by Connie Mason
Nearing the butte, Jim reined to a halt, cautious and watchful. His Ranger training had lent him a courage and icy calm few men possessed. With cool deliberation he divorced his emotions from everything but the need to save his friends. Then he saw the buzzards circling overhead and his heart sank into his shoes.
Tethering his mount to a branch of a nearby mesquite, Jim continued on foot, knowing without being told what he would find. The silence was profound. Jim’s intuition screamed that he was too late, that Colt was dead, and maybe Sam, too.
He found Colt at the foot of the butte, sprawled against a stunted pine, arms and legs akimbo. “Jesus!” The word exploded from Jim’s mouth, meant more as a prayer than a curse. “Sweet, blessed Jesus!” Jim broke into a run, sliding to his knees when he reached Colt’s still form. Employing extreme care, he turned Colt onto his back He spotted the blood immediately, and a cursory inspection revealed a bloody crease in Colt’s tawny head. Someone—Logan?—had shot Colt at close range. Jim sucked in his breath, amazed that Colt was still alive. Resuming his examination, Jim halted abruptly when his hand on Colt’s ribs produced a long, pained groan and an upward sweep of his eyelids.
“Wha—where am I?” moaned Colt, gingerly testing his limbs with slow, deliberate movements.
“Don’t move,” Jim warned, sighing in relief at hearing Colt’s voice. He never expected to find his friend alive. “Did Logan shoot you?”
“Logan!” Suddenly Colt’s head began to clear and he attempted to rise. Pain exploded in the vicinity of his ribs and he fell backwards. Then his head began to pound in unbearable waves of agony. “Christ!”
“I reckon you’ve broken some ribs, Colt,” Jim said. “And there’s a new part in your hair. Lie back while I perform some first aid. You can tell me what happened while I work.”
Retrieving his canteen, Jim first offered Colt a drink, then cleansed his head and face of blood. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”
While Jim tore a spare shirt into strips to bind Colt’s ribs, Colt spoke haltingly, trying to recall everything over the pounding in his head.
“Where’s Sam?” Colt asked.
“I… don’t know. There doesn’t seem to be anyone about. Did Logan shoot you?”
“Yeh, and I don’t understand why I’m not dead.” He paused, deep in thought. “I probably owe my life to Sam. Somehow she crawled out of that cave and screamed a warnin’ just as Logan pulled the trigger. I jerked my head and the bullet must have grazed me. The last thing I remember is tumblin’ over the ledge.” He pointed to the place he meant.
“You’re the luckiest varmint I know,” Jim said in wonder. “There, you’re bound up nice and tight.” He tied the last strip. “Can you ride?”
“Damn right I can. I’ve got to go after Sam and Logan. I don’t know what he’s got planned for her, but it can’t be pleasant.”
“Colt, you gotta be loco,” Jim admonished. “You’re in no condition to chase after anyone. You need a doctor. You’ve probably got a concussion and Lord knows what else. I’ll take you back to San Antonio and go after Sam myself.”
“Like hell!” Colt exploded, stumbling painfully to his feet. But the effort proved too much. He crumbled in a boneless heap at Jim’s feet.
Jim made Colt as comfortable as possible, placing his jacket beneath his head and covering him with the blanket strapped to his saddle. Then he scoured the area for clues. First he rode up the butte to the ledge Colt had pointed out, where he found the narrow cave and signs that showed it had recently been occupied. He peered over the ledge, finding the path Colt had left on his downward plunge, once again marveling at Colt’s stamina as well as his rare good luck for having survived such a perilous descent. Then he found horse tracks and followed them to the valley floor, noting that they veered northwest. He returned to Colt, who by now was moaning incoherently and thrashing about.
Comforting him as best he could, Jim went to retrieve Colt’s horse. This time Colt remained upright when he was helped to his feet, though his pain was considerable. How he managed to sit on a horse was a mystery to Jim, but he clung to the saddle horn while Jim led Thunder in a slow and easy gait to San Antonio.
Though Colt hated the thought of returning to the city without Sam, he did not protest, for he knew he was in no condition to pursue Logan. But once his ribs were properly bound and his head cleared, nothing or no one would keep him from following Logan and Sam. A miracle had saved him, and a miracle would restore Sam to him.
