Heartbreak Creek

by Kaki Warner

  I can do this. I won’t fall. I can’t. Brin and Ed need me.

  The last light of day was fading behind the peaks when they rode up to the mine entrance. No one came out of the dark overseer’s shack to meet them. The place felt deserted. Then Declan sensed movement and looked up to see a figure moving on the middle platform seventy feet up.

  A wave of dizziness almost toppled him from his horse.

  A horse whinnied, and he looked over to see a pinto with war paint on its shoulders and rump tied in the trees. Lone Tree’s.

  “Check the shack,” he told Buck as he dismounted. “R.D., find a place behind those rocks.” He pointed to several boulders at the base of the bluff that would offer cover in case anyone started shooting from either of the upper platforms. “Don’t shoot unless I give a signal. Understand?”

  His son nodded, quickly tied his horse to the hitching rail outside the overseer’s shack, then ducked behind the rocks with his rifle and a box of ammunition.

  “Harvey Ricks is inside.” Buck stood in the doorway of the shack, an anguished look on his face. Declan remembered that he and Harvey had been friends as well as co-workers before the accident that had taken Buck’s hand. “Dead. Knife, looks like.”

  Before Declan could respond, a man’s voice called down from the platform above. “Brodie!”

  Declan stepped back so he could get a clearer view of the platform and saw a woman standing at the edge, her pale skirts whipping in the evening breeze. Even in the dim light and at a distance of seventy feet, he recognized the slim form and defiant stance.

  “I have your woman and your daughter,” Lone Tree yelled. “Do you want them back?”

  Suddenly Ed screamed and lurched forward, flailing for balance as if shoved from behind. Then just before her feet slipped off the edge, she was yanked back.

  Declan could hear her muffled entreaties and clenched his fists in helpless frustration. “Let them go, Lone Tree! They have nothing to do with this.”

  “Come and get them, white man!” Laughter floated down. “Or are you afraid to come so high?”

  Declan felt the familiar terror slide into his mind. He tried to fight it, but already his throat was so tight he was gasping for air.

  Above him, Ed tottered on the edge again, fighting for balance. “Or do you want me to send them down to you?”

  “No!” Declan raised a shaking hand. “I’ll come! I’ll come.”

  “Alone. Or she falls.”

  “All right. Just don’t hurt them.”

  “No guns, white man.”

  With trembling hands, Declan unbuckled his gun belt and let it drop. Knowing Lone Tree wouldn’t let him keep his gun, he had tucked Lucinda’s little pepperbox pistol into the inside band of his hat. But he would prefer to get his hands on the bastard. He wanted to feel him struggle as he choked the life out of him. He wanted to look into his eyes and watch him die.

  “No coat,” Lone Tree called down.

  Declan took off his coat and spread his arms, shivering as the cool breeze cut through his sweat-dampened shirt. “I’m not armed.”

  “Then come and die, white man.”

  Looking around for away up, Declan saw a rung ladder attached between two narrowly spaced uprights. It seemed to stretch endlessly above him. On shaking legs, he started toward it, speaking softly as he passed Buck, who was hidden in the shadows inside the doorway of the shack. “Is there another way up?” He knew Buck could never climb this ladder with only the one hand. “A ramp? Some way to hoist us up?” With all the ropes and pulleys hanging from the underside of the scaffolds, there had to be something better than a vertical climb up a slick wooden ladder.

  “Only ladders.”

  Christ.

  “Are you coming, white man?” Lone Tree shouted.

  “I’m coming.”

  Declan gripped the ladder in sweating hands. With his heart pounding so hard he heard nothing but the thud of it, he began to climb.

  It seemed to take forever. He had to stop several times, his arms wrapped around the ladder in a stranglehold, to wipe the dampness from his cramping hands. His jaw ached from the effort of trying to keep his teeth from chattering, and no matter how many breaths he took, he couldn’t seem to fill his lungs. But slowly, surely, he went up the rungs.

  Don’t look down—you won’t fall—don’t look down.

  Finally he cleared the last rung and collapsed, shaking and nauseated on the floor of the platform. When the spinning slowed, he pushed himself up on wobbly legs and looked around.

