by Leona Grace
The hours passed, accompanied by the occasional snore or creak of floorboards as one of them turned over or he walked round the room to chase his tiredness away. A dog howled somewhere outside, a long mournful howl ending in a yelp and a man’s thick voice, cursing. A handful of wood brought the stove back to life and he pawed through the drawers until he found a battered cheroot and smoked that, his feet on the desk, the acrid taste unfamiliar and yet not unpleasant. Ash fell to the floor, unnoticed.
A door banged and he was awake in an instant, mortified at his failure to stay alert. The others were still sleeping and he went over to the window and peered through the bars of the shutters. Nothing. The night was dark, the moon midway to full, the clouds in the sky torn ragged by a fresh wind. The door slammed again, but this time he could hear the rattle of broken planking from further down the street. Reassured, he went back to the desk and ran through his plans again.
It was close on three in the morning when he woke the others. Duane looked half-asleep but the few hours’ rest had restored some brightness to Lancey’s eyes. “Time to get moving. The wind’s picked up, which should help cover any noise.”
“What about Dalton?”
Archer shrugged. “He’s out cold. I took the liberty of going through to see him. He thought I was one of his father’s men– couldn’t have been happier to see me, especially when I told him I’d come to rescue him. Must have been half-asleep because he didn’t even see my fist coming.” He gestured at the open door leading to the cells. “I’ve got him cuffed and tied like a calf ready for branding. Gagged as well, in case he comes round unexpectedly.” He allowed himself a quick smile. “But I don’t reckon he will, not for a while.”
“You knocked him out?” Duane grinned. “I’d like to have seen that.”
Archer led the way into the back room with its single cell and the prisoner sprawled on the floor, tied and gagged. “Let’s get going. If he comes round while we’re moving him, I’ll have to hit him again, but I’d rather not. Lancey, you lead the way and Duane and I’ll follow. If Jack here –” he nodded at the unconscious man, “– decides to wake it’s going to make a lot of noise. I’ll take his shoulders, you carry his feet. And don’t worry about dropping them if he gets too heavy. I can always drag him by myself if I have to.” He suppressed a smile at the lad’s look of scorn.
The cupboard was easier to move than he expected and behind it he saw a narrow doorway. He would struggle to carry the dead weight down such a constricted passageway but there was no other way. Lancey set off, his small lamp casting a dim light ahead.
“Ready?” He grabbed Dalton’s shoulders and lifted. Duane took his own burden and nodded. And they edged through the doorway, his shoulders brushing the sides. The passage stank of horse piss and rot, of mould and small dead creatures. Step by step, backwards down the channel, bumping his head on the low roof, his shoulders close to the rough walls, his elbows snagging against splintery wood. Feet slipping on ancient filth, a stamp of hooves from Lancey’s horse on the other side of the fake wall. Dalton was a dead weight in his hands, slumping boneless between the two of them, each awkward step bringing him closer to the end until he bumped into Lancey and nearly dropped his burden.
“Through here.”
He lowered Jack Dalton down to lie in the muck and turned to the sheriff. The rotten planks were gone, pulled aside by Lancey to reveal the stack of bales on the other side of the fake wall. A simple task to push them aside, leaving space for the sheriff to crawl though. They dragged Dalton into the stall on the other side and then stood back as Duane squeezed through the small gap.
The faint light from the lamp was not enough to alert anyone outside to their presence and Dalton was still unconscious when they laid him over the broad back of Lancey’s horse and tied his limp body in place. Lancey pushed the stable door open, one slow inch at a time, and led his horse out and down the dark alley to the open land behind. Freedom.
***
Dawn found them miles away, riding hard, the horses carrying their share of Bran’s load between them, as well as their riders. Jack Dalton was awake and vociferous in his complaints, his cuffed hands fastened to the pommel on his saddle, the gag reducing his words to muffled curses and Archer ignored him, leading them for the low hills that bordered the Archer land, though he would turn them off the trail before they reached the lower slopes. The last time he’d ridden along this track was on his return from the war, joyous at the prospect of seeing his family again.
