Warrior's Prize (Panorama of the Old West Book 15)

by Georgina Gentry

  Keso was content, no matter if they might be in danger tomorrow. He lay with his beloved Wannie in his arms, holding her close. No man could want any more than that. She was safe in the curve of his sinewy arm and he’d fight to the death to protect her. Gently, he brushed the hair out of her eyes. “Wannie?”

  No answer. Her gentle breathing told him she was asleep. Keso pulled the blanket up under her chin and held her close. In the moonlight, he could see her lovely face, her soft, full mouth. On impulse, he turned his head and brushed his lips across hers. She moved slightly in her sleep and he lay still, holding his breath. He had dared to kiss her lips, something he had never done in all these fifteen years and they had tasted even better than he had dreamed they might. Always he had kissed her forehead or the tip of her nose. Even now, with her soft breasts against him, he wanted more. He wanted to put his bare hand under her clothes and touch those breasts, stroke that satiny skin. Just the thought of her ripe, virgin body under those rough clothes made him go tense with wanting. It wasn’t just the need for a woman; he needed Wannie, only Wannie.

  Keso lay there aching and yearning for more, but he dared not betray her trust. All these years he had wanted her and they might not survive tomorrow. Oh, it was so tempting, but even as his body hungered, he knew he could never do it. He loved her and she trusted him. He took a deep, shuddering breath and lay still, acutely aware of her small warm body against him, the satin of her dark hair spread out over his arm. At least he had the memory of that stolen kiss that Wannie would never know he’d taken.

  He lay there in the darkness, smiling and remembering the satin of her lips under his as he’d brushed his mouth across hers. What he hungered for was to really taste that pouty mouth, taste and tease along her lips until she opened them and let him put his tongue inside, caressing the inside of her mouth until she moaned aloud and pressed herself against him, urging him to bold exploration of her breasts and body.

  His body was tense, his manhood aching with his need. He must stop thinking like this. Keso took a deep breath and tried to think of something, anything other than loving Wannie out under the stars. Their present situation was desperate and it was up to Keso to save them. Of course he and Wannie could travel faster if they didn’t have a third person, but deserting Cleve Brewster was unthinkable. Keso was too noble to do that, even to rid himself of his rival. Besides, Wannie loved Cleve so he had to save the prissy coward for her. Keso would do anything to make her happy.

  He lay there awhile, but he could not sleep. If he slept, it would be too easy for a Ute war party to creep into the camp. Cleve Brewster slept so heavily, he’d never hear the hostiles and wouldn’t know what to do if he did. Besides, snaring a rabbit in the darkness would provide food for tomorrow ... if there was a tomorrow. Keso wanted to do a little scouting, too.

  Stealthily, Keso crawled out of the blankets and carefully covered Wannie up. She was so tired, she didn’t move as he paused and looked down at her. On impulse, he leaned over and brushed his lips across hers once more, a light, innocent kiss, not the kind of passionate kiss Keso longed to give her. She smiled ever so slightly in her sleep and murmured something.

  Keso frowned. No doubt, she was dreaming of being Mrs. Cleveland Brewster, Jr. Keso would do his damnedest to keep them both alive so she could realize her dream of being the rich, bejeweled princess.

  He paused, trying to decide whether to take his rifle, finally shook his head and laid it next to Wannie. If he were going to get a rabbit, he’d have to do it with a snare and his big bowie knife would provide him all the weapon he needed. He dared not fire a gun without the echoing sound bringing every hostile in the mountains down on the trio. However, if the Utes found the camp while Keso was gone, Wannie would need the rifle to defend herself.

  Keso said a silent prayer as he looked around, trying to decide his course. Then, silent as the shadows of the giant trees around him, he took off at a lope. He paused now and then to look around, sniffing the air for smoke or the warm scent of horses or roasting meat. The only smells were the scent of pine and wildflowers, the sounds were the night sounds of the forest, mountains, and high plains. He saw no sign of any human. Reassured, he set a snare along a rabbit trail through the grass. With any luck, he’d bag a fat rabbit and tomorrow, they might reach a refuge where he’d feel safe enough to light a fire and cook it. Things would get desperate now that they’d eaten all the smoked jerky and hardtack. He suspected Cleve had been sneaking some of the supplies to eat secretly, but he couldn’t prove it and it would anger Wannie to accuse her fiance.

