Hard Ride to Hell (9780786031191) (16 page)

Preacher and Standing Rock kept the rescue party moving fast over the next few days, but they made frustratingly little progress. As Preacher had expected, the men they were following began to take more pains to cover their tracks. Even with his skill as a tracker, sometimes he lost the trail and had to spend long hours looking for it before picking it up again. In some instances, without Dog's keen sense of smell to guide them, they might not have been able to find the way they needed to go.

The men they were following were professionals, Preacher mused as he rode along. And professionals wouldn't have attacked Two Bears's village and carried off Wildflower and Little Hawk unless they were paid to do so. That brought up the interesting question of who would have hired those killers to do such a thing.

Preacher intended to get an answer to that question before this was all over.

Several days into the chase, Preacher ranged ahead of the rest of the group. He had spotted a fairly large hill up ahead, and he thought that if he climbed to the top of it, he might be able to spot their quarry.

With Dog loping along beside him, Preacher sent Horse up the slope until it got too steep for the stallion. At that point, Preacher dismounted and went ahead on foot. He was breathing a little hard by the time he reached the crest.

He tipped his hat back and let a cool breeze wash over his leathery face. From here, as he gazed northwest, he could see miles and miles of mountains, hills, and valleys. It was a spectacularly beautiful expanse large enough to hide an army in, and he was looking for a couple of dozen men on horseback. The odds against spotting them seemed to be impossibly high.

Preacher had the eyes of an eagle, though . . . and the patience of a buzzard. He stood there with his gaze searching the landscape, motionless except for the slow turning of his head. He knew that movement caught the eye quicker than anything else, so that was what he watched for.

He saw birds darting from tree to tree. He saw a moose lift its antlered head high. He saw a bear lumber across a grassy park in search of a rotten log full of tasty bugs. He saw more birds soaring suddenly into the sky. . . .

His gaze dropped sharply, backtracking the birds' flight. At first he couldn't see anything except the rocky face of a cliff, perhaps three miles away across a valley.

Then the old mountain man grunted softly as he detected movement against the backdrop of that cliff. It was too far away for him to make out any details, but he could judge the speed of whatever was moving over there. It matched the pace of a group of men riding along on horseback.

“Got you,” Preacher whispered. Beside him, Dog let out a little whine as if he understood.

Preacher stood there watching until the distant riders disappeared from view. He knew it was possible the men he had seen weren't the ones they were looking for. But this region was pretty rugged and not that well-populated, so his instincts told him those were the kidnappers. It was good knowing that they were still on the move, that they hadn't reached their destination and forted up.

Preacher went back down the hill to where he had left Horse. He mounted up and hurried to rejoin the Assiniboine warriors. As he trotted up to Standing Rock and reined in, he said, “I saw 'em.”

Standing Rock leaned forward excitedly and asked, “Are you sure? You are certain it was the men who took Wildflower and Little Hawk? How far ahead of us are they?”

“About three miles, I reckon,” Preacher replied. “And no, I ain't sure. I wasn't close enough to make 'em out. But the bunch was the right size and headed in the same direction as the ones we been followin', so I'm confident it was them.”

“We must hurry—”

Preacher lifted a hand to stop Standing Rock before the warrior could kick his pony into a run.

“Hold on, hold on,” the mountain man said. “We could run these hosses right into the ground, and we still wouldn't catch up to 'em by nightfall. We still got to be patient.”

“Patient!” Standing Rock repeated with obvious disgust. “Would you be patient, Preacher, if it was your woman those animals had carried off?”

Preacher's eyes narrowed as he said, “There was a time when your wife's ma was captured by a bunch of evil varmints. She might've been my woman, if things had worked out a mite different. Before that, there was a gal called Jenny . . .” Preacher shook his head as he forced those thoughts far back in his memory. “Never you mind,” he rasped. “I know how you're feelin' right now, son. You can trust me on that.”

It was obvious from Standing Rock's glare that he wanted to argue some more, but with a visible effort he forced himself to nod and said, “We will be patient . . . for now. But soon my patience will run out, Preacher, and then blood will be answered with blood.”

“And I'll be right there with you doin' the answerin',” Preacher said.

 

 

Wildflower's frustration had grown stronger during the days that passed, as no opportunity for escape presented itself for her to seize. But her determination to get away from these men grew stronger as well.

