CHAPTER FIVE
The Kiowa wore the white man’s shirt, pants, vest with a brass watchchain, and a U.S. Cavalry campaign hat without insignia. Only his hard-soled, beaded moccasins, crafted from tanned buffalo hide, were Indian. A Colt carried butt-forward in a cavalry holster and a bowie knife completed his outfit. His hair fell loose and straight over his shoulders, and his eyes were wide spaced and expressive. The left cheek of his broad face with its high cheekbones and wide mouth was dreadfully scarred, the result of a saber slash from a cavalry trooper when, in August 1860, his village on the Republican River was attacked by the 1st Cavalry and his family slaughtered. The Kiowa was a ten-year-old boy that year, and ever since then he’d harbored a dislike bordering on hatred for white men. He was not handsome and his usual fierce expression spoke of menace, power, determination, and a barely suppressed instinct for violence. He had a grim, closed-tooth smile . . . a once or twice a year event . . . and eyes as black and hard as obsidian.
White men called the Kiowa “a bad Injun.” And they were right. He was bad to the bone . . . and a first-rate fighting man with knife, revolver, or rifle.
Now he answered the question framed in Dan Caine’s face . . . and his voice always surprised those who heard him speak for the first time. In perfect, well-modulated English, he said, “The tracks continue to the south and the killers seem to be in no hurry.”
“Is it Kyle?” Dan said.
“I have no idea,” the Kiowa said. “But judging by the tracks, there could be a woman riding with them.”
“Black-Eyed Susan,” Caine said.
“Maybe. I don’t know,” the Kiowa said.
“So what do you suggest?” Dan said.
“It will be dark soon,” the Kiowa said. His pleasant voice was not unfriendly, just flat, without emphasis. “Camp here and then take the trail again at first light.”
“Suits me,” Clint Cooley said. He shifted in the saddle and made a face. “Been a while since I rode any distance.”
“Same with me,” Fish Lee said. “Most time I walk beside my burro.”
“How about you, boy?” Dan said to young Holt Peters.
The youngster would not admit to being saddle sore. “I’m fine,” he said.
“Hungry?” Dan said.
“I sure am,” Peters said.
“Then we’ll camp here for the night.” Dan turned to the Kiowa. “Start a fire, and I’ll rustle up some grub.”
The Indian nodded, his face impassive.
* * *
The Kiowa sat a distance apart from the others and when the yellow-haired boy brought him fried salt pork between hunks of sourdough bread, he merely grunted.
The Indian had once known a man with yellow hair like that, an Englishman named Horatio Lindquist who’d looked after him for a while after his parents were murdered up on the Republican. The black sheep of a wealthy family, in 1850 Lindquist traveled from the Port of London to New York in an overcrowded, dysentery-ridden hell ship, killed a man in a drunken brawl in a Five Points tavern, and then fled west in time to take part in the last couple of years of the fur trade. He’d drifted west into California and tried his hand at gold prospecting for a couple of years but never hit pay-dirt. Drinking heavily, Lindquist drifted east again, killed another man in Bisbee in the Arizona Territory, and then ended up grifting in the settlements along the Republican. It was about then he adopted the Kiowa, taught him English and how to use a gun. That was it, there was little else. Lindquist fed the youngster when he could, beat him when he was drunk . . . until the day the Kiowa was big enough and mean enough to fight back. The Englishman died suddenly of apoplexy in 1872, and the Kiowa buried him, along with any respect or feeling he had for white men.
“Riders coming in,” long-sighted Fish Lee said. “White men.”
* * *
Dan Caine and Clint Cooley, guns in hand, watched two spectral horsemen emerge from the mist-shrouded gloom. Fish Lee and Holt Peters held their rifles. The Kiowa looked intently at the incoming riders but stayed where he was.
“Don’t come any closer,” Dan said, his voice hard. “I can drill both of you from here, so draw rein and state your intentions.”
