by Vella Munn
Jed was here.
He rode into the fort on a dark brown horse that had white front legs and a short tail. He sat tall in the saddle, looking not at all like a man who had spent days traveling. He wasn't wearing his uniform. Instead, he was dressed like many of the civilians who hung around the fort.
Only, she prayed, Jed hadn't come here because he wanted to watch white man's justice be served.
He came so close before dismounting that she could have reached out and touched his horse. Waiting for him to speak, incapable of doing so herself, she traced with her mind and eyes the lines and angles of his face. He hadn't shaved for several days, but instead of looking rough and unapproachable, he seemed somehow vulnerable. She liked seeing him without his uniform, told herself to never forget what he looked like now.
Memories. Was that all she would have?
"I missed you," he whispered.
Her eyes burned, but she refused to blink. "I missed you."
"You're all right?" His voice sounded like pieces of gravel being rubbed together. "Wilfred said you were, but I heard so little from him."
"I am fine." What did he think of her white woman's blouse and long skirt? The shoes she discarded when she climbed up to Eagle's nest because they didn't know how to cling to rocks? "The days are too long. Waiting..."
"Waiting for your future to be decided. I know."
"Not just that." She nodded at the gallows. The effort of not shivering made it nearly impossible to hold back her tears. He hadn't had to return. He could have sent his messages to the fort commander and gone—gone back to fighting Sioux.
But he was here.
"I need to talk to you," he said, his hand so close to hers that she felt the hairs on the back of it brushing against her flesh. "But I have to see Colonel Davis first. You'll be here when I'm done?"
No. "Yes."
* * *
It was nearly dark before she saw him again. Although the other Modocs had gone into the stockade for the night, she remained outside, seated on a log not far from where the forest began. Soldiers had been coming and going from the commanding officer's quarters ever since Jed arrived, and she guessed he had much to tell them. It hurt and angered her that his news, which deeply concerned the Modocs, was told to whites first.
Finally he emerged, Wilfred beside him. The two had their heads close together, maybe not wanting anyone to hear what they had to say. She thought about standing—fought the urge to run—but instead remained where she was.
When he paused, glanced in her direction, then shook hands with Wilfred before walking toward her, she concentrated on trying to remember how to breathe. She wanted to tell him so much, ask so many questions, yet she was afraid.
"The meeting took longer than I wanted," he said. "Everything about this damn army takes so long."
"You hold my life in your hands, my people's lives; I have a right to know what happened in there, what happened when you were with your president."
His nostrils flared, but he said nothing. When he briefly looked into the woods, she understood. Leading the way on legs that had sought the wilderness daily while he was gone, she slipped into the trees, their cool darkness insulating her from the day's lingering heat.
"Its good land here," he said softly. "Much more productive than what's at the lava beds all right. Plants grow; animals flourish."
"What are you saying?"
He grunted low in his throat, then placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her around toward him. "You know me pretty well, don't you?"
Not well at all, she nearly said, but maybe he was right. "Tell me. What is to become of us?"
"I don't have any answers; that's the hell of it. The president promised he'd decide before the hanging but—"
"The hanging! The president believes the trial was fair?"
"Whether he does or not, he's not going to reverse the decision. But as for what happens to the rest of the Modocs once it's over..."
She waited for him to finish, told herself she had the courage to hear what he'd brought her here for, but when his silence stretched on, she gradually forgot there needed to be words between them. Despite the unrelenting heat of summer, she'd felt strangely cold ever since he rode away. She'd tried to tell herself that being a prisoner was the reason, but the army men allowed her a great deal of freedom—maybe too much, because each day she had to fight the need to remain in the woods.
Tonight she was warm. It was almost as if Eagle had returned and spread his great wings over her, touching her heart with his strength and courage. Only this touch came from a man, not from her spirit.
"Not knowing how you were, I felt as if I was on the other side of the world from you." He took a ragged breath and although his hands were still on her, he now held her at arms' length, as if he didn't dare get any closer. "You wouldn't like it there. Too many people. Smells—smells that are nothing like what's here."
"Jed? You said the president would soon say what is to become of us, but surely you know what he is thinking. What did you say to him? Did he hear your words?"
"I told him what it's like for your people now, asked him—begged him.... It's out of my hands, Luash. I've done everything I can."
Everything he can. "Then while my uncle and the others live, we will not know whether the Modocs will be allowed to remain together?"
"I'm sorry."
Such simple words, spoken with so much emotion. In a desperate attempt to keep her balance, and because she'd gone without touching him for as long as she could, she ran her fingers up his arms until they rested on the sides of his neck. His features, so harsh sometimes, softened.
"I prayed for you," she admitted. "Every time I went to where Eagle lives, I asked him to look out for you, to give your words courage and compassion."
"You've seen him?" He'd lowered his head until his lips were both an invitation and an incredible risk.
"Yes. Caring for his children."
"Children. Good. But he hasn't sought you?"
Sick despite Jed's presence, she shook her head. "He is free; I am not. Our hearts no longer sing the same song."