That was in the past. He had no ties here, other than George and Martha, though the presence of Duane was more of a comfort than he had anticipated. Perhaps it was the youthful enthusiasm or the way he never shirked at mundane tasks, but Archer found himself watching him with a brotherly eye. William might have laughed, but he knew his parents would have been proud, and the lad had proved himself enough times in the last few days. Any parent would have been glad to have a son like Duane.
Mid-morning they turned off the trail, leaving a cloud of dust hanging in the air. No one followed them – yet – but it was only a matter of time before someone discovered the empty cell. He could only hope the Dalton men assumed Lancey would be heading for Vancross with his prisoner and had set out in pursuit. By the time they realised their mistake, Jack Dalton and James Lancey would be tucked deep in the warren of caves a couple of miles from the old Archer house – out of sight and safe from any marauding gang – leaving him free to investigate what was going on at the Carpenter’s house.
They rode in single file, Bran bad-tempered and trying to bite anyone who came close, until Archer took pity on him and dismounted. He yanked Dalton off the horse. “You can walk from here. We all will.” Meg stood, foursquare and stubborn until he loosened the cinch and stroked her nose in thanks for her hard work. “We’ll take it easy for a while, girl. You’ve done well.”
The route took them between stands of spindly trees and along narrow paths, to a series of wind-worn canyons where he allowed them to rest for a while. No one would find them here unless they had been trailed for the last hour. And he knew his craft.
Duane handed out strips of jerky and water sacks, avoiding their prisoner who was leaning against one wall of the canyon. Dalton was motionless, sweat tricking down his face, but he would have to go without until they were in the sanctuary of the cave system where he could holler all he wanted. The man had a look of a caged animal: rage burning through every sinew and muscle, eyes flickering every which way looking for an escape, limbs working ceaselessly at his bonds.
He’d seen men like Jack Dalton before – enemy soldiers who had nothing to lose, men whose only chance of survival was to make a run for it. Even a few deserters who’d taken a liking to rape and murder. The worst of men. He had no qualms about killing vermin like that but not a prisoner, handcuffed and helpless.
Tired fingers slid to the cold comfort of his gun, but he let the weapon drop back into his holster. It was all going wrong. This was meant to be a quick journey to visit the Carpenters and sort out any problems. Instead he found himself accompanied by the last person he would have chosen to join him and embroiled in a fight between the law and the uncle of the three men he had killed last year. There would be no easy way out of this, no handing over the prisoner to a judge. The only way this was going to end would be in blood and pain and death, and he owed it to James Lancey and Duane to ensure that when it was all over, they at least were still alive.
Maybe this was the price he had to pay for last year. He reached down again, his fingers wrapping round the grip with sureness, the gun heavy in his hand, the weight just right as he pulled it out. His thumb found the slight nick in the wood – put there last year by one of the Daltons – and he closed his eyes for a moment, letting his arm hang loose and remembering how it felt to shoot a man. The flash of gunpowder, the deafening noise, the wet thud of metal in flesh, blood spurting, bodies falling. Horses screaming.
In spring this year, when he stood before the
judge and promised himself to Faith, he thought he was done with killing but fate, it seemed, had other plans. He would do his duty as a man and a soldier, a husband and a rancher. All he asked was that he could hold to his honour and keep his friends alive. He found a water sack and sat on the sand beside the sheriff, where he could keep an eye on Dalton.
“How much further?” Lancey was rubbing his eyes, a look of utter exhaustion on his face despite his earlier rest.
Archer handed him the sack. “A few miles. It gets easier on the other side and we’ll be following the river until we get to the waterfall.” He lowered his voice. “Can you make it that far?”
“Why are you asking?”
“I can’t watch both you and Dalton.”
Lancey splashed water over his face and rubbed it in. “I’ll make it. Trust me.”
