Valley of the Gun (9781101607480) (7 page)

“Whatever happened between you and Dad Orwick happened a long time ago, the way you told it,” he said. “I figure you've had all the time you need to make up your mind whether or not to kill him.”

“That's true. I have,” she said.

Sam shrugged and said, “No point in me reopening the issue. If you've made it right in your mind, who am I to question it?”

She cocked her head curiously.

“See?” she said. “That doesn't sound like something a lawman would say.”

“If it was somebody besides a man like Orwick, I might try to talk you out of it—for
your
sake, not his,” he added. “But there're lawmen, bankers, posses all out to kill him. They post bounties that anyone is free to claim. I can't say much in his defense when so many have legally demanded his blood. Had you said you were after him for bounty, I wouldn't have said anything to try to stop you. Because your reasons are personal, that makes them no less justified, in my book. Is what he's done to others any worse than what he's done to you?”

“No,” she said. “What he's done to them is
nothing
compared to what he did to me. Not only to me, but to many other women.” Her expression turned dark. “We were none of us much more than children when he bought us, when he
married
us.”

“Bought you?” Sam asked, hoping she'd keep talking, get some of it out of her system.

“Bought, traded for . . . swapped back and forth like breeding stock,” she said. “That's all any of us were to Dad Orwick and his disciples. All of it in the name of his self-concocted religion—his powerful ‘
mandates from God.
'”

Sam listened as she acquainted him with her life as a child and as a young woman under the rule of a madman. He was determined he would listen for as long as it took.

Yet, before she had spoken much further on her life with Dad Orwick, they both fell silent and swung around, guns up and ready to fire, as a strange horse peeped around the edge of the boulder and blew out a breath, giving them a curious look.

“Stay here,” Sam said to Mattie as he rose in a crouch, seeing no bit, bridle or reins on the horse's muzzle. He stalked forward slowly until he saw the horse step into sight, bareback, and dusty from the trail.

“What is it, Ranger?” Mattie whispered.

“Beats me,” Sam said. He stepped forward and rubbed the horse's muzzle. He looked toward the boulder and said, “Let's climb up and take a look.”

Chapter 7

The two climbed up to the top edge of the boulder and scooted forward on their bellies until they were able to get a good look out along the hillside to their right. Strewn out on a path, weaving toward them through rocks, brush and boulders, nine more bareback horses strolled along as if following the first horse, now standing over beside the Ranger's dun and Mattie's dapple gray.

“Wild horses? Mustangs?” Mattie whispered.

“I don't think so,” Sam whispered in reply. “They look too well fed and curried.” He studied the hillside for a long while, still puzzled. “We're going to have to see what they're doing here, though. Anything out of the ordinary is cause for concern.”

“I don't think we'll have to round them up,” Mattie whispered. “It looks like they're coming right to us.”

“Another good reason to think they're not wild,” Sam said quietly. “They scented us from a mile away. They wouldn't come looking for us if they were wild.” He glanced back over his shoulder in the direction of the water hole, trying to figure it out.

“They're horses that have been turned loose, spooked or something,” Mattie said, her voice less of a whisper now.

“I've got it,” Sam said, still looking back toward the water hole. “It's water they're after. They came to our scent because they're tame. They're used to people and our smell.”

“But where are they from?” Mattie asked.

“I don't know,” Sam said, moving back toward the boulder's edge. “Let's go down and ask them.”

Sam slid over the edge of the boulder and took a footing on a thin, protruding crevice halfway down its side. Stopping, he turned and held a hand up toward Mattie. But she ignored his hand and slid down, took a foothold on the crevice for only a second, then jumped the remaining few feet to the ground.

Sam jumped down behind her and walked toward the gathered horses, Mattie right beside him.

“No brands,” he said, looking the horses over. He touched a gloved hand to the nearest horse's side. He gave the animal a rub and saw no signs of the horse shying back from his gesture. Turning his back to the horse's shoulder, he stooped and raised its shod hoof between his knees and looked at it. “No shoe markings. . . .”

He set the hoof down and looked all around as the horses gathered around him and Mattie curiously. He gave a gentle but firm shove to get one of the horses' noses away from the canteens hanging from the dun's saddle horn.

“They're thirsty,” Mattie said, rubbing a horse's sweaty, dirt-streaked neck.

“Yes, they are,” Sam said. As he spoke he stepped over and took down a coiled rope he carried at his saddle horn and let out a couple of loops. “Somebody must've woken up this morning and found their corral empty. There's a good chance someone is looking for these fellows right now.

“What are you doing?” she asked, seeing the Ranger make a loop around the muzzle of the horse who'd arrived first. He led it closer to another horse.

“Stringing a couple of them,” Sam said. “We'll take them to the water hole, get them watered.”

