Cherish (11 page)

Johnny shook his head. “It wasn’t him! Tag was ri—front—me! Everything—quiet, then—hell—loose! Rifle—and every—went crazy!” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “It came—up there—hind me! From some—on—rise.”

Race turned to look, and there was indeed a rise in the distance, although the cattle had run a goodly distance from it in the time since the first shot had been fired. “And you’re sure it wasn’t one of our men who fired the shots?” he yelled.

Johnny shook his head. “Wha—think? That—a bunch—damned fools?”

Hauling back on the halter rope and throwing his weight, Race spun Dusty in place on his back hooves. He
gazed at the distant rise, all thought of financial loss fading from his mind as a new fear took root. If Tag hadn’t fired those rifle shots, that meant an outsider had done it in a deliberate attempt to stampede the herd.

Race needed no detailed pictures sketched in the dirt to tell him the rest of the story. Like a goddamned fool, he’d ridden off to save his cattle, leaving Rebecca alone back at camp, believing she’d be safe there. Now, he was a good five minutes away—if he pushed Dusty to his limit and went back as a crow flew—and that wasn’t counting the ten minutes he’d already been away from her to get here.

That added up to fifteen minutes. His stomach dropped to somewhere in the region of his boot heels. Sweet God Almighty. He’d let himself be lured away, leaving her there with no one to look after her. Even Cookie had run for high ground.

The bastards who had slaughtered all those people in the arroyo yesterday could do untold damage to a defenseless slip of a girl in fifteen minutes. And damn his own worthless hide, he’d be the one who had let it happen.

Hands locked on the wagon gate, Rebecca stared after the
horse and rider racing away from camp, her admiration for Race Spencer growing with each powerful stride of the buckskin’s long legs. The man was a magnificent horseman, his well-muscled body flowing with the movements of his mount, making stallion and rider seem like one entity.

As she watched the dust billowing behind the horse’s flashing hooves, Rebecca decided she should probably get out of the wagon to better monitor the stampede. Just in case the cattle turned back toward her, she didn’t want to be caught unprepared. Mr. Spencer had said that someone named Cookie would be back in camp shortly, but otherwise it appeared that all the other men were gone, chasing after the cattle. That meant she’d have to manage on her own if the panicked herd reversed its direction.

Except for clumps of brush, a large pile of rock in the distance, and the peaks of the mountains far to the west, nothing but rolling grasslands stretched for as far as she could see. After having traveled over this sort of terrain for weeks on end, Rebecca knew all too well that the dips between hills could conceal an approaching wagon train until it was nearly on top of you. She could only assume the same might hold true for a herd of cattle. She would be wise to watch in the direction they had gone for any sign of dust, for that might be the only warning she got
that the cows were headed back her way. Not a pleasant thought.

Gathering up her skirts, which were inches too long, she swung a leg out over the gate, searched with her toe for a foothold, and then lowered herself to the ground. A quick peek around the corner of the wagon told her that no one had remained behind. Not far away, she saw a length of rope stretched between two sturdy wooden stakes driven deeply into the ground. That was undoubtedly where Mr. Spencer and his men tethered their mounts. Since all the horses were gone, it followed that all the men were gone as well.

Just beyond camp, twelve wagon-team mules were staked out to graze with two oxen, which she assumed were from her caravan and had been used to pull her wagon from the arroyo. In the event that the stampeding cattle turned back, she supposed she might ride one of the mules to safety, the only problem being that mules were often difficult to handle, their stubbornness compounded greatly if they’d never been broken to ride. But unlike practically everything else she had encountered thus far in this godforsaken territory, at least mules were something she knew about and could confidently handle, even if it meant having to ride one that bucked with far more enthusiasm than it walked. Papa and the other brethren had always used mules in the fields, so she had dealt with the creatures all of her life. The secret of handling them successfully was simply to be as stubborn and cantankerous as they were.

Hugging her waist and keeping her gaze fixed in the direction that Race Spencer had been heading, Rebecca took a few tentative steps away from her wagon to provide herself with a better view. Her legs still felt weak, she realized, whether from the ordeal she’d just endured or from not eating for so long, she wasn’t sure. Her line of vision blocked by another wagon, she angled right, craning her neck to watch for any sign of a new dust cloud. The only one she saw was receding, which told her the herd was most likely still heading away from camp.

A thumping sound drew her attention. She glanced over
her shoulder to see a large, mottled brown hound standing next to a low-burning fire at the rear of what she surmised was the chuck wagon. An incurable dog lover, Rebecca turned and pressed cautiously closer, watching the creature for any sign of viciousness. The hound was so intent on whatever it was devouring that it scarcely seemed aware of her.

