Nan Ryan (7 page)

He explained to Mollie and her father that since the Fort Whipple payroll usually came out of Phoenix, there would be only the driver and one soldier riding shotgun with the Santa Fe shipment.

“On the first leg of the journey—from Santa Fe to Albuquerque—there will be no extra guards,” the Kid concluded.

“When?” asked Cordell Rogers.

“The shipment leaves Santa Fe on the Overland stage the morning of October twentieth.”

“Only eight days,” said Rogers and downed a large swallow of whiskey. “We better leave tomorrow,” he said, hoping he’d feel better by then. Hoping that the persistent weakness he hadn’t mentioned to Mollie or the Kid would be gone.

“You’re the boss, Colonel,” said the Kid pointedly.

By morning, Cordell Rogers was feeling worse. Much worse. He was too sick to go on the raid, and Mollie refused to go without him. She summoned a doctor, remained at the hacienda, and cared for her ailing father.

The doctor confirmed that Cordell Rogers was suffering from a bad case of influenza. He was a very sick man—so sick he told Mollie that if anything happened to him, she was to go directly to his old friend, Napier Dixon, in Maya, Arizona.

“Nothing’s going to happen to you,” scoffed Mollie.

“Promise me, child. If you’re ever in trouble, ever need help, you’ll go to Napier,” said her father. “Ask anybody in town and they’ll know where to find him. He owns half of Maya.”

The morning of October twentieth dawned cold and clear in the high deserts of northern New Mexico. At the opulent Castillo mansion two miles east of Santa Fe, an excited Teresa Castillo hurried about her bedroom, checking to make sure her duenna, Conchita, had packed everything for their journey.

Satisfied that all was ready, Teresa took one last quick look in the mirror, smiled, and lifted the cherished gold cross from her full bosom. The cross had been her engagement present from Lew, and she would never forget the look in his eyes when he had given it to her.

“Teresa, my treasure,” he’d said softly, and showed her that
Mi tesoro
—“my treasure”—was etched on the cross’s smooth back. He had kissed her tenderly, then put the cross around her neck. She hadn’t taken it off since. The cross would, she had told her handsome fiancé, rest on her heart for as long as her heart should beat.

Dropping the cross back in place, Teresa offered silent thanks that Lew had finally agreed to let her take this morning’s stage to Paso del Norte. He hadn’t wanted her to make the trip. He had cautioned that it wasn’t safe for a young lady to be traveling alone. She had assured him that she wouldn’t be alone, Conchita would be with her. Besides, the short sixty miles between Santa Fe and Albuquerque was to be the only part of the journey without an extra escort. At Albuquerque her cousins, Sergio and Ramon Chagra, would meet her and see her safely across the border and beyond.

“If you must go,” he had said, continuing to look worried, “I’m sending Dan Nighthorse with you to Albuquerque.”

Teresa grabbed up her warm fox traveling cape and felt bonnet, and hurried downstairs.

Her brother Pascual, a look of apology on his face, met her at the base of the stairs. “I am so sorry, Teresa. You cannot go. Conchita has sprained her ankle badly this morning, and—”

“No! But I must go, I must. Oh, Pascual, you know how I’ve looked forward to this visit with our parents.” Her lips began to tremble and tears filled her dark eyes. “Please let me go. I … I haven’t seen my mother in more than three years, and I—” She began to choke, stopped speaking.

It was Pascual’s undoing. “Ah, little Teresa,” he said, drawing her to him, “Sometimes I forget that you are still a child. Not yet twenty years old. Of course you need to see your mother.”

Against her brother’s shoulder, Teresa said, “Please let me go. Dan Nighthorse is riding with us, and—”

“But there will be no woman with you. No chaperon.”

Teresa pulled back, looked up at him. “Just this once couldn’t we deviate from the old customs?”

Pascual finally smiled. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt if—”

“Oh,
gracias, gracias,”
she said, hugged him tightly, and confided, “I am so glad I said good-bye to Lew last night. If he knew Conchita was not coming with me …” She shrugged slender shoulders, kissed her brother’s jaw, and flew happily to the front door.

