“Son of a three-legged dog.”
Only three rounds left. And his belt loops are long empty. Why didn’t he think to check that in the mine?
Simple, actually. He always keeps his guns and belt loops loaded. Who walks around with only three rounds in their gun? Five’s the rule. Six if yore headed straight into action. Stupid Jigger.
Damn it.
Luckily, there’s just two. And they’re gals.
He’s a fair enough shot. Oh, also the guy who killed Jigger and them. Three. Plus the little kid.
Crap. He’ll have to beat one of them to death with a stick.
He walks and walks, breaking through deep in places, mostly following their snowshoe tracks. Not seeing, not looking carefully at the tracks. No need, the snowshoe trail is a broad avenue to him. And, he’s driven.
Driven mad with indecision.
Angus was right. They was sexy. And, unlike Angus, he ain’t had none in a coon’s age.
He strides along, fuming. He keeps going over and over it in his head. Until his skull threatens to explode.
Heck, he doesn’t know what they know. He rubs his pounding forehead. Salt said she’d never talk.
Was she lying? Will she have second thoughts?
Damn. He feels like he’s circling the gates of hell, trying to catch up with the keepers.
He continues walking.
If only Jigger hadn’t lost the damn horses. Who doesn’t tell his compadres that he doesn’t know how to tie a decent double half hitch? They lost all their cayuses when that picket line Jig set up come loose. Bastard.
He corrects himself. Dead bastard.
He stops, sits on a dry log and takes off his boots and socks. When he turns his left boot upside down to knock out some snow, he sees the notch in the heel.
“Damn, looks like a damn Injin carved their arrowhead mark into it. I never would have took Jigger fer a Injin.”
He rubs snow on the blisters. And, what’s the deal with that? Snow in May, at this elevation? This Rocky Mountain country was crazy.
He slides Jigger’s boots back on and resumes his sore-footed journey.
44 Cha’a: Piss
“Piss, Ma,” says Góshé, elbowing me in the gut.
I have to catch my breath, he hit something tender. “Hunh?”
“I gotta piss,” he says.
“Okay, how ‘bout just up there at the bend?” I ask.
“Right now.”
I pull Tenner to a stop and get us both down. Góshé being male, has to mark his territory. He walks over to a bushy tree before he unzips.
Zastee arrives, looking quizzical.
“Piss break,” I tell her.
“Quite.” She heads left.
I go right, over by Góshé, and squat. After all, the family that sprays together stays together.
My piss is red tinged. Kidney punch, eh? Or my period. Hm. I feel around until I find the bruised spot. My back feels it. I check the front. No tenderness. My ovaries seem to be silent. So, pointy boot toe kicks. The metal tips didn’t help.
The boy finishes first and walks off toward the edge, where I can see that the ground drops off. He crouches down and turns back towards me. Pointing at his ear, he holds a finger vertically in front of pursed lips.
I nod, shake my booty painfully to rid it of the last drips, and pull my pants up.
45 Harley: Hit
Harley heads into the meeting spot.
He hears mewling. Something’s wrong. He approaches slowly, sidearm in hand.
“What the…? What happened? Sal? Sally? Shit.”
She’s down on the ground; there’s blood all over her chest. He rushes in and drops to his knees, leaning over her.
“Are you okay?” he leans close.
She whispers something.
He can’t tell what. She looks awful. There’s no time for niceties.
He rips at the bodice of her dress.
“Sally, Sally.”
She’s unconscious.
He doesn’t know what to do to stop the copious bleeding.
He keeps trying to staunch the flow with his kerchief, but there are too many wounds.
“Where’s Angus?” she asks, when her head rolls around.
“Up to the workin’s,” he says.
Her eyelids flutter but she doesn’t respond.
He’s mopping up blood, pushing, trying to hold it back from the worst bleeds. He starts to tear strips from her skirt, but blood is pulsing out. His hands are full working at it all.
She suddenly bucks in his arms, muscles spasming. She opens her eyes, seems to see him.
