Vengeance Road (9 page)

“Jesse, wait. 'Bout yesterday—Sorry I was so . . .”

“Pigheaded?”

“I's gonna said rude.”

He shrugs. “It weren't my place, I suppose. Yer gonna track down Rose. The fact that I don't think yer capable really ain't no one's business but mine.”

I frown at the insult and wrestle on my boots. Then I sling my pistol belt back round my hips and fasten it tight.

“Yer really eighteen?” Jesse says, squinting.

“Swear it on my father's grave.”

He shakes his head. “You don't look it.”

“I reckon everyone looks a bit more youthful when they ain't covered in days-old sweat.”

I put my hat on over my wet hair. He's still staring all doubtful. I'm gonna get caught. They ain't dumb, and they're gonna figure it out in time.

“How fast are you really?” I says, changing the focus.

“What?”

I nod to his holstered Remingtons. “How fast?”

A devilish smile flickers 'cross his face. “Gimme a target.”

“That flower,” I says, pointing to a yellow bloom atop a prickly pear 'bout twenty paces off.

Before I even lower my arm, Jesse draws his pistol and fires.

“Come at me!” Will shouts, sitting bolt upright outta a dream. “Where are ya?” He twists, frazzled, weapon in hand.

Jesse laughs and I just stand there staring at the cactus, now flowerless as yellow petals float to its base.

“Yer turn,” Jesse says. “Should I pick something in similar distance?”

“No use,” I says. “I can't do that with a pistol, not even close. But I'm thinking maybe I should let you teach me after all.”

“Will,” Jesse calls over his shoulder. “I ain't sure who this is, but I think Nate drowned in the pool overnight.”

“Good. Nate was a grump.”

“And becoming one again right now,” I says, raising my voice at Will.

He rolls onto his side, muttering.

“You better be up in ten,” Jesse says. “We gotta move.” Then he turns to me. “First lesson'll be quick. I don't wanna stall in one place much longer.”

“Suits me fine,” I says, 'cus I agree with him. That's twice now.

He points at the flower of another nearby cactus. “Picture shooting it.”

“All right,” I says, and glance back to him.

“Done already?”

“Well it weren't exactly a hard task.”

“Fine, then. Tell me what you saw.”

“I saw the flower, and then I imagined it blown to pieces.”

He shakes his head. “No, see, yer approaching it all wrong. It ain't 'bout the flower or the cactus. It's 'bout
you.
The bullet ain't happening to the flower.
Yer
happening to the flower. You gotta feel it all—yer stance and the weight of the pistol in yer hand. The wind on yer limbs and if it's strong enough to tug the lead plum. Then you gotta picture every single movement, from reaching to drawing to aiming to squeezing. You gotta see yerself doing it before you do, and then when you act, you ain't gotta think 'bout it. You just . . . flow. Let yer limbs catch up to yer mind.”

“So yer saying it's in yer head?”

“Ain't everything?”

I suck my bottom lip. It don't sound too different from how Pa taught me to fire my rifle. It's just everything's faster.

“But how'd you see it all so quick? You fired before I even finished pointing out the flower.”

Jesse winks. “That's lesson number two—the final lesson: practice.”

“Two lessons total?” I says. “And it's mostly all practice? What do I need a teacher for, then?”

“To come down on you when yer slacking.”

“I don't slack.”

“You did with yer watch duties this morning.”

“Ugh, yer like a mesquite thorn, Jesse.”

“Poisonous?” he says. “I'll take that as a compliment.”

“I meant a nuisance. It's like yer trying to get me riled.”

“I'm trying to motivate,” he says, pointing at the prickly pear. “Now picture it.”