  The platform was split into two wooden decks—the one closest to the bluff where Declan had climbed up—and a bigger one with no railing that hung over the long drop to the ground. Separating them was a ten-foot-wide gap running parallel to the bluff, which allowed the water cannon—now hanging limply from ropes attached to a system of oversized pulleys on beams overhead—to run back and forth along the rock wall. The decks were littered with tools and lengths of chain, and ropes so tangled they looked like a sail rigger’s nightmare.

  Lone Tree held Ed on the far platform.

  Declan looked for a way to get to her and saw several sagging foot-wide boards bridging the gap between the platforms. The realization that he would have to cross on one of those narrow boards above a seventy-foot drop almost drove Declan to his knees.

  He gulped in air. Sweat burned in his eyes. He forced himself to step forward. The platform shivered gently with his weight. He stopped, his knees shaking beneath him. “All right, I’m here,” he yelled across to the Arapaho. “Let her go.”

  “Are you afraid to come closer?” Lone Tree taunted. “Is it too high for you?”

  Eyes stinging, Declan squinted through the gloom. The Indian had one arm locked around Ed’s waist, using her body as a shield. In his other hand he held a long-handled hunting knife pressed to her throat. There were dark stains on the pale fabric of her dress, but she seemed okay, although it was hard to tell in the fading light. There was no sign of Brin.

  His stomach rolling, Declan took another step.

  Lone Tree laughed. He started to say something, but Ed cut him off, her words coming out in a rush. “Brin’s up there. In the bucket.”

  “Quiet!” Lone Tree cracked the butt of his knife against her temple.

  She sagged, then caught herself.

  Declan looked up and saw the barrel-shaped bucket suspended halfway between this platform and the one above. “Brin!”

  “Pa!” a muffled voice cried. A small head rose over the rim of the bucket. “Pa, help me!”

  Declan almost choked when he saw the bucket tip as she moved about. “Be still, Brin! Don’t move! Sit down and be still!” After her head disappeared from the rim, he turned furiously to Lone Tree. “Is this how an Arapaho fights his enemies? Hiding behind women and children?”

  “This is how an Arapaho avenges his dead family!” the Indian said savagely. “You killed my woman and child! Now you watch as I kill yours.”

  “No!” Declan lurched forward, then stopped when the boards beneath his feet groaned and trembled. “I didn’t kill them! A flash flood killed them.”

  “While I was in your cage!” Suddenly the Indian gave a high, jittery laugh that had the sound of madness in it. “But I will give you the chance you never gave me, Brodie. I will let you try to save them. Come.” He motioned impatiently with the knife. “Or is your fear so strong you will let them die?”

  Declan glanced down at the gap at his feet. Dizziness assailed him. Acid burned in his throat. He slid one foot forward onto the spanning board, then the other, and tried not to think about the emptiness below.

  “How does it feel, white man? Are you afraid? Are you sorry you locked me in your cage?”

  “I let you go. Early. Before your sentence was up.” Declan sucked in air and chanted silently in his mind. Don’t look down, don’t look down.

  “Faster, white man. I tire of waiting.”

  Staring down at his boots, Declan took another st
ep. The board bounced under his weight. Jesus. He felt himself tip and flailed for balance. As if from a great distance, he heard Ed’s voice.

  “Don’t look down, Declan. Look at me. Don’t look—”

  Her words ended abruptly. Declan looked up to see her crumple onto the floor amid a tangle of picks and shovels. “Ed!” he shouted, then froze when the board shifted beneath his feet.

  “Now you have lost one,” Lone Tree called as he began to unloop a thick rope wrapped around a cleat bolted to the post. “Will you come in time to save the other?”

  Declan took another step, arms outstretched, his heartbeat roaring in his head. Then another.

  Lone Tree slipped the last loop from the cleat and wrapped the rope around one forearm, while gripping the loose end with the other hand. “Hurry, white man.” He began to play out the rope.

  Brin screamed.

  Declan watched in horror as the bucket started a jerky descent. “No!” he shouted and took another step.

  The board bounced. He tried not to overcompensate as he fought for balance. Blinking against the sting of sweat seeping from under his hat, he crept forward, Ed’s voice echoing in his mind.

