“What’s the matter? You see something?” Luke asked.
“No. I don’t see anything . . . but neither do I hear anything. Nothing but Mrs. Wray’s violin,” said Eagle.
Luke understood then. As soon as the rain had stopped, the night sounds of nature had started to fill the canyon. Birds chirping, the thrum of insects. They’d been absent during the rain but then had returned and became a quiet constant in the background. . . until now. Now they were absent again.
Luke glanced over his shoulder, back at the camp. He and Eagle had come nearly a quarter mile, farther than he’d realized.
“There’s something out here with us. Some critter . . . and I don’t mean just Dewey,” Eagle said, his voice more hushed than before.
“You got bear or cougar up in these mountains?” Luke wanted to know.
“Not much in the way of bear. But we’ve got cougar for sure. And one in particular who’s earned hisself the name Ol’ Rip. He’s been visitin’ the valley every summer for the past three or four years. Big son, seems to get bigger each season. I know he’s back again this year on account of I ran across his tracks one day last week. And judgin’ by the spread of the paw and how deep it was sunk in the ground, he ain’t shrunk any. Maybe two hundred pounds by now.”
“You figure he’s stalking the camp?”
“No, not that I saw any sign of. Too much activity around there, too many fires burnin’ too much of the time. Anyway, Ol’ Rip’s got easier pickin’s down in the valley with all the livestock that got run off and left behind, left roamin’ free. If that’s him ahead of us, I’d guess he was caved up somewhere higher durin’ the rain and is on the prowl now to get down and find himself some of that stock to feed on. Only thing to divert him would be if he caught wind of something closer before then. Something like Dewey, if he wandered this far.”
“I didn’t bring my rifle with me,” Luke said.
“Neither did I,” replied Eagle. “I didn’t even think to strap my gunbelt back on after I shucked it when I sat down to supper.”
“I’ve got my Remingtons,” Luke told him. Always, he added mentally.
Eagle edged over, narrowing the distance between them. “Ain’t nobody hailed from back at the camp that they found Dewey yet, meanin’ the blame fool might actually have come this direction after all. So I need to keep lookin’. How about you loan me one of your pistols and you go back and get a rifle?”
“I’ll loan you one of my pistols,” Luke said, lifting his left-hand Remington from its holster and holding it out. “But we’ll both stay here and keep looking.”
Eagle took the gun, saying, “You’re as blamed stubborn as me.”
“No need to be insulting.”
They continued forward again, closer together now. All of a sudden, Luke found himself wishing that the starlight he’d thought so plentiful a little while ago was a whole lot brighter.
Eagle raised his voice and called ahead, “Dewey! Dewey Akron! This is Sheriff Tom Eagle. Are you out here somewhere?”
From a pool of thick shadows off high to the right came the deep, half-growl, half-hiss of a big hunting cat.
Eagle swore. “That’s Ol’ Rip! He’s warnin’ us off. He wouldn’t do that unless he’s got his prey all staked out and ready to pounce.”
From the edge of the same shadow pool came a weak, slightly quavering voice. “Sheriff Eagle! There’s a Reb patrol just over that rise. Keep it down or you’ll have ’em right on top of—”
The agonized shriek that cut off the rest of Dewey’s words was simultaneously mixed with the snarl and rumbling roar of the cougar, followed by the sounds of bodies tumbling to the ground and then thrashing wildly about.
“Dewey!” Eagle shouted as he broke into a run.
Luke was racing right beside him.
Both men veered toward the pool of deep shadows out of which the sounds of the struggle were issuing. As they drew closer, murky forms became discernible—the huge cougar, eyes blazing like white-hot coals, on top of the flailing man, mauling him, trying to drag him away.
“Throw the lantern!” Luke shouted. “Aim it as close as you can to give us some light!”
Eagle didn’t hesitate to do as instructed. The lantern arced end over end through the air and hit the ground mere inches behind the digging hind paws of the big cat. Glass shattered and a blossom of instantly ignited coal oil flared out, spreading onto the stubbled grass that grew across this end of the canyon floor. Ol’ Rip roared and mauled more frantically than ever, refusing to let go of that which he had claimed for his own. Whether from the fire licking around his legs or from the attacking cougar—or both—Dewey was shrieking in concert.
