by Nan Ryan
The chief shook his gray head scornfully. "You afraid." The young braves behind him nodded and grinned, murmuring excitedly. "I know you afraid," stated the old Indian.
Kane's hands went to his hips. "No, Chief, I am not afraid."
The chief frowned. "I say you afraid. I will feel your heart to see if there is fear." Instantly, his rough, square hand reached out to Kane. He placed it firmly upon the left side, gripping the hard wall of Kane's chest. Under his blunt, broad fingers he felt a steady, rhythmic beating. After what seemed a lifetime to Kane, the old man moved his hand away.
"Your heart is not afraid," admitted the Indian. "You are brave warrior. I will let you live. I am Tahomah, medicine man of my people, the Capote Utes." With that his stem mouth lifted into a hint of a grin, and he put out his hand to Kane.
Kane took it and they shook.
"I'm Kane Covington, Chief Tahomah, and I am honored to meet and shake the hand of a brave Ute medicine man." Kane saw a brief flicker of recognition in the black eyes when he told the Indian his name.
Tahomah dropped Kane's hand abruptly and grabbed his right shoulder. "Where you get scars, Kane Covington?"
"From the bluecoats," said Kane.
Tahomah's black eyes suddenly sparkled. His massive hands went to the fringed bottom of his own buckskin tunic. He swiftly jerked it up under his chin and proudly displayed a badly scarred chest. "I fight bluebellies too," he said, grinning, his blunt, gnarled fingers trailing over the zigzagging scars, lifting a polished panther's claw out of the way.
Kane smiled and nodded, even as the two young braves angrily mounted their waiting ponies, disappointed that they were not to be allowed any sport on this fine, sunny day. Kane felt himself relaxing completely when the old Indian, smiling happily, lowered his shirt, then almost at once raised his hands to the rawhide band about his thick neck. He lifted it over his gray head.
The chiefs black eyes grew somber once more. Raising his hands toward Kane's dark head, he draped the rawhide band with its shiny panther's claw around Kane's neck. And he told him, "You are in danger, Scarback. I give to you my lucky panther's claw. I killed the cat with my bare hands long time ago. Wear it at all times; it will keep you safe. Will ward off dangers."
Kane, his eyes on Tahomah's weathered face, lifted a lean hand to finger the animal claw resting at the base of his throat. "Tahomah, I cannot take your amulet. You need it to—"
Tahomah shook his gray head, interrupting. "I am an old man. My life is ending. You wear it." He turned abruptly and strode toward his horse. Then he came back. He looked up at the tall, bare-chested white man and said, "You know my Fire-in-the-Snow, Scarback." It was a statement.
Kane stared at him. "I'm sorry, Chief, I don't—"
"Fire-in-the-Snow. My chosen-daughter, Natalie Vallance. The white man's judge with the hair of fire and the eyes of emerald. Fire-in-the-Snow," said Tahomah.
Kane's mouth gaped open. "Yes," he managed. "Yes, I know Mrs. Vallance."
"She told me of you," admitted Tahomah.
"Did she?" replied Kane for want of something better to say. He could well imagine what Natalie had said.
Tahomah nodded thoughtfully and again walked away. When he'd almost reached his horse, he halted. "Scarback, you love Fire-in-the-Snow."
Ready for any remark but that one, Kane swallowed hard and said, "I…no. No, I don't." He shook his dark head forcefully. "I do not love Fire-in-the-Snow?"
Tahomah glowered fiercely at Kane. Then the smile crept back to his lips and the light danced once more in his obsidian eyes. "Your heart loves Fire-in-the-Snow."
Chapter Twenty-Three
Later in the week Katie walked down the wooden sidewalks of Cloudcastle alongside his old commanding officer, Colonel Shelby Sutton. Around his neck, for all to see, swung the shiny panther's claw.
Censuring glances and whispered conversations followed the two men. The good townsfolk were troubled. Colonel Sutton, a man they so admired, was openly hobnobbing with a coward. And an Indian-loving coward at that. Why, Covington was wearing a savage's charm around his neck and odds were he didn't take it by force!
"Colonel," drawled Kane, his blue eyes steady, "you want to keep in the good graces of these people, it might be wise to stay away from me."
Shelby Sutton never slowed his pace. "You trying to get out of buying me a drink, Captain?"
