Call of the White Wolf Read online

  Raven was in charge and always had been, even if these fools refused to acknowledge the fact. The day would come when he no longer needed any of these ruffians, and he’d turn on them as mercilessly as they turned on their own kind to appease their ravenous greed for money.

  While the four men hobbled barefoot into the creek, without bothering to doff their clothes, Raven started a small campfire to brew the coffee the men insisted they couldn’t start the day without. Although Raven needed little help in capturing the woman and children, he did need these ruffians to be clearheaded enough to round up the livestock. Now that he’d destroyed the whiskey supply, he could keep these hooligans sober until they traded the captives for gold and ammunition.

  By midafternoon, the gang would be transporting their captives southeast toward the Comanchero encampment. Raven smiled in satisfaction. The Apache haunt in the Canyon of the Sun would be purified, once more untainted by whites. The canyon belonged to the gods, and Raven had made his own sacrifice to them recently. White Wolf was buried there, and Raven rested easier knowing his blood brother would never again stand between him and Gray Eagle.

  John wasn’t surprised by the attention he received when he rode Pie down the main street of Rambler Springs. The piebald stallion had become his trademark while he traveled through Arizona Territory. People identified his horse with his widespread reputation as a marshal and part-time bounty hunter. Although he was recognized on sight, very few people spoke to him, unless he approached them directly. No one was particularly eager to associate with him; it was as if the renegade bandits he tracked somehow tainted him.

  He supposed townsfolk feared that he’d attract as much trouble as he was hired to alleviate. Most folks wanted the territory cleared of riffraff, but they wanted it done in the wilds, away from their homes, business establishments and families. In short, John was an outsider who was tolerated because of the necessary service he provided for civilized society.

  During the month he’d spent in Paradise Valley, he’d grown accustomed to being accepted and wanted by Tara and the children. Now people were giving him a wide berth again, and those feelings of isolation, even in a crowd, were more pronounced than ever.

  Dismounting, John nodded a greeting to two older women who lingered on the boardwalk. They ducked their heads and scurried off as if the devil himself were hot on their heels. Typical, he thought sourly.

  Leaving Pie tied to the hitching post, John strode toward the telegraph office. The clerk smiled nervously, jotted down the message, took John’s money, then quickly turned away.

  John shook his head in dismay as he exited the office. He’d grown so accustomed to being wanted and accepted in Paradise Valley, so accustomed to the children’s constant chatter, that it was going to take time to settle back into his old routine, where silence was the rule.

  His next stop was the bank. He arranged for the deposit of cash—which his supervisor would be sending, at his request—to be placed in Tara’s account. He completed the transaction within a few minutes, and with very little conversation on the bank employee’s part.

  John returned to the boardwalk, then glanced this way and that. When he spotted the general store, he strode off to tend to his next task.

  “I need traveling provisions and…er, a dress,” John told the shopkeeper self-consciously.

  The bald-headed proprietor’s eyebrows shot up like exclamation marks. “A dress?” he parroted in disbelief.

  John had never purchased a dress in his entire life and he suddenly felt inept, especially when the man kept looking at him as if he was loco.

  “Er…you’re the one they call Wolfe, aren’t you?” Henry Prague asked warily.

  John nodded. “Yes, but I still need a dress.”

  Henry Prague gestured toward the rack of gowns in the corner of the store. “Maybe I should call Mama to help you with your selection.”

  While Henry scuttled off to summon whoever Mama was, John ambled over to the rack. He glanced over his shoulder when he heard approaching footsteps. He appraised the thin, gray-haired woman who scrutinized him through her wire-rim spectacles.

  “Henry says you’re in need of a dress, Mr. Wolfe. My name is Wilma Prague. May I help you find what you’re looking for?”

  John could tell the woman was dying of curiosity. He decided, there and then, that it might benefit Tara if folks in town knew she was a friend. If his connection to Tara and the children deterred troublemakers from hassling her, then all the better.

  “Irish—that is, Tara Flannigan is a friend of mine. I want to buy her a new dress to return her kindness to me,” he explained.

