My Heart Stood Still (Sisters Of Mercy Flats 2) (19 page)

“You’re not being buried. And the time will pass swiftly,” Creed assured from across the tent where Berry Woman and other women were swathing his body.

Quincy struggled to break free when the women cinched the straps around him tighter. “I can’t move my arms, Creed!”

Creed smiled. “You’re dead, Quince. Your arms aren’t supposed to move.”

Quincy took a deep breath and clamped his eyes shut. “How did I ever get myself in this mess?”

“You have the knife, don’t you?” Creed asked, a hint of humor coloring his voice.

“What good’s a knife gonna do me? I’m bound up like a Christmas goose, my body wrapped in buffalo hides, and ropes lashed so tight I can’t move.”

“You don’t hear Anne-Marie complaining.”

“Of course not,” Quincy snapped. “It’s her idiotic idea.”

“And a splendid one it is. You’ll see,” Anne-Marie noted.

“Well, I just want you to know,” Quincy’s muffled voice complained beneath the hides, “this is last time that I’m agreeing to anything that you suggest. Understand? The very last time—if we get out of this one alive.”

“Got it, Quincy.”

Quincy let out a yelp when his pallet was lifted onto the shoulders of two strong warriors.

Anne-Marie heard rather than saw Creed’s pallet being lifted and carried away. She prayed that he could sense the reassuring thoughts she sent his way. She closed her eyes and gave herself over to God. She knew He would protect them.

“Hey, looka there.” Ollie elbowed Butch near sunrise when activity in the camp picked up.

“What do you make of that?”

Cortes struggled to see through the cloud of activity that had suddenly enveloped the Indian camp. “The Injuns are leaving,” he grunted. They’d wasted days waiting for something to happen and now the redskins were pulling up and high-tailing it out of here? Squinting, he bent for a closer inspection. Cortes’s eyes were getting old. Tiny blurs scurried around in the distance.

Something was not right. Indians never moved their camp until the grass was greener and the wind warm.

“See the black and the nun anywhere?” Rodrigo peered around the other men’s shoulders.

“Yeah, and the Indian?” Butch cut in.

“Cortes sees many Indians,” he snapped, “but he does not see the black or the woman.” Cortes saw nothing but blurs.

“What should we do, boss?” Ollie peered over his shoulder. “Looks like they’re breaking camp or something. Why would they do that? It’s ain’t full spring yet.”

“How should Cortes know? We watch… and wait to see which way they go.” He spat a stream of tobacco on the melting snow. “Our grit has finally scared them out into the open. We will follow the buckboard.”

“But, boss, I don’t see a buckboard.” Butch cupped his hands to his eyes and strained.

“No buckboard?” Cortes flared. “Do you not see the wagon?”

The three shook their heads negatively. Butch ventured. “Do you see it?”

Cortes straightened. “It is in plain sight. They would not leave the gold. They will take it with them, and when they do, we will follow and take it.”

Four pairs of eyes watched as the tribe went about striking camp.

“Boss’s right. They wouldn’t leave the gold,” Ollie said. “We’ll get it when they come out.”

The outlaws kept vigil, their eyes focused on the burial procession that slowly wound its way out of camp.

“Well, will you look at that?” Ollie whispered. “A bunch of ’em must’ve died off.”

“Could be that’s why they’re strikin’ camp, boss,” Butch said. “Could be there’s a sickness down there like the fever or something. The whole tribe is dyin’ off.”

“Perhaps,” Cortes mused, “or could be just some old people whose time has come.”

“I don’t think so,” Ollie said. “Warriors are carrying the dead. See?” He pointed to the medicine man who walked in front, carrying weapons. “Them’s not just old people.”

“So?” Cortes wasn’t interested in the burial details; what he was interested in was the buckboard, and right now all he could see were figures tearing down the lodges.

Ollie straightened. “You don’t suppose those Injuns could have took a notion to finish them three off.”

“Enough!” Cortes roared. “You are
muy estúpido
! And if it is the nun, the
indio,
and the black, good riddance. Cortes cares only for the gold.”

Frowning, Ollie’s gaze followed the slow-moving procession. “I don’t know—we might oughta check it out
.
”

Rodrigo’s eyes widened. “Are you
loco
? The thought of going into an Indian burial ground—I ain’t going. Period.”

“
No es necesario
,” Cortes stated emphatically. “The
indio
and the black are still down there. I have seen them just this morning. They are no fools. They would not leave the gold. Cortes wait. If they do not come out, Cortes storms the camp.”

