Heart of Thunder by Johanna Lindsey
Hank’s only consolation was that no one had even hinted that he might be El Carnicero. Everyone knew that bandit was a short, fat Mexican. But Hank was assumed to be one of his gang.
He couldn’t really blame Kingsley for this. If he were in the same position, he would do everything in his power to keep what was his. And the old man wasn’t even aware of the lengths his hired thugs had gone to. Kingsley had been disgusted when he saw Hank’s condition, but Nate Fiske, the spokesman for the men, had defended the treatment.
“You want a confession, don’t you? Evidence that’ll get you back your land?” Hank had heard him asking Kingsley. “And El Carnicero? If we don’t get him, he’ll be doing things like this again. This Mex is one of them.”
“But what if he isn’t?” Kingsley had revealed the doubt he still harbored. “What if he’s telling the truth?”
Nate Fiske laughed. “You didn’t feel that way yesterday, Mr. Kingsley, when you turned over your land to him. You were sure then that he was involved.”
“I let you convince me, but—”
“Maybe I need to point out certain facts again,” Nate had said impatiently. “Your trouble didn’t begin until after this fellow came to see you, wanting to buy your land. You refused and suddenly you had bandits after you, demanding you get out of Mexico. When that didn’t work, they took your daughter and he showed up again. By chance? Maybe. Except you made the mistake of telling him your plans. The bandits made a new demand then. You either sell or kiss your daughter good-bye. And who should conveniently show up in El Paso, still eager to buy your land?
“It don’t wash, Mr. Kingsley. Chavez either hired those bandits himself or he’s one of them. Either way, he’ll tell me where to find El Carnicero. And that’s what you’re paying me for. Getting your land back, through a confession, will cost you more, but you’ll be willing to pay for that. Won’t you?”
Hamilton Kingsley had reluctantly nodded. And he had said nothing further, giving Nate Fiske silent consent to do whatever was necessary.
The only thing that might help Hank was to hold out, continue to insist on his innocence, and pray that one of these hardened men might finally believe him. Or Kingsley might relent and stop them. That was a long shot, though. Kingsley had showed his sensitivity. He would probably stay away until it was all over.
Escaping was out of the question. There were seven of them, the worst sort of brutal men. Hank knew their kind, men out for easy money, capable of anything, even murder. He had come to hate every one of them—Nate, who had seen through Hank’s scheme, and Ross, the big Texan who had cracked two ribs with only one blow of his fist. Then there was the one called Sankey, who had laughed as he snapped Hank’s fingers, and who kept insisting that more torture was the only way to get a confession.
Hank didn’t know all their names. Three of the men stayed in the background, keeping watch while the others slept, not taking part in the beatings and questioning.
There was one man Hank found himself hating the most, and that was Camacho, the flat-faced Mexican. A short, two-faced, weaselly son of a bitch. He was the worst, whispering Spanish words, pretending concern, his voice working soothingly when Hank was in the most pain.
His bearded face moved in front of Hank now. “You awake, amigo? The gringos grow impatient. I cannot help you unless you tell them what they want to know.”
Hank tried to shut out that wheedling voice, but he couldn’t. He could see more clearly now. A few of the men were sleeping, but Sankey wasn’t one of them. He squatted by a fire in the center of the barn, holding a long-handled knife over the flames. Wondering what he would do with that knife was torture itself.
“Confiesa usted sufatta?”
“What—guilt?” Hank managed to grit out stubbornly.
“Estúpido hombre!” Camacho said in disgust. “Nate, he grows angry. He will let Sankey have his way with you soon. Why not confess now? If old man Kingsley can get his land back through such a confession, that means more money for these desperados. Comprende? They want more money. So?”
Hank did not reply, and Sankey called out, “Has he had enough, Camacho?”
“I do not think so, amigo.” The Mexican shook his head wearily. “He is very foolish.”
“Then get away from him.” Sankey stood up. “It’s my turn now.”
