The Strong One (Cutter's Creek Book 2) Page 5

  “Who is he?” asked Bill, his face tense.

  “He’s the scoundrel that’s been after Sarah. She was hiding with us to get away from him. We didn’t know he was still hanging around or we’d never have brought her here.”

  Bill’s tortured expression shifted to anger.

  Throwing his full cup of punch to the floor with a loud clatter, Bill leapt into action. He sprinted across the room and out the front door. Jumping from the top of the stairs to the ground below, he made straight for the hitching post where his bay gelding, Purdy, stood, chewing on a mouthful of hay.

  One of the townsfolk had kindly fed and watered the horses, and they were all relaxing in the shade of an enormous, old, cedar tree. Bill whistled shrilly as he ran, and the horse’s ears pricked with interest. Reaching the horse’s side, he grasped the reins and flicked them free of the post. He leapt fluidly onto the beast’s waiting back in one effortless movement. The moment his rear touched the bed of the saddle, the horse was in motion, galloping after the retreating form of Angus Colt on his tall, black mount.

  Bill urged his horse forward, “Come on Purdy. You can do it boy. Don’t let that black mutt beat you.” As he spoke, he heard the thunder of hooves behind him and twisted his head to take a look. A trail of dust billowed after Purdy’s hooves, and through the dust rode a figure. Bill didn’t recognize the man or his horse. All he could see was a tan hat, and a dark brown vest over a long-sleeved, red and white checkered shirt. The horse was a grey mare with a wide chest and thin, muscular legs. Her fine face betrayed her Arabian heritage, and she gained on them with gradual certainty.

  Who was he? Was the man in the tan hat in cahoots with Angus Colt? If he was, then Bill was in trouble. It wasn’t likely he’d be able to take on both men, and it was already obvious to him that Purdy couldn’t outrun either one of their horses.

  Within moments the second man was beside him, both horses tearing along together, the din of their hoof beats filling Bill’s ears. The man turned to face him with a smile. Bill returned his look with a blank stare. The man had at least one gun that Bill could see, holstered on his belt. He glanced downward and thought he saw the hilt of a knife protruding from the top of the man’s boot.

  Bill leaned forward, urging Purdy on, while keeping his eye on the rider, running through in his mind what he would do if the man made a sudden move toward him or pulled out his gun. Just then, the man pointed to his own chest. Bill squinted through the distance and dust. There was a sheriff’s star pinned to his vest pocket. The setting sun, hovering above the distant mountaintops glinted off one of the metallic points of the star. Bill grinned at the rider, and dipped his hat in recognition, before both men returned their focus to their escaping prey.

  ***

  Estelle Todd rubbed her palms together and let out a deep breath. She hadn’t been able to stop pacing back and forth in front of the chapel ever since Sarah disappeared over the shoulder of that vagabond outlaw.

  “Can I help at all?” asked Abigail Smith, laying her hand gently on Estelle’s slumped shoulder. Abigail and her husband Jasper owned the mercantile store just down the road. Their one-year-old son sat chubby and sweet on her hip.

  Estelle patted Abigail’s hand gratefully, “Thank you dear, I don’t think there is anything you can do. All any of us can do right now is pray.”

  “You’re right, Estelle. We should all pray.”

  Abigail hurried over to the church entry where the rest of the group were gathered, whispering together over the shocking incident they’d witnessed only minutes ago. In a town where nothing much ever happened, the entire town had come out to titter and gossip, casting their nets wide for ideas about who Sarah and Colt might be, and what their stories were.

  Abigail spoke to the main group, gesturing toward Estelle, who had taken to twisting a piece of her skirt in her hands while she stared forlornly down the road. Then, Abigail made her way back to Estelle, followed by an assembly of townsfolk. Abigail smiled at Estelle, and reached for her hand, holding it firmly in her own. Those following her joined in – each holding the hands of those standing beside them.

  “Father God, we know that you are good and you have Sarah in the palm of your mighty hand. Oh Lord, please watch over and keep her safe. Go with Bill Hanover and Sheriff Brentwood, strengthen them and give them the wisdom to know what to do to bring Sarah safely back to Cutter’s Creek,” began Reverend Latsch.

