Matt laughed hollowly. Anger was a waste of time and energy. In the days that followed, he found himself doing the same things Tom Claymore had done. He stayed to himself, keeping quiet, drawing no attention to his person. He watched everything that went on around him, noting what time the Indians rose in the morning, when they went to bed at night, how they spent their days. He paid close attention to the entrance of the canyon, memorizing where the guards stood to keep watch, what time the guard was changed.
Daily, he did whatever chores he was ordered to do, and daily the fact that he was a slave ate deeper into his soul, festering like an open wound. But, more than that, his concern for Lacey nagged him constantly. How was she? Was she well? Sick? Had she been abused? Raped? The last thought drove him wild. His dreams were rife with images of Lacey being forced to submit to another man’s desires. The thought haunted his days and tormented his sleep, and when he could stand it no longer, he vowed to escape before the next full moon.
He had no plan in mind, only a burning desire to see Lacey again, to touch her, to reassure himself that she was still his. In the end, he decided he would simply wait until the Indians were asleep, and then head for the canyon entrance. With luck, he would be able to slip away, undetected.
Lacey stood at the cookfire, listlessly stirring a large pot of venison stew flavored with sage and wild onions and a few vegetables. She had been a prisoner in the Apache camp for over a month now, though it seemed more like a year. She had come to understand the Indians a little, and she realized they were not the godless monsters she had once thought them to be. They were just people struggling to survive the best way they could in a hostile land. The women laughed and cried and complained, the men provided food and protection, and men and women alike adored their little ones. Apache children were never spanked or slapped, but ran carefree through the village, learning by the example of others how they were expected to behave. Only when they came of age to begin the task of becoming warriors or women were the youth of the tribe subjected to discipline.
Lacey gazed into the distance. She had never worked so hard in all her life as she had worked in the past few weeks. She was up at dawn and did not retire to her bed until late at night, rarely finding more than a few minutes each day to call her own. Her hands were rough and red, the nails broken and uneven, the palms calloused. Her fair skin had been reddened by constant exposure to sun and wind. Her hair had lost its luster, but she no longer cared about her appearance, or anything else, for her worst fear had come to pass.
His name was Sky Runner. He was of medium height, with deep-set black eyes and a ready smile. He had been smitten with Lacey from the moment he first saw her, and he came to Sun Beaver’s lodge every night bringing gifts, a pair of rabbits to sweeten the stew pot, a fine red blanket to turn away the cold, a necklace made of shells, a deer hide that had been tanned to a softness like fine velvet.
Lacey had tried to avoid Sky Runner, but he was always nearby, waiting for a chance to catch her alone. He fell into step with her when she went to the river for water, his dark eyes gazing at her with adoration. He never touched her, for it was taboo for a warrior to accost an unmarried woman, but he made it known in many ways that he found her desirable, and after a remarkably short time, he offered Sun Beaver six fine ponies for Lacey’s hand in marriage. Such a generous offering was unheard of for a woman who was a slave, and the Apache women talked of it for days.
Lacey tried to explain to Sun Beaver and to Sky Runner that she was already married, but it didn’t seem to matter. Her marriage to a white man who was, in all probability, dead was of no importance to the Indians.
Wind Woman came out of the lodge, her face set in angry lines, her shrill voice breaking into Lacey’s thoughts. Where was Sun Beaver’s dinner, the Apache woman demanded. What was taking so long?
With a shrug, Lacey dished up a large bowl of stew and handed it to Wind Woman. Perhaps marrying Sky Runner would be a blessing in disguise, she mused, for after she was married she would no longer have to endure Wind Woman’s shrewish tongue and nagging ways, though how she would endure living with a man she did not love and hardly knew was beyond her comprehension.
Lacey filled a bowl for herself and sat down in front of Sun Beaver’s lodge to eat. She could see Sky Runner in the distance. He was engaged in a game of skill with three other warriors, and Lacey could hear them shouting and making jokes as they tried to outmaneuver one another.
Sky Runner glanced at Lacey, and when he saw she was watching him, he began to try harder to win, wanting to show off his skill with bow and arrow and lance in hopes of impressing the woman he hoped to marry. He knew she did not care for him in the way a woman cared for a man, but that would change in time. He would woo her gently until she overcame her fear of him. The other warriors chided him for desiring to take a white woman for his wife when he could have his pick of the Apache maidens. She was a slave, after all. For the right price, he could likely buy her from Wind Woman and bed her as he pleased until he tired of her, and then sell her to someone else. But Sky Runner refused to demean Lacey in such a way. She was young and lovely, and he did not wish to shame her. Indeed, he wanted her for his wife, the mother of his sons.
