by Shirl Henke
She swallowed nervously, instinctively knowing after all the years she'd been married to Burke Remington, that showing fear would set him upon her like a hound on a hare. “I wonder if you think you can arrange an unfortunate accident for me out here in this heathen wilderness, so far away from the protection of my family. It won't work. Papa would find out. He's always hated you.”
“Yes, he has. If it weren't for all those dirty Yankee dollars I've lavished on his vaunted Virginia heritage, he'd have lost Sugar Pines and he can't get that unstuck from his craw, can he? But he's still beholden to me and he damn well knows it.” He reached out and caressed the swell of her breast, then moved his hand up to lift her chin. “If I were to return East prostrate with grief over your death at the hands of marauding savages, he'd never guess—or even if he did, he'd keep quiet.”
He let the words sink in, watching her try to hide the cringing fear licking like flames behind her eyes. “But perhaps it won't be necessary…if you promise to amend your ways. Madigan's returned to Nevada. I hear he doesn't plan to seek reelection. If you don't take another lover…”
She did not trust Burke but had little choice. He was a United States senator and his family had President Grant's ear. The only one who'd ever defied and eluded him was Chase. Chase! She seized upon the idea greedily. If anyone had more cause than she to hate Burke, it was his nephew. They were natural allies. And when he won the war with her husband, Chase Remington would be a very, very rich man. She felt certain Chase would turn the tables and kill Burke. If she could just stay alive till then.
“Very well, Burke. I shall be a model of decorum,” she said smoothly, willing her hands not to tremble as she poured herself a generous libation from Burke's brandy bottle on the table. “Now, tell me about this cavalry officer you've kept in touch with over the winter
* * * *
Hugh Phillips raised his field glasses and scanned the dense pines and firs towering on the steep cliff sides all around him. “Damned if I don't think we've lost them,” he said to the Arikira scout.
Bloody Hand's impassive face looked up and his keen black eyes scanned the rugged mountains surrounding them. “There,” he said, pointing to a particularly dense stand of white fir. “That is way to stronghold. In not many miles, there be Cheyenne, watching.”
“Sentries, yes,” Phillips murmured, considering. This could be a trap. His forces were well armed and prepared. After word of the Custer massacre reached the shocked and stunned army posts across the High Plains, every company of men that could be mustered was put on alert for hostiles. The destruction of the 7th Cavalry provided Phillips the perfect excuse to requisition additional supplies for a campaign which would finally end the career of the infamous White Wolf.
After receiving word from his agents, Senator Burke Remington had arranged the transfer of Bloody Hand to Fort Steele from Fort Fetterman last fall. The Arikira brought news about a well-hidden encampment of Cheyenne whose war leader matched the description of Chase Remington, the man he now knew was the White Wolf. The nagging suspicion had grown then that it was the half-breed who had kidnapped his wife. Or Stephanie had gone willingly with the man she had planned to marry so long ago. The thought of such a betrayal had eaten at his guts like an ulcer all through the endless winter months as he sat in the fort, helplessly snowbound.
Now Hugh and Bloody Hand had prepared a trap for the White Wolf in his own lair. Knowing Sitting Bull's huge summer hunting encampment would scatter to the four winds, Hugh counted on the White Wolf's band running to ground in this hidden stronghold where he had vanished without a trace during the past years of feckless pursuit. This time things would be different, he thought with grim determination as he gave the signal for the other scouts under Bloody Hand to scale the steep cliffs and kill the sentries. Then the cavalry could surprise the savages and sweep down, exterminating the whole bloody village like so much vermin.
Vermin, that's what they were. Led by an arrogant savage who dared put his hands on a white woman, the wife of an army officer. Remington would pay for that offense before he died. The shock had been great when Burke had shown him Chase's photograph. He'd immediately recognized the breed who'd given him the scar on his cheek. He was stunned again to learn that the same breed had been the one he'd captured at Washita, as a seventeen-year-old boy who he had dragged back to civilization, screaming curses in some heathen tongue. Well, if Remington had sworn revenge, so had he—for the scar and for the humiliation of Stephanie.
