CHAPTER 8
Hunter and Annabelle arrived in Lusk along the Deadwood to Cheyenne Stage Trail, just north of Hat Creek Station in the arid eastern Wyoming plains, two days after they’d recovered the money for their horses.
“Best make yourself scarce, Bobby,” Hunter told the coyote riding point. “Lusk ain’t no place for rebel coyotes.”
He did not have to tell the coyote twice. Instantly, Bobby found a big jack to chase.
Lusk was a rollicking town founded by ranchers and frequented by outlaws such as Bill Mccoy, Jack Slade, Kid Curry, and the Sundance Kid. Hunter knew it was probably foolhardy to spend the night with Annabelle in such a wide-open town, and with a pocketful of money, but they were both exhausted from their ordeal and were craving big steaks and a platter of steaming beans. They’d secure a room in the Yellow Hotel then a meal at the H.G. Herbert Dining Room, then return to the hotel and turn in early.
Besides, no one here in town would know he’d sold horses because he’d skirted the town by way of the Rawhide Hills on the way down to Arapaho Creek. Of course, the ones he’d recently turned toe down had seen them but then they must have followed them from a distance. He doubted others had, or he’d have known about it by now. Life was not without risk, and Annabelle needed a good meal and a bed.
They were at a window seat in the H.G. Herbert Dining Room, enjoying their meal, when Annabelle glanced out the window and said “Oh-oh.”
Hunter followed her gaze to six riders galloping into town from the south.
They were as dangerous looking lot as Hunter had seen. Young, old, thin, tall, broad-shouldered, stocky. One—a man on a cream horse and wearing stovepipe hat—had a nasty scar trailing down from a patch over his eye. The one with the patch Hunter recognized as Saguaro Machado, a killer for hire out of Dakota Territory. He’d run into the man a few times in Deadwood and Tigerville, and they’d fought until they’d both been dumped like trash in the street and left to sober up in the mud.
“They are trouble and only trouble,” Annabelle told Hunter.
“Trouble and only trouble.” Hunter was glad when the gang had passed the restaurant and disappeared around a bend in the street. “We’ll head on back to the hotel and stay there. I don’t want them seeing you.”
Annabelle clutched herself and shivered. “I don’t want them seeing me, either.”
They finished their steaks and beans and left. They walked back toward the hotel, in the opposite direction in which Machado’s gang had gone, weaving through the foot traffic on the boardwalks fronting the businesses. Hunter saw a few lusty looks cast Annabelle’s way but he was a big, imposing man himself and most of the men quickly diverted their attention.
He was relieved when he and his bride gained their destination.
They picked up their key then walked through the Yellow Hotel’s long, narrow lobby to the high, dark, narrow stairs. They strode hand in hand down the hall. Just before they came to their room, a door opened on their right and a big, beefy man with a beard and an eye patch—Saguaro Machado himself—stepped into the hall. The man grinned and before Hunter could react, the man’s gloved right fist slammed into his jaw.
It was an ear-ringing blow, and Hunter staggered backward. Before he could fall, he was aware of more doors opening around him, on both sides of the hall. Annabelle screamed and then Machado’s gang was all over Hunter, beating him mercilessly—bone crunching punches to his face, belly, ribs. Behind the cacophony of the beating, Hunter could hear Annabelle screaming and crying. He glimpsed a man holding her down toward the end of the hall, laughing and nuzzling her neck while she kicked at him and scratched at his face.
Seemingly out of nowhere, Bobby Lee ran in to offer a hand, grabbing one of the men’s arms and chomping down hard.
“Damn coyote!” one of the men bellowed.
A gun blasted three times. Bobby yipped and ran back down the stairs.
Hunter heard Annabelle scream once more before he rolled onto his belly, and someone slammed something hard against the back of his head. Likely a gun butt.
Darkness followed and he laid in pounding torment remembering the smell of whiskey and hearing Machado’s voice say from only inches away, “Gonna leave you alive, grayback, so you can imagine what’s happening to her. Gonna be a doozy, believe me!”
