Tom fingered the lock of long, scraggly brown hair resting against his shoulder. If given half a chance, that breed would lift their scalps without a second's pause. He shivered, and his hand dropped limply to his side. "Tonight," he told Henry, who was skinning the rabbits he'd caught for supper, and doing it with his normal, unnatural glee. "If you don't take care of that breed tonight, Henry, I will."
Henry didn't glance up. "No rush, Tom. We're still two days ride from Pony. Think of all the fun we could have in two days."
"And you think about all the teeth I'm going to knock down your throat if you don't do what you're told. Tonight, Henry. I mean it."
He
nry pouted. Eventually, grudgingly, he nodded. "All right, all right. But it won't be as good, I tell you. Won't be near as good."
"Maybe. Then again, it'll be worse if he gets loose. He saw you, Henry, and as soon as he wakes up, he's going to see me. He can describe us, for Christ's sake!"
"So what? Who's he going to tell, Tom? And even if he did, who'd believe a breed anyway?"
"Maybe nobody. But it's a chance I won't take." Again, Tom fingered the greasy hair that fringed his shoulder. Again, he suppressed a shudder—but just barely. "Not only that, but... shit, Henry, the guy's a breed. He'd track us to hell and back."
Henry scowled. "You think he can track that good? I don't. We've been covering our prints all along, and no one's found us yet."
"Yet," Tom agreed. "Then again, who's looking?" Henry opened his mouth to answer, but Tom overrode him. "She don't count. That prissy little thing would get lost following her own trail. In fact, I figure she got lost right off, and probably gave up days ago. Trust me, Henry, this fella wouldn't give up so easy, and if he wanted to find us, he would. I don't know how I know it, I just do. Hunting and scalping and tracking are in their blood. Injun's are born with it, like copper skin and savage tempers. Like you said, we're two days out of Pony. We don't want to screw things up now."
"All right, all right. I said I'd do it tonight, Tom," Henry said, and turned his attention back to the rabbits he was skinning with the knife he'd taken off the breed. It was a nice, big knife; it felt real good in his big, capable hand. He turned it this way and that, admiring the way the carved hilt warmed to his palm, the way the muted sunlight glinted off the long, thick, razorsharp blade.
Mesmerized, he wondered if it would cut through copper skin as easily as it cut through the rabbit's hide. Well, he'd know soon enough. Tom said it had to be done tonight, and Henry was starting to think that maybe that wasn't such a bad idea after all. He was curious to see if a breed's blood was red. He'd heard it was so, but he was curious. He wanted to see for himself. Tonight, he would.
Lord, was this exciting! This was fun.
Chapter 21
"I said tonight, Henry. Christ, the way you're going at it, it'll take a week for you to kill that breed off."
"Will not. And I won't rush. Pa always said if a man's to do a job, he should take his time and do it right. I aim to do this Injun up right."
"Yeah, but..."
The voices faded in Amanda's ears, overridden by the loud, erratic slamming of her heart. Her breath sawed in and out, stinging her lungs. The pistol she clutched to her chest felt cold and solid... and so damn useless! Her fingers were trembling too badly for her to shoot with any degree of accuracy even if she knew how to, which she didn't.
She had found them. Dear God, she'd done it! She didn't know how, didn't really care. The fact was, she'd done it. That was the good news. The bad news was, there wasn't one kidnapper, there were two. The very bad news was, they had Jake—what was he doing here?—and the situation didn't look promising.
Amanda stifled a hysterical hiccup in her throat when she realized her fingers weren't the only things trembling. Her entire body was shaking like a leaf! The quivers started on the inside—cold and gnawing in the pit of her stomach—and worked their way out with alarming speed. Each word that passed between the two men chipped at what little courage she'd been able to muster. Now, after less than ten minutes of listening, her bravado was slipping, dominated by her fear for Jake, for herself, and for Roger Thornton Bannister III, whom she'd caught only brief glimpses of so far.
Sweat beaded on her upper lip and brow. Beneath her cloak and dress she felt her linen chemise cling damply to her skin. Her blood surged through her veins like ice water. The feelings were not caused by the chilly breeze that steamed the breath in front of her face. No, no, they were caused by fright—sharp and cutting and more intense than anything she'd felt in her life.
The gritty bark of a thick Ponderosa pine bit into her back as she molded herself up hard against it. Her knees felt watery and weak, and they were threatening to buckle. Sheer force of will kept her erect. That, and knowing that if she collapsed now, there would be no one to save Jake. No one to get Roger away from those two crazy men.
Roger. The surge of guilt came out of nowhere; it hit Amanda like a fist to the jaw. The boy was now tied to a tree on the border of the clearing, where the circle of firelight barely reached. She'd spotted him accidentally, while trying to discern the safest route down the hill, a way to approach the kidnappers' camp unnoticed.
What she'd found instead was an unconscious Roger Thornton Bannister III. The child was barely recognizable; Amanda had had to look twice, closely, to be sure it was him. Even now she remembered how worn and haggard Roger had looked. His small body had looked noticeably thinner as it slumped against the tree he'd been bound to. A gag, as filthy as the child it was tied to, had been secured around his mouth.
Until that moment Amanda hadn't been overly concerned about how Roger had fared with his kidnappers. And then the firelight had touched his dirty, tear-streaked face... and the sight had cut her like a knife. In that split second she'd taken a quick, critical look at herself, and she was ashamed with what she'd seen. Dear God, when had she become so cold? So uncaring? When had money begun to mean so much to her?
It was a difficult thing to admit, even to herself, but the salary Edward Bannister was going to pay her was the only reason Amanda had searched for Roger with such a vengeance. Oh, yes, she'd been concerned about the boy's safety—but not overly concerned. She'd been more concerned with whether or not Edward Bannister would still pay her in full should she deliver a child who sported a few bruises.
Her indifference toward Roger was totally selfish. It didn't matter that the boy was a monster. It didn't matter that he'd taken pleasure in aggravating her at every turn. He was a child, for God's sake! Spoiled and willful and obstinate beyond reason, yes, but a child all the same. There was no excuse for her callousness. Shame was only one of the emotions warring inside of her, but it was the strongest.
Henry Rafferty's voice drifted up to her again. His tone was low, whiny, laced with the beginning of anger. His words cut into Amanda's thoughts like a knife slicing through butter.
"One more piece, Tom. Just another inch or two. Hell, he isn't really even bleeding yet."
"And how much skin do you plan to slice off him before he really bleeds, Henry? That's my question."