Daughter of the Sword

by Jeanne Williams

  There was the sound of incaught breath from rapt spectators. Releasing his knife, springing clear of Conrad’s stroke, Rolf reached over his shoulder and brought out Deborah’s Bowie. In the split second before Conrad could recover, Rolf ripped his throat.

  Blood gushed, a bright fountain. Conrad sank to his knees, Rolf’s other blade jutting from his forearm, then fell heavily, the knife slipping from his loosening hand.

  Dropping the reins of the horses, Deborah ran to him, falling on her knees, trying to raise him. His head lolled. Blood spilled over her. His eyes were wide in surprise. Half-decapitated, he was already dead.

  Rolf’s shadow fell across them. Maddened, Deborah reached for Conrad’s knife. Rolf kicked it aside.

  “Up!” he said, panting from the battle, wiping off the blade. He caught Deborah’s wrist and dragged her to her feet. “Go to the river. Get the blood off you.”

  Deborah snatched for the knife embedded in Conrad’s arm. Rolf spun her away. “Listen!” His eyes were like a great cat’s. “Shall I take these lads to Friedental?”

  “You—you promised—”

  “What’s a promise?”

  Deborah’s head whirled. Her knees wanted to bend. She would have crumpled except for Rolf’s brutal hands, shaking her to half-awareness, tossing her into the saddle.

  “Behave, and he gets a decent burial.” Grudgingly, he added, “A brave man, your Graf.”

  “You’d be dead if you hadn’t cheated!”

  “One can’t cheat in a Bowie fight,” Rolf said with a harsh laugh. “And he used a cute little trick of his own.”

  “At least send his body to town. Let his sister know!”

  “You can write her a letter when we’re back in Missouri. I admired his spirit, if not his common sense.” He detailed several men to dig a grave down in the ravine. “Chunk some stones on it,” he ordered.

  “Man like that shouldn’t git chewed up by varmints,” agreed one of the diggers.

  Rolf closed Deborah’s nerveless fingers over the reins. “Ride!” he commanded. And he called over his shoulder, “Bring the gray along. It’s a fine horse.”

  They passed a few farmhouses, but no one came out. Bands of horsemen too often meant trouble. If they were sighted by any travelers, those prudent souls detoured, leaving them the way along the river, which, at the border would empty into the Missouri. Conrad’s blood dried, in places gluing Deborah’s clothing to her skin.

  She rode as if in a nightmare, numbly thinking this couldn’t be real: Conrad’s head nearly sliced from his shoulders; Conrad’s blood sticky on her hands. She’d wake up.

  In a little while, Sara would call her, or Ansjie. She’d be at the smithy or Friedental. Not here. Not slightly behind Rolf, encircled by his unholy crew, still absorbed in discussing the fight they’d just seen.

  “That Proosian was a spurred cock!” said one. “Never saw a man trap a knife that way in his arm!”

  “Goin’ to try it yourself?” hooted a companion.

  “Hell, no!” chuckled the first. “Ruther have another Bowie stashed—like Charlie did! Slick as a greased razor-back, he is!”

  It would be a tale to embroider and marvel over in saloons, to spread back down the Kaw till at last Johnny heard and took the word to Ansjie.

  A story, a legend.

  Was that all that was left of Conrad, so kind to her, so faithful, except for the body spilled in a hasty grave?

  No. There was his colony, Friedental. Deborah’s hands tightened on the reins as the first jolt of bitter outrage pierced her grief-drugged sensations. And there was his blood on her! She’d feel it burn till Rolf’s cleansed it.

  She’d kill him. He’d never kill another good man, never take runaways from Friedental. Dane flashed through her mind, but he was in another world. She was locked in hell with Rolf.

  The Bowie pressed her leg in grim promise. She wouldn’t try till she had a perfect chance. She didn’t care if he or his men killed her so long as she got him.

  Tonight, when they were a distance from the others, tonight, when he’d try to have her.

  Tonight, tonight, tonight.

  They rested once that afternoon. Deborah drank from her canteen and forced down some dried meat Rolf gave her. She must be strong for what was coming. But he misread her.

