Just beyond camp, twelve wagon-team mules were staked out to graze with two oxen, which she assumed were from her caravan and had been used to pull her wagon from the arroyo. In the event that the stampeding cattle turned back, she supposed she might ride one of the mules to safety, the only problem being that mules were often difficult to handle, their stubbornness compounded greatly if they’d never been broken to ride. But unlike practically everything else she had encountered thus far in this godforsaken territory, at least mules were something she knew about and could confidently handle, even if it meant having to ride one that bucked with far more enthusiasm than it walked. Papa and the other brethren had always used mules in the fields, so she had dealt with the creatures all of her life. The secret of handling them successfully was simply to be as stubborn and cantankerous as they were.
Hugging her waist and keeping her gaze fixed in the direction that Race Spencer had been heading, Rebecca took a few tentative steps away from her wagon to provide herself with a better view. Her legs still felt weak, she realized, whether from the ordeal she’d just endured or from not eating for so long, she wasn’t sure. Her line of vision blocked by another wagon, she angled right, craning her neck to watch for any sign of a new dust cloud. The only one she saw was receding, which told her the herd was most likely still heading away from camp.
A thumping sound drew her attention. She glanced over her shoulder to see a large, mottled brown hound standing next to a low-burning fire at the rear of what she surmised was the chuck wagon. An incurable dog lover, Rebecca turned and pressed cautiously closer, watching the creature for any sign of viciousness. The hound was so intent on whatever it was devouring that it scarcely seemed aware of her.
When she got within a few feet, the dog finally looked up, affording her a glimpse of what had to be the homeliest hound face she’d ever seen, the skin loose and wrinkled with drooling jowls that hung in long flaps at each side of its muzzle. Its sad-looking eyes were badly bloodshot, the lower lids sagging so that the red, inside tissue was exposed.
“Nice dog,” she said, bending forward and extending a hand. “You don’t bite, do you?”
The animal gave her a bored look and resumed eating, nudging an overturned pot with its nose, then thrusting its head inside. Hollow-sounding slurps and tinny thumps followed. Dropping to a crouch, Rebecca smiled slightly. It was silly of her, she supposed, but somehow, seeing the dog lent her a sense of continuity and well-being. Life did go on. Mr. Spencer was right; the sadness inside her wouldn’t remain an unbearable ache forever. The morning sunlight felt deliciously warm on her face and shoulders. Watching the hound reminded her that there were still sweet, wondrous things in the world to anticipate—newborn puppies, frolicking kittens, the perfume of spring wildflowers. Someday when the sadness lessened, she would laugh again and feel at peace.
Hugging her knees, Rebecca closed her eyes and took a deep breath, visions of her parents moving softly through her mind, her father’s kindly smile, her mother’s lovely blue eyes. That was how she should try to remember them, she realized—as they’d been in life, not as they’d been in those last few terrible moments. They would never have wanted her to dwell on that sort of ugliness, for it was contrary to all that they had believed and upheld. Violence. Rebecca’s father had never even disciplined her physically, nor had she ever seen him lift a hand to her mother. After living her whole life never seeing any sort of violence, then witnessing a rash of it at its very worst, she felt horribly vulnerable and afraid. If she let herself continue to think about it, she had no doubt the memories might drive her mad.
Lifting her lashes, Rebecca glanced over her shoulder to be sure no dust cloud had appeared on the horizon. Then she returned her gaze to the dog. It appeared to be eating chili, which had somehow gotten knocked from the fire and spilled. Her stomach, which hadn’t seen a morsel of food in over twenty-four hours, protested with hunger sounds at the smell of the meat sauce.
Evidently unsettled by her presence, the hound lifted its head, which now sported smears of chili sauce and beans, even on the long ears. Under other circumstances, Rebecca would have laughed, for the animal was nothing if not comical looking, a smashed bean at the center of its forehead adding a special touch.
Still feeling a bit shaky, she sighed and pushed to her feet. At her movement, the hound startled her with a low growl, hovering protectively over the chili pot, sauce smearing its muzzle.
