The Devil Rogue (43 page)

It didn’t change a thing. They were still going to hang her.

This couldn’t be happening!

Images of the people she loved flitted through her mind – the faces of her two sisters, Jaelene and Kara, her father, their housekeeper, Mrs. Riley, and the cook, Mrs. Clemens, and even the young man, Tommy, who did odd jobs around the house.

She should never have left home – her family! How would they get on without her? She missed them so much it hurt, and now she would never see them again.

Her stomach rebelled violently as the reality of her predicament hit her like a sucker punch.

There was no way out of this.

She fought the rising nausea, gulping back a sob.

God, her head ached. Her eyes burned from the dust kicked up by the horses, her nose and mouth filled with the gritty stuff until she felt like she was suffocating.

She was a heartbeat away from full blown panic.

Suddenly, without so much as a by-your-leave or warning of any kind, her horse shot forward. Whether someone intentionally slapped the horse’s rump, or it was stung by a bee was critically unimportant. Cadence was only aware of it sprinting out from under her, leaving no more time to contemplate her impending death. Her air supply was immediately and viciously cut off. Her feet flailed for purchase that wasn’t there.

Time slowed, her heart hammering in terror as her survival instinct howled and clawed its way to the surface.

She didn’t want to die!

The weight of her body seemed to be pulling her head from her shoulders, every muscle jerking and contracting. The pain was unbearable as her lungs were unable to expand. Blood pounded in her temples, threatening to explode through the top of her head.

Blackness crept in from the outer edges of her vision like a phantom.

Then there was nothing.

JONAH PULLED HIS lever-action Henry rifle from its scabbard at the side of his saddle, preferring it to the blue-steel, .44 revolver resting in the holster of his gun belt. He was proud of his rifle, a gift from his father, when after the war the newer lever-actions replaced the old muzzle-loaders.

These people were acting outside the law, and as a U.S. Marshal it was his duty to take the prisoner into custody.

Jonah had spent the last six grueling weeks hunting the kid, who’d covered his trail as well as any seasoned tracker. Jonah was better, though – the best – and he wasn’t about to be deprived of his chance for justice…and revenge. The figure dangling at the end of the rope might look like just a boy, but he’d killed once before and now, apparently, he’d done it again.

Taking careful aim, Jonah fired, only nicking the rope. His horse, Athos, stood rock-steady as Jonah quickly cocked the rifle again, brought it to his shoulder and squeezed the trigger. This time the rope was severed, saving the kid from death-by-hanging. He hoped. The boy lay on the ground, unmoving, as the townspeople stood in slack-jawed surprise. As one they looked up at Jonah.

“What in tarnation did you do that fer?” a grisly, white-bearded old man snarled.

Jonah lowered his rifle, resting it across his thigh and showed his badge. “I’m a U.S. Marshal and this here boy is my prisoner.” His deep voice and commanding tone made more than a few people take a step back. “I’ve been tracking him for some time, and I intend to take him back to
New Orleans
to stand trial for murder.”

“He’s already had a trial for murder, mister,” an unknown voice from the crowd stated.

Jonah narrowed his eyes. “From the looks of it, I doubt it was a fair one.”

The boy still hadn’t moved, not even a twitch. He might very well be dead and if not, Jonah knew he had to get him out of here to see to it that he survived. He’d tracked the kid this far. He wasn’t about to give up on his revenge so easily. “My case takes precedence over whatever was going on here today. Now, hand him up and I’ll be on my way.”

No one moved, each person looking from one to the other, waiting for someone with the gumption to make a decision.

Wasn’t there a goddamned sheriff in this town?
Jonah swiftly pocketed his badge, then swung his rifle around with the practiced ease of a man who was used to handling one. “I said hand him up here.
Now
.”

His softly spoken command and narrow-eyed stare catapulted at least two of the bystanders into action. They lifted the boy, one at his shoulders, the other grabbing his ankles, and performed a sideways shuffle toward Jonah’s horse. After a few clumsy attempts to get the boy over the front of the saddle, they finally slung him across on his belly. The boy’s hands were still tied behind his back. Jonah considered cutting the ropes, but quickly decided now was not the time to take that chance.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jonah noticed a heavy-set man standing off to the side of the group. He wouldn’t have given the man more than a fleeting thought, except that he watched the boy with such hatred, it sent a warning shooting up Jonah’s spine. He’d best watch his back, at least until he got far enough away from here.

Easing Athos away from the crowd with a gentle nudge of his spurs, Jonah grabbed the reigns of the kid’s horse, and headed out of town, into the unending expanse of the desert plain.  Later, when he got far enough away, he’d stop and check on the boy’s condition.

He kept a grueling pace, the occasional weak moan coming from the boy proof enough he was still alive. He didn’t stop until the sun was low on the horizon. Swinging down from Athos, he grabbed the boy around the middle, dumping him on the ground like a sack of grain.

