Savage Horizons

by Rosanne Bittner

  Their eyes held in mutual understanding. “You will remember me some day when you’re a senator or something of the sort, won’t you?” the doctor continued. “I might need a few, shall we say, favors?”

  “I’ll remember,” Byron answered. “Can she be moved without harming her any further?”

  “Oh, I think so. Have a good trip. Let me know when you return how she did.”

  “I will.”

  The doctor left, and Byron turned his eyes back to Sarah. None of this had worked out as he had planned. He had so much more to offer her than that penniless half-breed, he could hardly believe she wouldn’t prefer her life here in Washington.

  “You’ll regret it some day, you haughty bitch,” he sneered. “The day will come when you’ll wish you were still Mrs. Clawson. It looks like someone else might share the inheritance after all, but by God, I had you, and there’s nothing of that damned Indian left for you.”

  He left the room. Sick people irritated him. He would have a drink and then hire someone to help him take her back to Saint Louis. Once there he would make his final decision about Sarah.

  Marie sat by the river, trying her hand at fishing with a stick and a string, while Tom built variously shaped mounds from river mud. Marie had agreed to watch the boy while Caleb broke in some mustangs. Caleb always worried that Tom would somehow get in the way of the bucking horses. Someday he would teach his boy to help him, but Tom was still much too young.

  Marie agreed, but sometimes she wondered if Caleb would ever think the boy old enough for anything, he was so protective of the child.

  It was spring, 1818, and Caleb had been with them for two years. Marie was more relaxed around him, loving him quietly but maturing enough to be able to keep up a friendship without the lovesick look in her eyes that made him uncomfortable. She was eighteen and had become more patient, more accepting. She even allowed herself to be visited by a couple of Cherokee boys, but deep inside there was only one man she loved.

  Marie and Caleb talked often, and she was sure she knew Caleb Sax better than he knew himself, how confused he was over his mixed blood, how gentle he was and yet how capable of extreme violence when someone he loved was threatened or taken from him. And he was so afraid to love again. She couldn’t blame him. She could only wait and hope.

  She looked up to see Tom piling up more mud. He would soon be six, and he was growing like a weed, slimming out and looking as though he would turn out to be tall and broad like his father. He jumped on a mud house he had built to smash it, then laughed at his action, his dark eyes sparkling. Marie laughed too, but her smile faded when she suddenly heard yips and calls. At first she wasn’t sure, but after a moment she realized it was Indians. They had never had trouble with the Plains Indians before, and often traded with them. Thanks to Caleb they could converse with most of them, and the Cherokee, Kiowa and Pawnee had gotten along well. After all, there was not enough settlement in these parts to be any kind of threat to the Indians.

  But Marie saw warriors riding over a ridge on the other side of the river. They were not like any Indians she had ever seen. They were painted and held lances or tomahawks in their hands. Her eyes widened when they rode down the bank and into the river.

  She screamed Caleb’s name as loudly as she could, hoping he would hear her. His cabin and corals were quite a distance from the river. Her own father and mother would be out plowing for the spring planting, and her seven-year-old brother Lee would be helping them. There was really no one else nearby, and there were at least five or six warriors heading across the river.

  Marie got to little Tom just before the Indians crossed the shallow water. Tom was standing and staring at the painted ponies splashing toward him, completely fascinated. Marie lifted him and started running as fast as she could, but a moment later a warrior rode up beside her, grabbing for Tom. She hung on tight, screaming again for Caleb. Something hit her back and she tumbled forward, refusing to let go of Tom even though one warrior hit her over and over again with his quirt. The stinging leather tore through her dress and bit into her back, but still Marie held on. She had heard there were some Indians who stole little children. She would not let them have Tom.

  The warriors continued their attack until she thought she might faint. The man striking her laughed, apparently thinking it quite a game to see how many lashes it would take to make the woman let go. The six other men circled the group on their ponies. She went to her knees, hovering over little Tom and clinging to him as tightly as possible amid the blows, while all around her there was more yipping and hollering.

