Westward, Tally Ho! Read online

  The leader of the pack rubbed his unshaven jaw. "Brazen devils." He was thinking deeply, and it looked to be something he hadn't done in quite a while.

  "Hell, it's miles to town," Reynolds piped up. "There's a mess o' places they could be headed. Maybe they're just hunting deer or somethin'."

  "Didn't know we had an Injun-lover with us, boys." MacQuaid lowered his field glasses to sneer at Reynolds. "Why're you speakin' up for these redskins? You been sleepin' around with their squaws? Probably the only women who would take in a dog like you."

  The men fell silent, expecting Reynolds to blow up and try something stupid like drawing on MacQuaid. Instead, Reynolds' eyes narrowed to slits and he spoke in a quiet voice.

  "You wanna die, gunslinger?" His jaw muscle twitched as he slid his hand toward his holster.

  MacQuaid held his horse's reins with one hand and the glasses with the other, but out of the corner of his eye, he could see Reynolds' hand moving. "It's a long way down from here. I'd just hate to see your back break on one of those rocks below." He frowned with mock concern and clucked his tongue. "Such a sad sight you'd be, lyin' there waitin' for the buzzards to show up and pick through the mess, your head smashed open like an overripe melon."

  MacQuaid hadn't let go of the reins or the glasses, and Reynolds had already slipped his fingers around the grip of his gun, the look in his eyes steady and cold as death.

  Knowing these two were fetching to have it out, right here and now, and that there was no more holding them back, the leader signaled the others to back up their mounts, out of the line of fire.

  "You sure would look mighty pathetic, Reynolds. I'd almost feel sorry for you," MacQuaid said.

  "Don't you worry about me," Reynolds said deliberately. "Worry about yourself!" He snatched his gun from its holster—

  But not before MacQuaid had dropped the reins and grabbed his own shooter with a speed so fast his movements were nothing but a blur. Both men fired. MacQuaid snarled as the bullet dug into his arm, throwing him back in the saddle, but Reynolds screamed as the bullet hit him dead center. The force of it threw him from his saddle, and he fell off the cliff with a hoarse shriek lasting the whole way down. He hit the bottom, and his body was dashed by the jagged rocks below. It was a gruesome sight to behold, just as his rival had foretold.

  "Now that was too easy." MacQuaid sighed with disapproval. "I thought better of him."

  "You-you killed 'im!" one of the others gasped, staring at Reynolds' riderless horse as it snorted and stomped nervously. "You just killed 'im!"

  The gunslinger clucked his tongue again as he surveyed his bleeding arm. "I'll have to be more careful next time." It wasn't his shooting arm, and he knew any doctor would be able to dig out the slug. But for now, he tied it up with his bandana.

  "I'll be no party to murder!" the same man cried, clutching his horse's reins. "You'll pay for this, MacQuaid!" With a shout, he jerked the horse around and spurred it into a gallop.

  MacQuaid shook his head, glancing up to see the man ride away. Then with a shrug, MacQuaid raised his shooting arm and pulled the trigger in a single motion.

  "AAAWW!" The bullet hit the man between the shoulder blades and drove him to the ground. He rolled over twice, then lay still as his horse raced away.

  "Never thought killin' could be so easy, did you boys?" MacQuaid smirked at the startled expressions on the three men who remained. "What? You never seen a gunfight before? C'mon, speak up!"

  The way the gunslinger waved his six-gun around had muted the other men. They knew better than to say anything—no one knew what might set him off. So instead, they waited for him to cool down, or to at least lower that smoking barrel.

  But the leader of the pack had other ideas.

  "You're loco, MacQuaid," he said without reservation.

  "Me?" the gunslinger raised his eyebrows, feigning astonishment. Then his sharp features hardened as he narrowed his gaze. "I've been waitin' for this moment since I joined your merry little band, biding my time until the herd thinned out a bit." He hoped the look in his eyes and the way he aimed the gun made his meaning abundantly clear.

  "A hundred bucks ain't worth killin' for, MacQuaid," the leader said evenly.

  "You know what? You're right." The gunslinger chuckled at their confused expressions. "But that black stallion sure is. I reckon he'll bring me quite a bundle down at the Albuquerque auction."

