Wyoming Renegade. Susan Amarillas

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       Prologue

      Zeke Larson was going to die. He knew it, and so did his captor.

      Moonlight, white and cold, flooded the valley, casting the red rocks in black shadows. The woeful howl of a coyote and Zeke’s harsh breathing were the only sounds.

      He was strung up to a cottonwood tree like a damn four-pronged buck, his arms stretched painfully over his head, hemp rope cutting into his wrists. Every time he moved, the trickle of blood oozing from his side turned into a crimson rivulet.

      Close by, stood his captor. A motherless gut-eating ‘breed by the dark look of him. Zeke hated half-breeds and Indians and just about anyone else who- wasn’t what he thought of as “his kind.”

      “I’m telling you I ain’t the one you’re lookin’ for,” Zeke argued, not for the first time.

      The man didn’t answer, just pushed the cold, hard barrel of his .45 deep into Zeke’s wound.

      Zeke groaned against the searing pain. “Damn you, ‘breed!” he spat.

      “Absarokee,” his captor corrected flatly. “Are you ready to tell me?” His voice was soft, almost serene, as though he hadn’t been torturing Zeke for the past several hours.

      Zeke knew he could end it, knew what the bastard wanted. Damn ‘breed had said so plain enough at the beginning. He wanted the names of the other two who’d gunned down a group of Indians a couple of weeks back.

      Zeke had denied everything, not that it had done him any good. Zeke liked to drink and he liked to brag. He had made the mistake of doing both at the local saloon. He figured that was how this coldhearted scum had gotten on his trail.

      Now Zeke was trying frantically to come up with a way out of this—an excuse, an alibi, a deal. So far nothing had worked.

      A sage-scented breeze rustled the leaves of the tree, but it didn’t do a thing to ease the sweat that beaded on his forehead. He swiped his face on his sleeve. He was determined to outlast this bastard. No Indian was gonna get the best of him!

      “Are you ready to tell me?” his captor repeated.

      “I don’t…know nothin’.” Zeke ground out the words between clenched teeth. That bit of defiance earned him another slap in his throbbing wound.

      “Son of a bitch!”

      “Tell me.”

      Zeke wanted to stay alive, at least he did if he could get free of this. He knew the other man meant business, knew that once he told the bastard what he wanted to know, there was nothing and no one to stop his captor from killing him.

      Another sudden slap against his wound and he wasn’t so defiant anymore. Pain pulsed and trembled through him, searing his mind and body in a blinding red haze. The scent of his own blood filtered into his nostrils, his sweat-soaked shirt clung to his chest.

      It wasn’t any kind of loyalty that kept Zeke from spilling his guts; it was spite, and the knowledge that this information was the only thing keeping him alive. Besides, there wasn’t much to tell.

      They’d split up right after their little “party.” Cordell had said he was headed south. Hell, that could be anyplace from Colorado to Texas. And there was the kid, Gibson. They’d picked him up in Gunlock. He had been working in a bank, of all things, and when they’d said they were headed out to look for ranch work, he’d come along, eager for excitement. Well, the tenderfoot had gotten his share, and then some.

      A few days out of town, they’d spotted a bunch of Indians camped by Lazy Horse Creek. Zeke didn’t know one tribe from another, didn’t care. Everyone knew them redskins were causin’ trouble, slipping off the reservation, stealing horses and cattle. There were way too few soldiers to keep them in line, teach ‘em just who this land belonged to.

      It hadn’t taken much talking, or much drinking, for the three of them to decide to ride on in and put the fear of God into them heathens. Why, it was a white man’s patriotic duty. Hell, they were only doing what the army did. They were probably saving some rancher’s life, they’d told themselves. It had seemed a mighty fine idea then.

      Zeke lifted his head slightly to see that his captor had stepped directly in front of him. The breeze stirred the ‘breed’s shoulder-length hair and the moonlight caught on the beading of his buckskin shirt. Without a word, he put his gun barrel next to Zeke’s thigh and fired, the bullet ripping through flesh and muscle.

      “You bastard!” Zeke snarled, then clamped his jaw down hard to hold back the scream. He yanked at the restraining ropes, wrapped skin-tearing tight around his wrists.

      His captor only smiled, a slow menacing smile. “Tell me.”

      Zeke remained silent. He tried to think of something, anything, but the constant pain. But no matter what he tried, the only thoughts that came were ones of them Indians. One in particular. He’d never seen such hatred in a pair of eyes, not that he’d cared. She was just some whoring squaw. He’d held her down and forced her legs apart. He’d rode her hard, ignoring her screams.

      When he let her up, she’d charged at him, claws bared. He’d had to kill her—self-defense and all.

      The sharp metallic click of a gun’s hammer being pulled back brought reality clearly and painfully into focus an instant before the gun fired, the bullet ripping through his other leg.

      This time Zeke did scream. Blood soaked his clothes and his skin. Pain was a living force inside him. There were no other senses, no other emotions, only the pain and the knowledge that this was just the beginning. A man could last like this for days if he let himself.

      “Anything! I’ll tell you!” he screamed.

      “I’m waiting,” the man said quietly.