  Within an hour, he circled back on the track and smiled to see a fat rabbit in the snare. At least Wannie wouldn’t go hungry tomorrow. Even as Keso took the dead rabbit from the snare, he heard a soft, rhythmic sound like thunder. Only he knew it wasn’t thunder. His heart beating hard, he looked around, trying to decide a course of action as the war party appeared abruptly over the ridge. The moon shone brightly on the crimson and black war paint of their grim faces. Then they spotted him and with yelps of delight, reined their brightly painted ponies toward him.

  He had a split second to make his choices. If he could make it back to camp, there were two rifles there as well as his stallion. With those two things, Keso had a chance. But he would also be alerting the Utes to the camp if they hadn’t seen it.

  Wannie. He knew what the war party would do to his beloved and nothing, not even his life, meant as much to him as she did. In that heartbeat, he made his choice and his sacrifice. He turned and ran the opposite direction, leading the war party away from the camp. Even though he was fleet of foot, he knew he couldn’t outrun mounted men. What he hoped was that the Utes would raise their guns and fire. Even as they killed him, the gunfire would warn the camp. Maybe, just maybe, Cleve Brewster could save Wannie. With two horses and two rifles, the pair at least had a fighting chance. Keso intended to sacrifice his life to see that they got that chance.

  He ran, his heart pounding like a war drum, listening to the triumphant shouts and the echo of hooves behind him. Ironic to think that Cherokee had said he was really a Ute. Well, he intended to die like a Cheyenne dog soldier, the bravest of the brave. His lungs felt on fire as his legs ran swift as a deer. Any moment now, a bullet or a lance would impale him in the back. He wondered momentarily how much it would hurt.

  This wasn’t the way he wanted to go; he wanted to turn and face his enemies, fight to the death, even if he was armed only with a bowie knife. Yet he ran, not to escape his killers—that was impossible out here in the open country and he knew it. All that mattered was leading this war party as far as possible away from his beloved Wannie. This might be her only chance and he was willing to sacrifice his life to give it to her.

  Behind him, he heard the yelping warriors gaining on him and shouting to each other in their language. Strange, he could understand a few words. Cherokee was right—he had lived as a Ute once long ago. Even as he recognized some of the words, vague memories surfaced of a happy time with a father who loved him and a mother who held him close. The words “the Arrow” flashed through his mind and he wondered about them. He was only thinking about how they would kill him, knowing they were gaining on him.

  Then a pinto horse galloped past him and whirled, blocking his path. Keso paused, breathing hard, reaching for his big knife. Behind him, the war party blocked his retreat.

  The warrior on the pinto horse grinned without mirth, his ugly, war-painted face more of a snarl than a smile. “Halt!” he ordered in broken English, “Stop or I kill you right there!” He had a rifle trained on Keso’s heart.

  Very slowly, Keso lowered his knife. As brave as he was, he knew a knife was no match for a rifle. All that mattered was keeping them distracted from the camp. This ugly brave would delight in raping a delicate beauty like Wannie and besides, she was half Arapaho. The Arapaho, like their allies, the Cheyenne, were bitter enemies of the Utes. “I am Poh Keso,” he boasted, “I fear no Ute dogs.”

  Th
e others surrounded him, keeping a respectful distance but cutting off any hope of escape.

  “Poh Keso?” one muttered. “It’s Cheyenne for Fox—we have captured a bitter enemy.”

  Keso threw back his head and laughed. “I spit at the Utes. Take me back to your village and do what you will. I’ll show you how a brave man dies!”

  It didn’t matter what they did to him. The Utes could make his death last a long, long time with slow torture, but that would hold their attention for hours, giving Wannie and the man she loved a chance to escape.

  The ugly one nodded. “We will give you a chance to fulfill that boast, Cheyenne dog!” He reached into his waistband and held up a big knife that gleamed in the moonlight. There was no mistaking a Brewster butcher knife. Keso laughed again at the irony of it.

