Chapter Twenty-Three
The news spread like wildfire.
Tucson was in an uproar. The Henderson ranch had been attacked by an Apache war party, half of it burned to the ground, two men killed and one captured. And—Candice Carter was missing.
Jack was drinking whiskey in the one-room saloon when he heard the first, and he knew that Shozkay had retaliated—obviously tracking the man he had marked to Henderson’s.
Then he heard the second bit of information and his guts froze up inside.
“What do you mean,” he demanded of the Mexican sitting at the other table sharing the news with two friends, “Candice Carter is missing?”
The man looked at him and then turned his back, dismissing him.
Jack was on his feet and flinging him against the wall, his hands on the man’s throat. “I asked you a question, amigo. What do you mean—Candice Carter is missing?”
Frantically the man told the story. Candice had gone to visit Judge Reinhart in a buckboard with one of the High C hands.
That was yesterday. They hadn’t returned, and the Carters had found the wagon, Pedro dead, Candice gone.
They had clearly run into the war party that had attacked the Hendersons, and the Carters were now out scouring the countryside, looking for Candice.
Jack felt his insides cramp.
Candice was beautiful, blond, and a female—which meant she had been spared and taken prisoner. Unless—Usen—unless in the bloodlust of the battle she was mistakenly hurt.
Jack was already out the door and heading for the livery. It no longer mattered what had happened between them the last time they’d met. He’d already buried that encounter in cheap whiskey.
There was still plenty of light left. Keeping the black to a tireless lope, Jack rode out of town. Hours later he found the buckboard.
By then the sun was dipping low past the mountains’ jagged edges, and twilight was settling in. He’d almost missed it. The wagon was lying still and horseless between stands of mesquite and yucca. He approached, reining in.
Jack studied the terrain, squinting hard. The story unfolded. He could see that Candice had fallen, or jumped, out of the wagon, and run a short distance—only to be captured by one of the Apaches. He grimaced.
The thought of Candice at one of the brave’s mercy unnerved him, despite the fact that women and children were rarely harmed and usually well cared for, eventually absorbed into the tribe.
Only adult male prisoners were taken alive to be tortured and killed by the kin of the warrior being avenged.
Now she was the property of the brave who had captured her, to do with as he wished, or give to whom he pleased.
The good news was that the Apaches did not rape.
But if Candice did not obey and behave, she could be severely beaten, even killed, A terrible fear rose up in him, and he breathed a quick prayer to Usen and White Painted Woman for her protection.
He began to call too on all the gans, the Mountain Spirits, for their help.
Then he trotted the black away, toward the mountains, following the tracks of the war party.