8 comments/ 17563 views/ 12 favorites Dotty Things By: OwensDarlin This is a Western. A little gunplay. A little fast-budding romance. No sex. Unless you count the last few paragraphs. * He heard the horse long before it came near. Fine sand spritzed against the brush beside the track. Shod hooves thunked softly on the ground. He'd expected this. They'd come no less than once a day to peer down at him as if he were a lion in a pit. It didn't particularly disturb him. He'd been told they'd stay away, but he hadn't believed it. It wasn't that he'd thought he'd been lied to, but the fella hadn't said, "Curiosity killed the cat," for nothing. If nobody had come to take a peek - that would've been a wonder. A hawk eyed, lean bodied man, he sat on his bed with his shoulder turned against the log he'd bucked up near the fire for that purpose. A blanket lay over his long legs, for the little cup of a valley was cool when the autumn sun had passed over it. Beneath the blanket, in his lap, lay a freshly oiled Smith & Wesson Russian and, along his right leg, a Winchester carbine. His speckled horse raised its ears and looked toward the trail. The mule, half deaf, went on dozing. The strange horse stopped. The Palouse gave a soft, inquiring whinny and stared into the brush. A mama duck, whose voice he had come to know, quacked fussily. Wings flapped the water. As soon as the ruckus died down, a peculiar, husky voice called out the traditional, "Hello the camp." "Come–" His voice nearly failed him. "Come ahead." The rider dismounted. Spurs tinkled with a slow, light, tentative step. The trail was a cow path and, cows being as they are, led into a thick patch of scrub oak. To pass through it, it was necessary to bend low and proceed with caution. He'd had a time persuading the mule that evil spirits did not lurk in there. He heard his visitor crunch through the oak. He saw the boots, first. Black. Shiny. Coated with a thin film of dust. Delicate spurs on the heels. Then he saw the heavy skirt of thick blue wool and a curse crawled up behind his teeth. The girl moved slowly into the space beneath the wide arms of the oak. She was no great beauty, but she had a pert little face and eyes that were big, wide, and very blue. He noticed that from clear across the camp. Very blue. The jacket she wore was a shapeless brown, made for somebody larger than herself. Her very blue eyes examined the clearing in quick little jumps - and collided with his steady black gaze. He heard the little tick of dismay her tongue made. She stood stock still, very straight. Then she said softly, "I think I've made a mistake." Her strange, coarse little voice made him want to clear his throat. He said, "Maybe it ain't too late - to correct it." She took a breath and let it out slowly. "You're Brin Dolan." It was not a question. He nodded. "Well, then, it's too late," she said simply. She thawed and moved forward to the stump he'd used as a chopping block on his arrival. She sat on it, slowly, her eyes again wandering through his snug camp. Eventually, the prowling blue eyes came to rest on his face. "Are you going to offer me some coffee?" She had freckles. His eyes narrowed slightly. "Hadn't planned to, no." They exchanged stares like two hostile dogs. Then... she smiled. One cheek dimpled. "Would it do to say I came to borrow sugar? Or hawking Bibles?" He didn't feel like joking. He felt sick. He watched in silence until her smile faded. She made a small gesture with one hand. "I guess you'll have to hear the reason I'm here. Though I was not supposed to tell you." His eyes were aching, throbbing in time with his rapid pulse. He said nothing and she began again. "I'm John Freeman's daughter, Cassie. My father owns Crown. This is Crown land you're on. You know that." That wasn't a question, either, but he slowly nodded an answer. She reached down between her boots and pulled a dry blade of grass that she proceeded to fold, with delicate looking fingers, into a small basket-like shape. She said, "Last Spring we went to Denver." He raised an eyebrow, speculating. "We were walking along the street - my father and some of the Crown riders and me." She studied the brown grass for several seconds, then looked up and across at him. "You know, I read, a year or so ago, that you were out of prison, but I've heard nothing about you since then." She glanced at the fire. "Wouldn't you like a cup of coffee?" Somebody with a voice something like his said, "Go on." Immediately, she got up and began moving around the camp, boosting the flames with fresh wood, placing the pot in a hotter part of the fire. "We were walking