“Help me,” she almost screams.
He keeps working. But, can see that she’s weakening.
She asks about his brother one last time. He leans in close.
She says something else, like gibberish.
Even with his ear to her mouth, he can’t decipher it.
She blurts, louder, what sounds like a complete sentence in what is probably Spanish. Then, she passes out.
He doesn’t know any Spanish.
46 Cha’a: Down & Dirty
Góshé has a hand cupped around his ear. He’s been out on colt training rides with Ma’cho and Bigan lately; no doubt they’ve been teaching him Injin stealth ways.
I walk over, going to hands and knees, and then elbows, as I near the edge. Just in case.
I stop beside him, stock still.
Shit. He isn’t kidding. There’s definitely a voice out there. A mournful one. I listen a while longer, trying to suss out individual words and get a direction nailed down.
It seems to be behind some big granite rocks on the broad flat below us. Just one voice.
It sounds like Spanish from the rolling sound of it. And distressed.
I sink down, take my hat off, and belly crawl a few more yards, until I can see over the edge.
Góshé mimics me. We exchange a glance. I fingerspell. ‘Words?’
He raises his eyebrows.
Oh yeah. We need to teach him the finger letters and how to spell at least a few words.
I forgot that he’s just learning to read. Not a real mother, remember? More of an unremitting savage.
There’s a big sigh, an exhalation of breath. Shit. Could be the sigh of death; when the spirit leaves the vessel.
And some rustling.
I can’t see anyone at all, but do have the voice pinpointed.
Zastee worms her way up beside us. I point at each of them, motioning for them to wait, and pull my pistol. And point out the big granite boulders.
Zastee pulls hers, too. She looks out at the plain below, scanning around, and nods for me to go.
When I get down to the flat, I head off to the right, toward the rocks. I circle it, since I can’t see into the cover or see any foot or hoof tracks going in or out. Unfortunately, part of the way is bare rock.
When I do find tracks, they’re drag marks.
“Harley, don’t leave.” A high-pitched voice.
I head in slow, glancing back at Zastee, motioning with my pistol barrel and raising the other hand in a keep waiting and watch my back gesture.
As I close in, I think about speaking, but decide against it.
“Harley, help.” Female, most like.
They must have heard me coming.
Harley? It comes back to me, someone said Angus when we were tied up. And Jig. There was a Harley in standoff on the train. And his blond brother, Angus, is the one Güero was mistaken for in Arizona Territory. Jig? Doesn’t ring a bell.
Nah, it makes no sense. The standoff was in Sonora. Mexico is a long sum bitch of a way from here.
If he was here, where'd he go? There’s a lot of juniper brush here. Easy to hide in. I can’t sneak out into it, could run right into the sucker. Hell, he could be waiting for me to do just that.
Zastee has a good overview. If he’s out there, she Will hopefully spot him.
I finally get in close. I hear fast breathing. Panting. St
icking my head between rocks so as not to skyline myself, I locate the source.
It’s a woman. No, a girl. Long flowing dress. Lots of blood. Part of her dress is torn to tatters.
Some strips are wrapped around her torso, poorly.
I kneel by the girl, touching her arm lightly. She looks to be eighteen, maybe only fifteen.
“You okay, miss?” I ask.
Her eyes open slowly.
I’m tearing more strips from the full skirt.
“I’m gonna open yore dress more here,” I say. “See if I can stop this blood. Okay?”
No response. She’s eying me, knows I’m there.
I need to do better, but there’s just so much blood.
She opens her mouth, sucking in some air and starts to form a word.
I lean in closer.
“Harley?” she asks. “Angus?”
Damn, Angus and Harley. Kittridges, it’s gotta be. We done them one hell of a favor. Faked their deaths. But, we know what really happened. Our knowledge, if shared, could be the death of them.
“Shit.”
Apparently the old saw is true. Ain’t no good deed goes unpunished.