A voice from the darkness. “Hold your fire, you damned ruffian. It’s Cornelius Massey of Thunder Creek town and fair lady come to join your posse.”
His voice rising in a hopeful note, Dan said, “Any more of you?”
“Just us, Mr. Caine,” Massey said. “You were expecting an army perhaps?”
Dan lowered his Colt, his voice, and his expectations. “Come on in. There’s coffee on the fire.”
* * *
Dan Caine studied Estella Sweet, made even more beautiful by the firelight that rippled in her hair and brought golden highlights to her face. She’d removed her dark glasses and even in the misted, smoky gloom, her eyes were large and lustrous. The duster she wore against the night chill did little to conceal her exquisite body, and Dan thought her the most desirable gal in Texas, if not the whole world. The young man didn’t know it then, but very soon he’d meet one lovelier, a woman whose beauty burned like a candle flame . . . a candle flame in a crypt.
“I’m sending you back at first light, Estella,” Dan said.
“No, you’re not,” the girl said. She sipped from her tin cup and made a face. “This isn’t Arbuckle. It’s some other brand.”
“Pete Doan roasts and grinds the beans himself,” Dan said.
“He doesn’t make a very good job of it,” Estella said. She sipped again. “This coffee isn’t even made properly. It’s swill.”
Dan was instantly defensive. A log fell in the fire and crackled sparks as he said, “Nobody ever complained about my coffee before. There’s only so much a man can do with beans, water, and a pot.”
“Well, I can do much better,” Estella said. She sipped from her cup. “But I suppose bad coffee is better than no coffee at all.”
“The young lady is right about that,” Clint Cooley said.
Still resentful, Dan said, “Well, she’s wrong about something.”
“And that is?” Estella said.
“You’re wrong to think that you’re riding on this posse.”
Estella frowned. “When I was eight years old and untouched by life’s troubles, my grandmother said to me, ‘You’re going to be happy, my little Estella. But first you must grow strong and proud.’ Now I am strong and I know my worth, Dan Caine. So don’t you dare try to push me around.”
Dan grinned. “Come tomorrow, young lady, I aim to do just that.”
“Then come armed, Dan,” Estella said, “I will not be laid hands on.”
“We’ll just have to see about that, won’t we?” Dan said, his grin back in place.
Estella drew from her cross-draw holster and fired.
The shattering roar and flare of the Colt precipitated a panicked scramble by Cooley, Massey, and young Holt Peters. All three hit the ground as Cooley cussed and grabbed for his gun. Dan Caine sat frozen in place, stunned, and the Kiowa jumped to his feet and listened into the ringing echoes of the night.
As the others slowly rose to their feet, Dan Caine found his angry voice. “Damn it, lady, I felt the wind of that bullet. You could’ve killed me.”
Estella said, “I thought I saw a big, growly bear creeping up on you, Dan. I was mistaken.” She holstered her Colt and touched a forefinger to her lips. “Silly me.”
Irritated, Dan said, “Is that all you can say?”
“Dan,” Cooley said, “I think the young lady just said a lot more than you think.”
“Jenny Calthrop is my friend,” Estella said. “I have to find her, and I will not be denied.”
Dan Caine was a smart man, and he knew he’d just been taught a lesson. But he wasn’t sure exactly what the lesson was. Was it merely that Estella Sweet was fast with a gun? Hell no, not that. It was more likely that the girl had warned him that she would not be handled or abused. Dan Caine smiled inwardly. He had thought Estella Sweet a kitten . . . but found her a cougar.
Drawing what was left of his self-esteem around him like a threadbare cloak, Dan said, “Well, young lady, you can ride with us, but it’s your funeral.”
Clint Cooley smiled at Dan’s surrender and said, “Estella, angry, aggressive men are loud, but a quiet word and a gun speaks louder.”
“I’ll remember that,” Estella said.
Dan Caine glared at her but said nothing.