Squire's Quest

by Judith B. Glad

  Only six days...

  * * * *

  The road wasn't much more than two ruts worn into the dirt, once they'd turned off the stage route. The mules moved slower than a man could walk, and had to be pulled up frequently so he could ride ahead and make sure their route was clear of drifts too deep to cut through. No wonder Murphy planned three days to travel a little over thirty miles.

  "You said it was a churchy settlement. Mormons?" he said during one of the easy stretches, where the ground was level and the drifts parallel to their route.

  "Nope. I'm not quite sure what they are. They built themselves a big barn first thing. Last time I was here, they were all living together in the loft, with their stock down below. Peculiar folks."

  "Huh. Well, I guess it takes all kinds."

  "I reckon it does. Say, did I ever tell you about the winter I spent down in Mexico?"

  Merlin didn't ever hear the end of his tale, for the road crossed the creek again, and they had to dig their way through more snow.

  They arrived at the settlement just after noon on the third day. He saw what Murphy had meant when he called the settlers peculiar. No women emerged from the barn, and the twenty-odd men spoke scarcely a word while they helped unload the wagons. The head man, a tall, rangy fellow with a prophet's beard and long gray hair, refused their help in moving the bags and barrels into the barn.

  As soon as the wagons were empty, he handed Murphy a pouch full of gold coins. "I thank you for making a special trip, Brother Creek. This should hold us until harvest."

  "Anytime," Murphy said. "Let's go, boys." He mounted his wagon and turned it back they way they'd come.

  Merlin looked at Tom, and the young man shrugged. He let the wagons go ahead across the narrow streambed. With a quick look over his shoulder, he guided Gawain in their tracks. Not a soul was in sight. If it weren't for a lazy curl of smoke from a single chimney at one corner of the barn, he'd have thought the place deserted.

  Peculiar folks for certain. He nudged Gawain into a trot and caught up, wondering why they'd not been offered hospitality. No one had ever turned him away from any isolated ranch or settlement he'd ever stopped at, and most had offered him food and a place to sleep.

  They camped that night on a flat where the two forks of Horse Creek came together. After supper he settled on a rock and sipped at his coffee. "Are they always so friendly?"

  "Nope. Sometimes they're downright shy," Murphy said. "Strangest folk I've ever seen."

  With a glance at the sky, where no stars shone, Merlin said, "I sure hope there's no snow in the offing. I want to get home."

  "Missing Callie, are you?"

  "More than that. I've got a feeling." He shuddered, turned it into a shrug. "Had it ever since we started."

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The first few nights, Callie forced herself into bed at a reasonable hour and tossed there, wide awake. Each day she went about her tasks like a sleepwalker, dropping things, forgetting what she was doing, stumbling over her own shadow. When she decided to mend the shirt Merlin had caught on a nail, she pricked her finger twice and then fell asleep in the chair and tumbled out.

  She marked off the days on the feed store calendar and rejoiced Friday morning when she drew the X across Thursday. They might even be on the road now. The weather had held good. "I hope it doesn't snow for another couple of days."

  Determined to be sleepy, she sat up late, reading one of Merlin's books. She didn't like it much, for it was about people traveling in a ship that sailed under the water. Never having heard of any such thing, she strongly doubted it was possible. Still, reading was better than wishing he was beside her in the bed.

  She finally grew drowsy, but even though she fell asleep almost immediately, she slept lightly. Every creak and groan of the cabin, every yip of a coyote or sleepy bray of a mule brought her wide awake, heart pounding. The fourth--or was it the sixth--time she woke, it was to a sharp chime, as if the bell had tried to ring but been silenced. Something's wrong.

  It wasn't morning, yet slivers of light shone between the boards of the shutters. Flickering light.

  She all but leapt from the bed and ran to the window facing the barn. The shutters were outside the glass and her breath steamed it the moment she leaned close.

  She knew, though. Something was burning. The barn! Oh my God. Willis!

  A shot sounded, and then another, sharp cracks of sound, not the boom of a big rifle like the one Willis carried.

  The shotgun was leaning against the wall beside the door. She picked it up, made sure the bar was in place.