47 Harley: Not Fade Away
Harley hears footsteps and fades back behind a rock. Working his way slowly clear.
There’s talking, then a yell. Sounds like one of them gals that escaped. The curvy blond. Salt. Nice ass on her.
And more voices. Men, ahead of him.
He slants off, circling around, feeling surrounded.
Two men are there. Fortunately, they aren’t looking his way. He goes back into the rocks, toward Sally.
Shit. A movement catches his eye. Salt is there.
Time to quit this country. After he and Angus get the gold. No way will they leave that bonanza behind.
He swivels slowly and scoots around the outside of the rocks, to the far side, heading away from the voices. He sees the blonde again, through some branches, and raises his gun. Then, a flash of light catches his eye. He turns, sees another flash of movement, looks like a gun barrel.
Shit.
He snaps off a wild shot and feints left.
Something pushes on his chest. He falls.
48 Cha’a: Every Breath You Take
“Crack.”
“Zing.”
Second shot came from the hilltop. Zastee.
“Angus,” the girl whispers.
“Angus who?” I ask, working to unbutton the blood-soaked remains of her bodice.
“Jig took...” She’s weak.
What was Zastee shooting at? Harley? Or is this girl just delirious and spouting about some other time?
“What’s Harley’s last name?”
It’s hard to make out the words. She raises her right hand a half inch. It seems to be all the strength she has.
“Kittridge?” I ask.
Her lips move. Her expression’s unreadable.
Fuck, I can’t hear a damn thing.
She tries again, “Take it. Harley. Proof.”
Maybe she’s caught in an inner dialogue, and isn’t even hearing me.
I have pry her fingers apart. They’re spasmed around…a leather pouch.
The strength of a death grip becomes a vivid reality.
Okay, not quite dead, but looking poorly, very poorly.
I quickly stuff the pouch in my pocket and pull the knife perforated fabric panels on her bodice farther apart. And cut the belt and skirt away. There’s a big bleeder just below the waist.
She gasps in air and says, “Jig moved…salt…”
I stiffen at the sight of her bare skin. It’s torn worse than the dress is.
The blood is coming from multiple wounds. I don’t know where to start. Knives make a horrible mess of flesh and blood.
“What did he move?” I ask, lifting her as little as possible and wrapping her chest. Pulling the fabric tight. “What’s his last name?”
Silence.
I look at her face. Her eyes are pleading.
She sighs again, opens her mouth to speak, and all her muscles relax.
I put a finger on her jugular. No pulse. And check her pupil response. Nada.
I close her eyes. No need for bandages now.
Footsteps. A branch cracking.
I fall backward, to lower my profile and get my hand clear to reach for my pistol. I clamp my fingers around the grip and pull.
“Hold it right there,” says a voice, he’s breathing hard.
His gun is aimed dead on.
I let go and the gun slides back into the holster.
His next words come out of the corner of his mouth, aimed the other way. “Over here, sheriff. I caught ‘er red handed.”
I look at my hands. They’re covered in her blood.
I raise them in the air.
I look up at him, and say, “Easy now. I was just tryin’ to stop the bleedin’.”
“You two,” says another man. “Git yore asses over there.”
“Pull that hogleg nice and slow, sister,” he says. “Unh uh. Use yore left hand, two fingers. Easy.”
I do. Not that it matters. I’m ambidextrous. And damn quick. But I’ve got Góshé and Zastee to think of.
“Set it on the dirt there.”
I lay it regretfully down.
The buffalo bone handled .45 Colt. Ma’cho’s. He loaned it to me. I’m beholden. Nelly is wrapped in my coat, on Ten Spot, tied behind the cantle.
“What are you guys doing out here?” I ask, standing up slowly. Keeping my hands in view.
“Catchin’ lady murderers,” says the first guy, waving his gun barrel at me. “Heard your shots.”
“My gun hasn’t been fired.”
He’s a scraggly bearded fellow with bad teeth and worse breath. So strong that it hits me from eight feet away. He has shoulder length black hair, uncombed. Just as scruffy as his beard. Short by Injin standards.
