Chapter 1

Cort reached out and patted his horse's neck.  The animal responded by snorting in a rather contemptuous fashion.  Cort responded by smiling slightly, the first time he had done so in several days.  A beautiful black stallion, who ran at amazing speeds but who could nevertheless be stubborn, Cort loved Midnight immensely.  He had bought the quarter horse three years previously, from a highly recommended breeder who, well award of Midnight's potential, had been leery of parting with him even when Cort had met his price, offering the sum in cash.  He'd talked quickly and earnestly, but what he'd said to convince the man that he should sell Midnight, he didn't know for sure.  He'd had a feeling that the breeder had just known that he'd take good care of the horse. That he had, and he always would.

"I know, I know," Cort now murmured, as Midnight moved impatiently beneath him.  "After today's events, you want some rest.  So do I.  We'll head back soon."

Midnight nickered softly, as if he understood, and Cort was convinced, as always, that he did.  He continued to absentmindedly run his hand over the stallion's glossy neck, his eyes piercing the darkness, his ears listening for the slightest sound which would indicate the presence of anyone nearby.  There was only a quarter moon, for which he was grateful, the cover of darkness most welcome.  Herrod had sent him out to search the surroundings, ordering him to make sure that Sheriff MacIntyre and his deputies had truly turned back.  Cort could have taken one of his fellow cohorts with him, to scour the area around which Herrod had made camp, but he had not wished to do so.  Today had been bloody and brutal, two deputies ending up shot, and as always, when killing was involved, Cort was uneasy, unable to rest.

He continued to listen quietly, in no hurry to return to the cave, located in a niche between two huge boulders, where his companions were hiding.  Herrod would be impatient for word of his findings, but Cort decided that he could wait a little longer.  He needed the solitude, needed to look up at the stars, illuminating the black, velvet sky, and savor their beams, glittering like tiny, sparkling diamonds.  He'd once heard a minister theorize that they were glimpses of heaven; the Indians said that they were the pathways which guided the souls of the dead, or in some instances, that they were the spirits of the deceased themselves; still other folks just maintained that they were stars, nothing more.  Whoever was right, he couldn't seem to look away.  He needed to see light, to absorb it, to feel it reach back.

At last, he forced himself to move forward, after one last scan across the promontory, upon which Midnight stood.

"Come on, boy," he coaxed.  "Let's go back."

Midnight trotted slowly, obeying, but it seemed that he sensed his master's reluctance to leave the fragile peace of the moment.

The late afternoon bank robbery had gone awry, all the carefully laid plans collapsing.  He and Johnny McLeod had joined Herrod inside the building, while two other members of their gang had positioned themselves across the street, serving as lookouts.  Unfortunately, their perceptual skills weren't as focused at that of a bank customer, who, five minutes before the bank was due to close, came to make a last minute withdrawal; he had noticed that the normally punctual bank's owner, Mr. Hampton, had closed the door five minutes early, and as a result, the ruse was up.  Cort remembered how his blood had frozen at the sound of the first gunshot and how his heart had thundered at the confusion that had ensued.  They'd had to leave the money, and Herrod had been in a damnably foul mood as a result, but Cort was plagued by other feelings.

Herrod had shot the two deputies who had fired too close to his head, and while Cort could certainly understand his returning fire in self defense, by the time Herrod had turned towards them, they were too far away to come close to hitting their mark.  Temper, not a sense of self preservation, had caused Herrod to shoot both men, their bodies lifting clear of their saddles, jerking wildly, before striking the ground.  Herrod had grinned wickedly, and for the thousandth time, Cort wondered why he didn't part company with him, setting out on his own.  He loved the thrill of danger, of getting away with robbery and acquiring easy money, and most of all, he loved the addictive rush of a gun fight, secure in the knowledge that he was so quick that no one else, outside of Herrod, could match his speed.  Nevertheless, he didn't kill unless he had to.  He didn't hesitate to do what he must, but if he had a choice, he tried to shoot his opponent in the arm or leg; he didn't relish death, didn't savor it the way Herrod did.  He detested the man, but what he detested more was the fact that he couldn't break away from him.

When he'd become Herrod protégé, at the age of fifteen, running away from a nowhere town in New Mexico, it was a chance to escape from an abusive father; Herrod's praise had been exceedingly welcome, since he'd rarely ever experienced a kind word, except from his mother, who was as abused as he.  But that had been years ago, and his mentor's accolades no longer stirred anything in him but contempt; Herrod used people as objects; they were mere puppets to amuse his twisted sense of power.  As things now stood, Cort knew things would soon come to a head between Herrod and himself; despite Herrod's earlier influence, he had grown into a man very different than had been anticipated, and neither of them could overlook that fact.

As he grew closer to his destination, Cort could hear a commotion; voices were raised, and there was the sound of a scuffle.  Reigning in Midnight, he sat quietly out of range of the campfire, darkness concealing his presence.  Soundlessly, he slid his pistol out of his gun belt, ready to fire it at a moment's notice.

As he watched, he saw Johnny and Will, both burly men, drag a young woman towards Herrod, while she struggled valiantly, trying desperately to free herself, cursing and hurling insults in a very imaginative fashion.  Curious about her reasons for lurking near the encampment, since it was almost impossible that she should have come upon it by accident, Cort thought her to be the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, and he had plenty with whom to compare.  Tall and lithe, she carried her lusciously curvaceous frame proudly, her firm breasts and small waist accentuated by the simple white shirt she wore, her well proportioned hips and long legs emphasized by the faded denim jeans encasing them.  Not to be outdone by her remarkable figure, her face was equally exquisite. Rich, golden skin stretched over high cheekbones; her slender, straight nose was prevented from being regal only by the slightly upturned tip; her jaw was delicately sculpted, her mouth wide and full, and her chin, well defined, was thrust out defiantly.  Her eyes, however, at least by Cort's measure, were her most amazing feature; they were so brilliantly blue that they appeared almost unearthly, and with the fury they now contained, they resembled nothing so much as scorching blue flames, her gaze locked upon Herrod.

Only when Cort rode into the open and Herrod addressed him, telling him to mind his own business, did she briefly look his way.  He felt his breath catch inwardly when she did; turned directly on him, her eyes were riveting, boring into the depths of his own.

Herrod instructed Johnny and Will, who had earlier captured her, to now release her, and when they did so, her attention once again focused on Herrod.

"Thanks for calling off your goons," she responded, venom lacing her rich, sultry voice.

"What were you doing, lurking about my camp," he demanded.

"Your camp," the woman scoffed.  "Last I heard no one was setting up residence in these canyons, uninhabitable as they are.  No one would be that stupid."

Cort was close enough now to see Herrod's _expression, and it was set in cold anger.  He was worried.  Herrod's adversary might have a healthy temper, but she was all fire and impulsiveness. Herrod's calculating coldness gave him a distinct advantage.

"What do you want," Herrod growled.

The woman didn't flinch, refusing to be intimidated.

"I hear you're looking for another member to join your gang," she replied.

Herrod's eyes bored into hers for several seconds, then he burst out laughing, his mirth devoid of humor, but full of derision.  The men around the fire joined him, but Cort found no amusement in the situation.  He was amazed at the stranger's nerve, fearing it didn't bode well.

"You can't be serious," Herrod pronounced, incredulous.

The intruder tossed her head back in defiance, the thick ebony braid of her hair, that had been draped across her left shoulder and breast, resuming its customary place along her back, hanging to her waist.

"The hell I'm not!"  she retorted.

"Then you are either incredibly stupid or naive," Herrod asserted.

"I'm neither, I can assure you," was the bold reply.

Herrod's amusement faded, and he became stone faced once again.  Cort felt extremely uneasy. This woman was far too confident for her own good.  She was issuing a direct challenge, and she wasn't about to give any ground, a very unwise decision to take where Herrod was concerned.  Yet what a sight she was, gorgeous, determined, and spirited; Cort almost wondered if she were real.

"Prove it," Herrod ordered, in reference to her disclaimer that she was no fool.  "Show me that you can do more than play games."

"Does this look as if I'm playing games," the woman responded, her hand pushing back the black leather jacket she wore to reveal a gun belt, a Smith and Wesson strapped low, on either side of her hips.

"Top of the line," Herrod remarked, taking inventory of the pistols.

"I know how to use them."

Herrod didn't respond to the boast, instead shifting his focus back to the intruder's face.

"Who are you," he insisted.

Clearly, Cort could see that Herrod, while still angry, was intrigued.  Fearing for the woman's safety, he shivered at the thought.  Herrod's taking a liking to her was just as bad, maybe worse, as his being furious.

"It doesn't matter," was the answer.  "Just call me Raven."

Herrod cocked an eyebrow.

"Not exactly a Christian name," he observed.  "You Injun?"

"Partly."

