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

by Georgina Gentry

  “My watch is over,” he sighed, “I don’t think the Utes are night fighters. A lot of the tribes fear that if they’re killed in the darkness, their spirits can’t find their way to spirit land.”

  “I missed you,” she murmured and scooted closer to him, laying her head on his broad shoulder.

  “I missed you, too,” he said and kissed her eyelids. “All the time I was staring up at those bluffs and wondering if Coyote was up there, staring back at me, I thought about last night and how I’d like to be under this blanket with you in my arms.”

  “So now you are.” She snuggled even closer.

  “I hope you don’t regret that, Wannie,” he said as he stroked her hair away from her face. “You’ve lost your chance at high society and all that goes with it.”

  “You don’t go with it, and that’s what I really want.” She put her hands behind his head, pulled his face down to her, and kissed him. It was a lingering, warm kiss that made her heart quicken and her pulse race. Yes, it was as good as she remembered it. “And to think, all these years, I’ve missed this, with you giving me little pecks on the forehead or the tip of my nose,” she complained.

  “You don’t know how many times I’ve dreamed of doing just what I’m doing now,” he whispered, “holding you close and kissing you like this.” He kissed her again and again.

  His hand went to cover her breast as his tongue slipped between her lips.

  She reached up and unbuttoned her bodice so his bare hand was on her naked flesh. “Make love to me. Now that I’ve had you, I can’t get enough.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that.” He tousled her long hair and then covered her breast with his hand, massaging it as her nipple hardened.

  He kissed her deeply, gently, as if he wanted to pack all the love he felt for her in one more moment of love-making, knowing that for them, tomorrow might be their last day of life.

  She answered his ardor with her own, thinking of how much time they had lost before she realized he was her true love. Knowing this might be the last time they’d be locked in each other’s embrace made the lovemaking even sweeter. So little time, she thought, until dawn and probably the final Ute assault. She would not think about tomorrow, she would hold him close to her heart, kiss him, and comfort him. She was afraid to die, but she needn’t think of that at this moment. Here in the cool, clear autumn night, time stood still for a moment.

  “How long will you love me?” he asked and she kissed him and held up her hand so that the starlight reflected on the ring and no words were needed. Always. For always.

  Finally, they slept, locked in each other’s embrace. She was safe in Keso’s arms, she knew, and she dreamed of spending the rest of her life sleeping in her lover’s arms while outside their snug cabin, the singing winds made the porch swing creak.

  She smiled at the thought and came suddenly awake, realizing it was still the middle of the night. She looked around, wondering what had awakened her.

  Keso still slept, exhausted beside her. The camp was quiet, many men asleep at their posts along the barricade. She’d better see about the wounded.

  Wannie rolled out from under the wagon, moving quietly as not to awaken her lover. In the moonlight, the harsh worries were gone, his bronze face smooth and handsome and at peace. She wanted to crawl back in next to him, kiss him and hold him close, but tomorrow would be a long day and he would need this rest.

  Where was Cleve? She began to look around, then realized he was not manning a barricade. A horse snorted near the water barrel. There were a few horses left besides Blue; so many had been caught in the crossfire and killed. Without horses, they were trapped here. Sooner or later, Captain Payne might try to send out a messenger, but he’d be sending him to almost certain death. Wannie gritted her teeth at the thought, knowing courageous Keso most certainly would be the volunteer. She didn’t even want to think about that.

  What was that over in the darkness? Someone saddling up the best horse they had left besides Spirit, a bright pinto with unusual markings. In the moonlight, she suddenly recognized the man. “Cleve? Where are you going?”

  “Shut up and come with me,” he whispered. “This may be our one chance to get away.”

  “You can’t do this,” she protested, “they’ll need those horses—”

  “I’m not going to stay here and die like a cornered rat. I’m a Brewster—let the common men die!”

  She realized then that he had two canteens over his shoulder. “You stole water when there’s not even enough for all the wounded!”

  She grabbed his arm to stop him, but he shook her off and swung up on the horse. The moonlight glinted on the pistol in his belt.

