Lakota Renegade

by Baker, Madeline

  Jassy cried out as one of the warrior’s struck Creed across the face with the end of his bow, raising a long red welt. She covered her eyes as the Indians circled Creed, closing in on him like wolves around a bloody carcass as they repeatedly struck him with their fists and their weapons.

  With his hands bound behind his back, Creed was virtually helpless, although he managed to kick one of the warriors in the groin before they overpowered him, driving him backward to the ground.

  Creed drew his knees up to his chest and bowed his head in an effort to shield his face and groin from the blows that were coming harder and faster. Fists and feet pummeled his back, drove the breath from his lungs, until his whole body was throbbing with pain. A red mist clouded his vision, blood spurted from his nose and trickled down the side of his mouth. He heard the faint sound of weeping, and then blackness washed over him, mercifully sucking him down, down, into nothingness…

  Jassy was crying openly now, the tears flowing down her cheeks. She flinched each time she heard a fist strike flesh.

  Blood dripped from multiple cuts on Creed’s face and neck and arms. When would they stop? Why wouldn’t they stop? They were killing him. She pressed her hands over her ears and closed her eyes, unable to watch any longer.

  And then, abruptly, the Indians turned their backs on Creed and walked away.

  Jassy stared at Creed. His clothes were torn, splattered with blood. And he didn’t seem to be breathing.

  “No,” she whispered. “No, please.”

  She started to go to him, but the Indian nearest her grabbed her around the waist and tossed her, none too gently, onto the back of a horse. With a grunt, he swung up behind her and rode away.

  Twisting around, Jassy gazed over the warrior’s shoulder.

  Creed lay as before, limp and unmoving, his face and body covered with dirt and blood.

  *

  Pain. Waves and waves of pain that washed over him and receded, only to return. Pain that grew in intensity as he swam through thick layers of darkness toward consciousness.

  Creed groaned low in his throat as full awareness returned. There was the taste of blood and dirt in his mouth. His left eye was swollen almost shut. He lay still for a long while, learning to live with the pain, and then he began to work the rope that bound his hands. He grimaced as the narrow strip of rawhide cut deep into his wrists.

  He was sweating and swearing profusely, the skin on his wrists slick with blood, before he managed to free his hands. Feeling sick and exhausted, he closed his eyes, felt himself again spiraling down, down, into blessed oblivion.

  It was dark and he was shivering with the cold when he came to the second time. Moving carefully, he sat up, one arm wrapped protectively around his midsection. Every breath sent new waves of pain skittering through him. He figured he had a couple of badly bruised ribs, but he didn’t think anything was broken, thank God.

  Cautiously, he tried to stand up, but he just didn’t have the strength. Fighting the urge to vomit, he sat with his back against a tree, taking slow, shallow breaths. After a while, he lifted a hand to his face. There was a deep cut across his left cheek, his upper lip was split, his lower lip was about twice its normal size. His nose, though caked with blood, didn’t seem to be broken.

  He swore softly as he began to shiver uncontrollably. He was cold, so damn cold. And thirsty. It would be so easy, he thought wearily, so easy to just lay down and surrender to the cold and the pain.

  But he couldn’t stay where he was. He had to go after Jassy, had to get her away from the Indians before it was too late, before they reached the safety of their village.

  Teeth clenched against the pain, he struggled to his hands and knees, felt the nausea roiling in his gut. Eyes closed, head hanging, he panted softly for a few minutes and then, swearing softly, he admitted defeat.

  He wasn’t going anywhere, not tonight.

  Tomorrow, he thought. He’d start at first light tomorrow. He couldn’t track them in the dark, anyway. For now, he needed to sleep.

  Closing his eyes, he curled up into a tight ball, his pain-racked body shivering violently as it tried to warm itself.

  “Jassy.” He murmured her name over and over again, like a prayer, until sleep overtook him.

  *

  Her fear grew with each passing mile. Fear for what would happen to her when the Indians reached their destination. Fear for Creed. She prayed fervently that he was still alive even though she knew he must be dead. No one could endure such a beating and hope to survive.

