“I didn’t ask your opinion of my fiancé,” she gasped. His bare, muscular chest was against her face. She knew she ought to pull away, fight to get out of his arms, or at least sink her teeth into his chest, but she didn’t have the strength. Besides, she had never dealt with a man like this one before; she wasn’t certain what he’d do to her for that.
He must have read her thoughts. “You bite me, and I’ll make you wish you hadn’t!
“You can’t scare me.” But she knew her voice shook. “I’m used to being beaten.”
She couldn’t read his expression. “I thought all white women were treated like pampered little pets.”
“Not this one.” Glory couldn’t keep the anger out of her voice. She tried to pull out of his arms, but he held on to her easily.
“They’re going to camp up ahead at the river,” he said, and began to walk, carrying her, his horse following along behind. “I was beginning to think you were going to let me drag you to death.”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” she snapped. “Maybe you can drag me to death tomorrow.”
“Don’t tempt me! I’ve still got marks on my back because of you.”
“I didn’t tell the lieutenant.”
He looked down into her eyes, his expression troubled. “Yesterday I thought you did.”
He licked his lips, and she knew by his expression he was thirsting for whiskey.
“If you’d go back to the soldiers, they’d give you a bottle,” she suggested. “You could probably trade me for a whole case. Think about that, a whole case of liquor all for you. You could get very drunk.”
“Shut up, damn you. I—I’m done with whiskey.” His tone told her he wasn’t so sure.
Two Arrows carried her to the river and sat her down on a rock near the water. As he took off her boots, his face mirrored both surprise and regret. “How could you walk with your feet rubbed raw like that?”
“It was walk or be dragged by your horse,” she reminded him.
“You could have stopped it the first hour by asking.”
She thought of Howard slapping her and pummeling her, demanding she get on her knees and beg or he’d beat her some more. “I’ve got pride.”
“Our prissy lieutenant has his work cut out for him if he marries you.”
“David isn’t prissy. He’s a gentleman.”
“That’s what I said; you need more man than that.”
She started to say something, decided he was goading her.
“Proud One, stay here until I get back. You know better than to try to escape again.”
She was too tired to run, and there weren’t any horses close enough for her to grab anyway, Glory decided. She watched him walk away—big, broad-shouldered, battle-scarred. He almost seemed to swagger when he walked. A wild, mustang stallion and as dangerous and unpredictable as one, too.
Around her, the Indians were hobbling horses and turning them out to graze. Women went about everyday tasks, building small cooking fires, nursing babies. Some cast curious glances her way, but evidently, they all accepted Two Arrows’s ownership of the captive because the only one who came near her was little Grasshopper.
“Ah, Candy Lady, are you all right?”
Before Glory could reassure her, Two Arrows returned, carrying water and a small pot of ointment. “Of course she’s all right, little one,” he said gently to the child. “Her shoes rub her feet and white women are delicate as flowers, you know.”
“Not this one,” Glory retorted, surprised at his gentleness with the child.
“I did not give the captive permission to speak.” He gave Glory a cold look, then smiled at the child again. “Run along, little one, and tell your grandmother I will come get some of her delicious stew soon.”
Grasshopper laughed and ran off to play.
Two Arrows knelt next to Glory, picked up one of her small feet in his big hand. “It is stupid to be so stubborn that you would walk on stubs rather than bend to my will.”
She tried to jerk her foot away, but his other hand was on her slim ankle. “It’s your fault. Why are you suddenly so concerned for my health?”
He shrugged and poured the cold water over her foot. “I take good care of my horse, too, and everything else that belongs to me.”
The cold water on her sore foot felt so good, she relaxed in spite of herself. “I do not belong to you; I belong only to myself.”
“Proud One, you ignore the facts.” He began to rub ointment into her foot. “As a hostage, you’re valuable to us. The chiefs will be upset if I let anything happen to you.”
She leaned back against the rock and closed her eyes while he massaged her bare foot with strong, supple hands. It felt good. She reminded herself that he was just a heartless savage after all. Why had she hoped he might be showing concern because he had a heart or conscience?
