Flint smiled as he watched Tom Powell, wearing a solemn but friendly expression, move through the crowd, shaking hands and greeting people. Beside him was Violet Sills, wearing a dark dress, which Rose had given to her. The two young people were mourning Ira's death, and the loss could be seen in their eyes. But they were coping with their grief and getting on with their lives. There were already signs that Tom would take his father's place as the unofficial leader of the community. According to Joshua, when enough time had passed, he would perform a wedding for Tom and Violet.
"It looks as though some good has come from all the violence," Rose said softly.
Startled, Flint turned and smiled at her. "I didn't hear you come up."
"I wouldn't miss this party for anything. I'm sure there'll be some dancing later on. And Leslie Garrison is quite a dancer."
Flint grimaced. "I'm sure he is."
Rose lightly touched his arm. "But so are you, Lucas Flint, and I'm not going to let you use that old buckshot wound as an excuse again. You're going to dance with me tonight, Marshal. Doctor's orders. You need the exercise."
Flint laughed. Exercise was one thing a lawman usually got plenty of. Then his expression grew serious. "You're right," he said. "Some good things have happened. Folks were so upset by what Billy Day and Ramsey did that they've stopped thinking about the things that aren't important. These settlers are finally part of the community."
"That's as it should be," Rose agreed. She suddenly laughed and pointed. "Look at Cully and Angus."
Flint spotted his deputy and the tavern keeper sitting at one of the long tables. The plates both men had in front of them were heaped with food.
"They won't be able to move when they finish all of that," Rose said, "let alone dance."
"Oh, you'd be surprised." Flint chuckled. "When it comes to dancing with pretty girls, Cully and Angus will find a way."
Flint noticed Joshua Markham hurrying across the ranch yard toward them. Though he was recovering well, Joshua still moved stiffly. "Lucas, look over there," he said. The marshal frowned in concern at the urgency in the minister's voice.
At that moment, an ominous silence fell abruptly over the gathering. Flint followed Joshua's gaze and could see why.
Houston Day and some of his ranch hands were riding into the D Slash C yard. The Rafter D punchers were driving several head of cattle in front of them.
Day reined in and dismounted. As he walked over to Flint, the crowd parted for him. Cully and Angus had seen him arrive, and they hurried to stand next to the marshal in case trouble developed. Joshua, Tom, and Leslie Garrison drifted over, too, along with Doug Copeland.
Flint stood his ground and met the rancher's level gaze. "Hello, Day," he said.
Day nodded curtly. "Marshal." He touched the brim of his hat and nodded more graciously toward Rose. "Ma'am."
"I hope you haven't come to cause trouble, Day," Flint said. "These folks are enjoying their party."
"No, no trouble, Marshal," Day said, shaking his head. He looked at Tom Powell and Doug Copeland. "I've come to say I'm sorry. I'm sorry about what happened to your pa, boy, and I'm sorry about all the trouble on your land, Copeland. Some of it—hell, a lot of it—was my fault. I'm the one who taught Billy to think the way he did."
Tom took a deep breath. His features were carefully expressionless as he said, "I think we all choose our own paths, Mr. Day. You might've pointed him in the wrong direction, but he's the one who did the killing."
"The boy's right, Houston," Copeland added.
Day extended his hand to Tom. "How about we start mending some fences...neighbor?"
Tom hesitated only for a moment. Then he took Day's hand and nodded.
The rancher turned to his men and signaled them to herd the cattle toward him. "These are all good milk cows," he said to Tom. "I want you folks to have them. You've got plenty of families with youngsters, and those kids'll need milk."
"Thanks," Tom said. "We all appreciate that." Suddenly, he smiled. "Why don't you stay for supper, Mr. Day?"
Day returned the smile but shook his head. "Not today. I don't think I'm ready for any festivities yet. But...someday I'd be glad to, Tom. Someday."
He tipped his hat again and turned to his horse. After he had mounted, his eyes met Flint's for a moment. Then he spurred his horse and rode away.
