Eventually my heart slowed its heavy pounding, my goosebumps and shivers faded away, and the terrible trembling lessened. I could breathe normally again. I felt weak, washed out, a shadow of the person I’d always thought myself to be.
Princess got me to my feet again. She bawled loudly from the lean-to, so I hastened to see her problem. Tracker bounded ahead of me as I gathered up the rifle and ran.
There was nothing wrong with the cow. She stood where I tied her, perfectly safe. I stared at her, puzzled, for she wasn’t a vociferous animal. She tugged repeatedly at the rope, bawling, stretching her head toward a pile of hay and straw on the far side of the lean-to.
Baffled, I went over to it and nearly vomited.
The heifer calf lay stretched on her side, one wide-open eye gazing blindly at the roof. Her throat had been cut.
I fell to my knees by the little calf, reaching blankly out to touch her soft, ginger-colored coat. The sweetly sickening smell of blood commingled with the scent of hay and straw, and I gagged against the stench. Tracker backed hastily away from the sodden mess of blood-soaked litter, but Princess bawled and tugged at her rope, wanting to reach her calf.
The shock of it kept me from losing my senses altogether. I was already badly shaken by my confrontation with the Barstows; I feared finding my calf butchered might drive me back into the shell I’d erected two years ago. It didn’t. I kept tears at bay by using what store of strength I had left.
I buried the calf in the trees across the road, far enough away so that if scavenger animals came they wouldn’t stray near the house. The whole time I dug the grave I heard Princess calling from the lean-to. Words work with people, I thought bitterly, but how do you tell a cow of the death of her young?
Rooster Gibbs. I decided on him as I walked slowly back to the house. The thin, little, red-haired, green-eyed man who hardly said a word. His doing. Here I’d named him the least dangerous of them all because of his silence and his timely interruption in Larsson’s store. Gibbs of the long-bladed, bone-handled butcher’s knife.
I washed off at the well and went into the house in poor spirits. As I stepped inside I halted abruptly. An overwhelming feeling of surrender engulfed me.
The place was a shambles. Jordy Macklin and Wes Lacklander had spawned a tornado in the front room.
Everything lay piled in the center of the room. Clothing, bedding, my curtains, and the lacy white cloth from the round table were heaped on the rag rug. The pile was torn and dirtied beyond repair.
One of the lanterns had been smashed and dropped on the pile.
By the time I finished cleaning up and making repairs, dusk had come. I had no stomach for supper. With rifle in hand and Tracker by my side I did the evening chores and check of the place. I had no heart for any of it, and I longed for Toby.
Patch showed up as I readied for bed, slipping between my ankles like a wraith. I was so happy to see him I scooped him up and hugged him to my chest, ignoring his outraged complaints. He was never one for being held, but just now I needed something. When I let him down he stomped around my bed and complained loudly, then settled down to groom his mussed fur. When I crawled beneath the covers he curled next to me on the pillow, purring warmly.
I didn’t sleep for a long time.
Horses came over the hill as I drew water from the well. I dropped the bucket down immediately and snatched up my rifle. Two riders came over the crest and toward the house, and I recognized Abner Barton and Elmer Tolleson.
I hushed Tracker as they came into my yard, and set the gun against the well. Barton smiled at me. “Mornin’, Lonnie.”
Tolleson nodded his greeting. “Lonnie.”
“Mornin’,” I answered. “Step down if you like.”
Barton shook his head. “No time for it. We’ve only come by for a short visit. We wanted to check on how you’re doing.”
Tolleson wiped sweat from his brow with a bandanna. He was a tall, gentle man who always spoke in a quiet voice. He still retained a touch of his Virginia accent.
“Lonnie,” he said, “you know the Barstows have been in town. They’ve been out on the plains too, lookin’ for that witness. Abner and I are checkin’ folks to see how they stand, to see if they’ve visited. We thought we should check on you first, bein’ as your farm’s the farthest and you’re here alone.”
I nodded, recalling the fear of yesterday. “I know. They’ve come already.”
Both men were shocked. As I saw the fearful expressions on their faces and the stricken look in their eyes, I realized what I had done the day before. It brought the memory back with vivid clarity, and a sudden shiver ran down my spine.
“Lonnie!” Barton fought to keep from shouting. “They came here?”
“Yesterday.”
Tolleson gestured to include me and the farm. “They didn’t hurt you? They didn’t take advantage of you bein’ here alone?”
“No, no, they didn’t hurt me. They only looked around.”
The blacksmith sounded normal again but curious. “How did you hold them off? They tore apart Ed Hanley’s storage shed. And you saw Matt Barstow kill Rainmaker. How could you stand against a man like that?”
