The Devil's Own Desperado (2 page)

“He was my brother,” Mitch snarled. “You telling me you don’t recall the name of a man you gunned down in cold blood?”

“To hear some people talk, I’ve gunned down a lot more people than I really have, but no one’s ever said it was in cold blood.” Colt’s finger tightened on the trigger. The grooving on the hammer brushed against his thumb as easily as a lover’s caress. The familiar sensation of ice water in his veins knotted deep in his stomach. “If Frank Matthews was killed in cold blood, it sure as hell wasn’t at the end of my gun.”

Mitch bared his teeth and leaned closer. “You’re a liar, Colt Evans.”

“That’s not something most people would take kindly to being called, Mitch.” Colt held the kid’s narrowed gaze until the boy eased back in his seat. Damn, he was getting too old for this. “Far as I know, I don’t have a single lawman on my trail for shooting any man in cold blood. Hell, I’m sitting here playing cards with the sheriff.” Colt used the table to hide his slow easing of the revolver and holster along his thigh.

God have mercy, he didn’t want to do this. The fact the kid had let him get his gun hand under cover was proof enough the boy was still wet behind the ears. Colt was acutely aware the chatter and drunken laughter in the saloon had stilled as the patrons became aware of the tableau playing out at the table.

“I’ll forget the accusation I shot a man in cold blood, but I don’t think I can let your accusation of being a liar pass,” Colt said, keeping his voice level. “I think the best thing for you to do would be to apologize and then leave.”

“I’m not leaving, Evans, until you’re dead.” Mitch’s voice rang harshly in the silent saloon, as fierce as barking gunfire.

“Son, you might want to rethink this,” Bear said.

“Stay out of this, old man. This isn’t your concern.”

Colt raised a brow but maintained his gaze on Mitch’s face. This kid had to be crazy. “How old are you?”

“What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

The ever-present wind moaned softly through the chinking of the walls and over the shake-shingled roof, mournful as a funeral dirge. “Everything. How old are you, boy?” Colt had his revolver, still in the holster, twisted on his thigh and pointed into the kid’s gut. Not the shot he wanted to take because it wouldn’t stop a return shot if Mitch pulled iron, but at the moment, it was the best he had. He sure as hell didn’t want to shoot a damn kid.

“I ain’t no boy,” Mitch said. “I’ll be nineteen in a month.”

“If you live that long,” Colt said. The kid might be older than he appeared, but he didn’t have a lot of smarts. “That’s too damn young to die. Threatening to kill anyone in these parts is a surefire way to get yourself shot.” He deliberately softened his tone, hoping for some sense of reason from the boy. “I’m willing to let the whole thing go to hot-headedness on your part. Apologize for calling me a liar, live to see your next birthday, and your momma won’t be burying another son.”

“I’ll see them put you in a hole six feet deep, Evans.” Mitch shoved his chair back from the table. He dropped his hand to the revolver on his thigh in a blurring motion. The instant Mitch came out of the chair, Colt rolled from his. In the same motion he slipped his revolver from the holster, thumbed back the hammer and aimed for the kid’s chest. Even as he squeezed the trigger, Colt knew he was a second too late.

Mitch’s bullet tore into Colt’s chest. A few feet from the table, Mitch stood statue-still, disbelief and shock widening his eyes. A bright red flower blossomed on his chest, over his heart. He fell to his knees and slowly collapsed onto the rough wood flooring. Colt slumped against the wall behind him, struggling to hold onto consciousness.

Shouts echoed in the shadow- and smoke-shrouded saloon, mingling with the rasping of chairs across the rough-hewn flooring and the screams of the saloon girls.

Colt managed to pull himself to his feet. Bear grabbed his swaying form, and jerked Colt’s vest away from his shoulder to reveal a growing bloodstain. The older man blanched under his sun-weathered complexion. “Damn it, Colt, how many times do I gotta tell you that dying ain’t much of a living? You gotta get to the doctor.”

Colt shoved Bear away. “I have to get out of town, not go see any damn sawbones.” He ripped the bandana off his neck and pressed it into the bullet hole in his shoulder. “That kid isn’t Frank Matthews’ only brother. He’s got a couple more and several cousins.”

“Ain’t no one gonna say anything, Colt,” Bear said, grabbing Colt’s arm as he staggered through the saloon. “He drew on you.”

“You think that’s going to matter to the Matthews?” Colt stumbled to the door and down the boardwalk. “The law ain’t what I’m worried about, Bear.”

