Preston nodded. “Parsonage can wait. I can sleep on a pew for a while.”
Here again was something that impressed Zebulon about the younger man. He obviously wasn’t in the business of saving souls because he wanted the luxuries of life lavished on him by others. “Nonsense. Won’t take but a month to get the parsonage built and until then, you can stay with one of the townsfolk.”
A gust of wind blew open the leather flap over the window and Zeb caught a glimpse of winter-blue sunlight that let him know the dark forest that had been pressing close to the road for the last several miles had now given way to the rolling plains that led into Wyldhaven.
The coach slowed to take the sharp curve that lay just a mile outside of town.
Kin sidled across the high ridge just south of Wyldhaven and peered down into the gulch where the stagecoach always had to slow down before making the turn toward town.
Something like a handful of fishing worms squirmed in his gut, but he could do this. He had to do this. He was going to cover his face with a bandana and ride down there and give the folks aboard a good scare. And then he was going to keep on riding right past the stage and over the hill on the other side of the road. He’d thought everything through. Old Don Brass packed a rifle under his seat atop the stage, Kin knew. And he was only going to have a split second before the old man pulled that old Winchester and aimed to make a sieve of him. He didn’t actually plan to steal anything. He didn’t need any trifles. Just the ride by would be enough to catch Pa’s attention.
Because he was going to get caught, that much he knew. He’d purposely told Wash, because he knew Wash wouldn’t be able to help himself. Wash was probably in town telling the sheriff all about his plans right at this moment and worrying himself sick over the fact that he was a turncoat.
But it was that very trait that made Kin admire his friend so much. Wash always seemed to do the right thing, even when it was hard.
Yep, he was going to get caught. He had no delusions about that. And Pa was going to lick him but good. But that was okay too.
At least the old man would be paying attention. Maybe this would keep him out of the saloon when he wasn’t working. And keep him from nipping at the bottle so much when he was.
It was the only thing left that Kin could think of to try. Because if he didn’t do something, Pa was going to drink himself to death. He’d heard Doc Griffin tell him so the last time he came by when Pa was feeling ill. Doc had told Pa in no uncertain terms that he needed to stop drinking. And Kin had tried everything he could think of since then to help Pa comply.
Pa was always so drunk when he passed out each night that Kin knew he’d never remember how much liquor was left in his bottle. So he’d poured Pa’s drink down the drain so that when he went to fetch his bottle it would be empty. But Pa would just ride into town, then come home in debt to Ewan McGinty, who had come around several times aiming to collect.
Next, Kin tried pouring only most of the whiskey out, but leaving just enough to get Pa into his cups. But when he was drinking, Pa passed through a stage of anger just this side of totally drunk, and Kin had quickly realized that just getting Pa to that point was a fairly dangerous proposition. Even now he winced and rolled his shoulder. Pa was big and when he swung, he swung hard. And the wood walls of their lean-to were none too soft when one crashed into them, even if the house did shake like it was set to fall apart.
After that, when Pa woke up mostly sober one morning, Kin had tried pleading with him to recognize that the doc’s words were true. That time the punch sent him into the dresser. He fingered the scab that still clung to his scalp just above his ear. Thankfully, it was hidden by his hair.
In the distance a plume of dust revealed that the stage was just leaving Stone Cutter Gulch. It would be here in twenty minutes. The hairpin turn just ahead ensured that the coach would have to slow down. It was the best place to make his run, because Old Don would be going slow enough to recognize him as he raced by.
Kin glanced at the sky. He wondered if Ma was up in heaven looking down on him right now. If so, what would she say? Would she be proud of him for trying to get through to Pa? Or would she be angry with the way he aimed to do it? He tugged too tight on his horse’s reins and the animal shifted backward. Loosing a breath, Kin forced his hands to relax, and bent forward to pat the horse on its neck. He wondered if there might be something he hadn’t thought of that might get Pa’s attention better? But nothing ever got Pa to listen to him like when he was acting up.
