The Outcast by David Thompson

nice and often it is. But hard times come whether we like them or not. I lost my ma much too early. I lost my pa to hostiles. I pray to God I get to live longer than they did. I pray I see you grow to be a woman, and see you with a husband of your own one day. I pray I can hold my grandchildren in my lap and rock them in front of the fireplace in the evening. That would make me happier than anything I can think of.”
    The words were meaningless to the Outcast. Her expression, though, said more than words ever could. He stopped and looked down at his knife, and when he looked back up, the woman was staring at him in bewilderment.
    Lou couldn’t believe her eyes. Her heart pounded in her chest. She realized she had left the front door open. If Zach had warned her about that once, he had warned her a hundred times. Worse, her pistols were on the dresser in their bedroom and her rifle was propped against the wall over by the front door.
    The Outcast willed his arm to move. He willed his hand to bury the knife. He did not need her alive. She would serve his purpose as well dead.
    Fear washed over Lou, but she did not let on that she was afraid. Zach told her once that she must never show fear to an enemy.
    The Outcast’s hand didn’t move. Nor did he. He saw that she was unafraid, and his respect for her climbed. Then he remembered why he was there. Taking two long steps, he touched the tip of his blade to her throat.
    Lou swallowed, but that was all. She looked into the warrior’s dark eyes, and she forced a smile. “How do you do? My name is Louisa King. Who might you be?”
    The Outcast cocked his head and studied her. This wasn’t what he expected. This wasn’t what he expected at all.
    Lou was trying to tell which tribe he was from. She thought at first he might be a Ute since the Ute lived closest to King Valley, but she had seen Utes and they were different. He wasn’t a Crow or a Nez Perce or any of the other Indians she was familiar with. The tribe he most reminded her of were the Blackfeet, but his face and his buckskins were not quite as theirs were.
    The Outcast was confused. Here he was, holding a knife to her neck, and all she did was stare at him. Most enemies would fight or cringe in fright.
    Lou knew a little Shoshone, so she tried that. She didn’t realize she still had her hands on her belly until she saw him look down at them.
    The Outcast was thinking of her again. Of how happy he had been when the baby was born. He remembered its wail when the lance pierced its body, and he broke out in a cold sweat.
    Lou wondered why the warrior was just standing there. She’d thought she was a goner, but now she wasn’t so sure. Maybe he wanted her alive. She kept on smiling and said quietly, “I will be your friend if you will let me. Me and my husband both.” Those last words weren’t entirely true. Were Zach to walk in the door, he’d kill the warrior before he could blink.
    The Outcast shook himself and stepped back. He had come in determined to slay her, and now he couldn’t. He didn’t understand what he was feeling. Or did he, and he was unwilling to admit it? The Outcast started to raise his free hand to his brow and caught himself. He must be strong. He must not let her stir his memories. It would be so easy to kill her. She was so small, so fragile. Then he saw her eyes and was startled. He had not noticed until now that they were blue. Blue had been her favorite color. The baby was bundled in a blue blanket on that terrible day, and in his mind, as vivid as if it were happening again, he saw the splash of red against the blue, and a growl of torment escaped him.
    Lunging, the Outcast gripped the white woman by the throat.

Chapter Six
    Shakespeare McNair waited until they were half a mile south of the lake. Then he coughed and casually asked, “So, is there any news you care to tell me, Horatio Junior?”
    Zach was scouring the