by Tess LeSue
One year she was in Missouri, the next in California. No matter how far he roamed, she always seemed to follow. Why hadn’t she behaved like a regular woman and found herself a husband and settled down by now? Surely she was long overdue for it? Why was she so damn persistent? And what was so goddamn appealing about tearing around the west, making up utter nonsense about a complete stranger?
He didn’t care what it took; he wanted her out of his life. Preferably somewhere on the other side of the country. With her pen locked away in a box.
But in order to do that, he had to give her something better than the lies she was making up. A story so packed with drama, she’d write it even if it meant that it was the last story she’d ever write about him. A story so good she wouldn’t be able to resist it.
And this was the story he’d concocted for her: hunted by the most glorified killers in the west, Deathrider would find himself holed up in the Apacheria, fighting for his life down to the last bitter bullet. Or, rather, arrow. And then he’d find himself surrounded by Apaches, who would take the prize right out from under the noses of all those Hunters. It would be goodbye to the Plague of the West, and also goodbye to his redheaded whore, Seline (forget the fact that he and Seline had only ever had a platonic friendship—in this version they’d be lovers). A.A. Archer wasn’t the only one who could make up a compelling fabrication.
With one deft move, Deathrider could free himself from infamy, get Seline clear of that swollen hog Hec Boehm and frustrate those bastards on his trail. Oh, A.A. Archer would have something to write about all right. He’d make sure of it. Best of all, the glory for killing the Plague of the West would go to the Apaches and not to any of those blood-hungry whites. Those Hunters could damn well go home empty-handed.
To leave a clear trail, Deathrider and Micah had kept themselves visible, and they headed toward the Apacheria, streaking through towns and villages and past trading posts, making sure that Seline’s pink dress and orange hair were on full display. So long as Micah kept his head down, he was passable enough. He moved so fast that he was just a blur anyway. Deathrider, on the other hand, made sure that people saw his face wherever they went. He struck dramatic poses, giving the townsfolk and ranchers time to take note. He threw in a bloodcurdling war cry or two, shaking his bow in the air. It was a ridiculous display, but people had ideas about Indians, and sometimes it was useful to play into them. Just like the folks of Mariposa, they’d sure have something to tell the Hunters when they came riding through.
“It is a good plan,” Deathrider reassured Micah now, as they reached the source of the oily smoke. “It will work.” In truth, he wasn’t sure if he was reassuring Micah or himself as he took in the charred remains of the two travelers who had fallen foul of the Apaches. None of their belongings remained, so it was impossible to tell who they’d been.
“A good plan? The hell it is!” Micah’s horse became skittish at the smell of smoke, and he struggled to control it. “Look at those poor bastards.” He was chalky with horror. “This is the work of the Chiricahua. It’s got to be.”
The Chiricahua were the deadliest Apaches west of the Rio Grande. While some Apache bands were farmers, the Chiricahua were nomadic: they traded and raided and struck fear into every traveler in the southwest.
But the Chiricahua couldn’t kill him any deader than a single bullet from one of those Hunters, and Deathrider was long used to living under the shadow of death. It took a lot to worry him. And as far as he could see, this didn’t look too dangerous. There wasn’t anyone alive to pose a threat to them.
“Chiricahua or not, they’ve already gone.” Deathrider swung down from his horse. As he did, Dog jogged into the remains of the camp, breathing hard. Deathrider opened his canteen and pulled a tin bowl from his saddlebag while Dog nosed through the charred timbers of what had once been a wagon. By the time Dog had sated his curiosity, Deathrider had filled the bowl, and Dog collapsed next to it, vigorously lapping up the water. “See? Dog doesn’t see any danger.”
Micah snorted. “This place ain’t nothing but danger. And we’ve been hip deep in danger for so long that his nose probably can’t smell it anymore.”
Deathrider gave Dog a brisk rub on the back of his neck. “Good thing you don’t bitch as much as Micah does, or I’d never get a moment’s peace.”
