(Sequel to When Shadows Fade)

PROLOGUE 

1866 

Corporal Adam Pierson shut his eyes the moment he saw Captain James Horton tug at his whip. He didn't need to see what happened next. He had seen it too many times today -- the thin strip of leather rushing in the air, bestowing a stinging kiss on the shoulder of its target before slicing a crimson trail across the man's back and then curling like a bloody snake on the dirt before Horton tugs at it again. Adam bowed his head. He tried to focus his attention on the shiny, spit-polished buckle of his boots in a vain attempt to drown out the sounds of the whipping.

But it was impossible.

He had arrived with his company at the fort early that morning, reinforcements for the army's fight against Indians in the territory. Like most of the greenhorns, he was eager to fight the savages, impatient to drive them out of the land. He wanted settlers to feel safe, to no longer fear brutal attacks by the fearsome natives.

Adam had never seen an Indian before in his life.

All he knew about them, he had read from newspapers back East, from stories that had painted the Indians as irrational creatures who stood in the way of the nation's progress. He knew nothing about Indians being driven out of their own lands, of defenseless tribes overwhelmed by the army's number and gunpower.

The man being whipped in front of him was Adam's first glimpse of these savage warriors.

Adam involuntarily flinched at the ominous crack of the leather strip. He stole a quick glance at Horton before returning his attention to his boots. The burly officer had a smirk on his face, obviously relishing the pain he was inflicting.

Adam had immediately noticed the older man when he first rode into the fort. Horton was a huge man with a hard face that looked like it was carved in granite. But it wasn't his size nor his mean look that set him apart, it was the silver-handled whip he carried on his belt like a gun. Even before he had set his saddlebags down inside the soldiers' bunkhouse, Adam already had his fill of the stories regarding Horton and his whip. The soldiers at the fort seemed eager to share their fear of this man who ruled the army fort. With a curious mixture of awe and terror, they said Horton could slice an apple twelve paces away neatly in half. That he could snuff the light of a candle with a flick of his wrist. That he could kill a fly perched on the back of a horse without touching the hide.

That he could bleed a man to a slow death by slicing his back into ribbons. 

The man who had incurred Horton's ire was tied between two posts in the middle of the clearing. From where Adam stood, he could see the man was tall. He was well-built, broad shoulders that tapered into a slim waist. His arms, stretched high above his head, were muscular without being bulky. His raven-black hair was carelessly hacked short to expose his bronze back to the whip's biting leather.

Despite the extreme pain that he obviously suffered, the Indian remained as silent as when he was first brought out from his cell. Despite the repeated lashes, he never screamed nor pleaded for mercy. The only proof of his torment was his white-knuckled grip on the ropes wrapped tightly around his now bloody wrists.

A whispered conversation behind him caught Adam's attention. The soldiers at the back were talking about the Indian. The captive was brother to a dead Kiowa war chief. He fled an army camp six months ago, during a battle which killed all the braves and nearly wiped out a whole army infantry. Only two warriors lived -- this warrior, who was called Running Buck, and another named White Feather. They helped the Kiowa women and children escape. Captain Horton, the officer in charge of that camp, was one of a handful of soldiers who survived the gruesome fight. Since then the captain had been obsessed with finding the Kiowa warriors.

Horton spent half a year tracking the Kiowas. Time enough for a whole lot of anger to build up, Pierson thought. Pierson did not know the details of the Indian's capture but he heard there was a white woman involved. The soldiers continued in muffled tones, boasting about how Horton easily subdued the two warriors. Pierson stifled a snicker. Apparently, the soldiers' idea of easy included the six dead soldiers and an ugly gash from the forehead down to the captain's face. The other Kiowa died in the fight. But the captain had a more difficult, more painful demise in mind for Running Buck.

Pierson forced himself to look at the man tied between the two posts in the middle of the corral. The sight of the crisscrossed wounds, however, sent his eyes scurrying back to his safe, shiny buckle. Suddenly, following his father's footsteps and becoming an accountant didn't seem so bad to him. In fact, Pierson thought, bean-counting sounded downright appealing right this moment.

