Untamed Journey (2 page)

Ruth knew her aunt would never take her back
if Ruth brought them so close to their former lifestyle, then threw
it all away on what her aunt would consider childish
misgivings.

Only Ruth hadn’t been a child for many years
now, and her instincts were screaming at her to leave, run far
away, anywhere but into the arms of a perfect stranger.

B
eauregard Jackson’s
instincts went from quiet to screaming in an instant, causing him
to roll headlong down a six foot slope, desperate for cover. The
rusty hatchet missed his scalp by a mere three inches, slicing
clean through a prickly pear before embedding itself soundly in a
dying Juniper. Jackson got two wild shots off with his pistol
before rolling to his feet at the bottom of the sandy gulch. The
owner of the hatchet took one bullet in the arm without flinching,
and barreled into Jackson, knocking him to the ground again.

Jackson’s opponent was a bear of a man, and
the lawman struggled against the greater weight, bucking as soon as
he felt the man’s weight at his back. Jackson rolled just in time
to maneuver on top, pinning the man to the ground by his wounded
arm, bearing down with all two hundred pounds of his strength on
the fresh bullet wound.

The man screamed his agony and outrage, then
nearly dislodged Jackson by brute strength alone. Jackson regained
his balance and shoved his left knee into his opponent’s thick
neck, immobilizing him for the two precious seconds he needed to
pull his hunting knife free and slit the man’s throat.

After meticulously cleaning the blood from
his hunting knife, Jackson began riffling through the dead man’s
clothing. Aside from a tin of dried out chewing tobacco and spare
bullets, he found nothing to indicate where the outlaw and his
friends were headed. Jackson recognized the dead man, though. His
size alone narrowed his identity – there weren’t many men over six
feet and two hundred and fifty pounds in Colorado Territory.
Jackson rolled the man over onto his back and got a good look at
his left wrist. The scar Jackson himself had given the man eighteen
months past confirmed the lawman’s instincts were right. Roy
Grafton - long-time child-slaver and whoremaster - had expanded his
business into armed robbery.

Jackson shrugged out of his faded Confederate
coat and replaced it with the dead man’s tattered vest. Wearing
clothes with the familiar scent of its master allowed Jackson to
approach the outlaw’s horse with little fuss and noise.

He silently stroked the piebald’s nose, out
of habit, but the horse was calm and unimpressed with the stranger
going through the saddlebags. Jackson figured the dead man was not
the mare’s first owner, and gunshots were probably second nature to
her with that brute riding her back.

After emptying the saddlebags, Jackson’s luck
improved. Shoved in the very bottom was a carefully folded piece of
paper with a crudely drawn map of the territory – with every train
track for a hundred miles scratched in. There was no writing to be
found, just scratch marks and dates at various points along the
railroad tracks. He noted that there were none near any towns or
depots, and, in fact, most were as far away from help as possible.
He had an idea what this meant, but would wait until he met up with
his long-time partner, Old Mike, before changing their plans.

Jackson left the stolen horse behind, but did
loosen her tether. He couldn’t risk bringing her along and having
her nicker in greeting to the horses of the other gang riders,
giving his location away. He hated leaving her behind, but if she
were smart, she’d back-track the way she had come. Or better yet,
find herself a band of wild horses to join. At least it was autumn
and the heat of the summer had passed. There was water in the
mountains and the mare was well fed. Good luck, sweet thing, he
thought, as he swatted her backside.

After back-tracking nearly a mile to his own
mount, Jackson settled in for a long night of one-hour bouts of
sleep. He learned during the War how to wake himself on any
schedule he chose. He’d also learned sleep deprivation could bring
a man down with less trouble than a bullet. When their scout didn’t
return, the rest of the outlaws would get nervous, wondering if
he’d been taken by Indians, wild animals, or the Law. Jackson had
no intention of launching a frontal attack on a group that large.
But he could wear them out a bit tonight, making certain they got
less sleep than he did.

