Mary Connealy (90 page)

Silas swung back up. “Let’s go over that area really closely. These cattle were headed somewhere.”

They were surrounded by rugged scrub pines and tightly bunched groves of quaking aspen. Some still small, others much taller. They were just leafing out for the spring, and they grew like an impenetrable wall in front of the rock wall that seemed to have erupted straight out of the heart of the earth.

The ground was pebbles and stone, and if cattle had come this way, the trail had been concealed by a master. The occasional rare bit of a hoof would have been lost if Red was alone, but Silas knew the trail and had an eagle eye. They urged their horses forward as the slippery rocks underfoot gave way to the scratching branches of the scrub pines. “How did anyone get cattle to come through here?”

“Yeah”—Silas eased his sorrel forward—“through here to nowhere.” Silas pointed.

“I see it. Another print.” Red marveled at the skill of the man. He was good on a trail, but Silas humbled him.

Reaching down, Silas snagged a tiny tuft from one of the sharp branches that tried to claw them to a stop. He held it up. “Fur. A couple of my cattle are red. Herefords. Weirdest thing. We found Herefords in among our herd.”

Silas held the fur so it gleamed orange against the brownish red of his sorrel gelding.

“Those probably are descendants of the cattle Cassie’s first husband owned.” Red studied the fur. “He had some dumb idea about red cattle being the future of the West.”

Silas snorted. “Maybe if the land was lush everywhere and water plentiful. There are places those animals could thrive, but not out here.”

“It wasn’t the only dumb thing the man did.”

Silas smiled and continued urging his unhappy sorrel gelding forward.

Red saw Silas’s eyes sharpen, and Red followed his gaze.

“A game trail. Right here, going …” Silas lifted his eyes.

The rock wall was almost sheer. Red studied it as they drew nearer. Their horses were single file with Silas in the lead, but they moved calmly forward now, no urging necessary. The stone was streaked with shades of brown.

Suddenly, only a horse length ahead of him, Silas vanished.

Gasping, Red leaned forward and saw it. The wall wasn’t solid. The game trail veered into a crevice, disguised by the streaks in the stone and the overlapping of one side of the split in the rock. Red found himself in what would have been a tunnel if it wasn’t open on top, nearly fifty feet overhead and less than four feet wide. It twisted and turned like a sleeping rattler. Red’s throat closed in the tight passageway. There wasn’t room to turn around. If this was a dead end, Red would have to back his horse the whole way out.

The scratch of hooves ahead said Silas was still making progress. Buck walked forward without hesitation.

“Silas?”

The response was only a whisper. “Quiet.”

Falling silent, Red began to study the ground and saw clearly that many animals had passed this way. A hairpin turn in the canyon brought Red to Silas.

The trail widened for a few feet, and Silas waited silently. “The cattle are in here somewhere sure as you’re born. All these cattle prints go in; none come out. The horses, though, go both ways.”

“Must be some kind of dead-end canyon in there with enough grass to feed at least a few head of cows.”

Silas nodded. “The trail coming up to this gap couldn’t be that well covered if it was a big bunch.”

“And there could be a back trail out, too.”

Silas’s eyes narrowed as he considered that. “Then why do the horses come and go this way so often?”

“We’ll soon find out.” Red could see ahead twenty feet before the gap twisted and went out of sight again. “What are we going to face when we catch up to these rustlers? A band of armed men?”

Silas shook his head. “They’ve quit covering their trail since we got inside the canyon. Tracks from four different horses. I’m thinking only two of them are in there right now.” Silas pointed to a distinct print. “Those two horses walked over top of the rest. And one set is even fresher than the other. I think they’ve settled in for a few days, letting the cattle heal from rebranding maybe before they drive them off and make a sale somewhere.”

Red’s eyes met Silas’s. “Do we take ’em?”

Silas was dead serious for a few seconds. Then a slow smile crept across his face. “I kinda wish Belle was here. She’s a mighty fine help in a fight.”

Shuddering to think of Cassie showing up, Red shook his head. “I guess that’s a yes, then.”

