Call of the White Wolf

by Carol Finch

  The stallion nickered and tossed his head, demanding John’s attention. Seeing Pie had a calming effect on him. The two of them had been to hell and back so many times they could make the trek blindfolded. John knew the stallion sensed his overwhelming torment and frustration. Pie was trying to console his master the only way he knew how. Indeed, the animal walked forward to brush his soft muzzle against John’s quaking hand. The soft whinny, the restless stamping of hooves indicated Pie was as anxious to locate the family as he was. No doubt, the stallion had gotten attached, and enjoyed the attention the children paid to him, too.

  Like John, Pie had found a place that felt like home, surrounded by other animals and the laughter of children. Now that feeling of belonging, of contentment, had vanished in a puff of smoke. The aching emptiness in John’s soul was crying to be refilled. Precious lives depended on him and he could not fail.

  Resolutely, he dragged in a steadying breath and forced himself to rely on instinct and training, to ignore the jumble of emotions bombarding him from every direction at once.

  “All right, Pie, we have a job to do, so let’s get at it.” John stared grimly at the horse that had been his constant companion—his only companion. “We’re making a pact, you and I, right here, right now. Whatever it takes, no matter how long it takes, we’re going to track down those bastards and exact revenge.”

  The horse nickered again, as if in total agreement. It wasn’t a question of if he and Pie would locate the desperadoes who’d abducted Tara and the kids, but when. Neither was there a question about whether to bring back the bandidos dead or alive, because John had no intention of inconveniencing himself in the least. Those bastards had sealed their fate when they captured this defenseless family. They were never, ever going to terrorize another living soul, John promised himself fiercely. Their reign of terror was going to come to an end—forever—with their deaths.

  With the exception of Raven, he amended. Raven’s obsessive craving for freedom had compelled him to form an alliance with those ruthless cutthroats. John couldn’t ignore the vow he’d made to Gray Eagle to bring Raven back alive. That was a solemn promise that must be kept.

  Relying on training and years of practice, John walked toward the dirt path to the corrals. He squatted down to survey the footprints and horse tracks. The smeared prints revealed Tara and the children’s struggle to prevent being tossed onto the backs of horses. The tale was told in those marks in the dirt. Again John had to remind himself to remain focused and stifle the churning emotions that distracted him. He concentrated on determining where each child had been placed in the procession.

  Flora brought up the rear, he noted as he studied the depth of the hoofprints and small shoe prints. He glanced southeast, noticing that the trail led in the same direction he’d taken the older boys to round up mustangs. John scowled when he saw the evidence of another scuffle that had taken place twenty yards down the path. He studied the set of moccasin prints beside boot prints the exact size of Tara’s.

  A cold chill slithered down his spine. Raven had recaptured Tara and tossed her back on her horse. John could tell by the hoofprints that Raven led the procession and held the reins to Tara’s horse, because the tracks indicated the uneven gait of the horse, which wasn’t allowed to set its own pace.

  John blinked in surprise when he noticed the overturned stone beside Tara’s tracks. He smiled for the first time in hours. Tara and the children had kept their wits about them, despite their terrifying ordeal. They were leaving stone signals for him to follow.

  “Good girl, Irish,” he murmured as he wheeled toward Pie.

  John rifled through his saddlebags to retrieve his moccasins. For the first time in five years he was going to track desperadoes as the man he really was and always would be—pure Apache at heart. White Wolf, the Apache warrior who’d hidden behind John Wolfe’s fictitious identity, now lived and breathed and thirsted for revenge.

  As he shed his breeches and shirt to don his breastplate, leather leggings, breechcloth, headband and moccasins, he could feel the transformation overtaking him. He was dressing as pure Apache, thinking with pure Apache savvy. The renegades who’d captured this family and their livestock were going to confront Apache wrath in its deadliest form.

