Forever Ecstasy

by Janelle Taylor

  “Come on in,” a voice replied, “but take it slow and easy.”

  Joe dismounted and secured his reins to a bush. He didn’t unsaddle the animal, since he always liked to be prepared for a quick escape. It was chilly tonight. He removed his leather riding gloves and stuffed them into his saddlebag, but kept on the thin wool jacket he had donned a mile back.

  Joe headed through the wooded location toward a fire near the riverbank. As he passed two wagons, he saw a beautiful Indian girl secured to one of the wheels. Her arms were extended, her wrists tied to the spokes, and her legs were bound at the ankles. He was intrigued by her presence, but ignored her for now. He had other matters on his troubled mind.

  Not far away, he noticed, eight horses for pulling the two wagons were tethered and grazing. An abundance of trees, with the river eastward, had forced the men to leave those wagons thirty feet from their waterside camp. Yet the spacings of oaks and cottonwoods and a three-fourths waxing moon made the female prisoner visible to her captors.

  Joe’s azure gaze studied each of the three men as he approached them, just as they were eyeing him with interest. The condition of the camp—the large amount of coals, the trampled ground, more than a few hours’ smell of manure, and the many items scattered about— told him it was several days’ old. When he’d found their trail, he had known the wagons were a few days beyond him. He hoped he wasn’t wasting valuable time and energy on what could be an impulsive chase. “Thanks,” he answered the man. “I was getting tired, sore, and hungry. This area is mighty deserted. I’m glad I happened up on you men. Mind if I share your coffee and beans? My last meal was a long way back.”

  “Help yourself, but ain’t you out late tonight, stranger?” a barrel-chested man remarked. He gestured for the new arrival to sit on the ground.

  As Joe poured himself some steaming coffee and set the tin cup on the grass beside him, he explained, “I was about to make camp earlier when several Indians chose the same clearing I had. I thought it best to let them have first choice,” Joe jested with a wry grin. “It doesn’t take long in this wild territory to learn you don’t want to meet up with them when you’re alone.”

  “What tribe was they?” the youngest man asked.

  Joe glanced at the towhead with dark-blue eyes as he guilefully remarked, “Indians are Indians, aren’t they?” He took in details: the man was just under twenty and had a long knife scar on his left cheek.

  “Nope” came the reply. “Some are friendlies; others, real mean.”

  “Friendlies, hell. They’re all blood-thirsty savages. Ain’t worth the salt it’d take to cure ’em fur dog meat. Only good ones are on your payroll or dead,” the third man refuted with a cold chuckle, then sipped his whiskey.

  Joe didn’t like these crude men. The third one was tall and slender, with a pockmarked face and dirty hands wrapped around the bottle he was nursing. He appeared to be about thirty. His brown hair was as filthy as his clothes, and his hazel eyes had an emotionless expression that put Joseph Lawrence, Jr., on guard. His father’s friend Stede Gaston had told him to never trust a man whose eyes stay frozen when he smiles. He had found that warning to be accurate.

  Joe stopped dishing up beans to feign surprise. “Indians work for whites?” he asked. “I thought they were independent free-roaming men who lived only to hunt and raid, and that they made their women do all the work.”

  “If ya give enough trinkets, they’ll do most any chore fur ya.”

  The burly man scowled and spat on the ground. “What you work too much is your jaws, Clem. Put up that fire water; you’ve had enough. What are you doing in these parts?” he asked the stranger.

  To be convincing, Joe used half-truths. “My father’s in the shipping business, and I got tired of making voyages for him,” he said. “I hated being a sailor. Sea trips aren’t any fun when you spend most of your time heaving your meals over the rails. I heard it was exciting and challenging out here, so I decided to leave dull Virginia and seek a few adventures.”

  Joe smiled to relax the wary man with his scraggly beard and muddy brown hair that flowed over his broad shoulders. It looked as if that tangled mane hadn’t seen a comb or brush in ages, and it didn’t take a keen observer to realize that their clothes hadn’t seen a washpot in weeks. It was apparent these rough characters cared nothing about their appearances. “A man who lacks pride in himself usually lacks morals and a conscience,” his father had told him, “so sail clear of him, son. Even poor folk, if they’re decent and honest, keep themselves clean and neat.” That wise remembrance told him to be vigilant. “My name’s Joe Lawrence,” he introduced himself. “As I said, I’m glad I came upon you tonight. I’ll admit I was getting a little nervous out here alone. Who are you?”