It was just past noon when the southbound stage reached the flatlands above Bernalillo. Inside the dusty Concord coach, Teresa Castillo yawned sleepily and daydreamed. Atop the box, the white-whiskered stage driver held the lead and swing team lines, skillfully guiding six galloping horses across the flat tablelands. Beside him on the wooden seat, a young army lieutenant in uniform dozed peacefully, his loaded carbine on the floorboard at his feet. Directly behind the coach, Dan Nighthorse, his obsidian eyes keenly alert, loped along on his big chestnut gelding, a walnut-stocked Colt Dragoon riding his hip and a long-barreled Henry rifle in the scabbard on his saddle.

Suddenly his black eyes blinked in stunned surprise as six masked mounted bandits exploded out of a stand of cottonwoods. With lightning speed Dan drew his Dragoon. But the Texas Kid was even quicker. Jeff Battles shot the gun from Dan’s hand and shouted as Dan reached for the scabbarded rifle, “Don’t try it!”

The startled stage driver shouted to the lead horses and furiously pumped the reins up and down. But two nimble, daring young Mexican bandits, agile as acrobats, leaped from their speeding mounts onto the backs of the stage’s leads and within seconds the six powerful beasts slowed. The terrified young lieutenant, hands held high, never even reached for his carbine.

Inside the coach, Teresa Castillo pressed herself back against the leather seat and prayed as the stage rattled to a halt. One of the Mexican bandits rapidly scaled the coach and withdrew from the luggage boot a canvas bag marked
U.S. ARMY.
He tossed the bag to W. C. Petty while Steven Andrews kept his Spencer trained on the lieutenant. Will Hurdman covered the cursing, red-faced stage driver. The Kid’s twin ivory-handled guns were aimed directly at the broad chest of Dan Nighthorse.

“That’s it, we have the payroll,” shouted Will Hurdman, “let’s get out of here.”

“Hold on a minute,” said the Kid and, reholstering one Colt .44, climbed down off his horse. “The passengers might have money and jewels.”

Dan Nighthorse immediately swung out of the saddle and dropped to the ground. “Stay right where you are, Indian,” warned the Kid, jerked the Concord’s door open, and looked inside. “Well, well, what have we here?”

A muscle jumping in his jaw, his black eyes fierce, Dan Nighthorse shouted, “She has no money, no jewels!”

“Maybe I should find out for myself,” said the Kid, lifting a booted foot up into the coach. He looked at the trembling Teresa and liked what he saw. “Keep ’em covered, boys. This won’t take long.”

“Damn it, Kid,” grumbled Will Hurdman, “grab the jewelry and let’s go.”

“I’ll do that,” said the Kid and started to climb inside.

Dan Nighthorse moved with pantherlike speed. Unarmed, he reflexively came after the Kid, determined to protect Lew Hatton’s fiancée.

The Texas Kid squeezed the trigger of his .44 and shot Dan Nighthorse squarely in the chest. Dan slumped to the dirt, clutching at a white shirtfront that was swiftly turning scarlet. A high, piercing scream came from inside the coach.

“That crazy son of a bitch was trying to kill me,” said the Kid, kicking at Dan’s limp body.

The grim-faced Renegades exchanged disapproving looks, and Steven Andrews and W. C. Petty said in unison, “That does it. Let’s go!”

“No,” said the Kid, “
I
am the leader here. I’ll tell you when we leave.”

He climbed into the coach, shutting the door behind him. He smiled with pleasure and took the seat opposite the softly sobbing Teresa Castillo.

“You … you can ha-have my diamond ring,” she stammered, stripping her engagement ring from her finger. “It’s the only jewelry I have.” She thrust it toward the masked bandit, her heart racing.

The Kid’s heart was racing just as rapidly as Teresa’s. It always beat fast during a robbery, and the excitement of shooting the Indian had increased its acceleration. And, just as always, that old familiar sexual excitement made his blood heat and surge. The arousal he felt was stronger than usual—almost as powerful as that first time Mollie had stood beside him in a Tucson bank demanding money.

Jeffrey Battles realized this was the one time he could get total release when he most needed it. Unlike the spirited Mollie, this girl was defenseless and frightened. He had always fantasized about making love during a robbery. Here, finally, was his chance.

