The fellow quickly shifted the rifle so the shooting end was aimed at the sky.
“Were any passengers hurt in the wreck?” Matthew asked.
“Mostly cuts and bruises, but one man went flying and busted some ribs. He’s been spitting blood and should see a doctor.”
“Help is probably on the way,” Matthew replied. “The telegrapher at the next station would have sounded an alarm the moment he realized the train was overdue.”
“Not in Holden Creek,” the conductor countered. “The telegrapher there up and died a few weeks back.”
Matthew shifted in the saddle. “So who took his place?”
“Nobody, yet.” The conductor fingered open his watch pocket. “After Holden Creek, it’s almost five hours to the next stop.” He checked the time. “By my calculations, no alarm will be raised for another three hours.”
Matthew absorbed that bit of news. “One of you needs to go for help, then. They’ve surely got a sawbones in Holden Creek. That man spitting blood could have a punctured lung.”
The city fellow gestured at the broken boulders. “The train is dead in its tracks, and we have no horse.”
Matthew almost asked if they’d ever heard of walking. The injured man could die without medical treatment. Damn. Wasn’t this just his luck? He knew, without their even asking, that they expected him to head toward Holden Creek. If he allowed himself to get side-tracked that way, the Sebastians would get miles ahead of him, and he’d play hell catching up with them again. He rubbed his jaw, wishing he had it in him to just ride away.
“How far is it to Holden Creek?” he finally asked.
“Ten, maybe eleven miles. That’s a long way for a man to walk when he’s not dressed for this cold weather and the freezing rain.” The conductor eyed Matthew’s buck-skin jacket, which had turned supple and shiny from repeated applications of bear grease to make it shed water. “You reckon you could get word to the marshal there that we need assistance and a doctor?”
The way Matthew saw it, the rain had let up and the sun was out. Ten miles wasn’t that far for a man to walk. He had hoofed it that far a number of times. Maybe they were afraid to leave the relative safety of the train. The Sebastian boys had a talent for putting the fear of God into folks.
With an inward sigh, Matthew went over his options, hating to waste precious time on an unnecessary side trip. But in the end, he couldn’t see that he had a choice. There was the injured man to think about.
“How much blood is that man spitting up?” Matthew asked.
“Not much, just a little pink now and again.” The conductor arched an eyebrow. “Why do you ask?”
“I hate to press my animals unless it’s a matter of life and death. They’ve come a far piece.”
“We won’t quarrel with how fast you ride, Coulter, just so long as you go. I think the injured man will be okay until help arrives.”
“My horse and mule can go about four miles an hour at a steady walk. At that rate, it’ll take me two and a half hours to reach Holden Creek, plus a few minutes to talk with the marshal. With fresh horses, he and his men should be able to make it back here in a little over an hour if they ride fairly hard. That puts help about four hours out. Do you think the injured fellow can hold on that long?”
“We have him bedded down. If he doesn’t move and do more damage, he should make it.”
Just then a petite older woman came tearing down the platform steps of a passenger car. The most outlandish hat Matthew had ever seen was perched at an angle atop her head, silk flowers, gewgaws, and feathers poking every which way. Hands clamped to her waist, she ran toward them, the leg-o’-mutton sleeves of her blue velvet traveling costume flapping like the wings of a frantic bird.
As she drew up near Smoky’s flank, she pushed a strand of graying blond hair from her eyes. “Please, sir, you must ride for help at a fast pace! Those horrible men took my daughter! If someone doesn’t catch up with them quickly, they might do her serious harm!”
Apparently the lady had heard Matthew say he didn’t want to exhaust his animals by pushing them too hard. His mouth went as dry as dirt. He knew the Sebastians would kill this woman’s daughter before a posse ever caught up with them. The Sebastian boys wasted no time with their raping and murdering.
“I’m about to leave now, ma’am,” Matthew said, his voice thick and hoarse. “I’ll tell the marshal to get a group of men together as fast as he can.”
She pressed quivering fingertips to her pale cheeks, her blue eyes swimming with tears as she nodded. “Thank you, thank you,” she murmured. “She’s a good, sweet girl who’s never harmed a soul. If something happens to her, it’ll break my heart.”
