Dance With A Gunfighter (23 page)

The whiskey bottle gave Gabe an idea. After the chicken
had finished cooking, she set it in a platter, then slowly poured whiskey over
the whole thing, letting it soak into the meat. Instead of the dinner causing
Cramer and the others to grow less drunk, she'd see that it increased their
drunkenness. Maybe even make them pass out. She planned to keep the whiskey
flowing freely as they ate.

A short while later, Dawes strolled over to her, standing
close as Gabe was putting the food on the small block table. "Why does
this here chicken smell like likker?"

"It's French," Gabe said. "Don't you know
anything?"

Cramer yelled over to him. "Hey, that's right.
Gabriella Devere. Sounds like one a them fancy Frenchie women. I heard they
know more ways to do it than sand in the desert."

"One way’s all I need." Dawes grinned with a
slow glance over her body.

Cramer called to Gabe. "How French are you, Frenchie?"

She scooted around to the opposite side of the cooking
area. "My grandfather was from Louisiana. That do?"

Cramer laughed. "Good 'nough, I reckon."

As Gabe dished out the greens, Dawes watched, nearly
drooling as he eyed the food. "You didn't really pour good likker on these
birds, did you?"

Gabe just smiled.

Melissa stepped out of the shack and flounced over to
them, Lomax following. She sat on the bench beside Cramer. "No dinner yet?
My new girl seems a bit slow on the job, Tack. I think she needs to be taught
the same lesson McLowry learned. He's been nice and docile ever since."

Cramer leaned back, holding his knee for support.
"Melissa's right fer once. Where's my dinner?"

"Is everybody here?" Gabe asked. Cramer nodded.
His other three men hadn’t returned yet.

"It's ready," she said. Every eye was on her as
she carried the platter of chicken to the table. Remembering the fancy dinner
her father told her he'd once had in Denver, she doused the chicken with more whiskey,
ignoring the men's scowls, then lit a match and touched it to the liquor. It
flamed up. The three men leaped to their feet shrieking that she'd burned the
dinner. Melissa struggled to stand.

"It's flambé!" She yelled back as she spooned
the whiskey over the chicken until the flame died out. "It's supposed to
do that!"

Cautiously, Cramer sat down again, his eyes darting from
the chicken to Gabe. She held her breath. Finally, he gave a smug look to his
men. "That's flam-bay. Now eat up."

Gabe dished out the meal, then filled everyone’s glasses
with whiskey. As the chicken disappeared to murmurs of approval, Cramer's look
of smugness grew in tandem with Melissa's irritation. She wasn't too angry to
eat, though. Despite her displeasure at how well the meal was received, she ate
a man-sized share.

Gabe had cooked a batch of pan-fried biscuits with the
greens and chicken, and she kept pouring more whiskey as they ate. By the time
dinner was over, the men and Melissa were glassy-eyed drunk and their stomachs
pleasantly full.

"Mighty fine, girl," Cramer said, rubbing his
belly. "Mighty fine." He picked up a rope. "Sorry to have to do
this, but you reckon how it is."

He tied her hands behind her back, then bound her ankles
together. To her shock and disgust, he pulled her down beside him as he
stretched out on the blanket under the cottonwood. He lay on his back with a
groan, his stomach pointing at the sky like a volcano ready to erupt. Tucking
Gabe against his side, he slid his hand under the neckline of her dress and
fondled her breasts. Her dinner threatened to come back up, but she swallowed
hard and forced herself to lie absolutely still. He belched loudly then shut
his eyes. Before long, she heard his long, loud snores.

The others lay down when he did, and in no time, everyone
was asleep.

After about twenty minutes when no one stirred, Gabe
slipped free of Cramer's hold. Rolling and inching her way quietly toward the
worktable, she twisted herself into a sitting position and used the table to
brace herself to stand. She had to turn around to pick up the meat cleaver
since her hands were tied behind her. Once she held it securely, she dropped to
her knees and clamped the cleaver between her boots, blade side facing outward.
Angling her hands so that the ropes binding her wrists were against the sharp
blade, she pressed hard against the blade, rocking her wrists up and down along
it in a small, sawing motion.

The ropes cut, then frayed, and then broke apart.