Kane grinned and pushed open the swinging doors of the Gilded Cage Saloon. "After you, Colonel."
On Saturday, Tahomah rode into Cloud West at lunchtime. He grinned impishly, explaining he had a dream that Colonel Shelby Sutton was in the Territory. Shelby Sutton greeted the old chief warmly and immediately brought down the whiskey bottle. Natalie took it from him, smiling goodnaturedly, and herded both men into the dining room.
After a big meal, the three spent the' long, pleasant winter's Afternoon in the fire-warmed drawing room, the two men enjoying their whiskey and cigars while Natalie sipped spiced hot tea. The three discussed everything from politics to peace treaties, and the hours sped past.
At four o'clock Shelby made his apologies to the old chief, explaining that he had a commitment to meet a lovely blond singer down in Cloudcastle for an early supper before her performance at the opera house. Tahomah's black eyes twinkled and he nodded his gray head knowingly. The two men shook hands and Shelby made the Ute promise to visit again and soon.
It was not until then that Shelby Sutton said casually, "Chief, I understand you met Kane Covington." Natalie gaped, openmouthed, as the old shaman bobbed his head happily and quizzed, "He your friend?" Shelby grinned. "Has been for years, Chief."
"Brave man, brave man," muttered the Ute. "Indeed he is, and he says the same of you."
It was while the two men discussed Kane that Natalie noticed Tahomah's amulet was missing. No sooner had she closed the door behind her uncle than she whirled and questioned him. Calmly, Tahomah admitted he had given it to Kane.
"You gave it to Kane Covington!" Natalie blazed, and her hands went to her hips. "I did," said Tahomah resolutely.
Natalie rolled her eyes heavenward while the old Indian stalked back into the parlor and took a seat on the sofa. Sighing heavily, Natalie crossed the room to sit beside her unrepentant friend. She placed a small hand atop his gnarled, arthritic one and smiled at him.
"Tahomah," she said gently, "how could you give your panther's claw to Covington? I've told you about the man; he stole Treasure Mountain. He will—"
"He is in danger," interrupted Tahomah.
"What if he is?" snapped Natalie. "He wouldn't be if he would get off this mountain and leave Colorado!" She folded her arms across her chest. "Why you would wish to save a… a…"
"He is brave man."
"How do you know he's brave?"
"I see his scars. Bluebellies give him bad scars." Tahomah frowned. "Try to kill him."
Natalie flushed. She rose and began pacing. "Very well, you saw the scars on his back, but—"
"I did not say I saw the scars on his back."
"You did, you just said you—"
"I said I see scars." His black eyes impaled her. "I did not say where they were."
"Well… ah"—Natalie nervously cleared her throat—"wherever his scars are… he… they…" She floundered, her face pink. Tahomah's accusing grin angered her. "Scars do not mean he is brave! I'm very displeased and disappointed that you would befriend him. First Uncle Shelby. Now you. I don't like it and I'll tell you—"
"Fire-in-the-Snow." Tahomah rose, again interrupting. "I am your father; you my chosen-daughter. You cannot speak to me like that. I am old and wise; you are young and foolish."
"Now, Tahomah, you—"
He silenced her with a lift of his hand. His twinkling eyes grew somber and his broad, copper face took on a deep, forbidding scowl. He came to stand before her. "I see things, Fire. Things that you do not see." Black eyes grew fixed and his voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. "Fire, for years you have had upon your slim shoulders
the burden of protecting the Manitou gold. That burden will be lifted at noon of the twelfth full moon."
Eyes wide, Natalie asked anxiously, "What will happen, Tahomah? How will I know?…"
"I cannot reveal it, but it has been foretold. And one who is now in great danger will then be forever safe."
"If you're speaking of Kane Covington, I don't care what happens—" Tahomah's fierce expression silenced her. She drew a breath, lifted a hand to his weathered cheek, and murmured contritely, "Forgive me, Tahomah. I meant no disrespect, but you told me that you killed the panther with your bare hands; that you've worn the claw ever since. Now you've given it away. Won't you be in danger?" Her green eyes filled with concern.
"I am afraid of nothing; I am old, time to go."
"No," she protested sadly, "don't speak like that. What would I do without you?"
"You marry soon; have husband," said Tahomah, then quickly changed the subject. "I came today not only to see your uncle. I came for my Christmas present. Where is it?"
