Promises Kept (39 page)

Another round of piercing pops rent the air, but within seconds he realized it wasn’t thunder.
Gunfire
. Hearing gunshots out in the middle of nowhere was never a good sign. Nudging Preacher forward, the rain pelting them both in the face, he was tempted to set a pace that matched his foreboding sense of urgency, but he wouldn’t pose a danger to his horse. They hadn’t ridden much farther when the rain started coming down so hard he couldn’t see a foot in front of him. Pulling Preacher to a halt, he dismounted and pulled a bandana from his back pocket to dry Preacher’s face as best he could. “I don’t think you can see any better than me,” he said in a soothing voice. It wasn’t going to do a bit of good with the rain coming down like it was, but he knew it would soothe his horse all the same. Preacher had also been his partner for ten years, and he knew the horse hated more than anything to have water on his face. Preacher nudged his hand as a thank-you.

When the rain changed to a steady drizzle, he remounted. Pulling his Winchester from the boot, he told himself it might be nothing, but experience warned not to ignore that little voice in his head that something was amiss. And right now that little voice was beginning to sound like the seventh angel’s trumpet.

He’d covered about a quarter of a mile when he noticed something on the horizon that looked oddly out of place on the barren landscape. “Whoa, boy,” he murmured, pulling Preacher to a halt again. He squinted, trying to make sense out of what he was seeing. Wiping away the water dripping from his eyelashes, he blinked, trying to focus. What was it? Crazy as it sounded, what he saw reminded him of large white flags whipping around in the storm. Searching the terrain, some movement caught his eye, and he saw riders hightailing it to the trees some distance away. He clicked Preacher forward.

As he drew closer, Preacher laid his ears back and started sidestepping. Jake’s senses went on high alert. His horse was as good at detecting danger as any U.S. Marshal he’d ever seen. Out of habit, he stroked Preacher’s neck as his dark eyes assessed the situation. The riders were well out of sight, so he didn’t know what had Preacher so worked up. “Settle down, boy. I don’t see anyone moving about.” He focused again on what he thought were flags, and realization dawned. Covered wagons. They were turned over on their sides and the canvases had been ripped apart, leaving the tattered pieces to flap in the wind like sails on a ship.

“Come on, boy. Let’s see what this is about.” Preacher snorted at him as if he disagreed with the command, but he moved ahead. Jake counted six wagons overturned as he reined in at the nearest one. Dismounting, he held on to Preacher’s reins just in case he needed to make a fast getaway.
What happened here? Indians? Is that who was riding away?
They hadn’t encountered any Indians so far on the cattle drive, but that only meant one thing: They were due. One thing was certain; if Indians were around, he figured he’d see them soon enough. Not many places to hide out here in the open, but they sure had a way of appearing out of thin air.

The thunder and lightning had lessened considerably, so he figured he could hear trouble if it came calling. Scanning the area, he saw all manner of items from the wagons scattered about. Judging by the destruction, and some costly articles left behind, it occurred to him that whoever did this was looking for something in particular. Spotting a man on the ground near the first wagon, he released Preacher’s reins and hurried toward him. As he approached, he saw the blood covering the front of the man’s rain-soaked shirt. He didn’t need to touch him—his eyes had the vacant stare of a dead man. There was a rifle beside the man and Jake picked it up to see if it had been fired. It hadn’t. The man’s pistol was still in his holster. He walked to the overturned wagon and peeked inside. A woman was lying half out of the front of the wagon, so he hustled around to check her. Shot dead. A few feet from her was another man lying dead on the ground.
What in heaven’s name happened here?
He ran to the other wagons, praying to God he would find someone alive. He found six more bodies. Everyone shot—no arrows, but Indians had guns, he reminded himself. Questions circled his mind.
Why weren’t they traveling with a larger group? Had they been ill and left behind? And why in heaven’s name had they stopped out here in the open? Not the best place to stop for the night if they needed to defend themselves from an attack.

