Chapter 6

Lou Greentree forced his horse on, traveling through the shadows of late afternoon. The posse was still hanging back there, persistently dogging his backtrail. They didn't appear to be in too much of a hurry to catch up either. As the bay's energy ran down, they didn't bother to shorten Lou's lead. They seemed satisfied to simply hound his trail, keeping him in sight and letting the heat of the desert and the exertion of this race do their job for them. His horse wasn't going to last too much longer.

Lou kept them traveling northeast out of town, keeping to the wide open flats running right up to the canyon laced hills surrounding Tehachapi. The posse was too close to venture into any of the canyons that opened to him. They'd box him in, sure as shootin. His not knowing the country made the posse's job a lot easier too. If his worn out mount lasted until dark, he might be able to slip unseen into one of the canyons, disappear in the night blackened rocks and brush. For now, Lou wanted any distance he could push out of the bay.

The posse was being pretty cautious. From all the shouting as the posse assembled, they had to know Lou was wanted for escaping his own hanging. They knew he'd stolen the horse, too. If they caught him, they would hang him for that alone, like as not. And they'd be right believing he was desperate enough to drop any one of them dumb enough to get in the way of his escape. He would not think for a minute before putting holes in their hides, not if they got between him and freedom. He hadn't often killed and he never liked doing it, but if it was to be his life or theirs, the choice was pretty clear.

A half hour out of town the posse was still back there, maybe a little bit farther than what they'd been, but still coming. What with the plateau bumping into the hills in another mile or so, unless he planned on circling back towards Tehachapi, he needed to find a new tactic. Even if he was that dumb, he wasn't going to be running before their horses much longer. The bay had turned out to be a really good horse. During their desperate ride the animal had willingly given its all. Lou didn't doubt it was going to run itself to death before it gave up. But the bay horse was faltering so badly, he felt it could die between his legs at any time.

A new canyon opened to his left. Out of desperation he urged his mount into its wide mouth. He had no idea where they were going, but staying in the open would only get him caught when this pace they were being forced to maintain killed his mount. Lou made up his mind. He would die here on the high desert before giving up. Neither prospect, dying from a gun shot or from rope around his neck, appealed to him. Of the two, he thought he'd just as soon go out on his feet, fighting. With luck the canyon might provide him the opportunity to avoid either.

Evening was hard on them. The canyon was sided by hills outlined in a pink and purple dusk. As he pushed the bay along the bank of a dry wash running the center of the canyon floor, Lou watched the sky deepen in color and the canyon walls grow more rugged. Just ahead, a spur canyon led off to his right. It was narrow, swallowed in shadow. To the left the main canyon twisted around on itself and disappeared. Lou bet on the relentless posse figuring him for taking to the shadows, and tugged the horse's head to the left. With night almost settled in for good, Lou used what light the sky still held to prod the bay on.

Beyond a crook in the canyon, an old slide covered in mesquite and sage provided Lou with his out. He hoped there was enough light left.

Lou's luck held again. The bay kept its footing on the slide and reached a ledge. From there Lou picked his way slowly. And then, they were on top of the ridge.

Lou urged his sorely tired mount to regain as much of their pace as possible. The horse's sweat was flying off its neck so thickly it had his shirt soaked and sticking to his body. The hide on the inside of his legs was long since rubbed raw by his pants, wet with horse sweat, working against the exhausted horse's back. Still he needed every mile he could get from his mount. It didn't have many left. Pressing the exhausted animal to its maximum, Lou followed the long sloping ridge, looking for something to save himself. Behind him a cloud of dust approached the bank he had so recently climbed. The damn posse just wouldn't give up.

Like a dying man he thought of what he might have done differently. Maybe, with a rifle he could have held the posse off long enough for night to close in. If he'd only taken the guard's rifle back when the stagecoach crashed. But it had been broken, badly. It would not have done him any good anyway. And if he'd settled for beans on the trail, Tehachapi's fine sheriff would be sitting, having whiskey in town instead of chasing down a two bit outlaw like Lou.

Lou twisted to look back over the horse's rump again. They were still there all right. They'd made the top of the ridge. Only about a mile separated them now. Still didn't seem to be in any hurry to catch him, either. Made for worry, too. After all, they knew the country a hell of a lot better than he did. One thing seemed certain in the outlaw's mind. That posse didn't act like they were going to stop until they caught him.

