Her Cold Revenge

by Erin Johnson

  Clayton pointed toward the three smaller posters in the bottom row with tiny, hand-drawn pictures. “That one on the right just came in yesterday.”

  Chaney Grewell. Grace could hardly make out the man’s face, and the bounty was a pittance. At first his features didn’t look familiar, but she tilted the poster until sunlight fell across the rough sketch. One thing stood out — a scar from eyebrow to lip. She frowned. That very man had been lying at her feet out cold, and she’d stepped over him. If she’d known, she would have tied him up and brought him along to Tombstone. She could have claimed the bounty money here and now — it was true that the reward was small, but it would pay a few weeks’ rent.

  She turned and rushed toward the door. “I’ll be back,” she called over her shoulder.

  After giving Bullet some water and taking a swig herself, she swung into the saddle. Most likely Grewell had already left Bisbee, but if she returned before the trail went cold, she could track him down. The Ndeh had taught her well, and surely someone at the saloon would know which way he’d gone. She was tired, having ridden all night, but there was no time to rest now.

  The trip back to Bisbee in the hot sun took longer than the early morning ride, but Grace curbed her impatience and stopped for water so that neither she nor Bullet collapsed from the heat. After the hot, sweaty ride through the desert, she finally guided Bullet toward the shade of the stable. As soon as he was settled, she would go after her quarry.

  But as she arrived, the stable hand crossed his arms and blocked the entrance. “You didn’t pay your bill.”

  “I just got a job, and I’ll be paying Miz Bessie shortly.”

  A dubious look crossed the boy’s face.

  “I promise. I’ll be back with money,” she said earnestly as the stable hand deliberated. Every minute she wasted here gave her bounty time to get away.

  Finally the boy stepped aside to let her by. “You best be telling the truth.” When Bullet passed him, he flattened himself against the opposite stall. “Thought we were rid of that devil for good,” he muttered.

  Grace led Bullet to the stall with the bowed door. The palomino balked, but when she entered the stall first the horse followed, and she gave him a hasty rubdown and some feed, all the time worried that the man she was after might be long gone. As soon as she was done, she hurried over to the saloon.

  Grace hesitated when she saw Miz Bessie standing at the counter — she’d hoped to avoid her until she had the reward money, but Bessie caught sight of her and marched over, hand outstretched.

  “Oh no you don’t, missy. No room unless you pay. You already owe me for the past week.”

  “Miz Bessie, I have a job. I’ll be getting paid for it, possibly even today. I promise I’ll pay you as soon as I get the money.”

  The landlady wagged her finger in Grace’s face. “If that money isn’t in my hand tomorrow, don’t even think about coming back here.”

  “I’ll pay.”

  The older woman growled something, then turned and stalked toward the bar.

  First, Grace had to find Grewell. Miz Bessie might know his whereabouts, but Grace was reluctant to ask. It didn’t sound as if Bessie’d had anything to do with him showing up at her room, but if Grewell had broadcast the story of what happened last night and Miz Bessie figured out who did it, she might turn her out for good. But it was her only chance at a lead, so she had to take the risk. She hesitantly walked over to the heavyset lady.

  “Um, Miz Bessie, have you seen a man with a scar around here this morning . . . ?”

  “Lotsa men round here got scars,” she replied, not bothering to look up.

  “This one has a scar from his eyebrow to his mouth —”

  Miz Bessie glanced up sharply. “You best not get mixed up with someone like that.”

  “I didn’t mean . . .” Grace’s voice trailed off. “I just wondered,” she finished lamely.

  “Stay away from him.” The sharpness in Miz Bessie’s voice was tempered by a note of concern that surprised Grace. She bit her lip and decided to try another tack.

  “I intend to. That’s why I wondered if he was still around,” she said.

  “Mmhmm. Well, he slunk down those stairs — or should I say crawled down ’em — early this morning. Never did say how he got that bloody nose or those bruises on his face.”

  Some of the tension eased from Grace’s shoulders. Grewell hadn’t made mention of her — no doubt he didn’t want to admit he’d been outsmarted by a girl. Miz Bessie tilted her chin.

