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"Here we go, gentlemen, three card monté. Who will play?" Miguel Mendoza glanced around the large, log-walled room that housed Weber Station's dining facilities and bar. The timing was perfect. All nine passengers from the two o'clock morning stage had bolted the last of their greasy venison stew and ordered whiskey. With no females other than the Mormon station master's over-ripe wife to offer a distraction, Mendoza had good reason to anticipate success. Lady Luck danced on his shoulder. His smooth palms itched to scrape in the proceeds.
He put exactly the right amount of charm and magnetism into his smile, with a touch of innocence thrown in as an extra lure. Although he wore a sack coat rather than his fancier frock coat, he knew he looked stylish enough for the miners, storekeepers, and farmers who dominated the crowd. The fake diamond in his stickpin sparkled in the lantern light, and a clean silk handkerchief peeked like a snowy mountaintop from his breast pocket. With soaring confidence, Mendoza shuffled the cards.
A grizzled old fur trapper lifted his leather-clad elbow off the pine bar and sauntered over to join the local farm boys already seated at Mendoza's table. The gambler selected a card and waved it in the smoky air. "Here is one." He made sure his voice carried to every comer. "Here is another."
The door squeaked open, admitting a blast of cold air, and an Indian youth with a bow slung across his chest entered.
"Come on, friends. Give a man a sporting chance, eh?" Mendoza motioned for the stage passengers to join the others at his table.
A goateed storekeeper shrugged his shoulders, mumbled, "Why not?" and rose from the dining table. Three others followed.
"Now, this, gents—" Mendoza held up the final card for his first round of three-card monté. "—this jack of spades is the winning card. Watch it closely. Follow it with your eyes as I shuffle."
The Indian with the bow crouched against the wall. Turkey feathers dangled from his long black braids. His baggy shirt bloused over a wide belt, but he wore no gun. Mendoza watched the station keeper's wife approach the small warrior and saw the niño shake his head in answer to her inquiry.
Miguel laid the three cards face-down on the table and shuffled them with quicksilver movements. "Here it is. Now, here. No, here it is, and now—"
Every eye struggled to follow the gambler's lightning-speed hands, except those of the Indian. Mendoza felt the niño's gaze glued to his face like paper on a wall. Indians loved to gamble, but three-card monté would be unfamiliar to him. "—where is the jack of spades, mis amigos? Who can point it out?"
"I can," a farmer shouted.
"Show me then, my sharp-eyed friend."
The farmer, wearing brown canvas overalls that reached his armpits, pointed out the middle card with a dirty, cracked fingernail. Slick as lamp oil, Mendoza scooped up the card, replacing it with the jack of spades he had palmed during the shuffle. "And right you are, señor. Had we placed a bet beforehand, you would have won. See how easy it is, my friends? Who'll bet on the next round?"
The men around the table were grinning and mumbling to one another. Coins clinked as they struck the tabletop. Over the men's heads, Mendoza studied the young warrior crouched near the door. The niño wasn't Ute and Mendoza had no reason to fear him, yet he felt distinctly uncomfortable under the Indian's fierce gaze.
"All right, gentlemen, here we go." Mendoza held up the black jack. "Here it is. Now watch again. Don’t let it out of your sight."
He shuffled. "The jack of spades, my calling card. And the winning card. I accept no bets from paupers, cripples, or orphans. If you have a three-hundred-pound wife at home waiting for your cash, step aside. Miguel Mendoza will see no woman or child starve because of him. The jack of spades—remember it, don't take your eye off it while I—"
Realization struck. Mendoza's gaze darted to the small figure by the door as the cause of his unease became clear.
It was her, the bounty hunter. How different she looked masquerading as an Indian. Even so, he couldn't believe he'd failed to recognize her at first sight. At only thirty-three, he could hardly blame old age. Only one more of the many strange things that had happened to him lately. Lady Luck must be trying to tell him something. The woman knew him, yet had made no move. All he could do was brazen it out and wait.
"The jack of spades. My job, friends, is to move my hands quicker than your eyes. If your sight is keen enough, you beat me, and I pay. If not, I take your money. Who'll go me ten?"
"Dollar's enough," a man grumbled.
Miguel's fingers barely fumbled, but it was enough. A cane slammed down on his hand as a voice roared, "Look, he's got another card hidden in his palm."
