The Savage

by Nicole Jordan

  She was grateful to Dusty for his succinctness, but her pounding heart had lodged in her throat, and she could do nothing more than nod.

  “Hurry up. If we don’t get there fast, there’s gonna be a lynching.”

  With shaking hands, Summer turned blindly to lift the loaded rifle that was always kept hanging by the front door, and then started to fetch the one in the bedroom. Only then did she notice or even remember her sister. Amelia was standing, staring white-faced at Dusty, her tears arrested.

  He gave a start when he saw her, and hesitated for an instant.

  “No…” Amelia said in a breathless whisper. “They weren’t supposed to hurt him.”

  Summer froze in the act of clutching the rifle. “What…?”

  “He said…I thought…they would just make him leave. Not try to hurt him. He said they wouldn’t hurt him.”

  “Who said?”

  “S-Stapp.”

  Summer felt panic like a knife in her stomach, but she tried to force it down. “Melly…tell me what happened.”

  “I…I gave Lance the note…so he would go to the Paxly place…just like Prewitt wanted. They were going to catch him with the stolen cattle, but that was all, I swear it.”

  Summer stared, reeling at the enormity of what Amelia had done. Slowly, as if sleepwalking, she moved to stand before her sister.

  “Don’t look at me that way!” Amelia cried suddenly. “I didn’t mean…I never intended for him to be killed! I only wanted him to go away and leave us alone! I only wanted him out of our lives!”

  Blindly, hardly knowing what she was doing, Summer drew back her hand and struck Amelia across the face with her open palm. The stinging blow made her sister recoil and elicited a protest from Dusty, but Summer ignored both. “Lance is my life, Amelia! And if he dies…”

  She couldn’t continue the thought. Swallowing the burning ache in her throat, she glared at her sister, who was cringing as she held her cheek. “You are coming with us.”

  Amelia took a startled step back. “No…I can’t!”

  “You can and you will! You devised this plot to incriminate Lance, and you’ll get him out of it.”

  She threw a glance over her shoulder at Dusty. “Get Reed, and hurry. And bring Amelia with you. I don’t care if you have to tie her hand and foot, just get her there! I’m taking your horse.”

  With grim determination, she turned and swept past Dusty, out into the night. The terror was almost manageable now. A frozen calm had settled over her, numbing her.

  She stumbled as she ran down the porch steps, but scarcely noticed. Quickly she caught the reins of Dusty’s horse and hauled herself up into the saddle, cradling the rifle in her lap. He could bring Amelia and Reed in the buckboard. Just now she had to reach Lance before it was too late.

  The pain took his mind off his other troubles.

  His right side burned like hell; his wounded arm stung; his shoulder sockets ached from when they’d wrenched his arms behind his back to tie them. His balls throbbed from being dragged across a saddle when they’d shoved him onto a horse, and his bruised jaw felt broken from the punches Prewitt had thrown after they’d both survived the gun battle. His lip was split in at least two places, filling his mouth with blood. And his forehead was bleeding, too, making it damned difficult to see. And if that wasn’t enough, the noose around his neck was tight enough to make breathing rough.

  His only regret, though, was that he hadn’t hurt Prewitt nearly bad enough. The bastard only had a flesh wound in his thigh, which he’d tied off with a tourniquet.

  Lance squinted through a haze of blood and fury, trying to locate Prewitt in the crowd. There was plenty of light—somebody had lit a couple of torches in honor of his lynching—but he found it hard to shift his head with his neck stretched by the rope. The exploding gunfire had stampeded the cattle, a turn of events that had caused more damage than the flying bullets. Two of Prewitt’s boys were lying on the ground with various injuries, neither of them too serious.

  Lance blinked when he found Harlan Fisk’s solemn face staring up at him. Oh, yeah. Fisk had arrived minutes ago, he remembered. The older man was trying to get him to answer some questions, while the others wanted to get on with the hanging.

  Even as Lance had the thought, Harlan Fisk shook his head sadly. “I didn’t believe it, son. I didn’t believe you’d steal from me, even if you might from Prewitt.”

  Lance felt the blood welling in his mouth and tried awkwardly to spit it out.

