But tonight, he had been confronted with the most important reason he had to leave—the overwhelming tenderness that had rushed through him as he looked down at his stepmother and new half-sister. He knew that he was in love with Katie Dandaneau.
He now understood that he probably had felt that way from the first moment he saw her. He shook his head at the disturbing realization. Katie had treated him as a friend as well as a stepson, but he knew that he wanted more than that from her. If he stayed, sooner or later she would find out how strongly he was attracted to her, and then she would have to choose between his father and him.
White Eagle didn’t want that to happen. Katie loved his father. He had no right to come between them...
Deep in thought, he rode on, his horse plodding slowly down Third Street.
Sergeant Harrison Hull and four cavalry troopers had been drinking in a narrow, windowless saloon called The Lucky Duck—an improbable name for a place so seedy—since early evening. Addie Plunket's brothel might be off-limits, but Abilene's streets were lined with saloons that would welcome the soldiers.
This was the first evening Hull had had off since the brawl at Addie's, and a part of him wanted to cut loose and really howl. But he had decided to control that urge. He drank heavily, but he didn’t get drunk. He watched, a cold calm in his pale eyes, as his companions guzzled whiskey and took turns pawing the two tired whores who worked in the Lucky Duck as bargirls. The troopers could have their fun. Hull knew he would take his pleasure later.
His dislike of White Eagle Dandaneau had grown into hate, and he had nurtured the hatred for days. Hull would have almost welcomed an attack by Bear Knife and his renegades. Shooting a few Indians for practice would have felt good. But as time passed and nothing happened, Hull had begun to worry that he wouldn’t see any action. He had watched that morning as half the troop pulled out to head west and join in the search for Bear Knife. He should have been in command of that detail, he thought bitterly.
But that prig Winters wouldn’t give it to him. As the days went by with no sign of Bear Knife, Harrison Hull knew that the rest of the troop would soon be withdrawn from Abilene. If that happened, Hull would have to wait to settle his score with Dandaneau, and he knew he might never have another opportunity.
That was why he had to take care of things tonight. Hull had sulked and moaned and hinted until Winters had given him the evening off just to shut him up, despite the shorthandedness that the captain had complained about. Years of manipulating young shavetails had taught the wily veteran sergeant how to get what he wanted.
Hull also knew how to deal with the other troopers. He kept the booze flowing and spun hair-raising yarns of Indian atrocities. These soldiers were young, had not seen a great deal of action, and didn’t know just what the savages were capable of. But Hull filled their ears with his blood-drenched tales of rape and murder, and it wasn’t long before they were ready to go out and look for an Indian to kill.
The sergeant bided his time and waited until it was early morning. When he was good and ready, he drained the last of the whiskey in the bottle in front of him, shoved back his chair, and stood up.
"C'mon, Woodard," he growled to the trooper who was sitting at the table with him. "Get your buddies. We got places to go and things to do."
"Like what, Sarge?" Private Woodard asked, looking up at Hull with a bleary stare.
"You'll see," Hull replied cryptically. He didn’t want to tell the others what he had planned just in case any of them decided to back out. They would be less likely to balk if they thought they were acting on the spur of the moment.
Woodard put his hands on the table and pushed himself to his feet. He staggered over to the other soldiers and told them, "Sarge says we're leavin'."
One of the men was leaning on the bar, drinking from a bottle. He put it down with a thump and shook his head. "Not ready t'go back t'camp," he slurred.
The other two troopers were busy running their hands over the bargirls, and they showed even less inclination to leave. Woodard had no luck getting any of them to come with him. Waiting impatiently at the door, Hull turned and saw the privates ignoring Woodard.
"Get over here, you bastards!" Hull roared. At his bellow, the reluctant troopers leaped to their feet and rushed over. The barman was the only other man in the room, and he watched the show with a bored look on his face.
Hull glowered at the troopers and then said, "Don't you men know that it's after midnight? We're supposed to be back in camp by now."
