“Relax, honey,” he told her, bending down and meeting her lips. “It only hurts the first time, sweet Margaret. It’s all right. You’re going to be my wife, remember?”
Of course. A woman had to suffer these first pains when she gave pleasure to the man she loved. Her mother had explained some of this to her, but she had explained it from the standpoint of husband and wife, explained how beautiful this thing became once the pain was over. Margaret believed that, but it didn’t help the pain she was feeling now. Perhaps it would feel better if Sam was her husband and she didn’t have to wrestle with pangs of guilt as well as physical pain. Yet she loved him so! She wanted so much to make him happy, to have this special moment, to feel alive and in love and unafraid.
It was soon over and she lay there in his arms, damp with perspiration, curled up against him.
“You all right, honey?” he asked her.
“I think so.”
He patted her bottom and hugged her close. “It’s always that way. You’ll get over that part of it. Every time we do this from here on, it will get better and better, and you’ll get more pleasure out of it than I get.”
She wondered for a moment how he knew it was always this way. How many other young girls had he done this to? She brushed away the thought. He was too kind, too true. This was her Sam.
“We … we shouldn’t do this too much, Sam, not before we get married.”
He moved a hand over her flat belly, then bent down to kiss it, and she felt a flutter of desire again. His lips moved to her breasts, then her lips. “I don’t think I can keep from doing this as often as we’re together, but don’t worry about that. We know we’re getting married, so what does it matter?” He kissed her gently. “You were wonderful, Margaret. I never felt like that before. You’ll make a hell of a wife.”
“Will I truly?” she asked, her innocent brown eyes searching his own.
“Do I look unhappy?” he asked.
She smiled. “No.”
He kissed her hungrily. “Let’s do it again, honey.”
“But it hurts.”
“All the more reason to do it again. The more we do this early on, the faster the pain will go away.” He moved on top of her, devouring her mouth and refusing to let her voice an objection. She wanted to resist, for she was afraid of the pain, but he was more insistent this time. She suddenly felt a wave of deliberate abuse, as though any concern for her own feelings had suddenly left him, but, loving him, she attributed that to his being a man, to his needs. It was a woman’s duty to fill those needs if she loved her man. She didn’t want to disappoint him, didn’t want him to think she wouldn’t be a good wife. She relaxed more and allowed him his pleasure in spite of the pain, for she did love him so. But she didn’t feel the same warmth from him that second time, and she felt strangely removed from her body, as though there were two Margarets. An intuitive voice deep within her was trying to tell her this was wrong, that there was something untrue about Sam Temple; but she refused to listen to that voice, for the damage had already been done and she loved him. She had to believe the best of him, for he had earned her trust and had said over and over that he would marry her.
The small wagon train headed slowly along the White River, the small band of emigrants from Minnesota making their way toward the Bozeman Trail for they were headed for the Montana gold fields. Wolf’s Blood and the others smiled at the stupidity of these white people, who thought that some Divine grace was going to keep them from harm, as though just being white would save them from the elements and the Indians. But wagon trains meant supplies, and they also meant more settlers moving through Indian lands. They must be stopped. The war party waited on the ridge until they were spotted; then they laughed at the sight of the wagons quickly forming a circle and at the frantic shouts of the people preparing to defend themselves.
There were at least ten of them, all white, all men, all headed for the gold fields. The miners were the worst of the lot, Wolf’s Blood thought, the most notorious for ignoring treatries and invading Indian lands. Up to now he had only raided soldiers and forts, but this was something new and exciting. He let out a war whoop and joined the others in swooping down the ridge toward the train, his well-earned eagle feathers dancing in the wind at the base of his braids, his rifle in hand and ready to fire. He and the twenty Indians with him, including Swift Arrow, began to circle the wagons, yipping and firing, enjoying the fear in the eyes of the white men.
The Indians danced in and out of the range of fire daringly, sometimes riding behind rocks and dismounting to take better aim. Some shot flaming arrows into the wagon canvases, and soon two wagons were burning, their white tops turning to roaring orange, black smoke billowing high into the sky. It was not long before half of the white men were dead. With so few left to fight, there were now openings through which the warriors could break through the circle.