His groin rapidly swelling, the Kid took the diamond from Teresa’s outstretched hand, shoved it into his shirt pocket, and moved across the coach to sit beside her. He snatched the lap robe from her knees and dropped it to the floor. Waving his revolver in his hand, he ordered, “Take off that wrap.”

“No, please, it is cold, and—”

“Open it.”

Teresa dutifully unfastened the lush fox wrap, supposing he meant to steal it. But when she started to shrug out of it, he stopped her. “That’s fine. Leave it around your shoulders.”

Sniffing, she gave him a questioning look, and cringed when he pointedly lowered his smoky gaze to her bosom. Her breasts rose and fell rapidly beneath the tight-fitting jacket of her traveling suit, and her heartbeat doubled when she saw the evil gleam in the outlaw’s eyes as he methodically lowered the shades over the coach’s windows.

Her furiously pounding heart stopped beating completely when, allowing the cold steel barrel of his pistol to gently graze the side of her throat, the bandit said, “Make one sound,
chica
, and I’ll blow your pretty head off.”

He jerked the bandanna from his bearded face and Teresa watched, horrified, as a huge, black-gloved hand went to the tiny silver buttons at her throat. With amazing dexterity for a man wearing a glove, he managed, in a few short seconds, to flip open the entire row of buttons from throat to waist.

Teresa never made a sound. She didn’t dare. The gun’s steel cylinder rested just below her jaw. So she remained totally still and mute while the Kid, licking his thin lips, jerked at the tiny pink bow bordering her camisole. He eagerly swept the gauzy fabric aside, exposing her full, quivering breasts. And still Teresa did not make a sound.

Her dark eyes closed in shame and fear when a gloved hand cupped her left breast and his mouth took quick possession of her trembling lips. The unwanted contact shocked her into action and sound, but her cries of outrage were swallowed up in the devouring mouth clamped firmly over hers.

In a nightmarish blur she felt his wet, slick tongue plunging deep into her throat, repelling her, choking her, while strong, gloved fingers plucked cruelly at her naked nipples.

The worst was yet to come.

His lips left hers and he again warned her to stay quiet or die. Then, with his teeth, he tugged the glove from his fingers and lowered his hand to her skirts. In seconds the skirts were shoved up around her waist, and when she heard the ripping of fabric, Teresa knew her silky underwear was being torn away. Chill air rushed in to nip at her exposed flesh, and then hot fingers were on her icy skin, pushing her legs apart.

Again she closed her eyes. He ordered her to open them. She obeyed. And was forced to watch him unbutton his trousers and release his huge, pulsing erection. The shocking sight of the enormous male member jerking on his hairy belly made her whimper pitifully, despite her best efforts to remain silent.

Ignoring her whimpers, he climbed atop her. The quick stab of pain she felt was excruciating. Tears washed down her flushed cheeks, and she bit the back of her hand to keep from screaming as he callously took her virginity. Blood stained her pale thighs as he pierced the taut feminine barrier of her innocence. Immediately he began to thrust deeply, painfully into her dry tightness, battering her, brutalizing her with his huge, pulsing tumescence.

In a minute his release began. His revolver still held to her throat and his hot gray eyes on her bare bouncing breasts, the Texas Kid spilled himself into the weeping Teresa Castillo, then fell away, panting and gasping.

Frantically lowering her skirts and pulling the dress together over her breasts, Teresa fought the nausea churning inside her and silently endured the pain that was sending fingers of fire throughout her lower belly.

“Hey, what’s this?” the Kid asked, pushing her jacket apart again, reaching for the cross of gold resting between her trembling breasts. He lifted the cross, turned it over and saw the inscription.
Mi tesoro
. He grinned. “My treasure. Well, you sure were a treasure, darlin’, so I’ll take this cross to remember you by.” Finally reholstering his revolver, the Kid took the cross from her, draped it around his neck and fastened it behind his head. The heartsick Teresa could do nothing but look at him with sad, dark eyes.

Dropping the gold cross into his thick chest hair, the Texas Kid reached out, took Teresa’s chin firmly in his hand, gave her bruised mouth a rough parting kiss, and said,
“Gracias, mi tesoro.”