“Good luck, James,” Sam said.

  The Kiowa nodded. “Don’t forget coffee, huh?”

  “It’ll be on the bile when you get back,” Sam said.

  He watched James take the trail again, walking up the rise with an effortless grace, his rifle at the port.

  “Maybe there’s more Kiowa in you than I figgered,” Sam said.

  But James was already gone from sight and didn’t hear him.

  Chapter 12

  Sam Sawyer stripped the saddles and bridles from the horses, then loosed the animals on the ledge’s grass patches. There was graze enough, and water from a hidden spring at the base of the rock wall.

  He gathered a supply of dry sticks that wouldn’t smoke, but didn’t light a fire. He’d wait until sundown arrived to herald the Kiowa’s return. In the meantime he hoped that he wouldn’t tangle with Apaches or a grizzly.

  Sam fetched his back against a tree trunk and smoked a cigarette. The day was hot, filled with the drowsy music of bees, and the splash of water provided a soothing counterpoint. The horses munched grass, moving as little as possible, but a shod hoof now and then clinked on rock.

  Sam closed his eyes and settled to a more comfortable position as he felt the ache ease in his McClellan-tormented butt. The day murmured on, the breeze a warm and pleasant breath fanning Sam’s face. Sounds retreated from him, grew dim, and he slept. . . .

  An hour passed. A deer clicked its way to the water, wary of the sleeping man, but driven by thirst. The animal drank and then tiptoed away on ballerina feet.

  Sam slept on.

  Thirty minutes after the deer left, the sound of galloping hooves shook him to wakefulness. He rose to his feet, slightly groggy, and hitched his gun into place.

  Both horses had their heads up, ears pricked, looking toward the trail.

  Sam drew his Colt and waited.

  A few moments . . . then a horseman pounded past, heading for the top of the ridge. Man and horse were in view for a couple of seconds, and then they were gone.

  A cloud of dust swirled in the rider’s wake, then slowly thinned out and settled on the trail again. Sam cursed his poor vision, but blessed the piñon and juniper that had hidden him from the man’s sight.

  He rubbed his eyes, as though trying to dispel a vision that still lingered on his retinas. He was sure—not certain—but almost sure that the rider had been Sheriff Vic Moseley.

  * * *

  Sam lit a cigarette and stood hipshot, pondering this mystery.

  “All right, Sam,” he said aloud. “Think this thing through.”

  It could’ve been Moseley, a big man riding a sorrel hoss.

  “But you’re as blind as a snubbin’ post,” he said to himself.

  He might be here to rescue Hannah and Lori.

  “Or the rider might have been one of the Wells brothers, maybe ol’ Starvin’ Dan hisself.”

  Sam dropped the butt of his cigarette on the ground and rubbed it out under his heel.

  This was getting him nowhere.

  He’d seen a rider who looked—to a shortsighted man—like Vic Moseley. That’s all he had.

  Then a thought came to him.

  Maybe the Kiowa saw the rider. James was a far-seeing man and wouldn’t make a mistake. If it was Moseley, James would know it.

  Sam looked at the blue sky and the soaring sun and wished for nightfall.

  Chapter 13

  The long day slowly shaded into evening, and Sam Sawyer lit the fire. At the stream, he filled the small, blackened coffeepot Mayor Meriwether had provided, and then threw in a handful of Arbuckle’s. He settled the pot on the coals, and his ears reached into the night, listening for the approach of the Kiowa. He heard nothing but the rush of the spring and the rustle of the breeze in the trees.

  The night birds were already pecking at the first stars as Sam searched through a burlap sack to find out what else His Honor had so thoughtfully provided. A loaf of sourdough bread, already spotted all over with green, a slab of salt pork that didn’t smell right, a small package of sugar, a twist of salt, and a slab of apple pie that didn’t smell right either.

  Mayor Meriwether wanted his bratty kid’s skewbald pony back, but it seemed he wanted to do it as cheaply as possible.

