Stoner's Crossing

by Judith Pella

  Griff flexed his wounded arm to assure himself that he could hold out in a hand-to-hand fight if it came to that. The arm was sore and weak, but he could make a fist that he thought, from the looks of the aging Pollard, could hold its own.

  Griff quietly emptied his Colt, the remaining bullets dropping into his hand. Then he aimed and fired over the top of the rock toward the deputy. The empty click was loud enough to carry over the distance between the two hiding places. He hoped his feigned message was clear to Pollard.

  “Okay, Pollard, I’m ready to deal,” Griff yelled, covertly reloading his Colt as he spoke.

  Pollard chuckled. “That’s real smart of you, McCulloch, ‘cause I got enough ammo to hold out for days—and water, too.”

  “All right! You don’t have to rub it in. Are you gonna deal, or not?”

  “You bet. Just throw your weapons out where I can see ’em, then come out with your hands high.”

  “And what’s in it for me?”

  “Like I said, you can go free; all I want is the woman.”

  Griff hesitated long enough to slip out all the spare bullets from his holster belt, stashing them in his saddlebag in order to further the impression that he was out of ammo. Hopefully he’d be able to come back later for the bag and his saddle. Then he tossed his Sharps rifle out into the dirt, followed by his Colt. He aimed them to land just a few feet left of center so when he made his move they’d not be too far away.

  “Okay, now you, McCulloch,” ordered Pollard.

  “Yeah. Just remember, I’m worth more to you alive than dead.”

  “You ain’t got nothing to worry about. Now, move it.”

  Griff stretched his hands above his head, wincing slightly as he lifted his left one; then he stood and made his way slowly out into the open. He stopped with the weapons in the dirt far enough away not to look suspicious, but close enough for comfort.

  Pollard took a moment before he also rose from his hiding place, obviously taking time to check Griff over to insure he was unarmed and safe.

  Griff read the sheriff’s motives. I’m unarmed, he thought, but I hope to blazes I ain’t safe.

  Pollard was looking rather satisfied with himself. This was, after all, a big day for him; not only was he about to pocket five thousand dollars, but he was going to settle a score that had been on his personal books for nearly two decades. Griff saw that the years had not been overly generous with Pollard. The toll of drink showed in his face, with its reddish cheeks and nose and bleary eyes. The Vigilante Committee at Danville that did the hiring and firing of lawmen must have been pretty desperate to hire this old drunk as deputy. The newly arrived Houston and Texas Central Railroad was slowly civilizing the town, but Danville was still one of the wilder towns in Texas, and lawmen didn’t have a very long life span there. If Griff could help it, that would also be the case with Pollard.

  The old deputy immediately made a stupid mistake—he headed directly for Griff’s weapons before securing his prisoner. He did, however, keep his six-gun trained on Griff as he bent over and picked up the Sharps. He kicked the Colt about ten feet away, much to Griff’s dismay.

  “This is some weapon you got here,” Pollard said with admiration. “I don’t reckon you’ll miss it.” He ran his hand over the polished wood butt; Griff himself had made it out of walnut.

  There wasn’t going to be another opportunity like this—at least Griff wasn’t going to count on it. While Pollard’s attention was momentarily focused on the Sharps, Griff made his move.

  With speed born of desperation, he ducked and dove for Pollard’s legs. Pollard dropped the rifle, shock registering clearly on his face. And before the man could discharge his six-gun, Griff had tackled him to the ground. His shot went wild.

  Pollard cursed.

  They rolled around in the dirt, Pollard trying to get another round off from his pistol. Griff grabbed Pollard’s gun hand but found that the has-been lawman was stronger than he appeared. His weight was like a millstone as he straddled Griff. Griff would have managed better if his left arm had been at full strength, but as it was, he had to put all his efforts into keeping that six-gun at bay.

  During one slack instant, Griff managed to free his right hand long enough to slug Pollard in the chin, landing a blow that should have loosened the man’s teeth. But the old drunk hung on tenaciously. It couldn’t be pure physical strength driving the deputy now, but rather some other force impelling him. Hate, vengeance, greed—whatever it was, Pollard fought with the viciousness of a wounded coyote.