After circling the outlaws’ camp for nearly a
quarter hour, Jackson settled in to take a few shots. After five
minutes, he carefully backed away into the dark and found another
spot to doze for his allotted hour. Sixty minutes later, Jackson
effortlessly roused himself and took aim once more. He didn’t hit
anyone, but he made sure not one man got a decent night’s sleep.
Once he caught up with the rest of the lawmen the railroad had
hired, the outlaws would be easy targets - careless and slow to
react to the direct attack the posse’s larger numbers could
support.

A
fter tucking her
last piece of well-worn clothing into the satchel Jasper Smith had
provided, Ruth hesitated to close the bag. She couldn’t breathe
easy with the picture in her mind of Jasper Smith being her only
companion and protector for the next two weeks – Then straight into
the arms of a man she knew next to nothing about.

Ruth sat on the edge of the bed, stroking the
satin coverlet. She ached remembering the feel of her mother’s
favorite cotton quilt – the one that had lain on her bed for as
long as Ruth could remember. She missed her parents so much she
could barely keep from crying. If only her mama were here to tell
her what to do, she thought. Or Papa – he always saw the bright
side of things, and could just as easily patch up a broken heart
with a joke or tall tale as he could set a child’s broken arm.

Ruth wandered over to the window. She
wondered if it would be pure suicide to try and shimmy down the
vines alongside her window in petticoats and lace. She smiled –
she’d no doubt just break her leg and have to set it herself. And
then she’d really be trapped in the lone company of Jasper
Smith.

An insistent pounding on the door startled
her out of her reverie. Ruth set her shoulders back and grabbed her
satchel off the bed. She was determined not to be a coward, not
ever again. She’d lived in fear through the four long years since
losing her parents. She’d promised Papa not to be afraid. It was
time she lived up to that promise.

F
rank Masterson
silently promised himself this would be the last – the absolute
last - whore he’d take up with, as he lugged her lifeless but still
warm body into the alley behind the saloon. He paused to catch his
breath and wipe the sweat that was dripping into his light blue
eyes. She sure was heavy for someone so young, he thought
resentfully, as he carted her down another flight of rickety
stairs.

He cursed as he stumbled and jammed his
shoulder into the side of the clapboard building. Women were all
greedy and clingy, to his way of thinking, but this one could cause
him no end of trouble. He’d barely smacked her and the tiny bit of
a girl went flying into the table edge. He hadn’t meant to kill her
– just shut her whining mouth for five damned minutes. He hadn’t
paid to hear her whine.

He’d soon have a wife for that purpose.

Masterson chuckled. He’d have to be more
patient with the wife, he warned himself. He couldn’t stand a
skittish woman ducking around corners every damned time he walked
into the room. His mother had been just like that, which is why the
weak bit of skirt hadn’t survived his father’s hand past
Masterson’s eighth birthday. But he had survived his old man and
outdone the bastard tenfold.

As he settled the rapidly-cooling corpse into
the buckboard, Masterson fantasized about Pa turning in his grave
at his only son’s success. He glanced over his shoulder, then
quickly covered the back of the wagon with the piece of canvas he’d
stolen from the blacksmith’s shop. He tied it down and prayed the
wind didn’t kick up tonight. He tucked a last bit of lace under the
canvas and pulled his hat down over his face. He wasn’t known in
this town, but the West was smaller than most people knew, and he
was always careful.

He climbed up on the buckboard and slowly
rolled out of town. It wasn’t yet sunrise, and most of the lonely
cowboys and miners had been carousing until three. There was no one
about as Masterson drove around the back side of town, and turned
the team toward the lone cemetery. If he were lucky, there’d be an
open grave he could toss her in and cover her up just a bit. If he
weren’t so lucky, he’d maybe have to dig up someone fresh and toss
them in together.

“Some lucky bastard just might get a whore to
warm him up in Hell,” he muttered under his breath, figuring he
could do worse himself when his time was up.

“T
ime’s up Halper,”
Mike shouted to be heard over the rising wind. “We’re coming
in.”

Mike cocked his well-oiled musket before
whispering to his silent companion. “Don’t suppose they’re gonna
surprise me on my birthday and come out nicely?”