The whipped cracked again and this time, Pierson felt his very soul recoil. Oh God, why isn't he screaming? Is he dead? How many lashes were those? Twenty? Twenty one? Lord, Pierson prayed, get me out of this and I swear I'll never think about soldiering again.

Running Buck himself had lost count after fifteen. His back was on fire but he swore he'd be damned before he cried out. He vowed to himself that he won't give Capt. Horton the satisfaction of seeing him break. The smirk on the captain's face only served to strengthen Buck's resolve. Buck couldn't see but he knew that the new soldiers were gathered around him. The captain was enjoying the show and he wanted to share it with his men. Laugh now, bastard, he thought. Once I get out of these binds I'll slash your throat and cut your murderous heart out.

Buck stiffened as he felt the burn of the whip across his lower back. His vision swam and for a moment he saw Teaspoon in front of him. Maybe it was the heat of the sun blinding him. Maybe it was the pain numbing his senses. Buck wasn't sure, but for one brief second he saw his friends -- Kid, Lou, Jimmy, Cody -- riding hard towards the camp, their guns drawn and blazing. When he saw the long-dead Ike and Noah, Buck knew he was delirious and he chuckled without humor, the sound a raspy croak in his throat.

"Laughing, Injun?" Capt. Horton almost stepped back when Buck lifted his head. The Indian's black eyes were blazing with hate and a promise of revenge. Fear quivered in the officer's stomach, but he stood his ground. He chided himself for being apprehensive. The prisoner was securely bound by the ropes, after all, ropes he tightened himself. Angry at himself, he lashed at the object of his fear. Drawing back his hand, he unleashed his fury with a hard slap across the Kiowa warrior's face. Buck was swallowed by blackness. He shook his head several times to get rid of the ringing sound in his ears, but it only made him dizzier. He was growing weak from the loss of blood. The ropes around his wrists were like rings of fire. Out of the corner of his right eye he noticed a flash of red hair and porcelain skin. Slowly, he shifted his gaze from Horton to the face of the woman he loved ... Laura.

Horton followed Buck's gaze and a corner of his mouth lifted in a half-smile as he saw the lady who helped him capture the Indian. She came to the fort two weeks ago, dirty, hungry and angry. After introducing herself as the wife of Running Buck Cross, she told Horton she could lead him and his men to the Kiowa warriors. Though presented with a boon, Captain Horton was suspicious. After all, the woman had said she was married to one of the warriors. The whole thing could have easily been a trap for him. But the glacial coldness in her eyes convinced him he had indeed found an ally.

"Isn't she the prettiest girl you've ever seen?" The captain turned to Buck, taunting him with a smile. "Lucky for me that beautiful lady hates you or I would have spent another month running after your sorry hide. Not that I didn't enjoy the chase but ..." Horton went around Buck again and raised his whip "... I like where you are right now." Crack!

Buck tried to lift his head but couldn't. He could barely open his eyes. The whipping had ended several hours ago and he had been in and out of consciousness since. The chill in the air and the blazing pain on his back had prevented him from truly dozing off. All he wanted was to get out of the ropes and sleep. Maybe then he could escape the pain.

"Mister, don't sleep now. We don't have much time," a voice whispered in his left ear again. Whoever it was had decided to shake him awake. As soon as the hands touched his bloody shoulder Buck moaned. The hand was quickly lifted. "Shhhh, we don't want to disturb the soldiers."

Buck felt the ropes around his wrists cut loose. With no support, he sagged to his knees but strong arms caught him. Every bit of skin screamed, every muscle on his back and shoulder cried at the sudden movement but no whimper escaped Buck's lips. He bit his lower lip until he felt the metallic taste of blood. He managed to open his eyes and see the face of his savior. It was clean-cut, earnest and innocent -- not the type one finds in the army.

The young man -- a boy, really -- wasn't looking at him but at the sleeping guards stationed at the gate. Buck's brow creased into a frown as he tried to look around. All the soldiers who were supposed to stand guard were asleep. Their unnatural positions told Buck the slumber was forced. He looked at the young man beside him, a question in his eyes.

"Laudanum," Pierson answered with a slight, nervous smile. "Lots and lots of laudanum." 

NEXT>>