“As hungry as I am, I don’t care to eat dirt with my dinner, so you can rest easy,” she told the dog, clucking her tongue. “Selfish thing. If I was of a mind to take some, you’ve more than enough to share. How much can one dog possibly eat?”
Jowls dripping foamy slobber flecked with chili sauce, the dog growled again. Afraid that the animal might be vicious after all, she decided the best course of action was to keep her gaze on the ground, ignoring him as she moved away. Silly creature. As if she were inclined to crawl about, rooting in the dirt for her dinner.
Just as she started to turn and leave, the dog surpassed its previous growls with a deep, rumbling snarl that raised the hair on her arms. A crawling sensation moved up the back of Rebecca’s neck, and she got the awful feeling that someone was staring at her. Her pulse skittered as she whirled to look behind her. Almost as if the hound sensed her sudden fear, it let loose with another blood-chilling growl and moved away from the fire to stand abreast of her.
No more than fifteen feet away stood four men, though to include them in the male gender was, in her estimation, an affront to the human race. They walked on two legs and wore the trappings of men, but there all comparison ended. The breeze shifted directions, carrying the smell of body filth to her, so malodorous and thick she could almost taste it.
“Well, now,” one said, cupping his crotch with a grimy hand to scratch himself as he spoke. “Ain’t you a fine swatch of calico?”
Rebecca’s feet felt rooted to the ground, and all she could do was stare. She’d never seen such filthy, evil-looking creatures in all her life. Shifty, bloodshot eyes. All of them sported long stubble on their jaws and chins, the coverage oddly thin and patchy, as if, like the plant life in this parched country, their beards had suffered for lack of nutrients and water. They put her in mind of mangy porcupines. Not that she’d ever seen any. But that was the best she could do to describe them.
Until Rebecca and the others in her caravan had departed from the Santa Fe Trail two days ago, they had traveled with a much larger wagon train, and during the journey, they had been told stories about men of this caliber. Desperadoes or border ruffians, they were sometimes called, bold and reckless outlaws who marauded, far and wide, killing anyone who dared to get in their way. Many of them from New Mexico, the desperadoes generally rode in large, ragtag gangs, she’d been told, most of the members of white descent, their main strength lying in sheer numbers rather than skill with weaponry. They were reputedly men without feeling or common decency, who knew no limits and revered nothing, be it secular or holy.
She saw that they’d left their horses at the edge of camp, a fair distance away, undoubtedly the better to sneak up on her. For what purpose, she had yet to determine, her only certainty being that it couldn’t be good.
Snarling again, the dog crouched slightly, its shoulder on a level with her knee. The fellow who had scratched himself moved his hand to his holstered revolver, his fingers curling loosely over the butt. Judging by his wary watchfulness, he meant to shoot the hound if it made a move toward them.
Realizing now that the animal hadn’t been growling at her, after all, but trying to alert her to danger, Rebecca touched a shaky hand to the top of its bony head, her gaze never leaving the men. They wore tan leather shirts and pants, the leg and arm seams trimmed with long fringe and silver conchae that flashed in the sunlight like mirrors.
Pictures moved through her head, and an awful dizzy sensation washed over her. Their clothing was the kind one might expect Indians to wear, only these garments bore a dis
tinct Spanish influence. Their pants fit snugly in the legs but flared widely at the ankle over ornately hand-tooled boots. Their close-fitting shirts, cut similar to jackets, had standing collars, epaulets, front shields and cuffs decorated with beaded trefoil and silver brads, which matched those on the bands of their tan hats. The overall effect was one of overdone flashiness, the motto of these men evidently being, the more garish the better.
Her dizziness increased as she studied their garments. Tan. She jerked her gaze back up to their faces, her legs going watery as snatches of memory returned to her and realization slowly dawned.
As if he sensed her mounting horror, the man who stood to the far left smiled at her. It was a cruel smile, calculated to terrify, his lips drawing back in a snarl to reveal dirty, yellow teeth with a nasty, dark brown substance caked between them. Greasy strings of collar-length, wavy blond hair framed his face—a face that she knew, in that moment, would haunt her for the rest of her life. Close-set, beady eyes, so pale a blue they were almost colorless. A beaklike nose and sharply cut, sun-baked features.
