by Shirl Henke
A sad smile tinged Stephanie's lips. “That's my father's opinion, too.”
“Well certainly it's yours as well,” Thelma said with a hint of a question in her voice.
“I'm not so sure we have the right to take all the good land away from people who were here for hundreds of years before us.”
“Humph, you'd not say such a foolish thing if you'd ever seen white captives brought back from the hands of those sadistic miscreants. I for one would take my own life before I'd allow a filthy savage to touch me!”
Looking at Thelma Harris's fat, doughy white face, Stephanie experienced a twinge of doubt that any self-respecting savage, except for a cannibal, would want her, but forbore making such a shocking remark. I wonder if Chase has ever taken any white captives?
The thought ambushed her, as thoughts about him always did, no matter how she tried to suppress them. Feeling suddenly uncomfortable with the self-righteous Mrs. Harris, Stephanie said, “My hotel is only a block away and I need to stop in the mercantile for some thread. Please, just let me off in front of it. I can walk the short distance from there.”
After thanking Thelma for the ride and bidding her farewell, Stephanie made her purchase in the store, then strolled toward the hotel. At the next intersection she spied a narrow back street that seemed a shortcut. On impulse, she started down it, passing a rather seedy looking saloon. Well, it is broad daylight, she assured herself, crossing the street to avoid the swinging doors. That was when she saw the horse tied in the alley.
There was no way she could mistake the big chestnut with the white star on his forehead. The powerful thoroughbred was Hugh's. The thought that he had come back from his western assignment early and sought solace in a bottle instead of her arms hurt, but she had admitted for some time that their marriage would never be the idyllic one of her girlhood dreams. Then another thought occurred to her. What if someone had stolen Hugh's horse? He could be lying in some gulch outside town or even in that very back alley, grievously injured or dead while some outlaw sat in the saloon drinking up his pay!
What could she do? If she called the corporal of the guard and Hugh was in the saloon, he would be humiliated and vent his spleen on her, especially if he was drunk. But what if he is hurt? Her conscience would not allow her to walk away. Clutching her reticule tightly to her chest, she crossed the street, hoping to peer into a side window of the drinking establishment and see if he was indeed at the bar.
Stephanie was not certain whether she wanted him to be there or not, but when she edged closer to the grimy window and gazed inside, her blood froze. Everything seemed to go black for an instant, then a harsh buzzing filled her ears. She watched Hugh bend a yellow-haired harlot over his arm, kissing her open-mouthed with passion. His hand kneaded one of her big white breasts, which he had pulled free of the scanty confines of her garish purple satin gown while two other laughing whores cheered him on.
Surely he must be so drunk he did not know what he was doing! But as Stephanie stood rooted to the rough wood planking outside, Hugh picked up the voluptuous blonde and walked straight as an arrow to the stairs at the rear of the room and climbed them with effortless ease. He knew which room was hers, too, kicking open the rickety wooden door and disappearing inside without hesitation.
By the time he returned to the hotel the next afternoon, Stephanie had considered her response carefully. Although his uniform was dusty from the trail, he was freshly bathed and shaven. No traces of cheap perfume or rouge betrayed his sins. She studied him with cool, remote eyes as he walked into the sitting room of their suite, a suite paid for with her dowry money. How handsome he looked standing there, hat in hand, smiling at her.
When she remained behind the drum table unsmiling, he asked, “What the devil's wrong, Stephanie? Aren't you glad to see me after I spent three weeks in the wilderness?”
“Not nearly as much as that yellow-haired whore at the Birdcage Saloon was,” she replied calmly.
Hugh blanched, then his complexion mottled and his jaw clenched as he ground out, “What the hell are you talking about? What does a lady like you know about whores?”
“Only what I see with my own two eyes, Hugh.”
“You spied on me!” he accused incredulously.
“Not on purpose. I was taking a shortcut on my way home from the mercantile yesterday afternoon when I recognized your horse. I thought someone had stolen it...” Her ironic smile crumpled. “How could you go to a place like that—to a woman like that?”
