Finally after Flying Hawk had taught her all the delights of love, he let her go back to her stage coach. He would pledge undying devotion and wave good-bye. He would fade into the distance with all his braves as they rode off into the sunset.
But no, she hadn’t seen the last of him. The Noble Savage would then sneak into Denver in the night, climb the trellis outside her window, and make love to her. If she resisted, he would tie her up so she was helpless while his hands and mouth touched every inch of her naked body. She would be unable to do anything to resist him while he taught her all the forbidden delights of love.
Yes, she liked this daydream. She could have it all that way–her father’s money (after she threw him in a madhouse as he had done her mother) and a dark Noble Savage who made love to her night after night as he crawled up the trellis. Some nights, she would tie him up and do things to him that made him gasp with delight.
Abruptly, she was startled out of her daydream by the driver’s shout and the sudden crack of his whip. Immediately, the stage jerked forward and began to move at a fast clip.
Winnifred, annoyed at having her reverie disrupted, stuck her head out the window to scold him.
That’s when she saw the riders in the distance. Oh, thank God, they were going to get a cavalry escort. They were going to–
Land’s sake, Indians! Her heart almost stopped as she recognized the mounted, almost naked men galloping after the stage.
“Cheyenne!” the driver shouted. “Get back in, miss!”
But she was too mesmerized to do anything but stare at the riders now rapidly gaining on the coach. There must have been at least fifty of them, all war-painted, dark-skinned, and almost naked. Somehow none of them looked like the handsome chief of her dreams. They all seemed to be armed with shiny new rifles that reflected the sunlight like mirrors.
She was both terrified and excited. Of course there was no danger, she thought, pulling back inside as the guard fired at the riders. If the Indians stopped the coach, she would explain who she was.
Her ears rang with the firing of the guns above her, the echo as the Indians returned the fire. Dust whirled up from the trail, choking her, clinging to her pale dress and hair and skin.
Terror began to take over–mindless terror. She would not think of that. She would think of her Noble Savage. He would be both handsome and gallant–begging her to go with him, kissing her fingertips when she insisted she really must be going on to Denver. Winnifred closed her eyes as the stage bounced along. Somehow the bronzed man looked a lot like Johnny Ace.
When she opened her eyes, naked riders galloped along on both sides of the coach, grinning in at her. I must not be afraid, she told herself, her heart pounding uncertainly. When they knew who she was, they would let her go.
A shot, a scream, and the driver fell past her window to the dirt. She stuck her head out. Already braves had jumped from their horses and were pulling out their knifes and . . .
Oh, no! Land’s sake, this wasn’t the way the daydream went at all! Sheer terror took over, and she felt the sudden, warm wetness as she wet her drawers. How humiliating. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen at all.
The stage faltered and began to slow. Indians jumped up on the still-moving coach and climbed in her doors.
This couldn’t be happening to her. In her shaking terror, she squeezed her eyes shut.
Yes, she was at the ball. Do tell us again of your narrow escape, Miss Winnifred.
Her fan fluttered at the cluster of elegant people. Just as the savages were about to . . . well, you know, the Handsome Chief galloped up on his magnificent black stallion, and forbade them to touch me. . . .
The stage stopped with a lurch. Slowly Winnifred opened her eyes to look into an ugly, paint-smeared face. His skin was dark, all right, but he looked greasy and grimy and she could smell him from here. What had happened to the Indian of her dreams?
She must not show fear. Indians respected bravery. It took her two tries to speak. “I–I am Winnifred Starrett,” she said primly, forcing herself to smile. “My–my father–”
“Me, Snake.” the Indian grinned back, exposing a mouthful of dirty, bad teeth.
At least this Simple Savage spoke English. Hope began to build in her quaking soul. “I am Winnifred Starrett of Denver. I–I am in sympathy with your people and all Noble Savages everywhere. Now if you will get a message to my father, who is a friend of the Great White Chief in Washington–”
He struck her then, slamming her back against the seat, “Shut up, white squaw!”
