Kid Calhoun

by Joan Johnston

  “Hurry up!” Rankin said.

  Sam had both hands on the ties of the money belt when he looked up at the outlaw who had shouted at him to hurry. His eyes widened in recognition. At almost the same moment, Sam realized that the outlaw knew he had been identified. Before Sam could speak he saw movement out of the corner of his eye.

  The tinhorn was reaching for his gun.

  Sam lowered his raised right hand to grab for the tinhorn’s wrist, to stop his foolhardy move. He only had time to shout “No!” before two gunshots exploded.

  Anabeth saw the whole sequence of events as though it were happening in slow motion. As the Easterner’s hand slipped inside his coat, she saw the rancher grab for the man’s hand to stop him. She was unprepared for what happened next.

  Wat Rankin had calmly, mercilessly, shot both men.

  The tinhorn fell dead, a bullet between the eyes, the pitiful derringer lying exposed half in and half out of the striped satin vest pocket from which he had begun to pull it. The rancher didn’t fall right away, but Anabeth was horrified at how quickly the splash of red grew on his chest. A moment later, he crumpled to the ground.

  Anabeth was off her horse before she knew what she was doing. Chaos had erupted among the outlaws, a cacophony of shouting and yelling that made it sound like the world was coming to an end. Anabeth fell to her knees beside the rancher and lifted his head into her lap. Chandler wasn’t dead, and his lips moved as though he were trying to speak.

  “Please don’t die,” she begged. “Please don’t die.”

  She was having trouble breathing and pulled the bandanna down off her face so she could suck air. Chandler’s grasp on her sleeve surprised and horrified her. He was trying to pull her down toward him. At first she resisted, but soon realized through her haze of grief and regret that he could only speak in a whisper. If she was going to hear his last words she would have to lean down and put her ear near his mouth.

  “Stupid,” he muttered.

  She couldn’t believe what she had heard. “What?”

  “Stupid to try and save that idiot.”

  Chandler’s eyes sank closed, and Anabeth was afraid he was dead. But his mouth began to move again, and she leaned closer so she could hear.

  His last words were no more than a whisper. “I love you, Claire. I’m sorry. So sorry about … Jeff.”

  Anabeth’s throat constricted as she heard Sam Chandler’s dying words. Her stomach turned as she realized the enormity of what had happened here. A man had died in her arms, calling to his loved ones with his last breath. Who was Claire? Who was Jeff? It was appalling to think that this man had a family somewhere who would never know that his last thoughts had been of them.

  “Son of a bitch!” she swore. “Dammit to hell! Damn! Oh damn! This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

  She looked up and met her uncle’s eyes, now full of regret—and anger. Her own eyes narrowed as they slid to Wat Rankin. He didn’t look the least bit repentant.

  Anabeth carefully laid Sam Chandler’s head down on the ground and stood to confront the man who was the cause of this tragedy.

  Wat Rankin.

  She had known he was up to no good. Now look what had happened! But she didn’t have to flay the man with words. Booth was already doing it for her.

  “Damn you, Wat!” Booth said through gritted teeth. “I told you no killing!”

  “Was I supposed to let myself get shot by some greenhorn?” Wat demanded. “He was goin’ for his gun—”

  Booth snorted. “He was a tinhorn with a broken arm. You could have taken that toy gun away from him before he had a chance to use it. There was no need for killing.”

  “Figured I was facin’ harp music if I didn’t do somethin’. You don’t like it, too damn bad.”

  Booth clenched his teeth at Rankin’s lack of remorse for the killing or regret for flouting orders. He turned to the Mexican on the horse to his left and said, “Get the money belt.”

  Wat jerked his head in the direction of the shotgun rider, the only person left alive of the four men who had been on the stagecoach. “What about him?”

  “Tie him up,” Booth told Reed, who was guarding the man.

  “You leave him alive, and we’ll end up garglin’ on rope,” Wat snarled.

  “Our faces are covered,” Booth said. “There’s no way he can identify us.”

  “You just called me by name,” Wat countered. “And in case you haven’t noticed, the Kid ain’t wearin’ his bandanna.”

