by Bobbi Smith
"Lance . . . I want Lance. . . ." she cried, physically fighting off the illusion of the hated warrior.
Lance was surprised to hear her call out for him, and he rushed back to her side to speak to her quietly and reassuringly. "Trista . . . darling, I'm right here. . . ." He bent over her and pressed a soft kiss on her lips as he tried to calm her. He didn't know if she would recognize him or not, and at this point, he didn't care. He only wanted to comfort her and to let her know that he was there, with her, loving her, no matter what.
"Please . . . get Lance for me . . . I have to tell him . . . I didn't get the chance to tell him. . . ."
"I'm here, Trista. Please, darling . . . I'm here. . . ."
"I need to tell him I love him," she explained softly in abject misery as tears traced down her cheeks. "He doesn't know that I love him, Michael. . . ." Trista went on as if it were Michael who sat by her side and not Lance. "He doesn't know, Michael," she sighed, shaking her head in confusion. "Have to tell him that he was wrong . . . doesn't matter that he's part Indian . . . but he wouldn't listen. . . . He hates me now, Michael. . . ." Her voice drifted off as the moment of intense emotion passed, and she quieted.
"She sleeps," Bluff Owl pronounced unexpectedly from behind Lance.
Lance was startled. In listening to Trista, he had completely forgotten the old man's presence in the lodge. His eyes were glistening strangely as he glanced back over his shoulder toward where the medicine man stood.
"This is good," Bluff Owl went on. "The fever may break soon. We will keep watch." He dropped down to sit slightly behind Lance and immediately started to chant again.
Lance didn't speak. He was so choked with emotion over what Trista had just told him in her delirium that he could only nod in response. His spirits, so low only moments before, were now reaching heights of joy he'd never known existed. She loved him, not Michael. She had really meant what she'd said that night at the Diamond. She loved him. . . .
The understanding of what Bluff Owl had told him began to sink in. Trista was sleeping now. That meant she was showing some progress. He breathed a deep sigh of relief and then redoubled his efforts to lower her soaring temperature.
Michael and his men broke camp before dawn and were in the saddle by first light. For several hours they followed Lance's trail through the rugged terrain, and they were amazed when they came upon the isolated box canyon. They managed to locate the campsite without any difficulty and were stunned when they found Striking Snake's remains.
Combing the camp for clues to Trista and Lance's whereabouts, they found a bloodied piece of cloth that Michael identified as having been torn from Trista's dress. Tormented by the thought that one of them had been injured, they continued to search for some sign of them. Tom was the one who finally located the trail leading back out away from the encampment. A check of the tracks revealed that only a single mount had been ridden and that it had been dragging some kind of travois behind it. Whoever the rider was, he'd headed to the north in the opposite direction of the ranch.
"Where the hell were they going?" Tom asked Michael as he stared off after the trail.
"Espada Canyon," Michael answered, understanding what his brother had done and realizing that it must have been Trista who'd been injured.
"Why would they be riding away from the ranch?" one of the men asked.
"Lance's village is in Espada Canyon. He must be heading there because it's closer."
"You think Trista was the one who was hurt?" Tom ventured as he studied Michael's closed expression.
Michael nodded curtly. "Let's ride. Maybe we can find him and help. . . ."
They hastened to mount up and then rode out at top speed following the path of the single rider.
Black Water had been watching the group of white men for some time as they had been riding in the direction of his camp. He wanted to rush back and alert Lone Elk to their presence, yet he knew there was no time. He was tempted to lead an attack against the intruders. He knew he had the element of surprise on his side, but he remembered his chief's orders to Lance the last time whites had dared to enter their territory. Signaling his companions, they prepared to confront the intruders.
"Michael . . . " Tom called out his name in a strangled voice, and Michael looked over at him questioningly. "Look . . . " The ranchhand nodded toward the hilltop ahead and to their right.
Michael followed the direction of his gaze and saw what had caused him such distress. There at the crest of the rise sat a gathering of Comanche warriors. He could count no more than three, but Michael knew that meant nothing. There could be a hundred more of them in the rocks, waiting and watching. He swallowed nervously as he fought to keep his voice level.
"If they'd wanted us dead, they'd have attacked us by now," he remarked as coolly as he could. "We'll just keep riding. The last time Pa and I came this way, all they wanted to do was parlay. Maybe once I tell them who I am, they'll help us."
The men tensed as they continued to follow Lance's tracks, but they made no move for their guns.
When Black Water knew that the whites had spotted them, he put his heels to his horse and raced down the hillside to confront them before they managed to get any closer to the tribe's camp. Though the Comanche warriors screamed their usual unnerving cries as they swarmed down the incline toward the white men, no one drew a weapon and no shots were exchanged.
Unnerved, but determined not to reveal it to his adversaries, Michael reined in and kept his expression cool and steady as he faced the leader of the group of warriors. "I am Michael Barrett. I have come in search of my brother, Lance."
Black Water regarded him levelly in silence for some time, his eyes cold, black, and expressionless. Michael marveled at the man's ability to disguise his thoughts, and he thought, with some tempered amusement, that this Comanche would make a great poker player. At long last, the warrior nodded.