He put ointment on her foot and shook his head. “If I had a horse this sore-footed, I’d have to shoot it.”
“How reassuring!” Glory snorted. “Anyway, I’m too valuable as a hostage, remember?” She was apprehensive, but not terrified anymore. Of course they weren’t going to kill her, they needed her, and killing her would bring the army’s vengeance down on them.
He licked his lips again.
“Need a drink bad, do you?” Glory asked.
He frowned. “How do you know that?”
“My husband drank. When he got drunk, he was crazy. I used to pour out all the liquor I found and pray he wouldn’t buy more.”
Two Arrows looked at her a long moment. “I’ve taken a vow not to drink again. It made me a white man’s Injun. My people have given me a second chance; I can’t let them down.”
She shook her head. “My people won’t give me a second chance; they gossip about that scandalous divorcée.”
“I know; I’ve heard the talk,” Two Arrows said. “I’ll get some food.”
She watched him walk away, staring after him; his muscular dark body, the welts she had caused on that broad back.
It was growing dark rapidly now, with night birds calling. She stared at the river. The sluggish Cimarron ran swift and deep in spots, and they said around the fort it held treacherous stretches of quicksand.
She looked around, wondering if she might get another chance to escape tonight?
Two Arrows returned with a big bowl of stew, sat down cross-legged, and began to eat. She watched him. He glanced at her, obviously waiting for her to ask. Not if she starved to death, Glory vowed.
He ate a few more bites, muttered a curse, and handed her the bowl.
She dug in. The rabbit stew tasted hot and delicious. “I didn’t ask,” she reminded him.
He looked at her a long moment and she saw admiration war with anger in his dark eyes. “I know, Proud One; I know.”
She ate all the stew and set the gourd aside. Around them, the Indians were settling down in the darkness, except for a few sentries. “I—I’m not sure I’ll be able to get my riding boots back on in the morning,” she said. “My feet are swollen.”
“So maybe I’ll make you walk barefooted.”
“I’ll see you in hell!” Glory vowed, lifting her chin even higher in the air.
“You would, wouldn’t you?” In the moonlight, he sounded both annoyed and amused.
“You damned betcha!”
Two Arrows threw back his head and laughed. In spite of everything, it was a hearty man’s laugh, and she liked it. “Like I said, you’re too much woman for Lieutenant Krueger.”
“I don’t remember asking your opinion.” She kept her voice haughty.
“Okay, but I know it, and you know it, too.” Two Arrows made a rude noise.
“You don’t have much respect for David, do you? He says you never salute him.”
Two Arrows shrugged. “He doesn’t respect me either. He hates Indians, even the friendlies, and we all sense it.”
She felt she had to come to David’s defense. “He’s got good reason to hate Indians.”
“And I’ve got good reason to hate whites; that makes us even. Now shut up, hostage.” His voice had grown as cold as his face. “I’ve got a couple of blankets. We’ve got a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”
“You’d better enjoy it,” Glory fumed. “It’s your last day on earth; the army will catch up to us by then.”
He tossed her a blanket. “Anything’s better than starving to death slowly on that reservation.” He reached for a strip of rawhide.
“What—what are you doing?”
“Now what does it look like I’m doing, Proud One? I wouldn’t put it past you to stick my own knife in me during the night.”
“If you won’t tie me up, I’ll promise—”
“I won’t be that stupid a second time.” He grabbed both her wrists in one big hand and she was acutely aware of the strength and power of him. He crossed her wrists and tied them in front of her, then spread his blanket next to hers.
Mercy! Surely he wasn’t going to lie down next to her. Why, it would be like sleeping in the same bed.
About that time, the warrior she knew as Broken Blade sauntered over, carrying a knapsack. He nodded to Two Arrows even as his lustful gaze roamed up and down Glory’s body in the moonlight. There was no doubt what he had in mind. She shrank back against the blanket.
Two Arrows glared up at Broken Blade with dislike. “What is it you want?” he asked in Cheyenne, although the man’s expression made no secret of what it was he desired.
