Chapter
Eighteen

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Tom opened his eyes slowly. The first thing he saw was Bess, who was carefully applying more salve to deep lacerations on his stomach. He looked around the room.

Home. He was home. His father must have come for him. He vaguely remembered someone carrying him, but that was all. He didn’t know when that was. He didn’t really remember anything beyond the horror of being dragged until he was unconscious. Surely he had been at the Hafer ranch, but he had no recollection of it, other than Sarah talking to him soothingly—somewhere, as though in a dream. Sarah! They had taken her, too, hadn’t they?

“Bess,” he managed to whisper.

She looked at him in surprise. “Tom! You’re awake!” She bent over him, bringing her face close to his. “Oh, Tom, I was so afraid you’d never come around!”

“Sarah,” he groaned. “What happened? My … father.”

“They’re all right. My father never found me, so they took Sarah with them and said they’d give you and Sarah back when your father brought me to them. But Caleb wouldn’t do it. They never hurt Sarah, Tom. Jess Purnell, one of Father’s men, he came here and helped your father rescue you. He got hurt bad, too—gunshot. But your father is all right.” She kissed his forehead. “Oh, Tom, my father … is dead,” she told him then, her voice breaking. “Caleb had to kill him. He … he tried to shoot Caleb.”

She sat down on the edge of the bed, breaking into tears. “Oh, Tom, tell me you’ll be all right. And tell me … you’ll forgive me.”

He frowned, managing to move an arm to reach out and take one of her hands. “Forgive you? For what?”

She kissed the scabs on his hand. “It was my father who did this to you. You’ve … been in so much pain … and your family has been through so much, all because of my father.”

“Not … to blame,” he muttered. “I love you, Bess. We’ll … be okay now. I’ll be all right.”

She clung tightly to his hands, her tears falling onto the bed covers. “Oh, Tom, I know I should weep for my father … but I only weep over what he became … what he did to you.” Her shoulders shook.

Now he wished he could hold her. “What about me?” he said then. “You should … hate me, too. My being Indian … that’s what started it. My own father … killed your father.”

She met his dark eyes with her own tear-filled eyes. “Oh, Tom, I love you so much. I could never blame you or your father. It wasn’t your fault. I’m just so sorry for what happened to you. I don’t want this to ruin what we had. I don’t want … to lose you.”

He managed a half grin, then winced with the pain of it. “You won’t ever lose me. But you better … be a good nurse. The sooner I get well … the sooner I can hold you … and more.”

She held his hand tightly, crying harder, kissing the hand again. Somehow they would get through this terrible time. Their love would see them through, for she did love him, more than life itself.

In the main house Lynda pulled down the blankets to Jess Purnell’s waist to check the bleeding from the wound in his side. Caleb had repaired the wound himself, giving no guarantees he’d done it right or that Jess would live. That had been two nights and a day ago. It was noon, and soup was cooking on the stove, where Sarah stood stirring it, watched by Caleb, who could still feel the terror of thinking he might have lost her again.

She turned and set a bowl of soup in front of him and he looked up into her beautiful green eyes. “You think Bess will be all right?”

She understood his worry over having killed Charles Hafer. She ran a hand over his shoulders. “She’ll be fine. She has Tom, and this won’t change his love for her.”

He set down a pipe he’d been puffing on. “I have a way of doing things that could make the people I love most hate me.” He glanced over at Lynda, who was gently recovering Jess Purnell.

“I don’t think that’s likely. Bess understands. And I have a feeling Lynda is going to be just fine, too.”

Lynda looked over at them and seemed to be blushing as she moved away from Purnell. “And what is that supposed to mean, dear Mother?” she asked, putting on independent airs. She walked to the kettle that hung over the fire and dipped out some of the soup into a bowl from the table.

“It means that Mister Jess Purnell expressed to your father a very keen interest in you—enough to risk his life to prove he was not your enemy.”

Lynda set the bowl on the table and sat down in front of it. “That was his decision. I never asked him to prove anything to me.” She stirred the soup, feeling both of them eyeing her intently. She looked up, first at her mother, then at her father.

“I’m grateful for what he did, Father, but please stop looking at me that way. I have no room left for men in my life, and if I should decide otherwise, it will be a man of my own choosing.”

