Liberty Belle (6 page)

With a weary smile, her aunt stood. “Oh my. What Providence. We got the last room. There’s a wagon train in town. The innkeeper said the hotel diner serves tasty meals, and he’d arrange to have a bath readied for us in our room. A little extra, but I know my muscles will thank me in the morning.”

“I’m sure mine will be thankful, too. Let’s eat.” Libby’s stomach rumbled. The adventure was just beginning, and she was already starved and exhausted.

###

Morning came too soon. Libby rolled over and groaned only to see Flora sitting by the window and reading her worn prayer book. Libby thought for a moment how she needed in on the prayers, but the worries won out and instead of peace, wild thoughts assaulted her mind as she readied herself for the day.

She ushered Flora to the dining room. Libby struggled to swallow but the anxious wasps in her stomach left little space for the eggs. To quiet the stings of doubt, she concentrated on the plate of food.

Conversation remained scarce. Her desire for independence battled against a fear of the unknown, and by the wrinkle on Flora’s brow, her aunt must be having second thoughts, too. After another cup of coffee, Libby had just managed to calm herself enough to breathe normally when the clock on the wall chimed quarter-to-ten. Her temporary peace shattered, and she choked on a sip of the black drink.

Flora looked up from her barely touched plate. “Let’s go west and live our adventure.”

Libby wondered if she could handle any more adventure, but she caught the excitement from her aunt and stood. “I’m ready.”

A breeze greeted her outside the inn. She walked with a boldness that wasn’t all hers and led the way to the Leavenworth stage office.

The ad on the window, with pictures of snow-covered mountains and a coach driver snaking a whip over galloping horses, helped ignite her sense of independence.

She put a hand to her aunt’s shoulder. “I need to run across the street and get Southern Star.” With quick steps, Libby ran to the livery. She retrieved the horse along with the saddle and bridle and rushed back to where her aunt stood.

Libby rubbed the mare’s neck and tried not to notice the loud thumping of her own heart. “I’m not sure if I am shivering with excitement or fear.”

Face pinched, Flora smiled weakly. “Mine is fear.”

“Ladies, you bound for Denver City?”

The man’s abrupt presence and words yanked Libby’s heart to a stop. With a gulp, she turned to face the stationmaster. “Yes, that will be two of us for Denver, although I really want to go to Auraria, and I would like to take the horse. I read that was a possibility.”

He swept a hand down Star’s legs and nodded. “We’ll tie the horse behind the coach. As long as she can keep up, she’ll travel with you. Charge is a little more for feed. If she tires, we’ll ferry her on another stage and charge for the extra care. The depot is in Denver City. Auraria is at the western part of the settlement.” The man frowned and looked behind her. “And who will be joining you?”

With a hand in her reticule for the payment, Libby shook her head. “No one. Just the two of us.”

The clerk looked down on her through his spectacles with much the same disapproval her mother had exhibited on learning of Libby’s plan for independence. “Well, we don’t usually—”

“I’ll vouch for the ladies. Let them have the tickets.”

That voice.
Libby whirled.

The gambler, his valise in hand and the sheriff behind him, smiled.

Harley Mason whisked off his hat and bowed. “Ladies, what a pleasant surprise that we’ll be on the same stage. I had the good fortune to win a saloon in Denver, and it was a good thing I did because the sheriff, here, seems to think it’s time I moved on.” He scowled at the man behind him, and then changed back to his wolfish grin. “And to tell the truth, with you leaving, Leavenworth has lost its charm.”

Like his kind could tell the truth
. Libby stepped away from the man and onto Flora’s foot.

“Oh.” Flora limped to a nearby bench.

Libby winced. Was she causing her aunt unnecessary danger by letting her come? And now they were going to ride with this unseemly fellow.

The lawman shoved the gambler toward the stage. “Make sure he’s on it, Ben.”

“Will do, Sheriff.” Ben shrugged. “Sorry, ladies. You’ll be sharing the coach with a couple of unsavory characters. I’ll have the driver watch out for you. I promise that.”

“Th-thank you, but really, I am sure we will be fine.” Libby cringed at the thought of riding for days with that gambler. Brushing dust from her blouse, she sighed. Her independence was apparently not going to come easily.