“Hold it, Sankey.” Nate stepped in front of him. “I told you that was out. There ain’t no way he could survive.”
“Hell, they do it in them eastern countries all the time. The men survive—they just ain’t men no more.” Sankey chuckled. “Shoot, Nate, I wouldn’t really have to do it. I guarantee he’ll spill his guts the second this hot blade touches his skin.”
“There are other ways. The old man don’t want him dead, and we do it his way if we want to get paid. Understand?”
“Then how about this?”
Sankey pulled his gun and fired before Nate could stop him. Hank jerked as the bullet knifed through his thigh. But he didn’t cry out. After a moment, the pain lessened to a dull burning and his body relaxed, getting heavier and heavier, his mind losing its grip, playing tricks. He saw the miner from Denver before him, bullet-riddled, crawling away, but surviving. He saw Samantha with a gun in her hand, ready to pump more and more bullets into him, smiling triumphantly. He wouldn’t survive as the miner had, not at her mercy. It was his last thought before both visions dimmed into blackness.
Chapter 34
SAMANTHA slid off Lorenzo’s horse before he brought it to a complete halt, tripped running up the porch steps, then swung around. She had almost forgotten Lorenzo.
“You’ll wait, won’t you?”
“I think not, Sam. Here. Rufino asked me to give you this before we parted.”
Samantha caught the bundle he threw at her. Even in the dim light she recognized the white lace skirt and blouse. A lump caught in her throat. Why would Hank want her to have these clothes? A reminder? Damn him, he was still getting his little thrusts in.
Well, she wouldn’t let it affect her. These clothes had no sentimental meaning for her. She tucked them under her arm and stepped back to the edge of the steps. Pale moonlight fell on her.
“You can’t just ride off, Lorenzo. Give me a chance to see my father, and then I’ll come back and bid you adiós. We’ve been through so much together.”
His horse stepped nervously, sensing Lorenzo’s tension. “It is not safe for me here.”
“Nonsense,” she scoffed. “You don’t think I’d let anything happen to you, do you? You brought me to my father. He will be grateful.”
“No, Sam.”
“Very well, Lorenzo.” She sighed, and then added impulsively, “You know, whether you helped me or not, your presence gave me courage at times. For that I thank you.”
“Adiós, amiga.” His parting carried to her in a whisper.
“Hasta la vista, Lorenzo.”
For several seconds, Samantha stood there, watching him ride away. He was her last link with the ordeal. Her chest felt tight. But she wouldn’t think about it now. Her father was waiting.
She turned and quickly entered the old ranch house. It had been years since she had been there, but she remembered the place quite well. It was dark inside. Empty. She hadn’t expected it to be quite so empty, but then her father hadn’t been there long. The furniture probably hadn’t arrived yet. She wondered absently whether her father even had a bed to sleep in.
She approached his old room, her boots clicking and echoing over the wooden floor. This certainly wasn’t how she had pictured their reunion. But no matter. Once he was awake…
The door to his old room was ajar. “Father?”
Samantha stepped inside. This room was lighter, catching the moonlight through back windows, even though they were filthy. He wasn’t there. A blanket, a candle, and an old crate were in a corner, the only things in the room.
She frowned and called out again, going to the next room quickly and throwing open the door. It was empty, a
Her heartbeat picked up tempo as she went to the front room. The whole house was empty. And Lorenzo was gone. Had she stranded herself here?
The gunshot made Samantha’s hand fly to her mouth to stifle her startled cry. The bundle of clothes fell to the floor. She held her breath, her eyes wide. Lorenzo? Oh, God, was this a trap? Had her father shot Lorenzo?
The gun Lorenzo had returned to her when they crossed the river was in her hand before she ran to the front door and threw it open. She strained, trying in vain to see into the darkness. There was nothing. Clouds now blocked the moonlight, and she couldn’t see beyond the front yard.
