Quietly, Stalking Wolf moved downwind of the horses, determined to capture the bay. As he drew closer, he noticed the stallion was wearing a halter and a slow grin moved across his face. The horse had obviously been caught before, which would make it so much easier this time.
At that moment, the wind changed and the stallion caught the scent of a man. Startled, the bay withdrew from Black Wind and backed up, its nostrils flaring as it sniffed the night air.
Stalking Wolf remained still as the bay stud drank in his scent.
“Hohahe,” Stalking Wolf murmured. “Welcome.”
The horse snorted and shook its head at the sound of the man’s voice.
“Easy, boy,” Stalking Wolf said in the same quiet voice, “easy, now.”
The stallion blew softly as Stalking Wolf walked slowly toward it, one hand outstretched, palm up.
The bay’s ears were forward, its head lifted, as it focused on the man moving toward it.
“Easy, boy,” Stalking Wolf murmured. “Easy, now. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
The stallion was no stranger to men, and its curiosity and the presence of the black mare kept it from bolting as Stalking Wolf reached for the halter.
The bay snorted and tossed its head when it realized it had been caught, but Stalking Wolf stroked its neck, murmuring to the horse, and the stallion soon calmed down.
He tethered the stallion to a sturdy oak, checked the mare’s hobbles, and went back to bed to dream of the fine long-legged fillies and colts that would be sired by the big blood bay with Black Wind.
Just before dawn rough hands jerked Stalking Wolf to his feet. Instantly coming awake, he instinctively lashed out at his attackers, but grunted with pain as knotted fists and booted feet drove into his back, ribcage, and groin. A sharp uppercut bloodied his nose and mouth, and a second blow connected with his left eye.
The three men worked him over expertly, relentlessly. When they finally tired of their sport and released him, Stalking Wolf fell to the ground, curling into a tight ball to protect himself from further harm. He felt a sharp pain explode in his right side as one of the men kicked him again, cracking a rib. Through a red haze of pain he heard a voice call, “Wylie, that’s enough!”
“Luther’s right.” Paulie Norton was quick to agree. He did not like violence of any kind and ganging up on a man, even an Indian, did not sit well with him. He had been ready to call it quits before they got started.
“Let’s string him up and be done with it then,” Abner Wylie muttered, running his left hand over the bruised knuckles on his right hand. A small smile played over his thin lips as he looked down at the Indian, pleased with the damage he had done. With Luther Hicks’s help, Abner hauled the Indian to his feet and dragged him toward the horse Paulie had positioned beneath a low-hanging branch.
They were going to hang him. The realization hit Stalking Wolf like a physical blow and he began to struggle violently as the three men bound his hands behind his back, then wrestled him onto the back of the horse. Abner Wylie was grinning with anticipation as he dropped a noose over the Indian’s head and snugged the noose tight.
Stalking Wolf sat rock still, the rough hemp cutting into his throat, his heart pounding like a Lakota war drum. The horse stirred restlessly beneath him and he felt his muscles tense in awful anticipation of what was to come.
The quick tattoo of approaching hoofbeats halted the men. Glancing over their heads, Stalking Wolf saw two mounted figures reining in their horses a short distance away. The rider nearest Stalking Wolf was a burly man dressed in denim work clothes and a broad-brimmed black Stetson. The second rider was similarly dressed, but even with his left eye swollen shut, Stalking Wolf could see it was a girl.
“Go on home, Caitlyn,” the man said gruffly. “There’s no need for you to see this.”
Caitlyn Carmichael shook her head. She had no desire to see a hanging, but she’d never run from a disagreeable task before and she wasn’t about to start now. “I’ve come this far, Pa,” she said, a slight quiver in her voice. “I’ll stay and see it to the end.”
“Suit yourself,” Brenden Carmichael muttered. “Wylie, are you sure he’s the one?” When Abner Wylie nodded curtly at his boss, Carmichael replied, “Then let’s get on with it.”
Stalking Wolf felt his blood go cold as Abner Wylie moved behind the horse. Hanging was a bad way to die. The Lakota believed that a man’s spirit left his body with his dying breath, but when a man was hanged, his spirit was forever trapped in his corpse. Though he knew his father did not believe in such nonsense, the Lakota beliefs were strongly embedded in Stalking Wolf, especially now, when death was near.
