Authors: Elaine Levine
Logan's Outlaw (3 page)
“Look, you can have her when I'm done with her, so get lost.”
The man put the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, then patted his pockets, looking for his matches. He found them in the fourth pocket he searched. Striking a match on the side of the house, he cupped his hand from the wind and lit the end of his cigarette.
Mr. Reimer cursed and stomped over to him, dragging her forward. “This ain't your affair, Taggert. She ain't your woman. She's a squaw. You know how they treat captives. She's used to servicing men; it ain't no big deal to her. Might as well have some fun with her while we can.”
A slow stream of smoke left one corner of Mr. Taggert's mouth. He shook his head as he straightened and pushed off the wall. “That ain't my idea of fun.” He shoved a fist into Mr. Reimer's stomach, doubling him over, then dragged him up by the shoulders and kneed him in the groin. Mr. Reimer buckled over, cupping himself, moaning into the dirt. “How about
you
take it somewhere else?”
you
take it somewhere else?”
The stage driver and the stationmaster came out. “What's goin' on here?” the latter demanded.
Mr. Taggert dropped his cigarette butt and crushed it with his heel. “Just showin' Mr. Reimer what happens when a man forgets how to treat a lady.”
The men looked at her, then at Mr. Taggert before lifting Mr. Reimer to his feet. “Ma'am, are you hurt?”
Sarah clutched the edges of her collar together and shook her head. They dragged Mr. Reimer inside, and she drew the first full breath she'd taken in several minutes. She was shaking. Disgust and rage chased around in her gut until she felt ill. She wrapped her arms around her waist.
“Want a smoke?” the gray-eyed man asked her.
Sarah choked on her response. A smoke? “No. No, I don't want a smoke. I want to kill something,” she hissed, her voice thin with rage.
“Got a knife?”
Now she wondered if the man had just plain lost his senses. “No, I don't have a knife.”
He took his out of its sheath and handed it to her hilt first. She took the long blade, her hand slipping firmly around the grip.
“Throw it.”
She drew her arm back behind her, her fist wrapped around the handle.
“Hold on, there.” He stopped her mid-swing. “You don't throw it like that. You got no control over it that way.” He held his hand out for the knife. She handed it back to him and felt the shift in power its surrender caused.
“You can hold it either by the blade or the handle. For you, I recommend holding by the handle, like this, with your index finger just touching the base of the metal on the flat side. Pull your arm straight back. Look at the place where you want it to land.” He pointed to one of the posts supporting the laundry lines. “Then send it on its way.” He drew the knife up and whipped it through the air. It landed precisely in the center of the post, where the heart of a six-foot-tall man might be.
“You tr y.”
She pulled it out of the post and returned to her spot. Holding it as he suggested, she threw it. It hit the ground near the post, blade first. She retrieved it and threw it twice more, with little better success.
“Don't look at your hand, Mrs. Hawkins. Your brain and your hand have already agreed on an outcome. Just look where you want it to goâsee it already there.” She closed her eyes, forced herself to relax. Then she sighted the post, drew back her arm, and sent the knife flying. It hit the post and stuck. Low, but hard. It would have hobbled a running attacker.
She looked at the reverberating hilt, surprised.
“Good. That's good.” He retrieved his knife and sheathed it. When he looked up, he studied her. “How much more were you gonna take before you fought back?” His voice was a quiet, raw whisper.
She had no answer for him. Confronted with actually needing to use her gun to defend herself, she found she hadn't the courage to do it.
Mr. Taggert sighed. “A weapon's only useful if you use it. The world will not mourn the loss of a lowlife like Jeremy Reimer. May I see your gun?”
She drew her Colt from its holster and handed it to him. He shifted so that the moonlight filtered down on his hands, illuminating the cylinder. “You got six cartridges loaded.” He removed one of them, then closed the cylinder. “Your revolver looks new, so it's likely not a problem. The safety notch can be brittle. Let the hammer down on the empty chamber just to be safe. Have you oiled your piece yet?” He handed her the extra cartridge.
“No.” Captain Frasier hadn't gotten to the cleaning part of gun handling.
He handed her the Colt. “When we go back in, I'll clean it for you.” He unbuckled his gun belt. Fear sheared through her. Why was he stripping? She stepped back. “Whoaa, there. I got no plans to hurt you, Mrs. Hawkins. I'm just taking the knife sheath off so you can put it on your gun belt.”
