by P. A. Bechko
“Hold it!” Amanda snapped, and the treacherous driver froze.
She flicked her gaze briefly over the young woman who remained unmoving, timid, and no threat.
“She helped us! We could have been killed! How could you try to do that?” The stage passenger wailed at the driver.
“She’s a cold bitch, just look at her! Posters say she’s wanted for murder and robbery back in Phoenix. Says she was already sentenced to hang.”
“You’ve got the morals of a buzzard,” Amanda breathed the observation at the driver with deadly calm. “If I was what you think I am, what do you suppose I’d do right now?”
The driver paled and remained rigid.
“Don’t.” The word was hardly a breath.
“Straighten up and back off.”
Warily, the driver obeyed, licking his lips in his nervousness. His eyes darted between his gun in the dust and the one in Amanda’s hand, centered unwaveringly on him. Then he looked into the expressionless face wreathed in cold calm. He didn’t like being right. The abrupt absence of the friendly smile of moments before sent an icy chill pattering suddenly up his spine. He had no doubt he was looking death in the face.
“You ain’t like no female I ever runned up against.” The driver eased himself up reasoning she wasn’t likely to shoot him if he was moving away from the weapon. “Reckon you could kill me without ruffling a feather.”
“Something to keep in mind when I ride out of here.”
Amanda’s nerves were strung tight as piano wire and threatening to snap. Sheer force of will held her gun hand steady, hammer cocked. She carefully sucked in deep, even breaths, grateful to Jake Hollander for teaching her to always, no matter what she believed the circumstances to be, keep her gun hand free.
She led Colorado forward, stopped and scooped up the driver’s gun in a swift, fluid, motion, and tucked it in the waistband of her pants. “I won’t leave you unarmed,” she informed the despicable man tartly as she swung back into the saddle and reined her horse around. “I’ll leave the gun up the trail. If you don’t want your passenger to drive herself into Phoenix you won’t move this stage until I’m well out of sight.”
She kicked her horse lightly, sending him into a gallop down the old stage road.
Behind her the figures of the young woman, her daughter and the stage driver grew smaller until she finally dropped the stupid man’s gun in the dust and cut off for the mountains laying to the north.
When she topped out above the lower hills she had earlier skirted while pursuing the rescue of the coach, she slowed and watched the stage far below. It took off at a brisk pace, then stopped, the driver quickly retrieving his weapon, then continued on.
Amanda urged the sturdy little sorrel on, continuing the climb at an easier gait.
It took her quite a while, after she reached the top, to get her bearings and pick up her own trail to backtrack toward camp.
An empty, gnawing feeling clawed at her belly. Hunger. The sun was leaning toward the west when she finally located her trail and the landmarks she needed to find her way back to camp. Nevertheless, she was in good spirits. She had taken a serious risk, but it had proven well worth it. She wore the much-needed hat she’d retrieved at a jaunty angle, and now they had a lead on the outlaws who had been the perpetrators of the crime for which they had been convicted.
She stopped, resting her horse, then pressed on. The ground she traveled now was well worn and she was able to move quickly. Shadows stretched long in the fading light of day. It was getting late.
Hollander, she did not have to be told, would be waiting for her. Unless, and the thought of this made her urge her horse on even faster, he was already out looking for her. Not yet dark, it was nonetheless several hours past when she should have returned. Hollander wouldn’t be in a good mood.
Chapter 11
Amanda entered the wash near their camp at a gallop, the soft sand under Colorado’s feet spraying up in softly hissing geysers behind her as he leaned into the first bend. He was moving into a fluid, rocking rhythm when she jerked back on the reins, dragging the horse to a stiff-legged, halt. Frustrated the animal snorted and pranced, tossing his head against the suddenly restraining bit.
Amanda murmured a few soothing words of apology, eased up and stared mutely at Jake Hollander.
