CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
As Susan Stanton and Jenny Calthrop rode due east under an endless blue sky, their horses cut deep swathes through the buffalo grass. The two rode in silence, once startling a jackrabbit that bounded ahead of them like a rubber ball, and then a small herd of pronghorns watched them closely for several minutes before dismissing them as harmless.
Susan broke her silence. “If I shot an antelope, could you gut it, skin it, and butcher it for supper?” she said.
“No, I couldn’t,” Jenny said.
“I could,” Susan Stanton said. She sighed. “Your hide is worth five thousand dollars, you useless little tramp, but I can’t take you to the cattleman’s association and collect my reward.”
“I wouldn’t tell them anything,” Jenny said.
“You’re a damned liar. You’d sell me out the first chance you got.”
“Let me go and I’ll have the association send you the money.”
“You blushed, you pathetic little trollop. You can’t even lie well,” Susan said. “I know what I can do, I’ll sell you for fifty dollars first chance I get. At least that’s something.”
“You can’t sell a person,” Jenny said. “Slavery ended with the war.”
“Is that a fact? Girlie, there are wolfers and outlaws all over this neck of the woods who don’t give a damn about slavery ending. They’ll buy you for fifty dollars and I assure you, they’ll make damn sure they get their money’s worth.”
Susan Stanton turned in the saddle and smiled. “Of course, if you become too much of a burden to me, I’ll just shoot you.” Her eyes were as hard as flint. “And, little lady, you’re fast becoming a burden.”
“You won’t shoot me,” Jenny said. “Even you aren’t that evil.”
Suddenly, the woman’s revolver was in her hand, pointed at Jenny’s head. “Try me. Say, ‘Go ahead, shoot me,’ and see what happens.”
Tears started in the girl’s eyes. “Why do you torment me like this? What have I ever done to you?”
“I torment you because I hate you,” Susan said. “I hate your kind. Little pink and white princesses who have everything handed to them on a silver platter. When you become wives, you expect to be treated in exactly the same way. But what do you give your men in return? You open your legs and stare at the ceiling and figure that your matrimonial duty is done. Spend some time in a brothel, see what men really want. They’re wild animals. They want whores, not princesses. But when the time comes, who do they marry? They marry you.”
Susan Stanton holstered her gun. “Don’t ever tempt me again. I came close to putting a bullet into you.”
“They’re close,” the Kiowa said. “We could catch up tonight.”
“No, we’ll wait until morning,” Dan Caine said. “If it comes to shooting, I don’t want Jenny Calthrop to catch a stray bullet. I want to see what I’m shooting at.”
“You’re shooting at Susan Stanton,” the Kiowa said.
“Maybe not. She might see sense and surrender.”
“Maybe,” the Kiowa said without conviction.
* * *
Dan Caine and the Kiowa made a cold camp and had a meal of jerky and hard biscuit.
“What will you do to Chance Hurd?” the Indian said.
Dan chewed on a piece of tough beef slowly, thinking, and then he said, “I don’t know. Lock him in his own cell for sure.”
“And then hang him?”
“That will be up to the citizens of Thunder Creek.”
“Nobody lives in Thunder Creek.”
Dan smiled. “There are a few. One way or another, he’ll pay for his crime.”
“Why not shoot him?”
“Because I’m an officer of the law. I’ll hang him, but I’ll do it legally.”
“You stopped being a law officer when you became a vigilante,” the Kiowa said.
“And now I’ve taken up the star again,” Dan said.
“Those few people you talk about in Thunder Creek may not see it that way.”
Dan shrugged. “Who knows how folks will react. First thing I’ll do is pin my star on again, and the second will be to arrest Chance Hurd. I reckon when I tell them how he planned the Calthrop robbery, they’ll see it my way. I have witnesses, remember.”
“I won’t be a witness,” the Kiowa said. “Nobody believes an Indian.”
“I think they’ll believe you.”
“Why do you think that?”
“You have an honest face.”
“Of the wrong color,” the Kiowa said.
Dan smiled. “We’ll wait and see.”
“It doesn’t matter. I won’t wait for Hurd’s trial,” the Kiowa said.
“Why not?” Dan said. “You have nothing to fear.”
“I must find my wife,” the Kiowa said. “She is Chiricahua Apache. Two years ago, while I scouted for the army in the Arizona Territory, she and five hundred other Apache men, women, and children were sent to Florida. I haven’t seen her since.”
“You’ll go to Florida?” Dan said.
“I grieved and got drunk for two years, but now is the time to find her. Yes, I will go to Florida.”
“I’ll help you any way I can, Kio . . . hell, what’s your given name?” Dan said.
“My people named me Gomda. It means Wind.”
“Gomda, when we get back to Thunder Creek, I’ll make some enquiries,” Dan said. “At least we may find something for you to go on.”
“Why would a white man help me?” the Kiowa said.
“I can only speak for this white man,” Dan said. “You helped me in the Sierra del Carmen, and now I want to help you.” He looked down at the cigarette he was building. “And there was another Apache, a man who did not kill me when he could have. I can’t do anything for him, but I can do something for you and perhaps that’s enough.”
“Then I am grateful . . . for both of us.”
“You’re a good man, Gomda.”
“Since we first rode together, I have tried to remember who I am and to forget what white men forced me to be,” the Indian said. “It took a while but I think I succeeded, mainly because of my time in the Sierra del Carmen.” He shook his head. “So many dead men. And then as I watched Professor Latchford and Miss Prunella die so bravely it took away much of my hate.” He put out his hand. “Friends.”
Surprised, Dan took the Indian’s hand and said, “Friends.”
“Now we should sleep,” the Kiowa said. “You will face a test tomorrow, Deputy Sheriff Caine.”
“I’m ready for it,” Dan said. “Or as ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Black-Eyed Susan is a woman like no other,” the Kiowa said.
“Seems like,” Dan said. “But this is my arrest, my fight, Gomda. Leave her to me.”
“And if she kills you?”
“Then do all you can to save Jenny Calthrop, no matter what it takes.”
“Then, maybe we should’ve brought the vigilantes,” the Kiowa said.
Dan shook his head. “I won’t risk their lives any longer. It’s my job, and I’ll do it.”
Later, Dan lay on his back and stared at the stars, willing himself to sleep.
But he was scared . . . scared that he’d dream of Susan Stanton and her lightning-fast gun . . . and scared that young Jenny Calthrop could be one of her targets.