But his pride made him lift his head, and he stared at the eastern horizon where a brilliant sunrise was paying homage to a new day. The sky grew brighter, changing from pale gray to bright gold, then exploding in a spectacular display of fiery reds and oranges as the sun crested the skyline.
Wakan Tonka, give me strength and courage. The silent prayer rose in Stalking Wolf’s heart as Wylie took a firm grip on the loose end of the rope while the man known as Luther reached for the horse’s reins. The brassy taste of fear was strong in Stalking Wolf’s mouth as he imagined the horse moving out from under him, and the quick sensation of falling. If he was lucky, death would come quickly. If not, he would slowly strangle.
Caitlyn’s mouth went dry as she tried to imagine what the Indian was feeling. What would it be like to know death was only a heartbeat away? To know you had no hope of a reprieve? She gazed at the Indian’s face, set in impassive lines, and the sympathy she’d been feeling vanished. Her brothers had been killed by marauding savages, perhaps this very man had been responsible for their deaths.
Brenden Carmichael, owner of the Circle C ranch, felt a grudging admiration for the Indian who, though facing certain death, glared at him with bold defiance. Although he harbored no love for Indians, it suddenly seemed unfair to hang a man without giving him a last chance to speak and to confess his guilt before he went to meet his Maker.
“Wait.” Carmichael’s voice cut across the heavy stillness as he rode toward the Indian. He drew his horse to a halt, facing the condemned man. “You speak English?”
Stalking Wolf nodded. The girl had followed the man and though he knew these two held the power of life and death over him, he focused his gaze on the fading streaks of vermillion that still stained the sky. The color reminded him of blood and death.
His blood. His death.
“Why did you steal my daughter’s horse?” the man demanded.
Stalking Wolf licked the blood from his lips. Drawing his gaze from the horizon, he focused on the girl and found himself staring into a pair of deep green eyes fringed with long, golden lashes. The fact that she was quite beautiful despite her rough garb registered somewhere in the back of his mind.
“I did not steal the horse.” He spoke through swollen lips, grimacing from the effort, and knowing that they would not believe him.
“He’s lying, Mr. Carmichael,” Abner said with a sneer. “Let’s hang him and be done with it.”
Surprised that he had directed his answer to her and not to her father, Caitlyn studied the Indian. His eyes were dark, the left one was badly swollen and discolored. His nose and mouth were bloody, and a shallow line cut across his left cheek. His clothing, a loose-fitting buckskin shirt, fringed leggings, clout, and moccasins, were covered with trail dust and splattered with blood. He looked wild, untamed, and completely savage, but she had to admire the way he faced her, with his head high and his shoulders back. She knew he was afraid. He had to be afraid, but it didn’t show on his face. “What if he’s telling the truth, Pa?”
Abner snorted disdainfully. “They’re all liars, Mr. Carmichael. Everybody knows you can’t trust a redskin any farther than you can throw one. Especially one that’s got a noose around his neck.”
Caitlyn gazed steadily at the Indian as Abner accused him of being a thief and a liar. She felt a cold shive
r in the pit of her stomach as she saw a flash of anger flicker in the Indian’s eyes, and then his expression became impassive once again.
“I believe him,” she decided, surprising everyone, including herself. She glanced at Luther Hicks, hoping he would agree with her, but even Luther looked skeptical.
Abner snorted in disbelief. “When did you get to be an Injun lover?”
“I don’t have any love for Indians and you know it,” Caitlyn retorted, her cheeks flushed with anger. “But I don’t intend to stand by and watch you hang an innocent man, either.”
Her outburst was met by astonished stares from Abner and her father. No one on the Circle C had any love for Indians, and Caitlyn had always been the most outspoken, the most unforgiving. Yet now she was defending one.
Caitlyn did not understand her feelings any better than anyone else. She only knew that, though she had been determined to see the Indian hang, she was now just as determined to see that he didn’t.
Dismounting, she walked over to where the black mare stood grazing placidly on the lush prairie grass.
