Part 1 (2/2)

Jon Red Feather was next to him, investigating the body. ”No Comanche did this,” he said.

Jamie frowned at him.

”Then what do you think? A band of Cheyenne?

Maybe a wandering tribe of Minutes. We're too far south for it to be the Sioux”--” I promise you, Lieutenant, no self-respecting Sioux would ever do such a careless job. And the Comanche are warriors, too. They learn from an early age how to lift the hair.”

”Then what?” Jamie demanded impatiently. His blood run cold as he realized that Jon was insinuating that it hadn't been Indians who had made this heinous attack. It wasn't possible, he told himself. No white man could have killed and mutilated his own kind so savagely.

”Hey, Lieutenant!” Charlie Forbes called to him. Jamie swung around.

Forbes was on the ground beside one of the dead men, an old-timer with silver-gray whiskers. ”What is it, Charlie?”

”Looks like this one was. .h.i.t by an arrow, tried to rise and got shot with a bullet, right in the heart.”

He could feel Jon standing behind him. Jamie adjusted his plumed hat and twisted his jaw.

”Don't try to tell me the Comanche don't have rifles.”

”h.e.l.l, I'm not going to tell you that. They get them from the Comancberos--the Comancheros will sell rifles to anyone.

Of course, you've got to bear in mind that the Comancheros do buy them from your people.”

Jamie didn't say anything. He stepped past Jon and stared at the one wagon that seemed to have had little damage done to it. He thought he heard something.

He had to be imagining things. The job here had been very thorough.

Still, he watched the wagon as he straightened his back, trying to get out all the little cricks and pains. He felt queasy about this thing.

And he hadn't felt queasy about anything in quite some time.

He'd grown up on bloodshed. Before he had been twenty, his sister-in-law had been slain by Kansas jay hawkers Then war had been declared, and though he had fought in a decent regiment under the command of John Hunt Morgan, he had never been able to escape the horror of the border war.

From his brother Cole he had learned that the Missouri bushwhackers could behave every bit as monstrously as the jay hawkers And a Southern boy called Little Archie Clements had gone around doing a fair bit of scalping in his day. He and his men had stripped down men in blue and shot them without thought, and when they'd finished with the killing they'd gone on to scalping.

He had no right to think that the Indians were any more vicious than the white men. No right at all.

He exhaled slowly. Knowing that the Southern bushwhackers had been every bit as bad as the Northern jay hawkers was one of the reasons he was able to wear this uniform now. A blue cavalry uniform, decorated in blue trim, with a cavalry officer's sword at his side. He didn't carry a military-issue rifle, though. Through four years of civil conflict he had worn his Colts, and he wore them to this day.

His eyes narrowed suddenly. He could have sworn that something in the wagon had moved.

He glanced over his shoulder. Jon was behind him. Jon nodded, aware instantly of Jamie's suspicions. He circled around while Jamie headed straight for the opening at the rear.

He looked in. For a second he could see only shadows in the dim light.

Then things took form. There were two bunks in the wagon. Ironically, they were neat and all made up-- with the sheets tucked in, the blankets folded back at an inviting angle and the pillows plumped up. Beyond the bunks were trunks and boxes. ~Everything seemed to be in perfect order.

But it wasn't. He felt just a flicker of movement again. He didn't know if he really saw it or if he felt it, but all his senses were on edge.

He hadn't worked in Indian country and spent all this time with Jon Red Feather not to have learned something of his senses. There was someone near. He could feel it in his gut, and he could feel it at the nape of his neck, and he could feel it all the way down his spine. Someone was very near.

”Come on out of there,” he said softly.

”Come on, now. We don't want to hurt anyone here, we just want you to come on ont.”

The movement had ceased.

Jon was moving up toward the front of the wagon. The horses, still smelling smoke, whinnied and nickered nervously.

Jamie leaped to the floor of the wagon.

His eyes flickered to the left bunk. There was a long, soft white gown lain out by the side. It was sleeveless, lowbodiced and lacy, a woman's nightgown, he thought. And a pretty piece for the dustiness of the road.

It did belong with the perfectly made and inviting beds, but it didn't really belong on a wagon train. Was she alive? Had she been some young man's bride? He hadn't seen a woman's corpse, not yet, but then his men were still moving among the bodies.

”Is anyone in here?” he said, moving past the bunks. There were boxes and trunks everywhere. There was a coffeepot, cast down as if someone had been about to use it. There was a frying pan in the middle of the floor, too. He paused, crouching on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet, looking at the floor.

Coffee was spilled everywhere.

”Come on out now,” he said softly.

”It's all right, come on out.”

He kept moving inward. The shadows in the wagon made it difficult to see.

There seemed to be a swirl of soft mauve taffeta, fringed in black lace, set in a heap before him. He reached down carefully, hoping he hadn't come upon another corpse.

He touched a body. He touched warmth. He moved his hand, and it was filled with fullness and living warmth.

Instinctively his fingers curled over the full, firm ripeness of a woman's breast. He could feel the shape and weight and the tautness of the nipple with his palm right through the taffeta.

She was warm, but very still. Sweet Jesus, let her be alive, he thought, still stunned by the contact his fingers had made.

She was alive. Beyond a doubt, she was alive. She burst from her hiding place with a wicked scream of terror and fury. Startled, he moved back.

He had been prepared for danger, for a wounded Comanche, but when he had touched the softness and striking femininity of her form, he had relaxed his guard.

Foolish move.

He backed away, but she screamed again, high and shrill and desperate, a sound like that of a wounded animal. He started to reach for his Colt, but his hand fell quickly as he reminded himself that it was just a woman. A small, delicate woman.

”Ma'am” -- She cast herself upon him with a vengeance, pitting her body against his with a startling ferocity and strength.

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