Part 16 (1/2)

Yakima cursed as he ejected the spent sh.e.l.l, seated fresh, and bounded straight out of the notch. Taking the Winchester in one hand, he wheeled and climbed the rocks above the notch, quickly gaining the top of the scarp and squatting, extending the rifle in the direction the Apache had disappeared.

He caught a glimpse of movement, snapped off a shot. Knowing the Apache would try to get around behind him, he bounded down the back side of the scarp and sprinted down the hill. Gaining the crease between hills at the bottom, he turned north, climbed another steep ridge through scattered pines and shrubs, and snugged up to a boulder at the top.

A low rasping sounded on the other side of the boulder.

Slowly, Yakima scaled the rock and edged a look down the other side. Directly beneath him, the Apache clung to the rock in mid-climb, his Winchester hanging by the lanyard down his back. His lips were stretched back from his teeth, and his brown eyes bored into Yakima's.

He was so close that Yakima could see the pores in his sweat-slick skin, the distended cords and veins in his neck, and the missing eyetooth revealed by his stretched lips.

Yakima rose from a crouch, lowered his Winchester's barrel. At the same time, the Indian whipped his hand up toward the top of the rock. Yakima's left boot was jerked out from beneath him, and the ground bounded up suddenly to slam against his back. His finger jerked back on the rifle's trigger, and the sudden boom flatted out across the pine-carpeted ridges below, the slug sailing skyward.

Before Yakima knew what had happened, the Indian was on top of him, slas.h.i.+ng down with a stout-bladed bowie. Yakima threw his left hand up, caught the Indian's right wrist, stopping the blade inches from his throat, and bucked straight up with a desperate yowl.

The Indian grunted as he flew, twisting and turning in midair, across the boulder and out of sight.

A resolute thump sounded from somewhere behind and below, and there was the rattle of falling gravel.

Yakima drew a deep breath, wincing at the pain at the back of his head, then lurched to his feet, and glanced down the far side of the rock.

At its crenellated base, the Indian lay impaled, belly up, on a sharp branch sticking straight up from a deadfall pine. The man's arms and legs sagged toward the ground. The eyelids opened and closed several times before freezing half closed. One foot jerked and fell still.

Blood bubbled up around the forked branch protruding from the Apache's torn s.h.i.+rt and belly.

Breathing hard, Yakima sleeved sweat from his forehead. He spat dust and grit from his lips, turned to retrieve his hat and Winchester, then began descending the rock.

The killing had just begun.

Chapter 19.

From somewhere beyond the edge of Anjanette's sleep, a light thud sounded.

Considine's arm shot out from under her head. He reached across his own body, grabbed one of the revolvers from his matched holsters, and, thumbing back the hammer, aimed the barrel straight out at the fire guttering in the stone ring near his and Anjanette's blanketed feet.

Sparks rose from a short ash-white log along the edge of which a slender orange flame flickered.

Propped on one arm, Anjanette slid her gaze from the fire to Considine staring wildly at the flames, his index finger drawn taut against the trigger.

”Just the fire,” she said, reaching out to push the gun down.

”s.h.i.+t.” Considine depressed the hammer, then slid the revolver into the holster beside him. He fell back against his saddle and drew his blankets to his chin with a yawn.

Anjanette lay back against her own saddle for a time, staring at the luminous sky. It was close to dawn. Behind her, she could hear the gurgle of the river, feel its warmth penetrating the chill night air.

She closed her eyes, drew the blanket up to her chin, but she could tell that sleep wouldn't return. d.a.m.n Considine and his nerves. He was always so eager to take a shot at something or someone.

She sighed, threw her blankets back, and rose to her knees.

Considine turned to her sharply, frowning. ”Where you goin'?”

”For a swim.”

He stared at her, his brows ridged.

”Is that all right?” she asked sarcastically. ”Should I have asked permission first?”

”No,” the desperado leader said reasonably, resting his head back against the saddle. ”That's all right, I reckon.” He lowered his hat over his eyes and crossed his arms on his chest. ”There's woolly hombres out there. Stay close. Take a pistol.”