“Nah, I guess that ain’t your biggest worry.” Bear kept a firm grip on Colt’s arm, and strode at his side as far as the livery. “Stay on this side of legal, son. You don’t need to go crossing that line.”

Colt managed a grin. “I’ve stayed on this side of it so far, haven’t I?”

He pulled his white gelding from the stall. The livery owner had thought he was crazy when he said he wanted the horse left saddled and bridled. Thank heavens the man had done as he’d been instructed.

The gelding snorted and rolled his eyes with the scent of fresh blood, but didn’t sidle away.

Colt’s head swam and the pain throbbed throughout his chest, setting his stomach roiling. Blood seeped through his fingers, hot and sticky, soaking the bandana pressed to his shoulder. Huge black holes danced in his vision. Thankfully, though, the bullet seemed to have missed bone and vital organs.

Colt grabbed the horn and with Bear’s help dragged himself onto the gelding’s back. Bear grabbed the bridle. “You take care of yourself, son.”

“I’m trying, old man.” Colt pulled the reins, breaking Bear’s hold on the bridle, kicked the horse into a gallop, and headed west in the darkness.

Near Federal, Wyoming Territory, August 1887

Amelia McCollister shielded her eyes against the afternoon sun, searching the distant horizon for thunderheads. The sun hung halfway between zenith and the horizon, a white-hot disc in a metallic blue sky. Not a single cloud dared to mar the cobalt expanse. Even the birds were silent in the heat of the afternoon, and the breeze could have been straight from the mouth of a foundry.

Amelia pulled at the bodice of her calico dress and winced with the sweat dripping down her spine and between her breasts. Another August day of searing, blistering sun and brutal, dry heat. Hot enough to make the devil sigh, she remembered her father saying more than once.

“Saul, we’ve got to get the garden watered again,” she called to her younger brother.

Saul emerged from the small cabin, his shirttail hanging, his face smudged with dirt. “Again? We just watered yesterday.”

“I’m well aware of when we last watered. If we don’t water again today, everything in that garden is going to shrivel to nothing. I’ll remind you that you didn’t want to water when we’re reduced to chewing shoe leather this winter.” Amelia grabbed his shoulder and marched him to the well. “I’d like to know where you’ve been all afternoon other than out wasting time, when you should have been here helping me and your sister with the chores. And you need to tuck your shirttail in.”

“Who cares if my shirttail is hanging out? No one comes out here, anyway.” Saul pulled up the bucket. “Next year, when I’m all grown up, I am never going to haul up another bucket of water.”

Amelia let her brother’s comments pass, noting he hadn’t told her where he’d been. She also carried a pail of water to the garden and doled out the precious liquid to the wilting plants. “Jenny,” she paused to call, “the chickens need watered and fed.”

Silent as a wraith, keeping as close to the cabin as possible, Jenny drifted across the yard to the chicken coop. She collected the water dish and scooped water from Saul’s bucket. The chickens crowded around Jenny as the seven-year-old scattered cracked corn for them.

At the unmistakable sound of her herb garden being trampled, Amelia lifted her head to scold Saul for his carelessness. Her gaze was drawn to Jenny who stood frozen, corn falling from her slack fingers. Amelia followed her sister’s stare.

A white horse shuffled through the herb garden into the yard, his head down at his knees. The chickens scattered, squawking angrily. A man slumped over the horse’s neck, not moving. Amelia dropped her bucket and ran to him.

Blood, both dried and fresh, painted a lurid path down the horse’s shoulder. Amelia caught the animal’s reins and brought the lathered horse to a halt.

“Amy, he’s been shot,” Saul said in a breathless whisper.

“I can see that.” Amelia dragged the weary horse closer to the house. “Help me get him down.”

He didn’t seem to be breathing. Amelia grabbed the man’s arm, and together she and Saul managed to pull him off the horse. Amelia staggered a step back and a low groan broke from the man when his weight settled into Amelia’s arms. His hat tumbled to the ground. She and Saul half-carried, half-dragged him into the cabin, leaving tracks in the dust from the heels of his boots. Fresh blood pattered into the dirt.

“Where are we going to put him, Amy?”

She hesitated for a moment, and then said, “In my room.”

Amelia panted with the exertion of carrying the unconscious man. They stretched him out on the bed and Amelia stared at him. He wore a gun. She should turn him away.

The moment she thought that, her conscience railed at her. So much blood stained his white linen shirt and blue trousers. His build was slight, but substantial. How could he be alive after losing all that blood? Did a man have that much blood in his body?

