Nathan Stark, Army Scout Read online

  The man shrugged. ’Just askin’, is all, Mister . . . ?”

  “Stark. Nathan Stark.” He put his hand out and the man shook. “This is Cullen Jefferson.”

  “John Donaldson,” the man said with a glance of acknowledgment at Cullen. “You lookin’ to sell these animals?”

  Nathan gave a quick nod. “These five, yeah.” He pointed at the Creek ponies. “But I want them well taken care of. They can’t help who owned ’em,” he added pointedly.

  Donaldson nodded his understanding. “True. I’ll see to ’em myself. Make sure they all get some good grain and a rubdown. Finish it off with a cool drink of water and a clean stall. Almost as good as a room over to the hotel.”

  Nathan handed Buck’s reins to Donaldson, and Cullen handed his over, as well.

  “Don’t bother untying them.” Donaldson nodded toward the string of ponies as he took both leather leads. “I’ll take care of things.” He headed for the door.

  “I’ll take off for the hotel, Nate,” Cullen said. “Lucky Strike all right with you?”

  Nathan nodded. “Sure. Go on. I’ll finish up here and see you in a bit.”

  Nathan followed Donaldson into the livery, helping him separate the horses and putting them in clean vacant stalls. Despite what Donaldson had said about taking care of everything, Nathan wanted to see for himself that Buck was tended to properly, along with Cullen’s horse.

  He removed his saddlebags from Buck and slung them over his shoulder, then took the Winchester in hand. Giving the buckskin a weary pat, he started for the door and then stopped. “Got any idea where we might get a decent meal at this time of night?”

  Donaldson efficiently stripped the second pony of its colorful blanket, laying it over the partition between the stalls. The sparse gear, consisting of only a skin of water and a worn saddle scabbard with an old rifle, he placed on the ground at the end of the stall. He moved to the third pony and removed the blanket from the horse’s back before he spoke. “Lenny’s cookin’s purty good. Over at the Silver Moon. It’s a purty good place. Open all the time. Lenny cooks at night, Jack cooks days.”

  “Which way?” Nathan turned to look at him, not caring who cooked when.

  “Right next to the hotel. Down at the end of Main.” The hostler pointed in the general direction.

  “Okay. How much do I owe you, John?” Nathan started to dig in his pocket for money, but the stocky livery man held up a hand.

  “Just settle up in the mornin’, Mr. Stark. My brother-in-law owns this here business. He might be interested in takin’ these horses off your hands for the right price. Shame you didn’t collect the scalps of the savages you took ’em from while you were at it. Ed Leonard’s payin’ five dollars for each head o’ hair brought in. You’d ’ve been twenty-five bucks to the good right there!”

  Nathan nodded and turned away. Twenty bucks. Only twenty.

  CHAPTER 4

  By the time Nathan made his way up to the hotel room, Cullen was already sacked out on his side of the bed.

  “Hungry, Cul?” Nathan murmured.

  Cullen didn’t answer.

  “Suit yourself, pard. I’m starving.” Nathan headed back out and made for the Silver Moon, anxious for a filling meal even if it was after midnight.

  It had been some years since he’d come through there, and if it weren’t for his very specific orders from Colonel Ledbetter at Fort Randall, Dakota Territory, asking for him particularly, he might have been content to stay in the Indian Territory and Arizona Territory areas for the rest of his “career”—if you could call it that—and scout for the Army. But things had come to a lull in those areas, and they needed him farther north, now that the Sioux were spoiling for all out war.

  It wasn’t as if it was anything sudden. The first big clash with the Sioux had happened more than twenty years earlier, in 1854, when nineteen good men—U.S. soldiers—had been killed at Fort Laramie.

  The next year, in retaliation, the army had killed over a hundred Sioux in Nebraska and imprisoned their chief.

  There had been other battles and deaths on both sides until 1866 when the next major showdown had occurred with Red Cloud’s War. That had ended with the U.S. signing a treaty with the Sioux Nation, granting them the Black Hills area “in perpetuity”—which had lasted a grand total of maybe five years . . . when the first gold miners had found their way to the region.