“This mare’s in season,” Caitlyn announced. “Red must have caught her scent last night. It isn’t the first time he’s run off after a mare.”
Stalking Wolf held his breath, knowing his whole future would be decided in the next few minutes.
Brenden rode to where his daughter stood beside the black horse. For a moment he forgot all about the Indian as he openly admired the mare. She was as fine a piece of horseflesh as he had ever seen, with a coat like black velvet and near-perfect conformation. A sudden need to own the fine animal took hold of him, and his mind whirled with the realization that the mare would be his once the Indian was disposed of.
“Pa?”
Caitlyn’s voice brought him back to the matter at hand. “The mare’s in heat,” Brenden agreed. “Hang the Indian and let’s go home.”
Caitlyn stared at her father. “You can’t be serious.”
Brenden glanced at the brand on the mare’s left hip. “She’s wearing a Texas brand, a double D,” he pointed out, “and I’ve never heard of any Indians, from Texas or anywhere else, branding their stock. It’s obvious he stole the mare, and he’ll steal our horses, too, if he gets the chance.”
Stalking Wolf felt his last hope drain out of him at the old man’s words. Black Wind had been stolen, and Killian had been the culprit. Stalking Wolf would have laughed at the irony of it if the situation wasn’t so serious.
“Get on with it,” Brenden said. “Luther, bring the mare.” He glanced briefly at the Indian. “Leave the body. Maybe it’ll discourage any other redskins in the area.”
“Pa, I won’t let you do this,” Caitlyn said, grabbing her father by the arm. “You can’t hang a man because you think he’s a horse thief. And even if he did steal the mare, he didn’t steal it from us. You have no right to act as judge, jury, and executioner.”
“Dammit, Caitlyn, the West would be a better place if every last Indian was dead and buried and you know it.”
She heartily agreed, but she could not let her father hang the Indian. She could not explain why she felt so strongly that he was innocent, or why she found the thought of his death so unbearable.
“Hanging this Indian won’t bring Arlo and Morgan back,” she said quietly.
At the mention of his sons, all the fight went out of Brenden. Hanging the Indian wouldn’t bring his sons back, or heal the raw ache in his heart. He gazed at Caitlyn. She was all he had left, and he loved her dearly. He couldn’t bear to have her think badly of him. He’d always been her hero. How could he bear it if her admiration turned to disgust?
“Very well, turn the Indian loose,” Brenden said gruffly. “But bring the mare along. I’ll send a wire to the marshal in San Antonio and see if he’s heard of anyone missing a black mare.”
Brenden bit back a smile. The chances of finding the mare’s owner were slim, but in the meantime, he’d treat the animal like one of his own.
He was about to rein his horse for home when Caitlyn’s voice stopped him.
“He’s hurt, Pa,” she said, her huge green eyes dark with concern. “We can’t take his horse and leave him out here on foot.”
Brenden swore under his breath. The redskin was more trouble than he was worth, but since he had the black mare, he could afford to be generous. “Bring him along,” he said curtly. “Never let it be said I didn’t do my Christian duty.”
Chapter Three
Stalking Wolf didn’t argue as the man called Paulie cut his hands free, lifted the noose from his neck, and then took up the reins of his horse. It was all he could do to remain in the saddle and he sat stiffly erect, one hand grasping the horn, his other arm wrapped protectively around his broken rib. Each step the horse took sent jolting shafts of pain through his side. His head throbbed, and there was a dull ache in his groin where Wylie had kicked him.
They rode across flat grassland for almost an hour and then the land dipped slightly and Stalking Wolf saw the Carmichael ranch.
Made of native stone and sun-bleached wood, the house was long and low with a shingled roof, a red brick chimney and a covered porch that ran the length of the house. Several clay pots held a variety of flowers. Stalking Wolf recognized roses and daisies but the others, in colors of bright pink and lavender, did not look familiar. A rectangular building to the left of the house appeared to be the bunkhouse, and a large red barn with a sloping roof and several well-built corrals were to the right. Tall pines grew in scattered clumps behind the house and on a distant ridge. There were no shrubs close to the house that might provide a hiding place for Indians or other intruders.
