Seasons of Glory

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  In her mind’s eye, Glory saw herself kicking at his jaw and knocking him out. Or leaping out of her saddle onto his chest, stunning him and knocking him to the ground. She’d try for his gun, of course, but couldn’t depend on coming up with it. What if it went flying? Or if he came up with it? She shook her head. No, she couldn’t risk that. If she got it, great. If not, she’d better be ready with her rope.

  A stab of doubt caught Glory off guard. All of a sudden it seemed to her there were too many details, too many events she couldn’t control, things that could go wrong. And not the least of her worries was that once she successfully got away from Justice, she’d have to find her way back to that squatter’s shack, in case no one had found Biddy and Mrs. Thorne yet. But she’d have to do it on a tired horse. In the dark. Alone.

  Girlish fear cramped Glory’s stomach muscles. She’d never been out on the prairie at night by herself before. But well she knew the nasty sorts of hungry creatures that hunted—sometimes in packs—an easy meal in the moon’s light. That decided it for her. She couldn’t wait until tonight, couldn’t wait for Justice to decide to stop. Couldn’t think about her grand plan to ride for Mexico with vengeance in her heart, like Jacey had done, if she was afraid to be out alone after dark.

  Glory pushed that future worry out of her mind, concentrating instead on her more immediate problem. Abel Justice. Checking the sun’s position again, she calculated she had another hour or two of daylight left. Which would put them a good three to four hours away from home by the time Justice stopped to make camp later. She couldn’t risk that, so she had to create her own opportunity—she had to act now.

  First, she looked heavenward, sending up a silent prayer. Then she blinked, realizing what she was doing. Was it okay to pray to God to help you kill someone? Probably not. She looked heavenward again, this time praying for courage, strength, and His will. There. She’d done all she could do. Another deep breath, and she’d be ready. Glory clutched the rope in her fear-slickened palms, ignored her pounding heart, and opened her mouth, preparing to call out to Abel Justice—

  He jerked around to face her, hauling back on his buckskin’s reins. Daisy, as well-mannered as always, stopped, too. But Glory’s eyes popped open wide. She very nearly screamed. Had he read her mind?

  “Did you hear that?” the tracker called back to her, his voice sharp with attentiveness, his gaze roving the landscape they’d only just traveled.

  Glory let out her breath. He’d heard something. He heard something?! Someone was coming. Glory allowed hope to fill her heart, to light up the dark and despairing places in its corners. But only for a moment. Riley was coming. And Abel Justice would kill him. No! She’d waited too long to act. And now Riley would die, too, because of her.

  She couldn’t let that happen. So, thinking to mask a rider’s approach, she quickly shook her head. “No. I didn’t hear anything. And I still don’t.”

  Justice waved her to silence, cocked his head at a listening angle. Glory mimicked his pose. And strained her hearing. At first, nothing came to her. Then she heard it. Far away. No, it was nothing. There! Was that—? Glory almost forgot herself and raised her hands to her throat to massage it, since it insisted on trying to close. She gripped her pommel tighter, pivoted more in her saddle. And heard it again. This time, there was no doubt. She concentrated on the hoarse pinprick of sound, tried to identify it.

  Then she had it. Shock straightened her atop Daisy. There was no doubt in her mind. That was the baying of a hound. And not just any hound. That was … dear God, could it be true? … Old Pete’s Skeeter.

  Goose bumps swept over Glory’s skin. She swallowed convulsively, blinked back tears. Skeeter was coming. Glory shot Justice a look. Miracle of miracles, he gave no indication of having heard anything beyond that first time. Glory almost cried out in triumph. Her mind began to race. She had to do something to keep Justice from hearing the dog for as long as possible. But what?

  How about what she did best? Talking. Before she lost her courage, Glory blurted, “At the shack back there, with Carter Brown”—at her mention of his late partner’s name, Justice riveted her with a look that rivaled a bald eagle’s for intensity—“before you killed him, you said something to him that’s had me thinking.”

  He didn’t even blink. Didn’t move. “What?”

  But Glory blinked. She shifted her weight in the saddle, too, remembering to keep the coiled rope atop her saddle-horn-clutching hands. And said the first thing that came to her mind. “You said you ‘messed up’ when you … killed my father—umm, J. C. Lawless. What’d you mean by that?”

