Squire's Quest (34 page)

"Here. To your left. Get out of there. Wherever he is, he can see into this thicket. Good
thing he can't shoot worth a damn."

"How bad are you hit?"

"My leg. I'll live."

"Take whatever cover you can. I'll see if I can sight them."

"Don't be a fool. Get out, ride for the Featherstone ranch. It's only five miles. I'll hold
out 'til you get back."

"They shot my horse."

"Shit."

"Yep." He rolled sideways, until he lay right along the edge of the creek, fifty feet or so
downstream from Murphy. Although cover was scant, he had a hunch neither of the shooters
could see him. At least he hoped there were only two.

Was Tom dead? He'd fallen like a sack of flour, bonelessly. Merlin couldn't see where
he lay, but he hadn't made a sound, and no more shots had been aimed at him.

He assessed his chances. The wheeler on Tom's wagon had been saddle stock at one
time, or so Jeb had claimed. If he could get him free of his traces... The big sorrel jack was less
temperamental than most of the mules. Worth a try.

He began crawling, doing his best to blend into the landscape, moving in short spurts, a
foot or so at a time. An hour later he was within five feet of Tom's wagon. For the last while he'd
heard bird calls instead of the silence following the first shot. Were they still here? He would be,
if he were staking game--whether two legged or four.

Only one way to find out. Cautiously he rose to a crouch, froze in position for a slow
count of a hundred.

A raven called somewhere off to the south.

He removed the six-gun from its holster and clutched it in his left hand.
If I ever
needed two good eyes, now's the time.
He had to turn his head clear 'round to see off to his
right, a motion that could draw a watcher's attention.

Still crouched, he made a dash for the wagon. He'd started to dive beneath it when
something struck him a tremendous blow above his right ear. He tumbled. The echoing boom of
a heavy rifle was the last sound he heard.

He woke once, when a man squatted beside him. He guessed it was a man, because all
he saw was a dark blur.

"Your friends are both dead. You can crawl out of there, or I can haul you out. Your
choice."

"Go to hell," he said, but no sound came from his mouth.

Something took hold of his ankle and dragged him backwards. He told his fingers to
grab hold of something, but they were gone somewhere else.

"Is this the one?"

"Looks like it. Eye patch, yeller hair, and lace-up boots. The others have two eyes
each."

"Load him up then."

"What'll I do with the others?"

"Leave 'em. The coyotes'll take care of 'em. But check their pockets first. They may
have gotten paid for that stuff they hauled up here."

Rough hands lifted him and tossed him across a saddle, face down. He willed his arms
to push him off, but they hung limp. Something tickled along his neck. Pretty soon dark drips
formed at the tips of his dangling fingers.

I'm bleeding
.
Why am I bleeding?

Two men came into sight. One of them held a small pouch. "I found this on the Injun.
He ain't dead, but I doubt he'll last the night."

"T'other one's gone. I got him right through the heart, or as close as don't matter."

"Good shootin'. What about the mules?"

"Smith didn't say nothin'. I reckon we could drive 'em in and sell 'em."

"You're crazy. They're all branded with the Box-MR."

"Let me cut 'em loose then. I'd hate to see a good mule et by a cat."

"You're soft, Nate, jest plain soft. Get a move on, then. Mr. Smith, he's gonna be waitin'
to hear if we done the job."

Big gloved hands wrapped a rope around his wrists and flung it under the horse's belly.
A tugging on his feet told him they were being tied too.

Good, I won't fall off.

He tried to ask why he wasn't in the saddle, but couldn't seem to find his voice. Maybe
he'd left it home, with Cal.

Cal. I've got to get back to her. She's in danger.

"How far should we take him?"

"Hell, a mile ought to be plenty, less'n he dies before we get that far. He's leakin' blood
pretty steady."

He wondered who they were talking about.
Poor fellow. Somebody must've shot
him.

When the horse began walking, he bit back a curse at the way the motion pained his
head. When it moved into a trot, he stopped worrying.

Only once before had he hurt this bad, and that time a panther had torn out his eye.

Please, God, not again. I don't think I can live through that again.
On the tail
of his prayer, darkness took him.

