Cougar nodded in satisfaction at Petty. “You have done well! A man stuck in the belly, like a gut-torn buffalo, can live many hours, suffer much hurt!”
Petty’s voice shook. “You’ll let me go now?”
“I did not promise to release the winner, only to let him live a little longer.” Cougar smiled grimly. “Every minute is precious when you stare death in the face, is it not?”
Petty ran his fingers through his tangled beard in agitation, looked around the circle as if seeking a place where he could break through the ring of braves and escape. Ringo’s face had turned ashen gray, and he shook all over.
In the silence, Petty’s heavy breathing, the crackle of the fire, and Big ’Un’s groans came to Amethyst’s ears even though she had closed her eyes against the horror of the reality before her.
When she opened them, Petty still stood defenseless, staring around the circle. He pulled out his watch, held it out to the chief. “I—I’ll give you this to let me go! Real gold! Very fine!”
The chief jerked it from his sweating palm, stared at it, held it to his ear. Then he strode to Amethyst, thrust it under her nose. “What is this magic thing whose heart beats inside?”
“A watch,” she managed to get out. “It’s not magic. It tells the white man what the hour is.”
Old Cougar opened it, stared at the face, at the engraving, held it out again. “What are these magic marks?”
“A white man’s name,” she said. “It is a gift from a woman. It says: ‘To Beau St. Clair with all my love, Savannah.’”
The Apache turned and looked at Petty. “Your name is Beau?”
Petty hesitated. “Yes, I mean no. It’s mine. I’ve had it a long time.”
The old man nodded in understanding. “This is a stolen thing. You offer that which is not yours to give.” Cougar turned and stared at the injured Yankee still writhing in agony on the ground; then he looked into the fire. “I am going to give this back to you, white man. I do not want the bad medicine from this stolen magic thing whose heart beats against my fingers.”
Something about the way the old man stared into the fire as he stood there holding the watch sent chills up Amethyst’s back.
He spoke very softly, staring into the flames. “These men tied my son to a tree, then took fire and tortured him while his woman watched. When she wept and begged for her man’s life, these three laughed and raped her.” Very slowly he knelt, laid the watch on the edge of the fire.
Even Petty seemed to realize what was coming. He started backing away, shaking his head. “No! It wasn’t my fault! I only did what these others did, what they told me to do!”
Two braves stepped forward, caught Petty, and held him. He sobbed and struggled to escape.
The chief looked into the fire. “A man must take responsibility for his own actions,” he said. “To say that all are guilty does not absolve a man of his own share.”
He gave an order in Apache, and the Indians forced Petty to the ground, tore his pants off, and staked him out on his back, spread-eagled.
Amethyst stared at the naked, hairy man, helpless on his back near the fire, the watch now beginning to glow from the heat of the flames.
“Sí,” said old Cougar, “we are going to return your watch to you!” The old chief took a lance, picked up the fiery watch by running the tip of the point through the chain.
Amethyst screamed suddenly, but her voice was drowned out by Petty’s agonized cry as the old man laid the glowing gold case on his bare skin.
Bandit had just dismounted, squatted down to stare at the faint hoofprints in the moonlight when he heard the screams. They echoed and reechoed through the low-lying purple mountains off to the west. He stood up, looked around frantically, not sure from where the eerie sounds came or from how far away.
Amethyst. Oh, God, that was Amethyst’s voice! If that trio had hurt her, he’d make them pay tenfold. He stood gripping the pinto’s reins, looked around. Had he only imagined the sounds? Maybe it was only a cougar up in a tree, screaming a challenge to a rival.
No. He shook his head. Those had been human screams, magnified and distorted by the distant hills.
He stood there a long moment, listening. Then the man shrieked again. At least, he thought it was a man. The sound was so horrible, so agonized, Bandit couldn’t be sure of anything anymore. He thought of formless Indian spirits that came out only on moonlit nights.
Looking up at the moon, he felt suddenly icy cold in spite of the warm May breeze. Saturday night, he thought, Saturday night and I must be in a cantina someplace, half-drunk and imagining that I hear all sorts of half-human, ghostly sounds.
