Night Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy) (46 page)

      
Just then her reverie was interrupted by a crashing sound in the heavy brush at the side of the trail. Melanie turned in the saddle and was horrified to see the forbidding figure of Seth Walkman emerge with a Walker Colt aimed at Liberator's head. When she attempted to pull her Allen and Thurber pepperbox from her pocket, she could hear the distinct hammer click of his Colt.

      
“Now, Miss Prissybritches, just cool down ‘n rein that black devil in,” he rasped. “I'll take that fancy little gun you got stashed in that skirt, too.”

      
Melanie forced herself to stop trembling as she handed over the gun. He stopped both horses in the middle of the road.
I can't outrun him in the open. Wait and see what he plans to do.

      
He grinned at her. “Sensible for a female, aintcha?”

      
“I couldn't get far if you shot Liberator, could I?” she replied, proud of how steady her voice-sounded. “What do you want, Mr. Walkman?”

      
“Question is, reporter lady, what do you want with them land-office records about Laban Greer's property?” He observed the way her hand tightened on the saddle pommel and grinned again. “Nothin’ to say, huh? I bet ole Gall will get you to talk—scream your fool head off. Him ‘n your greaser husband got them a date tonight. He expects to get the Velasquez horses. And you'll just be an extra little bonus, yes sir....”

Chapter Twenty Three

      
When they drew in sight of Blaine's trading post, Melanie's heart felt leaden in her chest. On the long ride from where he had accosted her near Bluebonnet, she had racked her brains for a means of escape. At first, she was terrified that the reptilian Walkman might drag her into the bushes to rape and murder her, but he seemed to have no interest at all in her as a woman, only a perverse eagerness to deliver her into the hands of Gall and his renegades.

      
Walkman spoke little and kept a tight rein on Liberator, telling her only that they were going to meet Blaine, who always acted as his contact with the savages. “I don't get no nearer them stinkin' Injuns than I got to. That's what we got that squaw man Blaine for,” he said contemptuously.

      
Melanie recalled his words to Greer that day in town about Comanches killing his family. His obsessive hate of Indians was scarcely that rare in Texas, but few men would turn a white woman over to them. Casting about desperately for some way to forestall her terrifying fate, Melanie asked, “If you hate murdering savages like Gall, why are you willing to give me—one of your own people—to him? Surely the women in your family must have—”

      
He struck her a wicked blow to the face with Liberator's reins, causing the big stallion to rear up, nearly throwing her. ‘The women in my family's dead! There ain't no more worth botherin' with, least of all the likes of you! Stirrin' up folks to take pity on them poor starvin' redskins with them goddamn newspaper stories! You ‘n that greaser husband of yours'll help me get my revenge. His fancy ranch'll be burned ‘n all his stock drove off ‘n then you turn up dead. After Gall ‘n his boys is finished with you—all Bexar County’ll be screamin' for rangers to kill every one of them bastards.” He fixed her with his lead-colored eyes and paused, then said, “You'll do my cause a lot of good, reporter lady, but only if you're raped, tortured, and stone-cold dead!”

      
Melanie shivered, knowing that his twisted mind would in no way be amenable to any kind of pleading. She rubbed her stinging cheek. An evil welt was forming, but no cut had been opened. Just then she felt Liberator's gait become slightly irregular. He was favoring his right rear foot. “My horse is lame,” she said tersely, realizing the stallion must have picked up a stone in his shoe.

      
“We're almost at Blaine's. I expect he can give you another pony. That big black devil oughta bring me a pretty penny with horse traders up north a ways. I'll take real good care of him,” he said in a cruel, taunting drawl.

      
As they rode slowly the last few hundred yards into Blaine's big corral, a pair of wide black eyes followed their progress. Lame Deer was crouched in the shadows of a century plant. He had been riding Prancer out in the general direction of the post every day, scouting to see what men, red and white, visited Blaine's lair. Several times when a Comanchero or a Comanche renegade had come to the place, he informed Jeremy Lawrence. But now Walkman had Melanie!