  “Go ahead and laugh, Cheyenne,” the other scowled. “We have already killed a bluecoat in these mountains who took a long time to die. We found his pack mule and supplies. Now we will carry you back to our village and take a white man’s knife to you. Tonight, your scalp hangs from Coyote’s lodge pole!”

  EIGHTEEN

  Keso knew that the Utes would torture and kill him when they got him back to their camp—the obvious relish on Coyote’s ugly face told him that. He considered telling the Utes that he was really of their tribe, then decided against it. He didn’t think they would believe him; they would think he was attempting to save his own life. From the time he was a starving street kid, Keso had fought the odds and survived. This time, it appeared his luck had run out.

  The war party rode into a temporary camp of tipis. In the bustle, curious women and dark-eyed children came out to see the war party riding in. The people looked thin and hungry. Straggly stray dogs roamed around the ponies’ legs, barking with excitement. Keso understood just enough of their language to know Coyote was announcing that they had captured a Cheyenne brave, even though he was dressed in white man’s clothing.

  Immediately, the expressions on the dark faces turned hostile. The two tribes had been enemies for generations. Coyote laughed and jabbed at Keso with the butt of his lance. “See how welcome you are, Cheyenne? Now instead of a dull day, you will entertain us.”

  Keso said nothing, knowing that Coyote was eager for a chance to strike him. At least, if he endured the torture stoically and made his death last a long time, Wannie and Cleve would have time to escape.

  Another brave motioned for Keso to dismount as they reined into the center of the camp circle, but before Keso could obey, Coyote swung his lance and knocked Keso from his horse into the dirt. Keso forgot that he must not let the ugly Ute taunt him into rage. He came up out of the dust fighting, grabbing the lance end, thus unbalancing Coyote who fell into the dirt and came up snarling as other Utes gathered around to laugh.

  “Hey, Yorowit’z, the Cheyenne wants you to join him in the dirt!”

  Obviously Coyote was not well liked, Keso thought, even as the other hit him hard with his lance. It would be worth dying to slam his fist into the ugly face one time, Keso thought, but even as he came up off the ground to act on that thought, two warriors grabbed him from behind and held him.

  Coyote, his dignity shaken, now strode over to Keso and struck him across the face. “No, Cheyenne, you will not goad me into killing you quickly and do me out of the pleasure of torture. Your death will last a long, long time.”

  Keso tasted blood from his cut lip as he struggled to break free and looked at the silent circle of thin, hostile faces ringing the pair. He noted many of the men, including Coyote, had a fine steel butcher knife stuck in their waistbands. He did not need to look closely to know the handle bore the words “Brewster Industries.” Cleve had inadvertently supplied the hostiles with enough knives to scalp dozens of settlers and prospectors in western Colorado.

  Coyote turned to the braves and shouted an order. Immediately, the pair dragged the struggling Keso toward a post in the center of the camp and tied him with his face against the post. Coyote stepped up behind Keso, reached out, tore his shirt down the back and then ripped it away, leaving him standing naked from the waist up. “So, you Cheyenne, eater of dog meat, I will begin by whipping you with a quirt as I would any disobedient horse.”

  “Lower than a dog Ute,” Keso sneered over his shoulder, “why do you not just get on with it? I’ll show you how a brave man endures.”

  “Because we do not want to cut our enjoyment short. Now you can understand that, can’t you?” He laughed.

  Keso didn’t answer. The autumn sun beat down on his muscular back and he looked around at the crowd, wondering how long it would take him to die. Would it be time enough for Wannie to escape? Nothing else mattered to him. Around him, pretty Ute girls looked the captive over with admiring glances.

  “You women stop looking at the lowly Cheyenne like that,” Coyote demanded. “By the time I finish with him, he will be as useless in a woman’s blankets as a gelded stallion is to a mare.”

  The women giggled and exchanged amused glances. Somewhere in the crowd, Keso heard a girl murmur in broken Spanish and English that it was a shame to waste so handsome a man. What about selling him as a slave to the Comancheros?