“But you didn't want to be there in broad daylight with no cover,” Mattie reminded him.

“That's right. I didn't, not if I could keep from it,” Sam replied, continuing to string the second horse. “Right now I can't help it. These horses will get themselves in trouble out here on their own. There's a stage relay station just north of the border. We'll leave them corralled there for whoever they belong to.”

“It'll cost us time,” Mattie said, stepping in, helping him string the horses together.

“I know,” he said. “If you want to ride on ahead, I'll catch up to you along the trail.”

“No, I'll stick,” she said, looping the rope around the third horse's muzzle. “Fact is, if we're going back to the water, I might manage to wash up some, if it's all the same—if we have time, that is?”

“We'll make time. It'll take a few minutes for me to water these cayuses,” Sam said. He watched her add the horse to the string.

“Three will do it?” she said. “We've got more rope.”

“Three's enough,” said Sam. “We've got the leader and these two to boot. The others will follow the string.” As he spoke, he looked across the hillside. “There could be others straggling behind, but they'll follow as they show up.”

Sam took the remaining rope coil in his hand and swung up into his saddle. Turning his dun, he gave a slight pull on the rope, coaxing the first horse around beside him.

“They're tired enough, they won't be hard to handle,” Mattie said, seeing the other two strung horses fall in line behind their leader. She stepped up into her saddle and swung her dapple around beside the Ranger.

Giving his dun a nudge forward, Sam saw her give him a curious look.

“What?” he said.

“You,” she said, nudging the dapple forward with him, the lead string horse walking along between them. “You have a peculiar streak.”

“Do I?” Sam said. He looked himself over idly like a man searching for a bug on his shirt.

“Yes, you do,” Mattie said. “I see it whether you see it or not.”

“Circumstance changes its mind pretty quick where I live,” he said. “I've learned it's best to change right along with it when I can. Most things happen as they should, whether we see it or not.” He gave a slight shrug. “Anyway, horses need water, whatever the circumstances.” The hard line of his face softened a little beneath his dark beard stubble.

“I know,” she said, glancing back, seeing the loose horses plodding right along behind the three on the lead rope. She let out a tense breath and relaxed a little in her saddle.

It's all right,
she reassured herself. The Ranger was a good man, she had come to realize. She could trust him. She felt safe with him, safer than she'd felt in a long time, she thought.

Safe . . . ,
she told herself, liking the thought of it, liking even the sound of the word, and she allowed herself to relax a little more.

She would kill Dad Orwick when the time came to do so; she had no doubt about that. She turned and looked at the Ranger as they rode along. And when it came time, she was certain the Ranger would do nothing to try to stop her.

Why would he? Every word she'd told him about Orwick was the truth.

—

As soon as the two had arrived at the water hole, Mattie galloped a few yards farther and stopped her dapple gray behind a waist-high stand of rocks. She dropped her horse's reins and crouched low enough to keep from being seen while she shed her boots and clothes and stepped down into the tepid water.

Sam watched her guardedly until she was out of sight, and then he shifted his attention to the winding trail and the rocky hillsides in every direction. While the horses drank, he stepped back and forth along the water's edge, his rifle cradled in the crook of his left arm.

So far so good. . . .

But no sooner had the Ranger thought it than he spotted a buckboard wagon racing toward the water hole at the head of a rising stream of dust. Not wanting to call out to Mattie and hear his echo resound along the hill line, he stooped and quickly hitched the lead rope around a stand of brush.

In the water behind the low rocks, Mattie heard the sound of the Ranger galloping toward her. She hurried out of the water and grabbed her clothes. Disregarding the wet long johns she'd washed and left lying atop a flat rock, she wiggled into her trousers, her wet hair hanging down her shoulders. She had reached for her shirt when the Ranger swung his dun around the low rocks and saw her clutch the shirt to her bosom, turning away from him.

Sam quickly tried to divert his gaze, but when she turned away, he stared, almost stunned for a moment, at the long, deep whip scars that crisscrossed her pale back from her neck down beneath the waist of her trousers.

My God. . . .
The Ranger caught himself and turned away quickly.

“Sorry, Mattie,” he said, forcing his eyes away from the terrible scars, knowing they were a secret she would not want shared. “There's a wagon coming. Get dressed. Hurry.”

“I'm hurrying,” she said, throwing her shirt around herself. She began buttoning it as she looked over her shoulder at him.

The Ranger saw a look on her face that he could not discern. Was it shame, rage, a plea for pity? All those things? He wasn't sure, and she looked past him and out toward the buckboard too quick for him to determine.

“Since you're here, stay here,” Sam said, seeing how soon the wagon would be upon them. “Stay down and keep me covered if I need it.”

