Shanaco walked through the door and paused just inside the entrance. The Comanche chieftain was dressed like a white man in dark, well-cut evening clothes, snowy white shirt and black silk cravat. His black leather shoes were neatly polished and his long raven hair was tied back off his cleanly shaven face. He was well groomed and as handsomely dressed as any cultured, aristocratic gentleman. A patrician prince of the Plains. Handsome, aloof and noble. Yet as he stood there unmoving, allowing the curious crowd to examine him, there was about him a definite wildness, a barely leashed intensity that made men nervous and frightened ladies. An appearance of cold hostility. He was young, vigorous and brutally masculine. Hard, lean and ruthless. A murderous Comanche warrior underneath the white man’s clothes. Shanaco was unbothered by the crowd’s curiosity. He was used to making people uneasy. When he walked through the fort or down the sidewalks of the civilian village, people watched him as he passed.
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