by Prairie Heat
“But he wanted so badly to go back to his own people.”
“How’d you get hooked up with an Indian kid anyway?”
“I found him in a tent. An unscrupulous man was exhibiting Yellow Hawk as if he were some kind of wild animal. I couldn’t leave him there, so I cut his bonds and helped him escape.”
“I’ll be damned.”
“Mr. McCord—”
“Sorry. Listen, why don’t you call me Jess?”
“I couldn’t.”
“Sure you can. Go on, it’s easy. Jess.”
“Jess.”
“That wasn’t so hard now, was it?”
“It isn’t proper.”
He chuckled softly. “It isn’t proper for you to be out here alone with me either, but here we are.”
Yes, Matilda thought bleakly. Here we are.
She hoped the next stage would come soon.
Chapter Six
Elias Kane rode away from the downed Concord without a backward glance, a smug smile of satisfaction on his lips. Jess McCord had been a thorn in his side for the last six months, tracking him across country as relentlessly as a winter-starved wolf on the trail of fresh blood.
But that was all over now. He’d be in Silver City by tomorrow night. He would sell the horse for a few dollars, double it in a poker game and head back East, back to civilization, maybe take up where he’d left off with that pretty little banker’s daughter he’d been sweet-talking before McCord sniffed him out. McCord. He’d be meat for the buzzards soon, and the woman with him.
Kane knew a brief moment of regret as he imagined Matilda Thornton dying of thirst, and then he shrugged. He was a man in a hurry and riding double would have slowed him down.
It was late afternoon when the horse went lame. Muttering an oath, Kane dismounted and examined the animal’s leg and knew the horse wasn’t going any farther that day or any other.
Cursing the Indians who had attacked the stage and left him in this mess, he lifted the canteens from the saddlehorn and slung them over his left shoulder. Then, settling his hat on his head, he started walking.
With any luck, he would be in Silver City in four or five days.
Two miles later, Elias Kane’s luck ran out.
The Indians were grinning as they surrounded him. Three of the warriors rode up to him, the first one plucking the hat from Kane’s head and waving it in the air, the second taking Kane’s gun, the third relieving him of the canteens.
The rest of the warriors rode around him, shouting and pointing at him with their rifles and lances, guiding their horses close enough to knock him off his feet, then waiting for him to stand up before knocking him down again.
After five minutes of such treatment, Kane stayed down, thinking that was what they wanted. But they hadn’t finished playing with him yet, and one of the warriors poked him in the side with the tip of his lance, prodding him until he stood up again.
Sweat broke out on Kane’s brow and trickled down his back as the Indians continued their game, pushing him back and forth until they tired of that and began to chase him across the sand, tripping him with their lances, laughing uproariously when he fell into a cactus.
Were they playing with him, or did they mean to kill him? They weren’t wearing paint. Hadn’t McCord told him that Indians going to war usually wore paint?
McCord. He wished suddenly that the half-breed was there. These were his people. He could speak their gibberish.
He was panting heavily now, his body soaked with sweat. One of the warriors knocked him off his feet and he fell facedown in the sand, too winded to get up again.
The warriors circled him, talking and gesturing back and forth while they stared down at him, their eyes as hard and cold as granite. He had a feeling they were discussing his fate, and a terrible premonition that whatever they decided, it would not be good.
After several minutes of heated discussion, one of the warriors dismounted and lashed Kane’s hands behind his back, then dropped a loop around his neck. Remounting his horse, the Indian gave a sharp jerk on the rope, tightening the noose.
The message was all too clear. Walk, or be dragged behind the horse.
Calling on every bit of strength he possessed, Kane lurched to his feet.
*
Jess sat up, his head cocked to one side. He hadn’t imagined it. There were riders coming, a lot of riders, judging by the dust rising from the west. And then he saw them—twenty warriors riding toward the overturned coach.