Something Logan had said earlier led Colt to believe that he wouldn’t kill Sam outright, that he had devised some vile method of punishment. What was it? If the lowdown skunk harmed any part of Sam or their child, Colt swore vehemently, the bastard would die a slow and painful death.
Vern Logan rode with a purpose. An almost demonic desire to set into motion the final phase of revenge drove him north to Kiowa territory. Though he greatly feared those fierce savages of the Kiowa tribe, he believed they wouldn’t harm him. Several years ago he had gambled excessively, losing vast sums. When his money was gone he signed IOUs, hoping his father would bail him out. Only it hadn’t worked that way. Not even when his debts were called in did Calvin Logan relent, leaving Vern to work out his own problems.
Vern was far from solving his dilemma when he had met a Kiowa half-breed named Whiskey Joe in the saloon one day. Joe sported a broken leg and lamented loud and clear that he could neither sit a horse properly nor move about easily. More than half drunk and feeling sorry for the half-breed, Vern proceeded to tell Joe his own tale of woe. When he finished, a sly smile lit up Joe’s swarthy features.
Vern soon learned that Whiskey Joe was a gun smuggler, carrying guns and ammunition, ill-gotten, of course, to the Kiowa. The deal had been made, guns for prime pelts, but then Joe had the rare bad fortune of falling down the stairs after a night of sporting with a whore and drinking. The result was a leg broken in two places. And the guns the Kiowa expected to arrive shortly remained hidden in crates in Joe’s one-room shack at the edge of town. If they weren’t delivered on time, Spotted Pony and his braves would never trust him again. Joe sensed a desperation in Vern Logan that could be worked to his own advantage.
Vern’s life had already been threatened by those to whom he owed money, and he was at his wit’s end. Just because his daddy was rich didn’t mean he had unlimited funds available. Just the opposite, in fact. But professional gamblers are a hard lot, and when they wanted what was due them, they could be ruthless. When Vern expressed interest in Whiskey Joe’s problem, Joe grew enthusiastic.
“I need a man to drive the wagon to Kiowa territory,” Joe confided in a low voice. “Someone I can trust. Are you interested?”
“To Kiowa territory? You’re loco.”
“You’ll be safe,” Joe insisted, “as long as I’m with you. I may not be able to sit a horse but I can ride in the wagon. I’ve already got a buyer for the pelts and I’ll split the take with you.”
The deal was too good for Vern to refuse. He drove the wagon loaded with weapons and Whiskey Joe. All went well. Spotted Pony was pleased with the guns, bestowing honorary membership into his tribe on Vern Logan.
After the adventure, Vern had breathed a sigh of relief, for he could have been apprehended at any time by both the Texas Rangers and the Army. Not to mention killed by the fierce Kiowa. Vern had earned enough money to pay his debts, but his cowardly nature prevented him from attempting the foolish feat again. In any event, Whiskey Joe was killed shortly afterwards in a barroom brawl.
As he rode north with Sam, Vern fervently prayed that Spotted Pony would still remember him, and perhaps offer him more prime pelts for Samantha. If not, he would offer her to the squat, ugly chief as a gift for allowing him safe passage through Kiowa territory. Then he might continue north to Colorado and try his luck panning for gold. Once he acquired enough money, he intended to hire a lawyer to break his father’s will.
Vern did not stop for their noon meal, calling a halt only when his
mount began to tire near dusk. Sliding to the ground, he pulled Sam from the saddle, allowed her a few minutes privacy, then left her sitting against a rock while he prepared a makeshift meal. Once they had eaten, Sam was bound hand and foot and was left to spend the night in abject misery. Vern made no attempt to molest her in any way, and she thanked God for that. In fact, once he learned she carried Colt’s child he had acted as if touching her made his skin crawl, so great was his hatred for the Ranger.
By the time the sun made its appearance in the eastern sky they were mounted once again. Sam knew this part of the country well, and familiar landmarks led her to believe they weren’t too far from Karlsburg. Perhaps even close to the Circle H, for occasionally she saw a stray cow or two bearing the Circle H brand. She prayed mightily for one of the ranch hands to appear, but to her despair, no one did.