Flint sighed deeply. Now he was certain that the settlers would have no more trouble from Houston Day. The fences would be mended.
Doug Copeland clapped his hands. "I thought we had a party goin' on!" he called. "Let's get back to it!"
As the sounds of talking and laughing filled the ranch yard once more, Rose slid her arm through Flint's. "Do you think Abilene can get along without you for a while, Lucas?"
"It had better. I still want to see Cully and Angus polish off that food." Flint grinned at her. "And I've got a little dancing to do!"
Out For Blood
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Prologue
An early morning fog shrouded the low hills of the Kiowa reservation in Indian Territory and cloaked the scattered buildings in eerie gray shadows. The sun, hovering just below the horizon, would soon rise to quickly burn away the mist and usher in another warm late spring day. But now all was quiet and dim among the buildings and lodges scattered across the broad valley.
On the edge of the Kiowa settlement sat several simple wooden buildings used by the Indian agent and the small garrison of soldiers stationed on the reservation. There was a house for the agent and his wife, a meeting hall, a long barracks building for the soldiers, and a large barn with a pole corral behind it. The garrison's mounts stood calmly grazing in the corral. A sleepy-eyed private came from the barn, carrying a bucket of water. He trudged toward the trough at the edge of the corral with his head down, just like the horses in his charge.
As the morning breeze shifted, one of the animals, scenting something unusual, abruptly lifted its head. Another horse snorted. Several more pawed the ground and stamped. At first the trooper didn’t notice the warning signs as he sleepily went about his tasks. But one of the horses whinnied next to him, and he was at last aware of the animals' nervous behavior.
With a puzzled frown, the private looked up, slowly turned his head, and peered into the mist. He saw only the Army buildings, the Kiowa lodges beyond, and the isolated lodge that housed the visiting Army scout, Broken Moon. Everything appeared normal. Even the dogs seemed to be asleep.
Suddenly, a warrior brandishing a knife sprang from his hiding place behind the water trough. He lunged at the soldier, slashing viciously with the blade in his hand.
Reacting instinctively, the private swung the water bucket at the attacking Indian with one hand and desperately clawed at the service revolver strapped to his hip with the other. The holster's flap was snapped closed, and the stiff fastening resisted his scrabbling fingers.
The Kiowa's blade sliced deeply into the soldier's forearm. As blood spurted from the bone-deep gash, the private dropped the water bucket and opened his mouth to scream. Whirling behind the soldier, the Indian clamped his free hand over the struggling man's mouth to stifle the sound and then slashed the knife savagely across his throat. The trooper's eyes rolled, and his body sagged heavily against his murderer. Wiping his blade clean on the dead man's tunic, the Indian disdainfully shoved the body to the ground.
His dark eyes glittered with satisfaction as he turned and gestured with the weapon in his hand. At the signal, a dozen warriors appeared as if by magic from their hiding places and ran to the tall, commanding figure of their leader. "Yes, Bear Knife," one of the w
arriors muttered.
Sliding his blade into its leather sheath, Bear Knife knelt and unbuckled the dead soldier's gun belt. As he straightened, he slung it around his hips and unsnapped the stiff holster flap. Later, when he had the time, he would saw off the flap to make the pistol more readily accessible.
Bear Knife looked at his men. "We take the weapons now," he said and gestured toward the barn.
The reservation had no armory; ammunition and spare rifles were stored in a locked room in the barn. Armed with the pistol, Bear Knife knew he would easily get past the lock.
He strode purposefully toward the barn, his dozen warriors following closely behind him. He was only a few feet from the open double doors when a sleepy-eyed trooper appeared there. The shirtless man was yawning and pulling his suspender straps over his long johns. When he saw the stony-faced Indian coming toward him, he froze.
In one smooth motion, Bear Knife swept the revolver from the holster, lifted it, and fired. The heavy slug punched into the trooper's forehead. Its force flung him backward and dropped him to the ground. Bear Knife swiftly stepped over the corpse and moved into the barn. He had reached the door of the makeshift armory by the time the echo of the shot died away.