Matilda saw them at the same time. Her face went white as every tale of torture and treachery she had ever heard leaped to the forefront of her mind. The Indians were coming back, and this time there were no horses for them to take—only scalps.
She looked at McCord, silently beseeching him to do something to save her. But there was nothing he could do. He was wounded, defenseless against them. She tried to pray, but fear strangled the words in her throat and she bowed her head, hoping they would kill her quickly and be done with it.
Holding on to the side of the Concord, Jess managed to get to his feet.
“Come here, Mrs. Thornton,” he said, holding out his hand. “Come and stand beside me.”
“Why?”
“Just do as I say, and do it now.”
McCord took her hand and gave it a squeeze. “Try not to look afraid. These are Apaches, and they admire bravery above anything else.”
Jess squared his shoulders as the Indians rode closer, his eyes making contact with the warrior riding in front.
“Usen has been good to us this day,” the warrior said, speaking to his companions. “He has made us a gift of two more white eyes.”
McCord’s eyes narrowed. Two more? And then, as the dust settled, he saw Kane staggering behind one of the Apache ponies. His hat was gone, his hair tousled; his suit, always so impeccable, was now stained with dirt and sweat.
Jess grinned. Elias Kane was not beyond his reach after all.
“Usen has been good to me,” Jess said loudly in the Apache tongue. “He has sent my brothers to help me.”
The lead warrior glared at McCord. “Who are you to call the Apache brother?” he demanded arrogantly.
“I am the son of Shozlitzoque, and blood brother to Vittorio.”
If the warrior was impressed, it didn’t show in his expression. “How are you called?”
“Nepotanje.”
“I am Maba,” the warrior said proudly. “I have heard of the Bear Watcher. I heard he was dead.”
Jess shook his head. “I have been away from my mother’s people for many winters.”
Maba glanced at Matilda and then turned his gaze back to McCord. “You have been living with the whites?”
“Yes.” Jess put his arm around Matilda’s waist and drew her to his side. “This is my woman.”
Maba grunted softly. “Our village is a day’s ride to the south. Tomorrow we will see Vittorio. If you are truly his blood brother, you will be welcome in our camp. If not…” The warrior shrugged, but his meaning was clear.
The Apaches would not camp near the bloated bodies of Daniels and Walton, and after offering water to Jess and Matilda, Maba took Matilda up behind him while another warrior took Jess.
They rode until nightfall, and then made camp in a shallow draw. The Indians had killed Kane’s horse and now a large chunk of meat was roasting over a low fire.
Jess sat with his back against a rock. He took a long drink from the waterskin Maba offered him, then handed it to Matilda.
“Drink it slow,” Jess warned.
Water, Matilda thought. When had anything tasted so good? She drank slowly, letting the cool liquid bathe her throat.
She accepted a hunk of charred horsemeat from one of the warriors, stared at it with distaste, and then forced herself to take a bite. It was like nothing she’d ever eaten before, but she was too hungry to complain.
The Indians did not feed Kane, nor did they offer him anything to drink. Jess grinned wryly when Kane loo
ked his way, then, lifting the waterskin, he took a long drink.
“Why don’t they give Mr. Kane something to eat?” Matilda asked, feeling sorry for the man in spite of herself.
“He’s a prisoner. The Apaches don’t treat their prisoners very well, I’m afraid.”
“They’re feeding us.”
“We aren’t prisoners, exactly.”
“What are we, exactly?”
“Guests for the time being. I told Maba that their chief, Vittorio, is my blood brother.”
“Is he?”
“Yeah, but I haven’t seen my mother’s people in almost twenty years. I may not be welcome there anymore.”
Matilda lay awake, thinking about what McCord had said, long after he was asleep. He had insisted she sleep beside him, and when she had objected, he had explained that the Indians thought she was his wife.
“It’s for your own protection,” he had assured her.
She glanced at him now, sleeping peacefully beside her, and wondered how he could sleep at all. What would happen to them if they weren’t welcome in the Apache camp? What was going to happen to Elias Kane? She couldn’t help thinking that he deserved whatever he got. After all, he’d left them out in the wilderness to die.