One of the soldiers muttered an obscenity. The others didn’t seem to comprehend what Hull was saying.
The sergeant grinned broadly. "I don't reckon ol' Cap'n Winters is goin' to be waitin' up for us, and I know the fella on guard duty tonight. He ain't goin' to be spreadin' no stories about when we came in. So I guess we can go have us a little more fun."
A ragged cheer went up from the men, and Hull knew that even in their drunken state they would do whatever he wanted. Even if it meant laying waste to that whorehouse where White Eagle Dandaneau was staying while Hull dealt with the scout himself.
The Lucky Duck was on Spruce Street, near the corner of Railroad Avenue. A sidewalk ran along the street, although it wasn’t as elaborate as the boardwalks of Texas Street. With the troopers following behind him, Hull walked onto the planks. The sergeant paused, taking a deep breath and listening to the silence of the sleeping town.
In the stillness he heard the distant clattering of horse's hooves.
It was a lone rider, he judged, moving along one of the streets a couple of blocks north, on the other side of the Kansas Pacific tracks. Some instinct told Hull to wave a hand and hiss a warning at the men with him. Staying in the shadows, he moved toward the sound, squinting through the darkness.
The rider moved across the intersection of Spruce and Third. Hull's breath caught in his throat. Even at this distance, in the gloom, he recognized the tall, lean figure wearing a distinctive broad-brimmed hat.
Dandaneau...
An expression that was part smile and part grimace tugged at Hull's wide mouth. He wouldn’t have to look for Dandaneau now. His chance for revenge had just ridden past him, unsuspecting. Although he regretted that he no longer had an excuse to start another ruckus at Addie Plunket's, Hull realized it would be safer to jump Dandaneau while the half-breed was alone.
Hull's hands balled into fists, and his heart was pounding. He was going to enjoy teaching Dandaneau a lesson.
And if in the process he cheated the renegade called Bear Knife of his chance to kill Dandaneau... Well, he wasn’t going to worry about disappointing some murdering redskin, he thought.
"Keep your damn mouths shut and come on," he hissed sharply at his companions. "Any man who makes too much noise will answer to me.”
With Hull leading the way, the soldiers scurried down the boardwalk. When they reached Third Street, they turned west and spotted Dandaneau walking his horse only a little more than a block ahead of them. Hull motioned them forward and broke into a run. The dust of the street muffled his footsteps.
Exhaustion and his own muddled thoughts prevented White Eagle from being as aware of his surroundings as he normally was. At last some instinct warned him that danger threatened, and he straightened abruptly in the saddle and twisted around just as a shadowy form hurtled at him.
Before he could react, the attacker slammed into him, and powerful arms encircled his waist. As his horse shied away, the scout felt himself sliding out of the saddle. One of his feet caught in a stirrup, and he had a frightening vision of being dragged to his death as the animal bolted. But then someone else grabbed him, and his foot wrenched painfully out of the stirrup.
White Eagle heard several sets of footsteps as more men surrounded him. The first man still held him in a bear hug. The scout tried to drive an elbow into his opponent's midsection, but it glanced off the man's ribs. White Eagle's own ribs, still sore from his tumble down the stairs at Addie's, ached agonizingly as t
he man increased the pressure on them.
A familiar voice grunted in White Eagle's ear, "Help me get the red-skinned bastard into that alley over there!"
Hull!
Knowing who his opponent was made White Eagle struggle that much harder. There were three or four troopers with the sergeant, and they were able to pull and shove him into the deep shadows of an alley while Hull maintained his painful grip on him.
Once they were in the alley between a store and a warehouse, Hull suddenly ran toward the wall of the warehouse. He planted a hand in the middle of White Eagle's back and shoved hard, propelling the scout into the wall with brutal force. White Eagle managed to lift his hands to take some of the impact, but he was unable to keep his head from slamming against the bricks. He staggered back as pain exploded behind his eyes.
Struggling to stay upright, White Eagle felt a foot thrust between his legs. He fell, landing heavily on a shoulder. Hull loomed over him, growling, "Get him on his feet!"