Then there was the thudding of boots on wood, gradually fading, and the world went silent.
* * *
“Mister?” The young man’s voice came from far away.
Someone nudged Hunter’s shoulder.
“Are you alive, mister?”
“I think he’s dead,” said a young woman’s voice also from far away.
Hunter groaned against the pain in every inch of him. He forced his eyes open to see two faces staring at him with concern in their gazes. He was on the bed in the room he and Annabelle had rented, but he had no memory of how he got there.
Annabelle . . .
“They took my wife,” Hunter said through a groan, trying to push himself into a sitting position.
“Wait, wait, wait,” the young man said, both him and the girl—a pretty brunette maybe twenty years old—pushing Hunter back down against the bed. “You’re busted up pretty good.”
“Think you have some busted ribs,” the girl said.
“How long . . . ?”
“Have you been here?” the girl said. “Overnight. It’s morning.”
“Ah, hell.” Hunter remembered Annabelle’s screams.
He pressed his fists against his temples, trying to funnel some strength back into his aching body. It did not work.
“Some nasty fightin’ up here, Mister,” the young man said. “The town marshal came, but when he heard who was at the center of it, he left.”
Hunter reached into his back pocket. The money meant nothing to him now, but of course it was gone. “So no one went after them?”
“Doubt it,” said the girl. “Nobody around here is going after Saguaro Machado.”
“Well, I am.” Hunter howled as he pushed himself to a sitting position with success this time, though every nerve and muscle in his body shivered against the agony. He shook his head in a futile attempt to fight away the pain, then turned to the young man and the girl gazing at him incredulously. “Who are you two?”
“I’m Billy Lancaster,” said the young man. “Folks call me ‘Powwow’ for short.” He gave a sheepish smile. “I have a little Comanch blood. Cow puncher but I’m between jobs at the moment. This is Sylvie Todd.” He gave another wry grin. “We were in the room next to yours when . . . the trouble started. Thought there was an earthquake. Even heard a dog growlin’. After that the place went quiet as a church at midnight.” He shook his head. “No one wants to mess with ol’ Saguaro’s bunch.” Again, he shook his head, and guilt shone in his eyes. “Not even me.”
“They would have killed you,” Hunter said. “Does either of you have any whiskey?” He wasn’t much for imbibing these days, but if ever there was a situation . . .”
“I do.”
The girl ran out of the room and came back a minute later with a brown bottle.
“Thanks.” Hunter took several healthy pulls then gave the bottle back to Sylvie. “Now, do me another favor. Both of you. Take the sheet out from under me.” He heaved himself to his feet with another howl of unadulterated misery and leaned against the wall, panting like a winded dog. “Cut it into large strips and tie them around my waist to hold these ribs in place.”
“You need time to heal, mister,” said the girl, slowly shaking her head.
“Don’t have time to heal. Cut that sheet up for me!” Hunter unbuttoned his shirt, shrugged out of it, and dropped it to the floor.
Powwow and Sylvie both rose and regarding Hunter as though they’d just discovered a rabid dog in the room, pulled the sheet off the bed. The young man produced a folding knife from his pocket, slashed the sheet, then he and the girl tore it in half. They tore it again, and Hunter said, “Now fold both up, wrap them around may waist, and tie them tight.”
They did as instructed, wrapping the wide strips around Hunter’s waist, drawing them taut.
“Tighter,” Hunter cried.
They both grunted as together they tightened the sheet.
Hunter fell back against the wall, trying desperately to remain conscious. It was not an easy fight. His vision burred then darkened, and the room pitched around him. When his senses returned, he panted out, “Obliged.”
He turned to the young man. “Could I ask you for another favor?”
Powwow hiked a shoulder.
“Carry that rifle and those saddlebags over to the livery barn for me. Don’t think I can manage it quite yet.”
“Sure, sure.”
“Don’t want to get you hurt.”
“I ain’t worried. I shoulda helped last night”—Powwow glanced at the girl, again guiltily—“and I didn’t.”
