Part 60 (2/2)

I hadn't any such excuse, now.

Do it, I thought. Do it now, before you drag Jesse into some brand of trouble and get her killed. You near got her killed already. She'll never be safe till she's shut of you for good.

I stared at the Colt, but didn't go for it.

Shooting myself seemed the proper thing to do, and I felt rather lowdown and selfish for wanting to stay alive. Folks were likely to die because of it, and Jesse might be one of them. The thing was, spite of everything, I found that I had a keen desire to keep breathing, no matter what may lie ahead.

There were bound to be rough patches and narrow calls. There were bound to be tragedies. Heartaches and such. But I judged all that was just part of the game. It was the game that counted. Playing the hand that's dealt, as Jesse would say. But dealing a few yourself, too. And savoring the surprises and joys that come along the way.

I judged I would likely have use for both my Colts in the days and years to come-if I survived my wounds. But I knew all the way to my core that I would never again be tempted to use one on myself. They were meant for protecting me and Jesse. They were meant for sending varmints on the downward road.

With such thoughts working through my mind, I forgot to worry about where Jesse'd gone off to. But by and by, along came a sound of bootfalls on the rocky floor. I looked toward the opening at the front of the chamber. A yellowish glow s.h.i.+mmered in the darkness.

Then Jesse limped her way into sight.

She held a torch in one hand. Her golden hair sparkled in its light. Her face gleamed. She was huffing considerable. Saddlebags hung over one shoulder and a canteen swung by her side.

She was all decked out in a yellow calico dress. It was b.u.t.toned to her throat, had a frilly lace collar, long sleeves, and a skirt that draped her to the ankles. The gunbelt strapped around her hips, six-gun jammed in at one side, looked quite out of place and strange.

When she saw me looking, she halted and stood up straight.

”Well,” she said, ”don't wear out your eyes.”

”Jesse Sue Longley.”

”That's me.”

”In a dress dress?”

She started moving again, limping closer and grimacing. ”My other duds was in tatters, anyhow. 'Sides, you been hankering to get me into such a getup.”

”You look...just bully!”

”It's a mighty confining garment. Makes me feel like a ninny, too. I only just put it on cause of you being shot. You ain't bound to see me in another such rig till the next time you catch lead.”

She stood the torch upright in a nook, then hobbled over to me and sat down. ”How you feeling?” she asked.

”Reckon I'll live. For a while, at least.”

”Gotcha something here to ease the suffering.” She slipped the saddlebags off her shoulder and pulled out a flask. As she popped its cork, she said, ”Found us some food and smokes, too, but nothing'll beat whiskey when you've got holes in you.”

She pa.s.sed me the flask and I took a few swallows. As the whiskey went down, a pleasant heat seemed to spread through me.

”I'm right sorry about your Sarah,” she said.

My throat tightened so I couldn't drink any more. I gave the flask back to Jesse. She went s.h.i.+mmery as I watched her head tip back. I blinked, and a couple of tears ran down my face.

”At least Whittle'll never get you,” I said, my voice shaking.

She lowered the flask and looked at me. ”He'll get no one ever again, Trevor. You and me saw to that.” Reaching out with one hand, she brushed the tears off my cheeks. ”You drilled him good, pardner.”

”You didn't do at all badly yourself,” I told her. ”For a dead gal.”

A smile lifted one corner of her mouth. ”You hit me, you know.”

”I did not.”

”You sure did.” She handed the flask to me, then commenced to unfasten the b.u.t.tons of her dress. When they were open down to her waist, she slipped the garment off her shoulders and pulled her arms from its sleeves. She scooted herself around to face me. Her chest was bound, just below her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, by a narrow strip of cloth. It held a small patch of cloth to the side of her ribcage. She untied it, peeled away the pad, and pointed at a raw nick. The wound was at just about the same place on her as where the posse bullet had creased me, so long ago. It wasn't near as bad as mine, though. Not really more than a deep scratch. ”Told you so,” she said.

”I did that?”

”Your second shot.”

”I'm awfully sorry,” I said, pained to see that I'd hurt her.

”Well, I reckon you had to make it look good.”

”I never meant to hit hit you.” you.”

She raised her arm high and craned her head down to look at the injury. ”It ain't much, is it?”

I forgot to answer. With her eyes turned away, it gave me a chance to study something other than her wound. She'd found the time to clean the blood off her skin. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s looked as smooth as velvet except for their tips, which were dark and puckered and pointing at me.

I didn't look away fast enough. She caught me. ”Trevor Bentley.”

”They're only you you,” I said, pleased with my quick thinking. ”No different, actually, from your shoulders or face.”

”Liar.”

But she didn't turn away or cover herself, so I had lots of time to appreciate the view while she placed the pad atop her little wound and tied it in place with the cloth strip. After finis.h.i.+ng with the bandage, she struggled into the sleeves and pulled the dress up.

”We'd best leave pretty soon,” she said. ”We got us a good, bright moon for our trip down.”

”Is the horse still there?” I asked.

”Yep. I gave him some water. He's a mite skittish, what with the stink and the dang coyotes sneaking around, but he ain't run off yet. Let's rest a bit and put some chow into us before we head out there.”

We had a few more sips of whiskey, then ate hard rolls and beef jerky that we washed down with water. When she finished with the food, Jesse rolled cigarettes and we had us a smoke and more drinks.

The whole time, she never bothered to fasten the b.u.t.tons of her dress. As it was rather chilly in the cave, I judged she'd left them undone to keep my spirits up. Mighty thoughtful of her. The strip of bare skin down her front helped take my mind off my wounds and other bad things. Every so often, when she leaned certain ways, I caught glimpses inside that warmed me up better than the whiskey.

”We'd best get moving now,” she finally said. She swung the saddlebags over one shoulder, hooked the canteen strap over the other, then struggled to her knees. ”You gonna be able to walk?”

”You're the one with a shot leg.”

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