  It was near dawn when the Indians made camp. The Indian who had taken her pushed her down on the ground, then covered her with a blanket. Jassy went rigid with horror and shock when he crawled under the blanket with her.

  He mumbled something she didn’t understand, then turned on his side. A moment later, she heard him snoring softly.

  The tears came then. Tears of fright. Tears of grief. Tears of relief because she was still alive. She thought of Creed, picturing him lying dead in the middle of the prairie, his body being mutilated by wild animals. The knowledge that she would never see him again was more horrible than the unknown fate that awaited her.

  She tossed and turned for hours, unable to sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Creed sprawled in the dirt while the Indians hit him over and over again. She could hear the sounds of their fists and their bows striking his flesh, hear Creed’s muffled grunts of pain. And now he was dead and she would never see him again. Her father had left her, her mother was dead, Rose had taken her money and run off. And now Creed was dead, and she was alone in the world, at the mercy of savage Indians…

  Jassy’s eyes were gritty with the lack of sleep when her captor rolled nimbly to his feet early the following morning. He untied her hands, which had gone numb long since, then spoke to her in a harsh guttural tongue, gesturing toward the chaparral with his hand.

  Hoping he was saying what she thought he was, Jassy picked her way toward the brush. Squatting behind a tall shrub, she relieved herself, thinking that she had never in her life felt so utterly filthy. Her hair needed combing. Her mouth tasted like the inside of a spittoon. Her clothing was dirty and wrinkled.

  Her wrists were sore from being bound, her hands were numb.

  And then she remembered that Creed was dead, and her discomfort no longer seemed important.

  After adjusting her skirts, she peered around the scrub brush. The Indians were breaking camp. No one seemed to be paying any attention to her.

  Quick as a wink, she lifted her skirts and began to run, away from the savages who had killed Creed, and killed all her hopes for the future with him.

  She ran blindly, not knowing or caring where she was going, knowing only that she had to get away.

  The ground blurred beneath her feet. Her heart was hammering wildly. A sharp pain darted along her side, and still she ran—away from the horror and the memory of Creed’s death, away from the terror that awaited her at the hands of her captor.

  Her blood was pounding in her ears like thunder, the pain in her side was knife sharp, when the strength went out of her legs and she sprawled facedown in the dirt.

  Sobbing, she scrambled to her knees, knuckling the tears from her eyes.

  It was then that she saw the Indian. He was sitting on his horse a few yards behind her, his expression as empty as the sky.

  “No.” Jassy shook her head.

  She stood up as he rode toward her. It had all been for nothing.

  *

  Left. Right. Left. With dogged determination, Creed put one foot in front of the other.

  Each step sent knifelike slashes of pain lancing through him.

  Each step carried him that much closer to Jassy.

  He squinted up at the sun. He’d been walking about two hours, although it seemed like two days. Every inch of his body ached. His throat was as dry as the dust beneath his feet. His stomach alternated between hunger and nausea, and still he kept going.

  When he s
aw the stream, he thought it was an illusion conjured up by his thirst.

  “It isn’t real,” he muttered, but he flopped down on his belly and buried his head beneath the water.

  It was real. Cold and wet, sweeter than anything he had ever tasted. He drank slowly, only a small amount at a time, knowing he’d vomit it all back up again if he drank too much too fast. But, Lord, it was tempting, so tempting.

  When he had taken the edge off his thirst, he stripped off his tattered clothing and sank down in the water, letting the current rinse away the dirt and the blood that covered him from head to foot.

  He felt considerably better when he emerged from the stream.

  He took another drink, rinsed the dirt and blood from his shirt and pants as best he could, then spread his clothes over a rock to dry.

  Buck-naked, he stretched out on a scrawny patch of yellow grass and closed his eyes, basking in the heat of the sun.

  It was late afternoon when he woke. His clothes were dry and stiff, and he groaned softly as he pulled on his pants, then shrugged into his shirt.

