Something More (31 page)

“Come on, girlie,” he muttered to the child. “We gotta take us a little walk over there.”

With caution, Saddlebags made his way to the vehicle, never once loosening his hold on his young hostage. He didn't waste time trying to figure out how to disable its engine, and settled instead for using his razor-sharp skinning knife to slice all of its tires. Nobody would be doing any traveling on it for a while.

Now all he had to do was wait for Luke and the kid to come back with the horses.

T
he minutes ticked away with all the slowness of a crawling insect. For the hundredth time, Saddlebags glanced toward the campsite and strained to catch the first faint sound of hoofbeats.

Worried by their absence, Saddlebags calculated again how long it should take to saddle the horses and glanced at the sun, trying to gauge how much time had passed. Even allowing for error, they should have been back.

“What's keepin' 'em?” he mumbled, lapsing into the old habit of talking to himself.

Saddlebags started getting nervous, anxious, the sweat rolling from under his floppy-brimmed hat. He had counted on them coming back with the horses. What was he going to do if they didn't? Without the horses, he'd have no way of carrying all that gold.

Then he heard the distinctive three-beat cadence of cantering horses, and the worry was eliminated. Seconds later, two riders leading three more saddled horses emerged from the trees. Saddlebags quivered with relief at the sight of them.

“Lookee there,” he told the girl. “Here comes yore brother jes' like he promised.” This time Saddlebags felt the tremors of gladness that went through her. “Won't be long now, girlie,” he whispered, then called to Luke when he pulled up near the ATV. “Took ya long enough.”

“It takes time to saddle five horses,” Luke countered and swung out of the saddle. “Now what?”

“Snug up all them cinches. I wouldn't wanta be slowed by a saddle slippin'. An' don't try nothin' funny. I'll be awatchin'.”

One by one, Luke and Tobe checked all the cinches, tightening two and leaving the other three as they were. After dropping the stirrup on the last saddle, Luke announced, “You're all set.”

“I will be once you git that gold stowed in them saddle pouches. An' make sure they're tied tight t' the saddle,” he warned.

While they loaded the gold, Saddlebags moved closer, frog-walking the girl with him. If there was going to be trouble, it would come now when he was close to getting away. Recognizing that, Saddlebags was doubly alert.

As soon as the last ingot was tucked in the saddle pouch, Saddlebags issued the next order, “Now, tie them horses nose to tail—'cept fer that big gray. Leave him loose.”

Luke did as he was told, then swung around to confront him. “All right, we've got the gold loaded on the horses. Now let Dulcie go.”

“Please,” Angie inserted quickly, unable to bear the look of terror on the girl's white face a minute longer. “She'll only slow you down.” She hesitated a beat, then rushed, “If it's a hostage you want, take me instead.”

The old man smiled slyly. “I planned on it.” He nodded toward the lead horse in the tied line of four. “Get on that first horse.”

When Angie moved to obey him, Luke reached out to stop her. “No. Don't go with him.”

“I have to,” Angie insisted, unable to shake the feeling of responsibility.

“If you want this 'un free, you'd better let her get on that horse,” Saddlebags declared.

Grimness ridged all the muscles in Luke's face as he released her and stepped back, giving Angie a clear path to the chestnut horse. In her side vision, she was aware of Saddlebags moving sideways toward the gray gelding as she gathered up the reins, stepped a toe into the stirrup and swung aboard.

From her vantage point astride the chestnut, Angie had a clear view of the old man. With his mount's muscled chest partially blocking him from the sight of the others, Saddlebags let go of Dulcie with a quick push, sheathed the knife and swung the rifle off his shoulder, all in one fluid motion.

Dulcie stumbled forward and sprawled hands-first onto the ground with a frightened cry, distracting the others while the old man mounted the gray. By the time Tobe rushed forward to pick up his sister, Saddlebags had all of them covered with the rifle.

“Git goin'.” He motioned Angie forward with a slight wave of the rifle barrel.

Without hesitation, Angie urged the chestnut into a trot rather than give Saddlebags a chance to reconsider and decide her hands should be tied. What advantage the lack of restraint might give her, she didn't know. And she wouldn't know until some opportunity presented itself.