  Coyote seemed to consider that for a long moment. “You know, Cheyenne dog, she is right. Our people have sometimes sold captured enemies to the Spanish to the south to work their ranches and toil in their mines. My family grew very rich in fine horses and good rifles doing this. How would you like to be a slave?” He caught Keso by the hair and twisted his head around to look into his eyes.

  In answer, Keso spat full in the brave’s face.

  Swearing in Ute and Spanish, the man struck Keso across the face so hard that for a moment, Keso thought he might pass out. “You Cheyenne dog,” he snarled, “after what I plan to do to you for this insult, you would beg for me to geld and brand you, sell you to labor in the bottom of a silver mine. Now let the torture begin!”

  His quirt struck across Keso’s bare back. Keso hadn’t been prepared for how much it would hurt. He gasped and bit his own lip bloody to keep from crying out. The lash had felt like a tongue of flame biting across his flesh. No, he would not scream, no matter how great the pain. He wasn’t about to give Coyote that satisfaction.

  One of the other braves stepped up to Coyote and said something. Keso could understand just enough to know that Ouray, the great chief from the Southern Utes, was due in this camp and would be displeased if anyone did something to cause trouble for the people.

  “Trouble!” Coyote sneered. “The whites kill us, starve us, cheat us, then dare us to start an uprising. We are always at war with the Cheyenne and their allies, the Arapaho. If I can’t kill a white man, let me at least enjoy taking vengeance on an old enemy!”

  He struck Keso again and again across the back with his quirt. Keso bit his lip and tried to think of something else besides the lash of fire chewing across his muscular flesh. Great beads of sweat broke out on his dark forehead as the autumn breeze blew cool across his tortured body. Around him, he saw the grim faces of Ute braves, the covertly admiring glances of pretty maidens. He must not think of his pain—he would think of Wannie. Her lovely face came to his mind and he smiled, imagining that she kissed the hurt from his bare, aching flesh.

  “Why do you smile, Cheyenne? Does it feel good? Then we will make you feel even better!”

  Keso craned his head and saw Coyote pull the big butcher knife from his waistband. The sun flashed on the steel as the man approached him. “I will notch your ears like white men do steers, then I will geld you and throw your manhood in your face.”

  That alone made Keso desperate enough to fight his bonds and Coyote, watching his struggle, laughed. “Ah, now we know what the Cheyenne fears. He wants to mount women and breed them and I am about to take that pleasure away.”

  A horse galloped into the circle and a man shouted harsh words and orders. Keso craned his neck to look. A muscular, older Ute on a dapple pony had arrived at the scene and was questioning Co
yote in Spanish. “Young fool, even to torture and kill one of our traditional enemies is to chance the wrath of the whites.”

  “Oh, great Ouray, what business is it of the whites if we kill one old enemy?”

  Ouray dismounted and came over to inspect Keso, who was still tied with his hands above his head. He looked weary and old beyond his years. “Who are you and why do you venture into our country, Cheyenne?”

  He must not give away the presence of Wannie and Cleve, no matter what. “I—I am the adopted son of someone you know, great chief. I am raised by Cherokee Evans.”

  “A likely story,” the Ute chief scoffed, “you lie to save your life. You have a Cheyenne name. Are you the one who brought trade goods into this area?”

  Keso thought about the pack mule and all the butcher knives the stupid Cleve had placed in the hands of hostiles. “I—I came alone to trade.”

  Coyote snorted. “He is not only Cheyenne, but a stupid Cheyenne who would ride into our country alone.”

  “Was he alone?” Ouray asked.

  Coyote seemed to consider that for the first time. “We did not think to look for anyone else.”

  “I was alone,” Keso snapped.

  Ouray shrugged. “Since he is Cheyenne and does us the insult of riding into our country, you may continue, Yorowit’z. We’ll see if he dies as bravely.”

  Coyote nodded with a grin of satisfaction and Keso braced himself. He would endure this torture willingly to save the girl he loved. For always, Wannie, far always.

  He heard the whip sing through the air again as Coyote brought it back to strike another blow.