Comanche Heart

by Catherine Anderson

  When Hunter spotted the scalp, he froze. After studying it for an endless moment, he turned his luminous gaze on Swift. There was no mistaking the doubt in his eyes. Swift did laugh then, a shaky, humorless laugh.

  “I didn’t do this,” he repeated, lifting his hands in supplication. “You can’t believe I did. Not you, Hunter.”

  “Go get the sheriff!” someone yelled.

  “He ain’t back yet,” another replied.

  “Somebody ride to Jacksonville and tell him to get back here straight away! We got us a murder on our hands.”

  “I’ll go,” a man yelled. He no sooner spoke than Swift saw him run down the hill.

  “We could fetch Mr. Black. He’s the coroner. He’s authorized to make arrests in case of murder.”

  “Do it,” Joe Shipley barked.

  A feeling of unreality washed over Swift. Good God, they were going to lock him up. He imagined the bars closing in around him, the claustrophobic breathlessness. He considered running, but his feet felt welded to the ground. He looked at the gathering crowd. On every face, he saw accusation and revulsion. This couldn’t be happening.

  A distant voice yelled, “Here’s the body!” Everyone looked toward the Crentons’ barn. A man came staggering out. Bracing his hands on his knees, he gagged and took several deep breaths. “His throat’s been slit! God have mercy, his throat’s been slit!”

  Alice Crenton began to keen, a soft, eerie sound that crawled up Swift’s spine like icy fingers. He was vaguely aware that Loretta had joined the crowd, Indigo and Chase on either side of her. Her face was deathly white, her large eyes filled with incredulity and horror. She stepped away from the children to stand by Hunter, her gaze riveted to Swift’s.

  “I didn’t do it,” Swift repeated.

  “If you didn’t, who did?” someone asked. “Ain’t likely any of us’d scalp the poor bugger.”

  A general grumble of agreement rose above the crowd. Loretta threw a frightened glance at the scalp. She said nothing, but the sudden doubt that crossed her face spoke volumes. Stung pride burned its way up Swift’s throat. He drew back his shoulders and raised his head. He had been guilty of many things in his lifetime, but never lying. If Hunter didn’t know that, then there was nothing more that he could say.

  Amy was just putting the finishing touches on her hair when a frantic knock drew her to the front door. For an instant she wondered if she had somehow overslept. She glanced at the clock. Right on schedule. She had plenty of time for coffee at Loretta’s before work. Puzzled, she drew the portal wide. Indigo stood on the front porch, her face streaked with tears, the bruise on her cheek a livid red, her tawny hair wind-tossed from running.

  “Aunt Amy, my father wants you over at our house. Quickly! Something terrible has happened!”

  A tingle of alarm slithered up Amy’s spine. “What?”

  Indigo licked her lips, gulped for air, and then blurted, “Uncle Swift killed Abe Crenton last night! Slit his throat and scalped him!”

  Amy’s legs nearly buckled. She grabbed for the door to right herself. “What?”

  “You heard me! Abe Crenton’s dead! Everyone thinks Uncle Swift did it. Mr. Black put him in jail for murder.”

  “Oh, my God.” Amy hurried out onto the porch. She glanced toward town, then looked over at the schoolhouse. “Indigo, can you run put a note on the schoolhouse door saying that class won’t be held today?”

  “Yes. Do you have paper for me to write it on?”

  Amy was already heading down the steps. “In my bedroom in the top bureau drawer,” she called over her shoulder.

  Amy broke into a run. Her heels slammed against the earth, the impact jarring through her body. Swift. In jail? For murder? No! It seemed as if the main street of town stretched for miles before her. She lifted her skirts and leaped onto the boardwalk, petticoats flying, pantalets flashing.

  Up ahead she saw a large group of men gathered in front of the jailhouse. She cut across the street. As she drew up near them, they closed ranks against her, shoulder to shoulder, barring her path to the jailhouse.

  “Ain’t nobody goin’ in there ’til Marshal Hilton gets back,” Mr. Johnson hissed.

