Carol Arens - Outlaw Hunter

Reeve had only heard of the outlaw family when one of their own turned on them.

Had it not been for Colt Travers wanting to rescue his woman, whom they had kidnapped, the gang would still be committing crimes.

Colt had demanded his conditions, though, for turning on his own. He wanted to be the one to burn the place to the ground, and he wanted to do it before the arrests were made.

That wasn’t the way Reeve liked to do things. There was an order to be followed, first the arrest then the justice.

It rankled to let Travers do it his way, but Reeve wanted those criminals. There had been no choice but to play Travers’s game.

It had been plain good luck that a man armed only with a long knife had been able to best that nest of vipers. The only reason Reeve had agreed to hold back until he saw the smoke was because the outlaws were Travers’s kin.

In spite of his misgivings, things had worked out. The outlaws were on their way to prison and the innocent on their way home.

He’d pushed his charges hard because the farther east of here he got them, the safer they would be.

The woman, especially. She looked worn to the bone...bone that he could nearly see through the thin cotton of her dress.

He figured she wasn’t as old as she looked, but he couldn’t be sure. With water out here as scarce as anything green, he doubted that she’d bathed in some time. Dirt coated her lank hair and dusted her face as it did the ground.

Even her expression seemed defeated.

Watching her sitting on the wagon bench with her wriggling son Flynn clutched in one arm while trying to soothe her infant in the other, he wished they could stop for an hour, to let the young ones stretch and play.

Six rattlers and several scorpions creeping over the ground, and all within the last mile, convinced him to press on to safer territory.

He couldn’t help but admire Hattie Travers, though. As haggard as she appeared, the woman had backbone. They’d been in the wagon for nine hours and he’d yet to hear her complain or speak harshly to the children.

What had she been like, he wondered, before she had become the unwilling bride of Ram Travers?

Her eyes might have sparkled instead of looking lined and defeated, as they did now. They might have been fire-warmed amber instead of muddy brown.

What Ram Travers had done to her was a crime. Reeve was half-sorry that the man had already faced the Ultimate Judge. It would have given him a good deal of pleasure to haul that lawbreaker before an earthly judge and have his sorry ass slammed into jail.

At least that miserable family wouldn’t continue their practice of kidnapping brides. By now the deputies would have the criminals halfway to their jail cells to await trial. In a few more days the men would begin rounding up the two who hadn’t been at home when Colt Travers served up his justice.

He escorted the wagon east for another hour before Hattie Travers called his name.

He turned in his saddle. “Yes, ma’am?”

“The children need a break from the travel.” With Flynn climbing her shoulder as if his mother was a ladder, Hattie looked small, frailer even than when they had begun the journey this morning.

“Give me a few minutes to check the area.” He didn’t like making the stop, but he could see that it was necessary. “We’ll take ten minutes.”

“Thank you, Marshal,” she said, and he watched the relief roll through her in a wave.

It took twenty minutes to make sure the ground was free of snakes and other creeping dangers. When he was assured that it was clear for a hundred feet all around, he waved his arm, a signal that all was safe.

Joe leaped from the wagon with a whoop, and Hattie climbed down with a suppressed groan.

The ladies led Pansy and Flynn several yards away to take care of their needs. He and Joe walked in the opposite direction to do the same. Since there was no privacy to be had, he kept his eyes averted from the women and he reckoned they did the same.

A few moments later, Hattie strode toward him, her back bent with hours of holding her infant.

She could only be five feet three inches to his six foot four, so she had to look up and shade her eyes from the sun’s glare in order to see his face.

He reckoned he looked as shaggy as an old bear, having been on the trail for a month or more. He’d lost count of the days.

“I haven’t had time to thank you, Marshal Prentis, for bringing us home. I’m grateful as can be.” She shifted the baby in her arms. “I’m sure you have more pressing things to do.”

“No need for thanks, ma’am.” He reached for the infant. “Do you mind?”

She hesitated, but not overlong. He snuggled tiny Seth in the crook of one arm and watched while his mother worked the aches out of her back. She twisted from side to side, then front to back. He couldn’t recall seeing her without one child or another in her arms since he met her yesterday morning.

“You reckon Flynn would like to ride with me for a while when we start up?”

She smiled up at him. Under her cracked, dry lips, her teeth were straight and white. He was just noticing a spark of animation in her eyes when Libby screamed.

“Mad dog!” the girl shouted, shrill and panicked. “Mad dog!”

It wasn’t a dog, but a coyote and as mad as they came. Its wild eyes settled on Flynn. Bandy-legged, it wobbled toward the boy, the foam coating its muzzle a sure sign of disease.

* * *

“Flynn!” Hattie screeched. She locked her knees so that panic wouldn’t knock her to the ground.

The marshal shoved Seth into her arms, then ran, eating up the ground in long powerful strides.

She raced behind. The breath wheezed in and out of her lungs. Her side cramped, but she was too frightened to care.

Somewhere along the way she shoved Seth at Libby. She shut out every thought but grabbing her son away from the coyote, who was one deadly leap away from him.

Dimly, she registered that the wagon horses pranced, nervous in the confinement of their tack. The marshal’s horse stood still, his ears pointed toward the danger but his training keeping him in place.

She wouldn’t make it in time. Not even the marshal, with a thirty-foot lead, would make it.

The beast, ravaged and skinny, hunched his legs for the jump.

She stopped and snatched up a rock. She wouldn’t be able to halt the animal, but maybe she could distract his attention for the seconds Marshal Prentis needed to reach Flynn.

She pitched the rock. Joe saw her and did the same, firing stone after stone in the coyote’s direction.

They might as well have been hurling feathers. The beast’s full attention was riveted on Flynn.

“Mama!” Flynn cried. He backed up, then he turned to run.

The coyote lunged. She screamed.

Marshal Prentis dove. Midair, he drew his gun. He snagged Flynn about the waist.

A shot exploded.

Dust clouded the ground where the marshal rolled with her son tucked close to his belly.

The coyote was propelled backward by the blast. It crumpled to the earth, a lifeless mound of filthy fur. A few feet away the marshal hovered over Flynn, clearly offering himself as a shield in case the shot had missed.

Hysteria and relief gripped her at the same time. She wanted to collapse where she stood, to cover her face with her hands and sob. Her little wild man had come within inches of death.

Even though the danger had passed, fear pumped her heart hard.

What if Libby had spotted the coyote a few seconds later? What if the marshal hadn’t been a quick runner? What if his shot had missed? What if he hadn’t been willing to shield Flynn with his own body?

She wasn’t sure she would ever purge this nightmare from her heart.