Not with Will’s swinging body burned into my eyes, with those words Rose scrawled on that Bible page. Maybe for Lil, life really is that black and white. Maybe Jesse’s lying and stealing are unforgivable to her. But I ain’t letting him boil.
I look to the right fork, where Needle Canyon continues south. In the fading daylight, I catch something flickering ’long the ridge. It glints like a shiny rock, or light playing off the barrel of a weapon. Could be a Rose Rider, keeping watch. Or Apache keeping watch over the Rose Riders. Either way, it’d mean the posse’s camp is near. That’s when I see another flicker, different this time. More of a glow than a glint, coming from down on the canyon floor maybe a half mile south of where I stand. I dig through the gear loaded onto the burro and pull out a pair of binoculars.
It’s them all right; the Rose Riders. Seven dark shadows huddle round a fire. There were seven of ’em when we holed up in that abandoned house ’long the Salt, but Rose shot one of his own men that evening, which means one of their current group is Jesse. And also that it ain’t a Rider’s rifle glinting up ’long the ridge.
I sit back, thinking.
I can’t go in at this hour. I ain’t thick enough to walk into a gang’s camp at night and be ambushed, though maybe they’re thick enough to think I am. Regardless, I don’t got the journal to trade, but maybe I can pretend I do.
And that flash ’long the ridge . . .
I scan again and see it after watching a moment or two. Even with the binoculars I can’t make out who’s up there.
But it gives me an idea.
Rose ain’t foolish enough to believe in the ghost shooter, but I were traveling with an Apache scout. He don’t gotta know that she left. As far as he’s concerned she’s still helping me. Maybe all her people, too.
I just gotta walk in there tomorrow, chin held high, and pretend like I got the journal. Then, before we make a trade, I’ll change the terms. Jesse’s life for the safety of Rose and his men. If’n he gives me Jesse, I won’t tell my scout to shoot.
It might work.
It’s gotta.
’Bout a quarter mile from their camp, I quit for the day. It’s as close as I’m willing to go without risking being heard.
I don’t make a fire, ’cus it ain’t worth being seen.
I eat stale biscuits and drink a little from what’s left in my canteen. I’ll need more water soon, but that can wait till after I got Jesse back. There’s that creek Lil mentioned. Hell, there’s prolly even water just back the way I came, snaking through that shrub-strewn valley. But I ain’t ’bout to go digging round in the dark, wasting energy and tiring myself out when I need to be sharp and keen come dawn. Plus, my ankle’s finally feeling right, and I don’t wanna roll it again with a poor step.
By the light of the moon, I clean my weapons. I know the feel of ’em like a blind man, ’specially my Winchester. I could load and fire it with my eyes shut.
I grip the weapon tight, thinking ’bout Pa and the day I turned eight, when he gifted me the rifle and insisted on teaching me to shoot it immediately after. When I asked why, he just said, “I ain’t always gonna be around, Kate. You gotta know how to fend for yerself.”
“But you put a horse down up close,” I argued. “You kill a chicken dinner with the axe. Why’s I gotta shoot a bottle from halfway ’cross the farm?”
Pa nudged my nose with his knuckle. “There are good people and there are bad people. Most folk are good. They mean well and will help a friend in need. I really do believe that. But there might come a day when you need help and the only folk round are bad ones.” He lowered his eyes to meet mine. “You gotta be yer own help in those situations. You gotta know how to fire this rifle and not miss. You hear me?”
There were something awful cold in his expression that day. I remember it being the first time I ever wondered if he regretted me being born a girl, if he’d rather’ve had a son.
“Show me,” I said, reaching for the rifle.
He passed it over, smiling. “That’s my girl.”
When I finish cleaning, I make sure the weapons are fully loaded.
What I’m saying is, rifles are big and require room.
I double-check my Colt and make sure all the cartridge slots on my pistol belt are stocked. I’ll need a quick draw tomorrow, an easily maneuvered barrel, plus a fair amount of luck to best a man like Waylan Rose.
You gotta be quicker than quick, ace high, the best.
I sleep, but not well. Every noise in the night is a threat. Every moment of dozing, restless.
Far too soon, the sun begins to rise.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I approach their camp with my blood tingling. My fingers dance near my holster. My heart beats frantic.
Rose sees me coming first. His head snaps up from where he’s sitting, a smile curling over his lips.
“Tompkins,” he says, my true name sounding like a whip. He stands slow and walks round their small fire till we ain’t more than a hundred paces apart.
Behind him, the Rose Riders are on their feet, hands on their pistol grips. The man from the Agua Fria, the one wearing the fringed leather jacket, jerks Jesse upright by a rope. No, a noose. It’s pulled tight beneath Jesse’s chin.
Jesse barely looks at me, but it ain’t outta shame or regret. He’s drowning in despair, crippled by guilt. I know as sure as if he’d said it. He watched Will hang, and there ain’t a spark of life left in his eyes.
“I can’t believe it,” Fringed Jacket says. “She came anyway.”
“Course she did,” Rose says.
“Even without the journal.”
“I’s got the journal,” I says.
“This journal?” Rose draws it from his jacket and my blood thins. He has it. He’s had it all this while.
Fringed Jacket starts laughing, a blistering cackle. Behind him, the other Riders join in.
“I want Jesse,” I says stern, looking Rose dead in those ice--blue eyes.
One side of his mouth lifts into a smirk. “If’n you want him to walk free, to not face the same fate as dear old Pa, then you come stand in his place.”
It don’t make no sense. He’s got what he wants: the journal and the way to the gold. What good will I do him? Fringed Jacket is staring at me with a wicked hunger, his tongue running over his front teeth. It’s some sick game now. Maybe Rose’s men want a woman. Maybe Rose just likes to finish off complete families when he starts killing. He didn’t spare no one in that coach, after all. Not even the young child.
“I ain’t a bargaining chip,” I says.
“Then the boy’ll hang.”
“You string him up and you’ll bring yerself a world of trouble.”
“That so?” Rose’s eyes spark with amusement.
“I had an Apache with me earlier—my scout. She ain’t here now ’cus she’s tucked away safe.” I point up at the ridge where I saw the glint of light yesterday. “Tucked away with half her tribe and their arrows. I think they got a few long rifles between ’em, but I can’t quite remember.”
“Yer bluffing,” Rose says.
“Seems we’re playing poker all over again.”