Kin rolled his eyes at his second guesses. Ma would likely tan his hide for what he was about to do. But Ma wasn’t here. Hadn’t been for a long time. God had taken her and his whole life had changed. And no one seemed to be able to tame Pa like she had.
This was the best way he knew how.
Something had to break through to the old man.
He pulled his focus back to the road. The fog was thick, but not so thick that Kin couldn’t see the coach pull into view on the road below him. It was already starting to slow for the turn towards Wyldhaven. His mouth was as dry as year-old sawdust. But he’d come too far to turn back now.
He kicked his heels into his horse’s side and urged him to a trot. He planned to hit the road at a full gallop behind the coach. Give a good yell, and then barrel past, glancing back just long enough for Old Don to get a glimpse of him before he disappeared up the ridge and into the trees. The timing was critical. He had to be slow enough for Don to recognize him, but fast enough to evade one of Don’s bullets.
Kin’s mare was a sturdy mountain-bred mustang that Pa had won in a poker game—the one and only time he’d won anything. And for some reason he’d never tried to sell the horse. She was the one thing Pa seemed content to let Kin keep.
He’d delayed long enough. Kin kicked his heels one more time. “Git up now.” The mare responded to his urging and leapt from the embankment onto the road right behind the stage’s boot.
Pulling in the biggest breath he could muster, Kin let loose with the wild screech he’d mastered on one of the many nights he and Wash had slept out under the stars the year they’d turned ten. Wash had claimed the screech could make the hairs on a frog stand up and salute before they fainted dead away.
Even now, Kin felt the wondrously pleasant shiver the yell sent down his spine. His mare laid her ears back and surged forward with a speed he hadn’t known she possessed. The coach slipped by on his left side as his mare’s strides ate up the ground. This was all going just as he’d planned! Except—! They were much closer to the hairpin turn than he’d realized!
Old man Brass must be trying to outrun him, thinking he planned to go for the strong box.
They were going too fast!
There was no time for him to ride past the coach and give Don a look at him. In fact if they kept going at this speed—
Kin pulled his mare up, his heart thundering in his chest. The mare danced in the middle of the road, but Kin couldn’t seem to take his eyes from the looming disaster.
The coach started into the turn, tipping up onto two wheels!
“Slow down,” Kin breathed, hardly able to talk at all. “Please, slow down.”
But his pleas went unheeded.
The hitch snapped and the coach crashed onto its side, sending Old Don sprawling into the field next to the road as the horses galloped away.
From inside the coach there came the loud report of a gunshot.
Then all fell quiet.
Kin swallowed. What had he done?
The blood curdling screech cut through the quiet outside, and the thunder of approaching hoofbeats shot Zeb’s pulse into his throat. Were they being robbed? Zeb thought of the money he’d put in the strong box atop the coach. Dash it all! That money was meant for improvements to his town! Not to line the pockets of some scallywag!
His Colt six-shooter was already in his palm before he’d even thought what he was doing. As he thumbed back the hammer, he noted with satisfaction that Preston had
also palmed his pistol, and appeared to know how to use it.
From outside at the front of the coach, Don Brass whistled sharply and called loud encouragement to the horses. The coach lurched forward and Zeb knew Don would negotiate the hairpin turn just ahead as quickly as the coach could move.
Zeb yanked aside the curtain on his side to peer out the window, but saw nothing. He was just turning to urge Preston to search for a target to shoot at on his side when he felt the coach begin to tilt.
His arm shot out for balance, and reflexively his finger tightened on the trigger.
Outside, Don cursed loudly from the driver’s bench.
Preston clutched at the window frame in an apparent attempt to keep from sliding across the slick leather seat into Zeb’s space.
Across from them, the unpleasant man’s eyes were wide as he slipped toward the sidewall. He grabbed wildly for any handhold he could find.