Wolf’s Blood, high on the thrill of the attack, was enjoying the chance to wreak more revenge on behalf of poor Morning Bird. He charged into the inner circle of wagons. He wanted a scalp today. He wanted to do something different, something to prove there was no white in him. It was then he spotted her, a young girl huddled behind one of the wagon wheels.
The rest of the Indians charged inside the circle and busied themselves with killing off the rest of the white men and looting the unburned wagons while Wolf’s Blood urged his horse toward the girl, dismounting and walking over to stoop by the wheel and grin at her. Her eyes were wide and frightened, her hands clinging to the spokes to tightly that her knuckles were pure white. She was perhaps eighteen, with reddish hair and green eyes. Wolf’s Blood felt a sudden urge to take the ultimate revenge for being denied the warmth of his own Morning Bird, and he darted beneath the wagon, grabbing the girl about the waist and yanking her away from the wheel, a difficult task for she hung on for dear life. She began to scream so he grabbed her wrists and wrenched her arms behind her back, throwing his weight on top of her so that she could barely move. Then he kissed her, savagely, determined to do this one thing that would forever prove he had none of the gentleness of his own white mother left in him. When his lips left hers, she stared at him with pleading eyes from which tears ran.
“Please don’t hurt me! Let me go!” she begged. “Please!”
He said something to her in the Sioux tongue, making her think he did not understand her language. In response she wriggled fiercely, trying to get away, but he held her tightly, kissing her again, moving his head to keep contact with her lips as she tried to wrench her mouth away from his, feeling his own excitement build as she struggled. Finally his lips moved to her neck.
“God no!” she wept. “Someone help me!” She went suddenly limp and wept pitifully, and much as he had tried to ignore it, the softer side of Wolf’s Blood began to assert it self, making him almost angry. He raised up and looked at her. This could be his mother—or one of his sisters.
“Katam!” he swore in the Cheyenne tongue. He raised up slightly, shifting her wrists which he had pinned beneath her into one of his strong hands to free the other. Then he grabbed the bodice of her dress and ripped, partially exposing one breast. She screamed again. He let go of her then, but stayed on top of her pushing on her shoulders. “Stay down!” he warned her. “They must think I abused you! It is important they do not know I let you go!” She stared at him in amazement, surprised at his good English. “I will take you back to camp with me and tell them you are mine. But somehow I will let you escape.”
She tossed her head and started to scream again.
“Shut up!” he ordered. “Do what I tell you and they won’t abuse you or kill you. Do what I tell you! I am trying to help you! It is the only way!”
She stared at him, her chest heaving in frightened pants. As he started to move off her, she bolted away, crawling out from under the wagon and wrenching her foot free of his hand when he tried to grab her. Then she ran, screaming like a maniac, and he cursed her stupidity as he scrambled after her,
but it was too late. Another warrior had spotted her. Letting out a war whoop he charged up to her, grabbing her hair as he leaped from his horse and knocked her down. Three more gathered around her, but Swift Arrow held back, not interfering but not participating either. When he saw Wolf’s Blood running toward the men, he started to call out to the boy not to try to stop the warriors for fear of his own life, but there was no time. Wolf’s Blood charged into the men, drawing his Bowie knife, and to Swift Arrow’s surprise, the boy plunged it into the girl’s heart.
There was a moment of complete silence. The four warriors backed off in surprise, staring at Wolf’s Blood, who knew he was in a bad situation.
“She was mine!” he told them, trying to sound authoritative. “I found her. I chose to kill her. I only want her scalp!” He bent down and deftly cut away part of her scalp, holding up the long hair. “Go and get your own scalps!” He walked boldly away and mounted his horse, tying the fresh scalp into his horse’s mane and riding out to Swift Arrow. Their eyes held, and Wolf’s Blood’s had tears in them. “I tried to stop her from going out,” he told his uncle.
Swift Arrow studied his nephew. “You were going to help her?”
