New Frontier of Love (American Wilderness Series Romance Book 2) (31 page)

Lord, make me your instrument of justice, he prayed as he quickly grabbed Stephen’s rifle. He dismounted, bent to one knee, took a breath, held it, carefully lined up the sights down the long barrel, and fired.

As Sam released a pent-up breath, one rider fell to the right side of the mount he rode, his body smacking the ground. The other man turned and gaped back at him.

It was Foley.

He jumped on George, afraid to take the time to reload. He could not let Foley disappear into the woods or catch up to his other men.

Before they covered a quarter mile, George overtook the swine’s smaller mount.

He felt hot sweat dampening the stallion’s coat as he reached down for Stephen’s whip. He whirled the whip above his head and as it cracked, the tip wrapped itself around Foley’s neck. He had never been fond of whips, having personally felt the bite of lashes across his bare back at the hand of a particularly vicious Red Coat. But for now, the whip served his purpose well.

He hauled George to a stop, jerking back on the whip, while sliding off the stallion. Breathing hard and fast, the horse’s nostrils flared repeatedly and foamy sweat outlined George’s bridle.

Foley hit the ground, nearly choking. He tumbled several times before finally stopping and then clawed frantically at the whip encircling his throat.

Sam marched toward Foley keeping the whip taut. When he saw the man’s face start to turn blue, he released the tension and tossed the whip on the ground next to George.

Foley scrambled to his feet, sucking in air while reaching for a pistol tucked in a large leather belt.

Before the hunter got a good grip on the pistol, Sam’s right fist whacked the man’s jaw like a blacksmith’s hammer.

He heard the sound of teeth shaking loose, but the big man still stood. He grabbed the hunter’s pistol, but could not get a good grip on the weapon. They struggled for control and he was finally able to wrench the pistol away. Then he tossed the pistol as far as he could throw it and turned on Foley.

“Stop, I only got one hand. You can’t kill me—it ain’t fair,” Foley whined.

The pathetic man’s outcry unleashed something within him. With cold contempt, he said, “Fair? You managed to shoot an unarmed woman with what’s left of that arm. But I guess you’re not as steady as you used to be. You only clipped her shoulder, and as disappointing as it must be to you, she’ll live.”

“You took my hand you bloody bugger. Shooting her was payback for that hand,” Foley roared defiantly. “I would have beat you within an inch of your life and taken her while you watched if your little brother hadn’t shown up. That’s his horse ain’t it?”

His anger turned white-hot. “You stole mine you insolent cur. You lost that hand because you were about to blow my brother in half. One hand, or two, you’re still the same despicable man. Your
only use for the hand you lost was to hurt people. How many women have you raped with that hand? How many murders did you commit? How many lives were lost because of your treachery? How ‘fair’ was that? Seems to me you haven’t known what fair is for a very long time. It’s time you learned.”

He could just shoot this worm of a man. Or send his knife deep into the man’s chest. But a quick death was too good for Frank Foley. He wanted Foley to endure pain, just as Catherine suffered now. Most of all—he wanted to see justice done—to see this traitor hang.

Like a bolt of lightning, he brought his heel up and kicked Foley in the stomach with so much force it felt like his foot had hit the man’s backbone. “That’s for shooting Catherine.”

The hunter gasped for air as he dropped to his knees, groaning and holding his stomach.

Sam circled around behind the breathless man. He wanted to kick Foley all the way to hell. He settled for kicking him in the back, between his shoulder blades, sending the hunter face down and tasting dirt. “That’s for horse stealing.”

Sam stood over him and reached down to turn the devil over.

Foley yanked out a skinning knife hidden in his boot.

He pulled away, but not fast enough or far enough.

The man rolled over and thrust the knife at Sam’s leg.

He gasped as the cold steel penetrated his thigh. The shock of it was worse than the pain. It only fed his fury. Hungry for revenge at last, he stopped just long enough to pull the knife out of his leg and hurl it. He saw drops of his own blood follow the knife’s path through the air.

He limped toward George, feeling warm blood run down his leg and begin to fill his moccasin boot. He bent to pick up the whip, but his head spun and his stomach lurched with nausea. Just for a second, he squeezed his eyes closed. It was a mistake.

