River Song (6 page)

"We'll
be needing
clear heads, Pop."

"A cup of poteen," Patrick shouted in a hoarse voice.

Pressing his full Quechan lips into a thin line, Sean gave his father a short nod and did as he was ordered.

After the last trickle of mescal burned its way down Patrick's throat, he shuddered and got to his feet. "Now 'tis a clear head I'm
havin
'. Now I'll be
thinkin
' what to do."

With great deliberation, Patrick walked through his home, his keen eyes searching for clues, for anything disturbed or out of place. His gaze came to rest on the blank spot above the hearth of the fireplace he'd built with his own hands.

"
Yer
grandfather's war club is missing. Do ye think
yer
sister's planning to take revenge herself?"

Although that was exactly what Sean thought, he shook his head. "Probably took it for protection, Pop.
That and a couple of knives, if I know Sunny."

"If she had our rifles and pistols as well, she wouldn't have protection
enoughm
," Patrick boomed. "'Tis a fool's errand the lass has taken on. Saddle up the mules. We'll be looking for her trail before sundown."

"Pop, I've another idea."

"Time's a
wastin
', son o' mine."

"Please,
Pop
," Sean pleaded. "Listen to what I have to say. There's no need for both of us to go after Sunny."

Patrick swallowed his protest and regarded the young man with a skeptical eye. "What's
yer
plan, then?"

"I think you should go into town and tell Lieutenant Wallace at Fort Yuma what's happened. Maybe the army will help us find Sunny and the murderers."

Raising a bushy brow, Patrick grumbled, "And what if the men were some of his own troops, boy?"

Shrugging, Patrick guessed, "If they were army, it'd be all the reason more for Lieutenant Wallace to help out. I'll go after Sunny myself."

"No, no, lad. She's my girl, I'll be
findin
' her."

"Pop," Sean said. "Think about it. I can make better time than you. I move faster, quicker, and make a lot less noise.
If Sunny's in trouble, my chances of helping her are much better."

Muttering to himself, the troubled Irishman paced the dusty wood floor of his home. "I kin help ye on the trail, son. I know
I
kin."

"You'll be more help here. What if Sunny sends a wire? Who'll be here to read it?"

With a sigh of frustration, of resignation, Patrick slowly nodded.
"Aye,
yer
right, lad.
Let's get ye packed up."

Silently, their thoughts and prayers centered on their terrible loss, father and son gathered food supplies, a rifle and two pistols for Sean's journey. After loading everything on the back of the strongest mule, the younger man, his eyes a hard, murky hazel, swung into the saddle.

"Don't worry about me or Sunny, Pop. We're
Callahans
— we're tough." Giving his father a tight grin, he added, "I'll send a wire as soon as I have any leads."

"Aye, and may the seven saints of Ireland protect ye both," Patrick whispered as his only living son, and perhaps his only child, rode off. Then he saddled up the older mule, Flossie, and headed south for Fort Yuma.

Just after bypassing Yuma and changing his course to a more easterly direction, Sean lost the faint trail left by Sunny's pony, his tiny hooves swallowed up by the many riders using the same path running parallel to the Gila River. He thought briefly of turning back, of riding southwest to the Gila/Colorado River junction where the Quechan leader,
Pasquel
lived. The great
kwoxot
might help him decide in which direction to travel, may even have given the same advice to Sunny. Had she sought help from him before her journey took her east?

Sean pressed his fingers into his temples, praying for a sign leading him to his sister's route. The scant trail he'd followed from the farm was at least a week old. Time was not on his side.

Without a look back, Sean dug his boot heels into the mule's belly and headed east, allowing instinct and his Quechan blood to guide him. He rode hard through the night, stopping only when the mule, Whiskey, refused to move any farther. During those times he walked, encouraging the animal to follow by an occasional jerk on the reins, and he thought back to his childhood.
Of his mother and younger brother.
Of Sunny.

In the entire Callahan family, he and his younger sister were the most alike, felt their Indian heritage the strongest. And because of this, he would have the best chance of finding her, by thinking the way she did, the way of Moonstar.

With a heavy heart, his mind turned to Mike, two years his junior, his opposite in every way. With the exception of his coal-black hair and eyes, the younger Callahan brother was as Irish as their father, as boisterous and full of pranks. Had his death been merciful and quick, a surprise, or had he been killed defending their mother?

Sean suppressed a shudder, felt a growing lump of anger in his throat as the first rays of dawn led him and Whiskey to the banks of the Gila River. He splashed cool water over his dark head, allowing the mule to drink to his content,
then
began to fill the canteens. He was tying the water pouches to his saddle when a flash of yellow off to the side caught his eye.

Sean crept over to the tall cottonwood tree, his gaze darting in every direction before he plucked the piece of material from the branches.

"Sunny," he exclaimed when he recognized the cloth as a length of her favorite calico. Surely she hadn't ridden off alone in her best dress and bonnet.