In an instant she sliced through the ropes that bound her
ankles.

Quietly she stood up, watching Cramer and his men as she
did, and took hold of the long and short knives, plus the strap of a water
canteen. The canteen clanged against the leg of the table as she pulled it off.
She froze, watching the sleepers, scared the sound would cause one of them to
wake.

They didn’t stir. She slipped silently to the far side of
the shack where Jess had been left to die.

 He wasn’t there. Her heart pounded. Please, God, let
him be alive, she prayed, over and over. Please, let me find him.

The ground looked as if something had been dragged over
it. She followed the tracks, scarcely able to breathe from fear of what she
might find.

He lay under a mesquite. His arms and legs were tied, and
the way he lay tossed on the ground, face down, he looked dead. She took a
stumbling, awkward step toward him, then another. Finally, she dropped at his
side, her breath gone, her eyes blinking hard.

 "Jess," she whispered. She was almost
afraid to touch him. She watched, and saw his chest move ever so slightly. She
put her hand near his mouth and felt the faint blush of breath touch her skin.
Blessed relief flowed through her as she kissed his forehead, his temple,
rubbing her cheek and nose to his face, and thanking God he lived. His flesh
was cold and clammy. His eyelids and face were caked with dust and burnt by the
blistering sun. His poor back, once smooth and straight and proud, was raw and,
in parts, still oozing thin, watery blood. But he was alive.

"Jess, please wake up," she begged, her voice
choked. "Please. Jess." She took the short knife and cut through his
bindings, then rubbed his hands and wrists.

His eyes flickered, then fastened on hers, clutching her
as if she were a lifeline. His breathing came hard, and the throbbing of his
pulse at the base of his throat was slow, too slow. She smiled at him in
encouragement. "I've got water." She held up the canteen. He saw,
too, the torn skin on her arm from the ropes, her swollen and bruised face.
Fury flashed in his eyes. His arm moved, and he tried to reach for the water.
She unscrewed the top and held his head as she raised the canteen, allowing him
to drink greedily even as she warned him against it.

When she lowered the canteen again, his breathing came
harder, his strength seemed to have drained from the effort even while he
needed the water to live. She couldn’t bear him being hurt this way.

She bathed his face, neck and chest with water, hoping it
would cool and soothe him, a little at least.

His eyes opened. He looked around in wonder. His gaze
traveled to the sky. It was already night.

He was surprised to be alive--and to find Gabe with him.
He was sorry he had failed her. He couldn’t tell her, though, because his voice
was gone. All he could do was look at her, and let his eyes beg forgiveness. He
saw the sorrow in her eyes as she gazed back at him and wished he had the
strength to tell her how brave he thought she was.

"We don't have much time, Jess," she whispered.
"Someone's sure to wake up soon. Try to move your legs; let's see if you
can stand."

His legs had no strength. His back felt as if it was on
fire, and a throbbing pain sent waves of blackness and nausea over him.

The muscles on his back quivered and twitched
uncontrollably. Using his arms, he managed to sit up, but even that was so
painful he felt himself blacking out again. She caught him as he slumped over,
his head on her shoulder. Wordlessly, she stroked his hair back from his face,
but he could feel her despair.

"You go ahead, Gabe." He didn't recognize the
voice as his own. "Get away while you can."

"I won't leave you."

"I can't make it. Go. Get help for me."

They'd kill him.
They’d kill him, bury his body and
break up this camp so that there'd be no sign of it as soon as they realized she
was gone. She continued to stroke his hair in a soothing massage against his
scalp. "We'll get out of this together."

She helped him lie down on his stomach once again. Taking
off one of Patty Larkin's petticoats--how long ago it seemed she had put them
on for the excitement of the dance--she sliced out a large square, soaked the
square with water and laid it carefully against his back. At first he flinched
from the feel of anything touching his skin, but soon the cool water helped
ease the pain, and his enflamed muscles slowly began to grow calm.

Seeing that it brought him some comfort, she did it again.
"It helps, Gabe," he whispered.

Her eyes stung at the simple gratitude she heard in his
voice.

