Jericho stood completely still. How did this stranger know the names of his family? How did he know Jericho's own heart and purpose so clearly?
Hart dropped the last two pieces of wood on top of the pile, then dusted his hands. "We need to have a talk, Jericho. A good long visit about things. I don't aim to do it in the cold. And make no mistake, this night'll be an icy one – way too cold to spend without a fire. Trust me, boy. They ain't gonna know – or care – if you spend it warm or freezin'. Got a match on you?"
Jericho sized up the other man once more, a shiver running up his spine. No, things were not what they seemed, but whether for good or evil, he didn't know. He cursed his luck, either way. He didn't want to be burdened with whatever it was this Freeman Hart brought to the table. He hadn't asked for it, either way. He remembered that he had deliberately not prayed, carefully refrained from asking God for any favors, so he wouldn't have to be in His debt. Well, he still didn't plan on owing Him anything, no matter how this all worked out.
He finally forced his legs to move, walking stiffly to his saddlebags. He put the brush away, and drew out the box of matches wrapped in oilskin.
Hart caught them when Jericho tossed them over, opened the box, and struck one of them on the bottom of his boot. The match head flared in the gathering semi-darkness and Hart hunkered down, cupping his hand around the flame as it caught the base kindling of the pyre and the wood above it began to burn.
Jericho stood watching as the fire flared to life, remembering how he'd burned the cabin. After he'd buried Elena, Maria, and little Ana, he'd poured kerosene throughout their home. The smell of it had made his stomach twist and roll over. He'd poured it over the cabinetry he'd built so lovingly for Elena, remembering how proud she'd been to have a pantry in her kitchen. He'd poured it across the bed where they'd made love. Made children. Made a family together.
He'd opened up the old trunk that had been Elena's, full of her keepsake treasures. He had taken only one thing from the chest before he'd saturated the rest of the contents with the kerosene remaining in the can. He'd stood at the door and tossed in the match, watching as the trail of fire raced across the dirt floor of the cabin and began to eat the furniture, the woodwork, and finally the walls.
Then, he had turned his back on the entire dream he'd created and then destroyed, riding away from it as it burned. It may be burning still, he mused. That entire northern part of Indian Territory could be nothing but acres of smoldering blackness destroyed by his hand. Right now, if he could, he'd set the entire world ablaze.
Yes. A fire would be good to have tonight.
"Say, Jericho. You hungry? Me, I'm so hungry my stomach thinks my throat's been cut. I've got some tins of beans and peaches we can open up." Hart rose and crossed to where his saddlebags lay, rummaging for the tins of food. He pulled them out and came back toward Jericho, who stood rooted to the spot where he'd gone moments earlier to get the matches.
Hart nodded toward the fire. "C'mon. Let's get some grub. Talk a spell. I can see you've got some questions."
"Who are you?" Jericho's voice was hoarse.
Hart laughed. "I knew that'd be the first one."
Chapter 4
They ate in silence, spooning out beans from the two tins Freeman Hart had opened along with the last of the jerky Jericho carried. Jericho discovered he was as hungry as he was curious, so he was well able to hold his questions while he sated his physical hunger. Freeman was organized, Jericho thought grudgingly. Seemed to have everything, and everything in its place. He'd thought, these last few days, he didn't care if he ever saw food again. But the beans had been welcome fare, and he was actually looking forward to the peaches, along with a cup of the coffee that Freeman had put on to brew.
Freeman gave him a sidelong glance as they opened the peaches. "Reckon there ain't another thing on this earth sweet as these peaches."
Jericho nodded after a moment. "I reckon you're right." When he took the first bite, he knew Freeman had worked some kind of magic. Nothing had ever tasted better. The fruit was succulent, and he tried to eat slowly, but it was a lost cause. He sipped a little of the syrup from the can, and then finished the fruit, unable to take it slow and savor the goodness.
Freeman smiled at him, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Good?"
Jericho didn't answer. He hadn't wanted to enjoy the peaches so much. Or the beans. It was unnatural to think that much of food when he'd lost everything else. "Yes. It was good," he said finally, speculation clear in his tone.