  “That’s it,” he approved. “I’ll send a few of the boys ahead to see if they can shoot a turkey or deer for supper. If they miss those, they can sure get enough prairie chickens.” He shook his head fastidiously, said under his breath, “You’re getting a soaking in the river tonight! How you can wear those clothes—”

  She turned her back on him to caress Sleipner—Sleipner, who must wonder what had happened to his master, had never been ridden by anyone but him. She must try to get him away or let him loose. The thought of Rolf or one of these men using him made her sick.

  As the afternoon wore on in merciless heat, she felt as if she were suffocating; she rode, gripping the saddle-horn to keep from falling. Through her closed eyelids, everything glowed dull, sullen red. Several times there were distant shots and she roused, hoping for rescue.

  “Sounds like supper,” said the man leading Sleipner. “Hope it’s a deer.”

  But it was prairie chickens that the hunters had basting on skewers when the main group halted just before sundown. Horses ridden or led to water, saddles thrown off, coffee started, and biscuits set to bake in Dutch ovens while one man made a skillet of gravy from fowl drippings.

  Bottles came out, and cards. Several of the brigands looked Sleipner over, examined him minutely, and speculated on how much he’d bring from some rich horse fancier.

  In much the same spirit, they eyed Deborah, though they kept a distance. Rolf’s treatment of her made it plain that she wasn’t an ordinary homeless boy, but she didn’t understand what it meant when, after staring at her curiously, one nudged a friend and spoke loud enough for Deborah to hear, though Rolf was out of earshot.

  “A real purty boy. But I never figgered Charlie had that bent.”

  “He kin sure handle ladies,” the other said, grinning. “Must crave a change. You ever try that, Hank?”

  “Naw.” Hank spat neatly at the edge of the fire. “Ain’t natural. But Charlie bein’ English and all—reckon they have different ways. I ain’t goin’ to twit him, you bet!”

  “Me, either. Like my hair right where it is!”

  Rolf came back from rummaging in his saddlebags.

  “Come on,” he said to Deborah, handing her a bar of perfumed soap. “Got other clothes?”

  “No.”

  He patted the bundle under his arm. “Then you can wear these till yours dry.”

  She would have liked to keep Conrad’s blood till it was covered with Rolf’s, but argument might lead to forcible disrobing and the discovery of her Bowie. Rising wearily, she followed Rolf to the river. He moved down it till they were out of sight of the camp, hidden by willows and brush. Then he turned on her.

  His nostrils were distended. “The first time’s going to hurt. It is the first time, isn’t it, my dear? I know my virtuous brother!”

  He began, with trembling hands, to unbutton her shirt.

  “Rolf! Please! Wait till night—”

  “Not a minute longer!”

  He tossed her shirt down, then seized one end of the cloth and revealed her breasts. Already feeling violated, Deborah gave a moaning cry and covered herself, but he forced her hands behind her and bent, grasping her nipples with his teeth, hungrily, savagely stroking her.

  Writhing, Deborah slid into oblivious panic, then roused at one penetrating thought: the Bowie. He mustn’t find it. And she couldn’t use it now. Even if she managed to kill him without noise that would alert the camp, she couldn’t get far on foot before they learned the truth and tracked her down. She was ready to die, but not for what would happen then.

  “Rolf,” she whispered, “let me wash. Please!”

  He lifted his head, watching her as his h
and caressed her breasts. “All right. Wash—quickly.” He walked with her to the water, watched, smiling as she turned to take off the trousers, careful to conceal the knife.

  “No call to be modest with me,” he called, chuckling. “I’ll know every inch of you by morning!”

  Keeping her back to him, she waded knee-deep into the coffee-with-blue-john-colored water, then had to stop because of the current. Rolf stood on the bank as she soaped herself and rinsed.

  “That’s enough,” he said in a choked, husky tone. “Come.” He had taken off his clothes. She saw for the first time, with shock and dread, what a lusting male was like.

  Impossible to hide herself with her hands. After a futile attempt, Deborah let her arms fall, looked him in the face, and walked to the bank. He dragged her the last few steps to where his clothes were spread, forced her down, and fell on her like a storm.

  Sheathed, her outcry at his breeching thrust stopped by his hungry mouth, he raised himself up on his elbows. “Look at me.”

