The setting sun signaled the need to make camp, yet Quinn pushed on. There would be time to rest once he reached home. He smiled while thinking of Zelda and her warm welcome. Of course, she would prefer he get the trail dust off and a shave before he visited her, but her solicitous attentions warmed his thoughts. Yes, she had proven herself well worth the gamble. She was no innocent, but he'd known that from the beginning.
He caught a glimpse of flickering fire light as he rounded the pass. Strange, settlers didn't know about this pass. From the side these folks must have come, it looked like a box canyon. He knew it was passable on horseback but was careful not to travel this pass from the other side so as to not leave a trail. So far the rustlers had not found this shortcut between the Big Lost and Little Lost valleys He intended to keep it that way. This pass afforded him the luxury of getting home a whole day early. Others in the valley communities had voiced their wonder about how he could make a living with playing cards, riding an occasional round-up and still get his homestead going. He had his secrets and this one he would keep to himself, not even sharing it with Albert, his brother.
Quinn reined his horse toward the game trail on the south once he cleared the narrow pass. Usually he kept to the stream to cover his tracks. Tonight it was more important to learn who was in this canyon. A canyon most believed had only one way out.
He tied his horse a good distance from the campfire and crept closer on foot, careful to remain out of sight. Crouched behind a fallen log, he watched the old timer, his long coat shielding Quinn's view of the fire. At last the man moved around the fire, revealing another more slender figure crouched over. He watched long enough to recognize something wasn't right. When the figure stood, he kept his arms tight to his body, his hands together. He didn't even pull the long hair off his face.
The figure had no coat and carried the pot from the fire much too close to his body, pouring the steaming liquid from an awkward angle. The form jumped, a feminine squeal of pain filling the air. The old timer swiped a heavy backhand at the slender form.
"Stupid wench!"
Quinn felt the bile of outrage rise in his throat. An old battle reawakened in his gut. Men had died at the hands of outraged youth over the shameful treatment of his kith and kin. To his way of thinking, no female, young or old, educated or not, deserved abuse at a man's hand. There were some things a man just should not do. He and his brother had ended a particular abusive situation with their own retribution. They had fled from the warped Tennessee lawman and kept on the move for years with only their horses under them. Hard work kept them fed and card games kept them on the move… until Denver. One night and one card game had changed it all but not the past. The past held bitter secrets, molding the man he'd become. His mother and sister's screams of that night melted to whimpers, whimpers that always brought the same reaction to the surface, his grinding teeth and insatiable need for vengeance. A need from his past that dictated he not allow an old timer to strike a woman.
Quinn worked his way back to his horse, remounted and skirted the camp to approach from the west. He rode in, his back straight, his shoulders broad. He would not run from this fight, if it came to that.
"Hello at the fire." Quinn called out.
"Who goes there?" came the guarded greeting from the camp.
"Are ya willing to share your fire? I come in friendly," Quinn responded, checking the knife at his belt.
"That's two in one day. Come on in."
Quinn rode closer to the camp, wondering at the comment, dismounting at the firelight's ring. "Smells right inviting." He nodded at the woman and the plate of beans in her hand.
"When she ain't burnin' it or dumpin' it on ya." The old timer turned his attention to the woman. "Get the man the rest of 'em vittles."
Quinn watched her. She glanced longingly at the beans and then handed him the plate. A look of angry annoyance replaced that of hunger on her features. As he took the plate, he observed that her hands were tethered. A length of rope kept her within the ring of firelight.
"Have a sit. Move, woman, or ya'll get no blanket tonight."
The woman eyed her captor, an inkling of hunger mixing with the vengeful glare. She moved away from him as far as her tether would allow.
Quinn nodded his thanks and hesitantly took her seat on a comfortable rock. He spooned a healthy bite into his mouth. They tasted awful. What had she done to them? The old timer took his place on a ratty stool and resumed his meal, seemingly unaware of the offensive taste.
"Betcha are wondrun' 'bout this." The old man traced the tether in the air with his spoon.
Quinn nodded in a nonchalant manner while taking a smaller bite of beans.
"Ungrateful wretch. Saved 'er life, I did. An' this 'eres the result."
"She volunteered to be your slave, did she?" Quinn knew better, but wanted to hear the old timer's version of the story. Nothing made it right to tether a woman like this, especially one that seemed rather unhappy about it. If she were a cattle rustler, it might be different. The old timer definitely wasn't a cattleman.
"Jus' opposite. Old Curly saves her life an' she weren't even appreciable. Ya ever heard of that?"
"I said 'thanks'," the woman snapped.
Curly yanked hard on the rope, causing her to fall. Quinn followed it with his eyes to find it anchored to a large rock near Curly.
Anger boiled in Quinn's throat. You couldn't force someone to be thankful, and if anything, Curly had heaped the wrath of the woman on himself. He managed to hide his feelings. Could Curly be reasoned with? Was Curly the type of man to seek revenge if Quinn stepped in? Would he have to outright kill Curly to set the woman free? Quinn considered the woman in the firelight. She was slender, the manly clothing doing nothing to hide her feminine curves even if she looked rather dirty and unkempt. He harbored little doubt about Curly's warped motive.
"Women," Quinn drawled. "Seems they're more trouble than they're worth. Are you a gambling man, Curly?"
"Thinking of takin' 'er off my hands, are ya?" Curly shook his head. "She's a heap of trouble but ya ain't takin 'er 'fore I get my poke."
"Tough time getting that poke?" Quinn couldn't help but feel relief knowing the woman had held Curly off until now.
"Ain't been the time."
"So what's stopping you?" Quinn measured the man across the campfire from him, disgust growing with every passing minute.
"Nothun now. My belly's full. I ain't a greedy feller. Ya can 'ave a go, jus' as well. Then we know what stakes we're playin' fer."
Quinn noticed the evil glint of anticipation in Curly's eyes. He looked around to see the woman grasping a stout branch in her hands, obviously planning to stand her ground. Instinct told him that she very well could.
"No way. Over my dead body. You want a go? I'll take your manhood first," she hissed.
"Wretch!"
Quinn stood facing her, the plate of beans forgotten. If he could divert any hostility, he had to come between the woman and Old Curly. He sidestepped, placing one foot firmly on the rope that tethered her. He spread his hands, inviting her to trust him as he would a skittish horse. He tried to reassure her, mouthing the words, "It's okay. I won't hurt you."
He sensed rather than saw Curly skirt the fire. "Ya go fer 'er hands. I'll hog tie 'er."
Quinn's hand recoiled at the same time he spun. His knife flashed once before sinking into Old Curly's shoulder. "N--" The stout branch caught Quinn off guard. The second swipe hit him and all went black.
Chapter 4