Vengeance Road (17 page)

For a good long while, we keep watch in silence, the only sound in the shanty Will's snores. Moonlight winks off the Salt. Shrubs sway in the summer breeze. The mob's camp is still and there's no sign of the Rose Riders. No sign of nothing, not even the coyotes wailing somewhere in the distance.

It gives me too much time to think. 'Bout those poor souls who died in the Tiger. 'Bout Evelyn and if she's safe. 'Bout that wide-eyed Apache girl and if she ever made it outta the alley.

I shift my weight and roll my bad ankle in circles. It's tight and achy, but hopefully it won't swell much if I keep it moving.

“Quit with the racket,” Jesse whispers from his window.

“My rustling clothes is a racket?”

“And creaking floorboards. How's we supposed to hear someone approaching if yer covering their noise?”

I sigh heavy and gaze back out the cross port. Plain's still as calm as ever, river still rippling only on account of the current.

“Why do you hate me, Jesse? We were getting on well enough before our deal . . . when you still thought I were Nate.”

He grunts. “I don't hate you.”

“Yeah, you do.”

“I don't even know you,” he says.

“I told you plenty—'bout my pa and his twin Colts and Prescott and how I like my rifle over a six-shooter.”

“See, anything said by a person pretending to be someone else is kinda hard to believe.” He shifts his footing, and it causes just as much a “racket” as I did. “Just shut pan and keep watch,” he adds. “All right?”

Pa's journal in the waistband of my pants feels heavy suddenly—like a chestful of deception I been lugging round. If'n I'm perfectly honest, I know what Jesse's driving at. It's the very reason I can't think on Pa the same no more. Once I learned all the lies he kept, even the truthful, happy moments seemed tainted.

“I never went to school in Prescott,” I tell Jesse. “The schoolhouse weren't built till I were twelve, but Pa taught me good. My letters ain't bad, and I can read just fine. Whole books and everything. He bought me
Little Women
when the first copies made it to our bookstore.

“It were a gorgeous book, prettiest I ever seen—leather bound and thick. I always wondered how Pa parted with the money for something so . . . useless. Libby needed a new saddle that year, and we were always running low on salt or flour, and yet he went and bought a
book
for my birthday. Now I know right well his finances were fine. It were all a show: the struggling, the act that we were barely getting by. That or he just didn't like spending the gold too often—was worried someone would talk and his demons would catch up with him just like they did. Still, I'm glad he splurged. It's the best damn story I ever read, Jesse. I swear. When I were sick with scarlet fever earlier this year, I just kept thinking,
Beth survived it and you can too.
Course, she heals pretty weak and ends up dying young, but I reckon I'm more like Jo than Beth anyway. And Jo does herself just fine.”

I realize I been talking to my feet this whole time, and I look up. Jesse's staring out the cross port and I ain't even sure he's been listening. But then, without so much as altering his gaze, he asks, “What's it about?”

“
Little Women
? Life. Sisters. Ordinary days, but there were something magic 'bout that. My copy burned in the fire. Couldn't even find a single page when I dug through the house.”

Jesse finally glances my way. Moonlight shines through the shutter, painting a brilliant cross over his heart.

“What?” I says.

He shakes his head. “Yer just so violent and vexed half the time. I'm having trouble picturing you nose-deep in a book, reading all calm-like.”

“Maybe if I had that ten-pound dress on again, looked more like a civilized lady?”

“Nah,” he says. “I like you better like this.” He nods at my flannel. “You didn't look like
you
in that dress.”

“What's that mean?” I says, defensive.

Jesse frowns. “Means it's time for you to wake Will and take yer turn sleeping.”

I shake my head and push off the wall. “Fine,” I says. “Yer the boss.”

I know my tone ain't nice and that I'm getting short with him like Will did, but how damn hard is it to just say what you mean? Evelyn's dress ain't got nothing to do with changing shifts. Halfway to Will, Jesse calls after me.

“Thanks, though,” he says. “For sharing something true.”

“Like I said, the other stuff were true too.”

“You know what I mean.”

And I do. Pa and I can't start over. He can't prove hisself to me again, rebuild the trust that were shattered when I read that letter in Wickenburg. But I can rebuild things with Jesse if I want, and as I shake Will awake I realize that, 'gainst all odds, I want to be a person Jesse Colton trusts. I really do. Whatever the devil that means.

When dawn gleams down
on the Salt River, we find ourselves blessedly safe. The men from Phoenix cleared out and drifted home sometime during the night, and the Rose Riders never reappeared. I ain't sure what to make of it.

As the boys scarf down some breakfast, I change the dressing on my shoulder. It's still sore, but the wound's healing well. Then I flip through the journal. Maps are sketched here and there, and other pages are filled with clues and instructions. A good lot of it's in Spanish, but the words I don't know from my early years when the language were still used in our household, Pa's translated in the margins. His handwriting stands out to me easy, and I can almost imagine a young version of him hunched over the journal, scribbling notes onto the pages while he schemed of gold. Maybe Ma was sitting nearby, helping him translate. Funny how finding the journal and getting rich ruined everything for them. Money's supposed to fix problems, not give you more, but I guess life ain't that straightforward.

I trace a canyon pass with my forefinger. Waylan Rose must've already seen enough of this journal to not need to come back for it, angry mob and all. Maybe he's copied the most important pages. I wrap the cord back round the journal and head outside to join the Coltons. My rolled ankle is tight but bearable, though I'm still glad Silver'll do the walking today.

It's shaping up to be a good morning, with a cheery sky and a steady breeze blowing from the southeast. I load up Silver, and she gives me an anxious nudge in the shoulder. She don't like sitting still long—damn horse's got too much energy for her own good—and I doubt she's happy after all those roaring bullets last night.