  “I’m Zeke,” the leader replied, watchful of the newcomer. “That’s Clem.” He nodded to the disobedient man who had the bottle to his lips once more. “And that’s Farley.” He named the youngest of the group.

  No last names were supplied, and Joe wondered if there was a special reason. He also noted that Zeke had silenced Clem to prevent him from revealing any facts the leery man wanted kept secret. The wariness aroused Joe’s interest as much as the contents of those wagons. Between bites he made small talk to calm them while he tried to entice slips of the tongue. “Where’s the best place to look for work in this area?”

  “What kind of job you got in mind?” Zeke asked, lazing against a tree.

  “Haven’t thought much about that, but I’m not joining the cavalry. I don’t want to trade one boss for another one. If I didn’t like soldiering, I wouldn’t want the Army hunting me down as a deserter. Since I don’t know this territory, scouting is out. Besides, I don’t care to go tangling with hostiles every other day or two. When I get ready to return home, I want to take my hair with me,” he said with a chuckle. “From what I’ve read and heard, Indians like to take scalps as trophies, especially blond ones.”

  “You kin bet your boots an’ pants they do,” Farley concurred. He stroked the lengthy knife scar on his boyish face and frowned.

  Joe caught the hint. “I’m not much of a gambler, so I’ll take your word, friend. Where are you men heading? Maybe I can tag along for safety, if you don’t mind.” Joe took a few more bites of beans, then washed them down with strong coffee. Neither tasted good; his appetite was lagging, but he pretended to enjoy the scanty meal and company.

  “Sorry, Lawrence, but we’re heading for a private camp.”

  Joe focused his attention on the leader. “No jobs available there?”

  “The boss don’t like to hire strangers or greenhorns.”

  “I learn fast and follow orders good,” Joe told him, then set aside the tin plate and empty cup. “Most people say I’m easy to get along with, even on my bad days. I’d be grateful for help. I’ll give you a cut of my salary for a while to get me hired on and to teach me my way around these parts.”

  Zeke tossed the two dishes and spoon into a pile with other dirty ones. “That’s a tempting offer, Lawrence, but no. Strangers are too nosy, and greenhorns are too dangerous. Both cause too much trouble.”

  “Iffen he’s good with fightin’ and shootin’, Zeke, the boss might want him. We kin always use a skilled—”

  “Nope. You know the boss’s orders, Farley. If I was you, Lawrence, I’d ride to Fort Tabor where the Missouri joins the White River or to Pratte’s Trading Post at Pierre. Men looking for work do best there.” Zeke’s distrustful gaze roved Joe as he talked. “You don’t appear a man to take to trapping or trading. If you don’t want to join the Army or do scouting, best I can think of is guarding places or hauling goods.”

  Joe glanced at the two wagons thirty feet away. He knew they were loaded because of the deep ruts the wheels had made, the ones he had located and followed. He tried not to look at the female prisoner who was watching all four men with her dark eyes. The blond-haired man presumed she must be cold so far from the fire and without a blanket or long sleeves. But
for now he had to ignore her plight. Later he would decide what to do about her. He looked back at Zeke and casually inquired, “That what you do, transport supplies?”

  Zeke kept his gaze locked onto Joe’s face. “Not exactly.”

  Joe sensed the man’s caution and let the touchy subject drop. He noticed how Zeke’s eyes stayed on him as tight as a rope on a capstan. The leader looked tense, and his dirty fingers kept drumming on one thigh.

  “If you came from Virginny,” Zeke asked. “Why didn’t you stop at Fort Tabor or at Lookout? Or head upriver to Pierre? What kind of work you expect to find in a wilderness? This area’s a long way from civilization.”

  To calm the still edgy leader, Joe decided to start speaking more like these men and drop the correct English that he’d been taught during his years of schooling. “I was ridin’ for Benton near the headwaters of the Missouri,” he fabricated. “I got a friend there who’s been beggin’ me to join him. He hired on with the American Fur Company in ’47. Been with them ever since. I figured I’d see more of this wild territory if I rode across country, rather than take a boat the long route by water. I heard the Missouri gets mighty treacherous in places, and I ain’t one to challenge crazy water much. I had my fill of that workin’ for my father back East.”

