Reginald and Quincy were infamous for gut-shooting anyone who displeased them and then betting on how long the unlucky man would live. One of their victims had lasted three weeks. At the end, the bets were on how often he would scream before he finally packed it in.
A fifth man was sprawled near the fire, snoring. A thin, mangy dog was stretched out next to him.
Case began sizing up the room itself. It was little more than a natural overhang walled off on three sides by brush and covered by canvas that had been old about the time Lazarus was raised from the dead.
There was no chimney for the fire that burned inside a ragged circle of red rocks. Smoke just drifted through the room, joined by streams curling up from cigarettes and cheroots. If the wind blew hard enough, the air cleared a bit. It also got cold enough to hang meat.
Spanish Church wasn’t a lounging around kind of place with a cherrywood bar, brass foot rails, mirrors, and fancy spittoons. The bar was made of whiskey barrels with planks stretched across their tops. The tables were the same, except for the one that had come from the bottom of Pader Gunther’s original wagon.
Whiskey barrels cut in half and turned upside down served as chairs. Other chairs were made of mismatched cottonwood branches with cowhide stretched across for a seat. Wherever men hadn’t sat, hair in shades of red and brindle and white still clung to the stiff hides.
There were many brands on the cowhides. Spanish Church had been a trading place for outlaws and rustlers for as long as the settlement had been crouched along a source of good water in a dry wilderness.
“Anyone seen the padre?” Case asked easily.
“Don’t boil your kettle,” Quincy said without looking up from his tattered cards. “He’s a-getting his beauty sleep.”
Case glanced at the bartender and the dog. “That his wife?”
One of the men snickered. He wore his gray-streaked hair Indian style, cut off at the shoulders with a knife and held away from his eyes by a band across his forehead. The headband wasn’t made of a rag or a length of rawhide. It was woven with a bold design that was neither Indian nor European.
Though the man was a half-breed, he wasn’t a member of Moody’s gang.
That’s the old outlaw they call Ute, Case thought. He must be here to get supplies for Sarah.
Or himself. He wouldn’t be the first man to steal from a widow and kid.
Ute looked at the sleeping man and dog, snickered again, and glanced at Case. Abruptly the old outlaw’s eyes narrowed, as though he somehow recognized Case.
If so, Ute neither said nor did anything to draw attention to him.
“Old man, ya gonna ante up or pass gas?” Reginald snarled at Ute.
The tone of his voice said that he was on the losing end of the card game.
Ute scooped a handful of silver coins from the table and dropped them in his pocket. Then he gave Reginald a gap-toothed smile and said in Spanish that his mother was a whore and his sister walked on all fours.
The man to Reginald’s left smiled thinly, but neither Culpepper knew enough Spanish to realize the insult.
“Hey, you ain’t gonna take my money without giving me no chance to win it back!” Reginald said.
“Come here at the new moon,” Ute said.
“But—”
Whatever else Reginald wanted to say was cut off when Ute kicked over the table and shot to his feet with a speed surprising in a man his age.
By the time the other players recovered, Ute was standing up, waiting for whatever came. A double-barreled shotgun was in his hands. Both hammers were eared back and ready to go. One of his thick, scarred fingers was across the triggers.
“New moon,” Ute said.
Case was careful not to move. He also kept both hands in sight, a courtesy that didn’t pass unnoticed.
Ute gave him a gap-toothed grin and backed out of the room before either Culpepper could stop him.
“I’m gonna gut-shoot that son of a bitch,” Reginald said bitterly.
“Not today you ain’t,” Quincy said. “Today we’re playing cards. Deal, Beaver.”
The man called Beaver picked up the cards and dealt.
The padre snored.
Case sauntered over to the fire and gave the padre’s rump a brisk nudge with the toe of his boot.
The padre kept right on snoring.
“Man enjoys his own bug juice,” Case said to no one in particular.
