I wake to a tumbling in the brush.
Eyes bolting open, I reach for my rifle, but it’s big, and tucked away beneath my blankets. Worried about making too much noise, I draw my pistol real quiet-like and strain my hearing. And there it is again, someone grunting or struggling, not more than a few dozen paces away. I push my hat up slow and let my eyes adjust.
Silver and Libby are awake, both sets of ears sharper than spindles in the moonlight. I see the movement next—shaking brush at the far end of the ditch, right where the earth starts to steepen. Standing careful, I keep the pistol ready and my steps silent. Whoever it is hears me coming, though, ’cus the rustling quits.
“I know yer in there,” I whisper. I reach out to pull back the branches. “Come out with—”
A dark shape darts outta the brush and charges my legs, squealing. I get knocked down hard, tailbone throbbing, and then something bites my ankle.
“Son of a . . .”
I look up to see the javelina fleeing.
“No good wild hogs,” I says.
The stout creature snorts at me and then rejoins his small herd in devouring a cactus.
Thank goodness for my boots. If it weren’t for the tough leather protecting my ankles, I’d probably be bleeding right now. I heave to my feet, still cursing the creatures, and hobble back to camp. I have my guard so low, I nearly miss the worse threat still.
“See? I told you we’d find his camp.”
I freeze, crouching low behind a shrub.
“But where’s the kid? Claude said he were headed this way.”
“Why in tarnation would I know? Let’s just scare his horses and take the gear.”
“How we gonna get the bounty if we don’t have a body?”
“He ain’t gonna head nowhere but back to town on foot, you imbecile. Then we kill him and collect. Now get those reins untied.”
“Hang on. There ain’t even a rose burned into these saddles. Ain’t that their mark?”
“Maybe there’s no mark ’cus he’s trying to keep it hush. ’Cus he knows Rose’s head is worth a fortune and any of his riders’s a nice purse too.”
“I’s got a bad feeling, Tom. Kid’s probably watching us right now, ready to shoot us dead.”
I don’t wanna. Not if I don’t have to. My bullets are meant to avenge Pa, but I still squeeze my pistol’s grip.
“Go stand watch, then,” Tom says to his partner.
“Stand watch? Watching ain’t gonna do much ’gainst a Rose Rider.” But he drifts up the ditch to where their horses wait and he can better survey my camp.
Tom yanks Libby’s reins free of the tree. Just as fast, he draws his pistol and shoots a bullet into the ground behind her.
She rears, then takes off north.
Aw, hell.
I reach down near my feet and feel round till I find a rock the size of my palm. Then I throw it toward the trail. Soon as Tom’s partner walks off to investigate the sound, I jump up from behind the shrub and sight Tom.
“I wouldn’t do that,” I says to him, cocking my pistol.
He lets go of Silver’s reins and raises his hands.
“Walk back to yer horse and ride outta here,” I says, “and we can forget this happened.”
“And let you continue on and slaughter Abe’s family?” he says. “I can’t do that, son.”
“Yer worried ’bout Abe? It don’t got nothing to do with a bounty?”
“Well, you caught me. I guess it does.”
He spins and draws his gun so quick, alls I can do is react. I pull my trigger. Tom goes flying into the mesquite tree and crumples still.
Jesus, he’s dead.
I did that.
I didn’t even mean to or want to, but he woulda got me. If my gun hadn’t already been out, I know I’d be dead. My heart’s pounding frantic in my chest.
“Tom?” his partner calls. “Was that the second horse? Can we get outta here now?”
I duck behind Silver and stretch my arms over her back so that when Tom’s partner appears on the ridge he’s already in my sights.
“I’ll count to three, and if yer still here, I’m shooting,” I says. “One, tw—”
He scrambles onto his horse and grabs the reins of the second. I watch ’em flee north, the dust blowing up pale. Once he’s gone, I whistle for Libby, knowing right well she’s outta ear shot and ain’t coming back. Pa had her nearly twenty years and I lose her in less than a day. It’s like I’m failing him all over again. Like I can’t get nothing right.
“You stupid idiot,” I says to the dead man at the base of the tree. “I ain’t a Rose Rider. I want ’em dead just like you, and alls you’s done is lose me a horse and get yerself killed.”
His wide eyes stare up at me, and my pistol starts in my grasp. I stuff it back in the holster. I gotta move. The other man’ll be back, only I doubt by hisself.
I throw my saddle over Silver, then cinch my gear in place. One glance at the extra effects Libby was carrying and I know I can’t afford to take them.
Abe, you better be worthwhile, I says to myself. Then Silver and I are moving again, a bullet streaking beneath the moon.
Chapter Four
Abe’s appears on the horizon just after dawn. My stomach’s growling and I ain’t slowed once to quiet it or even take a drink. Neither of which is smart. I’m sweating so much, dirt’s clinging to me like a gritty second skin, and the scent of last night’s campfire lingers on my flannel, reminding me that I been up a long while without refilling my stomach.
Ahead, the homestead’s quaint—a modest house resting in the corner of a fenced plot of land. What ain’t quaint is the barn. It’s massive, big enough that I start wondering if the place is a ranch. I thought everyone living round these parts stuck to mining—that’s all Wickenburg’s been good for since the first strike at Vulture Mine over a decade ago—but I reckon beef and dairy’s gotta come from someplace. Could be Abe’s got an arrangement with folk in town, supplies them with goods on a schedule more dependable than incoming freighting wagons.
I pull Silver to a halt ’longside the fence. A mangy-looking cattle dog lounges by the barn, where two boys—one round my age, the other a bit older—are saddling horses. They both pause to eye me. When I don’t budge, they argue a moment, and finally the older one walks over.
He’s squinting like the sun’s in his eyes when it ain’t, and he makes a show of tossing his jacket open so I can glimpse the pistol on his hip. The wine-colored handkerchief beneath his chin reminds me of one Pa used to wear. I feel my lip wanting to tremble, and I bite it.
Not here. Not now.
“You lost, friend?” the boy says. Up close, I wager he’s round twenty. Dark stubble covers his jaw, and the only creases in his skin are the ones surrounding his eyes. Suppose he wouldn’t even have those if he quit squinting so much.
“Wickenburg’s just another few miles ahead. Keep right on following this trail.” He points it out like I’m blind.
“I’m looking for Abe,” I says.
“Abe’s dead.”
“What? He can’t be.”
“Sure he can. Got kicked in the temple by a horse two years back and died the same day.”
“But I’m supposed to see him.”