The Vigilante's Bride

by Yvonne Harris

  Clete gave a nasty laugh. “We ain’t hunting strays. We’re hunting you, Sullivan, and you’re trespassing.”

  “I’m not and you know it.”

  “Four of us here say you are.”

  “Stand aside, Wade. You’re looking for trouble, and I got work to do.”

  “It can wait. Mr. Axel thinks you need to learn some manners.” Clete smirked over his shoulder to the men behind him.

  Luke lounged in the saddle, his shoulders relaxed. With a tight smile he said, “I’m going out and you’re in my way. I’d rather not ride a man down, but you suit yourself about that.”

  Clete’s eyes mocked him. “What suits me right now is teaching you a lesson. You’re a little too high and mighty, if you ask me. You learn that up at Stuart’s with the rest of your hanging friends?” He braced his legs. “Now get off that horse.”

  A slow burn started under Luke’s collar. In a way, he was surprised trouble hadn’t come before this. He looked down at Clete, feet planted apart. He’d never run from a fight in his life, and he wasn’t about to start. He also suspected riding out of here meant a bullet in the back. He tightened his hands on the reins.

  Bugle’s head snapped up. Neck arched, the horse flared his nostrils wide, eyes fixed on the man in front of him as if waiting Luke’s signal to charge.

  “He’s bluffing, Clete.” Stu Bronson, big and wide-shouldered in a green plaid jacket, shifted in the saddle and spat.

  “Don’t count on it, Stu,” Luke said.

  Luke had run into Bronson in Repton a few years before.

  Bronson was quick to provoke a fight, which he usually won because of his size. Bud Schmidt, beside him, was plank thin and almost as tall as Luke.

  “Get off before I pull you off.” Clete grabbed for the bridle.

  Bugle jerked his head and dug his back hooves in. His powerful front shoulders gathered.

  Luke hurled himself from the saddle and onto the man beside him. Gouging, grunting, he and Clete went down together in a blur of arms and legs and boots. Bugle galloped off into the trees.

  Clete piled on top of Luke. Straddling him, he drove a fist down into his jaw. “That’s from Bart Axel, and this is from me.”

  The blow that followed rolled Luke’s head.

  The warm, salty taste of blood in his mouth pumped rage through Luke’s veins. Shaking the ringing from his ears, Luke wrested an arm free and drove a left up into the underside of Clete’s jaw, snapping his head back. Clete gagged and rolled aside.

  Luke heaved himself out from under and stood up, fists clenching, unclenching. None too gently, he nudged Clete’s arm with his boot. “Get up, Clete. I got some questions I want answered.”

  Arms shot around him from behind. An elbow forked his neck like a vise, cutting off his wind. Stu Bronson’s hot breath grunted in his ear. Luke swept his arms upward, rammed an elbow back, and broke the hold. Bronson staggered a few steps, then lunged. Luke spun and swung at the man coming at him. Stu ducked. The punch glanced off his shoulder. The two men sprang apart, facing each other. Wesley and Bud moved next to Bronson, one on either side.

  Luke’s mind raced. Four of them, no way. This fight he would lose. As a group, the three men stepped forward. Luke brought his fists up.

  Clete scrambled to his feet behind him. Luke’s immediate problem was Stu and Bud and Wes coming at him. Clete picked up a rifle. Gripping the barrel, he threw his arms back and swung. The heavy stock caught Luke squarely across the small of his back, arched him upright. Pain fired into his thighs. Numbed, his jaw fell open and he dropped his hands.

  Wesley and Bud leaped in and pinned Luke’s arms behind him. Bronson spat again and smoothed on a pair of black gloves.

  A leather fist slammed Luke’s stomach.

  The gloved fist came at him again. And again. And again.

  His legs buckled. With a deep groan, Luke sagged to his knees.

  Bud Schmidt stepped behind him. Grabbing a handful of Luke’s hair, he yanked his head back. Bronson and Clete tossed their hats aside and stepped closer.

  Swearing. Grunting. The crack of knuckles meeting bone.

  Luke winced, feeling the mushy give of cheekbone to a jarring right.

  “A bullet’s faster,” Schmidt said.

  Clete laughed. “All in good time, Mr. Schmidt.”

  They mean to kill me!

