by Neil Hunter
This secret. How had it come about? And why had Ben kept it from her?
Kept it buried inside. Then something registered in her mind. It felt like a physical blow and for a moment Rachel held her breath.
Yes.
It had to be that.
It all fell into place then. She knew what this was all about.
She had the answer.
It had to be the hidden hoard of gold and silver. The Spanish treasure Ben had told her about. The hoard his uncle, Josiah, had learned about and told Ben where it was located.
Nathan wanted the treasure. And she was the lure to bring Ben into Nathan Horn’s hands.
And it made her even more determined to break free and get away from Nathan Horn. If she could do that, go back and find Ben, there would be no need for her husband to clash with Horn. For Rachel it was all that mattered.
If Horn had no leverage over Ben he would have no reason to continue. Even as she had the thought Rachel understood how Nathan Horn’s mind worked. He had already gone to a great deal of trouble to get his hands on her. She began to realize Horn would be unlikely to back away now. He had gone too far. His desire to get his hands on the gold and silver hoard would not let him quit. So her breaking away from him was not going to end the problem.
Damn the man.
He was going to be a threat whether Rachel escaped or not. At least if she returned to Ben’s side they could face Horn together. That had to be a better alternative.
Hunched over in her saddle she continued the manipulation of her wrist bindings, holding the reins loosely in her left hand. She was guiding her horse with her thighs and as they were all moving at a slow pace because of the rough ground she found no problem keeping the animal in line. The dun was her own horse. It responded to her as it always did. Horse and rider were well used to each other and the spirited animal took her instructions without hesitation. She had sensed a slackness in the rope a little while back, so she kept up her attempt to free herself. When he right hand began to slip free from the coils Rachel ceased her movement.
She cautioned herself from doing anything too quickly, knowing she was going to need to choose her moment. Despite this she carefully checked out the terrain. The slope away to her left would offer her best chance. The surface was a mix of hardpan and loose talus. A few hundred yards at the base of the slope a spread of cottonwoods would offer cover if she could reach it.
If.
The slope would be tricky to maneuver down. Rachel didn’t pretend it would be easy. One misstep by her horse and she might find herself going down. She was going to need to keep her nerve and hope the horse could stay on its feet. The prospect of risking the slope did not put her off. Rachel Colter was an accomplished rider. She had been doing it since her childhood. If she wanted to escape she was going to have to take her chance. She took a quick look ahead. In another quarter mile they would reach the next level and she had no idea what they might be presented with. The slope below her offered at least an opportunity.
A slim one, but at least something.
Rachel took the chance.
As she slid her right wrist free from the binding she took hold of the reins with both hands. She hauled the dun’s head round, dug in her heels and gave a strong yell that got the horse moving. It plunged off the trail, hit the slope and under Rachel’s urging picked up speed. She heard the rattle of loose stones under the hoofs, leaning back in the saddle as she felt the downward angle of the slope pull at her. Dust misted the air in their wake. She heard angry yells behind her. But no gunfire. Horn would be making his men hold back from using their weapons. A small blessing. There would be no sense in having her shot out of the saddle. Until he decided otherwise Horn needed her alive.
Wind slapped at her face, streaming her hair back. Beneath her she could feel the plunging sway of the horse as it lunged forward. She heard it give a nervous sound as its hoofs clattered and slid over the slope’s loose surface, but the animal kept its balance.
For a moment she was tempted to look back to see if any of Horn’s men were following. She resisted the urge. Just knowing they were somewhere around was enough to keep her riding.
I won’t look until I reach level ground.
She kept to that. Only as the dun, almost stumbling, came to the base of the slope did she throw a glance across her shoulder.
Three riders were coming down the slope. At a far slower rate than she had used. She turned away, feeling the pound of hoofs as she drove her horse full tilt in the direction of the timber. She could see thick brush growing in amongst the cottonwoods. It would all help to provide her with some cover.
‘Go,’ she yelled, urging the dun on. It lunged forward, applying the full power from its strong body. Rachel leaned across its neck, yelling again. ‘Go, go, go.’