along," she continued as she went about the chores gracefully, "and I stopped to look in the window of a shop. At a hat. With feathers.... The next thing I knew, I was by myself. They'd gone on without me. "So - ouch - this big, red-haired miner came along and started making a nuisance of himself. I couldn't shake him, although I'm pretty good at that. He was very large. Active. Determined, you might say. I began to be worry a little. But, Tiger Boyd - he's a Crown hand and I've known him all my life - he'd come looking for me. He sent that fella off with a flea in his ear. So, I said - you know, the way a person does - 'Thanks, I owe you one.' Tiger said, 'I'll hold you to that,' and that was that." She sat down on the stump again to wait for the coffee. "This morning, Tiger came to look at you. They've been doing that, you know." He nodded. The movement made his head float. "They haven't come down. They could see your animals moved to different graze, wood chopped, and so forth, but they've never seen you move around.... It seems my father told them any man who came down here and bedeviled you would be fired. He doesn't just toss words like that around." She looked at him closely after this declaration, as if asking exactly what John Freeman had to do with Brin Dolan. When he was silent, she went on. "They came along this morning, Tiger and a hand they call 'Hat', and my brother, Kyle. They said - Tiger said - he was calling in the favor I owed." As if she could wait no longer, she got up and puttered for a few moments, rummaging through his pack for a tin cup, pouring coffee, blowing on it, her spurs chinking cheerfully. "Sure you don't want some?" He shook his head carefully. She shrugged and moved around the fire. He shifted his hand slightly, beneath the blanket, to bring the Russian to bear on her. She halted, the cup in front of her lips, her blue eyes wide, just above its rim. "You have a gun under there?..." She hesitated, searching his face. "You don't need it. Not for me. For them," she indicated the higher ground around them with a lift of the cup. "Not for me." She came and sat down on the end of the great log against which he leaned. He turned his head enough to keep an eye on her, wondering, in the cloudy back of his mind, why her presence didn't worry him more. "I couldn't even remember what favor I owed," she continued, her husky voice quiet beside him, "until Tiger reminded me. I didn't want to do it, at first. But - I did owe him. And - they'd gotten up my curiosity about you, too. I wondered why my father had laid down the law about you that way. I couldn't help wondering who you were and why nobody ever saw you." She sipped. He watched her, his hand still loosely curled around the Russian. Her hair was auburn, nothing special in color, but curly, clean looking. It was pulled back and caught in something made of tortoise shell, then it gushed down her back in a thick fall. He thought about what it would feel like in his hands. "We wondered," she said, "if maybe you were hurt. Or sick. So - I said I'd come down and see what I could see." She cleared her throat. "Y'see, the idea was that I'm not a man, I don't work for my father, and I couldn't be fired, so my father couldn't have anything to get upset about." She turned her head and smiled ironically at him. "That was the idea, anyway. Then - when I came down - well, the minute I saw who you were, I knew I'd made a mistake." "So you said." She nodded. "Mmm." "How'd you know me?" Again, she turned and looked at him. "You're joking. My father has a likeness of himself and your father on the wall of his office. I've only looked at it a thousand or so times. If I had a nickel for every Michael Dolan story my father's told.... You're the image of your father." He didn't know if that was a compliment. He had never thought of his father as a particularly handsome man. He had closed his eyes while he thought about that and, suddenly, he realized he didn't know how long they had been closed. His eyelids felt weighted by lead. The girl was on her knees beside him. She did not look frightened, but she did look concerned. That irritated him. Under the circumstances, she ought to be running for her life. She said softly, "You are sick, aren't you? Or hurt." If he said yes, she would fuss. She was the type to fuss. If he said no, he would be lying. He was not inclined to lie to her, so he said nothing, just held her gaze with his. "What can I do?" she asked gently. "Just tell me." "Go away." It came out more harshly than he had intended. He tried to soften it. "I'm all right. Just want some peace." She