"Come," he said brusquely.
Michael glanced quickly at his men and then led the way, following Black Water on toward Espada Canyon.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Wind Rider was striding through the village on his way toward Lance's tipi to see about Trista when he noticed the group of riders in the distance heading their way. He paused to study the group, trying to identify them. He knew that Black Water had ridden out the day before with some warriors, and he recognized him now in the lead as they drew nearer. Along with that recognition, though, came the realization that there were white men riding in with him. Wind Rider knew that Lone Elk had to be informed, and he hurried off to warn his chief of the impending, unexpected arrival of whites in their camp.
"Come . . . " Lone Elk responded to Wind Rider's called-out greeting as he reached his lodge.
Brushing open the entrance, he came in and stood respectfully before his chief.
"What is it?" he asked, looking up from where he sat.
"Black Water is returning, Lone Elk, and he is bringing white men with him."
"He's bringing whites into the village?" The news startled him, and when Wind Rider answered positively, he rose quickly and went outside. Standing before his tipi, his black eyes flashing in anger at the warrior's daring, he waited for Black Water to come to him.
Word spread quickly through the tribe that Black Water was returning with whites, and all activities ceased as the people gathered to watch them approach. When they actually entered the encampment, the villagers stared with open interest at the well-armed white men who rode quietly past them.
"Chief Lone Elk," Black Water greeted him as he reined in before him.
Lone Elk nodded only once in greeting as he eyed the whites suspiciously. His general hatred of them was well known, and it reflected plainly on his sternly set features.
"Why have you brought these men into our midst?" he demanded in the Comanche tongue.
"One claims to be the brother of Lance," Black Water explained.
The chief grunted disparagingly as he glared up at Michael and the o
thers. "Which of you is Barrett?" he asked in English.
"I am Michael Barrett," Michael was quick to answer him. "You are Chief Lone Elk, uncle to my brother?"
Lone Elk nodded.
"It is good to finally meet the man who means so much to Lance. He has spoken of you often and always with great praise."
The chief regarded him coldly, and Michael sensed that he would never be able to breach the differences that existed between them. Still, he had wanted Lone Elk to know that he felt nothing but respect for him.
"There was evidence in Striking Snake's camp that either Lance or Trista was injured in their fight with him. We were tracking them in this direction when your warriors found us. Are they here? Are they well?"
"Come." He gestured toward his lodge. "We will speak of this in private."
Michael and the others dismounted. Only Michael was allowed entrance to the chief's home. The rest were made to wait outside.
Lone Elk turned to Wind Rider. "Go to Lance. Tell him of this," he instructed in their native tongue.
As Wind Rider moved off to tell Lance of his brother's arrival in camp, Lone Elk followed Michael into the lodge.
Though Trista had not stirred again, Lance had remained vigilant at her side throughout the day. Occasionally, while she lay resting so quietly, he'd managed to catch a few minutes of sleep, but generally he'd stayed alert, watching and waiting for some sign of improvement in her condition. Lance knew that her injury was serious, but he was growing concerned over the fact that Trista did not seem to be getting any better. Frustrated though he might be, Lance understood that it might take some time for her to pull through. At least, he consoled himself, she hadn't gotten any worse.
Bluff Owl had rested for only a short time since the ordeal had begun. At midmorning he cleansed her wound again and packed it once more with the healing concoction. He continued to chant unceasingly, invoking his powers to save her life as she lay in the merciless grip of the dangerously high fever.
Wind Rider's call drew Lance from her bedside, and reluctantly he went outside to see what his friend wanted. Lance's haggard appearance surprised his friend, and he realized then just how deeply Lance was being affected by Trista's pain.
"Why have you come?" Lance asked bluntly, not wanting to be away from his love in case she needed him.
"It is important," he answered. "Your white brother has come to the village."
"Michael?" Lance was stunned.
"He rode in with Black Water, and there are other men with him. He is with Lone Elk now. The chief sent me to tell you of his presence."
Lance did not want to leave Trista, but he knew he had to go to see Michael. It had been a brave act on his brother's part to follow him, and though he didn't outwardly show it, Lance was deeply touched by his effort. He hurried off toward his uncle's home.
Lance entered at Lone Elk's call and stepped inside the tipi to find Michael seated opposite his uncle. Michael got quickly to his feet to greet Lance. He noticed immediately the strained look about him, and knew a moment of dread.
"Lance . . . " Their hands clasped in a warm expression of their friendship as their gazes met. "It was Trista?" Michael said in a strangled voice.
"Yes," he replied tautly.
"Is she . . .?" Michael ventured.
"No."
"It's bad?"
"Striking Snake shot her. The bullet took her in the side. I think she's better, but it's hard to tell with the fever. . . ." Lance explained. "How's Father?"
"He's going to make it."
"Good. I only hope Trista does. . . ." Lance openly voiced his worry.
"How did it happen?"
Lance told him of how he'd located Striking Snake's camp. He went on to explain how he'd freed Trista and tried to convince her to flee while she had the chance, but then she'd refused and stayed behind with him.
