by R. Kent
“Now hold on, Justice. We don’t want his kind—”
Justice pivoted. “Really? Really. Then I suggest you haul yourselves down to the Watering Hole and start cleaning out this town from there.” His crimson face was invaded by encroaching purple. “And who are you, Lester? Shall we peek into your past? Are you hiding anything you’d like a fresh start from? Are any of you? Most likely all of you are, being this far from nowhere.” The boom of his roar could have shaken the walls down, if the escaping townsmen hadn’t nearly destroyed them in their scramble to leave.
Men ripped kerchiefs from their necks to throw them on the boardwalk. Muddy feet trampled the scraps of their fickle solidarity.
Justice wrenched my buckskin smock in his fist and hauled me out of Percival’s Mercantile and through the middle Main Street. I didn’t resist. The tied sorrel snorted as we passed. He whirled on his sound foreleg, swinging his sweat-lathered hind end. Men lined the boardwalk in front of the hotel, across the street, refusing to align themselves with either of the McKades. The sun was climbing to its zenith. The days were too short this time of year.
Jack stepped from his saloon doors to watch Justice parade me past. Jack McKade was heeled. A huge hogleg crept along his thigh. It was an Army Colt. The original grips had been switched for what looked like carved, polished bone. His wide, black gun belt was studded with silver spots that might have taken an entire silver mine to fashion. And the bottom of his holster was tied down tight to his good leg.
At the end of the road, Justice halted abruptly. Behind me, a privy door creaked, then slammed. A cough echoed through the stillness. The rumbles of voices were a distant hum. My small world hesitated to even draw a breath.
“You didn’t kill Jamie.”
I thought I hadn’t heard him correctly.
He plucked a derringer from behind the belt buckle at his generous midsection. Tracing its floral designs with the pad of his thumb, he said, “I had given this to my boy. Before he left.”
I recognized the weapon. But how—
“You didn’t kill Jamie, son. Jack McKade killed my boy when he wouldn’t accept him for who he was and convinced him to be someone he wasn’t.” He gently slid the small gun into the palm of my bound hand. He closed my fingers over the ornate derringer before letting go.
It fit my grip perfectly.
“There’s work to be done,” Justice said with a nod of his head. He left, slopping back through Main Street.
I sidled off the road at the edge of town and waited. “We have to stop meeting like this,” I said to Rose as she climbed through the brambles. I had been listening to her unsteady steps approach.
She looked around, keeping to the brush. “I can’t stay. I can’t go with you either. And don’t bring Sahara into town.”
That didn’t leave me with a lot of options.
She swung a bulging pair of saddlebags at my gut. “I heard what happened at Apache Pass. Seth’s version of what happened. I dug a .22 slug from his thigh and gave Jamie’s derringer back to Justice. It wasn’t Seth’s to hold on to.”
I closed the derringer in my tight fist until I felt the pain of squeezing it run all the way to my shoulder. Did Rose know I had the tiny gun?
“Nothing I could do about his hand.” Rose was acting surly and standoffish, as if I had kicked her dog, but she didn’t want to come right out and accuse me of it.
I set back on my heels and took her upset like a man.
“I can draw my own conclusions.” In a knee-jerk reaction to her eyes landing on my ugly scar, she pulled her knitted shawl higher around her neck “What you need to settle Sahara’s concussion is in there. Keep her warm and quiet. Lots of rest.”
I had that covered.
Rose wiped at her nose with a white-gloved hand. “Tell her I’m thinking of her.”
She headed back toward town on high heels. Her ankles rolled and wobbled. It was a wonder she hadn’t broken one yet. I heard her sniffle. She stopped and doubled back. “I don’t have a right to say it, but you’ve disappointed me, Austin.”
That hurt. For all of the injuries I’d suffered of late, I think that one hurt the most.
“I can’t help you in your intentions.” She hesitated as if she were choosing her next words too carefully. “I cannot help you kill the father of my daughter. No matter how much he deserves to die.”
Whoa. Back up the stagecoach.
