She expected him to make a joke about her time in the field and the hatred of bugs, but he didn't react. One boot on, one off, she stared up at Abel again. He hadn’t moved except to look around.
“I don’t like it.” There was some strain in his tone.
The hair on her neck rose. “Is it Uktena?”
“We’re being watched.” He reached for the Lighthouser in her holster as she struggled into her boot again. She rose from the ground, but maintained a crouch.
The pistol gave off a faint whine. Romy’s eyes darted around, seeking an intruder amid the grass and scrub. Her heart was in her throat, stomach in her feet. The wind whistled, making the blades and flowers bob and sway. There were no other signs of life.
“Abel, are you sure the sun and the wind aren’t playing tricks on you?” She couldn't get the words to come out louder than a whisper.
“Stay down. Keep your eyes open.” Stiff plants crunched under his feet as he moved in a circle like a predator on the hunt.
Romy caught movement from the corner of her eye. She whipped her head around. A cry escaped her lips at the same time a shadowy figure burst up from the weeds. The air was filled with shouts and whooping as more figures sprang up from the ground.
She backed up against Abel. He fired rapidly; the soft blasts from the Lighthouser were drowned out by the intruders' war cries. She stared at the painted features of the approaching men.
A shadow fell over them. They were surrounded. One of the braves grabbed Abel’s arm and twisted it, forcing him to drop the pistol before another scooped it up.
“Dammit,” he hissed, clutching his muscles.
Feathers and paint adorned the clothes of the hostiles. They wore their blue-black hair long. Many had feathers woven in the strands. Their britches were made of tanned hides. Some of them were bare-chested and others wore white men's shirts. They formed a circle around Romy and Abel, leering and pointing their weapons. Most clutched bows and a few had lances. Only one or two had firearms, the manual-loading bullet sort decorated with brass tacks and more feathers. Nothing fancy like the modern electromagnet ones. Still, weapons were meant to do damage and she didn't feel reassured by the feral looks on their faces.
“Who are they?” She grabbed for Abel's hand. But she knew before he answered. She recognized their painted colors from the monster that had visited her on the shores of the river.
“Savages. Indians. Whatever you want to call them. Nightmares.”
The befeathered man from yesterday pushed through the small crowd. He wasn't as tall as Abel, but being short didn't make him any less dangerous. He eyed them, arms folded over his chest. A tomahawk hung on a strap around his waist. Red, yellow and black accented his face again. Even his hair was coated in paint. His buckskin pants were bleached white. A red bandana, torn into strips, fluttered from his thick braids.
Abel nodded in his direction. “He’s the leader. The one with the power here, but don't discount the warriors.”
Some of the men were pointing and arguing in a nonsensical language. The man in the white clothes silenced them with a slash of his hand. Nausea twisted Romy's insides. This was the Amazon all over again. They would want her for her hair, might even think it was of the devil or whatever horrors they believed in.
“They're not as friendly as the shaman you recruited in Bismarck.” She'd take his stoic gaze and mysterious manner over these new Indians. “I suppose they're going to sacrifice us to Uktena.”
At her words, all heads jerked her way, wariness replacing some of the ferocity. She stared at the ground, so afraid of the many dark gazes that involuntary tremors shook her. One of the warriors pushed past the leader, a short knife in his hand. He reached for Romy, but Abel pulled her back, throwing one arm in front of her.
“No. This is my woman. Leave her.”
The anger burning in Abel's eyes made Romy's quaking that much worse. She knew he'd die to defend her. The thought of his blood pouring out on the ground in this godforsaken place almost reduced her to tears.
The leader spoke again, his voice quiet. The warrior narrowed his black eyes into slits, but backed away. He tucked his knife into a beaded sheath. Romy felt faint as she watched the warrior walk into the distance.
The leader regarded them with an unreadable expression. He gestured with his hands and the remaining warriors crowded them. The painted man mimed walking with his gnarled hand, but Abel stared back, defiant.
Romy clasped her hands together. “Maybe we should cooperate.”