  The leader glared at him and squeezed the fresh coil of rope slung across his saddle. "Why you dirty—!" he growled.

  "Now, now, no need for that. There are ladies present." MacQuaid pulled back the hammer with his thumb and aimed the six-gun straight at him. "Don't you worry. This'll all be over in a minute."

  "You ain't gonna kill us?" one of the younger men yelped in disbelief.

  "You're catchin' on."

  "You can't gun down all of us," the leader warned. "One of us will getcha!"

  "Oh, I doubt that." MacQuaid yawned. "I'm really not one for long goodbyes, so..." He winked. "See you boys in Hell."

  Chapter 33

  Clarence and Kate's situation had not improved. If anything, it had deteriorated. Their ponies were now on the verge of death. As were they, truth be told, if they did not find water soon.

  "Tell me you see something, Clarence," Kate gasped. She lay on her mount's back, her arms and legs dangling limply along its flanks as it staggered along. Her eyes were closed and her hair, drenched with sweat, lay matted against her forehead. "Lie to me if you have to. Just tell me you see water…"

  Clarence couldn't see anything. His eyes had fallen shut as he too lay on the back of his pony. His mind, as mushy as thick porridge, had barely been able to comprehend what she said. What was she asking about? Water. Yes, that word had not ceased to swim through what remained of his mind, along with the words shade and rest. He and Kate couldn't stop moving until they found water. But where in the devil was such to be found in this blasted wasteland?

  Slowly, Clarence cracked open one eye against the blinding sun. Squinting, he gave the terrain another look. He felt so weak; he could barely keep his eye open, could barely turn his head.

  What was that? Something glistening under the sun in the west? A lot of it. Up ahead, only a hundred yards away—could it really be what they needed? Or was it merely a mirage?

  "I...I see water!" Clarence rasped.

  A weak smile played across Kate's blistered lips. "Thanks, Clarence," she sighed.

  Clarence turned in time to see her knees' grip on the pony go limp. Her body slipped off and hit the ground with a hollow thud. There she lay, motionless.

  "No!" He slid from his mount and landed at her side. "No! Don't—there's water!" He took her in his arms and jostled her, patting her cheeks. "Kate, wake up!" He dropped his ear to her chest and listened intently, but he couldn't be certain whether what he heard was her heartbeat or his own pulse pounding in his ears. "Kate!" He turned to see how far it was to the water. He had to get her there, no matter what.

  With a frown of determination, he draped her limp arm over his shoulder and slipped his arm around her, lifting her to her feet. She fell heavily against him, and his knees almost buckled, but he prayed for strength.

  "God, please help me..."

  Fixing his blurred vision on his goal, he took that first fateful step forward. Then it was only a matter of putting one foot in front of the other, something he'd been doing for years now—but never in a situation like this. He felt as if he were in a dream or a nightmare, as it were. His body moved so slowly, every weak muscle taking a moment to protest before it went into action. At times it seemed the muscles hadn't even heard his brain's command to move. One step after another, dragging Kate's feet behind him in the dust, he struggled to trudge forward. He fought the urge to drop her and rush ahead, to selfishly plunge into the cold water and lap it up like a dog, letting it run down his parched throat and quench his thirst, drenching him from head to toe—

  He gasped as his wobbly knees ga
ve out, and he fell forward, hitting the sunbaked earth with a groan. Angrily he cursed, pounding the crunchy hardpan with a fist. Would he die out here, too weak to walk?

  "Blast it!" he rasped, dropping his head as tears stung his eyes. It was too dry for them to do much else.

  Then Guthrie's voice came to Clarence as if he were there, oddly enough, urging him onward:

  "You can do it, sir. You must. Her life depends on it."

  Jaw set with determination, Clarence took Kate by her arms and hauled her up onto his back. From there, he managed to rise onto his forearms and pull himself forward a foot at a time.

  "There we go..." Kate's arms dangled down from his shoulders and kept her from sliding off him. He would get them there yet. "Oh, blast it all!"

  His vision started to fog up again, as it had after his knock to the noggin. As he gazed ahead, the glistening body of water began to fade from sight. He cursed the native with the tomahawk who had nearly cracked his skull and shook his head in disbelief. Of all the rotten luck! Everything that could possibly go wrong was doing exactly that.