The trot quickly accelerated into a canter, with Saddlebags taking up a position on her left flank and the rest of the horses trailing in a line behind her. She couldn't help noticing the way the old man clung to the saddlehorn, his body bouncing in the seat with all the grace of a feed sack. But he maintained the pace until they reached the mouth of the canyon. There, he slowed the gray gelding to a fast walk and glanced over his shoulder at their back trail.

Angie did the same. “They'll follow us. You know that.”

“McCallister, he might,” the old man agreed with a thoughtful nod. “But the kid'll have t' worry about the girl. Ole Fargo, he's too crippled an' Griff, he ain't in any shape t' go more than a mile 'r two. Yup, McCallister's the one, an' the others'll slow him down.”

Angie was afraid he was right. She couldn't count on anyone coming to her rescue. The rifle, she noticed, was once more slung across his back out of the way. But she had also previously observed how swiftly he could bring it into play.

Still, she felt obligated to say, “You aren't going to get away with this.”

“It's my gold,” he stated emphatically. “After all the years I spent lookin' fer it, I earned it fair an' square.”

“But what good is it?” Angie argued.

“Good?” He looked at her as if she'd taken leave of her senses. “It's gold.”

“But what will it buy you?” she reasoned. “You can't walk into a store, plunk a bar of gold on the counter, and buy yourself food or clothes—or even a place to sleep.”

He grunted a non-answer, then said, “I'll figure that out when we git t' Canada.”

“We?” She was startled by the pronoun, stunned that he planned to force her to accompany him that far. “I'm not going to Canada.”

But he didn't react to her defiant statement the way she expected. “Maybe Canada ain't a good idea. Close as it is, they might figure we'd hightail fer its border. Mexico is a better idea. It's warm there.”

Mexico was even farther than Canada, Angie thought with a kind of panic. She considered making a break for it right then. But with the other horses tied behind hers, she knew she wouldn't make it. A poor horseman or not, Saddlebags would still catch up with her.

The finger rock jutted into the skyline directly ahead of them, the same formation that had pointed out the canyon's location only days before. It reminded Angie of the letter and all the unanswered questions she had about her grandfather.

“Do you know what happened to my grandfather?” she demanded. But Saddlebags gave no sign that he had heard her question as he gazed into the distance, absorbed in heavy thought. “Look, I know that somehow you got your hands on his copy of the letter or you wouldn't have known about the eagle rock. Did he give it to you? Do you know how he died?”

“Don't matter how a man dies,” he growled out of a corner of his mouth. “When he's dead, he's dead.”

Angie started to argue and abruptly broke it off, chilled by a thought that made her blood run cold. Had Saddlebags killed him for the letter? Was she riding beside her grandfather's murderer? What would happen when Saddlebags decided he didn't need her any longer as a hostage? Would he simply turn her loose? Or would he decide she needed to be eliminated? Anyone who had killed once wouldn't hesitate to kill again.

Angie's desire to escape had been strong before, but it was even stronger now.

They angled across a shallow, dry creek bed. As they climbed its long sloping bank, Angie noticed the chestnut's uneven gait.

“My horse is limping,” she said to Saddlebags. “I think he must have picked up a stone in his shoe.”

Not taking her word for it, Saddlebags studied the horse's walk for himself, then pulled up. “Looks like the left front,” he concluded. “You'd better git down an' dig it out. An' don't take all day about it. We gotta' keep movin'.”

Without a word, Angie dismounted and lifted the chestnut's left hoof. She saw at once that a stone wasn't the problem. “He's thrown a shoe.”

“A shoe?” Saddlebags hopped off the gelding and came around to take a look.

While Angie held the chestnut's reins, he inspected its hoof, then straightened and froze in sudden suspicion. In a flash, he was in motion, going down the line checking the hooves of the other horses. Another shoe missing. A third one. By the time he located the fourth, Saddlebags was sputtering in anger.

“This is McCallister's doin'. Not that many shoes git throwed by accident. Figured on slowin' me down with sore-footed horses, that's what he did. That dirty, rotten . . . I oughta throttle him with my bare hands,” he ranted. “He knowed I needed these horses t' tote that gold.”

