“I’m sorry, Matthew,” Claire had said in her soft Southern drawl, “but I’ve decided to marry Ross.”
Well, who could blame her? Ross Kilkenny was a rich young man, well-mannered, well-bred, handsome as the very devil.
Matt hadn’t argued with Claire’s decision. He wasn’t one to beg, or one to hang around where he wasn’t wanted. He had no one in Texas, no reason to stay. He quit his job as head wrangler at the Dawson ranch the next day, packed his few belongings, hopped on his horse, and rode away without looking back. He had a good horse, money in his jeans, and that was all he needed, all he’d ever needed. He had headed West, drinking and gambling his way from one cow town to another, cursing all women in general and one raven-haired beauty in particular.
He had been drowning his sorrows in an Arizona town no bigger than a postage stamp when he drank his way through one bottle too many and passed out cold. When he woke up, he was in jail, accused of murder…
Matt Drago shook his head ruefully. He’d always had a quick temper and he was a fast hand with a gun, but he’d never gunned a man down in cold blood, not even during the war.
He lifted his head and stared out the back of the wagon. The dust cloud was still there, and now he could make out an indistinct shape on a dark horse.
Matt scowled bleakly as his thoughts drifted back in time once more. As luck would have it, the man he’d been accused of killing had been the only son of the local sheriff. In court, three men had taken the stand and testified, under oath, that Matt Drago had rousted young Billy Henderson, harassing the boy, calling him names. And when Billy wouldn’t agree to a shootout, the man known as Drago had shot him down in cold blood and then passed out.
Matt had expected to be hanged, but Sheriff Henderson had taken the judge aside and asked that Drago be sentenced to life in prison instead. A hanging would be over too quickly, the sheriff had said, and he wanted the man who had killed his son to suffer for a long time.
Matt let out a long, discouraged sigh. How could he have killed a man—a boy, really—and not remember it? He couldn’t have been that drunk. Damn!
He glanced at the four men who shared the prison wagon with him. The prisoner on his left was just a kid, no more than seventeen or eighteen. He had been convicted of robbing the bank in Salt Creek. The two men sitting across from Matt were brothers. They were the last surviving members of the Belmont gang, a notorious bunch of men who had terrorized trains and stagecoaches across the Southwest. The last train they had robbed had been filled with heavily armed lawmen instead of frightened passengers.
Matt slid a look at the man sitting on his right. He seemed old to be an outlaw. He never spoke, just sat there, his head cradled in his hands, a morose expression on his weathered face. The guards called him Gramps and kidded him about being the oldest first-time con they’d ever met.
Matt shook his head wearily. They’d been on the trail for six days now and every day seemed longer than the last. The wagon bounced and jolted over the rough terrain, raising clouds of dry yellow dust that irritated his eyes and clogged his throat. The shackles on his hands and feet clanked with each movement, the sound mocking him like evil laughter. His temper was frayed to the breaking point, and when one of the Belmont brothers accidentally bumped into him, he lashed out, his knotted fist driving into the man’s face. Only the intervention of the prisoner called Gramps kept Matt from beating George Belmont to a pulp. Thereafter, the other men kept away from Matt as best they could in the confined space.
He felt as if he were going mad. It was galling, being in chains, having the guards treat him like dirt. And things would only get worse. In another four days, the doors of the Yuma pen would slam shut behind him. He had never liked small, enclosed places. How could he spend the rest of his life in a cramped, iron-barred cell? Damn. He’d grow old and die there, his only hope the slim possibility of parole. And that was a slim hope indeed. Rehabilitation was not one of Yuma’s objectives. Their main concern was preventing escapes and riots. The guards were brutal and corrupt. There had been so many escape attempts in the last few years that Gatling guns had been installed to discourage prisoners from trying to go over the wall. Yuma was the most feared and hated prison in the Territory. A lot of men had died behind the grim gray walls, unable to survive the cold winters and sweltering summers, the hard work, the whippings, the unpalatable food, the scummy water. At dusk the wagon came to a halt alongside a high yellow bluff. Matt stood up, eager to get out of the cart and stretch his muscles, which were cramped after so many hours of sitting on the hard wooden bench. He swore under his breath as the guards took their own sweet time about unlocking the door. Climbing out of the wagon, Matt jostled the arm of one of the guards, causing the man to spill the drink in his hand.