“I kept my rifle on him. I’d have shot him if any of them had tried anything.” I shrugged. “Besides, I had Tracker. He took a hunk out of Wes Lacklander’s arm.”
Barton’s eyes sharpened. “Why did the hound jump Lacklander?”
Tolleson stared at me wide-eyed. “They did try to hurt you! Why else would the dog have gone at him?”
I smiled weakly. “Let’s just say Lacklander got a little too close for Tracker’s likes. That’s why he’s a good dog.”
Barton shook his head. “Lonnie, you’d best come with us. We’ll see you safely to town and settled in at my home. It’s too dangerous for you to be out here by yourself.” He forestalled my protest by raising a hand. “I know what you’ve said about it before, but I don’t care. The Barstows are not men to fool with. You could have been hurt—even killed. Come with us.”
I sighed. “They’ve already been here and gone. They won’t come back. There’s no reason to. I’m staying. Thanks for your offer, but there’s an end to it.”
Tolleson and Barton exchanged helpless glances. They knew me too well to continue with the subject. But Tolleson put in one more word.
“Lonnie—girl, you know Abner and I respect your reasons for stayin’ here. But there comes a time when a man should do the decidin’. Please come with us.”
I was exasperated. “Will no one ever let me be? Do I have to go on proving I can make a living out here? Look, the bank can’t force me off my land; the Barstows can’t scare me off it; and you can’t invite me off it.”
“Lonnie—” Barton began.
“No, I want no words from you.” I sighed, controlling the emotion in my voice. “I know you both mean well. You’re good men. I thank you for your concern, but this is where I stay. I belong here. No matter what.”
Tolleson knew nothing more he said could change my mind. Barton—who knew me best of all—simply accepted it. He wasn’t happy with it, but he nodded his acceptance.
“Girl, you’ve got grit, that’s for sure. More than some men I’ve known. But don’t let your pride stand in your way if you need help. It may have helped you survive this long, but pride can also get you hurt. Lonnie, will you ask for it if you need it?”
I grinned at him. “I doubt I’ll need it, now, but I’ll ask for your help if I do.”
Tolleson wiped his face again, surrendering. “Abner, we’d best be goin’. Other folks’ll want to hear from us.”
“Lonnie.” Barton’s voice was stern. “Look after yourself.”
I smiled up at him. “I always do.”
Once they were gone I went back to the well and cranked up the bucket, smiling to myself. Barton treated me like a frustrating, wayward daughter, but his concern was always there. Genuine concern from a man I considered one of the best ever born.
The Swede was another, always treating me fair and decent, always asking after me when I went in to do my trading. Tolleson too—I saw him whenever I bought hay and grain for my animals.
Maybe they’d always seen through the bitterness and harshness Toby had shown me I had. Otherwise why would three good men trouble themselves about me so?
And there was Toby. Of course his concern for me was different, but equally meaningful. More so, actually. I grinned foolishly at Tracker and held the bucket so he could reach it and lap up water.
“Well, old hound, your old friend has gone and got herself trapped pretty good. Here I’ve been the one saying I got no use for dreams and normal cares like loving a man, and now I’m just like all those other women. Well, maybe not exactly. Toby’ll find out soon enough. I’m still me.”
After supper I curled up in the rocking chair, losing myself in dreams of the future. Toby seemed to thrive on them, and maybe they might do me some good. I put the lantern on the mantle and lost myself in the shadows of the room.
Tracker jerked me from my solitary peace of mind by sounding off a savage flurry of trouble-barks outside the house. Patch bounded out of my lap as I flew from the chair and grabbed the rifle.
A gunshot rang out and I froze, stricken. I heard a cut-off yelp from the hound. My heart dropped clear to the floor, but I had no time to think.
I threw the door open, setting the rifle to my shoulder. Maybe I’d have been better off if I had hid, but it wasn’t me, and I was afraid for Tracker.
There was no moon, only a thick, blanketing blackness. The lantern behind me barely reached out the door. I stared into the darkness.
A shadow loomed out of the night. It came at me. A man, just a figure of a man, but the prickles rose. I sensed the inhuman coldness and revulsion he always dragged from the depths of my soul.
Wes Lacklander came at me out of the dark of night into the shadowed doorway. I felt back a step, staring at him in shock. Images flashed in my shuddering mind: such a cold, cold, white face—glazed and pale eyes staring—shiny, silver buttons glinting on his vest. His hands swam before my eyes as he reached out for me, teeth gleaming in a terrible triumphant smile.
