Chapter 11
Owen found a gap in the trees his horse could barely squeeze through. The terrain canted steeply uphill. He caught a glimpse of Clive Duncan ahead.
Owen ducked low to avoid the branches trying to snatch him off his horse and focused on gaining on his outlaw.
Where had Morgan and Tex gone? How were they doing? How had the Duncans gotten loose anyway?
Had they picked this moment for a reason? Did the Duncan Gang know this area? Was it possible they’d wandered onto land known to these outlaws?
They’d checked for hidden weapons, and he’d’ve said he and his men knew all the tricks. No, they hadn’t come across a knife, and yet the Duncans had gotten one somehow.
But during the long, miserable climb down that gully, then back up, Owen hadn’t been watching them because he was too busy clinging to his horse. He’d been fooled, and he didn’t like it one bit.
Suddenly, dead ahead, Clive was off his horse and climbing. They’d come up on a steep rock wall. Owen got to the base of the cliff beneath Clive. There was nothing for it but for Owen to leap off his horse and go after him.
He was tempted to just draw his gun and start shooting. But shooting an unarmed man went against the moral code Owen had for himself, and he wouldn’t do it.
Especially when he was gaining on the coyote.
Handholds were easily found, for it was almost like climbing a ladder. He pressed on, fighting for speed, closing the distance.
Dirt and rock rattled down from overhead. Clive didn’t take the time to start an avalanche, but Owen figured he’d come up with that notion soon enough.
Owen kept pushing on. He looked up for a second every few paces to search for his next handhold, not wanting to end up getting a face full of dirt and grit.
He saw the top looming overhead and knew if Clive had a chance to think, he might gain the top, then turn and send boulders tumbling down on Owen, if he found any handy.
To prevent that, he had to catch Clive before he made it to the top.
Moments later, Clive was finally within grabbing distance. A ledge looked like it’d catch him if he fell, so he lunged upward and grabbed the leg of Clive’s trousers.
A strangled cry escaped Clive’s throat, and he lost his grip. Owen shoved sideways, and both of them fell onto solid, if narrow, rock.
Owen plowed a fist into Clive’s face. He did it again, and yet again.
He was at too much risk of falling all the way back to the bottom of the cliff.
Mean and wiry as any sidewinder, Clive flailed at Owen.
Owen gave no quarter but tossed Clive onto his belly and hog-tied him.
Tighter than before. He’d need to let him go to get back down, but for now he tied up his legs, too.
And that was when he got company.
Delaney landed beside him. He hadn’t noticed her climbing, but here she was, about fifty feet high in the air on a stone stairway that they’d now need to descend with a writhing prisoner.
“What are you doing here?” Owen hadn’t meant to shout.
Delaney didn’t seem all that fazed by his hollering. “How do we get him down?” she asked, not answering his question.
Studying the cliff, the prisoner, her own bloody fingertips, she turned to face Owen, one brow arched. Almost, he thought, like she needed some advice, which he sincerely doubted she did.
With Sly back in his custody and lashed once more to a horse—this time with extra knots—Morgan rode his horse back the few yards to the canyon entrance. Roz brought up the rear to keep an eye on their prisoner.
Morgan studied Boone and the kid. Knowing Roz, she’d probably named her son after Jesse James. That was her style. Always a wild one. Had word of the notorious outlaw reached up into these hills? he wondered.
Boone had seemed much better the last day, though he still had the bandage on his head and probably had the granddaddy of all headaches. He sat on the ground in front of a small but growing fire.
The man was thinking ahead, but at the same time Morgan was a little bit annoyed to realize Boone didn’t have a very optimistic nature, going ahead and building a fire like that. He clearly thought the Marshals would be a while rounding up the prisoners.
And where was Marley? He shouldn’t have gone off with his leg as injured as it was.
No one else was back. Morgan began to think pessimism might be infectious.
Jesse was fetching sticks and tossing them on the fire. Morgan was impressed with the little one’s willingness to work. Ten years old, his ma had said. Of course, Morgan had already started hunting with his pa by age five, so Jesse could handle gathering up some kindling.
Morgan remembered the long rifle his pa had given him.
A lever-action rifle that was taller than Morgan.
Then Morgan had gone off to war empty-handed because Pa was furious with him for fighting against his brother.
Morgan had used his Army pay to buy a Winchester when the war had ended, and he still carried it with him today.