She saw the treeline coming up, swinging the dun through the standing timber, the high branches shutting out some of the light. In amongst the trees it was all crisscross shadows, cooler air filled with the scents of the forest. Rachel found she had little need to concentrate on guiding her horse. The dun weaved in and out of the timber, taking them deeper into the thickening stands. The underbrush slapped against horse and rider. Neither of them paid any attention. Rachel knew she would have some bruises to her arms and legs but it was a small price to pay when the alternative could have been a rifle slug piercing her flesh.
They splashed through a shallow stream, cut across a patch of heavy ferns. Rachel caught a glimpse of some dark furred animals scurrying out of their path as they rode through. The dun took them down a dip in the forest floor, cleared a long fallen tree trunk covered in moss, and as it slowed its headlong flight she eased around to check the back trail. There was no movement. No sound. Rachel reined the dun to a stop. Twisted around in the saddle to check.
The forest was quiet apart from some distant bird sound. Rachel slid off the horse, stroking its neck where it stood panting from the wild run.
‘Easy, boy,’ she said. ‘Set easy now.’
She felt the burn of the rope marks on her wrists now. They were raw, some parts moist and bloody. There was little she could to about them now. She had nothing with her. No saddlebags. Not even a canteen of water.
Rachel didn’t dwell on that for long. At least she was alive and free. Knowing that she kept her head and didn’t allow herself to become too complacent. For all she knew Horn’s men could still be around. Staying quiet as they searched for her. She thought about the Kiowa breed—Snakekiller. If Horn set him on her trail life could become difficult.
The other, more important point, was her lack of weapons. Given a gun, hand or long, Rachel Colter could defend herself with the best. She was an excellent shot, having had tuition from her father, then Ben. Even Chey had advised from time to time. She accepted her experience had only been shooting at targets. She had never had to face a human opponent. If it came down to it, she found herself wondering, would she be able to fire on another person? Even if it came down to her life against his. It was a question she hoped she would never have to find out.
She had moved again. On foot and leading the dun to give it the opportunity to recover from their wild ride. She was moving further into the forest, finding it spread endlessly around her. Through the high canopy of branches the sky was open and cloudless.
The dun’s head came up as it picked up scent. It nudged her shoulder with it nose.
‘You smell something?’
The horse picked up the pace, seeming to know exactly where it was going and she let it have its head. They came across a wide, flowing stream a few minutes later.
‘Might not be a steak with all the trimmings,’ Rachel said, ‘but right now I’m not complaining.’
She let the dun choose its spot, then knelt herself a little way upstream and took a drink. The water was cold but had the sweetest taste Rachel could recall. She splashed her face, then sunk both hands up to her wrists. The water stung the rope marks but she kept her hands submerged
for a couple of minutes.
It was only when the dun nickered gently that she stood upright, turning, and found herself face to face with Snakekiller. Her earlier concern had been correct. Horn had sent the breed looking for her. Snakekiller had a thin smirk on his face, his eyes hot as he looked her body up and down.
‘Horn want you alive,’ he said. ‘Did not say no fun before you go back.’
Rachel fought back against the sick feeling threatening to overwhelm her.
‘You stay away from me.’
‘You look round. No one here to save you. I send others different way. Only Snakekiller to look after you.’ The last words amused him and he gave a raspy laugh. ‘Good day for you, woman belong Colter. Today you give yourself to Snakekiller…’
He came at her swiftly, his clawing hands reaching for her shirt, tearing at the material. Rachel stepped back, the sickness she had felt turning to anger. As he pawed at her flesh, his stale breath in her face, she pounded at him with her clenched fists and though her blows were solid Snakekiller seemed oblivious. He was forcing her backwards, hooking one foot behind her to push her off balance, and she could feel his rising hardness against her thighs. One strong hand searched for her belt, the other moving over her breasts and she heard the low, guttural sounds coming from him.
No, no, no, she repeated to herself, this was not going to happen.