With his arm extended, the borrowed Remington gripped steady in his fist, Eagle said, “I still can’t get a clear shot—not without the risk of hittin’ Dewey!”
Luke was locked in a similar pose and frozen by the same dilemma. But he didn’t stay frozen for very long. Shifting the Remington from his right hand to his left, he hurled himself forward. At the same time, he reached back with his temporarily emptied hand and filled it anew, wrapping it around the bone handle of the ten-inch Bowie knife that rode in a sheath just behind the holster on that side. He jerked the Bowie free and swung it ahead of himself as he ran.
Reaching the struggling forms on the edge of the burning grass, Luke launched himself over the flames in a flying tackle, twisting his upper body so that his left shoulder slammed into the ribs of the attacking cougar. The impact drove Ol’ Rip off the screaming, flailing Dewey and sent him rolling and twisting away. Luke’s momentum carried him with the cat, his face pressed hard against its fetid fur, his knife slashing wildly, blindly, as he himself kicked and twisted to try and keep clear of the slashing talons of the hind legs.
This new entanglement of man and beast tumbled to the ground, unavoidably wrapped together. The cougar was shrieking in continuous rage, fangs bared and claws blurred in constant motion, seeking desperately to sink into flesh and muscle, to maim and rip in keeping with the name bestowed upon it. Luke, trying to kick free from these savage threats, kept stabbing and slicing with the Bowie. He also continued to grip the Remington in his left fist but writhing and struggling at such close quarters wasn’t allowing him any chance to get the muzzle turned in order to squeeze off a shot.
But then, suddenly, he didn’t need to. His Remington spoke. Once, twice, in rapid succession. Only it wasn’t the Remington in his hand, he realized—it was the one he’d loaned to Eagle. And with each wonderful-sounding roar, the body of the cougar slamming and grinding against him spasmed and jerked away, diverted from the intensity of the struggle they were locked in. When a third shot split the night, Luke could feel a great shudder pass the full length of Ol’ Rip. Then the big cat’s body went completely limp and all Luke could think about was kicking and shoving frantically to get out from under its smothering weight and to get clear of the hot blood running down over him . . .
Chapter 18
“He finally lifted his head in a way that gave me the opening to take a shot,” Tom Eagle was explaining for the third or fourth time, still flushed with excitement. “But it was Luke who did the hard work—him and his knife. He had Ol’ Rip wore down and sluggish to the point of providin’ me that opening.”
Luke rolled his eyes. “If that critter was worn down and sluggish, it sure as blazes wasn’t noticeable to me,” he said. “But if you insist on giving me part of the credit, I’m too tired to argue.”
They were once again under the encampment’s big canopy. Sounds of the commotion that ensued from the unexpected encounter with Ol’ Rip had brought several of the others racing down the canyon, brandishing rifles and lanterns. The big cat had been dispatched by the time they got there, but their assistance with the injuries to Luke and Dewey was most welcome.
Luke, though battered and scraped from head to toe, was able to stand and walk on his own. Dewey, however, had been torn up considerably worse. For him, Betty Barlow had
gone running back to fetch a blanket that they loaded the mauled man on and used like a stretcher to get him returned to the camp.
Dewey was now sprawled on the split log table with Jonathan and Edna Wray giving care to his numerous gashes and bites. The Wrays made an efficient team. Once the worst of the bleeding wounds were sufficiently stanched and cleaned, Jonathan’s leather-stitching skills got put to use closing the lacerations and then Edna applied healing salve and dressings. Copious amounts of whiskey poured down the patient’s gullet dulled his pain as much as possible, but it also increased his state of delusion. He kept rambling about Rebs boiling over the rise, and to him, the shrieks made by Ol’ Rip during his attack had been the infamous Rebel yell that chilled and left haunting memories ingrained in many a Yankee veteran of the late war.