"No," he muttered under his breath, "she wouldn't."

More likely, he surmised, she'd be wearing Mike's clothes the way she did when their father wasn't around. Dressed, as Patrick might say, like a refugee from a potato famine. Calico strips would be her way of marking her trail, of leading him to her mother's killers.

For the first time since he'd had the vision Sean chuckled, confident in his sister and their mission. Then he mounted Whiskey and veered to the northeast, allowing the Gila River to guide his path towards Maricopa Wells and Phoenix.

Driven by his purpose, Sean rode for the next two days aided only by his instincts and two more strips of calico. At dusk on the third day, he came upon a suitable wash in which to make camp and rest the tiring mule. He led Whiskey to a small spring for water,
then
spotted a familiar piece of yellow calico at the base of a mesquite bush.

Grinning, he bent over to pick it up, but froze instead, his hand in midair. For the first time since he'd left Yuma County, he saw the welcome sight of Paddy's tiny hoof- prints in the sand. Walking up the arroyo, Sean followed the trail until another set of prints materialized. These were much bigger, the impressions clearly made by horseshoes.

His gaze moving up the wash, Sean noted how both sets of prints mingled and overlapped. His sister was no longer alone. Balling his hands into tight fists, squeezing until his brown knuckles blanched, Sean wondered about the indignities Sunny might be suffering at the hands of her captor and how long she would be able to endure the agony.

She was close, he sensed. Close enough to risk the life of his tired mule? He glanced back at Whiskey then back up the arroyo. His sister, though wily in the Quechan manner, was pure, ignorant of men and their ways.

His mind made up, Sean stalked back to his mule and mounted him. Soon, his gaze would rest on Sunflower—his rifle sight on the bastard who held her hostage.

 
CHAPTER
THREE

She'd had several chances to finish what she had set out to do. Yet when Sunny hovered over the killer, poised and ready to strike, she found she wasn't ready to become a killer herself. Not until she was absolutely certain this man had been involved in the attack on her mother.

At first she'd been convinced his injured leg and the hoofprints were enough to convict him. But what if he'd only sprained his ankle? What if many other horses were shod in the same manner as his? Why did she suddenly want him to live so badly?

It was the way he looked at her, the strange fluttering she felt in her lower abdomen when she thought he meant to kiss her. Why hadn't she felt that way before, back when the son of her tribal shaman had helped himself to a taste of her lips? How could just the mere
thought
of kissing this evil stranger magnify those sensations tenfold? What did those feelings mean?

Sunflower had no problem staying awake as she struggled to ignore her wandering mind and confused body. By the time she heard his light snores, her resolve dangled by a thin thread, and she knew she wasn't quite ready. She would have to search for more proof of his guilt before she could carry out any kind of revenge.

Sunny's ability to move through the night like a cat served her well until Cole wakened and ruined everything. Just when she was about ready to prod him from sleep to ask a few straightforward questions—with the tip of her knife resting against the skin of his throat, of course—he surprised her.

Sunny tried to draw back, but Patrick Callahan's hunting knife moved on its own, slashing her victim as he rolled away.

"Are you loco?" he spat as he tried to stem the flow of blood from his upper arm.

"I am Sunflower."

"Well, Sunflower, would you mind telling me what the
hell
is the matter with you
?" Cole demanded as he tightened the tourniquet he'd fashioned from the tail of his shirt.

"I will ask the questions now, dog," she said with an authority she didn't feel.

"The hell you will," Cole snapped. He leaned forward, struggling to get to his feet, but the click of the Colt's hammer froze him to the spot. Swallowing hard, he spoke in an even tone. "Put my gun down, Sunflower. It's loaded."

"I hoped it was. Now sit down you miserable dog before I part your hair."

What the hell had he done to deserve this treatment? Angered, assuming she was playing some kind of game, he began to move forward again.

"I said put that gun down and stop fooling around before you accidentally shoot someone."

"And I said, sit down."

A bullet shot past his head and ricocheted off a rock in the distance.

"All right."
Cole raised his hands, wondering if the girl had gone loony, and muttered, "Just take it easy, Sunflower." Cole sat back on his haunches and peered at her through the hazy firelight. "Would you mind telling me what the hell you’re doing and why?"

"I am asking the questions—remember?" She took a backward step and squatted near the fire. "First, I want you to remove your trousers."

"What?"

"Take off your breeches, you idiot. Can you understand the King's English?"

Uncertain which unnerved him the most, the immodest order or the change in her dialect, Cole slowly began to unbutton his jeans. The crazy girl leaned toward the fire, stirring it with a curved hunting knife, while his gun dangled from her left hand.

Cole studied her as he eased his jeans down over his slim hips,
then
realized she'd eaten with her right hand. Dear God, he thought with horror, she'd shot at him with her
left
hand? It's a wonder she hadn't blown his head off! What in heaven's name did she want from him?