Pressing her palm against her stinging cheek, she looked down, horrified at the crimson trickling down the front of the blossom pink batiste and across the dainty rosebuds of her wide sash. “You don’t understand. My father–”
He grabbed her arm and dragged her out of the coach. She fought for control so that she would not give way to hysteria. She must remember not to show fear. Indians respected bravery. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a brave opening and closing her parasol with wonder in his eyes. Others cut the lathered horses loose and dug in the wooden crates.
One of them held up a Bible and yelled a question in his language. The ugly Snake shrugged and motioned him away. Bibles. Three crates of Bibles from Boston. Somehow it seemed almost funny. She had to struggle with herself not to laugh and laugh over it.
Don’t show fear. Keenly aware of her wet drawers, Winnifred stood there, trembling and looking around as the Cheyenne Dog Soldiers crowded closer. None of them looked handsome to her behind the dirt and gaudy war paint. All of them smelled like sweat and grease and the smoke of a thousand campfires.
Frantically, she looked around the circle for the Handsome Chief of her daydreams. None of these were any better-looking than the ugly Snake, and the way he was looking at her terrified her.
What had happened to the driver and guard? Winnifred turned to look back at the limp bodies. Knife blades and hands gleamed wetly scarlet as the braves took the scalps. One of them brought them to Snake.
He grunted with satisfaction as he examined them and hung them from his belt. Then he turned back to her and put his hand on her sleeve. His brown fingers left red smears.
Winnifred’s heart pounded so hard, she was sure he could hear it. Backing slowly away, she knew she must try again. “I–I am Winnifred Starrett. My father is the Manning Starrett of Denver. No doubt you have heard of him? I am very much in sympathy with the noble Red Man–”
Snake reached out with his knife and cut her dress down the front as the others crowded closer.
“Are you crazy! This is an expensive gown!” She pulled the front together with her hands.
But he laughed, reaching out as the others yelped encouragement like a hungry wolf pack. Snake grabbed the torn front of the expensive dress and ripped it away.
She had been as brave as she could be. With a cry, Winnifred tried to turn and run, but he caught her and tore the rest of the dress from her struggling body.
“Oh, no, please!” Y’all don’t understand!” She tried to cover her dainty lace underwear with her hands. Where was the handsome chief, the dark-skinned brave who would claim her for his own, save her from these filthy, smelly wretches?
Winnifred began to run. The Indians behind her laughed and jeered. Obviously they were playing some kind of game with her.
She kept running. The sun felt hot on her half-naked body. Up there ahead were some small trees, maybe she could lose herself in them.
Behind her, the Indians took up the chase, running her a few yards. Then seemingly tiring of the game, Snake caught her, ripped away the rest of her clothes, and pulled her to him.
This wasn’t how she had pictured it at all. In sheer horror, Winnifred screamed and fought. He signaled to the others. They came running with scraps of her white petticoat, her silk sash. Even as she fought, he reached to pull the ribbons from her hair,
“No, you don’t understand! I am Winnifred Starrett, a rich girl from Denver–
”
“Shut up, white girl!” He hit her across the face hard enough to stun her and let her fall to the ground. Someone was spreading her out on her back, spread-eagling her. The ground was hot beneath her naked skin.
Winnifred struggled, but a warrior took her wrists, tied them together with her dainty rosebud sash, staked them down above her head.
She flayed wildly with her legs, screaming while she did so. They stuffed the bit of petticoat in her mouth, almost choking her. Her bright hair ribbons were looped around her trim ankles, spread apart, and staked down.
She lay helpless.
Now the ugly leader pulled aside his loincloth. His aroused manhood looked as big as the stud bull’s on her mother’s plantation–bigger than any of the male slaves humping a dark girl in a cotton patch.
This couldn’t be happening to her. Any moment, she would wake up safe in her own bed back home. Either that, or the handsome chief would ride to her rescue, make them free her, swing her up on his stallion, and carry her to safety.