  Then she heard two gunshots and another warcry, this one slightly different. A black horse thundered up and there was a thud. One of the raiders landed hard on the ground right beside Marie, his chest split open and squirting blood. She screamed and managed to get to her feet, realizing they had stopped beating her. She pulled Tom with her and scrambled away, turning to see Caleb leap from his horse into the second warrior, both men crashing to the ground. A third warrior lay nearby, apparently from the shot Caleb had fired from his musket.

  For a moment it was difficult to tell Caleb from the Indian with whom he fought, for Caleb had begun wearing buckskins again, and his hair was long and loose. He was as much Indian as the rest of them. Marie watched in wide-eyed terror as the two men wrestled for the tomahawk Caleb held, rolling over and over. Finally the raiding warrior got Caleb on his back and grabbed the arm that held the tomahawk with both of his own hands, pushing Caleb’s arm up over his head. Caleb used his other hand to strike the warrior’s face, digging his nails into the man’s eyes and skin until the warrior screamed out and let go. In an instant Caleb’s tomahawk smashed into his skull.

  Caleb quickly threw him off, barely managing to get to his feet before a fourth warrior rode hard toward him. The raiders had chosen to take on Caleb one by one, a common Indian custom, a game of bravery and skill. Caleb pulled a pistol from his belt and fired. A red hole appeared in his attacker’s throat and the man fell backward off his horse.

  The remaining two warriors backed off, glaring at Caleb, who stood panting, his knife pulled out and his body bent and tense, ready for more action. His eyes blazed, and he exuded the fierce vengeance he had once exacted in his days of warring against the Crow.

  The two Comanche warriors remaining smelled death at the thought of taking their turn at this strange Indian who fought far better than they had expected. This was no soft white settler, and instinct told them this was not a man who would go down easily. Indian stared at Indian, and the one who had single-handedly killed four of the Comanches had earned their respect and the right to live.

  One of the Comanche nodded and grinned at Caleb, then whirled his horse and rode off, yipping and laughing. The sixth man stared at Caleb a moment longer, looking as though he was considering combat. But then he, too, turned and rode off.

  Caleb watched until they were out of sight, then stumbled to Marie, blood streaming from a wound to his forehead. “Tom!” he cried anxiously, grabbing the boy from her.

  “He is all right,” Marie said. “They tried to steal him. I would not let go. I wouldn’t have let them take him, Caleb.”

  He hugged the boy tightly.

  “Father, you hurt,” Tom said, tears in his eyes.

  “I’m all right, son.” It was only then he noticed Marie’s bloody back. She sat hunched against the pain. “Marie!”

  “I wouldn’t… let them,” she repeated as she began to cry.

  Caleb’s heart ached for her, realizing what she had been through and how she had suffered to save Tom.

  “My God, Marie,” he said, bending over her and caressing her hair. He quickly examined Tom, seeing that the boy was all right.

  “They tried to get me, Father, but Marie wouldn’t let them,” the boy said, sniffling with concern for both Marie and his father.

  “Yes, I see that, son.” Caleb knelt by Marie again. “I will help you to the house, Marie. Can you walk?”

/>   “I’m not sure,” she answered, wiping at her tears. She did not want to cry in front of him. She wanted to be strong.

  Caleb took hold of her arm and helped her stand. She stumbled against him, and he held her arm, putting an arm around her waist, trying to avoid the deep gashes made from the thick rawhide quirt. She began to shake from shock, and finally he picked her up in his arms. “Sit high,” he told her. “Put your arms around my neck so I don’t have to touch your back.”

  She did so gladly, feeling instantly safe and protected. Caleb had saved her from the warriors. Perhaps it was only Tom he was thinking of, but she preferred to pretend it was her. She inhaled his manly scent, and his long hair brushed against her face as he walked with her, carrying her as though she weighed nothing, even though she was a solidly built young woman.

  Young Tom ran alongside them. “Father, you fought good! You got them, didn’t you, Father?”

  “Not soon enough,” Caleb answered, hugging Marie closer.