The coach lost the battle with balance and crashed onto its side. Preston slammed into Zeb, knocking the air from him in a whoosh. One of the warm bricks crashed into him, sending a jagged shard of pain slicing through his ribs.
An explosion of sound pulsed against his eardrums, and Zeb had the fleeting realization that he’d pulled the trigger on his Colt. But then his head slammed into the side of the coach and all went black.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Zoe’s side pinched with a sharp pain as she chased Wash through the woods toward the road. At least she was no longer cold. Perspiration dripped from her forehead and stung the corners of her eyes. She stumbled to a stop and propped her hands on her knees. She used the hem of her skirt to dab at the sweat on her forehead, not caring how unladylike Belle would accuse her of being. “Wash…” She gasped for air. “I can’t…keep going.” She waved him forward. “Go on…without…me.”
Washington spun from looking down the trail where he wanted to be, to looking back at her. He must have turned a full circle at least twice. Finally he stomped back toward her. “I’m not leaving you. But hurry up and catch your breath.”
That was when they heard Kin’s signature blood boiling screech.
Zoe jolted to her feet. How many times had Kin terrified her or Belle with that very scream after he’d snuck up on them in the berry patch, or even on a lunch break at school. She stumbled forward and broke into a run again. “We have to help him! Run, Wash. I’ll be fine. I’ll stay as close as I can.”
Washington grabbed her arm before she’d gone more than two steps. “Not on your life. I’m not leaving you in the woods alone. Here, get on my back.” He squatted down before her.
Zoe hesitated. Even though she was already twelve and almost a full-grown woman, she was small for her age. Wash might be fifteen but he was already as tall as her pa and broader through the shoulders. She knew he wouldn’t have any trouble carrying her, but should a lady let a man pack her through the woods on his back? She didn’t relish getting her backside tanned later if Ma found out she’d done something improper.
“Come on, Zo! We don’t have time for this!”
In that moment, they heard a gunshot reverberate in the distance.
Zoe didn’t hesitate another second. She leapt onto Wash’s back and clung for dear life as he leapt through the last quarter mile of the woods to the road.
After dropping Liora off in town, Joe was still a good quarter mile from the hairpin where he figured Kin would likely mount his attack, when he heard the bone chilling screech.
“Ha!” He slapped his horse’s flank with the end of the reins.
A shot rang out only a few moments later.
He was going to be too late!
By the time he pulled up at the top of the ridge overlooking the turn, the coach was on its side, thick fog billowing in a great cloud all around it, and the Clydesdales were bucking their way down the road, fighting the unfamiliar flap of the singletree against their hocks. The traces dragged in the road behind them.
Joe trotted his horse down the ridge and emerged before the Clydesdales. “Whoa there. Steady.” He leaned down and captured the cheek strap of the nigh horse. “Easy there.” The horses seemed to calm some, though their heads still bobbed in agitation. He dismounted and released the traces from the singletree, then led the horses back toward the toppled coach.
A gust of wind cleared some of the fog and there in the middle of the road sat Kin Davis, wide-eyed, with perspiration dotting his brow.
Joe released the horses’ reins and pulled his gun, leveling it at the boy’s chest. “Hands up, son.”
Kin blinked at him, and then slowly lifted his hands above his head. “I only meant to ride by and give them a bit of a scare.”
Joe’s jaw clenched. “I don’t have time for your excuses right now. Get down off that horse, nice and easy.”
Kin moved ever so slowly. “I ain’t armed. So don’t go and shoot me.”
Joe gritted his teeth and reminded himself that he’d once been a stupid fifteen-year-old boy too. Instead of giving the boy a speech about how if he didn’t want to get shot, he probably oughtn’t go chasing stagecoaches, he kept his mouth shut.
The boy’s feet landed in the roadbed. His hands were still above his head.
Joe motioned with the gun toward the roadbed. “Face down. And spread ’em.”