“Saul, go put his horse in the barn and then you saddle up and ride into town. Tell Dr. Archer we need him here.”

Suddenly the man grabbed her wrist. Amelia yelped and tried to pull free. He glared up at her with eyes like a snowy winter’s sky, set under a deeply furrowed brow. Her heart leaped into her throat.

“No doctor,” he grated out. His gaze darted around the room, making Amelia think of a cornered wild animal. “No sawbones.”

“You’ve got to have a doctor. I don’t know what to do for you.” Amelia struggled to pull her wrist free.

“No doctor.” He eased his hold on her wrist. “If it’s as bad as it feels, he’s going to take my arm. Please, lady, no doctor. I can’t lose my arm.”

Amelia loosened his fingers and lowered his hand to the bed.

He clenched his fists, tensing. “God Almighty, it hurts.”

“Let me see how bad it is.”

He nodded and closed his eyes. His fingers uncurled as he slipped into unconsciousness again.

Amelia spun, looking for Saul. The boy stood in the doorway, his eyes as wide as cake plates, his face whiter than January snow. “Saul, look at me.”

She waited until he broke his gaze from the lean man on her bed. “I want you to bring me a bucket of water and then go put his horse up. Make sure the horse has water.”

Amelia unbuttoned the man’s shirt and tried to pull it from him. Dried blood had stuck the fabric to him as surely as if it had been applied with wallpaper paste. Amelia wrinkled her nose at the smell of infection, took a deep breath, and pulled on the fabric as hard as she could.

The shirtfront peeled from his chest. Amelia staggered a step backward. Fresh blood and a thick, yellowish fluid oozed sluggishly from the bullet wound. Her stomach roiled with the smell and the sight. Gagging, she spun away and fled the room.

Just outside the doorway, she met Saul and had to grab his shoulder to steady herself. The water in the bucket he carried sloshed over the floor.

“Saul, saddle up, quickly. Ride into Federal and get Dr. Archer.” She took the bucket. “Tell him to hurry. If he’s not in town, ride out to the Running Diamond. Rebecca can tell you where he is.”

Amelia returned to her bedroom. She soaked several clean rags in the bucket and washed the man’s shoulder and chest as best she could without removing his shirt. He shivered, despite the heat blazing from his skin. A ghostly pallor colored his face under his sun-darkened complexion. His chest rose and fell in short, shallow breaths. She applied cool rags to his forehead. He felt so hot. He had to be burning up with a fever.

A short time later, a horse galloped up to the house. Amelia straightened, went to the window, and pulled the gingham curtains aside. A huge Appaloosa stood near the barn, and a tall, muscular man walked across the yard. Thank God, Dr. Archer was here.

Cole Archer, doctor for the towns of Federal and Eagle Springs, walked into the room. With lowered brows, he crossed to the bed and bent over the bloodied man. He was silent for a few moments. “Not a pretty sight, is it, Amy?”

Amelia shook her head.

He opened his black bag, retrieved a pair of scissors, and cut what was left of the shirt from the man. “Good thing you got that wound open, though. It’s draining and I don’t see any signs of gangrene.” Archer wrung out another rag and scrubbed at the wound. “Amy, go start some water boiling. We’re going to draw the rest of that infection out with some hot compresses.”

Amelia fled the room, burning bile rising in her throat. She gulped air, and willed her stomach to remain where it belonged. When she was certain she was not going to retch, she pumped water into a large pot and set it on the stove.

Who was the man in her room? Who had shot him and why? Thank the Almighty, Saul had been too shocked with the blood to notice the gun on the man’s hip. Lately Saul had been fascinated with gunfighters like Wyatt Earp, Doc Holliday, and Bat Masterson.

When Amelia carried the pot of steaming water into the bedroom, Archer glanced at her over his shoulder. “Any idea who this gentleman is?”

Amelia shook her head while she set the pot on the nightstand. “I’ve never seen him before. He rode in almost unconscious.” She backed to the doorway. Surely Dr. Archer wouldn’t need her to stay, would he?

Archer’s brows shot up and he dropped several lengths of white cloth into the steaming water. “From the looks of that bullet wound, he was shot at pretty close range and it happened several days ago.”

The man on the bed slid his hand to his gun, struggling to free it from the holster. Amelia gasped as he pulled the gun clear and pointed it at the doctor’s back. Those gray eyes were even harder than before, and colder than a glacier.