The other man didn't seem to take offense. He laughed aloud as he tipped his own can up and drained the last of the peach juice.
"Who are you?" Jericho asked again. There was no rancor in him. Only determination to find some answers.
"You're direct, Jericho Dean. I like that."
"How did you know about – about Elena and my girls? Don't deny it, Freeman. You already knew who I was when you came into my camp. Have you been following me?"
The smile slowly left Freeman's face as he regarded Jericho. "No. I ain't been following you, Jericho. Not like you mean, anyhow."
Anger surged through him. "What the hell does that mean, Hart? Talk straight to me. I deserve at least that much."
"It's…kind of like a job I gotta see done, Jericho." He seemed to choose his words carefully, and that irritated Jericho. Reading it in his impatience, Hart continued, "You must've figgered it out by now. I'm here to see it all ended proper, one way or the other."
Realization at his meaning flooded over Jericho, and he sat up straight staring directly into Hart's blue eyes. "What in the cornbread hell are you talking about?"
Hart began to clean his knife with the water left in his canteen, then took time to dry it on his shirt sleeve before he answered. "It's what I have to do."
"You sayin' you're some kind of angel or somethin'?" Dear God. As if things weren't bad enough. He was out here looking for the bastards that had murdered his wife, his children, his dream – and had run into a crazy man who, he couldn't determine yet, either planned to help him or stop him. He couldn't allow either. His hand moved down toward his gun.
Freeman shook his head. "You don't need that. Not yet. Not until you meet up with Tidwell's bunch."
"I don't want any help from you," Jericho told him bluntly. "This, I gotta do on my own."
Freeman's eyes filled with sympathy before he looked away. "You don't need to worry."
"You said you were after 'em too," Jericho remembered. "What for? What'd they do to you?"
"They set it all in motion, Jericho. I just have to see it end."
Chapter 5
Jericho was oddly comforted by the fact that the "angel" – as he'd come to think of Freeman – had been the one to suggest a fire. If he was supposed to see it all ended proper, as he claimed then they'd be safe with a fire blazing tonight. And he would sleep well, this last night on earth. What could harm him, if the angel was with him?
Jericho pulled his saddle and bedroll a little closer to the welcome warmth of the fire and lay down. He had to admit, even though he found the other man's presence unsettling in some ways, he'd also brought a heap of comfort with him. Thanks to Freeman Hart, Jericho had a full belly for the first time in days, and the fire was the thing he was most grateful for. The cold had seeped into his bones until he'd begun to think he'd never be warm again. The fire seemed to work a magic all its own – a seductive dance of flame and warmth that let his mind relax and go back to happier times.
He hadn't allowed himself to think of Elena and the girls much since that day – since he'd come home with fresh game for the pot that evening two weeks past – a day of hunting that had cost him his family. He had not been able to allow his thoughts to settle on what he'd had before then. It hurt too much. When he pictured Ana's sweet gap-toothed grin, Maria's dark eyes so full of mischief, and the soothing sound of Elena's voice, the bond that held them all together, it made his heart break all over again.
He'd though
t he would lose his mind with grief. The first three nights had been the worst. He awoke from a broken sleep, singing an old lullaby through a throat full of tears – a song he'd sung to his beautiful daughters when they were babies. When he'd come fully awake and realized the precipice of madness he stood upon, he'd wiped away the tracks of wetness and vowed that was the end of sorrow for him. Regret was a waste of energy. His thoughts would be better spent on hate and revenge – and after that, indifference as to what his own fate might be.
But God, it was so hard to push those sweet memories aside and not think of the only goodness he'd ever known in this world.
Now, sleep began to steal over him, and he almost hated himself for his weakness. He wanted to see this done, and an end to everything. Sleep only prolonged the hunt. Before it completely stole his reasoning, another thought came to him. What if he was being taken for a fool by Freeman Hart?
It could well be that he was not heaven sent, but had a different purpose, indeed. Was Hart here to keep him from his new reason for living? To renew his will to have some kind of real future and put off killing the scum he was set to ride after, come hell or high water?