Now he knew why she had never fallen under his spell, why she'd been so cold in his bed, the prissy Boston bluestocking. All along she had harbored a secret tendresse for that damned mongrel who'd jilted her! Hugh smiled to himself, thinking of the pleasure he'd take in killing her and capturing her savage lover. Of course it would be considered an accident when she was shot in the chaos of battle. Lots of Indian women and children got in the way of stray bullets or the occasional overzealous saber thrust. A pity.
All his fellow officers and their wives would commiserate with him, relieved that they'd never have to face his ruined wife. He had her money and at last he would be free of the stain she'd placed on his honor. After destroying the White Wolf, he would be written up in the Eastern press as a tragic hero, avenging Custer and his own poor unfortunate wife, both victims of the savages. At the signal from Bloody Hand, he gave the order for his men to follow him through the narrow twisting canyon entrance.
Deep in the hidden valley, Chase sat staring into the fire, deep in melancholy thought. The look on Stephanie's face when he left her with Gaston de Boef would remain with him until he died. She had not begged him. They had ridden to de Boef's cabin on the Sweetwater, stopping to camp every night under the glittering canopy of stars...and to make fierce desperate love. Each morning they had arisen and resumed the journey in silence. There was nothing left to say.
Did she hate him? Chase honestly didn't know. He had kidnapped her, ruining the life she had tried so hard to build as an officer's wife, then given her a home and family here with his people only to wrench that away, too. At least she would be free of Phillips's debased touch. Chase hoped she was grateful for that, if nothing else.
“The other warriors wish to know when we will ride, my brother,” Plenty Horses said, interrupting the White Wolf's reverie. Since he'd returned without his white wife, the fearsome raider had been heavy of heart.
“Tell them to prepare. I will say my farewells to Stands Tall and Red Bead,” Chase replied, eager to leave the safety of their hideaway and once more engage the soldiers in combat. His carefully trained and well-armed raiders could score hit-and-run victories over the ponderously moving columns of Blue Coats now taking the field against the victors of the Greasy Grass, buying time for their brothers and Lakota cousins. But Chase knew how it would ultimately end. He only prayed this small band would remain safe during the holocaust to come. If only Stands Tall and Red Bead and the children lived, he would be glad to die. If only Stephanie lived...
From the cover of dense pine and fir to the east, Phillips studied the peaceful village below, waiting for his men to get into position. Even though they had been forced to abandon their mounts and come through the steep twisting entrance to the valley afoot, he could see his soldiers outnumbered the Indians two to one and only a relatively small percentage were armed warriors. The rest were women, children and old people.
In spite of the difficult terrain, Hugh divided his command as Custer had done at Washita. On his signal, they would sweep down from the cover on the mountainside. Attacking from four directions, the soldiers would cut a swift brutal swath through the scattered skin lodges of the savages who now went about their morning chores, blissfully unaware of the fate that awaited them. In spite of the cool early morning air at the high elevation, sweat dampened his back and armpits. The sour smell of it filled his nostrils, metallic, fearful. He had waited so long for this moment that his guts clenched with the wanting of it—to savor the triumph of seeing that
brown-haired slut lying dead at his feet. He only regretted he would have to kill her quickly and make it appear an accident. Regardless of how she died, he’d not be merciful with Remington. On the other hand, the savages often killed their white captives when they were attacked rather than be forced to give them up. That would solve his problem even more neatly. But I want to see her face as I pull the trigger myself.
“All men in place,” Bloody Hand said in a low rumble.
Hugh raised his pistol and fired twice in rapid succession. Then all hell broke loose.
Chase heard the shots from inside his lodge, immediately followed by the cries of Blue Coats pouring into their valley. How have they found us? Seizing his rifle and cartridge belt he scarcely had time to consider the thought as a volley of rifle fire erupted and several women fell to the ground, one with a cradleboard strapped to her back, another shielding a small girl with her own body. People screamed, rushing for cover, women grabbing their children, old men searching frantically for their weapons.