Dog looked up and gave a low woof.
Deathrider tossed the canteen to Micah. “Come on, get that dress off. We’ve got a scene to stage, and the quicker we move, the quicker we can be out of here.”
“It ain’t right.” After he’d taken a drink, Micah set to complaining again, but he dismounted as he did it, and yanked the bonnet from his head. His own jet-black hair came tumbling down. Micah stared miserably at the victims of the Chiricahua. “I bet their ghosts will haunt us.”
“Their ghosts will be too busy haunting the Chiricahua.” Deathrider grabbed Micah by the shoulders and turned him. He started undoing the fancy buttons down the back of the dress. A couple had already popped off, and the rest were straining. It was amazing they’d managed to cram him into the dress in the first place; he was far bigger than Seline. As the back of the dress gaped open, Deathrider turned his attention to unknotting the corset laces. The knot had just about solidified, as the cord had swollen from absorbing Micah’s sweat.
“You smell terrible,” Deathrider said.
“You try wearing one of those contraptions for weeks in the middle of summer. It’s hotter than a clay oven.” Micah wasted no time stripping down to his trousers. “I ain’t never doing anything like that for you again. Not even if they have you cornered.”
“They did have me cornered.” Deathrider held the pink dress up. It was damp from Micah’s body and stained from the dust they’d kicked up. He was glad Seline couldn’t see it. It was her favorite dress.
Deathrider ripped the gown down the front. Sorry, Seline.
“They do, you mean,” Micah corrected cheerfully. “They do have you cornered. Last I looked, the Hunt was still on.” He watched as Deathrider considered the scraps of pink dress in his hands and the smoldering remains of the fire. He scowled at Deathrider. “You’re a ghoul. I don’t want any part of this.”
“You’ll thank me when we’re free.”
“I’m already free. In fact, I could shoot you myself and collect the money.”
“Go ahead. Put me out of my misery.”
Micah snorted. “Yeah, right. And then I ride into Frisco to collect, and they shoot me for a lying Indian. I know how that story goes.”
Deathrider shucked off his buckskins and tossed them to Micah. “Make it look good,” he told his friend, as he pulled his “white” clothes out of his saddlebags.
“My pleasure.” Micah took his hunting knife and hacked at the buckskins. “Those Chiricahua have taken an extreme dislike to you, my friend. They’re about to leave no bit of you unstabbed.” Micah made a show of dismembering Deathrider’s clothes.
“You’re enjoying that too much.”
“I have a lot of pent-up anger toward you.”
Deathrider hadn’t worn his white clothes in a good long while. The shirt was so crumpled, he doubted it could ever be ironed straight again, and the trousers were still stained from the last time he’d worn them. It didn’t matter. He’d only wear them as far as the plains, and then he’d go home and shuck them off. Two Bears had been wanting him to stay with the camp, to stop his wandering ways and make a life for himself with his father’s people. Maybe this time, he would. Even if it meant he’d have to put up with his father’s endless matchmaking.
Once the gown and the buckskins looked convincingly assaulted, and he and Micah were dressed like whites, they stood over the smoldering fire. Deathrider was struck with soul-deep melancholy as he regarded the dying embers. He felt the phantom presence of the people who had fallen prey to the raiders. Whoever they might have been . . . People just
like his mother, perhaps. Hopeful. Heading for a new life. Running headlong into heartbreak.
Was he really going to add to the tragedy by hijacking the site of their deaths for his plan?
Damn it. He didn’t know these people or the quality of their characters. And their suffering was done, while his went on.
They would never know, and it would save his life. . . .
But . . . The vulgar pink satin of Seline’s dress shone in the harsh sun.
He met Micah’s gaze.
Damn it. It wasn’t right, and they both felt it.
“Hell,” Deathrider growled. “I can’t do it.” These people had suffered enough; they didn’t need some stranger violating the place of their deaths. “We’ll have to think of something else.”
