by Nan Ryan
Suzette studied the jury, who now rose and retired to a corner of the building. They were back in their seats within minutes, and Suzette knew what the verdict was even before she heard the words.
“Has the jury agreed upon a verdict?” Judge Soward’s voice was calm.
“We have,” said the foreman.
“What say you, Mr. Foreman? Are these Indian chiefs, Satanta and Big Tree, guilty, or not guilty, of murder?”
The foreman, shouting loud enough to be heard on the square, proclaimed, “They are! We figger ’em guilty!”
Suzette exhaled. Smiling, she looked at Satanta, whose black eyes flickered briefly when the judge sentenced the chiefs to death by hanging on September 1. The proud and handsome face showed no emotion at all.
As Satanta and Big Tree were led from the room, Suzette, light-headed now, scrambled from her place, anxious to get across the street to the newspaper office. Ignoring Anna’s summons and Austin Brand’s black looks, she pushed through the throngs of people jamming the sidewalks. Rushing to her small desk, she jerked a fresh tablet from the middle drawer and, with a trembling hand, wrote her headlines:
The Prairie Echo
July 5, 1871
Jacksboro, Texas
INDIAN CHIEFS FOUND GUILTY OF MURDER! HANGING SEPTEMBER 1!
Justice prevailed on this memorable day! Satanta and Big Tree, Kiowa chiefs who led the senseless attack known as the Warren Wagon Train Massacre, were found guilty of murder by a jury too brave to be frightened by threats of retaliation from the eloquent, bloodthirsty savage they call Satanta.
Satanta, his days numbered, failed to bluff and bully his way out of a date with the hangman’s noose. On September 1, the redskin known as the Orator of the Plains will be hanged by the neck until dead! Big Tree will follow the older chief to the gallows for his date with destiny.
Suzette, her pencil flying, wrote as rapidly as she could. When finally she finished the long, vivid account, she dashed out to Mr. Keach and handed him her notes. “Please, please, Mr. Keach. Before you say no, just read what I’ve written. It’s good, I swear it is.”
Ben Keach blinked and began to read. After what seemed an eternity to Suzette, he looked up. “Miss Foxworth, you’ve a real talent. Let’s get this set in type!”
Suzette hugged the skinny little man, much to his embarrassed pleasure.
Promptly at nine the next morning, Austin Brand appeared at the newspaper office. Nodding a greeting to his editor, he made his way to Suzette’s desk. Under his arm he carried a copy of The Prairie Echo. She didn’t hear him approach—the room was much too noisy—but sat thumbing through a fashion book until he leaned over the desk and called her name.
Startled, she jumped, looking up at him. “M—Mr. Brand,” she stammered and rose from her chair. “I didn’t see you come in.”
Austin smiled devilishly. “Too interested in your fashion column, I imagine.” His left eyebrow lifted.
“Why, yes, I was…I…” She laughed and slammed the book shut. “No! You know very well I’m not. What did you think? Did you read it? Was it good? Can I continue to do real reporting?”
Austin Brand dropped the newspaper on her desk and threw up his hands in surrender. “Please, please. For such a slip of a girl, you’re most intimidating. I read it, dear, and much as I hate to admit it, you’re really very talented. No man could have done a better job. I’d be lying if I pretended otherwise.”
Her blue eyes sparkling, she ran around the desk and grabbed his arm. “You mean it, Austin? You really think it was good?”
Patting her hand, he nodded. “It was great, Suzette. I underestimated you and I apologize for that.”
“That’s all right.” She was happy to forgive him. “Now you’ll let me be a real reporter. That’s all that matters.”
Austin sighed. “I suppose I’ve no choice, have I, pretty girl?”
“Absolutely none,” she assured him happily. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Austin, I’ve work to do. Seems a dark, handsome renegade not more than eighteen years old has pulled off a daring daytime robbery in Fort Worth. Got away clean with more than twelve thousand dollars!”