Very slowly, Broken Blade squatted down, pulled a bottle of cheap whiskey from the knapsack. “I have kept this as a gift; now I want to give it to my friend, Two Arrows.”
Whiskey. Two Arrows stared at the bottle and licked his lips. This was the longest he’d been without a drink in almost a year.
Broken Blade smiled as he took the cork from the bottle, tipped it up, took a long drink, allowing the whiskey to drip from both sides of his mouth. “Ahhh! Good!” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Here, my friend, this whole big bottle is for you.” He held it out.
Two Arrows ran his tongue over his dry lips again. Even from here, he could smell the whiskey. He had never wanted anything so much as he wanted to grab it from the other’s hand and gulp it all down. His very soul cried out for whiskey. Two Arrows had dreaded tonight, attempting to sleep, cold sober. He knew in his dreams the old ghosts would come again, and he would awaken screaming. “To accept your gift means I must follow our customs and give you one.”
Broken Blade grinned with sharp, crooked teeth. “Give me only the loan of your captive for an hour.”
“What?” Two Arrows said.
“It’s not as if she is a virgin,” Broken Blade wheedled. “Has she not had a husband?”
Two Arrows nodded.
“And she is not a very young girl.” Broken Blade smiled again and held out the bottle. “Among our people, do not older women who have no man anymore avail themselves of the warriors who have no wife?”
“Customs of the whites are different,” Two Arrows snapped. He couldn’t take his eyes off the whiskey. Already, he could taste the flavor, feel the brain-numbing spirits inside his belly, dimming the reality of Two Arrows’s lonely existence. Broken Blade was right; Glory was no young virgin, and well he knew the custom of the Cheyenne. Perhaps she should be used to pleasure any warrior who wanted her; they might all be killed tomorrow.
“It is a fair exchange,” Broken Blade wheedled, and held out the bottle again, “and also, a fitting revenge for the lieutenant’s woman. Let us share it and her ripe body.”
Whiskey. How he needed that! More than that, Two Arrows had thought of nothing but lying on this woman’s belly with his mouth on her full breasts since the first time he had seen her. It would be a fitting vengeance for the whipping he had endured. Like most white women, she would be ashamed to tell the white soldiers what had been done to her.
Next to him, the Proud One asked, “What—what is it he wants?” Her voice sounded small and frightened.
Two Arrows turned his head to look at her in the moonlight. “I think you know what it is he wants.”
He saw her delicate features go taut. She didn’t look proud and haughty anymore; her dark eyes were wide as a hunted doe’s. She reached out with her small, bound hands and laid them on his muscular arm.
Her wrist looked so fragile wearing little Grasshopper’s bracelet. Two Arrows stared at her two hands grasping his arm, and into those lovely eyes that asked more than any words could.
“Why do you hesitate?” Broken Blade snorted in disgust. “You have reason enough to hate all whites, and she’s only a captive, meant to be used for a man’s pleasure. Here, take the whiskey.” He thrust it into Two Arrows’s hands.
Two Arrows took a deep breath, and the scent of the liquor came to his nostrils. Already, he could taste it on his tongue. Broken Blade reached for the woman, and she dug her fingers into Two Arrows’s strong arm.
She did not beg, only her tense fingers gave away her fright; that and her dark, terrified eyes.
In his mind, he was kneeling again in the cold snow at the river the whites called the Washita. The snow was smeared red with warm blood, and his dying wife, Pretty Flower, clutched his arm and looked up at him, terror in her eyes. “Two Arrows, the children ...”
Dark, terrified eyes; a small hand clutching his strong arm. He had sunk down in the snow and held Pretty Flower close, rocking back and forth as he held her, not telling her the children were dead. Yellow Hair and his soldiers had attacked the sleeping camp at dawn. And Two Arrows had not been there to save her. He had been off on a hunting party and had ridden in too late, to find wailing women, burning tipis, and bloody snow. Around him, many of his relatives were dead or dying, the others fleeing in confusion. Almost ten winter counts ago, his woman had died in his arms. Ten long winters. He hated the white soldiers, and yet Two Arrows scouted for them because the old days were no more.