A slow-moving river gurgled merrily on its way some twenty-five yards from the front door, running straight as an arrow from one end of the shallow valley to the other until it disappeared from sight behind a stand of timber.
As they neared the house, Stalking Wolf saw a dozen Rhode Island Reds scratching in the dirt. A large yellow hound thumped its tail as Brenden Carmichael swung out of the saddle.
“Paulie, look after the horses. Wylie, take the Indian inside. Luther, you get busy and add another rail to that corral. Wylie will give you a hand. That damned stud’s run off for the last time.”
Caitlyn grinned at her father as he issued the last of his curt commands. “And what are my orders, Captain?”
“Hell’s fire, girl, you know you’ll do whatever suits you.”
“Now, Pa, that’s not so.”
Brenden snorted. “You’d best keep an eye on that Injun. I don’t think he’s in any shape to cause trouble, but I want to know just where he is until we decide what to do with him. Wylie’d just as soon cut his throat as look at him, you know.” A dark shadow passed over Brenden’s face. “Can’t say as I blame him, at that.”
“I’ll watch him, Pa,” Caitlyn said, her voice tinged with resentment. She hadn’t realized she’d be saddled with being the Indian’s keeper when she insisted he was innocent.
“I know you will. I’ll be out cutting timber if you need me. Send Paulie out when he’s finished feeding the stock.”
Stalking Wolf refused Wylie’s help. His teeth set, he slid to the ground unaided, then stood leaning against the horse’s flank, gathering his strength.
“I’ll look after him, Abner,” Caitlyn said, her voice carrying a note of dismissal. “You go on and help Luther.”
“Whatever you say, Miss Carmichael,” Abner replied. “But you’d best watch yourself around that buck.”
Stalking Wolf’s eyes narrowed ominously at the derogatory tone of the man’s voice. Had he not been in such pain, he would have taught him a little respect, but not now, when just drawing a breath was an effort.
Caitlyn saw the fury in the Indian’s eyes and hoped she would be on hand when Abner got his comeuppance from the Indian. She had never liked Abner Wylie. He reminded her of a weasel, always skulking around, his narrow, close-set pale blue eyes forever lingering on her figure with a look that bo
rdered somewhere between insolence and lust. But he was a top hand, which was why her father had hired him, and why he still had a job.
“Thanks for the warning,” Caitlyn said dryly, “but I don’t think the man’s in any condition to do me harm.”
Abner turned away, muttering under his breath, and Caitlyn reached for the Indian’s arm. “Come on, I’ll help you inside.”
“I can manage.”
“Suit yourself,” Caitlyn said with a shrug, opening the front door, and waiting for him to enter the house.
Stalking Wolf moved away from the horse, his arm wrapped protectively around his ribcage. His jaw set with determination, he crossed the yard to the house and followed the girl inside.
The parlor was large, furnished with a faded blue sofa and two overstuffed leather chairs. A fireplace took up most of one wall and a Navajo rug was spread before the hearth.
“Take off your shirt,” Caitlyn said brusquely. It was her duty to see to their prisoner’s injuries, she supposed. “I’ll get some water and bandages.”
Stalking Wolf sat on the edge of the raised hearth and removed his shirt, every movement sending a painful jolt through his right side. After tossing his shirt on the floor, he looked around the room again. There was a Winchester rifle resting on a pair of pegs over the front door, and a painting of a pinto horse galloping across a yellow prairie hung on the far wall. A pair of blue-and-white figurines, a blue china plate, and a pair of silver candlesticks were arranged on the mantle.
He looked up as Caitlyn emerged from the doorway that he assumed led to the kitchen. She was carrying a tray laden with a bowl of water, a pair of scissors, a dark green bottle with no label, and a roll of white cloth.
He had never seen a woman in pants before and he tilted his head to one side, watching her as she walked toward him, captivated by the sway of her hips, and by the way the faded denim clung to her long coltish legs.
Caitlyn knelt at the Indian’s side and placed the tray on the floor. In a swift movement, she removed her hat and tossed it onto one of the chairs.
Forbidden Fires Page 2