He had almost convinced himself of that when the man screamed again and began to beg in English. Bandit couldn’t make any sense of the words blown to him on the breeze, only the terror and agony in the sounds. And where they came from; he couldn’t yet be sure. The breeze blew on his perspiring skin and he knew the wind carried sounds for long distances in the silent desert.
He tried to imagine what was happening, could not. He knelt, looked at the tracks again. Unshod ponies. And unshod ponies meant only one thing: Indians.
There were only three things a real Texan feared: God, Indians, and prairie fires. The man screamed again and Bandit was so scared he had to swallow hard to keep sour bile from coming up in his throat. Everything in him urged him to turn around, to ride into the darkness and live. But that first scream had been a woman’s, he thought uncertainly. Amethyst? Even if it weren’t, could he flee like a yellow coward if a woman was held captive by a war party?
His horse whinnied softly, and Bandit grabbed its muzzle. “Hush, boy, I don’t need you to let them know I’m out here in the darkness.”
He looked at the loudly colored horse, wishing suddenly it was black or deep bay. Most frontiersmen preferred a dark horse for one reason; a light or loudly colored horse showed up too much in the moonlight.
Cautiously, Bandit tied Blue Eyes to a spiky Spanish Bayonet; then he crept through the darkness. He tried following the sounds of the man’s screams but the echo and the breeze obscured the direction from which they came. He checked for sign as he crept forward: an unshod track, a broken prickly pear, a trampled clump of buffalo grass.
So that he wouldn’t come upon a sentry unexpectedly, Bandit moved slowly, cautiously, trying to follow the screams. The time that passed might have been an hour or a lifetime. But the shrieks finally dwindled away.
Bandit’s legs cramped as he crouched. His mouth tasted dry and salty. Why in blue blazes had he forgotten his canteen, left it hanging on his saddle? One hand clasped his pistol, the other the rifle from his saddle.
He stopped, strained his ears, listening. No sound. His lips felt cracked and he ran his tongue over them, thinking about water. Cold water. He imagined dipping a bucket deep into a well, pouring icy water over his head, feeling it splash down his sweating body.
He almost laughed then, feeling foolish to be preoccupied with cold water when there were Indians lurking about who might capture and torture him. Bandit thought of the captives, tried not to think of what must be happening in that camp.
He heard triumphant shouts and war whoops, then many horses galloping away. He hugged the ground, hoping he wouldn’t be seen. Cactus spines stuck into his flesh, poked through his shirt sleeve, but he dared not move or cry out. It seemed like a lifetime that he held that position, so numb he was not sure he could move to pull the spines from his arm. Cold sweat stung the wounds. Nothing moved.
He crept through the brush again. Up ahead, he saw the faint glow of a campfire.
He stopped again, listening, watching. He heard a faint sound. At first, he thought it was the moan of the wind. Then the breeze shifted, bringing him the sudden scent of burned flesh and fresh blood. Bandit gagged, fought to control his retching.
The sound came again, drifting faintly on the wind. It is a trick, he thought. The Indians are waiting there to capture me when I move closer.
A tiny, dying fire still flickered, giving off a dim light. Bandit paused. He saw no people, no movement, no horses. Nothing.
The sound came again, and with it, the scent of blood and burned flesh.
“. . . For the love of God,” a faint voice begged, “help me. . . .”
Bandit crept to the edge of the clearing, looked around. Over by the fire, a hairy, naked man lay writhing, spread-eagled and staked down.
Farther away, the big Yankee lay, a butcher knife protruding from his belly, both hands clenched around its hilt. His eyes were opened wide and staring sightlessly, his face frozen forever in an expression of surprise as if he could not quite believe this had happened to him.
The naked man moved a little. “. . . Help, please help. . . .”
Bandit pulled back the hammer on his Colt in case of ambush, crept to the man. The circles of burned flesh on the pale skin, the melted gold watch by the fire told him all he needed to know.
The man’s eyes flickered open. “Help me . . . water.”
