Cross Draw (8 page)

“Do you think Abigail did it?”

Rosemary hesitated. “I feel bad to say that sometimes I do wonder,” she said, finally, “but I doubt it.”

“How does she get along with the other girls?”

“Not well,” Rosemary said. “Abigail is a complainer, and nothing is ever her fault.”

“Like this?” he said, indicating his arm.

“Yes, exactly like that,” Rosemary said. “All the girls blame her for your injury.”

“I don't.”

“You're a rare man, then.”

“It sounds like Abigail is her own worst enemy,” Clint said. “I wouldn't want to add to that. I was under that wagon willingly.”

“Well,” Rosemary said, “I'll see if I can get her to stop talking, but I doubt it.”

“So when are we leaving?” he asked around a bite of steak.

“In the morning,” she said. “I thought we'd all meet for breakfast and leave right after.”

“What about supplies?”

“The girls shopped today,” she said. “We'll be able to cook on the trail.”

“Does somebody do the cooking?” Clint asked.

“We share it,” she said. “At least, Morgan, Delilah, and I share it. Do you cook?”

“I'm a good trail cook,” he said. “If I can do it left-handed, I make the best trail coffee.”

“We may let you do that,” she said. “None of us seem to be able to make a decent pot of coffee.”

Clint made a mental note to be sure to be the one who made the coffee.

 

He walked her back to her hotel, but not back to her room. They stopped just in front.

“Why don't you all come to my hotel for breakfast?” he said. “We'll meet in the lobby.”

“All right,” she said. “Does that include Abigail?”

“Yes, Rosemary,” he said, with a smile, “that includes Abigail.”

 

The next morning, Clint met the five women in the lobby and took them into the dining room.

All of the women were animated, happy to get back on the trail, and even happier to have Clint Adams along.

Except, of course, Abigail.

She kept quiet, and was careful never to look at Clint.

He wondered if he should make some sort of overture to her, maybe tell her that he didn't blame her for anything, but he was afraid he knew what her reaction would be. She'd attack, claim she wasn't to blame, that she had nothing to be forgiven for, and would probably say she had her own reasons for not wanting him along.

He decided not to ruin a beautiful morning by getting into an argument with her. There would probably be plenty of those on the trail.

Instead, they ate breakfast. He bantered with the other women and then paid the bill. They left and walked over to the livery together.

They'd had their supplies delivered and packed onto the wagon for them, and the liveryman had hitched up their team and saddled Clint's horse for him.

He thought about trying to ride Eclipse for a while, but the women wouldn't hear of it. They insisted he ride in the back. So Rosemary drove and Abigail sat up front with her; Jenny, Delilah, and Morgan rode in the back with Clint.

That was the way they left Big Rock.

Big Paul Dillon woke the next morning feeling pleasantly exhausted. He and the big whore, Candy, had fucked most of the night, and his legs felt like wet noodles.

He rolled over and looked at her. She was lying on her back, big breasts leaning to either side but still full and round. Her pink nipples were flat, and he was tempted to stick his tongue on them so they'd pucker and swell, but decided against it. If he got started with her, they'd be going at it again and he was supposed to meet Lou Raymond at the livery stable in about twenty minutes.

Hmm, he thought, twenty minutes.

He leaned over and licked one nipple, then the other. She came awake, along with her nipples . . .

 

“You're late,” Raymond complained.

“I know it.”

Raymond had already saddled both horses, so they climbed aboard.

“You was fuckin' your brains out all night, wasn't ya?” Raymond asked.

“You bet,” Dillon said happily.

“With that fat whore?”

“She's not fat,” Dillon said. “She's big.”

“Big, fat, same thing.”

Dillon gave Raymond a hard stare. “You sayin' I'm fat?”

“Hell, no, Paul,” Raymond said quickly. “I didn't say that.”

“It's a beautiful morning,” Dillon said, “and I'm feelin' good. Why would you want to ruin that for me, Lou?”

“I d-don't, Paul, honest,” Raymond said, wishing he'd kept his mouth shut.

“Then let's just ride, Lou,” Dillon said. “Let's not argue.”

“That suits me, Paul.”

“'Cause if we argue, I might get mad,” the big man said. “You don't want me to get mad, do you?”

“N-no, Paul,” Lou Raymond said, “I—I sure don't want ya to get mad.”

“Good,” Dillon said. “Now lead out, and keep your mouth shut.”

“How's your arm?” Jenny asked.

“Kind of sore,” Clint said.

“We're bouncing around a lot,” Morgan said. “Do you want me to ask Rosemary to take it easy?”

“No, that's okay,” Clint said. “She's doing the best she can.”

They had only been riding half a day. It was way too soon for Clint to start complaining, but the jostling was making his arm ache.

“Try this,” Delilah said, handing him a pillow.

“Thanks,” he said. He set his arm on the pillow and immediately felt some relief. “That helps.”