A few of his warriors were already armed and returning fire. Chase quickly took charge, directing them to pin down the soldiers coming across the river, but no more than they'd slowed the advance, withering fire erupted at their back as more bluebellies raced into the opposite side of the camp, setting fire to the lodges. Soon the air was black with smoke and filled with the screams of humans and horses.
Just like Washita! If he hadn't seen Custer dead on the Greasy Grass, Chase would have sworn he was attacking them now. But there had been another with the Long Hair that day, a young lieutenant who no longer rode with Custer’s 7th. Phillips! Gaston de Boef was supposed to have taken Stephanie into Rawlins to catch a train east. Could she have gone to Fort Steele instead?
No! I don 't believe it, he thought as he fired at the soldiers and yelled orders to his men. But they were hopelessly outnumbered with women and children in the line of their fire. The older men like his uncle and Elk Bull were leading as many as possible to the dubious safety of the dense aspen thickets to the south of the village, but Chase could see that it was hopeless. At least his men were well armed. They would go down fighting and take as many of the bluebellies with them as they could. He looked around him searching for Phillips. The last thing he asked of life on this earth was to see Stephanie's brutal husband die.
Hugh hacked his way into another lodge where a pair of little girls cowered. Snarling in frustration that Stephanie was not there, he yelled for the corporal to put it to the torch and moved on to the next. She had to be here! All the while he searched, he watched for the renegade. Would Remington keep her with him? Then he saw Chase leading a group of warriors who were standing off C Company's frontal assault. He could worry about dispatching Stephanie later. Now he would deal with the White Wolf at last.
He signaled his men to surround the small force, calling in the last of the soldiers still in hiding to the north. As they opened fire, Phillips heard a war cry behind him and whirled about. An old man charged him with a lance. Hugh's Colt was empty so he raised his saber and hacked at the lance, easily breaking it. The next swing of the saber cut deep into the old man's neck and he went down, only to be replaced by another warrior, this one younger and not out of ammunition. Phillips swung his saber toward the raised Winchester, knocking it aside, then brought the blade back, biting into the warrior's arm before he could regain his balance. The final blow was swift and merciless and the warrior fell dead at his feet.
The battle din began to die down. Reports of rifle fire dwindled to a few staccato bursts and the fierce war cries of the Cheyenne grew mute, replaced by low keening from the women. He climbed over the bodies around him and continued his search for Chase and Stephanie. After he'd searched the last lodge left standing, he was satisfied she was not hiding in the village. The women and children who had tried to escape into the marsh grass were being herded back into camp by a group of his men. He quickly scanned them, relieved that his wife was not among them.
Had she burned to death in one of the fired lodges—or had she never reached their hidden village? Had Remington not been the one to capture her after all? Somehow he doubted that. He turned his attention to the prisoners, hoping that the White Wolf had not been granted a merciful death.
His face split into a coldly beatific smile when two of his men approached him dragging the unconscious body of a Cheyenne brave by his long hair. It was Remington and he was alive...
Chapter Twenty-Three
Gaston de Boef did not like civilization. As a fourteen-year-old boy he'd run away from the noisome filth of a Quebec slum to the pristine beauty of the great North American wilderness and never looked back. He spoke a dozen Indian languages and had three wives, an Ojibway back in Minnesota, a Shoshone in Colorado and a Cheyenne in Montana Territory. As the whim struck him, he'd left each one to strike out for new adventure. Adventure did not include towns—at least not any longer than it took to buy a bottle and skedaddle back to his cabin on the Sweetwater.
The breed's woman was trouble. He'd known it the moment he laid eyes on her, with all that rich shiny hair and golden eyes, dressed up like a squaw. But the White Wolf had paid him well and he knew he could never renege on his promise to bring her safely to the railhead in Rawlins. Simple enough, all he had to do was see that she got on the next train east as soon as they reached the big cluster of frame buildings sprawled along the south side of Front Street.
