The Lonely Breed, page 13
She resigned herself to sitting quietly while the mules labored along the trail winding through one canyon after another, the blacksnakes cracking like pistol fire, the smell of the animals and the sweaty men assaulting her nostrils.
“Here,” Dietrich said during a short break for the mules, handing her his canteen, from which he’d just taken a long drink.
She looked at the lip no doubt infested with his filth, inwardly recoiled, and shook her head. He laughed, took another drink from the flask, then put it away and shook the ribbons over the mules’ dusty, sweaty backs.
When they stopped again, at the top of another long, steep hill, Dietrich again offered her the canteen after he’d taken a drink. She curled her nose, revolted, but her throat was so dry that she took the flask and tipped it back, letting the brackish water roll over her tongue and down her throat.
Dietrich snorted and grabbed the canteen out of her hands. “That’s enough, stupid bitch. We won’t meet up with a creek again for a couple hours.”
Faith wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “You’re a real gentleman, Dietrich.”
By the time they pulled off the road early that evening, the sun angling low behind the flame-shaped, snow-mantled peak in the west, Faith’s back and bottom ached from the hard plank seat. Her eyes and nose were caked with dust. She felt so fatigued by the long wagon ride that she was no longer sure she could put her plan into operation.
She chased the doubt from her mind. She had to do it. Otherwise, these men would be taking their pleasure. The thought nearly made her gag. She’d slept with some unappealing hombres before, but never with men as apelike as these.
“Go over and sit down under that tree yonder,” Dietrich said, hauling her brusquely off the wagon. “You wander off, I’ll chase you down and tie you. Understand?”
“Don’t worry,” Faith said, as the freighters set to work unhitching the teams. “I’m too tired to do anything but eat and sleep.”
“You rest up,” Dietrich yelled as he crouched to free the doubletree, adding with a laugh, “ ’cause you and me got business later.”
“Have you ever had a woman you didn’t force?”
Dietrich’s head shot up, his face red, tiny eyes pinched angrily. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” Faith said, grabbing a blanket from under the wagon’s dusty tarp. “Since I’ll be entertaining tonight, I reckon I best go freshen up in the creek.”
“Yeah, you do that. And watch your mouth. No one likes a mouthy whore.”
While Dietrich and the other two freighters cursed the harness buckles, stays, and sweat-shrunk collars, Faith drew the blanket around her shoulders. The lower the sun sank, the colder the canyon grew. She walked around behind the wagon, heading for the tree and the narrow creek murmuring along a basalt bluff on the other side.
Ten feet from the wagon, she glanced behind her. A rifle was mounted on the side of the wagon, above a grease box and an iron-banded water barrel. It looked old and rusty, no doubt a spare, but it wouldn’t be hanging there if it didn’t work.
Faith’s heart quickened.
She slid her gaze to the head of the wagon, where Dietrich was milling among the mules, grousing and cursing and trying to keep them calm while he removed the harness straps and collars. Looking at the two wagons behind, she saw that the other two freighters were similarly occupied. None of them were looking toward her.
Slowly but purposefully, she moseyed over to the wagon, her gaze jackrabbiting between Dietrich and the other two men. She dried her sweaty hands on her jeans, then, with another quick look around, reached out and placed her hands around the rifle’s weathered wood.
Biting her lower lip, she lifted the rifle from the two rusty steel hooks it hung on and quickly stuck it inside her blanket.
With one hand, she held the rifle straight down before her. With her free hand, she held the blanket closed at her chest.
Dietrich’s angry voice rose suddenly, and Faith froze in her tracks. “Goddamn it, Rafe, will you get up here and help with this damn buckle you adjusted yesterday? I can’t pop it loose fer nothin’!”
Heart pounding painfully against her ribs, Faith continued into the brush and strolled slowly, nonchalantly, toward the creek. On the far side of the tree, she opened the old Springfield’s breech, saw a brass shell in the chamber, and closed it, easing the hammer down to the firing pin.
She heaved a deep sigh. “Maybe there is a god after all.” She looked back toward the wagons. Dietrich and Grayson were leading their teams off while the third man, Clem Schultz, was still fooling with his.