Abel shook his head. “I'm not goin' anywhere with them. Not until we find out what the hell is goin' on here.”
Anger simmered on his face and the drawl had crept back into his voice. She grasped his hand. “Please, let's just do what they want for now. We can figure out how to escape later.”
“Darlin', they take us back to their camp, there ain't no escapin'. They'll probably—” He stopped, his anger giving way to fear before he put the wall back up.
She read the papers and knew about the wars between the plains Indians and the soldiers. “Torture us. For hours, days if they can. That’s if they bother to kill me at all. I'll wish I was dead.”
His arm slipped around her. “I'm sorry.”
Those two words dashed the last fragile threads of hope she clung to.
One of the warriors pushed Abel's shoulder so that he stumbled and Romy faltered with him. She glared, but he paid her no mind, just gave Abel another shove. Abel spun and swung, hitting the warrior square on the jaw. The warrior fell and Abel raised his fists again, prepared to take on the next man.
Like a hawk swooping for a field mouse, an object flew past Romy and hit Abel high on the back. He grunted and fell face first next to the Indian he'd hit, who was already scrambling to his feet amid jeers from his band. Romy dropped to her knees beside Abel, her hands on his back. A crude hammer decorated with feathers lay close to him.
“Abel! Speak to me,” she begged, fighting back tears.
The warrior he’d embarrassed grabbed the back of her shirt collar and hauled her up. She raked her nails wherever she touched bare skin, kicking at him.
He overpowered her easily. The brave jerked her around so her back was to him and tied her wrists behind her with a rough leather thong. For a few seconds, he brushed his hand over her hair, like he was in awe of the color. The contact made her to flinch, reminding her of the natives in the Amazon. The leader snapped at the warrior. Whatever he said had the warrior grumbling under his breath. He gave her a nudge and pushed her forward where another brave waited with horses. The animals had been concealed somewhere, she realized, hidden so the Indians could sneak up and surprise them. But for what? Why not just shoot them from far away and be done with it? Her heart sank again as she imagined her life as a slave. She’d never see Papa again, or get to apologize for running off. Worse, she’d have to watch as the venom finished Abel. His family would never know what happened to him either.
She kept her eyes on Abel, who had yet to move after the blow of the hammer. The Indian he'd insulted stared at Abel’s body with a haughty sneer. Romy spat at his feet as she walked past. He said something, but she raised her chin and glared.
Her captor led her to a horse, grabbed her by the waist and lifted her up with no effort. Her stomach clenched at the thought of riding with no way to control the animal. If only they'd kept Abel conscious and let him ride double with her, then they might escape. But she thought of the arrows and how horrible it would be to wind up with a dozen of those stuck in her back.
Two Indians slung Abel across the back of another horse, where his head lolled at angle. The Indians mounted and one held the rope of her horse, tugging the reluctant animal while she fought to stay balanced.
The ball in Boston seemed like a lifetime ago. She couldn't quite figure out how they'd gone from ruthless wealthy partygoers to wild savages on the plains. Wouldn't Imogen and her daughters squeal if they knew a dozen Indians with paint on their faces had
kidnapped her? Instead of laughter, a sob built up in her throat.
Chapter Twenty
“Hell.”
Abel didn't realize he'd spoken out loud until the ragged sound of his voice penetrated his eardrums. Someone peeled his eyelids apart and a brown face swam into view. A gap-toothed smile broke out across the face. Startled, Abel sat up with his fists balled and ready to fight.
A throbbing pain in his back jarred his spine. He bit back a groan, forgetting his tormentor for a moment. Across the room, a sandpaper-rough voice spoke in a scolding tone. Abel saw a child, no taller than his waist scuff bare toes into the dirt floor. Whip-thin and all but naked, the boy hung his head. The voice belonged to an old woman with white hair and a face like a dried apple, but her eyes were intelligent and thoughtful. She shooed the child out the door.
