by Shirl Henke
* * * *
Clarence Pemberton's usual facial expressions ranged from boredom to sardonic ill humor, then back to boredom. But as he read the copy Melanie had just handed him, his world-weary countenance changed, his complexion going chalky white, eyes rounded in shock, and mouth pursed in concentration. After carefully perusing the lengthy article in its entirety, he took his glasses from their precarious perch on the tip of his nose and laid them very carefully on the desk. His light blue eyes pierced her gold ones and held them while he cleared his throat. “Every word of this is accurate,” he said. It was not so much a question as a statement of horrified incredulity.
“Right down to Laban Greer's shooting an old woman as she lay on the ground,” she replied quietly. “Even babies and little children and their puppies were cut down. The river was pink from all the blood—”
“I get the picture. Your prose style is startlingly graphic,” he interrupted. The look of repugnance on his face was not directed at her, but at the events her words chronicled.
“Will you print it?” She held her breath.
“I'm a newspaperman, and ghastly as this is, it's news. Of course, we must protect your anonymity. We'll run it under the Moses French name.”
“Of course,” she replied gravely as relief surged through her. The people of Texas would learn of this perfidy.
But the people of Texas had lived for generations with Comanche depredations. They were not disposed to shed sympathetic tears for the fate of one lone Comanche village.
The destruction rained on their own towns from Victoria to Linnville in the previous decade had hardened them to the fate of Comanches, even if the victims were women and children. Many citizens were inclined to be philosophical about the deaths, recalling the Council House killing of Comanche chiefs on the very streets of San Antonio, provoked by their refusal to relinquish a dozen white captives held by one southern Comanche band. The fault lay with both sides, but this was war.
Other readers were simply disbelieving. Civilized men, townsmen and ranchers they greeted on the streets daily, could never do what that eastern meddler Pemberton and his mysterious reporter Moses French said they did. Others like Lee Velasquez, themselves victims of Comanche attacks, were disgusted and furious with the graphic description of a battle reenacted on the Texas plains dozens of times each year. What use to describe the horrors both sides perpetuated? It would only end when every last Comanche was dead.
If the majority of the citizenry was disposed to scorn or ignore the Star's blazing condemnation, a vocal handful were of a more violent bent. Seth Walkman and Laban Greer, along with Zeb Brocker, Pike Miller, Marsh Tatum, and Jeff Jonas, had been mentioned by name in the article. Greer was at his ranch, above mingling with the saloon riffraff who were incited to riot by Brocker and Miller. Seth Walkman, as the head of the local rangers, stayed discreetly in the background while his lieutenants went from cantina to cantina gathering a mob the evening after the Star's hair-raising story broke. By dusk they had a sizable group assembled and were vocally calling for more “brave Injun fighters” to join them on the plaza.
Lee was on his way to have dinner with the Sandovals when he heard the ugly commotion. He assumed it was nothing but a drunken fight the local constabulary would handle. When he was greeted by Larena Sandoval at the door, Don José was with her, clutching a copy of the Star in his hand.
“I wish those foolish easterners would go home and leave Texas to deal with her own problems,” he said tightly.
“That's what all the shouting down on the plaza's about?” Lee asked in disgust. “I read Mr. French's inflammatory rhetoric.”
“Inflammatory is an understatement, ” Don José replied. “The fool is obviously as ignorant of the volatile nature of our so-called ‘militia’ as is his editor. They'll burn that newspaper office to the ground. I only hope the fire doesn't spread to other businesses adjacent to it.” Don Jose's normally genial face was harsh as granite.
“Father, what about the people who work there? Besides Mr. Pemberton, there's that frail old printer and Miss Fleming. Her parents are good friends of the Slades,” Larena said with genuine concern.
Lee stiffened. “It's late. Surely she's back at Obedience's boardinghouse by now. Devil take old man Pemberton and his printer, especially his ‘star reporter,’ Moses French!”
“I don't know, Leandro. Charlee told me the other day that Melanie often works late, finishing up her columns and then helping Amos Johnston set type. She said Mrs. Oakley was complaining that the girl had every towel in the place ink stained.”