Hugh shrugged and walked across the room to the decanter of whiskey and poured himself a drink. “A man has needs that a woman like you wouldn't understand.”
“Make me understand,” she said, masking the pain that clawed at her.
He snorted in disgust and tossed off the drink. “I most certainly am not going to discuss such a vulgar topic with my own wife.”
“A vulgar topic—or your vulgar behavior? In spite of our differences, your unhappiness over the promotion, everything else, I believed you loved me, Hugh.”
He studied her with cold dark eyes, his gaze raking from her flushed face down to her plain brown skirt. “You're not going to let this drop, are you?” he asked with an air of disgust. Polishing off the drink, he sat the glass down on the cabinet with a sharp rap and turned back to her. “Love is an illusion for children and fools. It has nothing to do with what men do with their whores—or what they do with their wives.”
He watched her flinch as if he'd struck her and felt a vicious stab of satisfaction. ‘‘Believe me, you have a far better arrangement with me than Letty does.”
“Why did you marry me, Hugh, if you don't love me?” some self-punishing instinct forced her to ask.
“Why, to advance my career, of course. Your family name is not only prominent, your father is a very wealthy man. How many junior officers can afford the luxuries we have? Can entertain their superiors?”
If she thought the pain was terrible before, the queer hollowness that struck her now was perhaps worse. “You only wanted my money—like some—some cicisbeo!”
“Don't be so priggishly self-righteous, Stephanie. It was a fair exchange. The protection of my name at a rather vulnerable time in your life. After your little fling with that half-breed bastard Remington, you were a social pariah in Boston. Everyone believed you'd given yourself to him. The question did occur to me as well. I must confess I was relieved to find you a virgin on our wedding night. It would have been intolerable raising an Indian's brat, not that you seem to be in any danger of ever being able to conceive a child.”
Humiliation washed over her in waves. He had lied to her, deceived her, used her. “I had wanted your child desperately. I don't now,” she said flatly. “All that earnest protestation about my innocence the night we met—it was all an act. You thought I…” She turned away realizing that if Chase had wanted to take her she would have willingly given herself to him. In her heart she was guilty. When she had married Hugh, her virginity had merely been an accident. I’m as much a whore as Letty.
Hugh assessed the various expressions flickering across her face. She never could hide her emotions, he thought with satisfaction. “You actually fancied yourself in love with that mongrel, didn't you?” he asked, almost pityingly. “And you believed I was in love with you.”
“I've been disabused of both notions,” she replied, gripping the edge of the table but refusing to crumple before his hard stare. “Where do we go from here, Hugh?”
“Oh, I believe we can reach an accommodation, my dear. You've proven a charming hostess, a lovely ornament, an uncomplaining army wife, once you learned what was expected of you. Now that I'm up north where the real Indian campaigns will be getting underway, I expect the promotions will start to come. In a few years, when I make major, even colonel, we can return East and live with all the amenities.”
“And I'm simply to turn a blind eye when you go to other women like that...creature, Letty!”
He shook his head as i
f annoyed with a child having a tantrum. “Other wives do it, I assure you, especially in the army where long separations are part of the rigors of campaigning.”
“And what if I'm not like the ‘other wives’?”
His eyes riveted on hers as he asked, “Do you really want to return to Josiah's big empty house and live in disgrace for the rest of your life?” Hugh watched her crumple at last, taking a seat on the chair next to the table. “I thought not,” he said smoothly, turning back to pour another drink.
“Hugh, there is one thing I would ask of you.”
At her surprisingly level voice, he turned back to her, one eyebrow cocked questioningly.
“Will you at least be discreet? I don't fancy being the subject of post gossip.”
He nodded coolly as he rose and walked into the bedroom to change into a fresh uniform.
The next day Stephanie received a wire informing her of her father's sudden death. Since Hugh was scheduled to lead another expedition of railroad surveyors into the wilderness, there was no question of his requesting leave, thus jeopardizing his chances for promotion. Mrs. Phillips would attend her father's funeral alone.
