They had been riding for more than a mile, the morning sun warm on her back. The war party had made no effort to hide their trail, which made it easy. Too easy, she thought. Either they were sure no one would come after them, or they wanted to lure their pursuers into an ambush.
When she drew rein on a crest to scour the land below, she mentioned that to the Burnetts and her brother.
“I don’t care if it is a trap,” Owen said. “They have my son.”
“Sam is all that matters,” Luke said.
“We shouldn’t be reckless,” Wylie cautioned. “I don’t care to be killed on his account.”
Lorette simmered.
“You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” Owen said to Wylie. “He’s not your family.”
“Pa said to come, and here I am,” Wylie replied.
Owen turned to Lorette. “The same holds for you. I know you like my son, but you being a girl and all . . .” He shrugged.
“I can ride and shoot as well as any man,” Lorette said flatly. “I’m coming whether you like it or not.”
“No need to take offense, Miss Kurst,” Owen said.
“All this babble,” Luke said. “Let’s get after them.”
“Maybe we should wait for my pa and my brothers,” Wylie said. “They can’t be far behind us.”
Lorette was a little concerned that her pa hadn’t caught up to them yet. She hadn’t liked the look on Harland’s face when she rode off. He could be downright sinister at times.
She rode on, down a long grade and around several hills to a ridge that overlooked a valley. She smelled smoke and thought, Surely not. But there they were. The Comanches had made camp. A small fire had been kindled and what looked to be a skinned rabbit was roasting on a spit. The warriors were clustered around it, talking.
“Sam!” Owen whispered.
Lorette had already seen him, bound hand and foot and lying on his side. He was still alive, then. Her eyes moistened with tears of pure joy.
“I count fourteen,” Wylie said. “Too many for us alone. We’ll have to wait for Pa and the others.”
“What if they take too long?” Owen said. “What if the Comanches start in on Sam before Gareth gets here?”
“There’s that,” Luke said.
“It’d be foolish, just the four of us,” Wylie said.
Lorette had made up her mind. “I’m not waiting. I’m sneaking down and getting him out of there.”
“Be sensible, sis,” Wylie said. “They’re out in the open. You can’t get anywhere near him without being seen.”
“I will think of a way. Stay here if you want. I don’t need your help. Or Pa’s. Or anyone’s.” To forestall an argument, Lorette reined to the west and rode in a loop that brought her up on the Indians through a patch of woods. The cedars and the oaks hid her well enough that she could get pretty close.
The Burnetts went with her.
Wylie didn’t.
Lorette palmed her Colt, checked the cylinder, and shoved the Colt back in her holster. She must make every shot count. With luck she might drop six, but the other eight would be on her before she could reload. She needed to distract them somehow. She saw the fire, and slowed.
Owen brought his chestnut alongside her mare. “I wish you would reconsider. Leave this to Luke and me.”
“Go to hell.”
“That’s harsh talk, young woman.”
“You haven’t seen harsh yet.” Lorette glared at him. “You better get one thing straight here and now, Mr. Burnett. Sam and me are going to be hitched. He’s your son, but he’s my man. And he’ll be my man as long as I draw breath.”
“Well, now,” Owen said, looking considerably astounded. “You’re laying your cards on the table.”
“Not cards,” Lorette said. “My heart. I’m tired of hiding how I feel from you and everyone else. I want Sam and he wants me even if he doesn’t entirely know it yet. So I’ll thank you to shut up about leaving this to you and Luke. I’m saving Sam or I’ll die trying, and that’s all there is to it.”
Owen’s mouth curled in a grin.
“What?”
“For a second there, you sounded just like Philomena.”
Lorette took that as a compliment, although she didn’t think she was anything like her. “What can we do to keep those redskins busy long enough for us to get in and get out with Sam?”
“I have no idea.”
“Think about it,” Lorette said. “Not about me.”
Owen smiled. “You’re a remarkable young lady.”
“Oh, hell.”
“It’s nothing to be mad about.”
“If I was a man, you wouldn’t think I was remarkable. A female does what you males do and suddenly she’s special. I’m not a lady. I’m a girl. Or a woman, I reckon, now that I’m hankering after your son.”
“You don’t hold anything back, do you?”
“I learned not to. My ma has no gumption, and my pa bosses her around and beats her if she doesn’t please him. It’s taught me a female has to stand up for herself or men will run roughshod over her. It’s taught me to speak my own mind, and to hell with anyone who thinks different.”
“Good heavens.”
They were close enough to the Comanche camp that Lorette had to draw rein or the warriors might hear them. Luke and Wylie came up on the other side of her.
“How do we do this?” Luke said.
“We don’t know yet,” Owen said.
Lorette fidgeted with impatience. “We can’t take all day. Once their bellies are full, they’ll begin in on Sam with their knives and tomahawks. Wylie, do you have any ideas?”
“Wait for Pa and Harland and Thaxter. We can use their guns.”
“They’re taking too damn long,” Lorette said, and drew her Colt. “It’s time to do or die.”
Chapter 62
Sam Burnett lay tense with fear. His throat was parched, his body ached. The suspense ate at him like a horde of bugs with tiny teeth, not knowing when the Comanches would come over and start in on him.