      
The hateful
rinche
pulled her roughly from Liberator's back and dragged her into the dim interior of the log structure. Hoping the conspirators would use that same back room again, the boy stealthily slipped around the back of the building. Oddly, the place appeared deserted. Something important and dangerous was about to happen. Lame Deer knew he must find out what it was and rescue Melanie quickly. Climbing up on a pile of crates against the rough log wall, he clung precariously beneath the window and listened to the conversation inside.

      
“You take her to Gall. Call it a present from me,” Walkman said with an ugly laugh.

      
“I don't like it, Seth. It's too dangerous. Whut if someone saw yew bring her here? They'd string me up faster 'n I cud spit. If'n Greer wants her dead, let him kill her,” Blaine said.

      
“Greer don't do his own dirty work. He ain't got the stomach for it. I do. ‘N I want her worked over by them Injuns so's everyone in Santone will know they done it!” The menace in his voice cut through the still air like a whiplash.

      
Standing between them, Melanie took in the argument in silence, as her mind churned furiously, turning over one possibility, then another. They didn't know Gall was riding into a trap, but she might still be dead before all the shooting was over. Yet it was at least a chance. If they took her to Lee's herd, Jeremy and Jim should be waiting, too. But Blaine's next words froze that hope.

      
“While Gall's raiders pick off thet herd, a few o' my men ‘n his braves er goin' ta torch thet greaser's ranch. I reckon I cud git one o' them ta take her off from there ‘n head out ta their camp. Kinda keep her fer Gall till he kin git back.”

      
They can't burn Lee's home—not again, for the third time!
a voice inside her screamed. With a speed born of desperate fear and fury, she darted past Walkman and snatched a whiskey bottle from Blaine's filthy desk. Smashing it over the chair, she slashed with its jagged edge at Walkman's arm as he lunged for her.

      
Blaine backed off with a bleat of surprise, and the big ranger swore and grabbed his arm as a crimson ooze was blotted up by his coarse cotton shirtsleeve.

      
“Bitch!” He advanced on the small cornered woman who once more swiped at him with her deadly weapon, this time narrowly missing his abdomen while she ducked agilely past him. By this time Blaine had recovered his wits sufficiently to pull a heavy .44-caliber Colt pistol from his belt and club her quickly from the side. The glancing blow to her temple was just hard enough to daze her and knock her backward into Walkman's none too gentle grasp. The broken bottle crashed in shards on the hard-packed dirt floor.

      
“Tie her up hand ‘n foot. I want her full awake to think ‘bout what Gall's gonna do to her,” Walkman grated out at his companion.

      
Blaine shakily replaced the gun in his belt and walked over to his desk. He pulled a drawer open and yanked thin strips of crude rawhide from inside it. “Shit, Seth, she coulda laid one o' us open so bad we bled ta death,” he said in awe. “Shore is mean fer sech a little bitty thing.”

      
Walkman grunted as he grabbed a piece of the rawhide from Blaine and tied her feet roughly. “I expect Gall’ll teach her who's boss quick enough.”

      
“Whut th'—fire!” Blaine bellowed as he coughed and peered frantically through the door to his big main storeroom. Thick black smoke billowed into the office from the crowded trading warehouse. He gave the cord on Melanie's wrist another hard yank and dropped her semiconscious body back onto the floor.

      
Lame Deer had set a torch to several piles of dried buffalo hides after quickly dousing them with some of Blaine's cheap whiskey. They flared into a stinking, smoldering fire that quickly filled the overstocked room with black smoke.

      
While Blaine fought his way to the hides and began to beat out the flames, Walkmen rushed past him and out the door, yelling for several of the half-breeds who worked at the post. Lame Deer frantically raced back to the rear of the store and climbed through the window. In a flash, he had the bonds cut from Melanie's hands and feet and was back to the window, helping her climb out.

      
She was still dazed from the blow to her head, but fought down the surge of dizziness as she whispered, “Liberator's lame. I can't ride him.”

      
“I saw that. Prancer is very fast, and I have her tied over in that thicket. Come quickly,” the boy replied as he jumped from the window ledge with the lithe grace of a small cat.

