‘‘Am I dying, Bear?’’
‘‘Close to it, boy. That’s what comes of fighting a battle you can’t win.’’
The skin of the green apple fell, all in a piece, to the ground.
‘‘I plan on bringing down Jared Josephine and Thad Harlan. He put lead into me, Harlan did. I won’t forget that.’’
Bear cut into the apple and bladed a piece into his mouth. ‘‘You ride on, boy, like you planned in the canyon. Best you leave all this behind. Maybe you’ll meet up with Harlan another day.’’
‘‘He hung a boy, Bear, a Mexican boy. He hung him for shooting a dog.’’
‘‘Remember the El Coyote Azul? Remember that? I had fun with them purty fat ladies.’’
‘‘They cut you down from the cottonwood and washed your body, Bear. They put you in the ground clean.’’
‘‘Did they now? That was right nice of them.’’
Bear rose to his feet. ‘‘Me, I got to be going, John. Have me a fair piece to ride.’’
‘‘Help me, Bear. Help me cut Harlan down to size.’’
‘‘Can’t do that, boy. For me, them wild, hell-firing days are over.’’
‘‘I’m hot, Bear. I’m burning up. Help me.’’
‘‘Listen to me, John. Harlan is bad, Josephine is badder, but there’s another, worse than either of them. A woman. She’ll drag you down, boy. She’ll try to destroy you.’’
‘‘Is it Clare? Bear, tell me! Is it Clare?’’
The old man grinned, slowly fading away until he became one with the darkness and the darkness one with him. Where he had stood, there were only stars.
‘‘Is it Clare?’’ McBride called out.
The wind mocked him, whispering the girl’s name like a pining lover.
Daylight and the sound of rain filtered into McBride’s consciousness. He felt drowsy, at ease, but ravenously hungry. He opened his eyes and at first thought he was staring at a black sky. But as his vision adjusted, he realized it was the roof of a cave. He got up on one elbow and glanced around him.
He was lying on a blanket, covered by another, and two more were spread on the cave’s sandy floor. A small, smoky fire burned near the entrance, a clay pot bubbling on the coals. His rifle and Colt lay close to him and his clothes were neatly folded next to them, his plug hat sitting on top. Heavy rain slanted across the cave mouth and he heard a distant rumble of thunder.
McBride’s head sank back to the ground. Where was he? And why was he here?
He’d once seen a child in New York putting together one of Mr. Milton Bradley’s newfangled jigsaw puzzles, and now he used the same approach to piece together the events of the last . . . how long? He had no idea. He didn’t know if he’d been delirious and completely out of his mind for a day, a week or . . .
Then he remembered that he had Thad Harlan’s lead in him.
McBride threw back the blanket, saw that he was naked and quickly covered up again. This time he lifted the corner of the blanket and examined his side. There were two wounds, angry, puckered scars where the bullet had entered from the rear and exited between the loop of his suspenders where they buttoned to his pants. The entry wound was shallow and had just skinned his side, but the exiting bullet had caused more serious damage, though it seemed that no vital organs had been hit.
The wounds were red and raw, but they were clean and it looked like a considerable amount of healing had taken place. McBride groaned. He could have been out for a long time.
Where was Clare? She had obviously tended to his wounds and must be close.
He sat up and looked around the cave again. Now he saw that the blankets were woven in an intricate Indian pattern, and a battered Henry rifle, its stock decorated with brass tacks, stood in a corner. Even the cooking pot on the fire was adorned with a primitive scroll design.
A sudden fear spiked at McBride’s belly. He and Clare had been captured by bloodthirsty savages!
Chapter 13
John McBride threw off his blanket and jumped to his feet. Suddenly the world went mad, cartwheeling around him before coming to a jarring halt only to stand on its end. He fell back onto his blanket, his head spinning, then lay there stunned.
He was as weak as a kitten, powerless among feathered fiends, perhaps the dreaded Apaches with their murderous tom-a-hawks he’d read about in the dime novels.
Then, as the cave slowly righted itself, he remembered that he’d fought Apaches before and none of them had worn feathers and they’d used rifles, not axes.
Well, someone had taken care of his wounds. If it was not Clare, judging by the blankets and cooking pot it had to be Indians. With a sense of relief he realized that they’d shown little interest in torturing him. On the contrary, they’d saved his life.
McBride sat up, slowly this time. ‘‘Clare!’’ he called. There was no answer. He tried again. ‘‘Clare, are you all right?’’
His words were met with an echoing silence.
The rain seemed heavier now, a sheeting downpour that sealed the entrance to the cave with steel. Wind gusted, driving drops into the sputtering fire, making the scarlet and orange flames dance in the ashy gloom.
McBride knew he was mentally far from normal. He would have to regain his memories. He forced himself to remember his time in the New York Police Department and the proud day he’d been promoted to detective sergeant at a salary of a thousand dollars per annum. Then he’d killed a powerful and vicious mobster’s son and been ordered by his superiors to flee to the western lands until it was safe to return to the city.
He had killed the notorious gunman Hack Burns in a fair fight and had suddenly become a named man, a gunfighter of reputation. Along the way he’d acquired four young Chinese wards who were now at a finishing school for girls back East. He’d been looking for work to pay for the girls’ education when he’d ridden into Rest and Be Thankful.
Now the events of the last few days—but was it just days?—came back to him with painful clarity, his escape from jail and the fight in Deadman Canyon.
He and Clare had been heading for her father’s ranch when he’d lost consciousness and fallen off his horse. Had Clare just left him there to die or had she gone for help? In any event, during her absence he’d been found by wandering Indians and taken to this cave.
But what kind of Indians? And why had they nursed a white man back to health?
Was it because . . .
The silhouette of a tall, skinny man appeared at the entrance of the cave. He looked as if he were standing behind a waterfall. The plump, rounded form of a woman joined him and together they stepped inside.
McBride recognized the man at once. It was Bear Miller.
‘‘Bear! I thought . . .’’
The man laughed, teeth showing white under his sweeping mustache. ‘‘Relax, mister, I’m not a bear. Name’s Luke Gravett and this here is my woman. She’s Tonto Apache and her name’s not important and even if you knowed it you couldn’t pronounce it anyhow.’’ The man called Gravett, who looked to be in his early fifties, stepped closer. ‘‘How you feelin’, young feller?’’