She started to call out, but stopped herself. She hadn’t been able to tell where the shot had come from. Her first assumption faded away. Her father wouldn’t have set a trap for her kidnappers, not here. And if he was out there somewhere, wouldn’t he have come to the house by now? Hadn’t he heard Lorenzo’s horse?
She didn’t know what to do. The ranch was deserted, yet someone had fired that shot. Lorenzo? But why?
And then she heard a horse galloping toward the ranch, slowing as it came closer, as if hesitating. Soon the sound stopped, and when no one appeared, Samantha wanted to scream.
“Are you all right, chiquita?”
She jumped a foot. “Damn it, Lorenzo, you nearly scared me to death!”
“I am sorry, Sam. But when I saw you alone on the porch, I was not sure if I should come forward or not.”
“But I am alone, Lorenzo,” she said. “My father isn’t here.”
“Is that why you fired the gun?”
“I didn’t. Didn’t you?”
“It came from here, Sam. I thought you were signaling me to come back.”
“No. I…I think it’s time we searched the rest of the place. If I remember right, there’s a barn and a storehouse out back, and some other houses beyond that.” And then she was stricken by a realization. “Maybe my father found one of the workers’ old houses more inhabitable than this one. He could be here. You said he wasn’t in town today.”
“He could have returned there, Sam.”
“Well someone’s here!” she snapped, but then quickly changed her tone. “Will…will you come with me to find out?”
He nodded reluctantly. “I suppose I must. But I will tell you, Sam, I have no wish to meet an angry father.”
“You can always quietly disappear once I find him,” she suggested, much relieved.
“Believe me, I will.”
Samantha led the way around the house, feeling better with Lorenzo beside her.
The yard was run-down, overgrown, and they had to skirt around a crop of trees and thick bushes that she didn’t remember being there. Before the barn was even in sight, they heard voices arguing. Then they saw light spilling out of the barn, light she hadn’t been able to see from the back of the house because of the dense growth.
Lorenzo clamped a hand on Samantha’s shoulder to stop her, but she shook him off. Her father had to be in that barn. But something was wrong. Who was fighting?
She reached the open door and stopped cold, feeling bile rise in her throat. Quickly she moved out of the light, gesturing behind her to Lorenzo.
Her father wasn’t there. He couldn’t be! That poor man strung up, bleeding—Hamilton Kingsley wouldn’t be a party to that. Never!
“Is your father there, Sam?” Lorenzo whispered.
No, no.”
“Then—”
She shivered as the voices inside the barn carried to them clearly.
“Amigos, you fight over nothing. He is not dead. He has only fainted.”
“You sure, Camacho?”
“Sí. He breathes.”
“You see, Nate, I told you he weren’t dead. But now he knows what to expect.”
“Shut up, Sankey!” Nate growled. “I’ve had it with you! You pull any more stunts like that and you’re out.”
“You won’t get anywhere unless you put some fear into the bastard,” Sankey defended himself.
“That’s enough,” Nate ordered harshly. “Count yourself lucky the old man went back to town tonight and didn’t hear the shooting. If he had—”
“So what? I didn’t kill him.”
“Shit!” Nate turned away from him. “Camacho, get that wound tied up before he bleeds to death.”
“I say we wake him up again,” Sankey put in. “Now’s the time to show him we mean business.”
“Does anyone agree with Sankey?”
There were several moments of silence, and then the Mexican spoke up. “There is only so much he can take. It would be best to let him recover a little. A dead man will not tell us anything.”
A new voice spoke up. “I agree, Nate. Let’s give it a rest until morning.”
“Ross?”
“I think I’d like to get some sleep myself.”
“That settles it.”
“And what if he don’t break tomorrow and tell us what we want to know?” Sankey wouldn’t let it rest. “How much time are we going to waste here?”
“However much we have to,” Nate replied in a harsh, quelling tone that put an end to the argument.
Outside the barn, Lorenzo nudged Samantha. “I do not like the sound of this at all,” he whispered. “What did you see?”