  As if to emphasize the point, one of the ponies collapsed behind him. Clarence groaned.

  Was this how it would end? Would he die out in the middle of nowhere? Would someone find his unclaimed corpse someday, nothing more than a sun-bleached skeleton after the carrion fowl had their way with him? Would anyone wonder who he was? Would they have any idea that he'd been a wealthy English aristocrat, far from home in a foreign land? How would they know? By his teeth?

  He shook his head again. That didn't matter. He was uncertain his esteemed heritage ever would again. All that mattered now was that he drag himself and the woman on his back toward that body of water up ahead. Blessed with sight or temporarily cursed without it, he would get there if it was the last thing he ever did.

  Chapter 34

  With an upraised eyebrow, Guthrie regarded himself in the mirror over Miss Carson's dresser. Once again garbed in his Western American attire, he was surprised to find himself looking none the worse for wear. He scratched at his rough, unshaven neck and almost smiled. It hadn't been since the days of his youth that he'd sported a short beard. Guthrie could not remember the last time he had neglected to shave.

  His gaze wandered to the framed portrait he had noticed earlier, the photograph he thought he'd recognized. Stepping toward it slowly now, he reached out his hand with a slight tremor and picked it up. His solemn grey eyes stared intently at the face of the young woman posed in a frilly white dress. His lips parted mutely and his eyes widened.

  He'd been right. He did know her.

  "I don't believe it…" he said in a hoarse whisper. "How can this be?"

  She was a beauty with long, loose-curled dark hair draping a soft, narrow-featured face. Her eyes were dark, full of laughter, yet piercing, with long lashes. She seemed to glow, even in the sepia-toned photo. She was smiling at Guthrie, as she had when the photograph was taken.

  "So long ago."

  Tears came to Guthrie's eyes then, and his jaw trembled. He could not hold back the memories, no matter how hard he fought against them…

  The Boston immigration official in his dark blue uniform with hard eyes and a cold demeanor.

  "You are not an American citizen. You will be deported—"

  "But the child!" A young man with a trim beard. Pleading, leaning on the desk of the official. His English accent unmistakable. He gestures desperately toward the young woman behind him. "My wife!"

  Long, loose-curled hair. Tears streaming down her soft cheeks. Her hands hold her protruding stomach—eight months pregnant.

  "Legally, the child is no more yours than the woman is. Your certificate of marriage is null and void." Arrogant and spiteful. "You are to be deported for what you have done. Deported." He scoffs at that. "You should be hanged!"

  "But the child—!"

  "None of your concern. Take him away."

  The young woman sobs, covering her face. Husky guards drag the young man away, struggling, calling back to his wife, "I will come for you!"

  "I truly doubt that will be possible." The official looks at the young woman's abdomen with disdain. "Find yourself a religious charity or some such, woman. That child may arrive any day now."

  Those were the last words Guthrie had heard before spending the next week in a jail cell. Then he'd been shipped across the Atlantic back to England, where he'd spent the next five years in another cell. Once released, he tried desperately to return to the States, but he had been refused entry. For years, he'd done all he could to return to his young wife and the child he had never known, only to have every immigration request denied.

  Then terrible news had arrived by way of an American friend (Jack, the Boston customs official), after ten years of failed attempts to reunite Guthrie with his family. His wife had died of tuberculosis. The child, a beautiful little girl, had been adopted by strangers. Guthrie had struggled in coming to grips with the fact that he would never see his lovely Margaret ever again. But hope lived on that someday, when enough time had passed to blur the lines of his transgression, and when he'd saved sufficient funds, he would return to America and find the daughter he'd never known.

  Jack O'Connell located a Catherine Moore living in Virginia City, Nevada, and all of the details had checked out. She was the right age; she had been adopted the same year as Guthrie's child, and the last name matched that of her adopted parents. Despite her being a stranger, he was certain he would know her the instant he laid eyes on her, no matter what she looked like. He only hoped that he was not too late, that she had not moved on from Virginia City to places unknown.

  But what now? He held in his hands the photograph of his love, his precious Margaret, the mother of his child. He'd saved his earnings for weeks to afford this professional photograph, so many years ago. What was it doing in a Santa Fe madam's bedroom?

