He gave me one long look as his mouth curled into a taunting smile.
“The time is never going to come, so you might as well just hightail it out of here, because come spring, I’m leaving!”
“You are, are you?” he stated, as he stepped closer, causing me to back up farther into the cave. “Maybe I should just fix that for you, so you will have to marry me.”
His eyes narrowed, and he reached out and grabbed my upper arm, jerking me to him. I let out a frightened cry, as his other hand took hold of my other shoulder, and he roughly placed his mouth over mine.
“How dare you!” I screamed, when his lips lifted. “I am going to inform my father of your actions, and he will make you leave the farm!”
“Your father wants you to marry me. He is afraid he will never have grandchildren at the rate you are going, so maybe we should accommodate his wishes, right here and now!”
“What do you mean?” I stammered.
I did not like the look in his eyes, as he jerked me closer to him.
“You know darn well what I mean,” he sneered, as his hand came down over my throat, and then lowered to my breast.
His fingers started fumbling with the buttons at the top of my blouse.
“No!” I gasped. “Keep your filthy hands off of me! Do you think by raping me, my father will make me consent to marrying you? He will hang you from the nearest tree.”
“It may be worth it though,” Clinton chuckled. “But I doubt that is ever going to happen.”
“You will have to kill me first!” I screamed.
“The thought has crossed my mind, but you will probably be more fun alive.”
His hand continued unfastening my buttons.
“This is absurd! If my father doesn’t kill you, my brother will!”
“That little no account scruff? He has been trying to convince you himself to marry me.”
“You have been listening in on our conversations!” I gasped.
“No more than you have been listening in on my conversations with my mother. Don’t act so frightened. It is not as bad as you believe it to be. After all, my mother did such things for a living, and her Hurdy Gurdy-Girl friends, showed me a thing or two over time. If you cooperate, I will make it worth your while, and show you some real pleasure.”
“You have no ethics or morals!” I accused. “I suppose it is expected though, being raised by a common whore!” I spit.
At that point, I felt a sting across my face as Clinton slapped me, and Scout bounded forward and grabbed the leg of Clinton’s trousers, but he merely shook Scout off.
“You keep your mouth shut about my mother! She was forced into service, because someone broke their promise to her. She was a proper lady before she showed up in Dodge.”
I thought about the fact that she had been accused of being an unwed mother.
“Well, apparently, she did not raise you as a proper gentleman!” I pointed out, looking at him through seething eyes.
“You may be right,” he laughed, “but it has its rewards.”
He was starting to push the sleeves of my blouse down my arms, as I struggled to be free of him.
“You are a horrid person! Even if you have your way with me, it won’t do you any good, because I will just leave before winter, regardless of what father, or you expect!!
“Not if I can help it,” he predicted. “You are a pretty little thing, and I know one time is not going to be enough, sharing your charms, so you might as well resign yourself to the fact, and enjoy this, instead of making it harder on yourself.”
“I could never enjoy anything you choose to do for me,” I rebelled.
“Suit yourself. One way or another, I am going to have what I’m looking for, so it is up to you how it comes about.”
“I’ll pay you!” I said suddenly, remembering the silver coins Muraco had given me. “I’ll pay you, if you just leave this place and never come back.”
Clinton threw back his head, and started laughing, shaking his shaggy brown hair about his face, as he did.
“I know you don’t have any money. Where would you come up with enough money to even tempt me?”
“I do have money! I… I found it. I was going to use it to go to Missouri, but if you leave, I won’t have to use it for that.”
“I don’t believe you. You are only trying to trick me! So you can just forget about it. Even if you do have money, as soon as I marry you, it will all be mine anyway, so why not have the pleasures of your charms and the money to boot?”
At that point, he was yanking up my skirt, trying to put his hand against my leg, and I let out a frightened scream. The sound echoed off of the walls of the cave, back into my ears, as the sound of the shredding material of my under-things mixed in with my screams.