searched his face thoroughly. At last, she said, "I remember, now. I read that the Cattleman's Association offered a bounty on you because of something you mixed in after you got out of prison. They said you were deep in with the Hole In The Wall bunch. Pa always said it was poppycock. Is there a bounty on you?" "Twelve hundred." Her breath hissed in. It was a big bounty and she knew it. She stood and brushed leaves and dead grass from her skirt. "Well. They'll know," she said, her voice gritty. "Bob Vicker is Kyle's friend. Bob's stepfather is secretary of the Association. And Hat - I don't really know him. He makes noises about having been an express agent on the border, having killed men. Bandits, he says.... They'll know about the blasted reward." She put her hands on her hips and looked into the brown leaves above them. "This is bad, bad, bad. Why did my father hide you here? He put you right in their laps!" "I'm not hidin'," he said. "He let me camp here because I asked him to. Run along, child. I'll handle it." At the word "child," her eyes dropped back down to his. They seemed to have caught fire. "I have not been a child for some time, Mr. Dolan. I'm two years a widow. If you call me 'child' once more, I'll collect that bounty myself." The involuntary smile that tucked the corner of his mouth quickly cooled her eyes. She said, "I'll tell them you're sick, and need to rest. You're contagious. No. That'd mean I'd been exposed to something. No. I'll say - that-" Her gaze roamed out over his head, out near the pond, where his animals grazed. "That your horse fell with you. He strained a tendon. You wrenched your knee. Both of you are resting, healing. I'll tell them you didn't give me your name and I was too polite to ask. That way, if anyone comes snooping around, you can tell them anything you want. I'll say we were talking about my father and the weather and such, all this time." "Don't make yourself a liar on my account." Her lips thinned. "Your father was my father's friend. My father must trust you. He must think you're worth keeping safe. If he does, I do." She turned and walked down to the pond. The ducks paddled away furiously, the mama duck croaking loud protests. The girl crouched at the water's edge and washed the cup. He watched, eyes burning, as she walked back toward him. Her way of moving was easy. Comfortable. She probably did trip over something once in a while, as anybody did, but he couldn't imagine it. She returned the cup to his pack. "Thanks for the coffee." She came and stood at his feet, her hands in the pockets of that huge jacket. "I don't know what is wrong with you. You don't want to tell me or take my help - fine. I'll come back every day, to the head of the trail. If you need anything - or want to talk to me - sing out." He said nothing. There was just a moment when his fondest desire was to tell her about the pain and about the way his head swam and his skin burned. The moment passed. She turned and walked to the scrub oak. There, she paused and looked back. "You don't have to worry," she said sincerely, "I'll do my best to keep your secret." "I got no secrets." She looked him over, toes to head. She said skeptically, "Uh-huh.... Don't worry. You can trust me." Then she was gone. There was just the tinkle of her spurs, then the sounds her horse made as it scrambled up the sharp trail. * * * * * * * * * He was worse that night. In the morning, he managed to get to his feet and take the horse and mule to water. He staked them out on good, cured grass. He walked with leaden feet back to his camp and meant to build up the fire, fix some coffee, heat water for shaving. He had all of those things in mind. The next thing he knew, he'd dropped to his knees on the blankets. As he lay face down, he fisted the Russian and thought that, if he died, there would be one very satisfied bunch of folks in the world. A widow.... How could she be a widow and so young?... But not so young as she looked. Sad thing for her, if she'd loved the man. Maybe sadder if not. Freckles. It was the last thing he thought for quite a while. * * * * * * * * * He came awake when he felt the rush of cold air against his bare back. His fist tightened around the Russian - only it wasn't there. Bewildered, he tried to roll over to search for it. "Easy." The voice was husky and he knew it at once. "What day is it?" His tongue felt like old felt. Her hands were cool on him, against his hot skin, prodding painfully at his back. Again, he tried to turn over, and she said, "Quit wriggling. Honest to Hannah, Brin, did you really think a couple of days' rest was going to