Colorado Dawn (36 page)

The higher they went, the colder it grew. Ash pulled the collar of his fleece-lined jacket higher, pinning the warmth of his woolen scarf over his ears. Even though he wore gloves, he frequently changed hands on the reins so he could slip the other beneath his jacket and under his arm to warm it up again. His breath dampened the scarf that lay over his mouth and nose, and after a while, the wool was crusted with ice.

Later, when the sky had begun to lighten into that gunmetal blue that preceded dawn, they came to another junction in the road. Ash reined in and studied the crude sign nailed to a tree.

Two letters looked nearly the same—like eights, or
b
s or
p
s. Blue River? He pulled Thomas’s shirt from his saddlebag and held it down for Tricks to sniff.

The hound showed no interest and plopped on the ground, panting.

Realizing he had been pushing the animals too hard, Ash returned the shirt to the saddlebag and dismounted. He stood for a moment, listening, and heard the faint trickle of water off in the brush. Leading Lurch toward it, he found a seep of water running down into a puddle in a wee clearing.

He broke the ice with his boot heel, refilled his canteen, then let the animals drink. After loosening Lurch’s girth and removing his snaffle so the horse could graze the sparse grass in the clearing, he settled against a downed log to wait for more light, hoping by then he might be able to spot the peak Thomas had mentioned. If not, he would have to go into Breckenridge and ask.

He must have dozed off. When next he opened his eyes, sunlight gilded the treetops and Tricks was chewing on something—something with hair, and by the smell, none too fresh.

Ash tightened Lurch’s cinch, slipped his bridle on, then mounted and headed back to the road.

Faces the Dawn.
That was the Indian name for the peak he sought. And an hour later, as they rounded a bend where the trail opened onto a long sloped valley, there it was, the profile of a face looking into the morning sun. Ash studied it for a moment, trying to orient the view he saw now with the perspective he remembered from Maddie’s photograph.

He was on the correct side but several miles short.

Continuing at a slower pace, he scanned for recently used trails branching off on the downhill side, hoping he could find one that would lead to the aspen valley in the photograph. He did. After following it for less than a mile, he smelled woodsmoke.

He dismounted and tied the rope on Tricks, not wanting the dog to run off until he could do a thorough reconnaissance of the area. Then leading the horse, he continued down the trail. About a hundred yards farther, he saw a cabin through the trees. He was pulling his field glasses from his
sabretache
when Tricks started to whine and sniff at the ground several yards away. Then with a yip, he yanked the rope from Ash’s grip and tore off into the trees. Ash looked to see what had drawn the hound’s attention.

Blood. Boot prints. Several horses, one of which was unshod.

Scanning the brush, he saw more blood leading off the trail and into the trees in the direction Tricks had run. Swinging up onto Lurch, he followed.

From ahead came a yip, then a yelping bark that was abruptly cut off. Fearing Tricks had been hurt, Ash yanked out his pistol, dropped from the saddle to the ground, and sent Lurch trotting on ahead. Running at a crouch, he circled through the trees so he could approach from the high side. Through the trees, he saw Tricks standing over the prone figure of a man who had one hand clasped around his muzzle.

Just as Lurch trotted up from the other direction, Ash stepped out into the open. “Let go of my dog, ye bluidy bastard.”

A burst of words in a language Ash dinna know—but in a voice he recognized.

“Thomas?”

He ran forward and saw that Tricks was trying to lick the figure he had trapped on the ground at the edge of a drop-off, not bite him.

“Get him off,” Thomas choked out.

Grinning with relief, Ash dropped the pistol into his jacket pocket and pulled the exuberant hound away. But his amusement died when he saw that the front of Thomas’s war tunic was stained with blood. Most of it had dried, but on his side, halfway down his rib cage, there was a tear in the leather and a seep of bright red blood.

“Bluidy hell, Thomas!”

The Cheyenne looked up at him, his eyes sunken, his mouth drawn into something barely resembling his usual smile. “What took you so long, Scotsman?”

“We’ll be fine,” Lucinda insisted to Declan. “It’s not as if I’ll be wandering the streets. I’ll be in meetings all day. And Maddie draws so much attention with her photography doings, she’s never alone. Besides, she’ll have Chub.”

