Wild Is My Heart (38 page)

“And you’d be dead,” Sam returned irritably. “What’s done is done. I’d have it no other way. Are you sorry I came, Colt?”

No answer was forthcoming, and his even breathing told her that he had fallen asleep. Thanks to Laura’s medicine, he felt blessedly cooler. With any luck they’d be back at the ranch in five or six days, considering Colt’s condition and their slow method of travel. Once they reached home, Sam reflected, she could decide whether or not to remain. These past days Colt had seemed a different man. He had truly needed her and freely admitted it. She desperately wanted to tell him about the baby but decided the time was not right.

They were on the road early the following morning. Colt’s body had been refreshed by a cool sponge bath and his wound rebound, and he felt nearly human again. But when the wagon bounced along the rutted road, he realized he still had a ways to go toward full recovery, if the Crowders didn’t catch up with them first. Colt knew those desparadoes better than anyone, and though he said nothing to Sam, he was well aware they would not give up on him so easily. They were as tenacious as they were lawless. Once they set their minds to something they weren’t likely to back off.

Colt’s small improvement allowed them to quicken their pace; and the third day found them more than halfway from Laredo to Karlsburg. Sam was jubilant, certain they no longer had anything to fear from the Crowders. Unwilling to cast a pall upon her happiness, Colt said nothing, remaining watchful and alert.

It was mid-afternoon, the white-hot sun high in the sky, when the first inkling of trouble came. Propped against the side of the wagon, Colt was the first to note the trail of dust rising behind them in a billowing cloud. With pounding heart he watched it until its ominous tidings could not be ignored.

“Riders!” Colt pointed, alerting Sam who dozed in the straw beside him.

Panic-stricken, she rose to her knees and squinted into the sun at the cloud of dust. “The Crowders?”

Grimly, Colt nodded. “Reckon so. Hand me my guns, darlin’. I can’t ride, but I sure as hell can still shoot straight.” To Smith he said, “Stop the wagon.”

“What? Are you crazy?” Sam gasped, stunned.

“I’m bein’ practical,” he said cryptically as the wagon rolled to a halt. “Get out, unhitch the horses, and ride like hell. Smith will see that you get to the ranch safely.” A meaningful look heavy with dire predictions passed between the two men.

“Hellfire and damnation! I’m not leaving, Colt.”

Smith was already unhitching the horses.

“I’m countin’ on you, Phil,” Colt said, ignoring Sam’s protests. “Get Sam outta here.”

“You can trust me, Colt,” Smith said solemnly. His lined face was etched with sadness as he dug the saddles from beneath the straw in the wagon and readied the horses.

“No! You can’t make me leave,” Sam spouted belligerently. Desperately she clung to Colt, ready to die with him if need be. “There’s three of us, it won’t be so bad. We’ve plenty of ammunition.”

“Darlin’, look at me.” Sam turned her head and it was the last tiling she remembered. Mustering all his meager strength, Colt doubled his fist and aimed at her jaw. Sam went out like a light. “I love you, Violet Eyes,” he said, handing her limp form up to Smith. “Be sure and tell her that, Phil, when she comes to.” Smith nodded, too choked to reply.

“I’ll keep them occupied while you get Sam safely away. They’re still a long ways off and that’s in our favor.”

“I’ll send back help, Colt.”

Colt smiled ruefully. “Yeh, you do that. Now get!”

Pulling Sam’s limp form up before him in the saddle and tying the leading reins of her horse to the pummel, Smith gave a blood-curdling yell and took off in a flurry of dust and gravel, leaving Colt to face the combined fury of the Crowders.

Heaving a regretful sigh, Colt turned his attention to the matters at hand. Now th t Sam was safe he could concentrate on giving her and Smith as much time as possible. First he untied the leading reins of his stallion and slapped his rump. No sense losing a good animal to stray bullets, he reasoned. Perhaps someone who needed a good mount would find him. Next he piled straw around the sides of the wagon to act as a cushion. Then he loaded his guns, arranged the ammunition nearby, and sat back to wait, breathing heavily from the exertion and cursing his limited strength. Colt had no idea how long he could hold out against ten determined men, but for Sam’s sake he prayed it would be sufficient.

