from the pain shooting up into her wrist and arm.
“Whoa!” the leader of the Vultures yelled, drawing back on the grulla’s reins.
He continued to press down harder on Erin’s hand as he stopped the horse in the trail. The others in the gang checked their mounts down, as well, as the dust wafted around Erin and Stanhope, stinging her eyes.
“Let me go!” she cried.
The man looked over his shoulder at her. His lips werepursed. His eyes were coldly smiling. He curled his lip slightly as he pressed down harder.
“No!” Erin said, using her other hand now to try to pry his big, powerful, merciless hand off of her right one.
Suddenly, he lifted his hand from hers. She had no time to register relief before his elbow came up and smacked her face so hard that it snapped her head back. She found herself flying off the side of the horse. The trail came up to smack her hard on her left shoulder and hip.
She groaned from the dull pain of the blow in her eye, cheek, and jaw, and from the sharper pain in her shoulder and hip and ribs from her violent meeting with the ground. She sort of lay on her side, her left leg bent up under her hip, that shoulder pressed against the ground. Her dress was in tatters, and her legs were bare. Stanhope had taken her underwear and her shoes last night, when he’d forced himself on her. He’d torn her dress down the front almost to her belly. The dirt of the wagon trail they were following burned her legs and her feet.
She sobbed from the pain and the burning and the utter fury and disappointment of not having been able to kill the man who’d killed her son so pointlessly. So offhandedly, as though he’d merely been swatting a pesky fly.
Stanhope gave a patient sigh as he swung down from the grulla’s back. He glanced around at the others, his gaze holding on the only Mexican in his gang. “Santos, you keepin’ careful watch on our back trail?”
“
Si, si, jefe.
No one back there. If I didn’t know better, I’d say we had all of Wyoming to ourselves.”
“No one’s gonna come after us after what we done to that posse up in Willow City,” said the black-clad Magpie Quint.
Doc Plowright nodded at Erin sobbing on the ground near a patch of Spanish bayonet. “What’s that all about? You figurin’ on turnin’ her over to us finally, Boss? About time. She’s a real lulu.”
“Not yet. You fellas rest your horses in that shade overyonder.” Stanhope glanced toward a small copse of box elders and cottonwoods offering thin shade about seventy yards off the trail’s south side. Then he turned toward a lone cottonwood another fifty yards to the north. “Me an’ the mercantile lady are gonna go over to that cottonwood and have us another go round.”
“No,” Erin said, feeling a shudder wrack her. She looked up at Stanhope. “Please…no. Just kill me.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t kill a looker like you,” Stanhope said. “Now, Miss Trixie Tate—I might kill her.”
Erin followed the gang leader’s hard, sneering gaze toward the blond whore riding behind Red Ryan. “She ain’t as good-lookin’ as you, and besides, when you’ve banged one whore you’ve banged ’em all.”
Trixie Tate, who was sporting one black eye, shrank back a little behind the big redhead with the red beard and soiled tan sombrero.
Former deputy sheriff of Willow City, Mark Finn, spoke up. “No point in killin’ Trixie, Clell. Hell, she takes the edge off all this hard ridin’.” The big, fleshy-faced, potbellied man grinned at the woman, who looked away from him in disgust. “At least, she did for me last night.”
“I don’t think she likes you, Mark,” Clell said. “And to tell you the truth, I don’t, either.”
Finn looked exasperated, hurt. “Huh? After how I helped you out in Willow Springs?”
“You’re a turncoat, Mark.” Clell raised the double-bore shotgun hanging from the lanyard around his neck. “I wouldn’t trust you as far as I could throw you and your fat
“Whoa!” the leader of the Vultures yelled, drawing back on the grulla’s reins.
He continued to press down harder on Erin’s hand as he stopped the horse in the trail. The others in the gang checked their mounts down, as well, as the dust wafted around Erin and Stanhope, stinging her eyes.
“Let me go!” she cried.
The man looked over his shoulder at her. His lips werepursed. His eyes were coldly smiling. He curled his lip slightly as he pressed down harder.
“No!” Erin said, using her other hand now to try to pry his big, powerful, merciless hand off of her right one.
Suddenly, he lifted his hand from hers. She had no time to register relief before his elbow came up and smacked her face so hard that it snapped her head back. She found herself flying off the side of the horse. The trail came up to smack her hard on her left shoulder and hip.
She groaned from the dull pain of the blow in her eye, cheek, and jaw, and from the sharper pain in her shoulder and hip and ribs from her violent meeting with the ground. She sort of lay on her side, her left leg bent up under her hip, that shoulder pressed against the ground. Her dress was in tatters, and her legs were bare. Stanhope had taken her underwear and her shoes last night, when he’d forced himself on her. He’d torn her dress down the front almost to her belly. The dirt of the wagon trail they were following burned her legs and her feet.
She sobbed from the pain and the burning and the utter fury and disappointment of not having been able to kill the man who’d killed her son so pointlessly. So offhandedly, as though he’d merely been swatting a pesky fly.
Stanhope gave a patient sigh as he swung down from the grulla’s back. He glanced around at the others, his gaze holding on the only Mexican in his gang. “Santos, you keepin’ careful watch on our back trail?”
“
Si, si, jefe.
No one back there. If I didn’t know better, I’d say we had all of Wyoming to ourselves.”
“No one’s gonna come after us after what we done to that posse up in Willow City,” said the black-clad Magpie Quint.
Doc Plowright nodded at Erin sobbing on the ground near a patch of Spanish bayonet. “What’s that all about? You figurin’ on turnin’ her over to us finally, Boss? About time. She’s a real lulu.”
“Not yet. You fellas rest your horses in that shade overyonder.” Stanhope glanced toward a small copse of box elders and cottonwoods offering thin shade about seventy yards off the trail’s south side. Then he turned toward a lone cottonwood another fifty yards to the north. “Me an’ the mercantile lady are gonna go over to that cottonwood and have us another go round.”
“No,” Erin said, feeling a shudder wrack her. She looked up at Stanhope. “Please…no. Just kill me.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t kill a looker like you,” Stanhope said. “Now, Miss Trixie Tate—I might kill her.”
Erin followed the gang leader’s hard, sneering gaze toward the blond whore riding behind Red Ryan. “She ain’t as good-lookin’ as you, and besides, when you’ve banged one whore you’ve banged ’em all.”
Trixie Tate, who was sporting one black eye, shrank back a little behind the big redhead with the red beard and soiled tan sombrero.
Former deputy sheriff of Willow City, Mark Finn, spoke up. “No point in killin’ Trixie, Clell. Hell, she takes the edge off all this hard ridin’.” The big, fleshy-faced, potbellied man grinned at the woman, who looked away from him in disgust. “At least, she did for me last night.”
“I don’t think she likes you, Mark,” Clell said. “And to tell you the truth, I don’t, either.”
Finn looked exasperated, hurt. “Huh? After how I helped you out in Willow Springs?”
“You’re a turncoat, Mark.” Clell raised the double-bore shotgun hanging from the lanyard around his neck. “I wouldn’t trust you as far as I could throw you and your fat
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