Dangerous Waters

by Amy J. Fetzer

  "Your guesses are Goddamn gospel." He let go of the horse. "Find him."

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  Amy J. Fetzer

  "I'll have daylight in a few hours," she said, controlling the nervous mount. "He's bleeding, bad from what I can tell, and he can't get that far with the old mining roads already barricaded, but that depends on where Cole wounded him." And if he even took the roads. She looked at Mark, a half dozen cops behind him itching to tear her from the saddle. "You swore me in to cover your butt," she said leaning down and plucking the star from his jacket pocket. "You can't stop me," she warned and cops grumbled, strapping on bulletproof vests. Hell, they'd spend the next hour deciding who was chief and who were Indians. "This area levels off til about five miles north to a forest, then a mountain that's rocky as hell, before sinking into a valley." She pointed west and Mark nodded, agreeing with her geography. ' 'I suggest you get beyond it and I'll try to send him to you." Men with badges, all at once, tried destroying her strategy. "Listen up!" she said, her natu­rally deep voice cutting through the noise. "I tracked him for over a mile before you guys showed. My marker will be easy to spot with NVG's." She pulled the goggles from her pack. "If he gets into that valley, we'll lose him. Come in behind me. I don't care." She jammed her sweat stained cowboy hat on her head. ' 'But at least give me a coupie hours before your flashlight toting volunteers blind me."

  "One hour," Mark conceded. "And you have to keep radio contact." Voices scratched over the hand set he offered.

  "Forget it. What if he's got one tuned to your freque?" She kneed the mare, forcing them to back away or be trampled. "He's outsmarted the finest criminologist on eleven kills, and I'll be damned if I'm gonna get my throat cut because you want a pre-game report." She didn't give them anymore oppor­tunities to delay her and sauntered around police officers hov­ering over grid maps. They were her friends and they were giving her this hunt time.

  Staring at her retreating back, Mark opened his mouth to argue the risk, but Jack stopped him. "Trust my girl, Daniels. She can get into places your boys can't, and you know it. Vic won't let us down."

  "She's just a woman, Palau."

  Jack smirked. "Since when?"

  She heard that and let the sting of it slide off like water, focusing on the hunt. The squawk of radios and rolling blue lights made the horse dance and in the dark, Victoria paused beside a black and white, staring down at the slightly over­weight officer as he lifted his gaze, his eyes rimmed red and

  swollen.

  Sgt. Alien blinked, straightening. "You're going?" "I let him get away, Randy." Her voice was flat. He took a step closer, reaching for her. "I'm not blaming

  you."

  "I know," came softly as she grasped his hand. She thought of sweet Lisa Alien and all who'd be destroyed if she died— this man here, his daughter's young husband and family, her friends. God, if it were me, no one would suffer. She leaned down in the saddle, pecking a kiss to his ruddy cheek. * 'I swear I'll bring him in," she whispered. "Dead or alive."

  She let go and reined around, heading north, melting into the darkness with a psychopath on the run.

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  Chapter Two

  1872

  Colorado Territory

  Marshal Christopher Swift caught the dirty twelve-year-old boy by the shirt collar, yanking him off the back stairs to the saloon. He let him dangle off the ground in sheer panic as he glared up at the painted half-naked woman standing on the landing.

  "Ain't none of your business, Marshal." Her hand on her hip, her slippered foot tapped out her impatience. He!l it was. "You ought to have enough sense, Dee." She snorted indelicately and sauntered into the cat house, hips swaying as she half-heartedly dragged the dressing gown up over her bare shoulders.

  Christopher turned his attention to the boy, shaking him once before releasing him. He smelled like old potatoes, his hair so filthy it stuck out around his head like tumble weed. The lad shrugged his shirt into place, his gaze darting beyond the mar­shal to the hulking deputy leaning against the support post, using an Arkansas tooth pick to clean his teeth.

  "You ain't gonna tell, are you, Marshal?"

  "I might."

  Horror struck across the boy's face. And Chris sighed, wish­ing he could do something for this wild child. "If I see you within twenty yards of this place, I'll squeal to your Pa."

  The boy blinked. "Then I can git?"

  The marshal inclined his head and the boy took off-like a pistol shot, and Chris watched him go.