Sarah looked at Mr. Taggert. He had the coldest eyes she'd ever seen, eyes like a warrior angel. In the shadows of the moonlight, his face was all planes and angles. His movements were precise, controlled. If Eugene's associates had sent him, they'd picked an excellent killer. It occurred to her he might be helping her as a means of lulling her into trusting him, to get beneath her defenses so that he could learn where she'd hidden the papers. She straightened her spine.
“Thank you for your help.” He held the sheathed knife out to her. She shook her head. “I don't need your knife.”
He gave a dry laugh. “The hell you don't. Take it. Keep it under your pillow at night.” He frowned down at her for a long moment. “You got a rough road ahead of you. This ain't a safe place for a woman to be traveling alone. Where are you headed?”
Why did he want to know that? Her fingers closed around the hard leather of the knife sheath. “Cheyenne,” she replied, purposely vague.
“The whole stage is heading for Cheyenne, but few people stay there. You got family in the area?”
“No.”
“You got family you can go to?”
“No.”
“What about your husband's people?”
“He never mentioned anyone.”
Logan frowned. He was butting up against her secrets. He didn't like women who were enigmas. And most women were, which was why he steered clear of themâexcept for occasional short encounters that held no meaning or permanence. Why was it that he wanted to discover what this woman was hiding? Why, with her and no other before her, did he feel compelled to help and protect her, secrets and all?
“You done out here?” He lifted the laundry basket and handed it to her. She nodded. “Then let's go inside.”
Chapter 3
Sarah had retrieved her wash the next morning without any incident. And she'd met with no resistance when she joined the others for breakfast. Though the hour was early, the sky was already bright. Her fellow passengers were dressed and ready to leave, as was she. Their luggage was assembled by the front door of the station house. The driver was finishing his breakfast, but he kept sending his guard a measuring look. Sarah did the same, noticing the man was strangely pale and yet his cheeks were flushed.
“Are you feeling well, sir?” she asked him. His breakfast plate had been untouched. His arms were folded, his hands tucked close at his sides.
“No, I ain't.” He looked at the driver. His face tightened into a grimace. “This fever's settin' in good. I'm not going to be any help to you. I got to stay here and wait this thing out.”
Mr. Reimer looked at the guard. “You must come with us. We can't leave without you.”
Mr. Taggert stood by the open window. A gentle breeze blew in, circling the room. He had looked at her when she entered the room, but not again since. He took his revolver from its holster and checked the cylinder. It spun. He clicked it once more, then snapped it shut and holstered it. He slipped a cartridge belt over his shoulder, then picked up his rifle and checked the cartridges in it. “We may not want to leave at all.”
“What are you talking about?” Mr. Reimer complained as he joined Mr. Taggert at the window. He pushed aside the curtain and looked outside. Sarah saw him tense and bend closer.
“Holy Mother of God. There are Indians out there!”
“Yep. Been following us since yesterday.”
Mrs. Powell gasped. Sarah felt fear twist like a knife in her gut.
“What do we do?” Mr. Reimer asked Mr. Taggert.
He shrugged. “Make a decision. Stay or go. Either way, we may have to fight. They may not be here to make troubleâthey could have hit us anytime yesterday afternoon, but they didn't.”
The stationmaster, a short, stocky man, looked out another window. He wrung his hands as he faced the men. “Don't fight them. Don't make trouble for me. I have a good understanding with them. I trade with themâfairly. If you start shooting, they will come back and kill me and the missus.”
“We could wait them out,” Mr. Reimer suggested.
Mr. Taggert looked at him and slowly grinned. “Ain't a man alive who's got more patience than a Sioux warrior.”
“We could go out and talk to them,” Mr. Reimer suggested.
“You could.” Mr. Taggert sat on a worn chair and leaned it back against the wall, away from the window.
“You go,” Mr. Reimer said to him. “You seem familiar with their ways.”
Mr. Taggert laid his rifle across his lap and folded his arms, giving Mr. Reimer a wry look. “Sure enough, but I'm too fond of my scalp to do something so foolish.”
Sarah watched the proceedings with a cold heart. She knew how merciless the Sioux could be. The travelers were no safer here than on the road. Their supplies would give out in a few days, then they would have to venture out anyway. They would be picked off one by one when they went for water, while the warriors stayed out of firing range.
