To Tame a Wolf. Susan Krinard

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      She wondered if he would accord his Esperanza such a privilege.

      Morning light cast long shadows in the canyon. The gain in elevation along the watercourse brought more pines interspersed with oaks. The forest closed in on either side of the path; red fox squirrels flashed bushy tails in warning. Clouds continued to gather in the southwest, thicker and darker than before.

      The first notched pinnacles appeared just as the horses rounded a sharp bend in the arroyo. Red columns, many joined in wall-like ramparts, others standing alone, towered above the trees. Some were shaped like strange animals or birds or gesturing men. Deep joints, like miniature slot canyons, ran between them.

      “We’ll see a lot more of those,” Kavanagh remarked, deftly guiding his stallion over a bulging mass of rocks. “This broken terrain was what made the Chiricahuas so good for the Apaches trying to escape the army. Wasn’t easy for men to pursue on horseback.” He glanced at the lowering sky. “Don’t worry. I’ll find him.”

      Kavanagh remained in the saddle for the next mile. Often he bent low over Diablo’s barrel, supple as a cat, to examine the ground. When the main trail branched, Kavanagh chose the fainter course. But soon the way became rough and uneven, pushing between ocher turrets and thick stands of pine.

      “We walk,” he finally said. Tally dismounted and took Muérdago’s lead. The air was rarer here than at Cold Creek, cooler and sharper. She saw traces of snow on the highest mountains. At noon they briefly stopped for Mrs. Bryson’s sandwiches, made of that morning’s fresh bread and leftover bacon. Kavanagh checked the horses’ hooves for stones, and then continued along the track. He sifted dust between his fingers and paused to contemplate the very rocks as if they spoke to him.

      “Your brother came this way,” he said in answer to Tally’s questioning look. “He moved slowly. One of his mules was lame.” He gazed at the steep slope ahead. It was almost impossible to pick out any sort of trail amid the rubble, low shrubs and pinnacles. “I’m going on alone, on foot. The horses can’t travel quick enough in this country. You’ll have to stay here and watch them.”

      “I agree, Mr. Kavanagh,” she said. “I’ll make camp.”

      He blinked, as if he’d still expected her to argue in the way of a “normal” female. And then he smiled. The expression transformed him—for an instant, no more, just long enough for Tally to glimpse that playful boy who’d splashed her in Castillo Creek.

      She smiled back at that boy like the thirteen-year-old girl from Prairie d’Or, the child who’d grown up with farm dirt between her toes and all the wild places as her sanctuaries. The girl who was so good at pretending.

      Before she could regret what her own smile revealed, Kavanagh thrust Diablo’s lead into her hand, sat on the nearest boulder and removed his boots and stockings. He sprang to his feet and sprinted lightly up the trail. Fast as he was, his bare feet didn’t dislodge as much as a pebble. He rounded a curve out of Tally’s sight.

      Tally led the horses to the shade of a cliff. The strong afternoon sunlight hid behind heavy cloud cover, and she thought she smelled rain. The horses were restless, sensing both the change of weather and her unease.

      She sat with her back to the cliff and closed her eyes, forcing her thoughts away from André. She wondered if Sim had learned his tracking from the Indians. She’d never heard of a white man running barefoot in the mountains. She’d never heard of anyone quite like Kavanagh.

      A light rain began to fall within the first hour. Soon it became a downpour, and Tally moved Muérdago and Diablo to the shelter of a stand of pines. She paced restless circles around the horses, water dripping from the brim of her hat. Dusk fell quickly. Kavanagh returned just as the storm came to an abrupt end.

      “I found André,” he said.

      TAL DIDN’T SWAY or swoon. Her gaze held Sim’s as she waited for the worst.

      “Dead?” she whispered.

      “Alive. Barely.” He took her arm and made her sit, though she flinched at the contact. He let her go as soon as he was sure she wouldn’t fall. “He’s only about a mile from here, but he was hidden in an arroyo. I didn’t see any sign of the mules.”

      “Did he speak?”

      Sim knew he couldn’t give her anything but the truth, at least about her brother’s condition. “There’s not too much blood or deep wounds that I could see, but he’s unconscious. Looks like he fell and hit his head. Could have been lying there a couple of days.”

      “Oh, God.”

      “He’s in one piece. Nothing got at him.”

      Tally scraped her palms across her face. “You left him alone.”

      He bristled, as if her accusation had the power to wound him. She couldn’t know that he’d tracked most of the way as a wolf, hiding his clothes in a crevice until he was ready to return. The rain had made his hunt much more difficult. Even in wolf form, he’d been lucky to find André at all.

      “I didn’t want to risk carrying him,” Sim said gruffly, “so I came for Diablo.” He sniffed the air. “It won’t rain anymore tonight. There’s a pool on the other side of that low ridge. Find some dry wood, if you can, and get a fire going.”

      Her dazed eyes looked through him. “André needs me.”

      “You can help him best when I bring him back.” He pulled a large empty can from one saddlebag and pressed it into her hands. “You can use this to heat some water.”

      She took the can and stood. “Go. I’ll have everything ready.”

      He untied Diablo and left at once. The stallion was sure-footed and willing to follow where Sim led. Full night had fallen by the time man and beast stood on the ledge overlooking the deep but narrow gorge where André lay.

      Sim scrambled down the rocky face to the bottom and crouched beside the fallen man. André hadn’t moved since Sim left; he still breathed, and his heartbeat was steady, but his sandy hair was caked with dirt and blood, and one of his arms was broken inside.

      The other hand grasped a torn fragment of paper, nearly disintegrated by the rain. Enough of it remained for Sim to recognize what he’d been searching for. Someone had been here with André—someone who’d taken the rest of the map and had made a clean getaway with the mules and gear.

      Sim’s first thought was that Caleb had done it, but Caleb was behind bars in Amarillo. That was why he’d sent Sim. All telltale tracks of the intruder and the mules had been washed away in the storm. André’s clothing was too saturated to hold any scent but his own. Not even a wolf had much hope of hunting down the thief.

      Sim crouched beside André and scooped the soggy scrap of paper out of the young man’s hand. If it weren’t for Tal, he would be off looking for the map no matter what his chances of finding it. But she was waiting, and he’d promised to find her brother.

      “I found you,” he said in disgust. “Not that you were worth the trouble. I’d as soon leave you here for the buzzards.”

      André didn’t answer. The rise and fall of his chest was the only outward sign that he was alive. There was some risk in moving him, but André’s СКАЧАТЬ