Kaylee woke to the harsh rattle of rapid-fire rifles. Something thwapped through the hide walls of the lodge. Gunfire! The realization brought her fully awake. She heard the frantic cries of frightened women, a baby's sobbing, the scream of a man in pain.
She bolted upright, her heart pounding. Were they being attacked? "Blue Hawk . . ."
He was kneeling at the doorway of the lodge, an arrow nocked to his bow. "Stay inside with Unci, Kaylee."
"You're not going out there!" she exclaimed.
"I must." He drew back the bowstring and released the arrow in one smooth motion, grabbed another arrow from the quiver over his shoulder, and then he was gone.
Scrambling to her feet, she hurried to the entrance of the tipi and looked out.
It was like a scene from a nightmare. Everywhere she looked, she saw women running, some dragging their children behind them or clutching infants to their breasts. Men armed with bows and lances or old rifles fought to protect their escape. The earth shook as riders burst into the camp. She had thought the attackers were soldiers, but now she saw they were cowboys. A torch arched through the air and the lodge across the way burst into flame, scattering sparks and bits of burning hide.
Wichapi was speaking to her, tugging on her arm.
There was a dull thud against the back of the lodge. Kaylee screamed as Blue Hawk's tipi caught fire. Grabbing the old woman by the arm, she ducked outside and began to run away from the camp, away from the nightmare that was all too real. A nightmare that grew suddenly worse as Blue Hawk's grandmother tripped and fell, pulling Kaylee to the ground with her.
"Get up!" Kaylee cried. Rolling over, she tugged on the older woman's arm. She glanced around, relieved to see that they were in the clear, at least for the moment. She tugged on Wichapi's arm again. "Hurry . . ."
Her voice trailed off when she saw the blood oozing from a neat round hole in the middle of the old woman's back.
"Oh, no!" Kaylee shook her head in disbelief as she lurched to her feet. "No!" Blinded by her tears, fearing for her own life, she turned and ran for the cover of the trees.
It was a bloody battle. The women and children ran for whatever cover they could find while the warriors fought the intruders. Though outnumbered, the Indians fought fiercely, the knowledge that they were fighting to protect their families giving them strength and courage.
Shaun rode through the village, looking for a blond-haired girl clad in a white shirtwaist and a divided skirt. One of Jackson's men loosed a wild Rebel yell as the riders set another lodge on fire.
Shaun saw a man older than himself pull a young cowboy off his horse and try to knife him, but before he could drive the blade home, the cowboy pulled his Colt and fired, slamming the Indian backward.
Garth Jackson rode beside him, a crazed look in his eyes as he shot at anything that moved. Women, chil dren, men with gray in their hair, it made no difference to Jackson.
The battle, one-sided as it was, was over in a matter of minutes. The Indians were poorly armed, their tenacity and bravery pitiful weapons against Winchester repeating rifles. Two of Jackson's men had been wounded; one of the Double R riders was badly hurt, two others had lesser injuries.
When the fighting stopped, Shaun dismounted. Leading his horse, he walked through the camp. He peered into every tipi that was still standing, looking for some sign that Kaylee had been there. From time to time, he heard gunshots in the distance as cowboys chased down the survivors.
Around him, a handful of cowhands were looting the camp, taking robes and whatever else caught their fancy, rounding up the Indian ponies that hadn't run off.
He found a teenage boy sprawled in the dirt at the far end of the village. The Indian was bleeding badly from a wound in his chest. Hardly aware of what he was doing, Shaun drew his pistol and aimed it at the boy. One less redskin to steal my cattle , he thought, one less dirty Injun . His finger curled around the trigger.
And then the boy looked up at him. There was no fear in the boy's eyes, only pain and resignation as he began to sing his death song.
Shaun glanced around the camp, suddenly sickened by the carnage he saw in the light of the rising sun. Not all the Indian casualties were warriors. There were women lying among the dead, and children not yet old enough to walk. The scent of blood and death hung heavy in the air. Smoke from a burning lodge stung his nostrils.
He looked down at the wounded boy again, overcome by a sense of remorse and self-loathing. This was no savage. It was just a boy a few years younger than Kaylee. Shame that he had been involved in such a cowardly attack engulfed him. What was he doing here? He had always considered himself a decent, God-fearing man, and in spite of his outspoken hatred of the Indians, he had never condoned murdering innocent women and children. But that's what had been done here. Murder. They had attacked these people without provocation, with no real proof that Kaylee was even here.
He was holstering his pistol when Jackson came striding up, a tight grin on his face. "Hell of a fight," he said.
"Did you find Kaylee?"
Jackson shook his head. "I didn't see her, but she was here." He held up a pair of battered hand-tooled riding boots. "Recognize these?"
Shaun swore. He'd bought those boots two years ago, for Kaylee's birthday. "None of the men I've asked so far has seen her. They snuck her out of here somehow. Let's go ask the others. Maybe one of them saw something."
"I'm thinking we'd best go back. Our horses are played out, and we're about out of grub." Jackson looked out over the prairie. "And we're getting hip-deep in Injun country. We've got five wounded men. Much as I hate to quit, I think we'd best go back and let the Army take over."
Shaun swore. He didn't want to give up, but Jackson was right. They didn't have enough men to go on, and if the redskins they had attacked decided to come back with reinforcements, they would be in serious trouble. But how the hell was he going to face Emma?
"You ready to go?" Jackson asked.
Shaun nodded. "As soon as I take care of this kid." He would bind the kid's wounds, leave the boy his canteen, and hope he could find his way to another village somewhere. He brightened a little. Maybe the kid could tell them where the Indians had gone.
"I'll do it for ya," Jackson said, and before Shaun could stop him, he braced his Winchester on his hip and shot the boy through the head, killing him instantly.
"You damn fool!" Shaun exclaimed. "Why the hell did you do that?"
"What are you talking about? I took care of him."
Shaun stared at Jackson. He had known the man for years, yet he felt as though he were seeing him for the first time. All the ranchers talked about the Indians, about how the West wouldn't be safe until the Sioux and Cheyenne were all dead or on reservations, but to shoot a wounded boy in cold blood . . .
With a shake of his head, Shaun turned and walked away, knowing he would never forget the resigned look in that boy's eyes as he watched the barrel of Jackson's rifle sight in on him. Knew that if he lived to be a hundred, he would never be able to wash that boy's innocent blood from his soul.