fix this? You're shot in the back." "Bullet's out," he said thickly. "What day is - it? What day?..." "Saturday." She sounded puzzled. "Date," he gasped. "November second." He let himself relax. Not yet, then. A little while longer. Nothing to be done about it. He drifted away. Something she did hurt. It brought a groan gusting from his throat and lifted him out of the fog he had floated in. Her voice, murmuring behind him, sounded tight and fussy. "...must be crazy," she was saying, "and my father ought to have his head examined, as well! Did he know about this? I'm sorry, but this is going to be bad." She was right. It couldn't have been worse if she'd shoved a hot poker into his back, there below the shoulder blade. He pushed his face into the blankets and clenched his fingers on air. He didn't move while she finished cleaning the wound and bathed it with something that smelled like wintergreen. Her fingers felt warm and steady. They blotted the wound with a cloth, then gently patted him for a moment, as if in apology for the torment. It was oddly comforting. "I think it ought to dry a little before I do anything else." Her voice sounded odd. When she took a breath, it was shaky. "I've never doctored a shot before." She took another breath. It seemed to steady her. "I thought you were dead when I came down. Blood all over your back.... I thought one of them had come down and backshot you. Why didn't you tell me about this before? What kind of crazy man are you? Who did this to you? Does my father know about this? I want some answers, Brin. Now." "Didn't nobody teach you 'bout... not callin' your elders by their given name?" "Pooh. Elder, my eye. What are you? Thirty? Don't change the subject." Bossy little thing. He shoved one arm out and levered himself over until he lay partially on his side, with his back to her. Just that little bit of movement took his breath away. He panted, "Don't want - you - to think I ain't - grateful. But - 's none o' your business." For a moment, the world was silent. Then she said sharply, "Fine." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the fire in hers. She rustled about behind him, gathering things together. She sprinkled a quick dusting of some kind of powder over his back and placed a pad over the wound. She wasn't particularly gentle, now. She thrust one slender hand beneath him and threaded a long strip of cloth around his body, twice. She tied it off. She yanked his undershirt and shirt down over his back and tossed the blanket up over his back. She spread another blanket over him. She thumped his canteen down in front of his face. "That's full," she said. She placed the Russian beside it gingerly. "So's that." She got to her feet, dusted off her skirt, picked up a small canvas bag, and said, "That's the best I can do. I'll fetch a doctor. You can tell him your troubles." She walked away. Somehow, he pushed himself up onto one elbow. "Girl." She stopped and looked back. "You tell anybody - 'bout me now - I'm dead. I mean it." She turned her back on him and ducked into the scrub oak. As long as he was propped up, he uncorked the canteen and took a long drink of water. It almost came back up. He fell back on the soogan and, shivering, dragged the Russian under the blankets with him. The last thing he saw was a gray squirrel scampering past over fallen leaves. * * * * * * * * * A fire crackled behind him. That seemed all right until he remembered he hadn't been able to gather the strength to build the fire. He rolled over slowly, cautiously, his mind too fouled and befogged to remind him to put his hand on the Russian. His back hurt when he lay on it, but it didn't seem to matter. He knew it ought to, but it didn't seem to. He turned his head. He could just make out the girl's shadowy form. It was black night and she was back from the fire, down at the end of his log. She had fallen asleep sitting up, with a blanket wrapped around her. Her head was propped on her fist, her hair, catching gleams from the fire, tumbled over her shoulder. * * * * * * * * * She was there in the morning, too. She didn't say a word, just fetched him a cup of strong coffee when he woke. She met his questioning gaze with a straight, tight-lipped glare. There was frost on the ground, too. "What day is it?" he asked, when the coffee had seeped warmth into him. The look she gave him was curious. "November third." "One day, then," he muttered. "You shouldn't be here, child. It's dangerous for you to be here." She sat back on her heels. "You called me that again, Brin. I told you about that." She lay her palm against his forehead. "I don't think