Slowly, he looked from her to the wagon and saw the many dresses Crooked Finger had tossed out. He let go of the girl’s hair.
Courtney was too terrified to keep her eyes shut any longer. Too much time had passed and no blade had touched her throat. Once she was released, she didn’t know what to think. But when she did open her eyes, she nearly swooned. Never had she seen a more frightening sight than the Indian.
His hair was long and black as pitch, worked into two braids. His bare chest was streaked with paint the color of watered blood. Paint of several colors divided his face into four parts, camouflaging his features. But his eyes, locked with hers, struck her strangely. Those eyes didn’t seem to belong to him. They weren’t at all threatening, not like the rest of him.
Courtney watched as he looked away from her then at her again. She dared to look at the rest of him, scrutinizing him. She got no farther than the hand holding the knife pointed at her.
He saw those catlike golden eyes widen at the sight of his knife, and then she fainted. He grunted as she collapsed beside the other woman. Stupid Eastern women. They hadn’t even bothered to arm themselves.
He hesitated, sighing. With her rounded baby cheeks, she was too much like his sister. He couldn’t kill her.
He quietly closed the lid on the feed box and walked away, signaling to Crooked Finger that they had wasted enough time.
Chapter 5
ELROY Brower cursed the fates that had seen fit to put him in Wichita the day Bill Chapman rode through. He knew he was going to die. But when—when? He and his captors were miles away from his farm. They’d ridden north, following Chapman’s tracks, and hadn’t stopped until the sun was directly overhead.
It took nearly all of them to overcome Elroy once he realized what they were going to do to him. But in a moment, Elroy was staked out on the hot ground, spread-eagled, stripped, feeling the parts of his body that had never seen the sun slowly burn under the noon rays.
The goddamn savages sat around watching him sweat. One tapped a stick against the arrowhead embedded in his thigh, one tap every five seconds, and the pain shot through him in waves that didn’t have time to recede before the next tap.
He knew what they wanted, had known since they indicated the three dead men on the farm. Patiently, they had made themselves understood, holding up two fingers, pointing to him and then at the three bodies. They knew two men who had participated in the Indian massacre were on the farm, and they knew he was one of them.
He tried to convince them he wasn’t one of the ones they wanted. After all, there were two extra bodies, so how could they be sure? But they didn’t believe him, and each time he didn’t give them the answer they wanted, they cut him.
He’d had a half-dozen small wounds before he pointed to Peter’s body. What did it matter? The boy was already dead and couldn’t suffer anymore. But Elroy suffered, watching what they did to Peter’s body. He puked all over himself when they castrated the corpse and stuffed the piece of flesh into Peter’s mouth, then sewed the lips shut. The message would be clear to whoever found Peter’s mutilated body. And only Elroy would know that it hadn’t been done while Peter was still alive.
Would he be as lucky as Peter? He figured the only reason he was still alive was that they wanted him to take them to the others involved in the massacre. Yet, the longer they kept him alive, the more he would suffer. He could offer to tell them all he knew if they would put an end to it, but what good would that do if the bastards couldn’t understand him? And, Jesus, he didn’t know how to find most of the others. Would they believe that, though? Of course not.
One of the Comanches bent over him. Elroy could see only a black shape because of the sun. He tried to raise his head, and for a moment he got a glimpse of the Indian’s hands. The man was holding several arrows. Were they finally going to get this over with? But no. Almost gently, the Indian probed at one of Elroy’s wounds. And then slowly, excruciatingly, an arrowhead was embedded inside the wound, not straight in but sideways, into the fatty muscle, and oh, God, they had put something on the arrowhead to make it burn. It was like a hot coal dropped on his skin and left there. Elroy gritted his teeth, refusing to scream. Nor did he scream when his other wounds were treated the same way. He held it in. He only had six wounds. He could stand that much. Then they would leave him alone for a while, letting his body absorb the pain.