Though Sam struggled to stay awake in the saddle, her pregnancy as well as Vern’s careless abuse drained her utterly, and she dozed fitfully. Her discomfort during the night and worry over the child she carried had kept her awake until nearly dawn. Keeping her baby safe until Colt came for her became her primary concern. Sam drew comfort from the belief that Colt would find her, somehow, some way, as long as she could survive.
Vern’s sudden intake of breath and his hands sawing on the reins revived her instantly. They slid to a halt as one word exploded from Vern’s throat. “Comanches!”
Vern’s eyes registered stark fear as he watched a small band of Comanche braves ride down from the hills. For a moment he thought he was a dead man, until he remembered Sam and his reason for being here. What earthly difference did it make whether he gave Samantha to Kiowas or Comanches as long as it saved his skin? he thought, relief sweeping through him. Why not offer Samantha to these Comanches in return for his safe passage? No doubt they would be grateful to him for such an extraordinary gift, though she didn’t look like much now with her lank hair straggling down her back and filth covering her clothes and exposed parts of her body. Still, she was white and the savages would enjoy her. Stilling his pounding heart, Vern forced himself to wait calmly as the Indians surrounded him and Sam.
Brave Eagle had led his small band out of the hills to confront the White Eyes riding across the land owned by Lion Heart and Violet Eyes, land set aside for Black Bear and his people. From a distance he could see that two people shared one mount, a man and woman. Closer inspection revealed that the woman appeared to be a prisoner of the White Eyes, for her hands were tightly bound to the saddle horn.
Glistening black hair concealed the woman’s face, and her clothes were stained and covered with trail dust. Her body was that of a young woman, though her slumped position led Brave Eagle to believe she was suffering from exhaustion as well as great stress.
Riding his pony to within inches of Vern, Brave Eagle knew instinctively that this was a man few would call friend. Though he tried to pretend otherwise, Vern’s light-colored eyes revealed all the fear he harbored in his cowardly heart Brave Eagle motioned for Vern to dismount, and he obeyed instantly, spouting words Brave Eagle pretended not to understand, though he understood far more of the white man’s tongue than he spoke.
“Let me go and the woman is yours,” Vern babbled, motioning to Sam as he spoke. “She was intended for my friend, Spotted Pony of the Kiowa tribe, but if you want her she’s yours. She has known Indians before and will make a satisfactory whore for your braves.”
Making little sense of Vern’s inane chatter, Brave Eagle was nevertheless curious. For some unexplained reason the White Eyes was offering his woman to them for their whore. Was this man truly a friend of Spotted Pony, the Kiowa chief? Brave Eagle conferred briefly with his men before stripping the knife from the sheath at his waist and slashing the ropes binding Sam’s wrists to the saddle horn.
Too weary to care, Sam paid little heed to what was taking place around her. She knew that Vern spoke of giving her to Indians but had no idea it was the Kiowa to whom she was intended. She had hoped it would be Comanches, for she spoke the language and could claim kinship with Black Bear’s tribe.
Only when the Indians spoke among themselves did Sam’s hopes soar, for she realized the braves were speaking Comanche. She looked up just as Brave Eagle freed her hands, her violet eyes wide and pleading as she gazed at the tall brave. Brave Eagle’s sharp intake of breath told Sam he recognized her instantly, and she managed a weak smile before sliding sideways from the saddle into Brave Eagle’s waiting arms.
Riddled with pain, every movement agony, Colt left San Antonio at dawn the next morning, his torso bound tight as a mummy and his head pounding.
“Dammit, Colt, you’re a ornery cuss,” Jim had spouted as he helped Colt mount his horse. “You should be in bed. Does your head hurt?”
“Hurts like hell,” Colt admitted grimly, “but it’ll take more than a busted head and cracked ribs to stop me. I gotta find Logan before he harms Sam and our baby. Christ! She could already be dead.” That terrifying thought provided the strength necessary to spur him on.
They rode to Twin Butte, where Colt carefully studied the tracks, confirming Jim’s earlier suspicions that Logan traveled in a northwestern direction. After a few minutes, Colt said, “They’re ridin’ double, we should overtake them easy enough. C’ mon.”
A few hours later they arrived at the place where Logan had made camp for the night. A thorough inspection yielded nothing new, so they continued on, eating in the saddle, stopping only briefly for necessities’ sake.
