Paxton Pride (61 page)

The horse bolted forward, jerking her back to reality. Vance slapped the gray across the rump, then spurred his chestnut into a gallop that brought him alongside her. Through a break in the rain, Karen could tell they were in another ravine, broader than the one before. Vance's urgency was apparent, for though she couldn't hear a word, he was yelling at her, his voice drowned out by a dull but ominous roar, gradually increasing in volume. Comprehension struck her with the force of a lightning bolt. She had heard the sound before; the angry forewarning of a flash flood. She peered through the curtain of rain, striving to glimpse a way out of the ravine, but the walls were too steep to offer purchase for the hooves of their steeds. They rounded an outcropping and Vance abruptly reined in. Karen skidded past, fought the gray and turned back toward her wounded husband. Gesturing wildly, Vance pointed at a break in the rocks, no more than a deer trail winding up to a ledge some forty feet above them. Not the best possible solution, the dim trail was the only one available for the wall of water coming down the ravine was gaining despite the game efforts of their ponies. “You first,” Vance shouted, dismounting. “Lead him. Hurry!” Karen jumped to the ground and grabbed the gray's reins, and without looking back, started up the precipitous incline. Deftly, she threaded her way, digging the toes of her boots into the mud, slipping, finding support and moving ahead.

Every step was torment for Vance. The wound in his side hurt abominably, was open and had started to bleed again. His left arm felt like lead. The chestnut balked at the ascent. Vance cursed and pulled like a madman. He would have run ahead and left the animal to its fate, but once out of the storm and flood they would need both if there was to be any hope of escape. With a superhuman effort he hauled on the reins until the mustang finally overcame its fear and grudgingly followed. The roar suddenly increased dramatically. Glancing to his left, Vance saw a churning wall of water, mud, rocks and trees round the outcrop and sweep toward him. The chestnut, finally realizing the emergency, lunged forward, all but collided with the gray a half a dozen yards ahead and sent Vance sprawling off the path. He scrambled for a hold, felt a quick breeze as the leading edge of the surging water rushed past underneath him. Half upside down, his hip hit a rock. New and indescribable pain flashed through him, exploding in a single incandescent truth: he had to hold, or die. Time, in emergency, slowed. Pieces of root, or rock, he was able to discern with electric clarity, consider and reject as he went by them. Finally, a crack in the rock face …
Now
…
this one
.… Moving with a speed beyond normal ability, his right hand reached out, clenched into a fist and jammed into the crack, stopping his fall with a bone-jarring jerk. He lay utterly still, dangling on the face of the cliff, not daring to move lest he plunge into the deadly waters only scant inches beneath his feet.

Having gained the ledge, Karen looked back in relief, only to see Vance knocked off balance and plummet from the slippery trail. She screamed his name, then frantically grabbed a coiled rope from the gray as it gained the comparative safety of the rock overhang. Sliding and falling, she worked her way back down the trail. The downpour increased in fury, blinding her as she groped and searched for handholds, shouting again and again, only to have her cries drowned out by the deafening thunder of the water. Reaching the approximate spot where Vance had lost his footing, she leaned far over the side and strove to see through the deluge. He was a dozen feet below her, splayed against the rock and dangling in thin air. Flood waters raged beneath him. Broken jagged timber juggernauts borne by the rushing current reared from the surface like demented sea monsters, slammed and shattered against the walls of the ravine. Boulders were lifted in place and sluggishly swept away. And if Vance's grip slipped.…

She shouted his name again, but he did not—or dared not—stir. Uncoiling the rope, Karen fastened the noose around a jutting stone the shape of a giant tooth, then looped the first few feet a second and third time for strength. Taking a turn around her waist so she herself wouldn't fall, she dropped the free end along the rock face, swinging it until the rope struck against the unmoving form of her husband.

Can't hold on much longer … if I could just.…
Slowly, with infinite care, he moved his right foot along the rock, his toe searching for a hold, however slight. Nothing. He relaxed, rested, sent the left foot searching, found a … gently, he probed, touched a piece of stone protruding from the smooth face of the rock. Wiggling the boot to get as much surface contact as possible, he held his breath.
Now
.… The tenuous foothold was gone! Disappeared! There was nothing there any more. The pain in his shoulder was easing; a danger signal.
It's getting numb … should have stayed where we were
…
damn! To go this way
.

