Out of nowhere, someone jumped on his back; the force sent him stumbling to his knees. Taken down by the unexpected weight of his attacker, his gun hand flew up in reflex. The quick action deflected the blade of the powerful assailant’s knife, but did not prevent injury. A sharp searing pain shot from Sam’s forearm, causing him to drop his Colt. The man on his back tightened his viselike grip on Sam’s throat and moved the deadly knife closer despite Sam’s grip on his wrist.
With his other hand, Sam T. grasped the sinewy arm locked around his neck. It was shutting off his air. His strength began to wane. He barely managed to hold the hand wielding the knife at bay with his injured one. The outlaw’s other hold continued to squeeze off his windpipe, gripping harder and harder, cutting off his breathing. Sam twisted around in an effort to spill the man from his back, but the tenacious hold of the killer clung to him like a thick choking vine.
Hard huffing sounds rasped in Sam’s ears as his assailant struggled wordlessly to end his life. Pain in his forearm became searing; he could feel his coat sleeve becoming soaked. The lock on Sam’s throat threatened to defeat him.
An abrupt groan from the attacker sounded in Sam’s ears. The man melted from his back. Sam T. made a dive forward for his gun and rolled over. He could see the Colt was not needed. Da-yah’s knife was planted to the hilt in the man’s back. The outlaw fell to his knees. Sam T. could see the look of death in his eyes. But even at the very gates of hell, the man’s ratlike face held no remorse, only hatred. He must be the Yaqui she had spoken about the night before.
“Where’s Lamas?” Sam T. demanded in a croaking voice
The man’s hand flailed the air as he strived to reach back and pull Da-yah’s knife out of his back. “Lamas will … kill you bastards. He will—” A strangled cough cut off the man’s words.
Da-yah stood over the him. Hatred glazed her dark eyes. With a nod of satisfaction, she placed the toe of her leather boot against the Yaqui’s spine and bent to pull the bloody knife from his back.
“He’s not a bad one anymore.”
Sam T. panted heavily and looked from the dead outlaw to the woman who had saved him. “Right,” he agreed hoarsely. “I owe you my life, Da-yah.”
She shrugged away his concern as nothing and wiped the bloody blade on the dead man’s shirt.
Sam T. closed his eyes, then immediately opened them. Where was Lamas? Standing up with effort, Sam T. scanned the surrounding area, wondering if even at this moment Lamas had them in his sights.
“Any sign of Lamas?”
She shook her head in disapproval. A deep frown of concern drew her straight black brows together when she noted the blood dripping from Sam T.’s fingertips. A dark wet patch stained the ripped sleeve of his brown suit.
“You hurt bad?”
He slipped out of the coat and glanced at the bloody shirtsleeve.
“Only a scratch,” he mumbled.
She clucked her teeth in disapproval. “Plenty blood. You sit down.”
“No,” he said irritably. He scowled at the sight of the cut. That outlaw leader was a damned slippery snake. Obviously he had expected the Indian to kill them.
“You stay here. I go get my things,” she ordered and raced away.
Blood from the wound dripped off his fingers. He tried to find some solace in the knowledge that it was his forearm that had been cut and not his throat. But if it had not been for Da-yah …
She returned, carrying a leather pouch from her saddlebags.
“Lamas go north,” she said with a toss of her head. “Maybe go last night. Leave him here.” She made a curl of her lip and indicated the dead Yaqui.
“How much head start has he got?” He rose to his feet.
“No, you sit. I fix.”
He glanced down at her stubbornly set face, then reluctantly agreed. The knife wound needed some attention. Fortunately he could still flex the fingers of his gun hand. He took a seat on a boulder with a sigh of resignation and held out his arm for her inspection.
From the leather pouch, she withdrew a curved needle and dark thread. Her hands were gentle as she folded the blood-soaked shirtsleeve up. Sam watched the canyon tops for a distraction while she began to stitch closed the gaping cut.
“Lamas plenty crazy,” she muttered while she worked. “Wear out horses, ride all over like a crazy man.”
