Wolf's Tender

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  Atlantic Bridge

  www.atlanticbridge.net

  Copyright ©2009 by Gem Sivad

  First published in 2009

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  CONTENTS

  Prologue: The Bounty Hunters

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Historical Notes

  About the Author:

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  Published by Liquid Silver Books, Imprint of Atlantic Bridge Publishing, 10509 Sedgegrass Dr, Indianapolis, Indiana. Copyright 2009, Gem Sivad. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the authors.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  Blurb

  Rough and tough bounty hunter Charlie Wolf McCallister knows he needs to get laid when even a skinny, old-maid teacher with a sharp tongue starts looking good to him. But, cad that he is, he operates on the philosophy that a bird in hand is better than no bird at all. And so he offers to trade service for—servicing.

  When Naomi Parker's students are snatched from their school by marauding Comancheros, she can't believe that she hid like a coward and let it happen. The only way to ease her conscience, and get the girls home safely, is to hire the half-Kiowa bounty hunter. Charlie Wolf's price seems a bit steep to prim and proper Naomi, who must choose between her virtue and her students’ lives.

  When one almost dried-up spinster tenders her body to one cynical sometimes-savage, the unexpected bounty is love.

  Prologue: The Bounty Hunters

  The three riders were halflings, too young in years to be men, but too weathered by hard times to be boys. The dark one, dressed like a Kiowa warrior, led the other two as they belly-crawled to the edge of the rise and peered down at the Apache camp below.

  Lozen, Victorio's sister—the Apache woman warrior who was said to be a witch, a healer, and spiritual guide for her people—was in the center of the encampment, surrounded by the men of three Indian nations. Chief Nana leaned close to hear her words, and the McCallisters teetered precariously above, listening too.

  They didn't hear the Arapaho braves who stole up from behind and took them prisoner, shoving them back to the camp where the Apache priestess waited.

  The fire was just a fire, but later, all three agreed that her image had been unclear, sometimes almost transparent. She'd stared at them silently, studying them in a moment of utter stillness as the night and sounds receded and left only them, the fire, and the Indian woman—reading their souls.

  "Why do you come here?” Her question was directed at Charlie Wolf, as it should be. He'd come and his cousins had followed.

  "I've come to barter for a woman.” It wasn't a lie. At seventeen, Charlie Wolf McCallister did want a woman. And that was more explainable than the need to see Lozen, the woman of magic, who had sensed their presence when the Apache sentries had not.

  She laughed at Charlie Wolf's answer. It was a rich, husky sound that floated through the night, inviting the men of three tribes to laugh too.

  She pointed at Robert, the tall, red-haired McCallister, already bigger than most men, white or Indian. “And you, do you seek an Apache woman too?"

  Robert had been sparking Annie Ross, and his honesty wouldn't stand for a lie. “No, ma'am. Reckon I just followed Charlie Wolf to make sure he'd keep his hair while he was bartering for a bride."

  Lozen held his gaze, studying his face a long time.

  Then her smile widened as her eyes met those of the third youth. “And you? Did you come for a woman, or do you protect your friend too?"

  Younger than the other two, the third McCallister flashed an easy grin that suggested great mischief lurking behind the handsome face. But his light gray eyes were the silver of a moonlit lake, no smile reflected in their depth.

  "Heard you were magic,” he answered her laconically. “Thought you might be able to make me smart as the wolf—” He motioned his head toward Charlie. “—or pure of spirit.” His nod indicated his brother Robert.

  Black Hawk, the Arapaho young blood who'd followed the seer's orders to capture them, claimed the honor of killing them. Chief Nana stayed his hand, looking at Lozen for direction. The three McCallisters watched her too.

  She rose from her place by the fire and filled three bowls, carrying one to each McCallister in turn. When they all stood holding the noxious smelling liquid, she spoke. “Drink and know your dreams."

  Charlie studied her, Robert hesitated, sniffing the contents suspiciously, but Samuel downed his in one gulp, laughing. “Come on, boys, the party's just begun."

  As Charlie and Robert drank theirs, Samuel's legs buckled and he went to his knees. He was barely out and lying flat on the ground before Charlie's will was robbed from him, and he collapsed too.

  Robert, being the biggest, resisted the brew the longest. “So you've killed us?” he had time to ask the Apache priestess before he succumbed. Her words echoed in his mind as he went down.

  "I've given you your futures. What you make of them is yet to be seen."

  When the three woke the next day, the campfire was dead, the ground was cold, and there was no sign that over a hundred Indians from three different nations had been there the night before.

  Charlie told the two white boys later, “Lozen took us spirit-walking in the otherworld to find the threads of who we will be."

  No one volunteered to share his vision. It was an incident buried, but not forgotten as the three McCallister men grew to manhood.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter One

  Charlie Wolf McCallister was the best tracker in the territory, bar none, which was why he and his cousins were crouched in the sand and dust looking down at the Indian encampment. Rumors abounded about a meeting of Arapaho, Kiowa, and Apache tribes, but the location of the powwow had been elusive.

