by Bobbi Smith
"Who are you?" Will stared at him, shocked to find that he was a white man in a cavalry uniform.
"We're scouts from the fort. You looked like you were in trouble. That's why we followed you into town."
The townspeople came out to see what all the excitement was about. They quickly recognized the scout detachment from the fort and showed no surprise at their presence.
''No, we're fine . . ." Will didn't know which emotion was more powerful within himthe feeling of stupidity he felt because he had panicked at the sight of Indians, or the relief that pounded through him over realizing that they were safe.
"We'll be on our way then," the man said. With that, he wheeled his horse around and started off, calling out to the other scouts as he did so.
Sheri heard their conversation, and, sore though she was, she threw the door wide and climbed out. As she started to step down, she lifted her head to look around and it was then that she saw him. He wore a red headband, fringed buckskin pants, and high moccasins, leaving his broad, firmly muscled, sun-bronzed chest completely bared to her gaze. Though he was dressed as an Indian, there was no doubt in her mind that white blood ran in his veins. His hair was black and worn long. His features were cleanly cut, his nose straight and strong, his mouth firm, as if unused to smiling. He rode confidently, as one with his horse.
Sheri stared openly, mesmerized. She had never seen a real, live, half-naked man before. Oh, she'd seen statues in museums, but this was very different. Her breath caught in her throat. She didn't understand why, but she couldn't take her eyes off him. There was a wild and untamed quality about him, something almost predatory.
He must have sensed her gaze upon him, for he looked her way, and across the distance their eyes met. His expression was proud and arrogantand dismissive. He turned away, and putting his heels to his horse's flanks, he rode off. He did not look back.
Sheri's gaze remained fixed on the scout until he had ridden from sight. She watched him go, entranced by the realization that he'd had blue eyes.
"Sheri? What is it?" Maureen asked from behind her in the stage.
"Oh, nothing."
Jarred back to reality, she descended the rest of the way to the ground. Every inch of her body was aching from the abuse of the last twenty minutes. She had no doubt that she would be black and blue in various unspeakable places the next morning.
"What happened? Who were those Indians?" Sheri asked Will, who'd just climbed down from the driver's seat. She noticed he looked ragged and more than a little exhausted.
"I thought we were going to be attacked. I thought they were renegades. . . ." He paused to draw a deep breath. "Turns out they were scouts from the fort."
"They were?" Sheri's bruises and weariness were immediately forgotten as she stared after them. A mental image of the blue-eyed warrior stayed with her. "Why did they chase us?"
"They weren't chasing us. They were escorting us. I didn't know it, and I sure as hell . . . er, heck . . . pardon me, ma'am, I wasn't going to wait around out there on the trail to find out."
"I'm sure we all appreciate your discretion," Sheri said, exhilarated to think that she'd already come face-to-face with scouts from the fort and wondering at the identity of the blue-eyed man. She grew even more excited about what the next days and weeks would bring.
"Indeed, we do, sir," Fred said as he climbed down and then turned to help his wife and Maureen out of the vehicle. "And there was no harm done. If anything, we've probably arrived ahead of schedule."
As the tenseness of the situation eased, the townsfolk who'd come out to see what was happening shifted away. Maureen was shaken and a bit unsteady as she went to stand with Sheri.
"Nothing like making an entrance, is there?" Maureen quipped, her voice quavering.
"I wonder . . ."
"What?"
"Did you see that one scout? The one with the blue eyes?"
"Blue eyes? No, I didn't. Do you think it might have been him?"
"I don't know, but I plan to find out. I need to find Charles Brennan. He's the reporter who wrote the article. He'll be able to tell me. I wrote and let him know that we were coming, so he should be expecting us. I wonder where the Salt River Herald's office is?" She looked around, hoping to spot the newspaper office.
"Can we look him up a little later?' Maureen asked, her knees still shaking.
