by Jeff Guinn
McLendon sighed. “I don’t think that’s possible, at least for the present. Maybe in time he’ll feel different, but for now, the wound’s too fresh. Let him be.”
“I won’t be dissuaded.”
“I know. I’ll say this on Joe’s behalf—don’t hold against him any hard words he might offer. They’ll come from his hurt, not his heart.”
—
THOUGH THE HOTEL COOK prepared succulent venison steaks for dinner at the staff table in the kitchen, Gabrielle only picked at her food. When Mulkins asked if she and McLendon would join him for postprandial drinks at the Ritz, she replied that only Cash would, at least initially.
“I have some other business, but may appear after a while,” Gabrielle said. She excused herself and left the kitchen.
“More packing, shopping, or perhaps pre-bridal nerves?” Mulkins asked McLendon.
“Worse than that. She’s going to try and make things right with Joe Saint.”
“That’s a mistake. And you’re letting her?”
“Nobody stops Gabrielle when she’s determined.”
Mulkins speared a last bite of venison with his fork. “Well, then, I’d best get you fortified with good bourbon. She’s not likely to be in the best of moods when she returns.”
—
BEFORE LEAVING, Gabrielle went upstairs to check on her father. Salvatore Tirrito was already asleep, snoring softly. One corner of his open mouth was wet; Gabrielle gently wiped the saliva away with a small towel. Then she changed into her gray church dress, something more formal than a workday frock. It seemed important to look her best.
When she stepped into the street, Gabrielle discovered that the wind was blowing hard. There were clouds overhead, thick rather than the usual thready tufts dotting the late-summer night sky. Rain seemed possible. She considered returning to her room for a bonnet, but didn’t. She was very nervous—if she delayed any longer she might not go at all. As she walked, her hair whipped into tangles, very unbecoming. Well, Joe had seen her disheveled many times before.
The street leading to Saint’s home was particularly narrow, and behind it was open land. Though it was too dark to see more than a few feet ahead, Gabrielle knew tumbleweeds were flying across the outlying sand. She could hear faint crunches as they ricocheted off rocks and cacti. There were occasional howls from coyotes, and some owl hoots in near harmony. In spite of the blowing dust, the scent of sage hung in the air. Nighttime in the desert—it would be quite different in San Francisco.
There was light behind Saint’s curtained windows. At least he was home. Gabrielle took a breath and knocked on the door. There was no response. She knocked again, harder. A crash came from inside, the sound of a chair falling over. Then Saint yanked the door open and Gabrielle smelled the whiskey on his breath.
“You’re drunk, Joe,” she blurted.
Saint’s eyes widened as they struggled to focus. “What of it?” he slurred. “None of your damned business anymore.”
“You shouldn’t be like this. Let me come in. I’ll make you coffee.”
Saint shook his head so hard that his glasses nearly flew off. “You’re not coming in. I don’t want you here.”
Gabrielle was dismayed. She’d never seen Saint in this condition. “Let me in,” she said again. “We can talk. Drinking won’t help, Joe.”
Saint emitted a loud, guttural belch, a transgression he would never have committed in any woman’s presence if sober.
“It’s helping a lot. Go away. Go to San Fra—” His tongue couldn’t handle the next sibilant syllables. “All right, go to California. Anywhere. Jus’ go.”
“I’m not leaving until you listen to me.”
Saint straightened in the doorway. With great effort, he said, “No need t’say anything. Once y’tole him to come on here, I never had a chance. Y’knew what you’d do.”
“I didn’t, I swear—”
“You always loved him, not me. Ever’thin’ you said in Glorious, love me f’ever, none of it true.”
Gabrielle reached for his arm, but Saint knocked her hand away. “That’s not true, Joe. It’s just that everything changed and I—”
“Enough!” Saint bellowed. “Go away. Go t’California. Go t’hell.” He slammed the door in her face.
Gabrielle wept. She stood in front of the door for several moments, hoping Saint would come back and open it. But he didn’t, and behind the door she heard things being thrown, guessing from the thumps that books, Joe Saint’s beloved books, were being tossed against walls. In his drunken rage, might he injure himself? Should she summon Sheriff Hove? No, that would only humiliate Joe more.