“You clumsy ass!” the guard snarled, driving his fist into Matt’s midsection. “Why the hell don’tcha watch where you’re goin’?”
Matt choked back the angry words that sprang to his lips, knowing anything he said would only bring more of the same.
A few minutes later one of the deputies herded the prisoners a short distance away from the cart so they could relieve themselves. Matt scowled, irritated by the lack of privacy, and by the way the lawman kept his rifle aimed steadily in his direction.
Thirty minutes later the prisoners sat down to a lukewarm meal of red beans, greasy bacon, and cold biscuits. When dinner was over, they were shackled to the wagon’s wheels for the night.
Matt lay on his back, his head pillowed on his free arm as he gazed up at the stars that twinkled overhead like a million tiny lights in a dark house. Four more days until they reached Yuma, he mused bleakly, and shuddered with dread as he imagined himself caged behind cold iron bars for the rest of his life, never again to ride across the prairie with the wind in his face. Never to savor the taste of good whiskey, or the delights of a bad woman. With an effort, he shook the dismal thought from his mind and stared out into the empty darkness, wondering where the mysterious rider had bedded down for the night.
Lacey woke early the following morning. She had slept badly, afraid she would awake to find the wagon gone again. They were riding in canyon country now, and she had to stay closer to the prison cart for fear of losing sight of it.
Rising, she pulled on her boots and began saddling Cinder. The horse was beginning to show signs of the long ride, too, Lacey thought as she affectionately stroked the mare’s sleek black neck. Cinder was used to short, quiet rides, not long, arduous treks across wild, unbroken country.
Lacey was about to swing into the saddle when a ferocious cry rent the still morning air. Turning, she felt her blood run cold as she saw a dozen painted Indians swarm around the prison wagon.
The prisoners had been released from the wagon to stretch their legs and relieve themselves. Now they scrambled for cover under the cart while the guards and deputies fired at the shrieking Indians. Their cries were more animal than human, Lacey thought in dismay, and covered her ears with her hands as shivers of fear raced down her spine.
She held her breath as the battle raged some forty yards away, gasped as one of the guards slumped to the ground, an arrow quivering in the center of his back. Too frightened to move, Lacey huddled behind the mound of boulders that screened her from sight, one hand covering Cinder’s nose to keep the horse quiet.
Time seemed to stand still as Lacey watched the awful scene of life and death being enacted before her eyes. Two of the Indians had been wounded, a third lay unmoving on the ground. The three remaining guards put up a good fight, but they were outnumbered and, one by one, they were cut down, until only the prisoners remained alive, still huddling under the wagon for protection.
Abruptly, one of the convicts rolled out from under the prison cart, scooped up a rifle lying on the ground, and began firing at the Indians. It was a brave but foolhardy move. Two of the warriors swung around, returning his fire, and the prisoner was knocked to the ground as their bullets slammed into him.
As the
wounded convict struck the ground, three of the other prisoners panicked. Scrambling from beneath the cover of the wagon, they ran blindly across the desert, their steps hindered by the chains hobbling their feet. With wild shrieks of delight, the Indians gave chase, quickly catching and killing all three men.
Lacey bit down on her lower lip as the Indians rode back to the wagon. Her father was there, and she watched in helpless horror as Royce Montana crawled out of his hiding place and faced the Indians. One of the warriors fitted an arrow to his bowstring and sighted down the feathered shaft. Lacey watched, her eyes filling with tears, as she waited for the warrior to kill her father. Time seemed to slow, and she was aware of every detail. She saw the black paint smeared across the lower half of the warrior’s face, the eagle feathers tied in his long black hair, the mocking grin on his swarthy face as he prepared to draw back the bow string. The arrow was striped in black and red. For death and blood, Lacey thought dully, and turned her eyes to her father once again. His face was drained of color, his hands, bound with chains, were tightly clenched, the knuckles white. But his head was high and his shoulders were back, and she felt a wave of pride sweep over her. She knew he must be terribly afraid, knew his heart must be pounding with fear as he stared death in the face, but it didn’t show. Not one bit.