Elroy tried to will the pain away. He thought of the ladies who had been unfortunate enough to stop at his farm. He was grateful he hadn’t seen what had happened to them. And then, suddenly, he saw those haunting eyes again, looking up at him with loathing. Raping that Indian girl hadn’t been worth this. Nothing could be worth this.
Finally, Elroy screamed. It didn’t matter that the Indian had run out of wounds. He cut a new wound and embedded another arrowhead, and with that Elroy knew they wouldn’t stop until his body was completely covered with arrows. He couldn’t bear it anymore, knowing there would be no letup in the pain. He screamed and cursed and shouted, but he was cut again, and the burning turned to fire.
“Bastards! Goddamn bastards! I’ll tell you what you want to know. I’ll tell you anything!”
“Will you?”
Elroy stopped screaming, the pain forgotten for a split second. “You speak English?” he panted. “Oh, thank God!” Now there was hope. Now he could bargain.
“What is it you would tell me, farmer?”
The voice was soft, pleasant, confusing Elroy. “Let me go, and I’ll give you the names of the men you want, every one of them. And I’ll tell you where they’re likely to be found,” he gasped.
“You will tell us this anyway, farmer. It is not your life you may bargain for, but your death—a quick death.”
Elroy had been straining forward with hope. Now he sagged back against the ground. He was defeated. All he could hope for was that it would be quick.
He told the Indian everything, every name, descriptions, and all the likely destinations he could think of. He answered every question thrown at him quickly and truthfully, ending with, “Now kill me.”
“Like you killed our wives and mothers and sisters?”
The Indian who spoke such clear, precise English moved down to stand at his feet. Elroy could see him clearly now, his face, his eyes… Oh, Lord, they were her eyes, looking at him with the same blazing hatred. Then Elroy knew this man had no intention of letting him die quickly.
Elroy licked his lips. He didn’t know where it came from, but he managed to say, “She was good. Not much meat on her, but she pleasured me real well. I was the last to have her. She died under me, with my—”
The howl came from deep in the warrior’s soul, cutting off Elroy’s taunt. One of the others tried to stop the young warrior but couldn’t. The pain was minimal for Elroy, bringing to a crescendo all the rest of the pain. It was the shock of seeing the severed flesh he had been about to mention raised high in the Comanche’s hand that killed him.
Three miles away, Courtney Harte stared dismally at the scattered contents of the wagon, ripped clothes, smashed china, food staples ruined. She couldn’t cope with deciding what to salvage. She couldn’t cope with anything right now, unlike Sarah, who was looking through their goods as if nothing much had happened.
To Courtney, just being alive was a shock. Worse, her father was gone.
Berny Bixler, Elroy Brower’s closest neighbor, had seen the smoke from Elroy’s fired house and come to investigate. He found the two dead bodies behind the house and Sarah and Courtney in the feed box. There was no sign of Dallas, Elroy Brower, or Edward Harte. But Courtney’s father had been there because his horse was in the cornfield and there were spots of blood on it. Had Edward been wounded?
“Would’ve seen him if he’d got away and headed toward Rockley for help,” Berny told them. “More like the Injuns took him and the other two away. Probably felt a couple of strong captives wouldn’t hurt to have around till they can find another tribe to live with.”
&nbs
p; “What makes you say that, Mr. Bixler?” Sarah demanded. “I thought women were the ones usually taken captive.”
“Beggin” your pardon, ma’am,“ Berny said. ”But if an Injun looked at you and the youngun here, he’d figure you wouldn’t last long on the move.“
“On the move? You keep seeming to know what these Indians plan to do,” Sarah snapped.
“I don’t see how you could know. Its just as likely they have a camp near here, isn’t it?”
“Oh, they did, ma’am, they surely did. That’s just it. This weren’t no livestock raid. Lars Handley’s boy John come tearin” into Rockley two nights ago, telling how he and Elroy and Peter joined up with some Wichita men to wipe out this band of Kiowas down south of here that was plannin‘ to attack Rockley. He claimed we wouldn’t have no trouble now, “cause they killed every last man, woman, and child. Well, looks like they missed a few. The bucks who struck here must’ve been out huntin” or somethin’ and come back to find all their kin dead.“
“Pure supposition, Mr. Bixler. Kiowas can’t be the only Indians around here.”
