CHAPTER TWO One Horse
Six miles west of Red Mesa, Gideon recovered his packhorse from an abandoned stage relay run by an old Mexican widow who accepted federal coin, asked no questions, and kept a loaded shotgun beneath her rocking chair.
The buckskin gelding carried their bedrolls, grain, extra ammunition, and most of the water Gideon expected them to need before reaching Santa Reina.
Gideon transferred the bloody quirt and his medical roll into one of its canvas panniers, checked each strap twice, and gave the widow enough money to forget she had seen them.
Jude remained mounted throughout the stop.
Gideon had loosened the transport chain enough for him to sit comfortably, but the iron still connected his cuffed wrists to the chestnut mare’s saddle. The arrangement gave Jude control of the reins while ensuring he could not slip quietly from the horse and vanish into the red country.
Not that Jude appeared capable of vanishing quickly.
Every change in the mare’s stance tightened his mouth. He tried to conceal the pain by keeping his back straight and his expression amused, but the bruises beneath Gideon’s borrowed shirt were no less real because Jude refused to acknowledge them.
Gideon mounted Bishop and took the lead rope of the packhorse.
They traveled west without speaking.
The sun lowered behind them, sending their shadows forward across the desert in long, distorted shapes. Gideon’s stretched nearly to the packhorse’s hooves. Jude’s seemed bound to his horse by the dark line of the transport chain.
Red Mesa disappeared behind a series of low red hills, but Gideon did not believe they had escaped it. The town remained with them in the movement of dust on the horizon, the silence of distant ridges, and the memory of sunlight flashing from the mirror in the deputy’s hand.
He checked behind them often.
Jude noticed.
“You’re going to wear a groove in your neck,” he said.
Gideon looked back once more. “I’ve endured worse.”
“Rusk?”
“Cavalry.”
“Which was worse?”
“They gave me different scars.”
Jude shifted in the saddle. The motion pulled the chain taut against the steel ring, and the cuffs scraped over his injured wrists.
Gideon heard the change in his breathing.
He slowed Bishop until they rode beside one another.
“Hands,” he said.
“I was under the impression you already had them.”
Gideon reached for the transport chain. “I’m checking the cuffs.”
Jude’s gaze moved to his approaching hand. “You’re announcing yourself again.”
“Yes.”
“Even out here?”
“Especially out here.”
Gideon laid his hand beneath Jude’s cuffed wrists. The steel had warmed beneath the sun. Jude’s skin had not.
His fingers were cool despite the heat, and swelling had begun to rise again around the rawhide cuts. Gideon turned Jude’s hands carefully, examining the wounds without pulling the chain.
Jude watched him do it.
They were riding close enough that Gideon’s knee nearly brushed the mare’s flank. Bishop’s shoulder moved beside Jude’s boot. The horses breathed in the same slow rhythm, leather creaking beneath both men.
“The right one is rubbing,” Gideon said.
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m cultivating mystery.”
“You’re cultivating infection.”
Gideon unlocked the right cuff, wound a strip of soft linen around Jude’s wrist, and refastened the iron over it. He slid one finger beneath the metal to check the fit.
Jude looked down at Gideon’s hand encircling his wrist.
“There,” Gideon said.
“You carry bandages for all your prisoners?”
“I carry them because men bleed.”
“And here I thought you’d prepared especially for me.”
“I didn’t know you existed three days ago.”
“That isn’t a denial.”
Gideon released him and guided Bishop away.
The faint smile remained on Jude’s mouth, but his attention lingered on the linen beneath the cuff. He flexed his fingers once and settled his hands against the saddle horn.
“What made you a marshal?” he asked.
“I applied.”
“I imagined a more stirring tale.”
“There was paperwork.”
“Bandits?”
“Some.”
“Revenge?”
“No.”
“A woman?”
Gideon’s shoulders tightened before he could prevent it.
Jude noticed that too.
His expression did not change, but something watchful passed through his eyes. “No woman, then.”
Gideon faced the trail. “You ask too many questions.”
“You answer too few.”
“You’re the prisoner.”
“And you’re the man who spent half an hour washing blood from my mouth. We’re both more complicated than our titles.”
Gideon did not answer.
The country narrowed ahead.
Red shelves of earth rose on either side of the trail, broken by black volcanic stone and twisted juniper. Salt Knife Canyon cut through the ridge beyond them, a long wound in the earth where the walls stood high enough to hide the sun before evening.
Gideon had ridden through it twice. The canyon provided shade, a shorter route around the western ridge, and several miles of ground too hard to hold tracks.
It also provided a hundred places from which to shoot a man.
He drew rein before the entrance.
Bishop halted beneath him. The packhorse stopped at his shoulder, its lead rope slack. Jude brought the chestnut mare alongside them.