Faith hoped none of the men would miss the rifle.
She laid the Springfield in the brush beside the rock, brushed dry leaves and pinecones over it, then stood and walked to the creek. She knelt down, removed the blanket, unbuttoned her shirt, and began cupping the cold water to her face and neck. She stole occasional looks downstream, over a jumble of rocks and driftwood, where Grayson and Schultz watered the mules while Dietrich strung a picket line through several stout aspens.
She’d kill all three when they came over to set up camp. She’d center the rifle on Dietrich’s chest, then on the closest man after that, and then the third man. If all went as planned, they’d be dead within seconds. None wore sidearms, and she couldn’t give them time to go for their long guns.
She could handle a rifle. She’d handled them before. In fact, the preacher she’d lived with had had a Springfield just like this one . . .
When she finished washing, she decided to gather firewood. That way, when she moved to the boulder for the rifle, she wouldn’t arouse the men’s suspicions.
She’d gathered a sizable pile of driftwood and deadfall when all three men filed toward a tree under which was a barren patch of ground and a rock ring blackened from many fires.
“Well, lookee here,” said Dietrich, a brown-paper cigarette dangling from between his lips, sweat streaking the dirt and grit on his burned cheekbones and low cap of tight, curly black hair. He tossed his hat on the ground. “The bitch can do real work, after all.”
“I’ll be damned,” said Schultz, tossing a bundle of blankets and a burlap food sack on the ground near the fire ring. “How ’bout we see if you can light a fire, too, missy. It’s gettin’ right chilly.” He hugged himself, running his hands up and down his arms.
“Then you can git to work on whippin’ us up some grub,” said Grayson, throwing down his own gear, dropping beside it, and resting his back against a small aspen. “My backbone and my stomach are gettin’ way too friendly.”
“Sure,” Faith said, trying to keep her voice from trembling. She wheeled and strode toward the boulder, turning her head to keep an eye on the men behind her. “Let me just fetch one more stick of wood . . .”
“And when you’ve done the dishes,” Dietrich said, on his knees and rummaging around in a war bag, “you can strip yourself naked and climb into my hot roll.” He chuffed and popped the cork on a bottle. “You an’ me—we’re gonna give a whole new meanin’ to ‘hot roll’!”
The other two laughed.
Faith stooped down behind the boulder, picked up the rifle, thumbed back the hammer, and holding it straight out before her, moved back toward the three men gathered on the far side of the fire ring.
“Hey!” shouted Schultz. “She’s got the goddamn Springfield!”
The other two turned to her sharply, Dietrich lowering the bottle so quickly that whiskey washed over his lips and down his chest.
“Yeah, I got a rifle,” Faith said, squeezing the weathered forestock and planting the front sight on the pale strip of skin beneath Dietrich’s black hairline.
“Goddamn it, bitch!” the freighter shouted, his face going white. “Put that rifle down now!”
At the same time, Schultz cried, “Miss, don’t do this!” Faith smiled as she steadied the rifle and drew her index finger back on the trigger. The hammer dropped with a metallic click.
Faith squinted, steeling herself for the explosion and kick.
It didn’t come. There was only the click.
Before her, leaning back on his haunches, frozen with his arms up to shield his face, Dietrich blinked.
Then he smiled. After another second, his lips stretched a smile. “That’s the problem with that old rifle. It misfires every fourth or fifth shot!”
Faith’s heart turned a somersault.
Fear and fury churning within, she fumbled with the Springfield’s trigger-guard cocking lever. At the same time, Dietrich gained his feet and rushed toward her. She screamed, abandoned the idea of cocking the rifle, and clutching the forestock, swung it toward Dietrich.
He laughed, grabbed the gun by the barrel, and jerked it out of her hands.
The freighter tossed the Springfield out behind him. As he continued moving toward Faith, she screamed, “Pig!” and swung her clenched right fist against his cheekbone.