  White Wolf would show no mercy. He was no longer the long arm of frontier justice; he was the personification of unleashed Apache vengeance.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Despite the aching bruise on her cheek, the throbbing of her swollen lip and her splitting headache, Tara held herself upright in the saddle. She was determined to project a fearless facade to reassure the children who rode single file behind her.

  She could hear Flora and Maureen sobbing quietly. Occasionally she heard Derek’s muffled moans of discomfort. She knew the boy had to be hurting because it hadn’t been long since he’d been injured by being thrown off the mustang and crashed into the fence.

  “I gotta pee,” Samuel said, his voice gruff with resentment.

  Tara knew exactly why the boy wanted to call a halt. Like herself and the other children, he had demanded to stop at irregular intervals so they could leave stone signals. Although Tara presumed John was long gone from the area, the children were determined to leave a trail for him to follow. She could tell by the expressions on their faces that they had every confidence John would rescue them. In their eyes, he could accomplish the impossible. The children also knew John cared enough about them to track these scroungy-looking renegades, who had stopped briefly to change from their Indian garb into white man’s clothes—all except for Raven.

  Tara glared at the Apache’s broad back. Twice she’d battled that black-eyed devil—and lost. She knew how brutal Raven could be, and she had the souvenirs of their skirmishes to prove it. Seeing the cold look in his obsidian eyes triggered flashbacks of her confrontation with the demented Texas rancher. If Raven had a soul, it was buried so deeply beneath his bitter anger that it would require the skills of a surgeon to find it.

  It hadn’t taken Tara long to realize this vicious Apache was the mastermind of this gang of thieves. While the other scraggly men casually herded the livestock, Raven was on constant alert as he led the way from one concealing ravine to the next. Of course, Tara couldn’t imagine who would notice them, seeing as how they were crossing uninhabited country where deep gullies, winding arroyos and rugged buttes were in abundance. Mostly it was just rough terrain, with plentiful rocks, cactus and clumps of native grass.

  “I said I gotta pee,” Samuel shouted impatiently.

  Raven twisted on his pinto to glower at the lad, who met the fierce look with open defiance. Tara knew that expression well, because she’d been feeling the same way since Raven had dragged her—kicking, biting and clawing—from the cabin. She’d left her mark of defiance on his bronzed cheek to prove she wasn’t leaving peaceably. In turn, Raven had left his mark on her. But, she consoled herself, she’d drawn blood and that pleased her immensely.

  Muttering under his breath, Raven bounded from his pinto and stalked toward Samuel. Swiftly he untied the boy’s bound hands from the pommel of the saddle, then roughly jerked him off the horse.

  “Be quick about it,” the Apache snarled.

  Purposely stumbling, Samuel overturned several stones, then trotted toward the underbrush to relieve himself.

  Tara cast the other children meaningful glances, silently ordering them not to cause more trouble. There was nowhere to run and hide in this unforgiving terrain. They had to bide their time and choose their battlefield. Now wasn’t the time or place for an escape attempt. Furthermore, she’d tested Raven’s volatile temper twice, and she wanted to lull him into thinking that she’d accepted her captivity.

  “Hurry up!” Raven barked impatiently.

  Samuel reappeared and walked briskly toward his mount. He was yanked off the ground, slammed down on the saddle and tied in place with swift efficiency.

  Tara studied Raven astutely, noting the resemblance between his a
nd his blood brother’s muscular appearance and obvious survival skills. The only difference was that Raven had no sentiment or compassion whatsoever. It tormented Tara to the extreme that John Wolfe made allowances and excuses for Raven’s abhorrent behavior. In her opinion, Raven wasn’t the man John thought he knew. She suspected John was overly optimistic when it came to searching for noble qualities in his blood brother.

  When Raven strode past her, Tara glared at him in disgust. She couldn’t find it in her heart to regard him with the slightest sympathy. It wasn’t because he was Apache that she disliked him, it was because he was a selfish, awful excuse for a human being. He hadn’t exhibited one likable or decent characteristic. In her eyes, he was worse than the bandidos riding behind him—and that was saying a lot.