6
Less than a month after the famous trial, the death sentence for the two murderous chiefs was reduced to life in prison. Pressured by the Superintendent of Indian Affairs, President Grant, fearing an all-out war if the chiefs were executed, sent down a federal request to the governor of Texas to commute the sentences. Upon hearing the news, Suzette asked Ben Keach if she might be excused for a moment.
Nodding his assent, he watched her turn and make her way to the back of the building, where she let herself into Austin Brand’s private office. She stood with her back pressed against the heavy door frame, fighting a fury she’d never known before. Her temples throbbed, and she clumsily loosened the hooks of her high-necked dress and commanded her knees to stop shaking. Making her way to Austin’s big oak desk, she grabbed at the smooth edge and clung to it. She closed her eyes tightly and saw again the proud, handsome chief, his black eyes on her.
“If they won’t kill him, I will,” Suzette muttered and moved behind Austin’s desk. She jerked open the middle drawer and felt around until her fingers touched the small pearl-handled revolver she knew he kept there.
When she asked Mr. Keach about the revolver, he’d responded matter-of-factly. “It belongs to Mr. Brand,” he said, as though he had always known it was there. “It’s not loaded, though there are bullets in the drawer. It’s not much of a weapon, a lady’s gun really. Mr. Brand said he bought it for his wife but she was horrified and refused to take it. He brought it here and it’s been here in the desk ever since.”
Suzette pulled the gun from its resting place and fished around for the ammunition, then painstakingly loaded the small handsome gun. She’d never seen one quite like it, but she knew something about firearms and was not afraid of them. It was then that she realized she didn’t have her small handbag with her. Laying the gun on the desk in front of her, she turned the big swivel chair around and pulled her dress and petticoat up over her knees. Smiling wickedly, she reached for the loaded gun and shoved it into the pale pink garter she wore on her left thigh. The revolver’s cold steel felt good against her warm skin; with a self-congratulatory “Well done,” she lowered her skirts just as there was a knock on the office door.
“Suzette, may I come in?” It was Austin Brand.
“I…yes, yes, of course, come in, Mr. Brand.”
His face was grim as he closed the door behind him. “My dear, I just heard the news. I know how you feel.” His voice was low, concerned.
Her own voice much too shrill, she asked, “How? Austin, how could it be? It’s not fair, not at all fair! They killed my Luke and the others! Why aren’t they going to pay with their lives?” Her blue eyes flashed fire, her pale cheeks showed high spots of color.
Austin stepped past her, nodding in understanding. He went behind his desk, pulled out the right bottom drawer, and brought up a half-full bottle of whiskey. “Suzette, sit down, please.” She dropped into the chair facing him and watched as he took two glasses from a shelf behind him. He splashed a small portion of the whiskey into each glass and handed one to her. “If it’s any consolation, dear, I think a man like Satanta would much rather be put to death than spend his life in prison. Can you imagine a man who has roamed the plains all his life being confined to a tiny cell, never to be set free?” He motioned for her to drink.
“But, Austin, I can’t…I’ve never had liquor in my life.” She thought he was teasing her.
“I know,” he said evenly, “but I want you to drink it, Suzette.” He watched as she put the glass to her lips. She took a sip and made a face. She coughed and looked at him. “Take the rest of it,” he instructed.
“But, I…”
“Drink it.”
She obeyed and drained the contents of the glass. She fanned at the air in front of her burning lips and looked at Austin. He tossed his down i
n one swallow and rose from his chair. “That’s good. Feel a little better? More relaxed?”
“Yes, I do,” she admitted and leaned back in her chair, some of the blinding rage ebbing.
“I’m glad.” He smiled and walked around the desk. He stood directly in front of her chair and lounged back against the desk. “Now, Suzette, give me the gun.”
“What? I…I don’t know what you’re talking about…I never—”
Austin leaned over her, placing his big hands on the chair arms, trapping her. “I want the gun, my dear.”
“I have no idea what you are speaking of, Austin,” she said indignantly. His gray eyes made her lower her head.