The blow gave him momentary pause. He brushed his left hand across the two-inch cut, glanced at the blood smeared on his fingers, then turned his gaze, sparkling with fury and animal lust, on Faith.
“Tried to kill me, huh?” He backhanded her. As she spun, he grabbed her hair and fumbled with his fly buttons. “I’m gonna show you what I do to whores that try to blow out my lamp!”
Chapter 17
Faith dropped to her left knee, then catapulted back to her feet. Jerking her hair free of Dietrich’s grasp, she ran toward the creek shimmering in the near-darkness at the base of the stone bluff.
“Get back here, whore!” the freighter shouted.
“Want me to plug her from here?” asked Grayson, his voice just audible above Faith’s heavy breathing and footfalls. “I got a bead on her.”
“No,” Dietrich said tightly, his breath labored. “She’s mine.”
“That girl’s nothin’ but trouble,” exclaimed Schultz. “I say we slit her damn throat when . . .”
Faith didn’t hear the rest. As she plunged straight into the stream, the splashing water drowned the men’s angry exclamations. She swung her arms and lifted her knees as high as she could, the frigid water piercing her like sharp knives. She turned to look back.
Dietrich ran behind her, pumping his arms and legs, his ugly face set with grim fury.
Faith made for the opposite bank.
She had no idea where she was headed. If she climbed to the top of the stone bluff—assuming she could make it— would Dietrich give up on her, decide she wasn’t worth trifling with?
Halfway across the narrow stream, she turned her head. She was gaining some distance from Dietrich, a bulky shadow behind her. He was slipping on the rocks at the creek’s bottom, throwing his arms out for balance. Her chest welling hopefully, she lunged toward the far shore.
She would run to that crevice in the bluff, climb up through the trough to the top.
When she was nearly out of the stream, her left foot slipped off a rock, twisting her ankle. She groaned as the pain shot up her lower leg, and before she realized it, she was down on both knees at the edge of the creek, turning onto her butt and grabbing her calf.
“No!” she cried, her voice edged with rage, the cold water biting her deep. She turned to Dietrich stepping high in the knee-deep water. “Goddamn you!”
“Goddamn me?” Dietrich bellowed, grabbing her collar and hauling her onto the bank. “Goddamn you!”
Faith kicked and screamed as he dragged her across the sand and rocks and high, brown grass and shrubs. She grunted and clawed at his hands, cursing him.
He threw her into the tall grass and spindly willows at the base of the bluff, smacked her hard across her face. Kneeling down, he jerked one knee away from the other, then crawled up between her legs and leaned forward to unbutton her men’s denim trousers.
“Goddamn you to hell, Dietrich!” she cried, kicking at him futilely, her strength all but gone, a sharp pain spike grinding into her ankle. “I’ll kill you!”
Dietrich laughed and jerked her pants halfway down her thighs.
She leaned back and closed her eyes. There was no point in resisting anymore. His slaps had addled her, and her head swam. She wanted only to fall back into a warm, dark place and sleep.
A rifle cracked in the direction of the camp. As the report echoed, a man shouted.
Faith opened her eyes as Dietrich snapped his head back and twisted around to look beyond the creek. With an incredulous grunt, he stood.
Another rifle cracked, then two more shots echoed around the canyon. Dietrich stood and ran back through the brush, grunting and reaching for the big knife sheathed on his left hip.
The shots had been like a cold slap of water. Faith gained her knees and pulled her jeans up to her waist, quickly buttoning the fly. She rose onto her right foot and hobbled after Dietrich.
Just beyond the brush, she stopped. Dietrich stood at the edge of the water, facing away from Faith. The freighter crouched, his knife glinting in his right hand.
Beyond him, a broad-shouldered man ran toward him, long hair bouncing on his shoulders, a rifle held across his chest. Water splashed up around Yakima’s buckskinned thighs. He was across the creek in seconds.
Stopping suddenly before Dietrich, he jerked his arms and shoulders forward, thrusting his hips and belly back, as the freighter slashed with the knife at Yakima’s chest. Yakima lunged forward, slammed his rifle stock against Dietrich’s left cheek.
The man staggered.
