by Nan O'Berry
The horse’s attention hadn’t wavered.
“I wish I had your eyesight.” Clay placed the reins on the horse’s neck and moved to the right side to mount. Holding his stirrup, he slipped his boot in and pulled his body up. He was just about to swing his leg over when the sound of gun fire erupted. Spirit tossed his head as he quickly settled into the saddle. Lifting the reins, he touched Spirit’s sides and the horse leapt forward.
Leaning low, he pulled his gun from his hip. Passing the first grove of trees, the trail dipped. Clay leaned to the left as Spirit rounded the curve and picked up speed. Up ahead, a horse stood bewildered and something lay sprawled on the ground.
Cautiously, he glanced around as he slowed Spirit and dismounted.
“Easy.” He reached for the bridle. He knew the horse. Denver passed him a while ago riding hard.
“Hey, there, Thunder.” He reached out to stroke the velvety nose.
The horse shied. His eyes still wide with fear.
“Whoa.” The horse shivered as he moved toward the saddle. “Where’s Denver?”
Thunder snorted.
Clay ran his hands along the leather and encountered something wet. His brow knotted as he pulled his hands away and noticed the red stain against his skin. A hard lump formed in the pit of his stomach. “Where’s Denver?”
A soft groan rose from the edge of the trail.
“Denver?” Clay moved toward the mixture of rock and scrub. Pushing back the branches, he could see the rider lying on his stomach.
His hands out stretched clawed at the ground as if he were trying to crawl away.
“Denver!” Clay hurried over. Dropping to one knee, he grasped the man’s shoulder and with the greatest of care eased him over. Clay’s heart slowly came to a stop as he watched the red stain grow with each shallow breath the kid took. “Denver.”
The kid’s eyes opened. A flicker of recognition registered. His mouth pulled to one side. “I didn’t see him until it was too late.”
“Hush, don’t talk.” Clay reached up and pulled his kerchief from his neck then pressed it against the hole in the kid’s chest.
Denver grimaced. “I ain’t gonna make it.”
“You are. We’re going to get you on Thunder.”
Denver gave a rough laugh. Blood stained his teeth and trickled out the edge of mouth.
“Did you see who?”
The kid slowly moved his head to signal no. “Came from behind.”
“How many?”
“Not sure, I think one.” Denver took a deep ragged breath and his eyes closed.
For a moment, Clay feared the worst had happened. “Denver?”
The kid blinked and slowly raised his eyelids. “So nice. So peaceful.” He breathed and paused. “You have to get the mochila to Three Rivers. My journey is done.” He closed his eyes.
“Denver?” Clay called to him again.
The kid opened his eyes one last time. “It doesn’t hurt, Clay,” he assured him as a soft smile eased his features. “It’s sort of like just going to sleep…” His words trailed away to nothingness.
“Denver?” Clay touched the ash colored skin on his face, as his eyes grew dull. Pain cut a path through his heart as he pulled Denver’s limp body toward his chest. For a moment, he succumbed to mourning. “I’ll get the mail through, Denver. You can count on it.”
Laying the body down, he rose and brushed his hand across his eyes smearing the moisture that somehow found itself on his face. Stumbling back through the bush, he made his way over to Spirit and yanked the lattigo that held his night roll to the cantle of this saddle. He’d wrap the body and place it on Thunder, then take it home, home to Three Rivers. Levi would know what to do.
Clay stared at the horse and noticed the mail packet missing from the saddle. Mouth dry, he began to look around. “It’s got to be here,” he said aloud.
A crack turned his head. Something hot drove deep into his arm, shoving him around. Clay felt his knees give way. He was falling. The ground loomed closer. As the blanket fell from his grasp, he hit the earth with such force it drove the breath from his lungs and darkness descended.
Chapter 10
Darkness settled when pain roused Clay to life. His shoulder burned with an unholy fire. He tried to push himself up to stand, but his right arm was useless. He could hear hoof steps and tilted his head to look up. Spirit stood beside him as if sheltering him from further harm. Why was he on the ground? He brought his brows together slowly the memory of what occurred seeped into his consciousness. He had been shot.