  “Maybe I know your friend. I’ve traded with lots of trappers.”

  “Ever met Ben Murphy? About forty—short, husky, black hair.”

  “Nope. I thought I knew all those American Fur boys.”

  “Ben’s quiet. He usually keeps to himself. We trapped together back South. He taught me most of what I know. When we’d take off huntin’ or trappin’, my father always sent somebody to fetch me home if we didn’t return in a month or two. He was determined I was going to learn his shippin’ business and take it over one day. I figured if I joined Ben out here, I’d be too far away for Old Joe to find me and drag me home again. I guess I got too used to being on my own at school, and I didn’t take to Old Joe’s runnin’ my life from dawn to dusk like he did his company.”

  “So why you looking for a job in these parts if it’s to Benton you’re heading?” Zeke asked. When an owl hooted, he glanced in that direction, his nerves obviously on edge.

  “I been ridin’ for weeks and my tail’s tryin’ to grow to the saddle.” Joe answered. “I need a rest. It’s a long way to Benton. Frankly, I ain’t lookin’ forward to crossin’ Crow Territory. It drained me to come this far through Sioux land.”

  “Don’t let them hear you call ’em Sioux,” Zeke warned, “or they’ll lift your hair for sure. That’s a chopped-off French word meaning ‘treacherous snake.’ They call themselves Dakotas, ‘friends.’ Best remember that.”

  “Are they?”

  “Are they what?” Zeke asked, confused.

  “Friends, friendly,” Joe hinted as a reminder.

  “Sioux are about the lowest and meanest savages alive.” Zeke spat again, as if clearing his mouth of a foul taste.

  “You’re working this area and you still have your scalp. You got a truce with them?”

  “Sioux don’t make no truces with whites, but they’ll leave you be if they think you’re smarter and stronger than them. I’ve beaten some of their best warriors, so the others avoid tangling with me.”

  “Sounds like you’re the right man to join up with in this area.”

  “I don’t need nobody else to tend or to slow me down. Clem and Farley do more than enough of both. You’ll do better to head for Crow Territory than hang around in Sioux.”

  “Why is that, Zeke? Don’t they hate whites, too?”

  “Not like the Sioux. Don’t show no fear of them when you’re alone, and Crow’ll let you pass. One of their prophets told them his vision said not to war with whites. All Injuns are big believers in them peyote dreams they call visions, but braves will still ambush and rob you if you act scared.”

  “Hell, Zeke! Most of ’em are cowards and beggars. They’d rather have a trinket ’an fight a real man for his scalp,” Clem said between chuckles.

  Zeke glared at his companion before giving his advice to Joe. “If you ain’t heading on to Benton at first light, you best ride east to one of the trading posts on the river. For a few dollars you can catch a boat to join your friend. Trappers who don’t work for companies mostly come to sell their winter catches before long. They spend a month or so jawing, drinking, whoring, and gambling. Then they resupply and go back to their trapping grounds. River’s the safest way to get there from here. It’s eastward. We’re heading southwest. You don’t need to ride in that direction.”

  Joe knew the man was lying. The trail he’d followed for days was heading northwestward and Crow Territory and Benton were both in that direction! Zeke’s careless mistake and odd behavior told Joe he’d been smart to follow his gut instinct. But it was clear that the ruffian was adamant about them parting ways at sunrise. When the others remained silent, Joe yawned and flexed his shoulders. “I wish I could change your mind, Zeke, but I understand.” “I’ll get my gun and help keep guard tonight,” he offered. “I don’t want any Indians sneaking into camp while we’re asleep.”

  “No need,” Zeke said. “We take two-hour shifts each, even when it seems safe. We’ve done scouted the area. The Sioux are still holed up in their winter camps south of here, and it’s a good ways to Crow Territory. You can rest easy tonight, then be on your way at dawn.”

  Joe smiled, then asked Clem, “You got another bottle of that good whiskey I can buy? It’s been a dusty and tiring ride today.”