A smile tugged at his pinched lips. She could fuss all she wanted as far as he was concerned. It was like music to his ears. He knew that, without her intervention, he would not be sitting there to listen.
She did an admirable job of stitching up his arm. But he’d sure bear a scar. The entire time she worked on him, she cursed the dead man in what he imagined was Apache.
“What do you want to do with his body?” he asked her when she cinched up the last knot with a hard tug.
“Huh! He make plenty good food for buzzards.” She used her teeth to cut the thread. Then she wrapped the wound with a kerchief. Satisfied with her workmanship, she turned away and immediately began using her knife to dig a fire hole in the sandy wash.
Sam tried to find a comfortable position for his arm. He refused to put it in a sling as she suggested. A stab of irritation roiled in his stomach. He was no closer to capturing Lamas and now he was hampered with an injured gun arm. He looked at her.
“You said Lamas went north?”
“Yes.” She glanced up from the pot she was stirring and pointed in a northerly direction. “You rest. I go after Lamas.”
“No!” His voice rang harsh and he glared at her, trying to outstare her obstinate gaze. Things were in a big enough mess without sending her after the outlaw alone. Jesus would have no idea where Sam T. and Da-yah were. Too-Gut was off chasing another gang member. And his own arm was too sore to draw a pistol or shoot a rifle. Besides, it was now personal. He fully intended to bring the outlaw Lamas to justice.
“Sam T.,” she said with a toss of her head. “Too-Gut is coming now.”
He turned his ear and could hear the clop of a horse in the pass that led into the canyon. He rose stiffly to his feet and tried to see beyond the high brush. The return of his deputy would be a good thing, considering his throbbing injury. Had the Apache captured the outlaw?
When Too-Gut came into view, a smile twitched at Sam’s mouth.
A hatless man in handcuffs trotted behind Too-Gut’s horse, a rope around the outlaw’s neck. The prisoner wore a scruffy-looking army uniform. This must be the Sarge whom Tagget spoke about. They were making progress.
“Beans about cooked,” Da-yah announced.
Sam T. looked up at his Apache scout. “Good work.” Too Gut released the lariat rope from his saddle horn, let it drop and bounded off his horse.
Sarge wearily dropped to the ground on his rear. Then he used his shackled, dirty hands to scrub his unshaven face and finally raised his eyes and frowned in puzzlement at Sam T. “Who the gawdamn hell are you?”
“An officer of the court,” Sam T. said. “Did Too-Gut tell you that you were under arrest?”
Sarge ignored the question. “Are you a U.S. marshal or from the army or what?”
Sam T. expelled a deep breath. “Listen, Sarge, don’t worry what I am. You have murder and kidnapping charges to face. I suggest you think about that.”
“Hey, you kill Sanchez?” Sarge’s gaze was on the prone body.
“No, I didn’t kill him,” Sam T. said flatly.
“He was a tough little bastard,” Sarge grunted.
In silence, they sat around eating Da-yah’s beans and drinking coffee. Too-Gut gave a head toss at the Yaqui’s horse picketed close by. “Him plenty tired.”
“Yeah, we all are, but he can carry Sarge. We need to get back to Nogales. Get some fresh horses and find Jesus.” Sam T. looked to the north and wondered about Lamas. His plans included quickly overtaking the gang leader somewhere in the territory. With so many of his strongest henchmen in jail or dead, a portion of the rattler’s fangs were gone. The one thing that
niggled Sam T. the most was the fact Lamas was going back north, leaving the sanctuary of Mexico. There had to be a reason.
No matter where the outlaw leader went, it was time for Sam and his posse to give up his tracks. Lamas was headed into Arizona; Sam T. felt certain they’d find him in a short while up there. But they were out of food and supplies, plus their horses were about done in, and would barely be able to make the ride back to Nogales. He wanted the sullen prisoner, Sarge, behind bars, and was anxious to know what Jesus had found out about Mrs. Stauffer. Besides, his damn arm throbbed worse than a bad tooth.
“We better turn east here and ride to Nogales,” Sam T. said with a sigh of disgust.
“I can follow—” Too-Gut indicated the line of mountains to the north.
