A sudden suspicion struck her. Surely he wasn’t planning to sneak out on her? Maybe that’s just what he had in mind. He would slip out quietly before daybreak, leaving her with old Devers. No way, Mr. Michaels! She turned with fire flashing in her eyes. Her molars ground against each other as she watched him carefully cleaning his gun. She sent him a silent warning, which he did not see.
In the early hours before dawn, John Wesley saddled Jacob in the darkness, his movements quiet and confident. He turned and almost bumped into a figure that appeared out of the tree branches.
“I told you, Mr. Michaels,” Dolly said quietly, “that I was going with you.”
His breath came out in a resigned sigh. He dropped his hands, which he had automatically put out to steady her. “Yes, Mrs. Arnold.” There was nothing for him to do, other than tie her up, and he was reluctant to exert physical restraint over her. He handed her the reins to his horse. “I’ll saddle your gray. We’ll leave the packhorse and our other stuff here so we can travel faster.”
“’Thank you,” she said coldly. If she had to cook, then he could worry about saddling the horses. Besides, as fussy as he was about saddling, there was little chance that he would let anything hurt her mare’s back.
In silence they led their horses out of the trees, past the snoring Devers. They mounted by starlight; John took the lead. He intended to cross the vast open flats and be in the timber before dawn.
“Watch yourself,” he warned her, “there could be gopher holes. Those mounds could cripple a horse.”
“Thanks,” she retorted with heavy sarcasm. “If I see any I’ll let you know.”
Irritated by her sassy manner, he spoke sternly. “This is serious business. I intend to be across this open stretch by the time the sun rises.”
“Yes, sir.”
Her meek answer caused his brows to draw together. He suspected she was mocking him, and he didn’t like the idea, but he did not know how to deal with it. He cleared his throat and reminded her, “You didn’t have to come on this ride, Mrs. Arnold.”
“I told you—”
“And I keep telling you,” he interrupted sharply, “that I will get the killers and bring them to justice.”
“I’ll be there to back you.”
He rolled his eyes toward the dark starlit heavens, praying for patience with the sharp-tongued woman. Since she was bound and determined to have the last word, he decided to ride toward their destination in silence.
Dawn began to stretch its lazy fingers at the edge of the sky when he stopped and dismounted in a grove of pines at the foot of the mountain. He looked up at Dolly and held out his hand to help her dismount.
“I am perfectly capable of getting on and off a horse by myself, Mr. Michaels,” she said coldly, still stewing from his silent disapproval.
He stepped back as she dismounted. “You want jerky and water for breakfast?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you.” She led the gray mare to a large rock. Then, when she was seated on it, she frowned at the steep craggy slopes above them and at the spindly pine trees.
“Here.” He gave her a few strips of brown beef jerky. “Might not be as good as your cooking, but it will do for a while.”
She raised her brows in surprise at his mention of her cooking. But she soon dismissed his praise and gnawed on the leathery jerky, shifting restlessly on the boulder. The jeans still chafed the insides of her thighs, but they were becoming a little less uncomfortable than they had been.
After a little while, he rose and gestured her toward her horse. It was time to ride. “See way up there?” He pointed to the higher ground. “Devers said that’s the way to the valley that those bootleggers are hiding in.”
“Good.” She motioned for him to lead on.
They had to ride single file up a narrow game path. The horses cautiously picked their way across the rock shelves that tilted dangerously to the side. She tried to avoid looking down. The height was soon dazzling, and although the top of the mountain seemed no closer, the bottom appeared to be farther away. Pine trees scraped against her denimclad legs, leaving sticky sap streaks for flies to buzz around. The mare was forced to hug so closely to the trees that the boughs nearly unseated her.
A new scent teased her nostrils. It was not pine resin, or horse, or her own body. It was the pungent odor of wood smoke.
“John, they aren’t far. I can smell smoke.” In her excitement, she was not aware that she had called him by his Christian name.
