Noble Savage Page 21

  "See that you do. Now, I am certain that we will get along nicely, once you learn your place. I am a generous man, and will keep you in a style befitting a queen. You will be the happiest of women."

  Unable to think of an answer that would not anger him, Katie said nothing. Luke! Where are you?

  Why didn't I listen to you?

  * * * *

  Luke stopped at Fries' Mercantile to pick up something they could eat in the hotel room. The storekeeper waited on him without a sign of friendliness, almost as if he wished Luke had never come in.

  "Interesting town you got here," Luke said as he accepted his change.

  No answer.

  "Not exactly what you'd call a friendly place though."

  The storekeeper dropped the wedge of cheese and the package of crackers into the gunnysack Luke had handed him. He avoided looking at Luke.

  "Seems to me if a man wanted customers, he'd make those who came into his store welcome."

  "We don't want your kind here."

  "My kind? What the hell do you mean, my kind?"

  "Nothin'" the man said, shaking his head. "I didn't mean nothin'." He put the packet of dried apples in the gunnysack and slid it across the counter. "Jest go. Please."

  Luke took it and turned away. At the door, he looked back. The storekeeper was watching him suspiciously.

  Outside, Luke stood for a moment, thinking. Your kind. What had the man meant? Scratching his chin, Luke suddenly had a hint. He was unshaven, dirty, and wind burned. While he didn't carry a handgun, the big knife at his belt showed him to be a man ready to face pretty much anything.

  The engineer had said Bear River City was full of desperadoes and shootists. The storekeeper must have thought Luke was one of them.

  As if to corroborate the engineer's words, a shot rang out, followed by three more.

  Luke stepped out from the side of the Mercantile and looked down toward the depot.

  A body lay in the street, its blood turning the dirty snow red.

  Chapter Twenty

  Luke called out, "Here's your supper," as he shouldered the door open. When he saw how dark the room was, he said nothing more and, as quietly as he could, pulled the door closed behind him quietly.

  Poor girl. She must be dead tired. He tiptoed across to set the gunnysack of food against the outer wall. When he turned, thinking to go back out and see what information he could pick up, his eyes had adjusted to the dim light. He could see that the bed was empty. Katie was not napping.

  Katie, in fact, was not in the room at all.

  Damn it all to Hell! Where'd she go? He stood still, moving only his head, peering into the shadowy corners. Except for Katie, the room was exactly as he'd left it. Undisturbed. One careful, silent step took him to the crate. He lifted the pitcher. Half empty. So Katie had stayed long enough to freshen up, at least.

  Replacing the pitcher in its bowl, he knelt to check under the bed. A forgotten sock, ignored so long it only smelt of dust, hid in one corner. And the fiddle case, pushed just far enough under to be out of sight. And a scrap of paper. Squinting, Luke read the brief message.

  "Damn that woman!"

  Luke rose, stifling the urge to turn the air blue with curses. The note made it appear Katie had left the room of her own accord. But he couldn't be sure.

  Unrolling his bedroll, he lifted out his rifle and loaded it. Reluctantly. He'd looked at far too many men over the sight of a gun. On the other hand, a man on an errand like his would be a fool not to go armed in a land where the laws were few and not always enforced. Trouble was brewing in Bear River City. And if he knew Katie Lachlan, she'd land smack dab in the middle of it.

  One hand on the door, Luke turned back and pulled the fiddle case from beneath the bed. He thumbed the catches. Inside wrapped in a silky petticoat, was the sawed-off shotgun. Spots of gun oil darkened the satin.

  Luke stared down at the gun for a long time. Stupid little fool. She was as smart as the day was long about some things, as green as grass about others. Thinking her silly little popguns were adequate protection in a town like this.

  "I wish somebody would teach her a lesson," he muttered. Fear coiled in his gut at the possibility that someone was, right at this moment.

  Leaving the shotgun where it was, he closed the fiddle case and shoved it far back under the bed. Silently he eased out the door, rifle slung from his shoulder. He walked quietly to the window overlooking the alley behind the hotel.

  He slid the window open and leaned out, looking each way. There were no women in sight. Not having expected to see Katie strolling down the alley, he still felt an aching sense of loss. She was in trouble. He just knew it.

