Tucker watched the blows, timing them, and . . . moved his head just as Jess swung hard. The blow whizzed past Tucker’s ear, and Jess’s fist hit the floor. Knuckles broke, and Jess hollered in pain. He reared back to hit Tucker again when Tucker brought his knee up and rammed it into Jess’s groin. The air whooshed out of him, and he dropped to the floor. He clutched his crotch and writhed in pain.
Tucker struggled to his feet and accepted another drink, glad the fight was over . . . when Jess stood on teetering legs. One eye had swollen shut, and his nose lay flattened off to one side. He bellowed like an old bull stuck in a mud wallow and charged. His arms pinwheeled the air, and Tucker sidestepped to Jess’s blind side. When he staggered past, Tucker set himself and swung hard. The blow caught Jess flush on the temple, and his momentum carried him for two more steps before he crumpled to the floor. His head hit a chair, and he came to rest face up, unconscious.
The crowd grew silent for a moment, then cheers reverberated inside the saloon. Cowboys gathered around Tucker. They patted him on the back and thrust all manner of beer and rotgut at him, wiping blood off his face with their multi-colored bandanas. Through the crowd, Tucker ducked and looked around. He spotted Philo elbowing his way through the drunks toward the door. One hand rested on his covered gun, the other ready to pull his coat aside for a fast shot.
“The law’s here!” Tucker shouted.
The cowboys paused.
“Over there,” Tucker pointed. “The fat man in the gray duster’s a deputy marshal.”
Cowboys grabbed Philo, and Tucker’s gun fell from his waistband. Hands prodded Philo, pulling back his vest and revealing his tin star. Like crazed dogs, they turned angry at a lawman invading their sanctuary. Philo struggled against the crowd that closed in tighter by the moment.
While the rowdies busied themselves with Philo, Tucker bent and grabbed his gun. He stuck it in his holster still draped over the chair and backed away. He strapped the gun on as he made his way toward the back door. Just before he escaped the saloon, he looked over his shoulder at Philo being kicked and beaten, and at Jess, still unconscious on the floor.
Tucker staggered into the cool night air and began running toward the livery. If Blue Boy were still in town, he would be there or at the mercantile; guns and horses were all that would interest him here. Besides, Tucker was in no shape to brave the other saloons looking for him.
He reached the end of the alley and started between the Last Chance and the livery stable when a voice behind him called his name. He froze.
“Tucker Ashley,” the voice called once more. No emotion, only a still coldness that Tucker long ago learned belonged to those comfortable with killing. “Turn around, Ashley.”
Tucker turned around to meet his challenger. He recognized the kid, from his fancy pointed boots to his hat that was a size too big for his small head. Con Leigh stood with his feet apart, one hand touching his low-slung holster, the other hand resting on a gun in a concealed shoulder holster. “Been waiting a mighty long time for this.” He smiled.
CHAPTER 20
* * *
Red Sun added another thick piece of sage brush to the fire. “If Tucker goes to Cowtown, he might not make it out.”
“Especially if Philo sees him.” Aurand grabbed his saddle blanket and shook the dust out before setting it on his horse. “He is still mad that Tucker made a fool out of him.”
“Where you going?” Red asked as he sat contented on a rock sipping coffee. “Not into Cowtown, I hope.”
“Got to get to Philo. That damned fool might just try on Tucker himself without waiting for me.”
“Philo will be all right. He’s got Jess there with him.”
Aurand laid the front and rear cinches out of the way. “Philo would if he managed to get around to back-shoot Tucker, he’d be dead.” Aurand moved the breast collar and stirrups away. “And Jess is pretty good with a six-gun, but he’s no Tucker Ashley. Then if there’s Jack Worman watching his back . . .”
“I told you Jack and him split up.”
“All the more reason to get into Cowtown.” Aurand fed the latigo through the front cinch ring and tied a Texas T to hold the saddle in place.
“Sit a moment,” Red said.
“Don’t have time.”
“A few minutes more won’t hurt none.”
Aurand sat and poured the last of the coffee into his cup.