After his initial surprise, he turned in the saddle. He sniffed the air and frowned. “I can’t smell it, but thanks.”
“Oh, anytime,” she muttered under her breath. Was she supposed to be grateful that she had been some small use to him? Maybe he wanted her to get down and sniff around the ground from now on, a sort of assistant deputy assistant bloodhound?
As she stared holes in his back, he turned and nodded. “I can smell it now.”
“Well, bully for you, Mr. Territorial Marshal.”
He gave her a questioning scowl and went on.
Finally at the crest, the pair rode into a narrow grassy valley situated between two pine-clad slopes. He kept them close to the timber in case they were spotted and needed to take cover quickly. He reached down and drew out the Winchester .35/.20 repeater. Men had laughed at the small caliber he used, but he felt the gun was ideal for his work.
They rounded a bend. Directly in front of them rested the log house. Before either of them could comment, someone on the porch took a shot at them. He saw the telltale muzzle flash and spark.
“Get in the woods!” he shouted. “Take cover!”
The two of them bent low in their saddles, drove their horses into the timber. He hurriedly dismounted and gave her the reins for his horse.
“Stay here and keep down,” he ordered, then immediately darted through the trees. He moved like an Indian, fading in and out of the pines, crouching low and making little noise. The rifle was in his right hand, and the tip of its barrel was the last thing she saw of him before he was swallowed up by the tree trunks.
She quickly tied the horses to a small pine. Satisfied they were securely hitched, she drew the loaded pistol from her holster. From her saddlebags, she took a box of extra shells, then she started down the dry slope carpeted with pine needles.
The pop of a gun sounded in the distance. She saw John behind a huge fallen tree trunk. Three smoking guns were firing at him from the cabin. Half running and stumbling, she raced down the incline to his hiding place. Her arms flung out to help her retain her balance, the pistol whipped the air as she stumbled the last few feet.
“What in heavens—” he croaked as she plunked down beside him.
“Well, here I am, ready to back you up,” she stated breathlessly.
He gave her a withering look. “So I see.” He glanced down at the pistol in her hand, and tried to mask his displeasure concerning it.
“What do you plan to do with that?” he demanded. Not giving her time to answer, he directed his attention back to the cabin from where bullets were still flying. They buzzed overhead and sprayed bark dust off the log onto them.
She expelled a deep breath. “Tell me something, John Wesley,” she asked curiously, “do you just plain hate women?”
He glanced over his shoulder at her. “What has that got to do with this?”
She shrugged. “Nothing, probably. But answer me anyway, do you hate women?”
A bullet zipped over them, sending down a shower of pine needles.
“No, I don’t hate women,” he said as he pushed her to the ground, his arm familiarly around her shoulders.
She half rose on her hands and spit out some pine needles. “Are you sure?” she persisted.
He ducked low and growled at her. “Yes, I’m sure.”
“I don’t think you’re sure at all,” she said thoughtfully. “I think the only way you like women is when they’re in the house wearing dresses.”
He ducked low ag
ain, then spoke with exaggerated patience. “Mrs. Arnold, I do not intend to discuss my—”
“Your private life with me,” she completed his words. “That’s fine by me. By the way, why are we hiding behind this log?”
He flung his arm across her back as she tried to rise. “Because we don’t need to get ourselves shot.” His words seemed to be emphasized by the bullets that chewed into the bark of the log in front of them.
“Oh,” she said, her mouth forming the word in surprise. “Yes, I see.” She flattened herself against the ground. After a few minutes of discomfort, she rose up and peeked over it. A ricocheted shot whined past her and she quickly ducked again.
“John Wesley,” she asked dryly, looking the few inches between them into his eyes. “How long are you planning to do this?”
“Do what?”
“Lie here on this bed of sticky pinecones?”
He gave her a considered look and his mouth twitched for a moment in what might have been laughter. “Not long. You shoot at the cabin every once in a while so they think we’re both here. Just reach over and shoot, but be sure and keep your head down.”