The three girls had been fawning over him since they left town. Water, something to eat, did he want to put his feet up, did he want one of them to hold his arm?

The pillow was the first offer he'd taken, and it worked.

For a while, anyway . . .

Dillon and Raymond rode into Big Rock around midday. They reined in their horses in front of the Red Garter Saloon, only the sign was so worn out it read RE GART SAL.

They walked in, found the bartender and one other man in the place.

“You boys must be in the wrong place,” the black bartender said. “Don't nobody drink in here, no more.”

“No,” the lone man at the bar said, “they ain't in the wrong place. Three beers, Anton.”

“Comin' up.”

Dillon put his hand out, shook with the other man.

“Quentin,” he said, “this here's Lou Raymond, been ridin' with me about a year.”

“You learn not to make him mad, yet?” Quentin asked.

“I learned,” Raymond said.

“Yeah, the hard way, right?” Quentin asked with a wry grin. “Like to broke my jaw the first time.”

“You fellas rode together?”

“A while back,” Quentin said.

He and Dillon were in their thirties; Raymond was about ten years younger.

The bartender set three beers down on the bar. Dillon took a sip.

“It's warm.”

“Guess that's why don't nobody drink here no more,” Anton said.

Raymond drank down the beer, anyway. At least it was wet.

“Adams still here?” Dillon asked Quentin.

“Nope,” Quentin said. “Rode out early today with a bunch of women.”

“Women?”

“Well, he rode in with them,” Quentin said. “Got hurt helpin' them fix their wheel. Rode out again today, his arm all bandaged up.”

“Which arm?” Dillon asked.

“Right one.”

“Gun arm.”

Quentin nodded.

“How bad?” Dillon asked.

“The lady I talked to said he can't move it at all. The right hand, I mean.”

“He ridin' his horse?”

Quentin shook his head.

“He's ridin' in the back of their wagon, his horse tied to the back.”

“You saw this yourself?”

“Yup. Watched them ride out.”

Dillon sipped his warm beer, made a face, and pushed it away. Raymond grabbed it and drank it.

“That it?” Dillon asked.

“No,” Quentin said. “Adams killed a man while he was here.”

“How?”

“Left-handed.”

“Somebody drew on him?”

“Yeah.”

“And he killed him, left-handed?”

“He must've,” Quentin said, “because he can't use his right hand.”

“Did you see him draw left-handed?”

“No. Nobody saw it.”

“So then you can't be sure that he can't use his right hand.”

“That's what the lady told me.”

“Why'd she tell you that?”

“She likes to talk,” Quentin said. “She has a big mouth.”

“She tell you about her friends?”

“Yep,” Quentin said. “She complained about them.”

“Okay,” Dillon said. “Come on.”

“Where?”

“Someplace I can get a cold beer,” Dillon said. “And you're gonna tell me about these women.”

The wagon came to a stop. Rosemary stuck her head in the back of the wagon.

“We're going to camp here,” she said. “It'll be dark in an hour.”

If Clint had been on horseback, and darkness was an hour away, he would have kept riding, but Rosemary was in charge of this trek to California.

“We all have our jobs when we camp,” Jenny said. “I have to collect wood.”

“So do I,” Morgan said.

“I have to see to the team,” Delilah said, “with Abigail. She helps me unhitch them, and then I take care of them.”

“Who cooks?” Clint asked.

“Rosemary will tonight,” Jenny said.

“I'll make the coffee,” Clint said.

“We'll help you out of the wagon,” Jenny said.

“I think I can get out myself,” Clint said.

The three women climbed out ahead of him, then stood by while he got himself out. He knew if he fell they would have caught him.

Rosemary and Abigail had already gotten down, and Rosemary came walking over to him.

“How was the ride?” she asked.

“Bearable.”

“I'm sorry it was so bumpy. I couldn't avoid—” she started.

“You don't have to apologize for the terrain, Rosemary,” he said. “You did fine.”

“Did the girls take care of you?” she said.

“They saw to my every need.”

“How's the arm?”

“Kind of sore,” he said, “but the girls gave me a pillow, and that helped.”

“Good,” she said, “I told them to take care of you.”

“I'm making the coffee, right?” he reminded her.

“And I'm cooking,” she said. “Let's go.”

Jenny and Morgan collected the wood for the fire and got it started. They had a barrel affixed to each side of the wagon for water. Jenny went and got a whole potful to be used for coffee and cooking.

Clint was able to make the coffee one-handed, and then Rosemary started cooking.

“Bacon and beans,” she said. “But I also have some peppers and onions to put in it, so it's not just plain trail food. It's better.”

“I'll be the judge of that,” he said, and gave her a smile.

By the time it was dark, they were sitting around the fire, eating.

Over cold beers, Quentin filled Dillon in on who the women were, and how many.

“Can they use guns?” he asked.

“She said one of them could shoot a rifle, but that was it.”