      
“But we can't both ride her. They'll catch us,” she replied as they dashed for the bushes. In truth, she was afraid if Walkman shot at her he might hit the boy by mistake. “Lame Deer, you run and hide down by the arroyo. Wait until the men follow me. Then, steal a horse from the corral and ride as fast as you can to my ranch house. Tell Kai the raiders are coming to burn him out. He'll know what to do.”

      
“But what of you? If they see you ride away, they'll shoot at you.” When they arrived at the thicket, he reached for the pony's reins, undecided.

      
The yells coming from the post and Seth Walkman's looming form as he cursed and scanned the surrounding area made the decision for them. Before the boy could react, Melanie grabbed him and shook him. “It's me they want. I'm going to Lee for help! Hide yourself and then find help with Kai!” With that, she leaped on the little horse and sped down the arroyo, out of view but not earshot of the men at the post.

      
When she came into sight as she rode over the far ridge of the gully, shots erupted, kicking up dust around her. None seemed to hit the speeding rider or horse. Lame Deer let out a whistling breath of relief and quickly vanished into the spiny underbrush of the gully. Walkman and Blaine came thundering past his hiding place in pursuit.

      
Melanie had not ridden bareback since she was a girl at Renacimiento, but she'd had lots of practice then, with Cherokee Joe as her teacher. Now, she was immensely grateful that she could hang on to the small fleet pony. Her slight weight and the absence of a heavy saddle would give her an edge over the two large men chasing her. She knew she would need it.

* * * *

      
The twilight air was briskly cool, but sweat trickled down Lee's back. He looked over at Slade and saw that his friend was also nervous. “How much longer, damn their eyes?” he muttered.

      
“Jeremy's scouts said they'd seen Gall and twenty braves fording the creek at sunset. We can't get too close without spooking them,” Jim replied. “Don't worry. His Lipans know what they're doing.”

      
Lee grunted and looked over at Bill Ross, who sat crouched against an outcropping of rocks in the narrow ravine where they waited with a dozen men, experienced Indian fighters from Night Flower and Bluebonnet ranches. They were heavily armed with rifles, knives, and handguns, all superbly mounted and ready to ride at the prearranged signal from Johnny Gray Arrow, one of Jeremy's Lipan scouts. The ranger and another twenty men were waiting across the creek on the far side of the low, wide valley that narrowed into a steep-walled opening to the north. When the Comanche swooped down on the unattended herd of horses neatly bunched together near the stream in the natural corral of the valley, two forces of heavily armed men would be ready for them.

      
“You keep your head with Lawrence,
mano
. I know the two of you have tangled over Melanie, but—”

      
“Let it rest, Jim, and leave my wife out of it,” Lee snapped. “I'll resist the temptation to shoot that damn ranger in the melee. Good enough?”

      
“I reckon that'll have to do,” Slade replied with a wolfish grin.

      
Just then a figure slipped into the ravine, silent as a summer breeze. He was a small, thickly built man in buckskin leggings, shirt, and moccasins, with shoulder-length straight black hair.
One of Lawrence's tame Indians
, Lee thought, oddly without rancor.

      
“They come, maybe five minutes, maybe less,” he reported tersely.

      
Each man checked his weapons once again, ready to ride. At the first cries of
Aaa-hey! Aaa-hey!
the trap would be sprung.

      
As Jim and Lee mounted up, Jim said uneasily, “I hope your Kanaka friend has enough men to keep the house and corrals safe. Those bastards want you burned out and killed so Greer can buy up your ranch.”

      
Lee smiled grimly. ”Kai will take care of the ranch house. He has a crew of special recruits who know how to handle hostiles, believe me.”

      
Across the valley, Jeremy whispered, “Now let Gall lead us to Blaine.” He spoke half to the Lipan scout next to him, half to himself. His men and Slade's would trail at a good distance, splitting up into smaller groups to follow the pattern of the raiders, tracking them until they all met with the whiskey runner.

      
The Comanche did just as expected, dividing the herd of prime horses into smaller groups and scattering, with them. Somewhere to the north, probably by moonrise, they'd rendezvous with Blaine and a band of his men.