  “Told him I don’t abide by fighting in this establishment. Told him to find another place to stay.” She sniffed. “He tried to sneak out without paying for his drinks. I sent him packing.”

  “Do you know where he went?”

  “I expect he headed to that saloon down the street,” she replied, screwing up her face. She never said the name of her fiercest competitor. “That man’s trouble if I ever seen it.”

  “I don’t want anything to do with him.” Except to capture him.

  Now that she had an idea where the man might have gone, Grace was eager to chase him down, but she didn’t want Miz Bessie to suspect she was after him. With the way that the landlady gossiped, word would spread quickly, and Grace didn’t want her quarry to know she was pursuing him.

  Rather than going out the front door, she went back to the stable. Miz Bessie might be right about him heading to the rival saloon, but checking if he’d moved his horse to another stable would be a quick way to get another lead.

  The stable hand raised an eyebrow when she appeared in the doorway. “Back already? Got that money so soon, huh?”

  “Not just yet,” she said impatiently. “I need to find a man named Grewell. He has a scar down his face.” She indicated on her own face with her hand. “You know if his horse is stabled here?”

  The boy directed a savage glance in Bullet’s direction. “I can’t think about no other horses when that beast’s making such a racket.”

  She strode back to Bullet’s stall and calmed him, then marched back toward the stable hand. “The faster I find him, the faster you get paid.”

  “He owe you money?”

  Grace gritted her teeth. The stable hand was proving even less helpful than Miz Bessie. Grewell could be halfway to Tucson by now. “Is his horse here or not?” Irritation sharpened her words, and the stable hand frowned.

  “Don’t get so testy,” he retorted, then jerked a thumb toward a nearby pinto. Grace sighed with relief. Grewell hadn’t left town yet, but who knew how long he’d stay? She needed that money, and she needed it now — she couldn’t give him a chance to slip away from her. Moving quickly along Main Street, she looked in at one saloon after another, but there was no sign of him. A man with a scar like that wouldn’t easily go unnoticed, so she guessed he must be keeping out of sight.

  About to turn the corner to search the back alleys, Grace doubled back as she suddenly spotted her prey. He was skulking outside the general store, keeping to the darker corners. Her breathing quickened with excitement. All she had to do was catch him, and the bounty would be hers. She watched as Grewell slid into the alley beside the store and pulled out his tobacco pouch, inserting a pinch into his mouth and slouching against the wooden planks of the building. Even from this distance, his battered and swollen face looked painful, and he winced as he chewed.

  Grace pressed her body against a nearby wall and then stealthily moved closer so she could observe him more closely. But before she got near enough to surprise him, he straightened and walked back toward Main Street. Grace followed, ready to return to the shadows if he turned. Grewell seemed quite brazen now, striding down the street and even tipping his hat to the sheriff, although he angled his head away and pretended to stroke that side of his face, so his hand hid the scar. As the sheriff nodded and strolled past, she wanted to shout that he was nodding good
day to a criminal, but it was just as well. She’d capture the man herself, and then turn him in for that reward money.

  After trailing him to the stable, Grace slipped into the dark building and ducked behind stacked bales of hay. She wished she were near enough to get the rope hanging on Bullet’s saddle and restrain the man without firepower. If she pulled a gun on Grewell, he might shoot and injure horses or innocent people. She watched, frustrated, as Grewell passed her hiding place, leading his pinto into the courtyard. She followed silently, trying to quiet her breathing. All she had to do was slip up behind him, slide her hand into his holster, and hold him at gunpoint with his own revolver. Many times she’d watched Ndeh warriors use this technique to catch their enemies by surprise. No one ever heard them coming.

  Ever so cautiously, she moved up behind him and snaked out her hand . . .

  In front of them, a rat darted from a hole in the stable wall, and the pinto reared. Grewell jumped back, knocking straight into Grace as she sneaked up behind him. She tumbled to the ground, her gun arm pinned under her.

  Grewell wheeled around, and his eyes widened. “What the . . . you?”

  Before Grace could untangle herself from her skirts or reach her gun, Grewell swung himself onto his horse’s back and galloped off, cursing under his breath.

