The Whip Hand

Henrietta shrugged a pale, bare shoulder.

Henrietta turned the key in the lock and opened the door. “Horace, hello!” she exclaimed as though delighted to see a close friend she hadn’t seen in years. “Come in, come in. Where have you been? Henrietta has missed you so!”

A man who stank like a barn stepped into the room, grinning, his hat in his hand. He was a little taller than Annabelle, but not by much. Maybe in his mid-thirties with a rat-like face and a generally seedy look. Obviously, a cow puncher, he came in grinning like the cat that ate the canary, and Henrietta closed the door. Annabella had picked up a coal shovel from the little brazier in the corner by the table.

Now she squeezed it and when Horace turned to her, still grinning, she beaned him over the head with it. He fell with a groan. Henrietta gasped and leaped back in shock, staring wide-eyed at Annabelle, speechless.

Annabelle grabbed the stockings from the hook and rushed over to the girl before she could scream. Just as Henrietta opened her mouth to scream, Annabelle thrust the stockings into her mouth. She drove her to the floor saying, “I’m so sorry, Henrietta—but I can’t stay here. I’m so sorry . . .” Quickly she knotted the sock behind the girl’s head.

Minutes later, she had Henrietta gagged and tied to all four bed posters with sheets. Henrietta stared at her in wide-eyed shock and dismay.

Horace lay on the floor, unmoving.

A walnut-gripped six-shooter bristled on his right hip.

Quickly, Annabelle grabbed the gun and shoved it down behind her belt. She stepped over Horace, removed the key from the lock, opened the door, went out, and locked the door behind her. Enough sound emanated from downstairs and enough sounds of love, if you could call it that, issued from behind the doors around Annabelle, that the man, once he returned to consciousness, would have to call pretty loudly before anyone could hear him. If Annabelle hadn’t killed him, that was. She hadn’t cared enough to check. At least he was out for now and hopefully a while longer.

There was a window at the end of the hall to her left.

She hurried to it. It was cracked about three inches for ventilation. It was hot and cloying with body sweat here on the second floor. The window was designed to rise up and down, and there appeared a shake-shingled roof several feet below it—probably a small rear porch. She shoved the window up, but the frame was swollen likely from summer humidity and from the river that ran behind the place. On her first try, Anna could get the window up only about ten inches.

Behind her came the sounds of someone moving up the stairs. A man was talking, and a girl was laughing.

Oh, God, no!

Anna grunted as she took the window in both hands and slid it up farther—but only a few more inches. There wasn’t enough room for her to climb through.

Behind her, the footsteps and the man’s voice and the girl’s laughter grew louder.

Annabelle drew a deep breath, flexed her hands, grabbed the window, and gave another grunt as she funneled every bit of strength she had into the window. Now there might be just enough room for her to squirm through. There better be. The man and the girl were almost to the second story. She caught a first glimpse of them. She hoped like hell they didn’t glimpse her . . .

In desperation, she thrust her head through the window and shoved off with her feet. She dove through the opening, flew straight down and landed on the roof below headfirst, the rest of her body close behind.

She grunted with the impact, wood slivers from the shakes digging into her chin, hands, and wrists. Again, she was dazed but not as badly as when Tobin had smacked her off her horse. She shook her head to clear the cobwebs, then heaved herself to her feet. She made sure Horace’s six-shooter was still behind her belt. It was. She took mincing steps to the edge of the porch roof and peered over the side.

There was about a ten-foot drop to the ground.

She looked around but saw no easy way down, so she looked around again to make sure there was no one in the road ranch’s backyard. Seeing no one, she said, “Here goes nothin’ . . .” and dropped to her hands and knees.

She dropped her legs over the lip of the roof.

She twisted around until she was belly down. She crabbed closer and closer to the edge, her legs dropping lower and lower. Finally, she hooked her fingers over the edge of the roof, hung there for a second, then, sucking a deep breath, let go.

She dropped straight down to the ground, bending her knees to distribute the force of the blow.

Again, she grunted. She fell back on her butt. She still had Horace’s gun.

She looked around. The road ranch’s windows were brightly lit on each side, but back here in the rear yard, it was nearly as dark as pitch.

Good.

She rose, looked around.

Anxious hope made her heart beat fast, but she wasn’t out of the woods yet. Now she needed to get her hands on a horse.

Or...

When she’d scouted the area from above, she’d seen something along the shore of the river that glistened silver in the starlight.

Hmmm.

She shoved Horace’s pistol down snugger behind her belt then started walking toward the snake of the river glistening behind shrubs lining the shore. There was the squawk and scrape of a door opening on her right. She dove forward and rolled up behind a sage shrub. She peered through the shrub toward the privy on her right. A man was just emerging from the rickety structure, sighing and breathing as though he’d run a great distance.

He stopped in front of the open door, set his hat on his head, and stared toward Annabelle.

“Someone out here?”

Annabelle gritted her teeth in dread.