When she got within a few feet, the dog finally looked up, affording her a glimpse of what had to be the homeliest hound face she’d ever seen, the skin loose and wrinkled with drooling jowls that hung in long flaps at each side of its muzzle. Its sad-looking eyes were badly bloodshot, the lower lids sagging so that the red, inside tissue was exposed.

“Nice dog,” she said, bending forward and extending a hand. “You don’t bite, do you?”

The animal gave her a bored look and resumed eating, nudging an overturned pot with its nose, then thrusting its head inside. Hollow-sounding slurps and tinny thumps followed. Dropping to a crouch, Rebecca smiled slightly. It was silly of her, she supposed, but somehow, seeing the dog lent her a sense of continuity and well-being. Life did go on. Mr. Spencer was right; the sadness inside her wouldn’t remain an unbearable ache forever. The morning sunlight felt deliciously warm on her face and shoulders. Watching the hound reminded her that there were still sweet, wondrous things in the world to anticipate—newborn puppies, frolicking kittens, the perfume of spring wildflowers. Someday when the sadness lessened, she would laugh again and feel at peace.

Hugging her knees, Rebecca closed her eyes and took a deep breath, visions of her parents moving softly through her mind, her father’s kindly smile, her mother’s lovely blue eyes. That was how she should try to remember them, she realized—as they’d been in life, not as they’d been in those last few terrible moments. They would never have wanted her to dwell on that sort of ugliness, for it was contrary to all that they had believed and upheld.
Violence
. Rebecca’s father had never even disciplined her physically, nor had she ever seen him lift
a hand to her mother. After living her whole life never seeing any sort of violence, then witnessing a rash of it at its very worst, she felt horribly vulnerable and afraid. If she let herself continue to think about it, she had no doubt the memories might drive her mad.

Lifting her lashes, Rebecca glanced over her shoulder to be sure no dust cloud had appeared on the horizon. Then she returned her gaze to the dog. It appeared to be eating chili, which had somehow gotten knocked from the fire and spilled. Her stomach, which hadn’t seen a morsel of food in over twenty-four hours, protested with hunger sounds at the smell of the meat sauce.

Evidently unsettled by her presence, the hound lifted its head, which now sported smears of chili sauce and beans, even on the long ears. Under other circumstances, Rebecca would have laughed, for the animal was nothing if not comical looking, a smashed bean at the center of its forehead adding a special touch.

Still feeling a bit shaky, she sighed and pushed to her feet. At her movement, the hound startled her with a low growl, hovering protectively over the chili pot, sauce smearing its muzzle.

“As hungry as I am, I don’t care to eat dirt with my dinner, so you can rest easy,” she told the dog, clucking her tongue. “Selfish thing. If I was of a mind to take some, you’ve more than enough to share. How much can one dog possibly eat?”

Jowls dripping foamy slobber flecked with chili sauce, the dog growled again. Afraid that the animal might be vicious after all, she decided the best course of action was to keep her gaze on the ground, ignoring him as she moved away. Silly creature. As if she were inclined to crawl about, rooting in the dirt for her dinner.

Just as she started to turn and leave, the dog surpassed its previous growls with a deep, rumbling snarl that raised the hair on her arms. A crawling sensation moved up the back of Rebecca’s neck, and she got the awful feeling that someone was staring at her. Her pulse skittered as she whirled to look behind her. Almost as if the hound sensed her sudden fear, it let loose with another blood-chilling
growl and moved away from the fire to stand abreast of her.

No more than fifteen feet away stood four men, though to include them in the male gender was, in her estimation, an affront to the human race. They walked on two legs and wore the trappings of men, but there all comparison ended. The breeze shifted directions, carrying the smell of body filth to her, so malodorous and thick she could almost taste it.

“Well, now,” one said, cupping his crotch with a grimy hand to scratch himself as he spoke. “Ain’t you a fine swatch of calico?”

Rebecca’s feet felt rooted to the ground, and all she could do was stare. She’d never seen such filthy, evil-looking creatures in all her life. Shifty, bloodshot eyes. All of them sported long stubble on their jaws and chins, the coverage oddly thin and patchy, as if, like the plant life in this parched country, their beards had suffered for lack of nutrients and water. They put her in mind of mangy porcupines. Not that she’d ever seen any. But that was the best she could do to describe them.

Until Rebecca and the others in her caravan had departed from the Santa Fe Trail two days ago, they had traveled with a much larger wagon train, and during the journey, they had been told stories about men of this caliber. Desperadoes or border ruffians, they were sometimes called, bold and reckless outlaws who marauded, far and wide, killing anyone who dared to get in their way. Many of them from New Mexico, the desperadoes generally rode in large, ragtag gangs, she’d been told, most of the members of white descent, their main strength lying in sheer numbers rather than skill with weaponry. They were reputedly men without feeling or common decency, who knew no limits and revered nothing, be it secular or holy.

