Owen Family Saga Box Set: Books 1-3

by Ward, Marsha

  “We’re on the right trail, old dog,” he said as he settled in the leather. A hot craving mounted in his chest, a raging lust to see blood spilled. He didn’t shove it aside. Instead he breathed with it, his heart thundered with it, and he whispered, “I reckon we can catch them before nightfall.”

  ~~~

  The sun slid behind the mountains, leaving a glow like lamplight on the land before dark came down. James swung off the sorrel and led the horses into a covering of trees beside the stream. Off to his left, a small trickle of a creek came from a canyon and joined the main stream.

  They’re ahead. I can taste the dusty air. Frank Blue, I’m coming for you.

  James wanted to shout the challenge into the dusk, but he banked the yearning like a nighttime fire and took care of the horses instead. After he picketed them on the dry grass under the trees, he stroked the dog’s head and told it to be silent, cradled the rifle, and started back to the trail to read the tracks in the last light. He was hunkered down in the middle of the path when the sound of metal on metal hit his ears. He arose and moved into the rocks rising to his left at the mouth of the canyon.

  As he settled into a crack between two rocks, he picked out the man sounds—boots scraping on rock, rifle stocks thunking against the earth, pots clinking, heavy yawns, the low murmur of voices. He had to get closer before the moon rose.

  The dog at his side gave a low growl, and James put his hand on its head, shushing it, smoothing its raised ruff. He peered out of his shelter into the darkness, figuring how far he could get into the canyon before he was spotted. He tried to find a place of concealment, but the darkness was too deep.

  He grunted, and squatted to remove his spurs and lay them on the rocky ground. “You stay quiet too, dog,” he said, then stood up and stepped out of the crack that hid him.

  James took a few slow steps into the canyon, easing his weight onto his toes as he walked. Stopping once to listen, he continued until he found an outcropping of rock that he could slip behind. The dog followed him, ears pricked.

  James slid into the shelter of the rocks, biting his bottom lip, listening for the man sounds once more. The only thing that came to his ears was the growling of his belly and the slight panting of the dog. He searched in his pocket for the leather pouch, but there was no more jerky, and the foodstuffs were back on the pack saddle. James slumped against the rock and shut his eyes to keep the edge of the outcrop from dancing.

  At length, James forced his eyes to open, fighting against the exhaustion that threatened to overwhelm him. He had caught up to his prey. Frank Blue. John Dunn. A man called Rice, and one other. Well armed men who didn’t know who he was or even that he trailed them. Hard men, who wouldn’t care that his wife lay with a bullet in her breast, wrapped in a gray cloak shroud and covered with a ton of earth and rocks.

  It matters to me, he thought, watching his fist shake against his thigh. I married her, yearning for another gal, and she worked magic on me. James opened his hand. Then just when our life was laid out smooth as Ma’s wedding quilt, she was gone. “It matters to me,” he whispered, spitting on the rock between his wide braced feet. His mouth held a taste like rotten meat.

  James looked around the edge of the outcrop. Another crack in the rock lay ahead, and it was the work of only a few moments to move into it. There was barely room for him and the dog, but they crowded together. He peered toward where the murmuring voices came from. Four men sat around a low fire, their conversation verging on a quarrel.

  “I still say we missed the road. You can’t bring a wagon up this trail.”

  “We should have made Cimarron by now.”

  “It don’t matter. We can circle around and come into Taos from the back.”

  “I don’t know. This track gets smaller and smaller. Are you sure it even goes over the pass?”

  “It don’t matter, I say. We’ll find our way in the morning. Turn in and get some sleep.”

  James heard the men settling down into their bedrolls. He gave them some time, his heart thrumming wildly in his chest, then was about to move closer when the crunch of footsteps came toward him. He flattened back against the rock.

  The unknown man—maybe his name was Colley—passed him, looking up at the moon rising into the sky. He stopped, and was unbuttoning his trousers when James hit him on the temple with his pistol butt. Colley went down.

  Working fast, and as silently as he could, James gagged the man with his own handkerchief, and half dragged, half carried him to the mouth of the canyon. He stopped where he had left his animals to get rope, and tied the man up. He left him in a heap out of reach of the hooves before he returned to the canyon.

  The light from the moon diminished, and James looked up. Clouds scudded across the moon, and the temperature dropped. Taking advantage of the lowered light, James crept back to his hiding place, and slumped into it, the dog beside him. He had captured one of the men; maybe it was all right to close his eyes for just a few minutes.

  “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.”

  What? James opened his eyes. Nobody was there but the dog. He shut his eyes. Hard. The dog whined.

  “The Good Book preaches forgiveness, son. I know you been hurt grievous sore, but you got to forgive.”

  His ma’s face shimmered in his mind. He blinked, then swallowed.

  I can’t do that, Ma.

  There were lines coming out from around his mother’s eyes, gouging furrows along her cheeks.

  “You got an obligation, son. Might don’t make right.”

  They beat my wife, Ma. They shot her dead.

  “The Lord said to love your enemies, son. You been through Hell’s own fire, but if you plant seeds of vengeance, you’ll reap a harvest of hate all your life, and end in Hell’s fire on your own account.”

  But Ma. My...wife’s...dead! She was the sweetest little girl. I was bringing her home, and you never got to as much as set eyes on her.

  “Livin’ with hate is like eating bitter herbs every day of your life, boy. You don’t want that. She don’t want you to live like that. Wasn’t she gentle, good?”

  She was that.

  “Trust the Lord, son. You keep her memory bright.”