  Of course it is. You put it there yourself, when Willis brought back the chamber pot.

  More gunshots sounded, and none of them was Willis' rifle. She heard faint shouts, and the sound of horses running. Backing until she was behind the table, she crouched and laid the shotgun across it, aimed at the door.

  And waited.

  After a while the tumult outside quieted, but still she waited. She heard voices, men's voices. And then someone knocked on the door.

  "Open the door, girl. It's your pa."

  No. I won't.

  "You hear me, girl? I said open this door."

  No.

  Silence. She waited, scarcely breathing. It really had been her father's voice. He'd found her. But he wasn't going to get in. Willis would see to that.

  Minutes--or perhaps only seconds--later, her father said, "The old man up in the barn? He a friend of yours?"

  Willis? Is he hurt? Her stomach churned, but she couldn't speak, didn't move.

  "Speak up, old man. Tell her what'll happen to you 'less she opens this door to her loving pa."

  "Go to hell, you son of a bitch."

  That was Willis. His voice was distinctive, deep and with an unusual twist to his words.

  "Hold him, Frisco, whilst I give him a taste of what's to come."

  Willis--or someone--grunted, as if in pain.

  "Not enough? Let's try this."

  The scream tore through her like a knife. Her hands clenched on the shotgun. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.

  "He's still alive, girl, but he's bleeding something fierce. A few more minutes, he'll be bled out. Or you can open the door and I'll put a tourniquet on and we'll get him to a sawbones soon as possible. Your choice."

  "Don't do it, Miz Callie. He's lyin'." Willis's words came on gasps of pain.

  I can't let him die.

  Wearily, for she knew what it would cost her, she set the shotgun aside and went to the door. "I'm coming out. For God's sake, take care of him."

  She lifted the bar. Before she could set it down, the door burst open, knocking her off her feet. She stared up at her father, backlit against the burning barn, looking like a devil come out of hell.

  "Didn't I tell you to wait for me whilst I took care of my business, girl? You've put me to no end of trouble." He jerked his chin. "Take her, but don't bruise her unless she gives you cause."

  A hulking brute stepped past him and bent over her. She kicked at him, but he dodged just enough that her bare foot struck him on the thigh instead of where she'd aimed. He caught her hair and lifted her. The pain in her scalp made her gasp, but she still had the strength to claw at him.

  "That's cause." He slapped her so hard she saw stars, and tossed her over his shoulder. Though she was gasping for breath as he carried her out, she was aware of Willis lying by the step in a pool of blood.

  Aren't you going to help him?

  Her tongue refused to form the words, even if she'd had the wind to speak.

  My fault. He was only trying to protect me.

  Her captor tossed her into the bed of a buckboard. Before she could do more than command her unwilling body to move, someone else was tying her hands together behind her. That accomplished, he looped the rope twice around her feet, pulled them up until her spine was arched, and knotted the rope's end around her wrists. "You sure ain't dressed for travelin'." He ran his hand along her leg, pushing
aside her nightgown until she was bare to the hips.

  She shivered, and not just from the cold.

  The hulk jumped down. Reaching back into the bed, he pulled a long, canvas-wrapped bundle toward him. "Where you want this, Mr. Smith?"

  "In the cabin. Is she dead?"

  "Nope, but I don't reckon she's long for this world, not the way she's breathin'. You gave her a big dose of that there laudanum."

  "Make sure. And Frisco? Untie her. That's good rope. Be a shame to waste it."

  Callie watched with horror as the hulk--Frisco--carried the bundle into the cabin. The other man followed him, carrying something. A can with a familiar, distinctive shape.

  My God! Coal oil. They're going to burn the cabin.

  Behind her a great crash and flare of light signaled the collapse of the barn roof. Thank goodness all the mules were out. But the cow? What had happened to the cow?

  How can I worry about a cow? Willis is dead. A woman's going to be murdered in my home. Oh, Merlin, why'd you have to leave me?

  "Hold on there." The wagon dipped when her father hoisted himself onto the tailgate. He grabbed her hands, twisted until she had to bite back a scream.