  Must be going on for four o'clock, Luke decided, wishing he could see as far as the depot. In a little over an hour it would be full dark. There was no moon, so the night would be darker yet.

  He went downstairs, nodding to the clerk who was setting tables for supper. Outside he paused, then turned around and went back inside.

  "You see the woman I came in with anytime this past hour?" he asked the clerk.

  The man didn't look up as he fiddled with a stack of plates, moving it to the center of the table, then back to one end. "Nope. I ain't seen nobody."

  "You sure?"

  "You heard me. It ain't my job to watch who comes and goes around here."

  He sounded scared. Luke figured he had a reason to be, livin' in Bear River City. "Well, if you see her, tell her I'll be back in a while."

  The clerk nodded, but still didn't meet Luke's eye. Just like the grocer.

  Luke gave up. Either the man really hadn't seen Katie, or he was too scared to say he had. Either way, Luke wouldn't trust him enough to ask the time of day.

  Outside again, he watched the street. Not many folks out, now. Those who were differed from this afternoon's crowd. These men--and men were all he saw--walked boldly. Those who didn't stagger from saloon to saloon.

  His options were few. He couldn't go to all the saloons in town asking for a little bit of a woman, black hair and big blue eyes, without asking for trouble. So he'd seek Katie at the respectable places, look for Whitney at the others.

  If the bastard didn't already have Katie, he soon would. That was just the way things always worked out. As bad as they could be.

  Once more Luke pulled his hatbrim low, his collar high. The clerk at the mercantile hadn't seen a woman fitting Katie's description. Neither had the dour couple at the R.R. Restaurant. The telegraph office was honestly closed this time, dark and empty, although its posted hours said it should still be open. The depot was locked up tight. No train due until early tomorrow.

  Luke stood before the telegraph office, looking the length of the street. Rectangles of light lay on the dirty snow, pointing to the doors and windows of saloons and restaurants. Few men were in sight now, other than those standing around the open doors of the Railroad Saloon, the Club Room, and some of the other saloons. Clear down at the other end of the street, he could see movement, but couldn't be sure what was happening. There were yells, and then a shot.

  Another. A whole fusillade of shots, some from long guns. More yells, until voices blended together in a roar of excitement. Like a pack of hunting hounds.

  What was their prey? Where was Katie?

  * * * *

  Luke had lost count of how many saloons he'd looked into, but it seemed like they were every second door.

  They all looked the same. Bare wood walls, a bar that was little more than a couple of planks set on sawhorses, mismatched tables and chairs that looked like they'd been in every Hell-on-Wheels between Omaha and here. If there was a piano, it was out of tune. If there were women, they showed about as much interest in the liquor as the men. The only thing that brought a gleam of interest to tired eyes that had seen everything was the luster of gold.

  He stood looking across the barroom, hoping to find a familiar face. If not Whitney's, then his henchman--Murphy? Muldoon?

  Instead he found
himself looking into the face of the man he'd killed.

  Before he could react, two men, one tall, one short, both dressed in assorted remnants of gray uniforms, came up behind the ghost. Luke laid his hand on his rifle, but didn't lift the barrel.

  "See, Malachi, I told ye I seen him," said the short man who wore an Arkansas toothpick in his belt. Hezekiah Breedlove. Rapist and murderer.

  "It's him, sure enough," the big one said. "He's the one shot pore Japhet down in cold blood."

  The ghost said, "I heard it was a fair fight. That right, mister?"

  "He drew first," Luke said. "Shot first, too."

  "What was the fight about?"

  "Damned if I know," Luke replied. "He asked me to lend him a dollar and I was diggin' for one. Next thing I knew, he'd drawed and shot." Once again he felt the cold breath of the bullet as it whined by his ear. Too close for comfort.

  "I yelled, and he cussed at me, said he'd kill me." Luke said, shrugging. "Didn't figure he'd miss again at that range, so I shot him."

  The ghost looked at his companions. "You boys were there. Is that what happened?"

  Kiah nodded. "I reckon so. Japhet was drunk. That's the only reason he missed the first time."