  Justice’s expression changed to that of a tattling child, his voice whined. “It wasn’t just me. I ain’t takin’ all the blame. There was four of us sent here. But it was to nab you and the Lawless girls and take you back to Señor Calderon. We wasn’t supposed to kill nobody.”

  A cold fury swept Glory. She leaned forward in her saddle, yelling, “You liar! First you say Papa was killed because of me. And now you say you weren’t supposed to kill him. Which is it? And why’d you kill my mother? And Old Pete and all his animals? How could you be so cruel?”

  Justice pulled back, looked surprised, and began shaking his head. “We didn’t kill no one but J. C. Them others did all that other killing. And that’s the truth. They killed that old man and them animals. We seen ’em do it. They killed yer ma, too. Not us. Don’t you go tellin’ Señor Calderon we did, neither.”

  Glory met his words with a stunned silence. She looked at him. She saw him. Certainly, he hadn’t moved. But she couldn’t shake the terrifying impression that he was rapidly moving away from her, and all the while was speaking in a language she’d never heard before. “What others?”

  Justice shrugged and sat up straighter. “Some dandies from back East. The four of us ambushed ’em up in the hills and killed ’em. Went through their stuff. Found a little painting of some pretty lady on one of ’em. Rafferty kept it, took it back to Mexico with him. We found some fancy papers on ’em, too, but tossed ’em away. All’s we kept was their money and their horses. This here buckskin’s one of ’em.”

  Glory could only stare at Abel Justice. She and her sisters had never considered that Mama and Papa had been killed separately by different murderers with entirely different motives. But it appeared Hannah and Jacey were both right. Mama’s family must have had her killed. And Papa’s outlaw past in Arizona had caught up with him. And both on the same day. Glory finally roused herself enough to order, “Tell me about the spur.”

  Justice sat up and took a deep breath. “All right, but you listen good, so’s you can tell Señor Calderon how it happened. Because I don’t cotton to bein’ separated from my life for something that weren’t my fault. It ain’t fair.”

  Glory’s head snapped forward. She stared wide-eyed at the killer. “Fair? You dare talk about fair? Why, I’ve never known such a low-down person as yourself—to hide behind God and call yourself a Christian, like you did when you first came around. You weren’t up at Papa’s grave paying your respects that day Skeeter cornered you. You’re the one who killed him. You’re the one who pulled the trigger—or you wouldn’t be so worried about facing Calderon, just like Carter Brown said. I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “Why, you little whore bitch. I’ll cut them ropes off you and pull you off that horse and beat you to death. I swear I will.” Abel Justice dismounted with a jump to the ground. Reaching under his coat, he quickly produced a wicked-looking knife and advanced on Glory.

  Who reacted on pure instinct. From her superior position atop her horse, she threw the harmless rope at him, saw his start of surprise—no doubt at learning she’d untied herself—and used that moment to clutch Daisy’s coarse chestnut mane, and dig her heels into the mare’s sides. Yelling and kicking, Glory startled her horse into a sidestepping dance that had her bumping Justice’s buckskin. Instantly panicked, he showed the whites of his eyes and erupted into a dust-stirring, hoof-flashing, bucking me
lee that took Glory and Daisy with him.

  With no reins to control her mount, all Glory could do was grip the mare’s belly with her legs and hold onto her handfuls of mane. And pray that the grunting, squealing buckskin would bolt and run off, leaving Justice here. But maddeningly, the terrified horse didn’t. Instead, he made one outraged and bucking circle after another.

  Dizzy from this dangerous dance, jerked and snapped about until she felt like a pudding sack of loose bones, Glory glimpsed only flashes of Abel Justice. Fleeting images of him, crouched and circling, dodging kicking hooves, and taking slashing swipes at the horses with his long-bladed knife settled themselves in her mind’s eye. That same detached and functioning part of Glory’s brain warned her that if he connected, if he cut one of the horses, no doubt it would rear, perhaps topple them all, and throw her.

  She’d no more than thought it before Justice proved to be the least of her worries. Because the buckskin, with yet another panicked toss of his head, sent his trailing reins cutting through the air. Glory saw them … time slowed … she opened her mouth to scream. The buckskin lowered his head … and stepped on his reins. He went down hard. Glory stiffened as Daisy jerked back in reaction, but tied as she was to the fallen horse’s saddle horn, the little mare never had a chance. Her screaming squeal as she went to her knees matched Glory’s as she went sailing over her horse’s head.