  "I'll be damned. The one-eyed son of a bitch did marry you. You'll regret that, girl. So will he." He tugged at one of her fingers.

  My ring. He's taking my wedding ring.

  "Nooo!"

  "Deed? Bring the laudanum." He leaned over her and held the ring before her eyes. It glittered green in the leaping firelight. "Expensive thing, ain't it? Too bad I can't keep it to pay for the trouble you've given me." His chuckle sent chills down her spine, chills far worse than any caused by her being half-naked on a winter night.

  Turning, he tossed it to one of his men. "Here, put it on the whore. Ring finger, left hand. If it's too tight, make it fit."

  Getting the laudanum into her mouth took two men. Callie's last sight of the cabin was the flames shooting from its windows and door.

  * * * *

  They rested the mules until midmorning, when Murphy, eyeing the lowering clouds, decided it was time to get moving. "If we don't make a nooning, we should be able to get to Lodgepole Creek by sundown."

  Merlin tucked jerky and some strips of dried apple into a coat pocket. So did the others.

  "I hope you get paid well for this trip," he said on one of his passes by the wagon Murphy was driving. They'd made five miles by his reckoning, despite the up-and-down character of the land. He'd been keeping his eye open for game, for last night they'd finished the last of the beef they'd carried. So far no luck, even though he'd seen both deer and antelope on the way out.

  "No more, no less than any other shipment. We charge by weight and miles traveled. Behave there, Roscoe!" he yelled when the leader shied at a jackrabbit dashing across the road. "Generally we get fed and housed when we deliver, but not by the Brethren of Virtue."

  "Not sure I'd want to eat anything those folks fixed," Tom said. He spoke so seldom that both Merlin and Murphy looked at him in surprise. "My mama always said food was as good flavored as the cook is happy. Were that true, a meal with those folks would be bitter as gall."

  "Your mama was a wise woman." Murphy said.

  They pulled up to check the harness and the brakes. The country ahead of them wasn't real steep, but there were some places where a wagon could build up a good speed if it was rolling free.

  A stand of scrubby willow sat at the mouth of a narrow draw just ahead. Merlin had remarked when they passed it on the way in what a good place it was for an ambush. He didn't worry too much now, for it was plain to any observer the wagons were empty. A road agent would have to be mighty desperate to hold them up, but he kept an eye peeled anyhow.

  When Tom grunted and began to fold in on himself, it appeared like he'd taken sick. Until the sound of a shot echoed and re-echoed from hill to hill.

  "Get down!" Merlin spurred Gawain to catch up with the wagons.

  He felt the bullet hit his horse just before the second shot sounded. As Gawain faltered, he kicked his feet free and prepared to jump. The gelding took five more steps, each one slower than the last, and collapsed, his head in the creek. Merlin landed on his feet, rifle in hand. A rock turned under him and he stumbled.

  The bullet struck him high on the shoulder, tearing through the canvas of his coat, searing a path across flesh.

  He hit the ground, rolled. "Murphy?"

  "Here. You O.K.?"

  "Took one in the shoulder, but it's not bad. You?"

  "Skinned up when I landed, but nothing serious. Can you see anything?"

  "There's one in the brush across the creek, but I think another's up high, behind us, maybe. How's your cover?"

  "Piss poor. Can you cover me while I get into those bushes beyond the wagons?"

  "Only with my rifle. The shotgun's still on the saddle. Go, but be careful."

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Murphy eel his way among the rocks until he was half-concealed in the scanty line of scrub bordering the creek. "Murphy?" He kept his voice as quiet as he could.

  "Yeah?"

  "That white hat of yours makes a good target."

  Murphy grunted, just before another shot echoed from hill to hill.

  "Murphy?"

  Silence.

  Well, hell. Merlin snaked his way toward where Murphy had entered the scrub. The white hat lay upside down in a torn-up patch, but of Murphy there was no sign. "Murphy?" he called again, keeping his voice just above a whisper.

  "Here. To your left. Get out of there. Wherever he is, he can see into this thicket. Good thing he can't shoot worth a damn."