The boy stirred, a low, raspy groan escaping from his lips. Jonah stood for a moment, looking down at the small bundle in the dirt. Moving away with a soft grunt, he began the task of setting up camp, all the while keeping a steady eye on the boy. It didn’t appear like he was in any condition to run, but Jonah had been fooled before.

When he was finished, he settled the boy on the extra bedroll near the blazing fire. Kneeling down, he placed a hand behind the boy’s head, holding a tin cup filled with water to his mouth.

The boy’s face was smudged with the dust of the desert, his dark hair stringy with grime and sweat. His eyelids fluttered as he drank, some of the liquid trickling down his chin. He had unusually thick lashes and when he opened his eyes, Jonah was surprised by their striking color, reflected in the firelight. They were a dark green, like the thick mossy floor of an ancient forest.

Those eyes looked up into Jonah’s face, and then widened with shock. The boy sputtered and choked, scooting backward on his elbows. With his hands still tied behind his back, he resembled a drunken crab.

“Kind of like seeing a ghost, isn’t it, boy?” Jonah drawled in a steely voice.

Cadence tried to speak, but her throat felt like she’d swallowed burning embers from a fire. Her voice came out as a scratchy whisper. “You – you’re…but you’re dead.” He
was
dead. She knew it to be true, but who was this man who looked so much like Robert Kincaid?

On closer inspection, she could see that it wasn’t him. This man was bigger, more muscled, and older than Robert Kincaid – and more dangerous. He’d followed her as she’d scrambled away, the fire at his back now. She could no longer make out his features, now hidden in the shadows.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” he said in a smooth voice that held a distinct note of menace. “My name is Jonah…U.S. Marshal, Jonah
Kincaid
. Robert was my brother, you no good piece of buffalo shit.”

All the blood drained from Cadence’s head and she promptly fainted.

“
Christ!
” Jonah dragged the boy back to the bedroll. This wasn’t how he’d imagined this first meeting with his brother’s killer. He’d wanted – he didn’t really know what he’d wanted, but this wasn’t it – to have the scum-sac pass out right after he found out whose custody he was in.

Jonah looked at the boy’s face. He seemed so young – too young to have killed two people. At least that was the number as far as he knew. This kid could have killed more than just Jonah’s brother and that old woman.

With a sound of disgust, he drew a large knife from his boot and cut the ropes holding the boy’s hands together. It would be an easier job to check his wounds while he was unconscious, anyway. After all, he didn’t want to drag a dead and rotting body back to
New Orleans
.

There was a patch of crimson near the kid’s left ear. It stood out like some macabre exotic flower, contrasting sharply against the muted, monochrome colors of dust and grime that covered him from head to toe. Jonah pulled the faded, red bandana from around his neck, soaked it with water from his canteen, and wiped at the blood. There was a small cut there, but it didn’t look serious enough for stitches.

Going over to Athos, he reached inside one of the saddle bags, retrieving a tin of ointment. He kneeled back down next to the boy. Opening the small, metal can, he dipped the tip of his finger in and smeared a little on the cut.

Next, he washed the boy’s wrists, which had been rubbed raw from the ropes, applying more of the ointment. As he turned the boy’s hands over in his own large ones, something puzzled Jonah. The kid didn’t seem to possess the size and strength to overcome, let alone kill, a man much larger than he was. The bones in his wrists were small and delicate, the skin smooth except for a blister on the inside of one thumb. This kid did not fit the usual profile of a hardened outlaw – a killer. Christ, by the looks of him, a stiff wind would easily blow him over.

He moved his attention to the boy’s neck. Jonah had witnessed many horrifying things, both during and after the war. It wasn’t that he was used to any of it, not by a long shot, but he had learned to keep his emotions at a distance, to withdraw from the human aspect of death and all the gory details in between. However, the sight of this kid’s neck, marked by a band of dried blood, punctuated with angry bruises, was enough to unsettle even a battle-hardened soldier like Jonah.

As Jonah washed the blood away as best he could, dabbing on the sweet-smelling ointment, the boy whimpered softly. The hanging rope had crushed his throat and would take some time to heal. Luckily, since the boy wasn’t very heavy, the damage shouldn’t be permanent. Otherwise, he might live with a hoarse voice for the rest of his life – however long that might be.

Shit
!
Why was he suddenly so concerned about this cold-blooded killer?

It was the boy’s young and innocent face.

He just didn’t look like a murderer.  But Jonah knew from past experience that looks could be deceiving. This boy had killed his brother and, so long as Jonah had breath in his body, he would see justice served.

* * * * * *

5

Villarreal / The Devil Rogue
                                     

About the Author

Lori lives in
Michigan
with her husband, their
twelve
year
old son, and little black dog. She
’
s a freelance writer and reporter for a local weekly newspaper, The Township Times, covering human interest stories. She
’
s been working in the computer industry for over
20
years, and owns a web design business. Over the years,
s
he
’
s had extensive writing experience with documentation, both business-related and technical, as well as in the creative area. As a writer of fiction, she utilizes her many life experiences, her travels (adventures), and encounters with the people she's met along the way.

www.lorivillarreal.com