“Of course it will. Who ever said it shouldn’t be?”

She blushed slightly. “You know what I mean.”

“The only thing I know is you’ve got to get back to being a woman, and Cale needs a father. I can’t be his father, Lynda. Lord knows I hardly have enough time to be the proper father to my own sons. All I’m saying is don’t be so against Jess Purnell. I know people, and he’s a damned good man.”

Lynda suddenly lost her stubborn look, suddenly looking ready to cry. She looked down at her bowl of soup, stirring it absently. “To think of any other man … it seems so disloyal to Lee,” she said quietly. “I just don’t think I could ever love again, Father.”

“It’s not being disloyal, Lynda,” Caleb returned. “Lee would want you to be happy and fulfilled, loved and cared for the way only a husband can do. He wouldn’t want you being lonely the rest of your life. A lot of people love more than once, especially in places like this. There is danger and death all around, but people keep on going. I lost two wives to death, but I loved again, and you will, too. You’re still healing, that’s all.”

Lynda wiped her eyes, looking down at her lap. “This is a ridiculous conversation—talking about an absolute stranger!”

Caleb grinned. “Go ahead and eat your soup.” He glanced over at Jess then, concern in his eyes. “If he doesn’t make it through this, our discussion won’t mean much anyway.”

Lynda felt her heart tighten. She was not interested in Jess Purnell, yet she felt a strange sorrow at the thought of him dying. She had said some terrible things to him. She hoped she would have a chance to apologize.

Bess watched Tom herd prize horses into Blue Valley. Nearly four months had passed since the terrible raid. It was spring, and water flowed through the Valley again. Everything was green and beautiful and alive, and after weeks of healing for both Tom and Jess, both men were whole again. The joy of spring and temporary peace caused Caleb to make a picnic affair out of the spring herding to that area, and the women sat on a grassy rise above the Valley watching the herd of magnificent horses: spotted Appaloosas, roan-colored mares and geldings, and golden palominos. Caleb’s prize studs were kept in separate pens closer to the house, to be used for breeding only when Caleb knew the time was right, and only with exactly the right mares.

The men returned after an hour of racing through the Valley, showing off their riding skills to the women. Bess never dreamed she could be this happy again after the awful violence involving her father and Tom. But the Saxes had treated her like one of their own, and she felt surrounded by love. Tom Sax had proved to be everything she knew he would be—gentle and loving, a young man of strength, both physical and emotional. Their lovemaking only seemed to get better and better, and she prayed daily that his seed would sprout in her womb, but so far she had been unable to get pregnant. How she longed to give him a child!

He was riding back now, heading up the rise toward her, looking grand and happy, his dark skin healed. The mutilation of his skin from being dragged had left some scars, most of them on his back, belly, and legs. But he had healed much better than any of them believed he could.

Lynda forced herself to look away from Jess as he, too, rode toward them. She had hardly spoken to him since he stayed on and started working for her father. Their words had been confined to those first several days he recovered from his wound. She had apologized for her mean words, but she had remained aloof, struggling to show him she had no interest in him as anyone more important than the other men who worked for her father. He came close then, dismounting. “Caleb invited me to join in on the picnic. You mind?” he asked.

She looked away. “I suppose not. What would you like me to say?”

“Oh, you could say you’re glad to have me, something like that.”

She looked up at him and shrugged. “All right. We’re glad to have you.”

“We. Not you in particular?”

She shook her head, unable to prevent a smile at his persistence. “Not me in particular.” She reached over and rubbed Cale’s belly, feeling a little sorry for her cool attitude toward Purnell, sometimes hating herself for it. He was indeed handsome, a prize catch for any woman. If only she didn’t always feel so guilty thinking of him as anything but a ranch hand. If only she weren’t so desperately afraid to ever love again.

He remounted his horse. “You’re a cruel woman, Lynda Whitestone, and a man’s pride can take only so much.” He turned his horse.

“Jess, wait,” she called out.

He turned back around, and a sudden wave of passion moved through her with surprising force as their eyes met. She actually blushed, turning away to lift Cale and hold him close. “I really am sorry. Don’t ride off. I’d like you to stay. We have apple pie. I made it myself.”