The other warriors were waiting, their dark eyes glinting with eager anticipation as they waited for their companion to take the old man’s life.
Royce Montana did not flinch, though he was more frightened than he had ever been in his life. Still, if he was going to die, he thought he would rather die here, out in the open under a blazing summer sun, than die a little each day locked up behind the cold iron bars of the Yuma prison. Head high, he returned the warrior’s gaze. And, inexplicably, the warrior lowered his bow. He spoke a few words to the young brave beside him, and the young warrior leaped gracefully from the back of his calico pony and walked toward the white man.
Royce Montana held his ground, the hair prickling on the back of his neck as the Indian came to stand in front of him. With a curt nod, the young brave dropped a rope around Royce Montana’s neck, vaulted onto the back of his pony, and rode away. Royce Montana followed in the wake of the calico pony, his leg irons clanking with each hurried step.
The remaining Indians did not bother with the dead white men. They quickly rounded up the four-horse team that had pulled the wagon, as well as the two saddle horses the deputies had ridden, collected all the guns, rifles, and ammunition, and left the scene of the slaughter with the dead warrior tied facedown across the back of his horse.
Fearful of discovery, Lacey held her breath until the war party was out of sight. Only then did she feel it was safe to breathe again. Absently, she stroked Cinder’s neck. What was she going to do now? Her father was alive, but for how long? Did she dare follow him? How could she not? Perhaps she could find a way to help him escape. The odds were against it, she thought bleakly, but she had to try. She quickly formed and rejected a half-dozen ideas, and then she laughed bitterly. What could she possibly do against a dozen armed warriors? And yet, she had to try to free her father. She couldn’t stay out here alone, and she couldn’t just ride away and leave her father in the hands of those savages, never to know what happened to him.
With her mind made up, Lacey stepped into the saddle and rode toward the wagon. Perhaps she could find some food and water to add to her dwindling supplies.
She swallowed hard as she urged Cinder toward the wagon. She had never been so close to death before, never seen anyone who had died violently, or seen so much blood. Already vultures were gathering in the distance, drawn by the scent of blood and death. Cinder pranced beneath her, nostrils flaring and eyes rolling as they neared the wagon.
How quickly a life could be snuffed out, Lacey thought sadly. One moment these men had been alive, filled with hopes and dreams and fears, and now they were dead.
Lacey shivered, the food she had hoped to find suddenly unimportant in the face of such carnage. Better to go hungry, she thought, than linger here a moment longer.
She was about to leave when a low moan reached her ears. Lacey cocked her head. Was she hearing things? She glanced at the bodies lying on the ground, and quickly looked away. They were all dead, and she felt her heart begin to pound. She didn’t believe in ghosts, but she was suddenly afraid. And then she heard it again, a muffled cry of pain. Dear God, someone was alive. She urged Cinder closer to the wagon, her eyes darting from one body to the next. Was it one of the guards, she thought hopefully. Or one of the prisoners?
Dismounting, she walked cautiously among the bodies, her heart in her throat. What if it was one of the convicts? He might be a murderer, a molester of women and children, anything.
The man was lying on his back. Drawing closer, Lacey recognized him as the man who had charged the Indians. His eyes, dark as a midnight sky, were open and clouded with pain. He gazed up at her, opened his mouth to speak, and fainted dead away.
Lacey stared at him for a long moment. What was she going to do? If she stayed to help him, she would probably lose any chance she had of following her father. On the other hand, she couldn’t just ride off and leave the man to die in the desert alone.