Snorting, he said in disgust, “Yeah, that sounds like Melanie Fleming, all right. I suppose I'd better see if she's safely tucked under Obedience's wing.” Taking his fiancée’s fingertips in his hand, he saluted them lightly. “Please forgive me for delaying dinner, but I do feel an obligation to Jim and Charlee to see that the pesky girl's all right.” With that, he turned and quickly retraced his steps toward the Sandovals' stable and Sangre.
* * * *
A rock came sailing through the window, spraying the floor of the Star's office with glass shards. Amos Johnston bent his gray head as he kicked at the sharp-edged piece of stone, sending it rolling across the floor. “I think they're getting nasty, Miss Melanie. You head out that back door real quick while I—”
“Oh, no, you don't, Amos. If you and Mr. Pemberton stay, I stay. After all, it was my story that caused that trash to come here in the first place.” Melanie stood her ground in front of Amos while Clarence Pemberton peered through the glass window of the front door.
“Exercise judicious behavior for once in your disaster-prone lives, both of you,” the old editor said. “Amos, while I go out to calm them, you and Melanie slip out the back before those Neanderthals recall there is an alleyway along Commerce Street.”
“We wanna talk ta thet Frenchie feller,” one nasal voice hiccupped.
Another more strident one yelled out, “Give us Moses French er we'll do ta yer newspaper whut them Comanch done to Noah Parker's ranch house.”
Melanie braced her feet and shook off Amos's hand. “See, they want Moses French. When you can't produce ‘him,’ what do you think they'll do to you?”
“Better an old man than a young woman,” Clarence said with surprising calm.
“Make that two ole men. Now you all git!” Amos said, attempting to mimic a southern black's accent.
“Not on your lives! Do either of you have something so un-New Englandish as a gun in this place?”
“Balderdash! Of course not. What would you have me do, place my sights on the ringleader and shoot him between his beady little eyes?”
“Something like that—only, given your aim, I'd better be the one handling the shooting. If only I'd brought my rifle with me,” Melanie fumed, “or even my pepperbox.”
Another rock came sailing through the window, punctuated with several stray bullets. The flickering glow of the mob's torches cast eerie shadows across the wreckage of the Star's glass-strewn office.
“I'm going out and face them down,” Pemberton said.
“With what—withering sarcasm? Somehow I don't think it'll work.” Melanie quickly grabbed the old man's arm. Looking past him, she yelled through the broken glass, “Brave Texians all—throwing rocks and shooting at two old men and a woman! You should be ashamed of yourselves.”
“Thet French feller's th' one whut's got him first claim on bein' ashamed,” the whiskey-hoarse voice of Jeff Jonas croaked out.
“I hear you, Jonas, and I see you Zeb Brocker—you and Pike Miller. The Texas Rangers ought to be real proud of your day's work—yesterday and today!” Melanie was abruptly grabbed from behind by steel fingers and whirled around to confront Lee Velasquez's furious face.
“Will you shut that loud mouth of yours before they storm this place, you little hellion?” he ground out, shoving her into Pemberton's arms. “All three of you stay back!”
“You can't. They'll—” Melanie's prote
st stilled as Lee vanished through the front door, slamming it behind him.
“This the way you rangers keep law and order, Miller, Brocker? Where's your boss, Walkman? If he's too big to bother with a couple of old men and a girl, how about someone who knows how to fight back—Texas style?” Lee's voice dripped with scorn but carried across the crowd with chilling impact, every syllable cutting like a lash.
“Yew an Injun lover like them Yankees, Mex?” one drunkenly weaving drifter slurred.
“I don't talk much about loving—or killing,” Lee said quietly as his right hand rested lightly on the gun at his hip. His left hand caressed the hilt of his bowie knife as he stood poised and waiting.
The implication was clear to most of the men in the crowd who had heard the stories about how he had slit two rangers' throats and collected scalps in the Apachería of New Mexico.
Watching the confrontation, Melanie shivered at the implacable stance of the man confronting the mob. “He'll kill that drunk if the fool doesn't let up,” she whispered to Amos. The tension grew to crackling proportions as Zeb Brocker shoved the drunk out of his way and planted one boot on the edge of a watering trough near the front of the Star office. His narrow-set eyes blazed at Velasquez as he dared the slim Tejano, “You got a real mean reputation, for a greaser. But I been shootin' greasers an’ Injuns for years, Velasquez.” His hand rested on his six-shooter.