Two troopers leaned down and grabbed White Eagle's arms, jerking him up so abruptly that it felt as if his arms were being torn from their shoulder sockets. He gasped and sagged in the grip of the men, telling himself that he had to fight back but unable to find the strength to do so. The long night had simply drained him of all energy.
"Hang on to him," Hull said. As the sergeant moved in, the scout could see his bunched and ready fists, and he knew what was coming. He tried to tighten his stomach muscles to withstand the blow.
Hull's fist smashed into him like the kick of a mule. White Eagle felt the air driven out of his lungs, felt his stomach spasm. There was nothing there, however, since Katie had gone into labor before they had a chance to eat supper, so dry heaves wracked White Eagle's body. He wasn’t sick for very long. Another punch followed the first one a moment later.
As in the fight at Addie's, the troopers held White Eagle while Hull pounded him unmercifully. The scout was in agony from his waist to his shoulders as Hull's big fists slammed into him again and again. Finally, the pain began to ease, only to be replaced by a frightening numbness. White Eagle's mind floated up and out of his body so that he could look down on the horrifying scene in the alley.
He was going to die. He knew that. But at least he had gotten to see little Josephine before his time was up, and he knew that Katie had come through the birth all right. That was something to hang on to as his grip on his own life slipped away.
From somewhere far away, he heard Hull say, "All right, let the bastard go."
After the troopers released him, he fell for what seemed like an eternity into a long dark chasm. At long last, his face hit the dirt of the alley, and dust was driven into his mouth and nose. He gasped, trying to clear away the dust and drag air into his lungs. He wasn’t dead yet. That fact surprised him.
"I've had my fun," Hull went on. "Reckon it's time for you boys to have yours. Let's stomp the red-skinned heathen good and proper." His laugh was harsh. "You won't be able to do a damn thing for that whore of yours after we get through with you, Dandaneau."
He heard Hull laugh again as a booted foot slammed into his body. White Eagle was aware of being lifted slightly by the kick. Then another one hit him, and another...
A vagrant wind spun down the alley, kicking up little dust devils and causing the trash littered there to blow this way and that. A piece of paper skittered along the ground and suddenly stopped against White Eagle's face.
Slowly, the scout raised his hand. By the time his fingers reached his cheek, the blood seeping from the cuts had stained the scrap of paper crimson. He fumbled at the paper, pulled it away from his battered features, and then released it to let it blow away on the breeze.
He was alive. God knew how it had happened, but Hull and the others had not killed him.
He moaned. Death might be better than this pain. He felt as if he had been beaten from head to toe.
White Eagle lifted his hand a little higher and let his fingers gingerly explore his head. Although the slightest touch set off blasts inside his skull, he decided after a minute that he had no serious injuries there. His face was a mass of cuts and scrapes, and one sore lump had risen on the side of his head, but that was the extent of the damage.
His torso was another story. As he tried to roll over and sit up, he could tell that his taped midsection had been battered and bruised. The muscles refused to work for long minutes, and when he was finally able to pull himself to a sitting position, he almost shrieked at the pain.
But he had made it this far, he thought as he gritted his teeth to hold in the scream. He would make it the rest of the way. Once he was on his feet, he could find help.
The thought of yelling for assistance occurred to him, but he doubted that anyone would hear him at this hour and in this place. His vision was a little blurred, but it was clear enough for him to tell that it was a long while before dawn. The night was as dark as it had been when Hull and his men had jumped him.
To keep his mind off the pain, White Eagle wondered what the devil Hull had been doing in town. The cavalry troop had been split in half, and Captain Winters had been left with barely enough soldiers to man the patrols.
White Eagle realized that that detail wouldn’t prevent Hull from manipulating Winters. He had known the sergeant for a long time and had seen Hull maneuver expertly to get his own way. Winters was still a little unsure of himself, too. The non-com would have been able to talk him into almost anything.