  Don’t look down. Don’t look down.

  Terror churned in his gut. Air hissed through his clenched teeth.

  He focused all of his mind on the end of the board stretching forever ahead of him. He was distantly aware that Brin had quit screaming, but he didn’t dare look at Lone Tree to see if he was still playing out the rope, afraid any movement of his head would throw off his precarious balance.

  The end of the board edged closer. He tried not to rush the last few steps, but suddenly he was lunging for the safety of the deck. He found it, went down hard on one knee, but welcomed the pain because it helped bring his mind back in focus. Chest heaving, his mouth so dry his lips stuck to his teeth, he straightened.

  Lone Tree stood by the edge, still holding the rope. The bucket swayed gently five feet above him. Ed hadn’t moved. The light was so faint now Declan could barely make out the scattered tools, ropes, and leavings of workers who wouldn’t be back.

  “All right, Lone Tree,” he said, still struggling to catch his breath. “I’m here. Do you have the courage to face me like a man?”

  The Arapaho laughed. The bucket dropped a foot, then halted with a jerk. Brin’s whimper cut like a blade into Declan’s heart.

  “Closer, white man. So you can watch her fall.”

  On wobbly legs, Declan came closer. His foot twisted on a discarded pick hammer, but he caught himself before he fell and continued on. If he could get inside five feet, he had a shot.

  As long as the gun didn’t jam.

  As long as he was within reach of the rope when the bullet struck.

  As long as the momentum of the dropping bucket didn’t pull him over, too. Realizing how slim the chances were of any of that happening sent Declan’s mind into a helpless spiral. Jesus, help me. Help Brin.

  As he crept forward he kept his gaze pinned on Lone Tree’s hands, terrified the Indian would let go and send Brin plummeting.

  Just a little closer. Ten more feet. Eight.

  Movement behind the post caught his eye, but he steeled himself not to look that way, fearing the moment he did, Lone Tree would let go of the rope. He prayed it was Ed. Prayed she was still alive. Prayed he could reach Brin in time.

  “Closer. To the edge. So you can see when she hits.”

  The bucket slipped lower.

  Seven feet. Six. When five feet separated them, Declan stopped. “Please.” Keeping his movement slow, he lifted a shaking hand to wipe sweat from his face. “Don’t do this, Lone Tree. Don’t bring this shame on yourself.” As he spoke, he eased off his hat and continued to wipe sweat from his brow. “You’re not a coward who kills women and children.” He slid his hand inside the crown.

  “I am an Arapaho warrior,” the Indian snarled.

  In a single motion, Declan dropped the hat and lifted the pistol to point at the Indian’s head. “Not anymore.”

  For a heartbeat the two men stared into each other’s eyes. Gone was Declan’s fear, overshadowed by an unshakable resolve that steadied his hand and calmed his thundering heart. “Tie off the rope, Lone Tree, and you can walk away from this alive.”

  The Arapaho looked at him, his dark eyes reflecting the last pink glow of the evening sky, his mouth twisted with hate.

  “Do it now, Lone Tree. Or I pull the trigger.”

  Something shifted behind the Indian’s eyes. He showed broken teeth in a mocking smile. “Then pull the trigger,” he said and let go of the rope.

  The bucket dropped.

  Brin screamed.

  With a roar, Declan flung the gun aside and lunged, grabbing for the rope as it snaked past the edge of the platform. He hit the deck belly first, almost knocking the air from his lungs. Feet spread, he hung over the edge, grabbing frantically at the rope.

  It slipped through his fingers. No! The pulley whined, caught, then screeched as the rope whipped through.

  Above him, Lone Tree laughed.

  A cry tore through Declan’s throat. Then his fingers felt rough hemp, and suddenly the rope was in his hands. But the bucket continued to fall, the rope searing away skin on his palms, his fingers. Blood slicked the twisted hemp. He gripped harder, air rasping through his teeth.

  Jesus Jesus Jesus.

  The bucket bounced at the end of the rope, sending a jolt of pain up his arms, almost pulling his shoulders out of their sockets. Then it stopped, twirling slowly ten feet from the ground.