  Now there were more problems in that territory than a man could shake a stick at. Nathan had held out for as long as possible, not wanting to make the journey so far from his usual stomping grounds.

  But in the end, Colonel Bixby, his commanding officer at Fort Sill, had convinced him to go where he was needed . . . and where his other obsession might be found.

  Since the day his little sister, along with four other children, had been stolen by the Cheyenne, Nathan had vowed to find them—find them and bring them back to their own people—dead or alive. That had been fifteen years ago. He’d often been discouraged and on the verge of giving up the search, reconciling himself to the idea that he might never locate any of them. They seemed to have vanished with the winds that had whipped the burning Kansas settlement of Badger Creek into a blazing inferno that hellish day.

  He’d spent the better part of two years searching for his little golden-haired sister, with no help from anyone. With their parents murdered in the raid, and his own wife and unborn child killed as well, Nathan had no one to turn to for help—not even his own older brother Reid, who had joined the army and not even been there when the Pawnee came howling and killing.

  But that was then. Time had passed. Nathan had gone to war to fight for the Confederacy. The raid, followed by the war that had found the surviving Stark brothers fighting on opposite sides, had ripped their family apart. Nathan hadn’t seen Reid in years and didn’t care to. Cullen Jefferson was more of a brother to him than stiff-necked Reid ever could be again.

  Nathan and Cullen had met during the war, hit it off well working as scouts for the cavalry unit to which they’d been assigned, and when the long, bitter struggle finally came to its even more bitter end, the two men had drifted aimlessly for a while. They had no real talents other than riding, scouting, and fighting. While the idea of working for the bluebelly army didn’t sit well with either man, it gradually sunk in on them that signing up as scouts would allow them to use their unique skills again. Besides, they would be civilians and wouldn’t have to wear the hated uniform.

  Since the army’s main chore following the war was to make the frontier safe for expansion by pushing the Indians onto reservations—or eradicating them—throwing in with the bluecoats gave Nathan a chance to do the only thing that gave him any pleasure.

  Even though it was unlikely anything would come of it, if Colonel Bixby had an idea that Nathan’s sister Rena might be in Sioux Territory after all this time, that was exactly where Nathan would go. And if it didn’t work out, more than likely he’d get to kill some more of the red bastards.

  Nathan pushed open the doors to the Silver Moon saloon and walked in, taking a quick look around, then let his gaze linger on the occupants of the room.

  The place was lively, even at the late hour. Most times, the men who were so inclined would have already gone upstairs with the soiled doves who were available, and the other men—those who had jobs—had already gone home for the night.

  Nathan walked to the end of the bar closest to the door, put his back to the glass window that faced out on Main Street, and propped a foot on the rail.

  The bartender, who was drawing beers for some other customers, nodded to Nathan to indicate that he would be there shortly. Nathan inclined his head in acknowledgment, then continued to survey the room.

  The piano player pounded away as if his life depended on it. Two garishly dressed women with heavily painted faces stood talking near the other end of the bar, and Nathan sighed as their short conversation ended and the bosomy blonde headed in his direction, swaying her hips in what was
supposed to be a sensuous manner. It didn’t quite succeed.

  “Hello, cowboy,” she said with a smile as she came up to Nathan. “Looking for some company tonight?”

  He forced a smile. “No, I’m afraid not. Just a meal and a bed.”

  The woman’s grin widened invitingly. “I can arrange both . . . along with a bit of... entertainment . . .”

  Nathan’s patience was slipping. “No. No, thank you, ma’am.”

  She leaned toward him. “Think you’re too good, Mr. High and Mighty?”

  “No. Just want to eat and sleep.”

  Just then, the bartender walked up, giving the blonde a dismissive glance. She turned and huffed away, throwing Nathan a pouting look over her bare shoulder.

  “Sorry, mister. Nita doesn’t have her timing down yet.” The bartender smiled. “Always best to wait until the customer has had a chance to wet his whistle and think of something besides being so gosh-darned thirsty he could drink the river dry.”

  “In my case, it’s hunger I need to put an end to,” Nathan said. “Any chance of getting a decent meal at this hour? I’m not picky, just tired of living off jerky.”

