Then she heard Gary shouting, followed by Florrie yelling out for her. Her baby brother was pointing down the road to the west. Katie bolted across the desert. Bartholomew brayed.
“Someone’s coming!” Gary shouted as Florrie pointed.
“Who is it?” Florrie whispered urgently when Katie stopped.
Like I’d have any idea, she thought.
She saw the dust, but she could barely make out the rider, who had reined up his horse and appeared to be giving this hard-luck camp a good deal of scrutiny. He wasn’t an Apache. At least, Katie didn’t think he was.
She ran her tongue over her lips. She had made too many dumb decisions already, and had no plans on doing anything stupid now.
“Florrie,” Katie said. “Fetch me that shotgun.”
Chapter Thirteen
Honey stopped at the touch of the reins, and MacKinnon stared down the road at the wagon. Undoubtedly, this had to be the outfit that the Reverend Christopher Franklin Yordy had warned him about, but what might have looked so terrifying to a talkative traveling sky pilot at night, looked downright pathetic to Sam MacKinnon.
A wagon, one front wheel off, with the axle resting on a large boulder to keep the old relic from tipping over. Something of a fire going. A mule. Just one. Two people, who couldn’t be more than kids. They were shouting and looking out into the desert somewhere beyond the wagon. MacKinnon couldn’t see who they were calling out to, but he figured it was likely the parents. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, as the wind blew toward them, carrying away their words.
Then a woman—he could tell by the skirt—came into view. Woman? No, maybe just a girl. Then all three of them were looking toward MacKinnon. He let them look, while he gave the terrain close scrutiny. An arroyo twisted off to the southeast, or maybe that was the bed of the Río Hondo. A person could sit down there, keep a rifle aimed at MacKinnon. Maybe. Or a man with a rifle could be on his belly to the north, hidden by rock or cactus. MacKinnon saw the little boy start for the wagon, but then the kid stopped and turned as the smaller girl headed to the wagon. The boy jumped up and down twice, angry, dragging and kicking his feet as he headed back to the tallest of the three. The girl must have said something, for the boy stepped behind her. The other girl had reached up into the driver’s box, and pulled out a long gun.
That’s when MacKinnon started to slide the Winchester out of the scabbard. He swore, gritted his teeth, and stopped. Those ribs of his were never going to heal.
The smaller of the two girls handed the long gun to the taller one. MacKinnon left the carbine in the scabbard, and continued to study their campsite. If there had been no fire, no mule, and no people, he would have thought the old wagon had been abandoned. He wet his lips.
“One mule,” he said softly, and pondered the situation. The wagon wasn’t small enough to be pulled by one mule. Not only that, since the girl—or woman—was holding a long gun, that could only mean that there was no man around here, not in the arroyo, not lying prone and waiting to blow MacKinnon out of the saddle.
Could be, he considered, that someone unharnessed the other mule and rode out for help. But MacKinnon had seen no one on the road, except the parson, and it was closer to San Patricio, Río Bonito, or even Ruidoso than to Roswell.
“You can sit here all day,” he said aloud to himself, “or you can be friendly.”
Clucking his tongue, he flicked the reins and let Honey carry him closer. When he drew within thirty yards, he reined up again, and raised his right hand as high as he could.
“Hallooo!” he called out. “Mind if I come in?”
He could see that the tall girl was maybe just out of her teens, but she was too young to be mother of the little girl and the boy, who kept peeking out from behind her skirt. He could also see now that it was a shotgun, with two barrels, maybe thirty inches long, perhaps even longer. The weapon appeared to be in the same shape as the wagon.
“Come ahead,” the tall girl said. She lowered the shotgun slightly, but not all the way, and her fingers remained resting on both triggers.
MacKinnon kicked Honey, but the mare resisted. He spurred her again, and she responded with a snort and shake of her head. He squeezed harder, and she did a quick jump, which blinded MacKinnon temporarily, before she moved on. The mule brayed, but Honey did not answer.
