Wildflower

by Raine Cantrell

  Jenny! His eyes flew open, then slowly closed. She was here beside him. He tried to wake her. She resisted all his efforts. He cursed Ben for giving her whiskey.

  “You bastard, Ben,” he called out hoarsely. If the old trapper hadn’t tied him with that length of taut rawhide between wrists and ankles, he would have a chance to work himself free. But Ben was an old mountain man and now Char­mas lay trussed like a goose, his head ready to explode and his temper working on an even shorter fuse. He took a deep breath, wondering how long it had been. It was still dark, but looking up, he realized the subtle change in the shade of it that said light was soon to come. Ben would already be down there. Christ! Didn’t the damn fool know what he was walking into!

  Sweat trickled down his body under his wool shirt. The wicked bite of the rawhide ties cut his flesh. Closing his mind to the pain, he began to move himself nearer to the fire. He gave up trying to rouse Jenny. He dragged himself near the fire where he could bum the rawhide and free himself. But every move he made to flex his stiff, swollen fingers made him grit his teeth. He didn’t know why he wouldn’t give way and cry out. There was no one to hear. But he didn’t make a sound. Bitter and filled with the desire to be free, to fight, to escape, and then to live, his body was beginning to resist his mind. His mind won; he made no sound. He would not groan and he would not curse. He wouldn’t waste his energy on such futile pursuits. Although every move brought torment, he resolved to ignore it. Wary eyes judged the distance he still had to go. It wasn’t far. He could feel the heat of the fire now.

  A few inches brought his boots to the edge of the fire. He gathered his strength and with a deep breath thrust his boots into the flame. With a rolling move that sent tentacles of pain shooting through him, he managed to knock a piece of wood free. He had to still turn himself and lay his hands over that burning brand. He swallowed and forced himself to move again. Char­mas lost himself in the agony and heat and movement until they were all he felt and the world receded to no time, no place. His eyes focused on the smoldering wood next to him. One more roll of his body would put him directly on top of it.

  There was no way to avoid burning his hands to do it. He thought about that briefly. He rolled over with one heave. His eyes squeezed shut against the searing of his skin. He took his mind and body away from the pain. He shut his sense of smell away from burning his own flesh and thought of Jenny. Jenny and wildflowers. And he lost himself in remembering for those few needed minutes: the cabin washed in sunlight; the sweet, pungent smell of pine and wood smoke; the creek with its clear, cold water that would always quench a man’s thirst; Jenny, soft, womanlike, moving around the cabin; Robby’s voice, childlike, his smile, his trust. A yearning he had no name for rose inside him and the agony was forgotten.

  With a yank and a groan, he rolled himself free and lay there, not daring to move. Tears pooled at the edge of his lashes. But he was free. It took several minutes before he could force himself to raise his hands.

  Blistered skin and blood met his eyes, but his charred flesh was not as deeply burned as he had first thought. They were hard hands, callused with work and too much handling of guns. Now they were burned, but he could still use them. He wouldn’t quit until he kept his sworn promise to Michael and Jenny. He closed his eyes and lunged upward until he was sitting. Using his sleeve, he wiped the sweat from his eyes and looked around to see what Ben had left him. Ignoring the pain, he used his elbows to drag himself to Ben’s packs. There was no way he could search them without using his hands, and he steeled himself to make them do his bidding.

  The knife he finally uncovered was one he’d never seen Ben use. The handle was cool against his skin as he concentrated on cutting the raw­hide that bound his ankles. Using Ben’s canteen, he poured water over his hands. He shoved aside the thought of his not being able to hold a gun. Gritting his teeth, he searched further. Ben didn’t carry much in the way of supplies, but he found a slab of bacon and carefully cut a small chunk. Using the grease, he coated his palms, fingers, and wrists, until he felt some relief. He moved quickly. Time was passing. The sky above paled, its darkness slipping into the soft shades of morning. At least Ben had left him his gun. The buckle proved stubborn for his slippery, painful fingers, but he managed to get his gunbelt on. With a last look around, he headed for the woods.

