Lawman from Nogales (9781101544747) (11 page)

“Isn't this a long way?” she called out as he set the hardened fruit shells up along the knee-high wall. Her raised voice sent a string of small sparrows careening away from within the Mexican creepers. A cloud of black moths rose behind the fleeing birds, then resettled.

Sam didn't answer her until he'd set up the last of the calabash gourds. As he walked back toward her, he noted the Starr still lying flat on her palms, its hammer cocked.

“I thought I'd see if I could pull it back for myself,” she offered, seeing his gaze fall on the Starr's cocked position.

“Good idea,” Sam said. He reached out and took the gun from her hand as he stepped around beside her.

Erin watched him uncock the Starr and recock it, his eyes on hers as she realized he'd left the hammer lying on an empty chamber.

“Now you're all set,” he said quietly. He held the gun out in front of her, its barrel pointed toward the row of dried fruit shells.

Erin smiled and reached both hands out around the butt of the big Starr revolver. She took control of the gun; Sam turned it loose in her hands.

“How do I aim?” she asked. She looked down the barrel as the weight caused the gun to slump toward the ground.

Sam reached out and lifted the barrel slightly.

“First few shots, don't aim,” he said. “Shoot at the spot where you think the targets are. We'll see how good or bad your judgment is, then correct it if need be.”

“Is that the way to learn?” she asked.

“Today it is,” Sam said. “Squeeze the trigger, don't pull it,” he added.

“All right.” She steadied the revolver. Sam watched as she squeezed the trigger and the big gun bucked in her hands. She didn't flinch as the shot exploded and the distinctive after-clang of the Starr resounded out along the hillsides and basin floor.

The shot struck the rocky ground ten feet in front of the fruit shells.

“Oh my,” Erin said quickly. “May I try again?”

“Go ahead,” Sam said, noting she had already started cocking the Starr's hammer.

She fired, missed again and immediately recocked and fired a second time.

“I'm terrible,” she said quickly. “May I try again?”

Sam only nodded, seeing her recock the hammer.

She fired and recocked, once, twice. She pulled the trigger a third time but the hammer landed on an empty chamber. Her shots fell short, but each one hit the ground a little closer to the gourds.

“I'm afraid I'll never get this right,” she said, letting the gun slump down in front of her.

Once, twice, three times . . .
, Sam noted silently.

“You got a little closer with each shot, and all without aiming,” he said. “I can reload you if you like. This time, we'll teach you to take aim.”

“I'm afraid I'm a little shaken up just now,” Erin said. “Perhaps another time, farther along the trail?” She raised the smoking gun and pointed it loosely at Sam's chest.

“Of course, anytime,” Sam said, reaching out, taking the big Starr from her.

“May I—” She hesitated, then said, “May I keep Bram's gun, Sam?”

Sam looked at the unloaded gun in his hand, then at her.

“Yes, ma'am,” he said, handing the big revolver back to her. “And what about some ammunition for it?” he offered.

She took the gun quickly, as if afraid that Sam might change his mind at any second.

“Obliged, but I have some bullets in Bram's saddlebags,” she said. She clutched the gun to her bosom and backed away toward the horses. “I know you'll be wanting to get under way shortly,” she added. “So I'll be prepared to ride as soon as you are.”

In the late afternoon, as the sun sank below the cliffs and rock juts behind them, Sam and Erin pulled off the trail again, this time beneath a sheltering overhang, and made camp for the night. Sam gathered scraps of brush and dried piñon kindling and built a small fire far enough back under the rock ledge that it would not be seen from the surrounding hillsides. He ensured that the fire would burn down quickly. As an additional precaution, he banked stones up around the fire to keep its light contained until it reduced itself to a small bed of glowing embers.

In the circle of waning firelight, the two sat across from each other, sipping hot coffee after a modest meal of jerked elk and hardtack.

Talk had come easy for them both from the moment they had met, but not tonight, Sam noted, studying Erin's face as she gazed into the fire. She appeared to be searching for things to say.

“Will you always want to live this way, Sam?” she asked, glancing around beneath the shadowy overhang. “I mean,
outdoors
, in the wilderness this way?” she added quickly.

“It suits me . . . for now anyway,” Sam replied, watching how she carefully kept her eyes away from his for anything longer than a passing glance.

“But someday you'll be wanting a wife and family for yourself?” she asked.

Forcing conversation
, Sam thought.

“Someday,” he replied quietly, “if it works out that way,” he added.

“Someday . . . ,” she murmured, with almost a sense of regret in her voice. She set her empty cup aside and adjusted her blanket on the rocky ground beneath her. “I bid you a good night, Ranger Burrack,” she said. She pulled half of the blanket over her.

“Good night, ma'am,” Sam said. He set his cup aside, adjusted his blanket and tipped his sombrero down over his eyes.

In the night, after the fire had burned out, Sam listened to the quiet sound of the woman stand up into a crouch, lift her saddle from the ground and move away toward the horses. From beneath his lowered sombrero, he watched her shadowy figure move around between the two horses, his black-point dun chuffing, threatening her as she moved close to unhitch him.

Rather than have the dun raise a fuss, Erin gave up and moved away from it. After a moment, she had quietly saddled her horse and led it away in the dark.