  “Well?” Fisk demanded impatiently. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  What could he say? That he hadn’t done it? That he’d been set up? That he’d been stupid enough to walk into Prewitt’s trap because he’d wanted a fight? All true, but he wouldn’t be believed.

  “Go to hell,” he mumbled instead.

  “See there?” Prewitt demanded. “That arrogant bastard thinks he’s above the law.” He raised his voice to address the crowd of men. “I say there’s no need for a trial. We got six men who will testify they found Calder with the evidence.”

  “Yeah,” a chorus of voices agreed.

  “I say finish him,” someone else called out. “One less red hide won’t hurt the world none.”

  “The outcome wouldn’t be any different if we waited for a trial.”

  “Jerk that rope tight around his neck, boys,” ordered Prewitt, “and tie it off.”

  Harlan looked reluctant but resigned. “The evidence against you is mighty strong, son. I can’t help you if you won’t help yourself.”

  The rope was pulled taut over a limb of one of the three oaks, and Lance winced in spite of himself as the abrasive noose dug into his throat.

  “You got any last prayers?” Prewitt taunted. “Last chance to cleanse your soul before you meet your Maker.”

  He managed to aim a mouthful of spittle in Prewitt’s direction. He would never beg for his life, not from the likes of Prewitt at any rate. Without Summer, he wasn’t sure life was really worth living anyway. And she would be better off without him, for certain.

  Lance closed his eyes and said a prayer, not for himself, but for her. He hoped to God that she would be okay without him and get on with her life. That she would forget about how he had ruined her future. That she would remember him without hating him.

  When he heard a distant drumming, he thought it was blood pounding in his ears. It took him a second to realize that it wasn’t, that it was hoofbeats instead. He squinted at the sound, and thought he was imagining what he saw: a woman bent low over a heaving horse, her long, dark hair streaming behind her as she raced across the field. Summer, he thought with weary regret. Go away.

  She came to a plunging halt at the edge of the crowd, but had eyes only for him. Lance closed his own eyes, wishing she hadn’t come, wishing she’d never found him like this—beaten and battered and at the mercy of white trash like Prewitt. He’d rather die.

  She was breathing hard as she urged Dusty’s sweating horse through the group of silent men toward Lance. Her anguished gaze took in the blood on his face, his shirt sleeve, the hem of his vest, then turned contemptuous as it traveled accusingly over the crowd. “Dear God, are you all animals? Treating a wounded man like this?” She lifted the rifle nozzle, aiming it at the crowd. “Cut him down.”

  “Now, just a minute there—” someone protested.

  Summer swung the rifle in the direction of the voice. “If you want to hang him, you’ll have to kill me first! I advise you not to try it, because I’ll shoot every last one of you.” She gestured with the rifle. “I have fifteen rounds. And Reed should be bringing more.”

  A tense silence followed her threat.

  She found Calvin Stapp’s youthful face in the crowd. “You’re in on it, Calvin, I know. You’ll be the second one I shoot, right after Will Prewitt. Now, cut him down.”

  Lance, as bad as he felt, couldn’t help but also feel a measure of pride at her defiant defense of him.

  Stapp even s
tarted to obey her fierce order, before Prewitt stopped him. “Hold on. We ain’t gonna let anybody interfere with the carriage of justice. Calder’s a cattle thief who deserves to hang.”

  Summer turned on Prewitt in fury. “My husband no more stole any livestock than I did! I’m willing to swear my life on it And so will my sister.”

  “Miss Amelia?” Harlan Fisk asked.

  “Yes, Amelia! She’ll be here any minute, along with Dusty and Reed. You can wait that long to carry out your unlawful justice.”

  Prewitt, however, apparently didn’t care to wait. He lunged forward with a shout and struck Lance’s horse with the butt of his rifle. The startled horse squealed and bounded sideways, leaving its rider behind: Lance’s body jerked as the rope took his entire weight.

  Summer choked on a scream, paralyzed by horror. It was sheer terror that made her kick her mount viciously, forcing it between Lance and the ground.

  He appeared half-dead, but he managed somehow to try and save himself. Wildly swinging his leg, he hooked it over her horse’s neck, relieving his neck of some of his weight.