Bandit stood up, looked around in frustration, saw the river. He ran to it, dipped his hat in, stumbled back with water dripping from the Stetson as he ran.
He knelt, tried to pour some in the man’s mouth, dribbled it all over his bearded face. Finally he dipped his hand in the hat, poured a little down the man’s throat. “Amethyst,” he demanded, “where’s Amethyst?”
The man tried to focus his eyes on Bandit. “Injuns took her and Ringo. . . .”
Bandit cradled the dying man’s head in his arms. “Where? In God’s name, where did they take her?”
“Camp somewhere around here . . . I donno . . . water . . . hurt so bad . . . please, water. . . .”
Bandit reached to give him more water, paused with it dripping between his fingers onto the sweaty, bloody face. The dead eyes now stared beyond his shoulder into eternity. Whatever hell awaited the outlaw, he would thirst and beg forever for water.
Bandit felt abruptly weary and drained as he surveyed the two dead, tortured outlaws. What would the Indians do to Aimée? He knew he had no chance against a whole encampment. But he would try because she was his woman and his to protect.
He shook the water from his Stetson, went back for his horse, mounted up. Picking his way slowly across the rough ground along the river, Bandit stopped every few minutes to check the trail, look for tracks. Finally he spotted the sentry on top of a boulder in the distance. The brave was turned away from Bandit.
Every fiber in the Texan told him to ride away. The Indians were legendary when it came to practicing torture so agonizing it could make a man beg for the release of death. But they had Aimée, and that mattered more to him than life itself.
He tied his horse in the shadows a long way from the camp, crept through the brush as silently as his Apache ancestor. When close enough to see the big, roaring fire that lit up the circle, he knelt.
Amethyst sat on the edge of the circle, her hands tied behind her, her feet tied to a stake driven into the ground. Her ebony hair tumbled loose about her naked shoulders, hiding breasts half visible because of her torn blouse. Her delicate face showed the effect of relentless sun; her violet eyes reflected terror.
It was all he could do to keep from getting up and running into the camp to gather her into the protection of his strong arms. He restrained himself, knowing he needed cold logic if he were to rescue his love.
From his place in the brush, Bandit watched what the braves were doing to the aging gunfighter.
In Spanish, the old chief said, “You raped and killed my son’s wife, tortured and murdered my son, left their child for dead.” The gray-haired old Indian gestured toward the tall, youth wearing the Spanish breastplate. “Now I have only one relative left in this world, my grandson.”
The gunfighter went to his knees, clasped his hands, begging for his life. “It wasn’t my fault! It was the other two wanted to do it. I just went along!”
The old man’s face was like dark stone. “Each man makes his own choice to do right or wrong. The fact that others do wrong is no excuse.”
The gunfighter looked around the circle of stony faces. “It was the whiskey,” he sobbed. “I drank too much, didn’t know what I was doin’! Yeah, it was the whiskey!”
“Being drunk does not absolve a man of evil.” The old chief folded his arms, glared down at Ringo. “You made the decision to drink the whiskey!”
The gunfighter sobbed, out of control. “Oh, please, don’t hurt me! I—I didn’t mean to touch her but she was pretty and I was drunk—”
“Silence!” the chief thundered. “If whiskey was the cause, perhaps it should be the punishment!” He gestured toward the gunfighter’s horse. “See if he has a bottle!”
Mystified, Bandit watched from his hiding place. There was something vaguely familiar about the old man and his grandson. Their faces with the strong, square jaws looked as familiar as the reflection he saw when staring into a mirror, but he was certain he’d never seen either of them before. Still, that necklace the Apache wore was much like his own. . . .
Bandit reached up to finger his own medallion. He’d been led to believe it was unusual, but it must not be. That old man had one, too.
As he watched, the Indians sloshed whiskey over the outlaw’s clothes; then the old chief reached for a burning stick from the campfire. The gunfighter begged and tried to break loose from his bonds.
What in blue blazes? And then Bandit knew. He closed his eyes against the horror even as he heard the man’s screams, smelled the burning. Poetic justice. The Indians had been judge and jury. Whiskey had caused the crime, whiskey would be part of the punishment. Screams rent the quiet night. The smell of flames and smoke and liquor permeated the very air Bandit breathed.