  Gage came awake in an instant. One moment he had been sleeping and the next he was fully awake. He lay there listening to the sleep-laden snores of two men and frowned. Someone had left the cabin before he woke. It wasn’t Grogan. He’d been soused and asleep long before he and Jonas and Prado had quit. He brought his hands up to cradle his head. For all that he had kept pace with their drinking last night, he felt little of its effects this morning. He had Charmas to thank. Charmas. Thinking of him brought back a rush of memories he’d thought buried.

  He was six when Charmas came with his father to work the small ranch where they lived. His father had died that year and his mother was too young to handle the work alone. He could see Charmas that day, towering over him, offering a quick warm grin when he stuck out his hand. Charmas. He had followed him everywhere. Charmas knew how to hunt and taught him. He knew the land, the ways of the animals, the trails of wild things. Charmas was sixteen, and there wasn’t anything Gage wouldn’t have done for him. He’d loved Charmas. Loved him and worshipped him and wanted to kill him when he had come to say he was going away. No reason had he given then, not to him nor to his own father. But Gage was aware that his mother knew. He remembered the small secret smile she wore that day. He hated Charmas for making her smile like that. And he hated Charmas for leaving. But soon he would have his revenge.

  Ben nodded slowly as Jonas finished talking. Charmas had good reason to kill them all, he decided. But he’d not get a chance with this one. This one was his. Like a flash flood, too many pictures came to his mind. Jenny smiling at him with braids hanging to her tiny waist, her small hand holding his own. Blue eyes wide and suddenly shy with him when Andy teased her she was becoming as pretty as her ma. Jenny turning to him with tears, telling him Andy was dead. And all the following years came to mind.

  “This here cabin,” he began softly, “was the one that seen Jenny’s birth and her ma’s dying. Andy, too. Robby was born here, Jonas. And for the last nine years I watched you kill Jenny a little bit more each time you come near her. You’re gonna die here, too, Jonas.”

  Desperation finally lit his eyes. All this time he hadn’t believed Ben would really kill him. And the words tumbled out under the heat of that desperation. “I was drunk, Ben. I didn’t know what the hell was going on! She took Robby away! She’d been with Charmas again.” He lunged for Ben’s rifle.

  The shot exploded in the cabin.

  Gage came off his bunk like a shot himself. Reaching out automatically, he grabbed his gun even while he was running to the door. He knew the waiting was over. Charmas had come for him. Crouching low, he eased the door open. Morning’s hushed stillness greeted him. And … nothing else. Not another sound came to him as he waited.

  “Prado!” he whispered over his shoulder. “Damn you! Wake up, Prado.” He heard restless stirrings and urged him again. Charmas had picked the perfect time to come. Here they were, the three of them, cornered in the cabin. Groans reached him and he turned his head.

  “You Mex bastard, wake up! Didn’t you hear that shot?”

  Holding his head, Prado mumbled in reply and sat up, slowly raising his head. The sight of Gage half-crouched behind the slightly opened door, gun in hand, sobered him quickly.

  And Gage nodded grimly. “He’s here and I figure that Jonas bought it since he ain’t with us.”

  “How long you figure we got?”

  Gage frowned. He needed to think like Char­mas now. Yet he was aware how much time had passed and that Charmas could have changed. Then he smiled. No, Charmas would not change his ways. He was no back shooter. He would come for them openly.

  “What the hell has
you grinning like that, Gage? I ain’t seen much to be funny ‘bout this.”

  “If you knew Charmas, Prado, you would.”

  Charmas heard the shot, too. It was a faint explosion of sound that reached him up on the ridge above the cabins. He was hidden against the huge trunk of pine, holding his breath and waiting for another shot. It didn’t come and slowly he released his breath. Shaking his head, thinking of what a single shot meant, he cursed Ben again. Why the hell had he gone down there alone? The old fool! It didn’t matter who had killed him. He would add his death to the score he had to settle with all of them now.

  His eyes scanned the cabins below, noted the smoke curling from Jenny’s, and his lips tightened. Which one was there? Which one would he kill first?