  Desperately Summer abandoned the rifle to wrap her arms around Lance—which was a mistake. Rather than supporting him, she was only helping the rope kill him with the added strain.

  Sobbing with fear, she groped for the knife he always wore around his belt and whimpered out loud when her fingers closed around the hilt. Crying too hard to see, she raised her arm and blindly sawed at the rope.

  When it finally gave way, Lance slumped forward on her horse’s neck, choking and coughing. Still weeping, Summer pressed her face against his back and held him, murmuring his name over and over and over again.

  She didn’t even hear the arrival of the vaqueros from Sky Valley, even when they came thundering up. She felt gentle hands urging her down from her horse, but she didn’t want to turn loose of Lance for an instant. Only when Harlan Fisk’s quiet voice explained that Lance needed care did she relent.

  Practically falling into Fisk’s arms, she allowed him to support her while two men carefully laid Lance on the ground. They took the noose from his neck and cut the bonds from his hands; then, by the light of a torch, they stripped off his vest and shirt to examine his injuries. Lance lay with his eyes closed, unmoving, except for the harsh rise and fall of his chest as he dragged short breaths of air into his lungs.

  “The arm is not too bad, señora,” Pedro pronounced. “The side, it is bleeding, but the patron, he will be okay.”

  Summer wanted to scream a denial, that Lance wasn’t all right, that he was hurt, but she couldn’t force the words past her raw throat. She watched as Pedro made a bandage from Lance’s shirt and tied it around his bleeding waist.

  As soon as the task was complete and someone had covered Lance’s bare torso with a bedroll blanket, she dropped to her knees beside him, laying a tentative hand on his shoulder. She felt the shudders ripple through him, felt the clenching and unclenching of his muscles as he struggled to draw breath. Carefully she took his hand and pressed her lips against his palm, wetting it with her tears.

  She heard the buckboard arrive a moment later, but was too shaken to acknowledge it. A wild trembling had invaded her limbs. She had lost her shawl on the mad ride, and perspiration soaked her gown, but it wasn’t the chill night air that froze her blood. It was realizing how very close she’d come to losing Lance. She had never known such desperation.

  The crowd of men parted slightly, allowing a path for the buckboard. Dusty brought the vehicle to a halt, a mere three yards from Lance.

  “Is he all right?” Reed asked sharply.

  Summer managed a tearful laugh. “If you call being shot and nearly hanged ‘all right.’ They tried to lynch him.”

  “Put him in the buckboard. We’ll get him to a doctor.”

  Summer shook her head. Just now she wanted nothing more than to protect Lance, to take him home, away from these people who wished him dead. Yet a more urgent task prevented her. She couldn’t leave until the cloud of suspicion hanging over Lance’s head was destroyed for good. She had to prove his innocence, make them believe. She lifted her gaze to her sister. “After Melly tells the truth about what happened.”

  Amelia sat totally still, her eyes shut, her head lowered.

  Summer was grateful when her brother took the lead. Reed remained in the buckboard beside Amelia, holding her hand, and cleared his throat. “My sister has something to say,” he announced to the crowd. “Amelia?”

  She gave a choked sob, and then mumbled something no one could hear.

  “Louder, Amelia,” Reed urged gently. “Lance’s life depends on it.”

  “Mr. Calder didn’t do it!” she cried. “It’s my fault.”

  “What’s your fault, Miss Amelia?” Harlan asked kindly.

  She looked up, focusing on him, while tears streamed down her face. “I…asked Will Prewitt to help me get rid of him.”

  “Him? You mean Calder?”

  At Harlan’s question, Summer shifted her gaze to glance at the faces of the men above her, the ones who stood as Lance’s judges. Every one of them looked skeptical.

  “They don’t understand, Melly,” she said in a low voice. “Tell them why you wanted to be rid of Lance.”

  “Because…because…he was one of them. I was afraid of him.”

  Summer watched the faces. Her sister’s tormented confession was too real not to believe, but still they weren’t convinced.

  “She wanted revenge,” Summer explained quietly. “She blamed Lance for the trials she endured at the hands of his Comanche kin and wanted him to pay. Isn’t that right, Amelia?”

