“’Cus yer supposed to stay at the ranch with Sarah.”
“I ain’t supposed to do nothing. It’s a free country.”
“What a grumpy loaf,” Will says.
“Shut it, Will,” Jesse says. And to me he adds, “You ran out and didn’t tell nobody.”
“I got places to be.”
“Like where?”
“Oh, in tarnation.” I stop Silver cold and glare. “If I tell you, will you leave me in peace?”
Will laughs, and Jesse squints those squinty eyes. “Maybe,” he says.
“Well, maybe ain’t good enough.”
“Then I reckon we’ll just keep riding ’longside you. We’re headed to Tucson to pick up some cattle, and three men riding together’s always safer than two.”
Tucson! I’ll be stuck with them on my tail the whole way to the Salt River Valley. I nudge Silver to action and nearly trample their cattle dog, which is apparently trailing them ’cross Arizona too. It’s a blasted convoy on my heels.
“I’m going after the men that killed my pa,” I says, hoping it will scare the boys off. “You might not want to stick too close.”
“You know who did it?” Jesse asks.
“Yep. A gang goes by the Rose Riders.”
“That’s Waylan Rose and his boys! You can’t be serious, Nate.”
“More serious than a rattler shaking.”
Jesse wobbles his head. “Nate, that man’s the meanest hog in the Territory. He attacks coaches and cleans out treasure boxes. He don’t leave no one alive, not even women or children. What the devil are you gonna do ’gainst him and a gang of grown men? Yer just a kid.”
“I’m eighteen,” I snap.
“Come off it.”
“You calling me a liar?”
“Don’t worry, Nate,” Will says. “You’ll fill out and get some whiskers on that baby-smooth chin. Maybe yer just a late bloomer.”
“Shut it, Will,” Jesse says. “Don’t go making the kid feel bad.”
“I ain’t a kid, and I don’t feel bad,” I says, nearly screaming. “I don’t feel nothing but soured that I ain’t able to ride in peace.”
“Sorry,” Jesse says. “We’ll talk less.”
“Less?”
“Like I said, we’re riding for Tucson. If you ain’t turning back to the ranch, I reckon we might as well keep each other company.”
“I don’t want company!”
“Sheesh he’s wound tight,” Will says. “Maybe we should go back to Wickenburg and buy him a poke.”
I glare. “I don’t want a poke neither.”
“Every man wants a poke. And there ain’t much but plains and creek beds here to Phoenix, kid, least of all gals.”
“I said I don’t want one.”
“You ever had one?”
“I’s . . . Course I . . .” God almighty, please strike me dead.
“Will, quit it,” Jesse says. “If the kid don’t want one, he don’t want one.”
“Suit yerself,” Will says, shrugging.
“Why can’t you both just shove off and leave me be?” I snap.
“Fine, we will—if’n you tell me yer plan,” Jesse says.
“Plan? The plan’s to track ’em, catch up, and put a bullet between Waylan’s eyes. What more of a plan do I need?”
“So you’ll follow the river the whole way? Stick to the trail?”
“It’s the quickest route.”
“Also the deadliest.” Jesse folds his arms. “I reckon you got a plan for keeping watch at night, too. Maybe you’s figured how to sleep with one eye open?”
I ain’t got an answer for that and he knows it.
“Way I see it, we’re heading the same way, and we’re all better off riding together. There’s safety in numbers, and yer pa sent you to mine so you’d be outta harm’s way. Not so you could run off and get yerself killed within a fortnight.”
The mishap outside Walnut Grove flashes—losing Libby, getting hunted for a bounty that don’t even apply to me. I spend one blasted night alone and barely get through it. There’s easily another three before Phoenix.
“Fine,” I says, stifling my pride. “We can ride together, but only if you shut pan.”
“It’s like we ain’t doing him a favor,” Will complains.
Jesse just smiles and squints at the cattle dog. “What do you think, Mutt? Can we keep quiet?”
The dog yaps and runs ahead to lead.
I knew Abe’s would be nothing but trouble.
Jesse keeps us on a southern-bound and well-traveled road that leads to Vulture Mine, then beyond.
We pass a few miners on horseback, reporting to or leaving work. We never see the mine entrance, but we do see the hanging tree. It’s a massive mesquite, with branches so heavy, they’s started to grow back toward the ground for a place to rest. There’s an empty rope still swinging from one of the higher limbs, like the tree’s proud of its work and wants to remind everyone of it.
Once we pass south of the mine, the land starts to mellow, flattening out like it’s been steamrolled. Ridges and rock forms vanish. Trees get scarcer and smaller. Soon I can see for what feels like forever, the Hassayampa plains spreading before me like a blanket. The sun beats down on my Stetson. I feel a bead of sweat drip between my breasts, and soon I’m fixating on it—wanting to tear off my flannel and wrap and go swim in the river. Not that there’s likely anything left to swim in. It must be underground now.
Will spits dip at Mutt, trying to hit him, while Jesse checks our course with his compass. After peering at the land ahead through his binoculars, he gives us a nod.
“All clear.”
There ain’t dust puffing up anywhere round us, and I coulda told him the same just by using my naked eye, but I bite my tongue. The less talking, the better. I don’t want ’em getting the idea I like ’em dogging me.
“So when are you gonna tell me?” Jesse says, riding ’longside me on Rebel. That’s his horse’s name. Will’s is named Rio. Mutt used to be called Bailey, but he only responds to Mutt, so that’s what he gets. I know alls this ’cus Jesse’s told me even though I ain’t asked. Heck, he ain’t stopped talking since we left Wickenburg.
“Tell you what?” I says.
“Why Rose and his men hanged yer pa?”
“No idea.”
“I think yer lying.”
“I think yer nosy.”
“It’s just—what’s the Rose Riders got to do up in Prescott, hunting down one lone farmer? That don’t sound like their typical job. ’Less of course yer pa was moving treasure boxes you ain’t telling us ’bout.”
I says nothing.
“You know, I lost my ma in a bad way. Not to a gang of outlaws but to a band of Indians. It were ages ago, and it hurt for a long, long while. Still does on occasion. But the hurt fades with time. You always feel it, but it becomes a duller sting, ’stead of sharp. Course, that’s assuming you don’t ride the road of vengeance. You got good intentions, Nate, but that path’s like rubbing salt in the wound. Yer cut’ll never scab over.”
God almighty, it’s like I’m sitting in the Sunday pews.
“Nate,” he says, real serious when I don’t respond. “Sometimes you gotta let the people you love go.”
“Yeah, ’cus yer so good at that,” Will mumbles.