“And I've shot rattlesnakes since I was a boy,” Lee replied matter-of-factly.
“You dirty Mex—” the ranger's hand flashed, but he never pulled the revolver from its holster. Lee vaulted across the water trough and kicked him squarely in the solar plexus. Brocker was knocked backward to the dust and Lee landed on top of him, knife drawn and strategically placed at the big man's jugular. “Any more slurs on my ancestry, rinche?” he asked in a harsh whisper.
Brocker only wheezed, struggling to regain his breath.
Just then a loud blast ripped the air, sending the already chastened mob into frenzied retreat. Wash Oakley's enormous girth loomed over the edge of the crowd as he stood at the corner of Commerce Street with a shotgun aimed at the center of the mob. Obedience, only slightly less formidable, appeared at the opposite end of the street from behind the newspaper office.
“We got us a Mexican standoff, gents,” Wash said genially.
“An’ I'll plug th' first feller, Mex er gringo, whut moves anyways but away from thet buildin',” Obedience added. “Jeehosaphat, skedaddle!”
By now the mob had erupted into blind panic and was scattering up and down the street, evaporating between buildings. Soon the area; was deserted except for the Oakleys, Lee, and the semiconscious Zeb Brocker.
Melanie, Amos, and Clarence slowly emerged from the building. Before Wash and Obedience could reach the Star office, Lee whirled on Melanie and grabbed her roughly away from the two men. “You belong at the boardinghouse, little miss, not here inciting a riot!”
“You're the one who nearly got yourself killed! Why blame me? I was only doing my job in my own place of work,” she responded furiously, jerking her arm free of his bruising grasp.
“Your place of work—your place seems to be anywhere there's trouble,” he retorted.
“And I suppose I should be sitting in the parlor knitting, huh? I happen to be a reporter and I write about trouble. I don't make it.” She looked into his narrowed black eyes, daring him to bring up the subject of her story about him.
He didn't. Instead, he turned to Pemberton and said, “You're all three lucky to be alive—and that bastard French who started the whole thing isn't even around. You ought to fire this girl and hire a gun hand if you want him to keep writing about downtrodden Indians.”
Melanie let out a furious hiss of breath, too angry to speak.
Observing the heated exchange between the young pair, Obedience warned Wash to silence when he started to speak up. She turned to Lee and said, “Why don't yew take this here gal back home whilst me 'n' Wash see ta gettin th’ trash off th' street.”
Eyeing Brocker, Wash reached down and hauled his six-foot-two frame up as if lifting a rag doll. Tossing the coughing man over his shoulder, Oakley whistled cheerfully down the street, calling out, “Fetch me th' horses, woman, 'n' I'll dump this garbage clear o' town.”
Shrugging at the Oakleys, Lee once more grabbed Melanie's arm and began to drag her away from the amazed pair of old men standing in the Star's doorway.
“I'm not going anywhere with you, Leandro Velasquez!” Unsuccessfully, she attempted to yank her arm free. Looking to Clarence and Amos for help, she was amazed when they both vanished precipitately back into their ink-stained lair.
Melanie gritted her teeth as he hustled her along the sidewalk. “Why don't you shower all this chivalrous attention on Larena Sandoval? I'm certain your fiancée would be more appreciative.” The instant the words escaped her lips she hated herself. The smirk that twitched at his sculpted lips was positively infuriating.
“Why, Miss Fleming, don't tell me you're jealous? Larena told me what a perfectly lovely article you wrote about our betrothal fiesta.”
“And I'll be even happier to write about your wedding ceremony—if only you take your demure little bride off to Night Flower Ranch and—pollinate!” she finished in an infuriated huff.
He threw back his head and laughed. “Why, Melanie, what a perfectly indelicate thing for a lady to say. But then, I keep forgetting you're a reporter, not a lady.” He looked down distastefully at her ink-stained nose and rumpled clothes. “Don't you own anything that fits?”
“How do you know whether or not my clothes fit—unless you've been peeking through keyholes while I dress!” she shot back defiantly.