He woke when the horse stopped moving.

"Shall I shoot him?"

"Hell, why waste a bullet. He's a goner. Let's go. I want a drink."

He slid off the horse and landed on his head.

"Mister? Mister, you alive?"

He heard the voice from a great distance. He tried to answer, but his mouth was too dry,
his tongue too swollen. All he could manage was a hoarse, formless noise.

"You're in bad shape. Who shot you?"

The man--boy?--muttered sounds that refused to shape themselves into words. All the
while he was pushing and pounding and twisting and raking at Merlin's helpless body, until no
square inch was free of the pain he was inflicting.

"How far...
mutter...
crawled...
mutter...
can't ride...
mutter
...take
a chance..." Something hard pressed against his shoulders, just below where a knife-sharp pain
came and went.

"Aaah!"

"Sorry. Let me...
mutter...mutter...
"

He felt himself roll to the side, smelled fresh blood. Recognition seemed to clear his
mind.

"Mister, I've skinned my kill and laid you on the hide. I can't lift you, and I'm afraid to,
anyhow. So I'll...
mutter mutter...
"

The fog returned, and this time it was too thick to see or hear through.

Warmth along one side roused him out of the red world of pain. He opened his eyes to
darkness.
The panther. Is he gone? My eye! I can't see. Pa? Pa, help me.

"Mister, I've made some broth." The boy who slid an arm under his shoulder was too
young to shave, and so hollow-cheeked he looked to have missed more meals than he'd eaten.
"Can you swallow it?"

When something touched his lip, he opened his mouth. Although more went down his
chin than inside, he got enough of the thin-flavored broth to wet his tongue. "'Anks," he croaked.
"'Ood." The second sip went mostly inside and he felt its warmth all the way to his belly.
"Good," he said again.

The lad fed him the whole cup, and when he'd swallowed the last, laid him back down.
"I've got to go back for the meat," he said. "We need it. Will you be all right alone?"

Alone with the smell of cooked meat steaming into the cold air to tempt every hungry
critter for miles around. "Gun?"

"I took your pistol out of your holster so it wouldn't get lost like the other one must've.
Will it be enough? I've only got three more bullets for the rifle, and I daren't waste them."

"Load it. I'll manage." Speech was getting easier. "Knife in my boot."

"I'll be back quick as I can. It's only about half a mile."

"I'll be fine. Go."

Once he was alone, he realized he had no idea who his savior was, or where he'd come
from. He wasn't even sure where he was, for all that. Wherever it was, they were on lean
rations.

* * * *

When the wagon jerked to a halt, Callie fought the miasma holding her mind captive.
Her eyes wanted to roll in their sockets and her tongue felt too big for her mouth. After a while
she made sense of the shapes above her, around her. She was lying on something hard, under
leafless trees.

Why? It's wintertime. I'm cold.

Her bed rocked. A man's face, dirty, unshaven, ugly, appeared above her. He did
something that left her feeling even colder. And then he did something else, to her hands and to
her feet. By the time he stopped fiddling, her shoulders and knees screamed from strain, her
blood-starved hands and feet were numb. The pain drove away the miasma, though, and she
recognized the hulk who'd carried her from her cabin.

Rough hands sat her upright. "The boss says to let you take a piss, so get over there and
do it."

She tried to move, despite the throbbing in her arms and legs. Her bladder was full to
bursting. But her arms and legs were lifeless sticks that refused to do her bidding. Tears leaked
from her closed eyes. Would they let her wet herself?

"Can I help her, Mr. Smith?" The speaker sounded young, little more than a boy. His
voice broke on "her". "She's likely real stiff from bein' tied up."

"Go ahead, but be quick about it. I want to be in Hillsdale in plenty of time to catch the
Express." That sounded like her--
No! No, please!

As she was being carried into the brush at the edge of the clearing, the hulk said, "The
Express don't stop there."

"It will for me." Pa sounded smug. "I've made arrangements."

The young man set her on her feet and held her until she stopped swaying. More or less.
"Can you manage, miss?"

"I'll be fine. Just...would you turn your back? Please." The words came out sounding
like she had a mouthful of hot mush.