Jackson cracked the barest hint of a smile.
“Twenty dollars says they’ve already left.”

“What the hell?” Old Mike dribbled a mouthful
of tobacco juice on his snakeskin boots as his toothless smile
dropped open in surprise. He whispered right back at Jackson.
“We’ve been here all night. Them city lawmen ain’t much use
tracking, but they can’t have missed three mounted men going out
the back. You and me took the front. Ain’t nobody got past me on my
watch, and the best Injun scout couldn’t crawl past you on a
moonless night in the pourin’ down rain.”

“Relax, Old Man. I let them leave less than
twenty minutes ago. We can’t arrest them yet, no matter what our
city friends out back think. We don’t have enough proof to convict
them of robbery much less murder. We need to catch them in the act.
And now I know where they’re headed.” Jackson pulled a scrap of
paper out of his coat pocket and slid it through the dirt for
Mike’s inspection.

“Take a look at this,” Jackson ordered. “It’s
a map showing the way to a crossroads with the Union Pacific rail
line. I got it off the scout after he missed my scalp with a
hatchet. It’s got tomorrow’s date on it.”

“Didn’t think any of them boys knew how to
write,” Old Mike mumbled under his breath. He examined the hastily
scratched dates and realized they matched the string of robberies
they’d been hired to stop.

“They don’t,” Jackson whispered back. “Joshua
Halper and Bear Standish both had to make their mark when they were
arrested two years back. Then there’s the Mexican. His English is
broken, so can’t see him as the author.”

“So your hunch was right. There’s someone
else been planning these train robberies all along.”

“Seems so,” Jackson replied.

“You figure the head honcho’s gonna show his
face this time?” Mike quietly asked.

“Maybe,” he shrugged. “It’s a lot of cash
money to trust to outlaws, no matter how afraid they are of
you.”

“Those tracks are pretty close to the
territorial border,” Mike observed. “Be mighty tempting to just
keep riding into Indian Territory and take your chances. If this
boss man ain’t the type to get his hands dirty, can’t figure he’d
follow them.”

“Could hire someone to do it, though,”
Jackson suggested, running his hands through his short black
hair.

“I suppose,” Mike replied. “But it’d cost a
pretty penny to keep a band like that loyal. Good thing your mama
brought you up right, my boy.”

Jackson cracked the barest excuse for a
smile. “Let’s make sure I’m right and no one got left behind to
slow us down.”

“Even Bear Standish ain’t dumb enough to
leave just one man to stop us. He might get lucky and make your
mama cry, but he’d need another two for me.” Old Mike chuckled. He
didn’t worry about keeping his voice down, knowing after ten years
of following his partner that no one left in the night or stayed
behind that Jackson didn’t know about. He’d bet his last night with
a woman on it.

Old Mike grinned at that happy thought. Not
wanting to miss out on any slim chances at the ripe old age of
sixty-one, he whispered back to Jackson. “You take the left, just
in case.”

R
uth slid across the
narrow passenger bench, as far to the left as she could manage
without falling off the edge. She quickly wedged her carpet bag on
her right side, effectively preventing Jasper Smith from coming in
physical contact with her, even though he forced her to share the
seat with him.

Every time she caught him ogling her, she
tried her best to ignore the chill that ran down her spine. It’ll
be over soon, she kept telling herself. This train ride was the
last leg of her journey, and she could only cling to the frail hope
that her husband would respect her wish to never again lay eyes on
Smith.

Smith grinned slyly at the girl’s efforts,
not fooled for a moment by her attempt at nonchalance. He could
bide his time. Let the skittish miss take comfort in the presence
of the other passengers, he thought, and it’d be that much easier
when he caught her alone.

“You know, Mrs. Masterson, I been your
soon-to-be husband’s right hand man for goin’ on twenty years, now.
Knew him as a kid. We lived on the streets, even. Survived all
kinds of horrors I wouldn’t repeat to a sweet thing like you. But
it kept us close. Goin’ that far back together – you can’t buy that
kind of loyalty. And you can’t marry it, neither.” He guffawed at
his own chatter, not expecting a response from Ruth, and not
getting one either.