Clay ran his tongue around his dry lips and wondered how long he’d been unconscious. He needed to find help. He needed to find someone to help him return Denver’s body to the express station. He tried raising his head only to find a deep stream of pain roaring to life and so intense, it wanted to stop his lungs from breathing. He glanced over at the horse. He’d never be able to stand let alone pull himself into the saddle.
“Perhaps,” he whispered. “Spirit. Step closer.”
The horse looked down at him and snorted.
Yet, to Clay’s surprise, he lifted a foot and gently stepped sideways, closer to him.
“One more, step,” Clay called his heart racing as if he’d run a mile on foot. The horse put its head down and took another step. If his arm was working, he could reach out and touch him. Clay closed his eyes for a breath then slowly as best he could, he tipped over on his side. Reaching for the leather stirrup, he looped his arm through. A feeling of accomplishment rolled through him. Now, if the horse would only understand.
“Emma. Spirit. Emma.”
The horse nickered and made a slow move away, dragging Clay’s body with him. Nervously, the Appaloosa looked back at him.
Clay’s head hung sideways without strength to hold him up. “Go to Emma, Spirit.”
The horse snorted and slowly began to move.
With each step, Clay clamped his teeth tighter. He wasn’t sure how badly he was hurt or how long it would take the horse to get him back to the Rocking R. All he knew was that he had to hold on. Hold on for Emma, hold on for Denver, and hold on for his own life.
“How come we gotta ride out to check the cows?” Stephen grumbled.
“Cause animals can’t tell if it’s Sunday or Monday.” Drew chuckled. “Besides, there’s a new momma out here and we want to make sure that she understands she needs to look after her baby.”
Stephen tapped his heels into his pony’s side and the animal trotted up so he would be side to side with his older brother. “If she can’t, can I keep the baby as a pet?”
“A pet?” Drew’s brow arched beneath the brim of his hat. “I am not sure Pa is going to like this idea.”
Scanning the horizon, Drew pulled his horse to a stop and held his hand down for his younger brother to do the same.
“What’s wrong?” Stephen questioned.
Drew rose in his stirrups and stared.
“Drew?”
“Stay here,” he ordered.
“But—”
“Stay here.” Drew hissed and glared at Stephen daring him to open his mouth again.
Stephen nodded.
Drew sat back down and walked off. A horse stood at the edge of the meadow, a familiar looking horse. A trickle of fear snaked its way around his backbone. With each steps his horse took, Drew’s heart beat a little faster.
“If I didn’t know better….”
He let the sentence hang. His horse’s ears twitched as if recognizing the equine in question. The dun horse raised its head and nickered.
“It’s Clay’s horse,” Stephen called.
Drew whipped his head around and saw that his little brother had ridden his horse a bit closer. “I thought I told you to stay back.”
Stephen pulled his pony to a stop.
Drew turned his attention back to the horse. Riding in an arc, he made sure no one was hiding in the tall grass to surprise him. Drawing closer, he glanced at the saddle and noted
its lean to the right. Following the leather down to the stirrups, he gasped to see Clay hanging on. Dismounting in record time, he hurried to him. Dropping to one knee, he took hold of his shoulders. “Easy, Clay, let go.”
Clay’s arm went limp and Drew eased him over onto his back. “What happened to you?” he asked. He pulled back his shirt and found the wound. “Have mercy.”
“Drew?” Stephen called out.
Drew looked up to see his younger brother standing, staring at the fallen rider. “Stephen, I need you to do something for me.”
“Is he dead?” The boy’s soft spoken words belied the shock setting in.
“No. Clay’s not dead, but he’s hurt, hurt something bad.” Laying Clay’s head down on the ground, Drew crossed to his little brother. Taking hold of his shoulders, he spoke, “Stephen, look at me.”