you're going to die, but you're still hotter than fire." He couldn't argue. He couldn't even stay awake. * * * * * * * * * With his first thought, he knew she was gone. With his second, he wished she wasn't. It was mid morning. The ducks were conversing in the reeds near the edge of the pond. The squirrel was checking for missed acorns, above the camp. A note was propped up against his canteen, weighted with the Russian, in handwriting swift and spiky. Your fever broke. Your wound looks well. Rest should do you now. Can't make any more excuses to be from home or they'll wonder. I baked bread. Good luck. It is November 4. She hadn't signed it. It looked as if one corner had been dunked in coffee. The date was exciting. He sat up. He felt like overcooked greens but, for the first time in 2 days, he wasn't dizzy. The bread was in oil cloth, lying between him and the fire on a folded blanket. He broke in to the flat, crusty loaf and ate slowly, washing it down with fresh water from the canteen. It stayed down. He began to smell and hear again, and notice sounds beyond the contented muttering of the ducks. He could hear the horse and mule cropping grass, though they were out of sight. He sighed on general principles. Dotty Things He policed his camp and his person with what seemed like incredible slowness. There wasn't much to do and it took a long time to do it. When it was done, he lay down and slept again, with the Russian in his hand and the carbine along his leg. Habit. * * * * * * * * * He had just finished eating the last of the bread and some side meat, and drinking coffee laced with tinned milk, when they came down the trail. He listened for a few moments. Two, coming on foot, trying to be stealthy. He waited until they'd nearly reached the cup's level floor, then got to his feet and silently faded back - something at which he was quite good - behind the oak, toward the ducks. The Russian was in his hand. He waited. It took them a while to work through the scrub oak, so they were a long time in coming into the open, pistols in hand. One - a chunky, baby-faced blond cowhand - carried a beat up Colt Dragoon and wore scarred batwing chaps. The other was a thin, dark wiry man in a Mexican sombrero, with a brass-studded belt and holster on his hip. There was no charm about either of them, but the man with the hat particularly brought the word lizard to Dolan's mind. They were not good at this. They looked around the camp from a cautious distance. The babyface said, in a loud whisper, "He ain't here." "He is here," Hat returned scornfully. "He is coiled like a rattlesnake, waiting for you or me to step on him." The younger man cocked an eyebrow at him. "Well, it don't look like he's hurt, just like Cassie said. Least he ain't now. I'll say that, as I would not like to think Cassie had lied to me." Hat grunted. "A woman - she does what she is best at. Keep your voice down, amigo. You would like him, maybe, to know where we are?" It was almost funny. They stood in plain sight, their guns hanging at the end of limp arms, men with no idea of how to look for trouble. Dolan stepped out from behind the oak. "He already knows where you are." They froze - a commendable action. The younger man looked at him curiously and said, "Damn. You are Brin Dolan." He was a little surprised that the girl had told them. She'd left in a fury, but he hadn't thought her so spiteful. Something in his middle withered. He said, "Yes. Don't do that." Hat froze in the middle of raising his pistol. The young cowhand said, "Hat, keep your shirt on. I reckon Mr. Dolan knows why we come. It might be he'd wanta do this thing peaceable. Quiet like. Mr. Dolan, I reckon you know what our interest in you is." "I do." "You oughta know there's a man with a rifle, up top." The oaks still had an abundance of colored foliage that screened nearly the entire floor of the valley. The largest of them was directly at his back. The best a rifleman could hope for would be a lucky shot. Mentally, he shook his head. These were just babes. "I'm awful scared," he said dryly. "Before you do anything stupid, you oughta know there are papers in my saddlebag that rescind the reward offer." Hat's little eyes seemed to draw closer together. "What is this 'ruh-sinned'? "Rescindir," Dolan translated obligingly. "What you are saying? That the bounty is no good?" "Sí. Es verdad." Hat snorted. "That is a good joke." The younger man was watching closely. Some brains, there, behind the inexperience and baby face, Dolan thought. He said, "It's no joke. Take it to heart. You're lookin' for trouble and you're gonna find it. If there's