Without Words (24 page)

Hassie didn’t bother to ask. He was going to search to the north.

B
RET RODE OUT
of Silver Creek on the trail leading west and swung to the north as soon as he was out of sight. The country was rough all right. Still, there had been a trail leading out of town to the north. Once he reached that, the going would be easier.

The pines were still close around him, blocking his vision in all directions when he heard the muffled sound of a horse running. Bret reined up, waited until the sound faded, and pushed on in the direction the sound had first come from. He hit the trail in minutes. The heavy layer of pine needles masked most of the tracks of the horse that had just passed, but here and there a hoof print showed.

Bret followed slowly, studying the ground to the left and right as he went. Even so, he almost missed the faint signs of the rider ahead turning off. Another half mile, and he smelled smoke. He tied Jasper well off the trail and continued on foot.

The cabin sat in a small clearing, two horses in a small corral out back, one tied in front. The lather on the tied horse was visible even from Bret’s position, bellied down in grass at the edge of the forest more than a hundred feet away. He waited as the clouds overhead turned orange with the beginning of another spectacular mountain sunset, calculating how much daylight was left, how dangerous the trail back to town would be in the dark.

Finally three people emerged from the cabin. Two men and a woman. Neither of the men was the stable man as Bret had expected, but as one raised his hat and settled it more firmly on his head, red hair shone like fire. The heavyset woman was hatless, her hair iron gray. She carried a long gun tucked against her side as if it were part of her. Mrs. Doosey and her shotgun could definitely prove to be a problem.

The redhead mounted his tired horse and headed back toward the trail. The other two stood outside a while, arguing from the look of it.

“Run, you son of a gun, run,” Bret urged under his breath.

It took what had to be another half hour, but Doosey came back out carrying saddlebags and a bedroll, his mother trailing after him with the shotgun. Bret slithered back among the trees and jogged back to Jasper. A man who killed and stole wasn’t going to ride out of here the hard way. He’d come right down the trail, and he’d be as easy to net as a fish.

The look on Robert Doosey’s face when Bret stepped into the trail ahead of him, rifle pointed at his chest, was pure surprise. The guard killed in the train robbery probably had the same look on his face when he died.

“You try to run, and I’ll shoot the horse,” Bret said. “I’d rather shoot you, but you’re worth a lot more. Get down.”

Robert Doosey claimed he was innocent, claimed his name was Dave Young, and cursed a blue streak as Bret handcuffed him, searched him, and shoved him back on his horse. They barely made it back to the main trail by the time the pitch black of the mountain night closed in around them. Bret didn’t like killers at his back, but he made an exception this time, tied Doosey’s hands to the saddle and led his horse.

“I suppose you’re taking me to Silver Creek,” Doosey said.

“You suppose wrong.”

“What do you mean. Silver Creek’s the only town anywheres near. You got to take me there.”

“I don’t, and I’m not.”

When Doosey found out what Bret intended, he squawked even louder. “You can’t do that. You can’t leave a man tied in these mountains. There’s Injuns. There’s bears and cougars.”

Bret gagged him and left both man and horse tied to trees. Phineas Vance would be pleased. Bret and Hassie would be gone before morning.

B
RET PUSHED OUT
of Silver Creek to the headquarters of the High Country Mining Company with the same relentless drive he had used months ago with Hammerill and Jensen. Hassie knew this time he wasn’t worried the horse Robert Doosey rode was stolen but that some of the outlaw’s friends from Silver Creek—or even his mother—might ride to the rescue.

Reaching the headquarters of the High Country Mining Company was a relief, and the partners who owned the company paid the reward in cash without a quibble. The railroad wasn’t so obliging, but Hassie welcomed the prospect of a few days’ rest.

Telegrams buzzed back and forth. The railroad agreed to pay the reward into the account at Bret’s bank in Missouri once their own representative identified Doosey. Bret and Hassie settled in to wait.

For the first time Hassie looked around a hotel, a restaurant with decent food, and a town with halfway decent shops and services and gave a wistful thought to trading it all for permanence and the comfort of familiarity. Adventure was good, but maybe a person only needed so much adventure in her life.