Suddenly his horse took a misstep, throwing the desperate outlaw and his mount off the side of the ridge. They fell in a tangle of limbs, horse and rider scrambled together. Fierce screams of fright came from the horse. Falling end over end down the side of the ridge, they tumbled towards the dry wash at its bottom. His luck had changed. Lou came to a stop in a clump of mesquite, cut and bruised, but otherwise unscathed from his fall. He was lucky, indeed. He jumped to his feet and frantically looked around himself. Where did that pistol land? He darted around, pushing aside brush, checking a clump of mesquite. Damn. He needed that gun. But he couldn't wait any longer. The gun could be anywhere along the path of his fall and the light was so poor it might be a mere ten feet from him. He'd have to take off without it. The lead he'd put on the posse was nearly gone. He could hear the hooves of their horses as they pounded up the ridge he'd just fallen from. In moments they would be on top of him. The stolen bay that had tried valiantly to carry Lou to safety lay a few feet away, its front leg twisted horribly beneath its body. Whinnies of pain filled the darkening air. Anyone with a pair of ears could find his location with that terrible din going on. Without the noise of his horse to lead the posse, they might, just might, ride right on past. Picking up a rock the size of a milk pail and raising it high, the outlaw drove it into the head of his mount, putting an end to its strident screams.

Lou spotted his canteen, quickly grabbed it up and, slipping into the brush edging the dry waterway, disappeared into the desert night. He crabbed his way back under the thickest brush he could find, and waited. As the adrenaline waned, a sharp pain materialized in Lou's chest. Perhaps he was not as unscathed as he at first thought. The pain got sharper. It's knife like edge jabbed at him. He felt as if a rock or a hoof had smacked him in the chest. Well, if he'd cracked a rib the posse was going to have an easy capture.

Hunkered down in the brush of this lonesome canyon, Lou wished he could find some thought to lighten these circumstances. Cold air settling into the bottom of the canyon raised goose bumps along his spine. No coat, no gun, pain eating at him. This time, with little chance of escape itself, he was unable to find anything funny. That unsettled him almost as much as the posse surrounding him. He'd always been sure when his time came he would find a joke to crack.

Full dark was no more than a half hour away. Between the cover of brush and the shadows of the rocks, he was almost completely hidden. Lou rubbed his arms briskly to work up some warmth and immediately wished he hadn't. Not only did his chest protest, but his shoulder came alive with its own pain.

In the cold, dim desert evening Lou listened for the sounds of the posse clattering down the canyon wall, or picking its way along the dry wash. Maybe they were making camp, waiting for day break. Maybe they hadn't heard the bay's screams. Maybe hurt and without a gun Lou still had a chance. Maybe.

As soon as he'd finished taking Mary the next morning, Patrick pulled up his pants and slipped his right arm through the shoulder strap of his coveralls. Mary lie where he left her, closing her eyes against the moistness gathering in them and willing the contents of her stomach to stay where they belonged. Her hips hurt from the bruising impact of Patrick's rutting. The throbbing pain between her thighs, a pain delivered so uncaringly by the man she now must call husband, served as an unremitting reminder of her folly. She had fallen into an exhausted sleep the night before only to be wakened twice by Patrick's dirty, hairy knuckled hands roughly shoving her legs apart. Would he ever tire of forcing himself on her, she wondered.

Mary finally opened her eyes. She thought to pull herself up out of the dust, until she moved. A lance of pain shot through her insides. Yet, she could not, would not, lie on the ground with her skirts pulled up to her waist, waiting for Patrick to take her again. Gathering her will against the agony of moving, Mary rolled to her side, then rose to her knees. Patrick sat propped against the side of the wash.

"We'll be needin' a fire. That's one 'a yer jobs too. Ya need ta be gathering sticks if yer figurin' on havin' eats this morning. Lucky fer us, I weren't sure the stage 'ud get there yesterday so I brung along some beans."

Mary felt no more surprise at Patrick's callous laziness than at the look of self satisfaction shining on his face. Her stomach turned again. The man was incredible. The mention of food, however, did pull Mary's attention away from her matrimonial misfortunes. She hadn't eaten a thing since leaving Baker's Field yesterday morning. Whether or not she could keep food in her stomach once it got there remained to be seen. She pushed herself to her feet and looked around the wash bottom.

"I don't see any wood, Mr. Burgstone," she stated flatly.

"Climb the wash, fer Christ's sake. There's plenty a bits of wood layin' under that mesquite brush. Hell, don't ya know nothin, woman?"

Mary turned to face her husband and planted her hands on her hips. If that isn't the pot calling the kettle black, she fumed. "I can gather the wood, but I don't know how to build a fire," she challenged.

A startled and disbelieving expression washed across Patrick's face. "Ya don't know how ta build a fire?"

"I said I didn't, didn't I?"

"Well I never. Why in hell wouldn't ya know how ta build a fire?"

"Why should I? I never had reason to know how." Mary could hear the exasperation building in her own voice. Adding to her annoyance, she felt Patrick's spilled seed slipping down the insides of her thighs.

"Then what in hell did ya do ta keep yourselves warm, if ya didn't build a fire? How'd ya cook yer food?"