“There…seems to be some sort of interrogation going on. I saw six, maybe seven men and…and the one they were talking about, he’s tied up between two posts, hanging. I’ve never seen anyone so badly beaten—swollen, bruised, and shot. Bleeding from the leg. He must be in terrible pain.”
“And the men, they work for your father?”
Samantha turned on Lorenzo in sudden rage. “Don’t you dare think those thugs work for my father!” she hissed. “He would never allow such brutality!”
“But they mentioned the old man going back to town,” Lorenzo pointed out gently.
“They meant someone else, that’s all,” she said. “Not my father.”
“Yet they are on his ranch,” he persisted.
“No!” she bit off angrily. “I’ll prove it!”
Lorenzo couldn’t stop Samantha before she stepped back into the open doorway, clearly in view if anyone should look that way. But no one did. Samantha took a hesitant step inside, only one. Lorenzo wisely stayed out of sight.
Most of the men had settled down to sleep, but two were sitting by the fire, and one looked up and saw her standing there.
At first he said nothing. Surprise registered in his dark, mestizo features. He just stared at her, taking in her disheveled, dirty appearance, the gun in her hand.
“Camacho, you take the watch first,” the man beside the Mexican said as he rose. “Wake me in a few hours.”
Camacho grinned, revealing decayed and missing teeth. “I think your rest will have to wait, Nate,” he replied without taking his eyes from Samantha. “We have company.”
“What the…” Nate fell silent, following Camacho’s gaze. His eyes narrowed. “Who the hell are you?”
“It would be more appropriate for me to ask you that,” Samamtha replied calmly.
The sound of a woman’s voice roused the others who had not fallen asleep. Grins appeared on grizzled faces. Nate still glowered, however.
“You alone, girl?” someone asked.
“What’s she doing here?”
“The Lord’s answered my prayers!”
There was laughter, and Samantha stiffened. “You men are trespassing,” she said coldly. “And what you’ve done here is despicable.”
Her eyes fell on the beaten man, his head hanging to the side against a raised arm. The barbarity! She turned away, taking in all of them at a glance, disgust and revulsion in her expression.
“You got some interest in this man?”
The question caught her by surprise, and she looked back at Nate with contempt. “Only a humane interest. No one should be treated like that.”
“Maybe she’s a friend of his, Nate,” a fat, beefy
“Stay out of this, Sankey!” Nate barked, uncomfortable under Samamtha’s condemning regard. “And you, girl—explain what you’re doing here right now.”
“This is my father’s ranch, and I’m ordering you off it immediately.”
“Your father? You’re Samantha Kingsley?”
She gasped. “Do you know my father?”
Nate relaxed a bit. “We work for him. You’re all riled up about nothing, ma’am. We ain’t trespassing. We’re doing a job.”
“You’re lying!”
Nate tensed, his eyes darkening. “I could say the same of you, girl. Maybe Sankey was right and you’re one of the kidnappers come here to help this one escape.”
Samantha’s stomach turned as the implication hit her. “Kidnappers? My God, is that what this is all about? You…you…”
“We were hired to find the bandits who took Kingsley’s daughter and forced him to sell his land to that fellow there.”
She went cold suddenly. “Who is this man?”
“Calls himself En—En—oh, hell, one of them long Spanish names, something or other Chavez.”
“Antonio!” she gasped.
“You see, Nate, she does know him.”
“No, I don’t.” She shook her head slowly. She wouldn’t look at Antonio again—she couldn’t. Hank’s cousin! “Why have you done this to him? I can’t believe my father would tell you to torture a man!”
“Kinsley wants El Carnicero. He don’t care how we go about finding him. And Chavez there is going to lead us to him.”
“No, he won’t,” she said calmly, though her anger was rising steadily. “And you’re going to let him go or I’ll have you all fired. I know my father, and I tell you he won’t condone what you’ve done here.”
“Now hold on—”
“Don’t listen to her, Nate. She ain’t Kingsley’s daughter. Look at her. You think his daughter would look like that? She’s one of them, just like Chavez.”