“A definite yes.”

“But let’s go slow.” Red swung down off Buck and led the way to the next twist in the gap.

The trail narrowed and they went single file.

Red saw the first glimpse of sky ahead and knew they’d gotten to some kind of canyon. Then a chill cut through him so hard he jerked his horse backward. The poor horse danced back, and Silas had to step lively to keep from getting trampled.

“What’s wrong?” Silas’s voice carried, but just barely.

Red kept backing his horse, and Silas had no choice but to do the same. When they reached the wider spot, Buck backed until he was even with Silas’s sorrel; then Red pulled him to a halt.

“What happened?”

Red opened his mouth. Nothing came out. Finally, feeling foolish, he said, “I just, well, honest, Si, I felt like God jabbed me in the belly with an icicle. Something told me loud and clear not to go into that canyon.”

Silas stared at Red then turned to look at the passageway. At last he nodded. “If someone’s on watch, we might walk right into blazing guns. Okay then, what do we do?”

Red almost heaved a sigh of relief that his gut instinct didn’t bring him ridicule. He knew, though he’d be hard pressed to explain it, that God Himself had just sent him a message. A life-saving message. Emerging from that gap was walking straight into the teeth of a gun.

Silas was a man of the West, used to the odd ways of a trail. He was also a man of faith. Red had talked to him enough to know that. But not all men of faith did a good job of walking in that faith. Not all believers managed to live up to trusting God with their lives. Apparently, Silas did.

And finally, just as sure as the cold poke in Red’s belly came to him, so did something else. “I have an idea.”

I
have an idea.” Belle quit the lassoing lesson. Cassie was getting just plain dependable with her rope. “Let’s go throw your knife for a while.”

Cassie grinned. “That’ll be fun.”

Belle almost groaned at the woman’s complete lack of killer instinct. “This isn’t about fun, Cassie Dawson. How many times do I have to tell you—”

“Yes, ma’am.” Folding her hands meekly, she hunched her shoulders a bit. “This is about self-defense.”

“Cassie!”

Cassie froze then scowled at Belle in such a phony way that Belle had to fight back a laugh.

“Don’t you take that tone with me, Belle Harden. I’ve got all the…the …” Cassie’s scowl faded to a frown. “What’d you call it?”

Emma was pulling her own razor-sharp knife from the sheath on her hip as she walked past Cassie heading toward the target drawn on the barn. She whispered, “Killer instinct.”

Smiling her gratitude, Cassie said, “Thanks, honey. That’s right. Killer instinct. I’ve got a lot of that.”

Belle rolled her eyes, looking to heaven for mercy for this little marshmallow. How had Red kept her alive this long? Of course, Cassie had survived with her first husband, that worthless Lester Griffin, for three years. So she had to have some toughness in her.

Cassie lined up beside Emma and Belle. Emma sent her knife whizzing, and it landed square in the dead center of the big charcoal circle with the black dot in the center for a bull’s-eye.

“Ouch.” Cassie flinched.

“What?” Emma turned. “Did something hurt?”

“No, I just wish we could call it something besides a bull’s-eye. Just thinking of that knife stabbing a poor defenseless bull right in the eye…I mean the bull didn’t do anything to deserve—”

“I’m next.” Belle cut her off, unable to stand this complaint for the fortieth time. Belle’s knife hit with a dull
thud,
a fraction of an inch above Emma’s. “I aimed a little high so our knives wouldn’t scratch. That’s hard on the edge.”

Emma nodded.

Cassie squared off and drew her knife.

Emma stepped back four long, quick steps.

So did Belle. She felt there came a point when it wasn’t cowardly to protect herself, and Cassie’s knife throwing was—no pun intended—that point. “Act like you’re mad at it, Cass.”

Cassie threw with all her might, and it hit the barn. True, the knife hit on its side rather than the tip, but it was progress.

“You’ve got the range down. Good. Try again.”

