Wolf Shadow

by Madeline Baker

  Chance was thinking of calling it a night when Sunderland mentioned Jack Finch.

  Chance sat up, suddenly wide awake.

  “Was anyone killed?” Sturgeon asked.

  “He killed the shotgun guard and one of the passengers who tried to stop him.”

  “What’d you say happened?” Chance asked, trying to keep the excitement out of his voice.

  Sunderland’s sharp brown eyes rested on Chance’s face. “Coach was robbed outside of Deadwood.”

  “That’s pretty far from here,” Warner remarked. “You think he’s headed this way?”

  “He was, last I heard,” Sunderland replied, his gaze still on Chance.

  “How long ago was the holdup?” Chance asked.

  “Day before yesterday. You know Finch?”

  Chance hesitated, debating between the truth and a lie. At the moment, the truth seemed wiser. “I met him once.”

  “Is that right?”

  Chance nodded curtly.

  The two men stared at each other for stretched seconds, then Sunderland shrugged. “No law against knowing a man.”

  “Reckon not.” Gathering his winnings, Chance pushed his chair away from the table and stood. “Thanks for the game.”

  Leaving the saloon, Chance stood on the boardwalk. Jack Finch was headed this way. There weren’t that many towns between here and Deadwood. There was a good chance Finch would come here. It was the first solid clue he’d had to the man’s whereabouts in five years.

  He gazed out into the darkness, torn between the need to wait here and see if Finch showed up and his yearning to see Teressa again.

  Muttering an oath, he crossed the street to the hotel and checked in. The room at the top of the stairs was small but clean. Pulling back the covers, he sank down on the mattress, one arm folded behind his head, and stared up at the ceiling. He had vowed a blood oath to avenge his mother. He had promised Teressa that he would not leave her, had taken her innocence, told her he loved her.

  How could he turn his back on his vow?

  How could he turn his back on Teressa?

  Torn by indecision, he closed his eyes and in the back of his mind, he heard his mother’s dying words. Be happy, my son.

  But how could he live with himself if he let Finch get away with what he’d done?

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The following morning, Chance bought a ticket to San Francisco for himself and made arrangements for Smoke to travel in the stock car.

  Leaving the depot, he wandered aimlessly through the town, pausing when he came to a shop that sold men’s clothing. Looking down at his plaid shirt and jeans, he entered the store. When he left an hour later, he had a couple of new shirts and a new pair of wool trousers. He made two more stops, purchasing a new hat and a new pair of boots.

  After dropping off his packages in his hotel room, he went to the livery, saddled Smoke, and rode away from the town.

  Once clear of the town, he gave the mare her head. It felt good to ride across the plains, to have a day to himself, a day with no responsibilities. Such days had been rare since his father died, what with trying to run the ranch, pay off the old man’s debts, and get a line on Finch’s whereabouts.

  Finch. With a shake of his head, Chance put the man out of his mind, determined not to spoil the day with thoughts of the last of the low-down scum that had killed his mother.

  He would think of Teressa instead. His mood lightened immediately as her image sprang to mind. Whether dressed in a simple Lakota tunic with her hair falling over her shoulder or in a demure gown cut in the latest style, hair piled atop her head, she was the loveliest, sweetest, most desirable woman he had ever known. Since the first moment he had seen her, she had filled his thoughts and his heart. He would not lose her now.

  He rode until dusk, then returned to Crooked River. After cleaning up, he went to the hotel dining room for supper, then moseyed down to the saloon where he had played cards the night before. Warner, Foley, and Sturgeon were sitting at the same table as the previous night. When they saw Chance, they waved him over. The fourth man at the table eyed Chance suspiciously as he sat down.

  “You’re an Injun, ain’t ya?” the man asked, his tone surly.

  “That’s right,” Chance replied, his hand resting on the butt of his Colt. “You got a problem with that?”

  “Leave him be, Moss,” Sturgeon said. “He’s all right.”

  “Is that so? I ain’t never met an honest Injun.”

  A muscle worked in Chance’s jaw as he met Moss’ gaze head-on. After a moment, the other man looked away.

