The Cheyenne carried a bowie knife in a sheath on his belt but no other weapon. Kate took the derringer from her pocket and handed it to him. Cloud Passing stared at the little pistol and looked baffled. Kate took it from him and mimicked pulling back the hammer and pressing the trigger. The Indian smiled and nodded.
“I think he got it, Mrs. Kerrigan,” Mosely said.
“I hope so,” Kate said. And to Cloud Passing, “Come with me. Let’s go find my daughters.”
The big Dog Soldier said nothing, his face empty.
* * *
“Damn your eyes, stop this squabbling, you ill-begotten whore trash. You can fight for her,” Isaiah Potts said. “But no matter who wins, remember I get the first taste.”
“Guns or knives, I don’t care,” Baptist said. “I want both of them.”
“One at a time, boy,” Potts said. “And the fight for the oldest is with blades. First man cut to the bone is the loser. Use the edge, mind. I’ll shoot any of ye that stick with the point.”
“Why don’t you get in on the fight, old man?” Baptist said.
Potts grinned, revealing few teeth and those black. “You’d like that, Baptist, wouldn’t you? Well, you’ll get your chance to kill me, but not today and not over a woman. Bide your time until I find something worth fighting for, like”—he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together—“money . . . munny-munny-munny, huh, boy?”
Baptist nodded. “That time will come sooner or later, and I’m looking forward to it.”
“Jerome, Franklin, you two willing to fight for the women?” Potts said.
“Damn right we are, Pa,” Jerome said. “I’ll take ’em both to wife.”
“And I’ll gut any man for them,” Franklin said. “The oldest one, I never seen a woman as fine as her.”
“That’s because she ain’t a whore, numbskull,” Potts said. Then, grinning, “Yet.” Potts rose from a rocking chair that continued to thump on the dirt floor after he got to his feet. “Get the lanterns and bring them two outside. Knife fights are always more lively in the dark.”
While this conversation was taking place, Ivy and Shannon huddled together in a corner of the filthy cabin. Shannon was terrified and kept her eyes closed as though what she couldn’t see didn’t exist. But Ivy, older and more schooled in the ways of men, knew exactly what was in store for them. She held Shannon close and whispered, “Ma will come for us, you’ll see.”
But the girl didn’t open her eyes, and she shivered in fear.
Ivy said again. “And Frank will be with her. Our knight in shining armor will ride to the rescue.”
* * *
Frank Cobb ran out of tracks around the time he ran out of daylight.
“We can pick them up again at first light,” he said to Quinn Kerrigan.
“Frank, I say we press on through the night,” Quinn said. “Keep them on the move and give them no rest.”
“Quinn, this is a big country,” Frank said. “They could have swung north toward the timber or headed for the Rio Grande and Mexico. We’ll wait until daybreak and pick up their tracks again.”
“And what happens to my sisters in the meantime?” Quinn said.
Sick at heart, Frank Cobb had no answer for that question.
“Me, I’m riding on through the night,” Quinn said. “My mind’s made up, Frank.”
“Then take Chas Minor with you,” Frank said. “He’s good with the iron.”
Quinn stared at Frank for a long while and then said, “There’s moonlight, but you still think I’ll be wasting my time.”
“You’d need a cavalry regiment to scout this big country for tracks, even in moonlight,” Frank said. “And then it could be daylight before you find them.”
“It can be done and I’m giving it a try,” Quinn said with the stubborn certainty of youth. “If Ivy and Shannon are out there, I’ll find them.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
From her hiding place in brush among the oaks Kate Kerrigan studied the ramshackle cabin in the clearing. Beside her she heard the steady breathing of Cloud Passing. It had been the Cheyenne’s keen sense of smell that had led her to this place.
The cabin had a swaybacked roof, and it tilted badly to one side. Several slanted pine trunks, one end driven into the ground, supported its weight and kept the whole structure from collapsing. A pole corral holding four horses stood to the right of the cabin, and in the opposite direction a rickety windmill vainly waited for the breathless wind.