Another bullet smashed the lock. Bear Knife yanked the shattered lock away from the hasp, then kicked the door open. He stepped back to let his men move into the room and begin snatching up rifles and boxes of shells.
Less than a minute later, the band of renegades came out of the barn. All of them had used rifles before, and they loaded the stolen weapons with rapid, practiced fingers. One man hurried to the corral and began taking down the poles of the gate. As the others walked toward the agent's office, several soldiers scrambled out of the barracks, looking around wildly to find the source of the shots that had awakened them. Bear Knife snapped a command, and four of his braves opened fire.
The sudden volley surprised the soldiers and struck three of them before they knew where the shots were coming from. Grappling for their guns, the others frantically ducked into the barracks. They haphazardly returned the Indians' fire, but Bear Knife and his men had taken cover behind the meeting hall.
The Indian agent, dressed in his nightshirt, appeared in the doorway of his house. He stared at the band of Kiowa warriors for a long second, then turned and dove back into his home. Bear Knife fired his pistol at the empty doorway, the slug knocking splinters from the doorjamb. The Indian threw back his head and laughed.
"Stay in your hole if you would live, rabbit!" he jeered.
His men moved quickly to both corners of the meeting hall and began shooting toward the barracks, keeping the soldiers pinned down. Suddenly, the thundering of hooves announced the release of the horses. Driven by the warrior Bear Knife had assigned to the task, the animals rushed out of the corral and came toward the meeting hall.
As the horses swept past, the warriors briefly stopped firing and hurtled after the animals. Clutching the flowing manes, they vaulted onto their backs and galloped away. Several of them triggered parting shots at the barracks.
Bear Knife was in the lead as the escaping renegades pounded toward the special lodge. This smaller lodge housed visiting Indian scouts who worked with the Army. As the fleeing braves approached it, Bear Knife saw two Indians armed with rifles running from it.
"I want Broken Moon alive!" he cried to his men over his shoulder. As his knees and heels guided his stolen mount with subtle pressure, he raised his pistol and triggered off two quick shots that spun one of the Indians to the ground. The other man hurriedly lifted his rifle and fired wildly toward the rapidly approaching band of Kiowa warriors. He didn’t have time to fire again before the renegades were upon him.
The man dodged desperately to his left to avoid one of the charging horses. As he did so, Bear Knife raced to his other side and lashed out with the pistol in his hand. The barrel cracked across the man's skull, and the Indian called Broken Moon crumpled to the ground.
As he swept on, Bear Knife shouted, "Bring the stinking Crow." One of the other braves slid off his horse and slung Broken Moon's body across the animal's back. Then the warrior remounted and galloped after his companions.
The renegades raced toward the Kiowa lodges, the noise of their passage awakening those who had not already been roused by the gunfire. As the stolen Army horses thundered past the lodges, some of the old men raised their hands and began chanting prayers to speed the young men on their way. The days of fighting the white men were over for most of the braves on this reservation, but clearly some of the young ones still had spirit.
Bear Knife leaned against the neck of his racing horse and pressed his legs into the animal's flanks. Speed was essential now. Sooner or later, the white soldiers would round up the rest of their horses and pursue the escaping warriors. He must consider the singing wires, too. The telegraph would quickly spread the tale of today's events, and all the yellowlegs in Indian Territory would be hunting for Bear Knife and his band of murdering renegades.
For that was what the Army would call them, and the white chiefs in charge of the soldiers would wish to make an example of them. They would either kill the Kiowas or bring them back to the reservation in chains, whichever would shame them the most. The white chiefs believed that would keep other Indians from trying to regain their freedom.
Bear Knife didn’t care about that. Let the white chiefs try to shame the Indians, and let the old men talk of the old days. He had something else—more important—to do. All he wanted was a weapon in his hand and a good horse between his legs. Those were the tools he needed for the vengeance he sought.