He smiled warmly, seeing a ray of hope but reminding himself to tread carefully. Lynda was scared to death of caring about anyone again, and she would run away like a frightened deer if he made the wrong move.

“Well, I’d ride a hundred miles for good apple pie.” He dismounted again, glancing at Tom and Bess, who were hugging and kissing. He cleared his throat and turned away to lead his horse to better grass. “Thanks for the invitation. I’ll be right back.”

Caleb had returned and was walking with Sarah, leading her to higher ground where they could get a good view of the Valley.

“It’s so beautiful, Caleb,” she told him, looking out over the Valley, watching the horses run wild and free. “All of this fits you—such big country, so wild.”

He sighed, putting an arm around her shoulders. “A little too wild sometimes for a family man. I’m sorry about all the hardships, Sarah.”

She put an arm around his waist. “We’re together. That’s all that matters. Tom is healed and he and Bess are so happy.”

He glanced over at Lynda, who sat playing with Cale. “I just wish our daughter could find that same happiness.”

“She will. She’s slowly coming around, Caleb. And I’ve seen her watch that Jess Purnell when she thought no one noticed. She’ll be fine, in time.”

“Jess is a good man. I’d like to see those two together.”

“Well, don’t tell her that. She’ll just get even more stubborn about it.”

“How well I know.”

She turned and looked up at him. “It’s such a beautiful day! It feels so good—spring, life, love.”

He leaned down and kissed her lightly, then ran the back of his hand over her cheek. “You’re my strength, you know. I might look big and strong, but that’s only on the surface. With you at my side I feel like I can do anything, without you—”

She touched his lips. “We won’t talk about that. It will never be that way again—for either of us.”

Both felt the old pain of separation. He hugged her close then. She was right. He would die before he ever let it be that way again.

“Let’s go enjoy that food,” he said, leading her to where Jess Purnell was sitting down near Lynda.

The situation between Texas and its mother country remained stagnant. Texans were anxious to lash back at Santa Anna for squashing their every effort to have their own laws, courts, and constitution; and again there were rumors that Santa Anna meant to disarm all of them, this time by more forceful means. The only thing that kept the Texans from revolting was the pleading of Stephen Austin himself, through letters he was allowed to write from his prison cell, in which he urged the settlers to remain peaceful.

In his absence, Sam Houston was gaining more and more popularity, looming forward as the most important leader of the Texas colonists. It was Houston who wrote letters to President Jackson, hinting that the purchase and annexation of Texas to the United States should be considered. But Jackson wanted no war with Mexico, and it was obvious to Houston that if there should be one, Texas was on her own and, if she should win such a war, would be an independent republic.

The odds in favor of winning seemed small indeed for a handful of American settlers to go up against Santa Anna’s Mexican army. It was a disturbing thought, and like Austin, Houston believed the only thing to do for the moment was to tolerate Santa Anna’s constant threats and abide by his tighter ruling. But the Americans were a proud, independent people who would not tolerate dictatorship.

It seemed only a matter of time until it would all surely come to war. Already there was a dangerous division growing between the settlers who opted to continue trying to keep the peace, and those who were eager to go to war.

But for several weeks all the shouting grew dimmer, and the influx of even more volunteers halted almost completely when the cholera epidemic swept through Texas. Suddenly the problems with Mexico seemed, for the time, secondary, as the ugly hand of death moved through the settlements taking, in some cases, entire families.

It visited the Sax family in June 1834. For weeks they had lived in fear as the disease swept through the Cherokee first. All they knew about preventing the disease was rumor—boil drinking water, burn everything the victim touches, including his or her clothing and bedding. No one really understood the disease, except that it was a terrible way to die—diarrhea, vomiting, loss of body fluid that often led to shock and death. Why the ugly disease visited some and not others was perplexing and frightening, and when Caleb and Sarah were sure they had been spared, Bess came down with the awful vomiting.

To Tom it was as though someone were standing her up and holding a gun to her head. There was nothing he could do but watch her suffer. Never in his life had he felt so helpless. He insisted on caring for her himself, and Caleb lived in terror that Tom would also get the disease. But it was not Tom who came down with it. Two days after Bess contracted the disease, young John also woke up sick.

The silence of impending death hung over the Sax ranch. Not only was there the agony of trying to save two loved ones from death, but also the waiting and watching to see if little Cale might come down with it, or baby James.