It was possible the band watching them was just curious. The station house was fairly new. They might be reconnoitering for their village, observing the traffic that moved through the station, gauging the threat of leaving the station undisturbed.
“Well, what do we do?” Mr. Reimer asked the room at large.
“You leave,” the stationmaster said. “They won't make trouble. There have been no Indian attacks on this road since the sixty-eight treaty. It's safe. I would go if I were you.”
“We can't leave without someone to ride shotgun,” Mr. Reimer complained. The men were debating among themselves. She had a bad feeling that they would regret whatever they decided. They consulted Mrs. Powell, who was in favor of getting as close to Fort Laramie as they could as fast as possible. Fort Laramie was still a three-day journey from the station house. Even if this band of warriors let them pass, the next might not, Sarah knew. No one asked her opinion, however, and Mr. Taggert left the decision to the others.
“We'll go,” Mr. Reimer announced.
“I got her all loaded,” the driver said. “Let's get aboard and hit the trail.” He looked at Mr. Taggert. “You'll ride shotgun?”
“Sure.”
Sarah hurried in the wake of Mr. Reimer and Mrs. Powell, both of whom climbed into the stage before she did. When it was her turn to board, a strong hand took her arm and helped her up the steps. She looked into Mr. Taggert's cool gaze, feeling it blow over her like an icy wind on a hot, summer day. He turned from her to climb up to the driver's bench, his rifle in hand. The coach lurched forward.
Sarah glanced at her fellow occupants. Fear tightened their features. She shoved the leather curtain open, straining to see any signs of the Indians. The stage was heading into the wind, so no dust clouds announced their followers, if there were any. She couldn't see much out of the opposite window. There was nothing for it but to wait. They would ultimately make it to Fort Laramie, or they wouldn't. She could do nothing to affect the outcome.
Five minutes eased into a quarter of an hour. When a half hour had passed, Sarah cautiously began to be hopeful they weren't being followed. The driver slowed the coach, keeping the horses to a comfortable trot. A few more hours passed, still with no sign of the warriors. Perhaps they had been more interested in the station house after all.
“Look! They're coming!” Mr. Reimer shouted. He leaned out the central window and began firing at their pursuers. Mrs. Powell clutched the passenger strap for support as the coach lurched into a fast speed. Sarah closed her eyes and offered up a silent prayer. Even above the road noise in the cabin, she could hear the thunderous approach of several riders. And then the scream of their battle cryâa sound that still tortured her dreams.
The warriors advanced until they were riding parallel with the coach, their ponies leaping over sagebrush with the grace of antelopes. They waved their guns, bows and arrows, keeping their shields toward the coach. Mrs. Powell began crying and chanting a string of unintelligible words. The driver lashed his team to a full gallop. The coach lurched wildly as it careened down the rutted dirt road. Sarah's hand slipped to the holster on her hip. Mr. Reimer reloaded and continued firing. Sarah couldn't see if he'd hit his mark, but the band of warriors fell back.
The driver rode the team hard for another few minutes, then let them slow up. Sarah looked out the window, but could see no sign of the Indians. They drove for another hour. Sarah was sure each breath was her last. The Indians were playing with them. Advancing and retreating. Tormenting their prey.
“If they come up again, Mrs. Powell, you get yourself down on the floor and keep your head low,” Mr. Reimer ordered solicitously.
“What do they want? Why are they doing this?” the matron asked. “They are going to kill us all. They will kill us and take our scalps. Oh, merciful heaven, we are dead.”
Sarah felt a cold sweat dampen her skin. Fear moved like ice through her veins. She knew death was a far more merciful outcome than surviving an attack. Bile rose in her throat as she remembered warriors pushing her to the ground while her husband fought with other warriors. They ravaged her there, in her front yard, while her husband watched. Then a warrior's tomahawk made short work of his resistance. They'd looted her house, taking whatever they could carry easily. She'd been tossed over the back of one of the ponies, tied so she couldn't fight or run. They'd set out at a full gallop, but they didn't outride the smell of her burning home. It couldn't happen again. Not again.
The temporary calm in the cab was broken by a war yell the likes of which only a Sioux could issue. A warrior came even with Sarah's window and rode beside the stage for the length of a heartbeat. He looked into the stage, locked eyes with Sarah. His face was painted a fearsome black and red. The hawk feathers tied in his hair jumped and flipped in the wind. The driver whipped the horses into a run.
