Double Mountain Crossing (23 page)

The answer became apparent when he checked his gun. As the Colt cleared leather the cylinder fell out of the frame and the six shells scattered on the ground. The
Winchester
bullet must have ricocheted off the handgun before it hit the saddle. The rod which held the cylinder was broken, leaving the gun useless. The force of the bullet striking the Colt before it was deflected must have thrown him from the saddle and also accounted for the dull ache in his hip.

He was lucky the ricochet hadn't set off the six bullets otherwise his right leg would have been shredded. That would have made enough leaks to drain his body dry in seconds.

He was lucky. But it was uncanny how both his pistol and his rifle had been broken, but stranger things had happened. The Colt on his hip had probably saved his life, but the cost of that was the horse.

But there was still the mule.
And the gold.

***

“What makes you so darned sure that he'll come here?” Morgan asked, looking up from his seat on the front porch of the Clay Springs Hotel. He had taken to sitting down since the accident for he tired quickly. His back was still extremely painful and the stagecoach ride had been purgatory.

Anne Marie relaxed momentarily from her vigil and looked down at him. She had been watching the street since shortly after dawn.
“Nearest place for him to go.”

“Why not back to Redrock?” he asked, although he had a fair idea of the answer.

“Because I was there,” she replied simply, mouth taut. Something flickered deep in her eyes, perhaps reluctance to admit to anyone but herself Alison could leave her so easily. Her eyes dropped to the bleached planks of the boardwalk then back at the street. She opened her mouth to speak, but sighed instead, shoulders sagging. There was a mixture of sadness poorly concealed by fatigue as she continued. “Whatever else he is, he's a son of a bitch.”

“Why did you put up with it?” he asked quietly.

She flashed him a disbelieving glance and snorted softly at the furrows creasing his forehead. How could she expect him to understand? “Because, when he had no money he had to rely on me to earn it for him.” She faltered, looking up at the sky, tears
brimming
her eyes. “I loved his reliance on me, yet I despised myself for the way I earned the money. I never wanted to bed down with other
men,
I only wanted to be his woman.”

“What most women want, I reckon,” Morgan said, head down as he rolled himself a cigarette.

She glanced down at him sharply. “Oh no,” she said, “not all of us. Most yes, but some, no. At one time I didn't want all that, slaving away for some man in a shack in the backwoods on a little square of land that'd only grow scrub, but now that's all I want.” She laughed at the irony, spreading her hands in supplication. “And when I do tag on to a likely man I get used like a spittoon.”

Morgan sniffed and touched a match to his cigarette. He drew deeply and jetted smoke at the sky. “You can change that.”

“That's why I'm here.” Her voice was flat, devoid of emotion yet he sensed determination lurking behind the thin lips.

His eyes narrowed. “If you're right about him heading this way, then when there's shooting to be done, I'll be the one to do it.”

“I know. I'm just here to see he gets what's coming to him.”

“He'll surely get that.”

She turned with a half smile, eyes glittering. “I keep forgetting. He's the man who ran away and left me, but to you he's the man who shot you in the back and stole your gold.”

“You bet,” he agreed, then shuffled his feet. “At one time I thought you were both in it together.”

“We were,” she replied, ashamed to face him. “I had a dream of living as a lady up in
San Francisco
or somewhere.
Big fancy house and everything.
But somewhere along the line I realized that no matter what I pretended to be on the outside I'd still be the same on the inside. Nothing would change that.”

“You're right, and you're wrong too,” Morgan said. “The money wouldn't change you any, but you could change by being honest to yourself. So you earn your money the hard way, but at least you don't steal it, so where's the harm? Women have been earning a living in your line of work from the first time a man wanted to buy what they had to sell. In frontier towns it's a real service.”

He glanced away along the street to where the prairie began. “It can get mighty lonesome out there sometimes. It's a big country and it can carve a great big hole in your heart. You can ride for days and never see another man. I'm not saying that's bad, most of the
hombres
you meet you wish you hadn't, but it gets so bad you end up talking to your horse. That ain't so bad, but you start getting worried when you think the horse is answering you back.”

She smiled. “Thanks,” she said. “You've helped me some.”

Morgan shook his head and tapped his free hand on his shirt that hid the thick strapping of bandages around his chest. “I figure you helped me quite a bit.”

“It was nothing. I would have done it for any man.”

Morgan watched her and his eyes seemed to probe deep into her very soul. He held his stare for a long moment then he raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Would you?” he asked, expecting no reply.

***

“Sweet son of a bitch,” Alison swore as the mule slipped, jogging his tender buttocks. His legs hung either side of the mule's skinny flanks, boot heels almost grazing the ground. Each jar sent fire racing up the inside of his thighs where the flesh was raw from the packsaddle.
His head too.
He constantly altered the tilt of his hat without relief. When he had been knocked from the black's saddle the rock had split his scalp and now an ugly red bump poked through his lank hair right on the spot his hatband rested. He had tried riding without the hat, but the sun blinded him with his own sweat and his eyes ached intolerably. The lesser of the evils was the chafing hatband.

He swilled another mouthful of tepid water from the canteen. The mule stopped walking. Alison lowered the canteen and
scowled,
quickly glancing round to see what had upset the animal but could see nothing amiss. He swung his legs and kicked the mule's scrawny flanks. The animal did not move.

“Come on, you knuckle-headed bastard,” he urged, kicking harder. The mule swelled out its belly, then spurted a long stream of urine onto the rocky ground. The steaming liquid splashed all over Alison's boots and the powerful stench of ammonia swept up to clog his nostrils.