  Behind her, she heard running footsteps and then Keso pushed past her, grabbing at Cleve’s stirrup as the horse reared and whinnied. “You yellow coward, stop!”

  Even as the camp began to come awake, Cleve pulled his pistol and fired. Keso cried out and let go of the stirrup, grabbing at his wounded shoulder.

  “Cleve, no!” she screamed, but he paid her no heed as he put spurs to the horse and took off across the circle. The spotted horse was moving at a full gallop as he reached the barricade. Any other man would have tumbled from the horse, Wannie thought, but the young aristocrat had had all that practice jumping hedges and walls at fox hunts. Cleve leaned into the jump—and the horse cleared the barricade and came down running on the other side.

  All the soldiers were awake now, shouting questions. She got one last glimpse of Cleve galloping across the prairie, the moonlight reflecting on the loud paint horse and Cleve’s fine yellow hair, and then he was swallowed up by the night.

  “Doc, come quick!” She fell down beside Keso, taking him in her arms. His bright blood ran down his shoulder and smeared her dress.

  “He got away,” Keso muttered as he tried to get up, “the rotten bastard got away!”

  “Dearest, lie still, you can’t do anything about Cleve.” She held him down as the doctor, Captain Payne, and Lieutenant Cherry joined them. Quickly, she explained what had happened as Doc tried to stop the flow of blood.

  Captain Payne cursed under his breath. “Damn that spoiled dandy.” He looked at Wannie hopefully. “You don’t suppose he’s gone for help?”

  She was embarrassed and ashamed for Cleve. “No,” she said and shook her head, “I think the only reason he asked me to go with him was to keep me from raising the alarm.”

  Captain Payne sighed. I was just about to ask for volunteers to get a message through.”

  “I—I’ll go,” Keso muttered and tried to get up.

  Doc held him down and poured whiskey on the wound, then began to bind it as Keso moaned despite biting his lip. “You young whippersnapper, you aren’t going anyplace. Shot like this, you’d fall out of the saddle.”

  “Captain,” Joe Rankin said and rubbed his grizzled chin, “I’d be willin’ to try it, but it’s a powerful long way back to Fort Steele.”

  “Take my horse,” Keso whispered, his face pale and beaded with sweat. “Cleve was afraid of him, but Spirit will get you there if you’re a good enough rider to stay on.”

  “I can ride anything on four legs,” Joe said.

  The captain scratched his head. “Okay, then . . .” He let his voice trail off, but they all knew what he was thinking; the chances of getting through Ute lines were slim, and even if he did, by the time he finally brought help, it might be too late for this doomed garrison.

  Lieutenant Cherry said, “Captain Dodge and his black buffalo soldiers are over at Middle Park—that’s not so many miles from here. They’ve been on alert, expecting trouble at the Ute Agency. Maybe we can get a message through to them.”

  “We don’t have another horse except old Blue, and he’d never make it,” Keso muttered. “You’d never get there on foot. You might as well stay here and help us man the barricades and hope Rankin gets to Fort Steele. There’s a slight possibility that Meeker got a message out to Captain Dodge before the agency burned
.”

  Everyone nodded, their faces grim.

  Keso was right, Wannie thought. Unless they got lucky, they were all going to die here, caught like rats in a trap.

  Doc was bandaging Keso’s arm. “You’ll be all right, if you’ll take it easy—”

  “Easy, hell!” Keso struggled to sit up. “Patch me up the best you can, Doc—we’ll have a fight on our hands tomorrow.”

  Wannie held him close and wiped the sweat from his dear face. “You’ll lie here at least a couple of hours. You’ll need your strength once the sun comes up.”

  Her argument made sense and he relaxed while she held him tight, blinking back tears. They might all die tomorrow, but tonight he was hers to hold.

  The captain gave Joe Rankin some encouraging words and a pat on the arm. “Remember we’re depending on you to bring help, but for God’s sake, don’t let the Utes take you alive!” He glanced over at Wannie and didn’t continue, but she knew what he was hinting at. As furious and betrayed as the Utes felt, there was no telling what they would do to a prisoner.