Anne-Marie was beginning to have second thoughts. She lay nearly suffocating, listening to the wind keening through the trees. How long had she been here? One—two hours? Minutes dragged by. If she only had some water—and she then remembered that a buffalo stomach full of water was hanging just a few feet below her. Food was also left on her scaffolding to provide nourishment for walking the Hanging Road. The Indians had also secured ceremonial weapons to the scaffolding so that courageous warriors would be able to hunt for nourishment.

Right now all Anne-Marie wanted was to leave this smothering cocoon, but she remembered Bold Eagle’s warning. They must not leave until well after dark, when the moonless night would effectively cover their escape.

She could barely hear the tepees being dismantled, but she could feel the wind that had sprung up. It swayed her scaffold and caused the buffalo stomach and parfleche to thump against the sides of the poles.

If a person were afraid of ghosts, this could be his undoing.

Creed lay quietly on his platform, awaiting the moment of escape. He counted each hour as time passed slowly. At least another five counts before he could safely escape his bonds. The pain in his thigh
throbbed. He’d known, even before he’d accepted the plan, that it would take a toll on his wound. The leg was swollen, pressing tightly into the buffalo hides.

The sound of his rifle thumping against the pole was as comforting as the knife he held in his right hand. Laid to rest among the bones of his brothers. The sooner this was over the better.

Closing his eyes, he saved his strength for the ordeal that still lay ahead.

If Anne-Marie’s plan proved sound, they only had a few more hours before nightfall and he could cut his way free of the bindings. A squaw had placed a sharp knife in his right hand and left plenty of room for him to cut the straps. Then he would rescue Anne-Marie and Quincy, and the three would be long gone by daylight, the awaiting gang left in their dust. The plan left ample room for failure, but he prayed that Anne-Marie’s assurance that God was with them proved true.

For God was now their only hope.

Twelve

F
our riders sat atop a rise, their eyes riveted on the deserted land. Horses shifted, snorting.

“Well, that’s the last of ’em,” Ollie mused.

“Yeah, that’s the last of ’em all right,” Butch said.

“We cannot be so sure,” Cortes snapped. “We have not seen the wagon carrying the gold. Where is the wagon?”

“It ain’t come out, boss,” Ollie said. “If you ain’t seen the blasted wagon, how are we supposed to have seen it? We’ve been watching for hours, and that buckboard ain’t left that camp.”

“He’s right,” Rodrigo put in. “We watch
mucho
close.”

“Well, it’s got to be down there somewhere.” Cortes spat on the ground and then wiped his mouth on his coat sleeve. “Buckboards do not disappear into thin air.” Spurring his horse forward, the boss headed toward what had been a camp only a little while ago. The other three men halfheartedly reined in to follow.

When the outlaws rode into the deserted campsite it was hard to imagine that over a hundred people had lived there not three hours before. Not one scrap of debris was seen. Several horse tracks, as well
as two-pole tracks, led off to the southwest, but there was no evidence of a buckboard.

If Cortes had not seen it with his own eyes, he would not have believed that there had once been a buckboard, but he grudgingly trusted the eyesight of the idiots that rode with him.

“Spread out and check every inch of this ground,” he ordered as the men sat astride their horses, looking at a loss as to what they should do.

“Maybe they burned the wagon,” Butch offered.

“Estúpido!”
Cortes exploded. “This is what we must find out! The wagon, it had iron to hold it together, no? Iron does not burn. If we find iron that is not burned, then we know our eyes do not play the tricks upon us.” He pointed to several mounds of smoldering ashes and his eyes leveled on Ollie. “You and him”—he motioned to Rodrigo—“go sift through the ashes.” Turning to Butch, he ordered, “You, I want you to ride to where they buried their people and look for any sign of buckboard tracks. The Apaches are trying to fool Cortes.” His eyes formed wrinkled slits. “This they cannot do.”

Butch stared at him vacantly. “Buckboard tracks?”

Cortes spat on the ground, hard. “No, brilliant one,
monkey
tracks.”

“But, boss,” Butch argued, “we didn’t see anyone go near that place once those dead people were put on those platforms—”

Taking a deep breath, Cortes lowered his tone to a threat. “The
carro
couldn’t have vanished into thin air. Go!”

Reining his horse, Butch rode toward the burial ground, but his stiff posture told Cortes that he did not like the order.