The warrior slipped away, joining the band that was riding parallel to the stage, out of the range of gunshot. Then once again, they fell back, disappearing in the gently rolling prairie. Sarah's insides writhed like snakes awakening from a winter sleep.
“It's her.” Mr. Reimer's shrill voice broke into the stunned silence in the cab. He waved his gun at her. “They want her back.”
Sarah looked at their pale faces, their eyes white-rimmed with fear. “No,” she whispered.
“We should put her out,” he shouted. “They'll leave us alone then.”
“No!” Sarah said again, louder.
Mr. Reimer looked at Mrs. Powell. “Would you give your life for hers? If she stays, we'll all be killed. If we put her out, we'll live.”
“No. No. Please,” Sarah begged. “Don't do this. Who can know what they want? I didn't recognize the warrior who was just next to us. I don't know them. They don't know me. Please, don't do this.”
Mr. Reimer and Mrs. Powell looked at each other. The matron's expression calmed as her back stiffened. The hand that clutched a kerchief to her face lowered to her lap. “I'm a widow in possession of a significant fortune, Mr. Reimer. I would pay you a substantial reward for ensuring my safe arrival in Cheyenne.”
Mr. Reimer studied Mrs. Powell. He cautiously looked out his window. Seeing the way was clear, he poked his head out farther, checking for the dust trail of the Sioux. He shouted up to the men riding on the driver's seat. “Stop the coach! Stop it now!”
“What is it? Anyone hit?” Mr. Taggert shouted back.
“No. Stop the coach!”
“Ain't gonna happen,” Mr. Taggert scoffed.
Mr. Reimer pointed his pistol at the shotgun rider. “I said stop the coach.”
Sarah was breathing in short gasps, her stomach in her teeth. Her only hope was that Mr. Taggert could convince the passengers not to do this terrible thing.
The coach pulled up, shifting as Mr. Taggert jumped to the ground. He yanked the door open and dragged Mr. Reimer outside. “You better have a goddamned good reason for stopping.”
Mr. Reimer looked at her. “Get out.”
“She stays put.”
“We want her out. The Indians are after her, not us. We give her to them, they'll leave us alone. We live. You live. The driver lives. If she stays, we all die.”
“And if we leave her here, she'll die.” He shook his head. A dust cloud was rising again on the horizon. “Get in the coach. We're not leaving anyone behind.”
“I'm afraid you are, Mr. Taggert,” Mr. Reimer said, his silver-handled Colt pointed at him. The two men glared at each other for precious seconds. Mrs. Powell whimpered. Mr. Taggert shouted up to the driver to toss down his gear and Mrs. Hawkins's satchel and bedroll. Fast as anything, several parcels fell from the top of the coach. Mr. Reimer shrugged free and scrambled into the cab. He turned the gun on Sarah. “Get out.”
“No. Please. I beg you, don't do this. Please. You don't know what they will do. I do.”
“Get out,” Mr. Reimer snarled. He cocked his gun, then waved it at her.
A sob caught Sarah's breath as Mr. Taggert pulled her from the wagon. He slammed the coach door shut and shouted up to the driver. The coach lurched forward.
Sarah glanced around, searching for a boulder, a dip in the ground, something to give them a little bit of cover. There was nothing. They were a mile from the tree line that bordered a narrow creek. There was nowhere to hide on the high, flat prairie.
She wanted to vomit. She wanted to run. She couldn't breathe. Her hands were like ice. She doubted her ability to even shoot herself, now that the moment was at hand.
Mr. Taggert gripped her arms and lifted her to her toes as he bent toward her. “Mrs. Hawkins, look at me.” His gray eyes were intense, like storm clouds when lightning flashes through them. “This looks bad, but I've been in worse situations and lived to tell. Stand with your back to mine. Have your gun ready, but by God, don't shoot until I tell you.”
“I won't be taken again. I won't go alive into that hell.”
He didn't respond. He pulled her revolver and checked the chamber, rotated it once, then closed it and put it in her shaking hands. “We don't know it's gonna come to that. If there's one thing an Indian hates, it's unexpected behavior. Our standing here is sure as hell unexpected. Let's just see where this goes.”
She pressed her back to the man who had been her salvation since he'd joined the small group of travelers. She could feel the heated leather of his vest against her shoulders. He was tall. Brave beyond reason.
And about to die because of her.
“Easy, Mrs. Hawkins. Easy. Hold steady.”
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