“We’re gainin’ on them,” Jim opined. “Logan doesn’t expect to be followed, so he’s travelin’ slow to accommodate his horse who’s carryin’ a double burden.” They rode on.
Suddenly Colt reined in sharply, frowning.
“What’s wrong, Colt?”
“Look around, Jim. You worked on the Circle H a spell. Do you recognize anythin?”
Jim took careful note of his surroundings. “We’re not far from Karlsburg,” he said, astounded.
“Look again.”
“Jesus, we’re on …”
“… Circle H property,” Colt finished.
“You don’t suppose Logan’s takin’ Sam to Karlsburg, do you?”
“Don’t reckon he’s that stupid. No, Logan has somethin’ devious in mind for Sam.”
“If he continues north he’ll reach Kiowa territory,” mused Jim thoughtfully.
Colt’s face paled. “Christ, you don’t think…” His words trailed off and the two men exchanged worried glances that spoke volumes.
“Colt, we could stop by the ranch and get Jake and the boys. We’re not so far that it would delay us overlong.”
Colt considered Jim’s words. It was a good suggestion, but Colt hated the thought of wasting one second. “I can’t risk it, Jim,” he said. “I gotta intercept Logan before he reaches Kiowa territory.”
“But, Colt…”
“You go, Jim,” Colt urged. “I’m goin’ on.”
Indecision worried Jim’s features. On one hand he didn’t want to leave Colt, but on the other he was smart enough to know that one or two men had little chance against the Kiowa. Coming to a swift decision, Jim nodded. “We’ll be right behind you, Colt. Be careful and don’t do anythin’ foolish till we catch up.”
Colt continued on alone, his head pounding, pain a living flame within him. It was inconceivable that Logan had brazenly ridden across Circle H property. Granted it was a remote area, mostly hills and woods that Colt had set aside for Black Bear and his people, but… Christ! Black Bear! He had nearly forgotten. Were they still camped nearby? Had they seen Logan and Sam? If they were still in the area they would be camped in a valley by the stream, Colt reckoned, turning slightly west.
Fighting for survival, Sam struggled against the arms holding her down. Consciousness returned slowly, exhaustion and hardship draining her strength. “No!” she cried, flailing wildly in an attempt to free herself. “My baby!”
The woman’s voice that answered was soft and comfort
ing. “You are safe, Violet Eyes. Your child rests easily beneath your heart.” The Comanche words sounded strange to her ears, but Sam understood them perfectly and relaxed, fear leaving her. She was safe among Black Bear’s people.
Sam opened her eyes, smiling at Singing Wind who bent over her, clucking in concern. Black Bear’s wife was a kindly woman Sam had come to respect. She had treated Laura as her own daughter and was much loved by the People. Sam realized she was lying on a mat inside a tipi, probably Black Bear’s, with Singing Wind and Spirit Dancer kneeling over her, a gourd of dark liquid in the shaman’s hands.
“Drink,” Spirit Dancer said, holding the gourd to Sam’s lips. Sam did not hesitate, drinking deeply as Spirit Dancer nodded in obvious satisfaction. “You will sleep now.” He left, taking Singing Wind with him.
Sam’s eyes grew heavy, her body seemed to be floating in space. When she would have succumbed gratefully to sleep’s healing balm, Brave Eagle slipped inside the tipi and knelt beside her. A scowl furrowed his noble brow though his black eyes regarded her with tenderness.
“Who is the man who mistreated you, Violet Eyes? Why did Lion Heart allow this? If you were my woman I would keep you safe.” His voice was harsh and accusing.
“It’s not Lion Heart’s fault, Brave Eagle,” Sam explained. “This man, Vern Logan, carried me away while Lion Heart was involved in business. He … he lost much wealth and blames me and Lion Heart for his loss, though he has no one to blame but himself. He’s greedy, selfish, and cowardly. He shot Lion Heart and left him for dead, but I know he’s alive and will come for me.”
Brave Eagle nodded, his noble features grim with determination. “The White Eyes will soon know the meaning of Comanche justice. Sleep, Violet Eyes, for when you awaken you will be avenged.” His superbly agile body moved gracefully as he rose and slipped through the tent flap as silently as he entered.
“Brave Eagle, wait! What are you going to do?”