While Mr. and Mrs. Wray were taking care of Dewey, Luke was being tended to by Dinah Mercer. He was seated a ways down the table from where the other treatment was taking place, stripped to the waist, while the attractive former café owner cleaned his wounds, having already announced that none appeared in need of stitches.
A handful of others were clustered around, holding lanterns high to provide illumination for the work being done, looking on anxiously and listening to hear more about what had happened. Tom Eagle was prominent in their midst, proving more than willing to fill in the details.
“Wading into Ol’ Rip with nothing but a knife—that ranks right up there with one of the nerviest displays I ever heard tell of,” stated Whit Barlow, one of those gathered close. He paused, then cocked one eyebrow slyly before adding, “Comes to a display of good sense, though, Jensen . . . on that front, I can’t say as I’d rate it quite so high.”
Everybody had a good chuckle over that, including Luke. “Friend, I couldn’t agree with you more,” he told Barlow.
Their laughter was cut short by an elongated groan of pain—partly physical, partly mental—issued by Dewey Akron. Glancing in his direction, Tom Eagle said, “Well, I’ll tell you one person who for certain don’t care what anybody calls what Luke did. Nervy or lacking good sense, either way, you can bet that Dewey is plenty grateful for it.”
“Maybe so,” Luke allowed. “But don’t shortchange yourself in the process, Sheriff. After all, it was your pistol shots that had the final say on Ol’ Rip and saved Dewey and me both from getting torn apart worse than we did.”
“Expressing your gratitude is a commendable thing,” remarked Dinah Mercer as she leaned close to tighten one of Luke’s bandages into place. “So long as you remember that the sheriff didn’t keep you entirely from damage. You need to keep a close eye on these wounds to make sure no infection starts to set in.”
“Aw, Luke’s too tough to worry about a piddly little thing like that,” Eagle scoffed. “More like if Ol’ Rip had managed to slip away and run off back up into the hills, then maybe he would’ve been the one needin’ to worry about infection from chompin’ into Luke.”
This got another smattering of laughter, but Dinah’s expression remained quite serious as her eyes gazed directly into Luke’s, their faces only a few inches apart.
“The possibility of infection is no joking matter,” she said. “That applies not only to what the cougar did to you but also to those other cuts on your face from some kind of earlier encounter.”
Luke involuntarily touched the area she was referring to, the pitting to his cheek that was the result of tombstone and bullet shrapnel striking him when he’d made his escape dash through the church cemetery. “These?” he said, frowning. “I got the bleeding stopped on these several hours ago.”
“I can see that. I can also see that the bleeding may have stopped but some of the fragments that caused it are still embedded in the flesh. It appears some are bits of stone. But others, unless I’m mistaken, are bits of lead from a bullet slug. Did you realize that?”
“I’m aware of how it happened,” Luke answered. “And yeah, a fragmented bullet could be part of it.”
Dinah’s gaze remained steady. “Then I expect you’re also aware of the dangers of lead poisoning?”
“Hey, come on, Dinah,” said Eagle, taking a more serious interest in the exchange. “You’re gettin’ a little carried away, ain’t you? This fella just survived a tussle with a mountain lion, for cryin’ out loud. You think a few scratches on his cheek pose some kind of serious worry for him?”
Jane Eagle, moving up beside her husband, said, “Dinah knows what she’s doing, and what she’s saying only makes sense. If there’s even the slightest risk of infection from those cuts, why not treat it?”
“I’ve got some tweezers in my tent that I could fetch for digging out that lead,” said Dinah. “Getting it out of there and then treating the wound with some salve would be the safest way.”
Luke winced. “Digging chunks of lead out of my face might be a safe idea to you, but you’ll excuse me if I say it doesn’t sound particularly pleasant to me.”
Dinah arched the smooth line of one eyebrow. “A valiant cougar wrestler like you concerned about me doing a little probing with a pair of tweezers? Come now, Mr. Jensen, think of your reputation.”
“I tried speakin’ up for you, pal. But,” said Eagle, casting a wary glance over at his wife, “but I think we’re both losin’ ground here. Probably be best for you to go ahead and get that took care of. You’ve still got to skin out of those wet duds, too, and I need to arrange some kind of sleepin’ quarters for you. I can see to that while Dinah finishes fixin’ you up.”