The other guy, who must be the sheriff, walks in. He has Zastee at gunpoint. Dog boy is leading Ten Spot. I don’t see Hoss.
“Here she is sheriff,” says Scraggles. “Dead to rights.”
“I heard this woman callin’ fer help and come down to try,” I say. “I was too late. She bled out before I could do anythin’.”
“She talk to you?” asks the sheriff.
He’s a little guy. I could have seen the chip on his shoulder from a mile away. His hair, which is the color of dirt, is filthy and tangled, too.
“She died is all,” I say, not liking his manners.
“You notice anythin’ else?” he asks. Probably asking his pal.
“My gun ain’t been fired.”
“She’s knifed, not shot,” says the deputy.
“Yore deputy here, he said he heard my shots,” I say. “They’s someone else out here shootin’.”
He shakes his head, ignoring me, looks at his deputy and asks, “Joe, you notice anythin’ else?”
I say, “I noticed that this here country has a major comb and toothbrush shortage.”
The so-called sheriff glares at me.
“No sense of humor?” I ask.
He ignores that.
“You with her?” he asks Zastee.
“Can I see some identification, sir?” I ask, dead polite.
“I’m talkin’ to the nigrah,” he says.
“She’s a Brit, not a nigrah,” I say.
“I don’t bloody well know her,” says Zastee. “The boy and I just arrived.”
“See?” I say. “Brit accent.”
“I heard blondie here tell them two to come over,” says Scraggles. “They’s acquainted.”
“Barely, we just run into one another out on the road. Traded monikers. I was askin’ her to help…”
“Enough.”
“Fine. Now how about that identification?” I repeat. “A badge at least.”
“You got no right to be questionin’ the sheriff here,” says Scraggly, wiggling his gun barrel at me.
“Come on,” says t
he might not be a sheriff, motioning us to go.
He just doesn’t have that sheriff way about him. I know lawdogs, they got a look. Tough, authoritative, used to being in charge.
Even my easygoing Güero. Hard, when the situation calls for it. Hell, me two, all us warriors; we double as deputies now and then.
The look goes with the territory. It’s called survival. Only the fittest do. And, they show their badges when asked.
“Where?” I ask.
“Jail,” says Scraggles. “Where else you think we keep murderers?”
“Whose horse is this?” asks the sheriff.
“Mine,” I say.
“The nigrah can lead him,” he says. “You walk, blondie.”
“She’s a jigaboo,” I say. “Not a nigrah.”
Zastee favors me with a glance and shows her teeth in what might be a tiny smile. But, her eyes are hard. I could be wrong. Maybe it’s the offer of a quick death. I haven’t learned to read her. Yet.
Hell, maybe jigaboo is worse. What do I know?
“Niggers is niggers, don’t matter what high falutin’ words you use. Spawn of monkeys,” he says.
“Apes,” I say. “Monkeys are the little ones. Let’s be keepin’ our racial slurs accurate.”
Zastee coughs. Stifling a laugh, I’d bet. I’m hilarious.
“Shut up or I’ll drill ya both,” he says, waving his sixgun.
“You take any firearms safety lessons before you got the job?” I ask.
“I warned you,” he says, his piggy eyes drilling into mine.
“Women are not murderers,” I say. “Men kill many times over for each murder a woman does.”
“Maybe she stole yore man, eh?” he says, eyes looking greedy at the girl fight fantasy.
“I don’t even know who she is,” I say, gesturing toward the dead girl. “She looks young. A schoolgirl maybe.”
“Then why’d you kill her?”
“I didn’t. Like I said, I come to her calls fer help.”
“Enough jawin’,” says the sheriff. “Evidence is clear. Walk.”
He wiggles the damn gun again. Finger bent around the trigger.
“What evidence?”
“Blood on yore hands.” He gestures again. “Them shots.”
Hell of a Horse Page 12
