CHAPTER TWO One Horse #2
The temperature dropped almost immediately. Stone walls blocked the lowering sun, leaving only a ribbon of orange sky overhead. The trail wound between boulders the size of wagons, narrowing in places until Gideon could have touched both walls by extending his arms.
Hoofbeats echoed strangely. One horse sounded like three. A shifted saddlebag sounded like a boot scraping rock.
Gideon kept one hand near his revolver.
The first mile passed without incident.
The canyon opened briefly around an empty basin where floodwater had carved smooth channels through the stone. Gideon dismounted to examine tracks, found only coyote prints, and continued.
The sun sank lower.
Orange became red. Red became violet.
Jude remained silent as ordered.
That worried Gideon more than the teasing had.
He glanced back.
Jude rode upright despite the pain, his cuffed wrists resting near the saddle horn. His eyes moved constantly over the canyon walls. He did not appear afraid. He appeared ready.
Gideon faced forward again.
The trail narrowed around a jagged pillar of stone. Beyond it, Salt Knife bent sharply south before descending toward the open desert.
Bishop’s ears flattened.
Gideon reached for his revolver.
The rifle cracked before his hand touched the grip.
The packhorse screamed.
The sound struck the canyon walls and returned from every direction. The buckskin’s front legs folded beneath it. Momentum drove the animal sideways into the rocks, and the lead rope ripped through Gideon’s hand.
A second shot split the saddle horn inches from his stomach.
“Down!” Gideon shouted.
Bishop reared.
Gideon fought for the reins as the gelding twisted beneath him. Behind them, the chestnut mare lunged sideways, and Jude’s transport chain snapped taut against the saddle ring.
The mare’s head came up. Her eyes rolled white.
A third shot struck Bishop high in the shoulder.
The horse screamed and went over.
Gideon kicked free of the stirrups an instant before the gelding crashed into the dirt. His shoulder hit first. The back of his head struck stone, and the canyon flashed white.
The mare bolted past him.
Jude had one boot free and the other caught in the stirrup. The transport chain held his wrists to the saddle as the terrified horse dragged him sideways.
Gideon rolled to his knees.
“Jude!”
It was the first time he had called him anything but Calder.
Jude heard it.
He grabbed the saddle horn with his bound hands and hauled himself upright as the mare struck the canyon wall. Gideon threw himself toward them, caught the transport chain, and dragged the clasp toward the release ring.
Another bullet cut the air beside his face.
Stone exploded against his cheek.
The clasp jammed.
The mare reared again, nearly pulling Jude from the saddle. The chain tore into his injured wrists.
Gideon planted one boot against the stirrup and wrenched the mechanism sideways.
It opened.
The transport chain came free an instant before the mare spun away. Jude fell from the saddle and struck Gideon across the chest.
They went down together.
Gideon landed beneath him, the impact driving the air from his lungs. Jude’s cuffed hands were trapped between their bodies. One of his knees pressed between Gideon’s thighs. His face struck Gideon’s shoulder.
Gunfire shattered the ground where Jude’s head had been.
Jude rolled away, carrying the transport chain with him.
“Rock,” Gideon gasped.
Jude looked toward the nearest boulder, then back at Gideon.
He could run.
The chestnut mare had disappeared around the southern bend. Gideon lay stunned, his revolver partly beneath him. The transport chain was no longer secured to anything. The ankle irons would slow Jude, but the chaos offered the best chance he would ever receive.
Gideon saw him recognize it.
Then Jude did the last thing Gideon expected.
He threw himself against Gideon again, seized the loose chain between his wrists, and pulled.
Steel tightened around Jude’s injured skin. The chain caught Gideon beneath the arm, dragging him across the dirt as another rifle shot struck the place he had fallen.
Jude hauled him behind the boulder.
The two men hit the ground side by side.
“Stay down,” Jude said.
Gideon reached for his revolver.
“I give the orders.”
“You were taking too long.”
Gideon drew his weapon and rose just enough to see over the rock.
The gunman stood fifty yards above them on a narrow ledge. A hat and rifle barrel appeared between two outcroppings, then vanished.
At least one more shooter fired from the southern bend.
They were caught between them.
The dead packhorse lay in the center of the trail, one pannier trapped beneath its body. Water spread from a punctured canteen, vanishing into the dust almost as soon as it struck.
Bishop was gone.
So was the chestnut.
“We need the carbine,” Gideon said.
“Where?”
“Bishop’s saddle.”
“The horse that just ran away?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent plan.”
A bullet ricocheted from the boulder and passed close enough for Gideon to feel its heat.
Jude flattened beside him.
Their shoulders pressed together. Gideon’s thigh lay over Jude’s ankle chain, pinning it against the ground. Jude smelled of dust and sweat, with blood beginning to rise through the linen beneath his cuffs.
