“Shhh,” he said, cutting her off. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. “Is that your father?”

  She didn’t answer. Instead she nodded.

  “You realize he’s dead, don’t you?” he offered, his tone turning softer, consolatory.

  “No!” she said, shaking her head. But then she caught herself as reality came to her. “Yes—I mean, I don’t know. . . .”

  “Yes, he’s dead, ma’am,” Sam said in a firmer tone. “He’s been dead awhile, and we need to bury him.” He paused, then added, “Do you understand me? He needs to be buried.” He didn’t want to mention that the smell would soon summon buzzards, and any other carrion scavengers on the desert floor.

  She stood silent for a moment, staring at the small blanketed figure. “Yes,” she said finally, at the end of a sigh. “I know he must be buried.”

  “Yes, ma’am, he must,” Sam said gently. As he spoke he looked all around inside the wagon, at heavy iron cooking utensils stacked all the way to the wagon’s roof—pots and pans, iron skillets, Dutch ovens, iron kettles as large as a witch’s cauldron. Heavy peddler’s items, he noted to himself—items that would have to be unloaded if they were going to move this wagon without turning it over sidelong down the sandy hillside.

  Chapter 4

  The Ranger and the woman spent over an hour lowering the top half of the heavy cooking utensils to the floor of the peddler’s wagon to better center the weight. Many of the items they unloaded and stacked in the sand on the hillside. For the time being Sam laid the blanketed body of the woman’s father on the sand beside the stacked items. Sam noted a clear difference in the steadiness of the wagon once the load was rearranged. As they’d lowered the items still inside the wagon, they had deliberately loaded most of it onto the high side of the wagon floor, giving the wagon more resistance to tipping over.

  “This will have to do,” Sam said finally, standing back in the hot desert sun, seeing that the wagon still had a sharp lean to it. The woman stood beside him as he stooped and picked up the rope she had rummaged from inside the wagon. She watched him uncoil the rope and check its condition and judge its strength.

  “How will we do this?” she asked, following him as he took the end of the rope to the high side of the tilted wagon.

  “First,” Sam said, “I’m tying this to the wagon, up high.” He stepped up on the side of the wagon carefully and tied the rope around an iron cargo rail. “I’m going to steady the wagon with this rope. We’re going to walk it down to the flats.”

  “Am I going to drive the wagon while you steady it?” she asked, sounding worried.

  “No, that’s too dangerous,” Sam said. He stepped back down and uncoiled the rope as he walked to where the dun stood near the gaunt wagon horse. He dropped the remaining coil of rope beside the dun. The woman stayed right beside him.

  “What, then?” she asked, following him to the wagon horse.

  Cupping his hand beneath the horse’s soft, sandy chin, he walked it to the front of the wagon as he spoke.

  “I’m going to hitch this fellow to the high side. I want you to walk him forward. Keep him at a long angle all the way down. Don’t stop until the wagon is sitting level, down on the flats.”

  “And you’re going to hold it with the rope?” she asked, sounding doubtful.

  “As best I can,” Sam said. “If you see me losing it and it starts falling over, don’t try to stop it, get out of the way.”

  “But—but what about Andre?” she said, gesturing at the wagon horse as Sam hitched it to the right side of the wagon.

  “Andre . . . ?” Sam brushed sand from the horse’s muzzle and patted the side of its head. “Well, Andre will have to take his chances.” He turned to the woman. “The only other choice is to leave the wagon behind and ride Andre out of here.”

  “But my belongings, all of my father’s business goods, are inside it,” she said, looking the tilted wagon up and down.

  “I understand,” Sam said. He stopped hitching the horse and stood looking at her.

  She stood looking at the horse for a moment, then turned to the Ranger.

  “All right, it must be done,” she said with finality.

  Sam nodded and turned back to the horse. He spoke as if consoling the horse.

  “Don’t worry, Andre,” he said. “I’m hitching you in a way you shouldn’t get tangled if the wagon falls over. Get this wagon down there in one piece, I’ll see if I have some grain for you.”

  The roan raised its white face with red freckles to him.