He looked around, trying to get his bearings. The building was a long, lodge-type made of wood and woven grass. There were pallets of blankets and hides on the dirt floor. Abel sat on one of them. A fire burned at one end of the lodge and smoke drifted up through a hole in the ceiling. The room smelled of cedar and sage, plants chosen for their ability to protect against evil and purify the air.
The old woman muttered something and shook her head. Her back was stooped with age, but she settled in front of Abel’s pallet with the ease of a younger woman. There was no sign of Romy. Sharp fear gripped him.
“Just who the hell are you?” he demanded, not expecting her to answer.
His chest was bare and the snake tattoo was visible against his tan, as lethal-looking as ever. The woman put her age-spotted hand over its head. Her fingers were surprisingly cold.
“Be still, my son. Time reveals all things.”
Abel shook his head, unable to comprehend what he'd heard. English. Perfect, albeit accented, English. Her smile was warm. Something about her was familiar, but it didn't ease his worry. He wanted Romy at his side.
“Where's the woman who was with me? Is she hurt?”
“Ro-man-cia,” the woman said, nodding. “She does not speak the way we do. She has a strange tongue from far away. Fire-hair Woman says her name means love.”
He swallowed, guilt already pounding at him as he formulated a plan to push this woman down and get out of the lodge. But she nodded at the door.
“She is outside. The children try to teach her to use the sling. She is not so good.” The woman regarded him in a way that made him think she could see clear through him. “White Elk wishes to speak with you. Your tongue is hard for him, like Fire-hair Woman's sling is difficult. Yellow Knife will help him understand your reasons for coming to our land.”
“So they aren't going to kill us?”
She grunted as if she thought he'd asked the stupidest question ever, rose to her knees and pushed him forward at the waist, looking at his back. Her cold fingers prodded the sorest part, next to his spine where his neck and back met.
“This will not keep you from your task. By the time the moon wanes, the pain will fade,” she predicted.
“Task?” What did she know about the hunt for the Diamond?
She stood and regarded him with dark eyes. “The one we do not speak of has marked you. White Elk knows what you are after and he will try to keep you from it. But I think you will seek out the evil one.”
“You know of Uktena?” He searched her face.
She recoiled with a hiss. “Do not call it here!”
The natives back home swore names were powerful medicine and not to be used lightly. He supposed he should have considered that before blurting out the name of a serpent these people no doubt feared and hated. He couldn’t lay any blame on the old lady for being hateful all of the sudden.
“Then take me to White Elk. I need to speak with him immediately.”
The woman fetched his shirt from a peg on the wall and Abel slipped into it, covering the tattoo. He was relieved to have it out of sight. His boots were beside the pallet and he pulled them on, then stood, bracing against the wall. Whether from the blow to the back or because of the poison, he was lightheaded.
She jerked her chin toward the door, obviously no longer interested in having him in her lodge. Not if he was going to bring up ancient evil. Too bad Christensen didn't feel that way.
White Elk's camp was tucked into a canyon. The sun was already behind the walls, leaving shadows across the land. Several fires burned, providing light for the people still milling around. Many of them stared with open curiosity. He didn't acknowledge them.
He spotted Romy right away. Her back was turned to him and she stood amid a cluster of children. She'd twisted her hair into a braid that slithered between her shoulder blades. Instead of her torn trousers, she wore a dark brown skirt that reached mid-calf and a pair of tall moccasins. A shirt he'd never seen before, faded from multiple washings, but in better repair than her old one, hugged her slender waist. He realized he'd know her anywhere. Even in a room full of people, somehow he'd always be drawn to her.
The group was laughing, some of the children doubled over with breathless giggles. The soft sound of her laughter spoke to his soul. They hadn’t hurt her and she was obviously free to wander around the camp. It lightened the worry weighing on his shoulders.
“Let me do another one,” she said. She hummed in concentration and tilted her head, caught in thought as she attempted to launch the rock from the sling. Then she stiffened and the sling swung by her side, allowing the rock to fall from its cradle. She turned and met his eyes, like she'd felt him watching. “Abel!”