“I do, but I’ve got things I need to do once I’ve got you and the boy to safety. No one’ll find you where we’re going, and once there you can rest all you want, but until then I need you alert. D’you understand?”
“You’re going to the Carpenter place? George and Martha?”
He nodded, taking the sack and drinking deep. A handful of tepid water on the back of his neck, another on his face before putting the cork back. “She wrote and told me they were having problems. I should have come out before, but…” He shrugged, uneasy at revealing his inner shame. “I didn’t want to think about it.”
“So why did you come now?” Lancey took a bite from a small piece of jerky, grimaced, and threw the rest away. “I’m sick of eating this stuff.”
“You know why.” His fingers skimmed over his breast where the scar lay hidden beneath layers of cotton and twill. Duane was dozing in the shade, hat pulled down over his face, long legs stretched out. The boy’s boots were wearing thin on the soles. Another thing to buy when they got the chance.
Lancey rolled his shoulders, the sound of cracking joints in the still air. “I got your letter. Last thing I expected – you finding a place to settle. And a wife as well. Thought you might have gone back to the army.”
“Thought about it, but I was done with fighting. Wears a man down after a while. And it gets hard to sleep at night.” He loosened his bandana and pulled it off, shaking sand and dust from the dark cloth before replacing it. The late morning sun made rock and sand blisteringly hot and even though they were in the shade it was still uncomfortable. He glanced over at the prisoner. “Watch my back, will you?”
Dalton was gasping with the heat now, hands and face red from the sun and thirst and the gag. He knelt next to the man, the stink of sweat and muck and fear. “Be quiet and I’ll let you have some water.”
A glare from angry eyes, but the offer was accepted. A quick desperate nod, a gasp as the gag was loosened and spat out. A stifled grunt as the cuffs were loosened. Hands reached for the sack, long swallows that emptied it, a last gasp of relief and need. “More?” The voice rasping and faint.
“I’ll fetch some.” Archer pushed himself to his feet and went to get another, aware of Lancey standing now, gun ready.
A longer drink and a hunk of dry bread revived Jack Dalton enough to warrant putting the gag back, but Archer was more content knowing he had done right by his prisoner and he went back to Lancey and sat down again, his back against the raw red wall of the canyon.
Tonight, when they were rested and Dalton was secure, he’d go to the Carpenters and see what needed doing. But he already knew. Elias Dalton would be pushing to get hold of their land whether by fair means or foul. And from what James Lancey had told him, it was looking more likely that the Dalton men would be moving on George and Martha any time now. He was sick of death.
The air was thick and stifling. The horses shuffled, dipping noses to the water Duane had put out for them. Dalton was asleep, or faking it, and Lancey’s eyes were closed. It was too hot to think.
Shadows crept across the sand. He found a stick, stood it upright and made a series of marks alongside it in the sand then he leaned back and waited. After a while the shadow touched the first mark. Something skittered under a rock and he turned to watch. A waft of hot air blew sand over his arm and he brushed the red grains away with a finger. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face, catching in a week’s growth of beard. He licked his lips and listened: sand rolling across the rocks, the faint hush of wind working its way through the canyon, Duane’s feet scuffing the ground as he shifted in his sleep.
The shadow kissed the second mark and moved on, shorter now. The sun was higher, a brilliant white in the sky, too bright to see, not that he dared look. An hour to midday if his reckoning was true.
Time to go. He tied the horses together in a line, tail to rein, Meg in the lead and Bran – placid once more now he was rested – at the end. Duane woke, lethargic and drowsy in the heat, Lancey twisting his spine and stretching to loosen stiff joints, a slight limp as he moved. Dalton had to be dragged to his feet and threatened before he would move.
He handed Meg’s reins to the boy. “Duane? You have the horses. Keep watch behind, not that I’m expecting anyone.” He jerked his head at Jack Dalton. “Take the path ahead. I’m right behind you. Try anything and I’ll shoot, simple as that. Understand?” But for the gag, Dalton would have spat in his face. “James? You follow me. Not too close mind you, I don’t want anyone in my way if Dalton here decides to make a run for it.” There would be little chance of that – Dalton’s wrists were still cuffed and a rope ran round his neck to Archer’s hand. Any attempt to run or turn and attack, or even drop to the ground would end with Jack Dalton choking.
