The trouble was, Sam felt the same. He’d fought it and fought it, but day by day he grew more and more fond of her. It had reached the point where he looked forward to her company and to admiring her when she wasn’t looking.
“You ask me, you’re the luckiest hombre alive,” Reuben said wistfully. “I’ll probably end my days a bachelor.”
“You never know.”
“I’m not much to look at, and my family is on the poor side. There’s nothing about me that would make a girl sit up and take notice. If one ever does, I’ll be on her like a bear on honey and have her say she will before she comes to her senses. I won’t care if she only has one ear or two noses.”
Sam laughed.
“Some of us don’t get to be choosy. We take what comes our way and are thankful for it.”
“You’re saying I should leap into her arms?”
“From what I hear, the woman is supposed to leap into yours. Me, it wouldn’t matter if she tripped and stumbled into mine. Once I’ve got my arms around her, I’m not letting go.”
Sam smiled. He enjoyed Reuben’s company. Some of the others, his own brother among them, thought that Reuben was slow between the ears, but that wasn’t true. Reuben was shy more than slow, and didn’t open up, didn’t show his true self, until he knew someone well.
“I just hope my dream gal comes along before I’m too old to appreciate her,” Reuben was saying. “As it is, I’m almost middle-aged.”
Sam was well aware that most men lived to about fifty. Sixty and higher was rare, which was why everyone marveled at old Ebidiah Troutman. The geezer had lived long enough for two men. “You have a ways to go yet.”
“If I’m not hitched by twenty-five, I doubt I ever will be. I’ll end up a lonely old man, sitting in a rocking chair with a dog at my feet. The whole world will have passed me by.”
“You’re being ridiculous,” Sam said. “None of us can predict what will be.” If someone had told him a couple of months ago he’d fall for Lorette Kurst, he’d have laughed himself silly.
Reuben abruptly drew rein and stared at the woods. “Did you just hear something?”
Sam brought his dun to a halt. “No.”
“I thought . . .” Reuben said, and didn’t finish.
“Thought what?” Sam said.
An arrow streaked out of the night and embedded itself in the center of Reuben’s chest. The impact jolted Reuben. He looked down at the feathers and then at Sam and bleated, “No!” He reached for the shaft but his hand never made it. His whole body went limp, and he fell in slow motion, his eyes and mouth wide, blood oozing from a corner of his mouth.
For all of five seconds Sam sat riveted with horror. A rush of footfalls galvanized him into grabbing for the Walker Colt in his saddle holster. But he didn’t quite have hold of it when rough hands seized him and he was flung violently to the ground. A foot caught him in the ribs. Another clipped his temple. He opened his mouth to scream but a blow to the back of his head rendered him nearly senseless.
He felt hands on his arms and legs, felt himself lifted.
Struggling to stay conscious, Sam fought a wave of nausea. He heard whispers in an Indian tongue. He hadn’t gotten a clear look at his attackers yet but he didn’t need to.
They were Comanches.
Sam didn’t resist. He couldn’t. His head swam and he was weak all over. Four of them were carrying him by his arms and legs. All he could see were the tops of trees, and stars. He turned his head and almost blacked out. More warriors were all around him. They moved like so many panthers.
Sam’s mouth went dry. The tales he’d heard of Comanche atrocities were enough to curdle the blood. He could imagine what they aimed to do to him.
Reuben had been the lucky one.
Sam shuddered. “Oh Lord,” he said, not meaning to. It slipped out.
The warrior holding his right arm cuffed him and barked something that might have been Comanche for “Quiet!”
The cuff didn’t help Sam’s head any. He had an urge to cry but didn’t. He wasn’t a boy anymore. He was a man. He must face what came as Luke or his pa would. But heavens, he was scared.
He became aware of sounds behind them and twisted his head enough to make out the dark outline of a horse. A Comanche was leading his dun by the reins. He didn’t see Reuben’s animal.