“When I was a youngster our band winter-camped at the base of the Shining Mountains.” Red laid twigs on the fire. “There hung at the higher tree line this mule deer with the most amazing rack you ever seen. I wanted that buck so bad, I could taste him roasting over the fire. And I wanted to kill him before some travelling Nez Perce did.”
“There a point to this story?”
“I’m getting to it.” Red spat a stream of tobacco juice five feet, and it splattered atop a rock. “What I’m getting at is, I stalked that buck winter and summer. Just when I thought I had him figured out, he threw me a curve, and I would not see him for months.” Red downed the last of his coffee. “And that is the point of my story.”
“That you never bagged the buck?”
“Oh, I bagged him all right, after several years of hunting him. The older he got, the cagier he got. My point is that he was a lot like Tucker and you: just when you think you have him figured out, he will do something unexpected.”
Aurand slipped the cup into his saddlebags and stroked the muzzle of his grulla. “I got him figured out enough that I’ll find him.”
“That buck,” Red said, standing and tying his bedroll across his saddle, “never tried hurting me. He wasn’t Tucker Ashley. You find that man, you watch your back side, ’cause he will do the unexpected.”
Aurand gathered the reins in his hand and swung into the saddle. He started for the hill leading down to Cowtown when Red whistled. “One more little thing: that young kid—Con Leigh—you got deputying for you . . .”
“What about him?”
“I was sitting the mare out there in the dark watching your camp when I seen Con ride out by his lonesome.”
“Is that important?”
Red Shrugged. “Only if you don’t want all your deputies in Cowtown at once. ’Cause that’s where the kid went, too. And if I was a betting Indian, I would wager he’ll run in to Tucker sooner or later.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Aurand dug his spurs into the gelding’s flank.
“You better hurry afore Con finds Tucker,” Red yelled after him.
CHAPTER 21
* * *
Lorna awakened to the sound of an approaching horse. She sat up and drew the elk-skin robe around her as if protection from the unknown. Jimmy Swallow, who never seemed to need sleep, stood from where he sat beside the fire. Wild Wind approached Swallow and spoke something in Lakota. They broke up, and Swallow ran for the safety of a large boulder as he notched an arrow on his bowstring. Wild Wind cocked his rifle and lay down behind a clump of sage brush just outside the light of the campfire.
The pony came into view. At first Lorna thought it riderless, until light from the campfire threw odd shadows over it. She jumped in horror as she recognized the dead man tied over the horse with strips of rawhide. His head bounced against the pony’s side with every step. Swallow ran from the boulder as the pony galloped into camp. He grabbed the reins, and the horse reared its head back against the horsehair bridle. He spoke soothingly, and the animal looked at Swallow with a wild-eyed stare.
Wild Wind laid his rifle on the ground and ran to the body laid over the pony’s back. He held his head up: Pawnee Killer. Black blood caked onto his chest from a gaping hole, and a knife stuck out of his back. Wild Wind pulled the knife free, and Lorna gasped. The knife was no trade knife, but a quality brand sold only at her mercantile back home. Tucker had bought such a knife from his monthly army pay this spring. But then, they had sold many such knives. Had Tucker killed Pawnee Killer?
Lorna stepped back from the horse as s
he hugged herself. Pawnee Killer had looked upon her with a respect that transcended their language barrier. His voice never rose when he talked to Jimmy Swallow about her, and he never threw her a lewd look, as did Wild Wind. Although he was among those who kept her captive, she felt grief looking at the young man’s dead body.
Swallow and Wild Wind spoke for long moments before Wild Wind ran to his saddlebags on the ground beside his pony.
Lorna approached Swallow cautiously. She averted her eyes from Pawnee Killer, but she found herself peeking around Swallow to look. “He has been shot through,” Swallow said, anger in his voice for the first time since she had known him. “Those who follow have killed him.”
“And the other warrior who went with him?”
“Black Dog?” Swallow said. “I am certain he killed whoever killed Pawnee Killer.”