  Spirit danced around, Joe Rankin hanging on. “You’re right, Keso,” he called, “this is one helluva horse!”

  “I want him back when this is over, you hear?” Keso watched the volunteer, anxiety in his rugged face. No one could ride as well or as fast as Keso, but he was too wounded to go.

  A soldier hurried to move a barricade so the black horse could slip out quietly, then put it back behind Spirit as he cantered away. Wannie ran to the barricades to watch as they faded into the night, riding a different direction than the route Cleve had taken. Long after he was gone, she could hear the echo of Spirit’s hoof-beats.

  Her heart full of fear and hope, she said a little prayer and returned to Keso. “Haven’t heard any shots yet, so they may have slipped by the Utes.”

  Around them, men seemed to be holding their breath, listening. If the Utes got the messenger, this group was doomed. Even if the scout got through, it would be days before help would arrive. Wannie looked around, wondering if there was enough ammunition and able men to keep the Utes at bay that long.

  Keso must have read her thoughts. “You go help Doc, honey,” he said, “I’ll be all right and ready to handle a rifle after a couple hours rest.”

  She nodded and went to assist Doc with the wounded men. At least keeping busy kept her mind off what would happen to them if they were taken alive.

  Cleve galloped through the night. The bright pinto was soon lathered and blowing. He resisted the urge to take his quirt to the tired horse—not because he was kind, but because he knew the gelding’s strength was low and he might need to make a dash for it if he ran across hostiles.

  He wasn’t sure where he was going, or even what direction; he only knew he wanted to get as far away from the doomed soldiers as possible. The moon came out, lighting up the prairie and almost spotlighting him and the paint horse as they rode, but there was nothing he could do about that except keep riding. There was little cover out here in these dry, rolling buttes.

  So far, so good. He smirked at the thought that the soldiers might think he was going for help. He didn’t care about common soldiers—why should he bother? For an instant, he thought about Wannie. It was a shame a beauty like that one should finally be used to slake warriors’ lust, but it couldn’t be helped. She’d chosen Keso rather than Cleve, so let her die with that primitive savage when the Utes overran the camp.

  The paint horse was lathered and blowing as Cleve worried about riding through the Utes’ lines. In another couple of miles, Cleve would be safely away from the danger and he could rest his horse and take a good long drink of water. He reached to make sure the canteens still hung from his saddlehorn. Wannie had thought it terrible of him to steal from the wounded’s rations, but his life was worth more than those common soldiers.

  Riding up out of a ravine ahead of him, the Utes seemed to rise out of the ground. In sheer panic, Cleve hauled back on the reins and fired wildly. His second shot took an old man from his horse. Which way to go? What to do? He paused, the pistol in his hand, looking about. The Utes were easy to spot, the moonlight reflecting off the shiny steel butcher knives in their waist bands. Civilization was coming to the savages through Brewster Industries. Daddy would be so proud.

  There were too many of them encircling him. Cleve fired again and missed. His next shot hit a younger Ute in the chest. The man moaned and fell. Which way to go? Could he make it through their line? Cleve tried to rein his horse around the growing circle of savages, but at that moment, one of them shot the pistol from his hand and now they closed in around him like wolves ready to make a kill.

  His heart pounded so loudly, Cleve was certain they could hear it. He swallowed hard, thinking it would not do to show fear and vomit up his guts before them.

  The big ugly one, Coyote, sat his horse, grinning. Cleve panicked and tried to dash between two mounted warriors, but the paint horse balked, weary and confused.

  Coyote barked an order and two warriors ran up and jerked Cleve from his horse, fighting and screaming.

  He was so terrified he wet himself, but he no longer cared about anything but his life. The Utes seemed to think it was funny; they were laughing, hooting, and jabbing at him with the butts of their lances.

  Cleve groveled on the ground. “Please, I’ll do anything, only don’t hurt me!”

  The ugly one dismounted, strode over, and gave him a kick.

  “Please,” Cleve grabbed him by the ankles, cowering before him. “The girl. You want the girl? She’s still in the soldiers’ camp. I’ll help you get her.”

  Coyote stood over him. “You ride to bring help for the soldiers?”