She did not, for instance, ever need the adventure of meeting Indians. Bret’s instructions on what she should do if they saw Indians appalled her.

“You kick your feet out of the stirrups and let me pull you off your horse and behind me on Jasper. Their ponies are smaller and never see grain. He can outrun them, and they may not even give chase. They may be satisfied with what they find in the packs.”

“But what about Brownie? What about Packie?”

“They can be Indian ponies.”

“The Indians will eat them!”

“Whoever told you that doesn’t know what he’s talking about. The more horses an Indian has, the bigger man he is in his village. Brownie will be pulling teepees, not chasing buffalo, but nobody’s going to eat her.”

Hassie didn’t think Bret would lie to her, but he might decide not to tell her something bad if he thought it would ensure she did what he wanted. Whether Indians ate horses or not, worrying about what could happen left her twitchy for days.

Staying in one place with a kitchen of her own where she could cook what she wanted, never sleep on hard ground, and never worry about thieves, murderers, or Indians sounded good until it occurred to her she would have those things soon, have them but not Bret. And she’d rather sleep on rocks every night for the rest of her life than say goodbye to Bret.

The hotel a few doors down from the mining company office was not full. She had her own room again, and it no longer seemed a luxury. It seemed lonely. She had to ask Bret about next year soon, before he made plans about where to leave her. The nights were already cold here in Colorado. The snow would come soon. Next month maybe. Soon.

Bret’s knock sounded on the door, and Hassie put away her unhappy thoughts. She wasn’t hungry, but he would be, and she liked sitting catty-cornered from him at a table in the restaurant. He knew more signs now, ones for the everyday things they did, but he still spelled at her in restaurants, and it still lifted her heart every time.

“B-e-e-f s-t-e-w? C-h-i-c-k-e-n? H-a-m?”

“S-o-u-p.”

“That’s all?”

She watched without envy as Bret’s full plate of ham, fried potatoes, and green beans was delivered along with Gunner’s tin plate piled high with scraps. Her soup looked suspiciously like the beef stew with a lot of water added. At least it was hot.

A heavy, dark-haired man approached their table. “Are you Bret Sterling?”

“I am.”

“Sorry to interrupt your meal.” The man went on to introduce himself. He was from the railroad, tasked with identifying Robert Doosey and authorizing the reward if satisfied. At Bret’s invitation, the man pulled up a chair and ordered coffee and beef stew.

Hassie pushed her half-finished soup away and caught Bret’s eye. “I will feed Gunner,” she signed.

He hesitated a moment, nodded. “Be careful.”

She took the admonition less as a caution about her own safety than about not letting Gunner out of the shed at the back of the livery where he was confined. The mayor of this little town owned a spaniel bitch that was in her season, and Gunner’s vigorous attempts to meet a new lady love had earned him a temporary prison. The mayor must wield a heavy hand in this town because Hassie hadn’t glimpsed a male dog on the streets since they’d been here.

Getting to the shed meant walking through the livery barn or around the side through a maze of corrals. The sound of male laughter from the barn made her choose the maze this time. She bent to place the plate on the ground in order to unbar the door and catch Gunner before he could escape, dropped the plate, and whirled as jeering words came from behind.

“Woo hoo. Look at that ass. There’s nothing dumb about that, is there, Walt?”

Three grinning boys stood in a semi-circle around her, trapping her against the shed. They must be the ones she’d heard in the barn. Almost men, taller than she was, but spotty and baby-faced. Their youth didn’t make her less afraid. She knew how much stronger they would be. The Grimes boys had delighted in their superior strength.

To run she would have to break through them. Gunner whined and jumped against the shed door, locked in a place he had been trying to escape for days to no avail.

She smiled at the boys, nodded, and gestured toward the plate, hoping frightening her would satisfy them and they wouldn’t coalesce into a wolf pack—a wolf cub pack—and work up to more. She raised a hand to her neck as if in surprise—or fear.

“Ah, look at that. She’s going to be agreeable.” The boy in the center reached for her breast.

Her fingers closed around the cord, and she pulled out the whistle, fumbled for it.