“Now,” he whispered in that sickening, silky tone, “now we’ll see if you like it. Now I can have what I need.”
I didn’t think. I acted on pure instinct. I pulled the trigger and heard the shot ring out, ringing in my head, jarring the rifle stock against my shoulder.
I did it, Toby, I’ve shot a man.
But the man didn’t die. He still came at me, reaching for me, clawing at me. He still smiled gently in the face of my terror. I cried out, frozen with the rifle clutched in my hands.
Then he fell backwards. He fell from top to bottom, as if he were collapsing bit by bit. The twisted legs sprawled in the front room while the rest of him hung out the doorway, head dragging in the dust.
Shuddering, spasmodic breaths started up in my chest as I slowly crept forward to see if he was dead. I’ve never before wanted a person hurt or dead, but I prayed for it.
Blood spread slowly across his black vest, dulling the silver buttons. I felt sick.
Toby, I’ve killed a man.
“I been wantin’ to shoot that bastard for a long time. Now you gone and done it for me.”
I spun around in shock. All I could do was stare woodenly at Jordy Macklin.
He grinned at me, folding his arms across his chest. His eyebrows slid up. “So now you know you had the guts to do it.”
I tried to haul the rifle up to my shoulder but he only laughed at me, then grabbed it from my hands.
“It’s empty, little lady. No more killin’ for you tonight.” He shook his head. “I really didn’t think you’d manage, but you got ol’ dead Wes smack in the gut. He didn’t stand a chance.”
“What do you want?”
Jordy set the rifle down on the table and shifted his weight enough to slouch lazily. The spurs chinked. He tugged playfully at the tie-strings of his hat, bobbing the feather. His tone was openly amused and overly friendly.
“Well now, I guess I ought to tell you about ol’ Wes—seein’ as how you just sent him on to Glory.” He snatched off his hat and held it over his heart a moment, staring past me to the body in the door. “Wes, you have my condolences. But you deserved it, you bastard.” He returned his hat and grinned at me. “You see, ol’ dead Wes liked his women. So do I, but not for the same reasons. Women are for beddin’, but Wes, well, he had some crazy ideas about it. He liked killin’ and beddin’ about the same—said they both gave him a powerful pleasure. Generally he liked to kill the ladies when he was done with ’em.” He shook his head, smiling. “Ol’ Wes was different. He liked to kill whenever he got the urge and the itch.”
I nearly flinched as Macklin stuck out a finger, pointing at me. “The other day at the store, he got it in his head that he wanted you—pure and simple. I didn’t figure he’d let it be, specially after you set that dog on him yesterday.” He hooted. “When he rode out of camp tonight I had a feelin’ he was comin’ here, so I just followed along. Ol’ Wes always was a little stupid—he never figured on you shootin’. So he came in the front. Now me—I know better. I came in a window.” He gestured widely with both hands. “See there? You never even heard me.”
“Why don’t you take your friend and go.”
Jordy put on a look of great surprise. “Wes wasn’t my friend. Just a man to ride along with. Besides, I ain’t ready to go just yet. Not till I find out if you would’ve been worth his time.”
“Get out of here!”
Macklin removed his hat and dropped it to the table beside the rifle. His grin was trimmed to an expectant smile. I turned to run but he grabbed my braid and hung on, jerking me back. I cried out from the pain and struggled, but he dragged me into his arms. One hand slipped to the collar of my dress, ripping the cloth from my shoulder.
I kicked and I clawed and I bit but it only made him laugh. I must have hurt him once or twice because he cursed, but he was much stronger than I ever dreamed a man could be. Yet I wasn’t about to give up the fight. Jordy Macklin had said I had spunk; now let him see how it served me.
I got my left arm free and clawed at the gun on his hip, but he slapped me forcefully on the side of my head. He hooked a boot heel around my ankles, digging the sharp spur rowel into a leg. He pulled me off my feet and bore me down on the rag rug with him on top.
I was crushed beneath his weight. As he shifted I tried to pull away frantically. He grabbed for the front of my dress again, fingers digging into me. His other hand was rough and painful on my thighs.
Again he shifted his weight, lifting slightly, and I used all my panicked strength to push upward in an effort to lunge away. A hand went around the base of my throat, throttling me. I feared he might murder me then, but he only shoved downward sharply. My head slammed against the floor.
Pain shot through me, bright and sharp. Stars and lights and colors jolted in my head. My eyes felt like they were bulging from their sockets.
I cried out once, then quite suddenly awareness slid softly away. I was conscious but stunned to utter blankness. I heard Jordy’s grunt of triumph from far away.
