Christie And The Hellcat Part 1

Christie and the h.e.l.lcat.

Barbara Davies.

In memory of Gareth, without whose encouragement I would probably still be talking about writing a story "some day."

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT.

Christie and the h.e.l.lcat owes its genesis to Elmore Leonard's cla.s.sic Western short story, Three-Ten to Yuma. Leonard's deputy protagonist is a farmer by occupation and he carries out his prisoner-escorting duties alone. I wondered what would happen in similar circ.u.mstances if the deputy were a woman, an ex-outlaw at that, and a civilian were willing to help her . . .

"What made you give it up?" Prescott's voice was a croak.

"It?"

"The excitement, the money, the pretty women falling over themselves to share their favors with an outlaw."

"I got caught." Zee gave him a sardonic smile.

PART ONE.

The h.e.l.lcat Gets Her Gal.

Chapter 1.

Zee wiped the back of one gloved hand across her clammy forehead and resettled her hat. The mist was dampening everything it touched, but at least it was cool. They had left the sheltering pines of the mountains behind a while ago, and as the sun rose, so would the heat and the dust. Still, they should be in Contention before things got too bad.

Prescott slowed his horse to a trot, twisted in his saddle as much as his bound hands would allow, and looked back at her. His black eye was developing nicely, and the rope burns on his neck looked sore.

"My boys'll find you, you know." His voice carried on the still air.

"Yeah?"

"They'll figure out Hogan's a decoy and start looking for me elsewhere."

She shrugged. "Be too late then."

"Bisbee, Fairbank, Contention"

She sensed he was looking for a reaction to each town named and steeled herself not to give it.

"they'll stake them all out," he continued, "you can bet on it."

"Have to keep out of their way then, won't we?"

Prescott frowned at that and started to say something more.

She raised the sawed-off shotgun that had been resting across her saddle. "Keep moving."

He hesitated, and she gave the rope coiled round her saddle horn a pointed pat. His last escape attempt had ended painfully. She had roped him and dragged him from his saddle, almost throttling him in the process. With obvious reluctance, he kneed his gelding into a canter.

12.

For a good long while after that, all was quiet except for the thud of hooves, the occasional nicker of horses, the creak of saddle leather, and the distant, melancholy cooing of mourning doves. Zee relaxed yet kept her senses alert for anything out of place. Prescott would reward handsomely the men who freed him; they wouldn't give a d.a.m.n about killing a deputy.

She'd parted ways with Hogan just after midnight, hoping the gang hot on their trail would follow her boss and the spare horse instead of her and Prescott. She was hungry and tired now, and in need of a bath. Bluford Hayes should be able to take care of the food at least. Hogan had said the young man, whose house was close to the station depot, was the kind who'd be only too happy to help out a lawman in pursuit of his duties.

Lawman. She suppressed a grin. It was taking some getting used to, being on the right side of the law.

The trail brought them to a dried up riverbed, and the horses scrambled across it and up the other side in a noisy scatter of dust and pebbles.

Zee wiped the sweat from her upper lip. "Hold up," she called and waited until her prisoner pulled the gelding to a halt. She reached for her canteen, unstoppered it, and raised it to her lips. The water inside it was tepid, but it felt blessedly cool as it slid down her gullet.

"What about me?" croaked Prescott.

She took another careful swallow, poured some on her bandanna, retied it, and relished the coolness on the nape of her neck. Then she kneed her mare forward, bringing it alongside the gelding. Shotgun in one hand, canteen in the other, she leaned over. "Open wide."

He guzzled the water she trickled into his open mouth, losing only a little down the front of his striped silk shirt. After a couple of mouthfuls, she took the canteen back and moved out of range.

He looked round at her, water droplets sparkling in his beard.

"Thanks, h.e.l.lcat."

"Don't call me that," she said, as she'd said a dozen times already.

She stoppered the canteen then gestured with the shotgun. "Move."

They rode on in silence for a few more miles, the sun inching higher, the heat intensifying, until finally, through the shimmering haze, she saw the unmistakable outline of buildings in the distance.

She pulled out the pocket watch Molly had given her and flicked open the case. They had made good time.

13.