It was a relief to take the cars east to Boston without Hugh. She had time to think, to take measure of her marriage and decide what she might do to salvage it...if she wanted to salvage it.
Once more returning to the present, she rubbed her fingers over her burning eyelids and looked out the railcar window. When I’m in Boston, perhaps everything will seem clearer.
She doubted it.
* * * *
“All right, you murdering red son of a bitch, time to wake up,” a voice yelled as the slap of ice cold water drenched Chase head to foot. The sergeant stood with the empty wooden bucket in his hand and a nasty smirk on his wide, ugly face. Sun and wind had etched lines and creases on his pockmarked skin. His blunt features were contorted in a scowl as he watched the prisoner revive.
“Bout time you come round. The lieutenant wants to see you 'n' he ain't exactly happy, since you marked up his purty face.” The sergeant gave an ugly laugh.
Chase moved his head gingerly as blinding flashes of bright pain ricocheted through his skull. His hands were tied behind him so excruciatingly tight that the circulation had been cut off. He was lying on his side in the dirt near a smoldering campfire. At least a couple of dozen Blue Coats went about their duties. Several of the men near the fire watched him warily. They were green recruits who had probably seen few live red Indians before the butchery in that Lakota camp. His eyes quickly swept past them to where a rope corral held their horses at the edge of a neat row of small canvas tents. He did not see Thunderbolt. Perhaps the horse had escaped. He could not hope to do so unless he could free his hands and reach that remuda.
His swift inventory was interrupted when the sergeant's big meaty fist seized his braid, trying to yank him to his feet. “Come on, you got a date with the lieutenant.”
Chase bit his lip to keep from uttering a sound as the pain in his head hammered in sharp staccato bursts when the sergeant’s grip on his hair tightened. His feet were free. He could have kicked the burly noncom to the dirt, but that would only have earned him a swift and doubtless brutal reprisal. He stood up slowly, shaking his head carefully once he was released. His vision was still slightly blurred. Must have hit me from behind with the butt of a carbine. Docilely, he allowed the noncom to prod him toward a slightly larger tent in the center of the camp.
The tall brown-haired lieutenant whom he had grazed was sitting at a small campaign table with maps spread out in front of him. Two civilians clad in heavy denims and grimy flannel shirts glared hostilely at Chase as the sergeant shoved him in front of the table. They were arguing with the officer.
“Now, Lieutenant, we got as much right to be here as them railroaders. They's gold in these here hills and the army can't keep honest miners from finding it,” a fat, red-faced man with long stringy gray hair said.
His companion, a small thin fellow, glared at Chase with open loathing. “He's one of the ones who killed Charlie, ain't he! I say string the bastard up!”
As he reached the table and the officer turned to face him, Chase felt the jolt of recognition. He tamped down his blazing anger behind an impassive facade. This was the son of a bitch from Washita, the young lieutenant who had taken such brutal delight in taunting and tormenting the chained half-breed boy whose life the soldiers were forced to spare. The narrow bloody furrow on the lieutenant's face had been sewn, but the stitches were large and sloppy. It'll leave a bitch of a scar, he thought in silent satisfaction. His expression gave nothing away as he stared into the furious dark eyes of the officer.
The lieutenant ignored both of the irate miners and fixed his attention on his prisoner. “So, you're awake at last,” he said, standing up to stare across the table. Unconsciously one hand came up to touch his cheek. Seeing the savage's eyes take note, he angrily jerked his hand away and walked around to inspect the captive.
Chase held his breath but the bluebelly did not recognize him. He had been a seventeen-year-old boy then. Had he changed so much—or did all breeds look alike to one such as this? Both men were the same height, well above six feet. Hard brown eyes clashed with glittering black ones for a moment. Chase's face remained expressionless, waiting to see what the officer would do.
“I am Lieutenant Hugh Phillips, United States Army, assigned to protect railroad surveyors and escort any other whites here illegally off treaty land. You're in a lot of trouble. I could have you shot...or turn you over to the tender mercies of these miners. Ever see a man hang, Indian? I've heard your kind have a superstition about it—something to the effect that it traps the soul inside the corpse.”
