Wolf's Tender Page 2

  Neither Deacon nor Charlie answered her, but the red-haired bounty hunter turned and reached as though to stop her from leaving. She spoke again and his hand dropped to his side.

  "My family thinks I'm dead. It's best that way. Tell them Elizabeth Grace Souter is dead. Tell my family that I died in an Apache Indian encampment in 1881."

  When they reached the top, where Samuel waited with the remuda of horses, Elizabeth Souter was gone. Deacon greeted her absence with foul words that were ignored by the other two bounty hunters.

  The rescued women looked at the cursing giant, afraid that they had exchanged captivity with savages for maniacs who now held them captive.

  It was out of their way, but the bounty hunters took two days from their hunt to accompany the women to safety.

  Buffalo Creek was closer to where they'd stashed their prisoners, so they took the women to the small Texas village rather than the county seat, Flat Rock.

  Hiram Potter was the local peace officer and could be counted on to see that they got the attentions of a doctor before they were taken home.

  While they were there, the sheriff sent a rider to Eclipse to wire the relatives.

  "You say that there was a fifth woman who made it out with you?” Potter asked.

  "She said to tell her kin she was dead. I expect she is by now.” Sam McCallister looked uncomfortable at what he knew about her circumstances.

  Sheriff Potter's eyebrows rose sharply, and he nodded in understanding. “Just as well she didn't come back,” was all he said. Then he turned his gaze to Charlie Wolf.

  "How is it you came across the Indian camp? The entire U.S. cavalry under that fellow Buell has been quartering this area of Texas looking for the Apache and renegade Comanche tribes."

  Charlie Wolf stood at the window, staring at the passing women on the street ... white women who were afraid of him. He had fucking on his mind and hadn't thought of much else for days. He sighed and turned back into the room. He really didn't want to talk to the sheriff.

  Deacon answered, “When we picked up the wanted posters in Abilene, there was a story making the rounds that Jericho is in this area, moving toward Mexico. The bankers and cattlemen have finally slapped a decent reward on his head, and it looks like he's hightailing it to south of the border.

  "Charlie Wolf is the best tracker in the territory. While we were running down some of the trash we carried handbills on, we crossed fresh pony tracks."

  Charlie turned back to stare outside. He watched two women who had stopped to gossip across the street. One was short and plump, the other tall and angular. Both caused an ache in his groin, reminding him that his cock needed the attentions of a whore. Grimly, he turned back into the room, focusing on the conversation in the sheriff's office, instead of the women.

  "We threw the assholes in a cave and blocked the opening so we could follow the tracks. It wasn't Jericho, but I guess these ladies will benefit from our mistake,” Sam McCallister assured the sheriff.

  "Their families will be grateful to you boys—probably some money in it, if you've a mind to put in for it.” Hiram Potter looked curiously at the half-Kiowa McCallister cousin.

  Charlie bore the scrutiny with stoic disregard. He knew what the lawman saw. He was as tall as his cousins. But his skin was the color of teak, blue-black hair fell down his back, and his high, slanting cheekbones proclaimed him Indian.

  His nose, once a straight blade, had been broken too many times and was now a misshapen lump on his face. Stitch marks bisected his right eyebrow, made a trail down his right cheek, and crossed his chin. The scar was a light color against the dark bronze of his face.

  He did nothing to deny his Indian blood or reassure those he did business with, dressing to please his Kiowa side. He wore soft deerskin pants and shirt, lacing his high leather moccasins from the top of his feet up to his knees.

  A colorful breechcloth hung from his hips, covering his deerskin pants at the groin area. He wore a black wide-brimmed hat that shaded his face, concealing any expression that might be surprised from him.

  On the rare occasion when he took off the hat, only his light gray eyes indicated his mixed blood.

  Charlie Wolf fingered the vicious scratch marks that covered his cheek. “Yea, they were real happy to see me."

  Not one to mince words, Sheriff Potter responded, “Well, damn, McCallister, you dress like an Indian, and you wear your hair like an Indian. Hell, you even walk like an Indian. What did you think the women were going to do?"