gunplay here, and by some unusual and unlikely way it happens that you're alive afterwards, you'll find those papers say what I've told you and it was all for nothin'. ¿Saben?" He turned his face, though not his eyes, toward the younger man. "You'd be Tiger Boyd." "Yep." Boyd looked amazed. "John Freeman told me about you. He thinks a mighty lot of you. I don't think he'd like you dead. Least of all by my hand." He gentled his tone. "You want to think this through again, son?" Hat shifted slightly to one side. "Let us see them papers, Mister. Maybe it is not necessary to be disturbed about this." Dolan hesitated a moment, a warning finger tickling the back of his neck, then he murmured, "Alright." He turned his body slightly and the set-up fell apart. Hat's gun hand slithered up, full. Boyd shouted, "Dolan - watch it!" and threw himself back out of the line of fire. From up on the lip of the cup, there came a shriek the like of which Dolan had never heard before, with the sound of a rifle going off, as he dropped to one side, wide-legged, and squeezed off two shots. His first shot was a hair high. The second caught the man called Hat in the right shoulder. He spun away, his big hat flying over his back, but came back up, his shots coming fast, high, and wild. Then, without anyone having to do one other thing, he obligingly fell on his face and lay still. Above, on the rim, there were sounds of brush breaking, a yell, then Dolan distinctly heard John Freeman's daughter using language that was less than ladylike. A split second later - a body came rolling, arms, legs, and rifle flying, down the steep, brush covered side of the cup, to land with a thud and a groan against the trunk of a young oak. At last... silence. Hat lay, unmoving, at the edge of the open ground, near the trail opening in the scrub oak. The mysterious falling body was still. Dolan put out his free hand and caught at the oak's trunk. He felt more than anything like sitting down, but didn't dare. His ears told him someone was coming down the trail, double time, light footsteps. He could guess who those belonged to. He swayed slightly while he watched Boyd leave his big pistol on the ground and crawl the few feet that separated him from the other Crown rider. Boyd turned Hat over. After a brief examination, he pulled a bandana from his pocket and stuffed it inside Hat's shirt. He looked up. "Don't reckon it's mortal. Hurt plenty, I 'spect." Dolan nodded. He hadn't been after mortal. Before he could say a word of agreement, the man at the bottom of the tree began to moan. He heard the girl coming through the scrub and, suddenly needing to know, he asked, "Boyd, who told you it was me down here?" The cowhand had stood and was moving, hands kept carefully in sight, toward the gentleman who had joined them from above. "Nobody told me. It's yer hoss. I knowed when I seen it and that mule that there was somethin' about 'em. Took me three or four days to recollect where I'd heard about a man who rode a speckled Palouse and packed a mule, and who he was. When I did," he added gruffly, "I shoulda kept my mouth shut. Got greedy. That true, what you said about there bein' no reward?" "Is this November fourth?" "I reckon. Ain't seen a calendar in awhile." "Then, yes. As of midnight last night." He felt a sudden lightening inside himself. "Who's your friend?" "Kyle Freeman. Big John's son." "Oughta be spanked." Boyd grinned sheepishly. The girl came out of the scrub oak like an angry bee. She paused to cast a long look toward Dolan, then headed toward Tiger Boyd and her brother. Boyd knelt beside Kyle Freeman, who was rubbing his back and muttering. The girl attacked from the rear with a furious noise in her throat, laying a fist across Boyd's broad back. When he turned in amazement to see what demon had pounced upon him, she swung a roundhouse left and punched him in the arm. The cowboy yelped. "What the dickens do you think you're doin'?" She avoided his grasping hand and took a swipe at her dazed brother. "In all my life, I've never been so ashamed to have to admit that I knew somebody. I can't believe my own eyes! I thought you were decent men - not a bunch of back-shooting, sneaky thugs!" She turned her back to them and marched toward the man called Hat. She stood over him, then grudgingly bent down and lifted his shirt and Boyd's bandana. He moved slightly and his eyes opened. The girl said, "You'd better lie still, buster, or I'll shoot you myself." She replaced the pad over the wound, then straightened. For just one moment, Dolan thought she might be going to kick that man. Instead, she swung aside, her