Anita Mills (28 page)

By the time she’d crept down the Menger’s stairs with her carpetbag in hand this morning, she felt as if her lips were swollen from his kisses. Even now, when she dared to open her eyes, she wondered if Mrs. Pickens could tell by looking at her what she’d done last night. And how she would react if she knew.

But it didn’t matter. If she had to spend the rest of her life atoning for it, it would still have been worth the cost. Only it was over and done with, she reminded herself. Without the intervention of some divine providence, she wouldn’t be seeing him again. Ever.

A shot rang out, jarring her from her introspection, and the stagecoach picked up speed with a suddenness that threw her against the thin man, waking him again. “Sorry,” she mumbled, righting herself.

“Mercy!” Mrs. Pickens gasped, grabbing for the hamper. Before she could catch it, the lid flew open, and a medium-sized, big-footed pup escaped. Almost immediately it hiked its leg on Turner’s pantleg, leaving a wet streak that ended in a puddle on the floor. “Blackie!” the woman screeched.

Turner lunged for the animal with both hands, but came up empty as the little boy snatched it away. “Gimme that beast!” the man snarled. “I’m throwing it out the damned window!” Just as he said it, a bullet tore through the wood within inches of his head. Heedless of the puddle, he dived to the floor, where he sat, cowering against Verena’s leg.

Alarmed now, she frantically tore into her carpetbag for McCready’s revolver. Trying to remember what he’d shown her about it, she rotated the cylinders, making sure all five bullets were in it. When she looked up, Mrs. Pickens had her arms around the little boy, and the child was holding on to the puppy for dear life. The woman’s eyes were on the gun.

Two more shots hit the coach; and amid shouts of, “Halt, or I’ll plug you!” answered by, “Don’t shoot!” the team slowed, then stopped.

“He ain’t a-gettin’ my weddin’ ring!” Mrs. Pickens declared, popping it into her mouth. With an effort, she swallowed it. Picking up her purse, she exposed a white fleshy leg as she stuffed the bag up under her skirt. “If he wants my money, he’ll have to go atter it!” she said triumphantly.

The boy peered outside eagerly, then announced, “Robbers! They’s two of ’em, Mama—two of ’em! And they got bandanas a-coverin’ their noses!”

The man on the floor got a decidedly improper grip on Verena’s knee. “He’ll take my gold watch!” he wailed. “I gave five dollars for it!”

“Give it here,” the Pickens woman told him. “I’ll hide it in m’drawers.”

Her own hands shaking, Verena pulled back the hammer, cocking it, then eased the heavy Colt down between her and the coach wall, where she held it out of view. When she looked down, her own purse was gone, too.

“Ain’t to worry, dearie,” Mrs. Pickens assured her. “I got it real safe for you.”

“If she don’t stand up,” the man on the floor muttered.

“I oughter throw yer watch at ’em,” the fat woman shot back.

Above their heads, the driver called down from the box, “You got the wrong run! We ain’t carryin’ no payroll!”

“Shut up, old man! We ain’t wantin’ the money—it’s the girl!”

Verena’s stomach sank like a rock as she recognized the voice. Her finger tightened on the Colt’s trigger. The fat woman and Turner stared at her, while the boy said excitedly, “They’s comin’ this way, Mama!”

“Well, I never!” Mrs. Pickens gasped when she found her voice. “What on earth would they want with you?”

Looking out the window, Verena could see a man in a blue coat dismount and start toward the coach. She sat very still, waiting.

“What d’you think you’re doin’?” the fat woman demanded.

“When I count to three, you’d better hit the floor,” Verena told her. “All of you.”

“You’ll get the lot of us shot!” But to be on the safe side, she ordered, “Jimmy, get down there—now!” Then she pushed him onto Mr. Turner.

Alarmed by the implication, the man insisted, “There ain’t no room down here!”

A masked man wrenched open the door, then flailed wildly, trying to fend off the yipping puppy. “Dammit, Charley—get this thing off me!”

Verena leveled the gun on the open door. “Hold it right there, mister.”

“Huh?”

“Mama, Blackie’s loose!” the boy screamed. “He’s out!” Scrambling over Turner, he tried to go after the animal.

Outside, the dog danced and barked, nipping at the robbers’ horses. The mounted rider raised his pistol to shoot it just as Verena pulled the trigger. Within the small confines of the coach, the report was deafening, and the acrid smell of burned gunpowder set Mrs. Pickens to choking. When she heard Verena cock the gun again, she cried out, “Mercy! I ain’t gettin’ no breath!”

Taking advantage of the confusion, the driver managed to get his hands on his shotgun. “Awright, get ’em up!” he called out. “I got yuh covered!”