Fear slammed through her brain like a fist through glass. These men had taken part in the bloodbath at the arroyo. She knew it as surely as she breathed, even though she couldn’t recall their faces. She gasped and fell back a step, pressing a hand to her throat.
Tell me where the money is, old man, and I’ll leave your worn-out old woman alone!
The words rang in her mind, recalling images so awful that Rebecca couldn’t breathe for a moment. Fear washed over her in icy waves. More pictures flashed. Of a faceless monster, brutalizing her mother and laughing at her cries of pain. Of her father, holding up his Bible as though for protection and pleading for mercy. And then the blood. Everywhere, the blood.
Feeling as if a red haze filmed her vision, she could only stare as they slowly advanced toward her. The dog growled another warning, which they ignored. Of the four, the face of the leering blond drew her gaze most strongly. Had he been the man who killed her mother? She didn’t know, couldn’t remember. But it didn’t matter. He’d been there. That was enough.
“You!” she whispered, her voice throbbing. “You!”
She’d no sooner spoken than someone hollered, “Run, honey! Run for your life!”
Startled by the shout, she glanced past the desperadoes to see a funny-looking little man with short legs racing into camp, one hand clamped to the top of his head to hold his gray hat in place.
“You, there!” he cried, his voice breaking with each jarring step he took. “You got no business here! Clear out! Ever’ last one of you. Go on, get!”
For a short person, the little man covered ground with amazing speed, his stubby legs pumping like well-oiled pistons. As he drew closer, she could make out his features. Those that weren’t covered with the wild, gray beard, anyway. He had a huge hawk nose, which seemed to be the largest thing about him, that jutted from between deep-set green eyes capped by thick, grizzled brows that reminded her of squirrel tails. He wore a green plaid shirt and oversize blue dungarees held up by scarlet suspenders, and it looked as if he had chili beans smashed all over his front. The floppy legs of the dungarees had been hacked off just below the knee, exposing faded red long handles from the frayed edges of denim down to his dusty boot tops.
Much as she had stared at the desperadoes, Rebecca gaped at him as he drew closer. Born and raised in a religious cloister where black, conservatively fashioned garments were mandatory, she’d not only never seen men like these, but could not have imagined they existed.
Skidding on his boot heels, the little man stopped directly in front of Rebecca and turned his back on her to shake his fist at the outlaws. “Go on, I said! Get while the gettin’s good. The boss and the others is comin’, and if you ain’t cleared out afore he gets here, he’ll fix your wagons for sure!”
“Hoo-ee!” a man with long black hair cried. “I’m so scared!”
His cohorts elbowed each other and laughed, the sound straight out of Rebecca’s nightmares. They obviously didn’t believe other men were coming, and quite honestly, neither did she. Her gaze darted from the strange little man to the ruffians, her fear steadily mounting, only now not so much for herself as for her self-appointed rescuer, who’d begun to bounce around in front of her like a crazed pugilist with no opponent. The desperadoes, who loomed head and shoulders above him, regarded him much as they might have a flea, vaguely surprised at his temerity, but ready to swat him dead if he hopped too close.
She stared dumbly at the red crisscross of the little man’s suspender straps, frantically trying to think of some way she might make him stop this lunacy. Didn’t he realize these four men were cold-blooded killers? That for no reason at all, they had slaughtered twelve people yesterday? Now this fellow was challenging them? It was madness.
“Well?” the little man cried. The crisscross of his red suspender straps bounced past, blurring in Rebecca’s vision against his green plaid shirt. “What are you fellas, yeller from nape to bum?” Still pumping his fists, the little man licked the end of his thumb and touched it to his nose before taking another swing at empty air. “You was brave enough with a girl half your size. What’cha waitin’ on now?”
Evidently growing winded from the spurt of activity, the little man finally ceased bouncing. He stood with his back to Rebecca, about four feet away. Boots set wide apart, stout legs braced, he rested his knotted hands on his hips. “It figgers! Two-pistol bullies!”
