Arizona Gold

by Maggie James

  The woman gestured to Kitty to sit down on the floor. Glancing about uneasily, she noted that the furnishings were sparse—animal skin rugs, crockery of different sizes and shapes, baskets filled with herbs and vegetables.

  The woman handed her a clay platter heaped with tortillas and curtly said, “Eat.”

  Kitty did so ravenously. At one of the home stations she had watched the cook as he made the stiff dough from flour, baking powder, water, and salt. He had pulled off a lump about the size of a biscuit, rolled it, then slapped it between his hands till it resembled a pancake. It had then been baked dry on the bottom of an inverted fry pan over the fire. Kitty found it a bit bland tasting but filling nonetheless.

  “My name is Pale Sky. By what name are you called, boy?”

  She repeated the lie. “Billy Mingo.”

  “And how old are you, Billy Mingo?”

  “Fifteen,” Kitty lied again. She reasoned if the Indians thought she was older they might expect her to work harder even if she was small.

  A shadow crossed Pale Sky’s face. “That is the same age as my husband when he was taken captive.” Stiffly, she added, “I wish my son had not brought you here. You will only be in the way.”

  Kitty laughed uneasily. “Well, ma’am, I’ll be glad to leave any time you say.”

  “You will stay until my son says you may go. For now, you are his slave, and you will do his bidding…and mine, as well. But if you do as you are told, I will not mistreat you. Do you understand?”

  Kitty assured her that she did, grateful that the woman seemed borderline friendly. “I will do the best I can, but I don’t know your ways. I don’t know what you want me to do.”

  “I will teach you.”

  Kitty continued to eat, although her stomach was in knots as she wondered what the future held. She was in the hands of savages, who would kill without batting an eye. She would have to be very careful, toe the line, and try to do everything she was told. It was the only way she would survive—that and not let them discover she was a woman.

  She wiped at her forehead with the back of her hand. It was very hot, and she was sweating.

  Pale Sky noticed and said, “I know it is warm, but we cannot make the cooking fires outside. The smoke might lead the pony soldiers to our camp.”

  Maybe that’s the key to being rescued, Kitty wryly thought—setting the camp on fire.

  “You are fortunate my son took you.”

  Kitty shot her an incredulous look. “You think I should be grateful I was captured?”

  “My son told me when he stopped Coyotay from killing you, Coyotay then wanted to make you his slave. My son saved you from a fate worse than death.”

  Kitty snorted. “Whitebear could have just left me where I was. Then I’d be real grateful.”

  Pale Sky frowned. “Eat. You have much work to do this night. My son learned from his father to like baths and you must bring water from the creek to heat over the fire to fill his tub in his tepee.”

  Whitebear had called it a tent. His mother called it a tepee. Kitty did not know what it was, nor did she care. All she was concerned with was having to lug big buckets of water and trying not to be around Whitebear when he was naked.

  “Hold out your wrists.”

  Pale Sky towered over her with a small pot smelling of pine and clover. Smoothing its contents over the chafed skin, she said, “Your wounds are not bad. My son was gentle when he tied you.”

  Kitty felt like saying she would hate to see what he was like when he tied rough. Then she chided herself, because he could have made her suffer a lot more than she had. She would just have to keep reminding herself that things could be a lot worse. It was best not to antagonize anyone.

  “Thank you,” she murmured when Pale Sky finished smoothing on the ointment. “I appreciate your kindness.”

  Suddenly Pale Sky dropped to squat before her, gazing intensely upon her face. “Continue to be obedient, Billy Mingo. I do not want to see you mistreated. I saw what being taken from the white man’s world did to my husband. I do not wish you to suffer the same way. Perhaps in time, I can persuade my son to set you free. Until then, I pray you do not make trouble for yourself.”

  Kitty was curious about a lot of things, like who was Whitebear’s father and where was he? But she dared not ask about that just yet. Instead she decided to try and learn the real reason the stagecoach had been attacked. “Whitebear was looking for a white woman,” she said. “Did he intend to make a slave of her, too?”

