‘‘Why did she do that?’’
‘‘She figured she owed me since I stopped Lance abusing her in the dining room of the Kip and Kettle Hotel back in Rest and Be Thankful. He was demanding that she marry him.’’
‘‘That’s when you broke his nose?’’
‘‘Yes. It was then.’’
‘‘Lance is good with a gun—apart from Thad Harlan, maybe the best around. How come you didn’t get yourself shot?’’
‘‘Just lucky, I guess.’’
‘‘With that kind of luck, you’re a man to ride the trail with.’’ Gravett smiled. Then a frown gathered on his forehead. ‘‘At least until it runs out.’’
Chapter 14
The Tonto woman brought McBride a bowl of food, a stew of venison, corn and beans, swimming with wild onions. He ate that bowl, then another and felt stronger. Gravett had been headed for Lincoln and although the man did not voice a word of complaint, McBride knew his presence was keeping him and his woman at the cave. He had to get on his feet and become less of a burden.
The following morning he dressed himself, left the cave while Gravett and the woman were still asleep and filled the coffeepot from a natural tank in the lava that had collected rainwater.
His side was still raw and sore, but he felt better, well enough to ride a horse. At least, so he hoped.
To the west, the cinder cone of Sunset Crater was outlined against a cheerless gray sky, the pines on its lower slopes just visible. Here the lava flow was as tall as a man on a horse, its top crested with piñon, juniper and bunchgrass. The coffeepot in his hand, McBride looked over to the cave, formed, he guessed, when the moving lava cooled, ground to a halt and formed a crust. The red-hot magma underneath continued to flow and had drained away, creating caves of varying depths.
The black, broken lava field seemed a bleak, inhospitable place for animals, but on his short walk to the water tank, McBride saw a lizard, a running jackrabbit and watched blue jays quarrel in the trees.
In a vaguely comforting way, to McBride the flourishing flora and fauna of the hostile malpais were a reaffirmation of life. And with that thought came the notion that all existence is a struggle, a series of crises that have to be faced and overcome.
He had thought to run away, telling himself that what happened in Rest and Be Thankful was no concern of his. He’d been wrong. People were depending on him. Clare O’Neil, if she was still alive, needed him. The soul of the dead Mexican boy cried out to him for vengeance and then there was the future. As of now the future victims of Thad Harlan and Jared and Lance Josephine were nameless, faceless shadows, but didn’t he owe it to them to act and change the direction of their fates so that they lived and did not die?
And what of John McBride?
He had been made to feel small and insignificant, a nonentity who had dared to defy important and powerful men. He had not been welcome in the town and it had been made clear that none would be sad at his leaving. He had been wrongly thrown in jail, warned that his fate would be the rope and then he’d been hounded and shot by a man who held him in no higher esteem than he would the jackrabbit McBride had seen run across the malpais.
He hefted the coffeepot in his hand, a tall, wide-shouldered Yankee in worn, shabby clothes, elastic-sided boots and a battered plug hat. A man who had just made up his mind.
The time for running was over. The time had come to make his stand . . . and fight.
McBride added some sticks to the fire and placed the coffeepot on the coals. Gravett and his woman were still asleep and he went back outside.
His mustang was grazing with Gravett’s riding horses and pack mule and seemed none the worse for wear. He patted the mustang’s neck and said quietly, ‘‘Ready to ride, old feller, huh?’’
The little horse went back to grazing, giving no indication that he was or wasn’t, and McBride smiled and walked to the cave through a sudden, windblown rain.
‘‘Why would Lance Josephine and his father want old Hemp’s place?’’ Gravett asked. He and McBride were squatting by the fire drinking coffee. Outside, the day was gray, the morning shadows long and deep. The man attempted to answer his own question. ‘‘It’s a two-by-twice ranch with a run-down cabin and maybe fifty cows on poor grass. There’s better land for the taking anywhere around here.’’ Gravett’s brow furrowed in thought; then, as though he realized he could find no answer, he admitted, ‘‘I just can’t figure it.’’
‘‘Me neither,’’ McBride said. ‘‘That’s why I intend to ride out that way today. Maybe I can discover what makes the place so damn special.’’
‘‘You sure you want to do that? Your wound still has a power of healing to do.’’
‘‘I’m beholden to you and your lady for saving my life, Luke. But I’ve imposed on you long enough. I have to be riding on.’’
‘‘You’re going to try and find Clare O’Neil.’’
‘‘Yes, that, and other things.’’
‘‘And you plan on going up against Thad Harlan and them?’’
‘‘I’ve been thinking about it, and I can’t say with much pleasure.’’
Gravett placed his cup on the ground; then his hand moved in a blur of motion and McBride found himself looking into the muzzle of the man’s .45.
‘‘Can you do that?’’ Gravett asked. ‘‘Only a tad faster?’’
‘‘No. Not on my best day.’’
‘‘Then you best leave Harlan alone.’’ The Colt spun and thudded back into the holster. ‘‘Them’s words of wisdom. Or warning. Take them however you like.’’
McBride smiled and shook his head. ‘‘Words of wisdom, Luke. But I’ve got it to do.’’
‘‘Then God help you.’’
McBride rose to his feet and crossed the floor of the cave. He shrugged into his slicker, shoved his revolver into the waistband of his pants and picked up his rifle.
‘‘How are you fixed for money?’’ Gravett asked. ‘‘I don’t have much but—’’
‘‘I’ll make out. Thanks.’’
‘‘Then at least let me saddle your horse.’’
McBride stepped to the Tonto woman, who had her head bent, busy with a needle, repairing a small tear in her deerskin dress.
‘‘She won’t look at you, John,’’ Gravett said. ‘‘Apaches don’t have a word for good-bye.’’
‘‘Then tell her . . . tell her I’m grateful.’’
‘‘She knows that already, but I’ll tell her anyway.’’
Luke Gravett stood in the rain, watching McBride climb awkwardly into the saddle, a faint smile playing around the corners of his mouth. ‘‘Where you from, John? I mean originally. Somewhere back East, I reckon.’’
‘‘Yes. New York City.’’