And what of Yellow Hawk? Where had he gone? And what would Josiah Thornton think when the stage didn’t arrive on schedule?
Questions, so many questions, chasing themselves down the corridors of her mind. They were still unanswered when she fell asleep.
Chapter Seven
The ride to the Apache village seemed to take forever. The Indians rode tirelessly, seemingly unaffected by heat or thirst or long hours on horseback. Two of the warriors rode double so that she could share a horse with McCord. Kane walked.
Matilda felt increasingly sorry for Elias Kane as the miles went by. Once he tripped and fell and was dragged for almost a mile. She wondered how he managed to keep going, and what his ultimate fate would be when they reached their destination.
She felt McCord’s arm tighten around her waist as the horse shied and she forgot all about Elias Kane. McCord’s breath was warm on her cheek as he spoke to the buckskin, and she was suddenly conscious of his nearness, of the hard-muscled arm holding her close, of the powerful thighs that cradled her hips.
She stared down at his arm. The skin was as dark as that of the Apaches and the word “half-breed” whispered in the back of her mind.
She studied the warriors riding nearby, noticing for the first time that Jess McCord bore a striking resemblance to the Apache men.
Half-breed. The realization of what it really meant struck abruptly. Half-breed. Half-Indian.
It was near dusk when they topped a small rise and Matilda saw the Indian village nestled in the valley below. Dome-shaped, brush-covered huts were spread in an uneven circle near a slow-moving river. A number of brown-skinned children played near the water.
She felt McCord’s arm tighten around her waist as they started down the hill. “Relax,” he murmured. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
Easy for you to say, Matilda mused, you’re one of them.
All activity in the village came to an abrupt halt as the warriors rode into the camp. And then there was a flurry of activity as women and children rushed forward to greet their husbands and fathers.
Matilda watched the scene with interest until the initial excitement over the warriors’ return subsided and the Indians focused their attention on her. The Apaches stared at her through fathomless black eyes, their expressions guarded and unfriendly.
The children pointed at her, obviously fascinated by her sunburned skin and blue eyes, by her strange clothing and peculiar footwear.
Jess lowered Matilda to the ground and then, his jaw clenched against the growing pain in his leg, he dismounted, careful not to put any weight on his injured leg.
He kept hold of the horse’s mane, leaning against the gelding’s shoulder to steady himself. He watched as two of the warriors took hold of Kane and dragged him toward a stout tree stump near the river. Kane struggled weakly as they pushed him to the ground, then, using the rope around his neck, they tied him to the stump, looping the rope around his upper body so he couldn’t move.
Jess stared at Elias Kane for a long time, remembering the day Kane had killed Kathleen, remembering the months and the miles he’d trailed the man who had killed her. There had been times when he’d lost Kane’s trail, times when hunger and exhaustion had tempted him to call off the hunt and go home, but he had no home without Kathleen.
He had finally caught up with Kane. It had taken all the willpower he possessed to keep from killing the man with his bare hands, but he’d vowed to take Kane back to Lordsburg, to see him hanged. But this would be better. A hanging only lasted a few minutes, but the Apache would not dispatch Kane so quickly. They were masters at the art of torture. They would keep Kane alive for hours, perhaps days, killing him an inch at a time.
Yes, McCord thought with satisfaction, Elias Kane would get everything he had coming to him. And more.
He leaned heavily on Matilda as they followed Maba into a small wickiup. Matilda wrinkled her nose at the alien scents that filled the hut. She glanced around as her eyes adjusted to the gloomy interior, but there wasn’t much to see, just two piles of furs spread near the back of the wickiup.
“Vittorio has gone hunting,” Maba told Jess. “You will stay here until he returns.”
Jess nodded. He wanted nothing more than to sit down and close his eyes, but he waited until Maba left the wickiup before surrendering to the weariness that engulfed him.