  The barkeep nodded. “Come up through the Territory, did you? I wouldn’t want to risk hunting, either—you might end up being the hunted if they hear you, eh?” He laughed at his own joke. “Well, let’s see . . . let me see what Lenny might have. I’ll let you know before I tell him to dish it up.” He moved away, heading for a door that, Nathan figured, had to lead to the kitchen.

  In a moment, he reappeared and made a beeline for Nathan, ignoring one of his customers’ calls for “More beer!”

  “Lenny’s got some leftover biscuits from earlier this evening and some mashed taters. Said he can cook you a couple pork chops right quicklike and make some gravy.”

  Nathan nodded. “Sounds good. But tell him not too quicklike on the chops. I like mine well done.”

  The bartender nodded. “Will do, mister. And what can I bring you to drink?”

  “Beer’s fine, long as it’s cold.”

  “It is. There’s an empty table right yonder if you want to grab it and take a load off. I’ll let Lenny know and I’ll get your beer out to you in a jiffy.”

  “Thanks, uh—what did you say your name was?”

  “Oh, Homer. Homer Mason.”

  “Thanks, Homer. Much obliged.” Nathan turned away and headed for the table.

  Just as he reached to pull out his chair, a soft hand fell across his. Nathan looked up quickly, his eyes meeting the brilliant blue of the other soiled dove who’d been speaking with Blondie earlier when he’d come in.

  “We don’t let handsome men eat alone in the Silver Moon, Mister . . . ?” She smiled, waiting for him to supply his name. When he didn’t, she removed her hand in the awkward silence, but her stare wouldn’t release his as easily. “Would I be welcome to keep you company while you eat, sir?” Her voice carried a hint of a tremble, and she took a deep breath.

  In that instant, Nathan saw how much she hated the life she was living . . . and he realized she was younger than he’d first believed. What would it hurt to show her some kindness? Or was he too far beyond even that bit of humanity anymore?

  Well, he’d damn sure been kind yesterday, hadn’t he? He’d let that Creek keep his scalp—and keep on breathing. He’d put himself and Cullen in a world of danger if that savage decided to make good on his promise.

  “If you’ll sit here, ma’am.” He pulled the other chair out for her, the one that faced the wall.

  She smiled at him—a smile more of relief than of want or desire—and that eased his mind. She sat down and then Nathan took his own chair, his back to the wall so there’d be no surprises.

  “You don’t really want company,” the brunette blurted. “I see it in your eyes.”

  Nathan shook his head and leaned back, shifting in the chair to work out the pain in his saddle-weary muscles. “Nope. I don’t. But if you want to sit here with me, that’s fine.”

  She was already shaking her head. “No. I don’t want to bother you—”

  “I just said sit here. That’s no bother. I’ll buy you a drink, but that’s it. Unless you want to eat something, too.”

  “No, no. I’m not hungry and I—” She broke off, lowering her gaze.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Leah. Leah’s my real name. But here, they make me call myself something more exotic for my ... my saloon name. They call me Arianna.”

  In spite of his determination not to get involved, Nathan couldn’t help but have a little pity for the lady. She clearly was out of her element. He wondered how she’d ended up in the Silver Moon.

  He smiled. “That’s a mouthful. I like Leah better.”

  She smiled back, and Nathan swore she couldn’t be more than twenty. Pretty, too. He’d like to scrub all that paint off her face.

  “How’d you come to be here, Miss Leah?” He leaned forward, but kept his voice as low as possible in the din around them.

  “I . . . I . . . well, I was adopted by a preacher and his wife. Turned out he wasn’t as godly as he liked to believe. I told his wife when he tried—” She looked down, a blush staining her cheeks.

  “Go on. I’m an army man, Miss Leah. I’ve heard everything.”

  “She believed him. Said the red devils had ruined me, and—”

  “What?” Nathan’s tone sharpened. “Start at the beginning. You said you were adopted by—”

  But Leah’s features were shuttered, and she looked away. “I’m sorry, mister. I shouldn’t have told that. It’s a lie. It’s the lie I have to tell to get sympathy. Wasn’t no call to speak it to you, since you got no desire for me, anyhow.”