“We’ve got enough sticks for the fire, Jesse. Start a pile next to that boulder there.” Boone pointed to a big rock that was a couple of yards away from the fire, all the better to keep it from catching fire by accident.
Boone studied them as they rode in, his expression grim. “Tex went that way chasing Stella, Marley after him.” He jabbed his finger to the north side of the trail. Then he pointed the opposite way. “Owen went that direction, and my sister charged after him. No sign of any of them yet.”
Morgan dragged a bleeding Sly off his horse to a shout of pain.
“He got a hard smack on the head. No sign of broken bones.” Morgan pulled Sly’s kerchief off his neck, formed it into a bandage, then tore a piece of Sly’s shirt into a strip and bound the wound on the back of his head. No way would he use his own kerchief or cut up his own shirt.
Furious at the prisoner’s escape and the extra trouble he’d caused, Morgan might’ve tied the bandage a little too tight. He admitted that, right now, he didn’t much care if the man lived or died.
Morgan didn’t like that part of him, but his fellow Marshals were gone and in danger.
He blamed the man who’d brought it down on his own head by escaping.
Add to that, battered though the man was, he looked like he would survive.
So a few mean thoughts didn’t do any harm, except maybe to Morgan’s conscience.
“You’ll live,” he snapped at Sly. He sat the outlaw up and bound his feet, then tied the man to a tree.
“Ma, why’d you run off on me?” Jesse asked as he scooped up sticks from close around the camp.
“I knew you’d be safe here with Boone. I was afraid Morgan might need some help.”
Jesse glared at Boone. “I should’ve gone, too. Or are you too wounded to be on your own?”
Boone gingerly touched his bandage, then jerked it off. “I reckon I’ll be all right.”
Roz went and checked Boone’s head injury. She shook her head. “That’s an ugly gash. You should’ve had stitches for certain.”
“Yep, and probably a week in bed being tended by an army of nurses.” Boone shrugged. “But here I am. How’s the cut look?”
Jesse came close to his ma and studied the injury thoroughly. With that kind of close attention, Morgan had to wonder if the boy would be a doctor when he grew up.
“It’s scabbed over, which is good. Safe to go without the bandage now. Too late for stitches to do any good—not that we have a needle and thread with us.”
Roz tossed the bandage into the fire, then got busy at a spring collecting water in their coffeepot.
“The day’s getting on. We’ll bed down here tonight.” Roz took coffee grounds out of Morgan’s saddlebag. “This coffee you brought along is the first I’ve had in the years since Jesse’s pa died.”
Morgan gave his prisoner a hard look, still bothered that he didn’t know how the man had escaped earlier. But the outlaw looked addled, so he’d stay put for now.
Morgan couldn’t go after Owen or Tex without leaving the others here with the prisoner. After fretting for a few minutes, not liking how long his friends had been gone, he went back to his saddlebags and got out the fixings for a stew. Nothing much to do except wait.
He knew his friends well and trusted them. They’d be back soon, hopefully.
Tex had no more strength to fight against the fast-moving river.
It was taking all he had to keep his and Stella’s heads above water.
They went through another narrow stretch of white water and jagged rocks.
The time narrowed down to seconds as he struggled to breathe.
Then it narrowed to heartbeats. Just live through the next pulse in his chest, the next breath.
He prayed for God to add His strength to this battle.
The walls of the canyon rose up around him. He found no way to get to the shore, such as it was. They were along for the ride the river was giving him.
Thankfully, Stella was conscious, but she seemed dazed still. Though she wasn’t talking, her eyes were open, and she made some effort to swim to help keep them both afloat.
One more stretch of battering stones, a few that seemed to be angry they were going past, and then they were pushed out into a lake.
Not a big one, and the current was still hard to fight, but Tex dug deep and fought his way to the shore.
There was enough open space in one spot where he could pull himself and his prisoner onto the rough, stony soil.
He flopped over onto his back, panting, listening to Stella breathing hard beside him. He wondered if she had the strength for an escape attempt. He said a silent prayer that she’d just lie still for a while so he could rest a bit.
They’d gone into the water in the early afternoon. He’d lost track of how long they’d been bashed and battered. In this canyon, they were in deep shade. He couldn’t figure, in his waterlogged brain, what direction they’d gone. Considering the twists and turns, they’d probably gone in all of them.