The man sat his burly appaloosa in the middle of the wash. His gray eyes pinned her, holding her right where she was just as steady as if his hands were upon her. She had heard nothing to warn her of his presence. A not so subtle message that she could have been bushwhacked. Amanda stared right back at him, torn between the ridiculous desire to apologize and anger.
“Let’s get back to camp,” Hollander said softly, his penetrating gaze sweeping over every inch of her, then stopping pointedly at the bullet-marked hat she now wore.
He missed nothing, but he also said nothing, but instead to quietly turned his horse back down the wash toward camp. Amanda kept her own counsel, following along behind, the only sound that of their horses’ hoofs squishing in the sandy bottom.
His attitude, making her feel like a cowed child, nettled her after how much she’d learned and changed. Damn it, he had no right to be angry, but in his book, he had the right. She read the contained fury in the way he rode at a deliberate walk.
Amanda remained silent. Angry now, he would be in high fury when she told him about the stagecoach. Appalling, it would come swirling to the surface with the power of a cyclone and she would be as the willow bending before the storm. She wanted to tell him what had happened, needed to in fact, but she wasn’t going to shriek at his back to be heard.
Hollander waited until they were back in camp, the saddles stripped from their horses and the animals rubbed down, before turning his full attention to Amanda once more. His eyes went again to the hat on her head. He stared openly at the bullet hole in the peaked crown.
“I suppose it’d be too much for me to assume you found that hat somewhere just kinda blowing along the ground, carried by the wind.”
The remark caught Amanda by surprise after the leaden silence of their return. Reflection brought with it rationality and she realized suddenly how fool-hardy her actions of that morning had been. That revelation fanned the flames of her own anger.
“It was on the ground, but the wind had nothing to do with it.” Few words. Blunt.
“Well, what happened?”
Amanda felt her throat go dry with the sudden realization of just how closely they stood together. She moved away.
“I rode south to where the mountains drop off into the desert,” she began, and once she started, words tumbled over one another as they rushed out in a monotone barely above a whisper. “I was tracking, about to start back when I saw three men closing in on a stage. I stopped them. When I did, I shot this hat off of an outlaw’s head.”
“You did What?” Hollander exploded, grabbing her by the arm with a controlled anger that surprisingly was not painful.
The abrupt, uninvited contact brought with it a rush of emotion. Anger, resentment, and some chagrin at what she had done, which, in turn, boiled her anger that much higher. Uncertainly she stared up at Jake, her green eyes sliding past the anger glittering in the depths of his gray eyes.
Still holding her tight, he ground his teeth, for the first time since she’d known him seeming to be at a loss for words.
“Someone might have been killed,” Amanda filled the ensuing silence with her words.
“That someone could have been you!”
He let her go, turning abruptly from her, snatching his hat from his head, dashing his fingers through his hair and flopping the hat back in place before turning back to her. “You’ve been with me a few weeks and you take a risk like that? Just how did you stop them? No, don’t answer that. I don’t think I want to hear it.”
He stomped a few feet away, turned and stomped back.
“Are you crazy?” he demanded. “Cause if you are, I need to know it now. Though God knows what I�
�ll do with a crazy woman out here.”
He threw his hands in the air, paced away again, then returned, puffs of dust rising in his wake. He towered over her. Amanda’s senses were alive and tingling. The smells of leather and wood smoke filled her nostrils at his nearness and his eyes had become twin mirrors giving her reflection back to her.
She didn’t know how to react to his outburst. She should probably be backing off, drawing away, putting space between them, but that wasn’t what she wanted to do. And, after their narrow escape of not so long ago, Amanda firmly believed in doing what she wanted to do. Another chance might not be forthcoming.
“Damn it, woman, you tell me you want to learn to take care of yourself, then you light into something that’s none of your business like you’re the Fifth Cavalry. Hell, I told you, you don’t pack hardware for bluff or balance.” He paused, uncertain as to how to continue. Then he reached out to cup her rigidly upturned chin in his rough hand, thumb resting in the soft cleft as he gave her a long, hard look.
