Strong Cold Dead by Jon Land Page A

breeze blow it back. “There’s a story my people tell about their first encounter with a Texas Ranger on this land.”
    â€œThat Ranger was my great-great-grandfather,” Caitlin started. “His name was Steeldust Jack Strong, and he was also a hero in the Civil War.”
    â€œThe stories passed down through the years speak well of him, but the truth about what happened the day he rode onto the reservation’s become muddled. Might you know it?”
    Caitlin cocked her gaze across the road to where the workmen had broken out the lunch boxes and coolers they’d intended to open at a break in their labors. That had yet to commence, though things had simmered down for now.
    â€œAs a matter of fact,” Caitlin told Ela, as a sliver of sunlight broke through the tree line above, “I do.”

 
    10
    B ALCONES C ANYONLANDS, T EXAS; 1874
    Jack Strong rode straight through the center of the reservation, past the pastures and farmlands, until a trio of arrows pierced the ground directly in his path.
    Steeldust Jack dismounted stiffly, careful not to put too much weight on his bad leg, and held his hands in the air, watching a half dozen Comanche warriors, their faces streaked with traditional war paint, emerge from the nearby forest line, where a cluster of small log homes dotted a landscape shaded by sprawling maple and evergreen trees. Only a few tepees, likely for ceremonial purposes, were in evidence, placed not far from a series of large cooking pits, from which gray smoke rose in preparation for the tribe’s next meal.
    Steeldust Jack noted that the youngest Comanche warrior wasn’t wearing any war paint or carrying a bow like the others. He walked ahead of them, his muscular shoulders seeming to sway with the wind, heading straight for the Ranger as if they were the only two men here.
    â€œYou are not welcome on this land,” the young brave said, stopping a few yards before Steeldust Jack. “You must leave.”
    Steeldust Jack shielded his eyes from the sun. “You the chief?”
    â€œThe chief has no call to speak with the white man. I am Isa-tai, White Eagle in your language.”
    â€œWell, I’m Jack Strong, Texas Ranger in your language.”
    Isa-tai bristled at that. He didn’t look all that much older than Steeldust Jack’s son, William Ray, who’d just joined the Rangers himself, at seventeen, and had been assigned to the newly formed Frontier Battalion. Strange for a father to be jealous of his son, but that’s the way Jack Strong felt, and he couldn’t help it. The truth was, he’d have been much happier fighting Indians than investigating a killing that might have taken place on their land. But duty was duty.
    â€œYou have no business here, Ranger.”
    Isa-tai had eyes so dark that the Ranger was pretty sure they were black, with hardly any white mixed in. His bronzed face was angular, with ridged cheekbones and smooth skin that was free of the scars Steeldust Jack was used to seeing on the Comanche he’d done battle with over the years. Isa-tai’s raven hair was clubbed back, the way all braves wore it, with what looked like a bone looping through it and poking out from the top.
    â€œAnd authority here, either,” Isa-tai continued.
    â€œIs what I heard true? That you folks here are immortal, that you’re gonna live forever?”
    â€œNot if the white man can help it. This land was given to us in peace and we have kept it in peace. We ask only to be left alone, and for the white man to keep to himself, just as we do.”
    â€œAll the same, I was hoping you could help me with something.”
    â€œI’m a medicine man. But if you’ve come for healing, you’ve come to the wrong place.”
    â€œI come about a man just outside your land here who’s way beyond healing.”
    â€œA white man?”
    â€œYes, sir. Got himself killed in an especially bad