  The woman watched how he handled the horse. She saw a firm gentleness in his hands, his touch. She heard the same quality in his words. She watched him finish with Andre and turn to give her the long wagon reins.

  “Here we go, ma’am,” he said.

  “My name is Lilith,” she said, taking the reins.

  Sam nodded.

  “All right,” he said. “Here we go, Lilith.”

  “It is the name of Adam’s first wife,” she added. “Adam, from the Bible . . . ?” she said.

  “I see,” Sam said quietly. “I didn’t know he’d been previously married.”

  “Oh yes,” she said, arranging the reins as she spoke. “It’s a long story.”

  “I bet it is,” Sam said. He stopped and picked up the rope at his feet and stepped away to get a long, steady grip on the wagon.

  “And what is your name?” she called out to him. “What may I call you?”

  Sam looked back at her as he walked out any slack in the length of rope. He hesitated for a moment before answering.

  “Joe,” he said finally. “Just call me Joe.”

  “Joe what?” she asked as he continued walking out the rope.

  He stopped again and looked back at her.

  “Joe’s enough,” he said. This was what he didn’t like about working without a badge—the deception, he reminded himself. The way he had to treat people. “Let’s get this wagon down there, Lilith,” he said. “That’s the main thing.”

  The woman looked a little embarrassed, he thought, as she turned away and stood with the wagon reins in her hand. She quickly gathered and coiled the long reins and left a three-foot length between her and the horse. She looked up at the Ranger.

  “Tell me when you’re ready, Joe,” she said.

  Standing thirty feet up the hillside with the end of the rope in his hands, Sam braced both feet into the rocky sand and leaned his body against the weight of the tilted wagon. At this uphill angle he could feel his weight making a difference against the wagon.

  “Take the horse forward,” he called down to the woman.

  The woman took a step and gave a tug on the reins. The horse lurched forward and put its back into getting the wagon wheels turning once again in the sand. Sam stood braced and moved along parallel down the hillside, keeping himself leaning against the tilted wagon. As the wagon began to move forward, it slowly leveled in the sand. Sam felt it grow steadier through the rope in his hand. As he moved along with the slow wagon, the dun came forward and followed behind him.

  “This is going to work,” he whispered to himself. Yet he kept the rope drawn taut, not taking any chances as the wagon crept forward, less tilted, at a safe shallow angle toward the flatlands below.

  As the woman led the peddler’s wagon forward, keeping her eyes on both the horse and wagon, from Sam’s vantage point on the hillside above the flatlands he spotted three riders come into sight out of the wavering morning heat. As the riders moved closer, he saw a man on foot trotting along in front of them. Sensing trouble, he knew that all he could do was keep the wagon moving at the same slow pace and hope he and the woman reached the level desert floor before the riders caught up to them.

  Fortunately the riders were still over a hundred yards away as the wagon rolled onto the flatland and the woman collapsed in relief against the horse’s skinny neck and embraced the animal.

  “We made it,” she cried out, almost sobbing with relief. “Thank goodness, we have made it.”

  But the Ranger had no time to stop and congratulate himself. As soon as he saw the wagon was safe, he dropped the rope and stepped back to the dun, who stood six feet behind him. He slid his Winchester rifle from the saddle and levered up a round.

  “Get inside the wagon, ma’am,” he said, sidestepping down the sandy hillside to where Lilith stood with her arms still around Andre’s neck. Having not yet seen the approaching riders, she stared at the Ranger with a puzzled look.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  Sam gestured toward the dust rising and roiling behind the horse’s hooves. “Riders coming,” he said.

  As she looked toward the riders, Sam saw fear come into the woman’s dark eyes.

  “Might be nothing, ma’am,” he said to keep her calm. “But get inside, just in case.”

  As she moved toward the rear door of the wagon, she kept staring toward the approaching riders. They were more clearly in sight now as if the gait of their dusty horses had parted the wavering heat. In front of the riders Sam could see a rope looping to the ground between one of the riders and a young Indian running barefoot, his hands tied behind his back.

  The woman saw the Indian too. She stopped before reaching for the wagon door.