  "How bad are you hit?"

  "My leg. I'll live."

  "Take whatever cover you can. I'll see if I can sight them."

  "Don't be a fool. Get out, ride for the Featherstone ranch. It's only five miles. I'll hold out 'til you get back."

  "They shot my horse."

  "Shit."

  "Yep." He rolled sideways, until he lay right along the edge of the creek, fifty feet or so downstream from Murphy. Although cover was scant, he had a hunch neither of the shooters could see him. At least he hoped there were only two.

  Was Tom dead? He'd fallen like a sack of flour, bonelessly. Merlin couldn't see where he lay, but he hadn't made a sound, and no more shots had been aimed at him.

  He assessed his chances. The wheeler on Tom's wagon had been saddle stock at one time, or so Jeb had claimed. If he could get him free of his traces... The big sorrel jack was less temperamental than most of the mules. Worth a try.

  He began crawling, doing his best to blend into the landscape, moving in short spurts, a foot or so at a time. An hour later he was within five feet of Tom's wagon. For the last while he'd heard bird calls instead of the silence following the first shot. Were they still here? He would be, if he were staking game--whether two legged or four.

  Only one way to find out. Cautiously he rose to a crouch, froze in position for a slow count of a hundred.

  A raven called somewhere off to the south.

  He removed the six-gun from its holster and clutched it in his left hand. If I ever needed two good eyes, now's the time. He had to turn his head clear 'round to see off to his right, a motion that could draw a watcher's attention.

  Still crouched, he made a dash for the wagon. He'd started to dive beneath it when something struck him a tremendous blow above his right ear. He tumbled. The echoing boom of a heavy rifle was the last sound he heard.

  He woke once, when a man squatted beside him. He guessed it was a man, because all he saw was a dark blur.

  "Your friends are both dead. You can crawl out of there, or I can haul you out. Your choice."

  "Go to hell," he said, but no sound came from his mouth.

  Something took hold of his ankle and dragged him backwards. He told his fingers to grab hold of something, but they were gone somewhere else.

  "Is this the one?"

  "Looks like it. Eye patch, yeller hair, and l
ace-up boots. The others have two eyes each."

  "Load him up then."

  "What'll I do with the others?"

  "Leave 'em. The coyotes'll take care of 'em. But check their pockets first. They may have gotten paid for that stuff they hauled up here."

  Rough hands lifted him and tossed him across a saddle, face down. He willed his arms to push him off, but they hung limp. Something tickled along his neck. Pretty soon dark drips formed at the tips of his dangling fingers.

  I'm bleeding. Why am I bleeding?

  Two men came into sight. One of them held a small pouch. "I found this on the Injun. He ain't dead, but I doubt he'll last the night."

  "T'other one's gone. I got him right through the heart, or as close as don't matter."

  "Good shootin'. What about the mules?"

  "Smith didn't say nothin'. I reckon we could drive 'em in and sell 'em."

  "You're crazy. They're all branded with the Box-MR."

  "Let me cut 'em loose then. I'd hate to see a good mule et by a cat."

  "You're soft, Nate, jest plain soft. Get a move on, then. Mr. Smith, he's gonna be waitin' to hear if we done the job."

  Big gloved hands wrapped a rope around his wrists and flung it under the horse's belly. A tugging on his feet told him they were being tied too.

  Good, I won't fall off.

  He tried to ask why he wasn't in the saddle, but couldn't seem to find his voice. Maybe he'd left it home, with Cal.

  Cal. I've got to get back to her. She's in danger.

  "How far should we take him?"

  "Hell, a mile ought to be plenty, less'n he dies before we get that far. He's leakin' blood pretty steady."

  He wondered who they were talking about. Poor fellow. Somebody must've shot him.

  When the horse began walking, he bit back a curse at the way the motion pained his head. When it moved into a trot, he stopped worrying.

  Only once before had he hurt this bad, and that time a panther had torn out his eye.

  Please, God, not again. I don't think I can live through that again. On the tail of his prayer, darkness took him.

  He woke when the horse stopped moving.

  "Shall I shoot him?"