But something just didn't feel right. He scratched his scraggly beard and peered ahead toward the helter-skelter buildings of Rawlins strung alongside the Union Pacific railroad tracks. Ever since word of Custer's defeat had reached the army posts and towns in Wyoming Territory, everyone was on edge. A man like him with a foot in both worlds could find himself in a lot of trouble if anyone connected him with the missing wife of a soldier.
“You are about changed, hein? he asked, wondering what was taking Stephanie Phillips so long to shed her doeskin tunic and don the familiar trappings of a white female.
“I’m sorry, Mr. de Boef,” she replied from behind the shelter of a juniper as she finished with the seemingly endless buttons down the front of the dress he'd bought her in Granger's General Merchandise. “I'm a little out of practice with corsets and petticoats.” Not to mention how the pointy-toed shoes pinched her feet! He had purchased the cheap ready-made apparel and the shoes per her instructions regarding size, but it was still guesswork on both their parts. The green checked dress hung loosely on her while the shoes were too small. Or perhaps not. She may simply have grown used to the comfort of moccasins.
Putting aside her supple, beautiful leather tunic and donning white woman's layers and layers of clothing had been far more difficult than she ever could have imagined. Every corset lacing, hook and button distanced her further and further from Chase. He had left her in de Boef's care two days ago and ridden off without a backward glance. He'd said no good-bye, just looked at her with those hooded black eyes, then kicked his horse into a wild gallop and thundered away. The image of his half-naked body astride that big dun gelding would remain with her the rest of her life. He was of one world, she of another.
Stephanie smoothed her hair as best as she could, studying her appearance in the cracked mirror the Frenchman had brought her. In spite of the months outdoors, her face looked pale and wan. Did she look like a white captive returned from the Indians? Or simply some sodbuster's wife bound east to visit kinfolk? She prayed the latter. Her worst fear was to have someone in Rawlins recognize Captain Phillips's missing wife before she could make good her escape on the eastbound train. God only knew what Hugh would do if he found her. Shuddering, she emerged from the screen of the jumpers, reminding herself that Hugh was most probably out in the field chasing hostiles or ensconced at Fort Steele a dozen miles away.
“I’m ready now. Do you have the train ticket, Mr. de Boef?”
“Oui. The agent said she leaves the Rawlins station at ten past three,” de Boef replied, handing her the ticket he'd pur
chased while in town buying her proper clothes. She looked a great deal better in the squaw clothes than the ill-fitting white woman's fixings, but either way, the breed had fine taste in women. Stephanie Phillips was a real beauty, even if she was desperately unhappy without her renegade lover. He had observed their final terse exchange and the way she watched as the White Wolf rode away. She was married to an officer but she loved the breed, he'd bet a good bottle of whiskey on it. Shrugging, he assisted her awkwardly onto the back of his patient old mule Sarie, then led the animal slowly down the trail into Rawlins.
Stephanie stared at the stark countryside without really seeing it. Once she'd thought the jagged rock formations thrusting up from the earth in sedimented layers were desolate, the tall stands of fir and aspen intimidating, the sheer immensity of the sky unimaginable. Now this wild land no longer daunted her. The High Plains had become her home for a brief and beautiful period in her life. Wherever Chase is, that is home.
When they reached the edge of town, the wiry little mountain man scanned the expanse of railroad tracks skirting Front Street. “That big wooden building there, she is the Union Pacific guest house and eating place. You can rest inside until the train comes.”
To carry me back to Boston. Nodding, Stephanie slid from the back of the tired old mule and gave her greasy looking escort a shaky smile. “You've been most kind, Mr. de Boef. I shall always be grateful.”
“Only ride the train to safety and do not look back,” he replied softly.
They exchanged a look of understanding and then she walked down the wide dusty street skirting the tracks. Faint music wafted on the sullen noon air from a string of saloons lining the south side of Front. The church bells of St. James tolled at the hour from Cedar Street, summoning the faithful away from temptations of the flesh. She saw the austere clapboard facade of the Rawlins House Hotel at the opposite end of the street, and remembered sneaking out of it at midnight to follow Chase. That late-night encounter seemed a lifetime ago now.