“I couldn’t mother Lily. That was the deal with Jack McKade. He would raise her to be a proper young lady. And I could watch her grow up as long as I did whatever he said. But she was never to know that she’s the daughter of a whore.” Rose drew a handkerchief from her sleeve to dab at her eyes. “Jack McKade always gets what he wants. No matter who he ruins. In fact, destroying folks is his pleasure.”
Lily was her daughter?
“He wants you dead at this point. He wants your Sahara.” She checked over her shoulder, peering down the road. “Austin, there’s things you don’t know that aren’t mine to tell.” Rose stared me in the eyes, pressing her lips into a strained, thin line. “You cannot kill Jack McKade,” she finally said.
For the time it took, I watched Rose dodder into town, skirting the worst of the muddy slog. I watched her climb the step of the Watering Hole. I watched her. Hoping she would change her mind about me. Hoping she would turn, give me a wave or a smile.
“You’re late,” I snapped at TwoFeathers as if I’d expected him. “You missed the lynching party.” He didn’t understand the humor. He probably hadn’t understood the words. It’s not like he truly wanted to embrace the White’s language.
TwoFeathers held up the painted feather I had jammed in the hogan’s door. He held a rope to Charlie Horse in his other hand. My hat and coat were hanging on the saddle horn. He took the set of bags from my arm and tossed them over Charlie Horse’s loins, tying them behind the saddle.
TwoFeathers wore a splint of split limbs and rawhide around one of his lower legs. He moved in a stiff gimp but showed no twinge of pain. His wrists were raw and bleeding. A swollen, purple cheek made his face look lopsided.
He stepped reluctantly, using Charlie Horse as a crutch. I winced for him as he hobbled on an obviously busted limb. The horse stood patiently. I took down my coat. He helped me into it.
My coat was dry. It warmed quickly. Familiar scents of wood fire and horses teased my nose. I had forgotten its comfort. I had forgotten its welcome, weighty embrace about my shoulders. I had forgotten the feelings of safety and security and courage that it lent me on cold days.
I had forgotten I could stand tall, be proud, and command my own destiny through sheer will, hard work, and seeing a job through to the end.
I had forgotten me.
I stuffed my hat on then pulled the brim low over my brows. TwoFeathers shoved the painted feather into its narrow band. I helped him mount Charlie Horse.
When TwoFeathers settled in the saddle, I led my horse from the wheel-rutted road onto a less conspicuous deer run. It was a long walk to the homestead. TwoFeathers fell asleep in the saddle to the horse’s swaying.
I propped my collar around my neck. A storm was coming, but it wasn’t on the winds.
I wouldn’t ask for TwoFeathers’s help. The Apaches were running and fighting and hiding from the US Cavalry. He had his own troubles. Besides, Jack McKade was all mine.
In the hogan, TwoFeathers stretched on the dirt floor, along the front of the fire. The pup wrapped herself in the crook of his powerful arm. His splinted leg extended past the stone fireplace. His breathing was low, long, and steady. I’d never seen TwoFeathers sleep so soundly.
The pup got up when I crouched to poke at the coals and throw a log onto the prancing flames. I let her climb halfway into my lap and was rewarded by a lick of her warm, wet tongue. I pressed my lips to the top of her head. She smelled faintly of Sahara’s lilac soap. My eyes closed. My insides came alive. I thought about every little thing that was Sahara and worried about even more.
I set a stew to bubbling over the fire. The aroma that filled the hogan made my stomach grumble. “Try some of this.” I served Sahara a bowlful. She glared at me. She hadn’t said one word since I’d gotten home. I dished some stew to the pup then sat alone at the table to eat. When I finished, I kicked my feet up onto the bench and squirmed my butt around on the wooden chair, attempting to find a comfortable position I might sleep in. It was no use.
“You can sleep next to me,” Sahara whispered loudly. She pulled back the covers to invite me under.
“I’m okay.”
“Don’t be silly.” She let the blanket fall back across her hip. “There’s plenty of room on the pallet for both of us.”
It was an uncomfortable decision, filled with dread if I did and dread if I didn’t.
I went over to her and lay down.
Rolling to face away from Sahara didn’t prevent the heat of her body from consuming my mind.