  “You will not let Marie die, will you? I do not want her to die.”

  “Marie is not going to die. She is hurt, but she will be all right.”

  Ellen and James were running from the field then. They reached the house just as Caleb got there with Marie. Ellen directed Caleb to lay Marie on a feather bed in the comer of the small two-room cabin. Caleb took out his knife and quickly sliced off the remnants of her plain blue dress, exposing her bare back, and her mother wet a cloth, laying it gently over the cuts. Marie moaned and struggled against the tears.

  “Damn,” James Whitestone muttered. He turned to Caleb. “We heard the gunshots, but it all happened so fast. Was it Indians?”

  “Comanche, I think,” Caleb replied, his heart aching at the sight of Marie’s back. “They don’t usually come this far north. They often steal children and either use them for slaves or adopt them into a family as their own.” He faced James. “We are Indians fighting Indians. It is strange living in this border country.”

  James nodded. “Do you think they will come back?”

  Caleb looked at Marie. “I hope not. We had better keep watch.”

  “You should tend to the cut on your head,” James said.

  “I will in a minute.” Caleb leaned close to Marie, gently brushing the hair back from her face. “Thank you, Marie,” he said. And then he whispered, “I love you.”

  He kissed her cheek, and Marie Whitestone felt no pain after that. There was too much joy in her heart. He had spoken the beautiful, magical words.

  Chapter

  Twenty-Five

  THE Comanches did not return. Caleb visited Marie every day, and Tom brought wildflowers. Caleb began watching them together, for the first time realizing how close they were. How many times had he pictured Sarah raising his son? He had to stop fantasizing and face reality. He was only twenty-four years old and most likely had many years ahead of him. He watched Marie and Tom hugging, amazed he had never before noticed the genuine love between them. He thought about the day the Comanches had attacked, remembered seeing them beating Marie viciously as she bent protectively over little Tom.

  “Is your back healed enough to picnic by the river tomorrow?” he asked.

  Her face brightened. “Yes. It is just red scars now. It hurts a little, but it is not so bad.”

  He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “We will go alone. Tom can stay here with your mother and father.”

  Her eyes widened and her heart pounded furiously. Alone? He had never done anything with her alone. She had not forgotten the beautiful words he spoke to her the day of the raid. He had not spoken to her like that since, but was this invitation a sign that he was finally learning how to love again? Was it possible he could love her that way?

  “I will make the food,” she said.

  “A berry pie? You have to bring a pie or I will not go,” he teased.

  She smiled, her dark eyes sparkling. “I will make you two pies.”

  Caleb arrived the next day leading a buckskin colored mare that Marie had always admired. The horse had been young when he brought her in with a group of mustangs, and she had been easy to break, with a gentle nature that made her safe for anyone to ride.

  Marie told herself to stay calm. If anything was to develop between them it must come from Caleb. He was so afraid to care. She must not make him feel pushed or he might run from her again. She must be the friend she had been to him all this time and not behave any differently. Yet deep down she hoped something was different. She carried out a basket of food and Caleb lifted Tom down from the mare.

  “I want to go with you, Father,” the boy complained.

  “Not this time. You stay with Mrs. Whitestone.”

  They boy’s lips puckered. His father seldom went anywhere without him.

  Marie gave the boy a hug and patted his behind. “Don’t give your father trouble,” she said. “Be a good little Indian. Lee is behind the house shooting arrows. Why don’t you go and practice with him?”

  The boy’s face lit up and he ran off, and Marie handed the basket to Caleb.

  “He obeys you better than me,” Caleb commented as he hooked the basket to his saddle.

  “That’s because you are not firm with him,” she answered. “Being firm is also a sign of love, Caleb. You are so close you do not even discipline him.”

  She looked up at him, sitting tall and beautiful on the gray and white spotted gelding he rode. Tonoeva was aging, and he seldom rode her now. There was something in Caleb’s eyes, something Marie could not quite read. He nodded toward the buckskin mare, then dismounted, saying, “I will help you up.” He walked around his own horse and lifted her easily, the feel of his hands on her waist making her pulse accelerate.

