“Wait!” she cried, clawing her way through the crowd to reach the front of the hall. Elbowing Brandon Marshall from the narrow section of unoccupied floor in front of the marshal, she yelled, “You’re all wrong! Swift Lopez didn’t kill Abe Crenton! He couldn’t have! And I can prove it!”
Amy wasn’t sure where the words had come from, but once they were out, there was no undoing them. As she turned to regard all the enraged faces gathered around her, she wondered momentarily if she’d lost her mind. But fear for Swift drove her—fear and mindless panic. There would be time enough later to question her actions.
“Swift was with me last night,” she cried. “We spent the evening with the Wolfs. Then he took me home, and he”—the lie welled in her throat like acid, then spewed forth—“and he stayed until dawn.”
Swift’s voice came from behind her. “Amy, don’t!”
The expressions on the faces before Amy changed slowly from anger to startled disbelief. A wave of shame broke over her. Fiery heat crept up her neck. She swallowed and continued in a calmer voice. “Swift Lopez couldn’t have killed Abe Crenton. You’ve all jumped to the wrong conclusion. He was with me . . . all night long.”
Several of the women regarded Amy through narrowed eyes. Harvey Johnson, Elmira’s burly father, said, “You must’ve slept at some point. He could’ve stepped out, then come back, you none the wiser. Who else would scalp Abe?”
Amy drew herself up, rigid and braced. “I assure you, when Mr. Lopez comes to visit me, the last thing we do is sleep.”
Mrs. Johnson gasped and began to fan her hand before her face as if she might faint. Mrs. Shipley squeaked, “That’s scandalous!” Several other shocked exclamations were heard, all of which Swift punctuated with velocity and perfect diction by saying, “Holy shit!” Then, “Amy, have you lost your mind?”
It had taken Amy fifteen years to arrive at this moment, and the way she saw it, she had never been more sane. She was stripped of respect, yes, and most certainly out of a job. And there was no question that she felt humiliated. But none of that mattered. Not when Swift’s life hung in the balance.
Amy turned to face Marshal Hilton. The instant she looked into his twinkling gray-blue eyes, she knew that he suspected her of lying. She shot a frightened glance at Swift. Marshal Hilton rolled one shoulder and scratched the back of his neck.
“So Mr. Lopez was”—he cleared his throat—“keeping company with you all last night, was he? And you’re willing to swear to that?”
Amy envisioned herself with her hand on the good book. She seldom lied, let alone swore to it. God might strike her dead. Her gaze slid to Swift. For an insane instant, she saw him as he had been that first night they made love, so gentle and patient. Then she remembered how kind he had been to Peter. If the God she so revered didn’t want such a man to live, Amy figured it was time she changed religions.
“I will swear to it with my last breath,” she said softly.
No lightning bolt ripped down from heaven. She took a deep breath and sent up a quick, heartfelt prayer of contrition. Her gaze returned to Swift. Tears shimmered in his eyes. A feeling of certainty swept through Amy. Let me say I love you my way. Swift had done just that, in so many different ways. Now it was her turn.
Bolstered by the look in his eyes, Amy turned back to face the crowd. She saw myriad emotions in the gazes she encountered, disgust, hatred, revulsion, scorn. A woman didn’t publicly admit to immoral conduct and retain the high regard of sinless folk. For eight years she had cultivated the good opinion of these people. Now she could only wonder why. What they thought wouldn’t matter a whit in the long run, anyway.
“I trust that you good gentlemen of Wolf’s Landing will find the true killer now?” she said. “Mr. Lopez is innocent.”
With that, Amy headed for the door. As if afraid she might somehow contaminate them if her skirts brushed their clothing, the people in the hall stepped aside to make a path for her. Cheeks afire, head held high, Amy walked through their midst. When she reached Loretta and Hunter, she saw that they were both smiling. At least she hadn’t lost the high regard of everyone.
The night air embraced Amy when she stepped outside. She gulped it greedily and leaned her back against the building, finding solace in the darkness. She was shaking all over. Closing her eyes, she listened to the voices inside. She could hear Hunter and Loretta talking and guessed they had gone to the fiddler’s platform. Soon, Swift would come out. She imagined his arm around her shoulders, the solid wall of his chest warming her. Everything would be all right then. They would shut out the world. Nothing would matter but their being together.