  Pale Sky’s expression turned to one of surprise. “He told you this—that he was searching for a woman?”

  “Yes. Her name was”—Kitty pretended to flounder to remember—“Kitty Parrish.”

  Pale Sky stood. “It is none of your concern.”

  Not much it isn’t, Kitty thought, her anger smoldering over what Opal Grimes had done.

  Pale Sky handed her two buckets carved from logs and threaded with rope for carrying. “I will take my son his food while you make ready his tub.”

  Kitty took the buckets. “He said he would have lots of visitors tonight.”

  Again, Pale Sky was astounded. “He told you about the girls? It seems my son tells you much, and you are a stranger as well as a slave.”

  “He only told me because I said I didn’t want to sleep inside with him, and he said he didn’t want me to, anyway, because he would have enough company.”

  Pale Sky nodded. “Adeeta will more than likely be the only one. She wishes to marry him, so she makes sure to visit him first, then sleeps the night so that Meena, the other maiden who also wants him, cannot go to him later.”

  It sounded terribly primitive to Kitty, and she figured her shock must have shown on her face, for Pale Sky said defensively, “It is the custom. Mating before marriage is not punished or considered wrong. And it is not the young boys who encourage it but the girls. It is common, you see, for the more mature unmarried girls to slip into a boy’s tepee and teach him the art of lovemaking. It is supposed to be a secret, as the girls wish not to be called immoral, but Adeeta and Meena have been pursuing my son for so long that everyone knows it.”

  Kitty was exhausted. Her rope burns hurt despite the salve. The tortillas had not satisfied her, and she was still hungry…not to mention thirsty. She would like to have a bath herself and wanted nothing more than to fall down on one of the cozy-looking fur pieces on the floor and sleep for days. Yet she had grueling work ahead of her hauling water, not to mention having to bathe a man, and the last thing she wanted to hear about was his lovers. “I’ll fetch the water,” she said drily and turned toward the entrance and lifted the fur piece.

  Behind her, Pale Sky snickered. “Do not worry, Billy Mingo. The maidens will not visit you. You are a slave. They know to have nothing to do with you.”

  Thank God for that, Kitty thought. Amorous Indian girls creeping into her bed was the very last thing she needed.

  She counted a dozen trips to the stream to fill the pot on the stove inside Pale Sky’s wickiup.

  The Indians stared at her curiously, some with open hostility. A girl stepped from a wickiup and shook her fists and screamed words Kitty did not understand, but she sensed it was a threat. Then she saw Coyotay in the background and knew the reason.

  Carrying the hot water to Whitebear’s tent as steam rushed into her face was extremely difficult, and her weary legs staggered under the weight.

  Whitebear, munching on what looked like a roasted rabbit leg, watched her come and go, urging her now and then to go faster.

  She felt like telling him if he was in such an all-fired hurry to get started rutting two girls all night long, to just go ahead. Why bother with a bath first?

  But she said nothing, doggedly continuing until the tub was amply filled.

  “How did you get a tub out here, anyway?” she could not resist asking as she emptied another bucket.

  He regarded her coldly. “It was at our last camp, before we were forced to the reservation.
It belonged to my father. I found it and brought it here.

  “Would you like to use it after me?” he surprised her by adding. “Or do you prefer to stay dirty?”

  Kitty’s gaze dropped to take in her overalls, filthy from the long walk as well as the tumble over the rocks. Her arms were streaked with grime. She had taken off her boots because her feet were so sore, and she could see they were nasty, as well. Her hair was probably the worst—greasy and smelling like a horse. The thought of warm water, even dirty, was enticing, but, of course, she could never indulge due to her secret. “I will bathe in the stream later.”

  “As you wish. And by the way, you can have the run of the camp, because you won’t get far if you try to run. There are sentinels all over the place.”

  She would remember that—just as she would not forget to make sure it was pitch dark before stepping into the stream where she had just filled the buckets. It was narrow and not too deep, and she could manage a bath in the dark.

  “If you could let me borrow some clothes till I wash my own, I would be appreciative,” she dared request.