As Considine's chest began rising and falling rhythmically, Anjanette stood, wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, pulled her boots on, and headed off through the ruins toward the river sliding through the fog at the bottom of the canyon. She stepped around a couple of the sleeping gang members. Knowing that three were posted around the ruins and on the ridge overlooking the canyon, she aimed for a thick stand of cottonwoods lining the river, out of sight from above.

On the sh.o.r.e, screened from the ridge by the stout trees, she kicked out of her boots, shucked out of her skirt, s.h.i.+rt, and underclothes. She s.h.i.+vered, feeling a dank chill in the warm fog. Cupping her b.r.e.a.s.t.s in her hands, she stepped into the river.

The water felt like ink rising over her knees and hips as she waded toward a pool in a slight horseshoe a few yards downstream. In the pool, she sank down, enjoying the sensation of the warm liquid closing over her.

For a time she lolled there, thinking about Considine. She regretted getting mixed up with the desperado leader. She saw now that he had two faces. Before throwing in with the gang, she'd been shown only the face of the sweet, roving rogue. He was much coa.r.s.er, darker, angrier than she'd expected. Anjanette was no hothouse flower, but Considine's predilection for violent lovemaking left her feeling cheap and frightened.

She'd seen what he'd done to Yakima's horse. Any man who would pistol-whip a defenseless animal was no man to keep company with.

But then, if she went back to Saber Creek, Old Antoine would only continue to work her like a rented mule. In five years, she would look like one of those Indian War widows who tended chickens and took in laundry in their brush huts along the creek.

Anjanette cupped the lukewarm water over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, lolling back in the stream.

Yakima.

There was a man who knew how to treat a woman. His touch had been neither too gentle nor too harsh. There was a man who, born and bred in the wild, owned a strange sensitivity. While reveling in his own manliness, Yakima could treat a woman to the sweet sublime. Even now, she could feel his big hands, his lips, the sweep of his long hair on her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, his hips thrusting between her thighs, his muscular b.u.t.tocks flexing beneath her hands.

The problem with the handsome half-breed was that he was as untamed as his horse. Lonely, to be sure. But a loner just the same.

She wondered where he was now. He'd no doubt searched for his horse, because Yakima and the black mustang were like blood brothers. Maybe he'd given up by now, realizing that no one man could tangle with the Thunder Riders. He'd probably bought another horse in Saber Creek and returned to his mountain cabin, alone.

A hand closed over Anjanette's shoulder and she jerked her head around with a start. Behind her in the snaking mist, staring down at her stonily, Toots loomed, silhouetted in the weak dawn light. Naked, the big woman looked like a pale pumpkin with b.r.e.a.s.t.s resembling half-filled gut flasks. Her round belly bulged out beneath them. She had pulled her hair back in a bun, a few strands wisping about her plump cheeks and expressionless eyes.

”Jesus,” Anjanette said, crossing her arms on her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and closing her legs. ”You scared the h.e.l.l out of me!”

Toots held out her hand. Anjanette half expected to see a stiletto in it. Toots slid the grimy sliver of lye soap toward her. ”Wash my back.”

Anjanette stared at her, the water flowing around her waist and Toots's chubby, dimpled knees.

Toots jerked her hand, frowning impatiently, and said as though speaking to an idiot, ”You wash my my back, and I wash back, and I wash yours yours.”

Anjanette glanced at the soap, then at the woman's eyes, still half expecting a trick of some kind. Seeing no cunning in Toots's expression, Anjanette lowered her arms and climbed to her feet. Toots's gaze slid across Anjanette's b.r.e.a.s.t.s, her expression softening.

”If you want your back scrubbed,” Anjanette said, taking the soap from the woman's hand, ”turn around.”

Toots turned. Anjanette crouched to dampen the soap, then rubbed it between her hands until she'd worked up a good lather. She applied the lather to Toots's back, inwardly recoiling at the feel of the woman's soft flesh under her palms, the bowed shoulders, a wedge of flaccid breast peaking out from under her right arm.

”Mmmhhhhhh,” Toots groaned, lifting her head. ”That feels good.”