Herrod didn't comment; instead, he merely reached inside his coat pocket and withdrew a cigar. The match he used to light it momentarily deepened the fire's glow, already reflected upon his face; it decidedly enhanced the sinister expression, which was an inherent part of his features.  He slowly exhaled from an especially deep inhalation, a cloud of fragrant smoke billowing out around him.

"Providing you really can shoot, at least in a capacity beyond striking a basic target," he theorized, "why the hell should I want a woman in my gang?"

Raven didn't reply.  In one fluid motion, that blended speed with skill, she slid the pistol, resting at her right hip, out of its holster, aimed at the tree directly behind Herrod's head, and shot a star pattern into its bark, in little more time than it took for him, and everyone else, to suck in their breaths at such an audacious and dangerous maneuver.

Herrod hadn't dared to move as the bullets had whizzed past his ear and over his head, but infuriated at the boldness that had momentarily paralyzed him and mocked his authority, he'd jumped to his feet, once the firing had ceased, and backhanded Raven, sending her sprawling to the ground.

Cort went rigid, and risking danger to himself, he jumped off his horse and reached down to help Raven to her feet.

She looked up at him, her cheek bruised, her lower lip bleeding from a cut, inflicted by Herrod's heavy, gold ring.  Her eyes reflected no fear, only increased fury.

"I can get up myself," she informed Cort.

Nodding slightly, he took a step backwards.

Looking back at Herrod, Raven rose and locked gazes with him once again.  Incensed by her resilience, he felt his face flush with rage.

"I asked you earlier who you are," he hissed, "but since you refuse to answer, I'll change the question."

He stared at her intently for several seconds.

"Do you know who I really am, what I'm like beyond your perception of who you think I am?"

"Do you think I'd be here if I didn't," Raven replied.

"I don't know what to think, quite frankly, but if you're looking for adventure or escape, you'd best look elsewhere.  I'm a daring man, and those who think to make a fool of me are risking terrible consequences."

Herrod leaned close to Raven's face, then reached out his hand and grasped her chin roughly.

"Violence is my muse, honey," he proclaimed.  "My men here engage in it because it brings them money.  Cort is egotistical enough that he likes the thrill of being faster than his opponents when it comes to shoot outs.  But me, well, let's just say that even though I can identify with both motivations, the number of my victims would be a lot less if I'd just wanted to commit theft."

Raven didn't shrink from Herrod's words or his gaze.  Instead, she slapped his hand away.

Cort expected him to strike her again, a move he was prepared to stop, but instead, Herrod smirked.

"You think you're tough, don't you," he asked.

"I know I am."

"And how's that?"

"Three bank robberies and two shootings say so."

Herrod smiled, an ugly gesture that held no warmth, his earlier fury now overshadowed by amused contempt.

"You expect me to believe you've committed robbery, let alone murder," he inquired, his tone mocking.

Raven's eyes glittered maliciously.

"Do the names Neil Cowen and Tom Brady ring a bell," she asked.

Herrod' eyes darkened perceptibly, but he didn't reply.

Raven watched his reaction carefully.

"Bad blood between you and them, eh," she asked.  "Well, since the names have obviously gotten your attention, why don't you ask Tom about his leg sometime and then inquire about Neil's demise?"

"You're lying," Herrod hissed.

"You think so," Raven taunted, her mouth curling slightly upwards.  "My partnership with them didn't last long, and it ended badly.  Tom won't say kind things about me, given the fact that I shot his left kneecap off, but I'm sure he'll verify that I inflicted the injury and that I did even worse damage to Cowen...of the permanent sort."

The men in the camp were spellbound, a sort of incredulity, mixed with trepidation, suffusing their faces.

"I can get in touch with Tom," Herrod warned.

But deep within himself, he remembered hearing about the shootings.  One could argue that there was no proof that Raven had been responsible, but all the proof he needed was visible in her eyes. He knew the look well, had imagined others had seen it within him.  It reflected the coldness borne of no remorse.  He'd never been able to produce it in Cort.  Cort could be brutal, when necessary, but he didn't relish cruelty; it wasn't in his nature, despite his early upbringing, and Herrod had never been able to enforce it.  Cort's eyes were always haunted by regret; it was the demon he could never exorcise, try as he might, but it wasn't Raven's.

He studied her quizzically.  Maybe she had potential.

"Be my guest," Raven replied coolly to his threat to contact Brady.

Herrod's metal gray eyes continued to stare into hers, which blazed back just as heatedly.

"Why did you join up with Neil and Tom anyway," he asked.

"I have my reasons."

"Which are what?"

"None of your business."

"They are if you want to join up."

Shouldn't be if I can carry my weight."

"But that's what's in question.  Whatever it is that motivates you will determine if you're worth my time."

Raven shrugged.

"I'm poor, or at least I was until I took to robbing.  I have no family, no ties.  In addition, as you were so quick to point out, my ancestry is mixed, and thus, neither side is overly fond of me.  Other prospects besides becoming an outlaws didn't look too promising."

"You could be a whore," Herrod replied.

Raven's eyes flashed.

"My body is my own," she warned.  "And I'll let my gun do the talking to any man who thinks otherwise."

Her eyes left Herrod's to meet those of every man around the fire, her hands caressing the butt of her pistol as she did so.

"I'll show you no special favors," Herrod vowed.  "I'll give you an equal share of the cut we take from our heists, but you'll be expected to pull equal weight to earn it.  If you cause problems with any of the operations, or you double-cross me in any way, you'll die...and not in a pleasant manner."

Raven stared, her gazed unwavering.

"Fair enough," she replied.

Chapter 2

Raven sat staring into the fire she had just stoked, its warmth yet to reach her chilled blood.  She gazed over at her horse, Chessy, a chestnut colored mare, who nickered softly and rolled her large, dark eyes, occasionally pawing the ground, as if she could feel Raven's anxiety.  Raven could feel her heart pounding erratically against her breast.  She'd achieved her goal; she was now officially a member of Herrod's gang.  The thought terrified her, and she cursed herself for being so rash. Usually, she leapt before she looked, and thus, in dealing with Herrod, she cautioned herself to not repeat such a mistake.  Even so, she'd used bad judgment yet again, and this time, her impatience could prove fatal.

Herrod might well be more than she could handle, despite the fact that she'd believed otherwise. She'd seen the look in his eyes, the one that longed to see how far she would go to prove her worth, to discover what it would take to push her beyond her limits.  She'd allowed him to think, by both her behavior and her words, that she, like he, cared little for human life, that thrills took precedence over sanctity, but nothing could be further from the truth, except where Herrod himself was concerned.  She feared she'd overstepped her bounds, though; she was now on a stage, with no desire, and no clue how, to play the role he would expect of her.

She sighed deeply, trying to calm down.  She reminded herself of how she had longed for this moment, over the years, when she would finally have, within her sites, the man who had played havoc with her life.  This evening had been yet another major step towards putting her plan into motion, the one that would lead to his demise.  Revenge, however, wasn't going to be easy to achieve.  Herrod was a devilishly clever man, and his gaze had seemed to reach her innermost thoughts; certainly, he had searched the depths of her eyes, and in order to camouflage her true emotions, she'd drawn upon the hatred she'd harbored for him for years, pretending to have contempt for everyone in general.  She had to allow him to at least entertain the idea that she could become his next protégé; it was, quite frankly, her only means of survival.

Still staring into the fire, Cort's face materialized before her.  She suspected that Herrod had favored him for quite some time, but the unspoken challenge that had arisen when he'd ridden into camp, and Herrod had ordered him to back off, indicated their now thinly disguised animosity. Their falling out wasn't yet complete, she surmised, but it was quickly approaching.  She had the feeling that Herrod wanted to put her in Cort's place.  But where would that leave him, she wondered, and felt sick to her stomach as she considered the answer. 

She couldn't shake Cort's image.  She had never seen a man so stunning before.  He looked like an angel, albeit a fallen one, his eyes full of sadness and pain, distrust and cynicism.  Their infinite emerald depths contained both wariness and vulnerability, suspicion warring with sorrow.  It had been difficult to look away from such an alluring combination, even when she had been forced, by necessity, to focus upon Herrod, and now that she could spare a moment to think about Cort, she couldn't help but do so.

His face, she recalled, was beautifully chiseled.  His forehead was broad and high, a silky, wayward lock of his thick, golden brown hair resting against it.  His nose was rather long but straight, and like the rest of his features, very masculine.  His jaw was wide and handsomely sculpted, the stubble covering it giving him a dark and dangerous aura, and his chin was square and strong, with a deep, distinctive cleft in the middle.  His mouth was a perfect bow shape, which turned up slightly at the corners, and Raven was unable to stop herself from imagining it curving into a smile or parting in the throes of passion.

