I've been shot! his mind screamed as time rushed to catch up with him again. The second shot came right before he could get his gun out of his holster. The horse, agitated already, became frantic, rearing up and stomping nearly on top of him. He saw red on her neck, and she stumbled and fell, collapsing to her knees on his left hip and chest. Her weight pinned his gun down, with his hand still on the handle. Warm, dark blood spilled onto his chest as the mare struggled to get up. Each movement crushed him beneath her. He felt his ribs crack and move and found it hard to breathe. He tried to push her off with his right arm, but it wouldn't move where he wanted it to. His left wrist snapped with a sharp pop, but he couldn't even get enough breath to scream.
Another shot rang out, followed by a sickening thud, and the horse stopped struggling and fell over. Buck was able to roll just in time to keep from getting caught beneath her. He heard laughter and tried to get his gun free. But he couldn't close his fingers around it. His shoulder burned beneath him, and he fell back again into the bloodied pebbles that lined the stream.
It had happened so quickly, he'd barely had to time to realize what had happened at all. "Don't move, Injun," someone sneered. The voice had come from the direction of Buck's feet. He tried to look that way, but his head felt heavy, and his chest hurt when he tried to lean up.
"That second shot was meant for you," the voice continued. "The third, well, I couldn't leave the poor creature to suffer, could I?"
Buck tried to listen past the pounding of his heart that echoed in his skull. He stopped struggling with his breath and concentrated on the babble of the stream. It sung to him, like his mother's lullabies when he was a child. Time slowed again and he could feel the footsteps in the pebbles as the man approached. The leaves cried out beneath the man's feet, until finally Buck's eyes could see him.
"You're not all Indian, are ya?" the man asked, but the sound of his voice floated beneath the surface of the stream. "Half-breed, I bet. I bet you told 'em where we was so they could find us. You speak English, half-breed?"
Buck tried to take the breath to answer, but the air resisted his efforts. "I ride--" he gasped out, "for the Pony Express."
The man looked over at the horse lying dead half in the water. "I don't see no mail bag."
There wasn't one, of course. "Special pick-up," Buck told him, not quite lying, "in St. Joe." He turned his head toward the horse. "Branded," he said, hoping the man would understand.
He did. "Ya prolly stole that horse."
"No," Buck choked out before another wave of pain shook through him. He couldn't think clearly enough to come up with another argument or piece of evidence to show the man he was being truthful. But then, Buck was fairly certain by now that the man had no real interest in the truth. He still trained his gun on Buck, though Buck was lying prone on the ground beside his fallen horse. Buck knew he was helpless. Neither of his arms would cooperate to hold a weapon, and the man had not even tried to take Buck's gun or knife.
Buck wanted to let unconsciousness take him, but he forced himself to look at the man. He was of average height and had a stocky build. But his arms, bare as they were to the shoulders even in this crisp weather, were muscular. His shirt, no more than an undershirt, was dirty with sweat and soot. He sported a short, unkempt beard and a loose wide-brimmed hat. He wore a Colt on his hip and carried a long musket in his hands.
Buck wondered why the man didn't just finish him off like he had the horse. "What do you want?" he asked, though by now his mouth felt like cotton, and it was hard to form the words.
"What do I want?" the man repeated. He stepped closer and knelt down at Buck's side, finally taking the gun from Buck's holster. Buck gasped as the movement brushed against his arm. "I want every blasted one of you to burn in hell, that's what. I want you to suffer like I did after you Indians slaughtered my family."
The sun was setting behind the man, its last few rays sprinkling in through the leaves on the trees. To Buck's pain-clouded mind, he looked evil, bathed in dark shadows and lit by red light. Buck felt his skin prickle with cold and fear. "Arapaho," he tried to argue. "I'm Kiowa."
"Indian is Indian," the man spat back. "And there ain't no good one 'cept a dead one."
He holstered his own gun and reached over to get Buck's knife from the sheath on his boot. Buck thought of trying to kick the man, but he knew it wouldn't do any good. Where would he go even if he could manage to get away? His horse was dead, his ribs were broken, and his arms were practically useless.
The man got up and walked around Buck to his horse. He used Buck's knife to cut the reins off the bridle. That done, he apparently had no more use for the knife, because he threw it down on the ground.
Buck knew what was coming next. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the stream, listening desperately for the water and its soothing song. He felt fire in his shoulder as the man moved his right arm, putting a strain in his shoulder. Buck clenched his teeth to keep from screaming, but he couldn't stop the moan that escaped his throat. He forgot to breathe when the man lifted his left arm.
But that was nothing compared to the tying. The man hesitated a moment at Buck's left wrist and then tied the leather rein above the wrist, just over the break. After pulling the leather strap tight. Buck's voice pushed past his pride and ripped through his throat.
"Don't die on me yet, Injun," the man told him, but Buck could barely hear him.
The man grabbed Buck by the collar and pulled him to a seated position. Buck cried out again as jagged bone pushed into his side.
"On your feet!" the man ordered. Buck heard his voice but the words made no sense. His head dropped back and he saw the dark blue sky past the shadowy leaves of the trees. And then he saw nothing.

Chapter 6

" Lou turned to follow his gaze. It took a moment for her to see what he was looking at, but when Jennifer Tompkins sidestepped a group of dancers, she had no doubt. The woman was positively stunning in a brocade gown of pale blue, the same color as her eyes. Her hair was massed on her head like a golden crown with ringlets cascading around her slender, swan like neck. Her smile too was radiant and it was aimed, point blank, at Buck. Lou felt the air leave her lungs as the possibilities filled them. This was certainly not good. Not good at all. "