1858, Texas
Sam was getting tired of death.
He pulled Breeze up. The horse tossed his head and sidestepped a protest. Taking a draw on his cigarette, Sam surveyed the scene below the rise. Whether or not he was getting tired of death didnât seem to matter. It haunted him from one day to the next. He blew out a long stream of smoke. Today it lay spread across the hollow before him in a perfect example of how miserable people could be to one another.
The burnt-out shells of two wagons lay tipped on their sides in a loosely stacked V. Charred black, they were just more skeletons on a landscape used to absorbing the death of hope.
From where he sat, Sam could see two bodies bloating in the June heat. Their colorful serapes blazed red and yellow in the bright sunshine. The serapes and state of the bodies probably meant the attack had come at dawn. June nights could still be cool.
At least the wind blew from his back, sparing him the stench of the decomposing bodies, but he didnât need the wind to remind him what he was missing. The memory of that particular odor lingered in his memory, etched there in a moment that had defined his whole life.
Breeze tossed his head. He wasnât a fan of death either.
Sam kept the reins taut. Wagons like these usually meant women. Maybe children. He wasnât in the mood to bury women and children. Especially on the first nice day heâd seen in a week of downpours. The air was hot and clear without the humidity that had plagued everything unmercifully the last few days. Above him the sky stretched endlessly in a crisp blue. It was a day that lent itself to thinking of picnics by the lake and flirting with a pretty girl. The kind of day that made a man realize all heâd given up.
It wasnât a day for funerals.
He urged Breeze forward. The horse tossed his head again and backed up a step instead. Beside him, Kell whined and lagged back. Sam couldnât blame the horse or the dog. Between the stench and the flies there wasnât much to draw a body forward, but if he didnât investigate the area, his conscience would gnaw him raw. If there had been women, their kin would want to know their fate. And he would need to bury them. He didnât leave women and children to the care of carrion eaters.
âStay, Kell.â
Kell whined again but didnât insist like he would if they were talking a big body of water or a pot of stew. Kell had a real liking for both and couldnât be trusted to hold a command when faced with either.
Breezeâs hooves sounded a steady clop as he reluctantly headed down the slope. Sam unfastened the strap locking his shotgun in its sheath, the little hairs on the back of his neck twitching.
The closer Sam got to the wagons, the worse the stench of smoke, death and hope-gone-wrong became. A flare of pink material protruding from under one of the wagons caught his eye. There had been women. He set his teeth and flicked his smoke to the side. Hell.
A couple more bodies became visible as he guided Breeze to the right of the carnage. All male, at least. That made four total. Three men and a boy who looked too young to pick up a razor. A kid trying to be a man meeting his end way too early. Sam shook his head as he dismounted, dropping the reins to the ground. Damn.
He patted the sorrelâs neck. âWait here, Breeze.â
Behind him Kell yipped. Sam motioned him to stay and surveyed the hard-packed dirt for tracks. Nothing worth studying had made an imprint. He turned his attention to the rest of the campsite.
Open trunks listed against the interior of one of the wagons. The contents were strewn about in an array of color. A white glove fluttered on a stand of grass as he passed. He stepped over the charred remnants of a red skirt crumpled in the dirt in an obscene splash of gaiety.
The attackers had to have been white. Indians wouldnât have wasted such a valuable prize. Their women might not wear the dresses, but they would make use of the beautiful material. Indians didnât waste much.
He knelt and fingered the trim on the skirt hem, wondering against his will what had happened to the owner, what sheâd suffered, might still be suffering. Hell, he wished his thoughts didnât always go there. A slight rasp interrupted the silence. Kell growled and stalked forward. Sam dropped his hand to the butt of his revolver. The warm wood fit comfortably into his grip.
âCome on out. Now.â
The stillness was absolute in the wake of his order. The noise didnât have to have been made by a human. Death always drew carrion, but every hair on the back of his neck said someone was hiding in the wreckage. He stood slowly, pulling his revolver. Had someone survived the massacre? Had the robbers left one of their own behind? Ambush was a tried and true tactic of doubling up the income produced by a raid. Leave the scene looking like itâd been picked over, hide in the surrounding countryside and then swoop down on anyone who came along to investigate.