Chapter 10
When at last they crested the mountain slope, Delaney took her first deep breath in hours.
They’d been all morning and part of the afternoon getting this far.
A half-day’s ride from Roz’s cabin and she felt like they’d walked twenty miles when the truth was, as the crow flies, they might’ve gone five at the most.
She wondered where in the world “this far” was.
They rode straight into a forest. They weren’t on anything she’d call a trail, but Roz was still in the lead and seemed confident of her direction.
Didn’t the woman admit she hadn’t been to town in years?
Delaney questioned whether the woman was even on the right path.
The woods swallowed them up. The branches overhead were thick enough that only a few dapples of sunlight got through.
Birds chirped as a soft summer breeze hushed through the branches of towering oak, quaking aspen, and juniper.
The scent of pine and dirt, broken up regularly by rocky stretches, and the cool of the shade helped to ease the tension she’d been feeling while her horse climbed a slope that was the next thing to walking a tightrope, a thrilling act she’d seen performed once at a circus. She thought she knew how that felt now.
She was surprised to feel her hands trembling. She knew herself to be a woman with steady nerves. But letting the tension go had left her hands shaking. She’d kept her head, stayed calm, and hung on through the harrowing ride. But it was over now, and she could finally relax enough to fret.
They’d spread out some. Roz was making good time, as if her chance to get to town had finally come and she was determined to make it there before anyone stopped her.
Delaney wondered what it would take to drive Roz’s cattle to market.
They couldn’t take the livestock this way, so it would have to be back past Morgan’s place, and that was also treacherous.
They’d gotten a handful of cows into that mountain valley years ago, and the herd had been expanding ever since.
Longhorns, though, were tougher critters that maybe could scale these mountains.
But would they? Delaney couldn’t see herself convincing them to try it.
Not a one of those cows living had ever taken on these high trails.
Morgan handed jerky to the boy, and it reminded Delaney that her throat was bone-dry, her stomach empty enough to echo after hours of living on nothing but nerves. She pulled food out of her saddlebags and chewed, drinking from her canteen in between bites.
She looked behind her to make sure the prisoners and the Marshals had food; they’d be ready for a meal on horseback. Boone smiled at her, then took a long drink of the cold spring water they’d brought with them from Roz’s place.
Roz continued to lead them downward. It wasn’t steep, just a rugged, stony, winding slope through the woods. Delaney had hoped this would eventually lead her to where she could cut across on a trail to Cheyenne.
They finally arrived to where she could get a clear view of the canyon that loomed ahead. Its mouth was visible as well.
A blow knocked her off her horse. And a scream from behind her was sharp enough to cut flesh.
Delaney fell and smashed against a boulder. She drew her gun and turned to see all three of their prisoners running in different directions.
Clive vanished to the south side of the wooded trail, kicking his horse and moving at a breakneck pace, his hands untied. Judging by the way he’d ridden, he’d slammed a fist into her back as he passed her.
Sly charged at Tex, back the way they’d come. He slashed at Tex with something but had no visible weapon. His hands were supposed to be tied. Sly struck Tex hard across the face and then disappeared into the forest they’d just emerged from.
Stella went north. The trees were as thick on that side of the trail as on the south.
Why had they split up? They must’ve planned it, but they had no weapons and they’d been tightly bound.
Delaney then saw Owen tumble through the branches of a massive spruce.
Hung up in the branches, he fought to get free, then landed hard on the ground.
Looking all around, he tried to figure out what had happened.
He gave her one assessing glance, then ran to his horse, swung up into the saddle, and took off after Clive.
She noticed a stripe along the side of his face, bleeding. He’d hit that tree trunk hard. He had to be at least somewhat impaired, and she didn’t like him riding off alone.
Morgan shouted, “Boone! Marley! Mind the women and the boy. Go into the canyon.” Then he took off after Sly. Another one going after the Duncans, who’d proven to be both dangerous and wily.
Tex was back in the saddle, storming after Stella to the north.