Too late to stop the man, Foley jumped him from behind. He blocked Foley’s hand with his forearm, but he felt a hard object connect with his skull. At least he had managed to soften the blow. As intense pain shot through his head, he saw a rock drop next to him. He shook his head as he fought to keep darkness from overtaking him. He could not let this bastard win this battle.

As Sam turned toward him, blinking through the blinding stars before his eyes, Foley reached toward him, grabbing one of his two pistols. The hunter took a few steps back.

Ominously, Sam heard the weapon cock. It seemed like the loudest noise he had ever heard, as the distinctive sound reverberated in his pounding head.

Suddenly, George charged towards Foley, nearly running the man over and forcing the buffalo hunter to fall backwards to the ground.

The sneaky traitor has only one shot, he realized through the painful cloud in his head. Would the hunter shoot the horse or him? Knowing what the stallion meant to Stephen, he almost wished it would be him. He reached for his other pistol and made himself stand up, but he swayed on his feet.

Protectively, George reared up, aiming his front hooves at the man now the horse’s enemy too. Like enormous black hammers, the stallion’s powerful legs plummeted down.

Foley hastily rolled away, but George turned, lowered his head, and quickly headed toward the hunter.

Sam could finally focus his eyes in the time George had given him. He aimed his pistol at the hunter. “Drop that weapon,” he ordered.

Still scurrying across the ground on his knees, Foley looked terrified as George came at him.

“George, whoa boy,” Sam tried. “Whoa.” The stallion refused to slow. Sam aimed his pistol to fire at Foley, but the horse stood in the way of his shot.

The hunter turned toward George and fired the pistol.

The ball slammed into George’s broad muscled chest. The big stallion squealed in pain and panic.

Sam ran to the horse and saw red blood quickly spread across the black hair under the animal’s neck. Helplessly he watched George’s front knees drop to the ground and his own legs nearly buckled beneath him. He stared in disbelief as the stallion collapsed completely to one side.

Then he turned his eyes, bulging and burning with fresh rage, to glower down at the man who caused so much pain. So much evil.

Ignoring his own injury, he took several steps, grabbed the whip off the ground, and then barreled forward toward Foley, the venom of his wrath escalating with each step. He reached down and yanked the man’s vest off to sling it aside.

The abominable man scrambled up and tried to run away but only got a few feet.

The whip uncoiled like a snake strike across Foley’s back, causing the man to stumble and fall to his knees, just as George had. Then the lash struck the hunter’s legs, ripping flesh away, as he tried to make the worm’s punishment match his own terrible
anger. He was tempted to whip the man to death.

He wouldn’t kill him. But he
would
make sure Foley felt considerable pain before he stopped.

The buffalo hunter crawled on his stomach, but had difficulty moving. Blood dripped from both sides of the man’s back, leaving trails of red dirt for Sam to step between as he slowly followed.

Sam’s own blood flowed freely from his leg, joining Foley’s on the ground. He jerked his pistol out of this monster’s hand and stuck it back in his belt. Growling at the man, he could not believe he had let the whoreson use his own weapon against Stephen’s beloved horse. He yanked the whip back again. With difficulty, he kept his hand from releasing it.

Foley crawled again, barely able to drag himself a few feet before collapsing.

Sam swayed, unsteady on his leg. It was time to finish this while he still could. This vile man had much more to answer for than shooting George. He tossed the whip aside and grabbed his loaded pistol from his belt.

“This is for being a damn bloody traitor. For causing so many good men to die because of you. You bastard son of Satan.”

He yanked the pistol’s hammer back. “Now you die.”

“You won’t shoot a one-handed unarmed man. You’re too much of a
Christian
,” Foley sneered with an equal mix of scorn and ridicule. The man drew his head back in a gesture of defiance, looking down his bulbous nose at Sam.

Sam glowered at the man, his heart stone cold, his blood seething hot. He gripped the weapon tightly, so hard he thought his knuckles might crack. It would take every bit of his will not to shoot. But he was a Christian. Would it be wrong to kill this evil
man? Would it be murder or justice?

His knife burned against his waist, nearly screaming at him, begging to be unsheathed. It wanted to penetrate Foley’s cold black heart. It was why his knife existed—forged for revenge—for justice that had gone unquenched for so many years. And it was time for retribution, payback, vengeance, an eye for an eye—all meant for
…another man
.