  Damn, but he felt like the very devil, he mused as he dragged a hand across his jaw. His left eye was still swollen, the cut on his cheek throbbed with a dull ache, and his whole body felt like it had been stomped by a loco bronc.

  But he was alive.

  Alive and hungry.

  And there were fish in the stream.

  Stretching out on his stomach on the bank, he cupped his hands in the water, and waited.

  Twenty minutes later, there was one less trout in the stream.

  The Indians had taken his tobacco, but they hadn’t found his matches. In a short time, he had the fish spitted over a small fire.

  A slow grin spread over Creed’s face as he stared into the flames. Now, all he needed was a horse, a gun, and a little luck.

  “Hold on, Jassy,” he muttered softly. “I’m coming.”

  *

  She was tired and hungry and frightened out of her mind. Every minute took her farther away from civilization and deeper into the heart of Indian country.

  She was keenly aware of the warrior riding behind her, of the heavily muscled arm that curved around her waist.

  They rode steadily for hours, stopping only once to water the horses. Jassy needed to relieve herself, but the Indian didn’t offer her the chance and she had a terrible feeling that, if she wasn’t allowed a few minutes privacy, she was going to embarrass herself.

  It was near dusk when the Indians made camp for the night.

  Her backside was numb from spending so many hours straddling a horse, her back and shoulders ached. Her legs felt like rubber when her captor lifted her from the back of his pony. Desperate to relieve herself, Jassy stumbled into the bushes.

  Squatting in the short yellow grass, she closed her eyes, fighting back the urge to cry. What good would crying do now? There was no one to hear her, at least no one who cared.

  Totally dispirited, she stared into the gathering darkness, wondering if she dared risk running away again. But where would she go? She had no idea where she was. Still, it would be infinitely better to die in the wilderness than be ravished by savages.

  She was trying to decide which way to go when her captor appeared, a knowing smirk in his deep black eyes as he gestured for her to return to their campsite.

  Feet dragging, she did as she was told. When they reached the others, her captor gave her a shove, then leaned down and tied her hands together. She felt a surge of gratitude because he hadn’t secured her hands behind her back, and then she thrust the thought away. She wouldn’t feel anything for this man except hatred. She glared at him as he thrust a hunk of jerked meat at her.

  It looked dry and old and decidedly tasteless, but she was too hungry to be choosy. Scowling, she reached for the jerky, wishing she had the nerve to throw it back in his face. She accepted the bladder he offered her, shivering with revulsion as she put her mouth where his had been but a raging thirst overcame her squeamishness and she took a long drink of the water, which was warm but still quenched her thirst.

  Jassy gnawed on the jerky as she stared into the flames.

  Creed was dead. She couldn’t seem to think of anything but that. She’d never see him again, never hear his laugh, feel the touch of his hand, so gentle in her hair. She lifted her hands, fingering the beaded choker at her throat. It was all she had left of him now, that and her memories.

  She remembered the way Creed had come to her rescue in the alley, the sound of his voice, so deep and soft, when he asked her name. She recalled how he had looked the following morning when she had gone to his hotel room to thank him for his help, the odd expression in his eyes when she had handed him a plate of cookies. She remembered staring at him, at his naked chest, at the gun he had shoved into the waistband of his trousers. He’d bought her a dress—the first new dress she’d had in years.

  He had comforted her the day she buried her mother. No one else had offered her a word of solace, not the minister, who might have at least lied and said he was sorry. Not even Rose. Only Creed. He had held her while she cried, gently stroking her hair. He had kept her company when Rose went off to Denver with one of her customers. Like a guardian angel, he had always been there when she needed him the most. And now he was gone…

  Steeped in sorrow and despair, she curled up on the ground, her cheek pillowed on her bound hands.

  Creed was dead, and she felt empty and alone. She tried to cry, wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come.