She shook herself out of her musings, disturbed at the latter image.  What the hell was she doing thinking about Cort's attributes when she had just put her life in danger?  She was going to have to call upon all her skills of deception in order to outwit Herrod and kill him.  If she wasn't exceptionally sly and conniving, she'd not only never achieve revenge, she'd die before the opportunity to acquire it presented itself.  But how much would Herrod ask of her in the interim before her chance arrived?  Would there come a time when he'd make her hurt someone, just to prove herself?

She was pondering that troubling question when she heard footsteps.  Quickly, she reached for her gun and rose to her feet, just in time to see Cort heading towards her.  She studied him as he approached; his arms were strong, his shoulders broad, his chest powerful.  He had an unhesitating step, a confident stride.  He didn't stop until he stood only a few feet away, giving her adequate space but still remaining close.

"What are you doing here, " she asked, dismayed to find that once she'd seen that it was him, and not one of the other men, she'd relinquished her hold on her gun.

"I'm protecting you," he answered bluntly.

"I don't need protecting," Raven objected.

Cort gave an exasperated sigh.  He didn't know when he'd been more attracted to a woman, but his instincts were warning him that falling under her spell was a mistake.  Within the depths of her amazingly blue eyes, there was danger.  He wasn't certain of its source yet, but he wanted to discover it, even if doing so involved going against his better judgment.  He knew she wasn't what she appeared, or what she insisted she was, but rather a damn good actress.  He didn't believe for a moment that she had come to Herrod by any mean except connivance, and he was intrigued by her reasons, whatever they might be.  He had enough on his mind, with the tension that seemed to grow daily between he and Herrod; he didn't need the complications that would most assuredly arise if he got involved with Raven, and yet, he'd been unable to stop himself from searching her out, not only to protect her, but to be in her company, to gaze upon her beauty once again, to hear her rich, provocative voice.

"You just threatened anyone who came near you," he reminded her.  "Obviously, you know you're not in the most trustworthy of company, otherwise you wouldn't have assured everyone that you'd let your gun do the talking."

"I'm certainly aware of the wolves I'm surrounded by, and I know that the four legged variety are probably the least of my worries," Raved replied, her voice curt.

"Even so, if you think that your warning is a significant deterrent, you'd better think again, " Cort cautioned.  "You're a hell of a shot, but you're still prime prey for a group of ruthless fugitives.  You can't deal with all of  'em at once, and they won't come after you one at a time.  They run in packs, in case you hadn't noticed."

He looked at Raven hard, his green eyes direct and unrelenting.

"You understand what I'm saying," he asked.

She nodded, looking back at him just as unflinchingly.

"But how do I know you're not the worst one of the pack," she boldly inquired.

Cort smiled before he could stop himself, a thoroughly disarming gesture that made Raven's heart leap.  White, even teeth flashed, and his beautiful mouth curved upwards, lighting up his entire face. His eyes sparkled, a touch of mischief making them twinkle.

"You don't," he responded, "but something must have convinced you that I'm not too big a threat.  Otherwise, I'd probably have been shot full of holes by now."

Raven smiled slightly in return, knowing she could present no challenge to his argument.

Cort turned serious again, his smile fading.

"Seriously," he chastised.  "You may want your privacy, but coming out here alone, away from the main camp, was awfully foolish."

"You just said that Herrod's cronies would work together," she objected.  "Why put myself in their midst?"

"You know as well as I do why.  You're out here alone.  If you stay where I am, or even where Herrod is, for that matter, you'll have a lot less to worry about."

Raven stared into Cort's eyes, knowing full well that he understood the reason why Herrod had allowed her into his entourage.  He was as aware as she that Herrod wanted to see what he could make of her.

"Herrod wants to show you the ropes, see what you're made of," Cort confirmed.  "Are you sure you're ready for that?  Do you really know what you're getting into?"

"Of course I do."

"I don't think so."

"Didn't you hear what I just told Herrod," Raven responded.  "I helped rob three banks!  I injured one man and killed another!"

"Ah, yes, armed robbery, assault, and murder," Cort replied nonplused.  "You're a busy woman." He studied her face for several seconds, basking in her bewitching beauty, watching her become angry at his refusal to be impressed.

"I'm guessing there's a story behind the bragging rights to those events, probably one you don't like to advertise," he at last declared.  "Don't know your reasons for joining up with Cowen and Brady, but I'm willing to bet that circumstances may have forced you to react in self defense against them."

"Self defense!"  Raven blurted.  "I shot them fair and square for trying to take my share of the money we stole!"

"So you say."

"And just what is that supposed to mean!  I'm good enough, in Herrod's estimation, to join his gang, but I'm not good enough in yours, is that it!"

Cort gave her a look of condescension, infuriating her even more.

"He's letting you think that he is entertaining the notion you're good enough," he corrected, "in order to see whether or not you're worth his trouble.  Maybe you'd better consider what will happen if you prove him wrong."

Raven sobered, her temper cooling as she realized that he was verifying that, eventually, the price for convincing Herrod of her value would be very high indeed.

Cort could see her mind racing, fear clouding her strikingly blue eyes; she looked so different from the hellcat that, earlier, had refused to back down.  He wanted to tell her to run as far and as fast as she could, but she wasn't willing to listen to him yet, obviously wishing to settle some score.

Besides, he couldn't do his best job of convincing her to leave Herrod, with the man and his cohorts so near.  Ears were all around; he would say no more.  Until tomorrow anyway.

"You'd better get some rest," he suggested.  "Herrod wants you and me to go out scouting tomorrow.  We'll have to get up early."

"What are we scouting for?"

"We're familiarizing ourselves with the new path that the main stagecoach is taking.  There's been a lot of robberies lately, so the trail has changed.  We're going to wait for the coach, see which way it goes, and then report back to Herrod."

He took a deep breath.

"In a day or so, we'll be relieving some passengers of their possessions," he verified.

Cort didn't seem pleased about the prospect, and Raven found herself wanting to ask him why he stayed with Herrod.  She had the feeling that for all his crimes, he was an honorable man.  Maybe it was because she found him so attractive, but she was drawn to him for more reasons than his looks, despite their exceptional quality.  There was something wounded within him, and she had the feeling that part of his pain stemmed from the fact that he was unable to come to terms with the life he lived.

"What about you," she asked softly.  "Aren't you going to rest?"

Cort shook his head.

"Not for a while," he replied.  "I don't need much sleep, and besides, I've gotten used to being on guard at night."

His eyes were sad, the _expression within them reflecting resignation to his outlaw way of life.  The gold cast in his hair was highlighted by the fire, and Raven found herself wanting to brush back an errant lock of it from his cheek.  As if sensing her thoughts, Cort nodded towards her horse, Chessy.

"Go get your blanket," he commanded.  "It'll be cold tonight."

Raven didn't usually take orders, but she was tired, bone weary, in fact, and it felt good to know that Cort would watch over her.  Yet it was an unfamiliar sensation; no one had done so in a very long time.

She gazed at him a moment longer and then nodded.

"Thanks," she murmured.

He said nothing, just offered a short, terse smile.

He watched her lie down and then wrap herself tightly within her blanket.  The firelight brought out the gold in her skin and highlighted her prominent cheekbones.  Her hair, still contained within a braid, seemed even darker than the black sky, and he found himself wondering what it would look like loose, streaming in ebony waves down her back, like a curtain against her naked form.  He looked away, fighting against being caught in her spell, but it did little good.  Her face swam before him; her eyes, during their conversation, had become pools of confusion, despite her attempts to remain defensive.  He had, in so many words, confirmed her own worst fears about why Herrod had accepted her.  The furious blue fire of her gaze, which he had initially glimpsed, had calmed in his presence, anxiety cooling its heat.

He wondered why she had let her guard down with him.  He wished she hadn't; he knew that she hadn't meant to, but nevertheless she had, and the realization was unsettling.  She didn't belong here; regardless of the reasons why she thought she did.  What Herrod would do to her, how he'd make her a stranger to herself, he knew firsthand, and he shuddered involuntarily at what lay ahead. Tomorrow, when they rode out to trail the stagecoach, he'd have to level with her about what she was getting herself into, even if it meant being brutal.  He'd shouldn't let himself care about her; he had a long history of numbing himself to any emotions, where women were concerned.  With the life he led, relationships, beyond the physical, were only a complication.  Damn, but he wished Raven had never found her way into Herrod's camp!  He should just leave her to her fate...but he couldn't, try as he might.  Something about her both disturbed and touched him.  Angrily, he clenched his jaw, lit a cigarette that he jerked from his pocket, and inhaled deeply, staring at Raven's slumbering form.

Chapter 3

The predawn air was crisp, a distinct chill, from the evening before, still prevailing.  All was quite; only a few nocturnal creatures scurrying about, seeking shelter before the last bit of night faded.  In the towns, just a few lamp lights burned inside dwellings, most of the occupants still partaking of a last few minutes of sleep.  The sun was several minutes from rising, but its rapid approach had turned the eastern sky into a stunning palate of red, orange, and gold, one color bleeding into another.