Resigned, Matthew nudged his horse into a trot, a pace he set only for the woman’s benefit. Once out of sight, he’d slow Smoky to a walk. There was little point in killing his horse and mule in an attempt to save a girl who probably couldn’t be saved.
Why was it that every time he almost caught up with those rotten bastards, something went wrong?
Holden Creek turned out to be a one-horse town with a train station only a bit larger than a water closet. As predicted by the conductor, the place stood empty. The main street was little more than a rutted dirt path lined with uneven boardwalks, wobbly hitching posts, and straggly clumps of soapweed yucca. The saloon appeared to be the largest establishment, even larger than the church at the far end of town. What a fine testimony that was to humankind. Not that Matthew begrudged anybody a snort. He imbibed a bit himself. But with the church barely bigger than a sitting room and a school not in evidence, he couldn’t help but wonder about this community’s priorities.
The marshal’s office was no more impressive than the train station, situated amongst a string of businesses with battered doors and CLOSED signs that hung crooked in every dusty window. Strange. According to Matthew’s calculations, it was Thursday. In most towns, the shops closed only on Sundays, and often not even then. Maybe he had his days mixed up. No big surprise if he did. There had been times over the last three years when he’d forgotten what month it was, let alone the day of the week.
Matthew pulled up in front of the unimpressive law office, dismounted, and tethered his horse to the hitching rail before stepping up onto the weathered wooden walkway. The door proved to be unlocked, creaking open with a light push of Matthew’s thumb on the lever. Though a fire crackled in the rust-streaked potbellied stove and a dented blue pot on one of the burner plates emitted the scorched smell of overboiled coffee, the room and single cell at the back were empty. Shit. The last thing Matthew wanted was to waste more time trying to find the lawman. Where the hell was he?
Turning and closing the door, Matthew angled a look across the street, settling his gaze on the bat-wing doors of the saloon. Piano music tinkled from within the establishment, and an occasional burst of laughter trailed to him on the afternoon breeze. It struck Matthew as being mighty early in the day for folks to be imbibing, but who was he to judge? One thing was for sure: There was no better place than a local watering hole to get information.
Before striking off across the muddy thoroughfare, Matthew tethered Herman to the hitching post beside Smoky so he could reach the water trough. A little liquid refreshment would do all three of them a world of good. Matthew decided he might even buy himself a jug for the trail. When he killed the Sebastian brothers, there would be cause to celebrate. It’d be a hell of a note if he had no whiskey to mark the moment.
The interior of the saloon was undistinguished, a mirror reflection of a thousand others he’d seen over the last three years, complete with the requisite oil painting of a nude lady hanging above the bar. Ironically, the saloon’s piano key tapper was playing “The Fountain in the Park,” a romantic ballad with sappy lyrics that Matthew hadn’t heard since leaving Oregon. A sporting woman in a faded red dress belted out the words, flinging her arms wide as if she were performing onstage for a huge audience.
“‘While strolling in the park one day, in the me
rry month of May!’” She smiled and homed in on Matthew, her gaze a bloodshot blue that spoke of too many whiskey-soaked nights. “‘I was taken by surprise by a roguish pair of eyes! In a moment my poor heart was stole away.’”
Matthew ignored the invitation. He couldn’t waste time in an upstairs room right now, even if he’d felt so inclined—which he didn’t. The woman looked like she’d been ridden hard and put away wet. Matthew had enough troubles without catching the clap. He turned his attention to three older men who sat at a corner table playing poker.
“Can one of you tell me where I might find the marshal?”
“You’ve found him.” The portliest of the three men turned on his chair, the bulge of his belly rubbing the table’s edge. “How can I help you?”
Matthew’s heart sank. The man was old, for starters, and to top it off, he appeared to be more than a little drunk. Pulling out a chair, Matthew turned it around to straddle the seat. After three years in the saddle, he no longer felt comfortable sitting the proper way. As quickly as possible, he told the marshal about the train holdup.