  CHAPTER 3

  Grace threw the saddle on her own still-sweating horse, and then slung her bow and quiver of arrows over her shoulder, hitched her lasso to the saddle horn, and led Bullet quickly from the stable. She mounted him in one swift motion and set off at a gallop toward the puffs of dust rising rapidly in the distance.

  “Go, Bullet, go,” she urged. All she needed was to get within roping distance . . .

  Bullet soon closed the distance between them and Grewell, and as they neared him she unholstered her Colt, holding on to her reins with one hand. With her skills, he was an easy target. She was sure she could get her man without even wounding him or his horse. It was all in the aim. Squeezing off a shot, she allowed herself a small congratulatory smile as the bullet whistled right past his horse’s ear. Exactly what she’d planned.

  The pinto bucked, spilling Grewell to the ground, and he lay dazed for a few seconds, then crawled to his knees, rubbing his lower back and struggling to stand. As soon as he got to his feet, Grace twirled her lasso and let it fly. She’d been roping wild horses since she was ten, so her aim was true — the lasso dropped straight over Grewell’s head and fell around his waist. Just at the right moment, she yanked hard, pulling the rope taut and imprisoning his arms below the elbows. With another hard tug, she yanked him clean off his feet. He cried out in confusion and surprise, and she dragged the kicking, yelling man a few feet. She kept a tight hold on the rope, looping it up as she galloped closer and jerking the rope to knock him off his feet whenever he attempted to stand.

  His face contorted with fury, Grewell gazed up at Grace as she pulled Bullet to a halt beside him. “Believe you’re a wanted man, Mr. Grewell,” she called down to him.

  Squinting in the bright sunlight, he glared at her. Then his face changed. He stared in shock. “A girl?”

  Grace smiled down at him and touched the brim of her hat. As he saw her more closely, he did a double-take.

  “You’re that girl from last night!” he almost whimpered. “Wh-what you aim to do to me?”

  “Keep still.”

  Her captive twisted and turned like a freshly caught fish as he floundered on the ground, but the rope kept his arms pinned to his sides. He wriggled his fingers, struggling to reach his gun, but years of dealing with wild horses had given Grace quick reflexes. She dismounted from Bullet and, keeping a tight hold of the rope, went over to Grewell, evading his grasping fingers as she leaned over and plucked his revolver from its holster. Then, pointing it at him, she warned, “You don’t cooperate, I’ll have no trouble using this.” She patted the holster at her side. “Or this.” Yanking the trussed man to his feet, she looked him in the eye. “And I’m warning you now. My horse is wild, so I’d advise you to walk carefully beside us or you’ll likely get hurt . . . or killed.”

  Grace couldn’t help feeling a celebratory swell of pride in herself as she put a lead rope on Grewell’s horse, then remounted. She’d finally made a bounty, her first in weeks. Maybe she was cut out for this after all.

  As she nudged Bullet in a slow circle to face toward town, she noticed a cloud of dust rising in the nearby hills. She squinted, unsure what was causing the swirling sand, but her heart began to pound faster as the hazy twister separated into a group of cowboys galloping toward her.

  Grace’s hand went straight for her gun, and soon four men had reined their horses into a circle around her. Like mirror images with their squinty eyes and tangled red beards, they all stared at her. The Watkins brothers. Grace had seen them at the saloon, and she knew them each by name and by reputation as some of the most notorious bounty hunters in the West. They traveled north from the Mexican border, nabbing criminals as they went, though some said they were more lawless than the outlaws they captured.

  “Well, look here,” the middle brother, Asa, sneered. “We got ourselves some bounty, all roped up and ready to deliver.”

  What? Fury set Grace trembling, but she knew enough about the Watkins brothers to rein in her temper. She sat up straighter, narrowing her eyes and working to keep her voice from wobbling. “This is my capture.”

  The oldest brother, Frank, stroked his beard. “That so?”

  Before she could react, he whipped out his pistol and shot Grewell through his shoulder. His shrieks echoed through the nearby canyon, and Grace struggled to stay in the saddle and keep Bullet under control as his pinto squealed and reared.

