Forty-two

Houston squeezed the trigger but nothing happened.

No more cartridges, and no time to reload. No time to draw his Colt. No time to think.

In the instant before Digger plunged the knife into him, Houston mustered every ounce of strength left into his numb arms. He swung the rifle.

The Winchester caught Digger across the chest and spun him around.

The cattle bolted into a full-out stampede.

North. The route Lara had taken.

Needles of fear pierced him as though razor-sharp blades. The animals could easily overtake the slow-moving wagon. He thought again of the wagon he’d seen after being caught in a stampede, the broken bodies underneath.

But Houston didn’t have a moment even to pray, for he was left without cover. Injured and dying men lay sprawled on the ground, trampled by the frightened cattle. Spurts of gunfire from the trench and on top of the cliff let him know his drovers still fought.

A sudden eerie quiet filled his head. The moment he’d waited for frozen.

Whatever the outcome, this was it.

Houston faced Digger Barnes, thankful he too was left afoot. “Looks like it’s time to show me what you have.”

“I got plenty for you, big-shot cowboy with your big Legend name. Unstrap your gun belt, put down the rifle, and fight me with your hands.”

With a snort, Houston stared at the wounded outlaw. Digger had to be as crazy as Yuma. The man was hampered by the gunshot, but on second thought, Houston could barely stand on his injured foot. They were evenly matched and he’d get greater satisfaction whipping the man with his bare hands, inflicting pain. Shooting him would be over too fast. That wasn’t the kind of justice Houston had prayed for.

“I can beat you on your best day, Digger Barnes.” Houston laid down his empty rifle and unfastened his gun belt.

A strange light filled Digger’s eyes. “You know me, I see.”

“If you think those cartridge belts scare me, I’m here to tell you they don’t. You’re just an evil man who stole something very precious from my wife.”

Digger cocked his head, his grin showing rotted teeth. “Ah, she told you. Did she say how much she liked it?”

“Lara only had one thing to say—you’re nothing but a girl. Said you’re smaller than her pinky finger.” Houston lowered his eyes to Digger’s crotch. “I see she was right. I’m going to rip you apart and spit on you when you die.” Houston held his hands wide, his gaze locked with the man’s cold, dead eyes. “Then, before we leave you for the buzzards to peck your eyes out, I’m going to bring her here so she can spit in your face as well. It’ll be the only drop of water you’ll find where you’re going.”

Growling deep in his throat, Digger released a string of curses followed by a lightning-quick jab. The fist caught Houston’s jaw, spinning him around, twisting his foot. Sharp pain shot through him. Shaking his head to clear it, he braced his feet and delivered punishing blows to Digger’s midsection in return.

The series of punches knocked the wind from the outlaw. As he fought for breath, Houston brought his hand hard across Digger’s face. The open-handed slap sounded like a rifle shot. It did no damage, but emasculating him inflicted a far deeper injury. One Houston found especially gratifying.

An angry bull blinded by rage, the outlaw lowered his head and rammed into Houston.

Sidestepping, Houston grabbed his foe around the neck. With a lift of his knee, he crushed Digger’s face. Bone met bone. Blood squirted from the outlaw’s broken nose and mouth. His jaw was probably broken as well, if Houston was to hazard a guess.

Digger bent over, screaming and gripping his face. Catching the man with an elbow to the ribs might’ve finished him off, but Houston wanted to make sure. Standing over Digger, he brought his elbow down again onto his spine. The outlaw fell to the dirt.

Houston scrambled for his Winchester, reaching for the cartridges. He’d managed to insert only one before a grunt alerted him. He swung around as Digger lunged for his gun belt, pulling Houston’s Colt.

In a split second, Houston stared down the barrel as the outlaw fumbled to find the trigger.

One second, one twitch, and his life would be over.

He had only one bullet. He prayed that’d be enough. Jerking the lever down to ratchet a cartridge into the chamber of the Winchester, he fired.

Through the smoke, he watched Digger Barnes plunge backward. The hole in the man’s chest told Houston that Digger was dead. He leaned down to keep a promise. He drew up the biggest wad of spit he could muster. The aim was perfect—right between the eyes.

Buckling his gun belt, he quickly assessed the battlefield. Sam was in the midst of reloading, with one of the enemy running toward him. Houston quickly squeezed off a shot, stopping the man before he reached his target.

Another shot wounded one more. The outlaw scrambled behind the Vincents’ wagon.

Everywhere Houston looked, men were locked in deadly combat. Hopelessness wound through him. The outlaws appeared to be winning.

How many of his men would lie dead on this godforsaken land?

A bullet slammed high into his chest just below his collarbone. Houston’s rifle fell to the ground as fire swept through him, taking his breath. If he could somehow make it to the wagon, he might have a chance of saving himself.

Except that’s where the outlaw had run.

Drawing his Colt and breathing hard, Houston limped over to the wagon and carefully inched around, searching for the enemy who’d taken cover in its shadow.

Fighting nauseating pain, he peeked for a quick look. The man fired. Houston dropped to the dirt and crawled underneath the wagon bed. The outlaw’s gaze met his a split second before Houston fired. The man sprawled backward. Scooting back out from under the wagon, Houston removed his bandana and held it to his wound to stanch the flow of blood.

Something rustled and Houston startled. He glanced up, trying to raise his weapon, but didn’t make it. Relief flooded him at the sight of Luke.