Tom could think of nothing worse than watching his new, young wife shrivel with each day of diarrhea and vomiting, watching her scream with the pain, hearing her beg him to help her end it all quickly. But there was always that hope, that chance she might survive. She was young. Sometimes the young lived through this.

On the fifth day of Bess’s agony she seemed somewhat better, her color better as she lay lovingly watching Tom while he again changed her bedding, carrying the old bedding outside and burning it. How she loved him. How patient he had been, so kind and understanding, by her side every minute. She could not have picked a better husband. How sad to leave him behind all alone.

He came back inside to see her watching him, her eyes looking brighter. He smiled for her, forcing back his fear and worry. She would be all right. He came to her side, kneeling next to the bed.

“Are you feeling better, Bess?”

She touched his hand with her own weak, bony hand. His was so big and strong, and so dark. She managed a smile. “Promise me something, Tom,” she said in a near whisper.

He leaned closer. “Anything you ask.”

“Be strong, Tom, like your father. He … lived through … so much loss. He … loved again. Promise me you will love again, Tom.”

Tom frowned. “I don’t have to promise that. I have you, and you’re going to make it, Bess.”

She studied him, her eyes glittering as though full of some free, new spirit. “No, Tom.” She swallowed at the horrible sorrow in his eyes. “Don’t feel … sorry for me. I’ll be someplace … peaceful and happy. It’s you I’m worried about. My beautiful … Tom. You’ve been … so good to me. My handsome … Indian man.” Her eyes teared. “I’m just … so sorry … I never gave you a son. I wanted to do that … more than anything.”

“Stop it, Bess,” he almost growled. “You stop that talk! You’ve made it through the worst. You’ll be okay now.”

She closed her eyes and sighed deeply. “Thank you, Tom. For … taking care of me like you have … for loving me. I prayed … you wouldn’t get this too …” Her voice broke and she swallowed before going on. “I just know … God will spare my Tom. Many wonderful things … are waiting for you, Tom Sax. Go … and find them.”

Tears were streaming down his face then. “Bess, I wish you wouldn’t talk this way. I love you. I need you. I can’t … I can’t live without you now.”

“Yes, you can. Just like your father did … when he lost your Cheyenne mother … and when he lost Marie. I was just … your first love.” She felt the ugly pain moving through her bowels again and she gasped and shuddered. “Let me go, Tom,” she groaned. “Tell me … you’ll be strong … you’ll be all right. Tell me you’ll … love again … so I can go in peace. I have to be free … of this pain.”

He just sat there trembling, holding her hand and shaking his head. She met his eyes again. “Tell me, Tom.”

He swallowed, hardly able to find his voice “I’ll … be all right. I’m a Sax, aren’t I?” he tried to say kiddingly.

She smiled. “Yes. That’s why I know … you’ll be just fine. You’re so strong, Tom.”

He forced a smile through his tears. “Sure. Don’t you worry about me, Bess.”

She just watched him then, a strange light in her eyes. “I … love you so much,” she whispered, before her eyes closed and her body suddenly jerked, then began shaking violently.

“Bess!” Tom stood up and leaned over, grasping her arms and trying to hold her still. Suddenly the shaking stopped, and a long gasp of air exited her lips.

“Bess?” His grip tightened on her thin arms. “Bess? Damn you, answer me!” He shook her, but he already knew there was no life there. He moved back then, staring at her for several long seconds before screaming out her name and stumbling outside.

Lynda was the first one to see him heading for the main house, holding his arms around his head like a crazy man. She ran to him and grasped him.

“Tom, don’t go in there!”

He looked at her with wild eyes, and Lynda felt sick herself at the horrible grief she saw there. “She’s … dead,” he groaned. “My Bess …”

She tightened her grip on his arms. “John is dying, too, Tom. Don’t go to Father yet.”

He shook his head and stumbled backward. “No. Why! Why, Lynda?”

She struggled to stay in control. Someone had to be strong for the moment. “I don’t know, Tom. I asked myself the same thing when Lee was killed.” She choked back tears. “I’m so sorry, Tom.” She walked closer and he suddenly grabbed her and hugged her tightly, weeping on her shoulder.

