Dark Trail Rising: Four Tales of the Old West Read online

  The sun assaulted him. When had it gotten so damn hot? He needed a drink. But when he thought of water, he remembered his bloody hands down by the creek bank. His stomach churned, and nausea washed over him.

  “Lucas Marshall!” the voice called again.

  Luke tried to croak a response, but nothing came out. He opened his swollen dry lips again, and a rusty sound, like metal sliding on stone emerged.

  Sheriff Wolf approached, rifle in hand, until he stood only a few feet from Luke.

  “Sher…Wolf…” Luke tried to moisten his lips with a tongue as thick as an oak limb.

  “Ask for water,” Jeremiah’s voice prodded from nearby.

  Luke turned quickly, and the street spun crazily. “Shut…Jerem…Shut your mouth.”

  Wolf looked around the deserted street. “Who you talkin’ to, boy?”

  Luke looked up at him with unguarded defiance. “My…little half-breed…brother…Don’t’cha see him, Sheriff?”

  Jeremiah’s laughter roared through Luke’s mind like bells that wouldn’t stop ringing. He put his hands up over his ears. “Stop it! Stop…you…”

  “Luke…were you bitten by an animal that might’ve had rabies?”

  That brought a smile to Luke’s parched mouth. “No. Little…red…bastard did this to me. I—shot…his dog.”

  “That ain’t all you shot,” Wolf said tightly. “You murdered Jeremiah and Eliz—your mother.” Wolf watched Luke for a moment, then said, “Ain’t that right, boy? You drowned your mother—”

  “No! I didn’t…she killed herself.”

  Wolf cocked his head. “How’d you know that, if it’s true?”

  “Jeremi…Jer…told me.”

  Wolf’s eyes turned deadly. “Ain’t nothin’ to joke about. ’Specially not after you killin’ him like you done. And there ain’t no question about that.”

  “Aren’t you thirsty, Luke?” Jeremiah taunted from where he sat beside Luke.

  Luke made a grab for him, but it was wasted. As soon as his fingers should be closing around Jeremiah’s neck, the specter had vanished, leaving Luke to clutch empty air. Jeremiah’s soft chuckle lingered in his head.

  “Get out. Get out of my…mind.”

  “Water…water…water…” Jeremiah’s voice changed like an echo.

  “He turned the river…bloody. Then dried it up.” Luke tried to swallow and wet his throat as he turned back to the Sheriff.

  “Who’ll believe that story?” Jeremiah whispered.

  “Stop talking to me!” Luke shouted. He crawled up the hitching post, using every ounce of the last of his strength.

  “I gotta find out—” Wolf began.

  “No, not you. Not…Jeremiah—he keeps talking to me…”

  “Guilty conscience, Lucas?” Wolf asked caustically.

  “He’s here.”

  “He can’t see me, Luke,” Jeremiah whispered. “Not unless I wish him to. Only you can see me, hear me. And after all this, you still feel no regret for what you’ve done.”

  “I’m glad I did it!” Luke shouted to the empty street. “I’m glad I killed you and that damn dog of yours, Jeremiah!”

  The melodic sound of the flute drifted through the dusty street on the hot wind.

  Wolf shifted the Henry up into better position. He wasn’t taking any chances.

  Jeremiah suddenly appeared bedside the Sheriff, arms folded across his chest. “Come for me, Lucas. No, I won’t disappear this time.”

  There was a look of hot anger in Jeremiah’s features that Luke relished.

  Oh yes. If he would stay put, they could end this once and for all, Luke thought. He took an unsteady step forward.

  “Stay back, Lucas,” Wolf ordered, bringing the rifle purposefully aimed at Luke’s chest.

  “Didn’t you hear him? I’m going to kill him!” he raged.

  “You already done that! You said it.”

  “Not good enough.” He took another step, and Wolf warned him again, but it didn’t stop him.

  “I’m here, Lucas. Yours for the taking,” Jeremiah said with a smile. He unfolded his muscular arms and loosened them, crouching. “Come on, brother.”

  With a wild cry, Luke hurtled himself toward where Jeremiah stood beside Wolf.