She struggled against her bounds, tried to cry out in protest, but she could barely breath with the gag.
All the fifty had their loincloths pulled aside now, coming toward her. She hadn’t saved her virginity all this time to let some filthy savage with bad teeth take it. Any moment, she would wake up from this fantasy gone awry. Any moment . . .
The leader knelt between her thighs, holding his swollen manhood in his hand and leering down at her. The fresh blood had dried on his hands. He leaned over and put his bloody, filthy hands on her white breasts.
She tried to protest, to tell him who she was. But he paid no attention to her muted sounds. He ran his bloody hands over her creamy thighs. Grinning with pleasure, he rammed into her like a rifle stock, tearing her apart. He rose up, grunting with satisfaction at the scarlet stain on his throbbing flesh. Then he came into her again, putting all his power and muscle behind his thrust, This time, he went all the way up into her protesting body.
Winnifred screamed in pain but couldn’t get the sound past the gag in her mouth, Her insides seemed to be on fire, the savage grunting like an animal as he rode her, thrusting deep into her, his dirty hands squeezing her breasts. In seconds, he shuddered and she felt his hot seed spewing into her torn flesh.
He stood up, indicating her blood on him, evidently pleased to have taken her virginity. The others were coming at her now, fifty of them, all waiting for their turn. Winnifred Starrett, daughter of the richest man in Denver, was about to get more dark men between her thighs than she had ever dreamed of.
Chapter Eighteen
Johnny Ace leaned against the door post inside Major North’s office, rolling a cigarette as the officer opened the folded message Johnny had just carried over from the telegrapher.
The officer’s face furrowed darkly.
“Pani Le-shar, is there something wrong?”
North crumpled the message and threw it against the wall with a gesture of frustration. “Orders from General Carr. That stage never made it to Denver!”
With mounting dread, Johnny hesitated, then finished rolling the smoke and stuck it in his mouth. “Maybe it just lost a wheel somewhere along the way and is delayed at a stage station.”
The slightly built officer gave him a long look. “Do you really believe that?”
Johnny paused with a match halfway to his lips. “No.” He shook out the match in disgust. Cheyenne Dog Soldiers. He thought of the arrogant beautiful girl who had ridden that stage. “Boots and saddles?”
“Boots and saddles in twenty minutes!” North stood up. “Osgoode ever turn up?”
“No.” Johnny shook his head and tossed away the unlit cigarette.
They strode out the door together, but North signaled a sergeant and his bugler, and stopped to give orders while Johnny ran toward the barn.
Before he made it past the trading post, the loud, clear notes of the bugle calling men to saddle up echoed through the fort.
Luci stood in the heat hanging clothes. She turned at the signal of the bugle, her face showing that, like everyone else on the post, she knew something big had happened. “Boots and saddles? Johnny, what is it?”
He paused. “That stage didn’t make it to Denver.”
“Mercy! The one Winnifred took?”
He nodded and turned to go. “We’ll be riding out to see.”
“Anything could have happened.”
He looked down into her tense face, wanting to reach and out and touch her, but forcing himself to keep his hands at his sides. “Anything could have, but both of us know what’s most likely.”
“You don’t know that it was Cheyenne.”
“Luci, what else could it be?”
She looked away, conflict and indecision in her eyes. Around them, troopers ran in all directions as the cavalry made ready to ride out on short notice. “You’ll be leading soldiers out there to kill my people.”
There was no point in pussyfooting about it. “Most likely. That’s my job, Luci. The army has to protect citizens.”
“You Pawnee would grab at any excuse to kill Cheyenne!” Her voice rose.
“Look, Luci, I’ve got to go. We’ll talk about this when I get back.”
“No, we’ll talk right now!” Her bright blue eyes blazed at him. “You’ll come back with scalps hanging from your belt, Cheyenne blood on your hands, and want to sleep with me as though nothing had happened!”
“We both knew it would come to this.”