She was running out of patience, though. If they weren't going to give her a chance to escape, she would just have to come up with one on her own.

With that thought in mind, she began smiling at the one called Dwyer.

She had considered trying to win Randall over to her side. It was obvious that he was attracted to her, and it was a deeper attraction than the mere desire that the other men felt for her.

But she sensed that there was too much bitterness inside Randall for that to ever work. She could never pierce that layer to get to his core. Dwyer, on the other hand, might be manipulated.

They were making camp every night now, and as they settled in one evening after several days on the trail, Wildflower went over to Dwyer and said, “Would you hold Little Hawk for me while I tend to my needs?”

“You want me to hold him?” Dwyer asked, sounding surprised. Usually Wildflower took the baby with her when she went into the brush. Randall had given orders that someone watch her at all times, but they gave her a little privacy at moments like that, standing near enough that they could hear if she tried to get away.

“Please,” Wildflower said, and again she ventured a faint smile.

“Well . . . all right, sure.”

Dwyer held out his hands for the little boy. It tore at Wildflower's heart to hand him over voluntarily like this, but she forced herself to do so and kept the smile on her face.

“You will come with me? I would rather you guard me than any of the others.”

“I, uh . . . of course I will. Happy to help.”

Dwyer held Little Hawk with an awkward unease, but Wildflower didn't think he was in any danger of dropping the baby. Little Hawk reached up and caught hold of Dwyer's hat brim, tugging down on it. The gunman chuckled.

“Little varmint likes to play,” he said.

“That means he feels you are a friend,” Wildflower said.

“Yeah, I reckon. Cute little rascal, ain't he?”

As they walked toward a clump of brush, Wildflower asked, “Do you have children of your own, Mr. Dwyer?”

“Naw. At least not that I know of. Never really had a chance to settle down. When I was a kid, though, I sort of helped raise my little brothers and my sister. I was the oldest, and we didn't have no pa after he died of a fever. When that happened, Ma had to go to work in a crib.... Ah, hell, you don't want to hear about all that. It ain't a pretty story.”

“You have had a difficult life.”

“No worse than a lot of other people, I reckon,” Dwyer said. “Things are tough for you right now, too, but don't worry. You and the boy are gonna be fine.”

“I pray to the Great Spirit it is so.”

Wildflower went into the brush. While she was there, she heard Page call jeeringly to his friend, “Hey, Dwyer, you turnin' into a squaw? I see you got you a little papoose there!”

“Shut up,” Dwyer muttered. “I'm just tryin' to give the lady a helpin' hand, that's all.”

“Lady?” Page repeated. “She ain't no lady. She's a redskinned heathen!”

Some of the other gunmen joined in the gibes. When she was finished and came out of the brush, Wildflower took Little Hawk back and said to Dwyer, “I am sorry your friends mock you because you are nice to me.”

“Aw, shoot, don't worry about them,” Dwyer told her. “They're just jealous, that's all. And they're a bunch of ignorant sons o' bitches, to boot.”

Randall hadn't been making any jokes. Wildflower felt his cold eyes on her and Dwyer as they talked, and she hoped she hadn't made a mistake by reminding him of things he had either lost or had never had. She was relying on his professionalism and his desire to carry out the job that the Colonel had given him.

Another day on the trail went by. Whenever she could, Wildflower looked behind them, as if she could make Standing Rock appear by the sheer force of her longing for him. That didn't do any good, of course, but she did it anyway.

That evening when they made camp, Dwyer was quick to come over and offer to help her any way he could.

“Thought you might need me to keep up with the tyke again,” he added.

“Of course,” Wildflower said. “Thank you.” She gave Little Hawk to him, and he seemed more at ease this time when he took the baby.

They had stopped beside a creek. Wildflower nodded toward it and said, “I would wash. The trail has been a long and dusty one.”

“Ain't that the truth? Well, I suppose it would be all right.”

“Should you ask Randall?”

That question brought the response it was calculated to provoke. Dwyer snorted and said, “I don't have to clear everything with Randall. Come on, darlin'. We'll go downstream a little ways. You don't want all these varmints starin' at you while you're tryin' to clean up.”

That was exactly what Wildflower wanted him to say. The timing was good, too, because Randall was having some trouble with his saddle and didn't seem to be paying any attention to them. After all this time on the trail with no trouble, even the most cautious of men could grow careless.