“Get that away from her.”

Ducking her head, she twisted to the side and managed two long blasts before one of them ripped the whistle away, seized her by the wrist, and yanked her off balance. He spun her around until she was staggering and dizzy.

Gunner exploded, roaring, barking, throwing himself against the door so hard it shook.

The boys hooted and laughed.

Panic flooded through her. She had to get away, had to run.

A
S SOON AS
Hassie left, misgivings flooded Bret. Hovering over her as if she were a child had to be wrong, but there weren’t many women in this town, and there were a lot of rough men.

The railroad representative was in no hurry. He wanted to explain company policy and procedure in boring detail, and Bret didn’t care. The man had already identified Doosey and promised to authorize payment. It was done.

Done, and Hassie was alone in the green dress with the skirt that didn’t swirl so much any more but still gave a man ideas about what was underneath. To hell with it. If nothing else, Gunner might be more interested in his love life than food, push past her and get away, or knock her down.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I shouldn’t have let my wife go off alone like that. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Letting them run around loose on their own is a mistake,” the railroad man said, chuckling at his own wit.

Bret didn’t waste time wondering what the man’s wife must be like.

A heavily loaded wagon creaked by on the street, almost obscuring another sound, thin and high. Bret sprinted toward the livery. A dog barked, no ordinary sound. He ran faster.

Horses shied and jumped as he sped through the barn. Bret reached the boys surrounding Hassie as the one spinning her by the arm let go, and she fell.

A kick in the ass drove that one head first into the shed. Bret grabbed a second by the back of his shirt and lifted him straight up, squirming and choking. The third ran.

Hassie climbed slowly to her feet, one hand against the shed as if she needed the support. Bret almost let go of his prisoner but kept the boy suspended from a straight arm and dragged him over to Hassie instead.

“Are you all right?” He cupped her chin with his free hand and examined her face.

She nodded.

“Sure?”

She took her hand away from the shed and stood straight. “Yes.”

The boy on the ground struggled up, ready to rabbit like his friend. Bret twisted a hand in the back of his shirt too, and banged their heads together.

“Let’s go.”

The boys whined, professing harmless intentions. Too bad Gunner had quieted down and Bret had to listen to them. He ignored the excuses, apologies, and complaints about how much his merciless grip hurt and marched them down the street to the town marshal’s office. Hassie opened the door and stood aside. Bret shoved them inside.

The place was empty. Bret shut both boys up by backhanding the one that had put hands on Hassie hard enough to knock him down again. Hassie’s hand on his arm barely stopped Bret from using his fist on the other one. He locked the now quiet pair in the cell next to Robert Doosey’s, took the key back to the office, and dropped it on the desk.

Pulling Hassie into his arms, he said, “You wouldn’t lie to me about being all right, would you?”

“No.”

She fit against him as if designed especially to fit there, her hair silky against his cheek. The back of her green dress was dirty from her fall, and the high lace collar she used to cover the scar was ripped. He fingered the torn cloth, felt the softness of her skin against the backs of his fingers, and the red tide of anger rose again.

The office door opened. The harrumph of a clearing throat sounded, and Bret reluctantly let Hassie go.

The marshal took his time positioning his hat on a shelf behind the desk before nodding a greeting.

“Mr. Sterling. Miz Sterling. What’s this I hear about you walking Mr. Quentin’s boy and one of his friends down the street like you think someone’s going to pay you for them.”

Quentin was one of the partners in the mining company, the one who had counted out five hundred dollars and handed it to Bret just two days ago. And Bret didn’t care.

He did care that the sound of the marshal’s voice started the boys yelling from the cell, repeating the same craven excuses they’d blathered on the way here. Bret reached the door between the office and cells in two strides and slammed it shut.

“Those
boys
attacked my wife. I want them locked up. There was a third one who ran, and I bet you know who he is. Find him and throw him in the cell with them.”

The marshal sat on a corner of his desk, sharp blue eyes moving over Hassie from head to toe. Bret’s jaw muscles bunched. He took a step toward the lawman, who had the sense to leave off staring at Hassie before Bret threw him in the same cell with the boys, badge or not.