  The big one agreed. "He was celebratin'. 'Twas his birthday." He stepped closer to Luke, scowling. "You hadn't oughta' shot him. He was jest havin' fun."

  Luke lifted his rifle, its front sight not quite touching a belt buckle. "Back off," he said quietly. "You're crowding me."

  "Why you--"

  The ghost--Malachi?--lifted a hand. "That's enough, Moses. Let him be."

  "Aw, Malachi, you gonna let him off scot free?"

  "Cain't we at least beat the shit outa him?"

  Luke tensed, ready for a fight, if that was what came next. He reckoned he'd give a good account of himself, stone sober as he was. Both Kiah and Moses reeked of whiskey.

  "Not tonight. We've got things to do." Malachi Breedlove didn't quite smile. "I can't stop 'em from giving it a try, but I can promise to keep 'em busy for a day or two. You might consider getting out of town."

  Who did this fellow think he was, that he needed to be saved from a fight? "Thanks, but I can take care of myself." He pushed between two of the Breedloves, intending to go on to the next saloon. A hand on his arm stopped him.

  "Just a minute," the one they'd called Malachi said. "A word to the wise."

  Luke waited, looking the man over. Now that he was up close, he could see that he, while clearly a Breedlove, was a different cut from Japhet. He was clean, for one thing. And well-spoken. While he carried two pearl-handled Colts slung low on his hips, he wasn't bellicose like the others.

  "Well?" Luke said, when the wordless exchange between them had gone on far too long.

  "Did you just get to town?"

  "This afternoon," Luke agreed.

  "Did you have a woman with you. Young?"

  "Why? What do you know about her?"

  "Not much." A shrug. "I didn't know who you were when I hired on with the Eastern dude. But I took his money to do a job, and I earned it."

  Before Luke could ask what he meant, he touched the brim of his hat and turned away. "Watch your back," he said over his shoulder, before stepping through the swinging doors.

  "Wait!"

  But Malachi was gone, like the ghost he'd seemed to be. By the time Luke reached the street, there wasn't a Breedlove in sight.

  What had Malachi Breedlove done to earn his pay? And was there more than one Eastern dude in Bear River City?

  Whitney had Katie. With a grim feeling of certainty, Luke cursed.

  * * * *

  How could I have been so foolish? Katie turned and twisted, trying to work the heavy horse blanket off her head and shoulders. She could hardly breathe, what with the dust from the straw in which she lay, the musty, smothering folds of heavy wool, and the kerchief which cut across her mouth to prevent her crying out for help. On the other hand, she wasn't cold. Her struggles and the blanket combined had kept her quite warm.

  She'd rather be free and freezing.

  How long had she been here? An hour? Two? Long enough for her hands to have gone numb, her mouth to dry to the point where her tongue felt swollen and dead. Her feet were tied as tightly together as her hands, with a short line between, so she couldn't straighten her legs or use her hands to loosen her gag. Only the stiff, high tops of her boots had let blood flow to them.

  She could reach her feet, for all the good it did her. Until her fingers became so cold they stiffened, she worked on the thong at her ankles, loosening the knot but not untying it.

  She might as well have saved her energy.

  Now warmth was slowly finding its way back into her hands--they weren't tied all that tightly, but her struggles had pulled the thong deep into her skin. She clenched and spread her fingers, again and again.

  Something moved outside the stall. Katie held her breath. Was it Whitney, coming back for her?

  No, for the noise came again, a thump-thump, then a scrape against the stall door.

  The guard, coming in to run his filthy eyes over her body again, as he had after Whitney had left? Bile rose in her throat as she once again realized her defenselessness.

  The door moved, swung back. Katie held her breath.

  Again it moved, this time opening far enough that she could see a white muzzle. In the dim light from the lantern hung high on a rafter, she saw a donkey's head, long ears pricked forward, big, liquid eyes full of curiosity.

  Salome! She tried to call the donkey's name, to lure her inside. All that came out was a strangled grunt. Quiet, she told herself. She held out her hands, hoped the vile-tempered creature would remember who'd given her dried apples at the risk of losing a finger.

