LaceysWay (2 page)

Matt had grown up in poverty. He had hunted the verdant
hills for game to feed his family from the time he had been old enough to lift
a rifle. It had been evident to everyone from the beginning that Matthew Drago
was a born marksman. In his spare time, he had practiced shooting with an old
Walker Colt that belonged to his older brother, Abraham. Matt had a natural
feel for guns, a steady hand, and a keen eye. No one in all Virginia could
outshoot him.

As he grew to manhood, Matt had often wondered why he looked
so different from his two brothers and his sister, who were all blond and fair
while he was dark-skinned and had hair as black as midnight. He had been
sixteen when Leticia Drago told him the truth about his parentage. It had been
a hard thing to accept, being a half-breed and a bastard, harder still to learn
that the mother he had idolized was not his mother at all. After that, he had
pestered his father for information about his true mother, but Saul had
insisted he didn’t know anything about her except that she had been a
Chiricahua Apache, pretty as a spring flower, and that her name had been
Hummingbird. It hadn’t been until Matt met old Smoke Johnson that he learned
anything about the Apache people. Smoke had lived among the Apache and admired
them. They were a proud and fierce people, Smoke had said, loyal to their
friends, deadly to their enemies. There was no shame in being a half-breed,
Smoke had remarked, no shame at all so long as a man was true to his word and
loyal to his kin and country.

For a time, Matt had toyed with the idea of going West to
learn more about his mother’s people. The stories Smoke Johnson had told him
excited him, making him anxious to see the mountains where he was born, to lie
under a desert sky and listen to the night wind sigh across the face of the
land. But then the war had come and he had gone to fight for the South. Smoke
Johnson had joined up, too.

The war had been hell. Matt saw men blown to bits, felt his
stomach churn as he heard horses and men scream in agony. He suffered hunger
and fatigue, marched through the snow in his bare feet, ate food that would
make a hog puke. His two brothers were killed at Vicksburg, and his sister
entered a convent. Leticia (he never called her Mother again after he learned
who he was) died of smallpox. Saul Drago had gone to war and was never heard
from again, no doubt long dead and buried in an unmarked grave.

After Lee surrendered, Matt headed West, settling in Texas
for no reason other than he’d never been there before and was eager to start a
new life in a place that held no memories. There he met Claire Duprey. He fell
for her the minute he saw her alighting from her father’s carriage, a vision of
loveliness in a fashionable gown of the palest pink satin and lace. He idolized
her for months, always from a distance, of course. After all, she was a lady of
quality, and he was just a no-account wrangler. She was rich and beautiful and
well-educated, everything he was not, and he never dreamed she would give him a
second look. And then, one soft summer night at a church social, she had
noticed him, seemingly for the first time. Encouraged by the angelic smile she
had bestowed upon him, Matt had taken his courage in hand and asked Claire to
dance. Things had progressed beautifully after that. He had walked her home,
mesmerized by her charm and elegance, by the slightly haughty tilt of her chin.
Many carriage rides and dances and barbecues followed in the months ahead, and
he had been a happy man, secure in her love. And then, out of the blue, she had
changed her mind.

“I’m sorry, Matthew,” Claire had said in her soft Southern
drawl, “but I’ve decided to marry Ross.”

Well, who could blame her? Ross Kilkenny was a rich young
man, well-mannered, well-bred, handsome as the very devil.

Matt hadn’t argued with Claire’s decision. He wasn’t one to
beg, or one to hang around where he wasn’t wanted. He had no one in Texas, no
reason to stay. He quit his job as head wrangler at the Dawson ranch the next
day, packed his few belongings, hopped on his horse, and rode away without
looking back. He had a good horse, money in his jeans, and that was all he
needed, all he’d ever needed. He had headed West, drinking and gambling his way
from one cow town to another, cursing all women in general and one raven-haired
beauty in particular.

He had been drowning his sorrows in an Arizona town no
bigger than a postage stamp when he drank his way through one bottle too many
and passed out cold. When he woke up, he was in jail, accused of murder…

Matt Drago shook his head ruefully. He’d always had a quick
temper and he was a fast hand with a gun, but he’d never gunned a man down in
cold blood, not even during the war.