One moment, Clinton was standing over me, tearing at my clothes, and then the next, he let out a stunned gasp, and slumped to the floor of the cave at my feet. I could not understand what had happened, until I looked up, and I saw Muraco standing in the opening of the cave, a bow in his hand, which I realized he had just used to shoot an arrow into Clinton’s back. His eyes shone dark and angry, and the way his eyes glared, almost frightened me.
“White Moon!” I gasped. “What are you doing here?”
“It is a good thing,” is all he said, and then he was stepping over Clinton’s body, and pulling my blouse back up around my shoulders. “He would have brought you harm,” Muraco mumbled.
“Is he dead?” I questioned, suddenly kneeling down beside Clinton, touching his neck to see if I could feel a pulse.
“He deserves to die,” Muraco insisted, seeming unaffected by what he had done. “He was placing his hands on a woman who did not belong to him. I heard your screams. I came to assist you.”
“But why were you even here at my farm?” I wanted to know.
“I missed you, my Pi au-dau ,” he whispered.
“If anyone discovers you here, and sees that you have tried to kill Clinton, you will be shot. They will blame you for what Clinton tried to do to me, because he will say you did it. You need to leave!”
“We can hide him, so he won’t be found. He will end up dying of his wounds. They will never know what happened to him. Then you can come with me,” Muraco insisted.
“I can’t go with you!” I almost shrieked. “We can’t just leave him here to die!” I told him in horror. “He is still breathing! How would you like it if I had left you here to die? You must leave at once! I will say I was with Clinton, when a small band of Indians came upon us, and I was able to run and hide. They will think it was just a raiding party.”
“What raiding party would not come and raid your farm?”
He looked at me intently. He was smarter than I had given him credit for.
“I don’t care what they think. You must go, and I will run for help.”
Muraco pulled me into his arms, and held me close. “I will never forget you, my Pi au-dau ,” he murmured in my ear. “Somehow, I knew you were in danger. I dreamed of it, and I came to protect you! We are connected. I cannot forget your face.” I felt his full lips kiss my forehead, and then he turned and sprinted off, leaping upon his pony and ridding away.
I stood stunned as I watched him leave. I gradually looked down at Clinton. He slowly opened his eyes and looked at me.
“It was that heathen you helped, wasn’t it?” he breathed, and then his eyes closed again.
I was afraid he had died, so I checked his pulse once more, and discovered he was still alive. I turned and ran down to the farm to get help. While I didn’t want to marry Clinton, and was not fond of him, I did not wish him to die.
I didn’t want anyone to die. Most of all, I didn’t want them to discover Muraco was responsible for shooting Clinton with an arrow. Now Clinton had something to use as leverage, because he knew about Muraco. He could accuse him of trying to rape me, instead of himself, because wasn’t that what wild Indians usually did? My father would demand that the men at the
closest fort hunt Muraco down and hang him. If Clinton ended up telling anyone about Muraco, I may be wishing he had died after all!
CHAPTER NINE
My frantic brain would not think straight. I couldn’t believe that Muraco would come back and try to insist I leave with him. Only had he not shown up, when he did, no telling what Clinton may have done. I felt that Clinton was more of a danger to me than a wild Indian.
My emotions were torn, because I could still feel the pressure of Muraco’s lips against my forehead, and the comfort, I felt in his arms. I remember the feelings that flooded through me, as I held the quilt around my shoulders and breathed in the lingering scent of Muraco. Why did he affect me in such a way? I had no answers. For one split second, when he insisted I leave with him, I actually wanted to take him up on his offer. I couldn’t understand what was coming over me!
My feet raced, and stumbled on obstacles in my path, and I was out of breath when I finally reached the house. Emmet was just coming out of the barn, and he saw the frightened look on my face.
“Where is father?” I cried. “Clinton is hurt, and we need to get him back to the house!”
“He’s out panning for gold. It would take too long to hunt him down if this is an emergency,” he insisted.