  And it wouldn’t be quick. For the first time in years, Luke found himself praying. From deep inside, between the punches and the pain, the words welled up.

  I’m sorry . . . sorry.

  His face jerked with another blow. Stifling a cry, Luke fell forward onto his elbows.

  Help me, Lord . . . please help me.

  Light-headed, he stared at four pairs of legs planted around him like pilings. Blood from his nose dripped onto the backs of his hands and ran between his fingers.

  A sob caught in his throat.

  You never hear me.

  Clete laughed and swung his leg back. The sky tipped crazily. Luke pitched facedown. A curtain of darkness drew across his mind.

  “Die, Sullivan.” Clete grabbed his revolver and shoved the barrel against Luke’s skull.

  A wild, warbling shriek cut out of nowhere – a piercing, full-throated scream that jerked Clete upright. As he spun around, he heard the dreaded thu-u-u-p of an arrow suck past his face.

  And another.

  Thu-u-u-p.

  Stiff cedar shafts struck the dirt at his feet, sinking themselves deep into the earth. Scarcely breathing, Clete stared down at them. Nearly thirty inches long with razor-bladed broadheads, the arrows had the killing power and penetration equal to the heaviest rifle bullet.

  Mouths open, Bud and Stu gawked at something up behind Clete. Four braves in buckskins stood on the lip of the canyon above, bows braced. Two others had dropped to one knee, and every one of them was nocking another arrow. Bows at full draw, this time they aimed at the men.

  “Why ain’t they using guns?” Schmidt whispered.

  “Don’t know.” Stu swallowed. “And I never knowed an Injun to warn first, neither.”

  “Will you look at the size of them arrows.” Wesley pointed to the shafts, rigid as spears in the ground. “They’re buffalo arrows!”

  “Crows are supposed to be friendly to whites,” Clete muttered. “What do they want?”

  “Sullivan alive, I reckon.” Wesley planted one foot behind the other, slowly backing toward his horse, away from Luke.

  “Hold on,” Clete said. “We ain’t finished here. Boss wants Sullivan dead.”

  Eyes riveted on the Crow warriors, Wes said, “Why don’t you just tell ’em that?” He whirled around, broke for his horse, toed the stirrup, and had his mare running before he got into the saddle. Bud Schmidt was three steps behind him. Bronson took one look and broke into a run.

  “You ain’t leaving me here.” Clete leaped into the saddle on his horse and galloped out of the canyon after the others.

  The sound of hooves running on rock faded.

  Blue jays scolded back and forth in a pine tree. Head up, black tail swishing, Bugle walked slowly out of the woods and went over to Luke, spread-eagled on the ground. Head lowered, he swiveled his ears and nosed Luke’s shoulder up. The shoulder fell back. With a soft, rolling snort, Bugle nosed the shoulder again. Again, the shoulder slumped to the ground.

  Raising his nose to the sky, Bugle let out a long, shrill whinny.

  Then, head lowered, he pulled and tore at the grass between a pair of legs that never moved.

  The jays flew off.

  “So go look again. We don’t go back without him.” Scully frowned at the four New Hope hands he’d worked with all day. “Something’s wrong. Luke should’ve been back hours ago.”

  The New Hope men headed down range in the direction Luke had gone and then split up. Half an hour later, two far-off booms! from a shotgun sounded. Someone had found him.

  Scully and two others galloped toward the shots.

  “Where�
��d you find him?” Scully’s feet hit the ground almost before the words were out.

  Jeb Simson, a grizzled old cowhand, led Bugle, whose reins were tied to Jeb’s saddle. Luke was spilled, belly down across the horse’s back. “I didn’t find him. The horse found me. Walked up out of the dark and came right to me. He was on his way back to New Hope, looked like.”

  Scully stooped beside Luke, winced, and looked up at Jeb. “He alive?”

  “Barely. Never saw no man beat like that. Face looks like raw meat. Whoever did it tied him on the horse.”

  Scully looked at Luke, who was lashed securely to his horse. His wrists and ankles were looped together, with the rope made snug underneath Bugle’s stomach. Scully shined a lantern under the horse and studied the knots, puzzled by how they were tied.

  “No white man tied that rope,” he said quietly.

  Leading Bugle, the men from the N-Bar-H started back to New Hope. From time to time, Scully glanced back at Luke and shook his head.