Chapter
7

Startled, Wade sat straight up from a deep sleep. Shots rang out, but he wasn’t sure if the distant echoes were from his recurring nightmares or real. Even though the east showed the first wink of daylight, the land west still rested in gray shadows. The boom of more shots drifted on the early morning breeze.

Wasn’t a dream
.

Wade shed himself free of the saddle blanket and pulled on his boots. Banjo, head up and ears twitching, gave proof that he, too, heard the noise.

More gunshots moved him to saddle Banjo and stow the gear. Thankfully, the gelding’s leg was no longer hot or swollen. The extra days at the creek had let the little mustang recover.

The gunfire lessened. Whatever the trouble, it was coming to an end. A black plume of smoke spiraled into the sky from the hills to the west. Wade kept a wary gaze on the horizon, mounted Banjo, and rode toward trouble.

His father had told him many a time to never get into another man’s fight, but that wasn’t Wade’s way. If someone needed help, he’d do his best to go to their aid. A nudge to Banjo’s flanks set the gelding into a lope. Wade shoved aside the accusations in his head that condemned him for helping the Phelps instead of staying home that night. Maybe he’d have been killed too, but at least he would have been there to fight for his own family.

He kept Banjo at an easy pace. If there was trouble, he didn’t need to be on a lame horse. It took him almost an hour to close in on the scene. Smoke, gray now, still rose from beyond the small rise ahead of him. Wade stopped the gelding, dismounted, and led the horse up the last of the hill. Wade dropped to his knees and edged to the crest.

Below were three wagons. One on its side and burning. He listened but heard nothing. Not a groan or yell. He hoped one of the bodies below belonged to Taylor, and yet a twinge of regret nudged him, warning that the revenge he’d ridden for might be denied.

He saw no evidence of life. Just bodies. A ghostly reminder of what he’d found at home that horrid night. Wade frowned. It hadn’t been meant for him to save those below or if he was honest, his own family. But that thought did nothing to lessen the hot fist in his stomach that demanded revenge.

The sight of spears and arrows gave evidence that Indians, probably Kiowa, were responsible. Renegade raiding parties, known for their quick in-and-out attacks, were the probable culprits. Still, his father hadn’t raised a foolish son. He’d wait and watch to make sure the Indians didn’t return.

Toward a creek, maybe a hundred yards from the gruesome scene, the grass shook and swayed against the wind.
Coyotes?
The prairie was thick with the varmints.

“Well, Banjo, I think the Indians are gone, and it looks like we need to go bury those poor souls before the scavengers get to them.”

Wade vaulted into the saddle, pulled out his rifle, and set out toward the grisly scene. He watched the movement in the meadow and then scanned the hills while keeping the mustang to a slow trot. Not wanting to fire his weapon, Wade hollered. Better to scare off the critter than warn any distant Indians.

Instead of a coyote, a boy stood up, his head and shoulders barely reaching above the prairie grass. Eyeing the kid, Wade turned Banjo toward him. Blond hair proved him white. Could be a trap. He clicked and the horse broke into a canter. Wade made a wide circle, watching the surroundings before making his way to the boy.

The kid limped to him.

Wade dismounted and opened the canteen.

The boy collapsed into Wade’s arms, grabbed the canteen, and gulped greedily. Finished, he wiped his sleeve over his mouth and pulled away. “Indians. They were everywhere.” His eyes took on a glazed sheen.

Wade didn’t push the kid. The boy had witnessed a horror no one should have to see. After a few minutes of silence, Wade capped the canteen. “I’m Wade.”

The boy looked at him. “My name’s Mark. They didn’t hurt me. Laughed at me … my bad leg.” He stopped and took in a shaky breath. “Pa told me to stay at the creek. The Indians found me, hit me some, and then rode away. I hid until I heard you yell.”

“Well nobody ever accused raiding parties of having good manners. I need to take care of the folks in those wagons. What I want you to do is lead Banjo over to the trees. Think you can do that?”

The boy nodded.

Wade rustled his gloves and long knife from his pack and gave Mark the reins. “Go on over and let Banjo eat some grass. I’ll be back for you.”

Head down and shoulders sagging, the small boy limped beside the horse. Poor kid. A lame orphan wouldn’t be easy to place. Hard times made taking on another mouth to feed a difficult choice, and when they did, most people wanted strong, healthy kids to do farm work. Wade tugged at his hat. Have to worry about that later.