From the chestnut's head, Angie watched Saddlebags stomping about, his anger growing by the minute. Suddenly it dawned on her that this was her chance to slip away while he was too preoccupied with impotently venting his wrath to notice.

She glanced around, seeking the nearest cover and spotting a thicket of heavy brush farther up the bank of the dry creek bed. Angie ducked under the chestnut's neck, using its bulk to shield her from his sight, took two long and cautious steps toward the brush, then broke into a crouching run toward it.

She was a foot away from ducking behind it when she heard his discovering shout, “Hey! Come back here!”

Spurred by his yell, Angie dashed around the brush and dove into the densest part of the thicket, branches whipping and slashing at her. On her hands and knees, she crawled forward, making enough noise to alert an army. At last she reached the wall of the bank and slipped as quietly as she could into the dry creek bed. She flattened herself against its earthen side and struggled to regulate her heavy breathing.

“You crazy fool!” Saddlebags shouted from somewhere above her. “Snakes hole up in that brush during daylight. Yore gonna git yoreself bit.”

Angie closed her eyes, relieved she hadn't known that when she piled into the thicket. Opening her eyes again, she strained to catch some further sound that would more precisely pinpoint Saddlebags's location. Nothing.

Recognizing that the shallow bank provided dubious cover, Angie knew she had to keep moving but which way? Toward the canyon—the instant the thought occurred to her, she knew it was the right one. If Saddlebags was right and Luke was following them, then that was the direction she needed to go.

Careful to make as little noise as possible, Angie gathered herself for the sprint across the dry wash. She raced across it, the crunching scrape of her footsteps on the gravel sounding loud in the stillness, but this time there was no responding shout from Saddlebags. She scrambled up the opposite bank and zigzagged around the brush clumps until she reached a large boulder. She slipped behind it and waited, listening, remembering too well how soundlessly Saddlebags could move, like a stalking cat, all stealth and silence. She glanced toward the canyon, searching out the next bit of cover the land offered in that direction.

“You might as well come out.”

Angie stiffened at the sound of Saddlebags's voice. She could tell he was close. Very close.

“I know yore behind that rock,” he said, and her heart sank. “I can see yore shadow.”

What now, she wondered. Should she run for the canyon and risk being shot? Or come out and take the chance she would have another opportunity to escape later, especially if Luke caught up with them? Deciding that the latter seemed to be the wisest course, Angie started to push away from the boulder.

“Stay where you are, Angie!” Luke's shouted order came from somewhere to her right. “Drop the rifle, Saddlebags.”

Without thinking, Angie swung around to locate him. There he stood on a low knoll not twenty yards away, a rifle tucked into the crook of his shoulder as he sighted down its barrel, taking aim on the old man ten feet from her.

“You ain't takin' my gold, McCallister,” Saddlebags yelled, his back still to Luke.

“I don't want your gold,” Luke snapped. “Just drop the rifle and turn around.”

Saddlebags turned, but he didn't drop the rifle. He swung it up. Before he could lever a bullet into the chamber, Luke fired.

The bullet struck the old man in the side, spinning him in a staggering quarter turn back toward Angie. He struggled to regain his balance, grabbed for his side, and stumbled on a rock, losing his grip on the old rifle as he fell. Seeing it lying free on the ground, Angie ran over and snatched it up an instant before his clawing fingers could grasp it.

By that time, Luke had reached them. Bending, he reached inside the old man's baggy coat and removed the skinning knife. He handed it to Angie, his glance rummaging over her.

“Are you okay?”

“I'm fine.” She managed to offer him a quick, weak smile of assurance, conscious that her legs felt just a little bit rubbery.

On the ground, Saddlebags moaned, giving Angie no chance to dwell on her now-shaky nerves. Now that he was unarmed and wounded, she wasn't afraid of him anymore, especially with Luke here.

She dropped to her knees beside the old man. The floppy hat was still on his head. Bright red blood oozed from between the fingers of his left hand, clasped tightly against his right side. Swiveling from the hips, she laid the knife and rifle well out of reach, then turned back and attempted to pry his hand away from the wound. The old man's wrist felt like little more than skin over hard bone, yet he resisted her effort with surprising strength.