pants were tucked into the tops of her high Wellington boots. The redness of her right cheek, turning purple, definitely completed her rough-and-ready persona.
Moreover, there was nothing to be done about the fact that she was safer with me than staying alone. I rolled to my feet, tied my hair back, and picked up a lariat. “Let’s go then.” I swallowed the rest of the coffee in two gulps.
An hour later, it was painfully obvious this wasn’t going to work. Sahara talked incessantly. She galloped circles around me in a childish, loping stride, yelling “yeehaw.” She pantomimed throwing a lasso, then pulled twin finger revolvers. To top it all off, she constantly asked if we were there yet. About now, I’d pay a mountain lion a sack of copper ore to come sniffing at her toes.
I was losing my mind. Worse, I was losing my patience.
“Stay here,” I barked. The flash floods had carved steep walls into the arroyo. Water was flowing along the bottom, but it was easy enough to climb down and cross. There were small areas of flat ground inside the walls, cut when wild torrents had swelled, eroding the banks. One of these sites would make good cover for Sahara to wait, if she could remain quiet.
Sahara had no way about her. Not for out here. When she needed to be light, perceptive, and wary, she stomped around like a bull in a china shop. When she needed to be silent? Don’t get me started. Sahara chattered like a rabid squirrel with a mad on. Ceaselessly.
Her face scrunched. “But—”
“Just stay.” I clambered over the top of the banking, disappearing from her sight. I had been tracking Charlie Horse all morning. It was near to noon now. The herd often milled at the bottom of the butte just over the rise.
Charlie Horse stood in a thicket of brambles and branches that were twisted and stacked together by the recent flooding. I zigzagged toward him so he wouldn’t feel threatened. As I got closer, I thought it curious that he wasn’t moving at all. He usually greeted me politely before bunching to leave in a cloud of dust. It was strange he didn’t even turn his head in my direction.
He startled as I got too close, but remained standing like a statue. Charlie Horse bugled through his nostrils, straining to look. His ears swiveled frantically. Sweat glistened over his neck and shoulders.
He was trapped.
If I hadn’t blatantly tracked the horse, he might have starved to death tied in the twisted wreckage. Or, more like, gotten attacked and killed by a large predator.
Speaking Navajo to him, I approached. Charlie Horse settled.
His leather headstall was hooked by a thick branch. I rubbed his neck, then ran the lariat over his head before unbuckling the bridle. As soon as he was loose from the headstall, he scrambled backward.
The loop tightened around his throat. His smallish eyes went wide with fright. I fed him line so he could bolt from the brush.
Charlie Horse calmed once he was clear. I fashioned a nose band, then clawed my way back through the mangled scrub for the hanging bridle. It was useless with the reins cut short. I tied the contraption behind the seat, then checked the saddle’s cinch and mounted. We rode quietly to where Sahara was waiting.
The sound of singing perked Charlie Horse’s ears forward. I huffed in exasperation and clucked the horse to a jog.
“Sahara?” She climbed from the ditch as I stepped from my horse.
“Charlie.”
When I handed her the rope haltered horse, it was with the confidence that she couldn’t possibly lose him this time. I gave her a stern look anyway.
“I promise,” she reiterated in a monotone, “I won’t let go this time. Not unless my very life depends on it. And even then, I’ll really try to hold on tight.” She ended the rote speech with a huge smile. “Cross my heart.” And she did cross her heart.
I told Sahara to stay put, then took a coiled lariat from the saddle horn. The herd still milled in the area where I nabbed Charlie Horse. The band had been chewing on brush. They hadn’t been bothered by my presence. It was an opportunity.
I needed to rope another saddle horse. One more horse wouldn’t begin to cover my losses, but it was a start. One more horse could mean the difference between life and death on the frontier.
With two saddle-broke horses, Sahara could ride along as I set a new trap line for pelts. I could hunt, knowing that Charlie Horse would babysit her. Eventually, she might learn to help, or at least stay quiet.
Several loose wisps from the tie in my hair danced on the brisk wind, telling me which direction my scent carried. I stayed down wind. When I crept close enough to take a head shot at one of the branded strays, I shook out a loop and lifted it in a slow, lazy fashion. If I didn’t get hurried, the horses wouldn’t become alerted.
When my hand came forward in its rotation, the skin stretching over my ribs complained. But the loop felt perfect. I released.
A piercing scream ripped the air. The herd spun as one, charging into flight and kicking clods of mud out behind them. My throw went to the ground. The loop was empty.
Déjà vu.
Angered, I gritted my teeth, grinding the molars. It wasn’t the first time Sahara had foiled my efforts, but it might be her last. I clenched the tail of the limp rope in a fist.