  Then, one by one, the small group of men, women, and children who were gathered with Estelle, bowed heads in front of a small red chapel in Cutter’s Creek, Montana, and prayed to their God. They joined together as one - in faith, hope and love. And as they waited for a sign that God had heard their cry, an eagle soared wild and free above their heads, circling the town, its enormous wingspan casting a nimble shadow across the buildings, wagons, and people below. The small, white feathers on its head sat in stark contrast to its dark eyes. Its wide brown wings fluttered in the updraft that carried it higher and higher, until the chapel itself was no more than a speck in the wilderness that stretched out like a blanket below.

  The sun dipped below the crest of the mountain range, and Cutter’s Creek was soon bathed in darkness. A cool breeze fluttered across the Yellow River, and into town, disbanding the crowd of hopefuls, and sending them wandering back into their homes to build their fires and cook suppers for their hungry children.

  And still there was no sign of Bill, Sarah or the sheriff.

  Estelle sighed loudly, now standing alone in the clearing before the chapel. The horses that had been hitched to the nearby post, or picketed in the field beyond, were gone. The children were snug inside the houses, whose chimneys puffed white smoke into the darkness. The chapel doors were locked, and the lanterns had been snuffed out. Estelle stood with Sam by her side, shrouded by the cold, dark night.

  “Come now, my dear. It’s no good standing here. We can’t do anything else right now. Let’s go home, and wait for her there.” Sam beckoned, his hand reaching for Estelle’s.

  She nodded and huffed once more, staring down the road that led from the town and into the wilds of the Montana grasslands. Then, taking Sam’s hand, she followed him. The couple shuffled slowly down the main street toward home. Estelle felt the creeping bane of old age stiffening her joints in the chill air, and she clenched Sam’s hand harder.

  Sarah came to us for help. She asked us to give her refuge, and we failed her. Why didn’t I see that man before it was too late? Where did he come from? What is he going to do with her? God, please help her.

  Estelle’s mind swirled with unanswered questions. Her thoughts gradually spinning lower and lower, until her mood was as dark as the night around her. Clouds slid across the sky above them, obscuring any light from the moon or stars above. An ominous foreboding filled Estelle’s heart, and she looked up into the sky one last time before stepping into their cold, dark house.

  Hurrying forward, she lit the lantern in the kitchen and grabbed her apron, slipping it around her waist and tying it tightly. Sam knelt before the hearth, stacking firewood in the dull fireplace. Estelle might not be able to do anything to help rescue Sarah, but she could have a warm meal ready for her when she returned. Pea and ham soup with fresh garlic rolls would be just the thing. She nodded to herself resolutely, and reached for a knife.

  Chapter 11

  The horses had slowed to a trot. Purdy’s head hung low, but the grey beside him still pranced freshly, Arabian endurance coursing warmly through her veins. They’d lost sight of Angus Colt an hour earlier, when the sun had dipped below the horizon. Without a light to travel by, they’d had to slow their pursuit for the safety of the horses.

  “We should probably take a break soon,” cautioned Sheriff Brentwood.

  “Dang it!” hissed Bill.

  “I know, but don’t worry, we’ll find her.”

  “If he gets away tonight, we’ve got no chance of finding him tomorrow. We have to keep going.”

  “Your horse
could use a break.”

  Bill knew he was right. He lifted the reins, bringing Purdy back to a walk. Sheriff Brentwood followed suit, slowing his horse’s gait to match the bay’s. The road they were travelling on had narrowed to a wagon track. It curved and twisted, round bends, over rises and through hollows filled with sapling fir trees and tall grasses. The sound of the horses’ hooves was muffled by the tufts of grass and drifts of fallen, yellowing leaves. They could no longer hear Colt, but the prints his horse had left behind in the soft ground gave them a clear path to follow.

  “Let’s build a fire and hunt down some food. Colt will have to stop soon as well, and he’ll probably set up camp somewhere. We’ll eat, give the horses a rest, and then we’ll track him. It’ll be hard without any moonlight to go by, I won’t lie; but not impossible.”

  Bill nodded into the darkness. “Is there a creek or river nearby?” he asked. “I’m not familiar with this side of town.”