“You’re damned right!” She pulled away from him. “If you go out on this patrol, Johnny Ace, I–I’ll be out of your quarters when you get back.”
“Don’t do this to me, Star Eyes!” He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. “Don’t make me choose between love and duty! You can’t expect me to refuse to go!”
“You’ll have to choose between me and your beloved major.” Her voice turned cold.
“If Pani Le-shar goes out without a top scout, his troops might get ambushed or led into a trap. I can’t do that to him. You shouldn’t ask me!”
“Then don’t come to my bed when you get back with blood on your hands!”
He hesitated, seeing by her expression that she meant it. He loved her as he had never loved a woman, but he could not–would not–shirk his duty. “I’m a man, Luci, and I don’t bow to ultimatums.”
The bugle blew again. Johnny reached out, jerked her into his arms, and kissed her. Her lips almost opened in surrender, her body began to melt against his, then she turned stiff and wooden in his embrace. “Get your hands off me, Pawnee!”
With an oath, he turned and strode away toward the barn. When the troops rode out, she wasn’t standing with the other women, waving good-bye. Probably right now, he thought bitterly, she was getting her things out of his quarters. They had both known from the first that this could never work, and yet, they had been irresistibly drawn to each other.
He didn’t look back as the troop headed out the big gates. His enlistment would be up in July. This time, he decided, he was going to leave the army, and put as much distance as possible between him and the half-breed girl.
Several days out from Fort McPherson, Johnny spotted a tiny wisp of smoke in the distance. At first, he hoped it might be a campfire or a small prairie fire set by lightning, but in his heart, he knew better.
The major sent him up ahead to scout it out, thinking they might have run onto a war party. But when Johnny topped a small rise and saw the wrecked stage coach abandoned on the road, his worst fears were realized. He rode back at a gallop to report in. The troop rode forward, weapons ready in case of ambush. In the middle of the trail before they reached the wrecked and burned stage, they found the guard–or what was left of him.
Johnny’s stomach churned and he looked away as the flies rose in a noisy cloud. Even holding his breath didn’t dim the stench. He must be getting soft. Once the sight of death had not bothered him. Warriors were raised to die in battle. He had always expected to go that wa
y himself. Now life seemed very precious to him; any life lost seemed like such a tragic waste. That star-eyed girl was ruining him as a soldier.
What was left of the driver lay charred in the half-burned wreckage of the stage. The major yelled for a burial detail and rode up next to Johnny. “Was it Cheyenne?”
Johnny nodded, pointing to a striped feather arrow. “Turkey feathers. Their favorites.”
Another scout galloped up to Johnny, asking the same in Pawnee. Johnny nodded and made the hand sign for that tribe, running his right forefinger across his left: Cheyenne.
North cursed. “Well, that’s the driver and guard. I guess they’ve carried off the girl.”
Behind them, Luther North yelled, “Frank, shall we try to do anything about the stage?”
The major shook his head. “Is there anything of value on it, Lute?”
Captain Luther North dismounted and looked around. “Three wooden crates, only slightly damaged. Looks like the braves opened them to see if there was anything of value.”
North leaned on his saddle horn. “Is there?”
Luther dug in the top of one of the boxes and shook his head as he held up a half-burned book. “Bibles. Looks like three crates of Bibles from the Peabody Bank in Boston.”
The major snorted in derision. “One of those donations from some rich liberal back East, no doubt! He should come out and see for himself what we’re dealing with, then he might ask Congress to send us guns!”
Luther stood up. “Shall I get a burial detail?”
His brother nodded.
Johnny sat his horse, looking around. What had happened to Winnifred? Probably they had taken her with them to satisfy the warriors’ physical needs for a while, before selling her to the Comanchero, who would sell her south of the border for use in a whorehouse. At least she must be still alive. He’d been expecting to find her raped and tortured body near the driver’s. When a war party was setting a fast pace, often they didn’t want to be slowed down by a captive.
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