Natalie smiled brightly. "This will be the earliest we've ever exchanged our gifts."
Tahomah grinned sheepishly. "I could wait no longer. What day is it?"
Natalie laughed gaily as she hurried into the corridor. "November sixteenth. Not even Thanksgiving yet," she called over her shoulder.
"Hmmm. I thought it was nearly Christmas Day," mused the old chief, more to himself than to Natalie. He dropped back onto the sofa, shaking his gray head. His memory was not what it once was; yet another sign that his time on this earth was running out.
Natalie momentarily returned carrying a large, brightly wrapped box tied with ribbon. She laid it across the old chiefs knees and sat down by him. As he did every year, Tahomah meticulously worked at removing the shiny paper, his heavy gray eyebrows knitting together, black eyes mischievous, a sly smile on his lips. And Natalie, as she did each year, grew impatient.
"Here, Tahomah," she said shortly, "let me help."
In seconds she'd ripped the paper off and tossed it to the floor. Jerking the lid from the box, she pushed aside tissue paper and lifted the turquoise velvet shirt up for him to admire.
His gnarled fingers swept over the supple velvet, and Natalie clapped her hands with delight when he peeled off his buckskin tunic and drew the colorful velvet shirt over his head. "How I look?" he asked, rubbing his fingers over the rich softness covering his massive chest. "Magnificent," praised Natalie.
Tahomah preened proudly, then leaned over and kissed the top of Natalie's fiery head. "Thank you, Daughter. I will wear to meet the Great Spirit in the Sky."
"Not for years yet," countered Natalie. "Now give me..."
"Your what?" he teased. "I bring nothing. You saw no presents when I entered."
"Where have you hidden it? I know you brought me something."
He chuckled happily and went to the heavy blanket he had worn over his shoulders for the ride down to Cloud West. From out of its folds he drew a necklace. An exquisite lavaliere of smooth, shiny gold. Natalie gasped when he draped the gold chain with its round disc about her throat. Set in the center of the large golden pendant, a smooth turquoise stone was the color of a Colorado summer sky.
"Tahomah! It's splendid, but where did—"
He smiled. "Do not question your father," he gently scolded.
"Never," she promised, and hugged him tightly.
Shelby Sutton's visit lasted longer than he had intended. Enjoying himself thoroughly, he was in no hurry to leave. He liked the people of Cloudcastle, and they, him. Enchanted with the blond opera singer, Noel Salvato, Shelby spent many a gay, lively hour in her company. Ashlin Blackmore went out of his way to gain Shelby's approval, so the Texan spent pleasant, entertaining evenings with Natalie and her Englishman. And Shelby happily renewed his friendship with Kane Covington.
Untroubled by the fact that Natalie disliked Kane, Shelby frequently passed cold, snowy afternoons at the younger man's mountain cabin while Natalie presided over her courtroom.
It was on such an afternoon that Shelby, long legs stretched out to the roaring fire, gray eyes staring sleepily into the flames, took the last swallow from his tumbler of bourbon and said, "What is it between you and Natalie?"
Kane's lean fingers tightened on his whiskey glass. Plagued with guilt, feeling like the worst kind of heel, he said evenly, "Colonel, your niece resents me for owning this land." He took a long, thirsty pull from his whiskey.
Shelby Sutton shook his silver head. "It's more than that, Kane. I can sense it. It's like… if I didn't know better, I'd think… Ah, hell, who the devil can understand women?" He held out his empty glass to Kane.
Relieved, Kane reached for the half-filled bottle and tipped it to Shelby's glass. "As you know, sir, I quit trying a long time ago."
Shelby's gray gaze swung to Kane's face. He looked the younger man in the eye and said, unsmiling, "Kane, when I leave here, I want you to do me a favor."
"Name it, Colonel."
"Keep an eye on her for me."
It was two days before Thanksgiving. A cold, snowy Tuesday afternoon in Cloudcastle. Joe South, terrifically thirsty, stumbled into the Silverton Saloon. He knew the Silverton bartender. Old Bart, a spidery little man with beady black eyes and a sparse, drooping mustache, was good for at least one free whiskey. Joe, pupils dilating in the dimness of the room, glanced blindly about. Seeing no one he recognized, he limped up to the bar.
"How about it, Bart?" he questioned hopefully, taking off his dark felt hat and shaking the snowflakes from it. "Suppose an old friend could have one shot of whiskey?"
