The Daughter, C.B. Cooper [ink book reader TXT] 📗

Dakota territory, South-east corner

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Zeb frowned at his silent, sullen partner. Sam Sharp had been a man on a mission ever since leaving Buffalo Hump’s camp. He seemed to be possessed by the invisible hand of urgency, the good time they had at the Red River station was but a memory now, in short— Sam had become a grumpy pain in the ass.
Zeb didn’t think he had to point out the obvious, but he did anyways. “Besides the fact that it’s getting late, that wall of black clouds rolling our way ain't likely to change direction anytime soon.”
Maybe he did have to point it out, because Sam pulled his horse up short, as if seeing the dark wall of nasty weather for the first time.
Frustrated, Sam swiped the hat off of his head and ran his fingers through his hair while studying the vast prairie around them. Finally, he turned to Zeb. “You’ve been through these parts, where do we go?” he asked gruffly.
“If my memory serves me right… were getting close to Fort John. We aint gonna have time to make it all the way there, but there’s some nice thick stands of trees on the way. If we ride fast we might be able to make it there.”
Stuffing his hat back on his head, Sharp said grimly, “Let’s shake it loose then. I don’t like the looks of that mess heading our way.”
Zeb nodded, “Looks like a gulley washer, that’s fer sure.”
Thirty minutes later they were hit with the first round of damp wind. It sprang up suddenly, then continued getting stronger, picking up speed, the farther they rode. The dark wall ahead showed streaks of light, and the sounds of distant thunder reached their ears.
The wind howled as the first fat drops of rain pelted their coats and bare faces. Heads bent against the wind and rain, they pushed onward, into the storm.
The storm had reached an almost deafening pitch, like the roar at the base of a thousand foot waterfall, when Zeb chanced a peek from under the brim of his hat.
His blood turned to ice in his veins.
The wide black wave that approached them was growing larger by the second, crashing across the prairie like a living tidal wave with the volume and speed of a flash flood.
Zeb’s stunned gaze skipped to his partner.
Ten feet in front of him, unaware of the rolling death heading their way, Sam rode huddled over, his head bent against the pounding rain. Water poured in a steady stream from the brim of his wilted hat, to the pommel of his saddle.
Zeb screamed Sam's name, but the turbulent wind whipped the words from his mouth and tossed them carelessly over his shoulder. Drumming his heels into his horse's sides he tried to catch up to his partner.
He had to warn him.
Sensing Zeb’s panic, or maybe catching a glimpse of what lie ahead, Ol’ Ugly reared back on his haunches, shaking his big ugly head back and forth, balking at the insane request from it's rider. He knew there was danger up ahead, and every part of his brain said to turn and run the other way.
Zeb sat the upheaval and then jabbed his heels into the horse’s flesh again as soon as the animal regained it’s footing. The horse jumped sideways and skittered back, it’s long ears pinned flat against the back of it’s head as it screamed in protest.
It was no use. That horse wasn’t going anywhere, except for away from the imminent danger that was bearing down upon them.
Finally, out of sheer frustration, Zeb yanked his pistol.
If he couldn’t get Sam’s attention, they’d both be dead in a matter of minutes. He fingered off five rounds, straight up into the air with no response from the man in front of him.
One bullet left.
Zeb aimed for the crown of Sam’s hat. If he could just nick it, that would be enough to get his partner’s attention, but as he tried to draw a bead the feisty animal beneath him pranced and dipped. Getting an accurate shot would be near impossible. He took one last longing, pleading look at the iron in his hand and took aim...
Sam Sharp rode huddled against the elements, his mind replaying the conversation with Buffalo Hump for the thousandth time since leaving the Comanche village, when something hard punched him in the middle of the back.

Chapter

Grunting in pain, Sam saw something land beside him on the ground. It was a gun. Zeb’s pistol. Reigning his horse to the side, he squinted through the downpour.
Zeb was fighting the frightened animal beneath him as it bucked and twisted, it’s eyes wide, nostrils flared and ears pinned.
“What in the hell?” he muttered.
Sam was getting ready to dismount to retrieve the old man’s weapon, when he caught sight of Zeb frantically pointing, his friends eyes just as wide and scared as Ol’ Ugly’s, and he was yelling something, but in buffeting wind none of the words reached Sam’s ears.
Shaking his head, Sam frowned, “What?

”
Again, Zeb pointed, waving his arm dramatically.
Sam muttered a curse as he turned his face into the stinging rain, “What in the…”
His stomach dropped, as a cold fear slide down his spine.
Buffalo.

And not just a few buffalo. Thousands of buffalo.

The massive formation rushed towards them, crashing across the prairie like a big brown tidal wave. In their panic, the herd had spread to at least a half a mile wide, it's edges growing by the second as each animal fought it's way to the forefront, each trying to outrun the raging storm that drove them on.
Sam swung back around, the gun laying forgotten in the mud, as he stabbed his heels into the horse's sides.