  When she didn’t he moved forcefully in her. She stifled a sound and opened her eyes. His face was only inches away. She could see the pores of his skin, the sweat on his forehead.

  “You hate me, don’t you?” He moved slowly, coaxingly. “But tonight I’ll pleasure you. I’ll have you beg for this. Only now—” His breathing changed. He gripped her with his hands; she felt he must break her. Then there was a convulsive striving. He groaned, quivered, then collapsed on her.

  There was this time when he’d be helpless, she thought in bitter triumph. This time, when, if her knife were close, she could pay him back for Conrad. When he let her up, she went back to the river, washed herself of him, and then scrubbed her clothes, stiff with Conrad’s blood, having to keep the Bowie in the trousers.

  Fortunately, Rolf was bathing, too. When she put on his garments, she managed to sneak the knife under the trousers. The wet sheath was uncomfortable, but compared to the ache caused by Rolf’s entry, it didn’t matter. She hung Laddie’s things on a bush and started back to camp, moving painfully.

  “Sore?” Catching up, Rolf gave her a possessive pat, then laughed in a boasting way that made her hate him with new ferocity, “That won’t last. What will is your being my woman!” He sucked in his breath. “God, I want you again already! I’m going to put our packs in that hollow west of camp where we’ll have privacy. You go ahead and eat. I don’t want you falling apart.”

  Deborah had no appetite, but if she got away she’d need her strength. She gnawed on what was left of one of the prairie chickens and filled her cup with coffee several times. Chica and Sleipner were hobbled and roved about with the other horses, grazing where they found grass all but cured into hay by the unremitting drought.

  There’d be a moon tonight, but would she dare find Chica? She revolted at the thought of leaving Sleipner to be used or sold by these men. If she possibly could, she’d unhobble him, and if he wouldn’t follow her, at least he might stay a safe distance from these thieves.

  Rolf was back now, joking as he ate, accepting compliments on the duel. “Hey, Charlie!” called a ruffian whose bald head shone in the firelight. “How come we’re headed for the border? You promised us a drink in Lawrence!”

  “I’ll stand you two in Westport,” Rolf promised. “And that gray horse’s worth twenty regular nags. You boys can split what he brings.” He dropped a hand on Deborah’s shoulder. “This lad reminds me of my brother. I want to get him settled proper, arrange for his education.”

  “Want we should help?” guffawed someone from the shadows.

  Rolf said pleasantly, “Touch him and you’re dead.” In the nervous silence, he bent for a whisky jug he’d fetched from his gear, then handed it to the nearest man. “Drink up, boys. I may sleep a little late in the morning. Had a tiring day.”

  “It’s the nights as does a man in,” said the man with the bottle. “Sleep tight, Charlie!”

  Moving ahead of him, Deborah’s cheeks burned. “You—you want them to think something bad!”

  “Best for you they do since none of them fancies boys!” They were out of sight and he stopped, bringing her against him backward so his hands could close on her breasts. If he turned her, pressed her close, he’d feel the Bowie.

  She managed a breathless laugh. “Rolf! Let me take off my clothes!”

  “So eager?” He laughed in flattered surprise. “If I hadn’t had your maidenhead, I’d wonder about you!” Catching her by the hair, he pulled her head back and buried his face in her throat. “Be wild for me, Deborah. Use me up. Let me be your man.” Releasing her, he began stripping. “Hurry! I’ve already made our bed.”

  Shaking, she pulled off the trousers, freed the Bowie in its sheath, and left it near the bedroll, covered by her shirt. Rolf was beside her in an instant.

  “Be sweet to me,” he whispered. “Oh, Deborah, be sweet and wild! I won’t make you live like this; I’ll take you away! Why are you trembling, love? Yes, it must scare you, but you can tame it. Here. Touch me, darling. Let me touch you—God, but you’re beautiful! Soft!” He groaned. “I can’t wait! You drive me crazy!”

  She clenched her hands, lay still beneath his onslaught. When this was over, the panting, the spasms, he’d lie exhausted.

  Should she reach for the Bowie then or wait till he slept? But supposing he didn’t sleep? Supposing he took her all night long, each time his desire and strength revived?