“No jokes, now, ya hear? I ain’t in no mood.” He started moving toward the far side of the cabin. “A little off my feed’s all . . .”

Then he was gone.

Annabelle heaved a heavy sigh.

She jerked with a start when she heard a commotion inside the building behind her.

A man’s voice—Machado’s voice—bellowed: “SHE’S GONE! THE REDHEAD’S GONE! FIND HERRRR!”

The commotion inside the place grew louder.

Heart racing, Annabelle ran through the shrubs to the river. What she’d seen from the room but hadn’t been able to make out clearly was a rowboat. Likely the boat the tongueless cook took out to catch the turtles for his stew.

As a door of the cabin opened and men began to run out into the yard, yelling angrily, Annabelle crouched to shove the boat into the dark, glistening water. She leaped over the stern and took up the paddle. She dipped the paddle into the water, rammed it into the river’s muddy bottom, and, using both hands at the end of the paddle, gave a great shove, pushing herself and the boat out farther into the river.

Almost instantly, the river’s current grabbed her and—oh, thank God, thank God, thank God!—slid her down river away from the road ranch and the men running around in the yard, howling and cursing like a rabid pack of half-human wolves.

Annabelle sat down facing the boat’s stern and began paddling, keeping the boat aimed straight downstream. With every inch, every foot, every five feet . . . ten feet . . . the merciful river took her farther away from the roadhouse, she muttered a genuine thank you to the fates.

She’d been on the river maybe seven or eight minutes when a man’s deep yell cut through the night, rising above the din around the roadhouse—“THE ROWBOAT’S GONE!”

Annabelle’s heart leaped into her throat.

Immediately, she paddled harder, faster, picking up speed.

In the starlit darkness alive with crickets and the screech of an occasional nightbird, the boat traced a long curve in the river. She could no longer hear the angry shouts and bellows of Machado’s men. She paddled until she was so exhausted, and her hands were so badly blistered, that she could paddle no longer.

The boat slid along with the river.

Around one bend, around another one.

She nearly got caught in a snag of trees that had fallen over the river from the right shoreline and had to use the paddle to shove the boat away from it, around it. It was a frustrating maneuver that cost her precious minutes, and she couldn’t afford to be delayed even a single second.

Machado’s men would be coming after her.

Only a few minutes after that nettling thought had snagged at her brain, distant hoof thuds sounded. The thudding grew louder and then a man shouted, “She’s in here somewhere! Keep your eyes open, boys!”

The thrashing of shrubs and bushes accompanied the thudding of the hooves.

They were close and they were getting closer.

To Annabelle’s left as she faced upstream, the bank was roughly ten feet above the river. She could see shrubs rustling up there, just upstream from her. Through the branches, she glimpsed the glistening hide of a horse. Desperately, she paddled to bring the boat close to shore where tree roots poked out of the bank. When she was close enough, she set down the paddle and grabbed the roots with both hands, holding her and the boat still, though the current kept pushing and pulling.

She clung desperately to the roots and kept her feet pressed hard against the bottom of the boat.

Above her, the bank bulged outward slightly, offering her a modicum of cover from above.

Above her, the hoof thuds grew louder.

She steeled herself, tried to quiet her racing heart to no avail.

Closer and closer the riders came until she could hear the squawk of tack and the faint rattle of bit chains. Brush snapped under hooves. Horses snorted.

Suddenly, straight above Annabelle, the sound stopped.

An eerie silence save for the sucking sound of the river and the breathing of horses fell over the night around Annabelle.

So suddenly that Anna jerked with a start, Machado’s voice said, “When I find that damn bitch, I’m gonna shoot her!”

Again, hooves thudded and snapped twigs and brush as the riders moved off downstream along the top of the bank.

Annabelle removed her hand from the roots, let the river continue to shepherd her downstream. She was glad to see boulders and cedars growing along the crest of the bank. They would make it harder for her stalkers to see her in the river. She followed another long bend in the stream to the left. Trees grew tall on both embankments, making it seem as though she were floating through a deep tunnel. More darkness meant better protection.

Her heart grew lighter when fifteen minutes passed, then twenty . . . then thirty and she neither heard nor saw anything of Machado’s men.

Vaguely she heard a whispering sound from straight ahead along the river.

She frowned, gazing curiously upstream.

That whispering became a rushing sound and then her heart sank.

She was heading straight for a rapid, and there was no place to take refuge along either steep bank.

“No,” she said, turning the boat around and trying to paddle backward. “No, no, no!”

But there was nothing she could do.

The river had her.

The rushing grew louder and louder and then she could see the white of the water dropping before her in the starry darkness . . . just before the rapids sucked her and the boat straight down that ladder of white, rippling water. The front of the boat dipped violently, and she went flying forward over the prow . . . and straight down . . . down . . . into the angry tangle of rushing water.

She couldn’t help but scream just before she went headfirst into the stream.