A comanchero and an infamous gunslinger. . . . The words from the news story replayed in her mind, conjuring images that turned her skin icy. For so many years she had held her memories of Swift Antelope dear, picturing him as he had been at sixteen, a noble, courageous, and gentle young man, a dreamer. Deep in her heart, she had believed he would keep his promise and come for her once the Comanches’ battle for survival had ended. Now, she realized he never would. Even if he did, she would despise him for what he had become.
A sad smile touched her mouth. She was a little old at twenty-seven to be building castles out of dreams. Swift Antelope had made that heartfelt betrothal promise to a gangly twelve-year-old girl, and though the Comanches believed promises were forever, a lot had happened since, the destruction of his nation, the deaths of so many people he loved. Though the child in her hated to admit it, he would have changed as well, from a protective, gentle boy to a domineering and ruthless man. She should be thanking God that he had never come for her.
He probably didn’t even remember her now. She was the strange one, living her life around other people, her heart bound to yesterday by promises that had drifted away on a Texas wind.
Bending forward, Amy tossed the newspaper page into the flames. The paper ignited in a whoosh of light. The acrid smell of smoldering ink filled her nostrils. She rose from the rocker and stepped to the mantel. With trembling hands, she grasped the sketch of Swift Antelope. Tears filled her eyes as she bent to toss the likeness into the flames.
When she looked at his face, she could almost smell the Texas plains in summer, hear the ring of youthful laughter, feel the touch of his hand on hers. Keep your eyes always on the horizon, golden one. What lies behind you is for yesterday. How many times had she found solace in those words, recalling every inflection of Swift Antelope’s voice as he had spoken them to her?
She couldn’t live the rest of her life trapped in the past. The Swift Antelope she had known would be the first to scold her for clinging to memories. And yet . . . She touched her fingertips to the paper, tracing the regal line of his nose, the perfect bow of his mouth, her own curving in a tearful smile.
With a ragged sigh, she returned the sketch to its place on her mantel, unable to surrender it to the flames, not quite ready to say a final farewell. Swift Antelope had been her friend, her innocent love, her healer. He had made her feel clean again, and whole. Was it so wrong to treasure those memories? Did it matter what he had become? It wasn’t as if she would ever see him again.
Feeling inexplicably lonely, Amy turned her back on the portrait and circled the small, dimly lit sitting room, coming to a stop at the curio shelf. She ran her fingertips over a wooden figurine of a bear, carved by Jeremiah, one of her students. One shelf down from the bear sat a vase of dried flowers, gathered by the Hamstead girl. Seeing the gifts, simple though they were, brightened her mood. She loved teaching. How could she possibly feel lonely when her life brimmed over with people who loved her, not just her students, but Loretta and Loretta’s family?
Though the deeper recesses of the house were dark, she turned and headed for the bedroom, once again forgoing use of the lantern. Afflicted since childhood with a severe case of night blindness, she had long ago familiarized herself with her home and could usually maneuver without mishap if she moved cautiously. Undressing quickly because of the damp chill that seeped through the walls, she tugged on her white nightgown and buttoned it to her chin. Shivering, she folded her underclothing and stacked it in a neat pile on her bureau, handy for morning. Then, drawing comfort from routine, she sat at her dresser, unplaited her hair, groped for her brush, and gave her long tresses their customary one hundred strokes.
She stared in the direction of her bed, unable to discern its outline. She should wrap some warm rocks in towels and slip them between the sheets, but she had no energy for it. It seemed to her that the impenetrable blackness drew closer, silent and oppressive. A peculiar tightness rose in her throat. She laid her hairbrush aside and, lured by the anemic glow of moonlight, went to the window, resting her fingers on the sash. Peering out through the steamy glass, she looked toward the main street of town, cheered by the glow of lights coming from the Lucky Nugget Saloon.
No stars peeked through the clouds. In March, southern Oregon got bursts of spring weather, but today had been drizzly. Fog hung in layers over the rooftops. In the muted moonbeams, she could see a mist of rain pelting the boardwalks. Tomorrow the streets would be a series of endless mudholes. Unlike the nearby town of Jacksonville, Wolf’s Landing hadn’t as yet undertaken the grading and graveling of its thoroughfares.