  A shot rang out. Charmas gingerly pulled the cloth free from his side. It was only a graze. It burned, but there was little he could do for it. Keeping to a crouch, he set off at a dodging run deeper into the woods behind him. He heard no sound of pursuit and that nagged him. He’d meant to take the fight to them, not find himself hunted. The pine forest seemed to close in tight. Thick, low-hanging branches barred his way time and again. Behind him was silence. He scrambled up a slope of rock, shoving aside low-growing brush, and rested a moment to get his bearings. The four of them could be anywhere by now. Three to his one were fair enough odds for him. But the fourth evened the other side. But then, they didn’t have his rage over Jenny and his promise of revenge to feed them either, and that made all the difference he needed.

  He decided to circle back toward the cabins. If they were scattered in the woods looking for him, it wasn’t a move they would expect him to make. He wondered as he started off at a run if Gage would think of all the times they had hunted together. His smile disappeared with the thought that now they hunted each other.

  Gage stood on the bank of the creek. His shot had been lucky. He didn’t think he’d seriously wounded Charmas, but he had caught him by surprise. And Charmas wouldn’t have thought he’d come looking for him. But then, like Char­mas, time had taught him new things about hunting any prey, especially men. He had only to wait down here. Prado was circling the cabins to come out behind Jenny’s. Grogan was cutting through the woods and would cut Charmas off no matter what direction he decided to go. The smile that so chilled Jenny creased his lips. Char­mas would easily take Prado; he was still drunk. Grogan was no match for him either. So he had nothing to do but wait for Charmas to be weakened by one or both of them—then make his move.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Three shots tore through the air. The sounds were dear and too damn close to Charmas’s way of thinking. He was standing flattened against the outside wall of Jenny’s cabin when he heard them. His head snapped to the right. Once again he heard the silence, a heavy tension in the very air he was breathing. The sounds came from the woods almost in front of him. The shots had been aimed in his direction but had hit nothing near him. He tried to figure out what that meant. Had one of them shot blindly at shadows?

  It didn’t seem likely. Grogan was a careful man. Not fast, but careful. Still, Gage never gave way to the wildness that was so much a part of him and Prado never used a gun. It had to be Grogan. There was the possibility it was Jonas, but from what Charmas had gathered, he didn’t think of him using a rifle or being jumpy. He inched his way alongside the wall until he could peer around the cabin to see the path below. It was clear. Smoke was curling from the chimney and he wondered if anyone was inside. The shutters were tightly closed and he could see nothing. He wouldn’t get a better view unless he went in the door.

  He moved slowly, his gun held slightly ahead of his body. The cramp in his hand from gripping the handle so tightly brought pain again. He closed his mind to it. The cloying scent of death hung in the air now. Edging around the comer of the log wall, he lowered his body to fit between the poles of the railing of Jenny’s porch.

  Prado’s low chuckling laugh was all the warning he had as the man’s knife ripped the cloth of Charmas’s arm. The gun fell and Charmas spun around, backing away from the cabin.

  “You have a knife, Charmas. Use it.” Prado closed the distance between them. With his hand he motioned toward the path. “I could kill you quickly, amigo,” he offered with mockery and laughter in his voice.

  Charmas didn’t answer. A quick glance showed his arm to be little more than deeply scratched. Already the cloth had stuck and stopped the slow bleeding. Another pain to ignore.

  “Your knife, amigo,” Prado urged. “A little test of skill, si.”

  Wiping his hand on his pant leg, Charmas made sure it was dry of grease before he reached for the knife stuck in his belt. Prado’s quick swipe with his knife made Charmas suck in his belly to avoid being cut.

  “Good, amigo. We have much to settle between us.”

  ‘Too much, Prado,” Charmas answered, crouching and spinning again to avoid the knife. Prado’s laugh grated against his ears. The path was strewn with small rocks that could so easily get under a man’s boots and trip him. Charmas was aware of them as he backed away. Where the hell was Gage? But Prado made another dive at him, and his thoughts faded into those of surviving.

  “You don’t like the knife for killing, Char­mas?”

