T
race
leaned over and scooped up Mae’s derringer before walking to the rancher lying prostrate on the canyon floor. Comstock was still alive, but he wouldn’t last much longer. A mix of emotions milled inside Trace. He knew he should hate Jared, had wished more than once that he could kill him. He had wanted to take his whip to the man for what he’d done to Diablo, to do worse for what Jared had put Mae through. Yet his anger diminished as he watched the dying man’s labored breathing. His rage drained away like Comstock’s blood from his body.
Upon reflection, Jared could have been a lot rougher in his handling of Mae. He had, for whatever reason, failed to rape her. The man had permitted her to keep him at arm’s length. Trace wondered if that was a spark of good in him, or if there was more to the story. Maybe a bit of both? Jared Comstock had done a lot of wrong in his life—killed at least one man Trace knew about, maybe others—yet there was no longer any need to balance the books. The man was going to die.
Still, it ticked Trace when, using his remaining
strength, Jared lifted his arm to point his revolver at him. The hand holding it shook.
Trace reached over and jerked the gun out of the man’s fingers. There was hardly any resistance. He had the derringer, but that was only good for a short distance. He needed a Colt to go after Slade.
“Mae…” The name came out with a gurgle of Jared’s blood.
Trace nodded. “I’m going after her. I’ll get her back.”
“Protect…her.” Jared’s eyes were starting to get a glassy look, and he fought to get the words out. “I know what…you think…of…me, Ord. But I…never…hurt her.”
“You have my word on it, I will protect her. I’ll see her back to that farm in Kentucky where she belongs.” Trace swallowed back the urge to tell the dying man he’d be taking Mae to wife. The taunt tasted bitter in his mouth. A bizarre sensation, something along the lines of what a priest must feel when he promises forgiveness during last rites, was washing over him.
“Save…her from…him.” Comstock’s hand dropped to the dusty ground.
How odd. He was swearing to Jared to protect Mae after all that the man had done himself to her. “I’ll kill Slade,” he vowed. “Don’t you worry about her.”
Instead of the words giving Comstock comfort, the rancher suddenly struggled upright, fighting to grab Trace’s pant leg to raise himself up. “No! Not
Slade…
.” The hand fisted in a spasm on the material, then slowly released, and with a raspy sigh Jared Comstock fell back and gave his last breath.
Trace grimaced. There wasn’t much he could do for
the dead man. He obviously couldn’t take the time to bury him, but, looking around, he grabbed the man’s arm and dragged him a few steps into a crevice. Rolling the body inside, he pulled up some shrubs and collected others dislodged by the passing horses, and he covered Jared the best he could. Perhaps he’d run into some of the Lazy C drovers and send them back to bury their boss.
Opening the cylinder of Jared’s Colt, he checked to see how many bullets were chambered. Two were missing. He replaced those, then spun the cylinder and tested the gun’s weight and balance. Shoving the revolver into his holster, he drew it and then repeated the processes several times to get used to the feel of the gun. Facing Slade would call for every advantage. Using an unfamiliar weapon would be no help whatsoever.
Looking around, he muttered, “Now I walk.” Maybe his luck would turn and he’d find a mount.
It didn’t. On foot, the long coulee seemed three times the original distance, especially while lightning kept flashing overhead. He’d seen storms like this one, thunder and lightning, people holding their breath and praying for rain yet nary a drop would fall. Other times the skies opened and it poured like there was no tomorrow—you’d almost expect Jonah and the whale to come floating by! These flash floods could catch a man in the wrong spot, drown him in a river where none had existed moments before: The earth was hard-baked by the blistering sun, and the rain didn’t soak it; the water just ran off like it was spilling across stone. Eyeing the high, sheer walls, noting especially the gouges
cut through the stone from just such runoffs, Trace hoped this storm was the former. He didn’t need to deal with a torrential downpour either killing him or washing away Slade’s tracks.
Hearing the sound of hooves echoing against the canyon walls, Trace pulled the Colt and stepped into one of the rain-formed hollows. He held his breath until the horse came round the bend, but then Trace’s mouth spread into a grin. Maybe his chain of bad luck was finally broken.