Another shiver ran up her spine. She hurried into bed, finding little warmth as the cold sheets settled around her. Pressing her cheek to the pillow, she watched a naked tree limb outside her window sway in the gusts of wind.
Amy dreaded closing her eyes, more so tonight than usual. Reading that newspaper article had resurrected the past, bringing to mind so many horrors best forgotten. In a few short hours dawn would break, but she derived small comfort from that when an eternity of darkness stretched before her. With that news story filling her thoughts, would dreams of the comancheros haunt her sleep? And if they did, would one of the brutal faces leering down at her be Swift Antelope’s? Always before, when she had awoken from the dreams, her memories of Swift Antelope had soothed her. Now he rode with the men of her nightmares, killers, thieves—and rapists.
She imagined daybreak on the Texas plains, the eastern horizon layered with muted wisps of rose, the sky lead gray. Would Swift Antelope watch the sunrise? Would the north wind, sweet with the smell of spring grass and wildflowers, play upon his face? When he looked to the horizon, would he, for a fleeting instant, remember that long-ago summer?
As the sun lifted higher and higher in the sky, Swift Lopez sensed a building tension in the men who rode with him. Even his black stallion, Diablo, seemed to feel it, snorting and doing a nervous sidestep. Swift knew boredom worked on Chink Gabriel and his men like locoweed on horses; just a little made them crazy. For too many days now they had been traveling without incident. It didn’t help that the warm morning air carried the scent of spring. This time of year made everyone restless. Only these fellows turned dangerous when they got to feeling edgy.
Tipping his black hat low over his eyes, Swift leaned back in the saddle and let the steady clop of his horse’s hooves lull him. Birds twittered in the field grass, frantically flapping their wings when the horses drew too close. He spotted a rabbit hopping off to his right.
For an instant he found himself wishing the years could roll away, that he rode with good friends, his long hair drifting in the wind, that just beyond his line of vision lay a Comanche village. It was a frequent wish of Swift’s and so sweet, so vivid, that he could almost smell fresh meat over open fires.
In the distance a church bell chimed, telling him what day it was and that a town rested over the rise. His mouth quirked, and he sniffed the air again. Judging from the scent, someone had a side of beef skewered over an open pit. He ran his hand along his whiskery jaw. Right now he could do with a bath and a jug of good whiskey.
Chink Gabriel, who rode beside Swift, reined his roan to a walk. “Be damned if that ain’t a church bell. There’s a town over yonder. Been so long since I sniffed a skirt, I’m as randy as a buck in rut.”
Slightly behind them, Jos’ Rodriguez spat tobacco and said, “The last time I had me a gal, I was so damned drunk, the next mornin’ I couldn’t even remember givin’ her a poke. I left town feelin’ as randy as when I got there.”
Bull Jesperson, whose name suited his massive frame, gave a disgusted snort. “One of these days, y’re gonna pay dearly for drinkin’ that heavy.”
“Oh, yeah? How you figger?” Rodriguez challenged.
“Y’re gonna tie up with somethin’ diseased, that’s how. You’ll wake up some mornin’ and yer pistol will be rottin’ off.”
“What’d’ya expect for two dollars?” another
man grumbled. “Them last whores we run across was the durtiest bunch of females I ever saw.”
Rodriguez chuckled. “The only clean spot on the one I had was her left tit, and that was because Bull went upstairs with her before me.”
“Hey, Bull!” someone yelled. “Yer pistol been lookin’ peculiar lately? Jos”s is rottin’ clean off!”
Laughter erupted, and the men began exchanging their favorite stories about whores. Swift listened with half an ear. He had paid a woman for her favors only once, not because she demanded money, but because her dress had been threadbare. Among the Comanches, a woman never had to sell her body to survive. To Swift’s way of thinking, men who patronized sporting houses were encouraging a savagery far more heartless than any the Comanches had ever committed.
Charlie Stone, a stout redhead with a grizzled beard, pulled his gray to a stop. “My neck’s swole, too. How’s about you, Lopez?”
Acutely aware that the question carried a challenge and that his response was unlikely to sway the vote of twenty men, Swift removed his timepiece from his pocket and checked the hour. “It’s early yet.”
“Yep, all the little pleasure doves might still be abed,” someone inserted.