Sheri cast a glance at her cousin, saw how shaken she still was, and smiled. "This evening will be fine. I'll send a note over to the newspaper office as soon as we get settled in."
"Come, ladies, let's see about getting us rooms for the night. First thing in the morning, we can head out to the fort," Fred said. He took charge, ushering them down the street toward the hotel.
When Sheri and Maureen finally reached their rooms, Sheri dropped her things in her own room and went to talk to Maureen in hers. She walked to the window and stood there staring down at the street below. As she paused for a moment, she realized what she'd just lived through. Her pulse was still racing from the excitement of it.
"You know, I think I can write about real terror now," she said slowly, turning to look at her exhausted cousin. "I never knew how horrible it was to face certain death before, but I do now."
"You're not the only one," Maureen agreed, sitting down heavily on the bed. "And it wasn't fun."
"No. It wasn't."
"How do I let you talk me into doing these things? We could have been murdered today! Scalped! Or God knows what else . . ." She trembled visibly, repulsed by what her imagination was conjuring up.
"But we weren't," Sheri pointed out logically. "You know . . . I need to get this down on paper while it's still fresh in my mind. I'll be in my room writing, if you want me."
"Enjoy yourself," Maureen said as she lay down to rest and recover from the excitement of their ordeal.
Sheri returned to her own room and dug through her traveling case to find her foolscap paper and pencils. Dragging a chair over to the one small table in the room, she began to write.
"Dismissed!" Sergeant Mike O'Toole called out to his scouts.
It wasn't a minute too soon as far as the men were concerned. After a two-week trek through the surrounding mountains looking for Apache, they were more than ready to relax for a while.
"Brand, wait a minute. Lieutenant Long wants to see the both of us."
Brand was curious at the summons. It wasn't often that the officer wanted to see them. He followed his friend to the lieutenant's office.
"You wanted to see us, sir?"
"Yes, Sergeant O'Toole. I especially want to see Brand, here."
"What about?"
"It seems any day now, we're going to be having a visitor here at the fort."
"We are? That's unusual, isn't it, sir? Is it someone important?" O'Toole asked.
"Let me put it this waythe orders relating to this 'visit' came directly from Washington."
"Who's coming?" Brand asked. He couldn't imagine what someone from Washington wanted with him.
"A novelist from New York City, a certain Sheridan St. John, is interested in meeting you, Brand, and interviewing you. Mr. St. John read an account of how you saved Mrs. Garner, and he wants to write a book about it."
"I'm not interested," he said tersely.
"Well, Washington is interested. St. John has already published a number of books. This could be good publicity for us and for our campaigns out here. We've been instructed to welcome Mr. St. John and to accommodate him in any way. Who knows? Maybe this writer could make Fort McDowell and the 6th cavalry household names."
"Then we're being ordered to cooperate, sir?" Brand asked.
"If I have to make it an order, I will," Long replied tightly, although he realized that he should have anticipated just such a reaction from the half-breed. Personally, he was looking forward to the visit. He thought, perhaps, he could convince St. John that he had a story of his own to tell that was far more fascinating than anything the half-breed had to offer. He cert
ainly wasn't averse to seeing his own name in print. In fact, he rather relished the idea. "Do we understand each other?'
"Yes, sir," both men replied.
"Fine. You're dismissed."
As they left the office, O'Toole smiled wryly. "This should be interesting."
"For you maybe."
"You read. Wouldn't you like to see yourself immortalized in a book?"
"No."
"Well, it looks like you don't really have much choice. Washington's involved."
Brand grunted in disgust. All he wanted to do was track down renegades, not waste his time with some greenhorn from back East. He was not looking forward to meeting St. John.
Chapter Three
Brand, The Half-Breed Scout, or Trail of the Renegade
The Chase
But there would be no escape for the ill-fated stage driver and his passengers this day. A deadly arrow pierced his heart, ending his valiant attempt to save the lives entrusted to him. Thrown from the careening stage, the driver's life's blood spilled out into the Arizona dust.