The boy glanced at Clay then slowly moved his gaze to his older brother. His skin was nearly as white as Clay’s.
Drew feared he might faint. “Stephen.” He tightened his grip and his brother swallowed. “I need you to ride for home as fast as you can. Can you do that for me?”
The youngest Rawlings nodded.
“You tell Pa to bring the wagon that Clay is hurt real bad and I’m afraid to move him.”
Stephen nodded. “Is he gonna die?”
“Not if I can help it,” Drew replied. “Hand me my canteen.”
Stephen moved to his brother’s horse and pulled the canteen from the saddle. Hurrying back, he held it out for Drew and stared down at his fallen hero. “Somebody shot him.”
Drew nodded. “Yep, which is why it’s important for you to hurry home.”
Stephen nodded.
Drew put the canteen down and walked his little brother back to his pony. Picking him up by the waist, he set him down in the saddle and pulled the reins tight while he slid his boots into the stirrups. Handing Stephen the reins, he peered into the younger boy’s eyes. “Don’t stop for nothing. Ride hard. Ride fast.”
Stephen clawed and pulled the leather tight in his hands. “I won’t let you down, Drew. I promise.”
“Go.”
Stephen wheeled the pony around and pointed him toward home. “Let’s go,” he cried and tapped the pony roughly with his heels. The animal sprang to life and they galloped away.
Cyrus dismounted. Standing above the little cabin below he waited, making sure no lights were inside. His ears strained to hear any sound that seemed out of the ordinary. All was quiet. He followed Joe’s directions to the little cabin. If things went well, Joe would pick up the payment from the hollow tree near Three River’s creek and bring it to him. Yeah, he was hedging his bets just in case of a double cross, but the business of killing a man did that to you.
Taking a steady breath, he walked slowly toward the cabin leading his horse. He paused before the hitching rail and listened. The only sound seemed to be the breeze coming through the trees. Wrapping his reins around the rail, he bent low and crossed beneath to step up on the porch. His boots rang hollow against the worn grey boards. At the door, he paused, his false sense of security departing.
His tongue nervously flipped around his lips. Crouching, he lowered his body so as not to be a full target. Then withdrawing his pistol from its holder, he waited making an attempt to regulate his breathing in case someone was waiting just beyond the door would not hear him. Gun in his left hand, Cyrus gave the door a slight push.
Nothing.
He rose to his full height and gave a soft chuckle. He slid his gun back in his holster and entered.
Three steps in and a command stopped him, “Shut the door.”
Frozen in his tracks, Cyrus shifted his gaze from side to side without seeing his enemy.
“Shut the door,” the voice commanded again.
Cyrus stepped back then pushed the door closed and the room was immersed in darkness.
A match slid against a board. Light erupted driving away the darkness.
Cyrus raised his hand before his eyes as protection.
“Sit down, Cyrus.”
Slowly, he lowered his hand to see the hooded specter sitting at a small table. He lifted the globe of a lantern. He adjusted the wick so that light illuminated the whole room.
Cyrus followed his hand and saw the small stool waiting for him in front of the table. He glanced at the flour sack. Two steel blue eyes stared back at him. Eyes, from his point of view, that showed no mercy. Seeing no way out, he took the seat.
“How did our little job go?”
Cyrus wiped the back of his hand against his lips to remove the nervous moisture. “It went okay.”
“Just okay?”
He nodded. “I got rid of one of the riders.”
“Good. And the pouch?”
Cyrus took a quick breath as the hair on the back of his head rose. “Don’t know. He must have dumped it in the brush. He knew I was following.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t want any surprises. I hate surprises.”
“I looked, but I didn’t see it,” Cyrus pleaded.
The man across from him fell silent.
Cyrus studied his appearance, hoping in some vane way to make a connection and figure out his identity.
“Very well.” The specter reached down beside him and dumped a saddlebag onto the table.
“Wh-what’s this?”
“It’s a saddlebag.”