Kate pushed her Winchester out in front of her. Were the kidnappers in the cabin or was it just some squatters, perhaps a family? She dismissed that thought immediately. The horses in the corral were of good quality, probably stolen, and the saddles that straddled the top fence post cost more than any forty-a-month puncher could afford. There was no doubt in her mind that this was where her daughters were being held. Already the day was shading darker, and time was of the essence. If she was to attack, it had to be now. There was a window to the front of the cabin, and a couple of shots through the glass would shake things up. But it was too risky. She could easily hit Ivy or Shannon. Right, then she’d shoot high, where the cabin roof met the wall. That way there was less chance of harming her girls. Kate figured she could keep the kidnappers pinned down in the cabin all night if necessary until help got there. Surely Frank and the others would hear the shooting and come on at a gallop.
Kate nodded. Of course they would. They must.
She shouldered the Winchester, but Cloud Passing pushed it down and shook his head. “Woman, look,” he whispered.
Kate saw that the cabin door had opened. A moment later a shaggy, ragged man stepped outside, followed by three others who were younger versions of himself. The older men lit half-a-dozen oil lamps that formed a circle around a patch of level ground. He then walked back inside the cabin and reappeared a few moments later pushing Ivy and Shannon ahead of him. The man wore a gun but the younger men were unarmed.
Kate’s breath came in quick little gasps and she felt ice in her stomach. She was terrified, not for herself but for her daughters, who’d been pushed away from the circle and now stood holding onto one another and looked heartachingly young and vulnerable.
Kate quickly made up her mind.
She’d drop the older man with her first shot and then the three others. But even as she planned her play she knew she couldn’t pull the trigger. At a distance of nearly a hundred yards and in failing light she wasn’t a good enough rifle shot to guarantee a hit on the older man and if she missed he might panic and kill the girls. The smoke from her rifle would give her position away, and Kate knew that a gun duel with four outlaws was not a fight she could hope to win. Frustrated, afraid for her children, she lowered her head onto the stock of her rifle. Ivy and Shannon were right there, standing in front of her, and there was not a thing she could do to save them.
Beside Kate, Cloud Passing grunted and nudged her with his elbow. Kate raised her head and looked toward the cabin again. Ivy, looking scared, had crossed her arms over the top part of her camisole. Her white blouse with its lace top had been torn from her body by the older man and now he tore it into strips. As Kate watched the man knotted several of these together, making a single strip about three feet long. He stepped into the circle formed by the lamps and beckoned to a pair of the younger men to join him.
Kate’s heart raced in her chest and beside her Cloud Passing chanted under his breath. The Cheyenne tensed, his black eyes intent on the men within the glowing circle of lamps. Kate guessed that Cloud Passing was singing a war song and that the warrior Dog Soldier was taking over, transforming a blanket Indian into one of the most feared fighting men on earth.
Outside the cabin the older man held up the knotted strip of cloth and the two others in the circle each grabbed an end in their left hand and drew bowies with eight-inch blades from the sheaths on their waists.
Crouched, their knives held low and ready, the combatants waited until the older man stepped out of the
circle . . . and the fight was on.
* * *
At that time in the West knife fighting was based on the swordplay of the New Orleans fencing schools run by masters like the famous duelist and fencer Jose Lulla. The New Orleans style of edged-weapon combat was used effectively by James Bowie and others, but on the frontier it became a rough-and-tumble affair. Knife against knife fights did occasionally occur, but more often the blade was used in conjunction with any other weapon that came to hand, including brass knuckles, chairs, clubs, rocks, and firearms.
Schooled by their father, the Potts boys fought in the classic style, blade to blade, using the parries, attacks, and returns taught by the fencing masters.
Forbidden to use the point but revealing considerable skill with the bowie’s edge, Baptist systematically cut up his brother Franklin while he escaped without a scratch. When Franklin’s slashed face became a scarlet mask of blood and he could no longer see to fight, Isaiah called the match and declared Baptist the victor.
Then as Jerome stood outside the circle and practiced his fighting moves, Baptist made the mistake that would be his death.
Flushed with pride over his victory, he walked quickly toward Ivy and before the girl could react, he grabbed her and his hungry, lusting mouth sought hers. Ivy struggled and did what Franklin could not—she drew blood. Her nails raked Baptist’s cheek, and the man bellowed in rage. Savagely, he backhanded Ivy across the face, and the girl staggered and fell.