  Amelia covered her face with her hands, but she nodded. “Y-Yes…”

  “There never were any Comanches here, were there? You lied about that, too.”

  “Y-Yes,” she said, her shoulders shaking with sobs, “I 1-lied. There never…were any Comanches.”

  Beside her, Dusty put a comforting arm around her, as if he couldn’t stand her anguish.

  After a minute, the uncertain voice of one of the men broke in. “But somebody stole all those cattle. If Calder didn’t do it, who did?”

  “Amelia?” Reed prodded. “You have to finish.”

  She swallowed a sob, then took a deep, shuddering breath. “Prewitt. Will Prewitt…stole all the cattle…and left be hind evidence to make it look like Indians at work…so Lance would be blamed. But I didn’t know.... He told me they would just make sure he left. He never said…they would try to hang him.”

  The garbled, tearful admission of conspiracy was difficult to follow, but Summer could see it sinking in on every face: shame for nearly lynching an innocent man. Growing anger at being duped into it. All of them turned to look at Will Prewitt.

  “We still got a rope,” someone observed. “We could make us of it.”

  “No!” Summer surged to her feet. “We’re civilized citizens, not savages! Will Prewitt deserves justice, but there are adequate laws to punish him for what he did. He should be put in jail.”

  “You’re right,” Harlan Fisk seconded. “We should stay within the law. We can take him to Georgetown until the district judge can get to him—”

  “I ain’t going to any jail!” Prewitt retorted. He took a limping step backward, brandishing his rifle. “You won’t pin the blame on me. You try, and Miss Amelia’s going down with me. She’s the one told me to do it.”

  All eyes turned on Amelia. She sat sobbing softly, her head bowed, while beside her, both Dusty and Reed stiffened.

  Summer could feel the crowd’s hesitation: No one could possibly want to make Amelia suffer more, not after all she had been through.

  “Well, now,” Harlan began awkwardly, evidently searching for words. “Miss Amelia wasn’t really in her right mind when she got back from up north…And she’s sorry now for what she did, aren’t you, Miss Amelia?”

  “Yes,” she murmured in a raw whisper.

  “I bet Lance would forgive her if she asked him to. Bu
t you, now…” Harlan looked piercingly at Prewitt. “There’s always been bad blood between you two. Even if he could overlook being framed, I don’t think he could forget how you tried to hang him just now by shying his horse. You almost killed him.”

  Harlan glanced around him, as if gauging whether he had the support of the crowd. When several of the men nodded, he pushed back his hat to rub his forehead thoughtfully. “Fact is, I don’t believe there’s room for you both in the same county. I guess it’s up to Lance to press charges, but if it were up to me…I’d just as soon see the last of you, Will. Nobody wants a man they can’t trust for a neighbor.”

  A murmur of agreement rose from the crowd, and Summer could almost sense their relief at having so reasonable a solution presented to them.

  Prewitt must have sensed the same thing, for he looked around him wildly. “I wasn’t the only one! I had help driving them beeves.” He looked directly at Bob Blackwood, who was standing rigidly. “Bob was in on it as much as me.”

  “It’s up to Lance,” Harlan replied.

  Summer looked down at her wounded husband. She was certain he was conscious, but he kept his eyes closed and remained silent. Perhaps he was in too much pain to care, or too indifferent. Perhaps he merely hated them all.

  She took a deep breath, making the decision for him. There were too many people involved in the plot against him to banish them all, at least without increasing the enmity and resentment the rest of the community felt toward him. In the long run, forgiveness would win Lance more converts than stark justice. “I think Lance would be satisfied if only Mr. Prewitt were gone.”

  Blackwood looked visibly relieved, and Harlan nodded. “You sell your place, Will, and move on. I’ll give you a fair price if no one else will. Otherwise we take you to jail right now.”

  Prewitt gave one last desperate glance at the others, then spun on his uninjured leg and limped over to his horse.

  Summer pressed her lips together tightly as she watched him ride off. With only a leg wound and banishment, Prewitt had gotten off too lightly, but at least it was over. He wouldn’t hurt Lance anymore. It was over, except that Lance was still badly hurt.