The Indians closed in, snaring the lead horses and bringing the team to a stop. The prize was theirs!
Within the confines of the stagecoach, the passengers looked at each other in horror. Rachel had gone pale, and Mercy and Jenny were clinging to each other in frantic desperation.
"What's happening?" Rachel asked, her eyes wide with fright.
"Indian attack. . . . The driver's dead," Gus Jones, the only other passenger on the stage, replied tersely as he drew his gun. He knew their ultimate fate, but he was determined not to die without taking a few of these damned savages with him. "Get down and start praying, ladies!"
The three women huddled on the floor. Both Mercy and Jenny screamed as Gus started shooting wildly out the window. His defense was short-lived. Another arrow found its mark, and he collapsed, dead on the seat near Rachel.
"Oh, God!" she screamed.
The door was thrown open then, and three ghoulishly painted warriors stood staring into the stage. With cruel, harsh hands, they grabbed for the three white women. . . .
"That must be Charles Brennan," Sheri told Maureen as they sat at a table in the restaurant that evening.
Maureen looked up to see an attractive, bespectacled, dark-haired young man of medium height speaking to the waitress. As the woman pointed in their direction, a look of surprise showed in his expression. He said something more to the waitress, then walked toward them.
"Mr. Brennan?" Sheri asked, smiling as he approached their table.
"Miss St. John?" Charles Brennan countered with a grin.
"Sheri to my friends." She rose and extended her hand to him.
Charles's gaze swept over her appreciatively as they shook hands. "It's a pleasure."
"And this is my cousin, Maureen Cleaver." She made the introduction.
Charles greeted the other woman with equal appreciation. Though not as strikingly beautiful as her blond-haired, green-eyed cousin, Maureen Cleaver had a gentle, almost serene loveliness about her. Her hair was a shade darker than Sheri's, and her brown eyes were warm and friendly. He smiled at her, liking her immediately.
"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Brennan. We admire your work," Maureen said.
"Please join us, Mr. Brennan," Sheri invited him as she sat back down.
"Call me Charles, please," he said, taking the seat across from her. "I've been looking forward to meeting you ever since I received your letter, but I have to admit, I honestly thought you were a man. How is it that such a lovely lady as yourself came to be a published author? It's an unusual occupation for a woman, isn't it?"
"My parents died a few years back, and though they left me comfortably well off, I knew I had to do something more with my life. I had always loved books and writing, so when I read my first Carroll and Condon dime novel . . . well, I just knew that that was what I wanted to do. Luckily, my own name is not very feminine, so I was allowed to use it for my pen name."
He looked at her with even more respect. "I'm impressed. How many books have you published now?"
"I've just turned in my sixth, but I think it's time for a change. That's why I'm here. I want to research a story that I think would make a great novel."
"And that has something to do with me and the article I wrote on the rescue of the captain's wife from out at the fort?"
"Yes. I want to do a book about the half-breed scout who saved her."
He stared at her in amazement. "I'm still surprised that you heard about it. How is it that you read about Brand in New York City?"
She quickly explained how things were done at Carroll and Condon Publishing House. "I have the clipping right here."
Sheri took the carefully folded article out of her small reticule and handed it to him.
"I always wanted a large readership, but I never thought what I was writing for the Salt River Herald would make it all the way to New York City."
Sheri smiled at him, understanding completely his feelings. She felt the same way when her novels were published. There was no way of knowing who was reading her work or how it was affecting them. "Believe me, I appreciate your writing. I think this Brand has the potential to be the hero in a continuing line of Western adventures. That's why I wanted to meet with you first and talk with you about him."
"So you haven't met Brand yet?"
"No. We'll be traveling out to the fort tomorrow. I thought you could provide me with a little more insight into his character before we go."
"I'd be delighted to help you, but it will be interesting to see how Brand reacts to your idea of featuring him in a book."