  Anabeth saw the shotgun rider looking right at her. Knowing the damage was already done, she pulled the bandanna back up anyway. Now, unless the man who had seen her was killed, there was finally someone who could identify one of the Calhoun Gang. If they caught her, it might very well lead them to Booth and the rest of the gang. But she couldn’t justify shooting a man to ensure her own safety.

  “Please, Booth,” she said. “No more killing.”

  “Tie him up!” Booth snapped.

  Reed looked from Booth to Wat and back again, apparently undecided about whom to obey. “But—”

  “I’m giving the orders around here,” Booth said, “and—”

  “That can be changed,” Wat muttered.

  Every man-jack of them froze at Wat’s open defiance.

  Anabeth saw the way the outlaws looked from Booth to Wat, saw the ugly faces they made. They weren’t happy with Booth’s decision and appeared to side with Wat. At first she thought the gang might confront Booth here and now. But he stared them down, one at a time, like a lion tamer in a cage full of less intelligent, though vicious, beasts.

  “I said there’ll be no more killing,” Booth said in a voice that could have cut glass. He stared until Reed began to sling rope around the shotgun rider’s hands.

  Booth didn’t have time to say more before Solano was handing him the belt full of gold dust.

  “Mucho dinero, señor,” the Mexican said.

  “Looks like your friend was right about Chandler carrying a lot of gold,” Booth grudgingly conceded to Rankin. “Let’s get out of here. We’ll meet at the hideout.”

  “Hold on!” Wat said. “You takin’ all that gold with you?”

  “That’s the way I run things,” Booth replied in a hard voice. “If you don’t like it—you’re free to ride.”

  “You bastard. Who said you—”

  Anabeth took a step toward Rankin. “Watch who you’re calling a bastard, mister.”

  “Shut up, Kid!” Rankin snapped.

  “You’re an idiot and a fool!” Anabeth retorted.

  Without warning, Rankin’s fist swung out and caught Anabeth on the jaw. She went flying backward and landed in the dirt. There was a moment of stunned silence as the gang registered what had happened.

  An instant later Booth’s fist had connected with Rankin’s chin, and the newest member of the gang joined Anabeth on the ground. Booth stayed on his horse, his hand poised near his gun. “Just move an inch,” Booth said to Rankin. “Give me an excuse to kill you.”

  Rankin stayed frozen where he was, a scowl of heroic proportions on his face.

  “Are you all right, Kid?” Booth asked.

  Anabeth’s jaw felt like it was going to fall off, and she was still groggy as she pushed herself upright. “I’m fine.”

  “Get on your horse, Kid,” Booth said. “We’re getting out of here.”

  “What about the gold?” Rankin said. He started to stand, but Booth pinned him with a look that threatened murder.

  “I’ll meet you at the hideout next week like I promised. Are you ready, Kid?”

  “I’m ready.”

  Booth kicked his big roan into a gallop and Anabeth quickly followed on her dun, leaving the other outlaws behind.

  “Come, señor,” Solano urged as he put a hand down to help Wat stand. “It is time to leave this place.”

  “Not quite yet,” Wat said. He stalked over to where the shotgun rider was lying on the ground hog-tied. He pulled his gun and shot
the man in the stomach, a wound guaranteed to result in a horrid, lingering death. “Now we can go!”

  Solano raised an eyebrow, but neither he nor any of the rest of the gang protested what the outlaw had done. Wat Rankin was surely loco. Yet he was the one who had known about the gold dust. And he was promising even greater riches—a bigger share of the loot than they had been allowed in the past—if only they were willing to kill Booth Calhoun.

  It was something Solano was seriously considering, along with the rest of the gang.

  The plan was for the gang to ride in seven different directions that all converged in Santa Fe, so that no posse would be able to track them down. Then they would meet in a week at the old line shack to divide up the spoils.

  “Before you leave,” Wat said, “I want to know whether you’re ready to admit that Booth Calhoun has to go.”

  “We been ridin’ with him a lotta years,” Whiskey said.