“I won’t be able to hit anything shooting like that.”
He shook his head. “Mrs. Arnold, just reach up and shoot in their direction.”
“All right,” she conceded ungraciously. When he began to crawl away, she called to him, “Hey. Be careful, John Wesley.”
He crouched low, and began to move along the hillside to reach the rear of the cabin.
She knelt on her knees and watched him go. The .32 gripped in both hands, she fought to control her breathing and her racing heart. He needed the distraction of her shooting at them. Quickly she rose up, took aim at the cabin, and then fired.
A man screamed from the cabin, “Gar! I’m hit! Hit bad.”
She dropped flat, her eyes wide in horror. Oh Lord, had she killed one of them? The idea made her sick, but she tried to shrug it off. She had no time to worry about it, because she had to shoot again to give John Wesley cover. Her movements were automatic as she rose up, took aim, fired, and ducked down. She repeated the process several times until her ears rang with the percussion of the gunshots and the wounded man’s screams.
Her breath came out harsh and ragged. The sulphurous smoke of the shots burned and watered her eyes.
John’s authoritative voice came from the direction of the cabin. “Throw down your guns and raise your hands, or my posse out there will cut you to ribbons.”
“We give up!”
“They already got me,” one man grumbled.
She crawled over the log, then ran down the valley toward the cabin, the pistol still tightly gripped in both her hands. “John Wesley, you old law dog,” she whispered breathlessly to herself as she hurried toward the cabin. “We did it. We did it.”
“Mrs. Arnold!” John called out as he emerged from the house with the three disarmed men. “We’ll need the handcuffs from the saddlebags.”
She stopped short, her legs nearly buckling beneath her. Dumbly she nodded and waved the pistol as a sign that she had heard him. She turned and holstered the sidearm as she hurried back to the horses for his restraints.
“You mean to tell me a woman shot me in the ass?” she heard the grumbling man ask in disgust. Yes sir, she silently answered him, the same woman who intends to capture the Coyote Kid.
When she returned with the handcuffs, John Wesley had the men lined up. The big one, Gar, cussed vividly until John was forced to shut him up by hitting him with a pistol butt on the shoulder. She winced as she heard the dull thud. It silenced his foul language.
When John finished cuffing them, he assured her that the wounded man was all right. Though he didn’t tell her, obviously the bullet fragment had creased his rump. She watched the man sit down gently and to one side. He looked barely twenty years old. The other two men called him “Dip Shit,” but she was certain he had a real name. She privately dubbed the whiskered man, who flapped his gums, Toothless. So they had Gar, Toothless, and the wounded Dip Shit sitting around in irons. She wrinkled her nose. They did not look so dangerous seated on the ground and handcuffed.
John insisted that she hold a gun on them while he interrogated them. She did not fully listen to his questions, but glanced around occasionally to make sure there was not another member of their gang lurking nearby.
Finally John came over and hunkered down beside her. “Mrs. Arnold, a couple of weeks or so ago, they sold the Coyote Kid and his partner some whiskey. Then those two rode south.”
She inhaled sharply.
“What’s wrong?” he demanded.
She shook her head. Now that she knew they were definitely on the trail of her son’s killer, she wasn’t sure if she was glad or frightened. Feeling John Wesley’s gaze on her, she shook her head again. “Thank you for telling me.”
“Sure.” He watched the changing expressions cross her face. Now she had a hard glint in her eye and a determined tilt to her chin. The fact that she knew the Kid on sight might prove beneficial when they found him. On the other hand, she just might decide to take justice into her own hands.
“We’ll have to take these three into Snowflake. Maybe we can pick up some news of the killers there,” he said.
“Yes, I realize that. Thank you again. And, John …” She looked up at him steadily. “I’m sorry about my earlier outburst.”
He waved away her apology. “No, that’s all right.”
“No.” She put a hand on his arm, determined to have her say. “I talked out of turn. I was wrong.”
He felt uncomfortable and shook his head. “We can talk about it later.”