  “They have a prisoner,” she said, hesitating. “Maybe they are lawmen?”

  “Maybe,” Sam said, not having time to discuss the matter. “Please get in the wagon. We’ll find out soon enough.

  She dropped the reins to the wagon horse and hurried to the wagon door as the riders slowed their horses and proceeded forward. Sam watched the Indian slow to a trot and stagger a bit as the contingent rode right up to within fifteen feet of him before coming to a halt.

  “Looks like you had trouble with the hillside, stranger,” the man in the lead said, a rope running from his hand to the Indian’s neck. He gave a greasy grin through a tangled sand-filled beard.

  Before Sam could offer a reply, the men nearest the lead rider gave an equally humorless grin.

  “Must be he’s new to these parts, Roden,” he said. “A tenderfoot, I’m guessing.” He gave Sam a smug grin. His eyes went across the unloaded items and the blanket-wrapped body lying in the sand up along the dusty hillside.

  Sam didn’t bother to explain or reply. He saw scalps hanging in a bunch around the lead rider’s saddle horn. Recognizing a bullying attitude in the making, he cocked the Winchester in his hands.

  “Ride on,” he said firmly.

  “Whoa, now,” said the lead rider, Bo Roden. “No need to be inhospitable, stranger.”

  “Inhospitable was you riding right up here without helloing the wagon,” Sam said. He leveled the Winchester. “Now ride on.”

  “Hold on, mister,” said Roden, his hands raised chest high in a show of peace. “That was wrong and rude of us, I admit. I’m Bo Roden. This is Ollie McCool. We’ve got a man gut-shot here and likely to die on us if we don’t take care of him fast.” Beside him the other man raised his hands too. They parted their horses enough for Sam to see the third man drooped low in his saddle, his lap and lower belly covered with blood.

  “It looks like you should have stopped before now,” Sam said.

  “That’s true too,” said Roden. “But here we are, and there he is, damn near bled out already. Can we lay him down here? Maybe get some binding cloth from you?” As he spoke, Sam saw the young Indian sink to his knees, his lips cracked and bloody.

  “Get him down, take care of him,” Sam said. “I’ll see about some cloth. He sidestepped to the dun with his rifle still leveled. He took down a canteen and pitched it to the young Indian. The Indian stared at the canteen, then at him. Then he jerked the canteen up, opened it and started drinking deeply.

  “Damn it, fellow, the Injun can’t have water!” said the second rider. He started to jump his horse forward. But Sam’s cocked rifle stopped him. “We’ve got a bet how far he goes before he dies of thirst!” the man said.

  “Bet’s off,” Sam said. He looked at the young Apache and gave him a nod to continue. Then he looked back at the riders. To the second rider he said, “If I’m going have to shoot you, let’s go on and get it done.”

  “Wait! Don’t shoot!” the second rider said.

  The lead rider gave a dark cackling laugh as the second rider backed his horse away warily.

  “Ollie, this man does not like your style,” he said. “Maybe you best cool your heels. I believe he’d shoot a man for little reason.”

  “You’re right. I will,” Sam said. “Now, get your wounded man down and tend to him. Then clear out of here.”

  • • •

  On the shaded side of the peddler’s wagon, Sam stood with his rifle in hand and watched as the two scalp hunters probed deep into the screaming wounded man’s belly with a long skinning knife and dug out a rifle bullet. The dun and the wagon horse, Andre, stood at the rear edge of the wagon and watched stony-eyed. Inside the wagon the woman sat huddled in a corner, her hands over her ears.

  When the bullet was out, the two scalp hunters saw the wounded man collapse into silence. Roden slapped his docile face back and forth.

  “Alvin, wake up, you son of a bitch,” he shouted at the limp bloody figure. “Don’t you die, not after all we’ve done for you!”

  “You’re wasting your breath, Roden. He’s already done it,” Ollie McCool said. He stood and wiped his bloody hands on a cloth and stepped over to the Ranger while Bo Roden stood up and gave the dead man an angry kick to the ribs.

  “You was always weak.” Roden sneered down at the corpse.

