Copyright 2001
All Rights Reserved
Chapter One
Arizona Territory-late Spring, 1873
" Kinson, you don't want to go up there," Sam Skinner called out as he
hurried after Wylie Kinson.
The officer's
words barely registered in Wylie's mind, so intent was he on reaching the outcropping
of boulders on the hill above. Trained as a scout, he normally took great care
to notice every detail. Now he walked forward, oblivious to everything around
him.
They'd told
him the news this morning. At first, he'd been numb, but as the day wore on,
the numbness gave way to anger. It was only now, as he walked toward the hill,
that he began to feel the intense ache. He could feel his heart pounding against
his chest in slow, heavy thuds. Wylie still barely noticed the warmth from the
glaring desert sun or the occasional breeze that blew. He had only a vague awareness
of the trickle of sweat that snaked its way between his shoulder blades. And
still, he looked past the boot tracks on the desert floor as if there was nothing
there.
Wylie slowed
his pace and looked at the boulders above. He studied the steep slope ahead
of him, squinting against the day's brightness, aware that Skinner stood beside
him. But he took no heed to the officer's incessant talking, his mind on other
things.
With a deep
breath, he checked the time by the sun's position, then turned back to the hill.
He didn't want to do this. He didn't want to make this trek... but he knew he'd
never forgive himself if he stayed on the desert floor. There were already enough
regrets in his life without adding this one to the list.
He realized
then just how dry his mouth was. Wylie glanced down, hoping to see his canteen,
but realized he'd left it looped over his saddle horn when he dismounted his
buckskin. He'd had the foresight to bring his rifle, and with that, he started
forward again.
" Kinson. For
god sakes, would you stop?" Lieutenant Skinner called in frustration as he again
hurried after Wylie.
Ignoring the
officer, Wylie walked ahead a few steps before a new sound stopped him. To the
right of the path, a good twenty feet out in a small, bare patch among the yucca
and cactus plants, he heard the other soldiers' laughter mingled with the sound
of shovels biting into the parched desert floor. The laughter started out hesitantly,
one soldier chuckling at some not-so-funny comment, the others following suit.
Wylie watched
them with a cold expression. How many times had it been him standing there laughing
like a fool? He glanced at the sand between his boots, noticing a dark stain
near the edge of the path. As he bent over it and touched his fingers to it,
he glared again at the bunch of them. One of the soldiers looked up at Wylie,
the laughter dying in his throat.
The soldier
hissed something to the others, and the laughter tapered off to nothing. Like
shamefaced children scolded by an angry father, the soldiers set to work without
the banter, squirming under Wylie's attention.
Satisfied they
would no longer make light of the situation, he shifted his attention to the
stained ground. He couldn't be sure, but it was an easy guess to assume the
spot was dried blood. Wylie studied it for only an instant before he started
to move again, heading toward the hill. But as he reached the base, Skinner
hurried around in front of him.
" Kinson, stop,"
the officer commanded, placing a restraining hand on Wylie's shoulder as he
spoke the words.
Wylie bristled.
He turned on Skinner and brushed his hand away before he stepped around the
officer.
" I'll thank
you to stay out of my way," he growled.
" Wylie...
" Skinner grabbed his arm then.
Wylie Kinson
stiffened at the contact, then turned to face the Lieutenant.
" Who in the
hell do you think you are, Skinner? For god sakes, that's my mother up
there."
" Kinson, let
someone else handle it. You don't want to see her like this."
Wylie stood
ready to pounce, and when he spoke, there was a hard edge to his voice.
" What if it
was Jaylene up there? Wouldn't you want to see your wife?"
Skinner responded
after a moment's hesitation.
" I know you're
still angry, Kinson...."
" You're damn
right I'm angry," Wylie interrupted, taking a step closer to Skinner until he
stood towering over the shorter man. " You cost me the woman I love."
Skinner took
a slow step backwards and answered in a gentle tone.
" No, friend,
you lost her yourself."
For an instant,
Wylie glared at Skinner, wanting very much to plant his fist into that somewhat-innocent
little smirk of his. But the truth of Skinner's statement kept him from it.
