Dorothy Garlock (8 page)

Three things happened simultaneously and they all registered vividly in Logan’s mind. A shot blasted the stillness, Brutus dropped in his tracks, and a loop appeared directly ahead of him and he ran headlong into it. He felt the rope clamp his upper arms to his sides in a viselike grip while he was clawing for his rifle. He was jerked from the wagon seat and the breath went out of him when he hit the ground. The vision of a thousand faces filled with unreasonable hatred flashed before his eyes as a cloak of darkness covered him, lifted, covered him again, and was slowly swept aside so he could see that he was ringed in solidly by mounted men.

With his arms pinioned, Logan felt for his gun and found an empty holster. He was defenseless, but through blurred vision he saw it lying on the ground a few feet away. He rolled over on his stomach in an attempt to reach it, but was jerked viciously as the rider with the rope looped about his saddlehorn gigged the horse. The animal jumped sideways and backed up as if he were holding a steer. The encircling rope tightened and Logan was hauled helplessly over the rocky ground. He tried to protect his face and head by holding it up, but by the time the horse was pulled to a halt his hands and arms were numb from the tight rope and his face bloody from the sharp stones.

“How’d ya like that, redskin?” Shorty Banes leaned from the saddle and spit. “I aim ta learn ya a lesson,
boy.
We’uns don’t cotton to Injuns acomin’ in here what don’t know their place. Hear?”

“He ain’t so full a piss ’n vinegar, now, huh, Shorty?” Logan glanced at the man who spoke. He was the same one who had taunted him at the store: tall, gaunt, hooked nose, and small mouth. He reminded Logan of a buzzard.

“I hear tell ya got ya a good supply of cash on ya. Guess ya think that makes ya good as a white man. Where’d ya git it?”

“That’s none of your goddamn business.” Logan’s eyes shifted back to Shorty. He pulled himself to his feet and loosened the rope. He clenched and unclenched his fist in an effort to get the blood circulating again.

“Ya better not be gittin’ mouthy with me, Injun.”

Logan looked at the other three riders. The hooked-nose one, called Shatto, was leaning on his saddlehorn, grinning down at him, a stream of tobacco juice running out the side of his mouth. He didn’t look too smart; he’d follow Shorty’s lead. The other two were younger. One shifted his eyes away from Logan’s direct gaze; the other lounged indifferently in the saddle, a twig in the corner of his mouth. Logan jerked the rope up over his head and Shorty gathered it in.

“I ast ya a question, red ass. Where’d ya git the gold?”

“And I answered, you crazy bastard! I said it’s none of your fuckin’ business.”

“Yo’re short on brains, redskin. Ya ain’t got no backup now. Ya answer me or I’ll put a slug in yore stinkin’ red belly.”

“I inherited it from my uncle.” Logan was impotent with rage, but spoke calmly.

“I ain’t never heard of no Injuns ahavin’ that kind of money,” Shatto said and spit a stream of yellow tobacco juice that dribbled down Logan’s shirt.

“My uncle was white.” It took all of Logan’s self-control to ignore the insult. His fury had mounted to the extent that he was almost sick from holding it in.

“Well, what’a ya know. Yore pa musta been horny as hell ta poke his pecker in red meat.” Shorty laughed and drew a long, thin blade from a sheath in his saddle. “What’a ya say, boys, ’bout us adoin’ a little cuttin’? Let’s make us a gelding outta this here stud.”

As soon as the words registered in Logan’s brain, he flung himself straight at Shorty. A wild, piercing cry of rage tore from his throat. He made a grab to jerk him out of the saddle and felt the stinging pain of the coiled rope across his face. Instinctively, his hands went to his eyes and a booted foot that connected with his chest knocked him to the ground. Instantly, he was buried under an avalanche of striking, kicking men. He heaved and bucked, using every ounce of his strength, and spilled them away from him. But he couldn’t get enough air in his lungs and one leg was bent under him. He couldn’t get to his feet! Blows from the booted feet connected with his sides and the coiled rope continued to rain blows on his back and head. He tried to crawl, but was kicked to the ground while the rope blazed fire across his back.

Was this the end? Would be die here, kicked to death by this scum? He grunted under the lash of the rope as it came down across his back like a white, hot flame, but that was the only sound he made. He lifted his head and opened his lips to curse his tormentors, but no sound came. The hate-filled faces wavered and danced dizzily before his eyes. His mind commanded him to get to his feet and fight, but his body, on fire with pain, refused to obey.