Miguel drew himself to full height, all five-feet-ten-inches. He donned his haughtiest stare as he stepped back and reached for his own cane with its hidden blade. "You accuse me of cheating, señor?"
"If he won't, this chile shore will." The old fur trapper eased an enormous skinning knife from a sheath at his waist. "Oughta take a lesson from thet Injun over thar 'fore you try this game ag'in, mister. You're slow as buffler glue compared to a Snake or a Crow. In an Injun game of hand, you wouldn't shine noways."
The farmer who thought he'd picked right the first round took hold of Mendoza's hand with a grip like a wood clamp and pried loose the palmed jack. "Well, I'll be downscaled. He’s been cheating, all right."
"Bastard! Let's take him outside and show him what happens to swindlers in these parts."
The air twanged as an arrow split the smoky air and thwacked into the tabletop, pinning the forgotten card deck to the scarred surface as neat as a nail beneath a carpenter's hammer. Chairs clattered to the floor as men jumped from their seats.
Jenna had climbed onto a table to make sure her arrow would clear the men's heads. The added height also gave her the boost she needed to intimidate the angry crowd. Before anyone could move, she had another arrow nocked and ready to fly. She motioned for
Mendoza to move to her side.
Dumbstruck, the other men stared at her while Mendoza gathered up his ill-gotten winnings. Through the silence—so deep she could hear the wind whistle through the gaps between the thick, chinked logs—Jenna heard the fire crackle and spit.
She sucked in a deep breath and nearly gagged at the stink of stale, spilled liquor, over-full spittoons, greasy fried potatoes, and rancid pork.
"McCauley's waiting outside," she murmured softly when the gambler reached her, "so don't try anything."
"I would not dream of it, Chiquita. You have no idea how glad I am to see you."
"Yeah, but for how long?"
NIGHT TRACKING WASN'T Branch McCauley's idea of a good time. Nor was he particularly good at it. But he was determined to run Jenna to ground and find out why she had bolted. If she had decided to go after Black Jack Mendoza on her own again, Branch planned to make sure she didn't get far. Mendoza would hang, but in Park City, not Denver, if McCauley had anything to say about it.
The first hint of trouble came when he reached Weber Station without a single sign of her or Mendoza. Branch had expected to catch up with her long before this. Now dawn cast a rosy blush on the underbellies of the clouds in the east and Branch couldn't make up his mind whether to retrace his steps in case he'd ridden past Jenna, or go on and look for her in Echo Canyon.
So, he sat on Satan's broad back, bickering with himself. Outside the Weber stage station, a family of magpies squabbled raucously in a cottonwood tree. Laughter spilled from the station door as a grizzled old fur trapper staggered outside. Obviously drunk, he proceeded to relieve himself a few feet from the door, unaware of his audience.
Branch waited for him to finish, then called out to the old man: "Say, friend, can I ask you a question or two?"
"What?" The trapper stumbled and nearly fell as he spun around. "Oh, thar ya be. Wadiya want, stranger?"
"Have you been here most of the night?"
"What's it to ya?"
"I'm looking for a man; a gambler, average size, dark, good-looking—"
"With a half-pint Injun sporting a bow and arrers?"
Branch gave a soft snort, half-surprise, half-amusement. "Yeah, that'd be him."
"You a friend o' his?"
"Not by a long shot, mister."
"Wal, then I'll tell ya. Dang fool tried a-cheatin' us. Woulda give him whut-fer if 'n it hadn't a-been for the Injun." The trapper hawked, spit into the faint light, and then chuckled. "That ragged li'l warrior shore can shoot. Ain't seen the like of it since the last time I visited old Washakie's band. Plunked that arrer smack dab in the center of a card deck slick as a newborn pig."
"Where are they now?"
"Yore guess's good as mine, friend. They didn't get a dime off 'n us, so we jest let 'em go."
"Thanks, old timer." He kneed the black into a walk.
"Watch out fer the Injun, if yer a-going after 'em," the trapper yelled. "He'll have an arrer 'tween yore eyes afore ya know he's there."
Branch cursed as he headed Satan up the muddy Echo Canyon road. Undoubtedly, Jenna thought she'd outsmarted him. Again. She would get herself killed at this rate. Travelers rarely ran into trouble hereabouts. But Jenna wasn't ordinary. She was a woman—a mulish, little, hellcat, who courted trouble with a vengeance. He had a notion to paddle her good when he caught up with her.