At the top of the hill was a clearing. Several Comanches were waiting, with a lot of horses. Not one of the Indians said a thing. It was as if they had done this so many times, they didn’t need to. They knew just what to do.
Sam was thrown over a horse, belly-down. A saddle was under him, and he realized the horse was his own dun. His hands and feet were grasped, and the Indians bound him, wrists and ankles.
The Comanches swung onto their mounts, and the war party was under way. A stocky warrior led the dun.
Sam tried not to think of what was in store for him, but how could he not? They were taking him to his doom.
Chapter 57
Lorette didn’t trust her older brothers. For as far back as she could recollect, Harland had always been up to no good. He was a wily fox, that Harland, always scheming, always thinking of ways to do this or that.
Thaxter wasn’t wily but he was deadly. Ungodly quick with that six-shooter of his, he had no qualms about killing anything under the sun. For all his deadliness, though, he didn’t have a mind of his own. He did whatever Harland wanted. If Harland told him to jump, he’d ask how high. Thaxter was Harland’s shadow. As dark a shadow as there could be.
When Harland announced at the secret meeting that he and Thaxter would deal with their pa over Harland’s decision to be shed of the Burnetts and the Weavers, she immediately suspected the worst. She wouldn’t put anything past the pair.
More than a few times she’d heard them remark that their lives would be so much better with their pa out of the way.
The notion was obscene, sons killing their own pa. It sickened her to think about it.
Lorette was different from her big brothers. She wasn’t as heartless. She wasn’t brutal.
She’d always been a willful girl. She liked to get her own way. What female didn’t?
She’d also be the first to admit she was uncommonly playful with the menfolk. A regular vixen, an aunt once called her, and it stuck in her head. She liked the sound of it. Vixen. It rolled on the tongue, sort of like chocolate. To her, playing with males was a grand entertainment.
Most men were simpleminded. Like oxen with a ring in their nose, she could lead them around however she liked. All she had to do was flaunt herself and they’d start drooling.
She’d discovered her power over them when she was quite young.
They were living back east then. One day her folks took her to town. She moseyed over to the general store and saw a boy she knew sucking on hard candy. He had a whole bag. She asked for a piece but the boy said no. Going up to him, she smiled sweetly and touched her finger to his chin and said, “Pretty please.”
The boy couldn’t give her candy fast enough.
That was her first clue that females had power over males. She thought it only fair.
Men were forever lording over women. Bossing them around. Wanting food, or to have their clothes stitched, and whatnot.
A woman’s power balanced the scales. It let her wrap a man around her little finger, and get him to do things in return.
Lorette had used her power right and left, giddy with delight at how boys bowed and scraped for her. It was marvelous. They took her so serious when all she was doing was playing with them.
Until now.
Until the lone exception came along.
Never in a million years would Lorette have imagined she’d fall for someone as she had for Sam. Not when she was still so young. Later, yes, after she’d sown a few oats. But not now.
In her d
aydreams, she’d always imagined falling for a dashing, strapping gent who would sweep her off her feet with his good looks and charm and sheer manliness.
Sam was boyish. He wasn’t strapping. He was polite, and nice, but she wouldn’t call him charming. Yet almost from the moment they were thrown together, she was drawn to him, like a female moth to a male flame. She experienced feelings she’d never felt before. Powerful feelings that mightily stirred her heart.
Now, Lorette wanted him with her day and night. She couldn’t stand to be apart. She moped and pouted.
Lorette was in love. It took a lot for her to admit it. She loved Sam Burnett and she was using her power on him to make him her very own.
On this particular morning, Lorette had been up a short while and was at the fire, drinking coffee. She was thinking about the secret meeting, and Harland’s comment.
Her pa was across from her, gulping the black brew. He was usually surly until he’d had a few.
“Morning, Pa,” Lorette said.
Her pa grunted.
Harland and Thaxter came to the fire, Harland smiling that sly smile of his. “That coffee sure smells good.”
“Better than you do,” Lorette said.