  Hatred glimmered in the men’s eyes. Amy knew a group in this frame of mind could easily become a mob. The small, clapboard jailhouse looked pitifully inadequate. No fortress, certainly. If these men decided to go in after Swift, there was nothing to stop them. The Lowdry brothers stood a little apart from the group, off to her right. Their close proximity made her skin crawl.

  She pressed her hands to her waist, horribly aware that approaching the jail had been a mistake. If she said the wrong thing to these men, if she made them any more angry than they already were . . . “I, um—” A tremor ran up the backs of her legs. “I didn’t intend to go inside. I just heard the commotion and wondered what was going on.”

  Hank Lowdry spat tobacco juice. The spray came perilously close to Amy’s skirt. “Your friend Mr. Lopez murdered Abe Crenton, that’s what. Slit his throat and scalped him!”

  Amy flinched at the words. Taking a step back, she said, “Why are you certain Mr. Lopez did it?”

  “Don’t take a genius to figure it out. We’re certain,” someone snarled.

  Amy sought out the voice. She focused on Joe Shipley, Jeremiah’s father. He held a rope coiled in one hand. Holy Mother. Where was Hunter? She darted a glance over her shoulder. Was he aware of how close these men were to lynching his best friend?

  “Surely a man’s guilt or innocence is something for Marshal Hilton or a jury to decide,” she said shakily.

  Joe Shipley stepped out from the group. “You think Hilton’s God? We pay him wages to keep this goddamn town safe. He’s allowed a murderin’ savage into our midst. Which just goes to show he ain’t no smarter than the next man. Maybe not as smart. The rest of us knew from the first that Lopez meant trouble.”

  Amy had known Joe Shipley and many of the others for years. Most of them had children who came to her for instruction. She was on friendly terms with their wives. But today they looked like strangers, eyes wild, their faces contorted with rage. If someone didn’t calm them down, they were likely to do something terrible.

  Lifting her chin, Amy riveted Joe Shipley with her most chilling schoolmarm glare. “Isn’t,” she corrected softly.

  Shipley’s eyebrows shot up. “What?”

  “Ain’t is incorrect,” she elaborated. “You meant to say is not, or, in this case, a contraction thereof, which is isn’t.”

  Shipley’s eyes bugged.

  Amy stiffened her spine and spent an agonizing second in heartfelt prayer that Shipley wouldn’t decide to throttle her. The veins in his temples were swelling until they looked ready to burst. No wonder Jeremiah was always coming to school quoting his father. The man had a forceful air about him.

  Drawing on all her courage, Amy cleared her throat and added, “I’ll also remind you to watch your language, Mr. Shipley. You are in the presence of a lady.”

  A flush crept up Shipley’s neck. She continued to stare at him. He shuffled uncomfortably, then cleared his throat.

  “I beg your pardon.”

  Amy gave an almost imperceptible nod. “I realize tempers are running high. But we mustn’t forget ourselves in the heat of the moment. School has been canceled for the day, so the children are apt to come by later. It’s our responsibility as adults to set an example.”

  Striving to keep her expression stern, Amy ran her gaze over the other men. Most seemed loath to look her in the eye.

  Heartened, she homed in on Michael Bronson. “I’m sure Theodora and little Michael will be out and about today, Mr. Bronson. In fact, you might pass word along to Tess, so she’ll know there’s no school.”

  Mike scratched his head and looked sheepish. Relief flooded through Amy. Reminding these men of home and hearth had taken the wind out of their sails, at least momentarily. She doubted it would take much to relight their fuses, though.

  “We
ll.” She folded her hands, hoping she looked suitably ladylike and stuffy. “Since Marshal Hilton hasn’t returned as yet, I suppose I’ll await his arrival over at the Wolfs’.” She inclined her head. “Good day to you.”

  With that, Amy spun and directed her steps across the street. It took all her strength of will not to burst into a run as she climbed the steps to Loretta’s house and crossed the porch. Her hand shook as she grasped the knob and opened the front door.

  The sight that greeted her when she stepped into the parlor made her stop dead. Rifles lay across the dining table. Hunter stood to one side, checking and loading weapons and issuing orders. Loretta scurried back and forth between the gun cabinet and her husband. Indigo was already back. Both she and Chase were likewise occupied. Amy shut the door and leaned against it.

  Hunter glanced up. “Can you remember how to use a rifle?”