  “Why’d you do that?” Grace yelled.

  “I got my reasons.” Frank motioned to his youngest brother, who hopped from his horse and dodged the pinto’s crashing hooves. Whipping a knife from his boot, Asa sliced the rope tethering the pinto to Bullet.

  “Hey!” she sputtered, so furious she shook harder now.

  Asa hung on to the rope and waited for the pinto to stop bucking, then handed it to Frank.

  “How dare you! That’s my rope and my captive!”

  Frank spat toward Bullet’s hooves. “Is that so? Who you think the law’ll believe? You or us?”

  “We got ourselves four witnesses . . .” Asa waved an arm toward his brothers.

  “And that’s my bullet in his shoulder,” Frank added. “Maybe you should’ve shot him when you got the chance.” He threw back his head and laughed.

  Steven grinned at his brothers, looking for sport now. “That there gun,” he said, “ain’t no gun for a woman. Who’d you steal it from?”

  She glared at him, her hands balled into fists. “It was my father’s.”

  “He should’ve taught you to shoot it then.”

  “Oh, I can shoot all right.” She’d like to demonstrate by putting a bullet in each one of them, but they had four guns to her one.

  Wade shook his head and gave her a doubtful yet sympathetic glance. The other three burst into loud laughter.

  Grace gritted her teeth, her gun hand itching to pull the trigger.

  “Heard you spent time with some Injuns,” Frank taunted, motioning to the bow and arrows on her back. He turned to his brothers. “Wonder what she learned from those squaws.” His leer gave Grace chills.

  “Don’t you dare come near me,” she growled, gripping her gun. She’d shoot him if he touched her.

  Wade spoke up. “Aw, leave her be. We best head for town and turn in this outlaw before the sheriff closes up for the night, anyway. Bounty ain’t much, but it’ll buy a round of drinks . . .”

  Frank nodded. “Let’s go.” But he turned to ogle Grace for a few seconds. “You haven’t seen the last of us, ’specially if you plan on keeping this up. Bounty hunting ain’t no game for ladies.”

>   He smirked, then turned his horse toward town, his brothers following close behind.

  She barely even thought about it. As she watched the Watkins brothers’ retreating backs, Grace reached behind her and pulled out an arrow. Breathing out her pent-up anger to quell her shaking, she loaded her bow and took aim. Her first arrow pierced Asa’s ten-gallon hat, sending it flying. Her second grazed Frank’s cheek, enough to sting and set him howling in pain, but not enough to do major damage.

  They pulled up their horses, and Frank wheeled his around, still clutching his cheek. “Why you —” he began, drawing his gun and aiming across the distance between them.

  “That there is a warning,” Grace shouted, her voice quaking again, “not to underestimate me.”

  “Let’s go, Frank,” Wade shouted. “Ignore her.”

  Frank gave her one final glare before they turned their horses again and galloped away. Grace settled her bow back on her shoulder, grinding her teeth. She knew she had the skill to pick off those Watkins brothers one by one if she wanted to, but her conscience wouldn’t let her. She’d have no just cause — they were dishonest and corrupt but they’d done nothing more than play dirty with her. Memories of the Ndeh’s sense of justice came tumbling into her mind and she reached into Bullet’s saddlebag, pulling out the feathered headband Cheis, the Ndeh chief, had given her for saving the tribe’s children when they were under attack. One feather was gone — the feather that had fluttered onto Doc Slaughter’s lifeless body. Five feathers remained. Until each feather rested on a member of the Guiltless Gang, she would never be free to move on with her life. She’d see that those responsible for murdering her family were brought to justice, no matter how long it took.

  That cause, she felt, was just — by any means.

  Yet the thought of killing brought back memories of her family and their cruel, senseless murders. Their blood spilled onto the ground, their cabin burned to ashes. Yes, she’d helped the Ndeh tribe fight off the soldiers who’d raided the village; yes, she’d shot Doc Slaughter — however, she’d had no choice then. But she still couldn’t help but worry, if she came face to face with another member of the Guiltless Gang, would she be able to pull the trigger?