  “And where are you now?” Rankin demanded. “When I caught up to you, you were all playing cards for the money to buy whiskey. You hadn’t done a job in six months. If it hadn’t been for my information you wouldn’t have even known to rob this stage.”

  “Why do we have to kill him?” Snake demanded.

  “Because it’s the only way to make sure he doesn’t get in the way later,” Rankin said. “Either I’m leadin’ this gang, or I’m not. So what’s it gonna be?”

  “When you wanta do it?” Reed asked.

  Rankin smiled his ghoulish smile. “Next week. When he brings the gold.” He rubbed his jaw and said, “We get rid of the Kid at the same time. That way, there’s two less ways to split the take. Are we agreed?”

  One by one Rankin made eye contact with Booth’s gang. One by one they nodded their heads, like bells tolling a death knell.

  When the outlaws had ridden away, Rankin kicked his horse and set off at a trot toward Old Horse Springs. Things were working out just as he had planned. It had been so easy to turn the gang against their leader. But then, he understood greed and ruthlessness. He was greedy and ruthless himself.

  Wat intended to use the Calhoun Gang for his own purposes, but as far as he was concerned, they were all expendable. After all, he didn’t want anyone around later who could testify to the fact that the outlaw, Wat Rankin, and that respectable citizen and good neighbor, Will Reardon, were one and the same man.

  3

  Booth hadn’t a thought to spare for the gang. His first concern as he and Anabeth galloped away was to make sure they weren’t being followed. He had kept Treasure Valley a secret because he needed a place where Anabeth would be safe in her female guise. So he doubled back and sent their horses over the black lava beds known as malpais, where there would be no sign of their passing, before he headed for the valley again.

  But his thoughts weren’t really focused on hiding their trail. He was too busy worrying about what to do with Anabeth now that the gang had ended up killing two passengers, while leaving a witness alive to identify her—albeit as the boy, Kid Calhoun.

  It changed everything.

  The law would be after them now, and there would be no rest for any of them. Maybe the time had come at last to consider that ranch in Colorado Anabeth was always dreaming about.

  By the time they rode down the cool, dark tunnel that led into Treasure Valley, Booth’s mind was made up. Their days with the Calhoun Gang were at an end. With the gold from this holdup he and Anabeth could start over again. He might even stop by Santa Fe on the way to Colorado to see if Sierra wanted to come along. But first he had a score to settle with Wat Rankin.

  As they rode out of the tunnel and into the valley Booth was momentarily blinded by the sun. As his vision returned he saw the stone house that he and his brother had built thirteen years ago. It was backed up against a fifty-foot-high cliff. Behind the house was a cave large enough to hold several horses. A seep in the cave provided a fresh water supply that could be reached without the necessity of being exposed to gunfire from anywhere in the valley.

  Beyond the house, on the valley floor, Anabeth’s wild mustangs stood knee-deep in lush grass. A stream that began under the rock wall on one side of the valley ended in a pond on the other side. It was the perfect hideout for an outlaw. He was going to miss it.

  “I’m sorry, Booth. I should have paid more attention to what I was doing. I wasn’t even aware of pulling my bandanna down like that.”

  Booth stepped off his horse and tied it at the hitching rail in front of the house. “It’s done now.”

  Anabeth dismounted beside him. “And I should have kept my mouth shut around Rankin.”

  Booth’s eyes were bleak as he reached out and cupped her jaw, which was already turning black and blue. “I don’t think I realized before today just what kind of chances you’ve been taking all along. What if your hat had come off when Rankin hit you, Kid? What if the rest of them had found out you’re a girl?”

  “They didn’t.”

  “Because you were lucky!”

  “I know I should have cut my hair when I started riding with the gang. But—” How could she explain that cutting off her hair would have been like cutting away the last of what made her female. She hadn’t been able to do it. Booth was right. It was sheer luck that she had managed to keep her secret for so long.

  “What happens now?” she asked. “I mean, now that I can be identified.” Anabeth had visions of being confined to the valley for the rest of her natural life.

  “We go to Colorado.”