“I’m flat as a flea,” Reginald said. “Gimme the ante, Quincy.”
“You ain’t paid me from the last time.”
“Shee-it. I’m your brother!”
“Half-brother.”
“Shee-it.”
Reginald turned his back on the table in disgust. He focused on the first thing that came into view.
Case.
“Ain’t I seen you?” Reginald asked.
“I’ve been here and there.”
“Where you been lately?” he demanded.
Beaver cast a worried look over his cards. Asking a man where he was from was not only rude, it could be dangerous. Reginald might be too irritable to miss the stranger’s quiet self-confidence, but Beaver wasn’t.
Instinctively Beaver began looking for a place to go when the lead started flying. He had no intention of helping Reginald out. As far as he was concerned, there were too many Culpeppers hanging around as it was. One more or less wouldn’t be missed.
“There,” Case said.
“Huh?” Reginald asked.
“You asked me where I’ve been,” he said calmly. “I told you.”
Reginald came to his feet in a rush. “There?” he repeated. “Shee-it, what kinda answer is that?”
“The only kind you’re going to get.”
Quincy leaped to his feet.
Beaver dove for what he hoped would be a quiet corner of the saloon.
“You’re outnumbered, boy,” Quincy said, “or can’t you count that high?”
“I can count, but I don’t count fleas.”
“Are you calling us fleas?” Reginald demanded.
“Not me,” Case said. “I have no call to insult fleas.”
With the speed of striking snakes, the Culpeppers went for their belt guns.
Damn, those boys are fast!
Even as the thought flashed through his mind, Case drew and fired in a relentless roll of thunder that didn’t stop until there were no more bullets in his six-gun. Without a wasted motion he swapped the empty cylinder for the full one in his pocket.
When he walked forward, there was a hesitation in his gait that hadn’t been there before.
“I ain’t part of this,” Beaver said from the corner.
“Keep it that way.”
“Yessir.”
The padre sat up, blinked, and looked around.
“What’s that racket?” he said hoarsely.
“Go back to sleep,” Case said.
“Smells like gunfire,” the padre said. “Anyone kilt?”
“Fleas, that’s all. Just fleas.”
“Hell. Waste of good powder, shootin’ fleas. Just crunch ’em ’tween your thumbnails.”
With that, the padre flopped back again. His second breath was a deep snore.
Ignoring the blood running down his leg, Case circled the fallen Culpeppers. He kicked the guns away from their limp fingers before he bent over to check on the men.
Both Culpeppers were still alive, but not very happy about it. As time wore on they would be less happy. All of their wounds were below the belt.
“Sorry, boys,” he said. “If you hadn’t been so damned fast on the draw, I’d have made a clean end of it for you. Those first bullets I took knocked me off my stride.”
Slowly he stood. He stripped off his bandanna, wrapped it around his right thigh, and tied it tight.
Blood welled up relentlessly. More blood welled from a wound on his right arm.
“You’re in a bad way, hombre,” Beaver said.
Ignoring him, Case dug insi
de his shirt, pulled out a “Wanted Dead or Alive” poster, and unrolled it against his body. Using his own blood as ink, he drew lines through the names of Quincy and Reginald Culpepper. There were other, older lines drawn. Other dead Culpeppers.
There were names that had no line through them.
Too many.
“Better get a move on,” Beaver said. “Them boys have kin. They’ll track you down and toast your brains over a slow fire same as ’Paches do.”
Case dropped the poster between the two Culpeppers. Then he threw down a handful of coins.
“Here’s the ante,” he said to Reginald. “Now you and Quincy can bet on who dies first.”
Slowly Case backed toward the door. He watched Beaver every step of the way. Case might have been wounded, but the six-gun in his left hand never wavered from the other man’s chest.
Beaver was very careful not to so much as blink.
Once Case reached the door, he gave a high, oddly musical whistle, like the sound of a hawk calling from an empty sky.
Hurry, he silently urged his horse. I’ve got to go to ground before I pass out.