“Ain’t he cute, Orv?” a man with oily sable hair said with a laugh. “A little fightin’ rooster.” So quickly Rebecca barely saw him move, he snaked out a hand and knocked the little man’s sweat-stained hat from his head. “I knowed it! Bald as an onion on top!”
It was true. A round patch at the crown of the little man’s head was completely hairless and shiny pink. Free from confinement, the rest of his hair lifted in the breeze, the long, kinky strands poking wildly in all directions like overstretched wire springs.
“Don’t take a full head o’ hair to make a man!” Pumping his fists again, the little man resumed bouncing. He rocked to and fro, then sideways, balancing on the balls of his feet, his stout upper body flowing with the movements. “You’ll think I’m a rooster ’bout the time I knock you into a cocked hat!”
The blond man flashed another of those bestial smiles. “Well, now, I’m flat quakin’ in my boots,” he said, and then, in a blur of motion, drew back a fist and struck the smaller man squarely on the nose.
Reeling back with the force of the blow, Red Suspenders fell against Rebecca, nearly knocking her down. As she staggered backward, she grabbed the little man’s arms to keep him from falling. Beneath the grip of her clutching fingers, she felt him shaking.
He was afraid, she realized incredulously. So afraid he was trembling. Yet he stood between her and the other men, clearly prepared to die in defense of her. “Don’t do this!” she cried. “Please, it won’t do any good. They’ll only hurt—”
The hound, no longer held back by Rebecca’s touch, let loose with a feral snarl and leaped at the blond, its mottled brown body arcing through the air like a well-aimed, furry cannonball. The animal struck the man with such force that the two went flying, the blond landing on his back in a rise of dust, the dog on top of him. Chaos erupted, the other three desperadoes shouting, the blond crying out in startlement and pain, the dog emitting frenzied yelps, and the little man yelling, trying to call the canine off.
Rebecca, having already seen one of the men reach for his gun when the dog behaved aggressively, knew what was going to transpire and added her screams to the din, frantically trying to make the dog abort its attack. It was useless. Over all the shouting and yelling, her voice was scarcely audible.
As if in a dream, she saw the crotch scratcher draw his revolver. “No! Please, don’t! He’s just—!”
Kaboom! The blast of the gun imploded against her eardrums. The dog yelped only once and then went limp atop the squirming blond. Rebecca saw crimso
n spreading over the hound’s mottled brown fur near its shoulder. Oh, God. Her fault. All her fault. Every single word from Race Spencer’s mouth had been the absolute truth. He’d had nothing to do with the killings in the arroyo, nor had any of his men.
If only she had believed him sooner, she might have warned him of possible trouble, and he might have been able to prevent this.
Now the dog was dead. Dead! And by her hand, as surely as if she had fired the gun that killed it. And the stampede? What of that? Had these horrible men been responsible for the rifle shots that spooked the cattle? Dear God.
The blond shoved the dead dog off him and rolled to his feet, checking himself for injury. Rebecca sank to her knees beside the hound. Newborn puppies, frolicking kittens, and the perfume of spring wildflowers? With the blast of the gun, her feeling of hope shattered. The world was a horrible place, filled with evil. And she was trapped, square in the middle of it. The hound had done nothing but try to defend her and Red Suspenders. Now it was dead.
The pain that knifed through her made little sense. She’d only just seen the dog for the first time a few minutes ago and could bear it no affection. But it had growled to warn her of danger! And now it had sacrificed its life, trying to protect her. Kneeling there, she hugged her waist, staring down at the animal, its death undeniably her handiwork. A foggy grayness gathered inside of her head.
She remembered having this same feeling yesterday—fog creeping over her, then utter blackness. Yes. She wanted to sink into it. The little man was going to be killed, that was a given. She would be killed as well. Why remain aware, when she knew what was in store for her?
“Blue!” Red Suspenders cried hoarsely. “You rotten son’bitch! You shot ol’ Blue!”
The raw pain in the little man’s voice jerked Rebecca back to reality. Still hugging herself, she looked up, wanting to tell him that fighting these horrible men was pointless, that he’d only be killed for his trouble. But her voice wouldn’t work.
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