“Jesus wept!” he screamed. “If I had me a gun right now, I'd blow your damned head clean off!”

The mule swung its head a little and lazily twitched an ear. He'd had just about enough. Not content to load him with sacks of rock, this man had started to ride him as well. That was too much. Worse, he had been kicking and cursing him from dawn to dusk, pushing him without rest. His hooves were sore and he was sway-backed from all the weight, his belly moaning for a taste of sweet grass.

“All right, you blockhead,” Alison cursed as he swung down, inspecting his urine stained boots with disgust. He stepped back and swung his leg as hard as possible at the mule's ribs. His effort was rewarded by pain searing up his abused thighs, and only the smallest of snorts from the mule. He raised his foot again as his mount craned its neck round, lips pulled back to expose a vicious set of yellow teeth. The huge tombstone incisors snapped experimentally and Alison abruptly decided against further provocation. He walked round to the rear and began to push at the bony buttocks. The mule's neck craned even further to see what the man was up to.

With just the flat of his hands Alison could not gain enough leverage, so he put his shoulder to the job. He made no progress. The harder he
pushed,
the mule only peered at him a little more inquisitively. Angrier by the minute, Alison cursed fluently between clenched teeth, wheezing with the strain. It was like trying to push a ten ton rock. Panting, he rested for a while, drawing his strength together for one last push. If only he could get the mule moving, then with any luck it would keep on going.

He drew two final deep draughts of air and stepped once more to the task. He stooped, positioning his shoulder against the leaden grey buttocks. With a grunt, he concentrated all his weight behind a thrust. The mule displayed perfect timing. At the very last second, when Alison braced
himself
, the mule casually stepped forward four paces. Alison's momentum threw him onto his back into the wide pool of urine stagnant on the rocks. Floundering as though he had fallen into a fathomless whirlpool, Alison thrashed around, engulfed in the ammonia stench. Like a heavy sea mist, not damp but pungent, it had him coughing and retching. When he crawled into a patch of fresh air he almost swooned with relief.

His escape was temporary. His back and his legs sodden, the heat of the sun combined with that of his body had already begun to evaporate the urine. As he moved, the stink rose off him like the aroma of a sewer, drifting on the breeze.

The mule was standing a few feet away, regarding him with what seemed to be an amused gaze. Furious now, Alison launched a fresh attack with his boot heels and when that failed to gain any advantage but teeth marks along his thighs, he searched until he found a short branch and began to whip the animal mercilessly.

He finally threw down the stick in frustration, for the mule remained motionless under the assault but for the reflex blinking of an eye each time it saw an approaching strike. Besides, Alison's hands were becoming blistered, and there was more than one jagged splinter of green wood piercing his skin. There was nothing left to try but grabbing the bridle and pulling the animal forcibly.

With a sigh of exasperation, he grabbed the reins and leaned forward. His weight bore down on the leather and for a moment the mule bunched his shoulders and stood fast. Alison threw the whole of his bodyweight into play, then without warning the mule stepped forward obediently. Alison staggered forward, legs buckling as he scrabbled to regain his composure. Cursing and holding his nose at the stink rising from his clothes, he started walking. The mule followed calmly as though the trial of the last half hour had never occurred. From then on the mule behaved, holding a steady pace behind the fast tiring Alison.

After they had travelled for an hour, Alison stood aside and when the mule passed he swung up onto its back. The animal stopped and refused to move. Alison repeated all his tactics of kicking and cajoling with no success. But he gained another set of teeth marks, this time above and below his right kneecap. Reluctantly, he again took the reins and began to walk. The mule followed.

Disbelieving, Alison rolled his eyes to the sky and slapped at his shirt where one of his own little family of parasites nipped him as a reminder of their presence, then tilted his hat away from the bump on the back of his head, and all the while he maintained the bowlegged hobble in an attempt to ease his chafing thighs.

“God almighty,” he groaned. “Don't say I'm going to have to walk all the
Goddam
way to
Clay
Springs
?” There was no reply from the infinite sky that hung over the rolling plains, but Shuck Alison had a strong suspicion the answer was yes.

***

“You think it'll be today?” she asked, gazing hopefully along the dusty street. Morgan shrugged his shoulders then realized she wasn't looking at him. He glanced up at her profile. She looked tired. Her hair was pulled back severely from her face and a strand had escaped to
lay
wispily on her pale cheek. He knew she pretended to sleep when he lay awake at night, suffering the pain in his back, but when he placed an arm around her she snuggled in beside him, a small hand touching his grizzled cheek. She had wanted to sleep alone, but she had given in to him as she had many times in these last few weeks.

He smiled as he watched her. Up in the mountains he had thought he was dead. He had no recollection of riding out of there. The last coherent memory had been of working in the gold diggings and the great explosion of pain in his back, coupled with a gunshot. When he woke, Anne Marie had been there, tending him like a helpless child and for the first week of his recuperation she had never left his side. She had told him, when he was attentive enough to listen, about the old
negro
finding him and the Eriksons bringing him to town on the buckboard to find a doctor. Of her own part she had said nothing, but he knew she had always been there; a cool hand on his forehead when fever raged, a softly spoken word when he moaned with pain, a glimpse of swishing gingham cotton through blurred eyes.

He did not have to wonder at the deep lines of strain in her creamy skin. She had been through it with him, every step of the way. As he watched her now with a smile at the corners of his lips, she turned and glanced down. She blinked, startled he had been watching her, as if afraid he could see something she had carefully hidden. She regained control over her facial muscles and repeated her question.

“Do you think he'll come today?”

Morgan peered at the slate grey sky. “Looks like it'll rain before sundown.”