The others were that she had no clear knowledge of the fate awaiting Sam and how she could change it, that and the fear for herself and Lori, chiefly for Lori, that made her drag reluctant feet.

  She was close to the Wells place, maybe only a mile or so, and now fear was a constant companion that nagged at her unmercifully.

  Hannah unsaddled the horse and turned it loose on grass at the bottom of a hollow, then walked back to the riverbank.

  The day had grown even darker, and to the north, in the direction of the Mogollon Mountains, thunder banged and lightning glittered.

  The rain came a few minutes later, a steady, wind-driven downpour that hissed on the leaves of the cottonwoods and higher up the slopes made the graceful aspens dance.

  Hannah’s thin dress soaked very quickly, and when a horseman slowly emerged through the rain, riding toward her, she was uncomfortably aware of the wet cotton. Hannah recognized the rider as Skate Santos, and she stepped into the shelter of the trees. She took the derringer from her pocket and waited.

  Santos’s waist-length hair hung over his shoulders in sopping braids and he rode with his head bent against the wind and rain.

  Hannah waited until the man was a few feet away, then stepped into his path.

  “Hands up,” she said, realizing how silly that sounded.

  Santos drew rein and grinned, both hands on the saddle horn.

  “You can put the stinger away, woman,” he said. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  Hannah kept the derringer trained on the breed. “Where’s Sam?” she said. “Tell me and don’t lie to me.”

  “You know where he is.”

  “What’s happened to him?”

  “So far, not too much, though he’ll have some new scars on his face.”

  “Did you do that? Did you harm him?”

  Santos shook his head. “No, not me. Jake Wells did it with a razor.”

  “And you didn’t stop him?”

  “I wasn’t being paid to stop him. Your man means nothing to me.”

  “Is he in the saloon?”

  “No, he’s staked to the ground outside the saloon.” Santos glanced at the sky. “Not really the weather for that, though.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why is Sam staked to the ground?”

  “Jake intends to skin him alive, a little bit at a time.” He leaned forward in the saddle. “I tied his wrists and ankles with rawhide, and this rain will stretch it. If you want the save your man, I guess now would be the time to do it. While the rain lasts, you understand?”

  “You staked him?”

  “Sure I did. Jake Wells paid me ten dollars to do it.”

  “You’re a piece of filth,” Hannah said.

  And she triggered the derringer.

  Chapter 37

  Sam Sawyer opened his eyes and stared at a gray sky shot with black that looked so close he could reach out and touch it. He wondered if he could do that, touch the sky and grab a handful of thundercloud, sizzling with lightning. He tried to move his right arm and could not. His wrist was pinned to the ground. Sam tried to move his left arm with the same result and his ankles were tied, his legs spread wide.

  The rain hammered into his face and pained him. His cheeks hurt as though he’d cut himself shaving . . .

  And then he remembered.

  Jake Wells had cut him with a razor, cut him bad, and promised more.

  Sam struggled against his bonds, but the rawhide cut into his wrists and the stakes that held them in place refused to budge.

  Lightning flared across the sky, and thunder banged a moment later, and it was about then that Sam gave up. He was done for. That was the long and short of it.

  He opened his dry mouth and caught rainwater that was cool on his tongue and trickled down his parched throat.

  He stared at the sky again, blinking in the downpour, and wondered when Jake Wells would come for him.

  Sam told himself that he wouldn’t scream, but he knew he would. No man feels himself getting skinned an inch at a time and does not cry out in pain and fear.

  To his right he heard the creak of a door. He turned his head and saw Dan Wells step into the rain. So close was Sam to the door that he could hear the rain drum on Wells’s hat and the squelch of his boots in the mud.

  Then Wells loomed over him.

  “How are you doing, Pops?” he said. He grinned. “I trust you’re comfortable.”

  “You go to hell,” Sam said. He could feel his hat still on his head and he thought that middling funny.

  “Just stepped out to tell you that Jake will be visiting soon,” Wells said. “He’s got big plans for you, Pops, big plans.”

  “He’s trash, Wells, just like you,” Sam said.

  “Big talk from a man lying in the mud who’s going to get his skin stripped,” Wells said.

  He kicked Sam viciously in the ribs, choosing the scabbed-over spot where Jeptha’s bullet had burned him.

  Wells’s boot thudded into Sam again and again and he gasped in pain.

  “That was for my brother,” Wells said. “But it’s only a taste. Later I’ll help Jake with the skinning, and I won’t be gentle.”

  Sam tried to cuss Wells but couldn’t, all the breath kicked out of him. He tried to spit at Wells, but his mouth was too dry.

  But the big outlaw saw Sam make the attempt and it amused him.

  Tall and terrible in the rain, Wells drew his gun.

  “Pop! Once right in the belly,” he said. “Pretty soon you’d scream like Moseley did. Wouldn’t you, old-timer?”

  “Go . . . to . . . hell . . . ,” Sam managed in a dry croak.

  “Nah, a bullet would be too easy, too quick,” Wells said. “Best we wait for Jake and his razor, huh? You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  Sam said nothing, but he was scared, more scared than he’d ever been in his life.