“How bad?” Luke moved closer as a bullet barely missed him, splintering the wood by his shoulder.

“Enough.” The word came from between Houston’s tightly clenched teeth. “I don’t know if we’re going to make it. Maybe the Legends are done for here.” The sound of Houston’s labored breathing filled the space. “Maybe this is it.” Maybe he wouldn’t see Lara again.

“If so, we’ll go down together, brother.” Luke squatted, lifting the bloody bandana for a better look. “Just a scratch.” A grin showed his white teeth. “Not worth a doctor’s time.”

Houston appreciated the lighthearted attempt to ease the tension, but he knew the truth.

Still, he was far from giving up. Wasn’t in his blood. He’d often kidded that he’d been raised with wolves. It had felt that way when he was growing up. Stoker made sure his boys had the toughness and will to push past the pain.

He gripped his Colt tighter. “Do or die, Luke. Let’s give ’em hell and let the buzzards feast on their carcasses.”

“Damn right.” Luke got to his feet with his rifle blazing.

Struggling to stand on his wobbly legs, Houston took aim with his Colt and fired at an attacker. He missed, adjusted his aim, and tried again, this time hitting the mark. The bullet only wounded, but he considered even that a victory.

Zigzagging, Sam ran toward the wagon. A galloping rider raised his arm to shoot. His brother wasn’t going to make it. Houston clenched his jaw tight, focused on the moving target, and squeezed the trigger. He sent a bullet into the man’s gun hand. The weapon flew up in the air and hit the ground, and blood spread across the rider’s shirtsleeve.

Sam raced behind the wagon. “Thanks, brother. Thought he had me.” His gaze went to Luke at the other end. “Looks like we’re all together. Time to do our best fighting.”

“Yep. Do or die, Sam. Do or die.”

They fought until each was down to his last cartridge. Still the riders came. Houston kissed his last bullet and inserted it into the chamber with shaking fingers.

One bullet between him and the inevitable.

Despair swept through him as sweat blinded his vision. He pictured Lara as she’d lain on the bank of the Canadian, bathed in silvery moonlight, passion in her eyes, her auburn hair spread in disarray on the wild grass.

“I love you, Lara. I will to the last breath,” he murmured with a thick voice.

Sam and Luke were quiet as they inserted their last bullets.

“See you on the other side,” Houston told them.

“Yeah.” Luke cleared his throat. “I’m glad I found my family. I always thought I’d die in a gunfight at twenty paces.”

“I’m not ready to quit. I promised Sierra I’d come home to her.” Sam released a string of cusswords. “I’ll fight the bastards with my bare hands like Crockett and Travis did in the Alamo. I’m not licked yet.”

Houston leaned against the wagon, glancing down at his bloody chest. He could barely remember the color of his shirt. His black vest appeared a strange shade of red.

Bodies, animals, and weapons lay everywhere. Other than four drovers that he distinguished by the chaps, he didn’t see anyone else moving. They must’ve all died. Grief for his loyal men washed over him. If he hadn’t talked them into staying, they’d all be safe now, and far away from here.

Sudden war whoops split the air. He leaned to where he could see and spotted a dust cloud from galloping riders rising in the east. Surprise and disbelief swept through him.

Indians.

They weren’t close enough for him to make out the nation, but those among the new riders with guns were firing at the outlaws, not the drovers. The others shot arrows toward the fleeing attackers, dropping them into the dust.

“What in the hell is going on?” Sam asked.

“I don’t know, but they’re a welcome sight.” Houston grinned, draping an arm around his brothers. “We’re still alive.”

Luke grunted. “Unless they turn on us.”

One tall, proud man wearing a striking bonnet of eagle feathers rode to them, offering the sign of peace.

Since Sam was more versed in their customs, he stepped toward them with his hand outstretched in friendship. He spoke to them in what appeared to be Cherokee, best as Houston could tell.

Judging by the headgear, the Indian must be a highly esteemed man. He answered back in terse words.

Sam looked back at his brothers. “They’re Cherokee. The outlaws raided their camp a few days ago, killing and burning. They tracked the bastards here.”

“I ran across the burned-out village and buried the dead. Tell the chief I’m sorry and thank him for the help.” Houston sagged. The Cherokees had saved their hides. Only what good was it for him to survive if Lara was dead? He extended his arm to the rider, as did Luke, then glanced around. “Where’s Yuma?” Houston hollered. “Has anyone seen him?”

“Nope,” answered one of the drovers.

A man rose from the pile of bodies. Blood covered one side of his face. “Boss, he lit out a few minutes ago. I couldn’t stop him.”

Houston spun toward the north and spotted a dust cloud in the distance. It had to be Yuma. But the cloud indicated more than one rider.

Panic shook his numb body. He had to find Blackstone. A horse—where was a damn horse? He had to get to Lara and he had no time to waste.

A roan trotted up about ten paces away. He limped, staggering toward it.

Luke rushed to his side. “You’re in no shape to ride. Let me go.”

“She’s my wife.” Houston shrugged free and kept moving.

“Dammit, then at least let me help you.”

As Luke’s arm came around him, Houston welcomed the support. Reaching the mount, Luke helped him into the saddle. Then he grabbed the reins of another horse and swung aboard.

“I’ll stay here and see to the drovers,” Sam called.

Houston didn’t waste time answering. His spurs touched the roan’s flanks, and they flew toward the woman who held his heart and all his dreams.

Please don’t let me be too late.