This Loving Land - Dorothy Garlock [62]
The man rode his horse up to within a few feet of her.
“Howdy. Hot, ain’t it?” He took off his hat and wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt. His eyes moved restlessly over the corrals, the shed, swept the entire area before coming back and boldly eyeing her. He grinned, showing stubs of teeth through his black beard. “I’d be obliged for a cool drink.”
Summer nodded toward the bucket. “Help yourself.”
He wrapped the pony’s lead rope and the rope looped about the Indian’s neck to his saddlehorn and eased himself out of the saddle. He glanced at Sadie, then his eyes came back to Summer. Water ran down his beard and onto his shirt as he drank, and Summer made a mental note to scrub out the dipper before it was used again.
“Mr. McLean here?” The man moved back toward his horse. His eyes roved the yard and outbuildings again.
Summer shook her head. “No.” Somehow she knew he was referring to Travis.
“Suppose ta meet up with him back that a ways. Thought he could of come here, seein’ as ta what’s here.” He grinned, and his eyes switched from one girl to the other.
The look angered Summer.
“That man needs water, too.” She indicated the sagging Indian. The edge of her voice sharpened even more. “You’re not leaving without giving him water?”
He spat between his feet. “He don’t need no water. ’Paches go days without none.”
Fury boiled up within Summer, and she took a step toward the water bucket. Her eyes met those of the bearded man, and she read the threat in them. She glanced at the Indian, noticing that the flesh had sunk in between the cheekbones and jaws, and the rope about his neck was so tight that his mouth was open as he sucked air into his lungs. He was watching her with dull, lifeless eyes.
A commotion behind her drew her attention. Sadie was blocking the doorway, preventing John Austin from coming out.
“Can I see the Indian, Summer?” He tried to dart beneath Sadie’s arm, but she drew him back.
“Stay inside, John Austin,” Summer ordered sharply. Anger stiffened her back and she dipped the dipper in the water pail and went toward the Indian, who leaned toward her with open mouth.
The black-bearded man moved fast, and the dipper went flying from her hand.
“Hold on. Ain’t nobody a givin’ that ’Pache no water.”
“He needs water badly, and he shall have it!” Summer’s heart pounded heavily. She picked up the dipper and returned to the bench, refilled it, and started toward the Indian again.
“Got grit, ain’t ya?” The man grabbed her close to his foul-smelling body, his hand coming around her to cup and squeeze her breast. “Ain’t nothin’ I like more’n a spunky woman.”
Summer swung the dipper at his leering face. The blow was light and the water spilled over him. He laughed and fastened his hand in the front of her dress, holding her away from him. Summer’s knees shook and she went rigid with terror.
It all happened in a moment.
“Let go! Let my sister go!” John Austin shouted, and threw himself in between Summer and the man, his fists pounding. The man laughed again, loudly, and with one sweep of his arm sent the boy rolling in the dust.
Rage and fear mixed in Summer. Her fingers formed talons and reached for his eyes, missed, and raked his face.
“You . . . bitch!” he snarled and slapped her with an open palm. Her head jarred, and only the hold he had on the front of her dress kept her from going to her knees. She vaguely heard the sound of hoof beats. Then, close to her, a young, excited voice.
“Get away! Leave her be!” Pud jumped from his horse and threw himself at the man, who easily shoved him to the ground while still holding Summer. Pud bounced up and launched himself again at the burly figure, flaying him with his fists.
“Keep away, boy. I don’t aim to tell ya again.” He flung Pud from him a second time. The boy went staggering before falling heavily.
Bouncing up, Pud lowered his head and charged. With a vicious oath, the man loosened his hold on Summer’s dress, drew