  “Yes.”

  Hunter gave a curt nod. “If things get out of hand, we may be the only hope Swift has. Guilty or no, he deserves a fair trial as much as the next man.”

  “You think he’s guilty?”

  Grim-lipped, Hunter picked up his Winchester, opened the lever, then threw it closed to bring a cartridge in line with the chamber.

  “Answer me! Does Swift admit to it? Surely he said.”

  Loretta set a handful of cartridges on the table. “Abe’s dead, and it looks as if Swift did it. With that crowd milling around over there with a rope at the ready, we haven’t had time to get beyond that.”

  Amy’s stomach lurched. “Wh-what does Swift say?”

  “That he didn’t do it,” Loretta said softly. “But the evidence says otherwise.”

  “But if he says he didn’t do it—”

  Loretta grabbed a rag and began oiling the barrel of a rifle. She glanced over at her son. “Chase Kelly, go up into the loft and clear the furniture away from the windows, please.”

  “What for?” Chase asked.

  “If there’s trouble, we can cover your father better from the second floor. When you have the furniture moved, stay up there and stand watch over the jail. If any of those fools start to go inside, holler down to us.”

  Chase leaped to do his mother’s bidding. Loretta turned toward Indigo. “You can be drawing and locking the shutters at the rear of the house. Bolt the back door as well. If there’s trouble, we don’t want any back-door callers.”

  It looked as if the Wolfs were preparing for war. It hit Amy suddenly that Swift’s life might not be the only one in peril. “Oh, Hunter, you can’t take on the whole town by yourself. This is madness!”

  Hunter lifted another rifle, “The madness is out in the street.” His gaze caught hers. “Pray Marshal Hilton gets back here in time to calm those fellows down. They aren’t thinking straight right now.”

  “Have they all lost their minds? Swift may not be guilty. How can they contemplate killing a man until they’re sure?”

  Hunter’s mouth thinned. “It looks bad for Swift, Amy. Very bad. Even I—” He broke off and wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist. “He claims he didn’t do it. But if he didn’t, who did? It wouldn’t look quite so bad for him if he hadn’t threatened Abe.”

  “He didn’t say anything specific.” Feeling useless, Amy sorted the .44-40 cartridges from the rest and set them by Hunter’s Winchester.

  “We’re not talking about what Swift said after the fight.” Hunter loaded the tube of his seven-shot breech-loading repeater. After inserting the tube into the stock, he raised the Spencer to his shoulder and sighted down its barrel. “He made other threats we weren’t aware of.” Cheek still aligned with the rifle barrel, he looked up at her. “Inside the saloon before the fight began.”

  The tormented expression in Hunter’s eyes filled Amy with dread. “Wh-what kind of threats?”

  Hunter set the loaded rifle aside and pinched the bridge of his nose. Judging by his reluctance to speak, Amy knew she should expect the worst.

  “Several people heard Swift tell Abe Crenton a story, about a Comanche who slit a wife beater’s throat and hung his scalp on his gatepost, for all to see.”

  Amy couldn’t feel her feet. She laughed, the sound shrill and tremulous. “That’s insane! Why would Swift tell him that?”

  “To scare him, I imagine.”

  “But only a fool would tell someone a story like that and then do it!”

  “A fool, yes. Or perhaps a man who flew into a rage.”

  Trapped air shivered up Amy’s throat. She gripped a chair back for support. Had Swift gone to the saloon last night after leaving her? Had he become embroiled in a confrontation with Abe Crenton? “I don’t think Swift’s a fool. And I don’t think he’s one to act rashly, either. Besides, all he did was tell a story. That’s not exactly a threat, is it?”

  Hunter ran his hand along the stock of the Spencer. “What is everyone to think, Amy? Swift said the words, and now they have come to be. Who else in this town would slit a man’s throat and then scalp him? Me? Scalp taking isn’t something a white man would do.”

  “But Swift says he didn’t do it!”

  “So he says.”

  “I have to go talk to him,” she whispered.