She scowled at his retreating back. Men! There were times when she wished them all in hell. Now, as if having to make a detour to Snowflake wasn’t bad enough, she had three grubby whiskey peddlers to cook for. It would take them at least three days to go back and get their packhorse, then ride all the way to Snowflake, and in the meantime the Kid’s trail would be getting cold. Milt Devers was the only one who made any sense at all. He’d probably gone home.
John Wesley used a pine-knot club to bust the peddlers’ stash of whiskey. He was careful to retain two bottles as evidence. When he had finished, he smelled like a whiskey still himself.
He glanced at Mrs. Arnold, noting the strained expression around her mouth as she held his rifle on the prisoners. The whiskey peddlers grumbled about the waste of their whiskey as John helped them to mount their horses. She rode out in front of the procession and John brought up the rear.
As he watched his prisoners sway on their horses, he thought about his first arrest as a territorial marshal. Three whiskey makers had been captured with the assistance of Mrs. Dolly Arnold. How was he going to explain her presence to the major? How would he word the letter to Bowen? he wondered. Dear Major, I have this immoral woman riding with me, but I am not being immoral with her. No, he sighed, better forget trying to explain her to his employer.
11
“Kid, we’re at the doc’s place,” Leo said quietly as he helped Bobby dismount from his horse. The Kid cocked his head, detecting dogs barking and children laughing. He stumbled as Leo guided him onto the boardwalk. Straining his eyes, he thought for a moment things weren’t entirely black, but his confidence was wavering: he could make out no forms, nothing distinct.
“What’s the matter with him?” a man’s scratchy voice asked loudly. “He been in a dynamite blast?”
Leo drew the Kid to a halt. “No. Are you the doctor?”
“Yes. You can read, can’t you? Come this way.”
“You’re doing fine,” Leo said confidently, guiding him by the right arm. “We’re going into his office.”
“Here now, be careful with him. Does it hurt much, young man?” The man’s voice came from right beside the Kid’s ear. He calculated the physician was standing beside the open door.
“Over there please, on the table,” the doctor directed. “Set him down easy.” There was
a shuffling of feet then the Kid smelled the doctor’s tobacco breath on his face. “Now open your eyes real wide, young man. Hmm.” He could feel the doctor’s fingertips pushing up his eyelids, and although he knew his eyes were fully extended he still could not see.
“Is it … is it bad, Doc?” he asked hoarsely.
“You tell me.”
He shrugged. “I can’t see anything. Haven’t seen nothing for two days.”
“What’ve you been drinking?”
“Nothing, not today.”
“Well, it’s my guess that drinking wood alcohol caused your blindness,” the doctor said dryly. “I’d call it whiskey poisoning; I’ve seen it before.”
“We figured that’s what it was, Doc,” Leo agreed.
“Damn varmints that sell bad whiskey like that need to be shot!” the doctor growled.
“Or worse,” the Kid said grimly.
“We’ll bandage your eyes. You stay in a darkened room for a few weeks, and if you’re ever going to see, we’ll know by that time. But you must keep them bandaged or you could spoil your chances for ever seeing again.”
Bobby drew a deep breath. “What’s my chances, Doc?”
He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know the answer. If only he could see the doctor’s face, but that was stupid. If he could see the man’s face, he wouldn’t be asking the question. Blindness seemed to be dulling his wits. He braced himself for the doctor’s reply.
“Oh, I’d say fifty-fifty. But if you don’t keep them bandaged and stay out of the light for a while, then your chances are none at all.”
The doctor wrapped his eyes with some white cotton cloth. “Now you keep these on.”
“Oh, he will,” Leo promised. “Won’t you, Ki—Bobby?”
“Sure.” He rose and turned toward the sound of Leo’s voice. “Pay him, Leo, and we’ll go.”
“You two just passing through?” the doctor asked quietly.
“Yeah,” Leo answered. “Why are you asking?”
Servant of the Law Page 15