To be so helpless compounded his fear. Bound as he was, all he could do was lie there and wait for the horror to commence. He was so scared, he shook, but stopped through sheer force of will.
If he was going to die, Sam decided, he’d do it with some degree of dignity. He remembered a friend of his grandfather’s who had died screaming and blubbering and acting so pathetically, everyone in the room turned their heads in shame. Sam had only been seven at the time, but the memory stuck with him. As they were leaving, his ma had said to his pa, “I’m sorry the children saw that.” And his pa had nodded and said quietly so no one else heard, “He had no dignity.”
Dignity. It meant to have respect for yourself. Sam liked that notion. So if his time had come, he’d do his best to die with dignity.
Just then a pair of warriors rose and strode toward him.
Sam braced for the worst. His moment had come. He met their stares and tried not to show fear.
They were much alike. Their black hair was parted in the middle and hung down in braids on either side of their head. They had high foreheads, and long noses, and oval faces. In a way they were almost handsome. They showed no emotion, no hatred or contempt. They hunkered and looked at him flatly, and then one reached out, cupped his chin, and turned his head from side to side, studying him.
Sam didn’t resist. What good would it do? He’d heard tell that Indians respected bravery, so he put on as brave a front as he could. When the warrior let go, he said, “I never harmed any of you in my life.” He didn’t know if they understood. Some Comanches were supposed to know English.
The warriors stared, their arms folded across their knees.
“I’m not your enemy,” Sam said. He almost added Please, don’t hurt me. “You have no cause to do this.
”
By their expressions, Sam judged they didn’t savvy.
The warrior on the left grunted and said something in their tongue to the one who had cupped Sam’s chin. The one who had cupped him replied, then said, “Whites kill his son.”
“What?” Sam said. “I didn’t kill anyone.”
“Whites kill,” the warrior said. “So we kill whites.”
Sam pushed up onto his elbow. Here was his chance. He must convince them he wasn’t to blame. “It wasn’t me, I tell you. I’ve never killed one of you, or any Indians, for that matter.”
“You white.”
“I can’t help how I was born,” Sam said. “You should find the one who killed his boy, and kill him.”
“All whites die.”
“That’s not fair.”
“You white.”
“What kind of logic is that? You can’t blame every white for what one did. That’s wrong.”
The pair stood.
“Please,” Sam said. “Be reasonable. I don’t want to die for something I didn’t do.”
The warrior who had lost his son said something to the other one.
“What did he say? Will he spare me or not?”
“Not,” the other one said.
They turned and headed back to the fire.
“Wait!” Sam cried. They ignored him. Several of the others looked over and laughed. “I didn’t do anything!” he shouted in anger, and some of them laughed louder.
Sam sagged in despair, his cheek on the hard ground. They didn’t care that he hadn’t killed that warrior’s son. A white man had, and he was white, and that was enough.
“Lord, help me,” Sam said.
His only hope lay in getting away. The rabbit wasn’t quite cooked yet, so he had a little time. Rousing, he glared at his captors. They weren’t so smart. They hadn’t searched him when they jumped him. They didn’t know he had a clasp knife in his front pocket.
The problem was, his wrists were tied behind his back. He couldn’t get at the knife.
Sam shifted position, careful not to make any sudden movement that would warn the warriors. He could move his hands as far as his hip but no further. The pocket was inches away. It might as well be on the moon.
Sam stretched his arms and his fingers, but he was still short. He loosened his shoulder by wriggling it but only gained a quarter of an inch, if that.
Sam’s life depended on that knife. He had an inspiration. To test if it would work, he commenced to buck and struggle, kicking his legs and thrashing. The Comanches were amused. They knew he was tied tight and couldn’t get free. A thin warrior mimicked his movements, which the rest thought was hilarious.
Good, Sam thought. Rolling onto his back, he thrust his boots at the sky and flapped his bound legs up and down and back and forth. The Comanches loved that. They laughed and clapped each other on the back.
There was a purpose to Sam’s antics. He thrust his legs as high as he could, his eyes never leaving his upended pocket. One end of the clasp knife poked out. He thrashed harder and more of it slipped free. Frantic, he pumped in a frenzy, and the clasp knife slid out and fell at his side.
The Comanches hadn’t seen. They were having great fun at his expense.
Sam let his legs drop and slumped in fatigue with the knife behind him. He groped and found it. Opening the blade wasn’t hard. Reversing his grip, he pressed the edge to the loop around his wrists.
They’d used pieces cut from his own rope to tie him. He bought the rope at the start of the roundup, and new rope was always harder to cut.
Sam moved the knife like a saw, back and forth, back and forth. His wrists began to hurt. The angle was awkward. But with his life at stake, he’d be damned if a little pain would stop him.
A warrior had taken the rabbit from the fire and the spit was being passed around. Each man tore off a piece and gave the spit to the next man.
Sam wished they were eating a buffalo. It would take longer. He gritted his teeth and cut and the pain grew worse. He risked glancing over his shoulder to see how he was doing but couldn’t see his wrists. All he could do was keep at it. Eventually, the rope would part.