Through nearly two more hours she gave him sips of water
and placed wet cloths against his torn skin. Carefully she washed away any
dirt, knowing there was little more she could do to ease his torment. He slept
much of the time, but she never did.

"Can you stand, Jess?" She didn’t want to make
him try it, but had grown desperate that she must. "We can’t wait. We’ve
got to get to the horses." As soon as the horses began to run, Cramer's
men would awaken. If Jess couldn't ride strong and fast, he'd be shot before he
made it to the tunnel in the canyon wall.

 McLowry slowly rose to his knees. Gabe put a cool,
wet square of her petticoat over his back, then helped him put his shirt on
over it. She stood before him and clutched his arms, letting him use her as
support to pull himself to his feet.

She stopped, listening hard. The distinctive sound of
shuffling feet, followed by the noisy splash of a man relieving himself, was
heard.

She gave the long knife to McLowry and she slid the short
one under the dress sash at her back. "Stay here," she said.
"Don’t move." Soundlessly, she eased herself into the night toward a
cigarette’s glow.

It was Dawes.

Her heartbeat quickened. Jess was out of sight, for which
she was glad. She didn't think she could go through with what she had to do if
Jess were watching.

She ignored the trembling of her knees as she stepped out
in front of Dawes.

"What the--" He lowered the cigarette from his
mouth as he looked at her hands and feet. "Cramer let you free?"

"Yes," she whispered. "But now, he's
asleep." She kept her voice low and soft. "I didn't want to stay
there when I saw you leave."

Dawes smirked and drew on his cigarette again.

Gabe continued. "There’s an interesting little
triangle here--Cramer and Melissa and Lomax."

He sucked in his breath. "Yeah? What of it?"

"What about you? You’re a good-looking man. Who takes
care of your needs?"

A flicker of interest came into his eyes as he studied
her, as if trying to figure out what she was getting at. "You got some
suggestions, girl?"

She smoothed her torn, battered dress by starting at the bodice
and slowly running her palms over her breasts, to her waist and hips, just the
way she'd seen Melissa do. "I do."

 His eyes searched hers, "What're you
saying?"

"This." She unfastened the top button of her
dress, then took another step toward him as she continued to undo the remaining
buttons. He didn't take his eyes off her hands, but put the rifle at his side
and opened his knees wide so she could step between his legs.

His eyes traveled to her face just a moment before
slipping downward again. She saw his half-toothless smile as both hands reached
out to stroke her. She jumped back and he froze, his eyes flashing dangerously.

"I’m in charge here," she whispered huskily, and
placed both her hands on his shoulders. An interested leer flashed in his eyes.

Her left hand coiled into his greasy hair, her eyes
meeting his. Then she slowly drew his head forward, to her breasts, as her
right hand found the knife handle. She wrapped her fingers around it, then
carefully slid it from her dress’s sash.

Dawes’s eyes were half-closed. With a dull moan, his hands
fumbled with her skirts and then slid under the hem.

His fingers found the inside of her calf and inched
upward. Her breathing stopped. A wild rushing filled in her ears, shades of red
and white flashed against her eyes as she held his head against her chest with
one hand while the other tightened. Her arm swung high, the blade pointed at
his back.

Suddenly, Dawes jerked forward, his hands thrust outward
and to the side, his eyes white and wild. Then he bolted forward, falling
against her.

Gabe stifled her screams, one hand pressed hard against
her mouth, as she hurled herself backwards, shoving him off her. He dropped to
the ground, a knife protruding from his back.

McLowry stood before her, his face gray, his body swaying
and faint. Despite her own shock and dizziness, she lunged at him, grabbing him
so he wouldn't fall.

McLowry crushed her against him as he spun her away from
the blood-splattered sight at her feet. She couldn’t speak, her head reeling
with loathing and horror at what she'd braced herself to do, and at the death
so swiftly delivered.

Then she let go of him, ran back to Dawes’s body, and
picked up his guns and cartridge belt. Weakly, McLowry nodded.

They crept to the corral. As McLowry sat, doing his best
not to pass out again, Gabe saddled two horses, tossed nearby saddlebags on
them, then quietly opened the corral gates to free the other horses. The moon
was only half full, but in the way of the desert, the cloudless sky was bright
with stars.