He lifted his head and stared out the back of the wagon. The
dust cloud was still there, and now he could make out an indistinct shape on a
dark horse.

Matt scowled bleakly as his thoughts drifted back in time
once more. As luck would have it, the man he’d been accused of killing had been
the only son of the local sheriff. In court, three men had taken the stand and
testified, under oath, that Matt Drago had rousted young Billy Henderson,
harassing the boy, calling him names. And when Billy wouldn’t agree to a
shootout, the man known as Drago had shot him down in cold blood and then
passed out.

Matt had expected to be hanged, but Sheriff Henderson had
taken the judge aside and asked that Drago be sentenced to life in prison
instead. A hanging would be over too quickly, the sheriff had said, and he
wanted the man who had killed his son to suffer for a long time.

Matt let out a long, discouraged sigh. How could he have
killed a man—a boy, really—and not remember it? He couldn’t have been
that
drunk. Damn!

He glanced at the four men who shared the prison wagon with
him. The prisoner on his left was just a kid, no more than seventeen or
eighteen. He had been convicted of robbing the bank in Salt Creek. The two men
sitting across from Matt were brothers. They were the last surviving members of
the Belmont gang, a notorious bunch of men who had terrorized trains and
stagecoaches across the Southwest. The last train they had robbed had been
filled with heavily armed lawmen instead of frightened passengers.

Matt slid a look at the man sitting on his right. He seemed
old to be an outlaw. He never spoke, just sat there, his head cradled in his
hands, a morose expression on his weathered face. The guards called him Gramps
and kidded him about being the oldest first-time con they’d ever met.

Matt shook his head wearily. They’d been on the trail for
six days now and every day seemed longer than the last. The wagon bounced and
jolted over the rough terrain, raising clouds of dry yellow dust that irritated
his eyes and clogged his throat. The shackles on his hands and feet clanked
with each movement, the sound mocking him like evil laughter. His temper was
frayed to the breaking point, and when one of the Belmont brothers accidentally
bumped into him, he lashed out, his knotted fist driving into the man’s face.
Only the intervention of the prisoner called Gramps kept Matt from beating
George Belmont to a pulp. Thereafter, the other men kept away from Matt as best
they could in the confined space.

He felt as if he were going mad. It was galling, being in
chains, having the guards treat him like dirt. And things would only get worse.
In another four days, the doors of the Yuma pen would slam shut behind him. He
had never liked small, enclosed places. How could he spend the rest of his life
in a cramped, iron-barred cell? Damn. He’d grow old and die there, his only
hope the slim possibility of parole. And that was a slim hope indeed.
Rehabilitation was not one of Yuma’s objectives. Their main concern was
preventing escapes and riots. The guards were brutal and corrupt. There had
been so many escape attempts in the last few years that Gatling guns had been
installed to discourage prisoners from trying to go over the wall. Yuma was the
most feared and hated prison in the Territory. A lot of men had died behind the
grim gray walls, unable to survive the cold winters and sweltering summers, the
hard work, the whippings, the unpalatable food, the scummy water. At dusk the
wagon came to a halt alongside a high yellow bluff. Matt stood up, eager to get
out of the cart and stretch his muscles, which were cramped after so many hours
of sitting on the hard wooden bench. He swore under his breath as the guards
took their own sweet time about unlocking the door. Climbing out of the wagon,
Matt jostled the arm of one of the guards, causing the man to spill the drink
in his hand.

“You clumsy ass!” the guard snarled, driving his fist into
Matt’s midsection. “Why the hell don’tcha watch where you’re goin’?”

Matt choked back the angry words that sprang to his lips,
knowing anything he said would only bring more of the same.

A few minutes later one of the deputies herded the prisoners
a short distance away from the cart so they could relieve themselves. Matt
scowled, irritated by the lack of privacy, and by the way the lawman kept his
rifle aimed steadily in his direction.

Thirty minutes later the prisoners sat down to a lukewarm
meal of red beans, greasy bacon, and cold biscuits. When dinner was over, they
were shackled to the wagon’s wheels for the night.