Sam thought of his folks, and his brother and sisters. And Lorette. He wanted to see them again. To hug them and eat and laugh with them, and be alive.
He was so intent on the rope, he didn’t realize several warriors had risen and were coming toward him until their footsteps alerted him. He looked up.
The Comanche who had lost his son drew his knife.
Desperate, still cutting, Sam said, “Isn’t there anything I can say that will change your mind?”
Apparently not.
The warrior bent toward him.
Chapter 63
Crouched as close to the Comanche camp as she could get, Lorette Kurst ran her thumb over the hammer of her Colt and waited for the other Burnetts to do their part.
Lorette had come up with an idea, but it was risky. Owen went along with it because he couldn’t come up with a better one. Nor could Luke, who surprised her when they separated by shaking her hand and saying, “So long as you’re serious and not out to hurt my brother’s feelings, I’m fine with you being with him.”
“I’d never hurt Sam in a million years,” Lorette assured him.
Luke had stared hard at her, then nodded. “I believe you.” He let go of her hand and patted his Remington. “Let’s kill some Comanches.”
That last comment bothered Lorette. Luke was too eager to start shooting. He didn’t seem to care that they were outnumbered. She’d seen him practice, and yes, he was quick, but quick didn’t count for much when you were outnumbered three to one.
Lorette gnawed on her bottom lip, a habit of hers when she was nervous. Another minute or so and Owen Burnett would set things in motion.
Her brother was with the horses. Wylie would bring them fast if shooting broke out. She only hoped it was fast enough.
Without warning, several warriors stood and moved toward Sam. One drew a knife.
Her breath catching in her throat, Lorette tensed to rush to Sam’s rescue. She would drop as many Indians as she could and pray Owen and Luke got there to help before she and Sam were riddled with arrows.
Suddenly hooves pounded not far off. The three Comanches by Sam turned and those at the fire rose. Soon another Comanche galloped out of the woods, a quirt in his hand and an eagle feather in his hair.
Lorette prayed that Owen and Luke saw him, and waited. It wouldn’t do to start things with the Comanches up and alert on their feet.
The rider didn’t dismount. The warrior who had drawn his knife, and another, palavered with him. The warrior on the horse gestured a lot, toward the southwest.
In the direction, Lorette realized, of their herd. She wondered what it was about. Silsby and Iden were watching the cattle. Maybe the Comanches were going to attack them.
Presently half the warriors, including the one with the knife, climbed on their horses. Words were exchanged with those who were staying behind, and then those on horseback departed, led by the warrior with the eagle feather in his hair.
Part of Lorette wanted to go warn her brothers. But if she did, where would that leave Sam?
Awash in despair, she stayed where she was. It was the hardest decision she ever had to make: her own kin or the one she had given her heart to.
Maybe her brothers would be all right, she told herself. Maybe Jasper was back with them by now. Maybe her pa and Harland and Thaxter had gone back, too, for some reason. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
Think only of Sam, Lorette told herself. She looked toward where Owen and Luke were to commence the festivities but didn’t see them. She figured they were waiting for the warriors who had gone to be out of earshot and for the remaining warriors to settle back down.
The seven warriors who had
stayed returned to the fire. The rabbit had been eaten, some of its bones scattered about. Now and then one or another glanced at Sam, but they showed no inclination to go over and do him in.
Hope flared in Lorette’s breast. It could be they were waiting for the others to return.
Then a tall warrior drew his knife and set to sharpening it on a whetstone. He looked over at Sam, and smirked.
So much for Lorette’s spark of hope. She half-turned, seeking some sign of Owen and Luke. They were taking too long to make their move.
The next moment, to Lorette’s amazement, Sam was on his feet, a clasp knife in his hand. Racing to his dun, he gripped the saddle horn and swung up. He did it so swiftly that he was in the saddle and hauling on the dun’s reins before Lorette could galvanize into motion to help him.
The Comanches were quicker. In the blink of an eye they were on their feet and rushing him, two nocking arrows to bowstrings.
Lorette hurtled into the open, cocking her Colt. She aimed and sent a slug into the warrior nearest to Sam.
The warrior clutched himself, and fell.
The others stopped in their tracks. Half whirled toward her.
One sent an arrow flying toward Sam, who ducked low over the pommel as the shaft was released. It missed him by a whisker.
Lorette focused on the three who were coming toward her. She banged off another shot but missed. She saw Sam rein toward her and shrieked, “No! Get away!”
Sam didn’t listen. He jabbed his spurs and reached out his arm to scoop her into it when he reached her. He never saw the arrow that caught him from behind.
Lorette screamed.
Sam lost his grip and tumbled, rolling to a stop almost at her feet. The arrow had gone through his shoulder. He struggled to stand, and Lorette grabbed hold and got her other arm around him.
“I have you.”
Together, they backpedaled toward the woods.
The Comanches were almost on them.
A fierce holler and the drum of hooves gave the warriors pause. Luke and Owen Burnett had exploded from the woods, Luke yelling at the top of his lungs to get their attention. The Comanches whirled, and Luke snapped a shot that caused a warrior to stumble.
Ralph Compton Texas Hills Page 24