  Working above her, he seemed caught in some mindless grinding compulsion that used him as much as her. He gasped; sweat dripped from him; it was terrifying to hear the laboring of his heart.

  He rested, then went on with a strange dogged patience. Would he never finish? She ached and heir bones felt as if there were no padding between them and the baked soil.

  Involuntarily, she moved. The slight flexing touched him off. He battered at her with short, hard thrusts, then cried and sank into her, twitching in a way that made her remember how Conrad’s body, dying, had done the same thing.

  Nerved by that thought, she waited till Rolf lay spent upon her like a swimmer battered by a great wave. She spread both arms, sighing, then continued the motion of her right hand to search under the clothing, close on the knife.

  Her fingers found the walnut handle. She couldn’t reach his throat; the bones of back and shoulder might turn the blade. Her best, surest mark was his side, between ribs and flank. Stab in, rip as hard as she could down and to the front.…

  Why was it hard to reach?

  She thought of Conrad.

  Her hand gripped the knife, drove it deep, cutting forward. Rolf’s cry bubbled into a gurgling. Had she hit a lung? Rolling from beneath him, eluding his hands, which seemed to clutch more in agony than purpose, Deborah knew she should, to make absolutely sure, cut his throat.

  She couldn’t. The obscene noises he was making seemed to smother. He stopped thrashing. I’ve killed him, she thought, but she felt nothing.

  It was only part of the grotesque dream begun with Conrad’s death, and in this dream she groped in his clothes and found her own knife, the one Johnny had given her. Slipping it around her neck, she dressed quickly, then ventured to the slope.

  The fire had died low. Most of the men lay in their bedrolls, though a few were still drinking. The horses had scattered. She held her breath till she saw Chica. Sleipner grazed near her.

  Creeping forward, she kept an eye on the men at the fire. It should blind them to what was going on in this outer rim of darkness, but the moon was rising and that might betray her.

  Blessedly, Sleipner was a calm-tempered animal and knew Deborah. As she undid the rawhide hobbles, he nuzzled her and followed companionably as she unhobbled Chica. The saddles and bridles were down by the camp, unreachable. Deborah didn’t want to go back near Rolf to get her pack. She should reach help by morning and could do without food or water till then.

  She led Chica along till she found an outcropping high enough to let her scramble onto the mare’s back. The bes
t thing to do, she decided, was to ride to Lawrence and alert the town about the Missourians. She suspected the men, leaderless, would drift back across the border, but they might first take it into their heads to do some mischief in the hated Free State stronghold.

  Lying low, hands woven in Chica’s mane, Deborah urged the little golden mare into a smooth lope. Before daylight, before Rolf was found, she wanted to be in Lawrence. When she tired of bareback riding, she walked, holding Chica’s mane. The moonlight silvered rises and gullies.

  Conrad was buried down one of them. He must be brought back to Friedental, buried with honor.

  Honor?

  I’ve killed a man. Deborah rode and walked, walked and rode, talked to herself and the moon and Conrad, and all the time his big gray horse followed her.

  The next few days were as hazy and unreal as that night. Coming into Lawrence at daybreak, greeted by barking dogs, Deborah had gone straight to Reverend Cordley and told him everything—except where she’d spent the winter and her violation! She felt it far best for Friedental to be as little known as possible.

  Cordley sent a messenger to Chaudoin’s, and Johnny returned, speaking no blame to Deborah, but going with her and the militia to reclaim Conrad’s body, wrap it, and seal it into the walnut coffin hauled in a wagon. He’d be taken to Friedental for proper burial, but he was already decomposing, so opening the coffin was unthinkable.

  The militia scouted on to the camp but found only trampled ground and a burned-out fire. They might have disguised Rolf’s grave or taken the body with them. The best-mounted volunteers followed the gang to the border but never came within sight of them.

  Deborah and Johnny spent that night at Cordley’s. After supper Melissa Eden came over with the old dress Deborah had left when her friends broke her out of the widow’s bedroom last winter.

  “I thought you might need this, dear,” she said. “It’s so romantic to go questing as a boy, but once everyone knows—well, then it’s silly, if not scandalous.”