“Good,” Micah said. “I wouldn’t have liked you anymore if you’d done it.”
No. He wouldn’t have liked himself. He balled the remains of the gown in his fists. Goddamn it. This whole business was turning him into someone he barely recognized. He felt soiled. How in the hell had he ended up here?
“We need to give them a decent burial.”
Micah nodded in agreement.
“You think we have time?” Deathrider squinted at the horizon. “You think we still have good distance on them?”
“Enough to do what needs to be done. Then I vote we go to Mexico.”
“We can’t,” Deathrider sighed, dropping the gown and heading back to his saddlebags. “We don’t want to put Tom and Seline in danger. They’re headed to Mexico. We’ll just have to head up into Apache lands. We can skirt the Coyotero and Mimbreño and hope Voss and his friends get picked off by raiders.”
Micah didn’t look happy at that, but for once he didn’t start up with his bitching. When Deathrider began digging a grave, he set to finding rocks to lay a cairn on top. They worked in silence, dousing the fire and watching somberly as the steam billowed in blue-gray clouds.
“If they’re nearby, the sight of that’s going to bring them,” Micah observed grimly.
Without doubt. They’d have to move faster.
“You should say a few words,” Micah suggested, once they’d laid the unfortunate travelers to rest.
“Me? Why not you?”
“I don’t know who they are.”
Deathrider gave him a sour look.
“We’re here because of you,” Micah reminded him.
Deathrider sighed. He regarded the graves, piled with rocks and marked by boards from the charred wagon. The sun was slanting west, sending the shadows jutting accusingly at the smoking remains of the fire. He didn’t know what to say. Unconsciously, he lapsed into his father’s tongue, even though he was hundreds of miles from Arapaho lands. “We don’t know who you are, strangers. Whoever you are, we hope you followed the rising smoke to the afterlife and are not locked in suffering to this place.”
“Tell them not to haunt us,” Micah said. He couldn’t understand a word of Deathrider’s eulogy; he wasn’t Arapaho or from any of the Algonquin-speaking tribes.
“I’m not telling them what to do,” Deathrider protested, switching back to English. “After everything they’ve been through, they’ve got the right to do whatever they want.”
“At least tell them to haunt the Chiricahua, not us.”
“You tell them. They wouldn’t understand me anyway. My people live a long way from here; I doubt these people speak Algonquin.”
“Dead people speak all languages,” Micah said sagely.
“So, you tell them.” Deathrider took his leave of the graveside and left Micah to say whatever the hell he wanted. He threw the slashed gown and buckskins over the wagon remains. He was sore that he’d ruined his clothes for nothing.
Dog gave a sharp bark.
“Hell. Micah, say goodbye to those dead people. We’ve got company!”
Not just company. A lot of company. A lot of armed company.
7
AVA DIDN’T KNOW what was worse: Kennedy Voss’s silence or Lord Whatsit’s chatter. Both made her head ache. Voss’s silence had a menace to it. He had a way of looking at a girl that was downright frightful. He’d not said a word to her since they’d ridden out of San Francisco. Her nags couldn’t keep up with the pack, and they’d fallen rapidly behind. The dust cloud around the Hunters ballooned as they tore away over the horizon. Soon all that was visible was a ruddy smudge against the bleached sky.
As they dropped farther and farther behind, Ava had assumed they’d fall behind Voss too—but no such luck. He was fixed on riding with Ava, and he’d pulled in beside her and reined his horses in to match her pace, never once saying a word. He didn’t hurry her or harry her; he was just there. Watching her.
Some of the other men got nervy when they saw Voss dropping back. A couple followed suit, shooting him anxious looks. They thought he knew something they didn’t. And when they saw the way Voss watched her, they thought she knew something they didn’t.
Like where Deathrider was.
If only. She had no more information that they did, and Ava was crawling out of her skin at the thought of the pack galloping into Mariposa so far ahead of them. What if they caught him and she wasn’t there? What if they killed him?
