Pale Moon Stalker (The Nymph Trilogy) (16 page)

"Oh, I think of dear Cletus often, but with Uncle Harry gone... I'll never go back again," he added bleakly. "Jerome Bartlett will handle business matters for me. I trust him implicitly."

Sky could not understand why Max should feel so alienated from his own people. "I could never imagine closing out my family—red or white, not needing to see them again or go home to my father's ancestral land."

Max sighed and tugged his ear. "It's been a lifetime since I knew what home was...if I ever did."

"Your uncle provided you a home," she said hesitantly. "Yet in spite of loving him, you left."

"I did what I had to do, Sky." His voice was suddenly cold, final.

This conversation was closed. Frustrated, Sky said, "I'm going to get my things together, check my weapons again. You might do the same."

He nodded. "I already have. You forget, love, this is the way I've earned my living for some years."

As she turned toward her door, she could feel those hard green eyes boring into her back. She had touched a raw nerve. Whatever dark secrets drove him, he was far from willing to share them with her.
Will he ever be?

Jerome Bartlett, as Max had anticipated, replied within a few hours. The investment was an excellent idea. He would handle everything. Then around the time they were preparing to go out for dinner, Blackie knocked on their hotel room door, waving a telegram. "Thought you'd be wantin' to read this the minute I had it in me hands." He doffed his hat and smiled at Sky, who had changed into a simple day dress of pink muslin with a high-buttoned collar.

Max glanced through the message, then handed it to Sky, saying to their friend, "Blackie, now I insist you consider your imaginary debt to me paid in full."

"I owed you for catching that scum who savaged me girl Alice. Just you take care of your lady here, boyo, and we'll stay even."

Sky looked up from the wire. "In spite of my foolish reaction yesterday, I'm normally able to take care of myself. Johnny Deuce won't be kissing my gun hand. But I am most grateful for this information." She turned to Max and said, "Now we know where Deuce has been within the past week or so. He might still be there! Can we travel by rail to Leadville?"

"Steve owns stock in General Palmer's narrow gauge line. For the likes of you, I know he'll be happy to send a special car tonight," Blackie replied. "Just have a care, colleen. Johnny Deuce has a reputation black as the divil's own."

* * * *

The train began to slow for a water stop early the following day. Sky paced like a caged lioness after a restless night, then forced herself to calm down. Running on pure nerves would not keep her sharp enough to outwit a back-shooting killer like Johnny Deuce. She looked out the window, watching the sun gild the eastern horizon, drawing strength from the old Sioux ritual.

Max was already up, dressed and gone in search of coffee. Although she and her husband had shared a bed in their private car, he had not attempted to make love to her, but neither had he experienced terrible nightmares. For that she was grateful. He did not remember having the horrid dream the night they'd consummated their marriage. As far as Max was aware, his wife knew nothing of his demons.

Although the nightmares held the key to his past, she was not certain she was any more prepared to unlock that door than he was...at least for the present. Cass had cautioned her to give their relationship time, to build mutual trust. After hearing how the Lorings' marriage had begun, Sky supposed she and Max had a chance.

Her ruminations were interrupted when the sound of strident curses and the meaty thunk of fists striking flesh came from outside. She crossed to the end of the car and peered into the gloom through the small window in the door. The private railcar was positioned at the end of the train, so she had an unobstructed view.

Two men were dragging a kicking and yelling girl toward a small wooden shanty near the water tower. A third scruffy-looking man in trail gear was unbuttoning his fly with the obvious intent of raping her once they had her inside. A fourth man lay crumpled on the ground near the water tower. The girl's husband or protector? Were none of the men aboard the train going to stop this? Then she realized that only her proximity to the crime enabled her to hear over the engine's noise.

Sky quickly put on her robe and slippers, then reached for her Yellow Boy, ready to leap from the moving car if necessary, but she was thrown off balance when the train lurched to a complete stop. She yanked the door handle open. Two of the three miscreants had taken their victim inside the shack and the third had dragged the unconscious or dead man's body behind them. The woman's cries fell silent. Had they beaten her unconscious or stuck some filthy rag in her mouth to keep her from yelling for help?

