The Indian's eyes were piercing as he gazed at the man from St. Louis, and his voice held a hint of irritation. "I said that I can tell you nothing about the Perdenelas."
Mr. Rumford was clearly annoyed with the arrogance of the Indian and decided to put him in his place. "I'm a Butterfield Stage Line representative, and it's our usual policy that Indians ride topside if they are allowed to board the Butterfield Line at all."
The stranger's gaze and voice hardened. "Your agent took my gold, and I will ride here."
"Well, uh, you seem civilized, so I'm sure there's no harm in your riding here as far as the way station," Mr. Rumford blustered in irritation.
The Indian turned to look out the window.
Makinna studied his profile. She had seen handsome men before, but none as handsome as this one. His cheekbones were high and pro nounced, his jaw square and strong, and altogether his face was as beautiful as any chiseled in stone. She was ashamed of her own comments and of the way Mr. Rumford and Mr. Carruthers had treated him. She wondered what he must be thinking about his fellow travelers. There was a guarded tension in him, and she sensed something powerful and dangerous about him. Once again, she was grateful for her veil so the Indian would not know that she was studying him so intently.
Then, as if he sensed her gaze on him, the Indian turned his head to look at her, and she had the sensation that he could see right through the veil. Her heart began to beat so fast that she could hardly breathe. Her hand instinctively went to the door handle and she gripped it tightly. For a fleeting moment, she thought she detected something haunted in his expression, but it was quickly replaced by a look of sardonic amusement. Finally he looked away and turned his gaze out the window.
The rest of the afternoon was spent in uncomfortable silence, even Mr. Rumford having ceased trying to make conversation.
Makinna was relieved when the coach ultimately came to a rocking halt. They had arrived at Adobe Springs. Mr. Rumford helped her from the stage, and when she entered the station house, she was greeted by a thin pinched-looking woman who introduced herself as Mrs. Browning. The woman instantly began to chat, but Makinna pleaded weariness and asked to be shown directly to her room.
Mrs. Browning looked disappointed as she led the way. "We hardly ever get any female travelers out here. I'd be pleased to sit and talk a spell with you."
"I beg you to forgive me, but I am tired, and I have a headache. I want no more than to lie down for a while."
Mrs. Browning's mouth tightened. "Well, if that's the way you want it. I'll have my husband bring in your grip."
"Thank you." After the tense hours with the Indian on the stage, she didn't want to talk to anyone; she just wanted to be left alone.
When Mrs. Browning departed, Makinna looked about the small chamber off the back of the main room. It was cramped, the only furniture a narrow cot and a washstand with a pitcher of water. She sat on the lumpy mattress and leaned back against the adobe wall. The bedding was surprisingly clean, smelling of lye soap.
But the room was so hot that her hair was plastered to her forehead. With a sigh, Makinna stood to remove her veil. Stepping to the open window, she hoped for a breath of fresh air. But a dry wind parched her throat, and suddenly tears blurred her vision.
Life as she'd known it was over. She was left with only sorrow and an uncertain future. She tried to push her troubled thoughts aside and instead study the landscape. But this stark country appeared to have no color-it looked lifeless, empty. The adobe way station and its outbuildings were the same dull tone as the ground and the distant hills. The only growing things seemed to be an occasional cactus and scraggly stalks of straw-colored grass poking through the hard, cracked ground.
In that moment, Makinna longed for the lushness of New Orleans. Could any place this side of hell be as hot and dry and miserable as Adobe Springs? She thought of green Louisiana fields, where horses frolicked, and the Mississippi, where paddlewheel boats floated lazily along the current.
A shadow fell across her view, and she quickly pulled away from the window. It was the Indian walking past. He was tall, and his stride was long, but she caught a quick glimpse of his face before he moved away. She gasped at the singular impression of a man tortured in mind and soul.
Did Indians have the same feelings as white people? She had always thought of them as completely alien, needing no one, raiding and marauding, killing and scalping their enemies just for the sport of it.
The Indian had removed his coat and unbut toned the collar of his white shirt, which opened to reveal a smooth, bronze chest. Again, she was struck by his handsomeness and the power he exuded.
She watched as he released his hair from a black cord, and it fell dark and heavy to his shoulders. Makinna's heart began beating wildly. Never had she seen such a man. There was something thrilling about him that captured her attention, yet at the same time something dangerous and frightening. More than mere handsomeness, there was a wild, savage beauty about him, a strength of spirit that seemed to reach out to her.
She closed her eyes to steady her heartbeat. She wondered about his life. He was unlike anything she imagined an Indian to be. His diction was aristocratic, and he had a superior manner about him. His expensively cut suit would have been at home on the finest plantation in Louisiana.
It seemed strange that he chose to dress like a white man, and stranger still that he was traveling on the Butterfield stage.
Feeling guilty for watching him, Makinna moved away from the window and prepared to wash the dust from her face. But her thoughts kept returning to the Indian.
What, exactly, was his story?
Makinna recognized the voices of the station manager and his wife just outside her window. Mrs. Browning's voice was high-pitched with indignation. "I don't care if he is a Butterfield passenger. I told him, and I'm telling you, I ain't gonna serve no Injun. It's too much for anyone to expect. Land sakes, Jack, we could all be scalped in our sleep!"