Raven studied the approaching sunrise as she lay stretched on her stomach, on a bluff that rose above the road leading away from Tucson.  She was well hidden, with an eagle's eye view of the stagecoach that would, according to Cort, more than likely cross the path once the sun had been up for a while.  He had a feeling that the vehicle's new route would traverse this rarely used, rough road, but though she'd disagreed, she'd consented to help him keep it under surveillance.

For now, though, all was still, and she was content to marvel at the riot of color ablaze in the sky. Looking at it was comforting in a way she hadn't expected, and so, she took a moment to bask in the brief luxury.  To do so was to be reminded of her mother's easel and of the numerous portraits and landscapes she had created upon it.  If she closed her eyes, Raven could smell the paint, see the stroke of the brush on paper, hear her mother hum softly as she worked.  Anjelica Alexander was a gifted artist, and with her exceptional skill, intriguing people and unforgettable places came boldly to life.  As a child, Raven had often been content to sit and watch her mother's subjects evolve.  For a brief second, she closed her eyes, and she was home.

Next to her, Cort lay poised in the same fashion, the stagecoach momentarily forgotten.  Instead, he focused on watching Raven relive an obviously intense memory.  Her usual defensive, preoccupied _expression had softened, and she'd turned her lovely, bronzed face towards the approaching sun.  He felt his heart skip a beat at her image, and he longed to reach out and caress her cheek, to let his fingers stroke the silk of her skin, to tuck a loose ebony lock behind her delicate ear. 

The ride to their current locale had produced very little conversation.  During the course of it, though, they'd shared some significant moments; he'd told her the unusual names of some of the cliffs that jutted up from the canyon's floor, as they passed them, and he'd once drawn her attention to a silver and black wolf that stood curiously watching their early morning trek. In addition, he'd pointed out, for her pleasure, some Mexican gold poppies and wild heliotrope; the latter, blooming abundantly, despite the desert heat, was the shade of an afternoon sky.  There might have been more exchanges, but Raven had been tense, much as had he himself.  No doubt, Cort reflected, Herrod's warning, delivered just before his and Raven's departure, was still on her mind too.

Cort recalled the moment with barely restrained anger, mixed with distinct anxiety.  Just before she'd mounted her horse, Herrod had grabbed Raven's arm, spinning her around unexpectedly.

"You put on a brave show last night, little lady," he'd declared, "putting your all into convincing me that nothing would do but for you to join me and my boys."

The feral _expression in his eyes had intensified.

"And your efforts worked," he'd admitted.  "But now that they have, there's no going back."

His face had twisted into a vicious mask.

"You're in now," he'd pronounced, "and if you try to leave, I'll have my men hunt you down.  I guarantee you won't like the results when they find you...and find you they will."

Herrod's eyes had finally left Raven's, only to connect with Cort's, the latter now remembering the ruthless gaze, which had descended upon him.

"And you," he'd warned.  "I know what you've been thinking, and let me give you a little advice as well.  If you try to get her out of here, away from me, as you've been considering ever since you saw her, you'd better hope her determination to stay is stronger than your efforts to get her to leave. If you help her escape, shooting will be too good for you."

He'd touched the brim of his hat then, smiled, and bid both he and Raven good morning.

Cort relived the memory with a chill.  Herrod's smile had been grotesque, an evil smirk.  To her credit, Raven hadn't reacted to the threats, as she had the previous evening, but her eyes had exhibited a glimmer that worried Cort; it was a mixture of sheer determination and barely suppressed fury, and it made him more convinced than ever that she had an agenda where Herrod was concerned.  She clearly knew the man, by more than reputation, even if he didn't know her, which Cort wasn't at all sure was the case, and she was biding her time for reasons he didn't really like to consider.

He'd wanted to talk to her about getting away from Herrod while they rode, but he'd realized he was going to have to be very persuasive if he were to make her even consider such an idea, and he wanted her full, undivided attention, when he attempted to convince her of the danger she was in. Now that the moment was at his disposal, however, he was concerned at his own reaction; he felt a strong desire, in the opposite direction, for her to stay.  Seeing her leave would be difficult; he was drawn to her exotic beauty, but there was something within her, something indefinable and mysterious, that he couldn't explain.

"Can you see the stagecoach from where you're at," he asked her softly.  "It's certainly not visible from where I'm looking."

"What?"

"I was just wondering what you're seeing...because whatever it is, it certainly has your attention."

He'd turned on his side, resting his weight on his elbow.  Setting his gun within easy reach, he lay stretched out next to her, Raven unable to ignore his ruggedly masculine beauty.

She smiled slightly, embarrassed that her distraction had been so apparent.

"Sorry," she murmured.  "I didn't mean to be inattentive.  It's just that the sunrise is so beautiful.  It reminds me of..."

"What," Cort pressed, when she hesitated.  "It reminds you of what?"

"My mother," Raven at last replied, her voice low and soft.

"Tell me about her."

Raven offered a hint of a smile, but her eyes were suddenly full of intense pain.  Cort felt his heart clench in response.  It had been a long time since he'd reacted to someone else's sorrow, and he wasn't comfortable doing so now.  Nevertheless, the distant look of longing on Raven's face made him want to reach out to her, bring her back from the source of her sadness.

She could see the empathy in Cort's own eyes, and it drew her in, despite her efforts to resist. She would have to choose her words carefully; she couldn't give away too much about herself. Would it hurt, though, she wondered, to briefly share the memory of her mother?

"She was so beautiful, not just outwardly, but inwardly too," she replied.  "Her hair was like black silk.  She wore it up most of the time, but when she let it down, it was glorious.  And her eyes were black, like the darkest night.  Her skin was a rich brown, and her hands were so elegant.  She used to paint the most amazing pictures.  I loved watching her when she did.  We used to talk for hours; we had the most wonderful conversations.  She was never too busy to have time for me...or for anyone else who needed her."

"She sounds an awful lot like you, at least in appearance...and maybe in even more ways," Cort ventured.

Raven shook her head vehemently.

"No," she objected.  "She was a much better person than I am."

"How do you figure that?"

"Isn't it obvious?  She was a lady.  I'm nothing but a criminal."

"Don't talk about yourself like that.  Circumstances can make it a lot easier to be one than the other."

"Or choices."

Cort's eyes were aquamarine, in the growing light of dawn, and they locked with Raven's.  The _expression within them was so intense that she felt her face flush; it was as though he could see right through her, into her darkest secrets.  It was obvious, though, that he had plenty of his own; clouding his gaze was regret, disappointment, and more than a touch of weariness. When he reached over, and took her hand, very gently, within his own large, callused, tanned one, she was startled.

"What choices did you make, Raven," he asked softly.  "What brought you to Herrod?"

Raven reacted defensively, immediately snatching her hand from his. 

Outwardly, Cort didn't react, but inwardly, her actions stung.

"I could ask you the same question," she responded.

"True enough, but I asked you first."

Raven wondered how much she should tell Cort.  She'd felt a growing bond with him since the previous evening, when he'd protected her.  But she had to control her emotions, regardless of how lonely she felt or how much she needed a friend.  She couldn't lose sight of what she had to do, and she had the feeling that Cort might be the one person who could make her lose sight of her objective.

He saw the struggle within her, saw how torn she was between the need to open up and share some of her secrets, or maintain her silence and remain behind the wall she'd erected.  Her blue eyes turned the shade of a storm tossed sea; indeed, her emotions were as troubled as one. It was clear that she intended to kill Herrod.She'd looked away, intending to hide her feelings, but she hadn't been quick enough.  At the mention of Herrod's name, he'd seen deadly hatred cross her face.  He had to convince her to abandon her plans, but even as he tried to consider a way to do so, he knew, instinctively, it was impossible. 

"What really happened between you, Cowen, and Brady," he asked.

Raven kept her gaze averted, knowing Cort had already read far too much within her eyes, but he grasped her chin, gently but firmly, and tilted her face up to his.  She had no choice but to look straight at him.

"I told you last night," she insisted.  "They tried to take my share of the money, and I wouldn't let them."

"And you think I actually believe that," Cort retorted.

Raven felt cornered, and her temper flared.

"Personally, I don't care what the hell you believe!"  she snarled, rising to her feet, so that she could put distance between herself and Cort.  "Just because you took it upon yourself to keep an eye on me last night, which I didn't, in any way, ask you to do, doesn't give you the right to start digging into my business!"

Cort pushed further, undeterred.

"Hit a nerve, did I," he asked.  "My guess is that, whatever your reasons for taking up with them in the first place, you found yourself in over your head, as you already are with Herrod.  I think either Cowen or Brady, or more than likely both, tried to force themselves on you, and you shot them in self defense."