  “Well, that’s that,” said McCool. Dismissing his dead comrade, he stared at Sam. “Right now I’d kill and skin an Alabama preacher for a drink of whiskey,” he said.

  “I have no whiskey,” Sam said curtly.

  “Why don’t I just step inside and look around for myself?” McCool said.

  “Stay out of the wagon,” Sam said, sidestepping in between McCool and the rear wagon door.

  McCool stopped, but he gave a sly grin.

  “What’s wrong? You afraid the woman in there ain’t safe around the likes of scalp hunters?”

  Sam only stared at him without reply.

  “Oh, I know there’s a woman in there, mister,” said McCool. “I saw her no sooner than we broke the horizon. So don’t try to tell me there’s not.” He sniffed the air. “I can smell a woman’s hair farther than a tracking hound.”

  Sam still only stared.

  “Whoever is in there is no concern of yours,” he said. “Now back off.” He kept the rifle aimed, ready to fire.

  “Leave it alone, Ollie. You’re pushing your luck,” Bo Roden warned McCool over his shoulder.

  “I don’t like being lied to,” McCool said, staring into Sam’s face, working his courage up. “I believe he’s got whiskey, and I know damn well there’s a woman inside this gypsy rig—”

  The ranger’s rifle butt snapped around and slammed into his ribs before he got his words finished. McCool grunted, dropped to his knees bowed at the waist and fell over onto his side. Sam stood holding the downed man’s gun, a battered nickel-plated revolver that he had slipped from his holster as he fell.

  Roden stopped what he was doing and stared, his hand wanting to go for his holstered black-handled Colt, but stopping under the Ranger’s cold gaze.

  “Touch it, I’ll kill you,” Sam said to Roden. He held the Winchester one-handed as he shoved McCool’s pistol behind his gun belt. McCool groaned and grunted with his hands clasped to his sternum.

  Roden raised his hand away from his gun butt. Sam stayed fixed in place, ready to squeeze the Winchester’s trigger.

  “I—I can’t breathe,” McCool rasped in the sand.

  “Then don’t,” Sam said sharply. To Roden he said, “Get your man bandaged and get out of here. This one is bent on making me kill him.” He gestured toward McCool on the ground.

  “He’s an ass. I could have told you as much,” said Roden. “We’re leaving. Just give me a minute to finish here.”

  “Damn it to hell, Roden!” McCool said, suddenly catching his breath, staring at ground level beneath the wagon. “The Injun’s gone!” He began struggling to his feet, still clasping his sternum.

  “The hell . . . ?” said Roden, standing quickly, hurrying around the wagon to where they had tied their horses and the young Apache on the other side. “He’s gone! Horses, rifles and all!” He turned a complete circle, enraged, bewildered, his arms spread wide. “I knew better than to leave him out of sight!” He stooped and picked up the rope that had bound the Apache’s wrists behind him. The rope was chewed through.

  McCool said in a strained voice, “He slipped the rope under him, got it in front and gnawed through it like a rat. Damn rope-chewing varmint.” He flung the short length of rope away.

  The Ranger stood in silence, staring out across the desert flatland, seeing hoofprints of the three horses leading out toward a stand of rocky hills without so much as a rise of dust. While the two scalp hunters stood a few feet in front of him staring out across the desert floor, Sam stepped forward, lifted Roden’s pistol from his holster and stepped back. He was ready when Roden and McCool turned to face him.

  “He’s even got our bounty scalps we’ve been collecting!” Roden said, staring at Sam. “You’ve got to give us loan of these horses to catch him! We’ll bring them back.”

  “Not a chance,” Sam said.

  “I ain’t asking. We’re taking the horses,” Roden said. He started to turn surly, his gun hand ready to draw until he spotted his revolver in Sam’s hand, McCool’s gun shoved down behind his belt.

  “You’re not taking anything,” Sam said. “You are unarmed and afoot. Better watch your manners.”

  “Mister, you’ve got to help us,” Roden said, his attitude softening quickly as Sam’s words sank in. “We’ll pay you, soon as we get them scalps back and get them turned in for bounty.”

 

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