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

  With no more hesitation, Lance did as Arthur asked. He turned to call out toward the darkness behind him, his tone strong and certain. He'd always been a warrior, and this time, it was no different. There was no questioning response, and somehow, Arthur felt, Lance's men had retreated as he'd obviously commanded. The air felt safe around them, in spite of the odd, silver light that colored the form of Lance's entire body.

  "Farewell, Arthur…" Lance's voice was no more than a ragged whisper. "Safe travels, my brother…"

  The light intensified for an instant, then it began to dissipate and fade. Arthur put a hand toward the place where Lance had stood only a moment earlier.

  "Safe travels, Lance!" he called. "And peace go with you!"

  The fire gave a loud crack. The coach listed and toppled as the charred front right wheel gave way, the metal wheel rim falling flat to the ground. Moments later, it slowly rolled to the side, the flames roaring with the gust of air made by the movement.

  Arthur barely noticed. He looked to the sky at the stars, burning with the same silver light that had taken Lance and Ginny. Somehow, he knew they were safe. At peace. This truly had been a miraculous night…but it wasn't over. He was still here.

  Behind him the door opened with a creak. Arthur turned, the warning he'd been about to speak lodged in his throat.

  Chapter 9

  Mrs. Franklin stood on the porch, calmly watching him. There had been no protests from inside, Arthur noted, no sound of anyone trying to keep her from venturing out. Arthur watched with keen curiosity as she pulled the door shut behind her and walked the length of the porch to where he stood on the ground.

  "Arthur. I'd have thought you'd have recognized me by now."

  Arthur stepped back, his eyes narrowing. He gave a disbelieving laugh. "Merlin? Merlin! What are you— How did you—"

  "Why are you so shocked?"

  Arthur leapt back onto the porch and reached to take his old mentor's arms in his hands. "Look at you!" He threw back his head and gave a joyous laugh. "In all the years I've known you to disguise yourself, I don't believe I've ever seen you as—as a woman!"

  "'Twasn't my choice, Arthur! I had to come along…this time around. And I had to come as someone you wouldn't know."

  Arthur's mind raced back to the way "Mrs. Franklin" had so carefully kept to "herself" during the tedious stagecoach ride, the way she'd fearlessly handled the little derringer she'd carried as they'd fended off the Apache, and the confidence she'd exuded at being able to help Ernie Dodge recover from his illness. Somehow, he suddenly felt certain that Ernie would be just fine.

  "You did manage that, Merlin. I didn't guess. Though," he admitted, "had I thought on it, I suppose it might have come to me that there were some oddities in your…demeanor."

  Merlin didn't smile. In a blink, his appearance changed to the familiar form Arthur knew—the sorcerer's robes of royal blue flowing to his ankles, his beard white as snow, his sapphire eyes burning with inner fire.

  "Your eyes…I should have known from your eyes."

  "I did my best to keep turned from you." Merlin's tone warmed as he spoke.

  Arthur chuckled. "So you did." He nodded toward the door. "What about the others?"

  "They're all having a small nap right now. There's a spell that comes in handy for that—but it won't last much longer. Ernie Dodge will, of course, recover over the next few days. I've made Sally quite the healer while she's slept, so she'll know what to do once I'm gone. No one will remember Ginny. No one," Merlin said succinctly, "but you."

  "Not— Not even her husband?"

  "No."

  Arthur shook his head. "It seems a shame to have loved someone as much as he loved Ginny and not have any memory of it."

  "But…not nearly so painful, Arthur." Merlin raised his chin a notch. "Wouldn't you agree?"

  Arthur shot him a quick look. "Are you saying you could make me forget her, too?"

  "Would you truly want that? Would you want to forget all the love, the happiness, the kisses in the summer rain, those long winter nights—"

  "How do you know about those?"

  Merlin waved a dismissive hand. "It doesn't signify. As the Once and Future King, you must realize that I will have to be there for you throughout time—now that everything is set in motion."

  At that, all other thoughts fled. "Wait, Merlin. It's over, isn't it? Lance and Ginny—"

  "Have found their peace. Yes, it has ended for them."

