The Savage

It was only his damnable pride that had kept him from letting her know how much she meant to him. But he could tell her now. He could shed his pride, his defenses, and bare himself to her, open himself up.

“Summer?” he began hesitantly, his tone roughened by a wealth of unwelcome emotion.

Her quiet “Yes?” made his heart start pounding.

He swallowed hard, girding himself for the confession. In the brief interval, though, he had time to realize that the rhythmic thudding was not only his heartbeat, but the distant sound of galloping hooves. Lance raised his head, a wolf scenting danger.

Summer heard the sound a moment later and stiffened apprehensively. The hoofbeats stopped suddenly, as if a rider had come to a plunging stop, but then the sudden lull was followed by voices raised in alarm.

She and Lance drew apart, exchanging frowning glances.Turning as one, they made their way around to the front of the house, back to the party.

A total silence had fallen over the crowd, and the air held a live tension, the kind of dark, ominous atmosphere before a twister hits.

At the edge of the crowd, a rider sat astride a sweating, heaving horse—a man she recognized as Bob Blackwood, one of the ranchers who lived some five miles northwest of here. One of the men who had come to Sky Valley the other day to accuse Lance of stealing Will Prewitt’s stock.

Her dread grew when she heard someone mutter the word Comanches. She pushed through the crowd, toward the front, in order to hear the conversation fully, although Lance held back.

“Was anybody hurt?” a man asked Blackwood.

“Not yet, far as I know.”

“Maybe it was some white varmints who ran off your beeves.”

“It was Comanches, I tell you!” Bob vowed. “I saw a whole passel of ‘em, driving my stock off toward the west.”

“I guess maybe we should get a posse together, go after ‘em. We could catch ‘em in the act—”

“They’ll be long gone by now,” someone else said, which started a free-for-all discussion.

“No, they won’t. They’ll be slowed down by the cows.”

“We can’t just stand by while them red devils steal our stock!”

“Maybe that’s what they want, to draw off our menfolk and leave our homes undefended.”

“Yeah! Maybe they mean to attack.”

A sudden silence fell over the crowd, a wave of fear running through it that was palpable. Lance, standing toward the rear, had to admire Prewitt’s tactics. It was a setup, of course. In all likelihood, Blackwood’s stock had no more been stolen than Prewitt’s had last week. Certainly not by Comanches. If they had, they wouldn’t have let anyone live to tell about it. No, Prewitt simply needed somebody else’s word that cattle raids had occurred, to bolster his own case. No doubt Blackwood’s arrival at the barbecue had been staged for the greatest possible effect, with the largest possible audience. And if it was his intention to whip up the crowd, he was doing a fine job of it. There was nothing like the threat of a Comanche raid to strike terror in the heart of a Texan. Already there was a tangible aura of panic among the guests, a panic that was edging toward hysteria.

“We’d do better to try to protect ourselves,” someone said. “Stick close to home, in case they come back.”

“Yeah. Those stinkin’ killers are liable to circle back and murder us all in our beds.”

“I don’t believe they intend murder,” a woman said quietly.

Everyone looked around to see who had spoken. Lance felt his gut tighten when he recognized Amelia Truesdale’s voice.

“They only want the cattle,” Amelia said in a small voice. “You see…Mr. Calder invited them.”

He heard a gasp that he suspected came from Summer, while a murmur of outrage ran through the crowd.

So that was what Prewitt intended, Lance thought grimly. The man wouldn’t need actual proof of any cattle thefts if he had a character witness. It was enough that Amelia Truesdale was willing to testify against him.

He could see people turn to stare, could feel the hostile, horrified eyes directed at him. They started inching back fearfully, the crowd parting slowly like a sea, giving him a clear view of his accuser.

Harlan Fisk stepped forward then, looking uncomfortable but determined to take responsibility for the proceedings. “You better explain, Miss Amelia.”

“When I was…at the Comanche camp, I heard him tell those savages which ranches would be best to raid. His brother…the chief…said they would follow him here.”