The warmth of the magical fire seeped into him, working with the up-to-now forgotten comfort of a full belly, and his memories dulled to a bearable ache rather than the raw, gaping wound he'd carried for the last two weeks. Sleep claimed him at last, and he slipped into the welcoming, hollow arms of the night. It felt like heaven.
****
The next morning, Jericho awoke to the smell of brewing coffee. He stood slowly, nodding at Freeman who stood beside the fire, warming his hands around a steaming cup.
"Mornin', Jericho. Sleep well?"
Jericho eyed him narrowly. "I reckon. You know, I expect every night when I lay down, it'll be my last time to go to sleep. Every mornin' when I get up, I figure that'll be my last day to do what I gotta do before I die."
"Helluva way to live."
"It's the only way I know now, Freeman. Ain't no other way." Jericho walked away a few feet to relieve himself. Grimly, he wondered if it would be the last time he took a piss too.
When he came back close to the fire again, Freeman handed him a cup of coffee. "What, exactly, do you intend to do?"
Jericho arched a brow. "Thought you understood. I'm gonna kill Tidwell's bunch. Won't have time to make it slow and painful, but by God, I'll be thorough. That's all that counts."
Freeman gave him a faint smile. "Oh, I know that much, Jericho. What I meant was, what do you intend to do – should you survive?"
Jericho shook his head and laughed shortly. "I don't see that happenin', Freeman. There are six or more of those bastards, like you said. I just hope to take most of 'em with me when I go."
"Can't plan for everything." Freeman turned and paced away a few steps. "You've got to consider the alternative. Living may be something you're…stuck with."
Jericho scowled. "Listen, angel. Demon. Whatever you are…I don't want you interferin' in my business. You understand? I don't want your help."
Freeman nodded solemnly. "I know. I'm not going to help you, Jericho. I'm only here to show you the way."
"The way? What're you talkin' about?"
"When it's all over. If…your time is up today, then it's up to me to show you the way to go."
"Damn it, I don't need you!"
Freeman shook his head sadly. "Oh, but you do. You're the one who doesn't understand, Jericho."
Jericho took a sip of his coffee, his angry gaze boring into Freeman's steady, unperturbed look over the rim of his cup. He hated the damn winter. He hated the fact that he was having to stand here in the cold and debate his uncertain future. In that moment, he hated Freeman Hart more than about anything – except for Tidwell's bunch.
"You don't get to choose your own end," Freeman went on, the hardness of his own determination evident to Jericho. It wasn't often Jericho Dean mistook a man's character. He couldn't determine what Freeman's purpose was, nor which side had sent him. There was so much about this unusual stranger that he probably would never know. But one thing was certain – Freeman wasn't afraid of him. Nor, Jericho thought, did he seem to be worried about Tidwell and his gang of cutthroats.
"I wish…I could have ended it that same day, Freeman. If I'd only come home earlier—"
"You wouldn't have been in time. It…happened not long after you left that morning."
"How do you know these things?" Jericho dropped the cup and lunged at Freeman.
Freeman was ready for him, moving with unnatural speed to sidestep him.
Jericho sprawled in the leaves and bracken of the forest floor. When he looked up, there was nothing but pity in Freeman's blue eyes, with not even the barest hint of anger.
"Son, you aren't angry at me, you know. You're angry at Tidwell and his bunch. At what they did. At circumstances."
Jericho stood up quickly. "You're damn right!" His fists clenched, and the strain was harsh in his voice. "What kind of a God lets women and children be murdered, Freeman? Huh? My woman and my little girls were wiped out – butchered – in the blink of an eye. I'm pissed as hell at God for that. Anyone would be."
"There are injustices all over the world. God doesn't personally go about correcting all the wrongs at the time they happen. But in the end, it will all come right."
Jericho snorted rudely. "How in the cornbread hell can anything happen that will make this right?" He drew a fist across his mouth. "I know only one way this can end right, Freeman. That'll be with Tidwell and his gang turnin' the ground red with their life's blood. If my life is forfeit, so be it. I only hope that I kill Tidwell and as many of the others as I can."