  Cursing, Wolf pulled the trigger. The roar was deafening in the deserted street. Blood sprayed from the close proximity that Wolf had had to take the shot in order to stop Luke from attacking him as he’d rushed forward. Now, the boy sprawled face down in the dust, unmoving.

  Slowly, Wolf started toward him, and from all around, doors opened, and people emerged. Doc Myers came to stand beside him, then knelt beside the body.

  Harley and Jonas Unrue, the undertaker’s sons, arrived and turned Luke’s body over, careful not to come into contact with his blood-spattered skin.

  “What’s this?” Doc reached for a folded piece of paper that lay beneath Luke. Slowly, he stood, unfolding it, then walked back to the sheriff.

  “Guess this tells the story,” he said thoughtfully.

  Wolf reached for it.

  Shadow lay on the grass in front of the Marshall cabin. Young Jeremiah sprawled across him, his fingers lovingly laid upon the dog’s big head. Shadow’s loyal gaze was fixed on Jeremiah, dying, both of them.

  A lifelike rendering of Elizabeth Marshall, too real to be anything but the actual portrait of her in that awful moment, took Ben Wolf’s breath away. He fingered the edge of the paper, alone in the midst of the crowd. Her eyes were wide with shock and fear. Her blonde hair streamed behind her, undone from its neat bun with the wind…the rifle barrel was even drawn, as if the artist was creating the picture from the perfect vantage point to capture every nuance of the killing.

  Who? Who could have drawn this? Ben glanced at Luke’s body as the mortician’s sons loaded it into their wagon, with Doc Myers’s help, to drive the short distance to their father’s funeral parlor.

  Luke laid slack jawed, eyes open, staring vacantly. The bullet had caught him square in the chest, where most people had a heart, Ben thought. Anger at his own losses swept over him. No, Lucas Marshall hadn’t the talent to draw something such as this; perfection, detail and realism rolled into such a rendering would have been beyond him.

  The wind whipped up, fierce and wild with the sudden hot gusts of a summer storm. Ben held tightly to the drawing and blamed the blowing dirt for making his eyes sting and water.

  Just then, the drawing was yanked from Ben’s fingers and swirled upward. He made a grab for it instinctively, angry at the feeling of it being ripped from his grip.

  The tug on the drawing had been angry, too; as if Ben was being blamed for something—maybe, he thought, an act of omission in not doing right by Elizabeth Marshall and their boy. If he had taken responsibility, this whole mess might never have happened. Who knew? Perhaps he was the one who had lost his mind…a mad dog—or worse. For he’d had the power to change it all and had done nothing.

  He glanced around at the townspeople. They stood by, doing nothing…nothing but watching; watching him, watching the paper as it danced higher in the wind in a frantic escape. Down the street, the Unrue brothers unloaded Luke’s corpse from the wagon, closing the door of their father’s business behind them.

  The melody of a flute sounded clear and haunting through the wind…a dirge for the death of innocence; for love never sought nor claimed; for simple kindness never extended, or returned.

  As Ben watched, the paper disintegrated into pieces of shimmering dust high above where he and Doc Myers stood. And the rain began to fall, along with the sharp glitter of dreams, and jealousy, and anger, on the just and the unjust who stood in the streets of Salvation.

  HIDDEN TRAILS

  CHAPTER ONE

  If it had been ten minutes later into the oncoming twilight, Levi Connor might not have seen the figure struggling through the snow.

  He wasn’t in any mood to stop and help the floundering unfortunate—feeling pretty unfortunate himself. Riding fo
r miles in this snowstorm, carrying a piece of lead in his leg, and not having eaten in two days put him squarely in the not-faring-so-well category.

  There wasn’t much left in him to help a stranger—even had it been under normal weather conditions. With the constant snow blowing down the back of his collar, the fire in his leg and the hunger gnawing in his belly, he was tempted to pretend he’d been snowblinded and keep on riding.

  But the figure was slight—a woman or a child—and it carried something heavy in its arms.

  Levi heaved a deep sigh. Maybe his soul hadn’t slipped as far away as he’d thought—or, at least, the manners he’d been taught as a youngster hadn’t. Either way, he couldn’t ignore the struggling figure ahead of him.