She draped the edge of the blanket on me. Her arm pressed along my spine as she jostled to get comfortable. I was aware of her every breath. I swear I felt her opening and closing her eyelids in fighting off slumber.
“Can I touch it?”
I jolted. The exhale of her question wafted across my ear.
“Your scar? Can I touch it?”
I nodded.
“He absolutely adores you, you know.”
“Who?” I didn’t know anyone who adored me at the moment.
“TwoFeathers,” Sahara replied as if I were being intentionally thick.
Oh, right. “I’m not his type.” I needed to sleep. Tomorrow, I intended to call out Jack McKade. “If anything goes wrong… If I don’t come back…”
“What are you talking about? Where are you going?” She shimmied to sitting upright. “Austin, what are you up to?”
“Take as much copper as you can. TwoFeathers will help you. I’ll turn the cow and calf loose in the morning.”
“Don’t you dare turn Buttercup loose.” Sahara hissed.
Buttercup?
“I’m going to make yogurt to sell in town. But I’ve thought to make cheese. And I’ve already made soap. Not that I think soap will be a big seller in Molasses Pond. But believe you me though, those people need some soap.”
I broke into her litany. “Justice will come for you.” He would. If I died, he’d come for Sahara. Hopefully, he’d do so before his brother did. “You can trust Justice. No one else. Do you hear? Don’t go to Rose.” I didn’t turn toward her. I didn’t want to see her face. I didn’t want to read disappointment in her eyes.
“I’m not going anywhere and neither are you.” Fury rolled from her like a bank of dense fog moving over the land. “Do you hear me, Austin? You will not leave me here alone again.” I felt her turn away from me. As she scooted lower under the blanket, her bum bumped against mine. “I’m your bride. You ordered me.”
And she knew I hadn’t. But didn’t we all want to be wanted? Didn’t we all need to be needed?
“We will live happily ever after.”
She was asleep in minutes. More like faking it.
I waited in the dark, unable to settle. Flickering light cast shadows on the log walls. Mesmerized, I took account of my aches and pains. The bumps and cuts from McKade’s beating were healing well enough. The bruises had changed to pale green. Their edges were already yellowing.
My split lip had recovered completely. The swollen eyelid was back to its normal size. My nose would probably remain crooked, but I could breathe fine. My ribs were still tender, but I had bigger worries.
New, pink skin replaced the rope burns on my wrists. The salve from TwoFeathers had been a boon. Blisters on my palm had dried and filled in. And the cuts from climbing through the broken glass would scar, but made for a good story. Hopefully, I’d get to tell it one day. All good.
Lying to myself wasn’t going to work. I was never so ill fit for a gunfight.
But I had to go. Not just for me. For her.
Sahara would never be safe around Molasses Pond with the likes of Jack McKade and his henchmen running the town. No one was safe from McKade’s reach.
At some point, Sahara’s breathing became deep and steady. I couldn’t lay quiet any longer. If I did, I might never leave.
“I love you, Sahara Miller,” I whispered.
In her sleep, Sahara had rolled to face me. She snuggled into me as if we were two halves of a whole. I felt her soft breath caress the back of my neck. Her curves pressed perfectly to mine. And I swear she sighed in contentment.
I eased myself flat then stared at her lax face. Sahara was a rare beauty. I wished I had realized that from the beginning. I wished I’d had time to tell her now how she’d wrapped herself so completely around my heart.
My eyes played connect-the-dots with the sprinkle of freckles over her nose. A tendril of hair fell across her closed lids. I brushed it back and pressed my lips to her sleeping forehead. It felt like I was saying good-bye forever.
Without waking anyone, I rolled up and secreted through the door.
A limb with a Y poked from the stack of uncut firewood. I took a minute to jerk the sturdy stick from the pile then chopped it to the length of a crutch for TwoFeathers. I should have done more for him. He was my friend. He was my brother. I propped the crutch against the log wall of the hogan.
The stiffness in my body loosened as I walked to the overhang. Immobilizing the injured shoulder kept it from complaining. But the arm was useless while tied to me. At least I’d only need to holster one gun. Losing half the lugged weight beneath my hip bones would feel freer.