Wiping away tears, Gabrielle turned and began walking back down the narrow street. The wind blew dust in her eyes, further diminishing her vision. Gabrielle found herself wishing it would pour rain; maybe a deluge would wash away all the guilt she felt. Mountain View’s main streets loomed fifty yards ahead. She had to stop crying before she reached them. Otherwise people would see, and Gabrielle’s pride could never permit that. No, she’d stop crying now, enough of this, and then a huge arm wrapped around her from behind, a massive hand clapped over her mouth, and a deep voice hissed in her ear, “Not a sound, miss, or you die.”
—
MCLENDON AND MAJOR MULKINS had several drinks at the Ritz. Mac Fielding came by their table and asked McLendon for permission to print “the happy news of your betrothal.” McLendon didn’t think that it could hurt. Perhaps Gabrielle would be pleased. But then he realized she’d hate the idea because reading about them in the paper might hurt Joe Saint. Always this terrible concern for Joe Saint’s feelings. McLendon understood and felt resentful at the same time.
“Sorry, Mr. Fielding. I believe we’ll pass on that,” McLendon said.
The newspaperman was aggrieved. “You misunderstand a free press,” he said. “I don’t need your go-ahead. I just might write the story anyway.”
“Do what you need to,” McLendon said. If Fielding did and Saint was bothered, at least Gabrielle couldn’t blame him.
Sheriff Hove came in to the saloon just after ten p.m. as part of his evening rounds. “Just the two of you tonight?” he asked Mulkins and McLendon. “I hope Miss Gabrielle’s not under the weather?”
“Just occupied with last-minute things before our Friday departure,” McLendon said. “Are all the arrangements made for Mayor Camp’s interment?”
“Orville Hancock himself will deliver the eulogy,” the sheriff said. “He and Mrs. Hancock will host a gathering in their home afterward, since the late mayor had no family in town. You’ll attend, of course?”
After the sheriff departed, McLendon and Mulkins drank a little more. Because they’d each downed three bourbons, they switched to beer.
“Getting late,” Mulkins said. “Do you think Gabrielle might still be joining us?”
McLendon checked his pocket watch: twenty after ten. “Probably not. Her intention was to talk things out with Joe Saint, and you know Gabrielle. She’ll take as long as necessary. If Joe agreed to the conversation, as he must have done since she’s been absent so long, I suspect they’ll be at it for hours yet.”
“He might forgive her, but never you,” Mulkins said.
“I can’t blame him. Well, one more beer, and then let’s head back to the White Horse. If Gabrielle’s not there, I may as well go to bed myself. You and I both need some rest for the funeral tomorrow, seeing as we’re pallbearers.”
When they returned to the hotel, the night desk clerk told McLendon that Gabrielle hadn’t yet returned.
“Yep, talking all night,” McLendon said to the Major, who nodded. The two men went up to the room they shared and went to sleep.
13
Besides panic, Gabrielle’s first sensation was that she was floating. Her abductor used the arm wrapped around her waist to carry rather than drag her; her fe
et dangled inches off the ground. She was not a small woman, but the arm lifting her never trembled from fatigue.
Gabrielle was borne to the desert side of the narrow street, back beyond the row of houses. Because she was gripped so tightly, she couldn’t twist to look at the man who had captured her. The dark night sky made it impossible to see much else. Then, ahead of them, there was a tiny flicker of light, and in a moment of clarity she knew it was a match, struck to provide a small guiding flame for an instant before a wind gust blew it out. Immediately, Gabrielle was set down.
“Walk,” said the man behind her. He twined his fingers in her curls, using the hair as a halter. She did her best to walk in the direction that the flame had been, ten yards, twenty, and then she first sensed, then saw, the shapes of animals, three horses and a mule. Another man was with them. He was careful to keep his back turned.
“Go on,” the man behind her said to him, and the one who’d been waiting went to one of the horses, mounted, and trotted off. Gabrielle’s hair was released. She stood stock-still and trembling; she’d never been so afraid.