  The half Kiowa McCallister cousin knew where to look. Unlike the white army scouts who tried to find Indians in their hiding places, Charlie, who had traveled with the Kiowa on and off during his first seventeen years, knew the locations of both their winter camps and summer hideaways tucked among the myriad canyons and caves in West Texas.

  "Looks like they're primed and ready for trouble.” A hard elbow to the ribs and a warning glance from his brother had Samuel McCallister clamping his mouth shut. A whisper of noise not in accord with nature and the Indians below would be all over them. Charlie Wolf might survive, but from the looks of the war preparations going on, Deacon and Samuel McCallister wouldn't.

  All three men were on their bellies, part of the landscape. Charlie Wolf nodded toward the camp as he eased himself backward an inch at a time, moving away from the overlook.

  D
eacon and Sam followed until they reached their mounts. Like his namesake, the gray wolf, Charlie was already gone. Not a drift of dust stirred to indicate that he had ridden away moments before.

  "Jeezus,” Sam swore quietly. “Hope this works or our horses are faster than their Indian ponies. They say Mangas Colorado is set to go to war. I hope to hell Charlie doesn't lose his hair while he's down there."

  His words sounded hesitant, but his body vibrated with excitement. White teeth flashed in another grin. “Hell, Deak, you always said God takes care of poor dumb creatures. Watch and see, Charlie'll ride out without a scratch on him, even if this is a rabbity idea."

  "Charlie will deal with the devil himself to get a chance at catchin’ Jericho.” Deacon scratched his rough, red beard, thinking aloud, “...Won't mind cashing that tender in. There's a bounty of $10,000 on the renegade, dead or alive."

  It was an unheard of reward, put up by The Texas Cattlemen's Association, an assortment of New Mexico, Colorado, and Texas ranchers, and banks from all three areas. They'd banded together, publishing the reward in state and territory newspapers guaranteeing the bounty. Then they'd posted the Wanted signs in all the local, county, state, and territory law offices.

  "For that kind of money, one of the coyotes he rides with might plug him before we get the chance.” Sam's eyes were cold when he muttered, “Hell, that's what I'd do."

  Deacon shrugged and answered his brother grimly. “Then we follow the smell of a rotten corpse and take the body in for the reward. If there's a price on the other guy's head, all the better; we'll cash him in too."

  The three McCallister bounty hunters were not the only men chasing Jericho Jones and his band of Comancheros. If the rumors were true, there already numbered a couple of good men who had found the outlaw but hadn't survived the experience.

  "Damn, you know it's not the money he's after. Reckon he wants to kill Jericho more than he wants anything else in life.” All the McCallisters knew the story that Sam referred to.

  Jericho had been instrumental in the massacre of Kiowa women and children at a place named Sand Creek, in Colorado Territory.

  Charlie had ridden with his Kiowa father and Chief Black Kettle that day, invited to a peace powwow with the army's representative. Instead, Jericho had led the army to the camp at the river where, unprotected, the women and children waited. It was a slaughter.

  "If it's not about the money, then, when we help Charlie catch the bastard, he can have the pleasure of the kill, and we'll cash in the tender,” Deak offered dryly.

  Sam flashed his brother a grin. “Well, yea, maybe it's about the money too. He's got it in his head to buy some land. I told him Aunt Rachel's share of the MC3 Ranch was his, but he said—” Sam paused and added, “Well, hell, you know what he said."

  Charlie Wolf had returned his mother to her white family, as his father had instructed upon his death. Rachel had been warmly welcomed. Charlie had not.

  Charles McCallister, Rachel's brother, had two sons, already proclaimed hellions. Robert and Samuel had claimed Charlie, and during the short time he'd lived on the McCallister Ranch, the three boys ran together like a pack of wolves. Over the years, Charlie relied on his cousins for word of his mother's well-being.

  The McCallister boys grew up and embraced respectability until Robert McCallister's wife was murdered in the young preacher's home. The minister set his Bible aside that day, and went hunting for the killers. Sam joined him. Charlie was already on the trail.

  After they'd executed the men, the three drifted on together, picking up handbills and catching outlaws for pay. Robert McCallister became The Deacon, one of the most feared gun-fighters in the territory.

  Sam was better known as Snake McCallister. He did his best work silently, usually before his prey even knew he was present. The knife was his weapon of choice, but he was as proficient with a gun.

  The two white men were dangerous predators, only a piece of paper away from being like the men they hunted. Their half-breed cousin, Charlie McCallister, was a dark menace riding at their side. Outlaws trembled when they learned that the Wolf was on their trail.

  "Word is, Jericho's got a cozy spot across the river and is making one last sweep to feather his Mexican nest."

  "I know Charlie wants him dead before he can get to the other side of the border. Since Jericho and his raiders cut a swath through Colorado and New Mexico territories, they've gone to ground, and no one's saying where they're hid."

