A man stood on a small rise, watching away from the cattle. The silver disks on his belt reflected the firelight. Every few minutes he glanced toward the horses as if waiting for a signal.
Nick pulled a few rocks from her pocket and began tossing them in the water ten feet from the watcher. After a few plops, he moved down off the rise and walked cautiously over to the stream.
They were on him with little more than the sound of air rushing from his body. Nick shoved him to the ground and Wes tied him. Within five minutes, he sat beside his friend in the total blackness of the trees.
“Now what?” Wes asked as Nick circled along the tree line.
“I don’t know. I figured there would be an assassin, and a lookout, but your guess is as good as mine where the third man might be.”
“If there is a third man,” Wes added as he followed her along the tree line toward the campfire.
Nick froze in place with her head high in the air. Listening. Smelling.
Wes took another step, then tried to stop. But he was too slow. He stumbled over something, almost falling face forward.
Nick knelt as he regained his balance and then joined her.
“What is it?” he whispered.
“Blood.” Her word floated on the air as her hands moved slowly into the undergrowth without making a single leaf rustle. “I smell blood.”
Wes extended his fingers in the direction of what had tripped him. His hand brushed over Nick’s as hers rested on something warm.
His fingers spread wider, covering hers and more. The feel of material. The warmth of a body. The wet stickiness of blood.
She slowly raised a towel that had been tucked around the body’s waist like an apron.
Suddenly Wes was pulling the injured man into the light.
“Wait,” Nick warned, knowing that all he cared about was that a man of his was down. “Don’t go into the light!”
Wes wasn’t listening. Carrying the body, Wes ran toward the campfire.
She hung back in the shadows as she watched Wes pull the man close to the light.
“Lloyd,” he said as he shook the lifeless body. “Lloyd!” Wes’s voice was hard as though he could order the cook to breathe once more.
Nick fought all her training not to step into view. Wes needed her comfort as he tried to awaken his friend from a sleep that would never end. But she was a Shadow. She knew both their lives might depend on her ability to keep her head.
She watched as Wes pulled the shirt away from Lloyd’s chest and listened for a heartbeat. When he turned the body to the light, Nick saw the two deep cuts on either side of the Irishman’s throat. A savage way to kill someone, sliding a sharp blade into one side and out the other in a second before the victim could move. Either side might kill a man, but both cuts would bleed him dry in a matter of heartbeats while it sliced through his voice box so that the victim couldn’t even whisper a death cry.
Wes slowly closed Lloyd’s eyes and lowered him to the ground. “There’s one more,” he whispered to himself as he raised his bloody hands toward heaven. “One we haven’t found.”
A stocky man stepped around the boxes and growled like an animal protecting his fresh kill. Wes had only time to glance in his direction before the man flew at him.
For several seconds they rolled, slugging, fighting wildly.
Nick drew her gun. She couldn’t help Wes, but if he lost, she cared nothing for stampeding the herd. If the stranger proved the victor, he’d feel her bullet as he stood.
The men rolled near the fire, kicking and swinging wildly. Several men in bedrolls were awakened and drew near. But like Nick, they didn’t know how to stop the fight.
Finally, Wes rolled on top and pinned the man down. “Get some rope!” he yelled at one of the men. “We’re taking Lloyd’s killer into town to the law.”
All at once the camp was alive with movement and voices. Several men looked at Lloyd’s body, then suggested justice be carried out “trail-court” style. A few men helped Wes tie and gag the third outlaw.
After watching awhile to make sure it was safe, Nick stepped from the shadows of the trees and listened to the men talk. She blended in among them as easily as she’d blended with the trees… a part of the whole, yet unto herself.
When Wes calmed down, he told his men what had happened. No one thought of sleep as they sat around the fire discussing what had taken place and all that might happen farther on down the trail. A few thought it a bad omen that even before the long drive started there should be a killing. Others suggested it might help keep everyone on their toes. Each took a turn saying how grand old Lloyd was and how sad it would be for his family.
Every two hours men came in off guard and the stories were revisited.
Nichole listened to campfire stories, feeling at home with the men as she had during the war. No one said much to her, a few slaps on the back, a few nods of approval. The group hadn’t yet bonded to one another and she seemed no more a stranger than most.
When dawn washed over the land, Wes told everyone to settle in. They’d be camped here for a time while he took the men into town and waited for the rest of the herd. A few decided to make breakfast while several returned to their bedrolls until the next shift change.
Following Wes to the stream, Nichole watched as he tried to wash off Lloyd’s blood.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered when he looked up at her. “I wish we could have found the third man before he got to Lloyd. I should have guessed. A cook moves around too much checking the fire. He would be a man the outlaws would have wanted out of the way.”
“Listen, kid, if it hadn’t been for you, we’d all look like Lloyd this morning. They might have moved around in the night and killed us one by one. I owe you a great deal, Nick.”
“I’m glad I could help.” She sat down beside him as he leaned back against a tree. “I’m glad my skill could be of some use.”
He opened his arm in a friendly gesture and she leaned against it, letting all the tension of the night pass away with the sound of the stream dancing over pebbles and the sun warming her face. It felt good to be with Wes. He was the kind of friend who she knew she could always count on. The kind who would save her from any situation or anyone, even herself.
Wes closed his eyes and relaxed at her side. Within moments, they were both sound asleep.
Neither heard the wagon approaching from the direction of town.
TWENTY-ONE
ADAM HELPED THE men unload the wounded cowhand named Franky from the back of the wagon as he looked around for Wes and Nick. Stitched properly, Franky’s leg would heal nicely, leaving only a thin scar to remind him of his days on the trail.
Several men told Adam what had happened during the night and how Nick had saved the camp. A few of the men confessed they’d been shy in thanking a woman, but that didn’t stop them from praising her to Adam. By the time he finished reloading the wagon, some were bragging about her as though they were the proud papa of such an outstanding woman.
A rider had already left to fetch the deputy so he could take the raiders off their hands. Everyone felt sure that the cattle thieves would confess who rode with them after a few days in jail.
Lloyd’s body was wrapped in a blanket his wife had quilted and would be buried as soon as the deputy had a look at him. Several of the men thought it would be a good idea to use the extra horses as packhorses so that Franky would have more room to ride in the wagon till his leg healed.
When Adam had heard the stories more than once, he asked about Wes. Someone pointed to the trees and commented that they thought the boss went to wash up an hour or so ago.
Adam moved slowly toward the creek. He felt relief that Wes and Nichole were all right, and a nagging anger that they might have known something was amiss before they sent him off last night. What was he, some child to be pushed from harm’s way? Did his brother think him so weak or helpless he didn’t want him around during any battle? Did Nichole think him a coward?