“The Sebastian Gang, you say?” The elderly lawman rubbed his balding pate. “How can you be so all-fired sure it was them?”
“Because I’ve been tracking them for three years. Trust me, it was the Sebastians.”
“They’re a dangerous bunch, by all accounts.”
More dangerous than this old fellow could imagine. “Yes, sir, they’re very dangerous. Luckily for you, they’re long gone by now, so you won’t have to deal with any of them.”
“Why you tracking them?”
Matthew found it difficult to talk about what had happened to Olivia. “I’ve got my reasons.”
“You aren’t thinking about taking the law into your own hands, are you, mister?”
Matthew ignored the question and pushed to his feet. After glancing at his pocket watch, he snapped the lid closed and said, “If you ride hard, Marshal, you can reach the train in a little over an hour. One of the passengers is in a bad way, so you should take the local sawbones along if you can.”
The marshal nodded and swayed to his feet. For an instant, Matthew entertained the notion of telling the lawman about the kidnapped young woman, but he quickly discarded the idea. He didn’t want a posse of drunks catching up with him sometime tomorrow and getting in his way. If the girl survived the night, which was unlikely, Matthew stood a better chance of saving her than this inebriated yahoo and a bunch of inexperienced deputies. Matthew had learned that lesson the hard way. Just because men wore fancy stars on their shirts didn’t mean they had what it took to face the Sebastians.
Tipping his hat, Matthew strode over to the bar and ordered a shot of whiskey. After downing it, he bought a jug to take with him. Then, leaving the saloon, he made his way up the street to the general store to pick up a few supplies for the trail. In order to get inside, he had to clang a cowbell to draw the shopkeeper’s attention. While he gathered what he needed, his ears were pummeled by the old man’s small talk—about how slow business was, and how puny profits had forced him to let go of all his help.
“You got a slab of bacon?” Matthew interrupted as he rummaged through a barrel of potatoes. “I need cornmeal and coffee, too.”
On the off chance that the captured woman survived, he’d need grub to feed her, Matthew reasoned. Not that he believed, even for a second, that she would. If the Sebastian boys held true to form, they’d rape her until the shine wore off and then slit her throat.
Eden awakened to a stabbing pain in her stomach, a bad headache, and an awful dizziness. Blinking to see, she realized she’d been slung over the back of a horse, her arms and head dangling. Oh, God. The events of the morning came rushing back—her struggle to escape from that horrible, filthy man and then sinking into blackness after he struck her.
She focused dazedly on the toe of his dirty boot, thrust through a stirrup only inches from her nose. The acrid stench of his unwashed body was so strong it made her nostrils burn. Moaning, Eden tried to push herself up. With every step of the horse, the saddle horn jabbed her in the middle, and the pain was excruciating.
“Be still!” A hard palm connected with her posterior, delivering a sharp sting even through her skirt, petticoat, and bloomers. “I ain’t puttin’ up with no sass. You hear?”
To Eden’s horror, he cupped his hand over her buttock and gave it a squeeze. She bucked and tried to wiggle away, only to be cuffed on the back of her head with such force that she saw stars.
“Be still, I say. Maybe you was a highfalutin young miss this mornin’, but now ye’re nothin’ but a fine swatch of calico I got plans to enjoy.”
“Take your hands off me, you filthy good-for-nothing! My brothers will hunt you down like the dog you are and kill you for this day’s work!”
The robber laughed and jerked up the back of Eden’s skirt. When she felt cool air slipping in through the slit of her bloomers, she shrieked and jabbed him in the side with her elbow. He snarled and grabbed her by the hair. The sting on Eden’s scalp brought tears to her eyes. The next instant, he wrenched her head back so far, she feared he might snap her neck, but at least he let go of her skirt.
“You’re a little spitfire, ain’t ya? I ain’t never had me a redhead afore. You gonna fight me, sweet thing? I like a little spunk in my women. Never lasts, of course. Even the spitfires go to squealin’ and cryin’ after they get poked a few times. But it’ll be fun while the fight in you lasts.”