He stepped into plain sight and let out a shrill whistle. Diablo’s head jerked up, ears pricking as he saw Trace. The silly horse nickered lowly and then pranced forward, going straight to Trace. Reaching out, he snagged the reins as he spoke to the animal, running his hand over him. “I guess you might have the blood of one of those ancient warhorses after all. I figured you’d stolen a gaggle of Standing Thunder’s mares and were halfway to California by now.”
Trace took a moment to check the stallion over, to assure himself the horse’s legs were fine. There were couple of bite marks in his neck that would require care, but otherwise the animal’s run-in with the sorrel reflected no permanent damage. Trace adjusted the cinch on the saddle and then swung himself up on the horse’s back.
“Come, boy,” he said. “We’ve got to get my wife back.”
As Trace crested the ridge, a smile crossed his lips. His luck had truly turned. In front of him were Preacher and his Winchester. “Yeah, sometimes it’s good to have
someone watching your back, Diablo,” he said, patting the horse’s withers.
Keeping out of sight, his friend was pressed up against an odd stand of red rock that the Indians called Old Man Watching, which struck Trace as humorously apt. Dismounting, he led Diablo far to the right flank, using the high rock as a shield so no one could see him approach. Preacher clearly was hiding from someone.
The old man gave him a grin as he tied Diablo to a shrub. “Well, if that don’t beat all,” Preacher said. “Saw him runnin’ riderless… Figured that black would be long gone, that you’d never see him again. Where’d you find him?”
“I didn’t. He found me. Came prancing down the canyon just as fancy as a show horse. Don’t tell him, but I was damn glad to see him.” He inched past, to the edge of the rock around which Preacher had been peering. “Since you’re hiding here, I assume Slade’s up there?”
“Sure as hell is—with your gal, too. She looked like she would spit in his eye. That woman’s got spunk.” He gave a chuckle. “Of course, takes a special breed of filly to fall for a man who shoots her, eh?”
Trace studied the land, seeking out any advantages. “Where did you come from? I thought you were staying behind in camp.”
Preacher reached up and rubbed the back of his neck. “Comstock and you thought that. I had different ideas. You weren’t gone long before I got to thinking what I told you earlier: it never hurts to have a gun at your back. One
covering
it, not pointed at it, mind. I sneaked up here, Injun-style, keeping to the rocks.
Stayed close to your Mae. Figured you’d appreciate me keeping an eye on her. Of course, then she run off—”
“Slade see you?” Trace interrupted.
The old-timer shook his head. “Nope, just Mae. Comstock left her up here when he went down to handle the horses. Slade didn’t go, even after he was ordered. He sat on his sorrel over there by the bluff, where he could keep one eye on the drive and t’other on Mae. I don’t get it. Mighty contrary, if’n you ask me. Gunslingers are an arrogant lot, but they usually listen to the folks who pay them.”
“There’s a lot I don’t get about this crew,” Trace agreed.
“Where’s Comstock?”
Trace’s answer was short. “Dead.”
“You kill him? You said you would,” Preacher admitted.
Trace shook his head, still troubled by what had happened. “Slade took the honor. Jared would have killed me, but Slade shot him first. He saved my life. Then, with his dying breath, Jared was asking me to save Mae. From Slade.” But that wasn’t quite right. Not Slade…
Preacher squinted, his forehead wrinkling. “Wonder why he did a fool thing like that. Mae saw you go down in the stampede and lit out like the devil gave her spurs. Slade was a bit more careful going down that rocky path. Damn puzzler if’n you ask me. He killed Comstock but left you alive. Why?”
“Professional courtesy, maybe.”
The old man’s head pulled back slightly. “He wants a showdown, to see which one of you is the fastest? So what do you want me to do?”
Trace didn’t like how little influence he had in these events, but it seemed ever since he’d shot Mae while she was stealing Diablo, his whole life had spun out of control. With a sinking heart he tried to think of some way to take charge and dictate events to Slade, not the other way around, but as long as the gunslinger held Mae, Trace could only follow his lead.
“Do you know where White Eagle or his men are?”
“Last I saw, they were hot on the trail of Standing Thunder.”
Trace frowned. There’d be no help from his friends. “Slade expects me to head straight for him,” he said to Preacher.
“He’s got Mae stuffed under that small ledge,” the old man replied. “It’s not quite a cave, as you will see.”
“I’m going out, and will demand we meet on that level spit of land. You flank around to the right and see if you can get to Mae when he agrees.”