  “Not until Marshal Hilton gets back. Once he gets those men under control, we’ll go over and see if we can’t get to the bottom of this. Right now, a show of support for Swift could trigger trouble.” He motioned for her to take a seat. “All we can do is watch and wait. If they get out of hand . . .” He patted the butt of the Spencer. “I taught you how to shoot this once. Do you remember?”

  Amy nodded and sank onto a chair. “You really think I may have to use it, don’t you? That they might try to lynch him?”

  Loretta laid down the rifle she had been oiling. She took a deep breath and lifted a frightened gaze to Amy’s. “That’s why we mustn’t go over. With Marshal Hilton gone, any kind of confrontation is risky. Tempers are high.”

  Amy glanced at Hunter. “If—they get out of hand, can we stop them?”

  Hunter’s face darkened. “We must.”

  Amy pictured Swift being dragged to a hanging tree. If she had to, could she shoot Joe Shipley or Mike Bronson? Sweat popped out all over her body. She closed her eyes, feeling sick. “You both think he did it, don’t you?”

  Loretta reached across the table to touch Amy’s shoulder. “There’s something more Hunter hasn’t mentioned. Swift wasn’t here last night. I got up a little after one for a drink of water, and he wasn’t on his pallet.”

  Amy sat back in her chair. “You know he was with me.”

  “But for how long?”

  “It was just after two when he left.”

  Loretta threw a hopeful glance at Hunter. “Judging from the condition of the body, Mr. Black guesses Abe died between midnight and two in the morning, give or take an hour either way. That means Swift might have been with Amy during the time of the murder.”

  Hunter held up a hand. “You forget the give-or-take of an hour. That’s four hours total. Who can say where Swift went after visiting Amy? Unless she can swear Swift was at her house the entire night. . . .”

  It wasn’t necessary for him to say more. Amy squeezed her eyes closed.

  “Marshal Hilton just rode up,” Chase yelled from the loft. “And that dad-burned Brandon Marshall and his friends are here, too. Going into the saloon.”

  Hunter strode to the parlor window and peered out. “What’s happening?” Amy asked.

  “For now, just a lot of talk. Brandon and his bunch haven’t gone down by the jail. Their horses are all in front of the Lucky Nugget. I guess Pete must be tending bar as usual. It’s probably a good thing. Maybe they’ll get to talking and stay clear of things for a while. If Brandon can stir up tempers, he’ll do it, just to get even for what happened yesterday.”

  “Can you hear anything at all of what the others are saying to Marshal Hilton?” Loretta asked.

  Hunter pulled the curtain farther back and motioned them to silence. �
�They’re just telling him what happened.” After watching a while longer, he let the curtain fall and turned back to the room. “Well, they didn’t try to follow him inside the jail. That’s a good sign. Let’s give him time to talk with Swift alone. Then we’ll go over and see what we can find out.”

  Loretta puffed air at the tendrils of hair on her forehead. “If anyone can reason with those men, it’ll be Marshal Hilton. He’s got a way about him.”

  Amy pressed a hand to her throat, imagining a rope biting into her neck, cutting off her air. She couldn’t let that happen to Swift. She just couldn’t.

  Though the sound was nearly drowned out by a rumble of angry voices outside, Swift heard the door to the jailhouse open and close. Heavy, measured footsteps crossed the planked floor to his cell. He recognized the tread and didn’t bother to open his eyes.

  “Well, Lopez,” Marshal Hilton said in a musing tone. “Looks to me like you’re in a hell of a fix. I hate to interrupt your nap, but you’ve got some questions to answer.”

  Sweat trickled from behind Swift’s ear down his neck. His throat felt parchment dry. “Yeah, it’s a hell of a fix all right. Do those fellows out front have a noose ready for me yet?”

  Hilton sighed. “Talk never strung anybody up.”

  Swift could hear a man outside yelling, “Hang the bastard!” It wasn’t a very encouraging note.

  Hilton heaved another sigh. “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “Don’t be so goddamn stubborn! From the sound of that bunch out there, this is no time for pride. Did you do it or not?”

  “No.”

  “I reckon that’s good enough for me.”

  That brought Swift’s eyes open. He jerked his head around. “You believe me?”

  Hilton pursed his lips. “There’s some who’d tell me what I wanted to hear, just to get out of here. I know from experience you aren’t one of them.”