"My Heavens, man. There was a coal oil furnace in the basement of the orphanage. Jenkins kept it full. Cities have things like that, didn't you know? And, I've never cooked in my life. Momma had a cook. And Mrs. Dempson did meals at the orphanage. I took my turn scrubbing pots, but I never so much as peeled potatoes."

"Coal oil furnace. God damn."

Mary grudgingly admitted to Patrick's first show of any positive trait at all. Once they'd discussed it and he found out that she had no idea of how to even begin to build a fire, he calmed down. At least he slowed enough to stop his ranting and raving and show her how to do it. It didn't look too hard. Despite her body's sore insides she managed to find enough dry shoots and branches from the surrounding scrub to build a small cooking fire. Mary decided she rather liked this part of her new life. She made a right nice fire. Even Patrick said as much.

"This cookin' in jest a skillet is a bit harder ta do than what's up at my place. There's plenty 'a pots and pans there."

He didn't call it a ranch, just 'his place'. In the short time she'd known this husband of hers, she'd found she shouldn't trust his vagueness. His advertisement had been less than honest in describing himself. She shuddered to think what the goat ranch might turn out to be.

They'd headed out of the open country and up a canyon about midmorning. They traveled a wash bottom whose walls towered above her head. Ground and rock alike threw the heat of the sun at her, creating the impression of being roasted in an oven. Added to that, the closeness of the huge rock buttes on both sides took her breath away. The combination made for hotter, less comfortable travel than on the open desert the day before. Mary estimated they had traveled four or five miles up that canyon by the time she caught sight of a shack perched precariously on the canyon's west wall. As they closed the distance between, she could see the structure was so dilapidated it might fall apart without provocation. Her stomach warned her. Patrick hadn't said anything yet, but she knew. This was 'his place'. This was Mr. Patrick Burgstone's goat ranch.

Seeing the shack was a terrible blow. Mary choked back the urge forcing itself from her belly to her throat. She held her shoulders up instead. She blinked back tears. As drained and disheartened as she had ever been in her seventeen years, she'd not allowed anything to whip her yet. But, oh how close she felt. A warm bath and an uninterrupted nights sleep drew her forward. "I've never in my life been so tired."

Mary had not intended to speak out loud. As quietly as she voiced her desire, Patrick managed to pick it up. "Don't plan on fallin' asleep afore ya take care a me." His voice was low.

Mary was quite certain he was capable of fulfilling the threat in his voice were she to beg him to leave her alone. For the hundredth time she wondered how much better off she would be had she remained at the orphanage. She shrugged her shoulders. Perhaps no better, nor worse. It really didn't matter. "How far have we come? From Tehachapi I mean." She managed a more energetic tone than she felt. She couldn't bring herself to confirm her guess regarding the shack ahead of them.

"No more 'n twenty five miles. Just a good walk," Patrick said over his shoulder. "I go there every few weeks ta sell milk. You'll get so's ya can make it without no trouble a t'all. Just gotta get used ta walkin' is all."

"I doubt I'll ever get used to walking in all this sand and rock and heat. Not ever." Mary felt as if she might be about to crumble and fall.

Patrick went on with his talking as if she'd never even mentioned how difficult traveling by foot was for her. "It's a good thing ya come on that stage. If ya had changed yer mind, I'd 'a had ta got the money I spent out 'a that little jasper's hide that runs the paper. After all, I spent good money on that there advertisement.

"Why in Heaven's name would you have felt it was his fault if I hadn't come?"

"Were his paper I put the advertisement in."

"The Los Angeles Herald?" Mary continued talking to Patrick's back. She'd long since found the good sense to walk aside the mule, rather than behind.

"Huh? I don't know. What's that?"

"Just about the biggest newspaper in the whole world. That's all."

"Shit anyway. Is that all? I thought you was talking 'bout somethin' important. I doubt that man owns much 'a nothin' though. Too nervous, ya ask me." As if emphasizing his opinion, Patrick spat a wad of phlegm into the dust at his feet.

Mary was too exhausted to even attempt to explain how important owning the Los Angeles Herald would make a person. To do so would take more energy than she was willing to expend. Already she understood there were some things better left unsaid.

The brush was the same here as on the open desert plateau, the same endless mesquite and chaparral, except there seemed to be less of it. They had nearly reached the shack on the canyon wall. Still, Mary saw no sign of the goats Patrick supposedly 'ranched'. Perhaps she had guessed incorrectly after all. Surely he would keep the goats relatively close to home. She turned that idea over in her mind a few times and suddenly realized they had reached an empty, but obviously not deserted, pole corral. From there, a trail in the hillside led to the hovel above. Her chest sank as her shoulders sagged. She'd been right to question Patrick's honesty. This was 'his place', his goat ranch.