As MacKinnon came closer, he understood why. Something was dead here, and that’s when MacKinnon saw the blankets covering what appeared to be a body beyond the campfire.
“Can you help us, mister?” the younger of the girls said. She had red hair, couldn’t be older than fifteen. The boy might be three, four—no older than seven. The one with the shotgun … well, MacKinnon couldn’t rightly tell. All three of them needed a bath.
“Shut up, Florrie,” the shotgun-wielder snapped.
Not listening, the redhead said: “Can you help us?”
The little boy stepped between the two girls.
MacKinnon shifted in the saddle. The shotgun started up.
“Ma’am,” MacKinnon said, and he pointed at his side, “you can see that I’m not carrying a short gun. My Winchester’s in the scabbard. I mean you no harm.”
The shotgun stopped its ascent but did not lower any.
“Can you help us?” the redhead said again.
“You traveling alone?” MacKinnon asked.
“No!” the blond with the shotgun snapped. “Our … father … he just went back yonder.” She motioned with her head toward the arroyo. “To find us breakfast. He’ll be back soon. Any time.”
“Your mother?” MacKinnon asked.
“She’s …,” the blond started to say, but the boy cut her off.
“Ma’s dead,” the little one said, and his head dropped.
“Gary!” both girls said sharply.
MacKinnon eyes drifted over again to the blanketed bundle.
“How long y’all been here?” MacKinnon asked.
The blond considered answering, but held her tongue. The redhead said: “A few days.”
MacKinnon looked to the south, beyond the arroyo. He kept the reins in his right hand, and slowly moved his left to cover his ribs. “You haven’t seen anybody, have you? Thin man, big mustache, black hat. Be riding pretty hard, most likely, with three other fellows.”
They stared at him as though he were mad.
“Or an older guy … means business, and an Apache in a black hat? Might have two other fellows riding with him.”
The boy’s head shook. The redhead said: “Please, mister, we need some help.”
MacKinnon looked at the mule, and then his eyes landed on the water barrel. He ran his tongue over his cracked lips.
“Florrie,” the blond said, “keep your trap shut.”
“He looks all beat up,” the boy said.
MacKinnon smiled as his eyes left the water barrel. “I’ve felt better.” He nodded easily at the sorrel. “Got throwed. There’s an old saying among us cowhands, kid. Never been hurt, never been horseback.”
“You all right?” the kid asked.
“Gary,” the blond said tightly.
MacKinnon gave a slight nod. “I reckon I’ll be fine, boy. But I think I might feel a little better if you could spare some water for me. And my horse.”
The redhead jumped up and down. “Please, mister, we’re in an awful bad fix here.”
“Shut up,” said the blond.
“Katie,” the redhead snapped, “we have to have some help. Now.”
“Not,” the blond roared back, “from the likes of him!”
“He’s got a pretty horse,” said the boy.
Honey shook her head, pawed her feet, and snorted.
The younger kids began whispering to the blond, and MacKinnon sank deeper into the saddle after Honey relaxed. He looked again at the body covered with blankets and some
stones. The mother was dead. The father …? Likely not hunting. Maybe not even around. Maybe the mother was a widow.
He should just ride on now, because the blond certainly didn’t want him around. MacKinnon couldn’t blame her. She was a pretty good judge of character because she knew that Sam MacKinnon was no—
Good Sam.
The thought sent another spasm of pain through his chest and stomach. He could hear the Reverend Christopher Franklin Yordy reciting his scripture again, talking about that Good Samaritan. Sam MacKinnon shifted in his saddle again.
Well, yeah, black-bearded Parson Yordy gave a mighty fine sermon, but he sure wasn’t one to live the way he preached. He could have stopped last night to help this young woman and two kids, but he just rode around them. And the blond with the shotgun certainly ain’t injured like that fellow on the road from Jerusalem to Jericho. No, by grab, she’s making it plain that no help is desired from Good Sam MacKinnon.