She wanted to tell him how incredibly hard it had been to face the loss of her spirit, but he was drawing her closer and closer, the pressure so slight that if she fought, she could easily escape.
His body pressed against her, legs against legs, her breasts flattened against his chest. With her arms locked around his neck, she slid up onto her toes and parted her lips to receive his. Nothing mattered—not a future with no answers, not the bedraggled eagle's feather she still wore in her hair, not what would happen to her uncle when he stepped up onto the gallows. There was only Jed. Only putting an end to the long and horrible days and nights without him.
Without breaking their kiss, she gently ran her fingertips over his unshaven cheeks, then up into his hair. When she brushed his scar, she allowed her fingers to rest on it for a time, committing it to memory. Making it part of her.
Jed held a strand of her hair, sliding his palms over it as if awed by its texture. She tried to concentrate on the sensation, but she was being bombarded by him, caught up in him. Losing herself. When he released her mouth to run his lips over her throat, a hot shiver chased throughout her body until she felt as if she was on fire.
Twisting, not to free herself but so she could spread the fire to him, she slid her arms under his and arched her back until the tips of her breasts were just touching his chest. Moving to a silent rhythm, she rocked from side to side, aided now by his hands on her hips, his body dancing to the same beat.
Together they moved like slender trees caught in the wind. Her fingers became those of a craftsman as she traced his form, wondering at each canyon and mountain. His strength—the pure strength of him...
With fingers as deft as hers, he slowly drew off her shirt and let it rain down on the ground. "God!" he groaned, then took first one and then the other breast into his mouth. He wrapped his body down around her, his spine so bowe
d that when she touched it, she could feel each and every bone.
Her legs gave out. She sank to her knees on the ground, taking him with her. He knelt beside her, just far enough away that the sight of him remained sharp-edged. With him guiding her, she did to his shirt what he'd done to hers.
How perfect he was! Despite his scars, she could believe him invincible—needed to believe that of him.
Tuning forward, she touched first her lips, then her tongue, to his chest. When she began feathering her fingers over him, he shuddered and reached out as if to stop her. Reckless, she placed his hands over her breasts and arched back, giving him full access. Was this her? All hot and wild and needful?
Yes. Yes!
When she forced her eyes to focus, he was looming over her. Understanding the unspoken message, she laid herself back on the ground and lifted her hips so he could tug off the hated skirt. It took only a moment for him to remove what remained of his clothes and then he was over her. Coming closer. Spreading her legs with his knees, sliding between them.
Becoming one with her.
She clamped her hands as best she could over his broad shoulders, closed her eyes, embraced the growing storm inside her. She felt his teeth rake over her throat; then his mouth was on her shoulder, wet and strong. A moment later the same strength gently clamped around a nipple. Head tossed to the side for breath, she lifted her back off the ground and danced with him—danced until the dark world inside her exploded into uncounted stars.
When it was over and his sweat-drenched body lay beside hers, she struggled for the courage to tell him that she needed more than for their bodies to be one. That her tomorrows couldn't remain a trackless cave.
But she couldn't.
Chapter 21
October 3,1873
"Damnation!"
"What is your objection, Lieutenant Britton? When the president gives an order, it's my responsibility to carry it out."
"And by doing so, you're putting the Modocs through needless hell."
Lieutenant Colonel Frank Wheaton, who, as far as Jed could determine, had recovered from the humiliation of being relieved of command following the disastrous attack on the stronghold, shrugged, then tugged at his uniform. "I'm doing as my president dictates. If he doesn't want Slolux and Bamcho to know their sentences have been commuted until just before the execution, then I'll abide by it."
Jed clenched his teeth and curled his fingers into tight fists, but that did nothing to kill the rage thundering through him. "And in the meantime, those two boys believe they're going to die today."
"Boys? They're full-grown warriors."
He had no intention of wasting time debating the point with his superior officer. From the moment he'd heard that only the Modocs directly involved in the killing of General Canby would be brought to trial, he'd argued that Slolux and Bamcho, while present, had raised no arms against the peace commission. Apparently he wasn't the only one who felt that way. The question, the damnable question was why the two were being treated so cruelly.
"All right. All right." He swallowed and took a deep breath, then tried again. "If the president has sent orders regarding Slolux and Barncho, then I take it he's finally made a decision about what's going to happen to the Modocs afterward."
"As a matter of fact, he has."
The question built inside him like a volcano on the verge of eruption. Still, he wasn't sure he wanted to speak it, let alone hear the answer. He'd been back little more than a week and during that time, he and Luash had spent hours together, saying little, making love only occasionally. He hadn't expected it to be any different. After all, the unknown in her future remained a great dark cloud that followed them everywhere.
"Someone must have made a pretty powerful case for keeping the Modocs together," Wheaton said. "Maybe you can take credit for that. The president wants them sent to Fort McPherson in Nebraska, at least temporarily."
"All of them?" He barely breathed the question.
"All of them. Only the president doesn't want them told anything until they get to Wyoming."
Jed recoiled. "What?"
"For reasons of security, neither they or anyone else are to know anything."