  "But…what does that mean for me?" Arthur felt as though he was standing at the edge of a cliff, about to fall if he took one more step. Everything depended on Merlin's answer.

  "Who will teach the boy, Arthur?"

  The wind soughed through the trees at the side of the station, and Arthur's chest hollowed, as if a gale blew right through him. "The boy…"

  "He believes, as you said. And he has heart, Arthur—heart like I haven't seen in centuries. He…reminds me of you."

  The gentle kindness in Merlin's voice took Arthur back to when he was young and unsure of his place in the world. When he'd become king, he'd been a child, really. Without Merlin's patient training, he'd have been lost.

  Lost...

  "Yes. Much like young Jeremy," Merlin muttered.

  Arthur looked up sharply. "Reading my mind again?"

  "Bah. It's second nature after all these years."

  "Jeremy has relatives."

  Merlin's craggy face softened. "Arthur…the boy truly has no one. His loss isn't done yet. You see, when he gets to New Mexico Territory, he'll learn that his aunt and uncle have both died from a severe outbreak of measles. He truly is alone in the world—except for you."

  "Good God, Merlin! You didn't arrange for that to happen so this would work out as it should, did you?"

  "Of course not!" he responded coldly.

  Arthur sighed in resignation. "Will it ever be over for me?"

  "Arthur…I truly do not know. But, would you throw away this glorious opportunity, even if it were possible? I heard what you said to Lance—and it's true. If the world remembers, it will be because of people like Jeremy Davis. And, who better to teach him than you?"

  So it wasn't to end for him on this night of miracles after all. Disappointment was bitter. But along with the galling sting of it came a fragment of something sweet—anticipation. He could still see the way Jeremy's fingers had so reverently traced the green binding of the book of legends in the coach; the way his eyes shone when he spoke of the old tales. Yes…the belief was strong. It was the most important thing.

  "There'll be help of some kind later on tonight or early tomorrow since our coach didn't show up on down the road."

  "I…expect Jeremy and I will be on the next stage through," Arthur stated dryly.

  A nod from Merlin. "It may not be the outcome you had hoped for, Arthur, but you'll see, you've received a gift beyond measure this Christmas."

  "A son." Arthur met Merlin's eyes once more. "One I can be proud of, this time."

  After a moment, Merlin said, "Well, I must be on my way, Arthur. Of course, no one here will remember me, either. I trust you will reassure young Jeremy along this arduous journey, so that when you arrive in Santa Fe he will embrace the idea of falling in with you."

  "What do I tell him, Merlin?" Uncertainty settled around him like a cloak.

  "It will come to you, Arthur. Let yourself remember—everything. The way footsteps echoed in the hallways, the smell of roasting boar in the great room fireplace after the hunt, the sound of Ginny's laughter— Yes, some of it will be painful to recall, but you are the only one who can make it come alive—and those memories are the way to do it."

  Merlin turned away. "I must be sure all is as it should be before I leave. No 'errant' memories, so to speak."

  "Yes," Arthur replied thoughtfully, following Merlin through the door.

  Jeremy lay sleeping on the settee, the beloved leather-bound volume of Arthurian legends clutched in his hand.

  "The blood
," Arthur whispered. "Can you get rid of it?"

  With a quick flick of the sorcerer's hand, the stains faded, then disappeared from the leather. Jeremy stirred slightly and Merlin laid a hand on the boy's head, stilling him. "Peace, young lad," he whispered. "You've a high adventure ahead." A smile touched his weathered lips.

  He looked at Arthur. "The others won't remember—I saw to that before I came outside to speak with you. They'll wake soon. I must be gone."

  Arthur nodded.

  "This is your chance, Arthur. Death is what you wished for. Yet, this young life—" he glanced toward Jeremy briefly, "is what you've been handed instead. I pray this is the answer to your happiness."

  "It is," Arthur answered quietly. "The greatest gift of all. I only hope… I'm worthy."

  "Merry Christmas, Arthur."

  Arthur didn't have to look to know Merlin had gone. It didn't matter. Peace settled over him for the first time…ever. He sat down in a nearby chair and let himself relax. The memories flooded over him, but this time he didn't try to shut them out.