They were in the aisle of the stable. Lucinda and Maddie had just brought breakfast to Silas, who was busily gobbling it down in the feed room, but instead of finding Declan hitching the buggy and Maddie’s wagon, he was sitting on a nail keg, oiling his rifle.

The sheriff propped the gun against the wall and screwed the cap back on the tin of gun oil. He looked up, his face set in stubborn lines. “And what about Edwina? I can’t take you two to town and leave her here alone. And I sure can’t bring her to the assembly with me.”

Maddie agreed. Edwina wasn’t one to sit quietly by without wanting to be in the thick of it, especially if words were flying. “This is Friday, is it not? Won’t the final vote be today?”

“Late this afternoon.”

“Then stay with your wife this morning. Lucinda and I will go on with Chub, then he can bring me back at noon to watch over Edwina while you take the buggy into town to cast your vote. By
then Lucinda should be through with her meetings and she can ride back with you.”

“That’ll leave you and Ed here unprotected.”

“In a crowded boardinghouse?” Even though the Bible salesman had moved on, the deaf widow and her daughter were still in residence, although they seldom left their room and would be scant protection even if they did. But Mrs. Kemble could certainly handle herself. Hadn’t she had all three men jumping to do her bidding after that “wee tussle” two days ago?

“We both have our pistols,” Maddie reminded him. “And we know how to shoot. We’ll be fine for the three or so hours it will take for you to go vote and come back.”

After a bit more arguing, Declan finally gave in. Chub came, helped him harness the mules, then climbed into the driver’s box beside Maddie and Lucinda, promising he would bring Maddie back in time for Declan to go cast his vote in the assembly that afternoon.

“Meanwhile, Sheriff”—shooting a glance at the open feed room door, Lucinda lowered her voice—“see if you can get that poor boy cleaned up. I’m sure Mrs. Kemble has some strong soap and a scrub brush.”

Declan stepped back, hands raised. “That’s not my problem.”

“It is if he gives us all lice. That’s how typhus gets started. I should know. I’m from New York, remember.”

“This isn’t New York and there’s no typhus around here.”

“Not yet.”

“Hell.”

If the size of the stain on his shirt and the pallor of his usually ruddy skin were any indication, Thomas had lost a lot of blood. Drawing on hard experience with battlefield wounds, Ash did a quick examination.

The bullet had gone through. He saw no obstruction in either the entrance or the exit wound to indicate a piece of Thomas’s shirt was still lodged inside. The blood seeping down his side wasna bubbling
or frothy, so hopefully a lung hadn’t been nicked, and Thomas’s gut wasna distended as it would have been if he was bleeding inside. The Cheyenne wasn’t showing fever yet, but Ash had seen enough battlefield wounds to know it was probably coming.

All in all, Thomas was lucky.

He dinna look it.

Once Ash had patched the Indian up as best he could with bandages made from Thomas’s town shirt, held in place by strips torn from the woolen scarf, he covered Thomas with his jacket and helped him sit up against a boulder. “Drink as much as you can,” he ordered, handing Thomas his canteen. “And here’s jerky, if you’re up to it.”

While Thomas chewed the dried meat and took sips from the canteen, Ash told him what Si had said about his brother, Clete, and his cohort, Bud Purvis, leaving the lad to watch Maddie while they followed the reverend, hoping he would lead them to the cabin.

“I knew they followed.” Thomas worked to bite off another piece of meat. Ash could see that even chewing was an effort for him. “But the churchman did not want to fight, so we went on. They shot me just as the cabin came in sight.”

Thereby eliminating the one they dinna need and the fighter who posed the biggest threat
. Made sense to Ash. “But they let you live?”

“The churchman told them I was dead. He told them the claim papers were down there.” Wincing, Thomas twisted to point over his shoulder to the cabin in the middle of the clearing below. “That was more important to them than a wounded Indian.”

“See what’s happening down there. I’ll get my rifle.” Ash pulled his field glasses from his
sabretache
and handed them to Thomas, then went into the trees where he’d tied Lurch and Tricks. He pulled the carbine from the case hanging off his cavalry saddle, dug out a box of bullets from his saddlebag, then went back and stretched out on the ground beside the Cheyenne, who was on his stomach, peering through the glasses at the cabin.

“What do you see?” Ash asked.

Thomas handed him the field glasses. “Nothing. They do not work.”