“Mebbe business was slow last night,” Chink countered. “If not, an extra ten dollars will wake ’em up right fast.”
Swift didn’t cotton to entering towns in broad daylight. He was especially leery today because Chink and the others were itching for trouble. Reining his horse around, he looked across the rolling open range. On the horizon he could see a ranch house. Returning his watch to his pocket, he withdrew a five-dollar gold piece and flipped it through the air to Chink. “I reckon I’ll just take a snooze. Bring me back a bottle.”
“Ya can’t poke no goddamn bottle,” Charlie retorted. “Y’re not normal, Lopez. You figger y’re too good for whores, or what?” When Swift made no reply, Charlie curled his lip. “Where we go, you go. That’s the rule. Ain’t that right, Chink?”
Swift swung off his black, his spurs ringing as the rowels caught in the grass.
“Y’re jist runnin’ short on guts, that’s what,” Charlie jabbed. “Afraid some green kid might recognize that purty face of yers and take it into his head to draw down on ya. That’s it, ain’t it, Lopez? Y’re gettin’ squeamish.”
Keeping his face devoid of expression, Swift met Charlie Stone’s gaze, all the while loosening his saddle cinch. After a few tension-packed moments, Charlie’s larynx bobbed in a nervous swallow. He glanced away. Swift pulled the saddle off his horse and, skirting the other riders, carried it to a patch of sparse shade under a bush.
Chink sighed and wheeled his gelding toward town. Swift knew the comanchero leader resented it when one of his men didn’t stay with the group, but Swift didn’t count himself as one of Chink’s men, never had, and would be damned if he’d start now. The only reason he had fallen in with Chink a year and a half ago was to stay on the move. Trouble had a way of dogging a man’s heels, and he had to step smart if he wanted to avoid it.
“You sure you don’t wanna come?” Chink called.
Swift ground-tied his stallion, then stretched out on his back in the shade, using his saddle as a pillow. Without answering, he closed his eyes. He knew Chink ran too short on guts to swap lead with him over something so trivial.
“Come on,” Charlie said. “Leave the greasy son of a bitch to sleep.”
When the sound of the horses’ hooves grew distant, Swift pulled his nickel-plated .45 Colt revolvers from their holsters, habit compelling him to check the cylinders for cartridges. When he settled back against his saddle, he drifted off to sleep with the confidence of a man who had two loaded guns, sharp hearing, and fast reflexes.
Only a few minutes passed before Swift put both his hearing and reflexes to the test. Horses approached, coming fast. He shot to his feet and pulled his gun before he completely registered the sound. He relaxed a little when he recognized Chink Gabriel on the lead horse. The men were pushing their mounts, and that usually meant trouble nipped at their rumps. Swift holstered his Colt and quickly re-saddled his black so he’d be ready to ride.
“Lookee what we found,” Chink yelled as he barreled his horse up beside Swift’s. “A girlee, and hot damn if she ain’t the purtiest little thing you ever saw.”
Swift squinted into the sun and saw that Charlie carried a girl draped over his saddle. Her blond hair had come loose and hung like a shimmering curtain down the horse’s belly.
Swift’s stomach lurched. Since learning of Amy’s death three years ago, he seldom allowed himself to think of her, but every once in a while, like now, the memories came rushing back, bittersweet, filling him with a sense of loss. This girl’s hair was yellow blond, while Amy’s had been the rich gold of honey, but the similarity still struck him like a well-placed blow. Years ago Amy too had fallen victim to a band of comanchero.
Chink swung off his horse, his whiskery face split in a broad grin. Clamping a hand over his crotch, he gave himself a fondle. “She’ll bring a mighty fine price across the border, but a little breakin’ in won’t hurt her value none.”
Charlie rode up and dumped the girl off his gray. She screamed when she hit shoulder first on the grass, then staggered to her feet. She wore clothing like none Swift had ever seen, a pantlike skirt and a tailored blouse that skimmed her breasts like a second skin. Swift guessed that the outfit had been designed for horseback riding, but whatever its original purpose, the figure-revealing lines now served to whet male appetites—twenty of them.
The girl ran. Three men wheeled their horses to chase her, making sport of her attempts to escape. Swift set his jaw. He didn’t cotton to rape, but he couldn’t do one hell of a lot to stop it when twenty guns voted yea to his nay. The damned fool girl shouldn’t have been out riding alone in the first place.