Some of the other gunmen watched them walk along the creek bank, but their expressions told Wildflower they were jealous, not worried. They thought it should be them spending time with her, not Dwyer. Except for Page, who just looked suspicious. He might prove to be a problem, she thought.

She kept going, and Dwyer didn't tell her to stop. Soon they had gone around a bend and were out of easy sight of the camp, even though the other men were less than twenty yards away.

“This will be fine,” Wildflower said. She held the skirt of her dress up and waded out into the water while Dwyer stood on the bank holding Little Hawk.

He watched her avidly as she bent, scooped up water, and splashed it over her face and arms. She bent lower and went all the way under so that when she came up again the buckskin clung to her body. She ran her fingers through her wet hair, pushing it back away from her face and wringing some of the water from it. The sun had set and the light was fading, but the shadows weren't thick enough yet to keep Dwyer from getting a good look at her.

He swallowed hard and licked his lips as he watched her.

Wildflower looked up at him and smiled again. Her eyes dropped to the gun on his right hip and the knife sheathed at his left side. Quickly, she lifted her gaze to his face again, hoping that he hadn't noticed where she was looking.

“Feel better now?” he asked in a voice hoarse with emotion.

“Much better,” she said. She came to the edge of the water and stepped up onto the grassy bank. “Why don't you . . . put Little Hawk down for a minute? I'm sure he will be fine.”

She didn't want her son to get any blood on him.

Dwyer swallowed again and said, “All right.” He bent over and set the little boy on the ground. Little Hawk sat up, cooing as he pulled at stalks of grass with his pudgy hands.

Dwyer took a step, and that brought him within inches of Wildflower. He said, “I don't reckon I've ever seen anybody as pretty as you, Wildflower. I don't care if you
are
an Injun. You're a beautiful woman.”

“And you are a good man, Dwyer.” She wondered suddenly if she could persuade him to help her and Little Hawk. If she could convince him to betray his companions . . .

But then his lean face turned even more wolfish, and he said, “I ain't that good.”

As if to prove it, he grabbed her and jerked her against him, pressing the hard length of his muscular body to her. His mouth came down savagely on hers. Whatever true feelings of sympathy and affection he might have possessed, if any, had just been overwhelmed by the brutal lust that gripped him.

Wildflower did the only thing she could. The gun would draw too much attention, so she grabbed the knife, ripped it from its sheath, and plunged it into his side.

Wildflower had hoped to kill the white man quickly and quietly, take his gun, pick up Little Hawk, and steal away along the creek before the rest of her captors realized that she and the boy were gone.

But as she shoved the knife into Dwyer's body as hard as she could, she felt the blade grate against a rib and turn aside before it penetrated the heart. Dwyer howled in pain and flung up his left arm, backhanding her across the face.

“You Injun
bitch!”
he bellowed.

The blow was awkward, but had enough force behind it to knock Wildflower back a step. She was about to fall in the creek when she caught her balance and lunged toward him again.

The knife was still stuck in Dwyer's side. He was pawing at it, trying to get it out, when Wildflower barreled into him. He was between her and Little Hawk, and nothing was going to stop her from reaching her child.

Dwyer went over backwards. Wildflower darted past him and scooped Little Hawk from the ground. She whirled around and dashed back into the creek. Water sprayed around her calves as she ran. She had always been fleet of foot, and that was her only chance of salvation now.

And if she failed to get away this time, she could always try again later, she thought wildly. None of them would ever trust her again after this, of course, but she might get a lucky break....

“Come back here, damn you!” Dwyer shouted. “Redskin whore! Come back here!”

Over the pounding of her heart, Wildflower heard him splashing through the water after her. The creek was shallow, no more than six inches deep along the edge, and the bed was gravel so it wasn't too hard to run in it. Trees closed in ahead on the banks. If she could duck into those trees, the shadows might be thick enough to hide her as she slipped away. It was worth a try—

The sound of the shot was deafeningly loud. A terrible impact between her shoulder blades knocked her forward. She tried to hang on to Little Hawk as she sailed through the air, but he slipped from her grasp. Wildflower cried out, more from the terror of losing her son than from the horrible pain blossoming inside her.

It seemed to take forever for her to land facedown in the stream. She was aware of the water closing around her head, but by now an awful numbness was blotting out the pain. Numbness and nothingness, black, black oblivion that washed over her. She clung for a second to a feeling of disbelief that this could be happening, and then that was gone, too.