Genuine happiness flooded her face. Her eyes were wide and her mouth stretched in a welcoming smile. She threw herself into his arms.
“Looks like you've got the tribe wrapped around your pinkie,” he mumbled at the top of her head.
“Just the children. They enjoy laughing at me. I'm a novelty to them with my accent and hair.” She looked him up and down. “My God, I thought that brute had killed you. And of course Hummingbird said I wasn't of any use fussing around the lodge, so she banished me outside. Oh, I'm so glad to see you.” She stood on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his for a quick kiss. The children giggled again. Her face took on a rosy color and she lowered her eyes, but continued to smile.
Abel rested his forehead against hers, holding her tight against him. “You're sure you're all right?”
“Quite. They fed me and put some more of that stinking ointment on my knees, gave me these clothes and turned me out with the children. I swear, no one thinks I'm capable of doing anything useful.” She stroked his shoulders and made no move to pull away from him.
“White Elk wants to know what we're doing here.”
“Yes, I heard. I offered to explain it all, but the big, important chief won't speak to a woman. How interesting that their leaders are so like our own. I'm an empty-headed bit of fluff, suitable only for acting as a parlor decoration no matter where I go.” She sighed and took his hand, clutching it like she'd never turn him loose again.
“You can come with me. I don't plan to let you out of my sight for a while.” He hoped she didn't notice the way his hands shook, more from relief than anything else. He'd been certain they would kill him and make Romy a slave or a lesser wife. It couldn't be often that they came across redheads as breathtaking as her. He gave her hand a squeeze, grateful to be back at her side.
From what little he knew of the natives in this part of the world, they should have been living on one of the reservations. At the very least, a renegade band ought to be living in teepees, chasing after herd animals for food and shelter. Permanent lodges were seldom used out west. But on second thought, he wasn’t even sure what world they were in.
Romy led him through the small village like she'd grown up there. She stopped in front of a modest lodge and poked her head in. Over her shoulder, Abel saw five men sitting around a fire.
“I bring you Abel Courte—He Who Seeks.”
“I have a different name?” he muttered.
She rolled her
eyes. “Fire-hair Woman? Don't complain. Go on.”
He entered with Romy on his heels. The men at the fire nodded to him. He sat and she followed, sitting slightly behind him, her knee against his hip. White Elk had washed the paint from his face, but it still clumped in his hair. One of the men on his right was the warrior Abel had hit.
Abel cleared his throat, uncomfortable with the unblinking eyes staring at him. “Good evening.”
No one spoke.
“I'm Abel Courte. He Who . . . .” Looking at the five seasoned and bemused men made his memory as holey as a fish net.
“Seeks,” Romy whispered.
“He Who Seeks. Referring to the one you all don't speak of. A serpent called Uktena.”
The men, craggy-faced and stern, tensed. The only sound was the crackle of the fire. Abel unbuttoned his shirt, revealing the tattoo, but the men kept their eyes averted.
“This is the mark of the Horned Serpent. A fang from its mouth was used to poison me. A bad man purchased this fang, a man who wants to use the Diamond to do more bad things. I want to stop that man. I want to use the Diamond to heal my uncle who was also poisoned, and myself. And also, we think Romy, uh, Fire-hair Woman's father, might be touched by the mark too.”
More silence. Yellow Knife didn't seem to want to translate his words. This was a waste of time. Abel sighed and rubbed his forehead.
“Well, is someone gonna tell the chief, or should we just go?” he demanded.
“You will show proper respect to the council. We must discuss your release. You are not free to wander on sacred land.” The warrior who'd pushed him sneered. He turned to White Elk and spoke. Another brave jumped in. All the men leaned together.
Finally, they broke off. Abel stared at the only English-speaking warrior. “I am called Yellow Knife. White Elk says many braves have tried to kill the one we do not speak of. Why do you believe you will be the one to finish the Serpent?”
“Because I promised my uncle I would. I owe him my life.”
The Treasure Hunter's Lady Page 19