  Noble Beecham sucked his teeth, then said, "What'd you 'spect from one of Vel's girls?"

  Only his eyes shifted to the deputy. "Not to offer to make

  him a man."

  "Dang." Noble looked longingly toward the staircase. "I

  wish Dee'd give me a freebee." Chris's gaze sharpened. "Take the walk, deputy, and check

  on the men,"

  With a lazy look in his direction, Noble flipped the long collapsible blade around and slid it into the sheath at his waist, then nodded and pushed away from the post.

  ' 'Can't Daddy them all, Chris,'' drifted softly to the marshal, "That's a boy without a Ma when he needs one the most." "You're too soft," he murmured on the breeze. Too soft. If he were, he'd have let the boy go with the whore. Striding out of the alley, Chris moved down the street, testing the doors of locked shops, peering in alleys. He and Noble traded the walk, a show of presence against any trouble, though he had fifteen deputies stationed throughout his town. His. What a laugh. He was no more a part of this city than if he'd been born here. Buggies and buck boards filled with families on their way home rattled down the street. Music colored the early evening air. The owner of the mercantile turned his key and jiggled the doors as two women, their purchases tucked against their chests, walked to their buggy. He tipped his hat in acknowl­edgement. They responded with only a giggle and a polite nod. He quit expecting more and strode on.

  "Don't blame Dee, Marshal. She thought she was doing the

  kid a favor."

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  Chris stopped to look up at the robust redhead hanging out the window with damn-near everything else she owned. Chris tipped his hat. ' 'Evening, Vel.'' ' 'Hell if it is. Got three of my best girls up here bored enough to play cards!" she said with false indignation. Her smile was wide and inviting as her gaze raked his long body. ' 'Wanna amuse them?" "Not tonight."

  "Like you ever have." She laughed, her plump breasts nearly spilling from the tightly taced corset. "You know, Marshal, gets mighty lonely with just that horse for company."

  Chris glanced to the side, at the black beast waiting in the center of the street like an obedient puppy. "I do all right."

  "Then you got to have one helluva rock between those handsome thighs, honey!" His lips curved. "You're shameless, Vel." "Ain't a whore 'posed to be?"

  He grinned, a flash of white teeth. She was honest and kind, and Red Velvet Knight made no bones about who or what she was. And she had to be the happiest harlot in the territory. " 'Night, Marshall."

  Lightly he touched the brim of his hat and moved on. He never patronized Vel's place, not that he didn't have the urge, but he believed he'd lose a whole lot of respect if folks saw the marshal with a whore. Besides, if he wanted to lie with a woman he rode to the next town, to the sweet Widow Bingham. Angela was his age, attractive, independent, and after fifteen years with an abusive husband, she wasn't ready to have any man in her life. They had an understanding—no tips, no future expectations, just polite conversation and discreet comfortable sex. But that was just it. It was blandly comfortable—no pas­sion, no earth shattering kisses or sensual teasing. Only a release.

  Chris wanted more, from himself and from a woman. And it made him ache. A lot.

  Crashing glass cut through his thoughts, and he paused before

  the
Pearl Handled Saloon. A bit noisy for the week night, and he noticed the heavy number of miners and cowboys fresh from the range, all drinking whiskey like water.

  Damn.

  He'd enough trouble keeping a lid on the tempers in the last week and didn't need his jail filled with drunk cow punchers. Better let Noble know, he thought as he turned back. He was in no mood to clean up this mess tonight.

  , With the leads in her hand, Victoria bent and gripped the leaf, rubbing her thumb over the membrane. Wet, tacky. She brought her hand to her nose and the metallic scent of blood filled her head.

  Memories came, and with them, the rage.

  It pushed her, fast and furious, ahead of the rest.

  Straightening, she lifted the heavy cyborg looking night vision goggles to her eyes and scanned. The darkness bright­ened, but she knew she wouldn't see him. He was too far ahead, but in about an hour, she'd be climbing up his ass.

  He was bleeding, bad, but she still couldn't tell from where. Obviously it wasn't enough for him to stop. She hoped it was

  his head.