From somewhere in the darkness he heard Shorty say, “Turn the fucker over. He’s goin’ to git what’s acomin’ fer what he done to me.”

Logan felt hands working at his belt, then his pants were pulled down, his privates exposed. He tried to lift his head, but a booted foot held it to the ground. With frantic eagerness to protect himself, he sought to roll over. Something was wrong with his legs and his chest felt numb. It was his last coherent thought. Lights exploded in his head and he fell through a great, black hole.

“I ain’t got no stomach fer this, Shorty. Ya said we’d whop the shit outta him and take his money. Ya didn’t say nothin’ ’bout acuttin’ his nuts.”

“Christ, Frank! He ain’t nothin’ but a gawdamned Injun. Give me yore knife, Shatto. I lost mine some’ers.”

“I ain’t awantin’ none of this, Shorty,” Frank insisted. “Kill ’im, if’n ya want to, but I ain’t fer cuttin’ ’im. That’d get folks riled, even if’n he is a Injun.”

“Ya ain’t got nothin’ ta say ’bout it! I ain’t even ortta a let ya come along, ya wet-eared sonofabitch! Get ta hell outta the way!”

“All I wanted outta this was that stallion. Shit! That’s horseflesh!” Pete said.

“Ya crazy bastard! Ya can git hung for stealin’ a horse!”

“Shut up, Frank!”

“Shit!”

“Do yore cuttin’ ’n let’s go!” Shatto said.

“I figur’d on takin’ that stallion,” Pete insisted.

“That shows that all yore a usin’ fer brains is that stick ya got atween yore legs. I’m atellin’ ya, I ain’t ahavin’ no part in horse stealin’.”

“A buggy’s acomin’!” Shatto let loose a string of swear words. “Looks like Mrs. Gregg’s.”

“Shitfire!”

“We better git the hell outta here if’n we wanta do any whorin’ at her place!”

“I can’t find my knife,” Shorty grumbled.

“Ta hell with it. C’mon!”

Shorty Banes mounted and turned his horse toward the still figure on the ground. “Stomp the sonofabitch!” he commanded. The horse hesitated, then jumped over Logan, and took off on the run.

*  *  *

Logan struggled against the awful darkness that pressed down on him. He fought against it until his eyes opened slowly to more darkness. Fear enveloped him. Was he dead? Where was he? He tried to move and the agony of pain tore through him. He lay perfectly still, his eyes open wide. He was alive.

Slowly, his thoughts assembled, sorted themselves out, and he remembered.

“No!” The strangled cry burst from his throat. He tried to move his hands to his groin, but his arms felt as if lead weights were attached to each hand. “Noooo . . .” he said again, and the word was a sob in his throat.

A light moved near him. He rolled his head toward it. It was then he realized he was in a bed and his head was on a pillow. The light came closer until it was so bright he had to shut his eyes against it, but not before he saw that it was a lamp and a woman carried it.

“So you’re awake.”

Logan opened his eyes and tried to focus them on her face. “Did they . . . did they . . . cut me?”

“No. You’ve still got all your parts.”

For a space of a dozen heartbeats he stared at her soft, pretty face, not knowing that tears gushed from his eyes and ran down over his torn cheeks.

“What’s wrong with me?” he whispered. “My jaw feels like it’s broken.”

“I don’t think it is. I felt it before it had time to swell. You’ve got some bruised or broken ribs and your back is torn up pretty good. It would have been a lot worse if you hadn’t had on that buckskin shirt.”

“I thought the bastards were going to kick me to death.”

“I was on my way to town when I saw your team and wagon. One of the men was going through it and the other three was standing over you. They left in a hurry. I didn’t get to see them, but I recognized a horse or two.”

“I know who they were,” he said wearily. “Did they take my money belt?”

“You didn’t have a money belt on you when we found you, but we found money in your wagon when we unrolled the canvas to cover your supplies. It’s in your saddlebags.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“My name is Mary Gregg.”

“I passed here on the way to town. The flowers . . . and things . . .” He closed his eyes for an instant, then opened them wide. “My horse?”

“He’s all right,” Mary said quickly. “He was a handful to deal with, but we got him into the corral. Josh, the man who works for me, has an eye for a good horse. He said he’s one of the finest he’s seen, even if he is as ornery as a polecat.”

“He doesn’t like anyone near him but me and Brutus. Oh, God! The sonofabitches killed Brutus!”

“Brutus?”

“My dog. I remember now. They . . . shot him.”

“We didn’t see him, but we wash’t looking for him, either.”