“Then get the wagon, and I’ll get Nigel to help us load Clinton onto the wagon,” I panted.
I ran across the field, calling for Nigel, until he appeared out from the corn stalks, where he had been harvesting corn.
“What’s all the fuss?” he asked. “You sound upset.”
“Clinton has been hurt. You need to help me, and Emmet put him in the wagon, so we can bring him back to the house!”
Nigel joined me, and Bertha came out on the porch, wanting to know what was going on, but I ignored her. It was because of her and Clinton that he was in the condition he was in, and it served him right for what he had been about to do to me, I thought, angrily to myself.
I kept thinking about what Muraco had said about knowing I was in danger, and coming to protect me. How could he possibly know that?
Emmet was up on the wagon bench, and Nigel and I jumped up in back, just as Darie came out on the porch to join Bertha. The two of them watched as Emmet whipped up the horses and headed in the direction that I indicated.
“How did he get hurt?” Emmet asked, as we made our way across the field, out towards the cave.
“He got shot with an arrow,” I shuddered. “Be careful. There still may be more Indians hiding in the woods,” I added to make it appear more authentic.
“Indians?” Nigel erupted. “Why are you bringing us out where we may get killed by Indians?” he demanded.
“We have to help Clinton. We will just have to risk it,” I told him. “They have probably left anyway. I didn’t even see any of them. I was just standing in one of the caves with Clinton, when an arrow whizzed in, and hit him in the back. I ran and hid. I don’t think they even saw me, because I was inside the cave, sheltered by Clinton. No one came looking for me, so when I thought it was safe, I checked to make sure Clinton was still alive, and then ran for help.”
They had no reason to disbelieve me, because there was always a threat of Indian attacks.
“I wonder why the Indians were out here?” Emmet questioned. “I thought they were all in their winter camps, and didn’t go on raids this late into the season.”
“Kit Carson, burned their camps and destroyed their supply of winter food. This used to be their hunting grounds, so maybe they were out looking for game, and one of their arrows went astray and hit Clinton. They may not have even known they had hit him, since they didn’t come near the cave, or try looking for me.” I kept improvising.
“They would have come and stolen our corn, if they were actually looking for food,” Emmet reasoned.
“Maybe they didn’t know about our fields of food, and were merely hunting. They have never come to our farm before,” I responded.
“Well, I hope we are not going into an ambush,” he murmured under his breath.
I didn’t say anything, because we were approaching the cave, and I jumped down from the wagon, and ran to where Clinton was still slumped on the floor of the cave.
“I’ve brought my brothers to help you,” I told him, but he made no effort to open his eyes, and I feared he may have died, while I was away.
Emmet was kneeling beside me, checking for any signs of life, and then he nodded, letting me know Clinton was still with us.
“He doesn’t look too good,” he said quietly. “Maybe we should break the arrow, before we try to move him.”
“No,” I cautioned. “If the arrow is broken, we won’t be able to pull the head out. We need to push it all the way through, in order to remove the arrow. Only that will make him bleed more.”
I remembered hearing about the fact that the way the arrow head was shaped, it was difficult to pull out, and if the arrow hadn’t hit any vital organs, it was easier to simply push it the rest the way though.
“Should we do it, before we put him in the wagon?” Emmet wanted to know.
I glanced into the cave, and saw a roll of the bandage strips I had made for Muraco, which I hadn’t used. Impulsively, I jumped up and retrieved it. “We can bandage him with this, after we do it, so he won’t bleed as much,” I said.
Emmet glanced down at the roll of ripped up sheet strips in my hand. “Where did that come from?” he wanted to know.
“I brought it with me when Buttercup was having her calf. I left my quilt here, as well. I had come to retrieve the things I left in the cave, and Clinton followed me. We were standing inside the cave, talking, when he got shot.”
Emmet looked at me strangely, because he knew I wouldn’t have had any need for strips of sheet for Buttercup, but he didn’t say anything. He merely nodded.
