The Old Wolves (15 page)

He dropped to a knee, traced his finger around two circular indentations in the sand and gravel. Someone had knelt here. Not long ago. Water had been splashed over the sand, which was still damp.

Footprints shone in the sand where the girl had walked away after she'd finished bathing. Spurr followed the tracks with his eyes to the edge of the cliff, on the west side of the pool.

Clouds were moving in, casting gray shadows. The shadows made the girl's blond hair stand out from the sandstone cliff, where she lay, wrapped in a green blanket, in a small notch cave at the cliff's base. She lay curled in a ball, facing Spurr, the blanket drawn up to her throat.

“Leave me, Spurr,” she said tonelessly.

Spurr straightened. “You can't stay out here, Greta.” He glanced at the sky. The blue was being covered quickly by large, charcoal-bellied clouds, and a chill breeze had risen. “Gonna rain soon.”

“Please leave. I want to be alone.”

“Are you all right, girl?”

“Please leave me, Spurr.” She'd spoken in the same dull voice as before, not looking at Spurr but staring blankly straight out from the notch cave.

“All right.”

Spurr looked around. His heart ached. Everything in him ached. His knees felt like putty. Rage burned behind the pain. Rage and frustration because he did not know where the gang had gone. Even if he did know, there was little he could do against them.

They were a dozen fierce men much younger than he. He was one old man. Besides, he couldn't leave Greta.

So, his prisoner was gone. And the men who'd taken him and savaged Greta were gone as well, and there wasn't one damn thing Spurr could do about it.

“I'm gonna go up and build a fire. You come up when you feel well enough. All right, Greta?”

She didn't answer or even nod her head. She just stared.

Spurr limped back up the slope through the trees to the camp.

NINETEEN

Drago's men had taken the bottle that Greta had left sitting out, but they hadn't known about the other two inside her carpetbag, which they'd also left.

In fact, the only gear they'd taken was Drago's saddle and bedroll, which he'd need on the trek to Martín's cabin. They'd taken Spurr's Starr .44 and his Winchester, but when he'd taken a liberal pull from one of the two remaining bottles, easing only slightly the agony in his body though doing nothing to assuage that in his mind, he'd looked inside his saddlebags.

He was glad to see they hadn't found his spare Schofield and an old over-and-under, brass-chased derringer. The Schofield was also old—he'd taken it off a curly wolf he'd run down several years ago, for a spare—and he'd rarely had to use it.

He was glad he had it now, though. He pulled out one of his two boxes of .44 shells spotted with bacon grease and loaded the slightly rusty, black-handled weapon. He had four .41-caliber shells wrapped in a tattered scarf for the derringer, which he'd also rarely used. He breeched the handy little popper, slid a shell into each barrel, and snapped it closed.

He slid the Schofield into the holster still lying by his saddle. When he'd pulled on his baggy denim trousers, he donned the holster and cartridge belt, and slid the derringer into the back pocket of his pants. The wind was picking up, howling through the trees and tossing dead leaves and dust this way and that. It was cold. A front was moving in, which meant it would soon get colder.

He glanced down the slope toward the falls and considered Greta once more, worry jabbing at him. But there was little he could do for her except build a fire and hope that when she got cold enough she'd come to it.

Spurr dampened his neckerchief with water from his canteen, and used it to wipe the crusted blood from his face. He took another pull from the whiskey bottle, and then moved around the camp, gathering firewood.

When he had a pile by the fire ring heaped with gray ashes, he built a fire with effort, for the wind was sweeping up the westward slope, wreaking havoc with the fledgling flames. Finally, to keep it going, he held up one of his blankets until the flames were large enough to keep burning on their own.

He added more dry wood and then sat down against his saddle. He was breathing hard, worn out from all he'd been through this morning. When he felt somewhat rested, he cooked some beans and side pork, and made coffee. He wasn't hungry, but he knew that to start healing he'd have to eat something. Greta would need food, as well.

Thunder rumbled. He looked up to see dark clouds playing around the edges of the ridge crest a thousand feet above him and the jostling pine crowns. A cold rain began sifting down through the trees.

“Ah, shit,” Spurr said, struggling into his mackinaw.

But only part of the storm bank slanted across the old lawman, the bulk of it heading northeast. There was not enough rain to douse his fire. He finished cooking the meal and the coffee but could eat only a little of it.