She dipped a towel in the washpan beside the bed, wrung it out, and laid it over his discolored face. The cool dampness laid its soothing touch over his burning skin. His voice came to her muffled by the cloth. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Mary looked down at the man’s battered, swollen face and anger welled up in her. She gently smoothed the tangled hair off his forehead.

“Do you want something to drink? I’ve got whiskey.”

He rolled his head on the pillow. “No, but . . . thanks.”

She drew a chair close, sat down, and continued to lay the cool cloth on his face. Here was a man, a real man. He had as fine a body as she had ever seen; rangy, muscular, hard. Beneath the smooth skin of his chest and arms were ridges of muscle, put there by hard work. His stomach was a flat, hard plain, and his manly privates, which had been exposed to the sun when they came upon him lying in the trail, were huge, as was fitting a man his size.

Mary removed the cloth and dipped it in the water. She looked closely at the still face with the thick brush of black eyelashes lying on his cheeks. He had Indian blood; the high cheekbones and sculpted nose told her that. His midnight black hair was soft, wavy and clean. He was a man anyone would turn to look at a second time.

The minutes passed; Mary changed the damp cloth. She thought he was sleeping. Suddenly his eyes sprang open.

“My papers!”

“They’re safe, Logan Horn. The deed to your land is in your saddlebags under the bed.”

“Thank God! And . . . thank . . . you!”

“Go to sleep. You’ve nothing to worry about.” She gave his big, hard hand lying on the bed a squeeze with her soft one. “Try not to move around. I’ve got a coat of salve on your back.”

“Ma’am, I couldn’t move if the house was on fire,” he mumbled, and was almost instantly asleep.

Mary turned the oil lamp down low and continued to sit beside him until Minnie, a thin, flame-haired girl came to the door.

“Ain’t he waked up yet?”

Mary stood and picked up the lamp. “He woke up and now he’s gone back to sleep again.”

“Dud Simms just left. I never said anything ’bout him bein’ here, Mary. Honest.”

“I knew you wouldn’t if I asked you not to,” Mary said kindly. “I hope Clara and Hannah will keep quiet, too.”

“Clara’s got Billy Hopper in there. Him ’n Dud was the only ones to come by tonight.”

Mary Gregg was a full-bodied woman in her early thirties with soft brown hair and a pretty, unlined face. Her skin was smooth and white. She never allowed the sun to touch it if she could help it. Her cheeks were rosy without the use of the rouge her girls used, and her lips red. She kept herself immaculate at all times.

Mary had come to the territory as a bride. She and her husband had filed on government land, but pressure from Adam Clayhill had caused her husband to give it up. After he died, Mary took a couple of unfortunate girls under her protection after they had been run out of another town. The need to make a living forced her to open her own place. She never had more than two or three girls at one time, and they stayed until they found some cowpoke or drifter to marry them or they left of their own accord. One of them had married a mule-skinner by the name of Josh Hamilton and stayed on to help her run the place. Meta was a fine cook and Josh took care of the outside chores.

As far as anyone knew, Mary Gregg had never personally serviced any of the men who came to her house. She demanded that her girls be treated kindly and that they never be forced to do anything against their will. It was said that she was one of the richest women in this part of the territory.

“Dud told me ’bout what happened in town today. He said a Indian rode in with a pisspot full a gold and bought up range old Clayhill’s been usin’. I’d like to see the old bastard’s face when he finds out.” Minnie looked to see what effect her words had had on Mary, because everyone knew of her intense hatred for Adam Clayhill. Mary’s expression never changed and the disappointed Minnie continued. “He said the Indian got in a fight with Shorty Banes ’n cleaned his clock before he could say scat. Dud said Shorty was madder ’n a hornet ’cause the Indian kicked him in the nuts ’n he thought his ruttin’ days was over! Ha, ha, ha . . . I wish they was. He’s like a hog! He ain’t never goin’ to use me no more,” Minnie said with a toss of her red head.

“All you have to do is say the word, Minnie, and he’ll not get through the door again. You know that.”

“You reckon
that’s
the Indian he was talkin’ ’bout?” She jerked her head toward the bedroom door. “Whoeee! I don’t care if’n it was him or not that kicked the shit outta Shorty. I’d open up fer him . . . anytime!”

“Humm . . . You stay out of his room unless he asks for you. Hear?” Mary said in a no-nonsense voice. Then, “Let’s see if Meta’s got some fresh coffee. She’ll want to hear about what went on in town today, too.”