Kate Wingo - Western Fire 01 (22 page)

Blessedly, it didn’t happen. Instead, Mooney holstered his gun
. Although it didn’t escape her notice that he still had a firm grip on the menacing-looking knife.

“Well, if ain’t that little blond piece that Spence is screwin’. Hey now, you remember me, don’t you?”

“Why, yes, of course.” Hoping to placate the youth so that he would stop abusing the German men tied to the tree, Mercy said, “Mister Mooney, is it not?”

“Hell, being as pretty as you are, you can just call me Kid.”
The hoodlum treated her to a yellow-toothed grin as his eyes roved the length of her body.

Gulping back her fear, Mercy
forced herself to return the smile. When she first met the bloodthirsty juvenile, he’d bragged about how many men that he’d killed. Gloating as if his heinous crimes were a proud achievement. No doubt, in the weeks since, he’d only added to the toll.

“I wouldn’t get too close to ‘em,” Mooney said, gesturing to the four bound men with his knife. “Them’s dangerous prisoners.”

“What is their crime?” Mercy inquired, in the hopes of gaining his trust.

“
Just being a Dutchman is crime enough, don’t you think? Shit, if it weren’t for these damned kraut-eatin’ Hessians, Missouri would have seceded for sure.”

Although she cared
little for his profanity, Mercy knew that Kid Mooney spoke the truth. Missouri’s large German population had been a decisive reason why the state failed to secede from the Union. Additionally, German immigrants had joined the Federal army in droves, a further testament to their loyalty.

“But why are they tied up? Why hasn’t Bloody Ned . . .?”
She let the question dangle.

“Killed ‘em
yet?” Mooney finished for her, clearly warming to the subject. “Ned needs ‘em alive on account that he’s wantin’ to exchange ‘em for four of our men being held in the jailhouse up in Jefferson City. Though if we don’t hear back from them damned Yankees by tomorrow, Ned says we can go ahead and kill ‘em.”

Mercy
barely managed to stifle a terrified gasp.

“Do you not expect to . . . to have your men released from jail?” Her gaze darted to the battered Germans, her heart painfully constricting.

“Ned thinks it’s doubtful; and he ain’t usually wrong on such matters.” Mooney hitched his gun belt an inch or two, assuming a self-important pose. “My guess is that nobody gives two shits about these here Dutchmen. Hell, all you have to do is take one look at their sorry asses to know why.”

Compassion welled in Mercy’s heart as she stared at the four prisoners. They had been brutally beaten, one man’s swollen nose sitting crookedly on his face. Given their stoically bleak expressions, she knew
that they had resigned themselves to being killed.

As God was her witness, she would not stand by while Ned Sykes and Kid Mooney butc
hered these men in cold blood.

Something had to be done!

“I must be leaving now,” Mercy said abruptly, turning to take her leave.

“Hey blondie!” Mooney called after her. “What’s your hurry?”

Not bothering to give a reason for her sudden departure, Mercy returned to the wooded glen. As soon as she was clear of the thick shrubbery, she broke into a run. Seeing their rug-covered buckboard through the trees, she quickened her pace. A few moments later, breathless, she charged into their small encampment.

Lunging
to his feet, Spencer rushed toward her.

“Mercy, what’s wrong?
” He grabbed her by the shoulders. “Are you all right?”

Unable to catch her breath, s
he slumped against Spencer’s chest. “Yes . . . I just . . . I’m fine,” she panted. “Where’s Prudence?”

“Dewey took your sister and bro
—” Spencer stopped in mid-stream. “I mean your sister and Gabriel down to the main camp to get some chow.”

“And my mother?”

He nodded toward the wagon. “I thought that she might like a bit of morning sun.”

Mer
cy’s gaze fell upon her mother, surprised to see that Spencer had fashioned a chair of sorts out of an uprooted tree trunk. The radiant morning light that streamed through the leafy canopy of trees made Temperance’s graying blond hair look like a glimmering halo.

“Thank you,” she murmured,
touched by Spencer’s thoughtfulness.

“She needs to eat more. I brought her a plate of food, but she hardly touched it.”

“Yes, I know.” Mercy sighed, hoping that Spencer didn’t think her negligent in any way. “I’m afraid that she’s not had much of an appetite; what with Ethan’s death and . . . and now with the loss of the farm.”

“Speaking of
which, I found you something to wear.” Spencer walked over to the buckboard and retrieved a small pile of clothing from the wagon seat. “It’s just a plain homespun dress,” he said apologetically as he handed her the bundle. “And,
no
, I didn’t steal it.”

“I know
that.” Although Mercy did suspect that the dress came courtesy of one of the women that she’d seen at Ned Sykes’ raucous bonfire. Raising a quizzical eyebrow, she noticed that there were several well-worn poke bonnets included in the offering.

“We’ve got a long journey ahead of us and
–” Spencer cleared his throat – “well, I thought y’all should each have a sun bonnet.”

Truly astounded,
Mercy stared at the man standing across from her, seeing him in a whole new light. Earlier, Pru had chastised her for ill-treating Spencer, for wrongly holding him accountable for the deaths of her father and brother. And, to her shame, she’d leveled many a harsh word and accusation against him, none of which could be taken back. Although that didn’t mean that she had to continue being a harridan.