  As she straddled the horse her yellow dress caught under her and exposed one leg to the thigh. Marie started to pull it down, but Caleb reached it first, and as he adjusted it for her the touch of his fingers on her thigh made her shiver.

  Caleb felt his own aching needs awake at the sight of her smooth dark skin and the firm muscles of her leg. She was a big girl, but not soft and fat. She was strong, and he was beginning to realize she was also brave, patient and loving. He didn’t even notice that the exposed leg was the one with the club foot.

  He gently pulled down the dress, looking up into her dark eyes. “The horse is yours,” he told her. “It is my gift to you for saving Tom.”

  Her mouth dropped open and she speechlessly stared as he remounted his own horse. The gift of a horse from an Indian man to an Indian woman was a great honor, usually a sign of love.

  “Caleb,” she finally managed, “I do not know what to say. She is so beautiful. You know I have always loved this horse.”

  His lovely blue eyes held her spellbound. “That is why I’m giving her to you. If a man is going to show his gratitude the best way possible, he does not give a small gift.”

  They rode to the river, and he led her to a place where the trees were thick and the grass was green. For a while they ate and talked, sharing the same friendship they had shared for months now. Caleb kept his musket and tomahawk nearby and wore a knife at his waist, so she knew she was safe. They talked mostly about Tom. He suddenly wanted to know her true opinion. Was he raising the boy wrong? Was he really too lenient? Was he too protective?

  He watched her as she talked. She was wise for an eighteen-year-old. And she was beautiful in all the ways a good woman was beautiful to a man. Her heart was good.

  After they ate, he smoked a pipe while she fished, and he struggled between the terror of loving again and the desires that burned inside him, as well as what he knew was a growing love for Marie Whitestone.

  When his pipe was cold he stood and removed his weapons belt, moccasins, buckskin shirt and leggings. Her back was to him. He walked to the river, standing near her wearing only his loincloth.

  “Do you want to go swimming, Marie?” he asked. “It’s warm.”

  She looked up at him, her breath catching at the sigh
t of him standing there nearly naked. She set aside her fishing pole. “I—I would get my dress wet.”

  He stepped closer, touching the side of her face. “Take it off then.”

  With that he untied his loincloth and threw it aside. She knew what he had done, yet could not bring herself to look at him. She kept her eyes on his, wondering, hoping, trembling with love.

  His eyes suddenly teared and he drew her close so that her face rested against his bare chest. “Help me, Marie,” he whispered. “I am’ so afraid.”

  She hugged him tightly and kissed his chest. “I love you, Caleb,” she said. “I love you so. You should not be afraid.” She looked up at him and he bent to kiss her mouth gently. She didn’t care if he was using her or really loved her. She wanted only to give him his pleasure.

  He pulled back and began unbuttoning her dress. She stood still, on fire for him, unsure what to do but knowing she didn’t need to know. Caleb would teach her. He peeled down the dress, exposing her large bosom that had never been touched or tasted by any man. He pulled off the rest of her clothes, then lifted her in his arms. She embraced him and let him nestle his face into her full breasts, kissing them, tasting her taught nipples and sending flames of passion through her entire body. She whispered his name as he carried her to the river and lowered her into the water.

  After that she wasn’t sure if things were real or if she was dreaming. They swam and played in the water. Sometimes Caleb would pull her under the water and kiss her, sometimes he would swim up under her, kissing her thighs, her private place, her stomach, her breasts, her throat, until he came out of the water and met her mouth, covering her lips with his own, sending shivers of ecstasy through her virgin body. Finally he carried her out of the water and placed her on the blanket near the bank. He pulled another blanket from his horse and returned to her with it, using it to dry her off.

  She lay still, enjoying every touch, watching his own firm muscle as he massaged her with the blanket. She dared to let her eyes rest on his full nakedness, and what she saw was as big and powerful looking as the rest of him. It was both fascinating and frightening to her.