The farmer showed his annoyance enough to say, “John Handley also bragged about what he done in that Indian camp—somethin” I can’t mention to ladies.“
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Sarah said, sneering, “So they raped a few squaws. That doesn’t mean—”
“You go on out there and take a look at Peter’s body if you want to know what it means, lady,” he said hotly. “But I wouldn’t recommend it. What they done to that boy ain’t pretty. Didn’t touch that other fellow at all. His wound was clean. But I’m likely to have nightmares for a long time ”bout what they done to Peter. And I reckon we’ll find Elroy somewhere hereabouts, done up just as ugly. It don’t take a smart man to know they was only after them two and why. You’da been took if they was interested in women. No, it was revenge and nothin‘ else.“
“You see if John Handley don’t take off from this area real quick too, ”cause it ain’t over. Them Injuns won’t stop till they get every last one of the men they’re after.“
He stalked out of the barn, saying they’d better be quick about gathering their belongings “cause he didn’t have all day. He had been so sympathetic and kind to begin with, but Sarah had brought out the worst in him and now he was impatient to see them to Rockley and off his hands.
Elroy Brower’s body was found a week later by soldiers who were searching for the marauding Indians. John Handley left Rockley for parts unknown, as predicted. His father never heard from him again. There was news from Wichita that a homesteader near there had been hit by Indians too, but that was the last story of Indian attacks heard in the area. Probably unrelated was the killing of a rancher named Bill Chapman farther north, though some said he was the man who had led the attack on the Indians. Chapman had been found brutally slain in his bed, and some said it was an Indian killing, some said not. The killer might have been one of the men who worked for Chapman, for many of his hired hands took off right after the killing.
No sign was found of Edward Harte or Dallas. Sarah Whitcomb Harte considered herself a widow. It was inconceivable that a wounded man could have survived as an Indian captive, especially a captive of Indians on the run.
Courtney was too numb to think at all beyond the possibility that her father was alive.
Sarah and Courtney were now stuck with each other, a most aggravating circumstance for both.
Chapter 6
“WELL, there’s another one, Charley. You reckon we’ll have us another shoot-out?”
Charley spit a wad of tobacco into the spittoon by the porch rail before he eyed the stranger coming up the street. “Just might, Snub. There’s a couple more in town right now. Just might at that.”
The two old-timers leaned back in their chairs in front of Lars Handley’s store. Handley’s porch was the spot where they whiled away most of every day talking about whoever passed near to where they were sitting. From their spot they could see both ends of the only street in town.
“You reckon he come up on one of them trail-drives?” Snub wondered.
“Don’t look the type to be pushin” cows,“ Charley replied. ”That man’s a gunfighter if I ever saw one.“
“There’s been many a gunfighter turned cowboy, and vici-versi.”
“True.”
Snub could see by Charley’s expression that he was sticking to his first opinion and had agreed only to be agreeable. “I wonder how many he’s killed?”
“I wouldn’t ask him.” Charley grunted. Then suddenly his eyes narrowed. “This one looks familiar. Ain’t he been through here before?”
“I believe you’re right, Charley. A couple a years ago, wasn’t it?”
“More like three or four.”
“Yeah. I remember. Came in late one night, checked into the hotel, but didn’t stay. I remember you remarked on the vagaries of the young.”
Charley nodded, pleased his remarks were weighty enough to be remembered. “Can’t recall the name he put down at the hotel, though. Can you?”
“Foreign soundin”, wasn’t it?“
“Yeah, but that’s all I remember. Now it’s gonna nag me all day.”
“Well, looks like he’s goin” for the hotel again,“ Snub said as the stranger pulled up rein there. ”Why don’t we mosey on over and get a look-see at the desk book?“
“Not now, Snub,” Charley replied testily. “Ackerman’s missus will just shoo us out.”