"You have quite the imagination!"

"It doesn't take more than a fraction of it to figure out what they probably tried to do to you. You're a beautiful woman, and even if you deluded yourself into thinking that they considered you an equal, you were at their mercy.  Doesn't take a lot of smarts to know that they would want to share more than the money the three of you stole."

Cort shook his head.

"You were out of your element," he declared.  "You were then, and you are now."

"And what element is that!"

"Do I have to spell it out?  You were all fire and fury for Herrod last night, putting on that little charade, listing all your accomplishments, mainly murder and mayhem, to hear you tell it.  But you didn't waste any time getting away from him, did you, setting up your own camp at a distance, once you secured the invitation you intended.  A bit weak in the knees, were you, after the fright of standing up to him?"

Raven felt the blood drain from her face.  Shocked at Cort's perceptiveness, she sat down on the ground, next to him.

She thought she'd managed to keep her guard up. She'd known that Cort had seen her loose a large measure of the toughness that she'd exhibited when confronting Herrod, but he was either very intuitive, or she'd failed miserably in hiding her emotions. 

She knew which it was, loathe as she was to admit it.  She'd never been guilty of showing her feelings before, when it was important that she keep them hidden.  Now, she'd tripped up badly. What was it about Cort that allowed her to become so transparent, that made her push the hatred with which she'd lived for so long, off to the side, when she looked into his eyes?

"You're easy to read, love, despite your efforts to the contrary," Cort replied, reading her thoughts.  "No doubt you're tough, and what you can do with a pistol impressed even me.  But getting back to letting your guard down...one look into your eyes, when I startled you by walking into your campsite...we both know you were terrified, realizing the finality of what you'd done."

Raven didn't reply.  What sort of obstacles had she set in her path by allowing this man to read her so well?  She felt panic grip her, her blood pumping hard and fast.

"You're not what you pretend to be," Cort continued, seeing her reaction.  "You're graceful and poised.  Your voice is cultured.  You choose your words carefully.  Everything about you contradicts the image of the ruffian you're trying to put forth."

He stared hard at Raven, steeling himself to gather the brutality for his next question.

"So how does a half breed become so refined, despite her attempts to seem otherwise?"

Raven's eyes narrowed at the offensive label, a sudden spark of pure fury darkening them.

Still, Cort pushed, his own eyes alight with determination.

"Your mother...she married a white man with money, didn't she," he declared.

Raven felt like slapping him, but loathe as she was to admit it, she knew he wasn't motivated by a wish to hurt her, but rather by a need to protect.  For reasons she didn't really want to examine too closely, part of her wanted that protection, wanted to trust Cort, even though another part rebelled at the mere thought.  It was dangerous, in more ways than one, to become close to him. Nevertheless, it had been so long since she'd shared her thoughts and feelings with anyone, and so, she found herself confirming his suspicions.

"She was raised in a mission school, taken away from her parents," Raven confessed, speaking of her mother.  "She pretended to learn the white man's ways, indeed to the point of flawlessness, but inside, she never forgot who and what she was.  My father once told me that her strength and her stubbornness were two of the many things he loved about her, but she was always so sad.  He was good to her, no doubt he genuinely loved her, and I believe she cared for him, but in her heart, she wanted to return to her people.  Despite her outward perfection, she spent her life pretending to be someone she wasn't."

"Where is she now?"

"She's dead."

"I'm sorry."

Raven said nothing, and though Cort hated using her memories against her, he had to convince her to get away from Herrod.

"Your father...is he dead too," he asked.

She nodded.

"How does Herrod fit into what happened to them?"

Raven turned a glare upon Cort, her breath taken away by the extent of his insight.

"He doesn't," she insisted.

"You wouldn't be here if he didn't," Cort retorted.  "It took all you had to convince Herrod to let you join up with him.  To your credit, you had me thinking you were as ruthless as he is, until I saw your eyes, when you were finally alone.  The way you looked at me made me realize not only what an act you'd devised, but how difficult it's going to be to keep it up.  If Herrod had seen you last night, as I did, your number would have been up.  And I don't have to tell you one of the main things he's intrigued by is who you might be and what you've got against him."

His eyes searched the depths of hers.

"It's a safe bet you don't want him to ever figure that out," he surmised.

Raven set her chin defiantly, knowing in which direction the conversation was heading and steeling herself against it

Rising to a sitting position, Cort reached out to grab Raven's hands, holding them tightly within his own.  They were big and strong; she felt vulnerable at his touch.

"Let's quit mincing words here, Raven," he insisted.  "Get out while you still can.  Take the road out of here, and don't look back, not ever again."

"I can't."

"You think you can't, but you still have a choice.  You won't have if you go back to Herrod. When he gets through with you, you'll wish you had made a different decision.  Believe me, I know. He's already a long way beyond suspicion about your motives.  He didn't let you into his little circle because you impressed him.  He knows you have something against him, and I guarantee he'll have the upper had before you even realize it."

"Herrod the invincible," Raven sneered, removing her hands from Cort's grasp.  "I think not. He'll be out of commission before he can even figure out what to do with me."

"Will you wake up and quit flattering your abilities!"  Cort retorted, grabbing her shoulders hard and shaking her slightly.

"Quit flattering yours about knowing what I should or shouldn't do!"

"For God's sake, Raven, listen to me!"  Cort demanded.  "You're in over your head!  You don't have the slightest notion of what you're getting yourself into!"

"And you, of course, do?"

"Most certainly.  From more firsthand experience than I'd like to admit...or remember."

"So why don't you leave Herrod?"

"Long story."

"So's mine."

Cort sighed, releasing Raven.

"Whatever you have against Herrod, you can't win," he insisted.  "Regardless of what you think you can do to him, he'll destroy you."

"He'll destroy you if you go back without me."

Cort was seized with a cold, bitter disappointment, knowing that his warning wasn't going to be heeded.

"I can deal with him," he declared.  "Besides, I might not go back."

"Thinking of running off with me," Raven teased.

"Maybe."

His reply was uttered half in jest, but to his surprise, half in seriousness as well.  He was rather stunned to find himself actually considering such a prospect.

"I'm flattered," Raven replied, "but if you see my fear, over what you think are my reasons for joining up with Herrod, I have to tell you that I see the very obvious hold that he has over you, for reasons that can only keep me guessing about you, as much as you keep speculating about me."

Gently, she reached out and stroked Cort's cheek, something she'd been wanting to do for quite some time.  It was rough from the growth of a couple of days' worth of stubble, but his gaze was gentle and full of worry.  Almost reverently, he reached out and stroked her temple, letting his fingers glide down to her own cheek, her jaw.  For a moment, he caressed the latter, running his thumb alone its contours.

"I've seen things in your eyes too," Raven confessed, her voice low.  "Even if you did leave with me, you'd go back to Herrod eventually.  You're compelled to.  And what would he do to you then?"

"That's not your concern.  Just leave now, and I'll deal with the consequences."

Raven shook her head.

"No," she retorted.  "First of all, I don't leave someone behind to deal with the fall out I've caused, especially when that someone has proven to be a real friend.  Secondly, there are things I must do, regardless of the risks to myself."

"Raven," Cort insisted one final time, "you don't know what Herrod will do to you, what he'll demand of you.  Trust me, you can't imagine everything that he is capable of."

Raven became stoic, her decision final.

"You'd be surprised at what I can imagine, and frankly, he can do no more to me than he already has."

Cort felt his heart sink.  Yet again, it seemed Herrod had won.  The notion shook him to the core. He looked at Raven, so beautiful but bruised; what had Herrod done that had brought her to such a state?  She'd chosen a desperate life, just as he had, her actions condemning her.  There was a price on both their heads.  True, she'd made her choices, same as had he, but Herrod had set something in motion, evidently years ago, that had caused Raven to make all the wrong ones.

He couldn't let Herrod make her a stranger to herself, turn her into someone she would despise, like he had him.  No one deserved that, least of all the proud, spirited woman before him.  He had no idea how he would prevent it, what sort of plan he'd develop, but he wouldn't stand by and let Raven be destroyed.

Chapter 4

Twilight was near, the warmth of the day quickly fading.  In the west, the sun was hovering on the horizon, dropping into its final descent.  Its golden rays struck the canyons, illuminating their strangely beautiful forms.  In the east, night was already approaching, the sky turning dark blue, with streaks of mauve and purple.  A coyote, heralding the evening's arrival, howled forlornly, a cry that seemed to echo endlessly, and Raven felt a chill course through her at the sound of it.