"I should have killed Striking Snake years ago. Then none of this would have happened," he swore vehemently, after telling Michael how she'd been shot saving him.
"I wish I could have caught up with you sooner. I might have been able to help," Michael told him with deep regret.
"It's too late to worry about what might have been," Lance said slowly, realizing that he had to accept the present and live with it as best he could.
"She'll be all right. She has to be. . . ." He wanted to reassure him.
"God, I hope so. . . ."
"Is she conscious? Can I talk with her?"
"No. She's been delirious off and on since we arrived . . . I've got to get back to her. . . ."
"Is there anything I can do?" he asked in earnest.
"Not unless you can work miracles. It's just a matter of time, of waiting, until we know whether she's going to make it or not. . . ."
"I want to stay, Lance, to help you, in any way I can," Michael offered, knowing that he needed his support.
"Uncle?" Lance turned to Lone Elk in deference. He knew that whites were not welcome in their village, and he hesitated before encouraging Michael to remain.
Lone Elk had been silently observing the two men together, and he had been surprised to discover how much alike the two half brothers were. He could see the family resemblance, though he didn't want to admit it, and he could also see the depth of caring Michael and Lance felt for each other. The revelation pained him, for he feared that he would be replaced in Lance's heart. Only when Lance turned to him in respect and obedience did he realize that his place in his nephew's affections was not in jeopardy.
"They may remain," Lone Elk pronounced, and Lance nodded his thanks. "Your brother may lodge with me, and I will send Wind Rider to find a place for the other men to stay."
"Thank you, my uncle." He returned to Trista then, leaving Michael with Lone Elk.
Whitey and a group of men from the ranch had been out riding the range all day hoping to pick up any strays that might have remained in the area after the Comanche raid the other night. But as the day had progressed, they'd met with little success. They had spread out now to comb a wider area. Whitey and several riders stayed atop the ridge of the low-rising hill, while Jack Myer, one of the seasoned ranchhands from the Diamond, rode directly down into the valley to drive any recalcitrant horses from the relative safety of the brushy cover. It was then that he accidentally stumbled across the remains of Poker's campsite.
"Whitey!" Jack called out to the foreman.
Whitey heard his call and the panic reflected in his tone, and urged his mount down into the valley to investigate. He found Jack as he was riding away from the gory scene at top speed. Upon seeing his boss, Jack immediately reined in. His face was ashen, and his eyes were wide and dilated in shock.
"What is it, Jack?" Whitey demanded.
"It musta been the Comanche when they were on their way into the ranch . . . but I don't understand . . . "
"Don't understand what? What are you talking about?"
"Back there . . . it's Poker—or what's left of him. . . ." He turned away from Whitey and was violently ill.
Whitey grimly rode on alone. He had witnessed the remains of a Comanche massacre before, so he thought he was prepared for whatever it was that had sickened Jack, but as he rode into the grisly scene, even he was shocked. It was easy for Whitey to decipher what had happened as he looked about the campsite. He could tell that the white men had been taken by surprise by the Indians and that the Comanche had ridden them down and killed them on the spot. Only Poker had suffered their devilish torture, and Whitey found himself tensing in an effort to keep down the bile that threatened to rise in his throat.
When he'd gotten himself back under control, he looked about a little more critically, and it was then that he knew what had confused Jack. Poker and all the others whose bodies were strewn about the area were dressed as Indians themselves. Puzzled, he was driven to discover what they had been doing out here in the middle of Barrett land dressed as warriors, but first he knew he had to bury them. He couldn't just leave them out here as foo
d for the coyotes and the buzzards.
He drew his gun and fired two shots in rapid succession as a signal to his men to come to him. Dismounting in the midst of the carnage, he started to examine the remains of the camp, searching for clues as to their activities. A quick check through the saddlebags revealed nothing. It was only when he started to go through the pockets of the men's discarded clothing that he came across the letter. Poker's name was clearly written upon the envelope in a script Whitey recognized immediately. Troubled by the discovery, he wondered why Poker, of all people, would have had a letter from Eleanor Barrett. Then he remembered that Eleanor had been trying to contact Poker right after he'd left the Diamond to give him his parting wages. Whitey opened the letter, expecting it to be Poker's back pay. What he found instead left him more shaken than he'd ever been in his life.
Poker—
The raid is set for tomorrow night. I expect you to be on time and to be dressed as we agreed. Should everything go as planned, and Lance and my husband are killed, I will meet you in two days at Black Rock to make my final payment to you for your services. You must remember that secrecy in this matter is vital. No one, and I repeat, no one, must know of the connection between us.
E. Barrett
Whitey stared down at the missive in horrified disbelief, and he shook his head in confusion. Evidently Eleanor had hired Poker and some other men to dress as warriors, raid the ranch, and kill both George and Lance. He realized now that the whole thing had played out much as she'd planned, except that George and Lance hadn't been the ones to pay the price with their lives, she had. As he heard the rest of his men coming up the valley to join him, he quickly stuffed the incriminating letter inside his shirt.