His own stupidity had lost him Jaylene, and no fight with her husband
would change that fact. Besides, there were other more important things to tend
to.
" One thing
we're not and never will be is friends. Now stay the hell out of my way."
Wylie's whole
demeanor dared Skinner to challenge him, but when Skinner didn't move, Wylie
shifted his rifle in his hands and started up the slope.
The sound of
the shovels slowed, then stopped behind him as he climbed up the rocky steepness.
Instinct told him that every man in the camp was watching him. With a deep breath,
he squared his shoulders and continued on, wishing they would all mind their
own business.
He studied
the ground, finding a drop of blood here, a partial boot print a little farther
on. Continuing up the steep hill, he saw a bloody handprint, far too small to
belong to a man. He hesitated there, kneeling near the print so he could study
it in detail. Wylie drew a shaky breath as he touched the stained earth, covering
the bloody handprint with his own larger hand. The earth was hot under his touch,
so hot he wanted to draw his hand away. But he didn't move. For several minutes,
Wylie knelt like that, trying to feel something, trying to understand the struggle
that had caused his mother to leave her handprint behind. But he could only
guess at what she'd had to endure.
That thought
alone sent a chill through him. There was no telling what had been done to her.
She could have been raped or tortured before her captors put her to death. But
what scared him even more was the thought that his younger sister was still
missing.
His insides
twisted into a tight knot. An uneasy burn started in the pit of his stomach,
making it almost impossible to swallow or breathe, just as it had when they
first told him of the kidnappings. Pushing himself to his feet, he settled his
hands on his knees and gulped for air until the feelings passed. After several
minutes, he moved forward.
Reaching the
crest of the hill, he found the hot desert sand stained dark with more blood
droplets. He took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair, wishing
he didn't have to do this. He'd seen death before, held dying men in his arms
as their lives seeped away, but until now, it had never been a family member.
Wylie steadied himself against the nearest boulder, took a deep breath, then
walked around behind the rocks.
Concentrating
on his boots, he tried to steel himself for what he had to do. Wylie licked
his lips, then looked around the area, avoiding his mother's body for a moment
more. Finally, he took a deep breath and turned his attention to the bloodstained
earth near her, then to her face.
Dried blood
covered her chin and cheek, and one sightless eye stared up at the afternoon
sun. The other eye was gone, having become the feast for one of the first scavenger
birds to happen along.
He shifted
his attention to her neck then, finding raw, bloody flesh where her throat had
been cut. Wylie's knees buckled, and he sat down hard, losing his grip on the
rifle as he did so. The gun clattered against the ground, but he didn't hear
it. He heard nothing but silence.
Wylie pressed
his eyes closed and swallowed. Beads of sweat formed on his skin, and he fought
hard to force the hot, desert air into his lungs. It was several minutes later
when he finally brought himself to look at her again.
Blood mottled
the front of her pale blue calico dress, and he could see where more birds had
picked at her flesh. Lunging up, Wylie turned away and vomited.
After a moment,
he straightened and stumbled to the boulders, leaning his shoulder against the
largest one. Dizziness swept over him, but he managed to keep his feet under
himself this time, and he turned toward the path leading back to the others.
" Skinner,"
he called. His voice sounded strange, almost hollow. He waited for a moment,
then called again. Wylie spit into the dirt and took several deep breaths as
he wiped the sweat from his forehead. Finally, Skinner appeared on the path.
" You okay?"
the officer asked in a quiet voice.
Wylie settled
his back against a boulder, staring out across the desert. Heat waves danced
in the distance, obscuring the cactus plants, playing tricks on his eyes. He
focused on nothing in particular as he tried to force himself to concentrate
on why he'd called the other man up the hill. He rubbed his hand over the stubble
on his jaws as he thought, then looked at the officer.
" I need something
to cover her with. And also my canteen."
" Kinson, you
haven't stopped for days. Now that you've seen her, why don't you get some rest?
We can take care of things from here. You're going to need your strength and
your wits to find Cara. Your sister is counting on you."
" You're not
going to start this again, are you, Skinner?"
There was a
long pause before Skinner answered.
" No."
Wylie turned
away from him with a quiet word of thanks, and from the corner of his eye, he
saw Skinner nod once, then disappear.
