58

The next two days passed with agonizing slowness for the posse. They moved through terrain marked by gullies and hills, following a trail that twisted and turned through the foothills. Constant vigilance frayed nerves and heightened reactions. More than once, a pistol was drawn and cocked, then lowered as a rabbit emerged from the undergrowth along the trail.

The air cooled and the pine scent grew stronger as they climbed higher. They rode in near silence, communicating with hand gestures and whispers. When they stopped for the evening, they ate cold suppers and settled into restless sleep, taking turns on guard duty. The slightest noise woke them. Michael felt the bone-aching, heavy-headed exhaustion brought on by weeks of interrupted sleep on uncomfortable ground.

On the third morning, Michael heard heavy footsteps behind him as he saddled Buddy. He looked over his shoulder to see Bill Barkston approaching, his saddle on one shoulder. They worked in silence, focused on the task at hand.

When he finished, Barkston turned to Michael. “Caleb told me how he accepted Jesus with you. I can’t tell you how much that means to me. Caleb’s a good friend. Me and Vernon have been after him for years, but I guess he needed a stranger to get to him.”

Michael smiled. “I think I just followed up on the seed you and Mr. Phelps planted. I wouldn’t have been able to reach him if you hadn’t gone first.”

Barkston rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe so. Well, I just wanted to say thanks.” Barkston extended his hand and they shook. Then, instead of moving away, Barkston stood looking at him. Michael felt as though the man were assessing him for an important position on the ranch.

Finally Barkston spoke. “I owe you an apology for the way my wife and I treated you at church that Sunday you came to town.” He held up his hand to stop Michael from talking. “My Sally’s had her heart set on getting Jeffrey married, and when Rachel came to town and grew to be such a good person under Pastor Luke and Martha, Sally did everything she could to get them together. Then you showed up, and Rachel only had eyes for you, and . . . Anyway, like I said, I’m sorry.”

Michael grinned. “Apology accepted. But I don’t think I’m the one for Rachel, much as I want to be. She’s made it pretty clear that she doesn’t want to be with anyone right now.”

Barkston wheeled his horse around so he could mount. He grinned as he swung into the saddle. “Don’t give up too easy, son. She could change her mind.”

Two days later, the posse climbed a gentle slope, the kidnappers’ trail still clear. Michael rode with Caleb a few yards behind Old Thomas and Malachi. A storm had threatened earlier, but now the sun beamed from a cloudless sky. A gentle breeze dried the sweat on their brows.

On the far side of the slope, they entered a narrow gully that forced them to ride single file. Small shrubs dotted the sides. Pine trees ranked along the tops like soldiers on a march. Each sound seemed amplified by the close confines.

Michael saw Caleb sit straighter and slide his pistol in and out of his holster. Old Thomas and Malachi seemed to pay more attention to the terrain around them than the tracks in front of them. Behind him, Michael heard shifting that told him the others were more alert. He kept looking right and left, ears and eyes straining for signs of ambush.

He heard and saw nothing. The gully was still. No one—

Old Thomas suddenly spread his arms as if nailed to an invisible cross. The sound of a shot echoed through the hills. He tumbled backward, a slow-motion somersault that ended with him flat on his back, arms still spread, a dark stain on his chest.

Malachi jumped from his horse and stumbled toward his friend, while the others dismounted and scrambled for cover. Another shot kicked up dust next to Malachi. Then a third shot entered his shoulder just as he reached Thomas, knocking him forward. Michael ran and slid one arm around Malachi’s chest. A bullet shrieked past his ear and ricocheted off the rocks as he dragged the older man out of the line of fire.

“Gotta help Thomas,” Malachi moaned. He clenched his shoulder, his face twisted in pain as blood seeped down his shirtfront.

“You wait here. I’ll get him.” Michael ran back to the Indian. Old Thomas’s eyes stared at nothing.

More shots came, and the posse returned fire. Michael dragged Old Thomas to where Jeremiah tended Malachi. The old man wept. Caleb glanced over from his place a few yards forward. Michael shook his head.

Caleb bowed his head for a moment, then moved back to where Bill Barkston, Frank, and Martin had taken cover. “Bill, you three backtrack a ways and see if you can find a way to come up behind ’em. I think they’re to the right of us, but I can’t be sure.”

Bill listened as a few more shots hit dust. “I think they’re on both sides, hoping to catch us in cross fire, but I don’t think there’s more than two or three of them.”