Amy heard a jingling sound near her. She opened her eyes and peered through the darkness, going perfectly still. As always, her night blindness frustrated her. The black figure of a man loomed from the shadows. Almost simultaneously the sharp tip of a knife blade touched her throat. Amy jerked.
“Scream, bitch, and I’ll slit your throat just like I did Abe Crenton’s.”
Terror sluiced down Amy’s spine. Instinctively she tried to scream, but all that erupted from her throat was a squeak. The knife pricked her. She felt a bead of blood trail down her neck to pool in the V of her collarbone. The smell of stale sweat filled her nostrils. A leather sleeve grazed her bodice. Then she heard the jangling sound again. Riding spurs. Night blind or no, she knew one of the Lowdry brothers held the knife.
Cruel fingers bit into her arm. The next instant a filthy hand clamped over her mouth. Panic exploded in Amy’s mind. She grabbed the man’s wrist and sank her teeth into his meaty palm. He swore. Frenzied, Amy tried to twist away. Then, from out of nowhere, something slammed against her head. Bright lights burst before her eyes. She snapped taut, stunned by the blow. Then blackness swooped over her.
Hunter read the note once, then twice. Swift held himself rigid, waiting for his friend to speak. Loretta stood nearby, gripping the back of her rocker. Chase and Indigo, solemn-faced and pale, sat by the hearth. When the silence became unbearable, Loretta cried, “Hunter, for God’s sake, what does it say?”
Hunter crumpled the dirt-streaked paper in his fist and raised his gaze to Swift’s. “The Lowdry brothers . . .” His throat worked before his next words came forth. “They’re not really named Lowdry. They’re the Gabriels.”
Swift felt as if a gigantic fist had hit him in the guts. Ever since he had walked up on Amy’s porch and found the note on her door, he had been praying to her God and all of his that he was alarmed over nothing, that she had left the note for him herself, saying she had gone someplace for a walk because she was upset. All the way back to Hunter’s house, he had continued to pray with every running step, his mind racing ahead of him with fear, a part of him knowing that Amy would never venture off alone in the dark.
“Oh, Jesus.” Swift bent forward slightly, still feeling as if he’d been hit in the stomach. “Not the Gabriels. Where have they taken her?”
“A mine shack about eight miles up Shallows Creek, the old Geunther place.” Hunter took a shaky breath. “They want you to come alone and they stress that you must come wearing your guns.”
“No!” Loretta cried. “They’re wanting a shoot-out. If you pick up those guns again, Swift, you’ll end up in the same mess you faced in Texas. Word will spread. Upstarts will come gunning for you. There has to be another way.”
Swift felt sick. “Amy’s life is in danger, Loretta.”
A robust knock resounded. Everyone jerked and looked at the door. Loretta finally regained her senses and ran to answer it. Marshal Hilton stepped inside, a broad grin creasing his face.
“Well, if that wasn’t a standing performance Miss Amy gave, I never saw one! I don’t usually cotton to lying, but this is one time an untruth saved the day.” He chuckled and shook his head. “For a minute there, Lopez, I thought that straight talk of yours was going to ruin the whole thing. If you hadn’t shut your mouth when you did, I was fixing to shove my hat in it. Those yahoos were an inch away fro
m having a lynching party.”
Hilton took several steps into the parlor before he seemed to notice that the others in the adjoining room looked as though death had struck. He came to a stop. “What in hell’s wrong? This gives us some time to hunt down the killer. I thought I’d find you celebrating.”
Swift finally regained his voice. “Those fellows . . . the Lowdry brothers? Their real name is Gabriel. They came here from Texas, looking for me because I killed their brother. They’ve taken Amy.”
Swift had always known Hilton was quick-minded, but even he was impressed by the speed with which Hilton grasped the situation. “Son of a—They killed Abe and tried to make it look like you did it!” He slapped his jeans. “Dumb ass that I am, I never even thought of them!”
Pain shot behind Swift’s eyes. He was the stupid one. The moment Abe Crenton had turned up with his throat slit, he should have been trying to remember who had overheard him threatening Abe. Instead he’d panicked, his one concern being that everyone believed him guilty. He had forgotten all about the Lowdry brothers. In retrospect he felt like a fool. And Amy was paying for it.