  Wells’s face took on a pretended concern. “Jeez, Pops, I wish I could give you some hope, just a glimmer to keep your spirits up, like. But I can’t. All the people you rode with are dead. There ain’t nobody coming to rescue you, and that’s real sad. I mean, sad for you.”

  Wells tipped back his head and laughed, great, roaring peals that competed with the thunder and chilled Sam to the bone.

  Dan Wells was still laughing when he opened the saloon door and stepped inside.

  * * *

  Despair gripped Sam Sawyer as the downpour lashed at him and the heavy, sullen sky threatened to fall and crush him to a pulp.

  Had Wells been telling the truth? Were they all dead? Were Hannah and Lori lying out there somewhere in the wild land, their pale, dead faces turned to the rain?

  A great shuddering sigh wrenched Sam’s body.

  He knew then that he’d lived too long.

  It was time for him to die.

  The thunder roared and he closed his eyes.

  Chapter 38

  The .41 round from Hannah’s derringer burned across the thick meat of Santos’s left shoulder.

  The man didn’t even flinch and Hannah fired her second barrel.

  This time the bullet went . . . well, she didn’t know where it went. Nowhere near Santos—that was for certain.

  The breed looked at his torn shirt, stained by a streak of blood, and smiled. “You’re a regular she-wolf,” he said. “It’s a quality I very much admire in a woman.”

  “If I’d two more bullets I’d kill you,” Hannah said, her eyes blazing.

  Santos nodded. “Yep, I guess you would at that.”

  He swung out of the saddle and walked toward her through the rattle of the raking rain.

  “No,” Hannah said, her voice unsteady. She backed away and searched for the hot glow in the man’s eyes.

  Santos stopped and stared at the ground, shaking his head. When he looked at Hannah again, his smile was still in place. “Why does a woman, especially a homely one, think that every man she meets wants to harm her?”

  Hannah was outraged. “How dare you! I’m not home—”

  She saw the breed’s smile mocking her outburst, and, flustered, she chose the path of least resistance. “Will you give me the road?”

  Santos swept off his hat and bowed. “Of course, dear lady.”

  Soaked, her wet hair falling over her face, Hannah pulled what was left of her dignity around her like a ragged cloak.

  “Then I’ll be on my way,” she said. “If you promise not to follow me.”

  “I won’t come after you,” Santos said. “But how will you do it? How will you save Sam Sawyer?”

  “I don’t know. But I’ll find a way.”

  “Do you have money? Two hundred dollars?”

  “Of course not.”

  “For you, I would kill the Wells brothers for two hundred dollars.” He smiled. “My woman’s rate.”

  “I’ll free Sam by myself,” Hannah said. “I don’t need your help.”

  “No, you won’t free him. They’ll kill you—or worse.”

  “Then that’s a chance I’ll have to take.”

  “What about your daughter?”

  Hannah bit her lip but made no answer.

  “She is lucky to have such a mother, and your man is lucky to have such a woman,” Santos said. “Aiiiee, you are indeed a she-wolf.”

  “No, I’m not. I’m scared to death,” Hannah said. “Now let me pass.”

  “Where is your horse?” Santos said.

  “He’s lame. I let him loose.”

  “Then you have a long walk ahead of you.”

  “I’ll manage,” Hannah said.

  “One thing you should know,” Santos said. “I used rawhide to bind your man’s wrists and ankles.”

  “What are you telling me?” Hannah said.

  “Only that rawhide stretches when it is wet.”

  Hannah thought about that for a few moments, then said, “Thank you.”

  Santos said nothing. He stepped to his horse and swung into the wet saddle.

  “Good luck,” he said, waving a careless hand.

  He kneed his mount forward and Hannah watched him disappear into the rain and the scowling anger of the brawling day.

  * * *

  It took Hannah the better part of an hour to reach the Wells place on the Gila. The rain had swollen the river slightly and the current was much faster, but she hiked up her skirts and waded across, at one point struggling through rushing water up to her armpits.

  Drenched, her hair falling over her face in tight ringlets, she reached the talus slope and started to climb.

  Rivulets of rainwater ran down the incline and Hannah dislodged a shower of shingle with every step she took. She fell often and by the time she reached the rock ledge, her dress was covered in mud from neck to hem and her hands were scraped raw.

  The storm had not kept its promise of continued thunder and lightning, but rain swept through the surrounding pines and a sharking wind bit deep, its breath cold.

  Hannah stepped into the lee of a limestone boulder and her eyes swept the ledge.

  Lamps burned in the saloon against the gloom of the day, but there was nothing human or animal in sight. Even the hog had sought shelter.

  Then Hannah spotted Sam.

  He lay outside the saloon, his arms and legs spread-eagled, the relentless downpour hammering him. He lay as still as death.

  Hannah swallowed hard and tried to wipe rain off her face with her sleeve. The cotton came away pink, her cheek bloodied when she’d fallen on the slope and slammed into loose gravel.

  What was it Santos had said? That the rawhide binding Sam’s ankles and wrists would loosen in the rain.

  She hoped he was right, because she had no knife.