  Anabeth’s eyes went wide. She was afraid to believe that her dream was finally coming true. “Really? No fooling, Booth?”

  Booth put a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t you want to go?”

  “Of course I do! Do you?”

  Booth grinned his charming grin. “Sure, Kid.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as I meet with the gang one last time.”

  Anabeth’s suspicions regarding Rankin were superseded by her excitement over the prospect of actually going to Colorado. She couldn’t stop talking about it. Booth seemed every bit as enthusiastic as she did. The only cloud on her horizon was the knowledge that she would never see Wolf again.

  That afternoon, she built a mound of stones on top of the cliffs that could be seen for miles, and which would alert Wolf that she wanted to talk to him. Two days later, while she was grooming her dun, he called out to her from where he was hiding along the stone cliffs.

  “Stalking Deer. I am here.”

  Anabeth located Wolf from the sound of his voice and left the animal she was brushing to join him. “I’m so glad you’ve come! I was afraid you wouldn’t get here before I had to leave for Colorado.”

  “You are leaving the valley?”

  Anabeth nodded vigorously. She reached out and clutched Wolf’s hands. “Booth has finally agreed to go to Colorado. We’re going to have a ranch there. I won’t be an outlaw anymore. We’ll live like normal people, have friends and go to parties. I’ll get to wear dresses and be a lady at last!”

  “I do not want you to go,” Wolf said.

  Anabeth’s joy was cut short by the harshness of Wolf’s voice. “I have to go,” she said. “There’s a man who can identify me as one of the outlaws who robbed the stage. Some men were killed, and the law will be after me now. I don’t have any choice.”

  “You can come live with me in my village.”

  She raised a disbelieving brow. “As your friend?”

  “As my wife.”

  “I can’t—I don’t—No, Wolf. It would never work.”

  “Why not?”

  Anabeth was blunt. “I don’t wish to be your wife.”

  Wolf’s lids lowered to hood his eyes so Anabeth couldn’t see his reaction there to her rejection of his proposal. But his hands tightened painfully on hers.

  “I won’t ever forget you, Wolf. Not ever. You’re the best friend I’ll ever have.”

  Wolf stood there stoically while the one person who had ever truly value
d him as a person explained why she could no longer be a part of his life. What flashed through his mind was their first meeting thirteen years ago. It was the day he had fought Growling Bear for the first time.

  The two Apache youths had writhed on the ground, their sweaty flesh collecting a fine layer of dust, with first one, and then the other on top. Locked in mortal combat, they had gouged and kicked and bit each other in a battle that had no civilized rules. The five Apache boys surrounding the combatants had shouted guttural incantations, urging their favorite on to victory.

  “Ho, Growling Bear!”

  “He is yours, Growling Bear!”

  “Use your teeth, Growling Bear!”

  None were there to call Wolf’s name. To give him encouragement. To hope he would win.

  But Wolf had not spent fourteen years as an outcast among his own people without acquiring a hard shell that protected him from such slights and snubs. He did not need the cheers of others to urge him on. He looked inward and found the strength to conquer his foe.

  It soon became apparent that Growling Bear, though two years older and both taller and heavier than his rival, was having the worst of it. Wolf was stronger, more agile, more fleet of foot. The crowd surrounding the two adversaries was stunned into silence when Wolf pinned Growling Bear. His wiry forearm sliced across the older boy’s throat, in position to choke the life from him.

  The two youths glared at each other, their teeth bared, their breathing ragged, their bodies bloodied with scrapes and scratches, bruised by their struggle on the rocky ground.

  “Take it back,” Wolf demanded.

  “I will not! You are a brother to Coyote.”

  Wolf’s breath hissed in sharply at this repeated insult. He cut off the other boy’s air and watched with merciless black eyes as Growling Bear began to turn blue. Nor did Wolf release his hold when the older boy’s body began to thrash in death throes beneath him.

  Abruptly, Wolf was grabbed by the shoulders and yanked off the other boy. “Hold! What are you doing there?”

  Wolf backed away, his face feral in its wildness, his body poised for defense.