“Why in heck did they take Miss Amy?” Hilton wondered aloud.
“To get at me. After her announcement tonight, it was pretty clear that she and I—” Swift threw up his hands. “Hell, I don’t know why. Why does their kind do any of the things they do? I guess they hoped that I’d hang. When they saw I wasn’t going to, they took her as bait. The bottom line is that I killed their brother Chink. Nobody crosses the Gabriels and gets away with it. What better way to get their revenge than to hurt Amy?”
Hilton’s face drew taut. Swift turned his gaze to the wall hook where his six-shooters hung. He remembered how frightened Amy had been when she saw the two comancheros on the sidewalk. She’d be terrified now. Decision made, he walked to the coatrack and pulled down his gun belt.
“Oh, Swift, no,” Loretta cried. “There has to be another way. Amy wouldn’t want you to.”
Swift strapped on the belt and bent to tie the leather thongs to anchor his holsters to his thighs. “I have no choice.” He glanced up. “I guess maybe I never did. Like Amy says, you can’t outrun your past. This just proves it.”
Hunter stepped to the table and picked up his Spencer. “I will go with you.”
Swift doubted the Gabriels had come this far alone. Hunter had no equal as a warrior, but he was no fast gun. “It’s me they want. I know you love Amy, but you’ve got your family to think of.”
Hunter gathered extra cartridges and slipped them in his pocket. Shifting his gaze to his wife, he said, “There are some things I must do. My family understands that.”
The color drained from Loretta’s face. She nodded slowly. Hunter’s dark blue eyes filled with a prideful gleam. He smiled and turned back to Swift. “How many do you think there will be?”
“God knows,” Swift replied. “The only certainty is that there’ll be more than two.”
“I’ll go saddle up,” Hilton inserted.
Hunter held up a hand. “We appreciate the offer, Marshal. But Swift and I will fight this battle the Comanche way. A white man would only confuse matters.”
Hilton puffed up his chest. “I’m a damned clean shot, I’ll have you know. And you’ll be outnumbered. That’s not to mention that I’m the law here in Wolf’s Landing. Those gents are wanted for murder.”
Swift was still staring at Hunter. Memories of times past washed over him, and he felt a flare of hope. If he and Hunter used Comanche warfare strategy, they might be able to pick off the comancheros one at a time without a shoot-out becoming necessary.
“If we work as well together as we once did,” Swift told the marshal, “we won’t be outnumbered for long.” He met Hilton’s gaze. “You’ve proved yourself a loyal friend to me. If you’d like to ride along and stay behind as a backup rifle, I’d be grateful.”
Hunter nodded his agreement to that, then spun for the back door. Swift fell in behind him. Hilton glanced at Loretta. “Where in blazes are they going? The horse barn’s the other direction.”
Loretta pressed a trembling hand to her bodice. “They have to prepare for battle.”
A few minutes later, Hunter and Swift reentered the house. Hilton took one look at their faces and barked with laughter. His grin died a quick death when Swift approached him with the paints. Within seconds the marshal’s cheeks were streaked, his chin was striped in red, his eye sockets were outlined with graphite, and his teeth were blackened.
“Will he do?” Swift asked Hunter.
Hunter, busily checking his arrows and war ax, looked up. “His forehead and hands need something.”
Swift smeared the places in question. Hilton cocked an eyebrow. “Is this Comanche medicine?”
“You could say that,” Swift replied. “It’ll keep you from glowing in the dark and getting your butt shot off.”
Hilton shrugged and bent his head so Swift could get his brow. “That’s good enough medicine for me.”
“It always was for us, too,” Hunter shot back. He sheathed his ax and went to hug his family good-bye. When he drew Loretta into his arms, he said, “Pray on your beads, little one.” He turned toward Chase and chucked him under the chin. “You pray, too, eh? Say many hell Marys so I come home safely.”
“Hail,” Loretta corrected.
Hunter bent to kiss his daughter, then scrubbed to remove the paint he left on her cheek. Swift, anxious to be gone, waited by the front door. Loretta followed the men out when they exited the house. Standing on the porch, she waved them off.