  ~~~

  When James’s chin hit his chest, he woke up, cold and hungry. The moon was heavily veiled by clouds, and the campers’ fire was nearly out. Two of the three men snored into the night air. The dog could find the third man. It was time to make them all pay.

  “Dog,” he said to the animal. “Those are bad men, malditos.” The dog’s ears pricked, and it growled deep in its throat. “Let’s go get them.”

  James stepped out from the rock cleft, his left hand holding the animal by the scruff of the neck so it could guide him to the camp. He left his rifle behind in the rocks, and had his revolver in his right hand. His heart drummed in his ears.

  When he was within five feet of the sleeping men, he turned the dog loose. It bounded into the camp, snarling and snapping at whatever it could find. The men came awake, shouting and groping for their guns. One man stood up, and another brought him down with a snap shot. James kept low, his senses dulled by exhaustion, waiting for a good target. The downed man yowled and cursed, thrashing against the pain. The other two tried to roll up in their bedrolls to avoid the teeth of the dog.

  James stood over the wounded man, sighting down the barrel of his revolver. Its weight dragged at his arms, and he had trouble keeping it steady. Then he heard his mother’s voice echoing in his mind: “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.”

  Ma, I can’t let them go!

  “You’ll do it, son, in memory of your sweet wife.”

  Amparo! She’ll never forgive me. I swore an oath of vengeance on her grave.

  “You quit a hasty oath once before, my boy.”

  No, Ma! Go away. Leave me be!

  The wounded man had quit struggling, and lay still, moaning slightly. James found his gun and threw it into the rocks. Growling and snapping, the dog h
ad one of the other two men pinned down next to the fire. James looked around, but the last man had fled the camp, leaving behind his pistol.

  He saw that the dog had captured John Dunn, and kicked the revolver that had fallen out of the man’s hand into the darkness. The other gun was small, and he put it into his pocket. Unless the escapee had picked up a rifle, he was unarmed.

  James stirred up the fire and put some wood on it, called off the dog, and then tied up John Dunn.

  “Who are you?” the man sniffed before James gagged him.

  “Nobody you know,” James answered, tied a handkerchief over the man’s mouth, and went to inspect the other man’s wounds. It was Frank Blue.

  The gunshot wound was not life-threatening. James tended to it. First light broke as he finished the last knot on Frank Blue’s ankles. Then he followed the last man’s boot prints into the trees along the creek. At one point, James’s legs wobbled so badly that he had to sit down, and he must have slept or passed out from exhaustion. Some time later he opened his eyes, hearing a rustle to his left. He came fully awake; something was in the trees with him, but the dog was nowhere to be seen. His eyes moved slowly around, looking for the source of the noise, then a man’s figure came up big before him, and James’s eyes went to slits.