“I don’t want to bury you. Way things stood before, folks thought we’d cleared out of the territory. Now a crazy woman with a gun, preventing a stage robbery, is sure gonna get their attention.”
His mood changed with startling speed, and he released Amanda as abruptly as he had seized her. He shook his head letting his hand drop to rest on the but of the six-gun riding at his hip.
“Could anyone have recognized you?”
Amanda tried to appear unperturbed by the sudden change in his attitude, but she was still achingly aware of the gentleness of his touch upon her face.
“The stage driver was less than grateful. He wanted to take me back to Phoenix for the reward.”
Hollander swore bitterly. How could so much bad luck happen in one day? He sighed and looked squarely at her. Desperada, that was what he had created. Pistolera. A woman slinging a gun. And that was exactly what she had to have done to dissuade three outlaws.
“How much?” Hollander asked, tone strained.
“Seven hundred and fifty,” Amanda replied. “A thousand for you.”
He winced like he was bee-stung. That reward would be a plump prize for a bounty hunter. There was no doubt that they’d start looking for him and Amanda again. This time a man who knew the country might find them. It was bitter as gall to swallow, but they would have to move, and it had to be fast.
“That was a damn fool stunt. Soon as that stage driver gets back to Phoenix they’ll start looking. We have to pull out. Head for rougher country.” He half turned away from her with that statement.
Rougher country? Amanda was appalled. She could not imagine country rougher than what she had roamed the past weeks. Dry, dusty, and barren, it seemed to stretch endlessly in every direction. Different kinds of hell radiating out from the center like spokes on a wheel. Only their campsite had offered relief by virtue of the small, continuous seep of water dropping from one sparkling rock pool to another.
Amanda hadn’t considered the fact that they would have to move on if she were recognized, but they would be leaving for another reason. She pushed her purloined hat back on her head and met his eyes squarely.
“The men who tried to rob the stage were the same men who robbed the bank in Phoenix.”
Hollander faced her with an abrupt jerk, his jawline hardening beneath his reddish beard. “You’re sure?”
Amanda nodded sharply. “You said we had to catch the ones who did it to prove we didn’t,” she reminded him. “They were heading due south after I ran them off.” She smiled faintly. “Or should I say when my bluff ran them off.”
“Probably be better if you didn’t say anything,” Hollander said dryly. “Can you find your way back to where all this happened?”
Amanda nodded eagerly. “We’re going after them?”
“We don’t have much choice,” Hollander replied, already starting to break camp. “We made our decision a while back. Eat,” he said flatly, gesturing to the pot that was tilted on one edge of the fire, warming. “We’ll pull out as soon as you’re through.”
“But it’s late,” Amanda protested. “It’ll be dark soon.”
“You can bet those three you saw heading south aren’t going to pull up to rest anywhere between here and Mexico if they figure there might be somebody on their tails. We’ve still got three good hours of traveling light left. So eat,” he repeated his command. “We’re pulling stakes as soon as I get this camp torn down whether your belly is full or not.”
Scooping up the canteens, Hollander left Amanda to eat, or go hungry as she chose. His high-handed manner still made the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand up, but Amanda was no longer the tenderfoot she had been. She had learned a lot from him, one thing being he meant what he said. Another was how important it was to eat when the opportunity presented itself. They had been preparing. Their supply bags were full of edible roots, jerked meat, small, flat rock-hard biscuits Hollander had showed her how to prepare, and an abundance of the coarse flour she had energetically beaten from the bark of the cottonwoods.
Amanda fell on the rabbit stew Hollander had in the pot like she was starving. She stuffed succulent, gravy-washed mouthfuls of food into her mouth like a cowhand and poured herself a cup of coffee with her free hand. Then she doused the glowing coals with what remained in the coffee pot sending up a billowing cloud of smoke. She balanced on one foot, eating from the tin plate while she kicked dirt over the remains of the fire, before snatching up the blackened coffee pot, adding it to their stack of supplies as Hollander returned from the seep.