  / have to quit that She was letting him get to her, pecking at her anger, clouding her thinking. But she kept remembering Cole, attractive, brawny, a girl's dream of a rescuer, and stone cold dead. Must have pricked his heart to die that fast.

  Clearing the image, she focused on the trail. Tracking was slow, and she couldn't rely on a few blood stains. His bleeding would eventually stop. But the soft earth was enough to mark his staggering foot prints, a bent twig, a patch of over-turned pebbles. He'd stumbled here, she thought, going down on one knee, his depression like a skid mark in the dirt. It's amazing how distinctive a print Herme's shoes could make in the rich Colorado soil.

  Rising, she continued, her marker nearly four miles behind her and dawn climbing over her shoulder, daring her to get

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  DANGEROUS WATERS

  ahead of the cops. He would be weak and need water, she thought, shrugging out of her jacket and tossing it over the saddle.

  "Come on, girl," she urged, the horse obediently following, the pair heading north toward the trees sloping into a mountain­side. Briefly, she glanced back over her shoulder, squinting at the cop cars still surrounding the stockyard, a line of men like a dark string on the horizon. The posse's coming, she thought with a small smile.

  "We got to find him first, girl," she said to the horse as a chopper hovered over head. She made a circling motion, then pointed northwest. The craft rocked once, then headed off. Silently, she thanked Mark Daniels for the chance to redeem herself after screwing up and costing Cole his life. Her eyes burned suddenly and she shook off the grief, picking up the pace. Water. He'll need water.

  Victoria let go of the reins, allowing the horse to drink from the narrow stream as she strode up the bank, pebbles crunching beneath her boots. Ivy League was hurting, his wound either in his side or his ieg, point blank, the bullet likely passing straight through. And now blood was filling his shoes. Picking her way over a low cluster of holders, she put her hand out to brace herself and it immediately slid off the rock. She stared at her palm, coated with dark coagulated blood.

  "Bingo," she whispered, a little thrill running through her. She stooped to examine depressions in the soft wet gravel, marking a path up the shore line, then she straightened, frowning at the small water fall, her gaze slipping beyond to the gray rock face surrounding the tongue of water. 1 don't remember seeing that on the map, she thought. Working her way closer, she found more stains, more black heel scraps and turned rocks. Her feet braced on a wobbly plateau of rocks, she stared a few feet above her head at the water fountaining into a river like

  a crystal petal out to catch the dew, arching slightly before

  falling straight down in a hard rush.

  Okay, the stream could be just run off, but the National Park Service was better than Rand McNally at marking their maps. So why wasn't this fall on hers? And the mountain, a hill really, wasn't steep enough to generate such a strong spill. But hell

  if it didn't exist.

  She jammed her hand beneath the flow, letting the cool water sluice over her fingers before she cupped her palms and drank, slaking a thirst she didn't realize she'd had. Drying her hands on her jeans, she maneuvered back down to the bank, covering the ground twice to see if he went in another direction. Sloshing into the narrow river, she waded to her hips, not trusting the soft bottom to be shallower than she suspected and checked the opposite bank. Unmarred, except for a few animal tracks. Returning to the south bank, she retraced her path to the fall, certain his didn't lead anywhere else. He didn't climb over it or there would be at least blood or shoe marks on the jagged rock face. Then where the hell did he go? ; She concentrated, imagining his desperation and pain and that he might try to hide and wait it out. Her gaze snapped to his tracks, following them into the fall. Nan, too easy, she thought, immediately unsheathing her knife. Steadying her feet, she moved sideways, her back flush to the rock as she inched toward the spilling water. Preparing herself for the cold shock, she put up her arm to block some of the flow and ducked into the liquid curtain. She blinked, scanning.

  "Jesus Christ almighty," she whispered, then stepped for­ward, hunching to accommodate the cavern behind the fall, leaving her untouched by the flowing sheet of water. Inside, the rock gouge glistened with the soft back-spray, puddles of water marking the uneven floor. No foot prints. Sunlight and water cast a strange blue and yellow glow inside the cave. Must be quartz in the rock, she thought fleetingly as she swiped at the water dripping off her nose with her sleeve, then knelt, carefully studying the ground, the interior walls, her fingers grazing over jutting edges, then twisting them toward the light

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  Amy J. Fetzer

  to see if she'd found blood again. The wet spray melted the stain on her fingertip to pink. She smiled.

