The Gunfighter and the Heiress - By Carol Finch Page 0,79
passed the corner by the gunsmith shop and headed for the restaurant, someone leaped from the shadows of the side alley to grab her. She didn’t have time to shout for help because a man’s grimy hand clamped over the lower half of her face. She bit down on a chubby finger and the man yelped in pain. Unfortunately, another hand—holding a smelly kerchief—replaced the first one. She didn’t have the chance to scream at the top of her lungs.
“Hold her down, damn it,” someone growled while she wormed, squirmed and kicked in vain to gain release.
Sickening dread flooded over her when she realized that three men had accosted her. They wore kerchiefs for masks, but their long scraggly hair stuck out from the rim of their hats and dangled around their disguised faces.
These were Marsh’s mysterious cohorts!
Natalie fought even harder for freedom, but she couldn’t lash out effectively with her feet and legs because of the confining gown. Worse, her assailants had come prepared. They jerked her arms behind her back and tied her wrists together so she couldn’t claw or take swings at them.
“Now get her legs,” one man ordered hurriedly.
She tried desperately to counter the attempt to bind her ankles, but she was encumbered by the dress and hopelessly outnumbered. To her fear and frustration, she found herself bound, gagged and tossed over one broad shoulder. Her captors carted her through the side alley to reach the four horses tethered behind the general store.
Her breath came out in a grunt when they dumped her on the ground, then rolled her up in a smelly tarp. One of the men carelessly tossed her over a horse, leaving her in a jackknifed position while he lashed her feet to the stirrups. Blood ran to her head, making her dizzy. She tried to rear up and throw herself backward but one of her abductors shoved the heel of his hand between her shoulder blades and mashed her chest against the horse’s ribs. Another man tied a noose around her neck and secured the rope to the saddle.
She cursed herself mightily for not paying attention to her surroundings. Crow would have lectured her sternly for letting her guard down, even though she was in town. Fool that she was, she had presumed she was safe.
Safe in Hell’s Fringe? What had she been thinking? Now she was practically hanging upside down, chewing on a foul-tasting handkerchief for supper and wondering if the three goons planned to hold her for ransom or for bargaining power to facilitate Marsh’s release.
Natalie muttered at the very idea of Marsh escaping those iron bars that suited him so perfectly.
Her thoughts trailed off when one of her captors chuckled triumphantly. “That was easy enough.”
“Wish I could be here to see the look on that half-breed bastard’s face when he finds out we kidnapped his wife,” the second captor sniggered.
Natalie snapped to attention—as best she could, considering she was draped over the horse like a feed sack. What did Crow have to do with these three? The thought exploded through her mind and sickening dread intensified. Surely these three men weren’t the Harper brothers that had sent threatening messages to Crow.
She didn’t know where she presumed the Harper Gang was hiding out, but certainly not in Taloga Springs, which was only one of several hellholes on the Texas frontier.
Good God, what rotten luck!
The third captor chuckled wickedly. “After we leave Crow another message and he walks into our trap to rescue his wife, he’ll regret killing Robbie.”
“Eye for an eye.”
“Revenge is gonna be sweet.”
“It’ll be even sweeter when Crow is dead and we take our turns with his widow.”
Natalie swore beneath her gag. For the second time in as many days, she worried that she might become the cause of Crow’s death. She’d never forgive herself. Her future—or lack thereof—didn’t look promising, either. While her captors led her down the alley in the darkness she hoped and prayed Crow had the good sense not to come looking for her. It wouldn’t do either of them any good.
Van took a sip of his whiskey, then grimaced at the fiery taste burning his throat. He glanced accusingly at the bald-headed bartender in Lookout Saloon. “You doctored this tarantula juice with one-hundred-proof alcohol, didn’t you?”
The rail-thin proprietor tried out his wide-eyed innocent look, but Van scoffed as he replaced his glass on the bar. “Try it again, friend. And do it right this time.” He set Bart’s glass beside his. “For me