Not waiting for reinforcements, Sky climbed noiselessly down the metal steps of the rear platform and crossed the ground to the now closed door of the shanty, listening to the sounds of drunken male voices inside.

"Hold 'er still, dammit, Hank. I ain't fixin' ta git my pecker kicked!"

"Her gambler feller's comin' round, Mr. Zeb. Yew want me ta kill 'im?" a second voice asked deferentially. Zeb must be the leader.

Sky kicked in the door with a loud crunch and moved against the wall so all three of the brutes were in view. "I wouldn't advise that, Mr. Zeb." She could see them in the murky light filtering through a dirty window.

Startled, one of the men holding the woman dropped her feet but the other looked to Zeb and continued holding her arms. "Shit, it's a Injun gal, boss. With a rifle," he said stupidly, as if that were not readily apparent.

"I got eyes, Cary," Zeb replied, facing Sky without bothering to button his fly. He had a pockmarked face with cruel colorless eyes protruding above loose pockets of skin that lay on his sunken cheeks. Gray hair, greasy and thinning, hung over his high forehead, which was crinkled with anger. "Wall, lookee here. We got us 'nother 'un fer the pot. Not bad, one dressed in red, the other is red. Injun stew and real tasty lookin'." He chuckled viciously at his bad jest.

"Let her go," Sky said calmly, the barrel of her rifle pointed at Zeb's cadaverous body, even though the one called Hank held her arms.

"Why should we do thet? They's three 'o us...one 'o yew," Zeb replied with a leer, motioning for Cary to move toward her.

"You can count. More than I would've given you credit for," Sky replied calmly, blasting a chunk of the dirt floor directly in front of the advancing man's feet, taking part of one boot toe off. With practiced speed, she levered another round into the firing chamber.

Cary screamed and bent over, hobbling around as he held his injured foot in his hands. "She done shot me, boss! Shot my big toe plumb off!"

The barrel of the rifle returned to Zeb instantly. "My next shot cripples Hank's right arm. Still think you'll have that Injun stew, Mr. Zeb? I think I'll shoot off your little pecker and leave your filthy bleeding hide for the coyotes to chew on—if they'll have it."

"She isn't bluffing, gentleman," a sardonic voice said from behind Sky.

When Hank saw Max's Smith & Wesson pointed directly at him, he dropped the girl and shuffled back. "We wuz jest funnin'...didn't mean no harm."

"I could see damn well what you were doing and it wasn't fun for her," Sky snapped, half angry Max had interfered, half glad to have his backup.

Zeb sneered. "She's jest a whore, hangin' on with thet card shark," he said, jerking his head toward the flashy-looking man moaning in the corner. "Nobody in the car we tuk 'em out 'o gave a shit. Whut da yew keer?"

"Maybe it's the idea of three big men beating one girl...or maybe it was the part about having 'Injun stew' that raised my hackles, you filthy white trash."

"Yew damn breed, yew can't talk ta me—"

Sky spun the stock of her rifle and smashed Zeb's mouth with it so swiftly, the motion was a blur. Before he hit the ground, cursing through broken teeth, she had the barrel of the Yellow Boy again leveled directly at his crotch. She glanced at his two men, Hank cowering against the back wall, Cary squatting down holding his injured foot. Their bloodshot eyes were wide with fright. She dismissed them. "You aren't worth the bullets," she said, "but you, Zeb..."

"Yew know who I am, Injun bitch?" he roared, spitting broken pieces of bloody teeth across his chest. "I own the Z-Bar, biggest spread in the state. Fuckin' gov'nor jumps when I fart. Yew kill me 'n he'll hang yew!"

Her lips smiled but her blue eyes were ice-cold, narrowed with hate. "Might just be worth it to see you burn in hell. Watch the devil struggle to find that shriveled little pecker of yours to stab it with his pitchfork."

Max could see she itched to pull the trigger. She was remembering Deuce with a beaten and helpless Sioux girl, and the tragedy that had followed. "Do what you must, love. I certainly won't say you nay, but what would Father Will want you to do? If you don't give a damn, we shall cleanse the world of all three pieces of offal and be on our way."