Brush rattled and canvas flapped as Cricket tore free and trotted toward his rider. Case reached for the saddle horn and hauled himself aboard.
With each heartbeat, waves of pain and nausea washed over him. He set his teeth and tied himself to the saddle. His hands were frighteningly clumsy.
Got to get home, he thought dizzily.
But he had no home.
With the last of his strength, he sent Cricket toward the stone wilderness at a dead run.
3
“Brung something for you,” Ute said.
Sarah looked up from the hawk she was tending. One of the outlaws camped at Spring Canyon had decided to use the bird for target practice. Fortunately the hawk’s wing wasn’t broken. It would heal. But until then, the bird had to be fed or it would starve to death.
“Books?” she asked eagerly.
Mouth agape, the hawk struggled to be free. She held it against her body and murmured soothingly.
“Some of them, too,” Ute said.
“What else?”
He jerked his head toward the front of the cabin. “Best hurry. It won’t keep.”
She gave him an odd glance but didn’t argue. She fitted a soft leather hood to the hawk’s head, tied its leg to a perch, and hurried outside.
At first glance all Sarah really saw was the rider’s blood—dried, fresh, caked, oozing, blood everywhere on the man who was slumped over an equally bloody saddle.
Then she recognized the stallion.
“Dear God,” she said. “Case.”
“Found him like this, so I brung him to you like all the other hurt critters.”
“Get him down,” she said curtly.
Then she began shouting orders.
“Conner! Conner! Come help Ute right now! Lola, bring your healing herbs!”
Ute pulled out a knife that was as long as his forearm and went to work on the bindings that held Case in the saddle.
As the last thongs were cut, Conner came running up from the creek. He was a big-boned, lean fifteen-year-old who hadn’t yet grown into his own body.
“What’s wrong, sis?” he demanded.
“Take a look,” she said, waving her hand at the bloody rider. “The Culpeppers must have found him.”
Case started sliding out of the saddle. Conner grunted as he helped Ute catch the dead weight.
“Hell, he’s a big ’un,” Conner muttered.
“Don’t swear,” she said automatically. “And the word is pronounced one, not ’un.”
“Are you going to lecture me on grammar or help this man?”
“I can do both at once,” she snapped. “Bring Case inside and put him on my bed.”
“Case, huh?” Conner asked.
He grabbed the big, blood-streaked boots and straightened under the weight. Ute did the same with Case’s shoulders. Together they carried him toward the cabin.
“Is this the hombre who walked you home night before last?” Conner asked.
“Yes,” she said absently. Then, startled, “How did you know?”
“I saw him.”
“What were you doing up at that time of night?”
“When Ute is gone, I sleep real light,” Conner said simply.
Sarah turned aside to hide her suddenly bright cheeks.
Did Conner see Case kiss me? she wondered.
“Lola!” she called loudly. “Where in blazes are you?”
“I’m coming, gal. Some of us ain’t as spry as others.”
The words came from the direction of the wickiup where Ute and Lola made their home.
“Put him on my bed,” Sarah said.
Conner looked doubtfully from the bloody man to his sister’s spotless bedding.
“Do it!” she snapped.
“Shoot,” he muttered. “Who put a weasel in your henhouse?”
They lowered Case to the bedding, which lay on a pallet of woven reeds.
“Draw fresh water from the creek,” Sarah said to Conner. “Ute, bring those clean rags in from the laundry line.”
Both males hurried to obey her. When she got that fierce gleam in her eyes, it was easier just to take orders than to argue.
She knelt next to Case. As carefully as she could, she dragged off his boots and socks. Though he made no sound, she knew he was still alive, because blood was still oozing from his wounds. When a man’s heartbeat stopped, so did any bleeding.
Too much blood, she thought fearfully, feeling the slipperiness of the boots. Too damned much!