For what seemed like a lifetime, Bandit crouched with his eyes closed, choking on the scent, listening to shrieks of agony. Finally he opened his eyes, stared at the unrecognizable, charred heap that had been a man only moments before.
His stomach heaved, but he dare not get sick now. Aimée. He concentrated on Aimée. She looked too dazed and stunned to comprehend what had happened, yet he saw the terror in her eyes. Obviously she expected to be next. He saw her lips moving silently, and knew she prayed. But she needed a miracle to save her.
How in blue blazes could he provide that miracle? Only a loco hombre would try to take on all these Indians to rescue her. Loco. The Spanish word for crazy came to him. Every Texan knew Indians would not harm a crazy person. The tribes considered the insane to be touched by the Great Spirit. Bandit had once heard of a cowboy who had escaped certain death when captured by pretending to be crazy. Could it possibly work?
The Indians gathered around Amethyst, talked, and stared at her. Obviously her fate was under discussion. Bandit looked at the weapons in his hands, mentally counted the shells in his cartridge belt. For some reason, this camp didn’t seem to have as many braves as usual; still, Bandit didn’t stand a chance in hell of fighting his way in and rescuing the girl.
He looked at Aimée, then back toward his horse tied out in the brush. He imagined making a wild, shooting charge into the camp, cutting her free, carrying her out of there. Then he shook his head. It would be a suicide mission, and his beloved would certainly die in the ensuing gunfire and hail of arrows.
He took a deep, wavering breath, stared at the burned shape of the gunfighter. No one would ever know or blame him if he decided the odds were too overpowering, if he turned tail and ran, or at least went into the nearby town of Remolino to seek help from the Mexican authorities. Would they help a Texan or throw him in jail? Even if they would help him, that took time and he didn’t have any since the mixed group of Mescalero, Lipan, and Kickapoo were even now arguing about the girl�
��s fate. If he were going to do something, he had to do it right now. But only a loco hombre would make such a foolhardy attempt.
Loco. Sí, that was the only way. If he could convince the Indians he was a crazy man, he could get into the camp unharmed. He scratched his head. And what then? How would he get Aimée out of that camp? Well, the first trick was to get in without being shot down on sight. After he did that, he’d worry about getting out again. And if he couldn’t, at the very least they would die in each other’s arms.
Quickly, Bandit stripped off all his clothes, even the beaded necklace, and piled them with his weapons at the base of a mesquite tree. Now just how did a crazy man act? Oh, Aimée, sweet, if you’re praying for a miracle, say a little prayer to help me now.
He looked toward the sentry up on the boulder a few hundred yards away. There was an open area out in the moonlight within the guard’s view. That was where he had to start. He hoped the Indian wouldn’t shoot first and investigate later. He wished he’d worn the cougar-claw necklace. If it were some kind of good luck charm, he needed all the luck he could get tonight. But his mother might have been wrong about how his Czech grandmother had come by it. If it had been stolen from some Apache, it might be a death sentence to be caught with it.
The burrs and cactus spines cut into his bare feet as he moved to the brush near the clearing, and he felt foolish and vulnerable, cavorting around in this hostile country with no clothes, not even boots. He said a little prayer himself and then sneaked out into the clearing.
Suddenly he stood up, dancing about and singing at the top of his lungs: “‘Oh, the Camptown ladies sing this song—Doo-dah! Doo-dah! Camptown race trace five miles long—Oh, doo-dah day?’”
Bandit pretended not to even see the startled sentry. He danced about, his skin gleaming in the moonlight as he sang as loudly as he could: “‘Gwine to run all night, gwine to run all day! I bet my money on de bobtail nag, somebody bet on de bay!’”
He cavorted like a crazy man, not looking at the startled sentry. Any second now, he expected to feel a rifle slug tear into his flesh. Would he even feel the bullet that killed him? Would he even realize he’d been shot, or would his mind just suddenly go black?
Bandit's Embrace (The Durango Family) Page 40