“Two Arrows?” Broken Blade said. “The white woman for the whiskey?”
Two Arrows forced himself to thrust the bottle back at Broken Blade, but it was a hard thing to do. He put his muscular body between him and the woman. “I say no. Take your whiskey.”
Broken Blade came to his feet. “We have a bargain.” His voice rose in anger. “I will use her!”
Two Arrows jumped up, pushing the other man backwards as he threw the bottle against a far rock and it crashed into pieces.
With a curse, Broken Blade stumbled after the bottle, grabbed up the shattered glass neck. “I will have her yet though you break our bargain!”
The Proud One screamed even as Two Arrows crouched to meet the charging warrior. They meshed, both as tall and powerful as stags. Two Arrows saw the murderous glint of the other’s eyes. Broken Blade was past reason, more than a little drunk, forgetting the taboos about killing another Cheyenne.
“Broken Blade, you forget the taboo!” Two Arrows went into a fighting crouch, and Glory screamed behind him as the other advanced on him, the moonlight reflecting on the sharp glass in his hand.
Around them, horses neighed and reared, dogs began barking, people came out of their blankets rubbing their eyes sleepily.
Broken Blade’s eyes gleamed with lust and fury as he stalked Two Arrows. “You poor excuse for a Cheyenne, you drunken soldier scout! I will geld you with this bottle, and then you can watch me rape your white captive!”
Seven
Two Arrows braced himself as the other ran at him, the broken glass gleaming in the moonlight. Broken Blade was past reason, lusting for Glory. The man yelled triumphantly as the two clashed.
Two Arrows caught the other’s wrist and held on. The pair meshed like fighting stags in the moonlight. Around them, babies cried and people shouted as the camp came awake.
Abruptly, Broken Blade slipped a leg behind Two Arrows and tripped him. They went down with a crash, rolling across the ground, locked together, Two Arrows struggling to wrench the weapon away from the other.
Dogs barked frantically and people came running to form a circle around them. As the pair rolled over and over, Two Arrows stole a glance at Glory’s terrified face, remembering for a split second how she had placed her two small hands on his arm in silent appeal.
He was a fool, he knew that, fighting to protect a white when he had every reason to hate whites himself, especially the lieutenant’s woman.
Broken Blade tore free and raised the sharp glass again, his hard eyes gleaming in mirthless triumph, his sharp, crooked teeth bared like an animal’s. “I will cut you up for crossing me!”
Two Arrows threw up his arm to protect himself, crouched to take the broken bottle away from the other and use it on him. Two Arrows could not kill a fellow Cheyenne without being exiled from his people forever, but he was prepared to do it to protect his enemy’s woman. He must be as big a fool as Broken Blade said he was.
Again, they locked and strained, one powerful man against another, struggling for possession of the shattered bottle.
Broken Blade put his ugly face close to Two Arrows’s. “I will put my seed in her, drunken Injun scout, and you will watch me do it!”
Not while Two Arrows lived. Fury at the image the other’s words brought to his mind gave him added strength. They were both damp with sweat as they struggled. Two Arrows gritted his teeth, tasting his anger as they fought.
He was a better fighter than Broken Blade; dog soldiers were always the bravest, best fighters of their tribes. He forced Broken Blade to his knees, trying to jerk the bottle from his hands.
“Enough! I order this stopped!” Old Dull Knife strode into the circle, his voice grim as thunder.
The sound of this chief’s voice seemed to get through to Broken Blade’s lustful brain. He hesitated, and Two Arrows jerked the broken bottle from his hand, tossed it away with a disdaining gesture.
Little Wolf strode over to join Dull Knife. “What has happened here? You know the taboo!”
Tangle Hair, leader of the dog soldiers, joined them, too.
Two Arrows hesitated. He did not want to bring trouble to Broken Blade.
Cheyenne Song Page 9