“Like I said, kid, they’d have killed you deader’n a boot.”
“You’re Hunter Buchanon, aren’t you?”
Hunter frowned at him questioningly.
“It’s an honor to help you, Mister Buchanon. Heard a lot about your exploits during the Misunderstandin’ and then the land war up north.”
“Oh, that was no land war.” Hunter chuckled dryly. Tears came to his eyes. “That was a battle for the girl that old sinner Machado just took from me.” He choked down a sob then cleared his throat in embarrassment. “Let’s go.”
“Here’s your hat,” the girl said. She’d retrieved it from the hall.
“Obliged, Miss Sylvie.”
“Good luck, Mister Buchanon.”
“Hunter.” Hunter staggered out into the hall, Powwow Billy on his heels with his Henry and saddlebags.
Hunter stumbled more than walked out of the room and down the stairs. He went outside and bought a bottle at the first saloon he came to. He wasn’t going to make it without some painkiller. Powwow in tow, he stumbled more than walked down the street to the livery barn. The liveryman eyed him warily, incredulously, as the man saddled his horse for him.
Hunter swung into the saddle with another howl.
“You sure about this, Mister Buchanon?” the lad asked, a perpetual wince on his young face.
“No, I’m not sure, but I have no choice.” As Powwow Billy draped his saddlebags over Nasty Pete’s back, Hunter said, “Did you get a chance to see where Machado’s gang was headed?”
“East as far as I could tell.”
“Likely eastern Dakota,” Hunter said. “His gang usually holes up between jobs along the Missouri River. I’ll likely cut their sign on the old stage trail just outside of town.”
He was about to boot Nasty Pete along the main street to the east but stopped when Powwow grabbed his saddle horn and said, “What’re you gonna do once you catch up to ’em?”
“Kick ’em all out with a cold shovel and get my woman back!” Hunter howled in pain as he booted Pete into a hard gallop, feeling as though every sharp-edged broken rib in his body was ripping right through him.
He couldn’t manage the gallop for long. Just outside of town, on the trail that led east across the old Deadwood to Cheyenne Trail, he slowed him to a walk. Not only because he thought the pain was about to kill him but because he needed to scour the ground for the hoof prints of six riders. It didn’t take him long. Machado was headed east, all right. Cross country to the northeast. It made sense he’d avoid the main trails. That was all right. It would make it easier for Hunter to track him, his trail being unadulterated by other horsebackers or ranch wagons.
What had his gut in knots was knowing that Machado was known for kidnapping women and girls and selling them to slave traders out in the eastern part of the territory, mostly to remote wood cutters working for the river boats.
He followed the trail out across the vast, gently rolling, sage- and buckbrush-stippled desert country of eastern Wyoming. A Godless country, he’d always considered it and considered it even more so now. Impatient, he gigged Pete into a faster pace, but cursed himself for not being able to hold it.
At one point he looked back to see Bobby Lee shadowing him from about twenty feet back. He gave a feeble smile. Bobby wanted to help him make it, but Hunter could tell by the way the coyote carried himself, favoring a back leg, he’d taken a graze the night before in the Yellow Hotel.
Across the prairie he rode, slumped low in the saddle, an arm over his ribs, keeping an eye on the tracks he was following. The short grass prairie did not hold a track well, so he often had to stop and look around before picking up Machado’s trail again. It didn’t help that he also felt himself passing out in the saddle and had to shake himself back to consciousness.
At midday he stopped at a shallow creek to let Pete draw water and to fill his canteen. It was hellish, climbing in and out of the saddle but once back in the leather, he took a deep pull from the hooch in his saddlebags. It helped; he rode on. An hour later he and Pete descended a deep dry wash. Pete lunged up the opposite side. It was like having railroad spikes driven through Hunter’s chest.
The world went dark. He tumbled from the saddle and struck the ground with a thud.
He howled and passed out.
Bobby ran up to him and nuzzled him, mewling, and curled up beside him.
Hunter had no idea how much time had passed when, distantly, he heard the clomp of hooves growing louder as a rider approached.