  He threw back his head and laughed long and loud before sweeping her with mocking eyes. “If you wore my clothes then I would lose you, because they would swallow you—skinny bird that you are. But don’t fret. I’ll have my mother borrow things from one of the younger boys, though you’d come nearer fitting into a girl’s dress.”

  Kitty scurried out, lest he think about what he had just said and wonder more about her diminutive size.

  She returned with the last of the water. Bending and pushing the tent flap open with her hip, she turned and, with a soft cry, nearly dropped the bucket.

  Whitebear was naked.

  His back was to her, and she was thankful he could not see her face, which had to be the color of blood.

  Transfixed, she stared, her gaze dropping to his muscled calves before slowly moving upward. She had never seen a naked man before, but she doubted many could be as glorious as the one standing before her. She even reached with trembling fingers to part her hair for a better view.

  His thighs were also hard muscled, corded and strong, stretching to his high, well-molded and cupped buttocks. Her eyes lingered there, and she nearly choked, biting back a gasp as he bent forward to scratch his ankle, giving her a brief glimpse of his manhood.

  His back rippled as his moved, and his shoulders were incredibly broad and sinewy. His arms looked powerful, as though he could crush with one mighty embrace, and, for a dizzy instant, Kitty imagined how it might feel to be so deliciously imprisoned.

  She shook her head to clear it, still mesmerized, and he turned and saw and bellowed, “What are you standing there for? Pour the water.”

  She did spill it then, all over her legs, because as he turned around, she retreated a few steps, making the water slosh over the rim.

  “What is wrong with you?” he roared, yanking it from her. He poured the rest in the tub. “For a boy who knows how to shoot a gun like you do, you’re acting like a sissy. It’s a good thing I did take you captive, because you’d likely get yourself killed, foolish as you are.”

  “I…I’m sorry,” she managed to stammer, keeping her eyes turned away as he stepped into the tub.

  He settled into the water, leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and gave a satisfied sigh.

  Kitty just stood there, not knowing what to do. She wanted to turn and run but knew if she did it would only make him angrier.

  “Well?”

  He was glaring at her.

  “I don’t know what you want me to do,” she said in a thin, frightened voice.

  He snapped, “What I want you to do is give me a bath, damn it. Now, listen to me, Billy”—he pointed his finger—“I am not an unnecessarily cruel man, but you try my patience. Annoy me one more time this night, and I don’t care what my mother says, I will give you a sound thrashing to teach you your place.”

  Kitty swallowed nervously. He would do it, too, and then he would discover her secret, and there was no telling what would happen then. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  He pointed to a small bowl nearby. “My mother makes good soap from the aloe roots. She pounds them to a pulp. Work it into a lather with some water, then soap me all over.”

  “All…over…,” she echoed, heart pounding.

  With an annoyed grunt, he settled back again.

  Kitty picked up the bowl and mixed the aloe into a sudsy paste.

  “Start with my hair so it can be drying,” he ordered. She worked the lather into his dark hair, using her fingertips to work out the tangles.

  “Massage my scalp.”

  She did so, trying to focus on what she was doing and not look at the rest of him.

  “Now shave me.”

  Timorously, she admitted, “I don’t know how.”

  He looked at her—or tried to. Her face was obscured by the mat of hair hanging over it. “I don’t suppose you do. And I shouldn’t trust you with a sharp blade, anyway. Never mind. I’ll do it myself when you’re done. Work on getting done now.”

  She endeavored to work fast, moving her hands in circular motions, not rubbing too hard but enough to cleanse him.

  As she touched his chest, his nipples, she prayed for her fingers not to shake, for something she did not understand was moving over her. Sensations. Feelings. Emotions. From head to toe and settling in her loins, a stirring…a hunger.

  She moved over his shoulders, down his arms. He leaned forward so she could scrub his back.

  And then it was time to go lower, and Kitty wondered if she could do it…if she could actually wash him there.

  Stalling for the inevitable moment, she bathed his feet and legs, again experiencing bizarre, hot waves as she touched his thighs and hips.