  Flicking her soggy pony tail over her shoulder, she stood, strangely lightheaded as she took a step forward, knife out. Bright light suddenly showered over her, like a clicked on light I bulb. Victoria stilled, frowning back at the water fall no less' than a yard from her touch, then to the open terrain spread out before her. Impossible, And she turned back, retracing her steps. When she returned to the point where she entered the fall, her horse was there, munching on grass, Ivy League's blood smeared over the rocks and grass, vivid and running. Drenching herself again, Victoria re-entered the fall, matching her steps and still coming to the same conclusion. The cave opened into the mountain, like a passageway. But it wasn't deep enough. , And it dropped sharply.

  She did a quick scan before she skidded down the hill, scattering dirt and pebbles, the immediate area unusually dry and dusty. She searched the ground, expecting to see more of his foot prints or a blood trail. But there was nothing, dammit. She dropped down on a bolder, her clothes giving off steam in the scorching heat. This was not good, she thought, pulling off her Timberline boots and pouring out water. Her wet jeans felt as heavy as her disappointment and she wrung out her hair, pushing aside confusion to logical thought. He came through the water fall and vanished. How? When? And if he was only a few hours ahead, where were his tracks? The wind couldn't have obliterated them in such a short time, aside from the fact that there wasn't much of a breeze.

  She glanced around, her gaze honing on the shape of the tree line, sparser than she first imagined, the jagged terrain stretching untouched for miles to the south down the mountain. She squinted, the sun's glare nearly blinding. It hasn't rained here in a while, she thought, shielding her eyes to look where she'd come. The gray mountain appeared as if a huge fist had slammed down on a giant pile of stone, leaving scatters of holders and small rocks. There was a strange familiarity about

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  the area that she couldn't place. Then her gaze lit on a dry mud smear on the stones around her. Frowning, she went down on her knees and gently scraped the rocks with her
knife, then slid her finger carefully across the blade. The substance was black and brittle, and she lifted another sample from the dirt. She sniffed, then sanded her fingers. It powdered and using the water dripping from her hair, she wet it, smudging it between her fingertip again. Oxidized, but it was blood.

  Uncaring of her stockinged feet, she searched on, bending over to the ground and picking up anything suspicious, examin­ing it carefully before discarding it. The under brush was dry, catching her clothes and when she turned to release her sleeve she found what she needed. Tiny bits of charcoal gray thread meshed over a short bush. And then she saw his foot prints, dragging.

  Those damned thousand dollar shoes, eh, Ivy League ? Can't do a crime without them.

  Herbs, pungent and wet, hung thickly on the evening air, the steaming swirl of their fragrance permeating the natural shelter of stone. A small fire hissed and popped, sending glittering sparks high into the trees. The creatures of the night painted the air with their calls, but Swift Arrow heard none of it, his body cradled on the skin of Mother Earth and his mind caught in a deep familiar dream. Sweat sheened his bare flesh, his breathing rapid with the wonder and confusion of sensations, the smells and textures of reality heavy in the story of the sleeping.

  He stood on the edge of his father's camp, his path barred to his family's lodge, a line of silent painted warriors shielding entry. His demands went unheeded and, outnumbered, he turned away and went home, to his place in the white world.

  But there, too, his way was blocked. He turned from street to alley, each path barred by men and women. He tried another path, but without success, then another and still another. He

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  could see his valley, his home in the distance, painfully empty and unreachable.

  A mountain lion, a cougar, appeared at his feet, circling him, baring its gleaming fangs. It reared before him, matching his height and swiped the air with a clawed paw, cutting three lines across his heart before the creature settled. Blood drenched his skin to his waist. The animal took a step away, stopped, then twisted its proud head to view him, before proceeding, the people parting for the great cat. The man-hunter led him, taking him home. The dream shifted suddenly to the mist of the dense forest, heavy and wet, a shimmer of unearthly light haloed in the distance. He heard strange sounds, like the whirl of a Spaniard's bolo, the constant rush of water and the call of distance voices. The tree rustled softly, but Swift Arrow did not move, poised for attack, his bow primed.