  He might not like it, but he damn well knew how to use it. His driving slash not once, but twice, made blood well from the cuts he’d managed to inflict on both Prado’s legs. “You’re getting careless, Prado,” he taunted. “A man needs to get close to mark you like that. Killing close, Prado.”

  Charmas circled him, knowing the danger of the man. Prado lunged suddenly. Charmas felt the sharp point of the knife rip his shirt again, and he stomped hard with his boot against Prado’s ankle, knocking Prado back.

  They circled again, listening to each other’s harsh breathing. Prado came in low, the blade flickering back and forth. Charmas slipped and Prado lunged at him, stabbing his knife into his shoulder. Charmas’s mind screamed in agony, but before Prado could withdraw the knife, Charmas pressed forward against the haft, holding it to the wound to prevent its withdrawal.

  He raised his right elbow until it pressed against Prado’s throat, forcing his head slowly back. Prado’s right hand tightened on his wrist, the hold breaking open already raw flesh. Char­mas sensed his weakening grip on the knife pressed into his shoulder and shoved against Prado until they went to the ground. The weight of Charmas’s body stunned the breath from the small man for a moment. And a moment was all a man needed to kill.

  Charmas yanked his left hand free and his blade rested against Prado’s straining throat. For a moment Charmas was blinded by the sweat pouring down his face. Prado’s visage seemed to swim before his eyes, streaked-blond hair fading into the silvered loveliness framing the delicate features of Mave. It was the space of a heartbeat, a second, before his knife plunged down.

  Charmas rolled over, sprawling in the path with the sharp bits of rocks digging into his back. His eyes slowly opened to stare blankly at the sky above, while his breath seemed trapped inside his chest. He forced his hand up and clutched the handle of Prado’s knife still embedded in his shoulder. He thought of laying as he was, feeling the blood seep from his body, and let it happen. He was sick with the killing and dying and the need to go on. Gathering last reserves of strength, he placed both blistered hands on the slippery haft and with the deepest held breath, pulled it free.

  He shoved himself to his feet in a stagger. It slowed his walk to the porch steps of Jenny’s cabin. A wave of weakness overtook him and his vision blurred.

  A rifle jammed the middle of his back, and he couldn’t stifle the groan that tore free. Not now! he wanted to scream.

  “Charmas?” Ben asked behind him, realizing who he was covering with his gun. He dropped it as the man turned and sagged weakly against him. “Damn! You’re hurt bad.”

  Charmas tried to mouth how hurt he was, how much pain there was, and how he needed to go on. He tried to stand and fou
nd Ben’s strength holding him up as he eased him into the cabin and over to Robby’s bed. Fingers moving quickly to probe the younger man’s wound, Ben didn’t talk. Tearing a sheet with his hands, he made a pad and forced Charmas to lie back, holding it tight to his shoulder. Using his teeth, he tore smaller strips to tie it into place.

  Then the scream came.

  “Jenny,” Charmas muttered thickly, shoving against Ben’s hovering hand.

  “I killed two,” Ben said. “Jonas and a bull­necked man.”

  “Grogan. Gage has her.” He made a move to stand and Ben grabbed his good shoulder.

  “I’ll go. You can’t fight him now.”

  Shaking his head before he spoke, Charmas said, “Gage won’t show himself if you go. But how the hell did he get Jenny?”

  Charmas lunged for the doorway, but Ben got there first.

  “I was afraid she’d come down here afore I was done.”

  “You see them?”

  “No. But I smell him near.”

  “Gage?” Charmas called out over Ben’s shoulder. “Gage, come out where I can see you.”

  Ben turned at the sound of Charmas’s voice. He’d never heard that hardness. His eyes had never seen Charmas looking so utterly savage, his eyes narrowed, gleaming with the glitter of a hunter anticipating his prey.

  “Get out of my way, Ben.” Even his voice was flat and low, promising more violence.

  And Ben, ignoring an inner voice that told him not to, moved aside. Charmas walked out to the edge of the porch and picked up his gun. He forced back the dizziness that made his body sway, willing his mind to bring it under control. He needed strength to face Gage. And he thought of Jenny. He saw her again as she was last night. A rage of raw lightning scored his nerves.