Scotsman Wore Spurs (17 page)

At the same time that Drew made the identification, he noticed Damien angle to the left and increase his speed; the foreman had seen the horses, too. Following Damien's lead, Drew spurred the pinto into a gallop, heading toward the oncoming animals. As he drew nearer he recognized the animals as Kirby's favorite bay and roan geldings.

Drew reached the horses a few seconds after Damien, in time to see the younger man catch the tired beasts, then reach over and touch, first the saddle, then the rump of the bay. Damien looked at his hand, then held it out to show Drew.

“Dry blood,” he said shortly. “The bay's been grazed on the hindquarters, but the blood on the saddle came from someplace else.”

Or from someone else. Drew stared at Damien's hand. “Another ambush?”

“Looks like it,” Damien said curtly.

Drew hesitated, giving Damien time to consider his next move, then pushed, even though he expected an explosion in doing so.

“I'll go look for him.”

Damien didn't explode. Instead, he asked. “You ever done any tracking?”

“Not much,” he answered honestly.

Damien hesitated. “Uncle Kirby said you can use that gun.” It was a question more than a statement.

“I can,” he replied simply.

Damien took a map from his pocket and studied it before looking up at him. “I'll stop the herd at the stream about a mile ahead,” Damien said. “Take Terry and two others. Shorty and Legs are probably the best trackers. When we bed the herd down, I'll send two more after you.”

Drew nodded, surprised that Damien was allowing him to go, equally as startled by the deep pain in the man's eyes.

Drew spurred his pinto back to the herd, and to Terry.

“Kirby's horses,” he said briefly. “Looks like trouble. Damien wants you and me, Shorty, and Legs to go look for him.”

Terry didn't ask any questions but gave the reins of his horse a pull to the right, turning to head back down the line to find Shorty, who was tall, and Legs, who was short.

Drew took that time to ride to the remuda and get a fresh horse, then joined the other two as they rode up. “The horses came from the northwest,” he said, joining them, pacing his horse with theirs. No more words were spoken as they raced in front of the herd toward the open prairie.

The drive stopped early, and Gabrielle wondered why as she pulled up the team hitched to the hoodlum wagon. She no longer needed someone with her under ordinary circumstances. She jumped down and began to unhitch the team of mules even as she pondered the possible reasons for an early end to the work day.

She'd seen Damien Kingsley race past her on his way to Pepper's chuck wagon. He'd ridden alongside the wagon for a moment or so, obviously imparting some news, then turned and raced back to the herd, again passing her on the way.

She untied Sammy from inside the wagon and helped him reunite with his mother, which he did by greedily groping for milk. Then she rushed over to Pepper.

He had already lowered the chuck box and boot containing supplies and pots and pans. In minutes a fire would be blazing, and coffee boiling.

“Why are we stopping so early?”

He glared at her, his pale blue eyes looking even more watery than usual. His hands kept moving, as did his mouth, though it didn't say anything.

“Pepper?”

“The boss …” He hesitated, then said reluctantly, “His horses came back.”

She looked at him, not understanding.

“Without him,” Pepper said. “Terry and Scotty and some others have gone out looking fer him.'

Gabrielle frowned, still puzzled.

The old cook gave an exasperated sigh. “They found blood on his saddle.”

Gabrielle swallowed hard.

“Damien wants to know everyone who's been out of camp for the last two days.”

Gabrielle felt her face go red. She didn't know how much showed under the makeup, but cold waves suddenly washed through her body.

“He doesn't think someone … here …?”

Stiff-legged and wobbly, she jerkily went to the hoodlum wagon to fetch the necessary wood and cow chips. She automatically started a fire, her thoughts racing around like ants on a hot surface. What could have happened to Kirby Kingsley?

Once the herd was settled, several more men rode out to look for Kingsley. Speculation among them was rife. Some supposed Indians, other outlaws. Even a wild animal. Kingsley could have been injured, tried to mount and failed, leaving a trail of blood. They all dismissed any possibility of an assailant from their ranks, though Damien had asked pointed questions.