Bart was already pouring even as he nodded his head. Joe, hands trembling, mouth dry, reached for the glass, turned it up, and sighed with satisfaction as he felt the bourbon's fiery warmth burn his parched throat and go down into his cold chest and empty belly. Old Bart smiled and poured another.
"Well, what have we here?" came an all too familiar voice, and Joe South immediately wished he had never come into the Silverton. "I do believe it's the puny southern gimp," said Damon Leatherwood, stepping up beside the uneasy Joe.
"Sure looks like the crippled little drunk," observed Leatherwood's bearded companion, beefy Nate Sweatt. He took the bar at Joe's other side. "Where's your Indian-lovin' friend, Joe?" Leatherwood grinned and glanced about. "He afraid to come into town to drink?"
Joe South fought the panic threatening to choke him. He was alone. Old Bart was backing away, his beady eyes darting nervously between the two big men.
"I don't know what you're talking about." Joe wished his voice sounded surer.
Leatherwood, smiling broadly, picked up Joes felt hat from the bar. "Joe, I believe this is my hat you've got here." And he dropped the hat to the floor and dramatically wiped his muddy boots on it. Joe said nothing. "And this"—Leatherwood nodded to the full glass of whiskey sitting before Joe —"this is my drink, isn't it, Joe?" Joe nodded reluctantly. "What Joe? I didn't hear you? Isn't this my drink?"
"Yes." Joe bowed his head. Damon Leatherwood grabbed a handful of Joe's light hair and pulled his head back.
"Tell you what, Joe. I'm going to drink my whiskey and while I'm drinkin', I want to see you dance a little."
"Please, Leatherwood," Joe appealed to him, "I'm lame, you know I can't dance."
"Oh, yes, you can."
"No, please, I—"
Nate Sweatt slapped the revolver riding his hip. "The man said dance, Joe. Now dance." And he pulled his gun.
At a table in the far north side of the room, hidden in the shadows of the stairway, sat a solitary figure, quietly observing. His black hat was pulled low over piercing eyes, cigarette smoke curled up around his chiseled features, his blackgloved forefinger tapped rhythmically on the wooden table, and his chest expanded beneath the black gabardine shirt he wore.
He sighed wearily, crushed out his smoked-down cigarette, and took off his hat. Slowly he peeled the tight black leather gloves from his hands and dropped them into the hat. His lean fingers
toyed with the shiny panther's claw resting at the base of his brown throat.
Kane rose.
The two large men tormenting Joe South were laughing too hard to notice his approach. Nor did Joe see him. Sweat pouring down his face, Joe stood trembling but rooted to the spot, refusing to dance on his crippled leg. Drawing on the last reserves of pride he was surprised to find he still possessed, Joe prepared himself for the worst. He would not dance; they would have to kill him.
Tears of laughter rolling down his cheeks, eyes locked on the terrified man before him, Damon Leatherwood blindly reached for his whiskey.
And he found firm fingers already wrapped around the glass.
"I believe that's my whiskey, Leatherwood," drawled Kane in his soft Mississippi accent.
Leatherwood stopped laughing. Joe South stopped trembling. Nate Sweatt nervously tightened the grip on his six-shooter.
Kane drank the whiskey.
He placed the empty glass on the polished bar, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and said coldly, "And that's my hat you're wearing." Casually he lifted Damon's worn Stetson from his big head and let it fall to the floor. As he ground its creased crown beneath his bootheel, Kane said evenly, "Take off your gun, Leatherwood, and fight this Rebel Indian-lover like a man." His cold-lidded start never wavered.
"You've had this comin' for a long time, Covington." Leatherwood unbuckled his wide leather gunbelt with its heavy Colt .44 revolver. "I could take you with one hand tied behind my back," he bragged, and motioned Sweatt away from the bar. Leatherwood lifted both body fists and winced in shock when Kane tagged him first.
The fight was on.
Leatherwood connected with a harsh blow to Kane's chin. The force turned Kane's dark head to the side and he stumbled backward, almost falling Leatherwood waded in, eager to cash in on his momentary advantage. His huge right fist shot out but missed its target, connecting with only the air as Kane ducked at the last second, drove a hard fist into the bigger man's stomach, and followed it up with a one-two punch to his head.
Leatherwood bellowed like a bull.