  Sam shook his head. He’d always said that men and barbed wire had their good points, but it was tough to find any in Meriwether, the mayor of Lost Mine.

  Nights in the high desert country of the Gila are chilly, and Sam shivered and edged closer to his hatful of fire, his eyes probing the mysterious shadows, his mind on dead Apaches, joyless ha’nts, and the like.

  Where the hell was the Kiowa? He wasn’t much of an Injun to begin with. Had he ended up getting lost or captured or shot?

  Sam, growing as cantankerous as all get out, growled at the night and the chill breeze and made up his mind.

  He needed coffee now. “To hell with the Kiowa,” he said aloud.

  A distant owl asked, Whooo? and Sam said, “You heard me, the Kiowa.”

  The bird repeated the question, but this time Sam ignored it and poured coffee into a rusted, battered tin cup with a loose handle.

  He smoked a cigarette, drained his cup, poured more, and smoked another cigarette as the waxing moon rose higher in the sky and illuminated the ledge with opalescent light.

  Sam threw more sticks on his lonely fire, then sought his ragged blankets that smelled of Sheriff Moseley’s jail.

  It took him a while, worrying and wondering about the Kiowa, but finally he slept.

  * * *

  The sound of a horse grazing nearby woke Sam up to morning light. He rose to his feet, shifted his holstered Colt into place, and spent the next couple of minutes working the kinks out of his back and hips. Volcanic rock a comfortable bed does not make, he decided.

  Sam restarted the fire, boiled up coffee, then breakfasted on a thick sandwich of toasted bread and broiled salt pork. As he chewed, he contemplated his next move.

  First things first: He’d need to scout around for James. After that, he’d get as close as he dared and study the lay of Dan Wells’s dugout, and by that he meant the saloon, store, crib, and horse corrals.

  Were Hannah and Lori held prisoner there? That was something else he’d need to find out.

  Sam sighed deep in his chest. It was a lot to ask of a man with nearsighted eyes and no skill as a gun hand.

  And what about Vic Moseley? Was it really him he’d seen on the trail yesterday? If it was him, what was he doing in Dan Wells’s territory?

  Sam asked himself plenty of questions, but his answers didn’t amount to a hill of beans, which wasn’t surprising since he had none. After he threw the last of the coffee on the fire, Sam moved both saddles and bridles to the base of the rock wall where they’d be out of sight of prying eyes.

  The horses would have to fend for themselves. Taking the trail to the Wells hideout was a job for a walking man. A rider could be seen from a far distance, and the Wells brothers surely had sharp outlaw eyes.

  Sam left the ledge, cleared the piñon, and reluctantly stepped onto the trail.

  His confidence level was no higher than the soles of his boots.

  Chapter 14

  All a worrying man does is ride a rocking horse that doesn’t get him anywhere.

  Sam Sawyer recognized that fact and did his best to concentrate on the job at hand. He kept off the marked trail as much as possible, making his stumbling way through thickets of juniper and brush, wary of becoming a target for a hidden marksman.

  But after an hour of walking, he’d seen no one. Once a black bear stopped to study him, then huffed its disdain and strolled away, as though the doings of a scrawny old cowboy weren’t worthy of its notice.

  The trail peaked, then abruptly sloped downward. The high pinnacles of the Mogollon Mountains were now in sight, silhouetted against the bright sky, but all Sam saw was a blur. He knew they were mountains all right, but the size, shape, and distance of them, he couldn’t tell.

  Downhill walking was easier, and Sam made faster progress, though he constantly got his feet tangled in brush and roots and he fell twice, whispering cusses when what he wanted was to bellow.

  Thirty minutes before the noon hour by Sam’s watch, he found the Kiowa.

  “Ankle’s busted,” the Indian said. Then, to make matters worse, he added, “I mean, real bad.” James lay on his back in brush, his moccasined foot neatly wedged between two almost rectangular rocks. His rifle lay beside him, the stock broken.

  Sam read the signs. “How the hell did you step in a hole?” he said.

  “Because I didn’t see it. That’s how the hell I stepped in a hole.”