Lacey lowered her gaze to the bowl in her lap. Sky Runner was a decent sort, for a savage, but she did not love him and she never would. How could she let Sky Runner make love to her when it was Matt whose touch she craved, Matt’s lips and hands she desired?
If she had doubts and misgivings, Sky Runner did not. He was building their honeymoon lodge in a secluded glen some distance from the Apache camp. Ordinarily the bride and her mother built such a hideaway, but Lacey was not of the Apache and ignorant of their ways, so Sky Runner had taken charge. His sister, Singing Woman, was helping him. Lacey and Sky Runner would spend ten days in the honeymoon lodge alone, so they could get to know each other better. The thought filled Lacey with dread. Ten days alone with a stranger. How could she endure living with a man who did not even speak her language? How would they communicate? What if she displeased him? Would he sell her to another warrior? She had a terrible vision of being handed from warrior to warrior until, in the end, she was cast out into the prairie to die, old and alone…
Tom Claymore shook his head in disbelief. “That’s it?” he exclaimed. “That’s your plan? You’re just going to try and walk out of here and hope for the best?”
“Something like that,” Matt admitted sheepishly. “Unless you’ve got a better idea.”
“Just one,” Claymore replied.
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Then why the hell are you still here? If you’ve got such a great idea, why didn’t you use it long ago?”
“The idea just came to me last night,” Claymore admitted. “Listen, here’s what we’ll do.”
“How’d you get in on this?” Matt asked, frowning. “You can hardly walk.”
“Maybe so, but I can still ride.”
“Okay, I’m listening.”
“Good. There’s only a quarter moon tonight. Just before midnight I’ll sneak two horses out of the herd and pussyfoot it down to the canyon entrance. You start a fire behind one of the lodges at the far end of camp. Make it a big one. While everyone’s busy putting out the fire, we’ll make a break for it.”
Matt nodded slowly. It was so simple, so damn simple, it just might work. At any rate, it was certainly worth a try. “See you at midnight, partner,” he said with a grin.
“Midnight,” Tom Claymore agreed, and hobbled away.
Matt Drago sat up, his eyes darting around the camp. The fires had all burned down to ashes, the dogs were quiet, the village was asleep under a dark and cloudless sky.
A quick glance at the sky put the time at just before midnight. Rising slowly, he ghosted along the edge of the camp, careful not to step on any sticks or twigs that would betray his presence. A few dogs stirred as he passed by, but he smelled pretty much the same as the Indians now and caused no
alarm.
When he reached the lodge furthest from the canyon entrance, he scooped a handful of coals into a bowl, then added a handful of tinder-dry twigs. When he had a small fire burning brightly, he dumped it against the back wall of the brush-covered lodge. The wickiup caught fire almost immediately, and Matt quickly disappeared into the darkness, running for the canyon entrance. Soon the cry of “Fire!” could be heard above the crackling flames, and warriors began to pour out of their lodges, wiping the sleep from their eyes. Women emerged with babes in arms or dragging young children by the hand.
Matt ran soundlessly, keeping close to the canyon wall for cover. The whole village was awake now.
“Here.”
Tom Claymore’s voice reached Matt out of the darkness, and Matt turned toward the sound, his eyes searching the night.
“Hurry,” Claymore urged, and Matt swung onto the back of the horse Claymore was holding for him.
“Let’s go,” Matt said, and they rode toward the narrow gorge that was the only exit from the canyon.
Behind them, the sky was alight with dancing flames. Two lodges were burning now, and men were running to the river, filling gourds and skins with water in an effort to douse the flames.
They were inside the passageway now. Somewhere high on the canyon rim, Matt knew there were two warriors keeping watch. Hopefully, they would be watching the fire and not the canyon entrance.
Glancing over his shoulder, Matt saw that Tom Claymore was close on his heels. They were halfway through the passage when Claymore yelled, “Go! They’ve seen us!”
Muttering an oath, Matt urged his horse into a gallop. Simultaneously there was the roar of a gunshot, and then they were thundering out of the narrow passageway and across the open prairie.
Matt glanced over his shoulder again and saw that Claymore was still close behind him. There was no way to tell if the Indians were in pursuit.
As the first faint ribbons of dawn were stretching across the sky, Matt reined his heavily lathered mount to a halt in a sandy wash. Dismounting, he walked back to where Tom Claymore sat his horse. The old man’s face was the color of chalk. His left side was soaked with blood.
“Sonofabitch got me,” Claymore murmured weakly.
“Yeah,” Matt said softly. “Here, let me help you down.”
Matt gently lifted Claymore from his horse and settled him on the ground with his back against the side of the arroyo.
“You damn fool,” Matt chided softly. “Why didn’t you tell me you were hit?”