As Swift started into the barn, she called, “Don’t use those guns unless you have to. Your future may ride on it.”
As far as Swift could see, he wouldn’t have a future to worry about if something happened to Amy.
The first thing Amy became aware of was pain slicing through the back of her head. She frowned and tried to rub the spot, only to find her wrists were bound behind her back. She surfaced to consciousness by measures, first becoming aware that she was lying facedown on a cold wooden floor. Dust and grit filmed her tongue. She no sooner registered that than she heard boots scuffling and spurs jangling. From the corner of her eye, she saw a man sitting down beside her on a wooden crate. She slitted her eyes and turned her head toward him.
A Mexican spur gleamed back at her in the feeble firelight. Her gaze inched up his leather pant leg, taking in the silver conchae along the side seam, coming to rest on the deadly looking six-shooter at his hip. She glanced up at his swarthy face, shadowed by a sweat-rimmed hat. Steve Lowdry.
Memory came rushing back to her—standing outside the community hall, a man looming out of the darkness to grab her arm, a knife pricking her throat. She had struggled, and something had hit her on the head. After that, blackness.
She shot a quick glance around the dimly lit room, taking in the cobwebs and filth. A deserted mine shack? In the shadows across the room, she saw two other men, one standing at a window, another sitting on the floor with his back to the wall. Silver conchae glinted in the firelight. The stench of their unwashed bodies surrounded her. Comancheros.
Such an icy terror clutched Amy that for a moment she felt like a corpse in the first stages of rigor mortis. Her heart stopped. Her lungs quit working. A bone-deep cold seeped through her body.
When at last her heart started up again, it did so with a painful lurch against her rib cage. A breath shivered down her throat and stopped midway, leaving her starved for oxygen and working her lips like a beached fish. A heavy, urgent ache centered low in her belly.
“Well, now. Lookee here who’s awake.”
Lowdry lifted his boot and toed Amy on the hip, rolling her onto her back. Her arms felt as if they might break, twisted as they were under her weight. She closed her eyes. Not seeing was to retain her sanity. If she looked into Steve Lowdry’s face, she might lose her grip.
She heard a rustle of movement. A heavy hand settled on her midriff.
“Say, there
, you playin’ possum, honey? That’s a good name for her, ain’t it, Poke?” The hand grabbed her hair. “Curls like honey. What else you got like honey, honey?”
One of the men from across the room laughed. “Lopez won’t get here for a spell. Wha’d’ya say we do a little samplin’ and find out?”
Lowdry chuckled. “Wha’d’ya say to that, pretty thing?”
A third voice, gruff and gravelly, said, “You know what they say about gals named Honey, don’t ya?” He guffawed. “They’re easy to spread.”
The hand released Amy’s hair. The next instant hard fingers gripped her ankle and began dragging her across the room. The planked floor barked her twisted arms, slivering through the sleeves of her dress. She clenched her teeth. Heat from the fire washed over her body. Behind her eyelids she could see golden light. Lowdry released her ankle and let it fall to the floor.
Amy kept her teeth clenched and her eyes closed. She knew what was coming. Fear fragmented her thoughts. Her nostrils narrowed, making it difficult to breathe, but she knew if she opened her mouth, she’d start screaming. And once she started, she might never stop.
Steve Lowdry grasped the front of her bodice. His stench made her want to gag. “What you got under there, honey?”
The cloth of her dress stretched taut against her back. Amy knew it would rip at any second. She gulped down a whimper. His voice oozed over her like slime. She could hear the saliva in his mouth working, the short, excited pace of his breathing. What did she have under there? It was a question calculated to terrify her. And it was working. She imagined those hands on her body.
A hundred unvoiced pleas crowded into her throat. But before she could utter them, pictures from the past splashed across her mind with blinding clarity. She saw herself as a child, struggling helplessly, sobbing and begging for mercy. Above the echo of that little girl’s voice, she heard male laughter. Her terror and frantic pleas had gained her nothing then and would gain her nothing now. Men like these enjoyed hearing a woman scream. They raped and brutalized not for sexual gratification, but for the sheer violence of it.
Comanche Heart Page 36