He tied a kerchief over his mouth and set about the gruesome task of checking the victims. Wade wondered if Taylor had joined this group. He rummaged inside the closest wagon and found the bodies of three men and a woman. Sick at heart, he dragged them to the side and searched the still burning hull of the second wagon. No one.

Wade made his way to the body slumped over the back of the lead wagon. Sick at heart, Wade had seen enough carnage when a groan came from under the wagon.

He dropped to his knees and saw legs protruding from behind a crate. “Hey, I’m coming. Hang on.”

Wade grabbed his canteen and scurried back. His hopes of finding someone alive fell away at the sight of the man’s bloody chest. Wade opened the canteen, shoved away the crate, and scooted closer to lift the doomed man’s head.

Instead, he let the man fall back. Let the water spill on the thirsty blood-soaked ground. Let his kindness drain away with the water.

Martin Taylor
.

A shaking hand grasped his shirt. With surprising strength, Taylor pulled Wade to his face. “My son, Mark.” Gasping, his eyes clouded. “Creek … take care?”

Wade fought the urge to strangle the man and beat what little life was left in the broken body. The irony slayed him. Recoiling from the man he’d sworn to kill, Wade simmered with the hot revenge that had whipped him into throwing his badge, if not future, away. Let the murderer worry.

“My son … please?”

The anguish in his enemy’s voice ate at Wade. Deep inside, his heart opened to some small corner that had escaped the black hatred. He’d look after the boy, at least find him a good family. Pushing past his lust for vengeance, he turned to his enemy and groaned one deep final sigh for all that would never be as he looked into the lifeless eyes of Martin Taylor.

The sweet revenge he’d sought left a bitter taste. Seeing Taylor dead didn’t bring any relief, only more sadness. Martin Taylor had a son who now had no one.

Wade took in a deep breath. Mother would have called it God’s will. He tagged it as a sorry joke. At every turn, God seemed intent on making his life miserable.

The old familiar anger surged through his veins. He shoved Taylor, letting his body fall face down into the dirt. “I’ll take your son and drop him off at the first farm that’ll have him. That’s it. You hear!”

Wade considered giving the buzzards a go at Taylor, but the thought of the boy’s tear-stained face made him get the shovel. The only consolation was that the anger gave him energy to dig the graves. He’d just finished when thunder rumbled from the south. Exhausted mentally and physically, Wade trudged back to the creek. Back to the son of his enemy.

The walk gave Wade time to think. He’d failed to kill his enemy, failed to give a dying man a measure of peace, and failed to know just what to do about it all. He hadn’t really promised Taylor to take care of the boy. Had he?

Small and alone, Mark stood by Banjo.

Wade forced his breathing to remain steady. How do you tell a boy his father is dead? How could fate be so cruel? Yet even amidst the anger, Wade could hear his mother’s soft voice,
love your enemy
.

He unclenched his fist. Some things in the Good Book, he just didn’t have the strength to obey. Impossible tasks for a man. Why couldn’t the Lord see that? Wade walked up to Banjo and rested a hand on the horse’s neck.

Mark stared at him. Not asking the question. His eyes saying he already knew.

Wade cleared his throat and looked past the boy to the creek. “Your father’s dead. No survivors.”
Liar.
Someday he’d tell the kid his father’s last words. But not today. The wounds to his own heart too raw. His shame too great. Wade turned to the boy.

The kid had his back to him now. Head bowed, shoulders shaking. But quiet.

The low rumble of the approaching storm seized Wade’s attention. Dark clouds warned of more trouble. Mourning or not, he had to get the kid moving. A gentle tug on his sleeve and he turned to see the boy standing beside him.

“Mr. Wade, I want to put a marker over my pa.” Wiping his eyes, the boy pointed toward the wagons. “I got a knife. Would you take me to the grave?”

The boy, so small, so alone, held out a rusted knife.

Wade took the tool from him. “I’ve got one that’s sharper. A worn knife can only get you hurt.” He knew he should say more but didn’t trust his words to give Mark what he needed or would want to hear.

After checking the saddle, Wade mounted and held out his hand. Small fingers entwined in his and an unasked for warmth scaled the wall around Wade’s heart as he hoisted the boy behind him. “Hold on.”