  Chance glanced at the other three men. “I’m not looking for any trouble. Maybe it would be best if I found another game.”

  Warner fixed Moss with a hard look. “There won’t be any trouble, will there, Eli?”

  Moss cleared his throat. “Not from me.”

  “Let’s play cards, then,” Foley said. Picking up the deck, he shuffled the cards, offered Sturgeon the cut, and dealt a new hand.

  The play passed peacefully for the next hour. Lady Luck smiled on Chance as she was wont to do and he won more than he lost. With each hand he won, Moss’ frown deepened.

  “All right,” Moss said as he tossed his last raise into the pot. “Let’s see you beat this!” One by one, he turned his cards over, revealing a full house, queens over threes.

  “Beats me,” Sturgeon said, tossing in his hand.

  “Me, too,” Warner said.

  “Damn!” Foley turned his cards over; another full house, nines over sixes.

  Grinning, Moss reached for the pot.

  “Hold on there,” Chance said. “The pot’s mine.”

  Eyes narrowed, Moss looked up as Chance spread his cards on the table. Four sevens.

  Moss spat an obscenity. “You’re mighty lucky, mister.”

  With a nod, Chance raked in the pot.

  “Too lucky.”

  “Back off, Moss,” Foley warned. “You’re drunk.”

  “I say he’s cheatin’,” Moss said loudly. “No one’s that lucky.”

  At Moss’ accusation, the men at the surrounding tables turned to see what was going on until, gradually, all eyes in the place were focused on Chance and Eli Moss.

  Slowly, Chance pushed away from the table. “Don’t do it.”

  “Won’t be no trouble so long as you admit you’re cheatin’ and the pot’s mine,” Moss declared. “Go on, say it. Say you’re cheatin’.”

  Foley, Sturgeon, and Warner exchanged worried looks.

  Chance kept his gaze on Moss. He knew the exact moment the man decided to reach for his gun. Muttering an oath, Chance dove across the table, his shoulder slamming into Moss’ chest. Greenbacks and coins went flying. Moss’ chair skittered backward, then tipped over and they both hit the floor. Men at nearby tables scrambled to their feet to get out of the way.

  Chance grunted as Moss’ fist connected with his jaw, knew a moment of satisfaction as he drove his own fist into the other man’s face. Blood spurted from Moss’ nose.

  “All right! That’s enough!”

  Bob Sunderland’s voice cut across the din.

  Chance gained his feet. Breathing heavily, he lifted a hand to his jaw.

  “What the hell’s going on here?” Sunderland demanded.

  “He was cheatin’, sheriff,” Moss said, jabbing a finger in Chance’s direction. “I called him on it and he hit me.”

  Sunderland looked at Chance. “Is that right?”

  “Not quite.”

  “We can sort this out in my office,” Sunderland said. He gestured at Chance’s Colt. “I’ll take that iron. Yours, too, Eli.”

  Chance glared at the sheriff. “Am I under arrest?”

  “Reckon so.”

  Chance swore as he handed the sheriff his pistol.

  Sunderland jerked a thumb toward the door. “Let’s go.”

  “Don’t worry about your stake, McCloud,” Foley said. “I’ll hang on to it for you.”

&
nbsp; “Obliged,” Chance muttered.

  Sullen-faced, Eli Moss picked up his hat and strode out of the saloon.

  Grabbing his own hat, Chance followed him. Damn and double damn.

  The sheriff’s office was a large square brick building located at the end of Main Street. Sunderland unlocked the front door and motioned Moss and Chance inside. Opening a drawer in his desk, the sheriff dropped Moss’ Remington and Chance’s Colt inside, locked the drawer, then gestured at a pair of cells.

  “Listen, Sheriff…”

  “Not now, McCloud.”

  Chance swore. “I wasn’t cheating.”

  “I’ll take your statement in a few minutes. Inside.”

  Jaw clenched, Chance stepped into the cell. He flinched as the door swung shut behind him, glared at Moss as the sheriff locked him up.