Sam T. waved the Apache’s notion away with his good arm. “No, it’s time to regroup and resupply. Find some fresh horses to ride.”
Still engrossed in his concerns, Sam T. took the reins from Da-yah and smiled. Mounted and on their way to Nogales, he tried to protect his aching arm. But every bush and scrub along the way acted in a conspiracy to whip against it. Even Big Boy seemed out to deliberately jar him.
Justine Stauffer was still in shock when she realized she was to be locked up once again. The stuffy shed where Dan’s men placed her was dark, except for a few shafts of daylight that sneaked through the boarded-over windows. At night, they rationed her a few candles, along with a lumpy mattress and a sour-smelling blanket.
She had been allowed to take a bath in a tinned tub that two of Dan’s men brought to the shed, and the water they hauled her was barely lukewarm. No matter the chill, she managed to wash off layers of dirt and grime that had felt permanently baked into her hair and skin.
Lamas’s hacienda had better amenities, she decided. Then the memory of that confinement made her shudder. Her prison at the outlaw’s home may have been more comfortable, but it had counted for little when she recalled the assaults on her body by that swarthy Mexican. At least at Dan’s she had no cause for alarm on that score. He wasn’t the least bit interested in resuming their affair. She cursed her own foolishness in believing that she had ever meant anything to Narrimore. How had she been so naive as to believe his glib tongue in the first place?
As if her thoughts had conjured him up, she watched the door open and Dan burst inside the dank shed. He moved toward her purposefully, then gripped her arms in a bruising vise.
“I don’t have time to listen to any more of your excuses. I want to know what Tom’s report said about the Silver Lady Mine.”
She could not control her trembling mouth. Her vision blurred with tears. How long would he keep up the inquisition this time? she wondered. There was nothing she could tell him about the mining business. She simply had never been interested in Tom’s work. As Dan’s fingers tightened on her arms, Justine felt her temper rise.
Tilting up her head, she glared at him. “You used me. All you were ever interested in was what I might be able to tell you about it.” The slight satisfaction at airing her deeply felt anger quickly faded under the hard look on his face.
He shoved her aside. She steadied herself and rubbed her bruised arms. Without winching, she met his look of contempt.
“Dan Narrimore, you are as big a snake as that dirty outlaw Lamas! At least he never pretended to be what he wasn’t!”
His nostrils flared and his narrowed eyes bore into her. “You stupid woman! You don’t know the first thing about me, do you?”
Justine blinked as she studied his face. His nose was too wide, his eyes too small and his lip curled sarcastically. She noticed for the first time his small, weak chin and already signs of self-indulgence showed on his flesh. What had she ever seen in him?
“You listen to me, Justine,” he growled. “I only have a few days to make a decision on this mining stock. If that lardass sheriff over in Saguaro County knows something about that mine that I don’t, I could stand to lose a lot of money.” He paced the gritty floorboards, his head bent as if in deep concentration.
Abruptly he came to a halt, then slowly turned toward her. A smile tugged at his mouth, but it never reached his eyes. He held out a hand to her in a placating manner. He spoke again, but this time his voice held a coaxing note. “Maybe I’ve been too hard on you, Justine. Now, just stop and think for a minute. What did Tom say about the mine?” he asked.
She sighed heavily and bowed her head. His actions never fooled her. He obviously changed his tactics in an effort to coax the information from her. The trouble was she had no knowledge to give him. But perhaps if she acted as though she were taken in by his persuasive manner, then maybe he would leave her alone for a while.
“Justine, honey,” Dan said, “I have thousands of dollars riding on this mining deal. It’s yours and my future. If I knew for certain that there’s silver in the mines, then I could buy that sheriff’s stock. But if it’s worthless, then I’ll just tell him I changed my mind and he won’t be the wiser. Do you see, Justine, why I need that information in Tom’s report.”
She listened silently and acted downcast. She was afraid he would know by the contempt in her eyes that she had seen through his charade. In defeat, she sank onto the bed and folded her hands in her lap, waiting for his next change in tactics.