He felt a light slapping sensation on his back. And then again. What …? Slowly, he turned his head and saw the rope, rolled his eyes upward and made out, barely, Karen's fear-whitened face.
Good girl
…
good girl
… Now, if he could just grab the rope … he'd have to extricate his bunched fist. Impossible, for sudden death would follow. Again the rope slapped against his back. His right hand was numb, his shoulder fast becoming useless. His left arm throbbed dully, but he'd have to take the chance. The pain becoming more acute with each movement, he eased the splinted arm out of the sling and up to meet the rope. Swollen fingers encircled the fibrous line and he tested his grip by taking some of his weight on the arm, grinding his teeth as bone and muscle reacted with unrelenting agony to this latest demand.

Karen watched his hand open and close on the line, noticed the muscles of his body relax, then bunch as he grabbed with his left hand and heaved himself up, freed his wedged right fist and swung toward the rope. For a moment that would forever stretch to eternity in recollection, Vance dangled precariously above the flood, then his right fist closed about the rope and took his weight. With a strength stemming from the wellsprings of love imperiled, Karen hauled on the rope, the rough fibers cutting into her palms as, hand over hand, she pulled, backing around the stone tooth and taking a hasty bight before she lost all she had gained. Teeth grinding, eyes closed with the strain, she hauled again. His weight seemed less than before. Groaning with effort, she staggered back a shuddering step, then another, suddenly fell back completely as the weight left the rope.
No
…!
Vance, no!
She opened her eyes in horror. The rope lay slack at her feet, the free end inches from the base of the rock.
No …!
She was alone! Vance was … in front of her, a form heaved from the mud, lurched toward her. Sobbing hysterically in relief, she watched as he crawled the remaining few feet to her side, using handholds on the pockmarked stone until he reached her and fell, gasping for breath at her side, his arms groping for her, then enfolding her in an unbreakable embrace as her tears came freely to mingle with the rain.
Vance! My darling darling …
Her fingers explored his face, unable to stop touching him. Suddenly, their lips met in a hungry kiss. Beyond pain, beyond danger and death, they quaffed the passionate nectar of their love, ineffably sweetened by the narrow escape from disaster. Though their peril was far from resolved, they had met and conquered a frightful challenge. Death had touched their lives, but for now they had denied the dark master his victory. They lay resting on the hard rock, drenched and covered with mud, staring into each other's eyes, each full of the knowledge of each other and life itself.

The rain lessened as they rose wearily to begin their ascent to the horses. Karen gathered the rope while Vance adjusted the cloth compress on his hip, loosening the gun-belt to …“Damn!”

Karen spun about, startled. “What is it?”

Vance scrambled past her to the outthrust granite tooth, and keeping a sure grip, looked forlornly over the side.

“Vance?”

“The gun,” he muttered bitterly, indicating his empty holster. “When I fell. Now I've lost the damn gun!” The implications of the loss were apparent. With a glance to the south, they turned and headed back up the deer trail, helping each other along the slippery path.

The horses had continued along the trail and moved on past the ledge to the rim of the ravine where they had found a few spare bunches of grass on which they cropped, content to rest for the moment. The rain abated to a drizzle, and though Karen and Vance both needed to dry their clothes, they were reluctant to try to make camp in the open and so close to the scene of the near tragedy. Exhausted, drenched and hungry, they mounted the stolen horses and headed north for the Rio Grande.

How they managed to cross the rain-swollen boundary between Texas and Mexico, Karen could only attribute to Dame Fortune … and the strong swimming abilities of the indomitable mustangs. Born to the harsh life of the wild, broken and trained on the outlaw trail, the horses were used to traveling seldom-used paths, enduring heat, cold, rain and thirst. Karen and Vance joined themselves with a length of rope. If one was swept away, the other might still manage to gain safety for both. But the horses swam with powerful, sure strokes, fighting the pull of the current and reaching the opposite shore with no problem.

The question now was whether to continue to make camp for the night. “Depends on how far back they are,” Vance explained. “And if they got out of the storm all right, of course. They'll lose our tracks for sure, but that doesn't prove anything. We're heading north, and all they have to do is cross where you crossed the other day, check out downstream a bit—there's no good places southeast of there—and then head upstream and watch for where we came out. Won't be too hard to find,” he said glumly, “with all this mud. Not much sense in even trying to hide our tracks. All told, I suppose we'd better rest.”