When I reached to coil the length, strangling the twisted strands, grit ground into my oozing blisters. Cuts bled onto the waxed coils. “Sahara.” My jaw worked back and forth. I’ve had it. When I get my hands on her—
Charlie Horse whipped past me with lightning speed. His recessed pig-eyes flashed with surrounding sclera. Hair was scraped from his nose. His lariat’s loop rode loose around his neck, down to his chest. “Charlie Horse.” Damn.
I ran for Sahara, swearing with each pounding footstep that she had better hope a snake actually bit her this time. No weak threats from the slithering ghoul. No kidding. If the varmint hadn’t already killed her, I just might.
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nbsp; “Sahara?” I didn’t see her as I came over the rise.
“Sahara.” Maybe she was hunkered in the arroyo.
“Sahara.”
She was gone.
I gulped for air, sucking as if I’d been deprived for far too long. “Sahara?” I buckled over at the waist and attempted to catch my breath. “Sahara.”
“C’mon, Sahara, quit fooling.” My panting calmed. “Yes, I’m mad. But hiding is just going to make me madder.” I slapped my leg with the coils. “Damn it, Sahara.”
I searched the ground for clues to her hide-and-seek.
There had been a scuffle. Three horses. All shod. Three different sets of prints. Charlie Horse made one of those sets.
There was only one set of human prints; small, petite. Sahara’s.
“Sahara.” I shouted into the vast rocky terrain.
The marks in the wet earth headed west, to town. The flood plain was like quicksand after days of rain. It couldn’t be crossed. Riders would have to go around the butte. They’d have to run Apache Pass.
That’s where I’d catch them.
The rocky ground blurred beneath my feet. My breath consciously steadied as I timed it with my footfalls. In-one-two-three. Out-one-two-three. In-one-two-three. Out-one-two-three. My Navajo childhood prepared me to go a distance at a jog. With discipline, I could cover the ground like a gazelle, swift and untiring. My bruised ribs were not signing on for the adventure though. They nagged for me to stop.
A familiar game trail led high along the steep butte. It was too dangerous to ride. Charlie Horse had led me on a chase, traversing the trail, several times in the past. The footing was like walking on glass marbles. One wrong step, one shift to imbalance, one lapse in concentration, any impertinence to the spirit of the butte, a stray thought, a mindless gesture…one indiscretion and down, down, down in a hail of merciless rubble.
But even in treachery, the trail had its beauty and benefits. I had climbed it many times to watch foals clamber on stilted legs, or to survey the miles of outstretched, rocky land from high above. I had hunted here too, following prey to the sheerest heights, but never reaching the top. And the sunsets were most spectacular over the butte. I’d run the thin trail just to chase the sun around to the other side as it sank.
Now I was running and chasing again.
I meant to race the mounted riders to the pass, where I’d cut them off from their homestretch to town. Seth-one-two-three. Jeb-one-two-three. Seth-one-two-three. Jeb-one-two-three. A steady beat. Steady footfalls. A blistering, steady pace.
Screams echoed off the canyon walls from far below. “Sahara.” I lost my rhythmic count at the thought of her. For a split second, I had lost respect for the complexity of the butte. Sahara.
I lost my footing.
Stumbling, I skidded over rocky ground on my chest, skinning my face. My heart thumped wildly. My breathing came quick and choppy. Down I went.
I slammed to a sudden stop as my right shoulder smacked into a human-sized, red rock.
A groan escaped my tight lips. I grabbed my right arm, crushing it to my body. Pain washed over me. My head grew woozy. Bile rose to burn in my throat.
I propped my back against the boulder and remained still, hoping the sharpness of the agony would subside. It didn’t. Long breath in through my nose. Blow out through my mouth as if cooling hot coffee. Long breath in through my nose. Long breath out through my mouth. In through my nose. Out through my mouth.
Sahara screamed. My breath choked.
I tried to climb to my feet. Dizziness knocked me back to the ground. I retched.
A muffled scream made me swallow bile.
I clawed my way to standing, clutching at the tall rock like a toddler hanging on its ma’s apron.
My head grew woozy. Down I fell. I can’t.
I rolled to sitting then rested my forehead on my bony knees. My sight was misty and blurred. I wasn’t crying. Maybe it was the pain. Or specks of gravel had gotten in my eyes from the fall. But I wasn’t crying like a little girl.
I clenched my midsection low at the waist of my buckskins, steadying the injury. Ugh. My shoulder. The ball had popped from its socket. It was sitting in a tight, horrid lump on the front of my chest. I violently vomited. The acrid coffee was twice as powerful coming up. My throat felt seared as if from the white flames of a blacksmith’s fire.
Sahara? What did she matter?
She needed me. I couldn’t let her down.
She didn’t need me. She managed well enough on her own.
I’m responsible for her.
Really? Was that all there was to it?
I love her. I need her.
She makes me feel weak and vulnerable. She makes me question who I am—what I am. And she knows. The girl will get me killed with her friggin girly ways.