His tone was light, conversational as he strolled around Chase, taunting his prisoner, who stood rigidly erect, staring straight ahead, giving no sign that he understood a word of English.
Phillips studied the Indian's profile for a moment. “You have the look of a breed about you. Some dirty squaw spread her legs for a white man, huh?” he drawled.
Chase willed himself to remain absolutely immobile, giving no indication that he understood the threats or the insults as Phillips stood behind his back. His eyes glanced down across the maps and papers on the table. The daily march of the troops was neatly marked in tiny x's across the page. They would cross the Belle Fourche River in three days time.
“You really don't understand a word I'm saying...or, I wonder, do you?” He stepped up close beside his captive. “Filthy mongrel savage, you made a mistake marking me this way...a very big mistake indeed. I'll pay you back tenfold...before I let you die.”
His last words were a low purr whispered in Chase's ear so that no one else could hear them.
Chapter Eight
“Have your men take him over to that tree,” Phillips said to the sergeant, pointing to a tall fir surrounded by a thick copse of chokecherry.
As two troopers seized Chase's arms and dragged him away, he studied the lieutenant impassively. There was a cold, feral cruelty behind those eyes, a kind with which he was most familiar. Burke. He blocked from his mind any thought of what they would do with him, letting them take him without protest as if he were docile, already beaten. He scanned the camp as they walked through it. Half a dozen Henry rifles were stacked neatly beside a felled log about fifty feet from the rope corral where the horses were penned. Then he heard a familiar nicker and looked through the milling herd of sturdy cavalry mounts. Thunderbolt stood tied securely behind the other horses, his nostrils flared, scenting Chase's presence.
“Lieutenant’s got plans for you, redskin,” one of the troopers said in a sly voice.
“You should’ve kilt thet purty boy clean, not marked his face. Thet made it real personal,” his companion said with a chuckle. As they approached the tree, he slipped a knife from its sheath and slashed the tight leather holding the prisoner's wrists. Shoving Chase toward the tree he instructed his friend, “Tie his hands around th
e trunk while I keep him covered.”
Suddenly, the distant sound of music and the low vibration of hoofbeats filled the air, along with the furious baying of hounds. Both troopers paused as the sound of martial music grew louder, followed by yells of recognition.
“Damn if it ain't the general hisself, announcing his arrival with Garry Owen, just like always,” one man said with a grin. “Got them damned dogs with ‘em, too.”
Custer. Chase stiffened but gave no other sign he understood as the camp erupted in a chaos of welcome. Custer's column rode in with the long-haired “boy general” far ahead of his men as was his usual wont, surrounded by the pack of hunting hounds he always took on campaign with him. The man was tall and gangling, with a thin face and receding chin that was disguised with a heavy mustache and goatee. George Armstrong Custer's eyes were his most unforgettable feature. Icy blue and penetrating, they glowed with the gleeful delight of a schoolboy...or a madman.
Phillips and his sergeant snapped smartly to attention as the buckskin-clad lieutenant colonel dismounted. The arrival of the troopers created a billowing cloud of dust. Dogs darted in and out between the horses. Men laughed and shouted. Every eye in the camp was on the two officers conferring across the clearing.
With both of his captors momentarily distracted, Chase knew this was his only chance. He whirled and seized the rifle behind him by the barrel, shoving the stock with all his strength into its owner's solar plexus, knocking the breath from him, then swung the weapon like a club, smashing it into the head of the trooper in front of him, who crumpled while his companion doubled up, choking and gasping.
Not pausing to look back, Chase raced toward the corral, stopping to scoop up another of the new Henrys as he darted into the throng of horses. He heard the shout of alarm go up from several men but only one stood in his path, a young unarmed private frozen with fright. Chase clubbed him with one of the rifles as he ducked beneath the ropes of the makeshift corral, whistling for Thunderbolt.