by Carla Kelly
“The lady means it, boss,” Slim said, standing ready to enforce her edict.
Amos grumbled and cursed, but he took the draught, almost gagging at first, then finishing with a shudder. “Poisoned, huh? Who would poison me?” He thought about it for a while, then started to get out of bed, his face dark with anger. “Damn his hide! I knew that weasel was up to no good.”
“See? You’re better already, sir,” Clarissa pointed out, keeping him from rising. “Not from the remedy, but because you haven’t been taking the poison.”
“I don’t need your concoction.”
“Yes, you do. The poison is still in your system, and must be flushed out. We suspect it was in your whiskey.”
“He poisoned my drink?”
Amos tried to hoist himself up, but Slim gently pushed him back. “I’ll see to him.”
“Go to it, son.”
Slim jogged toward the barn until he spotted Curly riding in at a gallop. He waited for him, itching to get his hands around Rance Hunter’s throat.
“They’re gone,” Curly huffed. “The whole herd.”
“What?”
“Baldy figures Hunter and Bray took them sometime last night.”
“Grab a shotgun,” Slim yelled at Curly, who cooled his mount in the yard. “Get all the shells you can find.” Slim saddled a horse in record time and added weapons to his gear.
Curly did as he was told while Slim went to the kitchen for any leftover food Mrs. Marks could put together. He came back with several parcels, which he put in his saddlebags.
As Curly mounted, he said, “The whole outfit wants to go after them.”
“No. Just you and me.” Slim swung into his saddle. “We’ll travel faster and make less noise. You lead out.”
Curly shrugged and clicked his tongue to start his horse.
“‘By the shores of Gitche Gumee,’” began little Lovinia. “‘By the shining Big-Sea-Water,’” she lisped. Lovinia was the last pupil on the program. Parents shifted on the hard benches.
Faith’s stomach hurt. It had ever since Mrs. Perkins scurried up to her before the program started and whispered in her ear that Rance Hunter had stolen Amos Ramsey’s herd, and that Slim McHenry had taken out after him.
She inhaled and held her breath. It can’t be true. Mrs. Perkins must stop listening to rumors. She exhaled.
“‘Many things Nokomis taught him,’” Lovinia declaimed, curling her hand into her pinafore pocket.
No, Faith thought. Keep your hands folded together.
Lovinia took a deep breath, smoothed her pinafore, then folded her hands in front. “‘Of the stars that shine in heaven,’” she continued.
Faith frowned at two boys whispering together at the back of the room. A cold chill enveloped her. It could be true. Slim would chase Hunter down despite the risk.
“‘Saw the moon rise from the water,’” chanted Lovinia, then hesitated. Her mother made an encouraging sound from her seat on the front row. The girl continued. “‘Rippling, rounding from the water.’”
She’s nearly finished, Faith thought, her mind wandering despite her best effort to concentrate on Lovinia. Oh Slim, be careful. Rance is like that rattlesnake, beautiful, but dangerous. Oh, take care.
Faith blinked as the girl at the front of the room curtseyed and smiled, and seemed relieved that her long ordeal was over. The parents and pupils clapped politely, then harder as Faith stood and went to the front of the schoolroom.
“Well done, Miss Bannister,” Mr. Evans called.
“Yes, fine work,” Mr. Perkins agreed.
“Thank you.” At the praise, Faith felt a blush on her cheeks. “On behalf of the pupils of Bitter Springs School, thank you for coming. I’m pleased to show how diligently they have studied and how much they have learned the last few weeks. Refreshments will be served in the schoolyard.”
The parents filed outside, where the mothers took charge of serving the food.
Faith sank onto her desk chair and chewed at a snagged nail. Don’t die, Slim. I’ll never forgive you if you die.
“Psst.” Slim motioned to Curly from behind the volcanic outcrop. The trail of the herd had skirted the Mormon communities and led through Indian land, but now the terrain had become so rough that he didn’t know how Hunter and Bray could possibly push the cows through. The time had come to put a stop to the rustlers before they lost more of Amos’s cattle.
“We’ll pinch them off here,” Slim whispered. “They can’t get around that chute without slowing considerable.”
“What’s your plan?”
“I’ll be over behind that black knob and call on them to stop. You cover me.”
“Slim—”
“It’s got to work. Two beeves went down this morning.”
“Shall I use the shotgun?”
“If you have to. It’ll make a mess. Don’t put me in your field of fire.”
Curly scoffed. “Don’t plan to. I don’t want your job.”
Slim made his way down the back side of the outcrop, then crawled up the malapai knob until he had a view of the oncoming herd.
Bray led the way, his rope tied to a ring in the nose of the old steer. The cattle followed, lowing their displeasure at the hurried pace. Slim let himself slip down the knob and stepped out into the trail.
“Stop there, Bray,” Slim called, amazed that his voice didn’t shake, because his knees sure did.
“What the—” The man went for his pistol and drew faster than Slim would have thought possible.
Slim threw himself to the side. He winced at pain as he hit the ground, but his own pistol was ready in his hand, and he fired back in the man’s direction.
Bray was off his horse, pulling it down for cover. Slim tried to push himself behind the knob, but his leg didn’t want to work. He glanced down, then back at Bray. “Curly!”
In answer, Curly fired a slug toward Bray, but it went over his head.