  Dry-eyed, she stared into the darkness. Creed was dead, and nothing else mattered.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Creed stared into the distance, wondering why he didn’t just lay down and die. He’d been walking for two days, quietly cussing himself for staying in Harrison when he should have gone to Black Hawk, cursing the Indians, the heat, the burning sand. He cursed Jassy for being young and irresistible and himself for not having the good sense to admit he was licked.

  He was tired and hungry, sore from head to foot, and madder than hell.

  And more worried than he cared to admit.

  Two days. Anything could have happened to her in that time. She could have been raped. Killed…

  He shook the thought from his mind, refusing to even consider such a thing.

  He focused his attention on the pony tracks that stretched northward. Except for their trail, the Indians had left little sign of their passing.

  A faint line of greenery promised water and Creed quickened his stride, one arm wrapped protectively around his midsection. When he reached the stream, he dropped to his knees, grunting softly as he jarred his bruised ribs.

  For a moment, he just sat there, waiting for the pain to pass, and then he stretched out on his belly and took a long, slow swallow. When his thirst was quenched, he splashed water over his face and chest.

  Closing his eyes, he rested his head on his forearm. From a distant corner of his mind came near-forgotten Lakota words of gratitude.

  “Pilamaya, Ate.”

  Thank you, Father. For the tall grass. For the clear water. For the warm sun. For the buffalo… As a child, he had been taught to be thankful for so many things. What had happened to that gratitude, that sense of wonder that had filled his mind and heart when he was young?

  Thank you, Father. For life. For wisdom. For a warrior’s strength and courage. For Jassy…

  Jassy. She had restored his faith in people, given him a new sense of wonder. She had baked him cookies! The memory made him smile. What other woman would bring cookies to a hired gun?

  He had taken her to the valley outside Harrison and seen it again, new and fresh, through her eyes. How long had it been since he’d taken time to appreciate the beauty of the wildflowers that bloomed in the valley, the way the sunlight danced and shimmered on the small blue pool, the stately grace of the trees that housed the birds and provided shade in the summer’s heat?

  Jassy. In spite of her dismal upbringing, in spite of the fac
t that her mother and sister were whores, Jassy had remained untouched by ugliness, by bitterness, though she had every right to be bitter. Somehow, she had managed to hang on to her youth, her innocence, her faith that things would get better. He thought of her wearing the beaded choker his grandmother had given him.

  His grandmother, bless her. Except for Jassy, Okoka was the only woman who had ever loved him wholly and completely, who had expected the best of him and refused to settle for less. Jassy, with hair like a dull flame and the spirit of a Lakota warrior. He couldn’t let her down now.

  Eyes closed, he murmured a fervent prayer to Wakán Tanka, praying for the Great Spirit’s help in finding Jassy, praying for the strength to go on.

  He took another drink from the river, savoring the sweetness of the cool water, and then he stood up, determined to find Jassy, or die trying. It was near dusk when Creed neared another water hole.

  Covered with dust, his throat as dry as the ground at his feet, he almost spooked the horse before he saw it.

  Halting in mid-stride, Creed held his breath while his gaze moved over the animal. It was an Indian pony, rawhide tough, with a deep chest and wide, intelligent eyes. Extending one hand, Creed approached the horse, surprised that the pinto didn’t bolt, and then he saw the rope tangled around the horse’s forelegs.

  Eyes wide, nostrils flared, the horse backed up, but the rope acted like hobbles, preventing the animal from running away. “Easy, girl,” Creed said softly. “Easy. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

  The mare’s ears twitched at the sound of his voice, and then she lowered her head and sniffed his hand. Careful not to make any sudden moves, Creed patted her neck, a little awed by the mare’s unexpected appearance. A lucky coincidence, he mused, or a gift from the Great Spirit?

  “Easy, girl.” Taking hold of the horse’s mane, he untangled the rope from her legs and fashioned a rough hackamore.

  “Pilamaya, Ate,” Creed murmured and wondered how much better and simpler his life might have been if he’d adhered to his grandmother’s teachings, if he’d put his trust in Wakán Tanka instead of a steady hand and a fast draw.