Both of the cowhands trembled, white-faced with fear, but Zeb just glared at her through hate-filled eyes. Max held his breath, waiting. The rancher needed killing, but Sky must not be the one to do it.

Chapter Eight

After what seemed an eternity of standoff between Sky and Zeb, she turned to Max. Tears of frustration and fury clouded her vision. "Damn you!"

Max nodded sadly as she shoved the rifle at him. "Conscience may not make cowards of us all, but living with one surely is a bitch."

When she started to storm out into the dawning light, he murmured, "The problem is, if you killed them like this, you'd never be free of them. No train can travel that fast or that far. I'm an authority on the subject." He looked at Zeb, who was barely conscious now that the object of his hatred was leaving. His two hirelings cowered when they saw the hard expression in the Englishman's eyes.

"If you'd be so kind as to remove your weapons, gentlemen?" he said. Hank and Cary could not divest themselves of their sidearms quickly enough. "Now, your employer's Colt." Hank obliged, very gingerly tossing the expensive six-shooter at Max's feet. He kicked all three guns aside and instructed Hank, "Drag your boss up. Then all of you, outside." His pistol never wavered as he cradled Sky's rifle in his left arm.

Cary struggled to his feet and hobbled out. Hank hoisted his boss from the hard-packed earth. Zeb's mouth was bleeding so profusely it had soaked the whole of his shirtfront as red as the girl's dress. Max followed them out, calling to the engineer. "Mr. Berry, I require some assistance. Send two of your stokers to aid me, if you'd be so kind."

The engineer knew the Englishman was a personal friend of Mr. Loring. He took in the situation, then yelled for the stokers to come on the double.

Sky stood trembling in the shadows, fists clenched as the past washed over her. She was a little girl again, picking berries with her sister when three big, blue-coated soldiers attacked them savagely. Then her mind shifted abruptly to that child Deuce was beating and Will, falling into her arms, dying—yet begging her not to kill but to show mercy.

"No, no, no..." Then the sounds of sobbing brought her back to the present ugly reality. Another injured girl lay inside the shack. She watched as two railroaders tied up Hank and Cary, then hoisted them and their unconscious boss into a freight car just behind the engine.

Gathering her wits, she reluctantly stepped through the doorway and knelt by the injured girl. "Can you sit up?" When the young woman nodded, Sky helped her.

There was little doubt she was a prostitute. But, good lord, she was young, probably no more than sixteen, although those had been hard years. She was dressed in a garish red satin gown, cut low in the front. Her lips were painted bright red, the color smeared from her struggle with her attackers. The kohl ringing her eyes ran in black rivulets as tears poured down her rouged cheeks. Hennaed hair that clashed horribly with her clothing hung in a frizzy mass around her shoulders, pins dangling from it. She might have once been pretty.

"You're going to be all right," Sky said. "We'll need some cold towels for that cheek." A large ugly bruise was already forming on one side of the girl's face.

"That old bastard, just 'cause he's got money, 'n I'm a whore, that don't give him no right..." She broke down in hiccupping sobs. The man on the floor groaned again. "Oh, Jimmy, you all right, baby?" she asked, starting to crawl toward the gambler, whose once fine suit was torn and dirty. His face was a mass of bruises and Sky could see a goose egg beginning to form at his receding hairline when he sat up. He appeared to be several decades older than his traveling companion.

Jimmy touched the swelling, grimacing as he worked his jaw experimentally. "I'll live, Ginny." He looked over at Sky, his cool gray eyes calculating as he took in her dressing gown and air of command. "I'm James Cavendish, and this is Ginny Mars, missus...?"

"Stanhope, Sky Stanhope," she replied as Ginny helped him to his feet. The two of them, beaten and bloody, stood together. "You both need to have your cuts and bruises treated," Sky said. "If you'd like, I can help for now. When we reach Leadville, I'm sure you'll be able to find a doctor."

"Gee, thanks. We'd sure—"

"No, er, that is, I think it would be wise for us to get off the train at the next stop," Jimmy replied, silencing Ginny, who immediately hung her head and said no more, deferring to the older man for guidance in spite of his failings as her protector. "Zebulon McKerrish is a nasty fellow to have as an enemy."