Beyond Betrayal (37 page)

"Go after him, love," she said. "Make sure nothing happens to him."

Yes! She could follow. That's what she could do.

With a nod at Cora, Delilah absently tucked the envelope of money into her reticule and sped down the street toward the hotel. Her mind raced at breakneck speed as she planned what she'd need to take, what she'd need to store, and what she'd need to buy. She'd need her bedroll and her Winchester. She'd have to leave her trunk, but she was certain Mrs. Schmidt wouldn't have a problem holding onto it for a while. She needed to buy a packhorse, some food supplies and a decent pistol, too. The derringer she carried in her reticule was useless except in close quarters, and she didn't want to rely entirely on the Winchester.

A scant twenty minutes later, having hastily packed, paid her bill, and made arrangements with Freda for the storage of her trunk, Delilah emerged from the hotel. For the first time in a very long time, she had cast aside her widow's garb. Clad now in the trappings of the young woman her father had taught to camp in the wild, to hunt deer, and to track men, Delilah wore a denim split skirt which she'd fashioned herself for much-decreased fullness, a matching jacket and her black felt hat. Instead of her black elbow-length ladies gloves, a pair of buckskin leather gloves were now tucked into the waistband of her skirt. Her bedroll, which also contained an oilskin coat to be worn in the event of inclement weather, and her saddlebags were draped over her shoulders, and she carried her Winchester in hand. Poopsy, pink tongue lolling, was once again happily ensconced in a saddlebag looking forward to another adventure.

The first stop Delilah made was at the livery where she swiftly negotiated with Mr. Metter for a packhorse. In actuality, the only beast he had available was an old mule he'd taken in on trade, and in her haste, Delilah's dickering had undoubtedly been less than proficient for the mule would be slower than a horse. But in the end it wouldn't matter. She needed it. Minutes later, with the pack-mule in tow, she rode Jackpot hastily down the street to the mercantile.

She noted a number of pairs of eyes observing her, both judgmental and curious. Mutterings reached her ears, but only the occasional word or phrase was intelligible. ". . . knew she was bad news. . . absolutely scandalous. . . Why. . . poor Sheriff Chambers. . . puts me in mind of them britches Amy Sweet wears. . .” But all the muttering and stares scarcely affected her, for her mind already ranged far ahead.

It took two trips for her to get all the supplies she thought she might need loaded onto the pack-mule. "Easy, Betsy," she murmured as the animal side-stepped trying to avoid the second load. Chafing at the extra time it took, but aware that she needed to remain as inconspicuous as possible, Delilah carefully wrapped in a blanket the coffee pot, tin plates, frying pan and Dutch oven she'd purchased in an effort to lessen any noise they might make. It was ironic that all her purchases had been made with the money Casey had given her; the money that Samson had demanded she take. Had she not had the money, she would have been unable to outfit herself adequately for a long trip on horseback. It wouldn't have prevented her from following, of course, but it would have reduced her chances of success. Delilah took a small measure of comfort in that irony.

With her supplies satisfactorily packed, Delilah mounted Jackpot and rode out of Red Rock. Miss Cora met her gaze solemnly as she rode past the Lucky Strike, then in that last moment before Delilah was out of sight, she called, "Good luck!” Delilah nodded and turned her eyes forward, toward the future, toward the man she loved.

She was a bit more than an hour behind Telford's men, but they'd made no effort to conceal their tracks, and she followed their trail without effort. She travelled as quickly as she could with the old pack-mule in tow, still she feared she was falling farther behind, for the tracks she followed indicated the men were riding swiftly. That worried her, for it seemed to confirm Samson's assessment of the situation. Surely any man who planned on riding a horse over two hundred miles, and maybe nearer to three hundred, would not set off at a gallop. Come to think of it, Telford's men hadn't even stopped at the mercantile to refresh their supplies. Something was definitely strange. But she vowed that Samson would reach Cedar Crossing alive. If she got any indication that Telford's men intended otherwise, there would be hell to pay.