Raising a hand,
Mercy rested her palm against Spencer’s cheek. “You’re a decent and kind man, Spencer McCabe. And I was . . . I was wrong to ever think differently.” When he opened his mouth to protest, Mercy placed a silencing finger over his lips. “Please let me finish. In every way, you have proven yourself a true friend to my family. Although given the reprehensible way in which I have treated you, I don’t know why you’ve even bothered.”

Spencer smiled as he removed her hand from his mouth
and cradled it between his two callused palms. “Guess I just have a weakness for feisty, cantankerous women,” he said with a devilish gleam in his eyes.

‘Feisty?’ ‘Cantankerous?’

Mercy supposed that was his way of saying that she was ‘thick-headed’ and ‘ill-humored.’ And while it wasn’t the sort of thing that any woman wanted to hear, it was the unadorned truth. Having repeatedly gone on the attack, she’d used her sharp tongue like a weapon, her words and deeds now returning to haunt her.

“From here on out, I will strive to be less confrontational,”
Mercy said as she freed her hand from Spencer’s grasp.

“
Aw, where’s the fun in that?”

Because she had
a far more pressing matter to discuss, she ignored Spencer’s playful banter. Straightening her shoulders, she said, “Ned Sykes has captured four men whom he intends to kill.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Hearing that, Mercy’s jaw slackened. “
You do
?”

Spencer nodded
grimly. “A couple of the boys were talking about it this morning. It’s a damn shame, if you ask me.”

“Yes, it is. And I’d like to know what you intend to do about it.”

“Not much I can do.”

“You can set them free,” Mercy
said matter-of-factly, wondering why it was up to her to state the obvious.

“Yeah, and get my fool head blown off while I’m at it. Ned doesn’t take kindly to folks meddling in his business.”

“I would hardly call it
meddling
,’’ Mercy argued. “Thus far, those poor men have been beaten to within an inch of their lives. And far worse atrocities will occur if we don’t intervene.”

Spencer’s
nostrils flared with anger. “Listen, Mercy. There’s nothing to be done about it. So, just put it out of your mind.”

“But it is your Christian duty to assist those men!”

“Yeah, and maybe I can read a few Bible verses to ol’ Ned while I’m at it. Not that it would do a whole helluva lot of good. Here in Missouri, the Good Book doesn’t hold much sway.”

“I know you
to be an honorable man,” Mercy iterated, hoping to appeal to Spencer’s better angels. “And honor dictates that you help those men.”

“Don’t make
me out to be something that I’m not,” Spencer warned. “You’ll end up mighty disappointed if you do.”

“You
are
honorable! I know that you are!”

For several moments,
Spencer stared wordlessly at her. Then, wagging a finger, he said, “You take heed, Mercy. I want you to keep your nose out of this, all right?”

Surmising
that further argument would get her nowhere, Mercy despondently nodded. In order to win the war, she had no choice but to forfeit the battle.

Her consent secured,
Spencer stormed off in the direction of Bloody Ned’s camp. Sadly, Mercy realized that there were some impasses they would never be able to cross. And while it would undoubtedly be more difficult to free the German prisoners without Spencer’s assistance, it would not be impossible. She simply had to keep her wits about her and wait for the right moment.

The right moment to free the
German prisoners came much later than Mercy would have liked. Well past the midnight hour.

Unfortunately,
with all of the wild revelry and drunken disorder that broke out soon after sunset, it’d taken that long for Bloody Ned and his men to finally settle down for the night. To her relief, Spencer didn’t force her to put in an appearance at the bushwhacker bonfire; and his own visit to Ned’s campfire was of brief duration.

Feigning docility,
Mercy had offered no complaint when Spencer placed their two bed pallets side-by-side. For several nerve-wracking hours she’d then lain beside him, wide awake, biding her time until the raucous noise in the distance died down. All the while praying that God would give her the courage and spiritual fortitude to do what had to be done.

Now that the camp had finally quieted, that time had come. She would have one chance, and
only
one chance, to free the German prisoners.

Slowly, Mercy eased her body
away from the imprisoning weight of Spencer’s arm. Holding her breath, she carefully maneuvered herself to the edge of the bedroll. About to stand upright, she suddenly yelped when her wrist was manacled in a firm grasp.

“Where are you going?” Spencer asked, his voice heavy with sleep.

“I, um, . . . I have to . . . to relieve myself,” Mercy sputtered nervously.

To her consternation, Spencer threw back his blanket and reached for his gun
belt.

“What are
you doing?” she hissed in a lowered voice, fearful of waking the others.

“I’m going to stand guard
for you.”

“No! I mean, I have . . . um, female matters to attend to.”

“Are you having your monthlies?”

Mortified, Mercy
said, “Regardless of our forced familiarity, I am unaccustomed to discussing such personal matters with—”

“Okay, okay.
” Spencer drew a pistol from his holster and thrust it in her direction. “Here, take this with you.”

She hesitantly took custody of
his pistol. “What’s this for?”

“To scare off any of Ned’s boys if they try to pester you.”

Mercy made no reply, knowing that if such a thing happened while she was freeing the prisoners, more than likely she would not live to see the dawn.

With a drowsy yawn
, Spencer rolled to the other side of the bed pallet, turning his back on her. Seizing her chance, Mercy scurried over to the buckboard and retrieved the skinning knife that she’d earlier hidden there.