All three healthy Marshals had now abandoned them, though Marley wasn’t too badly injured anymore. The Marshals split up in their pursuit of the prisoners. It could well be a trap, and Delaney wasn’t going to stand idly by while more good men got killed by a bunch of ruthless outlaws.
This was all Clive’s fault, including a man dead and her brother injured. As soon as Delaney could get on horseback, she galloped after Owen.
“Delaney, no!” Boone hollered.
She swept her arm backward and kept going.
Roz chased after Morgan. Another woman who wasn’t going to let herself be tucked away while others were heading into peril. Delaney was starting to like Roz Beck.
She couldn’t accompany all of the Marshals, so Tex was on his own in going after Stella. She hoped he could handle it.
As she rode on, Delaney spotted Marley, still hurting from his injuries, riding hard after Tex. He should’ve stayed back. That left Boone with the boy, wounded but still tough.
He wouldn’t like being left behind.
Then she was gone, hard after Owen. The woods remained thick, probably why the Duncans had picked this spot to break free and run. How had they conspired to do it? Were they armed beyond whatever Sly had hit Tex with? Was it a tree branch he used?
Then she saw Owen ahead. She bent low over her horse, then slid as far to the side as she could to flatten herself as she pushed through the woods.
The branches hung low, and if she wasn’t careful, one of them could easily sweep her right off her horse’s back.
A wrong step and the horse might snap a leg bone.
It made her mad enough that she wanted to get her hands on Clive Duncan and wring his neck.
Instead, she was going to help catch him, then leave all the neck wringing to the authorities in Fort Russell and their handy noose.
Tex went off the edge of the world.
His horse, a smart critter, skidded to a stop, while Tex flew headfirst off a cliff. He got one glimpse of the lady outlaw tumbling down ahead of him and set to keeping himself alive.
He rammed into a scrub juniper clinging to the edge of the cliff. It hit him so hard in the belly that it knocked the breath clean out of him.
Gasping, it stopped him for a second, but then the tree snapped and he went on falling, crashing through branches, knocking into jumbles of rocks too skimpy to stop him.
While in midair, he twisted and got his feet under him and started running.
Seeing the slope ahead hadn’t one single spot for a man to set his foot, he skidded flat on his back, rocks rolling ahead of him.
Dirt kicked up and choked him, yet somehow he managed to drag air into his lungs.
Stretching his arms wide, he tried to stop himself from sliding.
He slowed down some but kept on going. An oncoming tree that was right in his path was going to break him in half.
He quick rolled to the side and grabbed at the tree.
He came to a hard stop, ripped a sleeve most of the way off his shirt, and then his grip gave way and on he went.
He hit a boulder feetfirst, and it stood him straight up for a split second before he somersaulted right over the top of it and was right back to sliding on his back again.
Then he was airborne. He sailed through the air and figured himself for dead as he slashed through the upper limbs of an aspen tree.
He got whipped for a fact, but it also slowed him down.
The slope he was on was wooded with aspens.
They were growing straight up, but the land wouldn’t cooperate and stood on end, which made the aspens appear to crawl up the mountainside.
Now Tex was grabbing at trees every few feet, nearly in control of his falling.
He heard a bloodcurdling scream and focused beyond himself .
. . just in time to see Stella fly over the edge of an even steeper cliff.
Her scream died away as she fell and fell and fell.
He regretted that he couldn’t save her. He’d been pretty sure they’d never hang a woman and had hopes that the woman would still have a chance at a decent future.
Now that chance was over.
As he plunged onward, he shot a few prayers to the Almighty, figuring he’d be standing at the Pearly Gates in a few minutes. Best to have a word about any and all sins he’d committed since he last talked to God.
And he soared. He was in the wild blue yonder for a fact. No more tumbling and hitting anything, just wide-open air.
On he fell. He might’ve done some screaming himself.
Then he hit.
Water.
It was a blow as solid as a fist. He went under for a time before hitting a stony riverbed, or whatever water he was in, then by reflex he shoved off the bottom and was a long time finding the surface.