Cyrus glanced at the leather bag then back to the masked man. “I know what it is,” he replied tartly despite his dire predicament.
There was laughter in the specter’s eyes. “Good to know. I want you to disappear for a few days.”
“Disappear?”
“We will call it a change of venue.”
“Huh?”
The masked man took a moment to gather his thoughts. “You need to go to Virginia City, Nevada. There’s a stage company there. They have been wired and told you were coming. There’s a nice job waiting for you.”
“But my things? I got a girl at Benders,” he protested.
The man with the flour sack rose and it was clear to Cyrus the meeting was at an end. “Five hundred dollars will buy you new things, like new girls. Lose yourself, Cyrus. Change your name. Start over at the new stage company. But never set foot in Three Rivers again, because if you do, you won’t leave except in a pine box.”
The implication of the words left an indelible mark on Cyrus’s thinking. “Yes, sir, I’ll do that.”
“Of course, you will.” He smiled.
Cyrus leaned over and scooped up the saddlebags. Then he rose. He licked his lips again and made a fleeting glance around the room before swallowing his pride and giving a quick nod. Turning on his heel, he walked out the front door and stepped up onto his horse.
Yeah, he’d ride away. His mouth grew bitter as he thought about Ruby back at Benders. Her soft bosom would no longer cradle his head and comfort him when things went wrong. He glanced down at the saddlebags. Five hundred dollars. Yes, that would buy a lot of friends. Reining his horse around, Cyrus rode away.
From the doorway, the hooded figure watched him ride out of sight. Shutting the door, the specter reached up and pulled the rough material from his head then tossed it on the table. Air cooled his heated skin now exposed to the cool of the evening light.
Across the room, a small door opened and Reuben Pierson emerged from the long forgotten bedroom. “It’s done?”
The man with the dark hair and thin black mustache nodded.
“And our man in Virginia City?”
“Will be waiting just outside of the Nevada border. It will be done just the way you like it, no body-no questions.”
“Good. It won’t take long to get rid of this little enterprise, and when I do, they’ll welcome me back to Frisco and we can go back to business as usual. There’s money to be made and I intend to get my fair share.”
“Family be damned,” the second man added.
Pierson turned and his eyes narrowed as he affirme
d, “Family be damned.”
Emma stood watching, waiting for any sign of her father. “He has to be coming soon.”
“He’ll be here.”
However, her mother’s words gave her little comfort. Ever since Stephen had ridden in crying for their father, Emma’s world had turned upside down. “What if—”
“No. There will be no what if’s. Clay may be injured but there will be no what if’s,” her mother told her. “You must be brave, Emma. This is harsh country and we must stand strong.”
Emma nodded and looked again to the horizon. A movement caught her eye and made her heart skip one beat. She stepped forward. “Ma.”
“I see it, Emma.”
She heard her mother’s footsteps as they came down the steps toward her.
“You’ve got the pot on for hot water?”
Emma nodded. “I put the roll of bandages in the spare bedroom.”
Her mother’s hand found her shoulder. “Good girl.”
In agony, she watched the wagon slowly draw into the yard. Her father pulled the team to a halt and wrapped the heavy leathers around the break.
Emma took a step forward. “Pa?”
Her father’s blue eyes softened when he glanced at his daughter. “He’s been shot, Emma.”
She could feel the blood drain from her face as she moved to the side of the wagon and peered in the back. Drew sat beside Clay, whose ash toned face seemed to blend in to the worn boards below.
“Let’s get him into the house,” her father ordered.
Drew lifted his shoulders and Emma’s grip on the side of the wagon tightened as Clay moaned. Seconds later, her father took hold of his legs and they slid him from the wagon. Drawn to his side, she picked up his limp hand and held it tight between hers. No one spoke, they as they gently carried him into the house.
Once he had been laid upon the bed, Mrs. Rawlings moved to her daughter. “Emma, go to the kitchen and get some warm water, soap and alcohol.”
“Let Drew do it,” she murmured refusing to let go of Clay’s hand.