When he released his hold on her hair, Eden slumped over the saddle, her head still spinning from the blow to her skull. Despite the pain in her belly from the saddle horn, she decided to take his advice and be still. Fighting him now, when he had her at such a disadvantage, was a waste of energy. She’d bide her time. Sooner or later, they would have to stop and rest the horses. When they did, she’d run the first chance she got. Squealing and crying? He had another think coming. She was no sniveler—never had been and never would be. No matter what they did to her, she wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing her cry.
Thoughts of what they might do to her made Eden’s blood run cold. Though she’d been sheltered all her life, she was well aware of the danger she was in. Even unmarried ladies shared stories, whispering behind cupped hands of the atrocities that had been committed against other women. If even half of those stories were true, Eden was in big trouble. She might hold her own against one man, but she would be powerless against five.
Only a few minutes later, the men stopped along a stream to water and rest the horses. Eden was tossed from the saddle with no more regard than if she’d been a sack of onions. She hit the damp earth with a bone-jarring thud that knocked the breath out of her. Before she could recover, two of the men grappled her onto her back while a third jerked up her skirts, spread her legs, and knelt between her thighs. As he reached to unfasten his pants, Eden knifed up a knee, planted her traveling boot in the middle of his chest, and sent him tumbling backward with a hard shove.
“Hoo-ee!” a man holding one of her arms cried. “We got ourselves a scrapper!”
Eden spit in his face. “Touch me, and my brothers will kill you!”
They only laughed at the threat. Though Eden struggled with all her strength, she couldn’t escape them, and soon the man she’d kicked was in position again, his trousers hanging open. At the sight of his engorged member—the likes of which she’d never seen or even imagined—Eden nearly fainted with fright.
“My oldest brother is Ace Keegan,” she pushed out tremulously. “He’s a famous gunslinger, and my younger brothers are just as fast! They’ll hunt you down and make you curse the day you were born.”
“Have to catch us first.” The man in position groped for the slit in her bloomers. She felt his filthy fingers touch her private places. “And we got us a fine talent for not gettin’ caught. Ain’t you never heard of the Sebastian Gang, girlie?”
Eden bucked and shrieked, but he moved forward to impale her anyway. She clenche
d her teeth, squeezed her eyes closed, and held her breath, knowing it would hurt. But instead, he suddenly fell sideways across her leg. She lifted her lashes to see a fourth man standing over her, feet set wide apart, fists clenched. It was the fellow she’d tangled with right after leaving the train, the one who’d hit her and knocked her out.
“We didn’t steal the damned girl so you could ruin her!” he yelled. “We’re takin’ her across the border to Estacado, I said. That old Mexican loves gringo females. He’ll pay a small fortune for a redhead.”
“Ah, come on, Wallace,” Eden’s almost-rapist whined as he rolled onto his knees. “What can it hurt if we have a little fun with her first?”
Wallace was taller and stockier than the other four men. He spit a stream of tobacco juice and wiped his mouth with the crusty sleeve of his jacket. “You can have all the fun you want, little brother, but don’t go poppin’ her cherry. Estacado likes his women unused, and before he hands over any money, he always checks first to make sure they’re virgins.”
“What fun can we have if we can’t give her a poke?”
“You can play with her all you like, I said. Use your imagination, for God’s sake! Just don’t let me catch you dippin’ for honey. When you get to that point, finish yourself off with your hand.” Wallace spit again. His cold gray eyes moved over Eden’s body. “And hold off on messin’ with her until tonight. Could be we got a posse on our asses. Soon as the horses is watered and rested, we need to make tracks.”
The moment Eden was released, she rolled onto her side and curled into a ball to hug her throbbing stomach. Mindless prayers circled in her mind. Tonight. The mere thought of those animals touching her made her want to die. Run. She needed to get away. Only, the men stayed too close for her to make an attempt. After securing their mounts to nearby trees, they hunkered near her to eat. She could hear one man’s jaw popping as he chewed on a piece of jerky. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, but they offered her nothing but a cup of stale water. Eden had difficulty drinking it. Fear had closed around her throat like a brutal fist. But she forced herself to swallow. Then, bruised and shaken, all she could do was lie there, huddled in misery.