Harland acted as if he were hurt. “Why say a thing like that? What did I do to you?”
“You were born,” Lorette said.
“That’ll be enough, daughter,” their pa said.
“If you only knew,” Lorette said.
Before her pa could respond, Harland turned to him and said, “We’d like to have a talk with you, Pa, Thax and me.”
“So talk.”
“Not here.” Harland glanced pointedly at the other fire, where Owen and Luke Burnett and Jasper Weaver were seated. “Off a ways, if you don’t mind.”
“There’s nothing so important you can’t tell me here and now,” his pa said grumpily.
“This is,” Harland insisted.
His pa gave him a sour look and was about to say something when a riderless lathered horse came cantering in and stopped and shook itself.
“What the hell?” Thaxter blurted.
“Ain’t that the Weaver boy’s animal?” Silsby said.
Lorette sprang to her feet with the rest. She reached the horse at the same moment as Jasper Weaver.
Jasper touched his fingertips to the saddle, and paled. He held his fingers for them to see the scarlet smears, and said, aghast, “This is blood.”
“Injuns, I bet,” her pa said.
“Oh, God,” Jasper said, staring at the saddle in pure horror.
“Wait a minute,” Owen Burnett said. “Where’s Sam? The two of them were riding herd. They usually stick together even though they’re not supposed to.”
At the mention of her true love, Lorette felt a piercing pain in her chest, as if her heart had been cleaved in two. “Sam?” she said breathlessly, and was running toward the horse string before she realized what she was doing.
“Hold on, girl,” her father bellowed. “You can’t go riding off by your lonesome.”
Lorette wasn’t about to stop for him or anyone. She picked up her saddle blanket, but before she could throw it on, Silsby and Iden were on either side of her and took her by the arms. “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, so furious she almost sank her teeth into Silsby’s wrist.
“Pa told us to stop you,” Iden said.
“Hold still, you she-cat,” Silsby said, struggling to restrain her.
The rest were hurrying over, all with their rifles, Jasper Weaver strapping on the six-shooter he never used.
Her pa assumed command. “Hold on. We can’t all go. Someone has to stay and watch the camp. Silsby and Iden, that will be you. Keep your guns handy and your eyes peeled.” He paused. “Daughter, you should stay, too.”
“Like blazes I will,” Lorette said.
“It should be the men,” her pa said. “These are Comanches we’re talking about.”
“Oh, God,” Jasper Weaver said.
“I can shoot as straight as any of you,” Lorette argued, “and can ride a damn sight better than most. I’m coming unless you tie me up, and I’ll scratch the eyes out of anyone who tries.” To emphasize her point, she tore free of Silsby and Iden and moved to her mare.
“We don’t have time for this squabbling,” Jasper Weaver said, his voice breaking with emotion.
“You Kursts hash it out,” Owen Burnett said, and he and Luke stepped to their mounts.
“Damn it all,” her pa said. “All right, girl. You can come. But you do as you’re told, you hear me?”
“Whatever you say, pa,” Lorette replied, and just to spite him, she smiled sweetly.
Chapter 58
Owen Burnett was never so worried in his life. As he rode alongside Jasper Weaver, he broke out in a cold sweat. He loved Samuel. Loved the boy dearly. And he greatly feared they would find the mutilated and scalped bodies of their sons.
It was always there, that fear. It came from living in the wilds of the Texas hill country, where hostiles roamed and outlaws prowled and beasts ripped their prey with fang and claw.
Fortunately, massacres were rare, outlaws few, and bear and mountain lion attacks infrequent.
Living in the wilds was always a gamble, but when Owen weighed the risks against the pride of having his own farm and not being beholden to anyone, his pride won.
His family was willing to accept the risks because they believed as he did.
Which was small comfort in the still hours of the night when he’d lie in bed listening to Philomena breathe and a howl off in the hills reminded him where they were.