  “Hello?” Levi called through the wind. There was no response. “Come on, Caliente,” he murmured to the big roan. “There’s gotta be shelter nearby for us.” The horse nodded as if he understood.

  They came abreast of the flagging stranger within a few seconds, then passed by. Levi turned to look down into the face that was mostly covered by a red woolen scarf, the only color in the dreary landscape of white with blue-gray shadows.

  The woman looked up at him with a beauty that made his breath catch in his throat. She held a half-grown collie pup in her arms that was almost as big as she was. “He’s hurt,” she managed to say.

  Levi wanted to do the chivalrous thing; offer her his horse, tell her he’d carry the wounded animal she struggled with in her slight arms…but the truth was, he was nearly done in. He wouldn’t be able to get far at all in the deepening snow on his leg. And Caliente was ready to drop. He wouldn’t be able to carry all of them.

  “I…ma’am…where—”

  “Can you take him?” she asked hopefully. She nodded toward the saddle. “He’ll ride—” Her eyes widened. “You’re wounded!” She stepped close to Caliente.

  “’M sorry—I’d let you—” Levi’s head began to spin. He felt her lift the dog toward him, and he reached to help her.

  The brown and white collie whimpered as they managed to get him stretched across Levi’s lap where he could keep the pup from falling. He wished he had someone to hold on to his shirt collar to steady him in the saddle, as well.

  But the pup settled across him, and there was comfort in the shared warmth, as long as Levi could keep him off the bullet hole.

  “It’s not far,” a soft voice said from nearby.

  Levi must have leaned down, across the dog. The woman…had to be…not far…not far… The words reverberated through his wandering mind.

  Levi tried to hang on to his consciousness, but he felt it slipping away, despite his resolve. The fever had become too much to fight off. He thought his eyes were open, but everything was white. Everything.

  Then, a small shack rose up in front of them, and Levi knew he was just barely hanging on to his consciousness.

  The dog shifted just then, a back paw scraping across Levi’s hurt leg. A sharp gasp escaped him, and a moment of clarity allowed him to see that the cabin was real.

  They had just come into the front yard, and Levi had never been more thankful to see shelter of any kind.

  “Get him inside,” he muttered, trying to lower the dog into the woman’s arms. He was no good, now. Barely had enough strength left to stay in the saddle, himself.

  The dog slid into the woman’s arms and she took a step back to keep her balance.

  “Are you sure—”

  Her look of concern surprised him. He made a slow motion with his hand. “I’ll wait. If you can just give me a hand inside…in case I …need it.”

  “Yes—yes. I’ll hurry.”

  Levi wasn’t certain how long the woman was gone, or how long he sat in the blowing snow. It felt like hours, but he knew better. Just keeping his wits about him, dull though they were, was holding every bit of his fragile attention. Relief washed over him when she reappeared, hurrying down the front porch steps, coming to stand beside him.

  She put her hand up to him, and he wanted to laugh. He must outweigh her by close to a hundred pounds or more. If he fell on her, they might both end up frozen, dying out here a few feet from the blessed shelter of the cabin.

  He shook his head, but it made him dizzy. “Step back, ma’am.” He tried to temper his tone, to keep the urgency out of it, so he wouldn’t seem unappreciative.

  “But, you’ll need help.”

  “No. I don’t wanna fall—” As Levi began to slide out of the saddle, he remembered at the last possible second to take the brunt of meeting the ground with his good left leg rather than the right one that was already shot to hell.

  Still, the jolt sent him on down to the snowy ground, and the woman rushed to his side with a cry. “Let me help you!”

  He’d landed near the front steps, and he was determined he’d make it into the front door, come hell or high water. He struggled to pull himself to his feet, trying to ignore the pain as he held to the slim stanchion that supported the roof covering the small porch and steps.

  “Ma’am…if you could just—just see to Caliente…make sure he’s fed and watered—”

  “I know how to care for a horse, and I fully intend to do so; but let’s get you inside, first.”

  She sounded a mite testy. As if she didn’t like the idea of somebody telling her what to do.

  He nodded, breathing hard. “All right. I can do it.”

