Kid Calhoun (24 page)

She’s taking them to the valley
.

Jake saw Dog freeze. The beast’s nose pointed toward the hill above Jake. Without stopping to think, Jake dropped and rolled. It was all that saved him from the bullet that went winging by him. Reflex took over, and Jake drew his gun and fired before another second passed, pinning the bushwhacker down long enough for Jake to run for cover.

It didn’t take much guessing for Jake to figure out that the man who had been waiting for him with a rifle was one of the Calhoun Gang. The question was, how had the outlaws known Jake would be coming after Anabeth? Had she been forced to tell them about him? Or had she volunteered the information? Neither possibility pleased Jake. The big question now was how badly they wanted him dead.

He was going to have to move if he wanted to get out of here alive. But any movement was bound to draw another shot from the outlaw hidden in the rocks above him. He might be able to wait out the bushwhacker and escape in the dark, but every minute he delayed reaching Anabeth Calhoun was another minute she had to face the outlaw gang alone.

Jake was all too aware what her fate would be once the outlaws had the gold they sought. Or what it was liable to be if Anabeth refused to give them what they wanted. Either way, she needed him. He had no choice except to escape from the trap they had set for him.

The bushwhacker would be expecting him to sit tight. He wouldn’t be looking for Jake to take the kind of chance that might cost him his life. Which, of course, was exactly what Jake intended to do.

He holstered his gun and began the climb that would take him to his quarry. Jake was rewarded
when he reached the top of the bluff by the sight of the outlaw laid out on his belly, his Winchester balanced on a rock overlooking the terrain below. He was drinking from a pint glass bottle.

“Hello, there.”

It was all the warning the outlaw got, but it was enough to bring him around to face Jake.

Whiskey lay frozen for a moment. The pint of rotgut whiskey occupied one hand. His other hand held a rifle that had his finger curled around the trigger.

He had been drinking almost constantly since the Kid had left with the rest of the gang. Before they rode away she had looked him right in the eye and said, “You’re a drunken son of a bitch, Whiskey. Too drunk to defend yourself against an armed man. Even one you’re planning to bushwhack. So you just sit there with your bottle and wait. Because that Texas Ranger is coming to kill you.

“At least you’ll have more time to make peace with your Maker than you gave Booth. Good-bye, Whiskey. You’re a dead man. We won’t be seeing each other again.”

Whiskey was remembering what she had said. And seeing it all come true. He had missed his first shot, and somehow the Ranger had managed to sneak up on him. His heart was pounding. Sweat was streaming down his back. Damned if his hands weren’t trembling! And he had to pee.

The glass bottle shattered on rock, making a sound as explosive as the two gunshots that followed. Jake’s hand was steady and his aim was true. Whiskey’s shot went wild.

“Damn that Kid Calhoun,” Whiskey muttered as his eyes closed on a star-filled sky. “Damn that Kid for calling me a dead man.”

Jake kept his gun steady on the outlaw as he approached him, waiting to see if the bushwhacker
would reach for the rifle that had fallen a short distance away from him.

“What’s your name?” Jake asked.

“They call me Whiskey.”

Jake caught a whiff of the dark liquid that had spilled over a nearby rock—and the reek of a body that oozed alcohol from the pores—and didn’t have to ask why. Jake probably owed his life to the fact the man’s aim had been spoiled by the liquor he had drunk.

“Where have they taken the Kid?” Jake asked.

“Kid’s not a kid, he’s a girl,” Whiskey said.

Jake’s gritted his teeth. So Anabeth’s luck had finally run out, and the gang knew she was female. Every second counted now. “Where did they go?”

“To find the gold,” Whiskey replied. “The Kid said you would come after her. And kill me. Shouldna had that last drink, I s’pose. I’m gonna die, ain’t I?”

Jake checked the hole in Whiskey’s chest, which was bubbling as his lungs filled with blood. “Looks that way.”

“At least the Kid’ll get what’s comin’ to her,” he said.

Jake stiffened. “What about the Kid?”