The dark figure on horseback sat upon the hill, coolly studying the ranch below. The wind whistled and howled, tearing at the stranger's clothes like a crazed animal, but for all it's fury, it went completely unnoticed. The sole focus was the ranch house, and more importantly, it's occupants.
The windows blazed a warm lemon-yellow light in the growing darkness, and only occasional shadows from within drifted past, temporarily disturbing the glow. The grounds outside of the house were barren, not a sign of life anywhere. The only movement came from a lone windmill that stood stoic, marking the well in the yard, it's blades spinning wildly out of control.
Satisfied, the stranger gigged the horse down the hill and rode towards the dark barn, unconcerned by the storm that raged around her.

The barn door burst open, caught by the buffeting wind and slammed against the building, it's rusty hinges squealing loudly in protest.
The rancher ushered his hysterical daughter inside and threw her onto the hay-strewn floor. Turning, he hung the oil lamp from a peg on the wall, then stripped off his soaking wet coat, hanging it on a peg as well.
He took his time, all the while his daughter sobbed and pleaded.
"Daddy, please! Tell me what I did! I didn’t do anything, I promise!"
Her father slowly unbuttoned his sleeves, then rolled them up to his elbows, a deep scowl lining his weathered face.
"Daddy!" she cried, "Please, tell me what I did!"
Removing the sodden hat from his head, he tossed it onto a stool before talking. "Your mother seen ya. Said you were at the well with that boy," his voice was tight, void of all emotion. "Said you let him touch you..."
The girl was on her knees, her long dark hair plastered to her head, her thin dress soaked, and clinging to her shivering body. "NO!" she screamed hysterically. "She's lying! I went to the well but there wasn't anyone else there, I swear!" she sobbed.
Raising his voice for the first time, he yelled, "You calling your ma a liar!"
The girl shrunk back from the sharp sting of the angry words.
"Is this what happens when you turn fourteen— you turn into a whore!"
"NO!"
The wind howled through the cracks, as the storm continued it's onslaught outside.
"No daughter of mine will act like a charlatan," he said matter-of-factly, calm once again. "Take off your dress." he ordered, his voice deathly quiet.
"No, please! Daddy, don'…."
"Quiet!" he boomed. "You'll do as your told."
Completely mortified and humiliated, the girl began pulling the wet dirty hem over her head, her small hands shaking violently. Once the dress was off, she clutched it tightly in front of her, trying to cover as much of her thin naked body as she could.
Impatient, he walking over and jerked the thin material from her hands, tossing it away. Glaring down at her, he ordered, "Stand up and turn around. Grab the edge of that stall."
Numbly, the girl did as she was told.
He undid his belt slowly, while he mumbled, "No daughter of mine will end up a whore. Your Ma, she was the same way. Always flirting with the men. She would'a spread her legs at the drop of a hat for any man that would have her." He sighed loudly, as he pulled the strap of leather from around his waist. "But I taught her different. I taught her how a proper lady should act. And now… I'll teach you."
The girl held the edge of the stall in a death grip, her knuckles white, teeth clenched, she waited.
He raised the wide strap of leather, then brought it down. Whack.

The sound of leather striking bare skin was drowned out by the girls scream.
He raised it again. Whack.

Then again, over and over while she screamed, until her knees threatened to buckle, her back a maze of crimson welts.
Just outside the circle of light, the stranger watched in silence. Coal black eyes glittered with fury.
Outside the barn, the storm reached a new crescendo. The whole building shook, the old timbers groaning and cracking in protest, the oil lantern on the wall spit and sputtered, the flame dimming, then extinguishing completely.
The inside of the barn was plunged into total darkness.
The rancher cursed and grumbled as he felt his way over to the wall.
Outside, a violent burst of lightening cracked the sky, immediately followed by another and another, as the thunder exploded around them. The storm was directly above them.
Using the light from the storm outside, he located the lantern hanging on the wall. Removing the chimney he struck a match, and touched the flickering flame to the wick. The light spit and sputtered then blazed brightly once again.
Replacing the chimney he turned back to his daughter and froze.
Standing not eight feet away from them was a new presence. A stranger.
Dressed all in black from head to toe, the persons head was bowed, their face hidden behind the wide brim of the black felt hat.
Momentarily stunned, the rancher finally found his voice, "Who in the hell are you," he yelled, "And what are you doing in my barn!"
His daughter, frightened by his sudden shouting, shrieked and backpedaled into the far corner.
Without lifting their head, the figure before him spoke gruffly. "Get your clothes on, girl."
"Just who in the hell do you think you are!" the rancher shouted. "That's my daughter, and she'll do as I say. Betsy— you stay right where you are."
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