  Once the Buffalo Creek business was complete, the three bounty hunters retraced their trail to where they'd stashed six bodies and two live prisoners.

  The bank robbers they'd left handcuffed to each other and barricaded in a flat cave, were down to a few swallows of water and glad to see the McCallisters return.

  "Never thought I'd be glad to see you bastards.” The man who had shot his friend in the back over a beer stank of human waste and sweat. “You are not the law. You can't arrest us."

  Charlie made him jog beside the horses as they carried their cargo to Flat Rock. “Not fit to mount a horse of mine.” The other man, the more dangerous of the two, ran beside him, shackled to him with chains.

  "Shut the fuck up, Dawson. If I didn't have to drag your sorry ass all the way to Flat Rock, I'd kill you myself just to get some quiet.” The buckskin that this man had been riding followed in the remuda of horses the bounty hunters led.

  The bodies of the dead had not fared so well and had ripened under the unrelenting Texas sun.

  Loaded down with rotting corpses and towing two prisoners, the three bounty hunters headed for Flat Rock.

  "Explain to me how getting the white women loose helps us catch Jericho.” Sam was the youngest of the trio. His tone was belligerent, knowing that he hadn't figured something obvious.

  Deacon answered, “Jericho's beef won't be going to the Indians. We only left the Apaches a few horses to trade for close to two hundred head of cattle."

  "This renegade, Mangas Colorado—is he a relative?” Sam was only half teasing. Charlie frequently visited the remnants of Gray Wolf's Kiowa band in hostile Indian camps. He remained friends with those he'd ridden with for three years following his father's death.

  Charlie growled, “Mangas Colorado is a Mimbreno Apache. Not as fierce as the Kiowa."

  "So does that make the two of you friends, or relatives? You've been talking about getting an Indian squaw. I don't think you're going to be too popular with your in-laws the next time you have a reunion."

  Charlie had been negotiating for a wife with one of the Kiowa riding with Mangas Colorado.

  "Mangas is no fool. He knows I won't point any army scouts his way. As far as Jericho, he'll use that coyote as long as he can. If he were not desperate, the Comancheros would already be dead."

  Charlie regretted alienating the Kiowa tribesman before he could take possession of his squaw. Woman finding was an arduous task. He motioned at the fifteen Indian ponies that were in their caravan.

  "Looks like the cavalry have been running them into the ground.” Instead of the sturdy, well-tended stock he expected to steal from the Apache chief to trade back for a woman, these animals were the best of a worn and old lot. Sam had hazed the rest, chasing them until they ran off.

  It didn't matter now, because by taking the white hostages, he'd be persona non grata with the Indians for a while. Charlie sighed, only half listening to his cousin.

  He'd thought about taking the fifth hostage as his woman. Hell, I'd have been doing her a favor. The sight of Descartes mounting her had stayed in his head, stirring needs he usually had under control.

  Deacon changed the subject, drawing him back from the dark memory. “How come three different tribes are holed up together in that canyon? Something big looks to be brewing."

  "...Army troops are arriving to force the Apaches onto the reservation at San Carlos. Figure Mangas Colorado is waiting for Victorio to arrive before they join publicly to disagree
with the government's plan."

  He stroked the scar on his cheek as he contemplated the continued struggle for dominance between the two halves of his blood.

  To Sam's question he answered absently, “Jericho's going to have to push those cows all the way to Mexico. It'll be a lot easier to follow his trail from the Indian camp and pick off the nighthawks herding stolen cattle than if his band is riding fast, carrying human hostages on a remuda of fresh horses."

  Sam frowned and asked, “We going to tell the army where Mangas Colorado is hiding?"

  Charlie's flat gray eyes held his when he asked, “Think you can find this spot again?"

  "Hell, no.” Sam relaxed and nodded.

  "Then I guess you don't have anything to tell."

  Deacon McCallister shoved his hat back and said impatiently, “Let's collect the bounty on these hombres, dead and soon-to-be-dead, clean up, find a willing woman or two, rest up, and then follow Jericho and his herd of cattle south."

