those tormenting emotions while he lay sprawled on a slab of rock, slithering forward like a snake so he could peer over the ledge. But the moment he saw his adopted Apache brother kneeling below him, sipping water from the trickling spring, another wave of guilt and betrayal buffeted him.
When a man was forced to turn against one of his own it made him feel like the worst kind of traitor.
Silently, John unholstered his Colt, then took Raven’s measure down the sight. Dead or alive, John’s commander had told him. Made no nevermind to Jacob Shore. But it mattered to John Wolfe. It mattered a helluva lot. When a man had a foot planted in each of two contrasting civilizations, walking that fine line and trying to pretend indifference was pure hell.
John had taught himself not to feel, not to react and not to care that he was as white as he was Apache. Yet seeing Raven in the valley below was like tearing open a wound that had never really healed, no matter how much he tried to pretend it had.
Well, he was here to do a job, distasteful though it was, and he’d better get at it.
“Don’t move,” John commanded in the Apache dialect.
Raven froze, his cupped hand halfway to his mouth. Water trickled between his fingertips and ran down his bronzed arm. The Apache raised his eyes and squinted into the bright light of sunset to locate John on the outcropping of stone above him.
John knew the exact instant Raven recognized him. Tension sizzled in the evening breeze like lightning. Slowly, Raven rose from his crouch, his body taut, his expression rife with loathing.
“So the white-eyes sent you for me, did they, Brother?” Raven spat derisively. “Ah, but who else could they have sent? Who else knows the Apache’s mind and the Apache’s way better than an Apache turncoat?”
Raven’s words were like an embedded knife twisting in John’s spine. Willfully, he ignored Raven’s mutinous glower and hateful words. He kept the Colt trained on Raven’s heart, wondering if this renegade still had one left after all the crimes he’d committed these past two years.
With an economy of movement that was ingrained and practiced, John contorted his body until he was sitting upright, his booted feet dangling over the ledge. His pistol never wavered from its target on Raven’s heaving chest.
“I’m taking you back to the reservation at San Carlos, Raven,” John told him grimly. “I can drag you by your heels or with your hands in chains. But if you ask me, it is not a good day for you to die.”
“I was dying a torturous death at that pigsty of a reservation,” Raven growled in reply. “But you knew that feeling yourself, didn’t you, Brother? You cut off your braids, stole civilian clothes from the army commissary and sneaked away from the reservation to turn white again. You turned your back on The People, on the clan that took you into its fold to feed you, clothe you and train you to become a mighty Apache warrior.”
Raven’s eyes raked John up and down, with visible distaste. “The brother I knew as White Wolf, adopted son of Chief Gray Eagle and, my adopted brother, has joined the ranks of my hated enemies, just so he can enjoy his own freedom. White Wolf is nothing but a traitor!”
Raven’s harsh words stung like a swarm of wasps, for they were the very words that constantly buzzed in John’s conscience—every waking hour of every livelong day. But John had concealed his identity and sneaked off the reservation—at Chief Gray Eagle’s command. He’d been assigned the duty of battling the whites from within their own society, of becoming a buffer to protect the Apache nation.
It hadn’t been an easy path for John to follow, but Raven would never understand that, refused to listen to any explanation. In Raven’s eyes, White Wolf had sold his soul to the white devils in order to reclaim his freedom.
When Raven’s gaze discreetly darted to the rifle lying at his feet, John cocked the trigger on his pistol. The imminent threat of death hung in the silent dusk. Raven’s pinto mare pricked its ears and lifted its head from the stream, sensing the gravity of the moment.
Raven shifted his gaze from the rifle to John. “Your aim is as true as ever, is it not, White Wolf?”
John inclined his head slightly. “Better.”
“I do not doubt it. The legends you have inspired since you turned white have not been exaggerated, I suppose.”
“No.” It wasn’t a boast; it was the simple truth. But there wasn’t a white man alive who knew the truth about John Wolfe’s background. No one knew how or where he’d honed his impressive skills as a tracker, gunfighter, territorial marshal and oftentimes bounty hunter. The criminals he brought to justice claimed he was some sort of avenging phantom who could disappear into thin air—then reappear. His Apache training contributed to his uncanny ability, constantly tested and perfected as he dealt with the worst vermin preying on society.
Chasing down white criminals and sending them to hell where they belonged didn’t weigh as heavily on John’s conscience as tracking his Apache brother. Raven had foolishly joined up with two army deserters who’d stolen reservation supplies and sold them to settlers and miners in the territory. A worthless white cutthroat and a blood-thirsty Mexican who were wanted for murder and robbery rode with the gang. In order to achieve his freedom, Raven had aligned himself with those ruthless outlaws, all of whom had high prices on their scalps.
John wondered if Raven perceived his own abandonment of the Apache on the reservation as detestable as John’s. Probably not. To Raven’s way of thinking, no crime was quite as unforgivable as an Apache who purposely turned white.
The instant Raven glanced speculatively at his horse—obviously trying to decide if he could use the animal as a shield before a fatal shot was fired—John tossed a pebble off the cliff. The distraction served him well. When Raven reflexively shifted left, John launched himself off the stone ledge, dropped a quick ten feet and landed in a crouch. His Colt was still aimed directly at Raven’s heart.
Raven smiled, but there was nothing pleasant about his expression. “You do not miss a trick, do you, John Wolfe? I remember the day my father taught us that deceptive technique of diverting attention. Do you remember? Or have you purposefully forgotten that you owe everything you are to the Apache who raised you?”
Not one minute of one day went by that John Wolfe didn’t remember who and what he was—a contradiction, a man in torment who walked a path that must surely entail the white man’s concept of a living hell.
“I prefer to take you back alive, Raven,” he murmured as he rose from his haunches. “Gray Eagle also prefers to have his son returned to him in one piece.”
John couldn’t interpret the expression that momentarily settled on Raven’s bronzed features. It vanished as quickly as it came. “Then I have no choice but to return to that hellish place, do I, John Wolfe?”
John told himself not to let his guard down when Raven seemingly accepted his fate. But this, after all, was the adopted brother who had shared his life for almost two decades. They’d grown up in the same wickiup and struggled side by side to become accomplished warriors. They’d survived famine, sickness, war and captivity.
The only difference was that John had been born white and Raven was full-blood Apache. Until this pivotal moment, the differences between them hadn’t mattered to John.
Now it was all that mattered.
“I will go willingly to the reservation