Good— not the shotgun. Keep him pinned down, Curly. Slim pulled himself behind the knob by hooking his arm around a tree trunk, but he couldn’t locate Hunter.
I should have done that first, he chided himself. I’m not good at this manhunt playacting.
With several shots aimed at Slim, Hunter revealed his position, but Curly had the shotgun up and swinging. He let it off, and Hunter screamed.
“Give it up, Bray,” Slim called.
“Hunter?” Bray shouted.
Hunter didn’t answer.
“Damn,” Bray said. “There goes my pay.” He threw his pistol over the horse’s neck and got to his feet, hands in the air.
Slim looked at his leg. I need to get that bullet fetched out. The light faded.
Next thing he knew, Curly shook his shoulder, not gentle at all. “Slim!”
He looked up. Curly’s head blocked the sun, haloed above them. “What?”
“I stopped the bleeding, but couldn’t get to the bullet. Come on. Stand up. We’ll go to Show Low. They have a doc.”
He did as he was told, glad to pass the reins of this cayuse over to Curly. Bray sat against a pine, trussed up like a Christmas goose. “He looks secure. Where’s Hunter?”
Curly tilted his head to indicate a sack tied across a horse. Slim squinted. Not a sack. Hunter.
“He dead?”
Curly snarled, “Yeah. I’ve got to tote his dad-blamed carcass back to the ranch.”
Slim considered Curly’s words. Yep. They would need to haul him back; this rocky malapai didn’t make a good burial ground. “How we gonna do this?”
Curly looked off into the trees.
“Well?”
“I told the outfit to follow us.”
“You what?”
“You heard me. I said to hold back some.” He waved his arm. “Come out, boys. He’ll get over being mad soon as we get him to the doc.”
Charley had brought Faith a telegram after school. When he’d departed, she’d read it once, then clutched it to her breast. Now her badly shaking hands almost prevented her
from reading it again. Almost.
MISS FAITH BANNISTER STOP AM CRIPPLED UP FOR A WHILE STOP HOPE YOU WILL VISIT WHEN I RETURN ON TUESDAY NEXT STOP JEFFERSON DAVIS MCHENRY END
He’d spent money to send her a telegram. He hadn’t mentioned the extent of his injuries, but he had thought of her in his extremity. She crushed the telegram, hearing the paper crackle. Thank God he’s alive.
On Monday afternoon, Faith announced a school recess for the next day.
“What’s the holiday, miss?” Joey asked.
“I must visit a sick friend.”
Joey raised his eyebrows at Curtis. “I told you,” he said. “Ma was right.”
Faith stifled a groan. That woman! She had a good heart, though. “Class dismissed.”
She waited a moment to pick up her valise before following the pupils out the door. A horse awaited her at the livery. Tomorrow, Slim would return, and she would be at the ranch to greet him. She didn’t know what would happen after that.
By the time Curly drove a wagon into the ranch yard the next day, Faith had chewed all of her nails to the quick. She was sure Clarissa could hear her heart thumping as they watched the vehicle approach. How badly was Slim wounded? No one could tell her. Clarissa patted her shoulder. The wagon turned. Slim sat in the back, supported by several blankets. A pretty young woman sat beside him.
Faith gasped, but before she could turn away in dismay, Slim’s voice croaked, “Miss Faith,” and she had to meet his gaze.
He beckoned to her. Clarissa gave her a push. Faith’s legs dragged like wooden fence posts toward the wagon. She stopped and clutched the wagon’s sideboard.
Slim gazed up at her and pried one of her hands loose to hold it. He laid his other hand over his heart, like one of her pupils about to recite a poem about everlasting love. His fingers pressed hers insistently. She held her breath. Had her heart stopped? She couldn’t hear it in the stillness.
“Miss Faith,” Slim said, a little tremor in his voice. “Meet my cousin Betsy from Show Low. She’s come along to nurse me back to health.” He looked at the cousin and said, “Hoist me up more, Bets,” then returned his attention to Faith. “When I’m healed, I’d be honored if you’d allow me to call.”
“I’d like that,” she whispered as her heart began to thump again, wildly, joyfully.
The next thing she knew, Slim’s lips pressed against her cheek, and gladness suffused her entire soul.
“It’ll be soon,” Slim said. “That’s a promise.”
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Photo Credit: Heather Zahn Gardner
Marsha Ward was born in the sleepy little town of Phoenix, Arizona, in the southwestern United States, and grew up with chickens, citrus trees, and lots of room to roam. Her love of the 19th Century Western era was reinforced by visits to her cousins on their ranch and listening to her father’s stories of homesteading in Old Mexico and in the southern part of Arizona.
Marsha is an award-winning poet, writer, and editor, with over 900 pieces of published work, including her acclaimed novel series featuring the Owen family. Her fourth novel, Spinster’s Folly, was a 2012 Whitney Award Finalist in Historical Fiction and won the 2013 USA Best Books Award for Western Fiction.
Marsha is the founder of American Night Writers Association (ANWA), and a member of Western Writers of America and Women Writing the West. A workshop presenter and writing teacher, Marsha makes her home in a tiny forest hamlet in Arizona.
Website: http://marshaward.com
Blog: http://marshaward.blogspot.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/authormarshaward
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