  Forgiveness had come to him.

  Christmas was here.

  He laid a hand on Jeremy's dark head, hope struggling to life in his heart once more. "Believe," he whispered softly. "Believe."

  The KINDNESS of STRANGERS

  Chapter 1

  Jericho Dean was closing in on the bastards. Within the next twenty-four hours, thirty at the most, he intended to have killed the entire band of Tidwell's Comancheros, putting an end to their misery – and his – once and for all.

  He was damn tired of running a cold camp every night. Was it so much to ask – a pot of coffee? He shouldn't care. He should enjoy the cool breeze against his face. This would be the last night he'd go without a fire. By this time tomorrow, he'd be roasting in hell alongside the bastards he was chasing. He wouldn't be safe in God's heavenly arms, but he'd be at rest. At peace. And quite warm and satisfied. It would be over, and it would be enough.

  Right now, he needed to sleep. His butt was melded to the saddle, and he was bone weary. Even so, an odd exhilaration rushed through him as he thought of his journey – his mission – being so close to the end. It wasn't smart, though, to keep pushing.

  Reluctantly, he drew rein and dismounted, the painful stiffness in his joints surprising him. He'd gotten old over the past two weeks. Ever since it had happened. Ever since he'd decided on his course of action, and set out to see the job finished and done proper.

  Methodically, he went about seeing to the big animal that had been his constant companion. The only friend he had left in this world, now that his woman was gone. Deliberately, he turned his thoughts away from Elena, and what those bastards had done to her, and to his two young daughters. It was all he had thought of for two weeks, and it had worn a long, raw groove in his brain and his heart. Revenge had ridden with him every mile he'd covered. Soon, it would be done, and relief would be his.

  The small clearing where he'd stopped for the night was serene in the evening shadows. Not quite fully dark, the inky spots of undergrowth held woodland secrets, but nothing dangerous. His senses would have given him full warning had that been the case. A small creek trickled nearby and the horse moved restively, his nostrils flaring in hopeful anticipation.

  A rare smile touched Jericho's lips as he patted the big bay. "Yes, I know. We could both use a long, cool drink, Dan. Let's go see about it." And that was the first order of business for this, his last night on earth.

  Chapter 2

  The water was just as cold as any mountain stream he'd ever drank from, even though he was not in the mountains now, and never would be again. There was beauty in this flat country, just as there was in the grandeur of the distant Rockies farther north.

  Indian Territory was his home, and he knew it in his mind as if a map was imprinted there. He drew his sleeve across his mouth as he stood from the creek bank, wiping away the droplets of excess water. His eyes constantly narrowed as he scanned his surroundings for anything out of the ordinary.

  Dan finally lifted his head from the stream and turned, as if he knew the way back to the clearing where Jericho planned to sleep that night.

  For the second time, Jericho smiled, and it felt just as odd as it had earlier. He'd thought he'd never smile again when he'd made the gruesome discovery of the bodies. The world he'd worked so hard to build had been stolen from him in a matter of hours that day. He'd gone out to hunt that morning, and come home in the afternoon to find his wife and children murdered. He'd thought of it so often in the time since that the dawning horror of it had been steadily replaced with something else. The burning need for revenge, no matter what the cost. He had nothing left to lose.

  After the initial shock of the discovery of the slaughter, after the mind-numbing grief of digging the grave to bury them in, a blackness had overcome him. He had tried to say a prayer as he knew would be proper, over the bodies, but no words would come.

  He wouldn't ask God for anything – not even a paltry blessing. That way, they would owe each other nothing. There would be no bargain struck. When he found the men who had done the unspeakable, he would feel no obligation to turn the other cheek, or to follow any other direction but his own.

  He led Dan back to the clearing and unsaddled him, putting the saddle on the ground along with his bedroll, his back to the creek. He took the brush from his saddlebag and walked over to where he'd left Dan in the fading light of the late afternoon. No reason why he shouldn't give the animal a good brushing before he bedded down. He deserved it, after the long days they'd put in, and most likely it would be the last time Jericho would ever do it.