  “Tom,” he called to a young worker, “ride on ahead and tell Miss Molly to send for Doc Maxwell. Tell her what’s happened. Tell her it’s bad.”

  CHAPTER

  8

  He looked dead.

  Unconscious, Luke lay stretched out on the bed in his room, his face gray and covered with bruises. Emily felt timid, afraid to touch him for fear she’d hurt him.

  “Let’s get him out of these dirty clothes,” Molly said.

  Emily shook off a momentary rush of embarrassment and climbed onto the bed and rolled him toward her, holding the heavy shoulders off the bed while Molly used a pair of shears to slit his shirt and Levi’s off. They undressed him, stripping him down to his drawers. They washed him with warm water and soap, flushing the cuts with peroxide, then applying carbolic salve to them.

  They rolled him onto his side. His bare chest, dusted with soft dark hair, rose and fell in broken gasps, struggling to breathe. Emily filled a basin with ice from the fruit cellar and kept chilled cloths on his face and his back.

  “Did Indians do this?” Her voice cracked.

  “No,” Molly said, patting away a seep of blood from the corner of his mouth. “Crows don’t hit people with fists. They think it’s barbaric.”

  “Then who did this to him?” Emily traced her fingers along an ugly purple bruise on his back, where he’d been struck from behind.

  “I suspect we both know the answer to that,” Molly said grimly.

  They glanced up at a commotion downstairs in the hall. Clutching a small black satchel, Doc Maxwell bounded up the stairs and hurried into the bedroom. Emily shrank back against the fireplace and said nothing, afraid they’d send her from the room. Confused, she watched the doctor examine Luke. Inside, her emotions stormed, leaving her angry and close to tears. She didn’t know why, but at that moment she needed to stay close to Luke.

  After the doctor left, Emily persuaded Molly to get some rest. They’d take turns sitting with him. Beyond that, there was nothing more either of them could do except to watch him.

  Doc Maxwell had given Luke an injection of morphine to dull the pain so he’d sleep. She’d been surprised when Doc pulled a glass syringe from his satchel. In Chicago, good medicine was the norm. Evidently, the rest of the country was catching up.

  Emily turned the lamp down to a pale glimmer. As she tucked the blanket in around Luke’s chest, her gaze slid across the wide shoulders and muscled arms. He was in the prime of manhood, strong, healthy. But hurt. Still, most women would call him handsome. A small sigh slipped from her. He didn’t look like the same man. Asleep, his stern face was relaxed and smooth. Gone was the rugged, strong-willed man who irritated her.

  Another spasm of pain shook him. Barely able to move his lips, he groaned, “Please, God, just let me die.”

  Emily grabbed his hand, as if to keep him there. “Don’t do it, Lord. He doesn’t mean it. Please don’t listen to him.”

  Smoothing a cool cloth across his cheekbones and swollen nose, she bent and kissed his forehead and poor bruised eyes. She pulled a chair up close to the bed and opened the Bible she’d brought with her to the Twenty-third Psalm, the one she always turned to when things went wrong.

  “ ‘The Lord is my shepherd . . .’ ” she read aloud.

  And Luke’s shepherd, too, evidently. His calling on the Lord for anything – even to die – surprised her. Despite his claims to doubting, he still believed. When he was desperate, he reached out to God.

  He’d been six years old when they moved to the place outside town. He never knew why they moved, only knew something had happened that wasn’t Pa’s fault, and the comfortable big farmhouse wasn’t theirs anymore.

  He helped Pa chop long pieces of sod out of the ground. Ma and Mary Beth and he and Pa carried the heavy strips, limber and sagging like a rope in the middle. They stacked them up in rows to make the walls of a house. Even little Benny helped.

  The house had a dirt floor and a hay ceiling covered with more dirt outside. In the spring, dandelions sprouted all over the roof. He laughed at how fancy it looked, but Pa climbed up and pulled them out anyway. Too bad. It was the only nice thing about the house – the flowers growing out of it. No matter how sunny the day, it was always dark inside and mice stirred about in the walls. His mother pasted magazine pictures everywhere and told Pa how pretty it looked. She sewed a flowered curtain for the window. But the house smelled funny – like worms. Mama cried when Luke told her that, and Pa yelled at him.