I sigh heavier than necessary but turn my sights to the flower. There's the slightest breeze moving the petals from east to west, so my bullet might stray over a long distance, but prolly not one this close. Thinking 'bout the bullet moving through the air leads me to thinking 'bout pulling the trigger, which leads to the draw and the very weight of the Colt in my holster. I see it all in reverse, and in a flash I can imagine it happening. I got my weight pressed down through my left leg right now, and I change that, spreading it out even. I can see my hand going to the holster, drawing the gun, cocking the hammer, aiming the shot, exhaling just as I squeeze, like the bullet is part of my breathing. I image that same bullet flaring from my barrel and slicing through the flower, and I feel so in control, it's like it can't happen any other way. It ain't possible. I already seen the future.

I snap back to reality.

Reach, draw, cock, aim, fire.

“Dear Lord, what is yer problem!” Will says, leaping to his feet. Jesse laughs as his brother tramples 'cross camp to Rio.

“I missed,” I says, looking at the prickly pear. The flower's gone, but so is the whole flat disc of cactus it were attached to. “I don't know why. I saw it crystal clear.”

“A flower's a small target,” Jesse says. “If that were a person, you woulda struck true. Maybe not to the heart if you'd been aiming there, but certainly somewhere on the torso.”

I holster my Colt. “'Cept they'd've shot me first. I stood here gawking for ten hours.”

“That's where the practice comes in,” he says. “And besides, why do you think men stare at each other so much before a shootout? Everyone takes their time, pictures winning. It's just someone has to be brave enough to pull first, and that's when it comes down to who's quickest.”

“Ace high,” I says, remembering what he said yesterday. “The best.”

“You might be an all-right student after all, Nate.”

“I ain't nothing but a good listener,” I says, teasing.

Jesse barks out a laugh. “You hear that, Will?”

“I heard it,” he says. He heaves his saddle onto Rio and looks at the sky, which is indigo directly overhead, a more violent pink closer to the horizon. “Time to ride?”

Jesse nods. “I reckon so.”

Having cleaned seems a waste by midday. It's the hottest afternoon yet, and I'm dripping down my back well before noon. I ain't sure if my hair's still damp from my bath or if I'm just sweating from my scalp like a waterfall.

“Horses are gonna need a break at the river,” Jesse says.

It'll be the Agua Fria. It runs nearly dead south, so we'll cross it and keep on a southeast route, not meeting up with another river till the Salt in Phoenix.

A break for the horses does make sense, and I been drinking so much water, I'm due to refill my canteen. But even in this heat, I hate the thought of stalled time. Yesterday's dust storm already cost us a few hours by forcing us to make camp early. Alls I can hope is it did the same to Waylan Rose and his boys.

As we ride I practice drawing and sighting cactuses. Jesse tails in my shadow, commenting on my form to Mutt. I think this is his way of critiquing me without being too overbearing. I sorta like it. I can hear what he's saying, but it ain't like he's breathing down my neck.

“Yer really picking up cattle?” I ask him when my arm's getting tired. “Yer not just tailing me 'cus Abe said I were to be in yer care?”

“We're headed to Tucson for cattle, I swear it.”

“How's two cowboys gonna move a herd?”

“Very carefully,” Will interjects.

“Yeah, sure,” I says.
“How?”

“With prayer and witchcraft and the real kicker: Mutt. He's a magic cattle dog.”

“Shut it, Will,” Jesse says.

“I ain't lying,” he says to me.

“Course you are,” Jesse says.

Will spits dip at Mutt, who skirts outta range.

“We ain't running 'em alone,” Jesse explains. “It's a quick job from Tucson to Yuma, and we're hired hands. Benny's always threatening that he's got enough boys and won't have work for us if we don't come join his crew as steady wranglers, and yet the boss man calls time and time again when a herd needs moving.” He smiles, sly. “If'n everything goes well, we'll take a half-dozen cattle home to the ranch. And a half dozen me, Will, and Mutt can handle.”

“What 'bout Clara?”

“Clara?” Will echoes. “You sly dog, Nate. Are you deaf or ain't ya?”

“I think he's whatever suits him best at the moment,” Jesse says.

“Well, what of her?” I says.