  Risking imminent danger from the gun, Griff shifted his attention for an instant, rallying his efforts for a new strategy. He didn’t have much time, for he had to be faster than Pollard could squeeze off a shot. But in that split-second time frame, Griff gave a mighty bodily thrust. He was almost as surprised as Pollard that he was able to throw the sheriff off; but Pollard’s strength must surely be ebbing. Griff now rolled on top, gaining a slight advantage. At least he was in a better position to do something about that pistol. He whacked Pollard’s hand against the dirt as hard as he could.

  Pollard held firm. He had too much at stake to succumb easily. “I ain’t letting you go,” Pollard gasped.

  The stress of that futile attempt to dislodge the gun sent pain shooting up and down Griff’s arm, along with a trickle of fresh blood. Pollard had surely noticed the blood from the start and realized the wounded ex-outlaw could not hold out for long. He, too, was just waiting for the right moment.

  And it came too soon for Griff.

  Pollard jerked his hand forward. He didn’t quite free it from Griff’s grip, but he only needed one more twist and then—

  Suddenly the six-gun exploded!

  The force of the shot jolted the two men apart. Pollard still held the gun, and he quickly leveled it at Griff, not wanting to make any more mistakes.

  “You just don’t know when to quit, do you, McCulloch?” said Pollard, surprised, despite his bravado, that he still held the advantage. It was another moment before he realized just how much of an advantage he did in fact hold.

  Griff lay sprawled out in the dirt, not moving.

  “Hey, McCulloch! You ain’t dead, are you?”

  Pollard would probably be able to bring in the Stoner woman without Griff, but it would be a long sight easier with him. Pollard scrambled to his feet, still aiming the gun. He kicked Griff’s leg.

  Griff groaned and lifted his head, but everything before his eyes was blurry, and the man standing over him aiming that gun appeared to be swaying curiously. He then realized he had blacked out, and from the looks of Pollard, it had to have been only for a few seconds. If he could bring Pollard down again, he might still have a chance.

  But when Griff tried to move, pain like he had never known before coursed through his entire body. It couldn’t be the arm…

  Instinctively his hand went to what seemed the source of this new and terrible ache. Near his right side his hand felt a huge bloody rent. He fell back again in agony.

  Oh, Deborah! I failed you. I’m so sorry…

  Then everything went black.

  Part 2

  Capture

  3

  Stride for stride, the skewbald mare could not hope to keep pace with the mighty white stallion. He was obviously a thoroughbred, not of natural mustang stock. Perhaps he was a fugitive from the stable of some wealthy Spanish caballero, or perhaps he had been sired by such a fugitive and foaled on the open range, a free-born creature from birth. Whatever his bloodline, he was sixteen hands high and easily dwarfed his mares. The stallion’s power was evident in his rippling muscles and the long legs that sped him effortlessly across the prairie.

  Deborah Killion, atop the skewbald, marveled at the stallion’s form, realizing at once that this ride was not so much a race as an exhibition of the stallion’s grandeur. They had been running this herd of mustangs for three days now, from early morning until dusk, attempting to tire the wild horses and lure them into a specially
built corral. Deborah and her cowhands had the advantage of taking turns and getting fresh mounts two or three times during the day. The stallion had not had the benefit of such rest except at night.

  The herd of mustangs splashed across a buffalo wallow, and mud flecked the stallion’s white flanks. The mares in his herd were close to exhaustion, but the stallion ran at their rear—prodding them, bringing up stragglers, pushing them to and well beyond their limit. Yet he himself showed no indication at all of tiring. There was untapped strength yet in that grand animal, Deborah thought. She remembered Broken Wing’s gray and wished he were still alive to challenge the white. That would have been a race to make history, indeed.

  Deborah gulped a lungful of air as she, too, splashed across the wallow. Then she laughed. She was getting too old for this kind of race!

  She reined in her mare. It was late, and the sun was already dipping low in the west. Obviously, this wild herd would need another day or two of running before they were ready for capture. Deborah shook her head in awe. Usually two or three days was enough to get control of a herd and head them in the direction of the corral.