gray skirt swirling around her. Rather slowly, she came toward him. Something in her expression reminded him of his mule. He was sweating. He slid his spine to rest against the oak's trunk. The Russian was still in his hand. Sharp scented smoke still hung around him. The girl came near and stopped, looking up at him with her very blue eyes. The freckles that trooped across her little nose invited his closer attention. She said, in her strange, hoarse voice, "If you didn't look like a rabbit could slap you silly with one leg, right now, I'd do it myself! You could have saved us all a lot of misery if you'd just told me what was going on. You liar, you!" He said quietly, "I never lied to you." "You told me you had no secrets!" "That was a joke, not a lie. Ain't a man in the world don't have secrets." "A - joke!" She stared at him. He thought her cheeks colored a touch. "Well, why didn't you tell me about the amnesty?" "I told you I couldn't tell you. I'd gave my word. I'd promised not to let anyone know till midnight last night. The deal was off if I did. And, I'd gave my word." "Given. You'd given your word! And fat lot your word meant! You broke it to tell my father. That didn't seem to bother you any!" He gave her a quizzical look. "How'd you know about the pardon, anyway?" "My father told me. Though I had to drag it out of him!" "He didn't tell you everything. I didn't tell your fath-" "He told me about-" "I didn't tell your father," he persisted. "I didn't have to. He was part of it. He was there. He helped persuade the governor." She stared at him, her mouth slightly open and her blue eyes wide. Then she closed those eyes and said, "He made a trip to Denver alone, awhile back." "Yes." "He helped - arrange everything?" He nodded. It forced her to open her eyes to see his response. "Who shot you?" He sighed and rested his head back against the trunk. Tiger Boyd and Kyle Freeman were hauling Hat to his feet, readying themselves for assisting the wounded man up out of the valley. He caught an unloving look from the man he had shot and returned it with bland unconcern. "Don't know," he said after a few moments. "It was night. There was a moon. John was in a hurry to get home. We rode late. Next I knew, I was lyin' on my back, lookin' up at the stars. Your father chased him but lost him. It was your father dug the slug out of me." She swallowed. "And had you come here? Where you'd be trapped by a single entrance, and where it's chill and damp? Why didn't he bring you to the house?" "Too many people, in the first place. I don't reckon he fancied havin' this happen in his parlor." With a wiggle of his finger, he indicated the scene just passed. "Second place, I liked it down here. Good grass, plenty water, and no man could sneak in without my hearin'. Third place, I think John didn't want me gettin' too near his little girl. Bad influence, I 'spect." Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Is that, also, a joke?" "Prob'ly." At the corner of his mouth, tiny lines quivered into life. He pointed at the log, where his rumpled bed still lay intersecting it. "You don't object, I'm gonna sit before I fall." His knees felt like they had ideas of their own. They just barely got him across the small space to the log. He sat on it, the Russian dangling from his hand like a broken limb. His ears were humming. He sat with his head bowed until the shakes went away. When he straightened, the men were disappearing into the scrub oak. The girl stood over there, her fists on her hips, a forbidding expression on her face, watching them. She remained that way long after they had gone out of sight and could be heard struggling up the trail. At last she came back across to him. "Not a whole brain between the three of them," she said softly. "For my brother and for Crown Ranch, I apologize." There was loathing in her eyes. "They're a disgrace." "When Hat threw down on me, Boyd warned me. He's likely not a bad man. Just easy led. Your brother, too, maybe. Didn't get much chance to judge him.... What'd you do to him up there? I thought a banshee'd showed up." "That was me squawking." She smiled faintly. "I was coming to see you - because of what my father had just told me about you and - to see if you needed anything. And, there was Kyle, hunkered down on the rim, there. When I tried to tell him there was no bounty, he wouldn't believe me. He said they were going to get the reward - twelve hundred split three ways." Her funny little voice did an interesting wobble. He looked at her sharply. "Well," she continued, slightly defensive, "he made me so angry! I tried to get the