  “What? No, I ride to save myself,” Cleve blubbered, “I don’t care about the soldiers. I don’t care if you kill them all.”

  “Much coward!” Coyote sneered. Someone in the crowd translated the exchange and the warriors laughed.

  Too late, Cleve remembered that Indians valued bravery. The fact that he cared nothing for his comrades or the girl, cared nothing for anything but his own life, would make them scorn him.

  There was one thing that everyone cared about, Cleve thought as he looked up at the hostile ring of faces. Everyone cared about gold, didn’t they?

  “My—my father is rich—he’ll pay!” Cleve saw the reflection on the big knives in their waistbands. “See? My father makes those—he’s rich, very rich.”

  Coyote put his hand on the butt of the knife and grinned, showing ugly teeth. “He make farm machinery, too?”

  “Oh, yes! He’s much important, makes plows, combines, knives, everything.”

  A murmur ran through the crowd and Coyote grinned. This encouraged Cleve. Money, he thought, they understood wealth and power. “My father is rich,” he said again, “but he’ll only pay if you do not harm one hair of my head. Do you understand?”

  Coyote nodded and someone in the crowd translated for the others. Coyote took the knife from his belt, turning it over and over in his hands, the moonlight reflecting off it. “We understand. I give you my word, we will not harm one hair on your head.”

  Cleve let out a great sigh of relief as he stumbled to his feet. He was safe. He was going to be all right, thanks to Daddy. Those trapped back there at Milk Creek were going to die, but what did he care? “I was afraid ... never mind. I’m going to be fine now.”

  Coyote said something in his language and abruptly, warriors grabbed Cleve.

  He shouted a protest. “You said you wouldn’t harm a hair—”

  “And we won’t,” Coyote grinned. “Like white men, we are learning to be clever with words. We did not say what we would do with your body.” He looked down at the big knife in his hand as the others drew theirs slowly from their waistbands. “We. are going to see how good your father’s knives are and how much we can cut you and yet keep you alive. We promise, we will not harm one hair of your head.”

  Torture. They were going to torture him. No, not him; didn�
��t they understand that he was Cleveland Brewster, Jr. and he was rich and well-educated? He began to shiver in sheer terror. With a strangled cry, Cleve broke free, turned and ran, but the warriors chased him down, grabbed him, and threw him on the ground.

  “Someone build a fire,” Coyote said, “I think our captive is cold.”

  Back at Milk Creek, Wannie worked with Doc to ration out the water. If they didn’t get reinforcements soon, they would run out. She’d insisted Keso lie down and rest a moment, telling him he would be needed to man the barricades at dawn when the Utes would certainly attack them again. She looked out toward the darkness. Sound carried a long way out here and it had been very quiet. The scout must have made it through the Ute lines. The Utes would be spread thin and with a little luck and riding a black horse that was strong and fast, the scout might get through and head for Fort Steele.

  Abruptly, she heard a long, drawn-out scream. For a moment, as the sound echoed across the valley, she thought it was the most unearthly shriek of sheer horror she’d ever heard. She looked down at Keso. “Do you suppose—?”

  The scream came again, long and tortured. “Oh, my God!” She looked down into Keso’s eyes, recognition flashing through her brain. “Cleve! They’ve got Cleve! They’re torturing him!”

  She jumped up, intending to go over the barricade, run out there, do something, anything to stop that terrible screaming, but Keso caught her hand and pulled her down beside him. “Easy, honey, there isn’t anything you can do.”

  She began to sob, putting her hands over her ears to block out the sound. “This is so terrible!”

  “I know it is, Wannie,” he said and held her close against his chest with his uninjured arm, “but remember, he brought it on himself. This is one time the poor devil’s money isn’t going to do him any good.”

  The screaming went on all night. The Utes had to be keeping him alive to amuse themselves until they were ready to attack the Milk Creek soldiers in the morning. No doubt they had dead warriors and weeping women up on the bluffs and they had to vent the anger that had been building all these years against unjust treatment. Finally, as the dawn turned lavender gray in the east, the screaming weakened and then finally faded away.