"Thou shalt not kill."
"You're laughable. Don't even try to preach to me. I'll do what I want."
Freeman only smiled. "No, Jericho. You'll do what's right, in the end, for everyone."
Chapter 6
They rode in silence for the first two hours. The winter wind had gotten up and whipped around their heads. Jericho's ears felt frozen. The cold blast sank down inside his coat, through the two layers of shirts he wore beneath, biting his flesh as he and Freeman leaned into the gale blowing around them.
"If this wind gets much stronger, we may have to stop," Freeman yelled, drawing abreast of Jericho.
"I ain't stoppin'," Jericho said shortly. "You do what you will."
"Ridin' these poor beasts into the ground isn't going to help you."
Jericho started to answer, but at Freeman's knowing look, he kept quiet. It was damned strange riding with an angel. He'd given up on trying to glean the answers he so badly needed. Freeman wasn't going to give him any peace in that direction. Jericho's resentment was eating him alive. How could any of this be fair? Freeman could probably tell him everything, if he only would.
Jericho threw him a narrow glance as they rode on. Hell, he probably knew how many of Tidwell's band Jericho would manage to kill—
Maybe that's why he was so quiet and tight-lipped. Jericho's heart stuttered. What if he failed? Did Freeman know the answer to that question? Would he tell him, if he asked? He drew up, coming to a halt.
"I am going to kill Tidwell. Right?"
Freeman drew up slowly and smiled. "Do you doubt it?"
"No. I sure as hell don't."
"It's never good to doubt."
"I said I didn't," Jericho snapped. "Can't you tell me…anything? I just want to know if I'm going to get those bastards."
Freeman's face became expressionless. "By this time tomorrow, you'll know everything."
Jericho's lips thinned in disgust. "Thanks, Freeman. Thanks for nothing." He kneed his bay and rode on once more. He couldn't wait to see the life gutter and die in Tidwell's eyes. He wanted to be done with everything, and to be shed of his odd companion one way or the other.
Dying would take care of that, he imagined. And that was just what he intended to do.
****
The fight began before he was ready f
or it. A bullet sang by his ear so close he felt the warm hiss of it beside his cheek.
It was mid-afternoon, and the first thought that entered Jericho's mind was that Freeman had given him no warning whatsoever. He'd even had the guts to look startled, as if it were a surprise to him too.
"I see smoke up ahead!" Freeman yelled as their horses pounded down the stretch of open range they'd been forced into.
Jericho had seen it too. He supposed he'd tried to just block it out of his thoughts. The smoke rose like an evil cloud, billowing in the wind in the distance, an uncanny reminder of the last time he'd seen such a plume – when he'd set his own cabin ablaze.
His stomach flipped over, and his breathing became shallow. He cursed and gave himself a good set-down as he pounded ever closer to the now-visible fire in the distance. Behind them, he heard a horse and rider. Another shot sounded, but flew overhead wildly. By the echoing crack of it on the winter air, the rider was gaining on them.
Jericho was about to see his revenge go undone. If the rider behind them managed to get close enough to aim true, Jericho would be dead before he ever laid eyes on Tidwell.
Veer off.
Though Freeman hadn't spoken aloud, Jericho heard his voice clearly in his mind. He shot the angel a glance. Freeman nodded at him, acknowledging the unasked question. Just then, he turned his mount toward the east and a small copse of trees a hundred yards away.
Jericho didn't let himself think. He followed Freeman's suggestion, turning the bay west to the shelter of a ridge in the distance that would give him the advantage of higher ground.
The burning cabin lay to the south along with, Jericho suspected, Tidwell and his gang. His palms tingled with dreadful anticipation. He wanted to kill Tidwell with his hands, not with a gun. He wanted to be able to see him realize his life was leaving him, and to know it was Jericho Dean who was taking it from him.
But he couldn't go rushing down to the cabin in the open and risk getting shot in the back. He rode Dan up the steeper ground of the ridge until he gained the top, guiding him behind a large boulder. From there, he was able to see everything.
Dark Trail Rising: Four Tales of the Old West Page 6
