uncanny accuracy. With a whisper rush of air, the iron blade bit deep into the cottonwood tree, severing the rope that circled the trunk. Spotted Calf collapsed to earth, pulling the frayed end of the rope over the branch and down on top of his back. He rose up on his knees, surprised to find he was still alive and even more shocked to discover that his rescuer was none other than the soldier he had tried to kill earlier in the day.
Snake Eye stared at the length of rope remaining in his hands. He stared at the Comanche. He lifted his gaze and stared at Ben, and still couldn’t believe what had happened. Clay Poole, standing behind the lieutenant, grimaced and shook his head, and his features flashed an unspoken communication to Virge Washburn. The wiry, bowlegged Ranger recognized the warning and braced himself for the coming storm.
“Lawd, Lawd, Lawd. Ummm-mmmm,” another voice called out. It was young Toby. He stood with his forearms crooked through the wrought-iron gate, black as the iron tracery that framed his face. The nine-year-old shifted his stance and waited. He pitied the lieutenant.
Ben ignored Gandy and slipped the noose off the Comanche brave. Spotted Calf climbed unsteadily to his feet, leery of his benefactor. The Comanche had another surprise coming to him. Ben loosened the slipknot binding the brave’s wrists. With his hands free, Spotted Calf gingerly rubbed his neck. Now he glanced at Snake Eye, wondering if the Ranger was up to some new trick. He saw at a glance that Gandy was dumbstruck. No one had ever interfered with him before. His ugly features turned uglier. His frown wrinkled the livid white scar tissue where the scalp had been sliced away. The rattlesnake in his eye socket seemed ablaze, a trick of reflected sunlight, but effective all the same.
“Come with me,” Ben told the brave, and steered him toward the calaboose.
“The hell!” Gandy muttered. He drew his long-barreled Colt and pointed the revolver at Ben’s chest.
Ben experienced a flash of fear but brought it under control and kept his expression free of concern.
“You won’t shoot. If you did, the general and no doubt Captain Pepper would have you dancing from the end of a rope all to yourself.”
“Might be worth it,” Gandy dryly observed. He kept the octagonal barrel trained on Ben for what seemed an eternity but couldn’t have been more than a minute. Then he lowered the gun and returned it to his holster.
“I am your enemy. Why you do this thing?” Spotted Calf asked in his halting English.
Ben looked from Gandy to the brave and shrugged. “I doubt either of you would understand.” He gestured once more toward the jail. Spotted Calf started down the path, then stopped and faced the white man.
“My people have fled the mountains. Evil is there.”
“What could be worse than you red devils?” Virgil Washburn said, drawing up alongside Gandy.
Spotted Calf took them in at a glance, then focused on Ben. “The warriors of the night.” The Comanche continued on back to the jail with Ben keeping a respectful distance, a hand on his gun.
The Rangers gathered at the cottonwood while from the gate, young Toby cried out, “Oo-eee, Mister Bluebelly sure is somethin’. Yes, sir.”
Gandy fumed and gnawed at his lower lip while Clay Poole retrieved his tomahawk. Poole had to give the “hawk” a sharp tug to free it from the tree trunk. He examined the blade, spit on the metal edge, and then scratched at his bushy brown beard.
“Best watch yourself, Snake Eye,” said Poole with renewed respect for the Easterner. “Appears there’s more to that younker than Philadelphia.” He returned the weapon to his belt. Virge Washburn silently concurred with a nod of his head.
“Oh, shut up,” Gandy scowled, and stalked off, trailing the short end of the severed rope.
Chapter Five
F IRE GIVER SUFFERED FOR his people. He suffered so that Tezcatlipoca, the god of darkness, would bring him a vision of what he
Snake Eye stared at the length of rope remaining in his hands. He stared at the Comanche. He lifted his gaze and stared at Ben, and still couldn’t believe what had happened. Clay Poole, standing behind the lieutenant, grimaced and shook his head, and his features flashed an unspoken communication to Virge Washburn. The wiry, bowlegged Ranger recognized the warning and braced himself for the coming storm.
“Lawd, Lawd, Lawd. Ummm-mmmm,” another voice called out. It was young Toby. He stood with his forearms crooked through the wrought-iron gate, black as the iron tracery that framed his face. The nine-year-old shifted his stance and waited. He pitied the lieutenant.
Ben ignored Gandy and slipped the noose off the Comanche brave. Spotted Calf climbed unsteadily to his feet, leery of his benefactor. The Comanche had another surprise coming to him. Ben loosened the slipknot binding the brave’s wrists. With his hands free, Spotted Calf gingerly rubbed his neck. Now he glanced at Snake Eye, wondering if the Ranger was up to some new trick. He saw at a glance that Gandy was dumbstruck. No one had ever interfered with him before. His ugly features turned uglier. His frown wrinkled the livid white scar tissue where the scalp had been sliced away. The rattlesnake in his eye socket seemed ablaze, a trick of reflected sunlight, but effective all the same.
“Come with me,” Ben told the brave, and steered him toward the calaboose.
“The hell!” Gandy muttered. He drew his long-barreled Colt and pointed the revolver at Ben’s chest.
Ben experienced a flash of fear but brought it under control and kept his expression free of concern.
“You won’t shoot. If you did, the general and no doubt Captain Pepper would have you dancing from the end of a rope all to yourself.”
“Might be worth it,” Gandy dryly observed. He kept the octagonal barrel trained on Ben for what seemed an eternity but couldn’t have been more than a minute. Then he lowered the gun and returned it to his holster.
“I am your enemy. Why you do this thing?” Spotted Calf asked in his halting English.
Ben looked from Gandy to the brave and shrugged. “I doubt either of you would understand.” He gestured once more toward the jail. Spotted Calf started down the path, then stopped and faced the white man.
“My people have fled the mountains. Evil is there.”
“What could be worse than you red devils?” Virgil Washburn said, drawing up alongside Gandy.
Spotted Calf took them in at a glance, then focused on Ben. “The warriors of the night.” The Comanche continued on back to the jail with Ben keeping a respectful distance, a hand on his gun.
The Rangers gathered at the cottonwood while from the gate, young Toby cried out, “Oo-eee, Mister Bluebelly sure is somethin’. Yes, sir.”
Gandy fumed and gnawed at his lower lip while Clay Poole retrieved his tomahawk. Poole had to give the “hawk” a sharp tug to free it from the tree trunk. He examined the blade, spit on the metal edge, and then scratched at his bushy brown beard.
“Best watch yourself, Snake Eye,” said Poole with renewed respect for the Easterner. “Appears there’s more to that younker than Philadelphia.” He returned the weapon to his belt. Virge Washburn silently concurred with a nod of his head.
“Oh, shut up,” Gandy scowled, and stalked off, trailing the short end of the severed rope.
Chapter Five
F IRE GIVER SUFFERED FOR his people. He suffered so that Tezcatlipoca, the god of darkness, would bring him a vision of what he
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