JENNA DROPPED HER COFFEE cup and sprang to her feet as the echo of a distant rifle shot bounced eerily off the high canyon walls. Her hand flew to the gun strapped once more to her hip.
Mendoza threw aside his own cup and clawed at the rope binding his feet.
"Don't get any ideas, Mendoza." Jenna had the Starr cocked and ready to fire. She tried to determine where the report had originated. "That shot came close, but not aimed at us."
"How can you be sure, Chiquita? Someone has framed me for this murder you say I committed. Maybe they have grown tired of waiting for me to hang."
"Quit calling me that. I don't even know what it means."
"It means only 'little one.' It is an endearment I give to those I esteem."
"Yeah? Well, don't 'esteem' me so much, all right? I'm your enemy, not your friend."
Mendoza flashed her that winning smile, she’d become accustomed to seeing. "Ah, but I wish us to be so much more, pretty gringa."
"There you go again with them Mex words."
"Spanish, not 'Mex', and it means only—" A second shot erupted, closer this time.
Jenna shoved her gun into her holster and hurried to her prisoner. "Put your hands behind your back, Mendoza. I've got to check out those shots, and I don't want to be worrying about you trying to run off behind my back."
"Never would I do that to you, chi—"
"Oh, hush up."
Jenna scrambled up the side of the draw she had chosen for a mid-morning break. At the rim, she bellied down to study the valley below. A movement caught her eye. A hundred yards down-canyon from the draw, a man crouched between the steep slope and the thick stand of willows that crowded the streambed. As she watched him swat his horse on the rump with his hat to get it out of the line of fire, a third bullet whistled over the man's head.
The horse bolted but didn't run far, halting in the sheltering mouth of the draw. A huge horse, black as coal. She only knew one horse like that—Satan. Branch must be the man someone below meant to bushwhack.
Ducking down behind the edge of the rim, Jenna yanked her bow off over her head and put her hat back on. She pulled an arrow from her quiver, nocked it, took aim, and let it fly.
Branch ducked at the sound of the arrow thudding into the damp earth only a few yards away. There had been no trouble with the local Indians for years, and the arrow had come from behind him. Jenna! He glanced up the incline and spotted her at the edge of a ravine. She motioned toward the mouth of the draw and waved her revolver.
Branch nodded to let her know he understood. As soon as she began firing at the attackers across the canyon, he raced for safety.
Jenna fired until there were no more bullets left in her revolver. Then she took up her bow.
Branch had only a few more yards to go. Across the canyon, the bushwhackers opened again. They shot once or twice at Jenna but spent most of their bullets on Branch.
She nocked an arrow and waited until one of them stuck out his head, a tall, thin man too far away to recognize. Jenna watched him motion to someone behind another rock. Moments later, he broke cover and made for a rocky outcropping several feet farther up the bluff. Carefully, she aimed and released the arrow. A faint howl of pain drifted across the narrow valley.
Below, Branch scrambled around the last tangle of shrubbery and dashed up the gully toward Jenna's camp. He glowered at the Spaniard while he caught his breath and considered taking over custody and skipping out before she returned. But not even the memory of the condition she'd left him in the last time he'd been in this canyon with her failed to pacify his conscience. She had just saved his hide after all. Maybe he could shoot the Mexican bastard and claim it was a stray bullet.
Mendoza gave him a confoundedly smug smile, as though aware of Branch's thoughts, and his inability to do what he wanted.
Cursing, Branch went to find Eugenia. He located her at the lip of the ravine, reloading her revolver. Even in her baggy trousers and loose coat, with her wealth of hair tightly braided, she'd never looked more beautiful.
Except, now, he knew what lay hidden beneath her ugly clothing. The thought sent the blood rushing to his groin. He longed to pull her into his arms and kiss her until she begged for more, but—bad timing. Instead, he asked, "Did you get any of them?"
"I think I hit one in the leg with an arrow." She flashed him a cocky grin. "Aren't you going to thank me for saving your worthless hide?"
"I missed you, too," he growled.
His gaze swept the canyon and the bare, grassy hills that surrounded the draw where they hid. "This isn't the safest place to be right now. They could pin us up in here, fire the brush, and pick us off as we try to escape."
"Hell, McCauley, I stopped here to rest the horses and fix some coffee. I wasn't expecting trouble."