She glanced away from her surroundings and refocused her attention on Cort.  He seemed almost a stranger; she had trouble reconciling the current figure with the one who, only two days before, had tried to convince her to get away from Herrod.  Then, while firm and determined, he had also been concerned, valiant, almost pleading, in his attempt to convince her she should leave.  Now, he was distant and stoic, the ruthless outlaw.  Crouched next to her, hidden behind the tall boulders that stood sentinel along the trail, which the stagecoach from Phoenix would soon traverse, Cort looked like a sleek, graceful animal, a portrait of power and strength.  His jaw was set with tension, and he was staring straight ahead, stealthily waiting. 

In a way, Raven was glad to avoid his gaze.  When he'd looked at her earlier, his eyes had reminded her of cold, hard jade.  They were full of a frosty, unyielding anger.  Ever since she'd made it clear that she wasn't going to depart, he'd become detached, avoiding any conversation with her.  Yet he'd continued to protect her.  When Will had walked into the area she'd staked out as her camp the night before, Cort had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, coming up behind Will, sticking a gun in his back and ordering him to leave.  Will had been quick to comply with the orders, despite his rude parting comments, but afterwards, Cort had settled himself a considerable distance from her, refusing to talk, his body language making it quite clear that he wanted to be alone.

Troubled by the wall Cort had erected between them, Raven looked away, scanning the faces of the other three men who rounded out Herrod's posse, Will, Johnny, and Sam.  For once, much to her relief, they were occupied with something besides her, concentrating on the impending arrival of the stagecoach, as opposed to staring at her with obscene leers.  She detested all of them; Will and Johnny were unkempt, uncouth, and ignorant simpletons who did everything Herrod told them to, without question.  Sam, on the other hand, wasn't a bad looking youth nor was he dumb, but he was the most dangerous of the three, sly, cunning, and arrogant.  She watched him closely; he reminded her of a crafty fox with his eyes on the hen house; he was a predator who was willing to bide his time, and he considered Cort to be the major obstacle in his way.  As she stared at him, he abruptly turned and flashed her a vile grin.  She glared at him in response, determined that he'd never know how deeply he disturbed her.

No one unnerved her the way Herrod did, though, and summoning her courage, she chanced looking in his direction.  Immediately, sensing her eyes upon him, he turned his own reptilian stare upon her.  It was flat yet penetrating, repulsive yet entrancing.  He offered her a slow, almost stealthy smile, a troubling action that made her skin crawl.  Her imagination soon got the upper hand, and it seemed that he possessed a secret knowledge that he might well use against her.  His grin was entirely too self satisfied, and deep down, she was alarmed.  She couldn't shake the feeling that this imminent robbery wasn't what was uppermost in his mind; despite all the trouble he'd gone to in order to plan it, something wasn't right.

Her imaginings came to an abrupt halt when Herrod's eyes strayed from her and wandered to Cort, the _expression within them changing from amusement to anger.  Both men stared at one another, and she sensed that each was issuing an unspoken warning, Herrod's glare as cold and deadly as a snake's, Cort's resembling an unholy green fire, thoroughly frightening in its intensity. For a moment, Raven wondered if the inevitable showdown between the two of them was at long last going to erupt, but the spell was broken when Cort's horse, Midnight, snorted and stamped the ground.  Raven, who'd always believed in the instincts and wisdom of animals, wondered just how much the beast understood of his master's fury.  Inwardly she breathed a prayer of thanks that Midnight was so perceptive.

She was frightened enough about what would be expected of her, once the stagecoach arrived, without having one more upheaval added to the equation.  Despite her earlier boasts, she didn't have much experience at robbery.  She'd been the lookout only in one of the three robberies she had helped to commit, and with the other two, even though she'd gone into the banks and threatened people, no one, thankfully, had been shot.  She'd waved her gun around and ordered customers to cooperate or risk the consequences, but she'd never had any intention of injuring anyone; in fact, she'd refused to really consider what she'd have done if Cowen or Brady had committed murder.  It wasn't that she didn't realize the danger, but needing money, she hadn't wanted to think about it.

Fortunately, things had always gone smoothly, and escape had been easy, but this current situation was entirely different.  In many ways, this robbery would be easier and less risky, with the road being isolated, out in the countryside, and the law not being anywhere nearby, but those very circumstances were what bothered her.  Herrod didn't seem to be the type to thrive on ease.  She suspected his preferences were bank robberies, home invasions, or money supply coaches, where the risks were maximum, for he loved the thrill of danger.  Why, then, had he chosen a place which was totally against his usual predilections?

She was becoming increasingly uneasy, experiencing anxiety almost identical to that which she'd felt the night she'd injured Brady and killed Cowen.  Her instincts had told her something was wrong then, even before she'd realized that it actually was, and she shuddered at the memory of that night. Although she hadn't admitted it to him, Cort had been right when he'd guessed that she'd acted against her two adversaries in self defense.

Despite her realization on that night, six months previously, that she needed to be on guard, she'd allowed exhaustion to overtake her.  As soon as camp had been struck, she'd fallen asleep, even though she'd only intended to doze.  She'd awakened abruptly to find Cowen crouched over her, his legs between hers.

"Come on now, darlin'," he'd insisted, his breath foul with whiskey, "This is gonna be fun.  I'll show you a good time like you've never had before."

"You fuckin' piece of shit!"  Raven had yelled.  "I'll make you eat your balls for this, I swear!  I'll cut everything you've got off!"

"Naw, you'll be beggin' for more," came the response.

He was already busily at work on his belt buckle, a vulgar leer on his face, and in the background, Brady was laughing, Cowen promising him that his turn would be next.  Cursing herself for removing her gun belt, Raven had called Cowen every filthy name she could think of, while raking her fingernails down his face.  Her efforts had been met with a slap, delivered with such force that she'd seen stars.  Dazed, she'd felt Cowen rip open her blouse and grab her breasts, an action that snapped her out of her lethargy.  He had been holding her wrists in his left hand, but managing to jerk her right hand free of his grasp, she'd gouged her thumbnail into his left eye; she could still feel the gelatinous orb give way beneath the sharp incision.  Cowen had responded with a bloodcurdling scream, throwing both of his hands up to his face, and she'd rolled away, grabbing her guns quickly, extracting one, and warning Brady, who had risen to his feet, to back off.

"I'll kill you for this, you slut!"  Cowen had vowed.  "You've blinded me!  You'll be beggin' me to kill you before I'm through with you!"

"I think not!  You got what you deserve!  I should cut your balls off slowly, but I won't sully my hands to touch something as filthy as you!"

Out of the corner of her eye, Raven had seen Brady move forward.

"Don't even think about it," she'd warned.  "Back off, or I'll shoot you where you stand, you ugly bastard!"

When he'd not heeded her threat, she'd shot him in the kneecap and watched as he hit the ground, rolling in agony, screaming as blood soaked his pants.  She'd intended to leave both men as they were, permanently maimed, but when Cowen, rage overriding his excruciating pain, managed to grab her, his hands closing around her neck, she'd placed her gun against his chest and fired.

He'd looked so stunned, his one good eye staring at her in horror, and then, he'd tumbled backwards, his body crumpling upon the ground.  She'd glanced at Brady, still thrashing wildly, and she'd loaded up her few possessions quickly, mounted Chessy, and ridden hard through the rest of the night, never looking back, although she'd been extremely careful, in the following months, to exercise caution, wondering if Brady would send someone after her.

She blinked hard, trying to squelch the recollection of that night.  Cort saw the gesture; he'd been watching her while she was lost in her memories and guessed that she was in the grip of an especially distressing one.  Her troubled _expression had lasted only briefly; he had to give her credit for being wary around Herrod, but in those few seconds, he'd once again glimpsed her pain. Something she'd evidently buried deep within herself had momentarily arisen, and he wanted nothing so badly as to soothe her.

He silently berated himself for allowing her to return to Herrod; he should have forced her to go back to town, but when he thought about the scenario that would have resulted from even attempting such a feat, he'd had to admit how ridiculous such an idea was.  He sobered for a moment as he considered that maybe he should have followed through on the prospect of going with her, of running away himself.  Would she have gone with him then?  He'd doubted it, but what he doubted even more, if he were honest, was whether he was capable of cutting himself loose from Herrod.  He hated his own weakness, but he knew that Raven had her own frailties where Herrod was concerned; for various reasons, neither one could sever their ties to him easily.

He was fully aware that Herrod had been watching both he and Raven closely, completely conscious of the growing attraction they shared.  The realization worried him.  Herrod would use anything against anyone he wanted to manipulate, and because he'd been unsuccessful in his attempts to mold him into his own image, he'd long wanted to make him pay for his refusal to acquiesce; would Herrod now use Raven to get to him?  He fought a growing suspicion that the approaching heist was designed to turn into something much more than it appeared.