His rasping laughter rose again as they tumbled to the ground, his weight spreading to pin her down. She fought back silently, determined not to allow him to hear her despair. Her fists slammed against his squirming back. He shrugged off her protest. Dragged her shirt open…
Rachel’s right hand, pushing against him, moved across his lean body, brushed against the handle of the knife sheathed on his belt. For a second the realization failed to register, but when it did she curled her fingers over the corded handle and without a moment’s hesitation she pulled the knife free from the sheath. Her arm drew back, the sickness rising as she realized what she was about to do, then she plunged the keen blade into his side, feeling resistance before it slid into his flesh. Snakekiller gave a startled cry as the knife cut deep. He arched his body away from her, but not fast enough to prevent Rachel pulling out the blade and repeating the stabbing motion a number of times. She clamped her lips shut in distaste as hot blood began to surge from the wounds, slick on the knife and on the flesh of her hand.
Snakekiller twisted himself off her, tumbling to the ground, both hands clutching at his bleeding side. He rolled away from her but Rachel, in a rage, went after him and she launched herself across him, the knife rising and falling as she hit him with it again. She caught him in the stomach, wrenching the knife free and doing it again. Snakekiller screamed in pain. Rachel had no idea what she had cut but blood was pumping from the wounds, soaking his shirt and drenching his hands as he tried to stop the flow. Wearied by her frenzied attack she made a final strike, the blood streaked blade sinking into the soft flesh under his jaw. It wedged against bone and she was unable to pull it free. Losing all her resistance she slumped to her knees beside Snakekiller and sat there, her blood-soaked hands resting in her lap, head down. At the time she was unaware that her shirt and pants were streaked and slick with Snakekiller’s blood. More had splashed across her face.
She stayed where she was for some time and gradually her breathing calmed and she became aware of her surroundings. The quiet of the forest. The soft champing as the dun cropped at the grass that grew along the banks of the stream. The soft sound of a bird on a nearby branch. She felt the cool touch of the breeze on her face, stirring her hair.
Normality.
Until she glanced down at Snakekiller’s body. Blood-soaked. His eyes wide and staring. His mouth hung open, showing his big brown teeth. The handle of the knife buried in his throat offered the proof of what she had done.
Rachel felt the warm rush of tears forming. She forced them back, willing herself not to give in to the surge of self-pity. Right now she needed to be strong. To remember Nathan Horn and the others. Maybe they would still come looking for her. She had to move. To get away from this place. She pushed to her feet, stumbled to the edge of the stream. She rinsed her hands until all the blood had gone, then sluiced her face and neck. There was nothing she could do about the shirt buttons that had been ripped off, or the blood that soaked her clothing. Leaning over she took a long drink from the stream. As she drank it came to her that Snakekiller must have had a canteen with him.
Rachel walked across the clearing and began a search for his horse. It was tethered a short distance away. There was a large canteen hanging from the saddle. She decided she would take it and refill it at the stream. A well-used Winchester was housed in a saddle sheath. Rachel slid it out. She ejected the shells it held onto the grass, saw there was a full load and then reloaded. Satisfied with the rifle, she checked the worn saddlebags and found a hide pouch holding extra shells for the Winchester. There were creased and grubby-looking clothes in the pouches, which she threw aside as she searched. Tobacco and a squat bottle of raw whiskey. There was little else of interest. The breed had not carried a handgun. Rachel kept the whiskey and the ammunition. She unsaddled the pony, stripped off the bridle and set the animal free before returning to where her own dun stood waiting. She draped the saddlebags across its back. Her short coat was still in place, so she took it and pulled it on, buttoning it over her bloodstained shirt. Taking the canteen she poured out the contents before rinsing it in the stream and refilling it. She hung it from her saddle, mounted the dun and held the Winchester across her lap and rode out, never once looking back at the body of Snakekiller.
~*~
Jess McCall and Ben Colter kept moving through the night, taking advantage of a bright moon. It had laid a silver cast over the landscape. The temperature had dropped so they pulled on the thick coats they carried behind their saddles and wore gloves to keep their fingers from getting chilled. They rode at a steady pace, not pushing their horses to avoid the possibility of accidents by stepping into a pothole in the uneven ground.