I give her a pat or two and climb into the saddle. That's when the guilt hits.

“We gotta bury him,” I announce. “That guy Rose murdered last night.”

“With what shovels?” Will says.

“We at least gotta close his eyes,” I says.

“That we can manage,” Jesse agrees.

We ride to the Salt, where the poor fella lies face-down on the bank. I swing off Silver and drop to my knees beside the corpse. Heaving with all my strength, I roll the man onto his back. When I see his face, I shoot to my feet.

“Aw, hell,” I says.

It's the man who attacked me and Jesse outside the confectionary in Phoenix—the guy I hit with the shovel and musta only knocked out. Waylan Rose killed one of his own men last night, an execution that likely would've happened whether I'd brought the journal forward or not. I doubt the boss man was happy this Rider let me and Jesse slip free.

“Still think you shoulda rode out to meet him?” Jesse says from atop Rebel.

I turn round and glare.

Will spits dip at Mutt, then checks the sun. “Jesse, we got a herd to drive the day after tomorrow and a long way to Tucson still.”

“Someone's anxious to see a chuck wagon,” Jesse teases. Then he frowns and shrugs, reconsidering. “Hell, it
would
be nice. I don't think we've had a proper meal in almost a week.”

Will glares at Jesse. “You know that ain't what I'm driving at. This really the right thing to do?”

“You don't think so, go on and ride south. I told you last night I wouldn't stop you.”

“Jesse, you know I ain't gonna go somewhere you ain't. We stick together, that way when plans blow up in yer face, I can rub it in and say ‘I told you.' Gosh yer thick sometimes.”

“Not as thick as Kate,” he says. “She was gonna go after them Rose Riders completely alone.”

“Could be the jury's still deciding on the both of us,” I says to Jesse.

He don't look amused. Turning his face to the east, he observes the horizon. The Superstition Mountains are barely visible, just small mounds of purple and gray in the morning haze. It's another two days' travel, easy, 'specially 'cus I know that land ain't gonna be flat like here in Phoenix. We'll be traversing rocks and hills and rugged mountain foothills soon enough.

“So what's the plan, Kate?” Jesse says.

“The Salt cuts straight through them mountains,” I says, nodding at 'em in the distance. “We could follow the river and then turn south into the Superstitions. Or there's a pass that cuts north into the mountains— Peralta Trail according to the journal—but we'd have to travel southeast a bit before meeting up with it. And we'd be far from water.”

“Still don't think this is smart,” Will mutters. “What 'bout the ghost shooter, Jesse?”

“That's a fool's tale and you know it,” his brother snaps.

“Well,
something's
been killing folk, and it ain't Apache, according to Waltz's last letter.”

“I don't care what some old mining buddy of Pa's has to say 'bout those mountains. But I do care that Waltz has a seasonal place 'long the Salt and prospecting equipment we can borrow, since he'll be back in Phoenix this time of year.” Jesse turns to me. “Forget the Peralta Trail. Let's follow the river.”

“What's this nonsense 'bout a ghost?” I says. I don't point out that I can take any blasted route I want. I don't need mining gear, just the means to trek the land.

“There's some sharpshooter been firing from high in the mountains,” Will says. “Only, Waltz's never seen him and reckons it could be a ghost, or an Apache spirit protecting their land.”

“Waltz is getting on in age,” Jesse scoffs.

I nearly laugh with him. There ain't no such thing as ghosts. I gave up on believing in such nonsense when God took my mother from me for no apparent reason. And now my father, too. Seems pretty darn clear that the greatest evil in this world walks on two feet right beside us, in the form of men like Waylan Rose and his boys.

“It's called the Superstition Mountains,” I says to Will firmly. “Course it's a land of legend. Now, are we going or are we gonna sit here jawing 'bout ghosts?” I gather Silver's reins. “You wanna beat Rose to that gold still, don't you?”

Jesse clicks Rebel to action, but Will spits dip with extra force. “Goddamn reckless. We ain't gonna make it out alive.”

And this is where we differ, me and the Coltons, 'cus for them, walking out of those mountains matters. But I only want to avenge my father's blood. It ain't like I gotta live through it to be successful. Besides, what do I got to go home to anyway—a burned house and no family? I just gotta keep my heart beating long enough to fire my pistol six times. Once for Waylan Rose, and once for each of his remaining crew.

So long as they go down, I don't much care if I go with 'em.

We follow the Salt River in silence most of the morning. Where the occasional Rose Rider stayed close to the water, hoof marks sink into the damp dirt, marking their trail. But soon I can't see no sign of 'em, and I ain't sure if it's 'cus they turned off to take the Peralta Trail and approach the mountains from the south or if the wind simply erased their tracks.

Despite the breeze, it's turning into another scorcher of a day, sun beating down overhead. Least we're on water, able to refill our canteens whenever necessary and stop to let the horses sip at their leisure. As we carry on, the river wanes and swells, sometimes no more than a dry bed with a trickle running down the middle, sometimes wide enough that we'd need to ford it on our horses to cross. It don't look as deep as the place we crossed last night, though. Hasn't since we left that shanty.

Mutt sneezes and I jolt in my saddle. I don't like the quiet. I's gotten so used to Jesse rambling and jawing all the time that the stillness now seems a distress. Every time I glance his way, thinking of starting a conversation, I end up biting my tongue. I don't got nothing to say. And besides, Jesse ain't looked at me normal since last night. I open up and tell him one true thing and he takes to squinting at me like he don't got a clue who I am.

“We's got a shadow,” he announces, breaking the silence.