She jammed her heels into poor old Freckles, but the horse was already giving it all she could.
Lord Whatsit was endlessly appalled at the pace. His mighty Arab was champing at the bit to join the rush, and he was too. Becky was caught in the middle, seesawing between fear of missing out on the Hunt and being relieved that they weren’t in the thick of it with the hot-eyed killers.
“It’ll all be over by the time we get there,” Becky fretted. Ava couldn’t tell if she was happy about that or not.
Lord Whatsit wasn’t happy. “I don’t see the point of this goose chase unless we actually chase the goose!”
“You can let me ride one of your horses if you want me to go faster,” she said sharply.
Of course he didn’t. He had no intention of sharing his magnificent animals; he just wanted to complain. And complain. And complain.
If he said one more thing about goose chasing she was going to scream.
“Maybe this will give the goose a chance to thin the field,” she suggested waspishly. “This is the Plague of the West we’re talking about. By the time we reach Mariposa, he’ll probably have shot half a dozen of them. And then you’ll be glad you weren’t caught in the carnage.”
“He couldn’t shoot me,” Lord Whatsit said disdainfully.
“No? Lords can’t be shot?” She wondered if she should give it a try.
“I’d have him before he could draw his weapon.” The man’s arrogance was astonishing.
“You would, would you?”
“I’m a crack shot; he wouldn’t stand a chance.”
Kennedy Voss stayed silent, but he was clearly taking it all in. Ava thought Lord Whatsit’s chances of survival were looking slimmer by the minute. Voss was probably having the same thoughts she was.
“But I can’t shoot the goose from back here,” his lordship said in disgust.
“Feel free to go on ahead, Your Majesty,” she said stiffly. Or loan me one of your damn horses. That seemed like it would be a perfect solution. If he’d be willing to share, they could all go at a fair clip. But no, he kept his prime horseflesh to himself and made her ride the nag. Ava was beginning to suspect poor Freckles might be a depressive animal. Or a sick one. She had droopy ears, and she hung her head as she walked. Now and then she let out an existential whicker.
Not that Ava could blame her. She felt more than a little droopy too. And don’t even get her started on existential despair. She was feeling a fair whack of it herself.
There was something about the desert: the endless chaparral and the faded sky, the whirls of dust kicked up by the devil winds, the bleached skeletons of de
ad trees; it all contributed to an overwhelming sense of being at the edge of the world. The sun had a mean bite, and the flying sand got in your eyes.
It really made you question the point of it all.
She was getting too old for this, that was all. She’d loved it once . . . all of it: the hours in the saddle, the outdoor life, the camping, facing the unknown, the ride between exhilaration and terror. She had thrilled at the chase and at the sheer wildness of the frontier. She’d loved every inch of it: the seemingly endless prairie, with its rippling grasses and wild storms, its deep and relentless snows in winter and its jewel brightness in spring. She’d loved the soaring mountains with their stark peaks and thick woods; she’d loved the raw mining towns and bleached deserts. Everything west of Missouri was brighter and louder and rougher than in the east—an unbridled pleasure.
Or it used to be.
Nowadays the color seemed to have leached out of things, like the sun had gone behind the clouds. The trail made her tired, the camping hurt her back, building a campfire made her surly and the sight of the vast empty land made her . . . afraid. She couldn’t say why.
Maybe it was simply ennui. Or saddle weariness.
If you’re honest, you have enough in your bank account already. You could stop. Just climb down off the horse and stop.
It was true. If she wanted to, she could probably quit today. It would always be good to have just a little bit more money—but did you ever feel like you had enough? Her bank accounts were healthy enough. . . . She could go back east and live off the fruits of her labor; she didn’t have to be dragging along on this nag, feeling her skin crawl from a rapist’s gaze and listening to some mad Englishman brag about his capacity for killing people. She could leave them all to it and get on with her life.
But the thought didn’t fill her with the sense of pleasure she’d thought it would. If anything, it only increased her weariness.