Wolf’s Blood swallowed. “I was going to … use her for my vengeance, but something my mother had said stopped me.”
Swift Arrow smiled with understanding. “There is another side to you that cannot be denied, Wolf’s Blood.”
“I hate it!”
“But you cannot deny it, not fully. Do not feel ashamed. You are a proven warrior, proven in skill and bravery and in your knowledge of the Indian ways. You have suffered the Sun Dance, and you have taken soldier scalps. I will tell you something. I almost took my pleasure with a white woman once, but instead I helped her too. Because she looked like your mother. You see, I do not even have your mother’s blood in me, yet she has influence over me. That shows the power she can have on people.”
Wolf’s Blood gripped the handle of his knife and turned to look back at the dead and bloody body of the young girl. If she hadn’t been so foolish, he could have helped her. But she had run. So he had helped her in the only way he knew how, for he knew what the other men would have done to her. He did not blame them. They, too, had vengeance to exact. They had lost wives and daughters to needless slaughter, and their blood was hot with anger. But he could not bring himself to watch them violate the frightened girl. He had simply and quickly put her out of her misery. Now he felt ill.
“I wish to be alone,” he told his uncle. He untied the scalp and threw it to the ground and rode away, suddenly longing to have his father to talk to.
Chapter Twelve
Abbie sat near the hearth of the great stone fireplace, her Bible in her lap, her eyes staring at the flames. Jeremy sat nearby, studying a painted wooden train he’d taken down from the mantel on which a number of scale-model trains were perched, some of wood, some of pewter, some of brass—all intricately designed and suitable for Sir Tynes’s fascinating collection, a “frivolous but fun” hobby, as he put it.
“That one was hand-carved in New York,” Tynes was telling Jeremy.
“Really?” The boy took note of the colorful designs painted on the sides of the woodbox. “I’ve never seen a train. Are they big?”
Sir Tynes smiled. “Oh, quite big and quite noisy. See that gadget on the front of the engine?”
Jeremy touched the slanted grate. “What is it?”
“That is called a cowcatcher.”
The boy frowned. “What’s a cowcatcher?”
“Well, my boy, a cowcatcher is exactly what it says it is. It catches and deflects any cattle or other animals that get on the track, knocks them off so they cannot be caught under the wheels and cause a derailment.”
Jeremy giggled. “I bet it can’t knock off buffalo!”
Tynes laughed with him. “No, I don’t think it can, Jeremy. The buffalo would give any engine a good run, wouldn’t it? They’re such fine, great beasts. I admire the buffalo. It is as magnificent as the elephant.”
Jeremy looked up at him, wonder in his eyes. “Have you seen an elephant?”
“Oh, of course—in India and Africa.”
Jeremy watched the man light a fancy pipe. “You’ve been to those places?”
Sir Tynes nodded. “And Australia. Have you ever seen a picture of a kangaroo, Jeremy?”
The boy shook his head.
“They’re delightful animals, boy. They’re like giant rabbits, and they hop around, straight up, on powerful hind legs. The mothers have great pouches on their bellies. They carry their babies in them, sometimes for several years. Marvelous animals! Marvelous! I shall have to find a picture of one for you in my library.”
“I’d like to see it.” The boy looked at the train again. “You have a lot of trains, don’t you?”
“They fascinate me, son. That one you’re holding is called a 4-4-0, meaning it has four wheels under the lead car—the four small wheels at the front of the engine there—and four drivers, the very large wheels that are driven by steam—those actually push and pull to make the train move—and no wheels under the cab. Thus it’s a 4-4-0. That engine up there on the mantel is called a 4-4-2, and a later model is called the 0-8-0. It has eight large driving wheels with no small wheels on the front and no wheels under the cab.”
“Where do they come from? What makes them go?”