One of his hands left the chair and went to her chin. Gently he raised her face, forcing her to look at him. “Suzette, I think you know exactly what I’m talking about. If you don’t do it, I will have to take it from you.” He released her chin and sat back, then moved away from her.
Suzette bolted for the door. Moving with incredible quickness for a man of his size, Austin blocked her way. Noticing her frustration, he pleaded softly, “Please, Suzette, give me the gun and I’ll let you go.”
“No!” she shouted. “I won’t! I’m going to kill Satanta! Do you hear me? I intend to kill the animal that murdered Luke. You can’t stop me; no one can stop me. I want him dead. Dead! Now, get out of my way!”
Sighing, Austin took her arm and pulled her to him. Ignoring her protests, he let his hand glide lightly over her right hip and thigh, then the left. Through her skirts, he could feel the small gun riding high on the inside of her left thigh. He shook his head and said, “Suzette, I’m going to release you. When I do, you’re to turn away from me and take the gun from under your skirt.”
“I won’t do it! You can’t make me, and I’m not going to do it. I’m going to kill the savages!” He frightened her; she sensed he meant what he was saying, though she couldn’t imagine a gentleman like Austin Brand would actually…
“Very well.” His voice was calm. He turned her away from him, then pulled her back against him. He wrapped a long arm around her small waist, then moved his hand to her long skirts.
“Stop!” she begged, horrified. “I…I’ll give you the gun. Just let me go, Austin.”
“No,” he said evenly. “You’re not getting away from me until that gun is in my hand.” The arm encircling her waist tightened and she could feel his powerful chest pressing her back and shoulders.
“But…but…the gun is under my petticoats. I’ll have to—”
“I know. You’ll have to raise your dress to retrieve it. Do it. I’m standing behind you; I won’t see anything. I’m losing patience; I want the gun.”
Suzette knew he meant what he said. She pulled up her skirts. The man behind her smiled to himself at her youthful embarrassment.
“Close your eyes, Austin,” she commanded feebly as she struggled with the heavy folds of muslin until her fingers touched the small gun. She snatched it from its resting place and jerked her skirts down once again.
His hand closed over hers as he took the gun from her and put it in the waistband of his trousers at the small of his back. Suzette, trembling slightly, let her head fall back against the broad expanse of his chest.
Softly Austin said into her ear, “Sweetheart, I just want you to know that I understand. If I could, I’d kill that filthy savage for you…for me. I hate him, too, believe me. But neither of us would be allowed to get close enough to kill him. They guard him night and day. They’ll be transporting him to the state penitentiary in Houston any day. You must try to put him from your mind.”
“Austin,” she said tiredly and relaxed against him, not yet realizing that he had released her, that his hands were at his sides, not touching her. She could have stepped away from him. “You won’t tell my parents about this, will you?”
“Tell them what?” He smiled.
Suzette smiled too and slowly turned to face him. “Thank you, Austin.”
“I must be going, Suzette. You’ll be all right now, won’t you?”
“Thanks to you, yes. However, if you don’t mind, and if Mr. Keach has no objection, I think I’ll leave early this afternoon.”
“Of course you may leave. Need a ride home?”
“No, thanks. I’ll go down to Daddy’s office and ride home with him.”
“Good enough.” He put his hand on the doorknob.
“Austin.”
“Yes?”
“Do you think it’s disrespectful for me to call you Austin?”
“I think it’s flattering. Makes me feel a little less like a decrepit old man.” A dazzling smile lit up his handsome face, and his gray eyes twinkled with mischief.
It was impossible not to smile back at him.
Ten minutes later, Suzette stepped into the quiet reception room of her father’s office. An elderly lady sat by the front window, but didn’t lift her head at Suzette’s entry. There were no other patients waiting, Suzette was relieved to note. She was hot and tired and longed to go home.
She took a seat across from the woman and loosened the ribbons of her bonnet, then pulled it off and shook the long blond hair about her shoulders. Longing to yank it up off her neck, she reined in the impulse and endured the discomfort. When she heard a door opening from the back office, she snapped her head around. Her father’s voice was kind. “You’re not to worry, Mr. Mason. I know you’re an honest man. I don’t mind waiting until you are able to pay. We all come up a little short at times. Think no more of it.”