Karen filled the canteens and both she and Vance drank as much as they could. By dusk they had found a suitable camp within earshot of the Rio Grande's tumultuous churning song. Well-sheltered by a thick stand of scrub oak and mesquite, they were partially hidden by a shallow overhang jutting from a bluff. Warm food and a chance to dry out and, especially for Vance, to warm up, outweighed the risk they took in building a fire. A screen of tree branches draped with Vance's wet clothes served as a shield from prying eyes, and soon a hidden fire blazed cheerily. With the broken knife taken from the
jacalito
, Karen opened two cans of beans found in the towsack and balanced them on rocks by the side of the flames. Half starved after almost three days with no food, they ate slowly but greedily, then washed the cans and put water on to boil for their last bit of coffee.

Vance, wrapped in the one half-dry blanket, lay near the warming fire, watching Karen through the flames as she arranged a latticework of brush, took the homemade, soggy serape from her shoulders and spread it to dry. Her movements were sure and deft, wasting no energy. He sighed, lay back and closed his eyes as the memories rushed through him. How right he had been, in Washington, choosing this woman. How wrong he had been, later, when he failed to allow her the time she needed to adapt to her harsh new home. Was there a woman in the world who wouldn't quail at such an undertaking?

His senses reeled. Giddy from the food, he tried to concentrate. Something he needed to do. Something important before he … in case he … No. Better not to think that. The man who so much as thought of death passed on faster … Passed on. That was it, he thought groggily, forcing his eyes open. “Karen.” Had he said it aloud? “Karen!”

She came quickly to his side, touched his forehead with her hand. “Sleep,” she said. “You need sleep.”

“The amulet.” Each word was an effort. “Take it from around my neck and put it on. It's yours, now.”

“Vance …”

“No! Do as I say!”

Obedient, Karen unclasped the chain, fixed it around her neck as instructed. Only when Vance saw the dull glow of gold against her flesh did he close his eyes. “Paxton women … an unbroken chain … generations … Mother gave it to me, and I pass it on to you, from her.” So hard to stay awake. So hard …“You are a Paxton woman. You are … Keep on. Keep on …”

He was asleep. Remembering True's stories of the indomitable, courageous women who had preceded her and had worn the amulet before passing it on to their first born sons, Karen pulled the blanket to Vance's chin and crept back to the fire. There, the gold cool against her skin, she sat and stared into the flames. She was not alone. The others sat at her side, and kept vigil with her.

The morning sun sent tentative amber streaks of light to pierce the storm-emptied heavens and rout the battling thunderheads, bathed the sky with gold from the east and changed the lofty firmament to a cloud-dappled meadow of the gods. Karen was up at first light to get the fire going. Water bubbling merrily in the empty bean cans, she rummaged in the towsack and found a small brick of tea which, when shaved into the water, filled the clearing with a mouthwatering aroma. The blankets, shirt and jeans had dried overnight and she donned the garments again, feeling ready for anything. Vance groaned awake, uncharacteristically paused to adjust himself to his surroundings, then shoved himself upright and sat with his back against a log. His eyes were red, his face pale and sunken. Karen brought him tea and he accepted without comment, holding the can between two strips of bark, sipping slowly and letting the heat bring him to life.

His wound needed bathing again. Not yet infected, it had opened and bled during the night and was red and ugly. Karen reboiled the bandages and, finding some aloe vera growing nearby, stripped the skin and mashed up the slippery pulp to make a poultice. The cooling pulp seemed to ease the pain some, and though weak from loss of blood, Vance managed to dress alone and eat some hardtack biscuits and jerked meat boiled in water to make a thin soup. By the time the sun was up, Karen had ventured down to the river twice to refill the canteens, each time going a different way in order to better hide her tracks. On the second trip, she brought the horses and carried the bean cans as well. The way ahead would be hot and dry for the spring rains had not yet come this far north and they would need every drop they could carry. Everything full, she was starting back when the distant echoing report of a gunshot broke through the murmur of the river and shattered her sense of safety at being away from Mexico. She held perfectly still, heart beating wildly in her throat, expecting at any moment to see a dozen renegades come charging out of the rocks across the river. Nothing of the sort happened. Only the long, silent creeping passage of minutes. She finally resumed her journey, wasting no time in leading the horses back to the camp.