  Sunderland pulled a couple of forms out of the top drawer of his desk, picked up a pen, dipped it in the ink well in the corner. His lips moved as he filled out the form.

  “This is the fourth time I’ve had you in here in the last month, Eli,” he remarked.

  Moss grimaced, but said nothing.

  “Gonna cost you ten days in the lockup this time and a twenty dollar fine for being drunk and disorderly in public.”

  Muttering an oath, Moss dropped down on the cot in the corner and pulled his hat down over his eyes.

  Chance gripped the bars in his hands, his eyes narrowed as he watched the lawman.

  Feeling his gaze, Sunderland looked up. “First offense, two days and two dollars.”

  “I’m leaving town tomorrow afternoon.”

  “‘Fraid not.”

  “Dammit, I’ve already bought my ticket.”

  “I’ll have my deputy exchange it for you.”

  Chance pressed his forehead against the bars. If he missed the train tomorrow, he’d have to wait another week for the next one. Dammit!

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The next few days passed quickly. As a child, Teressa had never really understood or appreciated what it meant to be rich, but the benefits of being wealthy were soon evident.

  She and her mother spent a day at the dressmaker’s, and the following afternoon, Teressa had three fashionably new dresses that turned heads wherever she went. New hats, new shoes, new gloves. She had only to remark that she liked something, and it was hers. Painters were hired to repaint her bedroom. She had a new suite of furniture, new carpets and lamps.

  To her chagrin, she found she enjoyed being waited on. Marie brought her hot cocoa and scones in the morning, lunch was anything she desired, dinner was always an elaborate meal. Oftentimes, one or more of her father’s business acquaintances joined them at the table.

  The only thing Tessa didn’t like was the way people sometimes looked at her. It seemed everyone she met knew she had been kidnapped by the Lakota. Her father’s friends were too well-bred to question her about it, but she could see the speculation in their eyes, knew they were wondering what her life had been like among the Indians. There were always stories in the newspapers about Indian attacks, about captives being abused and tortured, about women who had been brutally raped. The women looked at her with pity; the men looked at her and wondered.

  Her days and evenings were never dull. She accompanied her parents to the theater and the opera; girls who had been her friends when she was a child came to visit. They were all grown up now, virtual strangers to Teressa as she was to them. A few came to call and never returned. The rest seemed willing to renew their acquaintance, especially Cynthia Witherspoon. Teressa remembered Cynthia. As children, they had been best friends, spending the night at each other’s homes, sharing secrets, playing house. They had taken piano lessons together, sat side by side in church. Their old friendship was quickly renewed. It was Cynthia who made the parties and the outings bearable.

  Cynthia was the only one Teressa dared talk to about Wolf Shadow. It was so good to have someone she could confide in, someone who didn’t think she was awful for loving a half-breed.

  “It sounds like he loves you, too, Tess,” Cynthia had said. “And if he doesn’t come for you, then it’s his loss.” Cynthia had tossed her hair over her shoulder in a gesture Teressa remembered from childhood. “Just remember, there are lots of handsome men who would love to court you.”

  But she didn’t want another man. She wanted Wolf Shadow. At night, alone in her room, her thoughts always turned to him, to the kisses they had shared, the night they had made love. He had been so tender; she had been certain he loved her as much as she loved him.

  Every night, she sent the same prayer toward Heaven. Please, Wakan Tanka, help him find the path that will lead him back to me.

  And with the passage of each new day, she grew more convinced that he wasn’t coming after her.

  At first, she had made excuses for him—he’d had business to take care of at the ranch, he had missed the train, he had lost his ticket, the train had been delayed, held up, attacked by Indians. But as the days turned to weeks, she forced herself to admit the truth. He wasn’t coming. They had shared something wonderful, something beautiful, but it was over.

  Now, she stood in front of the full-length mirror in her newly remodeled bedroom and studied her reflection. Today was her eighteenth birthday and her parents were having a dinner party to celebrate, even though Teressa didn’t feel like celebrating.

