The Savage Journey
Richard Wyler

CHAPTER ONE

The lone rider came slowly across the burning, empty plain toward Fort Cameron, Texas. Behind him stretched the Texas badlands, a dry, cruel land of eroded rock, sand and dust, towering mesas and flat plain. Ahead of him, far to the northwest, beyond the fort, lay the silent wilderness of the Llano Estacado: The Staked Plains.

It was mid-August. The time of white-hot days that brought with them a shimmering curtain of silence, shrouding the savage land and everything on it.

Up on the catwalk of the fort wall, a sentry had spotted the rider. He watched with red rimmed, dull eyes as the man reined in his tired horse before the fort's high double gates.

The rider looked up at the watching trooper.

'Luke Kennick to see Colonel Broughton,' he called.

The sentry signalled for the gates to be opened, turned and watched the rider guide his horse across the dusty parade ground and stop before the Company Headquarters Building.

A second sentry strolled over to the first one. He nodded down at the slowly dismounting rider. 'I never thought I'd see Luke Kennick back at Fort Cameron.'

His companion grunted, leaned out over the wall and spat tobacco juice.

'Wait 'til Grif McBride hears about it,' he said.

Unaware of this interest in his arrival, Luke Kennick paused outside the door of the headquarters building to slap off some of the trail dust he'd accumulated. As he did, he glanced out over the parade ground. The place hadn't changed much, he decided. A little more weathered, but otherwise the same.

Kennick knocked dust from his pants with a battered cavalryman's hat. He hesitated a moment longer, a tall, lean man in his early thirties, marked by a life spent mostly beneath a hot sun. His thick fair hair was bleached near white. His face, shadowed by a five day growth of beard, was almost the color of his saddle; a deep, red-tinged brown. His eyes were blue, a pale gray-blue. Normally, their expression was one of almost lazy indifference, but that could change in an instant into a flint-hard look that made an observer wonder if he were looking at the same man.

Abruptly, Luke Kennick turned and opened the door of the headquarters building. He stepped into a small outer office that held filing cabinets and a desk. In the chair behind the desk sat a chunky, balding corporal, intently studying a pile of papers.

'What's the trouble, Cobb? Too many forms to sign?' Kennick asked softly.

Cobb looked up, and his pleasant moon face cracked in a wide smile. 'Lieutenant Kennick!' Kennick took the man's outstretched hand.

'Hello, Cobb. And it's Mister Kennick now. Has been for the past two and a half years.'

'Sure doesn't seem that long. Where've you been hiding yourself, anyhow?'

'Spent some time in the Dakotas, then moved to Wyoming to settle.'

'We sure were sorry to see you go, sir.'

'Yes, I know, and I'm grateful,' Kennick said but his smile faded. Abruptly, he said, 'The Colonel's expecting me, I think?'

Cobb got up off his chair. 'I'll tell him you're here.'

He crossed to a door marked 'Commanding Officer, Willis A. Broughton, Col.' He knocked and went in. Kennick heard muffled conversation beyond the door, then Cobb stepped out again and signaled for him to enter.

Luke Kennick stepped into the inner office. He heard the door close behind him. Memories flooded back to him as he stood there, vivid, warm memories that belonged in this room, along with the wall maps and pennants and tintype portraits.

The commander of Fort Cameron sat behind an old oak desk. Colonel Broughton was an impressive figure. His uniform, as always, was immaculate despite the wilting heat. He looked as if he'd stepped from the pages of an academy yearbook: solid, dependable, tough, and one-hundred percent cavalryman. It had been one of Luke Kennick's failings, that he'd never felt, never looked comfortable in those tight-fitting, stiff uniforms.

Broughton leaned back in his chair and eyed Kennick from beneath thick eyebrows. 'At ease, Mr. Kennick,' he said. Then he got up, walked around the desk and took Kennick's hand. 'Luke, it's good to see you.'

'Thank you, sir.'

Broughton slapped him on the arm and stepped back. 'Damned if you haven't put on weight.'

'You had a habit of keeping your officers on the move. Especially young lieutenants.' Kennick grinned.

Broughton's gray eyes sparkled. 'I still do,' he said. 'Sit down, Luke. Drink?'

'Thank you, sir.' Kennick eased into a chair and let his tired muscles relax. He took the glass Broughton handed him, waited until the Colonel was seated behind the desk. 'Your health, sir.'

'How's it been, Luke?'

Kennick rolled the now empty glass between his hands. 'It was rough to start with. I knew it would be. But once I'd convinced myself that moping around would do no good, I settled down and found things weren't so bad.'

'You bought yourself some land up around Laramie.'

Kennick nodded. 'You're looking at an honest-to-goodness cowman now. I've got a small herd getting fat on sweet Wyoming grass. Couple more years, if nothing goes wrong, I'll have myself a real solid stake.'

Broughton rubbed his broad chin with a big hand. He studied Kennick soberly. It was obvious he was trying to come to some decision...

Broughton's decision will change Luke Kennick's life in a dramatic way when he asks him to escort the Comanche warrior Kicking Bear to his trial. It was Kicking Bear who was responsible for the massacre of Kennick's patrol, leaving him with the g uilt that made him quit the Army. Now Kennick has to take on the responsibility of keeping Kicking Bear alive.

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