  I’ve been thrown. I’m going to die. The thought was so clear, so calm. And brought Glory down to the earth, to a thickly grassed, soft and sandy patch of ground. She didn’t die. She didn’t even pass out. But she did slide and scrape and roll and thump to a mind-numbing stop, ending up on her back, spread-eagled—stunned, hurting all over, and staring up at the sky. She blinked. The blue overhead was replaced with Abel Justice’s ugly face as he invaded her line of vision. He stood over her, straddling her, his big knife in his hand.

  And there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. Especially with the earth spinning like it was. Glory grimaced. What was that loud ringing in her ears? And why were those horses screaming? She thought she heard a dog’s baying, too. But she couldn’t be sure, not over the sound of Abel Justice’s raised voice.

  Gesturing angrily with his wicked blade, his face red and contorted, he leaned over her, a triumphant gloat riding his ugly features. “You ain’t so high and mighty now, are you? You want the truth? Here’s the truth—I killed J. C. Lawless. Me. An’ I’ll be famous for it, too. I surprised him in his own house and shot him—whilst he was bending over his dead wife. I’d have killed her too if she’d still been alive.

  “That’s your truth, little girl. An’ I weren’t lying before—they’re dead because of you, all right. Because J. C. Lawless killed The Kid over you—nothing but a whining, sniveling orphan. The Kid shoulda dealt with you right then—the same way he did yer folks. But now it’s up to me to do it. And Señor Calderon will thank me for it.”

  With that, he drew his arm back in a vicious arc, sparking a star-bright glint of reflected sunlight off his sharp blade. Glory’s eyes widened. Her mind cleared, understanding dawned. If she didn’t do something—and right now—he was going to kill her. But the thought had no time to translate to action before Justice began the downward arc—a knife-wielding arc that would end at her chest.

  “No!” Glory cried out, crooking an arm up in a defensive posture. It was all she could do, what with him dropping down atop her, a knee gouging into her belly. Helpless, seeing lightning-flash images of home, of Mama and Papa—happy and alive, of Hannah and Jacey, and Biddy … and Riley … Riley, I love you … cross her vision, Glory waited for the pain, waited for death.

  But it didn’t come. Instead, a snarling growl … a solid thud … a man’s hoarse yell … and Justice’s weight lifted off her. Stunned, not quite convinced she was still alive, Glory lay there a moment. Then scared reaction sat her up. Breathing shallowly through her mouth, turning her focus inward, she took mental stock of herself, and realized she was okay. Unhurt. But her split skirt was twisted annoyingly around her legs.

  She tugged at its folds, but caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. Her hands stilled as she looked more to her right. There, a little ways off, stood Daisy and the buckskin. Their coats were lathered and dirt-streaked. Their heads drooped tiredly as they blew and snorted, but miraculously they appeared to be fine. Glory slumped. A smile of thankful relief tugged at her mouth—

  But died when a man’s hoarse scream behind her forced a yelp of surprise out of her. Glory twisted around, flattened a palm on the grassy hilltop to brace herself, and found a pitched battle of flailing arms and legs and flapping ears and stiff tail. Her breath caught, her jaw sagged. She put a hand over her thumping heart. Skeeter!

  Instantly, her mind latched onto the obvious—the hound had knocked Justice off her before the evil little man could kill her. Old Pete’s hound had saved her life. And now, the big dog had Justice down on the ground, on his back—and twisting and digging his bootheels into the dirt as he crabbed spasmodically and helplessly in the hound’s grip. Again, his piercing screams and pleas for help split the air.

  Glory looked closer. Skeeter’s powerful jaws were clamped around the man’s arm. With vicious shakes of his head, he effectively tore at the coat sleeve covering flesh and bone. No doubt some of the dog’s long, sharp teeth had broken through. But it wasn’t the killer’s knife arm he’d bitten down on.

  Glory’s breath caught. Skeeter needed her help. Tripping once, clawing at the ground, she finally scrambled to her feet. She saw Justice raise the knife and stab desperately at, but miss, the tugging hound. Not while I’m alive! Sucking in a vengeful breath, Glory—skirt flying, hands fisted—quickly closed the distance between herself and the two combatants. And leaped into the fray.

