Bucky opened his mouth to explain.
“You’ve got good horseflesh in the cattle cars.” The engineer went back to sawing his steak.”
“I got a brother hunting work,” the coffee pourer said. “He’s been all over New Mexico and Arizona Territory. He’d be obliged for a few days’ work. He’d even go with you to hunt down your fency in the wilderness.”
“Fi-an-cée,” Bucky spoke all three syllables carefully. “The woman I’m engaged to.” Not quite engaged, but Bucky didn’t have time for unimportant details.
“Havin’ a hard time keepin’ track of your woman, greenhorn?”
Bucky wasn’t sure who said that, but he was sure about half the restaurant laughed. It was embarrassing, but since it was true, he didn’t bother getting into an argument. “Since the day I met her.” Bucky shook his head, and the restaurant laughed again, but he didn’t let it pinch because there was a definite note of sympathy.
“I’ll go get my men. Can someone here unload my horses and saddles?” Bucky knew how to ride a horse well. He spent most mornings riding in the park near his home. The men his mother had hired seemed to be competent sorts.
The engineer sighed and gave his mostly devoured steak a mournful look. “I’ll get ‘em for you, Mr. Shaw.”
The man was so agreeable, considering his reluctance, Bucky wondered about his mother and money again. Bucky had a bad feeling he was going somewhere no amount of his family’s money could penetrate. “And can we find your brother, ma’am, so I can get going? I can see you’re busy, but it’s urgent we move quickly.”
“Gracie,” Coffee Pourer shouted at the top of her lungs toward the kitchen, “go get Willard moving. I found him a job.”
“I’m goin’, Ma.” Bucky heard a door slam.
He went back outside and reread the telegraph. Men had tried to kill Shannon? She’d been rescued and taken to a settlement of friendly Navajo Indians north of Flagstaff?
Bucky’s blood turned ice cold even in the heat. All that was Chatillon in him woke up and prepared to fight.
He saw the engineer come out and head for the train car that held his horses.
He raced for the train to tell his men their plans had changed. And to tell his cook he was now apparently going to have much less work to do. Reaching his car, he yelled, “We’re heading south on horseback.”
The cook poked his head out of the tiny kitchen area of the car. “On horseback, Mr. Bucky?”
With narrow eyes, Bucky glared at the cook. “Call me Buck. And you’re staying here.”
The cook heaved a sigh of relief.
“Go find the men and tell them to get packed up fast.” Bucky—now Buck Shaw, a much better name for an adult man, especially in the West—packed the minimal amount of supplies, took what food would transport, then went to help load the horses.
His men, who stayed in sleeper cars with the regular folks, there not being room for them in Buck’s private car, were with him before he’d gotten his own horse saddled. They seemed eager for action.
“We’re all ready, Mr. Shaw,” the oldest of the four men said.
“Call me Buck.”
The men nodded, and they swung onto horseback just as a man who proved to be Willard rode up. Their trail guide. On his say-so, they added a lot of water to their supplies and let their horses drink deeply before they set out. They were on the trail south before the train had pulled out of the station.
Buck’s worry built with each passing mile as he prayed he’d get to Shannon in time to protect her. He decided then and there he’d marry her as soon as he caught up with her. With or without her permission.
It was the Wild West. It was a man’s world out here. He fully intended to take control of his willful woman once and for all.
They bedded down near a red rock wall just as the sun set. Doba built a fire of scrub brush that was soon crackling and warm. They made a quick camp meal of jerked meat, hardtack, and coffee and were soon rolled up in their sleeping bags.
“Father!” The whisper was sharp and anxious.
It woke Gabe from a sound sleep. “Who’s there?”
A voice shushed him.
“It’s Ahway, my son.” Doba’s voice was so low Gabe could barely hear it.
“What are—?”
Gabe practically threw himself across the camp to slap his hand over Shannon’s mouth. “Quiet.”
From behind his hand, she said, “Gabe, I—” “Shh.”
He heard Doba speaking with someone but couldn’t understand the words. Then Doba’s voice rose enough to be heard. “Quickly.” Doba’s voice was an urgent hiss. “Pack up. Bad men.”
