Tribal Ways. Alex Archer

      

      “There’s a mass murderer on the loose.”

      “You didn’t forget already?” Ten Bears asked.

      “No,” Annja said slowly. “I didn’t.”

      “Let us professionals handle him. We do a bad enough job without any help.”

      She wasn’t sure quite how to take that. He seemed like a man who, for all his cockeyed banter, took his job very seriously. She also didn’t think his tongue was more than halfway in his cheek, and wondered just who wasn’t doing their job quite so well.

      “One more thing before you go,” he told her as she started for the door of his small office. “We got us some young South Plains braves here in western Oklahoma who don’t much like white-eyes. And they play rough. Tempers are extra short right now since some of them don’t like it that we got us a great big new casino opening up in a few days.”

      He laughed at her expression. “Don’t worry,” he said. “They can’t fire me for calling them braves. Any more than they can make us Indians call ourselves Native Americans. That fight we won, anyway. Maybe it’s a trend.”

      She had to laugh. She found herself liking the lieutenant. “Maybe it is.”

      But as she left she found herself thinking, I don’t believe in werewolves.

      But there are plenty of things I don’t believe in that have a nasty habit of turning up anyway….

      Titles in this series:

      Destiny

      Solomon’s Jar

      The Spider Stone

      The Chosen

      Forbidden City

      The Lost Scrolls

      God of Thunder

      Secret of the Slaves

      Warrior Spirit

      Serpent’s Kiss

      Provenance

      The Soul Stealer

      Gabriel’s Horn

      The Golden Elephant

      Swordsman’s Legacy

      Polar Quest

      Eternal Journey

      Sacrifice

      Seeker’s Curse

      Footprints

      Paradox

      The Spirit Banner

      Sacred Ground

      The Bone Conjurer

      Tribal Ways

      Rogue Angel_™

      Tribal Ways

      Alex Archer

       www.mirabooks.co.uk

      THE LEGEND

      …THE ENGLISH COMMANDER TOOK JOAN’S SWORD AND RAISED IT HIGH.

      The broadsword, plain and unadorned, gleamed in the firelight. He put the tip against the ground and his foot at the center of the blade. The broadsword shattered, fragments falling into the mud. The crowd surged forward, peasant and soldier, and snatched the shards from the trampled mud. The commander tossed the hilt deep into the crowd.

      Smoke almost obscured Joan, but she continued praying till the end, until finally the flames climbed her body and she sagged against the restraints.

      Joan of Arc died that fateful day in France, but her legend and sword are reborn…

      Contents

      Prologue

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Chapter 19

      Chapter 20

      Chapter 21

      Chapter 22

      Chapter 23

      Chapter 24

      Chapter 25

      Chapter 26

      Chapter 27

      Chapter 28

      Chapter 29

      Chapter 30

      Chapter 31

      Epilogue

      Prologue

      Standing in the open door of the RV with a mug of coffee steaming in his hand Paul Stavriakos cursed the freezing wind and wondered why he’d ever moved to the Great Plains.

      “Either go or stay, but shut the damn door,” Allison York called from the bed. “That wind is freezing.”

      Paul sighed and stepped down to the grass, still dry and tan from winter. He shut the door behind him. The wind howled around him.

      Dawn was still a drizzle of red along the horizon. Clouds hid the stars overhead.

      The land was all tilted planes. It was flat, in a way, but flat that tipped this way and that in big plates furred in yellow-brown grass. There wasn’t much relief; but it was deceptive land, with more hollows and heights than first struck the eye.

      “Not enough to cut the damn wind, though,” he muttered to himself.

      Lights appeared in the trailer that Donny Luttrell shared with TiJean Watts. The battered Toyota pickup with the camper shell belonging to Dr. Ted Watkins from the State Archaeological Division was rocking on its suspension more than the wind’s buffeting would account for. Paul hoped he was pulling on his jeans. The muffled swearing coming from inside seemed to support that thesis.

      “Ever wonder why those old Indians picked a miserable spot like this to make their camp?”

      Paul turned. Eric James was swinging off the back of his old buckskin gelding. He wore a sheepskin coat and a battered felt cowboy hat. The hair hanging in thick braids to either side of his head was gray as slate. The wide face between, the color of Oklahoma clay, had a tough and weathered quality but was barely lined. A full-blooded Comanche and full-time rancher, he owned the land where they stood.

      He returned to his saddle for a moment, then turned back to Paul. He held white bags with a colorful logo in each hand.

      “Brought doughnuts for you kids,” he said. “Hope you make decent coffee. Wasn’t carrying that in my saddlebags.”

      Paul smiled. It felt as if ice was cracking off his face. The digging season seemed to start earlier each year. The ground wasn’t fully frozen. That was about all you could say for it.

      Then again, he thought, it’s getting harder and harder to beat the protestors out here. Digging in colder and worse weather was one way of keeping them at bay as long as possible.