Dan moved to her side and lightly touched her hair. She stiffened, but didn’t flinch at his touch. “Justine, you don’t have to stay in this place. I’ll take you up to the house and …”
She frowned, wondering what she could possibly tell him that would convince him she was trying to think of something. “I—I’ll try to remember, Dan,” she said in a low voice. Chancing a look at his face, she paled at the scowl of impatience that blanketed his features.
Dan ran his fingers through her hair, then drew his hand back as if he would strike her. He expelled a sharp curse. “Gawdammit! All right, you stay here in this shed and you think hard. I’ll be back and you damned well better have some answers. I’m sure if you’re left here long enough your memory will improve, but I’m warning you: My patience is wearing pretty thin.” Without waiting for a comment from her, he turned and stalked toward the door. Justine heard it being relocked. In defeat, she slumped back on the bed.
She peered at the cobwebbed ceiling in deep concentration. She could not recall Tom having said a word to her about the Silver Lady Mine. It seemed that all she could do was try to escape this hellhole they held her in. Sid had disappeared since he rescued her. And the other cowboys guarding her acted like a tough bunch. What were her chances of persuading one of them to let her go? She ran a hand over her face and grimaced. Of course, her peeling face and cracked lips would hardly entice a man. It appeared to be a hopeless situation.
Somehow she would have to come up with a plausible story to tell Dan when he returned. Maybe if she racked her muddled brain, she could create some elusive details about the Silver Lady Mine.
Soon it would be night, and she was not looking forward to another restless evening spent in her prison. There had to be an answer, a way out of this mess.
Major Bowen stood in the shadows. He watched the young man from the telegraph office hike up the hill headed for the Harrington House. How did a telegrapher afford to go once a week to that expensive place? Good question. Bowen might not have been the wiser, but Town Marshall Abe Rutherford mentioned the same thing to him over a game of checkers. Every Tuesday night, he goes up there, Rutherford had said as he crowned his second king.
In the cooling night air, Bowen decided the young man needed to be interrogated. When the youth disappeared through the front door, Bowen turned on his heel. He felt satisfied that was the opposition’s source of information. His ears still rang from Sterling’s blistering oration about “how Green found out about the arrest in Nogales.”
For a long while Bowen studied the lit windows and listened to the sound of a piano drifting from the Harrington House. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully with his fingertips. Perhaps he needed to speak to this El
la Devereaux. Somehow he suspected she might be at the root of his troubles.
His spying completed for the evening, he started for home. One of the Border Gang was in jail, according to the telegram from Sam T. The news had elated him and Sterling both. His first territorial marshal must be getting close to the rest of the bandits by this time. Bowen glanced at the twinkling stars; he certainly hoped so.
CHAPTER 13
Late in the night, Sam T. parted with the Apaches, who went off to camp out of sight on the river. Sam booted Big Boy toward the twinkling lights of the Nogales ahead of them, winching at his throbbing arm when Sarge’s sluggish horse jerked on the lead.
Half an hour later, with his prisoner locked in the jail and telegrams sent, Sam T. sat in a doctor’s office, letting a whiskey-breathed physician examine his arm.
“Bad enough job of stitching. What the hell did they use, cat gut?” The man blinked his rheumy eyes under the lamplight. “Nothing I can do for it. Give you some pain medicine, so you can sleep. If you don’t get an infection in it, you might save it. Otherwise we better amputate it quick-like. You understand?’
After the man redressed it, Sam T. pulled down his sleeve. He considered Da-yuh a better medical person than this old coot.
“If it ever gets infected—” the man whined.
Sam T. tossed down a dollar for the fee and headed for the office door. He had all the sorry advice he needed. When he reached the base of the stairs, someone stepped from the shadows between the buildings.
“Sam T.?”
His heart quieted down when he realized it was Jesus. Without his gun hand, he considered himself defenseless. He straightened, looked around and the two of them moved back in the darkness between the two buildings to where they could watch the street and talk privately.
“I heard from the marshal that you were over here,” Jesus said. “I was going to try to find you tomorrow if you didn’t come to town.”
Lawless Land Page 23