A few hours out of Red Rock, Delilah noted that Telford's men had begun to slow their pace. It was as though they'd wanted to leave the Red Rock area behind as quickly as possible and, now that they had, they could ease their pace. Whatever their reason, she was glad of it for it allowed her to begin closing the distance between them. Since they would probably make camp at dusk, she hoped to close that gap even more by riding on after they'd camped, though she'd have to make certain not to lose their trail. She didn't want to risk losing even more time by having to backtrack in order to pick it up again.

Delilah estimated that it was probably around ten o'clock when she caught a glimpse of a campfire in the distance. Stopping, she assessed the area. Telford's crew had made camp in a small sheltered depression through which a narrow stream flowed. She wouldn't be able to get too close without giving herself away, so she headed upstream a bit to make her own camp. She hoped they weren’t watching for anyone following them.

She wouldn't bother with a fire; she was too tired to cook anyway. Besides, after she'd settled Jackpot, Betsy and Poopsy down for the night, she wanted to work her way closer to Telford's camp to check on Samson.

Over the next two days, Delilah settled into a routine. She'd follow their trail during the day, catch up to them at night if she'd fallen behind, and then camp a short distance away—but far enough not to be detected—before slipping closer to check on Samson.

Then, on the third day, Delilah was working her way down the slope of a mountain far in the wake of Telford's men when she saw another man on horseback join them. Halting, she strained to see. Who was this?

There seemed to be something almost deferential in the way the other men responded to him. Was this Telford himself? And, if so, why? What need would Paul Telford have to meet his men out here if they planned to take Samson to court?

Delilah swallowed apprehensively. She didn't like this. She didn't like this at all.

She liked it even less when she discovered that Telford's men suddenly seemed to have become more concerned with obscuring their backtrail. Orders from Telford? She lost them for a time when they travelled down a streambed. She wasn't certain which way they'd gone until she found their exit point. And, cagily, they'd exited at a point where the stream was bordered by huge flat rocks in which there would be no tracks. Had she not seen fresh horse droppings, she might have missed it.

It was only late afternoon when she caught up with them. They seemed to have made camp early for some reason. And, this time they were encamped it in a small, very secluded dead-end canyon. She didn't like the sounds coming from that camp. Not one bit. They sounded almost. . . festive. The men shouted and laughed, but their laughter was edged with cruelty. Poopsy growled and Delilah hastily reached a hand back to soothe her. "It's all right girl," she murmured. But she wasn't certain it
was
all right. She wasn't certain at all. The question was, what did she do about it?

She couldn't go racing in there like an avenging angel. She'd probably just get herself hurt, or worse, and be no help to Samson at all. And there was no way she could enter the canyon without being seen. What she needed was a vantage point overlooking it.

She studied the terrain. The small canyon was bordered by rocky crags on both sides. Either side would provide numerous vantage points from which to see into the canyon. The hard part was going to be getting up there. The only thing even remotely resembling a trail was something that looked like a mountain goat track. She'd have to leave Jackpot and climb on foot.

With fear and desperation sinking their teeth more firmly into her with every passing moment, Delilah looked around for a place to conceal the animals. There! Not far from the entrance to the canyon, but far enough not to attract attention, was a natural rock overhang bordered by thick brush. She kicked Jackpot toward it.

After hastily tethering both Jackpot and Betsy near a copse of grass that would, hopefully, keep them occupied, she removed Poopsy from the saddlebag and put on her leash. She didn't know how long she'd be gone, and the little dog probably had to go. With her leash on, Poopsy looked at her expectantly, but Delilah knew she couldn't take her—she wouldn't be able to trust the dog to keep silent—so, she quickly tied the leash to a sturdy bush. "I'll be back soon," she told her as she moved back to Jackpot's side. "Just be patient, and for heaven sake's be quiet. All right? No barking! Do you understand?” The little dog bared her teeth.

With the animals taken care of as well as possible, Delilah pulled the Winchester from its scabbard and, on impulse, pulled the oilskin overcoat from her pack, putting it on before heading for the trail. The Smith & Wesson revolver she'd purchased along with a battered secondhand holster felt heavy against her hip as she rapidly climbed the narrow path, but she wouldn't have wanted to be here without it. Loose gravel crunched beneath her feet and she slipped slightly, only managing to stop herself by grabbing the edge of a boulder. Then, halting for a second to catch her breath, she listened. The noise made by the men in the canyon had faded somewhat; deflected by the wall of rock no doubt, but no one appeared to have heard her. Delilah's sense of urgency remained undiminished, each passing second grating on her nerves like sandpaper.