She saw that they’d left their horses at the edge of camp, a fair distance away, undoubtedly the better to sneak up on her. For what purpose, she had yet to determine, her only certainty being that it couldn’t be good.

Snarling again, the dog crouched slightly, its shoulder on a level with her knee. The fellow who had scratched
himself moved his hand to his holstered revolver, his fingers curling loosely over the butt. Judging by his wary watchfulness, he meant to shoot the hound if it made a move toward them.

Realizing now that the animal hadn’t been growling at her, after all, but trying to alert her to danger, Rebecca touched a shaky hand to the top of its bony head, her gaze never leaving the men. They wore tan leather shirts and pants, the leg and arm seams trimmed with long fringe and silver conchae that flashed in the sunlight like mirrors.

Pictures moved through her head, and an awful dizzy sensation washed over her. Their clothing was the kind one might expect Indians to wear, only these garments bore a distinct Spanish influence. Their pants fit snugly in the legs but flared widely at the ankle over ornately hand-tooled boots. Their close-fitting shirts, cut similar to jackets, had standing collars, epaulets, front shields and cuffs decorated with beaded trefoil and silver brads, which matched those on the bands of their tan hats. The overall effect was one of overdone flashiness, the motto of these men evidently being, the more garish the better.

Her dizziness increased as she studied their garments.
Tan
. She jerked her gaze back up to their faces, her legs going watery as snatches of memory returned to her and realization slowly dawned.

As if he sensed her mounting horror, the man who stood to the far left smiled at her. It was a cruel smile, calculated to terrify, his lips drawing back in a snarl to reveal dirty, yellow teeth with a nasty, dark brown substance caked between them. Greasy strings of collar-length, wavy blond hair framed his face—a face that she knew, in that moment, would haunt her for the rest of her life. Close-set, beady eyes, so pale a blue they were almost colorless. A beaklike nose and sharply cut, sun-baked features.

Fear slammed through her brain like a fist through glass. These men had taken part in the bloodbath at the arroyo. She knew it as surely as she breathed, even though she couldn’t recall their faces. She gasped and fell back a step, pressing a hand to her throat.

Tell me where the money is, old man, and I’ll leave your worn-out old woman alone
!

The words rang in her mind, recalling images so awful that Rebecca couldn’t breathe for a moment. Fear washed over her in icy waves. More pictures flashed. Of a faceless monster, brutalizing her mother and laughing at her cries of pain. Of her father, holding up his Bible as though for protection and pleading for mercy. And then the blood. Everywhere, the blood.

Feeling as if a red haze filmed her vision, she could only stare as they slowly advanced toward her. The dog growled another warning, which they ignored. Of the four, the face of the leering blond drew her gaze most strongly. Had he been the man who killed her mother? She didn’t know, couldn’t remember. But it didn’t matter. He’d been there. That was enough.

“You!” she whispered, her voice throbbing. “
You
!”

She’d no sooner spoken than someone hollered, “Run, honey! Run for your life!”

Startled by the shout, she glanced past the desperadoes to see a funny-looking little man with short legs racing into camp, one hand clamped to the top of his head to hold his gray hat in place.

“You, there!” he cried, his voice breaking with each jarring step he took. “You got no business here! Clear out! Ever’ last one of you. Go on, get!”

For a short person, the little man covered ground with amazing speed, his stubby legs pumping like well-oiled pistons. As he drew closer, she could make out his features. Those that weren’t covered with the wild, gray beard, anyway. He had a huge hawk nose, which seemed to be the largest thing about him, that jutted from between deep-set green eyes capped by thick, grizzled brows that reminded her of squirrel tails. He wore a green plaid shirt and oversize blue dungarees held up by scarlet suspenders, and it looked as if he had chili beans smashed all over his front. The floppy legs of the dungarees had been hacked off just below the knee, exposing faded red long handles from the frayed edges of denim down to his dusty boot tops.

Much as she had stared at the desperadoes, Rebecca gaped at him as he drew closer. Born and raised in a religious cloister where black, conservatively fashioned garments were mandatory, she’d not only never seen men like these, but could not have imagined they existed.

Skidding on his boot heels, the little man stopped directly in front of Rebecca and turned his back on her to shake his fist at the outlaws. “Go on, I said! Get while the gettin’s good. The boss and the others is comin’, and if you ain’t cleared out afore he gets here, he’ll fix your wagons for sure!”