  “We’re almost to Yellow Creek. It crosses the trail just up ahead. We can stop there.”

  Before long the two men heard the distinctive rushing sound of water running over shallow rocks. There were rapids ahead. Bill leapt from the bay’s back and landed with a grunt on the grassy track. Pulling the reins over Purdy’s lowered head, he straightened his legs and stretched his arms skyward, working out the knots from the long, hasty ride.

  He wandered down a steep embankment, with Purdy on his heels, feeling his way in the darkness using clumps of grass to balance his descent. As the ground evened out, he stepped into soft sand. The river lay shimmering at his feet. A dark, slippery-looking mass of moving water. The only sound came from the shallow rapids beneath a bridge that sloped up over his head where the trail crossed above.

  “This looks like a good spot,” he called to the sheriff.

  He heard grunting noises, and the sound of hooves descending behind him, and urged Purdy onto the sandy riverbank out of the Sheriff’s way. Purdy didn’t need much encouragement. He smelled the water ahead, and pushed his way forward to the water’s edge. Thrusting his muzzle into the stream, he slurped greedily pulling in large gulps of water, his nostrils flaring. Giving a shiver, he flicked his long tail up over his back, and relaxed one hind leg, tipping the hoof forward to rest on its edge.

  “Is that good, boy?” asked Bill, patting his shoulder. The horse leaned into him in response, and continued slurping. Bill knelt beside him, and using his hands, drew water to his own mouth to take a long draught. The water was sweet and cold, and satiated his deep thirst.

  The sheriff and his grey mare soon joined them, each enjoying a long, cool drink. Purdy’s sides were bathed in sweat. His saddle rug was damp to the touch, and his chest had a line of white froth down the center. Bill was concerned about pushing him so hard. He undid the girth strap, and lifted the saddle and rug from Purdy’s strong back. Then, he walked to the riverbank’s edge and lay them end-up on a patch of dry grass.

  Bill pulled two handfuls of the long, yellow, grass from the ground. Returning to Purdy’s side, he rubbed the handfuls of grass in vigorous circular motions, working out the dampness. Before long, Purdy’s coat was almost dry, and he had left the water to graze along the riverbank.

  By now the sheriff’s horse was grazing too, and he was seated on a weathered log laying across the sandy bank. Bill walked over to him.

  “Feels good to sit awhile.”

  “Sure does,” added Sheriff Brentwood, pulling his Stetson from his head and scratching at his thinning, strawberry blond hair.

  Bill strode to where his saddle sat on the bank, and pulled back a flap, uncovering a pocket attached to the rug. Inserting his hand, he tugged out a brown paper package. Drawing the paper away, he handed the sheriff a long piece of venison jerky. The sheriff nodded his thanks, and bit into it, pulling hard at the chewy meat. Bill slipped a piece into his own mouth, biting down hard and chewing steadily until it finally broke apart in his mouth. Sitting back down on the log, he stared into the dark, flowing stream.

  Bill shivered. He wasn’t dressed for nighttime in the outdoors, and he could tell it was going to be brutal without his overcoat, which was hanging on the coat rack behind the door of the chapel in town. He shook his head with a regretful smile – a lot of good it was going to do him there. If only he’d thought to grab it on his way out the door. But he hadn’t been thinking clearly. The only thing on his mind had been chasing down Angus Colt, and bringing Sarah back. So far, it didn’t look hopeful, and he felt a knot of dread forming in the base of his stomach.

  “Thanks for coming with me, Sheriff. Sure do appreciate it.”

  “Don’t mention it. Sorry, I don’t believe I know your name.”

  “Bill. Bill Hanover. I’m working over on the Gilmore property.”

  “Oh right. Holston’s place. So, how do you know the young lady?”

  “Sarah?”

  “Could be. I don’t know her name. Thought I knew everybody in my town, then today three strangers show up and we’ve got ourselves a kidnapping. Just so happens, I don’t know any of the parties involved. A strange day all round, I’d say.” He shook his head, and his keen eyes watched Bill closely.

  “I don’t really know Sarah. Not well, anyhow. Just met her yesterday. She’s staying with the Todds. The man who took her – I have no idea who he is, or what he wants with her. Could be she knows him, but even so, she didn’t seem too happy to see him, and the Todds tell me she’s been on the run from him. That’s good enough for me.”