With a soft grunt of pain, he sank down on one of the robes.
Matilda stood in the middle of the lodge, feeling lost and afraid. She looked for a place to sit down, but there was only the scruffy pile of buffalo robes or the hard-packed floor. She thought the dirt was probably cleaner, but the buffalo robes did look soft.
With a grimace, she sat down, spreading her skirts around her. Removing her gloves, she slipped them into her skirt pocket, then folded her hands in her lap.
“What happens now?” she asked tremulously, not at all certain she wanted to know the answer.
McCord shrugged. “We wait for Vittorio.”
“And then?”
“I don’t know,” Jess admitted. “And right now, I don’t care.”
Matilda stared at McCord, noticing for the first time that his face seemed pale. There were tiny lines of pain around his mouth and eyes.
Rising, she went to him and placed her hand on his brow. It was warm. Too warm. Kneeling beside him, she drew back his torn pant leg and removed the bandage from his calf. The wound was festering. The skin around the bullet hole was red and swollen.
McCord swore softly. Of all the bad luck, he thought bleakly.
“You need a doctor,” Matilda remarked, her eyes dark with concern.
“Yeah. Go outside and find Maba. Tell him to come here.”
“Does he speak English?”
“I don’t know. Just get him in here.”
Nodding, Matilda left the wickiup. Outside, she glanced around, wondering how in the world she would find Maba. She couldn’t just wander from hut to hut. The very idea made her mouth go dry.
Squaring her shoulders, she began to walk toward the other end of the camp, hoping she would find Maba along the way. She passed women preparing food in large kettles. Children played happily in the sun, the girls playing with dolls made of corn husks and dressed in bits of buckskin, the boys practicing with small bows and flat-tipped arrows. She saw men working on their weapons, older children caring for younger ones. But she didn’t see Maba.
“White lady.”
Matilda whirled around as a soft voice called to her.
“Where are you going?”
Matilda smiled tentatively at the woman who was walking toward her. “I’m looking for Maba.”
“His wickiup is there, the large one with the gray horse tethered beside it.”
“Why do you seek my brother?”
“Mr. McCord—my husband—is sick and needs help.”
“Then it is the di-yin you need to see.”
“Di-yin?”
“Holy man. Black Buffalo Horn is known for his healing powers. Come, I will take you to him.”
Matilda followed the Indian woman across the camp, offering a silent prayer of thanks that there was at least one Indian in the camp who spoke English.
She followed the woman into a large wickiup and stood quietly while the woman spoke to the man who was seated beside a small fragrant fire. The di-yin studied Matilda through wide, guileless black eyes, then, with a curt nod, he stood up and left the lodge. The Indian woman followed him, and Matilda followed her.
Returning to the wickiup she shared with McCord, Matilda stood quietly in the background while the medicine man talked to McCord. Jess had removed his long black coat and now Black Buffalo Horn cut away McCord’s right pant leg above the knee, exposing the wound. His face was impassive as he examined the torn flesh.
The Indian woman stood near the doorway and Matilda could not help staring at her. She was a beautiful girl, with long straight black hair and wide, expressive eyes. Her skin was smooth and unblemished.
Matilda wondered where the Apache girl had learned to speak English, but then the di-yin began to open the small bags he had placed beside the firepit and her attention returned to McCord.
Black Buffalo Horn started a fire in the pit, using live coals he had brought from his own lodge, and as the wood in the pit began to spark, Matilda began to pray that McCord’s wound was not seriously infected, that he wouldn’t die and leave her alone in a strange land among alien people.
As the fire took hold, Black Buffalo Horn sprinkled a handful of yellow pollen into the flames, chanting softly as he did so. Then he tossed a handful of white leaves into the fire and chanted some more. His voice was low and resonant, filling the lodge with sound even as the fire filled the air with sweet-scented smoke.
She felt a sudden apprehension as the medicine man withdrew a bone-handled knife from his belt and passed the blade through the fire, chanting softly all the while.