  Wiping a sweat-soaked strand of blond hair from her eyes, Deborah watched the stallion turn his herd back toward familiar range. He had slowed, sensing that for the time being, at least, the chase was over. In a few minutes the herd stopped to graze while the stallion stood above them on a small rise, as if both to protect them and lord over them. He stamped his hoof and swung his long, sleek neck around toward where Deborah and her mare stood observing them.

  “Another time, fine brother!” Deborah murmured.

  Even from a distance of two hundred yards, she could see the untamed arrogance in the stallion’s black eyes. He would not be caught easily, that was certain. And, to tell the truth, Deborah was not really eager to do so. She sympathized with his desperate desire for freedom. She herself had once been restrained and hobbled, and she had yearned for freedom. That might have been a long time ago, twenty-some years, but part of her would never forget what that kind of captivity was like.

  Yet Deborah had also learned the truth of divine paradox: surrender to God brought freedom—not just the physical freedom afforded by the open range, but liberty of the spirit.

  Those years at Stoner’s Crossing had finally taken their proper place in life’s perspective. They represented only two of the thirty-nine years of Deborah’s life. Undeniably, because of the terrible nature of those particular years, they had made a strong impact on her life and her future. But still, it had been only two years. Certainly the following nineteen of fulfillment and happiness must balance those out.

  The stallion loped down the hill, probably to gather his mares and find some shelter for the night. Deborah reined her own skewbald mare around. It was time to get back to camp.

  She had no desire to ruminate long over the past years, except to recall the fond memories they carried. “It’s the future that really counts,” she whispered softly into the breeze. “The future always brings improvement and growth, and even its share of happiness.”

  She thought of Sam and what a joy their marriage was. After five years, they were still like a couple of kids in love. Even if her children were almost grown adults—Carolyn was eighteen, and Sky was sixteen—she was not yet an old woman. The beauty that others had found so stunning at eighteen had not entirely vanished from the long years on the harsh plains. Sam said her eyes still reflected the endless prairie sky in springtime, and her golden hair camouflaged what gray the years had brought. Only her skin showed the passage of time—brown from hours of working outdoors, with crow’s-feet edging the corners of her eyes, and lines framing her gentle, expressive mouth. Sometimes she thought she looked more like her Cheyenne sisters now than when she had lived among the Indians and worn buckskin garb.

  But life was too good now to dwell long on the past, and she didn’t intend to. She had a ranch to run, horses to catch and break, and a family to tend to.

  “You’ve no time to daydream, Deborah,” she said to herself. She nudged her horse into motion and rode toward camp at a gentle canter.

  When the camp came in sight a quarter of a mile away, she saw a rider galloping toward it from the other direction. She sensed immediately that something was wrong, and she dug her heels into her mount’s flanks and urged the mare to a gallop. Deborah reached the camp just a few moments after the rider.

  It was Jasper, one of the young stable hands, all in a sweat and wild-eyed.

  “Miz Killion, you got to come quick!”

  By now most of the camp had gathered. Longjim ran a hand along Jasper’s horse and shook his head derisively at the youth. “This better be important! You got this poor animal all in a lather. Get on down so we can cool him off.”

  “Yessir, Longjim,” Jasper said obediently. Longjim Sands, the top hand of the Wind Rider outfit, was not a man that anyone argued with, much less a mere kid. Jasper swung off his horse, but added with the same urgency, “Miz Killion, this is important.”

  Deborah dismounted and was about to urge Jasper to state the problem when her daughter Carolyn joined the group.

  “What is it, Ma?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

  By now Deborah was growing impatient. “We’ll all find out if we just give the poor boy a chance to speak,” she snapped. Then, more gently, she added to the stable hand, “Go on, Jasper. What’s happened?”

  “It’s the law, ma’am. He’s come to the ranch and he’s got Griff, but Griff is in bad shape—real bad.”

  “Bad shape?” Deborah repeated, trying to make sense out of the lad’s incomplete words. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s shot, ma’am, shot bad. But the deputy, he’s still holding a gun on him. Told me to bring you back—and for you not to think of escaping like you did before, if you cared what happens to Griff. Ma’am, what does he mean, ‘not to think of escaping’? As if you had to run from the law.”

