Then he saw a slash of white ahead and knew he was looking at a streak of pure stone. This was their chance. A good tracker would know where they left the trail, but the rock crossed this trail and headed in a white streak up and down the hill. There’d be no way to judge which way they’d chosen. And because only an idiot would go down, closer to where those men searched, he figured their pursuers would go up without hesitation.
So he went down.
It wasn’t a smooth layer of stone, but it was wide enough that they weren’t being whipped by tree branches every step. The rock branched out, and Trace didn’t hesitate to follow, parallel again to the trail below, the direction they’d been heading before the men opened fire.
His sudden swerve tripped Deb.
He scrambled to hold her up, but she fell hard to her knees.
“I’m fine. Let’s go!” She was on her feet again, but he saw her knees bleeding, her dress torn, her jaw gritted against pain.
“No. Stop.” His eyes darted around, searching for some place to hide her.
At the very thought of those men after them, of them finding her, his heart hardened into rage, and he decided he was done running.
It was time to stop and fight.
Time to stop being the prey and become the hunter. He swung her up in his arms and ran on, but now he was looking for something. A cave, a tight boulder with a little space behind it. Even a dense copse of trees.
“I can run, Trace.”
“Hush, let me think.” Did he dare hide her? Leave her defenseless?
A loud shout and a roar of gunfire. Not that close, but not far enough, either. They’d found the game trail. And if he wanted to waylay them, he needed to get into position fast.
There it was, a jumble of trees that looked like they’d been washed there by flooding spring runoff until they’d dammed up against each other and stopped. Years and years’ worth of piled-up trees twice as high as his head, and just off this gashing white path of stone.
He ran for it, climbed right up, using the logs like stair steps. He never had to set a single boot on soil that’d leave a track.
He reached the top and looked down. A tiny gap behind the trees and the mountainside they’d skidded down. He hurried right down and set her on the ground.
“Trace.”
“Shh! I’m going to see if we’ve lost them. I’m quick in the woods, Deb. They’ll never see me.” That’s when he noticed her ever-present bag, slung over her head and under one arm. “Have you got your gun?”
She gave him a firm nod.
“Get your gun out and cock it now when they are out of hearing range.” He sure hoped they were still out of range.
“Then don’t make a sound.” He squeezed her hand and realized how much he trusted her to be careful and how much he hated to leave her. He turned and sprinted back toward the men, killing hate eating at his heart.
It was a feeling he knew for a sin.
A feeling he hoped to overcome . . . someday. But he sure hadn’t managed it today.
CHAPTER
21
He rushed along the white rocks, quiet, listening. It gave him grim satisfaction to know he was tracking them now. And they were running right for him.
Find the right spot. Pick off every mother’s son of these vipers before they knew they were under attack.
Get back to where he’d had a choice with these rocks to go up or down.
Lie in wait.
A bullet fired. One of the men shouted something ugly. Trace wasn’t sure what, but then the gunfire stopped.
Soon they came on, feet thudding like stampeding horses. He had time, just enough and not a moment too much.
He reached the spot where the white rock divided and stepped away from the rocks into the trees. His lungs pumped out rage and drew in pure fire. He was The Guardian again.
Hunkering down, he found a log in a good-enough spot and dropped to his knees. The trail was mostly covered by trees, but he could see enough. He could make out feet if they approached.
He rested his six-gun on the log and wished for his rifle. He was a dead shot at any distance with that. Good enough with the pistol, yet he could pick these men off faster and more surely with his rifle.
Breathing too loud. He didn’t fight it, deciding they were still far enough away and he needed to catch his breath the best he could. It’d help keep his hands steady. There’d be plenty of time to go dead silent later.
The voice of one crying in the wilderness.
That came to him as if blown on the wind.
He faltered in his righteous hate.
Shaking his head violently, he went back to his cold, deadly intent. These men were murderers. Trace wanted justice. He wanted to save lives. God was on Trace’s side.
The voice of one crying in the wilderness.
Footsteps finally sounded and told him all he needed to know. They’d reached the white rocks. They’d be visible in seconds.
A battle raged inside him as if his very soul were being torn in two directions. Fighting the quiet conscience, he leveled the gun. Those words echoed within.
“I don’t like this.” A slow drawl stopped the man’s feet. “We’re running blind.”
The voice dropped, the murmurs too quiet. A long moment beat as if it were Trace’s own heart as he wrestled with his conscience.
Was God telling him to let them go and leave the wagon train at risk? Leave the men who’d killed Ronnie’s parents running free?
The tread of hurrying feet faded away, heading back the way the men had come.
It sickened him. He could have shifted his position, gone after them, opened fire. The cowards would have run, and Trace could have picked them off one by one.
Even now he could hunt them.