“Gonna kill her, sure.”

Jake felt his skin get up and crawl all over him. “Not until they find the gold, though.” He said it to convince himself that Anabeth was safe, even though he feared she was in deadly peril.

Whiskey’s lips formed a macabre grin. Blood streamed from the side of his mouth. “I’m gonna die. But so is she.”

A hissing sigh escaped between the outlaw’s teeth, and his eyes began to glaze over. Jake shuddered as he reached over to lower the outlaw’s eyelids. There was nothing he could do about the ghastly smile that remained on the outlaw’s lips.

Jake didn’t take the time to bury the man. He doubted there would be much left of the carcass when the scavengers were done with it. He hadn’t any sympathy to spare for the bushwhacker. His every sense was focused on how to get to Anabeth Calhoun in time to prevent her death or debauchery—or both.

The outlaws hadn’t bothered to hide their trail, most likely because they had expected Whiskey’s ambush to get rid of Jake if he followed them. It was the middle of the night when Jake finally caught up to the men he was following.

They had made camp in the shelter of some rocks. He looked first to find out where the Kid was sleeping. She lay close to the light of the fire. He wasn’t surprised that they had tied her up, but he wasn’t happy to see the rope that ran from her hands up under Wat Rankin’s blanket. Not that he could blame the man. He didn’t trust the Kid farther than he could throw her himself.

It wasn’t going to be easy stealing her out of there without somebody getting shot. Jake rubbed the bristle on his chin. He might have to follow them for a while and try to take her from them on the trail.

As Jake was contemplating, he saw Anabeth begin to move. It was soon clear that the rope which bound her to Wat Rankin was no longer attached at her end.

Jake held his breath, waiting to see if she would escape on her own.
Run, Kid! Run!

But she didn’t run. As silently, as stealthily as any Apache she headed straight for Wat Rankin.

Jake cursed silently as Anabeth slowly inched the outlaw’s gun from the holster that hung from the horn of the saddle he was using for a pillow.

Hurry up, Kid. Get your butt out of there!

She was holding the gun on Rankin now. He could see her trembling even from where he lay hidden. He
watched her aim the gun at the sleeping outlaw’s heart. But she didn’t cock the gun. And she didn’t shoot.

You’re running out of time, Kid
.

The outlaw had begun to turn restlessly on his pallet, forcing the Kid to take a step backward—where she snapped a twig.

The noise was loud in the soundless night. Rankin awakened instantly and reached for a gun that wasn’t there on the way to his feet.

Shoot! Dammit, shoot the gun!
But Jake shouted it in his head. The Kid never heard him.

Anabeth was frozen, staring into the eyes of the man who had shot her uncle in the back. She wanted desperately to pull the trigger. But she couldn’t.

She swallowed hard. Despite her professed ruthlessness, Anabeth hadn’t been able to shoot a sleeping man. Now the villain was fully awake, his venomous eyes full of murder and mayhem. Only he was unarmed, defenseless. She could have her revenge for Booth’s death, but she would have to commit coldblooded murder to get it. Jake’s words replayed in her head.
It makes you no better than they are
.

“You ain’t gonna shoot, Kid, so put that gun down before you get hurt.”

“Stay back! I will shoot!” Anabeth warned.

Wat took a step forward. Nothing happened.

Except the gun began visibly shaking in Anabeth’s hand.

Wat took another step. His lips pulled back to expose a ghoulish grin. “Go ahead and shoot her, Teague.”

Anabeth heard the
snick
behind her and knew Teague had cocked his gun. She turned and fired at the same moment.

Teague looked from her horrified eyes to the hole in
his belly. “You shot me!” he said. “Goddamn if you didn’t kill me!”

“You’ve always done what you were told, Teague,” Anabeth said in a raspy voice. “You even shot Booth because someone told you to do it. This time you should have stayed out of it.”

By now the other outlaws were also awake, but none of them dared to reach for their guns while Anabeth held a weapon aimed at Wat. Things were at a dangerous stalemate, and someone besides Teague was surely going to die.