The man on the ground shot at him, hitting the barrel of the shotgun, and the impact knocked it out of the driver’s hand. It discharged as it hit the ground, sending a spray of buckshot into the air. At the same time, the dog jumped, sank its teeth into a fleshier part of the horse’s leg. The frightened animal took off with Blackie hanging on, and the rider trying to kick him loose.

“Mama, ain’t it grand!” Tommy yelled, bouncing on Turner’s head.

“Shut up,” she told him.

The would-be assailant on foot picked himself up off the ground and tried again. Waving his gun, he yelled, “Ever’body out! We ain’t aiming to hurt nobody—all’s we want is the girl!”

The horse, rider, and dog made another pass past them, with the rider taking aim on Blackie. He missed, but his horse reared, unseating him. His gun fired as he fell. Then when he hit the dust, the excited dog was all over him, nipping and yipping.

“Lee! Get ’im off me!”

“You do that again, and I don’t care if you’re Jack’s girl or not,” the other man warned Verena. “I ain’t above wingin’ you.”

“She shoots that thing, and you ain’t above nuthin’, mister,” Mrs. Pickens told him. “The buzzards’ll have you picked plumb clean afore sundown.”

Verena had both hands on the pistol, one finger on the trigger. “Get away from that door, or I’ll shoot,” she said loudly.
“Now.”

“Looks like you got yourself a Mexican standoff,” the fat woman declared. “If’n you shoot, you get each other.”

The man on the ground managed to knock the dog away and stumble to his feet. His coat was half off and above the dirty bandana, his face was red with dust. He drew his gun and lined the dog in the gunsight.

“No!” Jimmy cried, plunging past the startled man in the door. “You ain’t shootin’ Blackie!”

As the child tried to shelter the little animal, the fellow grabbed him. “I got the kid!” he called out. “Either the girl comes out, or I kill ’im! And the dog, too!”

At Verena’s knees, Turner said, “You can have my watch if you do.”

While she watched in horror, the boy’s captor put the pistol to his head and cocked it. “Send the girl out, and you can have him back!”

Seeing that she wavered, Turner insisted, “Let ’im have the brat. There’s no tellin’ what they’ll do to you.”

“They got my boy!” Mrs. Pickens shouted at him.

“I ain’t countin’ but to ten! Lee, tell ‘im I ain’t countin’ but to ten!”

“I reckon they heard!” Lee called back.

“Probably all the further he can count,” Turner muttered under his breath.

“One. Two. Three. I ain’t bluffin’—it’s the kid or the girl!”

“Four.”

As Matthew crested the hill, he saw the coach at the side of the road. Reining in, he took quick stock of the situation. All he could see was the man holding a gun to the head of what looked to be a child. The stagecoach door was open, hiding whatever was going on inside, but a man’s legs were visible beneath it, indicating someone stood there. They were so absorbed in the drama of the situation that they hadn’t even heard him.

He dismounted and reached for the Henry. It had been a long time, nearly eight years since he’d picked off anybody like this. Carrying the repeater, he crept closer for a better look. It was still a long shot.

“Five!” the man holding the boy shouted. “You hear me? I said ‘Five!’ ”

“He’s gonna kill my boy!” Mrs. Pickens cried. “For the love of God, he’s gonna kill my boy!”

“We ain’t gonna hurt you, I swear it,” the man at the door told Verena. “We don’t want anything that we ain’t got comin’.”

“Six!”

“You wouldn’t kill a child,” she said desperately.

“We been waitin’ a long time for that gold.”

“But I don’t know what you’re talking about! I don’t have any gold! All I’ve got is a little over a hundred dollars to my name.”

“A hunnert dollars!” Mrs. Pickens gasped, momentarily diverted. “With you?”

“You can have all of it if you turn the boy loose,” Verena promised him. “Everything’s in my purse.”

“Seven!”

Matt raised the rifle, sighting his shot. Just as he hesitated, afraid he’d hit the kid, the boy twisted loose. And when the man lunged for him, Matt squeezed the trigger. The impact of the bullet spun the fellow around. Then he fell, clutching his shoulder as he hit the ground.

“I been shot, Lee!” he screamed.

“It’s gotta be Gib!” The one who’d been holding his pistol on Verena went white as he turned around to look, and in that moment Mrs. Pickens’s foot shot out, landing a solid kick to the middle of his back. He pitched forward, then hit the dirt face first. The full fury of a mother took over, and the woman jumped from the door of the coach to land on Verena’s would-be abductor, knocking the wind out of him.

“Is it over?” Turner asked cautiously, putting his elbows on the vacated seat. “Is it safe to get out?”