Now, with the image of the blood on Jasper’s fingertips vivid in his mind, Owen prayed he hadn’t made a mistake he would forever regret. “Samuel,” he said under his breath. “Please, not my Samuel.”
They were going much too slowly to suit him.
Gareth was out in front, scouring for sign as they went, his oldest sons flanking him. They were good trackers, what with their years of hunting.
They were backtracking the dun. Or trying to. The ground was hard and the dun’s prints were mixed with the many made before.
Owen couldn’t make sense of it. Which was why he didn’t complain, but he chafed at the delay. They needed to reach the boys quickly.
“God in heaven,” Jasper said loudly to be heard over the pounding of hooves. “I hope we’re wrong. I hope that blood doesn’t mean what I think it means.”
“Maybe they tussled with a longhorn,” Owen said, not taking his eyes off the Kursts. “Or he hurt himself somehow.”
“Wilda will be crushed if anything happens to that boy,” Jasper said plaintively. “She adores him.”
“Don’t give up hope.”
Gareth picked up the pace. Now and then he rose in the stirrups to scan the hills. They were nearing the east end of the grassland when he rose yet again, and thrust out an arm. “There!” he bellowed, and used his spurs.
Owen brought his chestnut to a gallop. The sight of a body sprawled in the grass made him gasp.
The body was on its belly and the barbed tip of an arrow stuck from between the shoulder blades.
Luke flew past Owen. His horse was the fastest in the family, and he was lashing his reins like a madman. He caught up to Gareth just as Gareth drew rein, and was out of the saddle before his horse came to a stop. Running to the body, he bent and rolled it over.
Jasper Weaver groaned so loudly, it was almost a wail. Swinging down, Jasper started toward the body, tripped, and caught himself. He swayed, stumbled, and sank to his knees. Raising his face to the heavens, he let out a shriek such as Owen never thought a human throat could make.
“No! No! No!”
Owen dismounted. Everyone else stayed in their saddles, Lorette as pale as a sheet, her father and her brothers glancin
g all around, Gareth and Harland with their rifles out.
“Jasper, I’m so sorry,” Owen said, placing his hand on his friend’s shoulder.
“Reuben,” Jasper gurgled as if his throat were filled with water. Tears poured from his eyes and he feebly clutched at his son’s shirt.
No words would suffice so Owen said nothing.
“We can’t waste time here,” Gareth Kurst said.
“Gareth, please,” Owen said.
“Aren’t you forgetting someone, Burnett?” Gareth said curtly. “Or don’t you give a damn about your own flesh and blood?”
A red-hot flame seared Owen from head to toe. “Oh, God.”
“Mr. Kurst is right, Pa,” Luke said. “Sam’s not here. They must have taken Sam. His horse, too. We have to go after them right this minute.”
“Of course,” Owen said, feeling like the fool of all fools. He let go of Jasper and moved to his chestnut.
“You should come with us, Weaver,” Gareth said.
“No,” Jasper said, his cheeks and chin wet, his nose running. He shook his head. “I’ll take my son back. I don’t want to leave him like this. Animals might . . .” He didn’t finish.
“Suit yourself,” Gareth said.
Harland and Thaxter were by the trees. “Here, Pa,” Harland said, gesturing. “They went this way.”
Gareth gigged his big roan over and looked down. “Good eyes, boy.” He turned to all of them. “From here on out we go as quiet as we can. Be set to shoot. They might hear us or spot us coming.”
Thaxter patted his Colt. “I’d love to kill me some redskins.”
“These are Comanches,” Gareth said. “They don’t die easy.”
Luke was back in the saddle and spurred his horse past them. “You talked about wasting time,” he snapped, and headed up the hill.
“What’s his problem?” Wylie said.
“It’s his brother, you lunkhead,” Lorette said, and jabbed her own spurs to overtake Luke.
Owen followed. He felt guilty at leaving Jasper, but Sam came first. There was a chance his son was still alive; sometimes the Comanches played with their victims a while.
Ralph Compton Texas Hills Page 22