  But was it a lie? She’d seemed so sincere . . . so honest . . . maybe . . .

  “My name is Nathan. Nathan Stark.” He said it slowly, deliberately, watching her expression for even the smallest sign of recognition. He knew he was grasping at straws. But something made him believe she had told the truth in that one instant of letting her guard down.

  “How old are you, Le—uh, Arianna?” His food and drink had just arrived, and he didn’t want to do anything that might place her in danger. He had noticed the armed guards who negligently stood their watch at the two doors to the outside.

  “Homer says sorry the beer’s just getting here along with the food,” the older man said, setting the plate down in front of Nathan along with the cold beer. “He said you wanted a cold one, and we had to send the boy down to the crick to fetch a new keg. We keep ’em there short term to get ’em good an’ cold.”

  “Thank you,” Nathan responded.

  “If ya need anything else, send Arianna to fetch it for ya. My old leg’s about to give out on me.” With that, he turned and limped away.

  “That’s Lenny,” Leah said.

  Nathan started to eat, watching as Leah sat quietly staring off into the distance. “Do they force you to stay here?” he asked conversationally.

  Leah’s gaze snapped to his, fear evident in her features. “Please don’t speak of it, Mr. Stark.”

  “Call me Nathan. What I want to know about is this lie you’re forced to repeat for sympathy.”

  She laughed nervously and shrugged. “A fabrication, for sure.”

  “Well?”

  “What?”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “Oh, no—I mean—it’s not true. No need to tell it if I don’t have to.”

  “But you do.”

  She gave him a defiant look, green eyes glittering with anger.

  “If you don’t, I’m going to ask Homer over there to tell me your sad story. Where you came from. How you ended up here, of all places.”

  “Why? Why are you doing this?” Tears welled in her eyes, and Nathan tamped down the sympathy that rose inside him. But he was determined to learn what she knew. It was a long shot. In the past years, there had been countless raids and abductions all across the country by the red demons. Tribe, faction
, clan—none of that mattered. They were all enemies of the white man.

  But . . . could it be that Leah had been among the children kidnapped from Badger Creek? Righteous determination gripped his guts. He would hear her story, one way or the other.

  “I need to know . . . where you are from. In the beginning—not after you were adopted.” He pushed his plate of food aside in a frustrated motion.

  “Why?” Panic twisted her face, filled her voice.

  “Keep it down!”

  She blinked and sat back away from him as if he’d struck her.

  He let his breath out in a rush and looked away. “Fifteen years ago, my family was torn apart in an Indian raid. My little sister was stolen. It was just over the line in Kansas, not all that far from this place . . . but tribes exchange hostages . . . I was told there could be a possibility some of those hostages wound up with the Sioux. I’m headed to my next assignment at Fort Randall in the Dakota Territory and I . . . she’s my blood, Leah. I’m not ever going to give up looking for her.”

  Leah’s eyes grew cold as frosted emeralds. “And what if you do find her, Nathan Stark? What if you discover this precious sister of yours? By now, she won’t speak English anymore. She’ll be fluent in Sioux . . . or Comanche . . . or Apache.”

  Leah pushed her chair back slowly and stood. “And she’ll have changed hands many times, been with many men . . . against her will . . . maybe be married . . . have children—” Her voice broke and she fought back tears. “Maybe she’ll even be dead! What will you do then, Nathan Stark? Will you hate her for what has been done to her against her will? Maybe . . . maybe her death would be best for everyone . . . including her!”

  “Leah—”

  “That’s as much of me as you’re getting tonight, Army man. I tell my story when I wish—to who I wish. My story is just that—mine. Something you won’t know unless I choose to tell it!” She walked away from him, head held high. The entire room of bar patrons watched as she made her regal exit, going up the stairs alone.

  Nathan stood and fished in his pocket for the money for his meal, which sat untouched since his appetite was gone. Casually, he laid the coin on the table and turned for the door. He caught Homer’s eye and moved toward the bar as the piano player began his pounding once more and the general noise swelled along with the notes of the piano.