The blaze in her eyes fueled the fire in his loins. From where he lay, he could smell honeysuckle. If other women discovered they could intoxicate a man by wearing such a simple fragrance, the perfume business would go under in a day.
"Yeah, well, you stayed a 'bit' too long. Come on, let's get out of here."
He tried to take her hand to help her down the steep incline. She snatched it away. "I'm not helpless, McCauley."
"No, but you're as prickly as a cactus. What does it hurt to let a man help you?" He went ahead so he could stop her fall if she stumbled. Behind his back, he heard her give an unladylike snort.
"You mean let him make me his slave. No thanks, I do fine on my own."
He turned to stare up at her with eyes hard as stone. "For now, maybe. But the day may come, little hellcat, when you need a man
and there's none around. What will you do then?"
"The same thing I've done since I was seven years old and will still be doing when I'm seventy—take care of myself."
His mouth tightened. He spun around and stomped on ahead, leaving her to follow on her own.
Mendoza still lay curled on his side, his legs drawn up behind him and tied to his hands. While Jenna kicked dirt over the small fire, Branch grabbed hold of the gambler's collar and hauled him roughly to his knees.
"I don't suppose you have any idea who those men are out there, do you, Mendoza?" Branch ground out. His fingers itched to close around the man's neck and squeeze the breath out of him. "Your gang, maybe?"
"I am merely a gambler, señor. What use would I have for a gang?"
"None, if it were true. A hired killer, on the other hand, would have a great need for one." Branch shoved him back down and reached for his gun. "Lying bastard. I ought to shoot you here and now—"
"That's enough, McCauley." Jenna put her hand on his arm.
Mendoza shrugged his shirt back into place. Anger tightened his normally genial face. "I told you, señor, I have killed no one. I do not even own a gun, except for the Knuckleduster the señorita took from me. I keep it in a wrist holster for self-defense when I play cards."
"A .32 caliber," Jenna said. "I doubt it would hit anything over fifteen feet away."
"No pocket derringer killed my brother, but Mendoza could easily have gotten rid of the gun he did use." Branch pointed down at her captive. "How can you believe trash like him?"
Jenna calmly reached for the coffee pot. "It doesn't matter whether I believe him or not. He'll be tried for whatever he did—in Denver."
"Like hell! I'm taking him back to Park City."
She started to douse the coals with the leftover coffee. Branch hollered at her, "Hey, don't dump that. I haven't had a thing to eat since supper last night, thanks to you."
"No one invited you to this party," she said, as he snatched the pot from her. "You're more than welcome to leave anytime."
"Not without him. And not before you and I talk about why you ran out on me last night."
"I came here to do a job, McCauley. I have no time for—" She glanced at the Spaniard and lowered her voice. "For what you had in mind."
"No time or no courage?"
Mendoza spoke up in an amused tone: "Perhaps the señorita does not desire your attention, señor."
Branch whirled on the Spaniard, his eyes like green chips of ice. "Stay out of this, Mendoza. I might still shoot you here and now. And what goes on between the young lady and me is none of your business."
Mendoza's perfect white teeth flashed as he smiled. "Ah, but does the lady feel the same way?"
Branch's fists balled. He glanced at Jenna. She was stuffing her things into her saddlebags as though the matter didn't concern her. He felt an urge to throttle them both.
Jenna walked over to Mendoza and cut the rope binding his feet. "Get on your horse."
He rose lithely, despite his bound hands, and leaned close to whisper, "I would not treat you so callously as he, Chiquita. With me, you would be cherished and muy satisfied."
It was more than Branch could take. He lunged for the Spaniard, yanking him away from her. His fist halted an inch from the man's nose. "Get on your horse, Mendoza. . . now, or I'll fix it right here, so you never touch another woman."
"I can take care of my prisoner without your help, McCauley." Jenna glared at him.
"The way you were taking care of him when I came upon you in Emigration Canyon?"
Beet-red from anger and embarrassment, Jenna turned on Mendoza. "Mount up. Now!"
When they were ready to ride, Branch took his place between her and the bushwhackers. "When I say ride, kick your horse hard. Keep your head down and don't stop till I signal that we're safe."
Jenna nodded. She turned her and Mendoza's horses eastward.
Branch turned to the west.
