the LEGEND of She-Cat

Chapter One

Sharp rock sliced through the soles of his feet, the sun a blazing heat on his already scorched and blistered skin. Gasping for breath, lungs burning, he paused for half an instant to glance back. Nothing appeared on his backtrail, but he knew better. Them Apache would be coming, and he'd never see them until it was too late. Gritting his teeth, the naked man forced his tired muscles to keep going, one painful step in front of the other.

Several days ago he'd woken to the dark faces of half a dozen braves, his body already throbbing from the beating the Garnett brothers had given him. Defenseless, half-dead already, he'd been trussed up and taken prisoner. It was in those brief days he'd been allowed to recover that Duncan Conner knew what fate awaited him. Apache had no love of white men, little love of any but their own, but they greatly admired courage. Even the most hated enemy would be praised for a good show of bravery. Readying himself for the misery to come, Conner had known his only hope was to die well. If he'd shown even the smallest amount of fear, his suffering would have been stretched out for long, agonizing days.

So he'd been silent. When they pulled the nails from his fingers, his lips had been closed. As hot coals had lain sizzling against his bare skin, his jaw had ground together, no sound made. Feeling the sharp agony of skin peeling loose from his back had torn ugly curses from him, but even in that he gave them no show of fear. After that they'd drawn back, impressed with their prisoner, chattering among themselves of this white man's courage. That would not spare him, and Duncan was staked to an anthill for the night as they withdrew to decide how best to kill a warrior such as he.

It was during that night Conner freed himself. In too much pain to care, he'd torn through layers of skin to loosen the knots around his wrists. Leaving blood and flesh behind, he'd ripped the sinew around his ankles and fled, naked and bleeding, into the desert. When it was the braves found their prisoner gone he couldn't say, but undoubtedly they'd been after him now. There would be no recapture. If they came upon him, he'd die fighting. Squinting against the bright sun, he lifted an arm to shade his eyes.

Avoiding capture was only half of it. He must have water, if not food, or the desert would kill him just as ruthlessly as the Apache. Suddenly dizzy, he blinked heavily, rubbing a hand across his features, feeling the sting of raw skin.

"Blast it," he muttered thickly, lips papery, tongue heavy and dry in his mouth. "Need water."

Starting once more, staggering with the effort, he kept on, for to stay was to die. It was not in him to surrender. A lifetime of struggle and bitter experience had shaped him. Orphaned at eleven, he'd lived with his older sister and her husband. Her husband had been rough on the boy, although not maliciously, but young Duncan was of no mind to be pushed into some desk job or long years of learning. He ran away at sixteen and fell in with a rowdy crowd.

Several years later he found himself riding night hawk on a herd of stolen cattle. Although he'd not been with the outlaws when the rustling was done, he was a part of it as long as he stayed. Perhaps he would have, but riding back to the fire for a cup of coffee, he overheard one of the men bragging of how he'd killed the owner of the cattle. Shot in the back while trailing his stolen herd. That made it murder, and young Duncan's belly turned sour.

Having all his gear on the horse he was riding, the boy had quietly withdrawn and rode into the night. He kept going until he found himself in Laramie. There he'd hired on as a trail hand and had ridden for the brand. So diligent was he that the boy quickly came to be viewed as a man, and a top hand. When a small bunch of the boss' cattle was taken, he trailed them and shot the outlaws who'd stolen them. Two of the five had been in the crowd he'd left behind him. It was, he reckoned then, a slim chance that he'd not been among them.

From there it was hauling freight, riding shotgun as stage guard, and the occasional trail drive. He'd saved much, spent little, listened, and learned. By the time he was twenty-seven, Duncan had enough to put down the first payment on his own land in Texas. Life had finally begun to settle down, but those moments of true happiness are rare and short-lived.