Gabe heard a horse, off a ways, restless, tossing its head and sending a metallic click in the night air.
Doba left the fire burning.
Gabe didn’t douse it. Firelight and the scent of wood smoke carried a long way in the thin air of the high desert. The wind was blowing from the east, too, the direction the rider approached from. Gabe heard a second sound that made him sure there was more than one rider, and they were definitely coming this way. They had only minutes to clear out.
Emmy appeared out of the dark so suddenly Gabe almost went for his gun. The girl grabbed both saddles then vanished back into the night, toward where Gabe picketed his horses. With quick, efficient motions, Gabe helped break camp. By the time they were done, Emmy had all the animals in their leather and stood with a boy close to her age, Emmy’s brother, Marcus, who held the reins on all their mounts, and Ahway.
Parson Ford strode to his horse, and Gabe noticed Ahway hand the reins to Emmy. Then Ahway and Marcus helped the parson mount up without a ruckus.
Gabe caught Shannon’s hand and dragged her to her brown and white pinto.
Tossing her up in the saddle, he strapped on the bedrolls and saddlebags, then caught her reins and mounted his own horse. The Hosteens went first. Doba followed and the parson. Gabe looked at Emmy, who made a gesture that Gabe should fall in line. Quietly he led Shannon away.
Once they’d left the shelter of the fire and rock, the wind cut through Gabe’s clothes. It had to be worse for Shannon. He wished he’d kept a blanket unrolled to wrap around her. She had no heavy coat. He should have thought of that at the Kinlichee homestead.
Shannon’s horse emerged from the sheltered area, and she gasped audibly from the cold.
“Shhh.” He whipped his head around in the darkness and waited until she nodded. He felt merciless, but silence was their only protection against a bullet until they put some rocks between them and their visitors. Doba led, and Gabe was acutely aware of every boulder they passed that added something solid between themselves and Doba’s “bad men.”
Without the glow of the fire, the whole world went pitch black. Gabe’s eyes adjusted quickly, and he looked back to see Shannon, washed blue in the moonlight, riding behind him. Emmy, Marcus, and Ahway rode single file, with Ahway bringing up the rear. Gabe wanted to ask Doba a thousand questions, but now wasn’t the time.
They’d gotten out, but maybe Doba had misread things. Maybe whoever was out there in the dark would ride up to camp and call out nice and proper. Maybe they could go back to the warmth of their fire.
Gunfire split the night.
“What’s he doing in Flagstaff?” Abe looked at the telegraph, scowling.
Tyra jerked it out of his hand. She saw Abe’s annoyance, but she had to read the wire because she saw more than annoyance. She saw fear.
Reading quickly, she said, “Gabe ran into trouble. He mentions someone named Doba Kinlichee?”
She looked up at her pa. “Is that Indian? Gabe could be in serious trouble, but he doesn’t go into any details.”
Abe stood beside Madeline and his children—two of them more man than boy, all lined up for the excitement of receiving a telegraph. That didn’t happen every day. “Last time I got a telegraph, it was from Gabe, too. He told me our ma had died.”
Tyra drew in a long, unsteady breath. “It sounds
like he needs help, Abe. Flagstaff isn’t that far.” She looked over her shoulder at her father. Over sixty years old now. Definitely stoved up some. Too many battered falls from horses he was breaking. Too many kicks from testy longhorns. But a strong man still. And a man determined to have Abraham Lasley’s brother for his son.
“I think we oughta ride up there and bring him back.” Pa turned to Abe, frowning. “I got enough men to run my place for a few weeks. “I can go if you’re tied down with the ranch.”
“Obliged, Lucas.” Abe looked at Madeline again. “I’ve got to go help, Gabe, honey. Will you be all right?”
The boys frowned. The two older ones were nearly Abraham’s height these days and did the work of men. They didn’t run as big a place as the Rocking M, but they had a few hands.
“We’ll be okay, Pa,” Abe’s oldest son, Adam, said. “You go see to Uncle Gabe.”