  “Wait—”

  But as she moved toward him, he started up the three steps that separated him from the porch, somehow managing to navigate them, and came to a lurching halt at the front door.

  “Show me where—”

  The woman surged ahead of him, opening the door and looping his arm around her shoulders. He sagged heavily against her, and he could feel her pushing against his side to compensate for his weight.

  It was a straight path from the door across the large front room, into the bedroom. The bedroom had no door, just a blanket tacked over the entry for privacy.

  Levi pushed it aside as they entered, and he made a stumbling attempt to reach the bed, fearful that even with the woman’s help, his legs wouldn’t hold him that far.

  But, with her beside him, they made it…just as his wounded leg refused to cooperate one second more. He sat down, hard, on the side of the bed, wanting nothing more than to lie on his back, stretch out, and soak in the warmth and comfort. But first, he had to know she remembered…

  “Cali…you’ll take good care…”

  “Shhh. I’ll not forget. Let’s get you comfortable first.”

  She was pulling his boots off, unbuttoning his shirt…then his pants…all drawn off carefully and laid away.

  “You rest, now. I’ll see to your wound shortly.”

  Levi felt her pulling the blessed covers around him, and there was nothing more he could do but try to get warm, and sleep, to get away from the pain.

  “I don’t know your—your name,” he said hoarsely.

  There was a slight hesitation before she answered. “Valentine,” she whispered. “My name is Valentine.”

  ****

  Valentine Reneau left the stranger in her bed, hurrying into the front room to add a log to the banked fire. She poked the new log into the hearth and sparks shot up around it. Drawing away once it caught, she turned toward the door and went back out into the blowing snow to get the horse to shelter.

  “Come on, boy,” she said, guiding him to the small barn and slipping off the saddlebags. She laid them inside the barn door and started to remove the saddle and tack, speaking soothingly to Caliente as she gave him some hay. She carried a bucket outside and broke through the ice in the water trough, filling it with a mixture of ice and water for the horse to drink, then carrying it back to his stall.

  “Well, it’s not much,” she said, scratching Caliente’s ears, “but it’ll keep you out of the weather and keep your belly full.” She smiled as he bent his head and ate hungrily. “I have to go see to your master and our sweet boy, Coffee.�
�� Her brow furrowed.

  “This is Clover,” she said, giving the paint pony in the next stall a pat. “You’ll have some company.” She scooped up the saddlebags and headed through the door, closing and barring it quickly.

  The snow wasn’t about to stop any time soon. Darkness was nearly complete now, and Val was anxious to get inside to the warmth, even though a long night loomed ahead of her.

  She’d set out earlier in search of Coffee when the collie hadn’t come home overnight. She’d found him in the woods with a broken back leg—but it had been no accident. A bullet had torn through the flesh with such force that it had severely damaged the bone, snapping it.

  And now, she had another worry. This handsome stranger she’d brought home and tucked up into her bed.

  She would need to get him healed and back on his way as soon as she could—and hope this damnable snow would end soon. Being confined to the cabin with the wounded man could bring no good to her solitary world.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Inside the cabin, Val hurriedly cut up some vegetables she’d brought in earlier from the root cellar to make soup. Coffee lay on his bed in the corner as she spoke soothingly to him, gathering her medicines and bandages together.

  As she crouched to look at his broken leg, she let go a softly-spoken string of curses in French that would make a sailor blush. “We’ll get you fixed, mon petit,” she whispered as she began to gently clean the wound.

  Coffee had been with her since he was a few hours old. She’d found him in the woods in the August heat beside his mother, who had died during the difficult birth of his siblings. He was the only one who had lived, and Val had feared for his life for days, as she’d done everything she could think of to save him.

  But Coffee was a survivor—like her—and she supposed that was one reason she felt such kinship with him. He looked up at her now with trusting brown eyes as she spread a healing poultice over his leg and started to wrap it with a bandage. At that, he yelped.

  “I’m so sorry, pauvre petit,” she whispered. “You know I love you, but this has to be done. Comprenez-vous? Ah, yes, you don’t know why it must be done, only that I’m trying to help save your leg.” She went on speaking as she bandaged. “And soon, I will be doing this for our weary traveler in the bedroom.”