Matt lay on his back, his head pillowed on his free arm as
he gazed up at the stars that twinkled overhead like a million tiny lights in a
dark house. Four more days until they reached Yuma, he mused bleakly, and
shuddered with dread as he imagined himself caged behind cold iron bars for the
rest of his life, never again to ride across the prairie with the wind in his
face. Never to savor the taste of good whiskey, or the delights of a bad woman.
With an effort, he shook the dismal thought from his mind and stared out into
the empty darkness, wondering where the mysterious rider had bedded down for
the night.

Lacey woke early the following morning. She had slept badly,
afraid she would awake to find the wagon gone again. They were riding in canyon
country now, and she had to stay closer to the prison cart for fear of losing
sight of it.

Rising, she pulled on her boots and began saddling Cinder.
The horse was beginning to show signs of the long ride, too, Lacey thought as
she affectionately stroked the mare’s sleek black neck. Cinder was used to
short, quiet rides, not long, arduous treks across wild, unbroken country.

Lacey was about to swing into the saddle when a ferocious
cry rent the still morning air. Turning, she felt her blood run cold as she saw
a dozen painted Indians swarm around the prison wagon.

The prisoners had been released from the wagon to stretch
their legs and relieve themselves. Now they scrambled for cover under the cart
while the guards and deputies fired at the shrieking Indians. Their cries were
more animal than human, Lacey thought in dismay, and covered her ears with her
hands as shivers of fear raced down her spine.

She held her breath as the battle raged some forty yards
away, gasped as one of the guards slumped to the ground, an arrow quivering in
the center of his back. Too frightened to move, Lacey huddled behind the mound
of boulders that screened her from sight, one hand covering Cinder’s nose to
keep the horse quiet.

Time seemed to stand still as Lacey watched the awful scene
of life and death being enacted before her eyes. Two of the Indians had been
wounded, a third lay unmoving on the ground. The three remaining guards put up
a good fight, but they were outnumbered and, one by one, they were cut down,
until only the prisoners remained alive, still huddling under the wagon for
protection.

Abruptly, one of the convicts rolled out from under the
prison cart, scooped up a rifle lying on the ground, and began firing at the
Indians. It was a brave but foolhardy move. Two of the warriors swung around,
returning his fire, and the prisoner was knocked to the ground as their bullets
slammed into him.

As the wounded convict struck the ground, three of the other
prisoners panicked. Scrambling from beneath the cover of the wagon, they ran
blindly across the desert, their steps hindered by the chains hobbling their
feet. With wild shrieks of delight, the Indians gave chase, quickly catching
and killing all three men.

Lacey bit down on her lower lip as the Indians rode back to
the wagon. Her father was there, and she watched in helpless horror as Royce
Montana crawled out of his hiding place and faced the Indians. One of the
warriors fitted an arrow to his bowstring and sighted down the feathered shaft.
Lacey watched, her eyes filling with tears, as she waited for the warrior to
kill her father. Time seemed to slow, and she was aware of every detail. She
saw the black paint smeared across the lower half of the warrior’s face, the
eagle feathers tied in his long black hair, the mocking grin on his swarthy
face as he prepared to draw back the bow string. The arrow was striped in black
and red. For death and blood, Lacey thought dully, and turned her eyes to her
father once again. His face was drained of color, his hands, bound with chains,
were tightly clenched, the knuckles white. But his head was high and his
shoulders were back, and she felt a wave of pride sweep over her. She knew he
must be terribly afraid, knew his heart must be pounding with fear as he stared
death in the face, but it didn’t show. Not one bit.

The other warriors were waiting, their dark eyes glinting
with eager anticipation as they waited for their companion to take the old
man’s life.

Royce Montana did not flinch, though he was more frightened
than he had ever been in his life. Still, if he was going to die, he thought he
would rather die here, out in the open under a blazing summer sun, than die a
little each day locked up behind the cold iron bars of the Yuma prison. Head
high, he returned the warrior’s gaze. And, inexplicably, the warrior lowered
his bow. He spoke a few words to the young brave beside him, and the young
warrior leaped gracefully from the back of his calico pony and walked toward
the white man.