Suzette shook her head. Her softhearted father was once again letting a patient go away without paying for his services. It was nothing new; half the community owed him money. At times Suzette wondered if he made any money at all caring for the sick of Jacksboro. Who but her father would spend every waking hour tending the sick and afflicted for miles around, going where he was needed at any hour of the day or night, often getting nothing for it but several frying chickens or perhaps a pig? Suzette smiled. Maybe that was one of the reasons she loved him so much. He was good, as good a man as God ever created.
Blake’s eyes lit up when he saw his daughter. She smiled at him, and was relieved to see the elderly man take the arm of the woman by the window. The old couple made their way out of the hot room and Suzette rose and went to her father. “You look tired, Daddy. Through for the day?”
“That I am. You, too?”
She nodded and went with him to the back room to put away his instruments and tidy up. While she spread a clean white sheet on the hard, oblong table at the room’s center, Blake cleared off his desk. Suzette watched her father. He looked more tired than usual and very pale. Unaware of her eyes on him, he clutched the desk as though he were afraid of falling.
“Daddy, what is it?” She was at his side in an instant, her heart beginning to pound.
“Nothing…nothing, darling. I just had a little pain in my head. It’s passed already.” He smiled at her, but she was standing near enough to see the perspiration on his upper lip and brow.
“Sit down, Daddy.” She helped him to his chair. Dropping to her knees beside him, she held his hand and continued to fuss over him. “You’re ill, Daddy. Something’s wrong!”
He patted her cheek. “Darling, it’s nothing. Please don’t look so stricken. If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll see a physician when I go to Fort Worth next month for that meeting on communicable diseases. How does that sound?”
“Promise me you’ll do it, Daddy?” Her eyes clouded with worry.
“On one condition.” He grinned at her, feeling a little better. “You won’t tell your mother about this.”
“I promise, Daddy.” She smiled back at him and helped him to his feet.
Blake Foxworth didn’t tell his daughter that he was in almost constant pain, or that he feared the worst. With great effort he managed to eat supper that night, although his suffering had intensified with the setting sun and he longed only for the blessed relief of sleep. While his wife
and daughter cleared away the dishes, Blake went onto the porch and raised both hands to his pounding head.
From inside his vest pocket came a tiny pill. It was only the smallest of doses, but the morphine would make it possible for him to rest. He’d long since passed the time when sleep would come unaided. Already he dreaded the time when the pill was not enough and he would require a hypo. It would be difficult to administer an injection at home without being seen by his wife and daughter.
An hour later, feeling somewhat better, Blake lay in bed watching his pretty wife brush her long, dark hair. She was worried about their daughter and wanted reassurance from her husband.
“Blake, do you think it proper for Suzette to be a reporter? There she was at that trial of those horrid savages, sitting up there with the eastern press, all of whom were men. And it’s not just that she’s a girl; she’s so young! I’m disappointed in Austin. He should never have let her cover the trial. He should have consulted us…”
“Darling,” Blake interrupted, “Austin didn’t let Suzette do anything. You know what a headstrong girl she is. Don’t go blaming Austin. I suspect that when Suzette accepted his offer, she had something else in mind.” He smiled, knowing how his clever daughter’s mind worked.
“Perhaps you’re right, but I don’t like it. Austin meant well when he offered her—”
“Lydia, Austin is a good man and a good friend. He was trying to be helpful. And our daughter is better. She can’t grieve for Luke when she is busy, so I’m grateful to Austin. You should be, too. He’s concerned about Suzette, just as we are.”
Lydia sighed and laid her brush down. “You’re right, Blake. She is better now, and that’s the important thing.” Lydia put out the lamp on her vanity table and walked to the double bed. She sat down and put her hand on her husband’s shoulder. Tears gathering in her dark eyes, she said, “I’d give anything to see her really happy again.”