Bear Knife drove the fleeing band of renegades with their captive away from the reservation until the sun was high overhead and beat relentlessly down upon them. During the morning, Broken Moon had regained consciousness, but Bear Knife didn’t permit him to ride normally. He was kept slung over the back of a horse. His hands were lashed to his ankles under the animal's belly so that he couldn’t cause trouble for the horse's rider.
By the time Bear Knife ordered a short halt, he knew that Broken Moon wouldn’t only fear for his life, he would be as sick as a dog as well.
The band stopped in a grove of cottonwoods beside a small creek. The braves dismounted and cared for their horses, allowing them to drink the cool, clear water. Then they drew water for themselves and sat in the shade to eat some of the jerky they carried while they waited for their leader to conclude his business.
Bear Knife positioned two men at the edge of the grove to act as sentries. Then he ordered two others to take the captured Army scout from the horse, strip him, and stake him to the ground. As Broken Moon struggled, moaned, and whimpered, the Kiowa leader stood nearby and watched scornfully. The lack of dignity and courage disgusted him. The Crow had lived too long near the white men. He had forgotten what all Indians were born knowing—how to die.
When Broken Moon was tied down, Bear Knife slipped his blade from its sheath and knelt beside the naked Crow.
"I have no time to enjoy this, dog," Bear Knife hissed. "The yellow-legs will be coming sooner than I would like. So tell me what I wish to know, and you shall die quickly."
Broken Moon spat a curse at the Kiowa leaning over him.
Bear Knife smiled thinly. He had been hoping that the Crow wouldn’t tell him what he wanted to know too soon.
With practiced fingers, Bear Knife began to work methodically on the Crow with his blade. As the steel became stained with crimson and Broken Moon's screams tore through the grove of trees, the Kiowa warriors sat impassively chewing on their jerky. All of them knew that the Crow had ridden for the white man's army as a scout. Whatever Bear Knife did to him wouldn’t be sufficient punishment for his treachery.
But there was one whom Bear Knife sought even more. One whose betrayal of his people could only be repaid with blood. Bear Knife leaned close to the whimpering Crow and hissed, "Where has he gone? He was your friend. You would know, dog!"
This time Broken
Moon didn’t hesitate. "He rode north!" the Crow gasped. Blood bubbled from his mouth. As he tried to utter the next word, he choked. Bear Knife leaned even closer to hear the gurgling answer to his question.
Then, with one quick movement, he slit Broken Moon's throat.
At that moment, one of the sentries called out. The tall Kiowa stood up, stepped over the body of the Crow scout, and joined his sentry. Gazing back the way they had come, Bear Knife saw the dusty haze rising in the air.
"The yellowlegs come," he said, nodding solemnly. He had expected as much, but their pursuers were a long way behind them. He and his men were a small band, riding good horses that were now well rested. He knew they would slip away easily.
When the Kiowa band rode out of the grove of trees, Bear Knife left Broken Moon where he lay, as a warning to the soldiers who followed them. He knew that wouldn’t stop the white men. White men never knew when they were well off. They would keep coming. If Bear Knife and his men killed these pursuers, others would just take their place.
As he and his warriors rode north, he made a vow to the gods and to himself that he would stay free long enough to satisfy the hunger for revenge that had been gnawing at him ever since the defeat at the Battle of Palo Duro Canyon. He would kill the man who had betrayed him and all his people.
All Bear Knife and his warriors had to do was reach the place called Abilene in Kansas. There they would find White Eagle Dandaneau.
1
A tall, dark-haired young man leaned against one of the boardwalk posts outside the Red Top Café and scanned Texas Street. His strong-featured, lean face wore a somber expression, and the grim impression he gave was reinforced by a faint scar that ran diagonally across his right cheek. He was dressed like any cowhand, in comfortable range clothes, but had a different air. From the flat-crowned hat on his head to the boots on his feet, every article he wore was well cared for. The shell belt and holster fastened around his hips were made of well-oiled, supple black leather. Both the ivory-handled Colt resting in the holster and the badge pinned to his shirt gleamed in the morning sun.
Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 78