  Down below, she heard the rain-swollen rush of the river, and higher up the slope behind the dugouts, spear-pointed pine trees poked holes in the lowering clouds.

  Hannah forced herself to move, one small step at a time, wary as a doe at a water hole.

  As she got closer to Sam, she saw that the man was not stirring. His head was at an odd angle, forced back on his neck, as though he’d strained mightily against his bonds.

  Hannah stepped toward him on cat feet, then froze, her heart racing. She thought she’d heard the saloon door rattle.

  “It’s the wind,” she told herself. “Only the wind.”

  But fear spiked her to the ground.

  Forcing herself to move, she stepped toward Sam again.

  To the west, the sky opened a crack, allowing a watery shaft of sunlight to briefly splash over the rock ledge.

  “Oh, please . . . oh, please . . . ,” Hannah whispered.

  Please don’t let the door open.

  She reached Sam and knelt beside him. His eyes were shut, and, to her horror, Hannah saw that both of his cheeks had been laid open by a blade. The rain had washed his face clean of blood, but the wounds were deep, red, and angry, like extra mouths.

  She glanced over her shoulder at the rectangle of light that was the saloon window, and then began to work on the rawhide bonds.

  To her surprise, they loosened easily, not because of the rain, but because Santos had tied them that way.

  Hannah didn’t take time to fathom the man’s motives. Slowed by trembling hands, she untied Sam’s wrists and ankles from the wooden stakes and began to drag him away, toward the talus slope.

  * * *

  Sam Sawyer was not a tall man, but he was stocky and solid, and heavy for a woman to move.

  Her hands under his armpits, Hannah dragged the man across the muddy ground, her eyes fixed constantly on the saloon door.

  Stopping often, rain lashing at her, she was only a few yards from the top of the talus slope when Sam regained consciousness.

  He turned his head and looked up at the woman.

  “What are you doing here?” he said.

  “Dumb question,” Hannah said, breathing hard. “I’m trying to save your life.”

  “I can walk.”

  Sam attempted to get to his feet, but his knees buckled and he went down again.

  “You’ve lost blood and it’s weakened you, Sam,” Hannah said. “Lie still and I’ll drag you.” She peered through the gray mantle of the downpour. “When we get to the slope, it will be easier.”

  “Dang it, woman, leave me,” Sam said. “If Jake Wells comes out to cut me some more, he’ll kill you for sure.”

  “Shut up, Sam,” Hannah said. “I can’t spare breath for idle talk.”

  “Hannah, please, let me go,” Sam pleaded.

  “Shut up, Sam,” Hannah yelled.

  * * *

  By the time they had reached the top of the talus slope, the coming night added to the dark of the day. The slope was running rain like a waterfall, and the air smelled of rotting tree roots and wet stone.

  Hannah backed to the edge, dragging Sam, the man’s protests just so many meaningless words that didn’t register on her consciousness.

  The rising wind whipped the woman’s hair, the wet strands writhing across her face like Medusa’s snakes.

  “Hold on, Sam,” she said. “We’re heading down.”

  She started to pull again but became a motionless statue when a man yelled from the saloon door.

  “You, stop right there!”

  “Dang it, Hannah, leave me,” Sam cried out. “Save yourself!”

  A shot racketed through the dreary dusk, and a bullet spurted mud a few inches from Sam’s chest.

  Hannah saw a man hobbling toward her, gun in hand, the bandage around his thigh bobbing white in the gloom.

  She took a step down the slope, then another, dragging Sam with her. Hannah’s breath came in short, sharp, painful gasps and the fingers of both her hands cramped badly, hurting from Sam’s weight.

  A second bullet split the air inches above Hannah’s head, and she tried to hurry her descent.

  It was a bad mistake.

  The high heel of her lace-up boot rolled on a rock and badly turned her ankle. Off balance, she toppled backward, her arms flailing as she was forced to let go of Sam in an effort to regain her footing.

  But the slope was steep, made treacherous by the rain, and she and Sam started to tumble . . . head over heels . . . bouncing down the incline like rubber balls . . . a racketing shower of shingle cascading in their wake.

  Chapter 39

  Hannah Stewart hit the flat with a thump. She glanced up and saw Sam’s cartwheeling body coming at her and quickly rolled out of the way.

  Sam’s back thudded onto the ground and for a few moments he lay still, stunned, a pulse beating in his throat.

  Bullets ripped through the cottonwoods, but Dan Wells was firing blind and none came near.

  Hannah crawled to Sam. “Are you all right?” she said.

  Unable to speak, the man nodded.

  “We need to get out of here, Sam,” Hannah said. “They’ll come after us real quick.”

  Sam struggled for breath. Then, like a man choking on a chicken bone, he managed, “Jake’s leg is broke. He can’t ride. But . . . but Dan will come.”

  Hannah looked around her, her eyes reaching into the rain-flayed night, but she saw nowhere that suggested a safe hiding place.

  “I can walk,” Sam said. The razor cuts on his face were gouging his skin like drawn wires.

  “But I don’t think I can,” Hannah said. “I just tried to move my right ankle and it hurt like fire.”

  “Is it broke?” Sam said.

  “I don’t think so. But it’s sprained maybe.”

 

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