His reverie was broken when Will announced the arrival of the carriage.  Cort quickly mounted Midnight, as did Herrod his own horse, the clip clop of the approaching horses' hooves striking the ground, to the accompaniment of rolling wheels, both sounds coming closer.  Soon, two glossy brown horses appeared from the deepening twilight, and a dark wood coach, expertly shined and polished, came clearly into view.  Atop it, a young man, not more than 25, and well dressed in a black suit, guided the vehicle, humming softly as he did so.  His calmness soon fled, however, when he spied Cort and Herrod emerging from the lengthening shadows, their horses blocking his path. Alarm escalated into near panic when Will, Johnny, Sam, and Raven stepped out from behind the trees which had concealed their presence, the coach swerving as it halted to a rough stop, in danger of toppling over.

"Damn it to hell!"  the driver swore, and his sentiments were echoed by another man, inside the carriage.  In addition, a feminine cry of abject terror was clearly audible.

"Step down from the coach!"  Herrod commanded the driver.

Even though he was carrying his own weapon, the coachman wasted no time complying, finding himself staring down the barrel of his adversary's Smith And Wesson, and he hit the ground without question. As soon as he did, Herrod ordered him to hand over his Colt, and though he hated himself for his cowardice, he knew he had no other choice.  Quickly, he tossed the gun to Johnny.

Once he'd done so, Cort dismounted, walked over to the carriage door, and opened it.

"Kindly step out, sir," he ordered, eyeing the exceedingly well attired, middle aged man within the vehicle, who glared at him defiantly.  "And don't even think about using that gun you're considering drawing at some opportune moment," he added, his gaze moving to the coat pocket the man's hand was resting upon.  "Just give it to me now, and things will go smoothly."

The man's brown eyes narrowed, and his mouth tightened, as he appeared to consider his options, but glancing at his wife, sitting at his side, frozen with fear and clutching his arm, he complied.

Afterward, he stepped slowly out of the stagecoach and then helped his spouse, a rather pretty woman with delicate features, elaborately coifed red hair, and a slightly plump but attractive figure, to alight as well.  More noticeable than her personal traits, however, was the wealth displayed by her clothing and jewelry.  Her dress, made of sky blue silk, had been elegantly cut to mold to her form, and the shawl that she wore on her shoulders was made of intricately designed white lace. Around her throat was a single strand of large, glossy pearls, and two larger, teardrop shaped ones hung from each of her ears. Her left hand was what had caught everyone's attention, however; on it was a huge diamond, that even in the fading light of day, shimmered and shone.

Not that her husband, though far less flashy, looked shabby in comparison.  He wore a black, wool suit, a white silk shirt and dark blue tie.  On his left hand was a thick, gold wedding band, and at his side, a gold pocket watch.  Exceedingly conscious of the attention focused upon his wife, he ran his hands through his thick, gray hair and then stroked his neatly trimmed beard, his jaw set hard, his lips tightening.

Cort, amazed that people would bedeck themselves in such costly jewelry and attire, when outlaws abounded, looked away from the couple long enough to assess his cohorts' reaction to the situation.  Like himself, Raven was as tense as a coiled wire.  As expected, Will, Johnny, and Sam, eyeing the gems on display, were practically salivating with greed.  He dreaded to think what might happen if the man and his wife refused to part with their possessions.  When unnerved him most of all, however, was Herrod.  He looked smug, almost victorious.  And he was staring at Raven, not at the goods for the taking.  Cort caught himself clenching and unclenching his jaw, a cold sweat beginning to trickle down his spine.

"What the hell is the meaning of this escapade?"  the coach's former inhabitant demanded, putting his arm around his wife and pulling her close.  "Our coach is expected in Phoenix right on time, and if we are late, the authorities will start investigating the reason why!"

"The law holds no threat for me and my men," Herrod replied calmly.  "We've gotten rid of a lot of its members over the years, and I'm sure we can take care of a few more if necessary."

The woman let out a terrified sob.

"Oh Edgar!"  she cried.  "What will happen to us?"

Calm down, Nora," Edgar responded, his own voice doing little to reassure her, as it shook slightly with his own fear.  "I'm sure these men will soon let us be on our way."

Will grinned maliciously.

"Now don't go fibbin' to Nora, Ed," he admonished.  "You don't know any such thing."

"That's right," Sam taunted.  "Will here has a really short fuse, and sometimes, he just shoots people because he's in a foul mood, and as for Johnny there, he's sort of like a powder keg.  We don't always know precisely what sets him on edge, but when he does go off, it ain't pretty.  And as for me, I just plain enjoy being mean.  It's sort of a way of takin' out my frustrations, and I just got so damn many of 'em."

All three men offered mocking stares, and Edgar paled, while Nora shook visibly.

"Yessiree, you just never know what can happen with us," Sam continued.  And there's no tellin' what we'll do once we get started..."

"Shut the fuck up, Sam!"  Cort commanded.

Sam complied abruptly, but from rage, not obedience.  His face became beet red, his eyes turning into little more than slits.

"You don't tell me what to do, Mr. High And Mighty!"  he exploded.  "You've always thought you were so much better than the rest of us!  Well, let me tell you a thing or two..."

"If you want to find out not only what I can, but will, do to you, open your mouth again," Cort interrupted.  "Might be rather hard to threaten people with your jaw broken and your teeth missing."

The two men stared at each other for several seconds, but Sam knew Cort never made an idle threat.  He felt the green fury in his opponent's eyes and decided it was to his advantage to remain mute.

"That's enough out of both of you," Herrod admonished.  "Cort, kindly divest Edgar and Nora of their baubles, as well as of any money in his wallet and her purse."

He glanced at Sam, and then at Raven.

"You two, look in the carriage and check for any other valuables there."

Raven headed towards the stagecoach with a heavy heart.  She had believed that the last robbery she had committed with Cowen and Brady had been the last; she'd had all the money she'd needed by then for her trip into Arizona, where after numerous inquiries, she'd heard Herrod was living, and she'd planned, the next morning, to strike out on her own.  She'd often wondered how different her life might have been if she'd just given both men the slip right after that robbery.  She wouldn't have had murder, and what most certainly, on Brady's account, would be attempted murder, hanging over her head, but then, technicalities didn't count for much where the law was concerned.  Bank robbery, on three counts no less, was a hanging offense, and besides, if things went according to her plans, she'd be guilty of another murder soon.

Nevertheless, she despised herself for what she was now doing.  Stealing from a financial institution wasn't something she could justify, and she'd never felt right about it, despite her desperate need for money, but somehow it wasn't as bad as this.  She supposed seeing her victims, right in front of her, had much to do with her feelings.  Stealing from a bank seemed more distant, less involving, but taking personal possessions, from people who had not only done nothing to her, but who were being terrorized by Herrod and his henchmen, made her feel deeply ashamed. Everyone except Cort was enjoying tormenting Edgar and Nora, and she felt despicable being part of their cruelty.  Her only consolation was that Cort looked as miserable as she; at least she wasn't the only one whose conscience was being sorely compromised.

Why, she berated herself, hadn't she just tried to shoot Herrod, at some point, over the past few days, and do what she'd headed out to do in the first place.  But she knew why.  Herrod was always watching her, even when it appeared his interest was elsewhere, and it would take all her wits, cleverness, and instincts, to outsmart him.  But she would; she had promised herself that she would meet the challenge he presented, and she would not, could not, fail.

There was nothing in the stagecoach's interior; all of the valuables were in Edgar's wallet and on his and Nora's person.  As she closed the coach's door, Raven watched Nora tearfully unscrew the earring on her left ear and hand it to Cort, sadly watching it join the one from her right ear, that she had already deposited.  She honestly didn't know who looked more crestfallen, Nora or Cort.  His forehead was creased in a deep frown, and his mouth had tightened into a taunt line, his eyes clouded with shame and regret.

The only piece of jewelry now left were Nora's wedding band and engagement ring.  She sobbed heartrendingly as she tugged at the latter, but before she could remove it, her husband put his hand over hers to stop her.

"Surely you would allow my wife to keep her wedding rings," he insisted, appealing to Herrod. "You have my wallet and watch, as well as Nora's earrings and necklace.  All of those items, together, will provide you with a small fortune."

"Sorry, Ed," Herrod replied.  "That's too big a rock to let go of.  Have your pretty little wife hand it over."

"Please!"  Nora begged.  "It is so special to me..."

"Pretty special to me too with what it must be worth."

"It can never be replaced!" 

Sobs continued to rack Nora's frame.

"I'm loosing patience here!"  Herrod warned.  "Quit whining and hand those rings over, or you're not going to like the measures I'll take to relieve you of them!"

"I beg you!"  Nora pleaded.

Cort could stand no more.

"For God's sake, Herrod!"  he thundered.  "Let her keep her fuckin' rings!  You've got more than enough, and you don't need what you've already taken!  Are you so fuckin' greedy that you can't even allow her to keep her own wedding rings!"

Herrod stared at Cort, but instead of exploding back at him, he smiled slyly, his eyes like a lizard's.