“Well, the engines are built in great factories in the East. Someday when you are grown up you should go east and see the wondrous things that are there, tall buildings and brick roads and miles and miles of railroads. There are steamships and theaters and all sorts of wondrous things.” He glanced at Abbie, worried about her depressed state. He wished he could see her smile again. How he would love to take her around the world and show her the things she had never seen! “As far as what makes the engine go,” the man continued, looking back at Jeremy, “it is powered by steam. A fireman takes wood from the woodbox, that pretty painted car just behind the engine there, and he throws it into a huge furnace deep in the engine, keeping a hot fire going which heats the water inside the engine. The water boils and turns to steam, and the steam is trapped and driven through special pipes and instruments that make a drive shaft move back and forth. See that there?” He pointed to the shaft and wiggled it back and forth. “When the shaft moves, it causes this bar that is attached to the wheels to move, and that makes the wheels go around. The hotter the fire inside, the more steam and the more powerful the engine—the faster it goes. Its speed is controlled by the amount of steam, and if the engineer wants to stop the train, he simply releases the steam through a special valve so that it can’t go to the wheels. Quite marvelous, don’t you think?”
Jeremy signed, working the wheels again. “I sure would like to see one.”
“Well, I think you will in a few years, Jeremy. The locomotive is on its way west. Some day East and West will be linked by trains. There’ll be no more stage coaches.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Oh, I know so. It’s inevitable.” He glanced at Abbie again, noted the tear on her cheek. “Jeremy, why don’t you take that train to another room and play with it. Be a good chap now and let me talk to your mother.”
The boy rose. “Thanks!” He ran off with the train in his hands.
Sir Tynes tamped out his pipe and walked over to kneel beside Abbie. “You must stop suffering, Abigail,” he told her. “Lillian has been dead for six weeks, and you have six other children, four of them right here with you. All of whom need their mother. Soon your husband will be back with the fifth, and I will wager that the sixth, your son in the north, will come home eventually. You must be strong. You must be ready to help those who are gone and those who are here.”
She moved her eyes to meet his. “It isn’t just Lillian. It’s your talk about railroads and such.” She looked back at the fire. “I came out here with my father in a covered wagon, Edwin. There was no Denver. There was no talk of gold. The buffalo ran
in great, thunderous herds so thick one could almost walk across the prairie on them, and the Indian was happy and peaceful. Men like Zeke could live free and wild, could make their own laws and deal their own justice. I see all of that disappearing.” She looked at him again. “Did you know I killed a woman once, a vicious Indian woman who loved Zeke. She was trying to kill me.”
He frowned. “You shot her?”
She shook her head. “I stabbed her with scissors. She had attacked me, hurt me very badly. Then she’d turned on Wolf’s Blood. He was just a small boy then. He’d come into the room with his lance, thinking he could save me, but he wasn’t strong enough to really hurt her. She took the lance from him and was going to kill him, so I grabbed my scissors, the only weapon nearby, and I stabbed her. I’d never thought I was capable of such a thing.” She held out her hand. “I still have a scar. She cut me badly.” He studied it and took her hand gently. “I don’t know why I suddenly thought to tell you that. There have been many times when Zeke and I have both had to do what was practical, despite what refined whites would think was right. One of the first things Zeke taught me about this land was the necessity to be practical, like the day I had to sit and watch those Comanches take my little girl away. If I had run outside to help, they would have killed me, or taken me too. I might have drawn their interest to the house and the rest of the children. I had to protect them.” She studied his eyes. “Do you understand that?”
He squeezed her hand. “Of course I do.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think you fully understand. You haven’t truly suffered. You’ve been to many places in the world, but you’ve always had what you needed for survival.” She looked down at his hand. “On that wagon train, my little brother fell under a wagon wheel and was crushed. He suffered terribly from wounds that would never heal. He was dying slowly, horribly. Maggots were crawling in his wounds. I”—she swallowed and her eyes teared—“I asked Zeke to quietly end my brother’s life with his knife. I knew that if anyone could do it quickly, and with little pain, Zeke could. He agreed, even though it’s totally against his grain to hurt a child. But we both knew he would really be helping Jeremy, putting him out of his misery. That was probably the hardest thing Zeke has ever done. But he did it, and it was our secret. That was when I knew how much Zeke Monroe loved me.”
Climb the Highest Mountain Page 20