“I don’t know,” Verena answered truthfully. “There was only one shot, and I don’t know where it came from.”

Coming down from the box, the driver beat her to the wounded man. Bending over him, he pried bloody fingers off the shoulder, then observed, “Bone might be broke, but if it don’t get infected, he’ll live.” Lifting the fellow up by his hair, he demanded, “Just who the hell are you, anyway? And where the hell did that shot come from?”

“I don’t know—mebbe Gib. Name’s Pierce. Charles Pierce.” Closing his eyes, he clenched his teeth. “Hurts like hell.” He took several deep breaths before he looked up at Verena. “I wasn’t—wouldn’t have—shot the boy. Just want my share—that’s all.”

“But I don’t have anything—nothing anybody would want, anyway,” she insisted.

“Jack—”

“Jack Howard?”

“Yeah.”

“He was my father, but—”

“Double-crossed. Shoulder hurts too damned bad to talk. Must be Gib after us—can’t trust him.”

“But I don’t know any Gib,” she declared positively.

“He killed Bob. Don’t know how many others. Hamer even.”

“Hamer? Mr. Hamer is in on this, too?” she asked incredulously. “I don’t believe it. But
why
?”

“No. Gib got him.” He twisted his head. “Where’s Lee? Lee, you all right?”

“My back’s broke, Charley!”

The black puppy gingerly edged his way to Pierce’s side, then began licking his face. “Heathen hound,” the man muttered. “Nearly kilt me.”

The driver picked up his shotgun, then came back. “I’d say you both just bought yourselves one-way tickets to Huntsville.”

Verena looked up. “Huntsville?”

“State prison. Attemptin’ to rob a stagecoach. Attemptin’ to abduct a female. Attemptin’ to kill a kid. That judge and jury ain’t never lettin’ ’em outta jail.”

As Mrs. Pickens stood up, Lee Jackson rolled over onto his side. “It wasn’t none of those things—we was just wantin’ to talk to her. We was wantin’ to know what Jack did with it. We was wantin’ our share, that’s all. We was tryin’ to get to her afore Gib did. He gets her, he kills her.”

“But who is he?” she asked again.

“Bad fellow. Dangerous.” With an effort, Pierce sat up. “We was all together when it started—the major, Lee, Bob, Frank, and the others—even Gib. Now only me and Charlie and Gib are left.”

“But who
is
he?”

“The lieutenant. Gilbert Hannah.” He took another deep breath, then held it, trying to lessen the red-hot pain. “Everybody called him Gib. He turned bad on us.” His gaze strayed to the driver. “Who shot me?”

“Came from those hills.”

“Gotta watch out—he’s a killer, I’m telling you.”

“I don’t know who it was, but it looks like he’s coming,” the driver announced, pointing.

“It’s Gib,” Lee Jackson said glumly. “I knowed we couldn’t beat ’im.”

Verena stood up and shaded her eyes with her hand, trying to make out the rider, and her breath caught painfully in her chest. There had to some mistake. It was Matthew McCready—or was it?

No, he couldn’t be Gib, not after … not after what had happened between them. The McCready she knew wouldn’t do anything like this.

You guessed right in the beginning. . . . I’m a wanted man, Rena
. . . . His words echoed in her mind.

“Gib was going to find you, do a little courtin’, then when he got where the gold was from you, he was going to kill you,” Lee Jackson said behind her. “Just like he killed everybody.”

She could see him plainly now. “Is—is that Mr. Hannah?” she managed to ask.

Jackson followed her gaze, then shook his head. “Gib? Naw—that’s your husband, ain’t he?”

Relief flooded over her, pouring from every pore, as scalding tears burned her eyes. “Not exactly,” she managed.

“Well, now either he is, or he ain’t,” Mrs. Pickens declared, raising her eyebrows. “I’d say that was something a body’d be mighty exact about.” Her brow furrowed, drawing her eyebrows together. “Less’n you was a Catholic, and you wasn’t married by no priest. Then—”

But Verena wasn’t listening. “Yes!” she shouted, gathering her skirt and petticoat above her high-top shoes, and taking off at an unladylike run. “Yes! Matt! Matt! Over here!”

The fat woman stared after her, then shook her head. “Bein’ a Baptist, I guess I don’t understand ’em.” Then another thought occurred to give her pause. “Hope there ain’t no rattlers out there, ’cuz she’s trippin’ over them rocks like the devil was atter her.”

Matt couldn’t remember ever seeing anything prettier than Verena Howard right then. He spurred his tired horse, closing the gap between them. She was so out of breath when she reached him that she couldn’t speak. She just caught his leg and held on, looking up at him through streaming eyes, trying to smile despite her quivering chin.