He recalled how delectable she had looked in a silk shirt and riding skirt that day in Austin over six years ago. Angry at the unwanted stirring evoked by the memory of her curvaceous little body, he stopped short and pulled her suddenly into his arms. “Have you ever been well and truly pollinated, Miss Fleming? It begins something like this.” He bent down suddenly and kissed her startled, opened lips, holding her head prisoner in one hand while his other arm pressed her body tightly to his.
They were alone on the deserted street and it was full dark now. Melanie was so startled by his mercurial mood changes from anger to humor to this unexpected passion that she did not protest when his mouth closed over hers. His tongue ravaged inside, sending strange darts of warm, liquid pleasure through her body. She could feel the way his hard chest flattened her breasts as he pressed her closer to him, molding their bodies together in a shockingly intimate fashion.
Having been kissed by a variety of beaus, from the young cowboy Micah Torrance to the intellectual swains in Boston, Melanie had thought herself rather sophisticated about men. None of them had dared take the liberties Lee Velasquez was taking. But then, why shouldn't he do with her as he wished? He considered her no lady, merely a mongrel with despised Indian blood in her veins! She tore her mouth free of his bruising kiss and pushed with surprising strength against his chest. Lee freed her so quickly she almost lost her balance.
Humiliation washed over her for the way he had made her feel. Even now, she could sense the male triumph radiating from him as he looked with amusement at her heaving breasts and flushed face. She stumbled backward, braced herself, and delivered a stinging slap that wiped the arrogant grin from his face. “I’m not your plaything, Leandro Velasquez! Go inflict your attentions on your fiancée.”
He was rubbing his jaw when he caught up with her as she stomped up the street. “For such a little bit, you sure pack a wallop. Just a lesson—be careful who you talk to about risqué subjects, Melanie.”
“I certainly won't talk to you about anything, ever again,” she retorted as his long-legged strides easily overtook her far shorter ones.
* * * *
“This is the best corn bread I've ever eaten, Obedience,” Charlee Slade said, wiping the golden-brown crumbs from her mouth as she savored the last morsel of one
of Obedience's famous corn dodgers.
The two women sat in the big boardinghouse kitchen late one afternoon, catching up on the past week's gossip. “Yew ever miss runnin' this here place, Charlee?” Obedience asked.
“Oh, sometimes, when Will and Sarah are fighting or little Lee's just broken half the dishes in the china cupboard, but mostly, no. I have more than enough to do at Bluebonnet. Speaking of past proprietresses of this establishment, you and Deborah ought to be getting together shortly. That baby's due any day now, and I know she's dying to come for a visit. Wait till you see how Adam has grown.”
“The Flemings got them quite a brood now, ain't they?” Obedience said fondly. “I wuz worried somethin' fierce when Deborah's first letter come from thet ranch, sayin' she 'n' her Frenchman wuz back together.”
Charlee laughed. “So was I, but obviously it's worked out rather well for her and Rafe. You'll like him, Obedience. He reminds me of Lee in some ways—all that fierce Latin arrogance on the surface; but beneath it, they're both good men with a lot of love to give the woman strong enough to stand up to them.”
“Jeehosaphat, Deborah fills thet bill, fer shore!” Obedience said with a chuckle.
“Larena Sandoval doesn't,” Charlee replied darkly. “She's too much like Dulcia. Oh, Obedience, Lee's trying to recapture the past. That's no way to build a future.”
Obedience's shrewd countenance reflected her agreement. “Purty gal 'n' right nice, but no grit. She'll be bowin' ‘n scraping’ ta him th' rest o’ their lives.”
“When she isn't in a ‘delicate condition’ and unable to submit to him,” Charlee said cryptically. Then, seeing her friend's confusion, she told her the tale of Dulcia's distaste for her marital duties.
“Why ‘n hell would a feller as bright as Lee want ta get hitched up ta sech a unnatural female a second time?” Obedience looked baffled.
Charlee signed. “He's full of Hispanic pride and still cherishes his boyhood notions about a fairy tale romance that never really existed. He's a man now and ought to have more sense, but last week he was lecturing Jim about exercising more control over me while I was in town to help Father Gus with the new school!”