Kate Kerrigan’s bullet hit Baptist where his left earlobe met the side of his neck. The man screamed and fell. Cloud Passing shrieked his war cry and ran toward Jerome.
An enraged female cougar protecting her young, Kate Kerrigan advanced on Isaiah Potts, working her Winchester from the hip. In the dying light, surprised by the suddenness and ferocity of Kate’s attack, Potts raised his Colt to eye level and fired. His bullet split air an inch from Kate’s head and she went down on one knee, shouldered her rifle, and triggered a shot.
Cloud Passing’s attack took Jerome Potts by surprise. He assumed a crouched blade-fighting position, but the Dog Soldier startled him a second time. Instead of going knife to knife as Jerome expected, Cloud Passing launched himself at the white man, his bowie raised in his hand. The Indian slammed into Jerome’s chest and they both hit the dirt hard. But Cloud Passing was fast, very fast. His knife rose and fell, and the blade plunged deep behind Jerome’s collarbone. It was a killing blow, and the white man knew it. He shrieked in pain and terror. He was still alive when Cloud Passing scalped him.
* * *
Kate’s bullet missed Isaiah Potts, and she levered another round into the chamber of the Winchester, her body tense, expecting his bullet. But Potts, a surething killer, did not have the belly for a close-range gunfight. He turned and scampered inside the cabin, the frightfully bloody Franklin close on his heels. Kate slammed a couple of shots into the cabin window, shattering glass but as far as she knew scoring no hits. Cloud Passing was a ways off prancing out a scalp dance and it would be a long time before he regained what for him was normality. But he was in great danger of being shot from the cabin and Kate yelled at him to get down. The Cheyenne ignored her and Kate shot into the cabin again to keep heads down.
Ivy and Shannon ran to her, but Kate had no time to celebrate their reunion. “Into the trees,” she said. “And stay there.”
“Ma . . .” Ivy began.
“Later,” Kate said. “Now do as I say.”
The side of Ivy’s face was badly bruised, her right eye swollen shut, and Kate fired into the cabin again and again, levering the Winchester dry. She hoped she’d killed somebody.
Kate reloaded the rifle from the box of shells in her skirt pocket and then looked up and saw something that chilled her to the bone . . .
Baptist Potts was slowly getting to his feet.
* * *
The man staggered upright, saw Kate, and stumbled toward her, his knife in his hand. Kate’s bullet had shattered Baptist’s chin and it hung loose and bloody, a grotesque sight. He made a strange, feral sound in his throat, and his yellow eyes were filled with hate.
Kate watched him come . . . the man who had kidnapped and then struck her daughter. She raised the Winchester to her shoulder. It was now too dark to use the sights. Baptist hurried his pace. The man’s face was a grotesque mask of bone and blood, a walking nightmare.
Now! Kate fired.
Hit hard, Baptist staggered, but kept to his feet. Kate fired again, racked the lever, and fired a third time. The man went down . . . and stayed down.
Kate didn’t even look at his still body. She again turned her attention to the cabin.
“Hello, you out there!”
A man’s voice from inside the cabin.
“What do you want?” Kate said.
“We’re shot all to pieces. We want to come out.”
Kate rose to her feet. “Throw down your weapons and come out with your hands up. Walk into the lamplight circle in front of the cabin where I can see you.”
Cloud Passing had stopped dancing. He stood perfectly still in the moon-silvered darkness, Jerome’s scalp hanging from his hand as he stared at the cabin.
“They’re coming out,” Kate said.
The Cheyenne turned his head to look in her direction, but he said nothing.
The cabin door opened, and Kate kept a tighter grip on the Winchester.
Isaiah Potts stepped out first, his son Franklin, bloody from head to waist, behind him. Both had their hands raised, and the older man seemed to be wounded. They walked through darkness into the orange circle of the lamplight. “We need a doctor, you bitch,” Isaiah said, the last words he ever spoke.
A moment later he and his son were cut down by a steady hammer of gunfire.