The last thing she heard was the angry wail of her son.

When Randall heard Dwyer yell, he jerked away from his horse and the balky cinch fastening with which he'd been struggling. Even in the fading light, a quick scan of the campsite told him that he couldn't see Dwyer or the woman.

Randall bit back a curse as he started to run. He never should have allowed Dwyer to get friendly with her, he told himself. It had been easier to ignore his own feelings, though, when there was somebody else around to deal with her all the time.

Randall reacted faster than the other men and his long legs carried him around the bend in the creek ahead of them, although several of them were trailing behind him. He heard Dwyer yelling at Wildflower and knew without being told that she was trying to get away. That fool hadn't been paying close enough attention to her, Randall was sure of that. Wildflower had lulled him into carelessness with her smiles.

Randall caught sight of them in the fading light. Wildflower was running in the creek with Dwyer hobbling along after her. He had his left hand pressed to his side. The dark stain on his shirt had to be blood. She had wounded him somehow.

In Dwyer's right hand was his gun.

Randall saw Dwyer bring up the revolver and opened his mouth to yell for him not to shoot. Before Randall could make a sound, the gun roared and flame stabbed redly from the muzzle, splitting the dusk. Wildflower flew forward under the bullet's impact.

“Noooo!”

Randall's shout was too late. Wildflower lay facedown in the creek, not moving. She had dropped the baby. Little Hawk landed in the water, rolled over, and came to a stop sitting up. The boy started to cry.

Dwyer stumbled to a halt several feet short of where Wildflower had fallen. Randall had stopped as well, stunned by what he had seen. He stood on the bank, about fifteen feet behind and to one side of Dwyer.

Still holding his wounded side, Dwyer looked around in apparent confusion. He saw Randall and turned slowly toward him.

“Boss, I . . . I'm hurt,” he said. “The bitch stabbed me. I don't know how she got hold of a knife. . . .”

Randall knew. She had played up to Dwyer and gotten close enough to grab his knife. That was the only explanation that made any sense, and the empty sheath on Dwyer's hip was all the proof Randall needed.

“I n-never thought she'd try anything,” Dwyer stammered. He looked afraid now as Randall stared down at him with a terrible expression of fury on his face. “Reckon I lost my head 'cause I'm hurtin' so bad. I knew I needed to stop her, any way I could—”

Randall didn't let him say anything else. Randall's gun was already in his hand. It came up fast and smooth and gouted flame. The bullet smashed into Dwyer's chest and flung him back in the water. A dark stain began to spread around him, matching the one that had formed in the creek around Wildflower's body.

“Randall, you—”

The strangled words came from Page. Without turning around, Randall said, “If you're thinking about it, Page, you'd better kill me with your first shot. If you don't I'll see to it that you're as dead as your stupid friend.”

A couple of seconds of tense silence ticked past. Then Page said, “I ain't thinkin' about nothin', boss. I reckon Dwyer dug his own grave, and I don't aim to climb into it with him.”

“That's showing some good sense,” Randall said. He was shaken by this unexpected development, but his brain was beginning to work again. “Go out there and get that kid.”

Page stepped down from the bank into the water and waded past the bodies to get to Little Hawk, who was soaked, cold, and bawling ferociously by now. The boy didn't quiet down any when Page picked him up. He kicked and squirmed, but the gunman held him tightly.

“Take him back to camp, dry him off, and sit by the fire with him until he warms up,” Randall ordered.

“I ain't no damn wet nurse, Randall.”

“No, but you can do that much. Get moving.”

Page hesitated, but only for a second. The stony, menacing tone of Randall's voice didn't allow for much argument. He carried Little Hawk toward the fire. The rest of them, all of whom had gathered now to see what had happened, parted to let them through.

“Some of you get those bodies out of the creek,” Randall went on. “We've got some burying to do. I want you to find a good place where the graves won't be found for a long time, if they ever are.”

“But, Randall,” one of the men said tentatively, “the Colonel's orders were to bring both the woman and the kid to him.”

“I know that, damn it. But her corpse won't do him any good. There's no point in hauling it the rest of the way to Hammerhead. And if we make sure the Indians who are coming after us never find where she's buried, they won't know she's dead, will they?”

Several of the men muttered agreement as they saw what Randall was driving at.