“I can send a man or two over every day to take up the slack, Abe. Gabe don’t know me. If he’s got trouble riding with him, he might not know who to trust.”
“I’m going, Pa.” Tyra braced herself for trouble. Pa let her work hard alongside the men. She stood there in a riding skirt, wearing a six-gun, a Stetson on her head where a bonnet ought to be, and proudly dressed this way right smack-dab in town where people could see her. Pa didn’t object to it. But there were limits.
“Yep, I think you oughta go, Ty. Might as well carry on with you and Gabe gettin’ hitched.”
Tyra couldn’t agree more.
“We can pack up a horse with supplies and head out.” Abe had that grim expression on his face.
Tyra had seen it many times when Abe talked about his little brother. But Tyra was the youngest, too. Her mother had died when she was little, and she’d grown up running wild. She was no fragile flower of a young maiden.
Tyra kicked constantly against being treated as if she were still a kid. Gabe was a tough man who knew how to work hard, despite what Abe said. She was going to hunt Gabe down, marry him, and spend the rest of her life proving youngest brothers and sisters could manage their lives just fine.
“Take care of your brother, Abe. We’ll be fine.” Madeline was as competent and calm as any frontier woman. “Boys, let’s go fill our list and head home. We got chores.” She headed for the general store with her four children—Adam, Benjamin, Caleb, and David.
Abe waved them off and watched them walk away. He muttered, “I hope we have a girl when we get to F.”
“What?” Tyra didn’t quite understand what that meant.
Abe gave her a worried look. “If your name was Frankincense, but everyone called you Frank… if you were a boy, I mean… you wouldn’t hate your father for it would you? Girls aren’t quite as likely to hate their fathers as boys, do you think?”
“Are you sure you want to go, Abe?” Tyra would have checked Abe’s forehead for a fever if she was a little closer. “Pa and I can find him.”
“Never mind. Let’s hit the trail.”
They had a packhorse and spare mounts so they could make good time. They had a long ride ahead of them, but a horse, with saddles switched often so they could run without a rider, could cover a hundred miles a day. They’d make Flagstaff fast, find out where Gabe was heading, and save the poor boy.
Tyra caught herself. She’d been affected by Abraham’s “little brother” talk. Gabe wasn’t a poor boy. He wasn’t going to need to be rescued. He could handle things himself. But they’d show up, and he’d see she was all grown up and came with a fancy ranch—one of the biggest in the area—and he’d come along quietly, counting himself lucky.
For just a second, it pinched that the ranch might be a bigger lure than the wife. Jutting her chin out, she refused to let it bother her. Gabe would figure out just how lucky he was soon enough. She’d spend her life making sure he knew how good things could be.
Gabe jerked his revolver from his holster and looked back, but he couldn’t see anything. The bullet that had fired sounded like it was aimed upward.
“Throw down your guns!” A shout from out of the darkness on the east side of the camp sounded as deadly as the gunfire.
Wherever they were hiding, the hombres couldn’t see into the shadowed area behind the fire and didn’t yet realize the camp was empty.
Only silence met the order to disarm.
“The next bullet’s coming right into your camp.”
All the night animals had gone silent. Not a bug chirped, not an owl so much as fluttered its wings. Every creature, and Gabe included himself, held its breath, waiting.
“She’s gone!” A dark shape silhouetted itself against the firelight. While one man had threatened and shot from cover, another had slipped into camp in the dark to get the drop on… whoever it was they were after.
Outlaws, varmints. They made Gabe killing mad.
Others broke from a stand of trees not that far away from where they’d camped.
“I see four of ‘em.” Gabe muttered.
“No, five.” Doba sounded positive.
Gabe felt more than saw Shannon kick her horse. “Five?”
“Let’s move,” Hosteen said. He turned his horse and vanished into the night.
“Walk. Running is too noisy.” Doba went after Hosteen.
Shannon’s pinto surged forward as if to follow, but Gabe subdued it with a rigid grip on the reins. He didn’t want Shannon out of his grasp. And he didn’t want her to lose control of the horse because it would run, especially if there was more gunfire. Pounding hooves would lead that gang straight to them.
