Susan Amarillas - Wyoming Renegade

A. J. Gibson.

Josh paced the length of the hotel room. Eight by ten, it was either three long steps or four short ones from the gingham-covered window to the walnut bureau on the opposite wall. He’d been pacing ever since he slammed in here about an hour ago.

A dozen times he’d started out the door, bent on going to her room, demanding to know what she knew, demanding to know where the hell Gibson had gone.

He’d stopped every single time, because there was no way, no easy way, no certain way, to get the information he wanted.

It hardly seemed likely he could go there, bang on the door and say, “Pardon me, but would you mind telling me where David Gibson is? Why? Oh, so I can kill him, of course.”

Yeah, that was a surefire way to get what he wanted, what he desperately needed to fulfill his debt of honor, to finish this bloody business and go home.

He sank down onto the bed, the coiled springs creaking in protest. His fingers absently traced the threads on the brightly colored patches of the quilt.

Feet on the floor, knees bent, he fell back on the bed. His eyes slammed shut. In the next motion, he surged to his feet, unable to remain still. He paced over to the window, his boots making a hollow thud on the pine floor, his spurs adding to the scarred surface.

Leaning one shoulder against the white wood framing, he stood very still, thinking about the men who’d murdered his sister.

In a heartbeat, the scene flashed in his mind. He could see Mourning Dove’s lifeless body, broken, contorted, while blood pooled under her. Rage had filled him, turning him hard and cold. Someone would pay for this atrocity. He would see justice served. No white man’s court would ever bring a white man to trial for killing an Indian, for killing three Indians, he corrected. There were others dead that day besides his sister.

But there’d been survivors, enough to tell him the descriptions of the men who’d done this, enough to start him on the path to revenge. That day, as they’d buried the dead, he’d pledged to the others that he would not rest until justice was served.

He was nearly done, finished with his grisly task. For Josh Colter was not a murderer, not a man who resorted easily to violence. He was a man who believed in honor and family—a man willing to do whatever it took to preserve both.

Now he had no family. Mourning Dove had been the last. He had the extended family of the Crow, but it was not the same. His family, his mother and father were gone years ago, and now so was his sister.

He felt alone, bone-chilling alone. Maybe it was that feeling of being alone that drove him, as much as the death of his sister, for he, too, had been robbed, robbed of family, robbed of someone to care about him and for him to care about.

He stared out the window, over the rooftops to the vast grassland beyond, grass greening with the promise of summer sun and gentle rain. Fifty years ago there would have been herds of buffalo roaming those hills, now there was cattle.

Things had changed, and for the Indian they had changed for the worse. Confined to reservations, their days of being lords of the plains were over. The government said it was for their own good. For the government’s good was more like it. No blankets, no supplies, no dignity. Only lies and empty promises from corrupt Indian agents.

It was no wonder that small groups of Indians from all the tribes were slipping off reservations, returning to the hills or fleeing over the border to Canada. That’s what Mourning Dove and her husband, Blue Crow, had been doing that day they’d stopped to camp on Josh’s land. He wished they’d been together all the time, but Mourning Dove had been born later to Josh’s mother and her new husband. She knew only the Indian world.

He’d welcomed their small band of twenty. He’d given them food and supplies and tried to convince them to stay permanently with him. It wasn’t the first time he’d offered, but like all the other times, they’d refused. He knew they saw it as charity, and it was not what they wanted. A man had his pride, Josh knew that well.

He straightened and paced over to the stove, cold and lifeless, waiting for someone to kindle the fire and bring it to life again.

He wished he could bring his younger sister back to life as easily. That rage was pulling in tighter, threatening to choke the breath out of him. Arms braced on the wall, he let his chin drop to his chest. Breathe. Slow. Again. Again. Again. The rage receded to a more manageable level.

He stood like that for a long time, head down, arms braced, fingers digging into the cool white plaster walls while that last day played itself over in his mind as though he could find some answer.

Guilt and regret rolled and spiraled inside him until he could no longer separate the two. He should never have left them that night, but no, he had had a business meeting early the next morning. He had needed to do some paperwork, get things in order before he went into town.

You had no way of knowing, the voice of reason entreated for what must have been the millionth time, and it was true. He knew it was true. Yet somewhere deep inside, where logic didn’t reach, somewhere close to the heart and soul of him, he felt he should have known, should have guessed. Dammit, he should have been there. They had been on his land. He’d promised them food and safety and he’d failed. His sister was dead because of it.

Beautiful little Mourning Dove, she had been only eighteen. Newly married, she had been looking forward to having a family—to making Josh an uncle, which to the Crow was the same as being a father.

Father, yeah, Josh would have liked that.

But there’d be no children now.

Josh was alone in the world.

It seemed, sometimes, as though he’d always been alone. It hadn’t been easy living in two worlds, speaking two languages, being a half-breed.

His parents had lived together on the ranch until he was nine, then his mother had chosen to return to her people. Her request hadn’t come as a surprise to Hank Colter. Looking back on it, Josh figured his father must have seen it coming for a long time.

She hadn’t been happy in the white man’s world. She loved them both but could not stay, it was that simple.

It was the only time Josh had ever seen his father cry, that day when he’d given his mother her freedom to go. He had loved her enough to let her go. In some ways, perhaps, it was the greatest love of all.

They had explained it all carefully to Josh. He would stay with his father, be educated in the white man’s world, take his place in that society.

Some had made comments about old Hank Colter’s half-breed son not being up to the job of running one of the largest ranches in Montana. Josh had proved them wrong. He’d worked hard, damned hard, and had earned his place in the community. To do less would be to let his parents down and that he wouldn’t do. Family was everything.

So that brought him full circle. He’d taken an oath, a pledge. His vow would be complete when he found and killed David Gibson.

His gaze drifted toward the closed door to his room. Two doors away a woman had the answers he was seeking.

“Okay, Colter, what now?” He spoke to the empty room.

There weren’t many options—asking, begging, threatening. None of those sat well with him. Then another idea flashed in his mind. It was an idea as old as time.

Speaking of time…he checked his pocket watch. Seven forty-five. He closed the lid with a snap.

Scooping up several handfuls of water, he splashed his face, relishing the cool cleansing of the chilled water as it cascaded down his face, saturating his collar. He made a quick job of shaving and running a brush through his hair. He stripped off his shirt and retrieved the last clean one from his saddlebags.