Her husband replied in an irritated tone. "Nonetheless, he gets hungry like everyone else, and he deserves to be fed. He seems harmless enough, Edna. Almost civilized."
"He'll not eat at my table, and that's that! You didn't see the way he looked at me when I told him where we stood-I swear, Jack, he's think ing up something terrible to do to us during the night."
"It does seem kinda strange to see a savage pretendin' like he was a white man. What the hell kind of Indian is he, anyway? I've never seen one so tall, or with his sharp, clear features. I wouldn't mind askin' him a few questions to find out what he's about."
"Well, if you ask me, he's up to no good. You tell him he's to sleep in the barn, and I want him gone tomorrow."
Makinna approached her window in time to watch Mr. and Mrs. Browning walk toward the barn. Her gaze went to the Indian, who had melted into the shadows, almost becoming a part of them. She realized he'd heard every word the Brownings had uttered, and she felt a rush of pity for him.
Without pausing to think, she headed out of her bedchamber. The main room was crudely furnished with a long wooden table, a potbellied stove, and dirt floors. Mr. Rumford and Mr. Carruthers were sitting at the table talking amiably, their empty plates in front of them.
They both looked up when she approached. Makinna realized she had forgotten to put on her veil, but she was too angry to care about that at the moment.
She went directly to the table, found an empty tin plate, and begin spooning beans into it. She speared a chunk of meat and plopped it onto the plate, then added a slice of cornbread to the mound.
Mr. Carruthers nodded at the heaping plate. "You must be hungry, Mrs. Hillyard."
"It's not for me," she answered sharply.
"Didn't think a young, pretty thing like you could eat that much in one sitting," Mr. Rumford observed in a jovial if patronizing way. "If you don't mind an old man's compliments," he added.
"I am in no mood for compliments, Mr. Rumford. As a representative of the Butterfield Stage L
ine, how could you allow that man and woman to work for you? Aren't they supposed to see that your passengers are fed and sheltered?"
He looked taken aback. "Are you speaking of Jack and Edna Browning?"
"I am."
He assumed an official-sounding tone. "Obviously, they have done something to offend you. Tell me what it is, and I'll speak to them about it immediately."
"I'll tell you what they did, if you don't already know. They refused to feed the Indian," she said angrily. "What is he to do, starve to death?"
Mr. Rumford looked uncomfortable. "Well, he should have known what might happen when he boarded our stage. My only obligation is to my legal passengers."
"That's right," Mr. Carruthers spoke up. "If you let one Indian ride the stage, they'll all want the privilege."
Mr. Rumford nodded. "No need to worry about that possibility. I've already informed him that he won't be leaving with the stage in the morning. Can't think how he got aboard in the first place. In spite of his fine attire, he's still a savage."
Makinna glared from one man to the other. "I wonder who among us are the uncivilized ones. I am ashamed to be in a room when he is consigned to a barn. Even if he is an Indian, he's a human being, and he gets hungry and needs rest just like we do. You treat your mules better than you do him. At least you see that they are fed and watered."
She turned away, heading for the front door. Seldom had she been so angry. No person, not even that Indian, was going to go hungry if she could help it. She brushed past Mr. and Mrs. Browning at the door and kept going without acknowledging them.
Edna Browning stared after her. "Humph. What bee's stirring in her bonnet? That highand-mighty passenger of yours, Mr. Rumford, seems to think she's too good for the likes of us." She huffed toward the kitchen, her husband tagging behind.
Makinna didn't see the Indian at first. Then he silently emerged from the shadows and stood directly before her. She flinched and instantly stepped back, wondering if she should have asked one of the gentlemen inside to accompany her. A cloud was covering the moon, and she couldn't see the Indian's face clearly, but she knew he would be frowning.
"I am sorry if I startled you, Mrs. Hillyard," he said, moving away from her and turning his head up as if contemplating the heavens.
She stepped hesitantly closer to him. "I... brought you... I thought you might like something to eat," Makinna said, daring to hold the tin plate out to him.
He didn't look at her. "You could have saved yourself the trouble. I am not hungry."
She took a step closer. "You should eat anyway."
He swung his head in her direction and said in a biting tone, "Why should you concern yourself with my dining habits?"
She was silent for a moment, trying to think of the right words to say. "I am sorry about the others."
His tone was cynical as he asked, "Are you?"
"Yes, I am. Otherwise, I wouldn't be here now."
"Yet you are just as frightened of me as they are, Mrs. Hillyard. Do you think of me as a savage ready to pounce on you?"
She didn't bother to deny her nervousness about being around him. "I doubt you would be that desperate."
She was amazed when she heard him laugh. "You are right. I have no desire to pounce on a married woman, one who is in mourning. And a white woman at that."
"Please," she urged, holding the food out to him again. "Take this. You haven't eaten all day. 11
"I think not." He turned his face back to the quarter moon now emerging from the clouds. Again she sensed in him a sadness, a wound of the spirit, and it troubled her.
She placed the food on a nearby wooden bench. "I'll just leave it here, should you change your mind. It may not be very good, but it will be nourishing."