  Sitting around the table one warm June evening after supper, Pa read Scripture to them. He finished with the Twenty-third Psalm, as he always did.

  “ ‘. . . and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.’ ” Pa closed the Bible and looked up. “Bedtime, boys.”

  Luke’s mother told him to take three-year-old Benny to the outhouse for one last trip before bedtime.

  “Aw, why do I always have to take him?” Luke grumbled.

  “Because he’s little and he’s your brother,” his mother said.

  “ ’Cause he’s a scaredy-cat, that’s what. Nobody had to take me.”

  Mary Beth giggled. “This year, you mean.”

  “Luke Sullivan.” His father looked up, stern faced.

  “I’m going, I’m going.” Luke stomped out back, dragging Benny by the hand. At the outhouse at the end of the yard, he pulled him inside. As he helped Benny get his pants down, he heard a horse whinny nearby.

  But they didn’t have a horse anymore.

  Luke squinted through a knothole in the wooden door.

  “Oh, Benny,” he whispered. Outside, a small war party of Sioux – six braves, their cheeks striped with red and black paint – slipped off their horses. Time and again, Pa had drummed it into them what to do if Indians came. Hide!

  Through the knothole he saw the Indians creep to the house and ease the front door open.

  “Shhhh.” Luke clapped his hand over Benny’s mouth and pulled him down to the floor, shaking him to be quiet, both of them trembling in the smelly dark with the spiders, their fingers plugging their ears until the screaming from the house ended and they heard the horses leave.

  They’d scalped his mother, his father, and pretty red-haired Mary Beth, seventeen her next birthday. Somehow, he managed to drag his mother and sister outside into the yard by himself, but Pa was too heavy. He covered him up with quilts and blankets and pushed the table in front of him because it scared him to look at Pa, his face half gone. Kneeling, he held Benny and tried to be brave.

  Harder than he’d ever prayed in his life, he prayed for God to bring his parents and sister back. But nothing happened. They never moved. God wasn’t listening.

  In those awful, silent hours of loneliness and terror, he lost his family and he lost his faith.

  The two boys were passed from neighbor to neighbor, no one able or willing to take on two more mouths to feed. Nobody wanted them. And for the first time in his life, Luke began to stutter.

  The day came when both of t
hem were taken to New Hope. Until that day, Luke had been dry-eyed about what had happened, a quiet, frozen little boy who blinked a lot. Carrying one small black suitcase holding everything they owned, he held Benny’s hand tight and walked through the iron gates and up the long walk to the New Hope Foundling and Orphan Asylum.

  Molly Ebenezer waited for them on the porch, her eyes moist, watching the pudgy three-year-old Benny hanging on to his big brother’s hand, a big brother who was a child himself. She took one look at Luke’s small, somber face and held her arms open.

  “I’m so glad you’re here. Come give me a hug, little man,” she said.

  He’d let go of Benny’s hand and thrown himself at her, buried his face in her big soft stomach, and burst into tears. Molly had leaned down and picked up not Benny, but Luke, and carried him inside.

  Lying in a bed at New Hope twenty years later, tears streamed Luke’s face again. The rustle of footsteps moved in the room, and someone softly called his name. With an effort, Luke raised his eyebrows and slitted his lids open. Both eyes were nearly swollen shut. Ragged gaps of sunlight flooded past the curtains, nearly blinding him. Everything too white, too bright. He winced and shut his eyes.

  “Luke!”

  He pushed his eyelids open again and rolled his head toward the voice. Dully, he looked up. Holding his hand, Emily seemed to float right above him, her face blurring in and out of focus.

  Her lips moved. He wanted to tell her it was all right, but it hurt too much, and he couldn’t stop shaking. His tongue traveled across a puffed upper lip that felt like a sausage.

  “Wa-water . . . can I have some water?”

  He had trouble swallowing. Little by little, she trickled it into his mouth, a few drops at a time, waiting until his Adam’s apple stopped working before dribbling in a bit more.

  With a deep sigh he closed his eyes and slipped into unconsciousness once more.

  The next day when he woke up, he noted he was in his own room. A fire burned in the grate, and the curtains were drawn. A sharp medicinal smell hung over everything. He vaguely remembered hands probing him and hearing a man’s deep voice talking to Molly.