He wasn't hungry. He felt sick inside.

He leaned back against his saddle and when the wind died some, and the sun broke through the high, puffy clouds, he rolled a smoke. As he did, he cast frequent glances down the slope toward the falls that sent its sputtering, tinny murmur up the hill. Except for the water, there was no movement down there. Greta was staying huddled in the notch cave.

Spurr smoked his cigarette and then drifted down the slope to tend the horses. He released them from the picket line and hobbled them so they could range around the camp and draw water from the pool at the base of the falls. Then, worn out again, he sat down against his saddle, washed a nitroglycerin tablet down with whiskey, pulled his hat over his eyes, and settled back for a nap.

He woke to Cochise grazing around the edges of the camp. The horse gave Spurr a puzzled look as he casually nibbled the bluestem and needlegrass growing along the base of a large fir. The horse was puzzled as to why they were remaining here in the camp. The roan was used to moving through the day, camping only at night. Also, Spurr knew the horse well enough to see that Cochise was concerned about his rider.

Greta's mare stood nearby, sticking close to Cochise, also grazing. The paint had probably picked up on Cochise's worry. Horses were more sensitive than some folks gave them credit for.

Spurr looked around. The sun had fallen and gray shadows were tumbling down the ridges. The temperature was dropping. He'd let the fire go out.

He quickly rebuilt it and then looked down the slope once more. Still no movement from Greta. How long was she going to stay down there? He considered taking a cup of hot coffee down there to lure her out of the notch cave but decided to give her a little more time. If she didn't leave the cave in another hour, he'd have to do something. He wouldn't let her freeze to death.

No, you won't let her freeze. You'll let her be raped by seven savages, but you won't let her freeze. Good on you, old man . . .

He sat down against his saddle once more, took a pull from the bottle he kept by his side, and stared into the building flames. Soft footfalls rose behind him. Cochise snorted.

Spurr turned to see Greta moving up the slope, wrapped in the blanket. Her legs were bare beneath the blanket, and her blond hair blew in the breeze.

She did not look at Spurr as she came into the camp.

“Greta, I was worried about . . .”

He let his voice trail off as she stooped to pick up the bottle from beside him. She took a healthy pull of the whiskey, wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist, and then slid her saddle up close to the fire. She let the blankets drop to her ankles.

Appearing to not care that she was naked, she squatted beside her carpetbag. She pulled out several articles of clothing—an undershirt, a sweater, a pair of faded denims, and heavy wool socks. She dressed beside the fire, staring gravely into the flames. Spurr could not help watching her though he kept his eyes on her face. It was as if her soul had retreated to a tiny place at the core of her.

When she was dressed, she lay down against her saddle and curled up in her blankets, turning away from the fire and raising her knees until the blankets hid her stockinged feet, pine needles clinging to the soles.

Spurr reached forward, grabbed the leather swatch, and filled a coffee cup. He added whiskey to the coffee and then sat back against his saddle, sipping the coffee and watching the light bleed slowly out of the canyon. As the darkness thickened, the sound of the falls and the breeze grew louder.

Stars kindled. Occasionally, the faint cry of a coyote reached the old lawman's ears. An umber light in the southeast showed where the moon was rising from behind the ridge.

When he finished the coffee, Spurr rose to check on the horses and evacuate his bladder. He built up the fire, glanced at Greta, who seemed to be sleeping peacefully, hands sandwiched beneath her cheek against the saddle. But thin lines dug into the skin around her eyes and across her forehead. She groaned and whimpered, and her eyelids fluttered. Spurr knew that she was reliving the attack.

He wished there was something he could do for her. He wished he could reach into her sleep and soothe her somehow, take the teeth out of the memories, but he could do no more for her now than he'd been able to that morning.

He couldn't help going over the last couple of days and flagging every mistake he'd made. He should not have let her join him and Drago—not when there was even the faintest possibility that they were being followed by the old outlaw's gang.

Also, he should have taken Drago at his word despite his doubts. It was always safest to assume the worst. But Spurr had let the pretty girl fog his thinking. To him, it was almost as if Kansas City Jane had returned from the dead to set things right in his soul.

Only, Greta wasn't Jane. She was another pretty young blond woman altogether, and one whom Spurr had almost gotten killed. Maybe what had happened to Greta had even been worse.