He pulled Shannon close so she rode on his right-hand side, putting his body at least somewhat between her and the outlaws, shielding her. Once she was alongside him, her hand settled on his, and for a second he thought she meant to wrest the reins away and run.
Instead, she gripped his hand tightly and drew his eyes to hers. “Thank you.” The words were softer than the gusting of the wind, but he heard them. More than that, he felt her gratitude.
Gabe wanted to tell her not to be grateful. If it had been up to him, they’d still be back there, shot to ribbons.
He remembered the clinking of the approaching horses and wondered, hoped, he’d have noticed. But Doba’s son and the Crenshaws had gotten there ahead of those back-shooters. Gabe thanked God for that.
He concentrated on the fading squabbling voices from their camp. At least one of them was female.
He couldn’t let Shannon give him any credit. “They must have seen our fire and ridden in. If the kids hadn’t come, we’d be dead or trapped.”
She turned to look back with such a hard twist he grabbed her arm to keep her on the saddle. “You said there were four people, right?”
“Yes, but Doba’s right. There were five.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure as can be in the pitch dark from a distance. Why?”
“Just—nothing.”
“Shannon, why? You’re not telling me something.”
Doba picked up the pace, but still they walked for the sake of quiet. Shannon’s silence was in perfect harmony with the night.
There was not time to stop and shake the words loose that she was obviously holding in. But even on the move, under the cover of that wicked attack, he could definitely talk to her. “I want to know right now, Shannon Dysart, what you meant by—”
The shouting from behind them stopped.
Gabe quit talking just as fast.
Silence reigned in the night, broken only by the moan of the increasingly frigid wind. The trail Hosteen followed descended and twisted. A stony, tree-studded wall rose on their right; the ground fell away on their left.
Emmy, Marcus, and Ahway came up closer, and Doba dropped back on a trail barely wide enough for two to ride abreast. They all listened intently.
At last Doba whispered, “They’ll be coming.”
The trail circled an outcropping of rock. In front of them, the path was more rock than dirt. If they picked up speed, their h
oofbeats would practically shout for the outlaws to come after them.
Winding around a clump of pine, the trail began to descend and twist until it reached lower ground. Gabe hoped the outlaws didn’t know what direction to ride. He fought down the urge to turn and fight. His second reaction was to race at top speed away from whoever had attacked them. But using iron control, he did neither.
The trail steadily rose then dropped again. Gabe judged that they’d put at least two miles between them and the site where they’d camped. More importantly, they’d put a mountain between them. The Hosteens knew this land very well. No sound would travel that far. And few outlaws would go haring off in the night, possibly in the wrong direction.
If they were following, they’d need to abandon silence anyway, so a few words wouldn’t hurt a thing.
“Hosteen,” Gabe still spoke barely above a whisper, “do you know the trail ahead well enough to ride faster? They won’t hear us from this distance.”
“We’ll pick up the pace for a while,” Hozho answered. Gabe realized the old woman was actually in the lead. He could barely make out vague shapes at this distance.
She’d said she’d grown up in the canyon, so maybe she knew this land better than any of the others. Hozho kicked her horse into a trot.
Gabe stared at Shannon, not sure whether to trust her off his lead. “I haven’t forgotten you know something about that attack, but we don’t have time to talk about it now. Let’s move out.”
She jerked her chin in agreement, and her dark eyes, black in the night, shined with intelligence and calm in the moonlight. It satisfied him. With a quick flip of his wrist, Gabe pulled the reins into place and gave Shannon control of her horse. He kicked his chestnut into a lope, and Shannon’s pinto followed down a trail that seemed bright and obvious as a highway.
Would those outlaws follow? And if so, how soon?
Hozho rode as hard as the night would allow, and the pace suited Gabe. He felt as if the moon laid a clear path before them, or maybe a torch was held by the guiding hand of God. He listened with every ounce of concentration for pursuit.
Deep Trouble Page 12