“Ah, don’t be a pissypants, Charley. The witch probably ain’t even out of bed yet. And Miss Courtney won’t mind if we sit a spell in the lobby or take a peek at the book.”
“Pissypants,” Charley grumbled. “He’s probably changed his name by now—like they all do—so my curiosity ain’t gonna get satisfied anyhow. But if you wanna get yelled at by that shrew Harry married, then get up off your bee-hind and let’s go.”
* * *
A little smile tugged at Courtney’s lips as she closed the door to the guest chamber she had just finished cleaning. She had found another newspaper. Rockley didn’t have its own paper, and the only news she ever got from the outside world was from listening to the conversations of strangers passing through or from reading the rare newspaper left behind by hotel guests. That didn’t happen often. Newspapers were as good as books if you lived in a town that didn’t have its own paper. Most folks held on to theirs. Sarah had a collection of papers, but she never shared them, so Courtney always tried to find one first.
She hid the newspaper under the pile of dirty linens she had to wash and headed for the stairs, planning to slip the paper into her room downstairs before she tackled the laundry.
At the top of the stairs, Courtney slowed, taking notice of the stranger waiting below. Then she stopped altogether and did something she rarely did. She stared at a man. She even caught herself doing it and would have chided herself, except that she couldn’t stop staring. For some reason, this man captured her interest like no one ever had.
The first thing she noticed was that he stood straight and tall. The second thing was his lean, hawkish profile. But the promise of his features being so very striking was what held her attention the most. He would be disturbingly handsome, she was sure of it, though all she could see was his left profile. And he was dark, from the black vest and pants to the bronze skin to the black hair that fell straight to just below his ears. Even the gray shirt and neckerchief were dark.
The man had not removed his wide-brimmed hat to come into the hotel, but at least he wasn’t wearing any spurs. That was strange, for the saddlebags tossed over his shoulder suggested he had ridden into town, and Courtney had never seen a man who didn’t ride with spurs.
And then she noticed what she hadn’t seen before because she’d been able to see only his left side. He wore double belts, which meant he undoubtedly had a gun strapped to his right thigh. That might not mean too much, for most men out West carried guns. But the guns, combined with the look of him, made her
think he wasn’t wearing a gun just for his own protection.
Courtney didn’t like gunmen. She thought of them as overgrown bullies—which most of them, in fact, were. That breed of man believed they could do or say anything. Too few people had the courage to upbraid them, since you could get shot that way.
A person wouldn’t think a small town like Rockley would see too many gunmen, but Rockley did. There had even been two gunfights in recent years. Cowboys passed through Rockley on their way to the wild cowtowns, Abilene, and recently Newton. Those cowtowns drew every type of riffraff, and next year Wichita would become a cowtown too, and it was just seventeen miles away, so Courtney couldn’t see any letup in the steady stream of traffic.
Working in the only hotel in town, she couldn’t avoid gunmen. One had nearly raped her, others had stolen kisses. She’d been fought over, pursued, and propositioned most shockingly. That was the main reason she wanted desperately to leave Rockley and why she wouldn’t marry any of the Rockley men, not even if that would have gotten her out of the hotel, where she worked from morning to night as no more than a maid.
Having signed the register book, the stranger put down the pen. Courtney immediately turned and hurried back down the hall to the back stairs that led directly outside. It was inconvenient, going this way, but she didn’t want to come in through the kitchen below, where she might run into Sarah and be scolded for dillydallying. No, she would have to go around the hotel and come in through the front lobby. But she would do that after the stranger had gone up to his room.
She wasn’t sure why she didn’t want him to see her, but she didn’t. It certainly couldn’t be because she was wearing her oldest dress and her hair was a mess. She didn’t care what he thought of her. He would probably be staying only one night. Most of the drifters did. And then she’d never see him again.
Courtney moved to the front, ducking under the dining-room windows on the side of the hotel so that she could peek around first and be sure he was gone. She edged her way to the front door, not even realizing she still had the bundle of dirty linen in her arms. She just wanted to get to her room, hide her newspaper, then get back to work.
A Heart So Wild Page 3