  Tara’s head snapped backward when Raven yanked abruptly on the lead rope to her horse, forcing the mare to lunge into a gallop. Behind her, she heard Derek groan miserably, jarred by his horse’s gait. She glanced back to see tears of pain in his eyes as the procession of children were forced into a thundering lope. The horses were bound together by ropes that linked one to the next. The procession resembled a chain gang of mounted prisoners racing cross-country.

  Tara was reminded of the orphan train ride—destination unknown—but she had the unmistakable feeling that the end of this journey would be more unpleasant than riding the rails to Texas. Hastily, she sent a prayer winging heavenward, asking for divine intervention, but she knew it was up to her to find a way to save the children—or die trying. Despite impossible odds, she’d go down fighting with her last breath. If she was to become the inspiration for the children not to give up the fight, then so be it.

  White Wolf reined Pie to a halt on the rock ridge overlooking Diablo Canyon. Following the children’s stone signals, he’d set a swift pace to overtake the procession, which now moved at a slower clip. Herding the livestock slowed the outlaws down, forcing them to ride single file through the winding arroyos that cut gashes in the canyon floor.

  White Wolf retrieved his field glasses to scan the chasm. The black stallion had taken his herd of mustangs and thundered off at the first sign of intrusion. John could tell by the five sets of hoofprints that veered to the left that the mustangs he and the boys captured had broken away from the domesticated horses and followed the devil stallion. White Wolf sincerely hoped those horses had given the outlaws fits when they broke and ran.

  While picking his way down the narrow trail to the canyon floor, White Wolf appraised his surroundings. He glanced west, watching the sun make its final descent to the horizon. He predicted Raven would camp at the east end of the valley, using the copse of cottonwood and cedar trees for protection. He also predicted, given the direction Raven traveled, that the procession was headed for the Comanchero stronghold in New Mexico Territory.

  White Wolf had to stage his attack before the outlaws crossed the border. The Comancheros kept guards on constant lookout for unwanted intruders. If he didn’t overtake Raven and the ruffians before they reached the Comanchero headquarters, it could take months to retrieve the children, who would be transported away to become enslaved—or worse.

  He refused to dwell on Tara and Maureen’s grim fate—which was why his sense of urgency multiplied tenfold. He had to strike tonight.

  Tomorrow would be too late.

  When an idea hatched in White Wolf’s mind, he reversed direction. He needed assistance to provide a distraction. And he knew exactly where to find it. He had to scatter the enemy so he could deal with them one by one.

  He patted Pie’s muscular neck as he circled the cap rock. “C’mon, boy, we’ll form a pact with the devil and bring the wrath of hell into this canyon.”

  “You cook, paleface.” Raven shoved Tara roughly toward the campfire. When Tara called the children to assist her, Raven flung up his hand. “No, only you,” he ordered sharply.

  Tara pivoted, then nodded toward her bound hands. “If you expect me to prepare the meal alone, then expect a delay. Either untie me or let the children help.”

  Raven glared daggers at her for a long moment, then nodded reluctantly and motioned for the children to approach the fire.

  Tara dug into the knapsack to retrieve the provisions. “There are cans of beans and ingredients for biscuits,” she said in a voice that carried to Raven, who’d perched on a boulder to keep watch. “Boys, see if you can manage to open the cans, even if your hands are bound. Girls, we’ll try to mix the biscuit dough.”

  For Raven’s benefit, Tara pretended to give cooking instructions to the girls while they measured ingredients. “Each of you has done a fine job of forcing delays in the procession,” she murmured. “Flora, add more flour, please,” she said more loudly.

  “Are you all right?” Maureen asked quietly. “Your face looks awful.”

  “I’m fine,” she assured the girls. “Maureen, we need more lard.”

  “Zohn Whoof will come for us,” Flora whispered as she sprinkled flour into the tin bowl.