She untangled the chin strap of his hat and tossed it onto a nearby chest made of woven willow branches. With quick motions she unbuttoned his shirt, peeled it from his limp body, and went to work on his undershirt.
When she was finished, she had a clear view of the wedge of black hair that spread from his collarbone to his belt. Blood matted the hair along his right side.
Delicately she ran her fingers over his chest, seeking any wounds beneath the blood. She found none except the one she had already noticed on the inside of his right arm.
Shallow wound, she thought, relieved. Bloody but otherwise not much damage.
She undid his belt. Then she eased his pants and underwear down his torso, fearing every bit of the way what she would discover.
Please, God, not a gut wound, she prayed silently.
The only blood on his abdomen had dripped down from the wound on his arm.
She let out a rush of pent-up breath. With great care she peeled his pants down his legs.
The wounds on his thigh made her stomach clench.
“Lordy, but that’s a prime lot of male flesh,” Lola said from behind Sarah.
“Lordy, but he looks more like stew meat than steak at the moment,” she shot back. “Get my uncle’s medical bag, please.”
Laughing, Lola went to the willow-branch chest, opened it, and pulled out an old black leather bag.
“What do you need?” she asked.
“A miracle,” Sarah said.
“Didn’t know you stored ’em in this bag.”
“Neither did I.”
After that there was silence except for the splash of water while Sarah gently cleaned Case’s wounds. She started with his arm. As she had hoped, the wound was more bloody than serious.
“That’s not worth stitching,” Lola commented.
All Sarah said was, “Hot water, please. Soap. And more rags. He’s a mess.”
“Ute!” Lola called.
“I hear you,” he answered gruffly. “But why you bother with all that scrubbing when—”
“Quit grousing,” Lola interrupted. “She saved your sorry hide once, didn’t she?”
Muttering, Ute stoked up the fire and checked the pot hanging on the trivet over the flames.
“Getting there,” he said.
“Thank you,” Sarah answered without looking up.
He watched her wo
rk with reverent black eyes. At some wordless level of his being he was convinced that she was a cinnamon-haired angel put on earth to help creatures that couldn’t help themselves.
It was something he rarely spoke about, but it was more real to him than any words he knew.
While water heated, Sarah gently cleaned blood from Case’s body. When she was finished, she looked down at her handiwork.
Lola is right, she decided in a distracted way. This is a prime piece of man.
The idle thought surprised her. Since her harsh initiation into a wife’s duties in the marriage bed, men hadn’t appealed to her physically.
Hastily she draped a clean cloth over Case, preserving at least the shreds of modesty.
But she would be a long time forgetting what she had seen.
He’s bigger than Hal was.
All over.
The thought made Sarah shudder. She had endured enough pain from her slightly built husband. Lying with teeth clenched while a man Case’s size rutted between her legs was unthinkable.
“Here you be,” Ute said.
“Thank you.”
She took the pan of hot water. Then she looked up into Ute’s narrow, black eyes.
“Uncle William,” she said quietly, “told me that a clean wound heals better than a dirty one, and any woman knows that hot water and soap cleans things better than cold water alone.”
Ute’s nod was almost a bow.
“I didn’t mean no belittling of you,” he said uncomfortably.
She touched one of his blunt, scarred hands.
“I know,” she said. “I just wanted you to understand, so if I get hurt someday you’ll know what to do.”
“God won’t never let you get hurt.”
“God is very busy.”
“Not too busy for His angels.”
With a sad kind of smile, Sarah turned back to Case. She had no illusions about holding a special place in anyone’s eyes, much less God’s.
Gently, thoroughly, she cleaned wounds until she could see nothing but raw flesh and fresh blood. One of the leg wounds was high on the inside of his thigh. She probed delicately and felt no lump of lead. The bullet had simply taken out a furrow of flesh and gone on its way.
The second leg wound was deeper, more serious. It bled steadily, but not with the spurting that her uncle had warned her often meant death.
Winter Fire Page 4