  “Brin,” he cried, just as a moccasined foot slammed into his side. He grunted as another kick drove the air from his lungs. He felt himself roll toward the edge. More kicks. Something popped in his shoulder as he struggled to hold on to the rope.

  Then a high-pitched scream like nothing he had ever heard—a clanging thud—and suddenly a heavy body stumbled over him and crashed to the deck on his other side.

  Lone Tree.

  The Indian grappled for a hold as his body started over the edge. Grimy fingers tore at Declan’s shirt. Fabric ripped away. Nails clawed into the flesh of his arm. Declan tried to pull back, afraid for one horrifying moment that he would go over, too. Then with a guttural cry, the Arapaho slipped over the edge.

  Declan watched him fall, narrowly missing Brin’s bucket and almost crashing into Buck, who stood watching from seventy feet below. A sickening thud as his body struck the earth and then lay still.

  Gasping, his arms in agony, his mind in shambles, Declan tilted his head up to see Ed standing beside him, a shovel clutched in her hands like a club, her hair flying all around her ashen face.

  “Got him.” She started to sway.

  “Don’t faint!” Declan ordered. “Don’t you dare faint now, Ed!”

  “Okay,” she said and dropped like a stone.

  “Ease her down,” a voice called.

  Declan looked over the edge to where R.D. and Buck waited with arms raised toward the bucket. Apparently sent by Lucinda and Doc, other men from town had arrived and were running to help.

  “Go slow. We got her.”

  His arms and hands burning with the effort, Declan slowly played out the rope, then groaned at the sudden release of pressure when they took on the weight of the bucket. Once he saw Brin was safe and they were clear of the falling rope, Declan forced his sticky fingers to let go. Shuddering with pain and terror, he cradled his wrenched arms and bloody hands to his chest and rolled away from the edge. He looked over at Ed.

  She was sitting up, her hands clutched to her head.

  Something twisted in Declan’s chest. Tears of relief and gratitude clouded his eyes. “You okay?” he asked hoarsely.

  Ed let her hands fall. “I c-couldn’t watch. Is B-Brin?”

  “She’s safe. Lone Tree’s dead.”

  She blinked at him, then her face seemed to crumple. She crawled toward him, sobbing. “Oh, Declan, you did it.”

  “We did it.�
�� He gave a shaky laugh as she cradled his head and pressed wet, salty kisses to his sweating face. “But I think my arms are broken.”

  It took five stout men and a makeshift sling to get Declan back to the ground. His arms weren’t broken, but he did have a dislocated shoulder and little skin left on his palms. Luckily Doc was at the hotel when they arrived, and with Buck and R.D. helping, and Ed’s tears egging them on, they were able to doctor his lacerated hands and pop his shoulder back into the socket before Declan vomited from the pain. He would have to wear a sling for a while and bandages on his hands, but other than bruising from the kicking, he was fine.

  As was Ed. Her knife cuts didn’t require stitching, and the two lumps on her head weren’t threatening, although she would have headaches for a while.

  Brin was shaken, but aside from a few scrapes and bruises, she was unharmed. Physically. Doc said that only time would tell how her mind dealt with the experience. For now she was content to be cuddled in Ed’s arms and suffer the attentions of her brothers and Lucinda and Maddie.

  Sally was still alive, but fading fast. Apparently the beating had further damaged her weakened lungs, and she had been coughing up blood steadily.

  “She’s asking for you.” Doc glanced from Declan to Ed. “Both of you.” Dropping his voice, he added, “She’s said her good-byes to the boys. Since Brin doesn’t even remember her, I think it best if we don’t put her through that. But it’s up to you.”

  He and Ed decided to spare Brin another difficult confrontation with her mother. Declan didn’t want one, either. But knowing it was necessary if they were ever to put this horror behind them, he and Ed reluctantly went up to her room.

  Sally looked even worse than the last time Edwina had seen her. The damage from Lone Tree’s beating showed in livid bruises and swollen, seeping cuts. Seeing the two bright spots of color on her sunken cheeks and the glittery brightness in her eyes, Edwina guessed her fever had worsened. Her breathing was so labored it sounded like a farrier’s rasp scraping across a horse’s hoof. The corners of her mouth were crusted with blood.