He whistled for Preacher, who came trotting up beside him. He pulled a clean shirt out of his saddlebag and quickly tore it into long strips. Gently, he propped the woman against his thigh and wound the cloth around her head. Two thoughts struck him at once: how fragile she was, and how good she smelled. Odd under the circumstances that he’d notice her fragrance, but he figured it was because since he’d left Texas the only thing he’d smelled was cattle and wet earth. While he worked on the bandage, it occurred to him that she was much younger than the other women he’d found. The man lying near her was also younger than the other men. He must have been her husband. Why would anyone shoot all of these people? What were they searching for? If Indians had attacked, they would have taken some of the items scattered on the ground. They probably would have taken the young woman, too. He’d seen a lot of evil in his ten years as a U.S. Marshal, but nothing as senseless as this. He took hold of her hand, wishing he could will her to wake. Her hand was so delicate and soft against his calloused skin that he glanced down to look at her palm. This was not the hand of a woman who worked a farm, though he did feel some rough spots on her fingers that he figured were from holding a horse’s reins.
He glanced at the man again. No gun. Realizing that only one man had been armed offered up another set of questions. It was possible that the killers had taken their weapons. Did they also take the horses, or had the horses simply run off when the shooting started? He felt sure the killers didn’t take the time to unhitch the teams, so these folks had stopped for some reason.
He could see hoofprints in every direction, but right now he didn’t have time to study them other than to make a mental note that they were shod. He knew the rain would wash away the tracks of the men he saw riding away, but his first responsibility was to care for the woman. He’d take her back to meet up with the drive so his cook could tend her. He’d hired Shorty not only for his cooking skills but because he also possessed some doctoring knowledge. Shorty had been on six cattle drives and had tended various injuries, so he hoped he would know what to do for her. Once the woman was in Shorty’s care, he’d bring some men back to bury the dead. Then he’d have time to try to make sense out of this massacre.
Preacher caught his attention when he snorted and sidestepped closer. “What is it, boy?” Jake looked around and immediately spotted Indians on a knoll less than three hundred yards away. Damn, if they couldn’t sneak up on a man! He counted ten braves, and though he wasn’t sure, he thought they were Comanche. “Okay, boy, we’re leaving.” Just as he was about to lift the woman into his arms, he saw a leather-bound book underneath her skirt, and next to it was a Colt .45. He picked up the pistol and smelled the barrel before tucking it in his belt. He grabbed the book and stuffed it inside his shirt to keep it dry. Once he was settled in the saddle with the woman securely in his arms, he pulled his slicker over her head to keep her bandage dry. He turned his gaze on the Indians and breathed a sigh of relief that they were not riding toward him. It was odd how they were just watching, almost like they were afraid to ride closer. He looked around to make sure no one else was lurking about. Before he rode away, he glanced once more at the destruction around him. He was certain of one thing: The Indians hadn’t done this. Not one scalp was missing.
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Copyright © 2015 by Barbara Scarlett Dunn
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Promises Kept Page 31