  “I’ll do the rest,” he said suddenly, taking the bowl away from her to pour the contents into the water. “Now get me a towel.”

  She glanced around but did not see anything that even remotely resembled a towel. Actually the tent was sparse. There were no cooking utensils or pottery as in Pale Sky’s. A bow and some arrows were stacked to the side, along with a rifle. Other than a few animal skins piled about and a bearskin rug on the dirt floor, there was nothing.

  “There,” he said impatiently and pointed. “The small woven blanket. I dry with it.”

  She rushed to obey but, when she returned, he was standing, and her eyes locked on a scar she had not noticed before. It was shaped almost like a star, low on his abdomen.

  He took the blanket from her and began to dry himself. Noticing how she was staring at the scar, he said, “I almost died when I got that. I suppose you wish I had.”

  “Yes,” she said, matching his sarcasm, “along with all your people.”

  He quirked a brow. “Really? My mother, too? I passed by her wickiup when the two of you were talking, and it seemed she was being unnecessarily nice to you. Why would you want her dead?”

  “I…I don’t know.” Kitty felt her temples begin to throb. She was so tired, and it was hard to think straight. She should not have made such a terrible remark, because despite the horror stories she had heard about Indians, they could not all be savages. Then there were the children. She had seen them clinging to their mothers as she made her trek to and from the stream, eyes wide with curiosity but shining with innocence, as well. “I’m sorry.”

  He continued drying himself, watching her thoughtfully as he did so.

  Kitty folded her hands behind her back and stared at the ground. He was only a few feet away, still evoking emotions in her that she did not understand. What was wrong with her? She was his slave. He was her master. And here she was wondering what it would be like if he were to take her in his arms and—

  “Go and fetch the tulapai from my mother.”

  She had no idea what he was talking about but hurried to get whatever it was.

  Pale Sky was waiting to give her a clay jug filled with something that reminded her of the way Tormey Rank
in smelled the night he had attacked her in the barn. “Whiskey,” she said to herself out loud.

  “It is called tulapai,” Pale Sky said. “Tomorrow I will show you how it is made. My son is one of the few warriors who can enjoy it without going mad.”

  “That’s nice to know,” Kitty quipped. “He’s sure been mad enough at me tonight.”

  Pale Sky smiled. “You will learn to please him, as all the slaves before you have done.”

  “There are other slaves?” She had not seen any other white people around, but it would be nice to have company in her misery.

  “Not anymore. Not since we were taken to the reservation. You are the first in a long time. I pray you will be the last. Now, hurry so my son will not again be mad with you. He likes the tulapai to relax him before his visits from the young girls.”

  The young girls again, Kitty mused as she trudged back to Whitebear’s tent. Only now when she thought of them it annoyed her to feel a twinge of jealousy, and she told herself she was the one going mad—and she’d not had one drop of the tulapai. She did not care how many girls or women he had. All she wanted was to escape.

  When she reentered the tent, Whitebear was just finishing shaving himself. He had wrapped something around him and between his legs, and, as she stared at it, he said, “It’s called a breechclout. It is what we men wear when we are not hunting or on a war party. Perhaps I can make one for you tomorrow.”

  “No, no, I—” Kitty scolded herself for appearing upset, but if he made her wear one of those diaper-looking things it was all over. She was as dead as that bear he was lying on. “Thank you, but I prefer my own clothes.”

  “For a time, I guess it’s all right.” He took a long sip from the jug, then gave a satisfied sigh. “Ah, my mother makes the very best.” He held it out to her. “Would you like some? It will make you sleep better.”

  “I…I’ll sleep just fine,” she said, once more uneasy as she added, “wherever that might be.”

  “You’ll sleep right outside. I might have need of you during the night. Take one of the skins and make your bed. And remember what I said about trying to run away.”

  She did not have to be reminded, because there was no way she was going to try to get down out of the mountains till she knew the way. If wild animals didn’t kill her, a fall would—or leave her injured and unable to continue. No, she would just have to endure as best she could until the time was right. But at least Pale Sky was apparently not the cruel sort, and Whitebear would not mistreat her as long as she obeyed him.