When he got around to asking her, her stomach knotted, but she answered honestly. Yes, she'd been riding the day before. No, she hadn't seen anybody. She hadn't really been that far from the herd, just far enough to be by herself. Damien didn't seem to think it odd that she'd wanted to be alone and seemed to accept her answers at face value. Still, her stomach continued to knot and twist as she wondered what he could have done if he'd known she had a motive for wanting to do his uncle harm.

She also grew sick thinking about Drew out there. What if there were Apaches, Kiowas, or Comanches?

She felt the level of tension rising as the day wore on. The drovers were silent, no longer joshing each other and telling tall tales about fantastic exploits. They came in, ate, and rode back to their posts, filling in for those on the search party.

Evening came and the knot in her stomach grew larger. Tempers were frayed. Pepper cursed several times as he leaned over to get something, once groaning as he straightened. She'd offered to help, and he'd turned on her, a string of oaths flowing from his mouth.

She finally left, went over to Billy Bones, and curried him, needing something to do to keep her from going crazy. She'd sought justice, but now she wanted it by the law. She found herself hoping they would find Kingsley.

And she prayed nothing would happen to the Scotsman.

Legs was a bloody fine tracker. Drew took note of his fellow drover's talent, watching as the man moved swiftly and surely, pausing only occasionally to lean down from his horse and study tracks.

Drew had heard that Legs was half-Indian, but his light blue eyes seemed to put the lie to that rumor, and no one had seemed wont to push the point. Legs had a ferocious temper and a reputation with a knife. But he was also superb with horses, and he could read trail signs like other men read books.

They hadn't been out much more than three hours when Drew sighted buzzards circling around. He yelled, then spurred the pinto into a gallop, hearing the others race behind him.

The buzzards were still circling, and that gave Drew hope. He'd learned enough by now to know that they waited until their prey was dead. He dug his spurs deeper, feeling a spurt of speed as he approached a form lying on earth packed firm by thousands of cattle hooves.

He dismounted before the horse, fully stopped, and ran the last few yards to drop to his knees before the still figure of Kirby Kingsley. His friend had two bullet wounds in him: one had struck his side, entering in front and exiting in back. The other had grazed his head.

Drew put his fingers to the pulse in Kirby's neck and breathed a little easier when he felt a fluttering response. It was thready and weak, but Kirby was still alive. Just.

He swore. There had been no attempts on Kirby's life since the ambush nearly three months ago. Terry had dismounted and joined him, along with one other man. Legs was riding on past, looking closely at the ground leading to an outcropping.

“He's still alive,” Drew said. “Barely. Whoever shot at him must have thought he was dead.”

“Must be Indians,” Terry said.

“Not unless they've been shoeing their horses,” Shorty said, staring at the ground. “There's three different sets of horse-shoes here.”

“Sonofabitch,” Terry swore. “Uncle Kirby had two horses. That means there was only one gunman. And Injun horses don't wear shoes.”

“And outlaws or Indians would've taken Kingsley's horses,” Shorty said.

Drew was silent—all of them were—as the implications became clear. Shooting Kirby had been a deliberate act, probably committed by one gunman, who hadn't been after the horses.

“How is he, Scotty?” Shorty asked.

Drew shook his head. “He has a head injury that's been bleeding some. Also has a bullet that went through him, and he's lost a hell of a lot of blood. We'd better get him back to Pepper.”

Terry Kingsley stood up. “I'll take him on my horse.”

Drew nodded. “Let me try some water first. He's been out here awhile.”

Shorty passed him a canteen and Drew held it to Kingsley's mouth, allowing a few drops to moisten his lips. The trail boss didn't respond.

He handed the canteen back, then he and Shorty lifted Kirby up onto Terry's horse. They were about ten miles from camp. It would be a long way back.

Gabrielle watched three men ride up, her heart pounding with a mixture of relief and dread. Drew was alive and clearly unharmed, riding as tall as ever in the saddle of his horse. But Terry Kingsley was carrying a fourth man, slumped in front of him, and she saw as he approached the camp at a loping canter that the man was Kirby Kingsley.

