Westie’s mother was screaming. Her father struggled with his ties. “Leave her be,” he growled in a voice that frightened her. “Run,” he said to her. “Run and don’t look back.”
So Westie did. She ran out into the dark woods, through the snow without coat or shoes. She could hear the man’s heavy footfalls behind her. Her breath was a death shroud around her face. Petals of blood floated behind her as if she were a flower girl at a wedding until her body became so cold it stanched the flow. The man’s footsteps had been close at first. She ran and ran without looking back, until the steps slowed and finally stopped. Even then she ran. Soon her battered arm was in so much pain that she could no longer move. She slumped to her knees in the snow. The pain was razor sharp, but she dared not scream. There were moments she wanted to look at the damage but was too afraid of what she might find.
Several times she leaned over and retched, because of the pain, and because she knew she had eaten the flesh of travel companions whose children she had played with. And because she had left her entire family to be slaughtered.
Something moved in the snow. Her breath halted as she listened. She prayed the cold would take her before a hungry mouth.
Her vision had begun to gray. Good, she thought, I’m dying. She thought the same thing again when she saw the rider atop his painted pony in front of her. It was a beautiful horse, red with white shapes on its hide. Upon its rump were blue handprints, and in its mane feathers and beads. Westie wished she had a pony like that to ride. Its gallop would be so fast they could outrun the pain.
The rider dismounted. The person was too small to be the bearded man, or his wife—the boy, maybe. As the figure got closer and the face became clear, Westie saw the skin was too brown and the hair too long and dark to be anyone from the cannibal family. An Indian, she realized, a woman. Westie tried to speak, but then her gray vision turned black.
Thirteen
Westie dropped the scarf, not wanting to touch it any longer. It was hardly proof. She was the only one who knew it had belonged to her mother.
They left the cabin after Westie had turned the floors to kindling and pulled down entire walls in search of evidence. But if there were ever pictures or papers bearing the Fairfield name, they were long gone.
When they were outside the cabin, Bena said, “We need to hurry.”
But it was too late, for a train of outlaws appeared from behind the trees.
The first to show himself was a man. The only thing she was certain of was the malice she saw in the way he watched her troupe.
The next to show himself was not a man but a leprechaun. Fear kneaded at Westie’s stomach when she saw it was the old buzzard she’d played cards with in the saloon. He had a tobacco-pregnant lower lip and boasted cuts and bruises from a previous quarrel. Each outlaw who showed himself afterward had a unique look about him, except his intentions. Those were all the same.
There were six of them all together. Westie’s head was no place for a lady when the last outlaw was in view, for all that came to mind were curse words. It was the young leprechaun from the saloon. He wore a sling on his arm and a harder look upon his face than when she had seen him last.
She pulled the parasol from its leather holster across her back and pointed it toward the gang. Alistair stood at her side with his hands resting on the revolvers at his hips.
The young leprechaun slid off his horse and the others followed. He wore an amused look on his face and raised his hands in a parody of surrender.
“You plan to beat me to death with your parasol, tart?”
Westie assessed each outlaw, taking inventory of their weapons. Each had a revolver on his hip and a rifle on his saddle. “I reckon I might have me a try,” she said, happy to be sober.
When the young leprechaun moved, there was a shimmer beneath his vest.
“Ace in the hole,” she whispered to Alistair, knowing he would be counting guns as well. He nodded without taking his eyes off the gang.
Westie had one bullet secured in the chamber of her hidden gun. All she had to do was pull the trigger and hope the young lep caught a case of slow. Once she did, it was up to Alistair and Bena to finish the others before they fired their weapons. She prayed it wouldn’t come to that. Last thing she wanted was to find herself in a hailstorm of gunfire. If she could just get off one shot and frighten the outlaws’ horses, they could make a getaway, though she doubted the horses of outlaws would be gun-shy.
She had to make a choice. It was a corpse-and-carriage event no matter which way she looked at it. She just hoped she and her friends weren’t the ones taking the long ride home in boxes.
She took a deep breath and aimed between the young leprechaun’s eyes. She pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened, not even a click. Her heart sputtered. She tried again and again. The gun was jammed.