"Not even that they're not going to be split up?"
"That's right. Do you hear me, Lieutenant Britton? If you want to take credit for keeping the tribe together, that's fine with me. But you are not to say a word about this until you're given permission."
* * *
Luash stood surrounded by Modocs, all of them ordered to watch the hanging. She'd placed her arm around Whe-cha's shoulder but couldn't think of a thing to say. Like her, Whe-cha remained silent while a breeze tinged with the taste and smell of early fall swirled around them. The gallows, with six ropes hanging limp in the morning air, held her attention as firmly as if she herself was tied to the monstrous contraption.
All yesterday, people had been arriving at the fort, some of them having traveled the same three thousand miles Jed had. It seemed as if every settler who had taken a piece of Modoc land was here, as were a number of reporters, all the remaining soldiers, even Klamath Indians. The sound and sight of them made her want to bolt and run.
A few minutes ago, Kientpoos, Bostin-Ah-gar, Te-te-tea-us, and Skonches had walked up the ladder leading to their death-place. Their shackles had been removed and although the thought of what was to come sickened her, she struggled for calm by concentrating on her uncle's now-free legs. When she saw the rope being placed around his neck, her courage nearly failed her.
Desperate, she looked around for Jed, but he was nowhere near. The court sentence was read aloud; somehow she managed to translate the horrible words for those around her. Whe-cha shuddered but said nothing.
When she heard that Slolux and Barncho would spend their lives in prison instead of being hanged, it was all she could do not to scream in outrage. Until this moment, the two had believed themselves dead men. Barncho, maybe not comprehending, continued to stare slack-jawed at nothing. Slolux, however, locked his gaze with Kientpoos. She couldn't say what passed between the two men, just that Slolux was now crying while her uncle's features remained impassive. She paid no attention to the roar of disbelief and outrage from the assembled ranchers.
A black-dressed Sunday doctor standing on the platform near the condemned men muttered something, but not enough of his words reached her for her to be able to translate. Suddenly a handkerchief waved, an axe flashed, and the floor dropped out from under the four Modocs.
Someone sobbed. The sound held in the air like a floating eagle, and after a few horrible seconds she realized she had made it. Her uncle's body jerked and spasmed. Skonches went rigid, looking as if he would shatter from the strain.
Whirling, she collided with Whe-cha, who clutched her so tightly that the younger woman's nails broke through her flesh. Whe-cha trembled violently, making Luash fear she would collapse, and despite the image of her uncle's death now seared into her brain, she clutched her dearest friend to her, turning her so she could no longer see her dying husband. She desperately wanted to say something to comfort both herself and Whe-cha, but no words came. Tomorrow, the army men had said, the Modocs would be forced to leave their home.
"I hate them!" Whe-cha sobbed. "They have killed my husband and I hate them!"
A young brave standing nearby warned Whe-cha to be quiet. Despite the horror crawling through her, Luash forced herself to look up at the gallows. The four men, all motionless now, swung at the end of their ropes. She'd told Jed that her people believed that a Modoc's soul could not escape if its path to the head was cut off. Why had the army men chosen that way to put an end to her uncle? Why?
The young brave drew Whe-cha out of her arms and began guiding her back to the stockade, speaking softly, cradling her. Luash took a stumbling step, but when she tried to rest her weight on her right leg, it gave out and she sank to the ground.
She didn't cry. The act that might have released some of the grief and horror trappe
d within her was denied her; all she could do was cover her face with her hands and rock slowly back and forth. Eagle. Eagle! Please!
"Luash?"
At the sound of Jed's voice, she straggled to pull herself out of the whirlpool of her thoughts. Still, she wanted to remain where she was, caught safely within memories of the years when Eagle and everything he stood for had been her companion and support.
Feeling Jed's hand on her shoulder, she looked up at him with blurred vision. He was as he'd been the first day she'd seen him, powerful and remote—part of the great force that controlled her life. Someone began crying; she recognized the voice of Kientpoos's daughter.
"It is over," she whimpered. "The Modoc are no more."
"That's not true. Luash?" He dropped to his knees in the dirt beside her, took her face in his hands, and forced her to look into his eyes. "Listen to me. I'm going to tell you something I'm not supposed to, but—damnation, sometimes they're dead wrong; this is one of those times!"
She didn't know what he was talking about, didn't know or care anything except that life had been forced from the chief of the Modocs and tomorrow they would be herded into wagons and taken from their homes.
"You aren't going to be separated. The tribe will remain together."
"Together?"
"It's an order from the president, Luash. The same kind of order that saved Slolux and Barncho's lives."
"Not scattered?" The tears she couldn't tap a moment before pressed against her temple and the backs of her eyes with such strength that she was afraid she would start to scream and not be able to stop. "Why were we not told? Why did Slolux and Bamcho have to face a hanging rope if they were to be spared?"
"Because that's the way the president wanted it."
She hated this white chief she would never see, the hatred a black snake that threatened to curl itself around her heart, squeezing until nothing was left. "Does he think we are animals incapable of feeling? He says it is right for us to believe we are to be ripped apart?"