He said nothing.
Makinna noticed that he had suddenly tensed, as if he were listening to something in the distance. All she heard was the howl of some nocturnal animal. Although she was unfamiliar with them, she suspected it must be a coyote or even a wolf. As she listened, she heard an answering howl, and then another and another until the creatures seemed to be all around them.
"You had better go inside now, Mrs. Hillyard," the Indian said, turning his head in the direction of the barn and staring into the darkness.
Makinna was only too happy to get away from him. She had offered him food. If he didn't want to eat, it was no concern of hers. At least now she could sleep with a slightly clearer conscience. "Good night... sir."
He didn't reply but simply moved silently and quickly toward the barn. Something was bothering him, and Makinna didn't think it was the Brownings' rudeness.
She went back inside, passing through the main room without speaking to the people gathered there. She was still too angry. Entering her chamber, she closed the door, noting it had no lock. Neither did the window. She felt uneasy. If the Indian did take it into his head to enter her room, she had no way to stop him.
After removing her cumbersome bustle, she lay down on the bed fully clothed, too weary even to undo her stays or remove her shoes. She would just rest a bit and later undress and put on her nightgown.
She could still hear the animals howling. They seemed to be getting closer. Or was that only her imagination?
Soon her eyes drifted shut, and she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Makinna awoke in a suffocating darkness, gasping for breath. She lay still, listening, her heart pounding as some unknown fear coursed through her veins. It was quiet-too quiet. The never-ceasing wind had died down, the howl ling animals that had frightened her earlier in the evening were now silent, and she couldn't even hear any crickets chirping. She pressed a hand against her thundering heart. She wanted a sound-anything but this ominous silence, like the inside of a tomb.
Abruptly, fearfully, Makinna sensed that she was not alone. It wasn't a sound or a movement that alerted her, but a feeling. She sat up and swung her feet to the floor, peering into the darkness, but discerned no shape or movement or sound.
She started violently when a hand clamped over her mouth, and a strong arm wrapped around her, pulling her to her feet.
A harsh whisper came to her out of the darkness. "Be still, and listen to me. Your life depends on it."
It was the Indian's voice! What did he want with her?
"Do exactly as I say, and you might stay alive. Now, I am going to remove my hand from your mouth, but first you must promise that you will not make a sound. Can you do that?" he insisted.
Hearing the threat in his voice, she nodded. It was doubtful that she could make a sound anyway, because fear had closed her throat. Was he there because he wanted to ravish her? Oh, why had she attempted to be kind to him? The others had been right about him all along. Why hadn't she listened to them?
The Indian gripped her arm and led her to the window. He quietly lifted her through, then quickly joined her before she could react or call for help. He again clasped her arm and stood still for a moment, listening.
Makinna knew that the others were asleep, so no one would come to her immediate rescue. "Why are you-"
His clamped a hand over her mouth, cutting off both her speech and her breathing. He dipped his head and whispered harshly in her ear. "Do not make a sound, woman. If you do, it may be your last."
Before she realized what was happening, he was tugging her deeper into the night shadows, silently, ominously.
Makinna closed her eyes, trying to gather her courage so she could contend with the terror that was paralyzing her reasoning.
Was he taking her to the barn to ravish her there?
No. He moved around the barn and away from the way station, toward the desert. He dragged her up the side of a sand dune and glanced back briefly as if he feared being followed.
Dear God, he was taking her farther away from the station and any help.
He walked with an easy stride while she struggled along beside him. He was a powerful man, and she knew she had no chance of fighting him off.
After they had been walking for some time, he paused and glanced back in the direction of the way station. Then he pushed her to the ground with such force that her face went into the sand. When he dropped down beside her, a scream built in her throat, but she dared not let it pass her lips.
For a long, tense moment she waited, fearing what he would do. His hand was on her shoulder, keeping her in place, but so far he seemed more interested in the way station than in her. Maybe he was making sure that no one was following them before he ripped her clothing off.
At last she found her voice, and it trembled with fear when she pleaded, "Please don't hurt me."
"Do not speak," he said, angrily pushing her face back down. "Be silent!"
Suddenly a bloodcurdling yell broke the stillness, and Makinna raised her head to follow the Indian's gaze. The night was so black that it was difficult to see anything, but her eyes widened when she spotted what appeared to be torches. She felt hope flare in her heart. Someone must have discovered that she was missing, and they were searching for her!
But her hope died when another bloodcurdling yell split the night, and she saw men mounted on horses. Dear God, Indians were attacking the station!
"We have to go help the others!" she cried, scrambling to get to her feet, but the Indian pushed her down again.
"Do not speak, and do not move," he commanded. "There is nothing we can do to help."
"But-"
"I will not tell you again to be quiet," he said ominously.
She clamped her lips together, forced to watch helplessly while the Indians intensified their attack. She heard sporadic gunfire, and again hope flamed within her. Someone was firing at the Indians; perhaps they would chase away the attackers.
But again her hope died hard when she saw more Indians joining those already circling the way station.
"You should have warned the others," she whimpered. "Why can't we go back and help them now?"
Tykota's Woman (Historical Romance) Page 3