The Texan was aware of Colter’s concern over his missing wife, so he went along with the man’s relentless drive to close the distance between them and the kidnappers.
They pushed on with only a couple of stops to rest the horses and give them water, tipping into their hats from the canteens they carried. The break for the horses allowed McCall and Colter to walk around and ease their own kinks away.
‘Coffee wouldn’t go amiss,’ Colter said.
‘So, that is a cruel thing to say right now,’ McCall said.
Colter took a drink from his canteen. ‘I guess you’re right, but I’ve a powerful craving for a hot brew.’
‘We still on track?’ McCall asked.
Colter pointed towards the dark peaks ahead of them.
‘Sandia Mountains,’ he said. ‘Last couple of hours we’ve been taking a cutoff that should bring us a lot closer to where Horn has been heading. By first light I figure we should be picking up his trail.’
‘How close?’
‘Enough so we’ll need to take care we don’t just ride into them.’
They allowed another half hour before they set off again. McCall could see the overall darkness starting to fade, pale dawn light revealing their surroundings. He allowed Colter to maintain the lead. The man knew his own terrain and McCall trusted him without question.
The Texan had his own concerns rattling around inside his head. He was thinking about his partner. Chet Ballard was more than capable of taking care of himself. It didn’t stop McCall from worrying about him. He would not be completely satisfied until he laid eyes on Ballard again.
First light dissolved the shadows. Ahead were the craggy slopes of the Sandias. Their way was taking them in a direct line now, Colter leading with caution. The air still held the night’s chill even as the sun rose. Overhead the sky showed a cloudless expanse that held the promise of another hot day.
In a stand of timber Colter dre
w rein, indicating to McCall he wanted to make a final weapon’s check. They each made sure both rifles and handguns were fully loaded. McCall had a second Colt Frontier in his saddlebag and he checked that and fully loaded it as well. They were simply making sure all their weapons were fully functional and ready for use if the occasion arose. It would be too late have a malfunction in the event of a sudden firefight. McCall had seen good men die because they had failed to make certain they were carrying sound weapons.
Colter leaned against his horse, looking out across the ascending slopes of the mountain range. McCall sensed his mood.
‘She’ll be waiting for you to show,’ he said. ‘Chet, you ain’t about to let her down.’
Colter fiddled with the pigging strings holding his blanket roll in place.
‘Damn if I know,’ he said. ‘Few days back we were fine. Makin’ our way and content. Now our place’s gone. We lost a good friend and I lost my wife.’ He banged his fist against his saddle, making the horse start. ‘All it took was that damned Nathan Horn to move back into our lives…Jess, I never figured myself a vengeful man, but I tell you now, I’m heading there.’
‘Way this is playing out,’ McCall said, ‘if I get to meet this feller I’m ready to put him down myself.’
‘Then you’ll need to stand in line. I’m claiming first rights.’
‘We’ll see, son.’
‘And there I was believing you Texicans were all peaceful folk.’
‘That we are. Until someone pushes us too far. Then we tend to get all righteous and start to push back. It was what that upstart General Santa Ana didn’t figure. Granted we didn’t all together win that one at The Alamo, but it started his downfall. Texas sure did give that hombre something to chew on.’
Colter managed a smile. ‘Jess, I’m damn glad you’re on my side.’
After checking the horses and tightening the saddles, they mounted up and moved out.
Somewhere ahead were the men led by Nathan Horn. The man was intent on getting his hands on Father Corozon’s hoard of gold and silver. Ben Colter was of a mind to prevent that from happening if possible. His priority though was getting Rachel back. If it came to a make or break call, with his wife in the middle, Colter would give Horn what he wanted. He loved his wife too much to put her in absolute danger. When he weighed his options he reluctantly accepted he might have to concede to Horn’s demands. Rachel meant more to him than a pile of precious metal. Far more.