He saddled the horses as Amanda quickly finished up the remains of her food and lent him a hand. She was no less eager than Hollander to catch up with the three men. They were going to ride and she was determined she wasn’t going to hold them back.
“Mount up,” Hollander called as she finished a hasty clean-up on the stew pot and her tin plate. “Let’s ride.”
Amanda stuffed the pot and plate into the canvas sack that hung from Hollander’s saddle, then hit her own in a half flying mount as her horse broke into a gentle lope, following in Hollander’s wake.
Chapter 12
They rode hard. Amanda paced Hollander, keeping her place beside him, except where the trail was too confining. When it narrowed, the former trail boss forged ahead, setting a pace even more grueling than the one they had borne when running from the hangman’s noose.
“Which way?” he prodded her when they topped a rise, Amanda right beside him, directly above the trail she’d taken back to camp.
She gave a sour grin. “You’re backtracking me, why don’t you keep us moving in the right direction?”
“Because this is where the real test begins,” Hollander retorted solemnly as his eyes slew sideways to lock onto hers. “This is where you’re going to show me how much you’ve learned, how much I can count on you.”
“And if I don’t plan on performing like a trained pony?”
“Then I have to assume you’re dead weight.”
Inwardly, Amanda cringed. He couldn’t have chosen a better argument if he had read her mind. And, while she was nowhere near the tracker he was, she’d learned more than a few tricks and had come to know stretches of these mountains well. But, she grudgingly had to admit Hollander was right. The true test would come when she was well away from the familiar. For weeks they had seen no one but each other, not even a sign of the wily Dutchman who it was said had a fabulous mine stashed in these mountains. For all Amanda knew, he might well be there. She had had the uncanny sensation of being watched more than once when she’d ridden the slopes and ridges. She was sure the old coot’s secret would never be found in the maze of twisting canyons, washes, and jutting peaks.
Together, she and Hollander skidded down the same slope she had earlier taken at break-neck speed. The horses liked it no better this time. At the bottom, Amanda led the way to the stretch of desert floor where the fracas had taken place.
Jake was looking down at the g
round as he spoke.
“You must’ve been riding like a banshee straight up out of hell when you got here.”
“There wasn’t much time to spare,” she murmured.
“You’ve got to be either the craziest or the gustiest woman I’ve ever met. Come on. We’ll pick up their trail.”
They found what trail the outlaws had left quickly when she and Hollander split up. Her companion spotted it first, pointing out the hoof marks in the softer sand. Little more than a hour’s worth of daylight was remaining to them when they started down it, heading south, the air surrounding them rapidly taking on the chill of night.
Amanda glanced over her shoulder back at the slope they had negotiated together. Somehow it had seemed worse at a slower pace than it had the first and she’d not been able to consider it.
At first the sign was clear enough. An idiot could easily follow the progress of three running horses over the almost unbroken dusty expanse. Hollander put their horses to a gait that matched the outlaws before them and the two of them plunged on, the sun settling into nothing more than an orange glow on the western horizon, stealing the warmth of the day away on the wings of night.
Hollander and Amanda slowed the pace as the light dimmed to gray shadows. Amanda vigorously rubbed her arms against the icy chill settling in. How could a place so hot by day turn so cold with the setting of the sun? Out in the open, astride a moving horse, it felt even colder than it had back in their sheltered camp. Only the warmth of her laboring steed offered any respite. She shivered, but held her tongue, riding beside Hollander in the darkness, hunched into a miserable, but no less determined huddle on her saddle. He would have to stop soon. Then she could fish out her make-shift poncho.
Their pace was slowed even more when Hollander began climbing down from his horse to check the trail only to swing back into the saddle and continue on. Then, finally, he climbed down shook his head in frustration. There was no moon. Darkness was complete, broken only by the distant twinkle of stars above.