  It was Rice, the man who’d kicked Amparo, and he came at James until he stood above, so close that his sweat smell and fire smoke odor mixed into a stink that made the young man want to retch. The man held his rifle barrel straight ahead as he bent over and looked at James, then poked his shoulder with the barrel.

  James grabbed the rifle barrel with his right hand, startling Rice so badly that when he wrenched the gun from the man’s grasp, it came away with little effort. James kicked up with his legs to tumble Rice onto his back, then quickly knelt astride his enemy, pinning his arms, pulling his revolver and holding it pressed up to the man’s throat.

  “Don’t move. One blink, one sound, and you’re gone to hell, Rice.”

  The man’s eyes showed white around the faded blue color in the center. He nodded his head, very slowly.

  “You hellions have caused me a world of grief,” James panted, glaring down at his captive. “You’d best know my temper’s ready as a pistol with the trigger filed down to a short pull. Tarnation!” He shifted his kneeling stance slightly.

  Rice stared. He moved his mouth, trying to swallow, but the gun pressed against his throat worked against him. Finally, he got enough saliva together to whisper, “Who are you?”

  “It doesn’t matter who I am. Just a stranger. But you folks did me evil when we met back in town. One of you beat my wife. Another killed her when you busted loose.” Thick bile rose in James’s throat. He swallowed hard.

  Rice swore softly. “You’re the kid from the hotel—the one with the greaser woman.” His eyes narrowed. “We didn’t kill nobody!”

  James jabbed the pistol, and his voice came in a rush. “You didn’t kill nobody? You cowards was in such a hurry to light a shuck and get shed of the town and the sheriff, you don’t know what you did? You just killed the sweetest, most lovin’ creature it was ever my good fortune to know. You didn’t kill nobody!” His voice rasped harshly, and he rocked back on his heels to spit out the vile tasting residue in his mouth.

  Rice took courage as the gun left his neck. “Kid, I swear, I didn’t know anything about your wo—about your wife. Do I look like a man who’d kill somebody’s wo—wife?”

  “Quiet!” James snapped. “You talk too much. And yes, you do look like that sort.” The young man adjusted his weight and his weapon, leaning close over the man’s sweating face. “Listen to me, Rice. I got you now, you and your friends, and you need to be mighty quiet while I figure what to do with you.”

  The man whispered, “You mean to kill me?”

  James expelled a harsh sigh and slumped his shoulders as he turned his head. The pistol stayed next to Rice’s bobbing Adam’s apple, never wavering as the young man heaved air in and out of his chest with quick pumps of his lungs. Rice closed his eyes.

  Then James straightened his shoulders and returned his gaze to Rice.

  “Look at me!”

  Rice opened his watery eyes. His head bobbled slightly as he shook. “You gonna kill me?” he gasped.

  James squeezed his thighs like he was riding a horse and squinted at the man. “I’m doin’ the talkin’ now. You listen.”

  Rice’s head came up as the dog came through the trees with a rush, growling and snapping at the man lying beneath James. The man sucked in his breath to scream, but James waved away the dog with his free hand, and Rice subsided. The animal whined, turned in a circle, then took up a menacing stance a few feet away, teeth bared at the man.

  James shifted his weight again. “I can kill you, Rice, but I won’t. If I was to shoot you, I’d be the same breed of man as you—a killer.” James shook his gun in Rice’s face. “That’s not my kind of life. I got a pride in being a law abiding man,” he grunted.

  Rice rolled his eyes in the direction of the growling dog. “You don’t have to kill me. You’ll just leave your dog alone here and it’ll do your dirty work.”

  “There’s a sheriff looking for you who wouldn’t like that. I reckon I’ll take you all back to him.”

  “I don’t want to go back to that greaser sheriff. His jail stinks of dirty Mexicans,” Rice whined. The dog advanced and snapped at the man’s arm. James lifted his free hand and swatted the air above the animal’s nose.

  “Down, boy! Get back!” The dog whimpered and backed away. James turned back to Rice. “You talk too much!”