  Sam said, “You’re the most useless man I ever met.”

  James said nothing, but he grimaced as Sam tugged on his leg.

  “Nah, it’s stuck fast. I’m gonna have to move the rocks,” Sam said, irritated to the point of anger.

  The Kiowa became defensive. “It wasn’t my fault. Ankle busted and rifle busted.” He glared at Sam. “I go home now.”

  “The hell you will,” Sam said. “You’re my eyes. I need you right here.”

  “I can’t walk. I go home.”

  “You’ll walk. I’ll fix you up with a crutch, do you just fine.” Sam stared down the Kiowa, then said, “What about your wife an’ young’un? If you give up and don’t come back with the skewbald pony, Moseley will kill them, and you, or worse.”

  “Maybe he don’t care no more,” James said.

  “He cares about something, I reckon. I think I saw him yesterday, headed for the Wells place.”

  That got the Kiowa’s attention. “Are you sure of that, Sammy?”

  “No, I ain’t sure. But I reckon it was him I seen him on the trail. Hell, it had to be him.”

  “Why would Moseley be here?”

  “If the yellow-haired woman you saw was Hannah Stewart, he could be trying to save her.”

  “Then it’s a good time for me to leave. Moseley won’t be in Lost Mine. I can get my family and light a shuck. Go far away.”

  “And leave me here without eyes?”

  “Come with me, Sammy. You don’t give a hill of beans about the skewbald pony any longer.”

  “You’re right about that, I don’t. But I do care about Hannah and her daughter.”

  “And I care about my own wife and daughter,” the Kiowa said.

  Sam Sawyer was a patient man, but he had his limits. His gun skinned from the holster and he stuck the muzzle between the Indian’s eyes. “Here’s how it’s gonna be,” he said. “If it turns out that it ain’t Hannah you saw, but it is Moseley I saw, we play it your way and light a shuck.”

  “And if I don’t cotton to that plan?” James said.

  “Then I’ll scatter your brains. And I mean right now.”

  “The white man always makes good argument when he holds gun to Indian’s head.”

  “Do we play it my way?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “I just gave you a choice. You stick, or I blow your damned brains out.”

  “Then we do it your way. But only until you know if the Hannah woman is with the Indian-eater.”

  Sam holstered his Colt. “You’re a wiser man than I thought,” he said.

  * * *

  James’s ankle was not as badly injured as Sam had originally feared, but it was hugely swollen and the Kiowa couldn’t put any weight on it.

  “I don’t think it’s broke,” Sam said. “Sprained, but not broke.”

  “It ain’t your ankle,” James said. “It hurts real bad and I say it’s broke.”

  Sam took off his hat and scratched his head, trying to puzzle his way through this setback. Finally he said, “Well, broke or no broke, we still got it to do.”

  It took Sam an hour to find a suitable Y-shaped tree branch. But even after he cut it free and trimmed it up, it was still a gnarled, crooked chunk of wood.

  “It ain’t much of a crutch,” the Kiowa said, eying the thing.

  “Well, it’s the best I can do,” Sam said. “Up on your feet and give it a try.”

  Sam watched as James settled the crutch in his armpit and attempted a few hobbling steps.

  “Crackerjack!” he said. “You’ll be running around in no time at all.”

  The Kiowa tripped and fell flat on his face.

  “It’ll take a bit of getting used to, is all,” Sam said.

  * * *

  After just five minutes and three more tumbles by the Kiowa, Sam Sawyer was forced to admit that the crutch wasn’t working.

  And worse, if someone came up the trail, James would never be able to get out of the way and hide in the brush in time.

  His face dry with grief, Sam said, “James, split ass back down the trail to the rock ledge. You’ll find grub and the makings for coffee.”

  “What will you do, Sammy?” the Kiowa said. “Declare your intentions.”

  “My intention is to get close enough to see what’s goin’ on, I reckon,” Sam said.

  “I’m sorry about the rifle,” James said. “It would have helped.”