And that's that
, Sam thought, hearing the click of hoof as somewhere down the trail Erin had climbed atop the horse and put it forward into the black-purple night.

Sam allowed himself to relax, pushing up his sombrero and staring at the starry sky. The trails were treacherous enough. He wasn't about to get too close behind her and cause her to hurt herself. Besides, he would have no trouble following her. With his boot knife, he'd scored a deep
X
on the tip of the horse's front right shoe while she'd heated the jerked elk and hardtack.

It had been nice having her with him, he had to admit, even though he had questioned her intentions from the very start. The gunshot signals had confirmed for him what he'd suspected all along. She was as much a part of the Gun Killers as her brother, Bram, had been. True, she had saved his life. But for good reason, he told himself—to protect herself from Matten Page, the gunman he'd killed in Wild Roses.

He sat up on his blanket with a sigh and gazed out across the darkened land below. Now to give her a good start and follow her to the Gun Killers, he thought, with more than just a little regret.

Chapter 12

In the night, in a small plank and adobe hovel on the lower edge of a jagged hill line, a Gun Killer named Arthur “Big Chili” Hedden had stood up from his cot at the distinct sound of the big Starr revolver. He'd walked to the front doorway of the run-down shack and pulled aside a long, dirty canvas.

“There it is,” he murmured to himself, gazing off into the darkness beneath the purple starry sky.

He walked to the other cot in the small room and kicked its frame soundly. “Wake up, Horn,” he said.

A stream of interrupted snoring arose above a smothering odor of dirty feet. Hedden turned his head, repulsed, the odor worsening as the snoring gunman struggled to maintain his sleeping state.

“Good God, Horn,” Hedden rasped, kicking the cot frame again. “Wake up, you lousy, stinking son of a bitch.”

Robert Horn sat up with a start and grabbed for the big Remington lying in the holster on a short stool beside his cot. His hand felt all around the top of an empty holster.

“Here's your gun,
fool
,” said Hedden, wagging the Remington toward the waking man.

“What's going on?” Horn mumbled, sounding like he had a mouthful of rocks.

“I heard a Starr pistol out there in the hills,” said Hedden, gesturing in the direction of the black distant hill line.

“I gotta shave,” mumbled the half-asleep gunman, rubbing his bristled jaw.

“Damn it, wake up!” Hedden shouted, kicking the cot even harder. “We've got work to do.”

Horn snapped awake and sat on the side of the cot in his underwear and sock feet.

“The Starr . . . ?” he managed to ask, sounding more awake.

“Yes, it was,” said Hedden. “There's no mistaking the sound of that Starr.”

“The right signal?” Horn asked in a sleepy voice.

“Yep. I heard one shot, then two, then three in a row,” Hedden said. “Just like the Torres brothers said.”

“You figure Page killed that Ranger for us?” he asked.

“That's what I'm hoping,” said Hedden. “If not, we'll do it ourselves after we meet up with Page and the Donovans.”

“I'm not counting on meeting Bram Donovan back there,” said Horn. “Did you see his foot before we left?” He stood up scratching and reached for his trousers lying on the stool beneath his holster.

“I saw it,” said Hedden. “I figure Bram Donovan is feeding worms or buzzards by now. It's the woman and Page signaling us.”

“We'll go see,” said Horn. He fumbled with his trousers and his holster belt, and nearly fell in his attempt to dress himself. “Damn mescal,” he growled. He kicked an empty straw-wrapped bottle across the dirt floor.

Hedden shook his head and turned away.

“I'll go get our horses,” he said over his shoulder.

When he returned from a plank lean-to behind the shack, he led both his dark bay and Horn's dingy gray horse to the front doorway.

Horn stepped out of the shack, his empty holster belt slung over his shoulder.

“I wish we had some hot grub before heading out,” he said. “Some coffee anyway.”

Hedden pitched his Remington to him. Horn caught the heavy gun as it thumped into his chest.

“Shoot yourself something along the way,” Hedden said, turning and stepping up into his saddle. “With any luck, we can catch up to Page and Donovan before noon.”

Horn cursed under his breath and shoved the Remington into the holster hanging from his shoulder.

“I don't remember how long it's been since I had a good full night's sleep,” Horn lamented, stepping up into his saddle.

“Must have been the day you last washed your socks,” Hedden said.

“The hell does that mean?” said Horn, adjusting his hat atop his head.

“Nothing,” Hedden said. The two turned their horses and rode off along the dark rocky trail.

 

Erin had ridden hard the first two miles as she fled the camp. Yet, after stopping a couple of times, listening closely, and hearing no sound of the Ranger on the trail behind her, she had slowed the horse to a less dangerous pace.

She had to admit she felt bad running out on the Ranger in the middle of the night. He had been nothing but kind to her in every regard. But he was a lawman, she reminded herself. Their worlds were too far apart. Both her father and her brother, Bram, had taught her everything she would ever need to know about lawmen.

Lawmen might start out pretending to be your friend . . . ,
she could hear them both lecturing as one inside her head. Sooner or later he would've turned on her, she thought, completing the lesson for herself. She had learned early on to trust no one, and the practice had served her well.