  “He might not realize we’ve been abducted, sweetheart. We have to plan our own escape attempt. Remember when John showed us how to hide in plain sight…? Add a little more lard, Maureen,” she said clearly. “This mixture is still too stiff to roll out the biscuits.” Tara dropped her voice again. “I expect the bandits will start drinking the whiskey they stole from our cabin after supper. Boys, use the excuse to relieve yourselves again so you can hide in the grass after dark.”

  “What about you?” Flora asked, wide-eyed.

  “I’ll provide a distraction so you can sneak away.”

  “Tara…” Maureen’s voice wobbled with wary apprehension.

  The girl’s haunted expression left an uneasy feeling in the pit of Tara’s stomach. This wasn’t the time for Maureen to fall to pieces.

  “I’m counting on you. No matter what else happens, I want you to protect Flora, as I have always protected you. Do you understand me?”

  The girl’s eyes clouded with tears, but she nodded ever so slightly.

  “No matter what, Maureen,” Tara repeated. “I want your word on it.”

  Their eyes met for a long moment. Reluctantly, Maureen nodded again and whispered, “I promise.”

  “Good job, girls. Now let’s roll out the biscuits and put them in the Dutch oven.” Hands bound at the wrists, Tara and the children continued to prepare the meal under Raven’s watchful eye.

  After the outlaws ate their fill, they passed around the bottle of liquor. Tara was disappointed that Raven didn’t partake of the drink. He remained on constant alert while his cohorts celebrated their successful raid.

  It incensed Tara when Raven refused to let her and the children eat the leftover food. She suspected the heartless bastard intended to keep them faint from hunger. Well, she was having none of that. The children weren’t going hungry. They’d suffered near starvation once too often at the orphanage and during their exodus to Arizona.

  Determined, she climbed to her feet and approached the campfire.

  “Sit down, woman,” Raven snapped gruffly. When Tara flagrantly ignored the order, he bolted up to block her path. “I said sit down!”

  Tara tilted her chin to a defiant angle. “These children will eat or I won’t cook for you again. What you and your men haven’t eaten will go to waste, so the children might as well have the leftovers.” What she didn’t bother to say was that she’d purposely mixed more than enough dough, but she realized, sharp as Raven was, he’d figured that out all by himself.

  Their gazes locked and clashed. Boldly, she reached down to scoop up the leftover biscuits. She yelped in pain when Raven kicked her hands, sending the biscuits catapulting through the air to land in the grass.

  “Now feed your children, paleface,” he said, then smirked sarcastically. “That is how the Apache are treated on the reservation—like stray dogs tossed scraps of food no one else will eat.”

  Tara stared squarely into those onyx eyes, which glittered with hatred and contempt. “
I’m truly sorry that your people haven’t been treated fairly or kindly. But you’re no better if you impose the same cruelty on defenseless children. No man has the right to cry insult and injustice while he does to others what he does not want done to him.”

  “I think I would like you better, paleface, if I cut out your sharp tongue,” he sneered, his eyes flashing with menace.

  Tara didn’t so much as flinch at the vicious threat; she simply gathered the scattered biscuits, brushed them off as best she could, then distributed them among the children.

  Several minutes later, Flora stood up and said, “I need to pee now.”

  Muttering sourly, Raven nudged Gus Traber in the ribs. “Take the girl to the bushes.”

  “Take her yerself, Injun,” Gus snorted before he guzzled another swig of whiskey.

  “I have to go, too,” Maureen declared as she rose to her feet.

  “Damn kids gotta pee all the damn time,” Gus groused.

  “Take them,” Raven ordered. “Now!”

  Gus tried to object, but when Raven’s razor-sharp dagger pricked the underside of his jaw, the outlaw swore ripely. “All right, but you make sure those sons-a-bitches don’t drink all the whiskey while I’m gone. Hear me, Injun?”

  Gus staggered clumsily to his feet, then motioned for Flora and Maureen to trail after him. When they disappeared into the darkness, Tara glanced at Raven. “Have another of your men take the boys to relieve themselves,” she suggested. “Then I’ll bed the children down for the night.”