Ben unloaded his gun in the direction of the oak, providing cover.
An Indian on horseback charged from the other side of the house. Cora lunged and hauled Charlie onto the porch.
Ben lifted his Colt, one bullet left, and set the sight on the Indian’s bare, painted chest.
“Kee!Kee!” The Indian yelled and held his hand toward the oak. Two eagle feathers dangled from a scalp lock affixed to the crown of his head. A rifle lay across his lap. “No fight.” He lifted his chin toward Ben’s window.
Ben’s finger twitched on the trigger. One bullet. Not enough. His rifle stood in the corner on the other side of the bed, loaded. But what could happen in the time it took him to retrieve it? The front door hadn’t slammed shut yet.
A scuffle on the porch. More words from the rider.
Another Indian yanked Cora and Charlie into the yard, his grip locked onto one of their arms each. Stumbling beside her captor, Cora shook her head at Ben.Don’t provoke them?
Trailing behind, Jack growled and nipped at the intruder’s foot. The Indian kicked the pup. Jack yelped.
“Don’t.” Charlie tried to jerk free.
“Good puppy. We’re all right.” Cora crooned a soothing note toward the pet.
The Indian on horseback, dressed in nothing but a breechclout and buckskin leggings, glanced from them to Ben. Two more Indians emerged from the shadows of the outbuildings, knives drawn. From behind the oak, the shooter stepped out, arrow nocked and bow drawn.
The leader rested his hand on his rifle. “Come down.”
Ben lowered his Colt. “Take me. Leave them.”
“Down.” The man pointed at the ground.
Heart pounding, Ben backed away from the window.Dear God, protect them. Please. He snatched his gun belt from the peg on the bunk post. Hands shaking, he spun out the chamber on his Colt and fished out five cartridges from his cartridge box. He shoved them in one at a time before grabbing his cap box and affixing a cap to each nipple on the gun. Load secured, he spun the chamber back. Half a minute at most. On the battlefield, speed could make a difference between life and death.
Colt in one hand and his rifle in the other, he clamored down the steps to the ground floor of the stables. His eyes clawed at the darkness, lest the enemy already be inside. But no, the door was secure, the bolt still in place. The horses stirred in their stalls. Voices sounded in the yard, in a language he didn’t understand.
Praying he wasn’t making a mistake that would cost all of their lives, he set his rifle to the side of the door behind a pitchfork and stuck his revolver beneath a clump of straw. Going out there unarmed might be the most foolish thing he’d ever done. But all they’d have to do is hold a knife to Cora or Charlie, and he’d drop his gun in a matter of seconds. Best leave it herewhere he might have a chance to grab it if needed and where they wouldn’t readily find it.
Tossing the bolt on the ground, he stepped into the yard.
An Indian with two long braids and a face smeared with red paint latched onto him from behind and shoved him toward the mounted leader.
Pale in the moonlight, Cora met his gaze. The wind whipped her hair and the hem of her thin cotton chemise. Her eyes flared with warning. If only he could read their full message.
He ground his molars. If these men touched her… His hands clenched.
The leader dismounted. “I Wolf Heart. Comanche. You”—he jutted his finger at Ben—“killed my warrior.”
The man behind jerked Ben against him and slid a knife blade a hair’s breadth from Ben’s Adam’s apple.
“Your man”—Ben’s swallow stuck in his throat—“was about to kill a defenseless boy.”
“Not boy.” Wolf Heart waved his rifle toward Ben. “You. Had orders not to shoot boy.”
“I saw him ready to shoot.” Sweat dampened Ben’s back and underarms. “So I shot.”
Wolf Heart uttered Comanche words.
The knife came away from Ben’s throat as a fist struck him upside the head. Ben staggered.
Cora gasped. “Don’t hurt him.”
A second warrior grabbed Charlie while the other tightened his hold on Cora.