I hadn’t ever been parted from Pa’s Smith and Wesson. I wasn’t about to be now. I shifted the 1855 revolver to the left-handed holster, then emptied the cylinder of the newer gun. At the back of the overhang, I bundled it in rabbit pelts.
As predawn yawned across the sky, I saddled Charlie Horse and mounted.
TwoFeathers gimped in under the overhang on the crutch I had cut for him. His splinted leg was hidden beneath a skirt fashioned from the faded green dress Sahara had arrived in about a month ago. He scrutinized me in his unnerving way.
I squirmed in the saddle like a child caught poking a finger in a freshly baked pie.
I wasn’t going to discuss it. My mind was made up.
“I’m going alone.”
Chapter Eighteen
Charlie Horse reached the edge of Molasses Pond and was reluctant to go any farther. I couldn’t blame him. The center of town was a churned, muddy mess. He twitched his ears furiously before raising his head and stiffening to bolt.
“Quit,” I grunted. I dropped the reins to his neck and flicked the hammer loop from my gun then slowly drew it out. Of course it was fully loaded. An unloaded gun was of no use. Still, I rotated the cylinder one click at a time.
Dawn was too early in the morning for Molasses Pond to be fully awake. I dismounted to walk Charlie Horse alongside Main Street, in an attempt to avoid the deepest slop. The street might have appeared deserted, but eyes watched my progress.
Tent flaps were closed in the squatters’ area. Snoring emanated from more than several makeshift shelters. Campfires were long cold. My hide-covered feet sunk to the ankles in crud, leading me to briefly wonder if the men inside those squatters’ hovels wallowed like piglets in the mud.
Half-constructed buildings and newer wooden facades promised that Molasses Pond was growing. But the abandoned wagons mired in muck, with lumber and barrels still in their beds, proved that the work had stalled.
Without shingles hanging, it was difficult to discern what goods or services were offered inside each tent establishment. A Chinaman tossed dirty water from a wash bucket into the street. When he saw me, he scurried away. I heard his melodic muttering from beyond the alleyway.
The Watering Hole was open for business. That, or they had never closed the night before. Its swinging doors hung still. The full-length blockade door hadn’t been shut, even against the cold.
I didn�
��t see any movement from within.
At the fountain, I filled my hand from the dribbling water to rinse my mouth. Charlie Horse sloshed the pooled water’s surface for a long drink. The gray sky was fast changing to a vibrant pink. The sun would be over the rooftops shortly.
In front of Percival’s Mercantile, I unsaddled Charlie Horse, tossing his rig onto the boardwalk. I eased the headstall over his ears and took a moment to say good-bye before turning him loose.
The shade was drawn over the mercantile door’s glass. I climbed onto the board walkway. At the end, I jumped down to duck into the alley between the land and the assay offices. Across from the Watering Hole, I waited.
I jerked the skinning knife from the back of my belt and concentrated at scraping the calluses off my trigger finger. Then I trimmed my ragged nails short. A professional gunman didn’t want anything between him and the cold steel of that trigger. It was an intimate relationship I never truly understood, until now. Cleanliness increased sensitivity, which increased control—speed and accuracy.
I rolled a cigarette and lit it up to affect calm, cool, collected manliness. To let whoever watched know exactly where they could find me, I blew a thin stream of smoke from my pursed lips.
When I stepped from the alley, I leaned on the hitch rail in front of the assay office to further survey the town of Molasses Pond. Main Street ran from south to north. The Watering Hole was on the east side. The rising sun would soon blind me to the details of the comings and goings at the saloon. That was a detriment.
I didn’t smell any coffee brewing. Unmolested chickens were still silently roosting. Tent flaps remained tied closed. Even the light breeze was too lazy to bother jostling the tight ties.
As I studied the quiet town, Death came to mind. The fourth Horseman of the Apocalypse. Missionaries loved to tell their Bible stories. I remembered the Horsemen. I liked horses. Behold, an ashen horse; and he who sat upon it had the name Death; and Hades was following with him. To kill with sword and with famine and with pestilence and by the wild beasts of the earth.