Yakima lunged at him again, drove the rifle’s butt into Dietrich’s stomach.
As the freighter expelled air with a loud whoosh, knees buckling, Yakima set his rifle atop a flat rock. He grabbed a handful of Dietrich’s curly black hair and, teeth gritted and flashing in the failing light, half dragged the freighter into the creek.
Holding the man’s hair with one hand, Yakima rammed the toe of his right boot moccasin into his gut. Dietrich went down with a shrill cry, arms flailing, fighting to regain his feet.
Stepping toward him with balled fists, Yakima kicked the man onto his back, then pressed his left knee against the man’s chest, up close to his neck, pushing his head under the water.
Dietrich’s arms flailed at Yakima’s thigh, and he kicked frantically, splashing water and blowing bubbles. Faith watched in horror as Yakima held the man’s head beneath the water until, gradually, Dietrich stopped thrashing and lay motionless beneath Yakima’s knee.
Yakima thumped his knee once more upon the man’s chest, then stood and turned to where Faith knelt at the edge of the brush, tears dribbling down her cheeks.
Yakima’s broad chest rose and fell heavily, but his voice was calm. “You all right?”
Barely able to hold her head up, Faith nodded. “Where . . . where did you come from?”
Yakima turned back to Dietrich. The freighter’s arms and legs bobbed in the current, his lifeless body skidding slowly along the rocks, turning downstream.
Yakima stepped onto the shore, stooped down beside Faith, snaked his arms beneath her, and drew her up to his chest. His arms felt strong beneath her legs and back, and she relaxed as he retrieved his rifle, holding it in his left hand under Faith’s knees as he backstepped into the stream, heading for the other side.
“Can’t let you outta my sight for a minute.”
Faith let her head loll against his chest and sighed. “You came back for me?”
“I reckon.”
“I’m glad.”
Faith drowsed against Yakima’s chest as he carried her to the other side of the creek. As he walked across the freighters’ encampment she opened her eyes and looked around.
Schultz lay on his belly near the fire ring, cheek to the ground, arms resting straight down at his sides. Blood seeped into the dirt and pine needles around him. Grayson lay on his back at the edge of the camp, one ankle on a log, his eyes staring glassily up at the pine bough over his head as he clutched his rifle, breech open, across his bloody chest.
As Yakima continued across the camp, heading toward the trail nearly hidden by the fading light, Faith closed her eyes and fell into a warm, dark pit of slumber.
She was only vaguely aware of hearing Yakima’s sharp breaths, as if he were carrying her uphill. Just as vaguely, she felt the warmth of a fire, smelled the pine smoke and tea, heard the pops and cracks of the flames.
Then deep sleep again overtook her.
She had no idea how much time had passed before she again heard resin sizzling in flames. There was a slight crunching sound and several snorts. Smelling charred meat along with the pine smoke and tea, she opened her eyes.
Yakima squatted on the other side of a low fire, watching a haunch of venison roast on an iron spit as he held a smoking tin cup in both of his gloved hands, one of which also held a cigarette. Over Faith’s right shoulder a paint horse and a dark-brown mule cropped the tough blond grass growing along the base of a gray boulder.
They seemed to be on the shoulder of a hill stippled with sparse pines and sheltered with large scarps and boulders. Beyond the horse and the mule, the hill dropped off to a deep valley, beyond which were distant, toothy mountains, their peaks hidden by clouds.
“Think you’ve slept long enough, or you wanna keep sawing wood till noon?”
She turned to see Yakima regarding her over the fire. “Where are we?”
He sipped his tea, then set his cup down and reached for a leather pad.
“About five miles from where I found you. North of the trail. Three men behind us—I spied ’em with a glass I found in the freighters’ wagons. Decided to take a shortcut.”
“Men? Who?”
Yakima shook his head. “They were a ways off, but I think two were Thornton’s hostlers. Couldn’t place the third man.”
Faith blinked to clear the sleep fog and rose up on her elbows. A half dozen blankets and fur robes covered her, pressing her down. The blankets must also be from the freighters’ wagons.