Luke let out a resigned sigh. He said to Dinah, “All right. Looks like you win. Go fetch your digging tools and let’s get it over with. It’s not like I’ve got to worry about you spoiling my good looks.”
Dinah smiled. “I’ll do my best not to scar you up too hideously. But for the best results, how about you come with me to my tent? The lighting will be better there and I’ve got everything I’ll need in addition to the tweezers.” She glanced up at Eagle. “Maybe the sheriff could have someone bring you a clean, dry shirt after he lays out the rest of your gear?”
“Sure. I’ll do that,” Eagle agreed.
To Luke, Dinah said, “You can also bring along this other shirt we took off you. I’ll have a look at it for possible mending, but from what I saw, I’m afraid it may be too badly ripped to save.”
“I appreciate all of this attention, ma’am, but you really don’t have to go to so much trouble,” Luke told her.
“And you didn’t have to go to the trouble you did to help save Dewey, which was far more extreme than anything I’m offering. Yet you did,” Dinah replied. “People helping each other in times of need is what gives us hope to continue on. It’s really that simple, and ought not be considered anything particularly special.”
Luke regarded her. She was indeed an attractive woman. Middle thirties, average height, trimly built with high, firm breasts pushing against the front of the crisp white blouse she wore. A face more bold and handsome rather than delicately beautiful; full lips and deep, rich brown eyes all surrounded by a swirl of wheat blond hair.
“That’s a real nice sentiment,” he said to her. “You’ll have to pardon me for not having had much exposure to that sort of outlook. The kind of owlhoots I spend too much time around see other folks, especially in times of need, as being that much weaker and more vulnerable for the plucking.”
“So is that why you do what you do? Hunt down owlhoots, as you call them, in order to stop them from preying on others?”
Luke didn’t respond right away. Then: “I’d be less than truthful if I denied that the money I collect for bringing in fugitives is mostly why I do what I do. But I’d like to believe that in the process, I’m also doing some good in a broader sense.”
“Of course you are,” Dinah insisted. “The removal of dangerous men and the threat they pose to good, honest people—no matter your motives—can only be viewed as something worthwhile.”
A corner of Luke’s mouth lifted in a wry smile. “You wouldn’t
have to travel very far to get an argument on that, ma’am. A lot of folks see bounty hunters like me as little more than hired guns operating on a thin edge of the law and being not too far removed from those they track down.”
Dinah gave a dismissive sniff. “I’ve heard such talk. Not about you, but bounty hunters in general. I have a stubborn habit, however, of not letting the viewpoints of others make up my mind for me. You see, I have traveled far enough to know that people—even decent, well-meaning ones—can sometimes be petty and narrow-minded.”
Another loud groan from Dewey caused everyone’s attention to once more swing in that direction. After the tormented man settled back down again, it suddenly dawned on both Luke and Dinah that their conversation had become focused largely to the exclusion of the others around them. This brought a faint flush to Dinah’s cheeks as she squared her shoulders and said, “If we’re going to attend to getting that lead dug out, we’d best get to it then. I should try to be back here when Mr. and Mrs. Wray are done stitching and patching Dewey. Sometimes, when he’s having one of his episodes, I’m able to help soothe him.”
“Yeah,” said Luke. “I can see how you’d have a soothing effect on a man.”
She averted her eyes in response and her flush deepened.
“You two go ahead,” Eagle urged them, unable to hold back a faintly amused expression. “I’ll get that dry shirt sent along directly.”
Chapter 19
“All I wanna know is what am I supposed to be running around here—a mining operation, or a recruitment center for hired guns?”
Mace Vernon was unhappy and wasn’t holding back on expressing his feelings. A tall, ruggedly built man of forty, he stood with his feet planted wide and his square slab of a chin jutted out defiantly below a scowling ledge of furry brows and intense blue eyes. In his meaty hands he held a short-billed cloth cap that he’d jerked off his headful of sandy hair when he entered Roland Dixon’s office. As he spoke, he was twisting and wringing the cap like he wished it was somebody’s neck.
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