  * * *

  Son-of-a-bitch! Riley’s heart pitched over with what he was seeing. Up ahead, on the crest of a low and grassy rise, was the woman he loved—and Skeeter—rolling around in the dirt with Abel Justice, who flashed a pretty big knife. Riley didn’t wait to see more. He dug his heels into Pride’s belly, urging the gelding into a gallop. The horse responded instantly with a burst of speed that chewed up the ground at a dizzying pace.

  Almost before he knew it, Riley was atop the same hill as the grunting, snarling battle. He hauled back on Pride’s reins. Before the horse could shudder to a stiff-legged, dust-raising halt, Riley shook loose of his stirrups and vaulted out of the saddle. He hit the ground running, never taking his eyes off Glory as he yanked his Stetson off and his heavy saddle coat, tossing them both aside. He wanted nothing to hamper his movements.

  Then his heart nearly stopped, his feet stumbled. “No!” he cried, stretching a hand out as if he could prevent—Too late. He jerked to a standing halt, not believing this. Justice and Glory and Skeeter rolled as one over the hill’s crest and disappeared down its far and sloping side. Out of Riley’s sight.

  With fear and exertion clamping his teeth together, Riley bolted into flight again. He thought of his gun. Dismissed the notion. Might hit Glory. He could fire it in the air, get their attention. No. Not with that knife flashing between them. Had to get the knife, had to get Justice. Riley pictured grabbing Glory first to haul her to safety.

  Every protective urge in his body screamed at him to do it. But if he did, then for long and vulnerable seconds, he and she’d both be wide-open targets for the killer’s knife. No, had to get Justice. Had to avoid Skeeter, too. Lost in his blood lust, the dog might attack anyone who came within range of his sharp teeth.

  With those thought-bursts carrying him to the hill’s crest, Riley topped it and started over, his arms out to his sides for balance. Half slipping, half sliding, with the crunch of gravelly ground under his boots announcing his progress, he prepared to join the battle. And to end it.

  But before he’d descended more than half the distance, he saw Glory shove to her feet—her back to him—and haul a knifeless, bloodied, and limp-limbed Justice up with her. Skeeter circ
led, snapping and lunging at the hired killer’s legs, as Glory fisted her hand, drew her arm back and, with a mighty grunt of effort, windmilled a punch right to the man’s jaw and sent him sprawling.

  Startled into stopping where he was, Riley stared openmouthed, splitting his gaze between the downed man, the bristling dog hunched threateningly over him, and the triumphant Glory. Seeing that Justice wouldn’t be getting up anytime soon, Riley settled his disbelieving gaze and his tender smile on Glory.

  The little hothead was shaking her right hand and rubbing her knuckles. No doubt she’d just learned that brawling hurt either way—if you got hit or did the hitting. She then leaned over, bent her knees slightly, and rested her hands atop them, allowing her head to droop tiredly between her shoulders. Her long auburn braid, all but undone, hung over her shoulder and swung gently as her back arched and sagged with each deep breath.

  Undone by the sight of her, by the depth of his love for her, Riley quietly folded his arms over his chest and shook his head. His little champion. She’d kicked Justice’s ass. Riley suddenly recalled an afternoon several weeks ago when she’d done the same thing to him. That thought evoked a smirking grin out of him. He’d best be careful how he let her know he was here. She might jump him too.

  A lump settled in his throat, and seemed to make his eyes want to water. Riley’s mouth worked, finally settling on a manly grimace. He dragged a finger under his nose in a rough gesture and, feeling more in control, broke his silence. “Glory?”

  She gasped as she straightened up and turned to him. For long moments, she stared up at him, didn’t move. Behind her and to her left, Riley caught a glimpse of Skeeter. He too had raised his head and was staring. Riley shifted his gaze back to Glory, only to see her crumple in on herself. A tender emotion tugged at his heart, pulled at the corners of his mouth. Here it came—reaction to everything she’d been through.

  He started down the hill toward her, saw her hold her arms out to him and begin to run. “Riley!” she called as she stumbled and staggered up the hill. Riley broke into a loping sprint, meeting her with his own arms open, ready to embrace her. Glory never slowed. Her arms outstretched, the raw, abraded skin over her wrists exposed, she ran right into his arms.