Sam was unconscious nearly an hour. She emerged slowly from thick layers of black gauze, fighting through the encompassing shroud into the light of day. Confusion stole her wits until she felt strong arms holding her upright in the saddle. With a jolt she remembered everything. How had they escaped the Crowders? Why had she blacked out? She turned in the saddle to question the man holding her so protectively.

“Colt, what happened?”

It wasn’t Colt.

“Mr. Smith! Where’s Colt?” Suddenly comprehension dawned. “Noooo! You bastard! You left him! You left Colt to die. Stop! I want to go back.”

“I’m only doin’ what Colt wanted, ma’am,” Smith managed to convey over the hammering of hooves. “He didn’t want you hurt.”

“He hasn’t a prayer against the Crowders and you know it!” Sam sobbed, struggling against the band of steel holding her firmly in place.

“It won’t do you no good to carry on, Miz Andrews. It’s for your own good.”

“How … how long have I been out?”

“An hour, I reckon. Colt only tapped you, but it did the trick.”

“Colt hit me?”

“He knew you wouldn’t go on your own.”

“It’s not too late to turn back,” Sam said hopefully. Smith’s jaw tightened but he said nothing. It hurt him almost as much as it did Sam to leave Colt alone to face the Crowders. Colt hadn’t a chance in hell of living through it. If he hadn’t promised Colt he would take care of his wife, Smith would be fighting at his side right now.

Sam sensed Smith’s determination and abruptly changed tactics. “I can ride by myself, Mr. Smith. Your mount will tire quickly if we continue this way.”

Suspecting a ruse, yet recognizing the truth of Sam’s words, Smith reined in sharply and carefully transferred Sam onto the back of her own horse. Sam smiled a secret smile, preparing to spur her mount and bolt in the opposite direction—back to Colt. But when she reached for the reins she saw them tied to the pummel of Smith’s saddle.

“The reins, please,” she said tightly.

“Sorry,” Smith replied sheepishly. “It’s for your own good, ma’am.” Then they were hurtling forward, Sam clinging to the horn in order to keep from falling off.

Tears stung her eyes and a low wail of despair left her lips. She’d never even told Colt about the baby. Never said she loved him. All those days and nights spent fighting for his life were all for nothing—nothing! How could she live knowing Colt no longer walked the earth?

In the midst of her terrible agony, Sam became aware that both horses were being pulled to an abrupt halt. Smith was sawing violently on the reins, and a curse exploded from his lips. “Holy shit! Injuns! From the fryin’ pan into the fire.”

Sam’s head jerked upwards, her eyes widening. A dozen or so Indians rode out of the brown hills. Comanche; probably a raiding party, judging from their vividly painted faces, Sam thought, and riding straight for them.

Smith reached for his rifle, and Sam unholstered her own gun as she drew abreast of Smith. The Indians approached at incredible speed, and Smith raised the rifle to his shoulder, taking careful aim. His target was a garishly painted brave who appeared to be the leader.

“No time to ride for cover,” Smith barked. “Aim true and shoot to kill.”

Nodding grimly, Sam raised her six-shooter, but something kept her from firing. A yellow flag caught her eye. Only it wasn’t a flag. It was a banner of long blond hair flowing behind a small woman riding with the Comanches.

Laura! Both Jim and Jake rode beside her, flanked by Brave Eagle and his friends. Panic seized Sam when she suddenly realized that Smith didn’t know Brave Eagle and was already squeezing the trigger of his rifle. “Noooo!” Her hand flung out and the barrel of Smith’s rifle flew skyward, discharging harmlessly into the air.

“What the hell!”

“Don’t shoot, Mr. Smith, they’re friends.”

“Friends? Them redskins ain’t friends.”

“I’ll explain later. They’ve come to help. Look closely, you can see Colt’s sister, his foreman, and his partner riding with Brave Eagle.”

“Well, I’ll be a pea-brained jackass,” Smith said, his heart slowing as he lowered his rifle.

Sam chafed impatiently as she waited for the riders to approach. Each moment’s delay lessened Colt’s chances for survival. Finally the group reined in sharply before the waiting pair.