Preacher shook his head. “You’re taking a big risk there, partner. You look worse for the wear after dancing the two-step with them mustangs.”
Trace dusted red powder off himself. “I am that, but I want Mae safe. Something just ain’t right about all of this. When Comstock was dying, he was begging me to save Mae…but not from Slade.”
Preacher scratched the side of his face. “Huh? Just who are you supposed to be saving her from? Maybe Comstock wasn’t quite right in his right head. He was shot and all.”
Trace doubted it. “No, he knew what he was saying. Just didn’t live long enough to say what he needed.”
“Trace, I seen them two riders again, hanging off in
the distance. They don’t come any closer, but they sure are sticking with us.”
Turning, Trace scanned the far horizon, searching for anything that moved. Lightning flashed overhead. “This situation is mighty peculiar,” he said one last time. “Has been from the start. I don’t have time to unravel the whys, but I have a feeling the answers will come calling shortly.”
A bolt of lightning struck close by, sparking off the rocks higher up. Trace determined to get Mae away from Slade before the storm broke. He didn’t want to risk the skies breaking open and Slade stealing away in the deluge.
“You circle around to the right. I’ll give you time to get up there, and then I’ll draw Slade out, demand we face each other on that flat spit. I’ll get him turned around; you see if you can slip Mae away.”
“And then what?” Preacher asked.
“Get her out of here. Put her on Diablo and you take Slade’s horse. Ride. Don’t look back. Don’t stop until she’s on a train to Kentucky.” Trace gave him a nod. “If I’m lucky, I’ll catch up.”
Preacher laughed. “That sounds high and noble, you sacrificing yourself to save the woman you love, but you ain’t taking that little gal into account. She ain’t going to hop on any horse and ride off and leave you—I’d bet my back teeth on that.”
Knowing the old man was right, Trace laughed. “Okay, how about this? You keep Mae out of the way so I don’t worry about her becoming a tool for Slade to use against me. If he kills me, you kill him. Don’t be honorable. Back-shoot him if you have to.”
“Now, that might work—except the part where you get yourself killed. I don’t cotton to that. Doubt Mae will, neither. I’d prefer to see you again.”
Trace paused, wanting to tell Preacher how much he appreciated everything the old-timer had done to help him since their paths crossed. He’d been helping all the way and never once asked anything for himself.
Preacher seemed to sense his gratitude. “No need for words, Trace. Let’s go fetch that woman of yours.”
Lightning splintered into bony fingers crawling across the rim of the canyon. Trace knew they couldn’t wait any longer, as the dark clouds were already making the afternoon into twilight, but he forced himself to give Preacher time to reach the upper edge. Once he saw the old man in place, he leaned low and used a dip in the land to race to the other side of the small plateau. He held still there, hiding against a small outcrop while he got his wind back. Finally he straightened and stalked toward up toward Slade.
Seeing a large boulder, he made a dash for it, knowing he was in the gunslinger’s view the whole way. “Let her go, Slade!” he called once he reached cover. “You’re not one to hide behind a woman’s skirts.”
“You’re right, I’m not,” the gunman called back. “But I wasn’t going to let Comstock make off with her. I was here to prevent him from doing just that. I knew he’d make a run at her if the need arose—she was his ace in the whole. I just bided my time until he made his move.”
Trace stilled. He still didn’t understand what was going on here. “Let her go. Then we can get down to what you want.”
Mae stepped tentatively out from the deep impression in the rocky cliff, her eyes wide with worry and fear. Slade, his left hand on her throat, was right behind. Since the gunman was only of medium height, there wasn’t much left unshielded—precisely what Slade was counting on.
“Let her go. Then we can talk,” Trace repeated. He knew it was useless, but like the damn roundup he was locked into going through the motions.
“Talk? There’s nothing to talk about. There’s only one thing I want from you.”
Trace laughed. “Somehow I figured out that much. The woman’s in the way. Let her go, and we can finally answer your question of who’s the faster gun.”
“So, how do you want to accomplish it? I send her away and you shoot me. My mama didn’t raise me to be no stupid cowpuncher.” Slade laughed.
His words made sense. Slade wasn’t going to shoot him while hiding behind Mae; he could have killed him unarmed while they were still in the canyon. The gunslinger wanted one thing, and one thing only: to face Trace and settle the question burning through his brain.