Jesse frowns and squints at the horizon. “Suppose it'll come down to if Roy's in Tucson when we get there. Clara's
his
sister, after all, and he were supposed to meet her. But last we saw him he was gambling away his earnings in Wickenburg, full as a tick with whiskey and muttering 'bout trying his luck in Yuma.”

“Clara's traveled all this way from Philadelphia,” Will says, waggling his eyebrows at me. “A real proper lady. Jesse's sure she'll faint at the sight of this land.”

“I ain't never said that!” he snaps. “I said it weren't smart for her to be traveling alone, 'specially if she couldn't afford a coach past Tucson. Not that a coach did those poor souls any favors yesterday.”

We fall quiet with the mention of the burned Concord, and I turn what I's learned over in my head. Roy is Sarah's husband, making Clara her sister-in-law. I wonder what Clara plans to do at the ranch and what the Colton boys make of it. It weren't a roomy homestead, but there sure was enough land to maintain. I try to picture a city gal with her bonnet and parasol beating rugs and milking cows. A grin tugs at my lips.

We crest a small rise in the plains, and there's the Agua Fria, carving through the valley before us and looking more stream than river. Her banks are sprawling and mostly dry, showing how wide she runs during the rainiest months. In her deepest areas, where the water's moving, patches of grass spring up and I can see the land heave and buckle with rocks and boulders.

Silver nods her head, excited-like.

“I know, girl,” I says. “We'll be there soon.”

“Hang fire,” Jesse says, holding out an arm. “There's someone down there.”

“Where?” I says, scanning.

He passes me the binoculars. “Not at the water. Dead ahead, halfway up the opposite bank.”

I look and find what he's seen. Even with the binoculars, it's a keen spot—two riders hunkered down behind a boulder in a makeshift sorta camp. That is, I assume there's two of 'em. Alls I can see is their horses, both so tan in color, they blend right in with the dust.

“Maybe they got stranded in the storm yesterday and are hurt,” Will says.

“Or they're looking to hurt us,” Jesse responds.

“You think it's a trap?”

“I think it ain't right. If you were stopping to rest here, you'd do it 'long the water. And it's too early to be making camp for the night. 'Sides, who'd pick a sloped bit of ground like that to call the day quits? No protection at all.”

“You'd be protected from people crossing the river and coming yer way,” I says.

“Exactly,” Jesse says. “That's all it's good for, that position—an ambush.”

“So what do we do?” Will asks.

“I'm thinking on that,” Jesse says.

I peer through the binoculars again, and this time I see something I ain't noticed on first glance. All the gear's been pulled off the horses 'cept for the saddles, and I can see an emblem in the leather. The same shape I's seen in two foreheads.

“It's them,” I says. “It's the Rose Riders.”

“No it ain't,” Will says.

“They got the rose symbol on the saddles.”

“It ain't them.”

“Shut it, Will,” Jesse says. And to me: “Yer certain?”

Another glance through the binoculars and I see one of the men standing, pulling a rifle into view. He leans on the boulder, setting up his shot, and there ain't no mistaking what he's aiming at.

Us.

“Get down,” I says,
swinging off Silver. “They's seen us, and they're aiming to fire.”

I wrestle my mare to the ground, which ain't an easy task, but we got to be as small a target as possible. The boys do the same.

Not a second later, the first bullet flies, hitting several paces before us and exploding dust.

“I thought you said they were in Phoenix!” Will shouts from where he's hiding behind Rio.

“We're close to it, ain't we?” I shoot back.

But he's right. If the Rose Riders have the journal and are chasing the gold, they should be ahead, already in the town and fixing to head east into the mountains. How'd I catch 'em so fast, and why's they stopping an extra day here of all places? Maybe they got stuck in the storm like Jesse reckoned. There
is
only two of 'em. Could be the horses got hurt or they did. Or they were left behind as dead weight and now they're meaning to take out the next travelers passing through so they can catch up. It ain't like they know we're following them.