The search party rode directly into camp and up to the chuck wagon.

Shorty jumped down and threw his reins to her. “Hey, Two-Bits, take care of my horse for me.”

Pepper was there instantly, as two men lifted Kingsley down. She crept closer, leading Shorty's horse behind her. But she was stopped cold when she glanced at the Scotsman. His gaze speared her, glittering with suspicion and angry questions. Gabrielle felt herself shiver inside.

Then Damien Kingsley came racing into camp, and the Scotsman's attention went to him.

Damien jumped off his horse to drop down beside Pepper. Others came to join the circle that had formed around the trail boss. No one spoke, though, as Pepper's hands ran over the injured man's wounds. Pepper was as close to a doctor as they were going to get. The nearest real doctor was over a hundred miles away.

Finally, Pepper looked up at her. “Get some water and my box.”

His box was a precious commodity, filled with medicines and home remedies and a bottle of whiskey. Handing the reins of Shorty's horse to another drover, she ran to do as she was told. All the while, she was aware of Scotty's gaze.

He was still looking at her when she returned to set the box next to Pepper. The cook was cursing and shaking Kirby, trying to rouse him. When that failed, he dribbled some water down his throat, then a thimbleful of whiskey. Kirby's throat worked convulsively and Pepper's face relaxed slightly.

“What happened?” Pepper asked, looking up at Scotty despite the fact that Terry Kingsley stood nearby.

“Bushwacked,” the Scotsman said softly. “Legs is still out there trying to pick up a trail.”

“Indians?” one hand asked.

The Scotsman shook his head. “They were after Kingsley. Didn't even bother with his horses.”

“But why?” the drover asked.

Damien Kingsley looked at the Scotsman. “Yeah, why?”

Gabrielle wanted to know why, too. She wanted to know whether it had anything to do with her father's death. Coincidence? How many times were people ambushed in Texas?

She looked down at the unconscious man, a hurricane of emotions buffeting her. She believed he was the man responsible for her father's death. Her father had as much as said so. But if that were so, then who had shot
him?

She should hate him; but looking at the pale, still form of a strong man she felt only a peculiar sadness. She looked away, wanting to escape.

“Boil some water,” Pepper said as she tried to inch away.

Fighting the tightness in her throat, she poured water into a pot and set it on the spit already in place, then stood watching Pepper as he washed away the dirt from the wounds. Every touch of the cloth on the jagged flash made her wince.

Kingsley
. She heard her father whispering the name as he died. Why would Kingsley's name—not hers or her mother's—be the last word on his lips if he hadn't been trying to tell her something vitally important? His tone had been accusing … hadn't it?

She looked at the man on the ground. The man who always scowled at her, who at the best of times appeared harsh and cold. The man who'd dumped a badly injured drover in a one-horse town with no money and without so much as a backward glance. She despised that man.

She looked away even as she heard one of the drovers ask how Kingsley was, and heard Pepper's mutter, “Up to someone else.”

Gabrielle turned away. Up to God? Was that what Pepper meant?

Would she ever know what happened—and why—if Kingsley died? Would she would ever be safe again?

She backed away, almost forgotten, as Pepper swabbed at the trail boss's wounds. She looked back, saw the Scotsman's eyes on her. He wore no hat, he seldom did unless he was riding drag. His face was bronze now, and tawny hair fell over his forehead. The muscles around his jaw were clenched and his golden eyes appeared to see right through her. There was no humor in them now, no amusement. Her heart beat hard under his intense scrutiny, and she felt like a butterfly pinned to a board.

Finally, he let his gaze fall from hers, turning his attention to the preparations that were underway to move Kingsley to a bed made up close to the fire.

Gabrielle stood there feeling lost and bereft as she watched him stoop next to Kingsley. Concern and white hot anger were obvious in the way he looked at Kirby Kingsley.

Given that fact, he would never believe her, nor would he believe Kingsley was responsible for her father's death. Not anymore than the law had. Not unless she could get proof.

She couldn't get that unless Kingsley lived.

She started to pray for the man she believed her father's murderer, or the one who had paid him.