  “Don’t make no difference. I was never much of a hand with a long gun anyhow.”

  Sam pulled the Kiowa to his feet.

  “I don’t know the why of it, but I’ve got a nagging feeling that Moseley might be in cahoots with Dan Wells about something and is still with him. So you got time to climb on your hoss and save your wife and kid,” he said.

  “But you have no eyes.”

  “Then I guess I’ll have to make do with the pair of throwaways the good Lord seen fit to give me,” Sam said.

  “Be careful, Sammy.”

  Sam smiled. “James, a toothless dog always chews careful.”

  He turned the Kiowa until he was facing in the direction of their back trail.

  “Now git goin’,” Sam said, giving him a gentle push.

  The Indian nodded. “Good luck, Sam.”

  He watched the Kiowa wave again, then make his painful way back to the camp.

  Suddenly Sam felt very alone . . . the worst high lonesome he’d ever known in his life.

  Chapter 15

  “Take a good look, Hannah. Is this what you want?”

  The three slatternly women lying on stained mattresses on the floor of the adobe stared at Hannah Stewart with expressions that went from sympathy to disdain to outright hostility.

  “Sure, honey, come join us,” said the hostile woman, a hard-eyed blonde with a knife scar below her collarbone. “At two dollars a bang, you’ll be riding in a carriage in no time.”

  The other women laughed at the joke as Hannah said, “Why did you bring me here, Vic?”

  “Because this is where you’ll end up if you don’t become my woman,” Moseley said. “I already talked to Dan Wells and he says it’s fine by him. He reckons you’re a handsome woman and would be a good little earner, but he’s willing to let you go.”

  “I’ll die before I’d become your . . . anything,” Hannah said.

  “That can be arranged too,” Moseley said. His smile was cruel.

  “My daughter,” Hannah said. “What about her? You used to say Lori was the joy of your life.”

  “That’s because I was lying,” Moseley said. “I don’t want the brat. I sure as hell ain’t raising some other man’s get.”

  “I won’t give up my child for anyone.” Hannah raised a defiant face to Moseley. “You’re evil, Vic Moseley. More evil than I thought a man could be.”

  “When I want lip from you, I’ll ask for it,” he said, his face black with rage.

  Hannah was terrified, but her eyes were challenging. “Strike me, Vic, and I swear I’ll one day kill you,” she said.

  Moseley drew back his hand, but he hesitated and let it drop to his side. “I’ll break you, Hannah,” he said. “Dan Wells is an expert and he’ll show me how.”

  “A low-life scum like you won’t break me,” Hannah said. “Now take me to my daughter.”

  “Lori is safe . . . for now,” Moseley said. “Maybe I’ll let you see her later.” He grabbed Hannah’s arm. “Don’t count on Mayor Meriwether. He don’t give a damn about you. All he wants is his brat’s pony back and he even hired two idiots to get it. Of course, that’s all to the good. While he’s fretting and worrying about a skewbald pony, I can get on with my business.”

  “And what is your business here?” Hannah said. “Me?”

  “You flatter yourself, lady. Well, yeah, sure, you’re part of it, but me and Dan Wells have another, more important iron in the fire.”

  Moseley’s smirk was mocking. “After I tire of you, I’ll kick you out and you can go look for your daughter. Me, I’d try Old Mexico first.”

  Hannah flushed with anger. “You bastard!” she said. She tried to slap Moseley across the face, but he caught her wrist and dragged her out the door.

  Twenty yards beyond the adobe, a small dugout with a heavy timber door had been carved out of the mountain slope.

  Moseley drew back the bolt and threw Hannah into the dark interior.

  “You can cool off in here,” he said. “And when I come back for you, I’d advise you to be a sight more accommodating.”

  The sheriff shut the door and slammed the bolt home.

  Hannah was left in darkness with her anger and her fear.

  * * *

  “How you getting along with the Stewart woman?” Dan Wells said.

  “She’ll come round,” Moseley said. “Enough about women. We have more important things to discuss, so let’s get down to business. I don’t have much time.”

 

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