“That’s because ’tis white man magic and ye’re but a bluidy heathen.” Bracing his elbows in the dirt, Ash adjusted the focus until the cabin came clearly into view.

He saw no people. No horses. If not for the smoke rising from the stone chimney, it looked the same as Maddie’s photograph—aspen grove, meadow, small creek with a sluice, outhouse in back. But from this angle, with the side of the cabin facing him, he could see higher up on the hillside, where a pile of tailings spilled down below a hole dug into the earth. The mine, he assumed. He handed the glasses over to Thomas. “Where’s the reverend?”

“Inside. But I have not seen him for a while.”

“The horses?”

“Staked on the other side of the cabin in that ravine. Mine, as well.”

A man came out the back door of the cabin. Short. Dark beard. Not the reverend and not Cletus Cochran. Bud Purvis? He stood for a minute, scratching and staring up at the mine, then went on to the outhouse.

“That is one of the men who followed us,” Thomas said, squinting through the glasses at the distant figure.

Ash picked up the carbine and quickly loaded it. He adjusted the sliding ramp sight at the back of the barrel for two hundred and fifty yards, give or take ten.

No wind. Downhill. An easy shot.

He lifted the rifle to his shoulder. Once again propping his elbows on the ground, he lined up the rear sight with the fixed sight at the end of the barrel until it was square on the outhouse door. Then he waited.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Thomas set down the field glasses and stick his fingers in his ears.

The door opened and the man came out. After pausing to do up his trousers, he walked toward the house.

Ash tracked him through the sights until the cabin door closed behind him, then he lowered the rifle and let out a string of Gaelic curses.

“You did not shoot,” Thomas said, taking his fingers from his ears.

“If I had, and the reverend is still alive, the other fellow might have killed him or used him as a shield to make his escape.”

“So we sit here?”

“Aye. The reverend has got to relieve himself sometime, and I doubt he’ll be alone. If he’s in the clear and I can get a shot at the man with him, I’ll take it, so I will. Bluidy, buggerin’, humpin’ sons of bitches.”

He dinna have to wait long. This time when the door opened, two men came out. Ash studied them through the field glasses.

The one in front was more round than tall. No beard. The reverend. His hands were tied in front and there was blood on his shirt, but otherwise he seemed all right. The other was the same man who had come out earlier. Bud Purvis.

“Watch the cabin.” Ash handed the glasses to Thomas and picked up the loaded rifle. “I’ve got ye now, ye bastard,” he muttered as he lined up the sights.

The reverend tripped and went down on one knee. Purvis kicked him in the arse until the older man scrambled back onto his feet and staggered on to the outhouse. The reverend went inside.

Ash took a breath, let out half. He slipped his finger around the trigger.

Purvis stood at the open door for a moment, then let it close. He turned in Ash’s direction the instant before Ash squeezed the trigger.

Noise exploded. A belch of acrid smoke burned in Ash’s eyes.

The bullet entered Purvis’s left eye and exited the back of his head in a red mist.

Flipping onto his back, Ash worked frantically to clear the side breech so he could reload. “Did the other one come out of the
cabin?” he shouted over the ringing in his ears. “Did you see him?” Turning the rifle over, he tried to shake out the spent casing, but it dinna fall.
Christ.
“What is he doing? Talk to me, man!”

“The door opened, but I could not see if he came out.”

“Maybe he went out a window.” Ash dug the hot casing loose with his fingernail, then thumbed another cartridge into the side-hinged breechblock and snapped it closed. Swinging the rifle to his shoulder, he rolled back into firing position.

“There!” Thomas pointed past the cabin. “On the other side. He runs to the gully.”

Ash tracked until he found movement in the sights. White blond hair. Cletus Cochran. Aiming just ahead of the running figure, he fired.

Cochran dropped from sight.

Ears ringing, Ash squinted through the haze of spent powder as he dug out the spent casing so he could reload. “Did I get him?”

“I cannot see him.”

“Bollocks!”

The outhouse door opened. The reverend came out and bent over the figure sprawled on the ground. Two hundred yards past him, running a ragged course in and out the brush, a man on a saddleless bay horse galloped out of the gully and into the cover of the trees. Three other horses ran loose behind him—Thomas’s spotted pony, the reverend’s chestnut, and a third horse Ash dinna know. But they gave up soon enough, and after milling for a moment, dropped their heads to graze at the edge of the trees.