“Sam, thank God you’re safe!” Jim shouted gleefully. “I was furious when Laura told me you left without a word to anyone. Jake was madder’n a wet hen and wanted to take off after you immediately, but I convinced him to wait until I was able to join him. We came as soon as I could sit a horse. Where’s Colt?”

“He’s in big trouble, Jim,” Sam said. “You’ve got to help him!” She looked pleadingly from Jim to Jake to Brave Eagle. “He’s wounded and ill. I don’t even know if he’s still alive.”

“Where is he?” Laura repeated Jim’s question, looking frightened.

“About ten miles back,” Smith revealed. “Holdin’ off the Crowders so’s me and his missus could get away.”

“You must be Smith,” Jake said. “I’m Jake Hobbs and this is Jim Blake. You already know Colt’s sister. The braves ridin’ with us are Brave Eagle and his friends. Comanche relatives of Laura’s.”

Smith nodded warily, obviously confused by Jake’s last statement.

“Black Bear is camped nearby. It’s a miracle that we ran into them,” Laura explained. “They were following the buffalo further south than usual when we encountered them. I explained our mission to Brave Eagle, and he insisted on escorting us to Laredo. My adopted brother expressed his wish to help Violet Eyes and her husband.”

“Can’t all this wait?” Sam exploded, clearly distraught. “Colt needs us.” Abruptly she kneed her mount in the opposite direction and galloped off.

Laura offered a brief explanation to Brave Eagle, and the party thundered after Sam.

Crouching down in the high-sided wagon, Colt reloaded his rifle with the last of his ammunition. This is it, he thought, his heart sinking. His bullets were nearly gone and all that remained were the rounds already in the chamber. But he had acquitted himself well, he reflected proudly, allowing Sam and Smith a considerable head start. He could think of no better way to lose his life than in defense of the woman he loved. His one regret was failing to tell Sam how much he loved her before rendering her senseless.

Two of the Crowders lay dead on the dusty ground surrounding the wagon, and the others had sought shelter behind various rocks. The shooting had all but ceased, but Colt wasn’t fooled. He knew that Lyle Crowder was no fool and would realize by now that Colt was short of ammunition. Colt sat back to wait. The pain in his side robbed him of precious breath and the sun-baked earth wavered before his eyes. His hands trembled and he could feel blood seeping through his bandage. Resting the rifle on the wagon rail, Colt watched warily as the Crowders crept out from their hiding places, mounted, and prepared to attack en masse.

Colt grimaced, realizing his time was running out and he hadn’t accomplished half of what he wanted to during his all too few years on earth. Thank God he’d had the foresight to leave a will. At least Sam and their child, if there was a child, would be well provided for.

Suddenly Colt’s control snapped. He was hurting, angry, and driven to the point where nothing mattered any more but bringing down as many Crowders as time allowed. Rising to his knees, he aimed the rifle at the outlaws, who were now fanned out and riding toward him with deadly intent.

“C’ mon, you worthless bastards!” he shouted, carefully picking out a target and smiling grimly when the rider lurched from the saddle into the dirt. “Come and get me if you got the guts! I’m takin’ as many of you with me as I can.”

His bravado had little effect on the Crowders as they rode in for the kill. Lyle Crowder’s ugly face was split in half by an evil grin as he urged his men forward. Colt’s return fire became sporadic as he conserved his ammunition, making every shot count. But he knew he was only prolonging the inevitable.

Not much longer now, Colt reflected, suddenly numb at the thought of dying. He was surprised at how calm he was when the last round left his rifle. Death wasn’t so bad if one set one’s mind to it, he reasoned, slumping down in a corner.

What happened next would remain forever etched in his brain. The thunder of hooves grew loud, then abruptly stopped. Colt prepared to meet his maker, only to be thrown into utter confusion when one of the Crowders cried, “Injuns!”

Peering over the side of the wagon, Colt saw that the outlaws had reined in a few yards away and were staring at something behind him. Whatever it was threw them into a panic, terror rendering them nearly immobile.

Then Colt became aware of a commotion behind him. Savage hoots and blood-curdling yells raised goosebumps on his flesh, and he jerked around. From behind him rode a Comanche raiding party, looking fierce enough to strike fear in the bravest hearts. Colt thought it ironic that they were all—the Crowders and him—likely to lose their lives violently and swiftly—if they were lucky.