"Get over here, woman." He motioned with his arm. "Dammit,
you aren't going to start that Denver nonsense again, are you?"
"Would you rather give those killers out there another chance to put a slug in you? Once we get out of this canyon, there are other ways to get where you want to go. For now, let's get away from whoever wants to see you dead."
With an unintelligible growl, Branch steered the black around and took the rear position. "Okay, let's ride!"
No sooner had they broken into the open than a volley of shots whizzed past their ears. They hugged their mounts' necks tighter and spurred them on. Jenna took out her gun and fired an occasional wild shot, knowing Branch was doing the same, though she could barely hear the blasts above the pounding hooves and her thundering heartbeat. Once, she thought she heard Mendoza shout something in Spanish. A curse or a prayer. Perhaps both.
A bullet whizzed overhead, snapping a twig from a tree in her path.
"Come on, Gent," she urged the sorrel. "Get me out of here alive, and I'll give you a whole bucketful of oats." Hot fire bit into her side, like a severe hitch from too much running. Jenna kept riding. She risked a glance over her shoulder and saw that both men remained in their saddles though Branch rode farther behind than she liked. The realization that he meant to protect her wrenched her heart. Damn fool. If he gets himself killed, I'll. . .
Jenna felt the sorrel's powerful muscles quiver beneath her as he grew weary. She continued her words of encouragement and prayed they'd be able to stop before the horse faltered. She hated to mistreat her animal.
Minutes passed like hours, yards like miles. It seemed as if they had splashed through the stream a hundred times. Branches lashed her face and arms and snagged her clothes. Her hat vanished. Her thick braid slapped against her back like a whip. Tendrils torn loose by the wind stung her eyes. Gradually, the firing lessened. Branch rode alongside, signaling her to ease up.
"No sign of being followed," he shouted as they'd slowed to a lope. "Stick close to the stream. It'll give us more cover in case we need it."
Jenna nodded. The day had become horribly hot suddenly. Sweat dripped into her eyes and pooled between her breasts. She sat hunched against the painful hitch that refused to leave her side. To fight off nausea, she dragged in great gulps of air.
Branch frowned as he studied her. "Are you all right? You're as white as a Christmas Sunday."
"I'm fine, just winded."
"Are you sure? I don't like the way you look."
"I'm not fond of your looks either, McCauley. You wanna stop for a picnic or are we gonna ride?"
She kicked her sorrel and once more took the lead. Branch's brows drew down over his troubled eyes as he watched her go. He'd seen pain in her eyes. Heard the slur of her words. When Mendoza came alongside, clinging to his saddle horn with his bound hands, Branch told him to keep a close eye on her and yell out if there were a problem. Then Branch dropped behind again.
Where had the day gone? Jenna couldn't believe evening had come already. Yet, the light had faded. They turned into a shallow gorge that led southeastward out of the main canyon. The ascent slowed the horses to a fast walk. When they began running again, Jenna couldn’t say.
She felt only pain now. White-hot agony centered in her side. She struggled not to give into it, but nausea and dizziness threatened to unseat her.
For a moment, she thought she heard someone call her name as night descended with amazing speed. Then she heard nothing more. No hooves thudding over the uneven ground, no wind whistling past her ear, not even her heartbeat or Gent's weary wheeze.
The reins slid from her hands. Too tired to care, she let them go.
Mendoza's frantic yell brought up Branch's head. Up ahead, Jenna's mount slowed haltingly, as though confused. Jenna had dropped her reins as well as Mendoza's and lay bent over the sorrel's neck, her right arm hugging her side, the left dangling free.
Damn fool woman! She'd taken a bullet and never said a word.
Mendoza's buckskin faltered and fell behind, frightened by the sudden lack of guidance, and took off running again.
Branch kicked Satan into a fiendish gallop. When he saw Jenna begin to fall, he screamed her name. The sound shrieked across the hilltops like the demented wails of every condemned man since the beginning of time.
If Mendoza's gelding kept racing the way he was, and Jenna fell, she would be trampled. Pain, like none Branch had ever experienced, pierced his center.
He couldn't reach her in time. The seventy-five yards separating them was too much. He considered shooting the buckskin, but wouldn’t risk hitting Jenna.
Mother of God, keep her safe.
"Turn the horse with your knee, Mendoza," Branch screamed again and again while the black thundered on. "Turn the damn horse. Now!"