Two fresh graves were dug on the little hill where Marie and her mother, David, and now John and Bess were buried. There was a headstone there for Lee, but no body, and there were the several graves of others who had died on Sax land. A sprawling, tree-size mesquite bush shaded most of the graves.

Tom stood staring at Bess’s grave. He was still in shock. His eyes moved to the grave of his young stepbrother. He had two people to grieve for. How could he live without the woman who had become his life’s blood? He’d promised Bess he would be strong, he would go on with life. But how could he keep that promise?

Six months. He’d had her only six months. So much joy and beauty had been packed into such a short time. An agonizing ache swept through him in painful spasms every time the reality of it hit him.

Bess was gone. She was dead. She was not coming back. There would be no sons and daughters. The cabin they had finally finished building for themselves would not be used. He had known grief, but never of this magnitude. Sometimes he wondered where his next breath would come from, for the heaviness in his chest was almost stifling. It was as though a huge boulder was crushing him. Nothing seemed real. Nothing mattered.

Tom looked over at his father, who knelt by John’s grave. John had died in his father’s arms, only three hours after Bess’s death. He wondered how the man had borne all his own losses. Two wives … two sons and another unborn child who had been in Marie’s belly when she was killed. And there had been others he had loved and lost in his lifetime. But Caleb Sax just kept going. Could he be that strong? At the moment it seemed impossible.

Caleb got to his feet slowly, as though he were ill. Sarah helped him up. Thank God their son James had been spared, as had Lynda and Cale. But the whole land smelled of death. Again the reality hit Tom, bringing the knot to his stomach, the awful ache to his throat as he fought the unmanly urge to weep like a child. Tom made the mistake of meeting his father’s eyes. He knew. Caleb Sax knew the devastating grief; he understood it better than most. It took only that quick look to bring the floodwaters of grief to Tom Sax.

Caleb saw it coming, walked over and embraced his son, who could not hold it back now. He cried like a small child, withering in his father’s arms and wanting to be held like that child. Caleb did the holding, tightly. How well he understood. And somehow having to help his son cope with his grief helped soothe Caleb’s own torturous sorrow over losing John. Both his Cherokee sons were dead. The only remnant of the Cherokee family he had once loved was Cale, Lee’s son. How thin was the line between life and death.

Lynda moved her own eyes to the headstone they had erected in Lee’s memory. There was no body. God only knew what had ever happened to it. A year. It had been a whole year now since Lee left and never returned. She turned away. She could not bear the pitiful sight of her father and brother. Death! How it angered her. It was not fair. It was never fair. She walked away, heading down the hill and going to stand alone beside a small creek. There was a little water in it now because it was spring. But by midsummer it dried up. Died. Just like people. At least it came back to life every year. None of her loved ones would come back to life. How she ached for poor Tom. At least she had Cale, some remnant of Lee. Tom had nothing. All that suffering he had gone through for Bess. All for nothing.

“Lynda?”

She turned to see Jess Purnell standing behind her. She turned away again. “Go away.”

He sighed, stepping closer. “We’ve gotten to be pretty good friends, you and me.”

“What do you want, Jess?” she interrupted.

He swallowed. In spite of all his efforts, Lynda Whitestone had remained as elusive as a butterfly, defensive, stubbornly independent. He didn’t know how to approach her, how to get through her barriers.

“I want you to let me hold you.”

She looked at him in surprise.

“Somebody has to,” he added. “Don’t you ever need holding?”

She moved her blue eyes toward the spot on the hill where Caleb still stood holding Tom. “Up there,” she said quietly. “That’s the reason I don’t want anyone holding me. That’s all it brings—terrible grief.” She looked back at Jess. “Death is around us all the time. I don’t intend to care that much again, Jess. I can raise Cale just fine by myself. I want and need no one in my life, certainly not another man.” She turned away. “You give your heart and soul to someone, and then God decides to take him away. That leaves you with nothing but an empty shell for a body. That’s what I am; an empty shell, with just enough emotion left to love my son. It’s hard enough living with the constant fear of wondering if he will be next. Without little Cale I think I truly would end my life.”

She walked past him and he grabbed her arm. “I love you, Lynda. You’re a fine, strong, beautiful woman, and some day you’ll belong to me. I’ve waited long enough to say it. Now it’s done.”