Chink left his horse’s reins dangling and ran to catch the blonde, whooping with laughter when she bucked and tried to kick as he carried her back to the spot of shade. The other men leaped off their horses and followed along like ducklings in a queue. Swift watched in passive silence as Chink tossed the girl down and grabbed hold of her blouse. The buttons flew. Cloth ripped. She gave a horrified screech and renewed her struggles to get free.
“Hot damn, Bull, ya won’t hafta suck them tits clean,” someone yelled.
“Somebody help me git her britches off,” Chink ordered.
Swift turned and walked away. Only a fool would get himself killed over a female he didn’t know. She’d been asking to get her legs spread, wearing clothes like that. He finished tightening the saddle cinch, doing a fair job of blocking out the girl’s screaming. Did she think anyone could hear her way out here? No one who gave a damn, anyway.
Chink grunted as if he had been kicked. The next instant Swift heard the sickening thud of a fist against flesh. The girl screamed again. “Hold the little bitch still,” Chink rasped. “Grab her ankles, you two. Not too tight. I like ’em with a little fight. You gonna fight me, sweet thing? You gonna buck and give me a ride to remember?”
Several men laughed and whooped encouragement. Swift knew without looking that Chink was getting into position. He turned his attention to his saddlebags, tightening the straps. The men’s laughter nearly drowned out the girl’s weakening cries. Even so, Swift’s ears began to home in on the sobbing. Sweat popped out on his face. He gave one of the saddlebag straps a vicious jerk. Since there was little he could do, it seemed futile to stay and listen.
Grabbing his saddle horn, he stuck a boot in his stirrup. The girl screamed, “Oh, please, God!” Swift froze. Memories of Amy spun through his mind. This girl had no connection whatsoever with Amy, of course, except that she was blond and female. He closed his eyes, telling himself he would be ten times a fool if he interfered.
Then, before he could talk himself out of it, he removed his foot from the stirrup and took off his hat, looping the bonnet strings around the saddle horn. It was Sunday. Though Swift didn’t hold with
tosi religion, he didn’t figure anybody who did ought to get raped on the Sabbath. He slapped his stallion on the rump so it would run off to safety, relieved when Chink’s mount followed. There was no point in the horses getting hurt.
Swift slowly turned, heartened by the sight of Chink’s bare butt shining in the sun. A man couldn’t draw too fast with his britches down. “Chink!”
Sudden silence fell. Even the girl grew quiet. All eyes shifted to Swift, who stood with his long, black-clad legs spread, elbows bent and slightly behind him, his hands poised over his holsters. Chink’s blue eyes narrowed. “You ain’t plannin’ to draw on twenty men,” he said. “Not even a leather slapper like you would be that crazy.”
Swift didn’t need Chink to tell him what he was about to do was insane. He’d end up dead, and the girl would get raped anyway. It was mostly a question of how low a man wanted to sink, and he’d sunk as low as he could comfortably go and still live with himself.
“I’m taking you out first,” Swift told Chink softly.
The girl sobbed and took advantage of the distraction to slither her hips away from the man who had nearly impaled her. Swift registered everything with sharpened senses, acutely aware of the breeze tossing his shortly cropped hair, the abrasiveness of his shirt collar against his neck, the weight of his guns where they rode his hips. For an instant he envisioned Amy’s face, comforted by the knowledge that she waited for him in the Great Beyond, and that by doing this he could join her there with a clean heart.
Chink’s eyes narrowed even more. “I’ll see you in hell, then, you turncoat bastard.” As the comanchero spoke, he went for his gun.
With the speed that had made his name legend, Swift drew, cocking the hammer of his gun with his thumb, bringing his left hand across his midriff to fan the hammer spur. Some of the others around Chink reacted, grabbing for their weapons. To Swift, they became faceless blurs of movement, targets that would kill him unless he killed them first. Six shots rang out from his gun in such rapid succession that they sounded like one explosion. Chink fell backward across the girl. Five other men sprawled, dead before they cleared leather. The girl began to scream, trying to pull her leg from under Chink’s body. The horses, accustomed to gunfire, sidestepped and whinnied.