  He smelled his armpit. “I'm telling you, we're as ripe as those bodies we're hauling. I've got to have a bath."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Two

  Naomi Parker stood in the alley between the sheriff's office and the town's only saloon. Neither building offered shade, so the sun, directly overhead, speared her with its heat.

  Inside her muslin gown, perspiration gathered at the top of her shoulder, then slid down her back, pooling at her narrow waist. She wore a sturdy corset between camisole and dress, compressing her flesh an inch smaller, as Godey's Lady's Book dictated.

  A white fichu at her neck had looked crisp and cool when she'd dressed the morning before. At that time, she'd been preparing for her duties as a teacher at the Sparrow Creek Ladies’ Seminary. In spite of the day's heat, she shivered, remembering.

  The seminary's boarders were all at the meager breakfast Naomi had prepared. The cook and kitchen supplies would arrive when the rest of the girls got there.

  The morning was already warm. Someone had opened the window hoping for a breeze, and there were already insects buzzing in the room. She sat with her students, eating cold porridge when the first shots sounded.

  The girls bounded out of their seats—thankful for any distraction.

  "Ladies, calm down. Mr. Wilson has probably encountered that skunk he's been fussing about.” Patrick Wilson had been waiting when she'd arrived in Texas at the Flat Rock stage depot, two weeks before. He'd told her all about the skunk in the henhouse on their ride back to the school.

  She'd been prepared to meet a Board Member, or at least the Headmistress. But Patrick Wilson had been assigned the task of transporting her, and later her students, as they arrived to attend the Academy.

  By the first nightfall, four of the daughters of Texas had been delivered to the building and left in Naomi's care. Justine Garner, Mary-Beth Calloway, Marta Mullins, and Ambrosia Quince had stumbled up the steps of the dormitory, worn out from travel, but filled with twelve-year-old curiosity.

  It was Naomi's least favorite age for teaching students. Twelve-year-old girls were betwixt and between ... neither children nor young women. Sometimes, they were unspeakably cruel. She'd heard her share of giggled name-calling: “Old stick, skinny old maid, dried up prune,” behind her back, but not beyond her hearing.

  The first week, Mary Calloway and Brody Quince had become fast friends and followers of whatever mischief Justine Garner and Marta Mullins invented. Chickens were tormented, bedding short-sheeted (even Naomi was not exempt), clothing hidden; Justine's specialty was fainting.

  The tiny girl, much smaller than her twelve-year-old friends, ruled them with strong will and silly antics. Whenever she couldn't get her way, she would swoon, or at least that's what she called it. Naomi called it falling down to get attention.

  By the following week when four older girls arrived—Rebecca Johnson, Emily Erdman, Daisy Meadow, and Millicent Cotter—the first four girls had been there long enough to feel that they owned the school.

  The fourteen year olds disagreed. Discord, teasing, and finally mischievous damage ensued. Naomi, quickly losing control of her charges, was forced to render discipline.

  It seemed a thing that had taken place a hundred years before. “Hold out your hands.” She'd made her voice severe, disapproving. “Justine, Mary, Marta, Brody...” Naomi flinched, remembering the slap of the ruler against the twelve-year-old palms.

  After meting out punishment, she'd walked to the well for a bucket of water to hide her distress. The four twelve-year-olds had stood staring after her, rebellious and defiant.

  "Mean, ugly old maid,” one of them had hissed at her back as she retreated, more the punished than the punisher. She had felt so sorry for herself, standing by the well, tears barely held in check.

  Naomi's thoughts jerked back to the attack yesterday. She'd been studying the streaks of black ink that still stained Missy Cotter's blonde hair, even after a week's worth of washings, when shots fired down by the barn got everyone's attention.

  "Gently, girls,” she'd admonished them. But benches had gone flying as the students hurried to the front windows.

  Naomi had continued calmly repeating her instructions, even though no one listened. “Remember, a lady always maintains poise and calm, even in dire circumstance. Nor does one show extreme curiosity, as it is an emotion of the lower classes."