  Wilma’s pale blue eyes widened in surprise. “You know Tara?”

  John nodded. “She treated my injuries and I want to repay her with a gift.”

  “Such a sweet girl,” Wilma replied, quickly warming to the safe topic. “She’s been cleaning house for Henry and me since she arrived in the area a couple of years back. I’m grateful that she’s a hard worker. I’m so busy with the store that I don’t have much time to tend our house.”

  John’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. Tara had never mentioned her job. He assumed she made her weekly ride into town to sell eggs and restock supplies. “She cleans house for you?” he repeated stupidly.

  “Oh, yes,” Wilma replied. “Tara also cleans for Corrine and Thomas Denton, who run the best restaurant in town. Corrine is as busy as I am. And of course, Tara spiffies up the church while she’s in town, too.”

  Good gad, didn’t that woman have enough to do without taking more jobs in town? John thought it over for a moment and realized that sounded exactly like Tara, who worked tirelessly to ensure the orphans had food on the table and clothes on their backs.

  He turned his attention to the rack of gowns. “I’ve decided I want two gowns instead of just one. I’ll need all the proper feminine paraphernalia to go along with them.”

  Wilma blushed slightly, but she chattered about colors and styles while she thumbed through the dresses on the rack. John realized there was at least one person in town who wasn’t afraid to strike up a conversation with him. Wilma Prague’s endless chatter could rival Flora’s.

  “Here’s a dress that should fit Tara nicely,” Wilma said as she held up the garment for his approval.

  The gown was all that was sensible and practical for a female who spent her time in town working fiendishly to clean houses for extra money and who never said a peep to anyone about her part-time jobs. John decided the blue calico gown was acceptable, but his second purchase wasn’t going to be the least bit practical. It was going to be anything but! Something feminine and frilly and dazzling. Something that complemented Tara’s stunning beauty.

  Pensively, he scanned the rack, then reached over to pluck up a deep green gown that would accentuate the startling color of her eyes. True, the gown dipped daringly at the neckline and tucked in neatly at the waist, but John wanted to give Tara something spectacular. As spectacular, at least, as anything that could be found in this small frontier community.

  “I’ll take this one, too,” he announced.

  “You have excellent taste, Mr. Wolfe,” Wilma exclaimed. “Tara will look stunning in this gown. The community founders are planning a picnic and street dance next month. I’m sure your friend won’t be wanting for dance partners when she arrives in this splendid dress. In fact, there are several young bachelors in town who’ve asked after her. I’m afraid I don’t know too much about her because I’m usually working while she’s cleaning, so we don’t have much time to chat. I think she has one or two younger brothers or sisters living with her, isn’t that right?”

  John wasn’t about to divulge information Tara didn’t want spread around town. If the community had a grapevine, he suspected Wilma never hesitated to send tidbits down the line. Rather than answer the question, he nodded noncommittally.

  The prospect of eager suitors following on Tara’s heels derailed John’s train of thought. Worse, an od
d knot coiled tightly in his belly. Was jealousy nipping at him? He couldn’t be sure because he’d never experienced the possessive sensation before. Well, whatever the source of the unpleasant feeling, he simply had to get over it, because he knew another man would eventually take his place in Tara’s arms. John didn’t have to like the idea—which he sure as hell didn’t—but he couldn’t offer her promises that another man might be able to fulfill. Still…

  “I’ll wrap up the gowns and necessary undergarments while Henry helps you gather your supplies,” Wilma said, jostling him from his disturbing thoughts.

  Willfully, John turned his mind to gathering travel provisions, and tried very hard not to visualize Tara whirling beneath the streetlights, dancing in the arms of another man, wearing the seductive gown John had purchased for her.

  “When Tara comes to town, please see that she receives the gifts,” he called after Wilma.

  “Certainly, Mr. Wolfe. It will be my pleasure.”

  Several minutes later, John exited the store with an armload of supplies. He took time packing his saddlebags, then patted Pie’s sleek neck and aimed himself toward the town marshal’s office for a briefing on criminal activity in the area.

  John nodded a greeting to the leathery-faced marshal sprawled negligently in his chair there, booted feet propped against the edge of the scarred desk.