  Deborah turned pale as the full impact of the youth’s words hit her. She didn’t know how it had happened, but somehow her secret had been revealed. And Griff was wounded, perhaps dying.

  Without another thought, Deborah swung back toward her mare and was about to slip a foot in the stirrup when Longjim laid a restraining hand on her shoulder.

  “Deborah, don’t you act rashly!” he said. “You don’t have to go back there. Me and the boys’ll help Griff. You just get outta here, far away.”

  “No, Longjim, I’m too old to start running now.” Her voice was strained. All she could think of was her dear friend, Griff McCulloch, hurt and dying. He had probably been shot trying to protect her. Never in their long friendship had he let her down, and she wasn’t about to run out on him.

  Carolyn shouldered her way into the center of the group. “What are y’all talking about? What’d you have to run from?”

  Deborah looked at her daughter, and her heart twisted inside her. Then Sky stepped forward, a look of confusion on his face.

  “I will explain it all to both of you soon,” she said. “But first we must see about Griff.” To Longjim she added, “Get me a fresh mount. Come with me if you wish. But no shooting.”

  “There’s enough of us, Deborah,” argued Longjim. “There ain’t a man here that wouldn’t fight, even the law, for you. We could take ’em.”

  Several voices agreed with Longjim, and Deborah was touched, especially since no one but Longjim had any idea what they were consenting to.

  She shook her head firmly.

  “I think it’s time it ended, Longjim. It had to happen sometime.” She paused, now calmed somewhat since the initial shock of Jasper’s news. “Sky,” she said to her son, “would you ride out to Beaumont and see if you can find Sam? You know his circuit better than anyone.”

  Sky hesitated, then asked, “You…you will be here when we get home…?”

  “I hope so. If not, you will know where to find me.”

  “Ma!” Carolyn looked at her mother frantically. “You can’t
go—not without me.”

  Deborah wished she could think of some errand to send Carolyn on to prevent her from witnessing her mother’s arrest. But nothing came immediately to mind. And Carolyn would not have readily accepted an obvious distraction. She had too much of a mind of her own for that.

  “Let’s go, Longjim,” Deborah said. She turned to her daughter. “Carolyn, I’d prefer you stay here—”

  “What for? What can I do for you here?” Carolyn set her jaw and stared at her mother. “I’m going.”

  Weighing the futility of argument against the urgency of leaving, Deborah shrugged. “All right. But when we get there, you do as I say.”

  Carolyn raced to saddle her horse.

  Deborah hurriedly gave some last minute instructions. “The rest of you boys stay here and finish rounding up those horses. I don’t want anyone coming after us.” She turned back to Jasper. “Did someone fetch a doctor for Griff?”

  “Yeah, ma’am, but it ain’t likely one’ll get here before tomorrow.”

  In five minutes, Deborah, Longjim, and Carolyn were on their way. Sky rode with them for a few miles, then headed south. The three remaining riders continued toward the east and whatever was waiting for them there.

  4

  As the three riders paused on a rise overlooking the ranch, Longjim slipped his six-gun from its holster and spun the bullet chamber to make sure it was loaded.

  Deborah glanced over at him and gave a slight shake of her head.

  “We don’t have to walk in like sheep going to the slaughter, Deborah,” he said.

  “Don’t worry, Longjim,” said Deborah confidently, “we’re not.” She had been praying during the whole two-hour ride. She knew they were not alone; they had more protection in her Lord than from Longjim’s Colt.

  He shrugged, then reluctantly holstered his gun.

  Deborah surveyed the ranch for a moment. It looked quiet and peaceful in the twilight. A light burned in the bunkhouse and a couple in the main house, but otherwise it was dim and still. Despite her confidence a moment ago, a part of her held back, wanting desperately to avoid this confrontation. Was her whole life about to crash in on her? Would she have to relinquish her freedom, be forced to face a gallows for the second time? Had she been foolish all these years to think that her life could continue in contentment forever?