“I never did cotton to night riding,” Uriah Tweedy said. “It worries a man.”
Beside him, Thaddeus Lowth, his head bent into wind and snow, smiled. His breath smoked as he said, “Worry is like a rocking horse, Mr. Tweedy. It’s something to do that doesn’t get you anywhere.”
“Truer words were never spoke, Mr. Lowth. But I worry just the same.” Tweedy turned to Shawn. “How about you, young feller? You’ve been mighty quiet.”
“Worries me that we aren’t able to free Julia Davenport before Zeb Moss reaches Old Mexico and the slave ship.”
“Hell, boy, we got four, maybe five days,” Tweedy said. “We’ll come up with somethin’. Hell, I’m gonna marry that little gal and I’ll see no harm comes to her.”
Shawn and his two companions looked like three old men. Frost and snow whitened their eyebrows and mustaches and they rode bent over in the saddle, making themselves small to the cutting wind.
Tweedy was an excellent tracker and he read Moss’s trail south with ease. The heavy John Deere left deep ruts in the snowy mud and the four mounted men made no attempt to scout their back trail.
For a while Shawn and the others rode in silence, each busy with his own thoughts. For his part Shawn wondered if he’d taken on a job he couldn’t handle. The way to Mexico was long and hard and ahead of him rode half a dozen of the most dangerous gunmen in the west. With him he had an old, half-crazy bear hunter and a hangman who knew more about ladies’ bloomers than gunfighting. The odds were stacked against them and they weren’t going to get any better.
He decided he’d have to pick his fights, shoot and run, and try to wear down Moss and his men. No matter how the pickle squirted, it was a tall order and the prospect didn’t fill him with confidence.
One thought led to another and Shawn raised his voice against the black wind. “Uriah, why is Moss making a five-hundred-mile trip to Old Mexico across some of the roughest country west of the Mississippi?”
Tweedy shook his head. “I ain’t catching your drift, boy.”
“He could’ve sent Creeds and the rest of his boys. He’d no call to go in person.”
“Don’t know.” Tweedy rubbed life into his frozen lips with his gloved hand. “It bears some studyin’, I guess.”
“If I may interject, Mr. O’Brien?” Lowth asked.
“Interject away, Mr. Lowth,” Tweedy answered for Shawn.
“One might suppose that Mr. Moss is undertaking such an arduous journey because there’s something he covets waiting for him at his destination.”
“When a wise man is talkin’, let your ears hang down an’ listen, boy,” Tweedy said to Shawn. “Them’s words of wisdom.”
“I’m listening,” Shawn said. “Moss covets money, but he could trust Creeds to bring it back to him.”
“Then there’s something else,” Lowth said. “A thing of much more value.”
“Like what?” Shawn was intrigued.
“Like a slave ship, Mr. O’Brien. I’m not an expert on such matters, but I believe such a craft would be of great value. Certainly valuable enough for an avaricious gentleman like Mr. Moss to think it’s worth a trip of five hundred miles.”
Shawn considered that, then said, more to himself than Lowth, “Kill the captain, take over the ship and crew, and go into the slave trade as a profitable sideline.” He tried to meet Lowth’s eyes through the darkness and spinning snow. “It’s thin, Thaddeus. I never pegged Zeb Moss as a sailor.”
“He doesn’t need to sail the ship, Mr. O’Brien. His gunmen will. I imagine they can keep a crew in order. Hang one or two of the more mutinous, if you’ll forgive me making a reference to my profession, and the rest will fall in line very quickly.”
“If Moss plans to take the ship, he’d want to be there in person to make sure it’s done right, huh?” Shawn gave some thought to the idea.
Lowth’s icy wool muffler had ridden up over his mouth. He pulled it down and said, “My sentiments exactly.”
“Moss could make a fortune in the slave trade,” Shawn said. “It’s only a small step from owning a brothel to operating a slave ship.”
“And much more profitable,” Lowth pointed out. “It takes a long time to amass a fortune off the backs, for want of a better word, of two-dollar whores.”
“It’s a thought—” Shawn grimaced and arched his back. “Oh my God!” he yelled, slumping forward in the saddle, his face a mask of pain.
“Damn it, boy, what ails ye?” Tweedy cried.
“My back,” Shawn said through gritted teeth. “Low down. It hurts like hell.”
Tweedy drew rein and put his arm around the younger man. “Didn’t you say you was pushed down stone steps at the Lucky Lady?”
Shawn hunched his shoulders, his head tilted in pain. “Yeah, I fell down stairs. I thought I’d broken every bone in my body. Damn, this feels like a knife cutting into me deep.”
Tweedy’s eyes searched a distance that looked like white streaks of paint flung across a black canvas. “Over there,” he said finally, pointing. “Into the trees.”
Still supporting Shawn, he led the way. For a moment Tweedy’s horse floundered in a deep snowdrift, its knees kicking high, but the animal recovered and reached the shelter of the pines, pulling Shawn’s horse after him.
Lowth followed the path cleared for him, but his mule balked and the packhorse shied, unsure of its footing. Tweedy left Shawn and went back and helped Lowth get his animals into shelter.
“A parlous path, Mr. Tweedy,” Lowth said, breathing hard as he clambered down from the saddle.
“To be sure, Mr. Lowth. But the young feller is in a bad way and what must be done must be done.”
In the copse of pines, Shawn sat erect on his horse, his shoulders no longer raised against pain. “It’s gone. It went as suddenly as it came. One minute the knife was there, cutting me, then it was gone.”
“Boy, you gave us a scare,” Tweedy said. “You tellin’ me you don’t have the misery no more?”
“I feel fine,” Shawn said. “What the hell causes a pain like that?”
“Maybe,” Tweedy said after some consideration, “you’ve got a touch of the rheumatisms, boy. They can nip at a man, fer sure.”
Shawn nodded. “Maybe so. Let’s get back on the trail.”
“Not yet,” Tweedy said. “You rest up for a spell. The trail will still be there.”
“I have coffee and sugar on the packhorse, and a pot of course,” Lowth offered. “Perhaps we should have a cup if a sufficient quantity of dry wood can be obtained for a fire.”
“Bound to be some around here, Mr. Lowth,” Tweedy said. “Unhitch that pot and I’ll get something goin’ to put under it.”
Shawn fretted about losing time, but the pain had drained him, and hot coffee and a cigar would be welcome.
Besides, it was a long, long way to Mexico . . . a lot of long-riding miles . . . a lot of time.