“I think he is unconscious, so maybe he won’t feel anything,” Emmet predicted, as he grasped the arrow shaft in one hand, and held Clinton in a sitting position, ripping the bottom of his shirt away, so he could push the arrow the rest of the way through. Luckily, the arrow had hit him in the side of his back, so I was hoping it didn’t cause that much damage.
“Looks like a Kiowa, arrow,” Emmet muttered.
“Seeing as how they are the nearest tribe, other than the Comanche, I suppose you are right,” I confirmed.
Nigel was standing over us, watching with interest. He looked pale though, and I thought he was feeling ill. I helped hold Clinton steady, as Emmet pushed the arrow through. The arrow had already gone fairly deep, so there wasn’t much distance left to push the arrow the rest of the way through.
Clinton, didn’t respond, and I was wondering if he had actually died, during the process, and removing the arrow was what had killed him.
The blood started to pour out of Clinton’s wound, and I put a folded square of sheet over the hole, and then started to wrap the strips of sheet around Clinton’s body to hold the square in place. I ripped the strip down the middle in order to tie it to the other end of the make-shift bandage, to hold it tight.
Then I gathered up the quilt, and laid it in the bed of the wagon. I removed Clinton’s gun belt and threw it in the bed of the wagon, and then between the three of us, we managed to lift Clinton up. Nigel and I took a leg apiece, and Emmet carried Clinton by the shoulders. I heard Clinton start to groan, as we lifted him into the wagon.
“You’re going to get through this,” I encouraged him.
He grabbed my hand, and looked up into my eyes, but the look he gave me, was not one of appreciation. His eyes looked angry.
“You are going to pay for this,” he whispered, as he squeezed my hand so tightly, I thought he may break it.
I was surprised he still had that much strength.
“No…” I rasped back. “It is you who have paid for what you were about to do to me. One word from you, and I will inform my father.”
When I said that, Clinton gave a strange laugh.
“Won’t do you a
ny good,” he murmured, and then passed out again.
“What are you talking about?” Nigel muttered.
He was not looking as pale as before.
“Nothing,” I told him. “I think Clinton is starting to become delirious. He doesn’t know what he is saying.”
We rode the rest of the way in silence, because Clinton remained unconscious, and I was glad. I worried what he may do, though. Even if Clinton threatened to tell how I saved an Indian, in order to force me to marry him, I would refuse to do so, I vowed.
As soon as the wagon pulled up in the yard, Bertha was running towards it.
“What happened? What happened?” she cried in near hysterics.
“Clinton is hurt,” was all I told her.
“Has he been shot? I thought I heard someone shooting a gun,” she informed us.
But who did she think would shoot him? I didn’t remember hearing a gun, but then I had been in the cave.
Darie was there too, but she was not asking any questions. Like Nigel, she was merely watching the proceedings.
“Maybe we should just put him on the sofa until father comes and can help Emmet carry him upstairs,” I suggested.
Emmet, Nigel, and I took up the burden of carrying Clinton into the parlor, and laying him on the sofa, while Bertha hovered over him.
“You never told me what happened,” she accused.
“He got shot by an arrow,” I told her.
“An arrow? How on earth did he get shot by an arrow?” she demanded, her eyes wide with horror.
I thought it strange, she expected he had been shot by a gun, when there was no one on the farm that would shoot him, and yet surprised that Indians may come and shoot him, when there was every possibility that Indians may be in the area.
“Why did you think he had been shot by a gun,” I asked in return.
“I told you. I thought I heard a shot, earlier,” she admitted.
“Maybe it was the Indians shooting. They sometimes have guns, only I didn’t hear any guns, and I didn’t even see any Indians, so it must have been a stray arrow that hit Clinton. There must have been Indians hunting in the woods near by. Emmet and I removed the arrow, though. I’ll go get some of father’s whisky, to clean the wound and re-bandage it again.”
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