“Who do you think you are?” Caley demanded. “Talkin’ to me like I was a kid! If I’d had my way I’d have finished you off a couple of years back, Gregg. In fact …” Caley’s mouth compressed until it was visible only as a yellow stain on his white beard, and his china-blue eyes brightened with purpose. His hand was now full on the butt of the Tranter and, even though he had not drawn, his thumb was pulling the hammer back.
Gregg glanced around the shimmering, silent landscape, at the impersonal backdrop of the Sierra Madre, and he knew he had perhaps only one second left in which to make a decision and act on it. Caley had not come fully into line with the hidden shotgun, and as he was still on horseback he was far too high above the muzzle, but Gregg had no other resort. Forcing the calcified knot of his elbow to bend to his will, he managed to reach the shotgun’s forward trigger and squeeze it hard. In the last instant Caley seemed to guess what was happening and he tried to throw himself to one side. There was a thunderous blast and the tightly bunched swarm of pellets ripped through his riding boot, just above the ankle, before ploughing a bloody furrow across his horse’s rear flank. The terrified animal reared up through a cloud of black gunsmoke, its eyes flaring whitely, and fell sideways with Caley still in the saddle. Gregg heard the sickening crack of a major bone breaking, then Caley began to scream.
“Don’t!” Sorenson shouted from the back of his plunging mare. “Don’t shoot!” He dug his spurs into the animal’s side, rode about fifty yards and stopped with his hands in the air.
Gregg stared at him blankly for a moment before realizing that—because of the noise, smoke and confusion—the Swede had no idea of what had happened, nor of how vulnerable Gregg actually was. Caley’s continued bellowing as the fallen horse struggled to get off him made it difficult for Gregg to think clearly. The enigmatic woman had drawn her shoulders up and was standing with her hands pressed over her face.
“Stay back there,” Gregg shouted to Sorenson before turning to the woman. “Come on—we’d best get out of here.”
She began to shiver violently, but made no move towards him. Gregg jumped down from his seat, pulled the shotgun out of its sling, went to the woman and drew her towards the buckboard. She came submissively and allowed him to help her up into the seat. Gregg heard hoofbeats close behind him and spun round to see that Caley’s horse had got free and was galloping away to the east in the direction of the Portfield ranch. Caley was lying clutching a misshapen thigh. He had stopped screaming and seemed to be getting control of himself. Gregg went to him and, as a precaution, knelt and pulled the heavy five-shot pistol from the injured man’s belt. It was still cocked.
“You’re lucky this didn’t go off,” Gregg said, carefully lowering the hammer and tucking the gun into his own belt. “A busted leg isn’t the worst thing that can happen to a man.”
“You’re a dead man, Gregg,” Caley said faintly, peacefully, his eyes closed. “Josh is away right now … but he’ll be back soon … and he’ll bring you to me … alive … and I’ll …”
“Save your breath,” Gregg advised, concealing his doubts about his own future. “Josh expects his men to be able to take care of their own affairs.” He went back to the buckboard and climbed on to the seat beside the bowed, silver-clad figure of the woman.
“I’ll take you into town now,” he said to her, “but that’s all I can do for you, ma’am. Where are you headed?”
“Headed?” She seemed to query the word and he became certain that English was not her native tongue, although she still did not strike him as being Mexican or Spanish.
“Yes. Where are you going?”
“I cannot go to a town.”
“Why not?”
“The Prince would find me there. I cannot go to a town.”
“Huh?” Gregg flicked the reins and the buckboard began to roll forward. “Are you telling me you’re wanted for something?”
She hesitated. “Yes.”
“Well, it can’t be all that serious, and they’d have to be lenient. I mean, in view of your …”
As Gregg was struggling for words the woman pushed the hood back from her face with a hand which still trembled noticeably. She was in her mid-twenties, with fine golden hair and pale skin which suggested to Gregg that she was city-bred. He guessed that under normal circumstances she would have been lovely, but her features had been deadened by fear and shock, and perhaps exhaustion. Her grey eyes hunted over his face.
“I think you are a good man,” she said slowly. “Where do you live?”
“Back along this trail about three miles.”
“You live alone?”
“I do, but …” The directness of her questioning disturbed Gregg and he sought inspiration. “Where’s your husband, ma’am?”
“I have no husband.”
Gregg looked away from her. “Oh. Well, we’d best get on into town.”
“No!” The woman half-rose, as though planning to jump from the buckboard while it was still in motion, then clutched at her swollen belly and slumped back on to the seat. Gregg felt the weight of her against his side. Dismayed, he looked all around for a possible source of assistance, but saw only Sorenson who had returned to Caley and was kneeling beside him. Caley was sitting upright and both men were watching the buckboard and its passengers with the bleak intensity of snakes.
Appalled at the suddenness with which life had got out of control, Gregg swore softly to himself and turned the buckboard in a half-circle for the drive back to his house.
The house was small, having begun its existence some ten years earlier as a line shack used by cowhands from a large but decaying ranch. Gregg had bought it and a section of land back in the days when it looked as though he might become a rancher in his own right, and had added two extra rooms which gave it a patchy appearance from the outside. After his fateful brush with the Portfield men, which had left him unable to cope with more than a vegetable plot, he had been able to sell back most of the land and retain the house. The deal had not been a good one from the point of view of the original owner, but it was a token that some people in the area had appreciated his efforts to uphold the rule of law.
“Here we are,” Gregg said. He helped the woman down from the buckboard, forced to support most of her weight and worried about the degree of personal contact involved. The woman was a complete mystery to him, but he knew she was not accustomed to being manhandled. He got her indoors and guided her into the most comfortable chair in the main room. She leaned back in it with her eyes closed, hands pressed to her abdomen.
“Ma’am?” Gregg said anxiously. “Is it time for …? I mean, do you need a doctor?”
Her eyes opened wide. “No! No doctor!”
“But if you’re …”
“That time is still above me,” she said, her voice becoming firmer.
“Just as well—the nearest doctor’s about fifty miles from here. Almost as far as the nearest sheriff.” Gregg looked down at the woman and was surprised to note that her enveloping one-piece garment, which had shone like a newly minted silver dollar while outside in the sunlight, was now a rich blue-grey. He stared at the cloth and discovered he could detect no sign of seams or stitching. His puzzlement increased.
“I am thirsty,” the woman said. “Have you a drink for me?”
“It was too hot for a fire so there’s no coffee, but I’ve got some spring water.”
“Water, please.”
“There’s plenty of whisky and pulque. I make it right here. It wouldn’t harm you.”