Reaching the last wagon, he saw a woman lying facedown near a large overturned trunk, and a man lying several feet from her. Again, he scanned the horizon to make sure no one was waiting to shoot him in the back. Approaching the woman first, he kneeled down and gently turned her over. He pushed aside her long, wet hair from her face. Her eyes were closed, and blood oozed out of her temple. He placed his palm on her chest to see if she had a heartbeat.
Alive!
Her heartbeat was faint, but it was there.
Thank God
. Wiping at the blood on her temple, he tried to see how badly she was injured. It looked like a bullet had grazed her, but fortunately it wasn’t lodged in her head. He searched her limp form for additional signs of injury, and finding none, he stood and pulled off his slicker to cover her. It didn’t make a lick of sense because her clothing was drenched, yet it made him feel better. He walked to the man lying nearby to see if he was as lucky as the woman. He wasn’t.

He whistled for Preacher, who came trotting up beside him. He pulled a clean shirt out of his saddlebag and quickly tore it into long strips. Gently, he propped the woman against his thigh and wound the cloth around her head. Two thoughts struck him at once: how fragile she was, and how good she smelled. Odd under the circumstances that he’d notice her fragrance, but he figured it was because since he’d left Texas the only thing he’d smelled was cattle and wet earth. While he worked on the bandage, it occurred to him that she was much younger than the other women he’d found. The man lying near her was also younger than the other men.
He must have been her husband. Why would anyone shoot all of these people? What were they searching for? If Indians had attacked, they would have taken some of the items scattered on the ground. They probably would have taken the young woman, too.
He’d seen a lot of evil in his ten years as a U.S. Marshal, but nothing as senseless as this. He took hold of her hand, wishing he could will her to wake. Her hand was so delicate and soft against his calloused skin that he glanced down to look at her palm. This was not the hand of a woman who worked a farm, though he did feel some rough spots on her fingers that he figured were from holding a horse’s reins.

He glanced at the man again. No gun. Realizing that only one man had been armed offered up another set of questions. It was possible that the killers had taken their weapons. Did they also take the horses, or had the horses simply run off when the shooting started? He felt sure the killers didn’t take the time to unhitch the teams, so these folks had stopped for some reason.

He could see hoofprints in every direction, but right now he didn’t have time to study them other than to make a mental note that they were shod. He knew the rain would wash away the tracks of the men he saw riding away, but his first responsibility was to care for the woman. He’d take her back to meet up with the drive so his cook could tend her. He’d hired Shorty not only for his cooking skills but because he also possessed some doctoring knowledge. Shorty had been on six cattle drives and had tended various injuries, so he hoped he would know what to do for her. Once the woman was in Shorty’s care, he’d bring some men back to bury the dead. Then he’d have time to try to make sense out of this massacre.

Preacher caught his attention when he snorted and sidestepped closer. “What is it, boy?” Jake looked around and immediately spotted Indians on a knoll less than three hundred yards away.
Damn, if they couldn’t sneak up on a man!
He counted ten braves, and though he wasn’t sure, he thought they were Comanche. “Okay, boy, we’re leaving.” Just as he was about to lift the woman into his arms, he saw a leather-bound book underneath her skirt, and next to it was a Colt .45. He picked up the pistol and smelled the barrel before tucking it in his belt. He grabbed the book and stuffed it inside his shirt to keep it dry. Once he was settled in the saddle with the woman securely in his arms, he pulled his slicker over her head to keep her bandage dry. He turned his gaze on the Indians and breathed a sigh of relief that they were not riding toward him. It was odd how they were just watching, almost like they were afraid to ride closer. He looked around to make sure no one else was lurking about. Before he rode away, he glanced once more at the destruction around him. He was certain of one thing: The Indians hadn’t done this. Not one scalp was missing.

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Copyright © 2015 by Barbara Scarlett Dunn

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