Lorna sucked in a breath. Tucker’s knife confirmed it was he following her and not Aurand or any of his deputies. How he’d escaped the jail, she could not imagine. What she did know was that Tucker would continue following them until he could rescue her. Unless he were already dead. “Where is Black Dog?”
Swallow cut the rawhide straps securing Pawnee Killer to the pony and eased him to the ground. He looked in the direction the pony had come from. “I do not know. But this is serious.”
Wild Wind returned, carrying a floppy, felt cowboy hat and handed it to Swallow.
“What is happening?” Lorna said.
Swallow gathered his hair and tucked it under the hat. Wild Wind spoke in Lakota, and Swallow turned to Lorna. “I need to go into Cowtown and find Blue Boy.”
“Why?”
Swallow nodded to Pawnee Killer. “That makes three of us dead in a short time. And He Who Follows may be near. We need Blue Boy. He will tell us what to do next.”
“Why do you have to go into town?” Lorna nodded to Wild Wind. “Why not him?”
Swallow fumbled around his saddlebags and came away with a red flannel shirt. “Someone has to go. And he told me to.”
Lorna looked at Wild Wind, who stared back with a look that chilled her. With Jimmy Swallow gone, she would be alone with Wild Wind. “Why not him?” she asked again. “Why doesn’t he go into Cowtown?”
Swallow brushed her hand off his arm. “Like Blue Boy, I can pass for a wasicu. And I speak your language.”
He buttoned the shirt while he looked around a final time. He grabbed his bow and quiver and started for his pony. Lorna ran after him and grabbed his arm again. “Don’t go.”
He shrugged her hand off. “I have to.”
“But your pony, your bow . . . people will see they belong to a Lakota.”
“I will tether him at the outskirts of town and leave my bow and quiver there as well. I will walk the rest of the way into Cowtown.”
“Please, don’t go.”
Swallow faced Lorna and eased her hand away from his arm. “Wild Wind will take good care of you, and Black Dog is sure to ride in any moment. I will be back with Blue Boy soon. Then we can leave this place.”
Swallow swung into the saddle in one smooth motion. Before Lorna could let out a fearful breath, he had ridden into the night.
Lorna returned to the fire while she kept Wild Wind in her peripheral vision. She piled branches onto the fire. It flared up and popped when the tree sap burned, and she drew the elk-skin robe tight around her. She watched Wild Wind circle the fire before dragging Pawnee Killer to the outskirts of the camp. He spoke something in Lakota and grinned at her. She ignored him and bent to the fire as if the flames would protect her. She looked casually around for anything she could use for a weapon. Could she wield a rock with enough force to protect herself? Or a brittle tree branch? There was nothing, and she would have given half her mercantile for Tucker’s knife, now stuck in Wild Wind’s sash.
He walked to a clump of sage brush and broke off a branch. He sauntered back to the fire and stood across from her, the flames causing his grin to look even more malevolent than usual. He spoke to her, but she ignored him. He spoke in Lakota again, as if she should understand what he said, and she looked away. He yelled at her and slapped his leg with the switch. When Lorna failed to respond, he stepped around the campfire toward her.
Lorna looked frantically around the camp, but there was nothing to use as a weapon, nothing that might slow Wild Wind down.
He walked to within an arm’s length of her and used the branch to raise the bottom of her robe. She skidded back and wrapped it tighter around her. Wild Wind yelled. He snatched the robe off her and threw it aside.
Again he grunted in Lakota and rubbed the inside of her thigh with the switch. For the first time, Lorna was grateful she wore Swallow’s buckskins and not her dress. Her fortune was short-lived, as Wild Wind rubbed her thigh again. When she slapped the switch away he pushed her to the ground. She backpedaled in the dirt, trying to get away from him, but he advanced on her. A guttural sound erupted from his throat, and he threw himself on top of her. “Get off me!” But Wild Wind was like a wild wind, untamable.
She buried her nails in his cheek. He yelled in pain. He sat up, and his hand went to his bleeding face. Lorna skidded away from him, but he slapped her hard across the face. Her head hit the ground as he threw himself on top of her again. His hand clawed at the top of her pants. The drawstring broke away in his grasp. She struggled. Hit him on the back. The neck. But there was no slowing his lust as he worked the trousers down her bare thighs.