  “You’re right about that. Scream nearly done tore right through my eardrum.” The sheriff rubbed his left ear vigorously, grimacing. He pulled his revolver from its holster, opened the chamber and spun it around, checking the contents. Then, returning it to its place, he leaned back on his hands, staring up at the clouds swirling above their heads.

  Swallowing the last of the jerky, Bill stood to his feet. “We best get goin’ then. It’s gonna be a cold one.”

  “Sure does feel that way.”

  The two men retrieved the grazing horses. Bill fixed the still-damp saddle onto Purdy’s tired back, patting him and whispering words of encouragement.

  “Your grey there doesn’t look as though she’s even broken a sweat,” said Bill, eying the prancing horse.

  “Yeah, she can sure run a good while without any trouble t’all. Got that Arabian blood in her veins. I once ran her for a full day, and when we stopped that night she was as calm and happy as a clam. Put my hand here, on her chest, and I swear her heartbeat was as slow as if she’d just woken from a nice long slumber.” The sheriff laughed and shook his head. “She’s a good ‘un.”

  “Sure is,” said Bill, swinging up into his saddle. “Don’t worry buddy,” he leaned forward to whisper into Purdy’s back-turned ears, “you’re a good-un too. You just tell me when you need a rest, all right?” He patted the horse’s neck and urged him forward. Purdy climbed the riverbank in two full strides, and they were back on the trail again. This time, they advanced slowly, looking and listening carefully for any clues of Colt’s whereabouts and giving the horses their reins so that they could walk with long, loping steps.

  Chapter 12

  Ominous black clouds circled overhead. Sarah could see them through the branches of the tree they were camped beneath. Colt had stopped their headlong escape once they reached the other side of the Yellow River, and had set up camp in a grove of junipers. Sarah lay on her back, her hands tied tightly behind her, her legs bound together. She shivered.

  The night was turning cold fast, and she had dressed for a dance, not a night in the outdoors. Rolling to her side, she attempted to push herself into a seated position. The aged log of a fallen juniper rested beside her in the dirt. Wriggling toward it, she leveraged her weight onto her hands and pushed against the log, finally succeeding in lifting her torso off the ground. Sitting now, she puffed hard from the exertion, and her eyes scanned the clearing in front of her.

  Colt had built a fire, and was seated
on the opposite side of it, watching her with hawk-like vigilance. He caught her eye and grinned, stoking the fire with a long stick.

  “Yer welcome ta join me, princess. If ya want.”

  Sarah tipped her head and cocked an eyebrow. “Exactly how would I do that, with my legs tied together?”

  He chortled, and stood to his feet. Walking to her, he flicked a blade from his belt and reached down to cut the ties binding her feet. Sarah stood and followed him back to the fire. The warmth of it drew her closer, and she lowered herself to the ground, tucking her feet to one side beneath her dress.

  “No runnin’ though, ya here? Wouldn’t do you a mite of good if ya did. We ain’t close by to anywhere, and you’d freeze in no time.”

  “I have no intention of running,” whispered Sarah, gazing into the leaping flames, and watching the green sticks crack and hiss as they burned.

  “You’ve done it before,” he muttered, pulling a stick of bread from the saddlebags piled beside him. “But it’s turned cold since then. Bread?”

  Sarah nodded, and reached for the bread, tearing off a large chunk and handing it back to him. In all truth, she wasn’t hungry. Not just because she’d stuffed herself to overflowing with the good food at the dance, but because the sight of Angus Colt sent her stomach reeling and made her heart pound in fear, and she didn’t want him to know that. She wanted him to believe she had made her peace with captivity for now, so that when her chance for escape came she could take it without him suspecting she would. It might just give her the head start she’d need to get away from him.

  She slipped a piece of bread into her mouth and chewed automatically, forcing herself to swallow the bite while she surveyed her surroundings. The trail was about twenty feet away, and they were downhill from it in a small hollow beside a creek that had split from the river some miles back and formed its own twisting, bubbling waterway. It ran past them parallel to the trail, and the dark outline of Colt’s horse stood on its banks. It pulled, at the tender grasses and munched happily on them.