It took only moments to reach the top—although how she would get down again was something Delilah refused to consider—and they were the longest moments that she had ever known. Taking a deep breath to settle her racing pulse, she scurried cautiously toward the opposite edge of the stone precipice using a large boulder perched at the edge of the escarpment as a shield. Then, warily, apprehensively, she peered down into the canyon below.

She gasped. Oh, Lord! Samson had been stripped to the waist and his arms had been secured to the saddle horns of two large horses which stood facing away from each other. As he stood, arms outstretched helplessly to the side, Telford's men were beating him. Brutally. Even from this distance she could tell that he was badly bruised and covered with blood. With each blow that landed on his body, the startled horses tugged at the ropes that secured Samson's arms. Every muscle in his large body tensed and bulged as he fought the pull of those huge horses. And then the next blow landed.

Goaded by a rage unlike any she'd ever known, Delilah raised the Winchester and fired at one of the men about to strike Samson. Then she fired again. And again. Uncertain if she hit her targets or not. Knowing only that she had to stop the butchery below.

And then, abruptly, her father's teachings echoed in her mind.
Never fire a gun in anger, girls. Anger can get you killed. It keeps you from assessing a situation
. Delilah closed her eyes for a scant second, swallowing the horrible rage that threatened to consume her, and then forced herself to evaluate the circumstances. There were seven men. She couldn't tell if any of them had sustained an injury from her firing or not, but they all remained standing. Guns drawn, their attention was now focused on the cliff face above them rather than on the man they'd been brutalizing. At least she'd accomplished that much. She studied them more closely, clearly recognizing Casey. Each of the men below was armed with at least one handgun. A couple of the men, like Casey, carried two pistols and four of them were now also armed with rifles.

Delilah swallowed. She was one person against seven men. Lord help her. . . and Samson.

________________________

"What the. . .?” Three men began firing wildly in the direction from which they thought the shots had come. Most of the bullets missed her by a considerable distance, but a couple of rifle shots impacted uncomfortably close. Delilah moved a few feet and returned fire. A couple of her shots missed, but she managed to hit two men. One would never fire a gun with his right hand again. The other would walk with a limp for a very long time, for her shot appeared to have caught him in just above the knee. Then, there was a lull in the firing as a score of eyes scrutinized the ridge.

"Who are you?" a man shouted. Delilah figured it was Telford. "What do you want?"

Delilah considered. She didn't want to have to speak because as soon as the men below knew that they were dealing with a woman, their male egos would make them foolhardy. Yet, she wanted them to leave—
without
Samson. So how was she going to accomplish that?

She looked in the direction of the late-afternoon sun, then down at the men below, and her eyes widened with inspiration. Now she knew why she'd brought the overcoat with her.

Keeping an eye on what was happening in the canyon, she moved away from the edge and along the top of the canyon to a point that would put her directly in front of the lowering sun when seen from the point of view of the men below. With the aid of the bulky overcoat and her felt hat, she hoped to make herself look like a man. And, if she managed to pitch her voice low enough when she spoke, perhaps the men's perception of her shape would allow her to fool them. She hoped.

When next Delilah looked into the canyon, Telford—at least she thought it was him—seemed to be directing a couple of men to search for her. She loaded and fired a couple of rounds at the men who were trying to slip away. The shots merely stirred up dust at their feet, but the threat halted them in their tracks. Then, she took another hasty inventory of every man's position and what guns were at his disposal. She wasn't too worried about the pistols, as high as she was in this new position, their accuracy would be greatly diminished were any of the men to shoot up at her. But rifles were another matter. Then, cognizant of the possible threats, she moved out cautiously from behind the boulder she'd been using as concealment and, Winchester in hand, stood in front of the setting sun. Pitching her voice as low as possible she shouted, "Drop your guns and move out!"