But where he had made his biggest mistake was in not retiring two, maybe three years ago, back when his heart had started to go and, deep down, he'd known that his skills were fading. His thinking had not been as sharp as it once had been. Emotions had begun to count for more than reason, because he'd known in a vague, troubling way without really looking at it straight on that his wick had burned down and was about to go out.

And he was scared.

He realized that he had taken his life for granted. He'd fought against dying, as though such a thing were possible. But in reality all that he had done was become a foolish old man too stubborn to turn in his badge when he should have. Before he'd gotten anyone killed, or worse.

But that's what he had done, and now he had to live with it. That's what he would take back to his cabin and his old dog on the slopes of Mount Rosalie.

Ponder that out in your yard in the evenings, you old son of a bitch.

Spurr built up the fire and lay back against his saddle, drawing his blankets up to his chin. He stared up at the stars that faded gradually as the orange autumn moon kited above the ridge and began quartering across him to the northwest.

He pulled his hat brim down over his eyes and slept fitfully. He woke every fifteen or twenty minutes, all night long, starting at shadows and at all the little night sounds that haunted the canyon like witches and warlocks—like savage gang members out to beat him senseless and rape the girl in his charge.

He woke at dawn and quietly built up the fire again, letting Greta sleep. He hadn't heard her stir all night and she remained in the same position as the one she'd first assumed.

Deciding it was too early for coffee, he took a walk around the bivouac and checked on the horses. Cochise stood, knees locked, eyes closed, asleep, while the paint mare, Betsy, lay nearby, also asleep.

Spurr ambled back to the camp and rolled back into his blankets. He'd sleep until Greta woke, and then he'd make coffee and breakfast. He didn't even think about how he'd spend that day. One thing at a time, he told himself. He'd travel when Greta felt like traveling. There was no hurry. He had no more assignments waiting for him back in the Denver Federal Building.

He hadn't realized he'd fallen back asleep when he woke to the sounds of movement and the smell of frying bacon. He jerked with a start, reaching for the pistol beside the saddle but stayed the movement when he saw Greta crouched over the fire in front of him. She wore the heavy brown sweater and faded denims and the moccasins she'd worn before. While the sun was up and flashing golden on the pine boughs, the thin air was cool. She had a blanket draped around her shoulders.

“Shit,” Spurr said, surprised.

She was forking the meat around in the pan. The coffeepot was gurgling on a rock near the sputtering, crackling flames. “You gonna sleep all day, old man?”

Spurr yawned and settled back against his saddle. “Why the hell not?”

“'Cause we got a job to do, you an' me.”

“Job to do?” Spurr cursed again. The poor girl was addled. He was glad to see her up and about—she'd even brushed her hair—but she was addlepated, just the same.

“We're goin' after those sons o' bitches,” Greta said, hardening her jaws as she spooned beans from a pot into the pan of frying bacon. “You an' me.”

Spurr stared at her, not quite believing he'd heard what he thought he'd heard. “You're talkin' crazy, now. We gotta get you to a settlement. There's one up the Poudre Canyon. There might be a doctor there. He'll—”

She cut him off with: “You got the pistol. I got money. We'll buy another gun or two off someone along the trail. And then we're gonna track those bastards.” She looked at him, her jaws hard, eyes resolute and slightly crossed, as was their custom though there was no humor in them at all. Only a hard resoluteness. “You can track, can't you, Spurr?”

“I used to be able to track. Used to be able to do a lot of things.”

“Oh, come on,” she said. “I'm the one they stuck their dicks in. Not you. They just roughed you up a little.”

Irritation raked Spurr. “Greta, you can't ride after the pack of savages who done ya like that. And neither can I. They're a whole day ahead of us and I have no idea what direction they're headed. I got no idea where Martín's cabin is. Shit, it could be up in Wyoming or way over in Utah.”

“Wherever it is, you'll track 'em to it.”

“They're a dozen men, Greta. A whole passel of younger, meaner, crazier sons o' bitches. Now, I do appreciate your vote of confidence in my limited abilities, but the truth of it is, I'm old and stove up. I'm injured bad, with a logy heart, achy ribs, and a sore head, and in case you ain't noticed, my nose is swollen up like a door handle!”

Spurr shook his head. “I'm gonna take you to Manhattan—that's the settlement up the Poudre. I'm gonna drop you there to recover, and I'm gonna head on back to Denver and turn in my badge to my boss. And it's high time I did!”