Mattie finished buttoning her shirt and snatched her rifle up from against a short rock.

“I've got you covered,” she said.

Without another word, Sam turned the dun and raced back the few yards to where the horses stood drinking. He swung down from his saddle and gave the dun a shove on its rump.

In the wagon seat, two men saw the Ranger take a stand as his dun moved out of the line of fire. They watched the Ranger's big Colt come up from his holster, in no hurry, but they noted that he cocked it as he held it down his thigh.

“Swing around, Bud,” the man in the seat beside the driver said. “Put me clear and close. I've got him.” As he spoke he jerked a long-barreled shotgun up with both hands, slammed its butt against his shoulder and started to cock its hammer, taking aim.

But as the wagon driver swung the buckboard around sideways to the Ranger, Sam's big Colt came up level and fired.

The man's eyes flew open wide, seeing the Colt buck in a cloud of smoke—hearing the shot explode, feeling the hard hammering jar as the bullet struck the low side panel of the wagon seat, only an inch from his behind.

The long-barreled shotgun flew from the man's hands, spun in the air and hit the ground butt first. A blast of blue-orange flame erupted from its barrel.

The Ranger reached a hand up and opened the lapel of his riding duster as he took aim, smoke curling up the Colt's barrel.

“The next one's going to take some meat with it,” he called matter-of-factly.

“Whoa! Don't shoot!” the man called out, throwing his hands up, rising from his seat a few inches, still feeling the impact of the bullet in the wooden side panel. “I think I'm hit!”

“Jesus, Breely, he's a lawman!” the driver said, jerking the buckboard to a sudden halt, one hand holding the team of horses' reins, the other raised chest high in submission, away from a holstered Remington on his hip.

“I see that
now,”
said the passenger. He stood up into a crouch, both hands raised. “I'm shot here,” he called out to the Ranger.

“No, you're not. It just feels like it,” Sam said, stepping forward, the smoking Colt still in hand, pointed up, raised at his elbow.

“Damn it, I know when I'm shot!” the passenger insisted.

“Go on and check yourself,” Sam said, stopping close enough for both men to see his badge.

As the passenger felt around all over his buttocks, the driver set the buckboard brake handle, hitched the reins around it and stood up. He leaned and looked the other man's butt over good and shook his head.

“You're not shot anywhere, Breely,” he said, sounding embarrassed. “Stop feeling your ass.”

The passenger looked at both hands and, seeing no blood, appeared relieved. “Why'd you shoot me anyway, Ranger?” he said.

“You were getting ready to shoot me,” Sam said. “Besides, I didn't shoot you. I shot a hole in the wagon seat, just to settle you down.”

The wagon driver chuckled under his breath.

“You sure did that, Ranger,” he said. “Can I step down from here?”

“Yes,” Sam said. “But stay away from that six-shooter.”

“You got it, Ranger,” said the driver. “I'm Ollie Haines. This is Dan'l Breely with the sore bottom.”

“You think this is funny?” Breely growled. He idly reached a hand back and kneaded his stinging rear end.

“No, I don't,” Haines said. “I felt it all the way over on my side. So I know it hurts. But it's over and nobody's dead. Be grateful for what you got.”

“You be grateful,” said Breely. “I'm most likely looking at a bad bruise out of this.”

Ollie Haines only shook his head and turned back to the Ranger.

“Anyway, those are our horses. We come to get them,” he said, gesturing over at the horses. “They stayed a jump ahead of us all night and morning.”

The animals had flinched and turned quickly at the sound of the gunshot. But now they had gone back to their water as if nothing had happened.

“What are they doing out here?” Sam asked. As he spoke he raised a hand and motioned for Mattie to come over from behind the short rocks and join him. Both men looked at her as she swung up into her saddle and rode toward them.

“We work for the mines, up there,” Haines said, nodding to the high hill line. “We were put upon by bandits. They stole our payroll and rode off with all the guards' horses. They led them a few miles out and turned them loose, I reckon. We found their lead rope a few miles back on the high trail. The sons a' bitches thought of everything.”

“Yep, I'd say they did,” Sam replied. He stopped in front of the team of horses and rubbed one on its muzzle. Mattie brought her horse to a halt and stepped down beside the Ranger. Both men eyed her appreciatively, her wet silver-streaked hair clinging to the front of her drenched shirt.

“This is Miss Matilda Rourke,” Sam said. He turned to Mattie and said, “These men work for the mine.”

Mattie looked them up and down, her rifle in hand.

“Ma'am,” the two said in unison, peeling their hats from their heads.

“Looks like this team could use watering too,” Sam said. He started to touch his gloved hand to the horse's nose again. But the animal stiffened at his touch and collapsed to the ground, almost taking the other horse with it.