“Turn around and look at me,” the man ordered, but Gabrielle was too terrified to move. A blow to the back of her head knocked her sprawling in the dirt. She lay there stunned, and then was yanked to her feet and turned so she had no choice but to see her captor. Gabrielle’s first impression frightened her even more. The clouds had blown away, but the person manhandling her was so massive that he blocked out the moon.
“That was merely a tap. Always do what I tell you, or there’s worse to follow.” The monster’s voice was pitched low. She could see now, looking just around him, the faint outline of the houses on Joe’s street perhaps a quarter mile away. The distance could have been a hundred miles. Her legs felt rubbery and she knew she could never reach them.
The man hit her again, high on her cheek this time, and she was knocked to her knees. He pulled her up and said, “Attend to me. The first rule is, you never speak, never utter a sound. Nod if you understand.”
Gabrielle’s head ached terribly, from shock as well as pain. In all her life, she’d never been struck before tonight. Her captor pulled back his arm for another blow, but before it was delivered she managed to nod.
“That’s better. I’ll have more to tell you later. For now, this is what you’ll do. You’ll mount the smaller of the two horses over there. You will ride directly at my side and make no attempt to escape. Your horse is small and slow, and you can’t outrun me on foot. Scream or otherwise try to call attention to us and you’ll die on the spot. Do you understand?”
She nodded.
“Do as I tell you, obey me at all times, and you’ll live. Now get on that horse.” He grasped Gabrielle tightly above her left elbow and propelled her toward the animal. When she reached the horse’s side he released her arm and she paused. The horse was saddled conventionally, stirrups dangling down. But Gabrielle wore a dress; she couldn’t mount without pulling the skirts up to her waist. Despite the peril in which she now found herself, lifelong modesty prevented her. The huge man understood and didn’t care. “Yank up your garment or I’ll rip it off,” he said. Gabrielle reached down with shaking hands and hoisted her dress. She wore a chemise and pantaloons underneath. The chemise had to come up too. The pantaloons were knee-length. Gabrielle reflected briefly that they might prevent her legs from chafing as she rode, and then thought that potential chafing was the least of her concerns. She put her foot in the stirrup and threw her right leg over the horse. Her dress billowed out in front and behind her. She pulled the material bunched in the front off to the side.
The big man mounted quickly; he reached over and took her horse’s reins. “We ride now,” he said. “Remember, not a sound. Don’t try to get away. There’s no escape.” Gabrielle swallowed hard because she knew that it was true.
They rode away from Mountain View. It was hard to tell in the dark, but Gabrielle thought they were headed south. What was that way? The Apache agency—surely they weren’t riding there. But what else? The mule was tethered to the big man’s saddle horn and following docilely along. It must be carrying supplies. A long ride, then? To what purpose?
Gabrielle was smart, but headache and panic made it hard for her to concentrate. She thought of Cash. When would he realize that she was gone? Would he come to save her? How would he know where to look? And then it came to her who her captor was—Brautigan, the killer from St. Louis. Her abduction must be part of a plan to get Cash. But then why were they riding away? Brautigan said that if she obeyed, she’d live—so there was hope. But what if she was to be used as bait to lure Cash?
They rode slowly, letting the horses sense and pick their way around occasional patches of cacti and rock piles. Gabrielle was exhausted from the tension. In spite of herself, she fell into a light doze and almost toppled off her horse. Brautigan caught her shoulder and said sharply, “Stay awake.” She did her best. After another hour it was easier because of pressure from her bladder. She needed badly to stop and relieve herself, but couldn’t ask because she’d been commanded not to speak. Gabrielle wondered whether it was better to risk another blow or to wet herself. She gritted her teeth and did her best to avoid either, thinking hard instead on ways she might escape. Her horse was a plodder, and Brautigan was right—she could never outrun her captor on foot. She didn’t doubt that he could kill her with a single blow if he chose to. She thought she remembered something else, and tried to peek from the corner of her eye without turning her still-hurting head—didn’t he have a Winchester in a scabbard dangling from his saddle, on the side of his horse away from her? Yes, she could hear the faint flapping of the scabbard on the horse’s flank. She couldn’t reach across Brautigan’s body to get at the weapon. He was too quick for that. But perhaps if they stopped . . .