Quinn Kerrigan, the gun slick Chas Minor at his side, emerged from the gloom. Both carried smoking rifles.
“Quinn, they had surrendered,” Kate said. “They were unarmed.”
“Mrs. Kerrigan, we saw Miss Ivy’s face,” Minor said.
“They were mad dogs, Ma,” Quinn said.
Kate hesitated for a moment and then said, “Well, don’t do that again.”
* * *
Quinn Kerrigan and Chas Minor dragged the dead Pottses into the cabin and then set it on fire. With the resilience of youth, Ivy and Shannon, riders since they could walk, mounted a couple of the dead men’s horses and Kate rode another. For some reason known only to himself, Cloud Passing decided to walk, and he trotted beside Kate’s mount.
Josiah Mosely was where Kate and the Cheyenne had left him, and his inflated balloon tugged on its sandbag anchors. “Heard the shooting,” he said. “I’m glad you’re all right. Miss Ivy, I’m sorry about your face.”
Ivy managed a smile. “Thank you, Mr. Mosely. The swelling makes it look much worse than it is. I’ll be fine in a couple of days.”
“Ma, Frank Cobb and them will have coffee,” Quinn said. “If you don’t mind riding in the dark.”
“Mr. Mosely, what about you?” Kate said,
“I’ll take the balloon up at first light and see if I can catch a west wind,” Mosely said. “I may have to scrape blue paint off the sky before I find one.”
“Can you take a passenger?” Kate said.
“Of course,” Mosely said.
“Then I’ll fly with you,” Kate said. “I need the sky to make me feel clean again.”
Quinn said, “No, Ma, that balloon thing is way too dangerous.”
“And that’s exactly why I want to do it,” Kate said. “Take my horse, and then you and the others go on. I’ll catch up.”
“I can’t let you do that, Ma,” Quinn said.
“Quinn’s right, Mrs. Kerrigan, you could break your neck in that contraption,” Chas Minor said.
Kate frowned. “Quinn, children don’t tell their parents what they should and should not do,” she said. “Mr. Minor, that also applies to employees and employers. Do you understand?”
Minor touched his
hat brim. “Sure do, boss.”
“Quinn?” Kate said.
“Likewise, Ma.”
“Good, then it’s settled,” Kate said. “Mr. Mosely, we’ll ascend, if that’s the correct expression, at dawn and try to reach the last morning star.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
“Is it broken, Doctor?” Kate Kerrigan said.
“You’re lucky, Mrs. Kerrigan. It’s only a bad sprain. But you’re very bruised.”
Bill Cody’s full-time physician Dr. Zebulon Farrell gently lowered Kate’s foot to the ground and then, as he rummaged in his bag, said, “I’ll wrap the ankle good and tight, but you’ll need to stay off of it for at least a week.” He held a rolled bandage in his hand and said, “Did you twist it walking?”
“No. I was in a hot-air balloon that made a hard landing,” Kate said.
The doctor’s eyebrow crawled up his forehead like a hairy caterpillar. “You mean a flying machine?”
“Yes. A balloon flying machine.”
“My advice is to stay away from those in the future,” Dr. Farrell said. “If God had meant us to fly, he would have given us wings. Was anyone else hurt?”
“No. The pilot is a man named Josiah Mosely, and he escaped with some cuts and bruises.”
“Nevertheless I should take a look at him,” the physician said. “Flying machines indeed, yet another modern fad that will kill and injure scores of people before it’s all over.”
After he bound up Kate’s ankle, Dr. Farrell said that he could give her a sedative and something for pain. But Kate refused. She needed her mind to be sharp when Slide McKenzie came to collect his hundred thousand. Maybe there was some way out of paying his extortion money, but she very much doubted it. She was facing ruin, and she had a sprained ankle. One or the other would have been more than enough, but both at the same time was intolerable.
After the doctor left, the parlor maid opened Kate’s bedroom door and said that Frank Cobb wished to talk with her.
“Show him in, Winifred,” Kate said.
A moment later Frank stepped inside, his hat in his hands. “What did the pill pusher say, Kate? Is the ankle broke?”
Hate Thy Neighbor Page 16