By the time the afternoon had faded to evening, Cassie had gotten the knife to stick right in the wood nearly ten times. Ten successes out of one thousand throws wasn’t great, but…“A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” Cassie jerked her chin in a determined nod.

“What’s that?” Belle thought it sounded true, though.

“An old saying of my mother’s.” Cassie pulled her knife out of the barn.

Emma and Belle had split the chores so one of them could stay near Cassie to stem any bleeding she brought on herself…and protect the children. Sarah was doing her best to keep the young’uns in the house and well out of harm’s way.

“What’s it mean?” Emma asked.

“It means that if I have to throw this knife wrong ten thousand times to learn how to throw it right, then it’s a good thing I’ve gotten past the first one thousand throws today. Because I am going to learn to defend myself better.”

“At that rate, considering you’re just making up that ten thousand number—but still, it’s a good guess—you’ll be throwing your knife like a pro in ten days.” Belle thought that was wildly optimistic, but she didn’t tell Cassie so.

Cassie beamed. “Maybe I’ll throw it two thousand times tomorrow just to speed things along.”

“You’ve got to leave time to feed your baby.”

“True, suckling a baby does slow a woman down from learning to knife fight.”

Belle laughed just as Sarah called them for supper. She rested one arm on Emma’s waist and the other on Cassie’s. “Let’s go eat.” The three happy knife wielders walked into supper together.

“I found out today Sid hadn’t started spring roundup.” Wade served himself some mashed potatoes.

Abby noticed Wade’s casual tone, but his shoulders tensed as if he braced himself for Mort’s reaction.

“What?” Mort’s fist slammed on the white cloth. The heavy silverware jumped, and Gertie’s water glass tipped on its slender stem. She caught it so deftly, Abby wondered how often Mort punched the table.

“We started today.” Wade spoke calmly considering his father’s face was so bright red. Abby wondered if a head could explode.

“It’s a month late! We’ll be pushing to get the roundup done in time to cut the herd and get a drive to Helena.” Mort shoved against the table and his chair rolled backward. Abby hoped he stayed there, away from the breakables. But Mort rolled himself right back up to the food. “If you’d have been here, this wouldn’t be happening.” Mort backed his rolling chair away from the table, heading straight for Wade, who sat on his left. Lifting his fist, Mort seemed determined to throw a punch.

Wade stood, positioned his chair between himself and his father, and stopped Mort in his tracks. “You think I’m going to sit there and let you hit me? You really think I’ll put up with that from you ever again?” Wade laughed.

It sounded like an honest laugh to Abby. But “ever again” sounded like Wade had known his father’s fists before. There was nothing to laugh about here.

“You’d never have the guts to stand up to me if I wasn’t in this chair. You’re taking advantage of an injured man. You’re a weakling! A little, worthless fool.” Mort grabbed at Wade’s abandoned chair as if he would throw it aside.

Abby flinched and glanced at Gertie. Gertie stared down at her lap, the sorrow on her face telling Abby clearly that this was something that had gone on many times before.

“I know what comes next.” Wade held the chair in place with little effort, his strength far exceeding his father’s. “You’re ashamed to call me your son.” He said the words in a singsong way as if they bored him. “I’ve heard it a thousand times before.”

“I am! How did I raise such a coward? If you’d been here—”

“Pa, stop!” Wade’s voice was clear but calm.

Abby could hear no anger in it. Only strength underlaid with kindness. But this wasn’t a kind of strength she understood. Strength was Wild Eagle’s skill with bow and lance. It was riding a horse, racing across the rugged hills. It was battling hand to hand and winning. It was anger and physical domination. Mort’s strength seemed more familiar, except being bound to that chair stole any true strength.

“You know why I left this place and you know I only came back because you were hurt. We’ve had this out.”

“Don’t start with your preaching.”

“There’ll be no preaching. You’re not a stupid man. I’ve spoken to you of my faith and I won’t speak of it again unless you ask. It’s yours to accept or reject. But know this—if it hadn’t been for your accident, and what I believe is my God-given duty to honor my father, I would
never
have come back.”