  Rice shut his mouth. James twisted off the man, covering him with his revolver as he stood. “Get up. Head back to your camp. And keep your arms raised in the air.” James marched the man back into the camp, where he found rope, tied him up, and gagged him with his own dirty handkerchief. Dunn watched silently.

  Weariness made James slump to the ground. He shoved the pistol into his holster. A picture of Amparo, still and silent, flooded James’s mind. Pain seethed over him, Amparo’s pain. “You all gave her no mercy.” He spat out the words and sat up straight. “I’ve changed my mind. Forget the Lord’s vengeance. I’ll take it myself.”

  Rice squirmed against his bindings.

  “She was my church wed wife!” Anger cracked through James’s voice.

  Rice moaned, ashen faced.

  James jumped to his feet. White heat rose in him, a passion to destroy, a melting, eating torment that racked his belly. He shook as Rice shook.

  “You kicked her, Rice!” As James raged, he drew his pistol, raised it, and stepped forward.

  Rice gave a muffled scream, then the gag flew loose before a gush of white and yellow and brown vomit.

  “You don’t want to live with coward stink smeared on you, son.”

  James blinked as Ma’s words cut across his mind.

  “Blessed are they that mourn.”

  James backed up.

  “For they shall be comforted. Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.”

  James looked at Rice. He looked into his own soul.

  “Whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.”

  For a long time, James sighted down the barrel of the gun, feeling his anger seeping away. Then he sighed, and lowered the pistol.

  “Killing you ain’t worth losing my soul.”

  James picked up the rifle, turned his other cheek and stumbled toward the edge of the trees where the men’s horses were tied. The dog followed him, whining. Dropping the rifle in the dry grass, James began saddling the horses. Despite his weariness, he felt scrubbed and clean and whole. He went about his tasks with a lighter heart and increased energy.

  When the four men were secured on horses, James hoisted his saddle onto his own sorrel.

  “We ride to Ratón,” he said to his animals, wondering at the mildness of his voice, “ride to Ratón to tell Amparo I’ve been merciful. To see if she m
inds.”

  ~~~

  A day later, James stumbled off his horse a hundred yards from the clearing on the brow of the mountain where Amparo lay.

  “Ain’t we getting down, too?” asked Dunn.

  “No,” said James.

  Dunn started to say something more, then looked at James’s set face and shut up.

  James dropped his reins, but kept hold of the line that connected his captives’ horses together. He wrapped and tied the line around a stout tree trunk, set the dog to guard the prisoners, then walked the path toward his wife’s grave. He took off his hat and held it in his hand. Amparo’s silver spurs clinked as he walked into the clearing, noticing that the mound of earth he’d left piled up was settling a bit.

  James came to a halt before the burial place. He whacked his hat lightly against his thigh, then moved it back and forth next to his leg. “Amparo,” he said, looking up through the boughs of the over-hanging tree, “I quit my oath. I found those killers up the trail a ways, but I didn’t spill their blood.” He kicked aside a small stone, looked down at the tips of his boots, and jutted his chin into the air, sucking in a long breath. “I’m taking them back to Trinidad, to justice. I reckon the sheriff will be glad to see them.”

  He opened his fist and examined the torn, but healing flesh of his palm. “I turned mercy for ill use. Amparo, I hope I’ve done right.”

  James turned to look down the shoulder of the mountain toward the Santa Fe Trail, checking the view. After a while he put his hat on, turned back to the grave and moved a rock into place. A fallen branch or two called him to carry them away, then he swept around the mound with a handful of leaves. Last, he sat on a rock, elbows on knees, twirling his doffed hat between his twitching fingers.

  “Amparo, you taught me so much in our short time. I reckon you guessed about Ellen. She hurt my pride so sorely, and you bound up my wounds and gave me a shelter place.” He bent his head, inhaled, then gave a great, shuddering sigh. “You didn’t know my heart was banged up, besides my pride. Pa made me leave a girl behind in the Shenandoah. Her pa lost his legs in the war, and Pa wouldn’t bring him west. I thought my heart would break when I parted from Jessica.”