He did, but he remained so close she could have reached out to touch him.

"I'm Burdie," he said, when he picked her up to carry her back to the wagon. "You just
call out to me, should you want help or anything."

"Thank you." She wondered why she should be thanking a man who'd been party to at
least two murders. Why she wasn't helpless with terror.

More than likely it was the laudanum she could still taste. It seemed like there was a
gauzy curtain between her and everything around her.

Or maybe it's because there's only one thing worst could happen to me. Just one,
because if they kill me, I'll be out of danger.

"Hold on a minute there," Pa said, when Burdie had set her on the bed of the wagon.
"She might as well get dressed now, whilst we're hid." He tossed a bundle at her. "Put these
on."

Her hands were too slow. The bundle rolled off her lap before she could catch it.

"Pick it up and untie it, Burdie. Turn around, boys."

Burdie gave her the bundle and all four of the men turned their backs. Her fingers were
clumsy as she folded back the outer layer.
My coat? I didn't see them bring anything out of
the cabin.
But it was indeed her coat, her ugly gray dress, one threadbare wool petticoat, and
her old boots. No stockings. Moving as quickly as her still awakening arms and legs would
allow, she pulled the petticoat and dress on over her nightgown, for the more layers of clothes
she wore, the warmer she'd be when she escaped.

If she escaped.

The boots were as cold as her feet, no longer numb, but throbbing with returning
blood.

Her father turned back when she was easing on the second boot. "Climb on in there.
Burdie, tie her hands and feet, but not so tight it cripples her." He sent a glare at the hulk.
"Frisco, you're an idiot."

With her hands tied in front of her and the rope to her feet long enough so she could lie
stretched out, Callie was merely miserable, rather than in pain, as they bumped along. Burdie had
wrapped a faded quilt around her, so she wasn't too cold. Still, it was a relief when they pulled up
beside a towering water tank and he helped her out of the wagon.

"Bet you're hungry," he said, keeping his voice soft.

"Not much, but I'm thirsty."

"I'll fetch you a drink. Mr. Smith, he says we'll eat on the train. I'll see you get
some."

"Get over here, Burdie," the third man, who'd spoken not at all since she awoke, called.
"Give me a hand with this team."

"Let him be, Deed," her father said, "unless you want to play nursemaid."

Callie stayed close to the side of the wagon, wanting to be no closer to the hulk or the
evil-faced Deed than necessary. When Burdie brought her a tin cup of water, he untied the rope
between her hands and feet. "There's a place you can sit over there, miss. Once you've drunk
your fill, I'll help you there."

The water tasted faintly of laudanum, but she drank it anyway. It would keep the terror
at bay, for she knew days might pass before Merlin could come to her rescue. "What are you
doing with these bad men?" she whispered while she could still talk. "You're not wicked like
them."

"I'm a wanted man," he said, and she heard pride in his tone. "Killed me a man up in
Rapid City, and one in North Platte, besides woundin' a couple others. There's a price on my
head. Three hundred dollars!"

She hadn't noticed the two low-slung pistols he wore, handles shiny evidence of much
use.

This time when she shivered, it wasn't from the cold.

The man named Deed led the horses away, and the hulk pushed the wagon close against
the base of the water tower. It was a decrepit thing, and she wondered where they'd stolen it.

* * * *

There was some critter rustling in the brush across the draw, but it never came close. He
laid there, tense and waiting for an attack, until he heard the quiet thump-thump of approaching
footsteps. Two feet, not four. Even so, he gripped the six-gun a little tighter.

"Mister, it's me."

Smart lad. "Come on in."

The lad was bent under his burden, two haunches, venison or antelope. He couldn't tell.
What the skin he'd been dragged on had come from didn't matter.

"Something was at the carcass. I've got to go back."

"Go. The sooner you do, the better." He refused to think of how much having two
bloody haunches nearby increased his chances of being attacked by a hungry predator.

"I'll hurry."

"Go," he said again. As the lad faded from view, he dug in his heels, shoved himself a
few inches higher against the boulder behind him. In a week or two he'd be sitting up straight, at
this rate.