But that kiss…
Gathering my wits, I tried to get up—half-sitting, half-kneeling, half-huffing out of breath. I waited for a wave of nausea to pass. The world was spinning out of my control. My eyes crossed in the back of my skull.
Another scream urged me from self-pity.
I used the rock to steady myself. If I had my bearings correct, I was above and ahead of the riders. I could descend from here and still catch them in the pass. That bolstered my will.
The descent was perilous. I felt every ragged stone through my moccasins. The balls of my feet bruised with each step. Gravel, sand, and rocks slid, racing me down the twisting trail. Inevitably, my feet flew from under me. My rump hit the landslide of moving earth. Dirt spit into the air.
Rockslide. I bounced and rolled with the rubble that was swiftly escaping the steep butte. Down. Down. Down. The speed was frightening. I jounced and twirled out of control.
Nearing the bottom of the butte, I jammed to a halt on a solid boulder. Snap. A sudden sharp pang ripped through my shoulder. The ball had plunked back into its socket on my sudden stop. Vomit exploded from my mouth. My chest was awash in fatigued burning.
Through a gap in the jagged landscape, I spied Jeb on the bay, riding ahead of Seth at a considerable distance. Seth rode the sorrel with Sahara slung across its withers. She struggled against Seth. Her writhing was driving the sorrel into blind flight. He swerved and swayed dangerously.
Sweat trickled down the middle of my back even though the chill autumn air bit at my buckskins. I tugged on the kerchief wrapping my neck. I had to stop them. There was no choice this time. Flight or fight. Fight was the only answer. Fight for Sahara. Fight for what was right.
I climbed from the strewn rubble to search for the perfect spot. I’d halt Seth and Jeb in their tracks. Sahara would have to have enough sense to get herself safe when I did.
A single gunshot ripped the air. Seth? Or Jeb? I couldn’t discern who fired off the gun. It was a small caliber. It could have been either one of them.
A grunt, a gasp, then a weak scream carried on the sharp autumn air from below.
Sahara went silent.
Chapter Fifteen
I lodged my back against a sturdy boulder, wedging my bruised feet to push a fat, round rock. My head spun in dizziness as pain shot through my shoulder. Sweat broke out over my forehead.
This side of the butte was steep. Clear of any vegetation. It formed one wall of a pass that ran between two mountainous ridges. Apache Pass was like running a gauntlet on a quiet day. Creating a bottleneck in the pass, which I intended, would make it downright deadly any day. Not my deal.
Seth heeled the sorrel. The horse’s belly buckled with each powerful blow. Blood from the raking rowels dotted the sorrel’s sides. The animal was wild with fear and pain. His bloodshot eyes glowed red. White lather covered his neck and shoulders. Under his doubled load, he couldn’t keep up with the bay. That didn’t stop him from trying. And Seth wouldn’t have let him slow regardless.
The sun was going down. The temperature was rapidly dropping with it. I wouldn’t think on what any of that meant in the coming hours. Can’t do anything about it.
I grunted through my clenched jaw and thrust with all of my might. The rock teetered on the verge of taking the plunge. Encouraged, I prodded it farther. Slowly, too slowly, it began to roll. With one last push, my legs flattened straight. Not even my toes could reach the round rock now. But that had been enough.
The rock was rolling. It picked up speed quickly, then plummeted.
As it went, it banged into other rocks and off larger boulders. It hopped and jumped and crashed its way into a monumental landslide. The roar was deafening. The entire side of the butte shook as the writhing mass of stone surged toward Apache Pass.
The trembling ground loosed rubble all around me. Tremors spit gravel from higher up threatening to rain scree onto my head. I slid a few feet, grasping for purchase. It was no good. The ground squirmed too much beneath me. Down I went.
The colossal butte came apart. I nose-dived toward the pass. My body was tossed like a rag doll in a dog’s mouth. A shrill, unbearable bleating of pain screamed in my brain.
The riders below charged full-bore at the closing pass.
A high-pitched squeal pierced the rumble of the avalanche as Jeb hauled the reins of the bay too viciously. Open-mouthed, the animal screamed and fought, shaking its head from side to side. Jeb pulled harder. The horse twisted its neck in half, folding in an abnormal position. The horse crumpled to the ground.
Jeb was thrown clear. He waved his arms for Seth.
I came to an abrupt halt at the floor of the pass. For a moment, I lay there, afraid of what the slightest movement would bring.
The sorrel pulled up hard. His butt tucked to mark an eleven into the hardened earth. Seth braced himself in the saddle as the sorrel popped his front end in a series of hops that kept him upright. He stopped short of the piled rubble.
Sahara’s limp body flipped into the rocks. My breath caught in my chest. I wanted to run to her. I wanted to scream out her name.
Seth flew off to land on his feet.
Slowly—cautiously—I stood.
A veil of dust rode the wind. As it cleared, I was exposed.