As he turned
to look at his mother's face again, fatigue stole over him. Skinner was right.
He needed to rest. But he couldn't. Not until he'd seen to his mother. Wylie
moved toward her, fighting the uneasiness in the pit of his stomach.
It had been
over three years since he'd last seen her or Cara, years that he should not
have missed. As he stared at her torn body, Wylie recalled the nights she'd
sung him to sleep beside the fire when he was a child, the time that she'd tearfully
forgiven both he and Cara after they'd broken the heirloom mirror she'd brought
from the east. A sad smile crept onto his face at the thought of the many times
she'd sternly, yet lovingly, reprimanded him for finding trouble. This woman
had raised him with great care and much love; she'd always been there when he
needed her.
But when she
and Cara needed him, he wasn't there.
" Oh god, I
didn't mean to disappoint you. I never should've left," he whispered to her.
Hearing a noise,
Wylie turned to find Skinner standing a few feet away, a tarp in one hand, canteen
in the other. Wylie took a step toward him, motioning for the canteen, and Skinner
passed it to him without a word.
Pulling the
cork stopper off, Wylie took a long drink of the lukewarm water, then splashed
some on his face.
" The men are
about done digging the grave, Kinson," he said, motioning toward the path.
" Okay."
Skinner dropped
the tarp before he turned away. He took a hesitant step, then called over his
shoulder. " Wylie, I'm very sorry. She was a good woman. Jaylene loved her like...
" Skinner's already-quiet voice trailed off. He hesitated another moment, as
if he were going to continue, but disappeared behind the rocks without another
sound.
Picking up
the canvas tarpaulin, Wylie unfolded it and spread it out on the ground beside
her body. He sank down to his knees beside her and pulled the bandana from around
his neck. Wetting it with the canteen, Wylie cleaned away the dried blood covering
her face.
" This is my
fault," he whispered to her. " You begged me not to go. You said I was making
a mistake. I shouldn't have left. If I'd stayed... Oh god, Momma. If I'd stayed,
maybe I could have stopped this from happening to you. Maybe Cara and Jaylene
would still be at home where they belong."
He looked down
at her, focusing on the wound at her throat. In the back of his mind, something
nagged at him, something not quite right. Wylie took a closer look.
The wound was
deep, and it should have produced a lot of blood, but as he studied it, he began
to realize that the front of her dress was too clean. She'd hardly bled from
the wound at her neck. Turning her body over, Wylie discovered that the back
of her calico dress was stained crimson with her blood, and there was a ragged
tear in her dress bodice an inch below her right shoulder blade. As the blood
had dried in the arid desert air, the fabric stuck to her skin. Wylie cautiously
ran his hand over her back, finding a raw bullet wound hidden by the torn fabric.
" What the
hell?" he whispered, eyeing the raw flesh. It was suddenly obvious that his
mother died from the bullet wound, not from the gash at her throat. Apaches
were known to mutilate their victims, but it suddenly occurred to him that if
the Apaches were to blame, they would've likely done more than just this. An
Apache would have left her nearly unrecognizable. Who else would do such a thing?
Why would someone shoot her in the back, and then mutilate her after she was
already dead?
With gentle
hands, Wylie rolled her over again and tucked his bandana into her hand. For
several moments, he stared at her, then lifted her body onto the tarp. With
gentle fingers, he brushed the hair from her face, then wrapped her body in
the canvas, leaving only her face exposed.
Crouching down
beside her, he touched her cheek as an anger he'd never known boiled up from
the pit of his stomach. Every muscle went rigid.
" I promise
you, I won't rest until Cara and the others are safe and the bastards who did
this to you are dead," he whispered to his mother's unhearing ears.
He licked his
lips again as he thought of the other women. Cara and Jaylene, as well as several
of their friends, were somewhere out there, and he would find them. His only
hope was that he could find them in time to prevent their deaths. But first,
he would have to see his father. It wouldn't be right to let him hear the news
of his wife's death from someone else. Wylie needed to be the one to break this
news.
" I swear it...
" he said, looking down at her one last time. " I won't let this happen to Cara."