Gideon looked down.
“Your wrists.”
“Later.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“We are being shot at.”
“I noticed.”
Jude twisted until he could see the northern ledge. His movement pressed his ribs against Gideon’s side. Pain tightened his face, but his eyes remained clear.
“Shooter above us reloads slowly,” Jude whispered. “Single-shot rifle.”
“The other?”
“Lever action.”
“You see him?”
“No. I hear him.”
Gideon listened.
The southern rifle fired twice in quick succession. A lever clicked. Then another shot.
Jude was right.
Gideon opened the cylinder of his revolver. Five rounds. He had fired none, but he kept the hammer down over an empty chamber.
Jude glanced at it. “Five bullets.”
“Two men.”
“That you know of.”
A pebble shifted behind them.
Both turned.
A third gunman came around the boulder at their backs.
He carried a revolver in one hand and a knife in the other. Harrow’s split-circle brand had been burned into the leather of his gun belt.
Gideon tried to bring his weapon around.
The attacker kicked his wrist.
The revolver flew from his hand.
Jude surged upward.
The ankle irons kept him from gaining his feet, but he used the limitation instead of fighting it. He caught the length of chain between his cuffed wrists, whipped it around the attacker’s gun arm, and crossed his hands.
The chain tightened.
The man fired.
The bullet struck the dirt beside Gideon’s head.
Jude threw his entire weight backward. The attacker’s arm bent across the boulder, his shoulder twisting with a wet crack. The revolver fell.
Gideon seized it from the ground and fired once.
The gunman collapsed across Jude.
Jude grunted beneath the weight.
Gideon shoved the body aside and pulled Jude behind the rock again. Blood marked Gideon’s hands, though he could not tell whose it was.
“Hit?” he demanded.
Jude stared at the dead man. “No.”
“Look at me.”
Jude did.
His face had gone pale beneath the dust.
“Are you hit?”
“No.”
Gideon searched him anyway.
His hands moved over Jude’s shoulders, down his arms, across his sides. Jude flinched when Gideon reached the bruised ribs, but there was no new blood. Gideon passed one palm over Jude’s stomach, waist, and thighs, feeling for warmth that would indicate a hidden wound.
Jude caught his wrist.
“Marshal.”
“Hold still.”
“You are searching considerably lower than the bullets went.”
Gideon’s hand stopped high on Jude’s inner thigh.
The outlaw’s expression was strained, but a spark of familiar provocation had returned to his eyes.
Gideon withdrew his hand. “You’re unharmed.”
“Disappointed?”
“Relieved.”
The word emerged before Gideon could reconsider it.
Jude’s teasing expression changed.
Gunfire struck the boulder again.
Whatever might have passed between them vanished beneath stone fragments.
Gideon checked the dead man’s revolver. Four rounds remained. He pressed it into Jude’s cuffed hands.
Jude looked at the weapon.
“You trust me with this?”
“I trust you dislike being shot.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
“It’s the only answer you’re getting.”
Jude adjusted his grip. The cuffs forced his hands close together, but he handled the revolver with practiced familiarity.
“You take the southern shooter,” Gideon said. “I’ll draw the man on the ledge.”
“With what?”
Gideon retrieved his own revolver from the dirt. “Bad judgment.”
“That does appear plentiful.”
Gideon moved toward the boulder’s northern edge.
Jude caught the back of his coat.
The grip stopped him more effectively than the chain could have.
“What?” Gideon asked.
Jude’s face was close to his, stripped of amusement. “Don’t stand where I can’t pull you back.”
Gideon looked at Jude’s fist closed around his coat.
“You had a chance to run,” he said.
“I still might.”
“You saved my life.”
“I need you alive.”
“To reach Santa Reina?”
Jude’s eyes held his. “That’s what I’ve been telling you.”
The man above them fired.
Gideon moved.
He rolled from cover and fired twice at the ledge. The gunman ducked, then reappeared exactly where Gideon expected.
Jude’s revolver answered from the other side of the rock.
A cry came from the southern bend.
One shooter down.
The man above Gideon swung his rifle toward Jude.
Gideon fired a third time.
The rifleman pitched forward from the ledge. His weapon struck first, breaking against the canyon floor. His body landed beside it with a dull finality.
Silence descended so suddenly that Gideon heard dust sliding down the rock.
He remained crouched with his revolver raised.
No further shots came.
Jude shifted behind the boulder.
The metal between his ankles scraped stone.
Gideon crossed to the southern bend and found the second shooter slumped against the wall, Jude’s bullet beneath his collarbone. The man was still breathing but would not do so for long.
He wore no badge and carried no papers. His cartridge belt was federal issue.