He had tamed his little lady.
My mind detached itself from my body. I was perfectly aware of what Jordy did, but somehow my struggling spirit shielded me from complete comprehension. I could do nothing as he hurt me, purposely rough, mumbling horrid things to me. There wasn’t even a spark of defiance left in me.
At last he was gone. The weight of him—the smell of him—the demand of him was gone. I heard him moving around the room but it came to me faintly. I made no effort to open my eyes or move. I lay there, finally slipping into some form of sleep.
I roused in the early dawn. The floor was hard beneath my sore, battered body. My head was packed and ringing. I licked weakly at a split lip and tasted dried blood. I put a hand to my mouth and bit a finger, forcing back the tears, the bone-shuddering sobs. Crying would do no good. Not now.
Sitting up took time. I was limp and weak as a rag doll, and as totally empty of emotions. Finally I managed to drag myself to my feet, hanging onto the table for support. I stared down at my empty rifle. Then I looked sharply to the open doorway.
Wes Lacklander’s body was gone. Only blood stains remained, soaking into the wooden floor. A man killed by my hand had been hauled off like a side of beef by an outlaw who denied calling him a friend, yet returned him to his own kind.
Summoning all the strength I’d ever had, wishing I had more, I stumbled to the doorway and braced myself against the frame. For a moment I stared dazedly at the mud in front of the door, wondering if it had rained. Then I realized it was Lacklander’s blood. I shuddered violently once and looked past the drying puddle to the yard.
Tracker was there. The hound lay on his side, head stretched toward the house. He was dusty and bloody and stiffly dead.
I whimpered like a sickly animal. Then I was down in the dirt by him, gathering him into my arms. A hole the size of a man’s fist had torn open his chest. Lacklander had fired directly into the dog.
I pulled as much of Tracker into my lap as I could. I hugged him tightly, telling him over and over I loved him and he was a good dog. He couldn’t hear me but it didn’t silence me. For once my grief would show.
I rocked back and forth, hugging him, my head against his. I cried. After two years it came hard to me, tearingly harsh, and it wouldn’t stop. My tears fell on him, spotting the dust in his hair.
After a while the sharp pain spent itself and I halted my rocking. I just sat there, holding onto my bluetick hound.
They found me like that. Hours later. I saw them come and I watched as they stepped off their horses. I said nothing. My eyes told them to go away and leave me with my dog, but they didn’t go.
Abner Barton. The Swede, Larsson. And Elmer Tolleson. How ironic the men who had found me two years before with my murdered family should find me now with my dead dog.
They came to me, hesitant, awkward in their concern. The burly blacksmith knelt before me, looking at me with words in his eyes. I dropped my gaze to Tracker, denying the man his silent speech.
He was very gentle. “Lonnie, we’ll see to your dog. I promise.”
I said nothing, hugging Tracker harder as I realized they meant to take him from me.
Larsson whispered a soft exclamation to himself in Swedish. I glanced up and saw Barton looking at the bruises all over me, made visible by my torn dress. An expression in his eyes and face made him ugly as he realized what had happened.
I wanted to run away. I wanted free of him and the others, but I couldn’t move. And I had Tracker to look after.
The blacksmith put a gentle hand on my arm, then removed it hastily as I flinched jerkily, uncontrollably. I hung on all the harder to my hound.
“Lonnie, please—let us tend to him for you. You can’t sit here like this. There’s no help for the dog now. He’s dead. Lonnie, come on, we’ll take care of him.”
Barton’s voice was soft and soothing. I stared hard at him to make certain of his meaning, and very suddenly I couldn’t stand against his wishes any longer. Jordy Macklin’s victory was complete. My pride and my grit were gone.
The blacksmith took my arms and drew them away from my hound. He turned his head away, speaking softly to the others.
“Olaf, take the dog. Pull him away from her while she’s willing. We can bury him when we’re sure she’s all right.”
The Swede moved in and bent over to Tracker, starting to lift him from my lap. I stiffened and reached out for him, but Barton stood up slowly, pulling me up with him. He held me against his big body as if I were his own child, brawny arms gently cradling me. I stared after Tracker as the Swede settled him carefully in the dirt.
“Easy, Lonnie, it’s over now,” Barton said softly.
I looked into his face and saw something shining like tears in his eyes. It struck me odd—why would a grown man like him cry? It was my dog.
Then I saw he wasn’t looking at Tracker. He was looking at me. I wanted to tell him I didn’t need that sort of fretting—never had—but as I opened my mouth, to say it, somebody swept the earth right out from under my feet.
The darkness was sudden and surprisingly soft.