''I hope he'll be pleased."
"Most men would be, but . . ." Charles paused. "Brand's a difficult man to figure. I'm not sure what kind of reception you'll be getting from him."
"Tell me about him," Sheri encouraged Charles.
"He's a half-breed, as you know. His mother was a white captive, his father Apache."
"Do you know how his mother was taken captive?"
"No, I didn't ask, and he never offered. Although I did interview him at length for the article, I can't claim to be his friend. Brand's very much a loner. I do know that he was orphaned at twelve and that Sergeant O'Toole at McDowell, who was Trooper O'Toole at the time, took him in. Evidently Brand's mother had schooled him in white ways. When he moved to the fort with O'Toole, he tried to fit into the white man's world."
"And?" Sheri was growing even more excited. This Brand sounded perfectno, she thought, he sounded better than perfect.
"He did fine from what I could find out, working around the fort doing odd jobs. He even married a white girl a few years back. She was the commander's daughter, actually."
"Oh . . ." This surprised her. For some reason, Sheri hadn't even considered that he might be married.
"Quite a few white people were put out by their union. Her father wasn't too happy about it in the beginning, either, but things worked out . . . for a while. Then there was an Indian raid one day on their small ranch, and she was killed."
Sheri and Maureen gasped in horror. "That must have been horrible for him."
"He tracked down the band that had murdered her and exacted his own revenge."
"What did he do to them?"
"You don't want to know."
Both women paled slightly, their imaginations working overtime.
Sheri swallowed nervously. "So that's why he was so relentless in finding that captain's wife."
"The poor man," Maureen sympathized. "First, his own mother was a captive, and then his wife was killed . . ."
"It was nothing short of a miracle that he found Mrs. Garner. He's very good at what he does."
"He must be magnificent," Sheri breathed, in awe of him already.
Charles couldn't help chuckling at her reaction. "I'm sure he wouldn't describe himself that way."
Sheri turned serious. "How do you think he would describe himself?"
"A few years ago, I'm sure
his answer would have been different. But right now, after all he's been through, my impression of him is that he thinks of himself as a warrior."
A shiver of anticipation went through Sheri at his words. "I see."
"When he came back to the fort, O'Toole almost didn't recognize him. He'd gone back to his Indian ways to do his tracking. He signed up to be a scout then, and that's what he's been doing ever since."
"He sounds fascinating."
"So you're going to McDowell tomorrow?"
"Yes, first thing in the morning. Would you like to accompany us?" Sheri asked.
"We'd love it," Maureen spoke up. She'd taken an instant liking to Charles and wanted to get to know him better. There was something about him . . . a certain twinkle in his eyes that denoted a keen intelligence and a quick wit that attracted her.
"I'd like that. I'll plan on it."
"Tell me, Charles," Sheri asked, "how did you end up here in the Territory? You're not a native. Your accent seems more Eastern."
"You're very perceptive," he told her with an easy grin. "Actually, I'm from Cleveland, but I went to Boston College before heading West."
"But what brought you here?" Maureen was curious. As a college-educated young man back East, he could have gone anywhere and done anything. Instead, he'd ended up here, in the middle of a desert filled with cactus and murderous Indians.
He was thoughtful for a moment. "I'm not sure. I was passing through a few years back on my way to California, and this is as far as I got. Something inside of me said 'stay', so I did."
"But it's such a harsh land."
"It is harsh. Sometimes it's even deadly, but it's also beautiful."
"So you're happy? You've never regretted it?"
"I love being a part of something that's new and growing. Phoenix may not be a big town yet, but I predict that some day it will be. I want to be around to see it."
"But what about the Indian trouble?"
"They're mostly confined to the reservations now. The depredations aren't nearly as serious as they were a few years back. The cavalry's been doing a fine job. I think you'll be impressed by the fort."
"I'm looking forward to seeing it and meeting Brand."