"Where Nora and her husband are going, Cort, she won't need any rings...or anything else for that matter," he pronounced. 

Cort froze at the impact of Herrod's words, his blood almost ceasing to flow.  Raven felt as if her stomach had turned to lead, her entire body quivering.

She knew what Herrod was going to command even before he opened his mouth to speak.  She'd known it ever since she'd seen him studying her, while waiting for the stagecoach's arrival.  Frankly, she'd known it ever since he'd agreed to let her join his gang.

"You know what," he suggested.  I'm going to play the good Samaritan today.  Why don't we let Nora die with her beloved rings on?  I'll collect them later."

He gestured to Raven's gun, which she was gripping tightly in her hand.

"I'll let you do the honors," he insisted, his eyes boring into hers.  "Let's see you do some real shootin', not like that show stopping stuff you did when you stripped the tree of its bark."

He grinned, a grotesque action that was pure evil.

"Did you think you'd impressed me," he questioned.  "Well, you didn't.  You just proved you could handle a gun, nothing more.  But making it count, as in actually shooting a person, just because you can, are two different things."

His smile faded, and his eyes glittered with anticipation.

"Let's see you prove your worth, Raven," he urged.  "Let's see if you're really as tough as you say you are."

She fought the overwhelming desire to vomit.

"Why do you want to kill them," she asked, trying to stall for time, until she could think of some way to get not just herself, but Nora and Edgar, out of their predicament.  "They can't do anything to you.  They've cooperated.  You have their jewelry, their money...they've handed over everything you've asked them to."

"I thought you were smarter than that," Herrod replied.  "It should be obvious.  First, we don't need to leave behind two wealthy witnesses who will have both the incentive and the financial means to hire someone to track us down.  Second, you were so anxious to convince me that you were worthy of my time and interest, so prove it."

"I did prove it!  I agreed to participate in this robbery which, quite obviously, has been nothing but a sorry excuse to torment people!  What I did not agree to is cold blooded murder!" 

The impact of what she had just said hit Raven like a blow.  She felt the blood drain from her face from the folly of her last sentence.  She had given herself completely away by uttering it.  Herrod smiled delightedly, enjoying the fact that she'd fallen into a trap.

"Ah, so you do have distaste for killing after all," he observed.  "You killed Cowen in self defense then, didn't you, just as I suspected."

Raven felt her heart thunder, and beside her, she heard Cort suck in his breath sharply.

Herrod laughed aloud.

"Did you think I wouldn't figure you out," he asked.  "I had you pegged within minutes after you walked into my camp.  You put on a good performance, I'll admit, and you're one hell of a shot, but I've seen your _expression when you look at Cort here.  A killer wouldn't have feelings for him. You're not what you profess.  You lied to me, and not just about your motives concerning Brady and Cowen.  I haven't figured out quite who you are yet, but you came here to kill me, didn't you?"

There were no words with which Raven could counter his accusations, and she felt panic bubble up within her, knowing there was no escape.  Her heart was hammering within her chest, and an icy sweat broke out upon her skin.

"I don't like being lied to, Raven," Herrod resumed, watching her face, enjoying her rising panic, "and I sure as hell don't like being toyed with.  You would have stood a better chance of reaching your goal if you'd faced me fair and square and made it clear you wanted to murder me.  And we both know how pitiful your chances would have been in that situation.  Imagine what they are now."

He leaned back upon his horse for a moment and then dismounted.  He withdrew his pistol on the right side of his gun belt, aiming the Smith And Wesson straight at her.  His eyes were full of amusement and triumph.

"You got two choices," he offered.  "You can either shoot Edgar and Nora, or I'll shoot you.  You decide."

Raven knew she was trapped.  There was no way out.  It was either her life or those of the couple she'd helped rob.  The problem was she couldn't shoot Edgar and Nora, and she couldn't outshoot Herrod.  Her terror dissipated in the sense of disappointment and failure that she wasn't going to be able to kill Herrod after all.  Yet again, it seemed he was the victor; she steeled herself for the impact of the bullet.

When the gun finally fired, she was surprised there was no pain, that was until she realized that she wasn't the one who'd been shoot.  She'd barely had time to register the fact that Herrod had dropped his gun, the sleeve of his shirt soaked with blood, before watching him attempt to go for his other pistol with his left hand, and then seeing him shot in his left arm as well.  She watched with utter disbelief, as he sank to his knees, both of his shirt sleeves scarlet.  His guns lay where he'd dropped them, but he was in so much pain that he couldn't reach for either.  Finally looking away, she saw Cort staring at Herrod as well, his Remington .44 still smoking.

Will and Johnny stood dumbfounded, not knowing what to do now that their leader was incapacitated, but Sam, almost as quick as Cort, aimed straight at him.  Cort, still stunned at his own actions, saw him, but his reflexes were slowed by the shock of what he had done.  Raven's reaction occurred in a split second, though, the instinct to protect Cort kicking in.  She shot Sam in the chest, his feet lifting momentarily off the ground at the impact.  He fell to the ground with a thud, a river of red running down the front of his shirt. 

She had no remorse.  Sam deserved no better than what he had gotten.  Given his nature, she was probably saving a lot of people grave harm or worse.

She turned to Will and Johnny.

"Drop your weapons now, or you'll get the same," she warned.

They complied immediately, no questions asked, running from the scene like frenzied rabbits.

She turned to Nora and Edgar and their driver.

"Get the hell out of here!"  she commanded.

They wasted no time heading for the coach.

"Wait!"  Cort demanded, fishing into his pocket and extracting the couple's jewelry and Edgar's wallet.  He held them out to Raven, never taking his eyes off Herrod.  "Give them these."

Seconds later, the coach was gone, fading quickly out of sight.

Still perched on his knees, unable to stand from pain and blood loss, his right hand clutching his left arm, and vice versa, Herrod was staring at Cort, unable to believe that the man whom he'd practically raised since childhood would actually shoot him.  He'd always had mixed feelings about Cort, proud of his skill and his intelligence, but disgusted by his inability to become a killer. He felt betrayed, but nevertheless, he couldn't entirely say that he'd never seen this moment coming; he and Cort had been headed for it for quite some time.  Still, he was stunned.  He'd striven so hard to make Cort an extension of himself; how could Cort commit such a transgression, not only shooting him but doing it while he was off guard?  Herrod realized he'd never really known Cort.  He had to suddenly fight the urge to smile, though.  Maybe Cort was more like him than he'd thought; he'd delivered a sly, cunning, blow, clearly having no qualms about doing whatever he must.

Cort had retrieved Herrod's guns, but he was still mesmerized by the sight of the blood continuing to flow down Herrod's sleeves.  He wondered if he'd die.  He hadn't meant to kill him, just stop him before he could kill Raven.  As his and Herrod's gazes remained locked, he saw within the older man's eyes that, if he survived, he'd make it his mission to track him down, and when he did, his death wouldn't be easy.

Suddenly, he was tempted to finish the job, to go ahead and kill Herrod.  It would undoubtedly be better for a lot of people, not just himself, if he did.  He thought of what Herrod had done to his life, and before long, his finger was resting, once again, on the hammer of his gun.  All he had to do was pull it back, aim, and fire; it would be so easy.  Herrod's eyes glittered, as if silently urging him on, and it was in that moment, that Cort realized Herrod would be the victor if he gave in; Herrod would make him a murderer, transforming him, by his death, into what he couldn't make of him while he was alive.

"What are you waiting for, Cort," Herrod asked.

"I'm not waiting for anything.  I won't kill you.  I won't give you the satisfaction of making me like you."

"You'll be sorry if you don't shoot me."

"Only if you can catch me."

"You know I will."

"That's a chance I'll take."

"Not a smart one.  You know I'll find you.  Besides, you know you're like me, deep down.  I can see what you want to do.  Go ahead; do what I'd do if the circumstances were reversed."

Cort smiled bitterly.

"No, Herrod, I won't do what you'd do.  I'm not like you.  For all the work that you put into creating me in your own image, when it comes right down to it, you've failed.  And you know that, deep down.  It's what has made you hate me for so long."

Herrod opened his mouth to retort, but his eyes shifted, and Cort looked around in time to see Raven point her Smith and Wesson at Herrod's head.

"I agree with you, Cort," she offered.  "You shouldn't shoot the bastard.  That's my right."

Cort reacted quickly.

"Don't do it, Raven," he responded.  "Whatever your reasons for wanting him dead, it will only add to the burden you're carrying now.  He's right in his assumption that you're no killer.  If you shoot him, you'll regret it later."

"Don't presume to be my conscience," she warned.  "You know nothing about why I hate Herrod. If you did, you'd offer me one of your bullets with which to shoot him."

"Let him go.  He may never shoot again, or even live, for that matter, as it is."