“Let me go.”

“No.” He yanked her close, grasping her wrists and forcing them behind her, pressing her against himself. “Not yet.”

She met his eyes defiantly, but he kissed her anyway, a long, hard kiss to remind her of what she was missing in her life. He felt her stiffen, yet she did not truly try to get away from his lips, at least not at first. He sensed a tiny bit of surrender before she finally shook her head violently, leaning away from him.

“Bastard! You bastard,” she wept.

He let go of her. “I’m not sorry. No, ma’am, I’m not sorry at all. I don’t just love you, Lynda. I need you. I’ve got nobody. You have your parents and a son and brothers. I lost my folks a long time ago. You’re the first woman who’s come along who I want for my own more than anything in this world. You think about it, Lynda Whitestone. You think real hard about it.”

She rubbed her lips with the back of her hand. “How dare you,” she said in a shaking voice. “If you really loved me, you wouldn’t … you wouldn’t try so hard to make me care again! You would understand and let me be happy!”

“Happy? Are you happy, Lynda?”

Her chest heaved with heavy breathing as she struggled not to cry openly. “Yes,” she almost hissed. “As long as I can keep from feeling anything, I’m very happy!” She turned and stomped away. He watched with an ache so fierce he wanted to bend over. One taste of her lips and he knew his nights would be miserable for a long time to come. But there had been that tiny hint of surrender. True, she was angry. But he had given her something to think about, and surely he had stirred old passions just a little. That was better than nothing.

He looked up at the little graveyard. Tom Sax had crumbled right to the ground. “Goddamned unfair,” he muttered to himself. In a sense Lynda was right not to want to care again. But a man or a woman couldn’t go through life alone and lonely just because of what might happen. Life couldn’t go on that way. Lynda would realize that soon. He’d make sure of it.

Byron Clawson looked up from his desk as the man he’d sent to Texas came inside his office. He hadn’t heard anything from Charles Hafer in a long time.

“Sit down,” Byron told his informant.

“Thanks.” The man moved into a red leather chair, fumbling with his hat nervously. He was a common drifter. Byron had picked him purposely because he looked like everyone else, didn’t stand out in any particular way. He was unkempt and ragged, a man who would fit right in as a hired hand in a place like Texas. Byron wanted the truth, wanted this man to mix in on the Hafer ranch and find out if Hafer was doing his job.

“Well, Kent,” Byron asked. “What did you find out?”

Stuart Kent seemed hesitant. “Charles Hafer is dead, sir,” he finally answered.

Byron paled visibly. For a moment the messenger thought he might be sick right then and there. He could see Clawson struggling to keep his composure. Finally Byron took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. “I’ve heard there has been a lot of cholera in Texas—”

“Not cholera, sir,” the man interrupted. “A man by the name of Caleb Sax killed him outright.”

He saw a look of utter defeat and near terror in Clawson’s murky gray eyes.

“Tell me all of it,” Byron told the man. The words came out in a near squeak.

“Well, sir, when I got there, there were only a few men left—living in Hafer’s house like squatters, using it as a kind of hangout, living off his cattle and such. A big barn Hafer had built was burned down, and the place was pretty much deserted. I asked the men there what the hell happened to Hafer. They said there had been a big feud between him and this Caleb Sax—some neighbor to the south of him who’s part Indian.”

“I know who Caleb Sax is,” Byron sneered impatiently.

Kent squirmed in his chair. He didn’t like men like Byron Clawson. There was an element of evil to the man’s power that made him uncomfortable, but he had been paid well to go to Texas and get the facts.

“Yes, sir,” he replied. “At any rate, I guess at first the fight was over water. Hafer had diverted some from the Sax place to irrigate his own land for cotton. This Sax fella, he attacked Hafer’s men and tore up the dam Hafer had built and got his water back. But I guess things got really heated up when this Sax man’s son run off with Hafer’s daughter.”

Byron’s eyes widened and he leaned forward. “His daughter!”