A whooshing in the night overshadowed his lustful grunts and Lorna’s fearful screams. A thud caused Wild Wind to stop. He rose off her and stiffened, a perplexed look crossing his face, when another whooshing sound accompanied another thud. His face contorted in pain, and he tried to speak, but frothy blood leaked out of his mouth, over his shirtfront and onto Lorna’s thighs a heartbeat before he collapsed on top of her. Twin arrows stuck out of his back.
Jimmy Swallow walked out of the shadows and approached them. He shook his head and laid his bow on the ground beside the dead warrior. He grabbed Wild Wind and pulled him off Lorna. Even away from the light of the fire, she saw Swallow blush when he looked upon her nakedness. He turned around abruptly. “Cover yourself.”
Lorna trembled. Swallow had saved her from disaster by mere moments. Her hand shook as she pulled the pants up and fumbled for the rawhide drawstring. She tied it tight, as if she expected Wild Wind to come back for another try. “I am dressed,” she said, a plain statement to the man—more like a mere boy—who had saved her from the horrors she had heard happened to captives of Indians.
Swallow turned around and bent to her. She jerked back, but he seemed not to notice as he wrapped the robe around her shoulders. “You saved me. My life, even. He would have . . .”
Swallow put his finger to his quivering lips as he looked a last time at Wild Wind’s corpse before adding wood to the fire. He sat cross-legged on the ground and stared silently into the flames for many minutes before turning to face her. “I should have asked: are you hurt?”
“I am fine,” Lorna answered. “Thanks to you. How did you know . . . ?”
“For many days now,” Swallow began, “I have seen how Wild Wind looked at you when Blue Boy was not around.”
“But he forgot about you watching him?”
Swallow nodded. “I am sure he cared little what I saw—him a seasoned warrior, while I am but a . . . boy. I was fearful tonight what might happen if I left you alone with him. So I doubled back and hid in the dark.”
Lorna leaned over and laid her hand on Swallow’s arm. “You are more man than anyone else in your band.”
Tears wet his eyes, and he looked away. “I have counted coup before, but Wild Wind is the first man I have had to kill.” He shook his head. “His death will be looked on with dishonor around campfires at night.”
“For saving the life of your leader’s . . . woman?”
Jimmy Swallow looked off into the distance as if he could see Cowtown several miles away. “Blue Boy is down th
ere, and I fear for him. He has been gone so long.” He chin-pointed to Pawnee Killer’s body lying off to one side of the camp. “And He Who Follows has killed another one of us.”
“Perhaps it is best if I am left to go my own way.”
Swallow looked at Lorna with a sadness she couldn’t understand. “Perhaps. But it will be Blue Boy’s decision what we are to do with you. It is up to him. And to He Who Follows.”
CHAPTER 22
* * *
“Been waiting for this a long time,” Con Leigh said. “Aurand’s not around to stop me.”
“And if he were?”
“Then I’d kill him first.” Con smiled. “But he’s not. It’s just you and me.”
“Here, with no one to witness it?” Tucker began to back away, creating distance. Most fast guns he’d encountered were good for a short distance, where they relied on speed, not accuracy, preferring the closeness of the kill, the look of their opponent’s eyes as they pumped lead into him. “You’d be a big man if folks knew you killed me in a fair fight.”
Con’s voice broke with the intensity of what he was about to do. “Folks will know it soon enough, witness or not. What is important is there’ll be no Tucker Ashley after tonight.”
Tucker talked, stalling, inching backwards, working feeling back into his bloody hands, which had begun to stiffen. “Isn’t one dead man enough for one night?”
“That cowboy in front of the saloon?” Con chuckled. “Just another man who thought he was fast.”
“Way folks tell it in the saloon, you goaded some trail hand drunker’n hell into a fight. Even sober, he wouldn’t have stood a chance. You’re some big man, aren’t you?”
“I’ve about jawed all I intend to,” Con said. “Time to get this over with.”
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