“The boy is Two Bears's grandson,” Randall went on. “The Colonel can still use him for leverage. And as long as they don't find out about Wildflower, the Colonel can pretend that he's holding her hostage as well. He'll still be able to get what he wants.” Randall drew in a deep breath. “The Colonel always finds a way to get what he wants.”

But
he
wouldn't, he thought. Not that there would have ever been any real chance, anyway. He had been fooling himself to think that there might have been even a shred of hope.

No, his life, his destiny, was the same as it had always been, Randall told himself: to follow the Colonel's orders, to bring death and destruction to the Colonel's enemies. For nearly two decades, that was really all he had known, and all he ever would know.

“Move, blast it!” he snapped at his men. “We've got work to do.”

 

 

Randall took charge of the baby himself after that. Two more days would bring them to Hammerhead. Little Hawk couldn't go that long without eating. He was old enough to eat little pieces of biscuit that Randall soaked in sugar water. Randall soaked a rag in sugar water, too, and let the kid suck on it when he got too fussy. Maybe that would be enough to keep him alive until they reached the settlement. Unless they came across a woman somewhere who was nursing—pretty damned unlikely in this rugged wilderness—that was all he could do.

Their route angled north along the mountains until they came to a pass. They turned west there, and as they did, Randall saw evidence that the Colonel's surveyors and excavators had already been at work through here, laying the groundwork for what would come later. The approach was the key now, and the Colonel was taking steps to secure that.

On the other side of the pass, they descended into a broad, green basin that was some of the prettiest country Randall had ever seen. It was thickly grassed and well watered, and it would do for both farming and ranching, and under the Colonel's firm, guiding hand both industries would develop here without the bloody violence that had broken out between them in other places.

Peace was easy, Randall reflected, when one man controlled everything.

But the basin would never blossom into the paradise it could be without the railroad. There was already a burgeoning settlement, Hammerhead, that would serve as the supply point for all the new growth, but everything that had been brought there had to be freighted in by wagon and the mountains made their route go a couple of hundred miles out of the way. Wagons could never reach the pass that Randall and his companions had used . . . but a railroad could.

Building that railroad would be a monumental task, but if anyone was up to the challenges of such a task, it was Colonel Hudson Ritchie.

Hammerhead was visible from the outer slopes of the basin, sprawled on the banks of the Silvertip River. Smoke rose from its chimneys. Randall could hear hammering when they were still a mile away as men nailed together new buildings to house all the businesses that would flock here once the railroad was built. Some people might say that the Colonel was getting ahead of himself by establishing a town before there was even a good way to get to it, but he knew what he was doing. Randall had always believed that, and he still did.

The Colonel's mansion was one of the first things that had been built. It was at the western end of the settlement on a slight rise, so that it looked east along the main street. That was the way the town was designed, so the Colonel could step out onto his verandah in the morning and watch the sun rise over what he had made, the creator surveying his creation in all his godlike power.

Randall knew that people were eyeing him and his companions warily as they rode along the street toward the big, three-story mansion. There were plenty of reasons for that wariness. The riders were lean from the trail, covered with dust, hard-bitten faces stubbled by a week's worth of beard. They looked like a pack of wolves, Randall thought, and that's exactly what they were: the Colonel's gun-wolves.

The fact that their leader had a baby cradled in his arms just added a touch of confusion to the townspeople's reactions.

They reined to a halt at the wrought-iron gate between two stone columns that sat in front of the mansion. Holding the baby carefully, Randall swung down from the saddle. He looked up at the other men and said, “That's it. You've done your job. I'll see you later with your pay.”

Page said, “Now that we're back, I don't mind tellin' you, Randall . . . you didn't have to kill Dwyer.”

“If you think you've got a score to settle with me, Page, we can take it up later.”

Page shook his head and said, “I didn't say I had a score to settle with you. I'm just sayin' you didn't have to kill him. You shot him because you wanted to. Because he shot that squaw.”

Randall drew in a deep breath.

“Leave it alone, Page.”

“Sure.” Page lifted his reins. “But you know what you did, and why.”

He turned his horse away. One by one, so did the other men.

Randall swallowed the anger that tried to come up his throat. He recognized its bitter, sour taste. He turned to the gate, opened it, and went up the flagstone walk to the house.

The door opened before he got there. A woman stood there, fair-haired, serenely beautiful, seemingly younger than the strands of gray among her blond hair said she really was. She smiled and said, “Welcome back, Mr. Randall.”