As he came up, his head butted into Stella’s back.
The woman was flat out, stretched wide on the water.
He caught hold on his way up, and she slowed him down something fierce.
Fighting upward, he got his head above water and dragged air into his lungs.
Towing Stella along with him, he got her flipped onto her back, wondering if the fall had killed her. Fumbling for her neck, he felt a pulse. Her face was pure white except where she was bleeding all along one side.
Blood welled up from skin that looked like it’d been raked by a ponderosa pine. Or maybe ten ponderosa pines.
He watched her draw a breath in without her eyes so much as flickering open.
Heartbeat, breath? That was about the end of his doctoring knowledge in this circumstance. He checked around some and didn’t see any bones sticking out of her skin.
He hoped she’d be all right once she got over having her body pounded on like a Civil War snare drum.
And then he hit rocks and realized they were being swept along on a fast-moving river. He hit a boulder poking up out of the water, grabbed ahold of his outlaw friend, and fought a long, brutal fight with water as white as snow, foaming and roaring as it charged along to who knew where.
They were cast out into midair. A waterfall! A shout escaped Tex’s throat as they flew. He quit hollering and took a deep breath, knowing he was going to need it.
They hit water again, but deep enough it didn’t smash them against the bottom, although it stung well enough. When he hit, he’d lost his grip on his prisoner, thrashed around and found she’d gotten ahead of him in the river.
Stella was facedown, and he came near to panic as he closed the space between them. He flipped her over and saw her chest rise and fall, and her eyes flickered open. He tried to get her to respond to him, but she was clearly dazed, and who could blame her?
As they continued on downstream, Tex hoped someone was taking care of his horse. At the same time, he knew his friends were all mighty busy.
Morgan caught up to Sly Duncan in a few stretched-out strides of his horse. He got close and leapt off his horse to land on Sly and yank him off the saddle. The two of them fell, bounced along the stony ground for a bit before slamming into a tree.
Morgan got back on his feet, flipped Sly onto his belly, and tied his hands behind his back.
Sly fought his grip and howled like a wolf.
Roz came riding up and grabbed ahold of the riderless horses.
They were both well-trained critters, so Morgan could have rounded them up without much trouble. But he was glad for the helping hand, although he wondered why Roz had abandoned her son.
Roz was riding a mustang mare with brown-and-white patches.
Without dismounting, she snagged the dapple-gray mare that had once been Stan’s, the one Sly had been riding.
She had Morgan’s black stallion, too. A good horse was often the only thing standing between a Marshal and death, so they made a point of having fast, well-behaved mounts.
Sly, his head bleeding from connecting with the tree, said some words so salty that Morgan wished he had a bar of soap handy to wash the man’s mouth out.
He remembered Roz’s pa and knew she’d heard plenty of salty language.
Still, it was offensive. And why wasn’t Morgan surprised that such a low-down varmint was willing to offend others?
Morgan tossed a moaning and groaning Sly Duncan onto the gray’s back.
“You’re only alive because shooting you in the back isn’t my idea of honor. Unless I was afraid you were getting away, then I’d’ve probably gunned you down.”
“I’d expect nothing less from a cold-blooded murderer, who’s hiding behind a Marshal’s badge.”
“You oughta know a murderer when you see one, unless you don’t own a mirror.”
Sly muttered such ugly threats, Morgan decided, even though his prisoner was wounded and bleeding, to take the man seriously.
“Why did you come along?” he asked Roz, thinking a ma oughta stay and take care of her son.
Roz narrowed her eyes at Morgan. “I remember you well enough, Morg. I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
Startled, Morgan shouldn’t have asked, but it slipped out. “For how long?”
Roz smiled, and it reminded him that they’d been a bit more than old friends as kids before Morgan had ridden off to war. Too young to do anything about how they felt, but definitely more than friends.
She shrugged and said, “I suspect you need to get used to having me and my boy around.”