Besides, what could he do? Busted ribs wouldn’t let him work a spade to plant that woman. He wasn’t much of a hand at repairing wagons. He couldn’t carry the girl and the two kids with him to Roswell or wherever Jace Martin decided to stop.
He was trying to convince himself that someone would be along directly. They’d stop, lend a hand. They’d get these three back down to civilization.
I’m no Good Samaritan, MacKinnon told himself. I’m an outlaw. I robbed a gambling hall in Bonito City. And I’m out for revenge. The blond’s right. These folks sure don’t need any help from the likes of me.
The three had stopped whispering with each other. MacKinnon looked at the blond, the redhead, and the boy, and made a gesture at his ribs.
“Look here, I don’t mean you no harm, and with these ribs of mine, I can’t really offer y’all much help. I can’t even climb off my horse … not and step back in the saddle again. But here’s what I promise to do. Give you my word. I’ll send help.” He nodded to convince himself. Yes. That’s what I’ll do. I can be that much of a Good Samaritan. “I see anyone traveling west on this road … stagecoach, maybe, or some freighters, cowboys, or anyone … I’ll send them out here to lend a hand.” Another nod. He was a born liar, but he could tell the truth. He was telling the truth right now. “My word. And if there ain’t nobody on the road, I’ll find someone in Roswell. Be there in …”
A day would be like a week. For these folks, two days would be like a month. Three days …
“You do that,” the blond said as she brought the barrels of the shotgun up a little more, indicating to MacKinnon that he should come closer. Then to the boy: “Gary, fetch his canteen. Fill it from the barrel. Just don’t spill any water.”
“Katie!” the redhead cried. She was crying. Tears. Real tears.
MacKinnon turned away, and made himself smile as the kid came toward Honey.
“Easy, girl,” he whispered when the sorrel caught the scent of the kid. He patted the mare’s neck, before he unwrapped the straps and handed the boy the canteen.
“Son?” MacKinnon started to pull off his hat. He got the hat off, but then held it out, apologetically, toward the one with the shotgun. “Umm, ma’am, you think you could spare a hatful of water for Honey here? It’s a long ride to Roswell, and I’m not sure the Río Hondo will …”
“Florrie,” she said, “take his hat, give his horse some water, too.”
The girl started as the blond gestured with the shotgun toward the wagon. “You get close to the wagon, mister,” she said. “So we don’t waste water carrying over that hat of yours.”
He nodded, and made himself smile, though he felt sick in his gut. A tug on the reins and gentle pressure from his legs sent Honey moving, reluctantly, to the wagon. The mule brayed. MacKinnon could hear the gurgling of the water as the boy held the canteen in the barrel. He had had to climb into the back of the wagon, and push his way through the canvas tarp to reach inside the barrel. As low as he was reaching down, MacKinnon figured, there wasn’t much water left.
As Gary came up, he held the canteen over the barrel, letting the water drip back in. Then he screwed on the cap, smiled at MacKinnon, and disappeared back inside the wagon. Next, the redheaded girl climbed up the wheel, dunked MacKinnon’s sorry old hat in the barrel, and brought it out for Honey, spilling some water onto the sand.
As the horse drank quickly, Gary took the canteen over to MacKinnon. He took one swallow, nodded his appreciation at the boy, and screwed the lid on tightly before securing the canteen to the saddle horn.
When Honey had sucked up all the water, the redhead brought the hat to MacKinnon, who thanked her as put the hat back on his head. Soaking wet, the hat felt wonderful on his sunbaked head.
Don’t think about it, he told himself. Don’t worry about them. You didn’t put them in this situation. You dillydally here and you’ll never catch up with Jace Martin. Thank them, and be on your way. No, you’ve already thanked them. Just ride. Someone’s bound to come along.
He pulled the hat down tighter, backed the mare away from the wagon, turned Honey around, and nudged her toward the road.
You can’t lie yourself out of this one, Good Sam MacKinnon. You’re about to become the sorriest excuse of a man. You’ll be worse than Jace Martin.