With a snarl-like smile, Foley chuckled arrogantly when Sam slowly eased the hammer back down and stuck the pistol back in his belt.

It was not a question of mercy. Like throwing pearls before swine, he would not waste mercy on a dark soul like this.

It also wasn’t a question of whether he could use the knife. He could. He would do it for Catherine. He would eagerly do it for all those victims this evil man had wronged. He could finish this.

He dragged his blade slowly out of its sheath. The sound of the knife’s release always sent a satisfying tremor through his heart. The steel glimmered at him invitingly, tempting him to use it.

His face hardened as he pointed the weapon’s tip at Foley. “You deserved to die long ago for causing so many of our men to die!”

“It was war,” Foley yelled.

“You’re right it was. And it still is,” Sam swore.

“The war’s over,” Foley screeched.

“There’s one more traitor that needs to die. You. And dying will only be the start of your punishment,” he taunted. “The flesh will burn off your bones for
all eternity
.”

At the sight of the long blade, or maybe the prospect of hell,
stark fear flashed across the man’s loathsome countenance for the first time. Foley’s face turned ashen and glistening bands of sweat appeared across his upper lip and forehead.

All of a sudden, Foley’s face blurred. Sam blinked trying to clear his eyes. In his mind, William moved between the hunter and him. He shook his head, trying to clear the blurred image. It must be the loss of blood.

No, it was more than that.

William, a man of the law, would want justice. And justice was more than just settling a score. Justice demanded that a man face his crimes before God and man
before
he paid the penalty. That was the difference between revenge and justice.

And Catherine would want him to choose justice over revenge. And to choose love over hate.

He had only one option.

He understood what he had to do, not what he wanted to do, what he had to do. He snarled savagely and swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth. His jaw clenched, as he concentrated on the feel of the deer horn handle in his hand rather than the alluring gleam of the blade. Suddenly, his mind, heated with the fever of anger, filled with an image of Catherine’s beautiful eyes, shining with inner beauty and life.

Summoning up the image of Catherine’s gleaming eyes, he forced the knife back into its sheath.

“Stand up, you slimy bastard, you’re going back to hang, and then you’ll be going on to Hell.”

CHAPTER 30

S
am heard George wheezing, as the big horse struggled to breathe. He wondered if the beautiful stallion was waiting to die until he knew Sam was safe.

“I told you to stand up,” he commanded Foley again, as he limped over to George. “Or do you want to taste that whip again?”

Scowling, Foley followed Sam’s order and unsteadily stood up.

The stallion suddenly squealed in pain. At once, Sam dropped down on one knee, placing his hand on George’s muzzle to soothe the injured horse.

In the same instant, he felt something split the air above his head.

The ball smacked into Foley’s stomach, blowing the buffalo hunter’s big soft gut in two. The ghastly sound turned Sam’s stomach. The man’s body punched the ground as it fell heavily backwards.

Sam instantaneously hunkered low, behind George’s saddle, tasting dirt on his lips. He had come close to tasting death instead. He was in the open with no cover and nothing but his pistols, only
one still loaded.

In the distance, he heard horses thundering toward him. He peered over the saddle. The three remaining buffalo hunters were heading his direction at full speed. At least they had not stopped to shoot again and were still a fair ways off.

Despite his throbbing head, Sam’s mind raced. He could use George for a shield, but he would not do that. Stephen loved George too much to have him riddled with lead balls. He couldn’t do that to his brother or to George. “You saved my life old boy,” he whispered hoarsely. But the horse was about to lose his. He saw the life go out of the magnificent stallion his brother had loved for so long.

Sorrow seared Sam’s heart, and his throat grew raw with unuttered protests and screams of anger. But he needed to reload. He needed a plan. He pulled the rifle off the saddle. With his heart pounding, he quickly reloaded it and the pistol that Frank had used to shoot George. He looked for cover, and started for it, but forced to drag his injured leg, the knife wound permitted only a ragged hop and the trees were a good fifty yards away. He gritted his teeth at the throbbing pain. He needed to hurry. He would soon have three powerful guns aimed at him. He could kill one with his rifle as soon as he had a good shot. The other two he could kill with his pistols, if he didn’t miss. And, he would have to shoot both of them before one shot him. The odds were not good.