With a resentful sigh, Lacey knelt beside the injured prisoner. Unbuttoning his shirt, she contemplated his wounds. The first, high in his left shoulder, was bleeding profusely. Lifting him was an effort, but she was relieved to see that there was an exit wound in his back. The bullet had passed cleanly through his shoulder. The second wound was in his left arm also, just above the elbow. The bullet was lodged in the meaty part of his arm.
Lowering the man carefully to the ground, Lacey searched through the camp gear until she found a sharp knife, a bottle of rye whiskey, and a clean undershirt that she ripped into long strips for bandages. Then, kneeling beside the unconscious man once more, she soaked a strip of the cloth with whiskey and began to clean his wounds.
The man moaned and began to thrash about as the fiery liquid seared his flesh. One of his elbows caught Lacey full in the stomach, knocking the wind out of her. Mouth set in a determined line, she placed her hands on the man’s shoulders and held him down until he lay quiet once more. Then, teeth clenched, she quickly bound the wound in his shoulder with a strip of whiskey-soaked cloth, wrapping the bandage just tight enough to stop the flow of blood.
For a moment, she sat back on her heels and stared at the wound above his elbow; then, with a grimace, she began to probe for the slug. Thankfully, it was not embedded too deep in his arm and she had it out in a matter of moments. She let the wound bleed for a moment, and then doused the shallow wound with whiskey. Deep lines of pain etched the man’s face as the liquor penetrated his torn flesh.
Lacey let out a sigh of relief as she bound the wound with a strip of cloth. Thank God, that was done. Now there was nothing to do but wait.
To pass the time, she rummaged through the supplies loaded on top of the wagon. Her efforts were rewarded with a sack of coffee, a side of bacon, some hard biscuits, a couple of red apples, several cans of peaches, a good supply of red beans, a loaf of dark brown bread, and a dozen eggs.
Lacey’s stomach rumbled hungrily, reminding her that she had not eaten since the night before, and she quickly scrambled down from the wagon, built a fire, and fried up some bacon and eggs, washing it down with two cups of hot coffee heavily laced with canned milk and sugar.
Feeling much better, she gathered up some blankets and covered the dead men. Then, head bowed, she murmured the Lord’s Prayer and the Twenty-Third Psalm over the bodies, giving thanks all the while that her father was still alive.
A low groan interrupted Lacey’s prayers, and she glanced over her shoulder to find the wounded man staring at her. Lacey hesitated a moment before going to him, a little fearful of getting too close. He was a convicted felon, after all, and while she was fairly certain he was in no condition to do her any harm, it wouldn’t hurt to be careful. There was no telling what horrib
le crime he had been accused of, what foul deeds he had committed.
Matt Drago blinked several times, not daring to believe his eyes. Surely the young woman standing beside him was a figment of his fevered imagination. Even decked out in boy’s clothing, there was no disguising the trim feminine shape of her, the soft curves. Her hair, swept away from her face, was a deep reddish-brown. Her eyes, wide-set and heavily lashed, were the color of warm chocolate. There was a smattering of freckles across her cheeks and over the bridge of her tip-tilted nose, a beguiling dimple in her chin.
“How are you feeling?” Lacey asked.
“Rotten.” Matt Drago glanced at the makeshift bandages on his arm and shoulder. “Thanks for patching me up.”
“You’re welcome,” Lacey mumbled, disturbed by his steady gaze. Earlier, she had been too busy tending his wounds to give any thought to his appearance, but now she noticed he was quite handsome.
She realized with some embarrassment that she was staring at him. “Would you like something to eat?” she asked, drawing her gaze from his face.
“No.”
“You really should eat something,” Lacey urged. “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”
Matt nodded. He wasn’t hungry, but the girl was right. He needed nourishment. He felt as weak and helpless as a day-old pup. Not only that, but his left arm ached as if all the fires of hell blazed inside.
In an effort to ignore the pain, he watched the girl as she began to fry up a batch of bacon and eggs. She was a pretty little thing, and his eyes lingered on the provocative swell of her breasts and her shapely bottom as she knelt beside the fire. He wondered absently how old she was. Not more than seventeen or eighteen, he decided. Young. Much too young.
LaceysWay Page 2