A gust of wind carried sand and smoke past Honey and MacKinnon. It also brought along the smell of the corpse beneath the blankets. That was the last thing Good Sam MacKinnon remembered.
Chapter Fourteen
The red-colored horse twisted, snorted, and bucked, kicking out its rear legs while lowering its head. The grouchy cowhand, thief, tramp, or whatever he was swore as he lost his seat and rocketed into the sky. By the time he hit the ground with a yelp of pain and rolled over, the horse had bolted down the road.
Florrie screamed, too, and Bartholomew pulled hard on the rope, kicking out at anything that happened to be behind him. Luckily, he was just kicking at air, and Katie swung around the blind mule and gripped the rope with both hands. She saw Gary running toward the road, and called out his name. That was a waste of her breath. The boy couldn’t hear her, not with Florrie’s shrieks and Bartholomew’s grunts and kicks.
The rope burned her hands, and she gritted her teeth, trying to whisper soothing noises to the frightened mule.
Eventually, a tenuous peace settled over the camp, and Katie stroked the mule’s neck, and kept her left hand on the animal as she walked past the old creature. She stopped somewhere between the wagon and the road. Her hands found her waist.
Florrie had stopped shouting, but she trembled in her shoes. The man lay on his back, and did not move. Katie moved off, and called out Gary’s name. To her surprise, her baby brother stood maybe a hundred yards down the road and another twenty into the desert to the north. The cowhand’s horse had stopped running. The boy started toward the animal.
Katie cupped her hands around her mouth, yelling: “Don’t you go near that wild mustang!”
“Is … he … dead?” Florrie choked out.
That broke Katie’s concentration. Is who dead? She had to think, and shook her head as she yelled: “Gary, you better listen
to me!”
Of course, the boy paid no attention. She held her breath as Gary eased closer to the wild horse, which shook its head, pawed the earth, and took a few nervous steps back.
“Gary!” Katie tried again.
The boy kept moving. He must have been saying something to the horse, trying to calm it down. He’ll get himself killed! Katie thought to herself as she took four fast steps down the road. Then she stopped.
They needed that horse. And her marching like a madwoman after the frightened animal might get Gary seriously wounded, even killed. Holding her breath, Katie watched.
Another gust of wind kicked up. She had to turn her head from the blowing sand, and saw the dust move across the road. The horse stepped back again, and Gary followed. Katie opened h
er mouth to issue a sterner warning, sucking in air when her brother’s hands shot out for the horse.
He had the reins.
“Gary.” This time, Katie just whispered his name.
Florrie had managed to move from where she had been standing, and came alongside Katie, who trembled as her brother walked to the horse, and started to rub the wild thing’s neck.
“He has the horse?” Florrie said in surprise.
Katie’s head bobbed once.
Gary turned around and started back for camp, the reins wrapped around his right hand. When the leather pulled taut, he stopped abruptly and was yanked back.
Katie bit her bottom lip. “Go help him,” she told Florrie. “He’s too little.”
But the boy turned, said something to the horse, and looked back at his sisters. He managed to wave with his left hand, and tried again.
This time, the horse followed.
“How’d he do that?” Florrie asked.
Katie shook her head. “Go,” she told her sister. “But don’t run. Walk.”
“I know how to handle horses, Katie,” Florrie said, and headed down the road.
They had a horse now, and they could use that horse. Florrie wasn’t the best rider in the world, but she could do it. She’d have to do it. She could follow the road back to that church in San Patricio. There were a number of small farms in the area. Somebody there had to speak English. They’d send help. They’d …
She turned and saw the saddle tramp just lying there.
Dead?
Katie watched him a long time before she saw his chest rising and falling. Yet she still had not taken one step until she heard the clops of the red colored horse and Gary whistling, or at least, trying his best to whistle. She looked away from the intruder and made herself smile at her brother, before turning
to Florrie.
“Tie that horse to the other side of the wagon. Not near Bartholomew. I don’t know how they’ll get along.”
“Should I water him?” Florrie asked.
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