Finally, Jake conceded that if he didn’t do something, the Kid was going to get herself killed.

“You’re outnumbered,” Wat said, reaching for the gun in Anabeth’s hand. “Hold it right where you are—”

“No, you hold it right where you are,” Jake said.

When Rankin whirled to search out the voice in the darkness, the outlaws dove for cover.

And Anabeth ran like hell on wheels.

Jake kept the outlaws pinned down with gunfire while Anabeth escaped into the night.

When the shooting stopped a few minutes later, the outlaws realized they were alone. Their prisoner and whoever had called out to her from the darkness were both long gone.

Claire had been Wolf’s captive for a week. She still hadn’t gotten over the shock of finding her son among the savages.

She had stared at the small boy backed up against an Apache brave and known it was Jeffrey. She had been sure of it. The boy’s eyes were as green as the leaves on the trees. Surely no Apache had green eyes! His banded hair had been slicked down with some kind of animal grease that made it considerably darker than the blond it had been three years ago. His nine-year-old body was lithe with muscle it had never had and tanned nearly as dark as the copper shade of the Apache boy beside him.

“That’s my son!” she had cried, pointing at the buckskin-clad boy.

Wolf had put his arms around her to restrain her. “Come away from here, Little One. This boy’s parents are known to me. He is not your son.”

Claire had struggled to be free. “You don’t understand. That boy is my son!”

Wolf looked at the child Claire had pointed out. “That is the son of Broken Foot. He is called White Eagle.”

“His name is Jeffrey,” Claire insisted. “I thought he
was dead. Sam told me—oh, Sam!” She choked on a sob of frustration. “You lied to me! Jeff wasn’t killed. He was
stolen
!”

Claire’s throat was swollen with joy and with pain. To find Jeffrey was a miracle she couldn’t have imagined. She wanted to ask her son about everything he had been doing for the three years they had been separated. Most of all she wanted to hold him in her arms, to feel his heart beat next to her own.

The boy Claire had pointed out turned around and said something to the Indians behind him, who laughed.

Claire turned her eyes up to Wolf. “What did he say?”

Wolf frowned. “You do not want to know.”

“I do! What did he say?”

“He was making fun of you—of your size. He said you would barely make a mouthful for the camp dogs.”

Claire turned wounded golden eyes on the boy and saw the disdain and defiance in his eyes. She felt a twisting stab in her belly as the truth dawned on her.
This boy was Jeffrey, but he was no longer her son
. The child who stared back at her with such dislike and scorn must have no memory of what they had shared together. It wasn’t possible that he could remember her and yet treat her so cruelly, was it?

She thought of the Tripley boy, who had been returned to his parents after spending four years with the Apache. James Tripley had ruthlessly murdered his white family. It occurred to Claire that perhaps Jeffrey had purposely chosen not to acknowledge her.

It was like losing him all over again.

Claire looked down at the pitch-covered water basket she held. The ache in her chest was as strong a week later as it had been the day she had stumbled past the crowd of dark-eyed strangers toward the
stream she and Wolf had crossed to reach the village. She headed there again.

Claire dropped to her knees beside the stream and stared with unseeing eyes into the water that rippled by her. In the past week her life had been turned upside down. She needed to put the jumbled pieces of her life back together in a way that made some sense.

Why had Sam lied to her about Jeffrey’s death? How had he faced her every day knowing the awful secret he had harbored? She tried to imagine what might have caused him to tell her Jeffrey was dead. The obvious answer was that he had wanted to spare her the pain of knowing her son was perhaps alive and living among the savages. Sam had also seen the carnage left by the Tripley boy.
But, Sam
, she cried to the heavens above her,
at least I would have been able to hope!

Mightn’t that have been worse? Look at the truth she had discovered. How long had it taken Jeff to learn to hate her and Sam? How long had it taken him to become truly a savage? What if they had found him like this and tried to bring him back to the white world. Would Jeff have been able to learn to live as though his captivity had never happened? Not if the Tripley boy was any example.