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Chapter Three
    Montana Territory
    S omeone was watching him.
    Buck Lenning rose to his feet slowly, careful to make no sudden moves. He had been on his knees drinking from the clear cold stream when he saw pebbles from a spot on the bank fall with tiny splashes into the water. He had no idea who or what was there in the willows ahead and to the right, but the pebbles had not fallen without a cause.
    His senses had been honed to sharpness by a lifetime of constant vigil. Something was not right. Trouble had a breath all its own, and he could feel it trembling on the back of his neck. Bending low to make himself as small a target as possible, he moved up the bank to his horse.
    Was an Indian or a Mexican skulking just out of sight? Unlikely. Mexican bandits were scarce in this part of the country, and an Indian warrior would not have been so careless. Whoever it was, if ambush was his reason for being there, he had missed his chance.
    Lenning had left the grasslands of the Larkspur and cantered along the Sweet Grass Creek bottom for a couple of miles. When it turned back up toward Crazy Mountain, where tall pines were scattered here and there among birch and aspen, he followed its course. Willows skirted the banks of the creek where he had paused to drink and to water his horse.
    While looking over the back of his saddle, he pretended to adjust the cinch. Suddenly a brown thrasher flew out of the willows and swept past his head like a darting arrow. He continued to scan the bank along the creek. Then his sharp eyes saw color where none should be. A tiny bit of red had caught his eye.
    Fixing the position in his mind, he led his horse a short distance before he mounted and headed him in the opposite direction. A hundred yards down the trail he turned up toward the mountains and came back to approach the willows from the hillside.
    Buck Lenning had not planned to be away from the ranch for long. He hated to spend the extra time investigating, but logically he must assume that whoever was hiding along the creek bank was an enemy and needed to be flushed out. Moving slowly, he walked his horse back to a place above where he had seen the pebbles fall into the water.
    When he noticed that something or someone had been dragged along the soft green grass, he swung down out of the saddle. Moving with catlike grace he followed the sign toward the creek and the dense growth of willows. He heard no sound, and the only movement was a cool breeze stirring the tops of the pines.
    He might not have seen the slender, young Indian girl at all had he not spotted the red cloth tied to the ends of her long braids. Her dress of soft brown linsey blended with the patches of grass beneath the willows. She was frightened but defiant as she watched him with large dark eyes. Considering what happened sometimes to young Indian girls when come upon by some white men, he did not blame her for being afraid.
    The reason she had been dragging herself over the grass was obvious to Buck. Her leg was broken below the knee.
    “I am friend.”
    She only stared at him. If he had any brains, he told himself sternly, he’d get the hell away from her. The Sioux were plenty mean, and especially where their women were concerned. But, christamighty, he couldn’t just ride off and leave her here with that broken leg. Yet if he laid a hand on her, she might yell loudly enough to raise the dead. If there was a band of Sioux nearby, his life wouldn’t be worth a pile of horse-hockey.
    He took a step nearer and smiled down at her. She brandished a small knife, motioning for him to stay away.
    “I am friend. I help you.”
    “Go!”
    He motioned to her leg. “It’s busted. You die without help.” He spoke in what he thought was passable Sioux and gestured with his hands toward the mountain. “Wildcat, cougar in these parts. White men who are bad.”
    “Go.”
    “I’ll cut splints and bind your leg.”
    He went to where he had left his horse. After tying