Caleb cocked his head toward the gunfire. “You’re right. My ears are gettin’ fooled by the echoes. But there’s probably reinforcements on the way now that the shootin’s started.”

Bill spat on the ground. The dark brown tobacco juice took on a coat of sandy dust. “I expect you’re right, so we best try to get control of this while we can.” He motioned to Frank and Martin. “Come on, boys. Let’s see if we can take some authority here.”

The three men started off, hugging the gully wall. Frank and Martin followed the husky, gray-haired rancher in single file, rifles at the ready. In other circumstances they would have looked like a father and his two sons on a hunting trip. Now they were the hunted. Michael watched and prayed as they disappeared around a bend.

The gunfire stopped. The silence dragged on for several minutes, tension hanging in the still air like a sopping wet blanket. A trickle of sweat slid down Michael’s spine.

A voice with a heavy Spanish accent broke the silence. “You might as well give up, señors. We have you trapped, and we can just wait you out. You’ll either starve or walk into our guns. If you surrender, you might live.”

“Highly unlikely,” Caleb muttered.

Three shots rang out so close together, they sounded almost like one. Silence echoed as loud as the shots.

Barkston’s voice boomed out. “Come on up, Caleb. But you’d better hurry.”

Caleb and the others scrambled around a slight turn in the trail. Two bodies lay in the dirt. Brown-skinned young men, Indian or Mexican. One had a large hole in the center of his forehead. The other had two holes in his chest. Their eyes stared unseeing into the clear blue sky.

“Mitch and Harold,” Caleb barked, “you go gather the horses. And be careful.”

The two men ran back down the trail where the horses had scattered when the ambush began.

Barkston pointed forward. “Our shots must have alerted others up ahead. There’s a dust trail rising, and it’s moving our way fast.”

“Everyone take cover.”

The men scrambled behind rocks and shrubs that dotted the sides and top of the gully. Michael lifted Malachi under his good arm. The old man leaned on Michael, tears streaking down his wrinkled cheeks. His gaze lingered on Old Thomas’s body.

“We can’t just leave him here. I need to stay with him.”

“I know.” Michael grunted as he shifted Malachi’s weight. “We won’t leave him. But I need to get you to cover right now and patch you up. We’ll come back and get Thomas as soon as we take care of this business.”

Harold and Mitch came back with the horses. Caleb motioned for them to get to high ground. The men tugged and pushed and pulled the animals up the soft slopes of the gully. Michael followed, swatting the rumps of the slower mounts, Malachi’s arm around his neck, Michael’s other arm around his waist. They tied the horses to some pine trees that had established a toehold in the rocky, sandy soil.

Michael laid Malachi under a pine and went to get a couple of blankets from the packhorses. One blanket he folded into a pillow. The other he spread over Malachi’s torso. The old man’s teeth chattered, and he shivered despite the blankets and warm air.

Michael ripped open Malachi’s shirt and rolled him on his side to examine the wound. The bullet had gone right through but had left a gaping hole in the front of Malachi’s shoulder. Blood ran down his chest and shoulder blade.

Michael ran to the packhorses and rummaged in the packs until he found some cloth to use as bandages. He found a half-full bottle of whiskey wrapped in the cloths. He grinned, shook his head, and darted back to Malachi with the cloth, the whiskey, and a canteen of water.

Malachi’s eyes lit up at the sight of the liquor. “Boy, I was wonderin’ where that got to. I can sure use some of it.”

“I’m going to give you some.” Michael opened the bottle and poured some of the contents over the entrance and exit wounds.

Malachi grunted behind gritted teeth. “That’s not where I meant.”

“I know, but it’s where you needed it.” Michael wrapped the cloth around the shoulder and under the arm of the wounded man. He pulled it tight and tied it off.

Malachi moaned again. “I need a drink.”

Michael held the canteen to his lips. Malachi sputtered as the liquid entered his mouth. “Not that, you fool!”

“This is all you get for now. I need you sober if you’re going to recover.”

“Dang preachers. Never know when to let a fellow have the medicine he needs.” But he drank from the canteen like a calf hungry for its mother.

When he finished, Michael capped the canteen. He placed his hands on the wounded shoulder and prayed for a quick healing. “Now you just lie here and rest as best you can. I’ll be back to take a look at you in a little bit.”