  “Marshal Wolfe, I see you finally made it to town.” Tom Glasco hauled himself to his feet, then extended his hand. “What brings you to this part of the country? Not to track the worst desperadoes in the territory, I hope.”

  “I thought maybe you could answer that,” John replied as he shook hands with the stout lawman, who sported a handlebar mustache. John never could figure out why whites bothered with that ridiculous facial hair ornamentation. But then Apaches—who, unlike other tribes, didn’t even bother smearing on war paint—had raised him, so what the hell did he know?

  “Last I heard, the home office in Prescott had you tailing a bunch of wild Indians that have been playing havoc with ranchers and travelers down Tucson way.”

  “Actually, they’re white outlaws masquerading as Indians,” John stated.

  Tom’s bushy brows jackknifed. “Well, I’ll be damned. Hadn’t heard that. How’d you figure that out?”

  “Footprints.”

  “Huh?” Tom frowned, bemused.

  “Indians have an entirely different way of walking than whites,” he elaborated. “Even wearing moccasins, a white man leaves a distinct indentation with his footprint. Indians balance their weight differently.”

  “Damn, how do you know so much about Indians, Wolfe?” Tom asked curiously.

  John shrugged evasively. He wasn’t going to get into that. Only one white person knew his carefully guarded secret, and that was Irish. Tom Glasco wasn’t going to be privy to that information.

  Tom plunked into his creaky chair again and stroked his mustache thoughtfully. “Well, I don’t recall hearing any reports about a band of marauding Indians stirring up trouble in these parts. The only problem we’ve had lately is an incident involving the wagon hauling supplies to the general store. That happened a couple of days ago. The driver and his assistant stopped under a shade tree to rest a bit during the trip. They claimed they dozed off awhile and they were awakened to the sound of their team of horses and wagon thundering down the trail like they’d been spooked.”

  John frowned curiously and waited for Tom to continue.

  “Somebody tied a saddle horse behind the wagon, but instead of climbing onto the seat, the sneaky bastard wedged himself between the team of horses so no one could get a clear shot at him. The driver and shotgun rider saw nothing but a dingy serape flapping in the wind and the top of a sombrero above the horses’ withers. Some thieving Mexican, I reckon. Whoever he was, he made off with the horses and wagon, and the two men had to take a ten-mile hike into town.”

  Prickly sensations skittered across John’s skin. The techniques used to take the driver and shotgun rider by surprise and make it difficult to get off a shot had Apache cunning written all over them. John knew perfectly well that Raven was in cahoots with a Mexican who went by the name Juan Drego. Had one of the gang members stolen the wagon? Had Raven disguised himself as a Mexican?

  The apprehensive premonition that Raven was involved intensified with each passing second. “Did the driver and his assistant give a description of the horse that was tied behind the wagon?” John asked anxiously.

  Tom frowned in thought and stroked his mustache. “Don’t recall. Let me get the report and have a look-see.” He rummaged through his desk to retrieve the paperwork. “Yep, here it is. Paint pinto with yellow, white and black markings. No saddle, just some kind of blanket strapped around its girth. ‘Kinda like you see on an Indian pony,’ the driver said.”

  John felt as if he’d been gut-punched. Raven…Damn it, had he returned to scout out Paradise Canyon, ensure that John had perished after the confrontation? John didn’t like the possibility of Raven being anywhere near Tara and the children. But if his gut instincts were correct, it was Raven, disguised as a Mexican, who’d stolen the delivery wagon.

  “I gotta go,” John muttered, wheeling toward the door.

  “Something wrong, Marshal Wolfe?” Tom called after him.

  There was definitely something wrong, John mused as he sprinted out the door without bothering to reply. The hair on the back of his neck was standing on end, and his sixth sense was urging him to make a beeline back to Paradise Valley to reassure himself that Tara and the children were all right.

  Although John had intended to take time to sort through the Wanted posters to see if Tara might’ve been a murder suspect in Texas, he was compelled to leave town in a flaming rush. The possibility of Raven and that gang of cutthroats preying on Tara and the children terrified him.