  "How can this be?" With another tremor in his hand, he set it back on the desk and turned to look at the room with new eyes. "Could she have known my Margaret? Could they have been friends?"

  But Miss Carson was not the right age. If anything, she may have somehow known Guthrie's daughter. Perhaps Miss Carson was originally from Virginia City, and she had made Catherine Moore's acquaintance there, and she had come into possession of this photograph—

  How? Had Catherine Moore passed away and left it to her? Why would she have given it to her?

  "It makes no sense." Guthrie sat on the bed and shook his head, running a hand across his bald dome. He felt out of sorts, and his thoughts were jumbled beyond comprehension.

  If only there was more, besides this photograph, he mused. He supposed he could ask Miss Carson when he saw her again. But how would he phrase such a question? I see you have a photo of my deceased wife…

  He needed more evidence to solve this mystery.

  His gaze came to rest on the dresser. He almost got up again but thought better of it, chiding himself. It was bad manners to go through someone else's belongings. Of course, he would never do such a thing. But the way his heart thumped so powerfully, he knew he had to. I must be losing my mind.

  He opened the top drawer and shut it immediately, having glimpsed a colorful array of lacy lingerie—and something else: a silver chain. It wound over and under the pink, red, white, and black satin unmentionables.

  Guthrie cracked open the drawer just enough to draw it out. The delicate chain slipped into his hand, along with a silver pendant.

  Chapter 35

  Clarence's vision had blacked out entirely. Now he groped blindly as he crawled on hands and knees with Kate unconscious, lying across his back. Losing his sight was quite a disconcerting experience, to say the least. He tried not to imagine what it would be like to live the remainder of his days like this. Instead he focused on the task at hand and did not consider giving up, even as every muscle in his body demanded that he do so. He prayed for strength again and again, and he could only hope he was heard by the silent, sweltering
heavens above.

  His hand fell into a pool of warm water that rippled at his touch.

  "Wha-haa?" he gasped. "Water!" He lunged forward with the last bit of energy he possessed and dropped headlong into the shallow pool. Kate fell beside him with a splash. "Hurrah!" He gulped down the murky liquid, not caring how terrible it tasted. He'd never been so thirsty in all his life, and this moment was pure heaven. "Rah-HA!" He drenched himself in it, splashing all over—

  "Kate?" He reached for her, groping frantically. What if she was still unconscious? What if her head had submerged and remained there? Was she drowning? If only he could see! "Kate!" He thought he'd grasped hold of her leg, but it turned out to be his own. "Kate!"

  Thrashing around the water in a frenzy, he shouted her name until his hand came upon a leather boot, standing on the edge of the pond.

  He stopped. Slowly, he ran his hand up the boot and found a pant leg. He dropped his hand and found another boot, beside the first one. And there were a pair of bare feet beside these boots—bare feet with very smooth legs.

  "Please-I…cannot see very well at the moment," Clarence said cautiously, his chin dribbling water. "Who are you?"

  Harsh laughter met him, and he drew back.

  "Who am I?" the voice said with amusement. "I'm many things, but right now, I'm the fellow with a gun. And it's diggin' into the ribs of your pretty lady friend here." A woman whimpered, her voice muffled. "So if you want me to let her go, then you'd better do some talking, kid."

  Clarence swallowed. "I-I'm-my name is Clarence Oliver Edwards. Is that Kate Carson with you?"

  The man chuckled. "Well now, I've got to say I didn't recognize her at first, but yeah..." He whistled appreciatively. "It's her, alright."

  "What do you want?" Clarence demanded, rubbing at his eyes.

  The man ignored him. "Fancy meeting up with you again, Kate," he said. "Last time we-uh...got a little interrupted, didn't we?" The feet on the edge of the pond shifted suddenly. "Easy, easy," the man soothed. "No use getting riled, Kate. It's just little ol' me, Bert MacQuaid." Her muffled voice erupted fiercely then, and he shouted, "Quit it, Kate! I've just killed five men, and I'll kill you, too, if you don't stop—AAAWW!" MacQuaid groaned all of a sudden. "You bit me? What the hell?"