  If only Wolf Shadow were there with her. What would he think if he could see her now? Her dress was a muted shade of mauve with a square neck, long fitted sleeves and a full skirt over a modest bustle. She wore matching slippers on her feet. Her hair was arranged atop her head, with a few curls left loose to fall over her shoulders. A slender gold chain circled her throat.

  Marie knocked at the door. “Your mother wishes you to join them downstairs, mademoiselle. The guests are beginning to arrive.”

  “Thank you, Marie. I’ll be right down.”

  With one last look at her reflection, Teressa picked up her fan and left her room. No doubt her mother had invited dozens of eligible men. She could have told her parents they were wasting their time. She had met countless young men since she arrived in San Francisco. None of them interested her in the least. They were handsome. They were charming. They were polite and rich and amusing. But they weren’t Wolf Shadow.

  Fixing a smile on her face, she made her way down the stairs. She was the guest of honor, after all.

  * * * * *

  Chance paced the floor of his cell, his frustration rising with every passing moment. He glanced at the clock again. Two more hours and he’d be free.

  Dammit. He hated being locked up. Hated small, enclosed spaces. Hated the man snoring in the next cell. Damn Eli Moss!

  Chance pivoted on his heel as Sunderland opened the cell door.

  “Go on, get out of here,” the sheriff said, handing him his Colt. “Your pacing is driving me crazy.”

  He didn’t need to be told twice. Muttering a heartfelt “obliged”, Chance grabbed his holster from end of the cot, shoved his Colt into the leather, and left the jail.

  Outside, he strapped on his gunbelt, then took a deep breath. No more saloons, no more poker. He wasn’t going to miss that damn train again. No sir! He was gonna hole up in his room until it was time to leave town.

  Two days later, Chance led Smoke up the ramp and into the stock car, made sure the mare had feed and water, and then climbed into the passenger car. He walked through several cars until he found one that wasn’t too crowded. Locating an empty seat, he tossed his saddlebags on the overhead rack and sat down next to the window. Not long ago, it had taken six months to cross the country; now a man could go from New York City to San Francisco in six days.

  Leaning back, he pulled his hat down low, stretched his legs out in front of him, and closed his eyes.

  Twenty minutes later, amid a long piercing whistle, the grinding of wheels, and a spurt of steam, the train was in motion.

  Chance pushed his hat back and glanced out the wi
ndow. He had never been on a train before and as the engine picked up speed, he found it rather exhilarating in spite of the noise and an occasional cinder that blew in one of the open windows.

  As they left the town behind, there was nothing but miles of grassland as far as the eye could see. Now and then he spied a stand of tall timber. Rivers cut narrow swaths of blue through an ocean of grass.

  As the train moved deeper into the plains, he spotted a few head of buffalo and a short while later, he saw a dozen warriors. He’d heard of whites shooting both buffalo and Indians from fast moving trains and he noticed that the warriors were careful to stay out of rifle range of the iron horse.

  Tugging his hat down again, he closed his eyes. “San Francisco, here I come,” he muttered.

  * * * * *

  The trip was unremarkable. Chance spent a good part of it just staring out the window, watching the scenery flash by. Once, the land had belonged to the Sioux and the Cheyenne, the Comanche and the Arapaho. Now, more and more of it was being fenced off. Houses and barns sprouted across the landscape like mushrooms. Sheets flapped on clotheslines. Windmills raised their arms toward the sky. Small towns that owed their very existence to the iron horse lined the tracks.

  He felt a rush of excitement as San Francisco came into view. Though he had never been there before, he had heard a lot about the town from a California cowboy who had done some work on the ranch one summer. According to the cowboy, the city by the bay had drawn people from many different countries and from all walks of life. Teachers and hucksters, bankers and whores, artists and whiskey peddlers, business men and con men, miners and millionaires, all had come to the coast looking to start a new life.

  Disembarking from the train, Chance collected his horse and his luggage. He saddled Smoke, tied his gear behind the cantle, and swung into the saddle.

  The streets were crowded with men, many wearing the clothes of their native lands. He heard men speaking in Italian and French and in languages he couldn’t begin to recognize.