rifle away from him. We - scuffled a bit, then he shoved me - so I shoved him back - and he went over the edge. I didn't mean - I mean, he is my brother, and he could have broken his neck." "He didn't." Sighing, she rubbed her forehead, leaving a small dirty streak there. "You know, what I don't understand is why you would promise not to say anything about the amnesty." "It was part of the deal." "You said that. But why? Why that, and why until midnight last night, like some kind of peculiar - witching hour?" He leaned down carefully and placed the Russian on his blanket. "It's an election year." She looked puzzled. "It's?..." "Governor didn't think, if folks heard he'd extended a pardon to a man of my - dubious reputation - they'd vote for him. Might be right, too." "So - do I understand? - he allowed you to go on, with that bounty hanging over your head like an axe, for - how long? Weeks? So that, today, voters would go to the polls and obliviously vote for his re-election - never mind that somebody might have killed you for the money meanwhile?" Something odd was happening. She was blinking rapidly. Tiny drops clung to her lashes. He gave her a long look, though her glance slid away from his this time. He said softly, "That's about it. Pretty simple." "Pretty cruel," she corrected passionately. She put fidgeting fingers into her skirt pockets. She was, he thought, waiting for him to say something. When he didn't, she murmured, "I suppose all's well that ends well.... I'd take out a big ad in all the papers, if I were you. 'Brin Dolan announces that nobody is looking for him and nobody will pay any money for him, any time, any place, any more.' Or something. Like that." She looked at him again. A dimple appeared in her cheek. "I'd better go face Pa. And, you'd best come up to see him before you move on. He'll have a fit if you don't." He said nothing, though a number of words lay tangled up on the tip of his tongue. A quick, loud breath went in and out of her. "Goodbye," she said, and turned around. "Cassie." She stopped, turned back, her eyebrows arched in question. "I never thanked you for lookin' after me." She glanced away, then back to him. "That's all right. I couldn't just let you die." Something passed through the air between them. He couldn't see it, but he could feel it in his middle. It resurrected that thing that had almost withered earlier. He said, "I'm feelin' poorly, yet. Weak. Been thinkin'... I might need somebody to do for me for a while. Thought maybe you'd know of someone." She considered him for a long, quiet moment. She folded her arms firmly. "Might be a mite tough to find someone who'd want to be alone much with a man who's spent time in prison." To that, he did not know what to say. She was right. He wished she wasn't. "Did you do what they put you in prison for?" "Yes. With good cause." "Would you do it again?" He took a deep breath, slowly, and let it out, slowly. "I doubt it'll come up again." "And the Hole-In-The-Wall business?" "Like your father said: Poppycock." She gave a small shrug. "I suppose I could recommend you." She moved to him suddenly, placing a soft, light hand on his forehead. "You do look pale. The fever's down, though. How long do you suppose you'll need the services of this... person?" "Don't know yet." He was surprised. This was quite a bit easier than he'd expected. "Might be for the rest of my life." She went so still. For a moment he thought he'd made a mistake. He closed his eyes. Another mistake. This one seemed so much more important than all the others.... Then, her cool, slow, gentle fingers pushed his mussed hair back from his forehead. "I'll see," she said so softly that he opened his eyes to watch her lips, "what I can do." A little growl formed in his throat. He could not keep it from seeping out any more than he could keep his hand from lifting to curl along her cheek, his thumb tracing over the sweet scattering of freckles there. "I mean," he murmured through the growl, "to find out how these purty li'l dotty things feel under my mouth." She lowered her head. Shy, he'd have thought, had he not known damn well otherwise. She let out the breath she'd been holding and slid those very blue eyes up at him, demurely, from under thick lashes. "Then you should probably know you have your work cut out for you," her husky little voice murmured. "I have more. In other places." -The End- ********* Thanks for all your positive feedback on my previously posted stories. It tickles me when someone else "gets" what I write. Consctructive comments, high votes, and ridiculously generous ratings are always welcome. -OD