  His neck prickled as the horse's head lifted. Dan whickered softly and in the next moment, a twig snapped. Jericho's hand went to his gun. He drew the revolver and held it steady, dropping the brush to the ground.

  "State your business," he called.

  "Just lookin' for water and place to bed down for the night," a deep voice answered. A nearby tree branch was pushed aside and a slight, wiry cowboy appeared, leading a dark horse with a white star marking his forehead behind him.

  The man grinned and put out a friendly hand. "Name's Freeman Hart."

  Jericho didn't put the gun away. He nodded. "Jericho Dean."

  "You after Tidwell's gang, by any chance?"

  "What if I am?"

  Freeman glanced toward the gun. "You can put that away, Jericho. I ain't your enemy."

  Still, Jericho hesitated. The prickling wouldn't go away. He'd learned to listen to it – it was how he'd managed to stay alive. Though Freeman Hart was friendly enough, something warned Jericho the newcomer was not what he seemed. He didn't holster the pistol, and Hart nodded.

  "I ain't one of them, son. I'm after 'em too."

  "Why's that?"

  "They…took something – something very dear to me." He didn't elaborate and Jericho understood that it was a subject the other man didn't want to discuss. He respected that.

  "They took something mighty precious from me too," he said quietly.

  It wasn't the shared loss that prompted him to put away the pistol, as much as it was Freeman Hart's disregard of it. He came forward, ground-pegging his big black beside Dan. He stooped down and picked up the brush Jericho had dropped.

  "Here's your brush. 'Magine ol' Dan'll be awful glad of a good brushing tonight."

  Jericho's pulse quickened. "How did you know his name?"

  For an instant, Hart looked startled, then he just laughed. "Heard you talkin' to him earlier, when I was comin' through the thicket just over yonder."

  Jericho took the brush and began to curry the horse, but he kept a wary eye on his unexpected guest. Something wasn't right. He knew his 6'3" frame could most probably win any hand-to-hand battle he might engage in with the smaller man, but a gun was the great equalizer. And though Freeman Hart hadn't shown any sign of throwing down on him, he was too close to his quarry to risk defeat now. He meant to see Tidwell's gang dead, no matter what els
e came.

  But Hart didn't seem to notice how Jericho charted his every move. If he did, he didn't seem to care.

  Chapter 3

  "No fire tonight?" Hart began gathering wood, even as he asked the question.

  "No. We're too close. One of 'em may double back to make sure they aren't being followed."

  Hart smiled as if at some inner joke. "Nah. You got no worries there. They're at least a day and a half ahead of you. I 'magine they figger they don't have a care in the world."

  Jericho stopped brushing Dan, turning his full attention to the other man. "Well, that's where they're wrong, Mister Hart. Dead wrong. Every last stinkin' one of 'em's got more'n a care in this world. They've got me, hot on their asses. And once I catch up to 'em, they'll realize that mistake in judgment – if they truly are thinking the way you say."

  "What do you intend to do, son?" Hart carried the wood he held to the pyre he'd begun to build in the center of the small clearing. "There's gotta be at the least six of 'em – probably ten at the most, but still – you're just one man."

  Jericho's irritation boiled over. "I know how many of 'em there are. They rode onto my land while I was away hunting for the day. They raped my two little girls and my wife, and then they murdered them. It doesn't matter to me if there's six or six hundred, Mr. Hart. When I catch up, I plan to kill as many of 'em as I can before they get me."

  Hart gave a low whistle, turning back to his wood gathering. "You got some balls, I'll say that for you, Jericho. There ain't many men who'd take on what you're aiming to do, and not give a damn if they live to see the next sunrise."

  Jericho gave Dan one final pat. "Ain't many men lost as much as I did on that day, Freeman. My wife, my daughters, and my desire to exist in this world without 'em." He pointed at the growing pile of wood. "No fire."

  Hart gave a sage nod. "I see. You're expecting to be reunited once you complete your mission – kill the Comancheros. Once you die, you think you and Elena will be together again, along with Maria and Ana."