The first faint pink streaks of dawn had just appeared to their left when Gabrielle carefully reached out with her left hand and tapped Brautigan’s arm. He asked, “You need relief?” She nodded emphatically. “All right.” He pulled the animals to a halt. They were crossing a valley. Brautigan dismounted. To Gabrielle’s disappointment, he immediately moved between their horses, placing the Winchester well out of reach. “Jump down,” he said.
Gabrielle clambered off her horse, hampered by falling skirts. She automatically reached up to touch her hair and felt a rat’s nest of knotted curls.
“Go on,” Brautigan said. “I’ll allow only a short delay.”
Gabrielle looked around for some bushes, or perhaps a large rock. But there was nothing—the ground was empty and flat in every direction.
“Do it here,” Brautigan commanded. She shook her head.
“Then you’ll hold it until you explode or you’ll piss all over the horse,” he said. Gabrielle knew he meant it. She walked a step away from him. “No farther,” Brautigan said. “Right there.”
Crimson with humiliation, Gabrielle gathered her skirts, pulled down her pantaloons, and squatted. She turned her face away from Brautigan, then couldn’t help looking over at him. He watched her impassively; she might have been a pet dog pausing on a walk. She stood and rearranged her clothes.
“Stop there a moment,” Brautigan said. He unbuttoned his pants and urinated, the stream splashing on the ground. It seemed to Gabrielle that he took a very long time. When he was done he said, “All right. Let’s be going. You can have some water first.”
Two canteens angled on straps from the packs on the mule. Brautigan went to get one. As he did, Gabrielle made her move. She darted to the big man’s horse and yanked the Winchester from its scabbard. She expected him to try to stop her, but he didn’t, watching her as incuriously as he had while she relieved herself.
“Stand back,” Gabrielle said. She hadn’t spoken since she’d first been taken and her voice cracked. “Get back away from me.”
“Put it down,” Brautigan said.
Gabrielle kept the rifle point
ed at him. The barrel shook a little because her hands felt fluttery, but she knew she could pull the trigger and get a bullet in him before he could possibly reach her. There were at least ten yards between them. “I’ll kill you. I mean it.”
Brautigan walked toward her, not hurrying. She’d never physically hurt anyone, certainly had never shot a man, but now she raised the rifle to her shoulder, and since he didn’t stop coming she pulled the trigger. There was a sharp click as the hammer fell on an empty chamber.
“It was never loaded,” Brautigan said. He reached out and yanked the rifle away from her. “I’ve no use for guns,” he added as he replaced the Winchester in its scabbard. Then he turned back to Gabrielle. “You spoke, and you tried to escape,” he said. “You were warned against both.”
Gabrielle shrieked. Her cry was lost in the vastness around them.
“You’re still of use, so I won’t kill you,” Brautigan said matter-of-factly. “But you need to be hurt somewhat, so that the lesson will take this time.” Then he beat Gabrielle, administering blows not to her head but to her body, pounding her kidneys and stomach and ribs. She fell often. Once she found herself prone and staring at Brautigan’s boots. The toes were tipped with steel, just as McLendon had described. She wondered if he’d kick her with them, but he didn’t. He used only his fists, and those were sufficient.
It seemed that the beating would never end, but finally Brautigan stood back. It took Gabrielle long moments to sit up. She hurt all over, but there was particularly sharp pain in her ribs. She guessed some were broken. Even in such agony, Gabrielle realized that the giant had only used a fraction of his strength. He’d pummeled her with the practiced control of a veteran torturer.
“Next time, worse,” Brautigan promised. “Get up. There’s still a long way to go. It’s light now, and we might see others. Should that happen, you stay in your saddle and behave normally, like a woman out riding with a friend. The slightest sign otherwise and I’ll kill whoever and also you. Then I’ll just get McLendon some other way. Now up on your horse.”