  Rumors of nighthawks running cattle under cover of darkness had recently reached Charlie. He was sure it was Jericho, headed through Texas, on his way back to Mexico.

  "Last time Charlie went after the son of a bitch, he damn near bought the farm.” Sam shifted the tobacco in his cheek and spat experimentally at a cactus. “Bet I can hit it in one shot,” he invited his brother to compete, while contemplating the time his cousin had been left for dead.

  "Highest spot wins,” Deacon answered, accepting the challenge. “Figure Charlie owes Jericho a pain or two before we put him out of his misery."

  "If the Chief hadn't dodged an inch, he'd ‘a’ been food for the turkey-buzzards.” Sam blasted a stream of tobacco at the cactus, marking his spot. “Hope he doesn't get his hair parted while he's down there."

  "Shit, Sam, worry about your own. I'm sure partial to keeping mine.” Deacon McCallister scratched his red beard meditatively and complained softly again.

  "I can smell myself. I wouldn't want an Indian to get downwind of me. I need a bath. I hope to hell Charlie gets back here soon."

  "Ah, Deak, if the Comancheros are driving a herd of rustled cattle, Charlie figures they plan to sell or trade them to Mangas Colorado's band before they cross the border. He's not going to let up on this till we trap Jericho, one place or another. Better get used to your stink, ‘cause you're going to be wearin’ it for a while."

  "Yea, I've got that.” Deacon closed his eyes against the sun, so still one could have mistaken him for asleep.

  He muttered aloud, “But I've got a couple of questions, like what do the Indians have to trade for the rustled cattle, and more important, how in hell does Charlie plan to take down Jericho while we're surrounded by half the Apache nation?"

  "Hostages,” Charlie Wolf answered Deacon's first question with disgust. “White women—all but one are trussed up in a tent. One of them refused Okiah, the medicine man, so he gave her to the tribes. They've got her tied outside like a dog, handy for any buck passing to climb on."

  "Damn shame; we probably ought to put her out of her misery.” Samuel frowned at the image. He'd seen enough hostage survivors to know that this one wouldn't want to live.

  "Not a decision for you to make,” Deacon warned him; his former calling sometimes influenced the few convictions he still held. “Just make sure the medicine man gets in the way of a bullet when we go in. I'd hate for her abuse to go unavenged."

  "We're not going in,” Charlie corrected them. “I'm going in tonight, alone. Be ready with those horses, Sam. Deacon, cover me from above. I'll be bringing the women out the back way."

  "What back way? There is no back way; that's why the Indians put their camp here."

  Charlie nodded at the cliff they'd peered over earlier in the day. “I'll be going in the back way."

  There was no argument to be made. Charlie Wolf did things his way. If they objected, he still did things his way.

  Charlie cut through the back of the tent wall and freed the four white women inside, shoving them out the back slit that he'd made. He hesitated. He'd planned on leaving the one at the tent's side. She was the only one who would be missed before morning. But he'd expected to find an Indian guard who would need to be silenced inside.

  Hell, the sentry's outside with number five. Change of plans. The guard would wake the camp when he came back inside and saw the captives gone.

  Charlie recognized the Arapaho who was announcing his pleasure loudly enough to wake the sleepers surrounding the tent. Charlie wanted to
cut his throat for that reason alone.

  The woman was silently enduring the assault when Charlie ducked out of the tent; she barely looked up.

  "Come back later,” her Indian abuser grunted in Arapaho at Charlie, seeing just one more Kiowa roaming the camp, waiting his turn on the woman.

  The guard was on his knees, mounting her like a dog, he had the hem of her skirt pushed around her shoulders and her rump exposed. The woman looked with dull eyes at Charlie, expecting, he supposed, that he would climb on next.

  "Long time no see, Descartes,” Charlie greeted the sentry in Kiowa, and then added in perfect English. “You always were a pig."

  Descartes opened his mouth to yell a warning, but the woman reared up, her dress billowing over his head, blinding him for the moment. Charlie had the brave on the ground and his throat cut before he could make a sound.

  He sliced through her bonds and motioned her to the back of the tent, dragging the Indian's body into the spot she'd occupied. Unless another brave got randy before the night ended, it would appear that the woman was sleeping and they'd have a good head start.

  Charlie had to fight off the frantic women, repeating in English twice, “I'm here to get you out."

  "I can't climb,” one woman advised him.

  "All right,” Charlie agreed and set the others on the trail, carefully showing the next in line the handholds after starting each up the cliff. When the fourth woman started the climb, Charlie swung in behind her, ignoring the woman on the ground. She frantically climbed behind him.

  They crawled up the cliff front, following the night trail he'd left. He let the fifth woman pass him and erased evidence of their presence. Deacon joined them halfway, helping the silent women as they clambered over the ledge and onto a plateau of scrub pine.

  The first woman across the ledge helped Deacon with the rest. When Charlie came over the lip and stood before them, she spoke to both men.

  "I'm not going back.” The voice of the fifth woman was surprisingly strong—firm and determined for one who had survived such an ordeal.