The boy hesitated for a moment. “Can I at least tie off my mare to that tree there? She ain’t trained to a ground-hitch.”
The kid had some nerve. “Should have thought of that before you decided to go robbing a stage.” Joe dipped the barrel of his pistol toward the ground again. “Don’t make me ask you another time.”
The kid did sprawl out this time, but he stubbornly refused to release the reins of his horse.
Joe snatched them from him and, keeping his gun trained on the kid, strode to the side of the road and looped them over the low-hanging branch of a frosty tree.
With a sigh of relief, the kid seemed to relax, even though Joe knew the ground where he was lying in his thin coat had to be as cold as an ice block. It only took him a moment to get the kid’s hands manacled behind him and yank him to his feet. He pushed him into a sitting position in the middle of the road and hobbled his ankles good and tight in case he tried to make a run for it.
Moans were emanating from the coach now.
That was when he heard the call. “I’ve been shot! You shot me!”
Joe’s heart leapt into his throat as he let the kid go. “Sit here and don’t move! Did you shoot someone?” He kept his gaze on the kid even as he moved quickly toward the stage.
The kid’s face was a perfect match for the patch of snow on the hillside behind him. He shook his head and swallowed. “I didn’t even have a gun. I swear!”
Thumps and groans from inside the coach were louder now.
Joe finally allowed himself to take his eyes off the kid. “I’m Deputy Joseph Rodante from Wyldhaven,” he called as he scrambled up onto one of the large back wheels. “Everyone okay in there?”
“Deputy Rodante. Zebulon Heath here. I’m afraid there’s been an accident. I’ve shot a man. He’s bleeding rather badly from his upper right abdomen. What should I do?”
Joe pushed the thick black leather curtain up above one of the windows and peered into the chaos inside the coach. Three men lay sprawled inside. Blood seeped from the side of one of the men, forming a pool beneath his side. The other man still seemed to be unconscious. A brick lay very near his head.
Zebulon Heath used one arm to drag himself through the debris of broken benches, feather stuffing, and shards of wood toward the man who’d been shot.
Thinking quickly, Joe yanked off his coat, then ripped at the buttons on the front of his shirt as he hurriedly removed it “Here. Use this.” He lowered the shirt into the coach, and then tugged his coat back on. “Try and get the bleeding stopped while I see what I can do about getting you three out of here.”
Zeb nodded, wincing at the movement. “What about Don? He all right?”
J
oe lifted his head. Right. Where had the old whip gotten to?
His heart thundered in his chest. This was a bad situation, and getting worse fast. He needed Doc Griffin, but could he trust Kin to ride to town to fetch him? That was when he saw Washington Nolan and Zoe Kastain peering down at them from the ridge above.
When they topped out on the crest of the ridge near the hairpin turn, Zoe’s eyes widened.
Deputy Joe had his gun leveled at Kin’s chest. They exchanged a few words she couldn’t hear from here, and then Kin spread-eagled himself in the middle of the road.
“No. No. No. No.” Wash paced three steps one way, and three steps back, even though he never took his eyes off of what was going on in the road below them. “I told him not to. I tried to tell him, Zo.”
Zoe didn’t bother correcting Wash’s use of the shortened version of her name. She could only stare, wide-eyed, at the scene below them.
One of the stagecoach’s front wheels was spinning a lazy circle, as though it relished the freedom of being released from the confines of the ground. Up the road a ways, the Clydesdales had wandered over to munch frosty grass from the embankment.
Deputy Joe was up on the top of the sideways coach now, peering into one of the windows at the passengers who must still be trapped inside. He took off first his coat, and then his shirt, before putting his coat back on. He passed the shirt in through the window.
“What happens to Kin if somebody is dead in there?” Though the words were barely audible, Wash must have heard her.
He shook his head. “I don’t know. But it won’t be good.”
On Eagles' Wings (Wyldhaven Book 2) Page 11