  Slowly Salome entered. She snuffled at Katie's feet, bit at her fingers.

  Go ahead. Chew the fingers off. They're not doing me any good.

  So naturally Salome lost interest. She nuzzled at Katie's face, her breath warm and moist, smelling of hay. For a moment her big teeth caught at the gag and Katie held her breath.

  But once more she lost interest, went to nibbling at the hay Katie lay in.

  Salome, sweet, beautiful donkey. I swear I'll feed you honey and fresh apples every day for the rest of your life, if only you'll remember how you like to untie knots. Katie wiggled around and presented her bound ankles to Salome. Look, sweetheart. Knots. Nice knots, already a little loose, for you to play with.

  Salome bit her toes, hard enough to hurt even through the toes of her boots.

  Not the toes, you consarned bonehead. The knots. Please Salome. Untie the knots!

  Salome nosed at the feet so temptingly held out to her, snorted.

  Katie held her feet even higher, pushing them against the donkey's muzzle. Sugar, Salome. All the oats you can eat. You'll never have to do another day's work, if you live to be a hundred.

  Just untie my feet!

  Again Salome bit at Katie's toes, but half-heartedly. Then she seemed to discover something more interesting, for she caught something between her teeth and tugged.

  Katie hoped it wasn't her bootlaces.

  Salome tugged and bit for what seemed like an hour. Katie never took a full breath the whole time. She was afraid if she moved, Salome would forget what she was doing.

  Her legs were one screaming pain when at last she felt the loosening of the thong that held her feet together. She lowered them and elbowed herself to a sitting position. Good job! she told the donkey. Now if I could only get my hands loose.

  But she wasn't about to look a gift horse--donkey!--in the mouth. She worked her feet apart, until they were completely free. And at last she was able to get onto her knees.

  They here half asleep, tingling with returning circulation. She leaned against a post, wriggling her toes while she tugged at her gag. By the time she got the scarf worked down and off her chin, her feet felt as if they'd hold her up.

  The first thing she did was catch Salome's muzzle
in her hands and kiss her on the nose. Wonderful Salome. I love you!

  She tried to whisper but no sound emerged. Her throat was still raw from her screams. How long would it be before she had a voice again?

  Peering around the edge of the stall door, she saw her guard, sprawled in a pile of straw against the opposite wall. A bottle lay beside his slack hand, and low snores burbled from his mouth. Katie urged Salome out of the stall, keeping the donkey between her and the sleeping man.

  She needed a knife or anything sharp enough to cut the rope around her wrists. Slowly, carefully, she crept the length of the stable. On the end wall, an assortment of tools hung beside a small, cold forge.

  Ah! There! A farrier's knife. She pulled it down and wedged the thick handle between her boots. Carefully she drew the rope binding her wrists across the sharp, curved blade. Again and again, until the rope, blood-soaked now, frayed and eventually parted.

  The half-dozen cuts on her hands, made when the knife handle wobbled between her feet, were painful but shallow. Katie ripped a strip from her ragged hem and used it to wipe the blood away. Only one cut still seeped blood, so she wrapped the rag around it. Time to go, before Muldoon wakes up.

  She took a moment to retie Salome at the feed trough with Sheba and Lafayette, fumbling with fingers that seemed as fat as sausages and twice as useless, but finally making a knot of sorts. Stay there, sweetheart. Where I'm going might be a bad place for a donkey. She gave the animal one last pat.

  The livery stable sat back behind Fries' Mercantile and uphill a ways. There was no cover between its door and the back wall of the mercantile, but the night was dark and so were Katie's garments. She watched from the shadow of the stable door until she was as sure as she could be that no one was looking. Then she dashed across to the mercantile and crouched behind some barrels. If she craned her neck just right, she could see the street.

  There seemed to be a lot of activity. She'd heard shouts and shots off and on during the time she was captive. Once she'd heard a woman's scream.

  Had anyone paid any more attention to it than they had to hers, this afternoon? She hoped so.

  Now the noise was louder, a low roar as if everyone in town was talking at once. Shots punctuated the mass conversation, sometimes single, sometimes many, like a string of firecrackers all going off together.