“Move out. We’ve a piece to travel before we get to where we’re going, but an hour should see us on the other side and heading downhill.” He hoped Lancey would make it.
***
Mid-day found them on the other side of the ridge and making their way down to the valley where he had spent his childhood, and they were walking down a sunlight dappled path when he caught his first glimpse of the river that brought life to this land.
Of all the things he had prepared himself to see – the charred remains of his home away on the left in the distance, the ravaged land where trees had once flourished, even the distant gravestones marking his family’s last resting place – he had not ever imagined looking down on a thin strip of water running down the middle of what was once a river bed. “What the…”
“Hell, I had no idea he’d really do it. We all thought he was just talking.” Lancey was as shocked.
“Who? What in god’s name’s happened?”
“That’s Dalton’s doing. He’s been threatening to cut off the water supply since he came here. I thought he was joking.” Lancey spat with disgust. “He has no right to do that, no right at all. He was going on about turning the river so anyone who wants water has to go on his land. Looks like he’s finally done it.” He spat again. “The bastard. You can’t run cattle without water and he knows it. This is part of his plan. If he controls the water here as well as the grazing, the cattle drives’ll have to stay on his land and he can increase the tolls as much as he wants. There’ll be nowhere else they can go.”
“And he’ll own everything.” Seth Dalton had been a nuisance in some respects, pestering the Archers to sell him their land, and his sons had been little more than murderers and thieves, but if Elias Dalton had his way, he would become the most powerful landowner in the area. He would control everything and everyone who needed access to water.
George and Martha. They had their own water – a separate creek winding through their land from the other side. His pa would have taken that into account when selling the land to George; a source of water enough for their needs and under their control. No wonder Elias Dalton wanted them out; the Carpenter home was now all that stood between success and failure. They were lucky Elias hadn’t run them out already, or worse. He cursed himself for not visiting them sooner, for not writing or checking on them, for being too wrapped up in his own world to worry about the eld
erly couple. Even now he might be too late. And then another thought came to mind; building a dam needed plenty of loose stone, and the easiest source close to here was…. “The scarp?” He kicked out at a loose pebble, sending it spinning down the path ahead. “Dalton? Did your father dynamite the rock face?”
A shrug of the shoulders, a tilt of the head, a smirk on the lips – visible even behind the gag. Archer put his hand on the man’s shoulder, fingers digging deep into the flesh. “Tell me.”
Dalton stared, pale blue eyes full of contempt and laughter. It was too late to do anything now. He flung the man away from him, not caring that his prisoner ended on the ground, the rope tightening around his neck to leave him choking and tearing at the loop. If Elias Dalton had demolished the scarp alongside the river, then not only were the warren of passages and caves he had known most of his life gone, his carefully thought out plan was useless.
And he had no idea what to do next.
Chapter 13
“Sam?”
A hand touched his shoulder and he spun round, a swift crouch, hand dropping to the gun at his side without even thinking and he growled at the man responsible. “You know better than to creep up on me, Lancey.” The closest thing to an apology he was prepared to offer right now.
His mind was in turmoil; for all his experience he had never considered the caves would not be there. They’d been part of the landscape for thousands of years, their walls marked by the passage of people who inhabited them hundreds of years ago. Paintings of strange animals and birds, people carrying spears, patterns etched in the stone. He’d copied some of the drawings when he was younger, but his rough sketches were long gone. Now the caves and their artwork were also lost forever.
“What’s the matter?”
He watched in silence as Jack Dalton staggered to his feet, red-faced and coughing, spluttering round the gag. The man looked like he would choke to death. He didn’t care. “They’ve blown up the scarp. I was going to take you to the caves – you’d be safer there than anywhere else – but they’re gone.”