The canyon mouth waited ahead, dark and narrow.
“Having second thoughts?” Jude asked.
“I generally have those before making the first mistake.”
“That must save time.”
Gideon dismounted.
He examined the ground near the canyon entrance. Wind had swept dust across the trail, softening the marks left by previous travelers. A lizard disappeared between two rocks. Somewhere high above, a hawk gave one sharp cry.
No horses.
No metal.
No voices.
Nothing he could point to as a threat.
That did not mean they were alone.
Jude watched from the saddle. “If Harrow’s men followed, they’ll expect us to avoid this place.”
“Which is why they may be waiting inside.”
“Your profession appears exhausting.”
“It becomes easier when prisoners remain quiet.”
“You’d worry if I did.”
Gideon straightened.
Jude was right.
The outlaw’s constant needling had already become part of the journey’s rhythm. Silence from him would signal pain, fear, or a plan Gideon had failed to notice.
“I’m going to check your ribs,” Gideon said.
Jude’s eyebrows rose. “Out here?”
“You’ve been holding yourself crooked for the last mile.”
“I was enjoying the scenery.”
“There’s nothing on your right but rock.”
“I admire rock.”
Gideon approached the mare.
Jude’s bound hands remained near the saddle horn. Gideon placed one palm against the horse’s neck and the other on Jude’s boot.
“Lift your leg over,” he said.
“You could simply admit you enjoy helping me down.”
“Lift it.”
Jude obeyed. The ankle chain limited the distance between his boots, forcing him to slide from the saddle with both legs close together.
Gideon caught him around the waist.
Jude landed against him.
The impact was gentler than it had been outside the jail, but no less complete. Gideon’s hands closed around Jude’s sides while Jude’s cuffed arms settled across his shoulders. Their chests met. Jude’s boots touched the earth between Gideon’s.
For one suspended breath, the desert seemed to narrow around the space their bodies shared.
Gideon felt Jude’s heartbeat through the shirt he had given him. It was faster than his expression suggested. The sun had warmed the cloth across his shoulders, but beneath it Gideon could feel the living heat of his skin.
Jude’s face hovered near his.
The swelling in his lip had diminished, though the split remained dark. A faint shadow of beard covered his jaw. His storm-colored eyes dropped briefly toward Gideon’s mouth before rising again.
“Careful,” Gideon said.
“I haven’t moved.”
“That’s what concerns me.”
The corner of Jude’s mouth lifted.
Gideon set him at arm’s length without releasing his waist. “Can you stand?”
“I’m standing.”
“Without me.”
“Less interesting, but likely.”
Gideon removed his hands.
Jude swayed once, then steadied. The chain between his ankles whispered over the stones.
Gideon opened the lower buttons of Jude’s shirt and placed his hand along the right side of his body. The bruise beneath his ribs had deepened since Red Mesa, black at the center and purple toward the edges.
Jude’s stomach tightened under Gideon’s palm.
“I’m going to press here,” Gideon said.
“You’re becoming predictable.”
“Breathe.”
Jude drew in a breath. Gideon felt the movement against his fingers.
“Deeper.”
“That appears to be your solution to everything.”
Gideon pressed gently over the bruised rib.
Jude inhaled through his teeth.
“There,” Gideon said.
“I preferred you when you were washing my mouth.”
Gideon moved his hand lower. “Does this hurt?”
“No.”
“This?”
“No.”
He pressed closer to Jude’s side.
Jude’s body reacted before his voice did. His muscles hardened, and one cuffed hand came down over Gideon’s wrist.
The gesture stopped both of them.
Jude’s fingers encircled Gideon’s wrist. Gideon’s palm remained against Jude’s bare side beneath the open shirt. Neither grip was violent, but each man possessed the ability to make it so.
Their eyes met.
Jude’s voice lost its teasing edge. “That one.”
Gideon immediately lightened the pressure. “Cracked rib, most likely. It hasn’t shifted.”
“Your optimism warms me.”
“You need to avoid twisting in the saddle.”
“Then you should take off the chains.”
“No.”
“Optimism gone already.”
Gideon withdrew his hand and buttoned the shirt himself because Jude’s cuffed fingers could not easily manage it. He worked upward slowly, closing Gideon’s garment over Jude’s injured body. At the final button, the backs of his fingers brushed the dark hair at Jude’s chest.
Jude watched him.
Gideon stepped away.
“We move through quickly,” he said. “No talking. If I tell you to ride, you ride. If I tell you to get down, you do it without asking why.”
“If the shooting starts?”
“Get behind cover.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll manage myself.”
“That has apparently been your guiding philosophy.”
Gideon ignored him and mounted.
They entered Salt Knife Canyon with Bishop in front, Jude behind him, and the packhorse bringing up the rear.