The Widow

Chapter 6

For two months, I do not move

My body knits itself back together

My mind breaks apart

My soul whispers, "Revenge."

The town is quiet and still when Kip and I set out the next morning. Dawn presses at the edge of the world, and for the time being, the air is cool and damp. Desert fog clings to the empty street. Not even the cook at the hotel has started his fire to make breakfast. In moments, the sun will crest the horizon and scorch the desert dry once more. The town will waken and buzz with activity, like bees flurrying around their hive. For now, it's just me and Kip, who doffs his hat as we exit the town, revealing a shiny bald patch on the top of his head.

We head west into the pre-dawn darkness. The journey promises to be slow on account of Horse's legs still being raw.

Kip assures me he is fine with going slow, but this assurance seems more for him than me. He's hiding something and wants company on the trail - I'm sure of it. Whatever it is, it better not interfere with my plans of getting to Camden. I have no qualms with cutting Kip loose and continuing on my own.

He is annoyingly chipper as we set off, whistling tunelessly and munching on stale bread. I briefly consider introducing the back of his head to the butt of my shotgun and leaving him by the side of the road while we are still close enough to town that someone might find him, but I'm not exactly sure of the location of this town where the tournament is held, and I would rather not waste time wandering around looking for it. Instead, I tune him out and work on my plan for killing Camden.

First, there is the matter of weapons. All guns and knives are locked up prior to entering the tournament. The man who runs the show doesn't believe in quick draws to settle accusations of cheating at the tables. Instead, weapons are locked away in four large mahogany cabinets and men brawl in the street, sometimes to the death. This presents a problem mainly because, although I am supremely confident in my fighting prowess, I doubt I have the strength to actually kill a man with my bare hands. I finger the feather in my hair and recall the fight in which I won my freedom from the Comanche. By the end of that fight, I had managed to rip the feather from the hair of one of the strongest warriors in the tribe. I had fought nearly to exhaustion and it had taken me almost a week to recover.

No, I couldn't kill Camden in a fight, which means I will have to figure out a way to get my pistols out of the cabinet.

The advantage is that Camden will be weaponless for the duration of the tournament, as will his two remaining friends.

The next issue, and more pressing, frankly, is that of entering the tournament. Everyone who enters has to bring in either their wanted poster or a news clipping of their crime, or have someone vouch for them. This is an outlaw's tournament - kept secret under promise of death to anyone who breathed word of it to the law. Kip offered to vouch for me, but I am not sure that his word counts for anything with this group. Nor do I want to feel indebted to him. I think of the news clipping I keep folded in my back pocket. The thought of using it - claiming that I am responsible for my husband's murder - squeezes my stomach into knots, and I nearly vomit my breakfast all over Horse.

The other part of entering the tournament is the fifty dollar buy-in for chips, and ten dollar fee to the host. I am thirty-two dollars short of what I need and I'm not sure how I am going to secure those funds between here and the tournament.

The final issue, my mediocre poker skills, is the least of my worries. I can play long enough to legitimize entering the tournament and stick around to watch the remainder of it, until I spot the perfect moment to kill Camden.

The only part of my plan at risk between here and the tournament is McAdams getting to Camden before I do.

The thin hairs on the back of my neck tingle and I feel eyes on my shoulder. I look up at Kip, who is now singing a loud song about a buxom woman losing her undergarments whilst bathing in a river.

No help there.

Moving as slowly and casually as I can, I glance around. The sun is now fairly high in the sky behind us, burning our backs and necks. The turreted red rocks that rise from the earth around us provide very little cover for someone on horseback.

There is enough scrubby brush to provide cover for someone on foot. Lack of steed does not equate lack of danger, and something about the person tailing us has my nerves jangling.

I look around for a place for one of us to double back. Nothing for miles.

I suppose that the person following us has the same issue - nowhere to jump out and attack with the element of surprise.

My thoughts jump around, pouncing on the various possibilities. The Comanche eat, sleep, and live astride horses. I rule out that possibility almost immediately. Another tribe perhaps? I can't imagine a lone Indian wandering around, hoping to take on two white men single handed, and I'm pretty sure the person following us is alone.

Maybe someone from the town? McAdams had no reason to follow us and was presumably hot on Camden's trail. I can't think of any reason anyone else would have followed us.

Perhaps it is the person Kip is hoping to avoid. The longer I mull this possibility over, the more I'm sure that this is the most likely. I could knock Kip off his horse and beat an answer out of him, but that would give the person following us a perfect opportunity to attack, presuming that was his intention. Instead, I urge Horse forward until I'm abreast of Kip.

I rest my right hand on my holster.

"Kip," I say, interrupting his new song about snakes in men's pockets burrowing into holes betwixt women's twigs.

"Don't look around." He looks over at me, and thankfully doesn't whip his head around more than that. "We are being followed."

His face pales and the grin vanishes. "How do you know? You seen who it is?"

I shake my head. "There's only one. Pretty sure it's not an Indian. Who is it, Kip? Who are you running from?"

A smile returns to his face, but it's a nervous one. "Running? I ain't running from no one. What makes you say that?"

"I'm not an idiot, Kip. I know you're trying to avoid trouble, only I think it's found you, and if we are going to get rid of this tail, I'm going to need to know who we are up against."

He shakes his head. "My problem's got more than two legs. 'Fraid whoever's following us ain't what I'm running from."

I feel momentarily vindicated that I was right about Kip running from trouble.

Only if Kip's troubles are bigger than one person, then who's following us?