Storm's Thunder by Brandon Boyce Read Free Book Online

generosity?” Even the man’s skin was brown, his chiseled face clean-shaven. Italian? Bennett wondered. Maybe Spanish. Who was Bennett kidding? He’d never met any Italians. Or a genuine Spaniard. Only Mexicans, and Cross was no Mexican.
    â€œTruth is, I felt like we owed something to that boy. After what he done for this town? He sure didn’t deserve this .” They turned together and looked out, across the knoll, at the charred remains where a house once stood. “Burning him out like they did, t’was a blasted crime.”
    â€œA crime, yes. Just as it is a crime for any native to own or sell property. And any man—white or otherwise—involved in such an illegal transaction would himself be guilty of fraud—his assets subject to seizure.”
    â€œNow wait just a goddamn minute.” Cross spun and backhanded Bennett across the mouth.
    â€œYou’ll not profane in my presence, sir.” Tears of stunned humiliation welled in the rancher’s eyes.
    â€œWell, I beg pardon then, Mister Cross.”
    â€œIt is the pardon of God Almighty you should be begging.”
    Bennett swallowed hard and felt the metallic taste of fear spike beneath his tongue. Then Cross said, “Near forty White Men died in the Sangre Massacre. The only survivors were Indian—Two-Trees and the fugitive renegade, Ahiga, of the Navajo. They will both answer for their involvement.”
    â€œSome of them dead whites was criminals,” Bennett said, his voice shaking.
    â€œSome, yes. Deciphering that is not my business. But any red-blooded native who scoffs at the laws of this nation by trespassing beyond the generous boundaries of his allotted reservation is not just a criminal, but a threat to our national sovereignty. And tracking them down is most certainly my business.” Cross turned to face Bennett, capturing him in the amber shackle of his gaze. “Now where will I find this land-merchant, Garber?”
    * * *
    Jacob Cross strode down the main thoroughfare of Caliche Bend on a horse he had purchased that morning. He didn’t think much of this town, or its people, and it pleased him to soon be rid of it. He found his man, Van Zant, tending to a wagon just outside the jail. “Will that rig get us to Santa Fe?” Cross appraising the two-wheeled buggy with suspicion.
    â€œIf that’s where we’re going. It’ll get.” Cross liked that about Van Zant—no double-talk or foot-dragging. If Cross wanted debate, he’d go back to Harvard. He needed a man who could accept an order without question, and he had found that in the Dutchman. But the thing he liked most about Van Zant—aside from his loyalty—was his lethal precision with a shotgun. As for the ten yards of rope Van Zant wore coiled around his broad chest—that skill the Dutchman was still learning.
    Cross dismounted and passed the reins to Van Zant, who led the old bay to the buggy’s harness. The horse wasn’t a drafting breed, but once unsaddled, she loaded into the harness with familiarity—enough to put her new owner at ease about the journey ahead. Santa Fe lay a half-day’s ride and it was already past nine. Cross gave his pocket watch a twist and slid it back into his waistcoat. As he turned, he saw, trudging toward him down the High Street, the Bend’s sorry excuse for a lawman. Big Jack Early wore his sheriff star pinned to a leather vest that strained to cover his belly and on his head, a gray Stetson wide enough for a child to sleep under. The lawman had with him a weathered Indian who appeared to be his prisoner, though one would be hard pressed to know by the appalling lack of security measures. Cross detested dilettantes almost as much as liars. The sheriff carried a twelve-gauge—its breach open—in the crook of his right arm, and with his left, guided the unbound Indian with nothing more than a hand upon the shoulder. Cross marveled