  John rode hell-for-leather, demanding all that the piebald stallion had to give. He was thankful—and not for the first time—that Pie possessed impressive stamina, speed and endurance. There had been many a time that John credited Pie with saving his hide. The reliable steed made the three-mile jaunt from town to the canyon rim with all the haste John demanded of him.

  Although the stallion was lathered with sweat and breathing heavily, John knew Pie had reached his second wind. Surefooted, the horse moved quickly down the winding path toward the canyon floor. Even before John had a clear view of the cabin and barn, he felt the eerie silence and emptiness closing in around him, making it impossible to breathe normally. His heart began pounding ninety miles a minute.

  “Damn him to eternal hell!” John scowled furiously when he rode into the clearing to confirm his worst fears. There was no sign of life or activity. There were no grazing sheep, no horses penned in the corral, only a few chickens pecking the grass. The family’s milk cow was nowhere to be seen.

  John bounded from the saddle and ran toward the cabin. He bellowed Tara’s name, but was met with agonizing silence.

  The tormenting sight that met him at the front door had his heart somersaulting around his chest. A stream of colorful obscenities flew from his lips as he scanned the kitchen and dining area. The place had been ransacked. Chairs were overturned. Plates and food littered the floor like casualties of war. The table—where he’d taken his meals this past month, while listening to the incessant chatter of children and feeling like an integral part of this close-knit family—lay on its side.

  Everywhere he looked he noted the signs of unleashed force—and futile resistance. The torturous thought caused another raft of foul curses to fly off his tongue.

  Panting for breath, his heart hammering forcefully against his ribs, John battled the onslaught of emotion that left him staggering for balance. He could visualize with vivid clarity the ruffians staging a surprise attack on this unsuspecting family. No doubt the desperadoes had waited until the family gathered for the midday meal before laying siege to the cabin.

  John had never allowed his job to become personal in the pa
st, hadn’t permitted himself to dwell on the depths of horror and fear the victims of raids endured. But now his imagination ran rampant as he realized what Tara and the children must have felt when the bandits descended on them like a sinister plague.

  He could visualize the fear in little Flora’s enormous brown eyes, feel the terror Maureen must have experienced. And the boys, he mused, a sick feeling twisting his gut. He knew those boys who were struggling to become men would feel responsible for protecting the family. Even Derek, who was still recovering from injury, would’ve fought back, despite his pain.

  And Tara…John wobbled unsteadily on his feet. He braced his hand against the wall for additional support when a fierce emotion nearly drove him to his knees. He instantly recalled how Tara had faced down the gang of outlaws who’d intruded in the canyon two weeks earlier. She’d been prepared to defend John with her own life because he was still on the mend. He knew that, when it came to those children, Tara was as protective as a mother grizzly. Despite the possibility of personal injury, or even death, Tara would defend the children against the cruel men who rode with Raven.

  That unsettling thought sent alarm ricocheting through him. John scanned the area for signs of blood…and nearly collapsed in tormented frustration when he noticed the dried red droplets on the floor. His heart ceased beating for a moment. His imagination ran wild, assuming the worst.

  “Damn it to hell,” John snarled as he wheeled toward the door.

  He had to get a grip on himself or he’d be of no use to anyone. He had to calm down and think! He was a one-man posse. He was Tara and the children’s one and only hope of rescue. If he didn’t get his head on straight he’d have five more lives weighing down his overburdened conscience. If he failed on this foray, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself—wouldn’t want to live, period!

  Forcing himself to concentrate—and that was practically impossible when emotions kept whirling through him like the devastating winds of a cyclone—John stormed outside. Suddenly he couldn’t seem to remember the usual procedures he followed to locate footprints and determine the direction the outlaws had taken to elude capture. He couldn’t think past the distracting emotions that he’d never before had to battle during his crusades for justice. His procedures had always been clear-cut, precise and methodical. He’d done his job thoroughly, capably—like a well-oiled machine. Now his feelings for Tara and the children kept clogging his thought processes, leaving him cold and shaking with gut-wrenching fear.