“Yes, sir. Seems the two took a shine to each other and the next thing you know, the young man snatches her right off a boat Hafer had put her on to bring her back to St. Louis and they get married. Hafer went after her but couldn’t find her, so later he attacked Sax’s place and stole the son and Sax’s wife. He nearly killed the son—dragged him behind a horse. Said he’d return them when Sax brought him his daughter. Hafer was fumin’ mad because the Sax boy was Indian. At any rate, his plan didn’t work. Sax attacked in return. Somehow he knew just where his wife and son were being held. He got ’em back, and he killed a lot of Hafer men, burned the barn, too. And somehow Caleb Sax got in the house and killed Hafer. They found him stabbed to death.”

Kent shifted in his chair again. “I mean to tell you, sir, those men are right scared of this Caleb Sax. They said they’d never go up against him again. Said now that Hafer is dead, they don’t give a damn what happens. The Sax kid can have the girl for all they care. All most of them are concerned about is Mexico. They’re kind of waitin’ around to get in on the fightin’ when it starts. They even—”

“That’s enough!” Byron waved him off. “Go collect your money from my secretary. I want to be alone,” he said in a shaking voice. He turned his chair around so that the back of it was to the man. Kent rose, glad to leave. He hurried out without another word.

Byron stared out a window. Sax! Caleb Sax was alive and well and still kicking! What if he knew? He bet that Sax knew the real owner of that land was Byron Clawson. His son had been nearly killed. The man already hated him enough to kill him. This would only make matters worse. He hit the arm of his chair with his fist.

“Fool,” he grumbled, referring to Charles Hafer. “Goddamned fool! I never should have sent a goddamned farmer against someone like Caleb Sax!”

He whirled his chair and pulled open a drawer, taking out a bottle of whiskey and slugging some down. Caleb Sax! None of it had worked out as he had planned. Apparently Sax had more power in Texas than he thought, to get away with something that outrageous.

“He’ll not keep that power or that land for long,” Byron sneered. “If I have to go down there myself to get things going against the Indians, I’ll do it.”

Surely by now, with so many Southerners going to Texas, there were rumblings against the Indians. A natural hatred was already harbored for the Comanche. That was understandable. But somehow Comanche hatred had to be directed at all the Indians. Someone had to accent the fact that a lot of Cherokee were going there, most of them probably squatting on land that wasn’t even theirs.

That reminded him that there were men squatting on his own land. Squatters on Clawson land, living in the home Hafer had built with Clawson money! Now there was no one to watch over the property, no one to develop it. He took another swallow of whiskey. Hafer! He’d bungled everything!

He shoved the bottle back into the drawer. There was nothing he could do about it now. He was getting too involved in raising money and preparing to campaign for the primaries for governor. In another year they would be held. He couldn’t become well known in Missouri by running off to Texas. The land was still his. What could happen to the land? It was always there. Besides, things were getting too dangerous down there, what with all the trouble with Mexico.

He leaned back, reassuring himself that he was safe by reminding himself that Caleb Sax surely wouldn’t take the time to stop and come to St. Louis to kill him—not now—not with a whole family to support and the danger of war with Mexico. War! Yes. Perhaps the son of a bitch would be killed if there was a war. That was a pleasant thought.

Somehow Caleb Sax had to die, or Byron Clawson would never get a good night’s sleep. Now the danger of Caleb wanting his skin was even greater. Why on earth hadn’t Hafer just killed the man? Surely he could have had him assassinated somehow.

“Stupid goddamned fool,” he muttered again. “I never should have told him it was worth more to him to destroy Sax financially and get him run out of Texas. I should have ordered him killed outright.” The damned Indian always managed to win, to survive everything Byron threw at him, whether it was physical or mental torment. He stood up, going to look out the window.

“I’ll get you yet, Caleb Sax,” he growled in a low voice, speaking to nothing but the window. “I’ll get you first.” His eyes filled with tears of pure fear, and he shivered with the thought of Caleb alive and now aware that Byron had sent Charles Hafer to harrass and destroy him. As long as Caleb was alive, Byron could never be happy. He blamed Caleb for all his bad luck: for losing Sarah and her money; for his ugly, crooked nose.

“Perhaps I’ll have to meet the enemy face to face after all and have it over with,” he muttered aloud.

Yes. Surely there was a way to do that without dying. Not in combat. Lord knew he could never defeat Caleb Sax in combat. But maybe there was a way to look the man in the face and still defeat him. He would find a way. And Clawson set out to do just that.