  Before Clem or Zeke could reply, Farley said, “Plenty, iffen you got—”

  “No!” the hefty leader interrupted and came to his feet. “The way Clem’s been slopping down our supply like a bottomless pig, it’s about gone, except for that bottle I got in my gear. You’re welcome to a swig or two of it, Lawrence. I’ll fetch it. You stay here with the boys.”

  Joe saw how the large man got to his feet with ease and agility, then left the smoky fire to head for the front wagon. With Zeke gone, maybe he could get answers to the beautiful mystery nearby, he thought. “One of you having trouble with your squaw?” Joe inquired in a genial tone as he nodded to the captive some thirty feet away at the second wagon. The moon’s angle and tall trees now placed the confining wagon and young female in almost obscuring shadows, but Joseph Lawrence had a mental picture of her that would never vanish.

  The half-inebriated Clem glanced in the beauty’s direction, chuckled, and revealed, “We’s taking her to the boss. Caught her whilst we wuz scouting. He likes ’em young, full of spirit and fight. She oughta last a few weeks, maybe months if he’s more careful this time. He uses ’em up fast. Just ’twixt us, Joe, I’d like a bite of her flesh meself. Maybe we can talk—”

  “Shut up, you drunken fool,” Zeke warned, his eyes narrowing as he passed Joe the half-empty bottle. “Don’t pay Clem no mind,” he said. “His brain’s sour mash by now. He’s teasing you. But if he don’t stop drinking and lying so much, I’m gonna get rid of him. He knows I traded for her in a Crow camp yesterday. You can see she didn’t care much for being sold by her pappy. She’ll settle down soon and make me a good squaw.”

  Joe noticed the bite mark on Zeke’s hand that he rubbed as he lied. The woman presented Joe with a difficult decision: rescue her and lose this contact, or ignore her imminent fate so he could try to stay with these offensive men. With Zeke so mad at Clem, maybe he could persuade the leader to let him join them. If he pulled off that feat and they reached their destination, he’d never be able to free her. Yet if these men were connected to the murderous villain he was after… “She’s beautiful, Zeke I’m sure a strong man like you will have her tamed fast. I’ve always heard that a woman with fire is more fun than one who’s quiet and cowardly. I’d say you got a good deal, a real challenge.” He sipped whiskey and deliberated which course to sail tonight.

  The Oglala maiden was awake and alert, and she tried to ignore the chill on her flesh. Morning Star hated th
e men who had taken her prisoner and the dark fate they had in mind for her. And now there were four to fight against. Although she pretended not to understand their words, her parents had taught her English. Years ago she had practiced that skill with any light-skinned visitor who had come to their camp. Those days were gone because of the recent trouble between the two cultures. Her father had signed a treaty with the palefaces in 1820, and peace had ensued for years. But during the past two summers, sporadic fights and false charges had marred that truce.

  A new breed of encroachers seemed determined to war with them now, a breed that was to provoke even more hatred and trouble between the Crow and the Oglalas. Soon her people expected more conflicts, violence, and false accusations. Yet she could not forget that her family and tribe had befriended some lightskins. Nor could she forget that her grandmother and aunt were of white blood, or that she carried a trace of it. She had concluded long ago that not all palefaces were bad. It was unfair and wrong to judge an entire race by the evil doings of some of its members, as most whites did with Indians.

  This past winter had been tranquil. In fact, she had known mostly peace since her birth and had not witnessed the new troubles, so a fierce hatred for all whites did not exist in her heart. She wanted to study them and discover why there were such hostilities and differences between them. Only by learning from a problem could it be resolved, and bloodshed be prevented. Yet her captors seemed to be proving that her brother’s ominous words about most palefaces were true.

  Morning Star prayed that the Indians the last man had mentioned earlier were from her travel party and not Crow warriors arriving early. The Crow were fierce enemies of her people, the Dakotas, and had been for generations. If she were recognized as the daughter of Oglala Chief Sun Cloud, the Bird People would demand to buy her as a slave. She could imagine the horrors—or even death—she would endure at their hands. Yet she must not lose hope and courage. She must not lose her wits. She had to remain ready to seize any opening. When that glorious moment came, she wanted to flee with as much information as she could. She forced herself to concentrate on the men’s conversation.