Hull must have come into Abilene looking for him, White Eagle saw only too clearly. He had gotten the other troopers liquored up so that they would gladly help him in his quest for vengeance. White Eagle didn’t understand why they had jumped him in the street. The scout would have expected Hull to come looking for him at Addie's house...
Suddenly, he remembered Emily. Hull had already tried once to assault her. Would he go looking for her now that he was finished with White Eagle?
That question galvanized White Eagle into action. He lurched to his feet with a grunt, staggered a couple of steps, then righted himself by placing a hand firmly against the warehouse wall. In the faint starlight he saw a dark smear on the wall, and he somehow knew that it was his own blood, which had splattered from his nose when Hull shoved him against the bricks.
He had to warn Emily. That thought echoed through his pain-filled brain. He didn’t want Emily and Addie and Julius to suffer because some insane sergeant had a grudge against him.
White Eagle forced his legs to work, and he began to stumble out of the alley.
Along Third Street there were only a few hitch-racks, but he staggered between those few for support as he lurched along. No one was on the street, and the houses and businesses he passed were dark. He moved very slowly, but finally he reached Walnut Street and turned toward Addie's, now only a block away.
Lift a leg, wince at the pain, place it in front of the other one, lift again, more pain... It was a brutal routine, but White Eagle stuck to it. He could see a light burning in the window at Addie's, and he kept his eyes fixed on that warm glow as he stumbled along. He wondered where his horse had gone after Hull and the others had pulled him from the saddle. If it had come back here alone, Emily and Addie were probably worrying about him.
Well, Addie would be, anyway. Considering how angry Emily had been with him when he left, she might not care what happened to him.
But that didn’t matter. He would warn her about Hull—
Somehow, he made it up the walk to the front door. When he reached it, he leaned against it for a long moment, enjoying the smooth feel of cool wood on his bloody, throbbing face. He fumbled for the knob, found it, turned it, felt the door moving away from him.
He saw the carpeted floor of the foyer rise toward him as he thudded into it. A croak escaped from his throat, a cry of warning and a plea for help combined. He lifted his head, blinked the sweat and blood from his eyes, and saw Addie Plunket emerge from her office at the end of the hall. She stopped abruptly and lifted her h
ands to her horrified face.
Addie's scream echoed in the dark chasm that engulfed him.
12
When Julius heard Addie's screams, he came running from his room next to the kitchen. Dawn was less than an hour away, and the black man would have been climbing into bed had it not been for the interruption. But Addie's urgent cry had banished any thought of sleep.
Upstairs, only three of the prostitutes still had customers. They clutched at the nervous men and urged them to stay where they were. Julius would take care of any trouble, the women assured their bed partners. It was better not to get involved. The girls who were not working followed Addie's rule and cowered in their rooms.
All except Emily Sweeney. After White Eagle had left her room, Emily had seethed angrily throughout the day—even though she knew it was unreasonable to expect anything permanent from him. She was a whore—that was all she ever would be—and he was nothing but a free-drifting scout.
For the first time since White Eagle had arrived in Abilene, Emily had considered taking other customers. Some impersonal dallying might take her mind off him, she had thought. But when it was time to join the girls in the parlor, she had stayed in her room and turned in early. Addie had not said anything and left her alone.
However, Emily had not been able to sleep. The fact that White Eagle had not returned obsessed her. Where could he be? Surely, he had not been at his father's house all this time.
She had tossed and turned, trying futilely to doze off, until Addie's screams tore through the house. Hesitating for only a moment, Emily flung the covers back and leaped to her feet. She raced toward the door, snatching a flimsy robe and tugging it around her nude body as she went, and hurried into the hall.
She heard Addie wail, "Help him, Julius! Oh my God, help him!"
Emily broke into a run. When she reached the top of the stairs and looked down into the foyer, she saw what she had feared most—the battered, bloody form of White Eagle Dandaneau sprawled on the carpeted floor, his head cradled in Julius's lap. Emily flew down the stairs.
Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 93