  The young women of the Sparrow Creek Ladies’ Academy ignored her, pushing and shoving to be the first at the windows. Even watching the hired man shoot a polecat beat the bland morning meal and the boring day that was sure to follow.

  Naomi walked slowly to illustrate gracious dignity. Even though she was secretly as interested in the outdoor disruption as her students, she was careful to model restraint as she passed the far window that overlooked the meadow below. She always looked at the meadow; it was the one spot of green in an otherwise monochromatic world of brown dirt, red dust, and gray sky.

  That's when the day had changed. She'd thought it was an Indian attack.

  Marta had told the girls about tribes of wild savages that roamed across Texas, stealing cattle and killing white people when they found them. Now, men fitting Marta's descriptions and like nothing Naomi had ever seen, swooped down on the school in the early morning.

  "Indians ... Hide!” she screamed the warning, but it was too late. The men were already at the school, riding their horses up on the porch.

  A day later, in the bright sun of the alley, Naomi pressed her hand against her mouth, holding back shuddering sobs at the memory. I'm a coward. I abandoned my charges. Had I been alert, on watch ... I should have done something!

  She'd stood frozen by the window until the first man burst through the doorway, setting the girls screaming. Then, instincts honed from her childhood, took over and Naomi jumped out and didn't stop when she landed, until she'd rolled under the school, hiding in the crawlspace.

  She knew from the rough sounds, thumps, and screaming that terrible things were happening above, and someone had been badly hurt. She'd pressed her mouth shut, holding her hand over it tightly to silence her need to join in the screams. Instead, gagging on her own fear, she'd remained hidden.

  Then, it had gotten quieter, and she'd watched when the savages had pushed and dragged the girls outside, loading them onto the extra horses the bandits led. She had been unable to think of any way to save her students.

  And she'd heard the men laughing. She stuffed her fist in her mouth to stop the rising bile. “Collins didn't lie. White chickies like these'll bring us plenty across the river if he doesn't come up with his part of the trade."

  Her fault, all her fault ... she'd known that she was to blame as she hunched under the school hiding from the disaster she'd wrought.

  A fortnight before, her heart had almost stopped when Harvey Collins had driven his wagon full of trinkets and worthless gewgaws into the schoolyard.

  Harley Collins was an unpleasant memory from her childhood in Alabama, and
she'd not seen him in years. But, even as she'd chased him away with threats of the sheriff, he'd leered at the young girls hanging off the porch watching.

  "Think you're all high and mighty now, don't you? I remember you. You're Nomi Parker. Turned into a dried-up old maid, didn't you? How's that sister of yours? Knew her pretty well, myself, but then again, so did half the men in the county.” He'd smacked his lips and cackled his question loud enough for listeners if they wanted to hear.

  Even when Harvey had had all of his teeth, he'd been too lazy to say her name right. But, he knew that she came from a played-out dab of dirt, sharecropped by her father and brother until they'd both been killed in the war.

  After that, Naomi's older sister, Comfort, had put food on the table however she could. But when an offer of marriage had been made, she'd grabbed it, leaving Naomi alone with a brush, a comb, a Godey's Lady's Book, and orders to leave the ramshackle cabin falling down around her, and go live with the neighbors. Stubbornly, Naomi had remained alone in her shack.

  That's when Harvey had decided he needed a girl to look after him.

  She remembered well the night he'd broken into her place and tried to jump her, when she'd broken a pitcher across his head and run all the way to the Lancaster Farm. So, when Harvey pulled up in front of the school in what he called his Travelling Wagon of Interesting Items, she'd yelled at him and refused to let him show his wares to her students.

  "Get out of here you wicked old man. I'll send Patrick after the sheriff if you don't go now.” Then she'd ducked her head, embarrassed that she'd let her temper slip. Ladies were always in control of their emotions.

  She'd been glad to see the hired man limping toward her, “Everything all right over here, Miss Naomi?"

  "I've explained that we have no use for his potions or fribbles. He's leaving now.” Naomi had felt so safe with Patrick Wilson there to protect her. But both Becky Johnson and Missy Cotter had defied her instruction to stay on the porch, and swooped down on the wagon.