As they neared the outskirts of the little mining town, which, since the railroad's arrival, had expanded to both sides of the San Pedro River, Prescott turned to regard her once more, his gray eyes glittering.

"Contention," he said, with an air of satisfaction. "My boys'll be waiting outside the jail."

"Just as well we ain't going there, then." She gestured with the shotgun, and he turned the gelding toward the newer part of town.

As she rode along the rutted road, past houses made of clapboard, keeping the horses' speeds nice and easy so as not to attract attention, Zee pulled a slip of paper from her vest pocket and peered at Hogan's spidery scrawl.

Bluford Hayes.

Last house before the station depot.

White picket fence. Roses round the porch.

She snorted. In Arizona? But as they neared the rendezvous, she saw it was the literal truth. Still, if Hayes wanted to waste water on roses . . .

She urged Prescott past the cast-iron hitching post out fronttwo strange horses would only attract attentionand round to the enclosed back yard of the neat little house, where signs of a woman's presence were evident: hanging from a line were a pair of drawers, a petticoat (rainbow colored), and a b.u.t.ton-to-the-neck gingham dress.

"It's not too late, h.e.l.lcat," said Prescott, as they came to a halt beside a woodpile and Zee dismounted and tethered the horses in a shady spot by the fence. She unbound his hands from the saddle horn, but not from each other, and dragged him out of the saddle.

"You can still let me go . . . Oof!"

"I can," she agreed. "But I ain't gonna."

She shoved him up the back steps to the porch, jammed the shotgun in his side, and rapped her knuckles against the wooden door.

"But Yuma . . . you can't send me back there." His voice cracked a little. "You of all people"

"Yeah," she said. "Wearing a ball and chain ain't no picnic, that's for sure."

She raised her hand to knock again then heard sounds of movement from inside. About time.

The door opened.

Chapter 2.

Christie had been tidying away the bread-making things when she heard the knock at her back door. She tucked a wayward strand of hair behind one ear, shook the dust from her skirt hem, smoothed down her ap.r.o.n, and went to answer it.

When she saw the two figures waiting on her back doorstep, her first instinct was to slam and bolt the door, but she didn't.

The woman was very tall and shockingly, she was wearing men's clothes: a shabby black Stetson, check shirt, Levi's, boots, and a pair of well-worn guns at her hip. As for her companion, an overweight man who only came up to the woman's shoulder, one eye was swollen half shut and there were rope burns round his neck. Not only were his hands bound at the wrists, a shotgun was pressed against his ribs.

The woman tipped the broad brim of her hat. "Is this the Hayes place?"

Her eyes, Christie noticed, were a very pale bluevery striking against the deeply tanned face.

"Ma'am?"

She was staring, she realized. "I beg your pardon. Who wants to know?"

Belatedly she registered the metal star pinned to the tall woman's vest. A female sheriff? She had never heard of such a thing.

"I'm Deputy Brodie. And this," the woman dug her shotgun into the man's ribs, "is my prisoner, Ches Prescott."

"Oh." Christie gathered her wits. "Yes, this is the Hayes place. I'm Bluford's sister, Christie."

"Then could we get under cover, ma'am?" asked Brodie.

"Someone might see us standing out here."

Christie stepped back and gestured. "Won't you come in?"

15.

While Brodie and her prisoner stepped into the kitchenthe latter helped on his way by a sharp jab in the kidneys with the shotgun Christie noticed the two horses cropping her flowers. They had clearly come a long way; their flanks were covered with alkali dust and sweat.

She gave her doomed flowers a mournful glance, then closed the door and went to join her guests.

Deputy Brodie was pulling out two of the four kitchen chairs and, even as Christie watched, she put a hand on Prescott's shoulder and sat him down on oneunnecessarily hard, it seemed to Christie. She turned the other wooden chair round, straddled it, and rested the shotgun barrel on its back.

"I'm afraid my brother was called away on business," said Christie, taking one of the remaining chairs.

Brodie frowned. "That puts me in a bind. Sheriff Hogan told me I could rely on Mr. Hayes to help me out of a fix."

"He did?" Christie hesitated. What would Blue want her to do?

"Well, perhaps I can help."

"I'd be much obliged to you. We need to hole up here for a few hours. And for you to take care of the horses."