“There’s nothing you could do,” Claymore said matter-of-factly. “Guess I’ll be meeting up with old Smoke sooner than I expected.”
“Don’t talk,” Matt said. “Save your strength.”
“I’m ready to go,” Claymore said. “I’ve lived a long life, done most of the things I wanted to do…”
Tom Claymore’s voice trailed off, and his head fell forward. Matt knew, even before he checked Claymore’s pulse, that the old man was dead.
Matt sat there for a long moment staring into the distance, watching the sun climb over the mountains, turning the sky to flame. He had not known Claymore very long, but he had counted the old man as a friend, and now he was dead.
Matt shook his head. It never failed to amaze him how quickly a life could be snuffed out. One minute you were alive, talking, laughing, dreaming, and the next you were dead, and all your hopes and dreams died with you.
Using a flat piece of wood, Matt dug a shallow hole in the soft sand, gently placed the old man in the grave, and covered him with sand and rocks.
Matt remained in the arroyo until nightfall, letting the horses rest, sleeping fitfully himself.
At dusk he swung aboard his mount and headed west leading Claymore’s bay mare. The weather was cold and he cursed, wishing he had thought to steal a buckskin shirt and a pair of leggings before leaving the canyon. The clout he wore covered his loins and nothing more, and he rubbed his arms with his hands in an effort to keep warm.
That night he slept on the ground with only a cover of leaves to shut out the cold.
Dawn found him riding westward again, mounted on Claymore’s horse.
* * * * *
The entire village turned out for the wedding. Lacey stood beside Sky Runner, clad in a doeskin dress that had been worked and bleached until it was as soft and white as velvet. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders, adorned with beads and shells. Soft moccasins hugged her feet.
Sky Runner wore a white doeskin shirt heavily fringed along the arms and back, a pair of white buckskin pants, also fringed along the outer seams, and white moccasins. A single white eagle feather was tied into his long black hair. He looked quite handsome for an Indian and a savage, Lacey mused, and felt her cheeks burn when he smiled at her. Soon she would be his wife. Even now his dark eyes were telling her that he found her desirable, that she would soon be his.
The medicine man spoke to them, the foreign words sounding harsh in Lacey’s ears. Then, taking Lacey’s hand in his, the medicine man made a small incision in her right palm. A similar cut was made in Sky Runner’s right hand, and then the medicine man pressed their palms together.
A soft cry rippled through the crowd as their blood mingled, and then the ceremony was over. Sky Runner took Lacey’s arm, gently yet possessively, and led her to where their horses stood waiting. With care, he lifted Lacey onto Cinder’s back. Then, swinging effortlessly aboard his own pony, he led the way out of the village.
Lacey’s heart was beating wildly as she followed Sky Runner toward the honeymoon lodge he had prepared for them. The sun was shining brightly overhead, but the weather was cold, though not so cold as the fear in Lacey’s heart. Birds were singing in the treetops. A deer darted across her path.
For a moment Lacey thought of trying to run away, but she knew she would never be able to outrun Sky Runner. There was no place to go, no place to hide. Endless miles of open prairie surrounded them.
Despair sat heavily upon her shoulders. This could not be happening, she thought frantically. It had to be a dream. Soon she would awaken to find herself in Matt’s arms and he would laugh all her fears away.
But it was not a dream. Some thirty minutes later she was standing outside a small brush-covered lodge while Sky Runner tethered their horses to a tree. Soon, too soon, she would belong to this man who was a stranger to her.
Matt Drago sat up, awakened by the sound of horses approaching the lodge in which he had spent the night. He had traveled hard for three days, stopping late last night in what seemed to be an abandoned lodge, although it was stocked with food and blankets. Now, as he heard the sound of hoofbeats and heard the soft murmur of a man’s voice, he realized he had stumbled into an Apache honeymoon lodge, and that the newlyweds had arrived.
Cursing softly, he padded noiselessly to the front of the wickiup, pressing back against the wall near the doorway. His only hope of escape was to surprise the groom, grab whatever weapon the Indian had, and run like hell.
The lodge flap swung open and a woman stepped into the dusky lodge. A warrior followed her. Had the man crossed to the far side of the lodge, Matt might have been able to slip out before his presence was discovered, but the warrior stopped just inside the entrance, his eyes riveted on the woman who was his wife.
Matt’s breath caught in his throat as the woman slowly turned around to face her husband. Lacey! For a moment he could not move, could only stand there, watching as the warrior stepped forward and reached for Lacey, pulling her into his arms, murmuring to her as he held her close.
Lacey began to struggle as Sky Runner’s arms slipped around her waist, and then she screamed as a dark shape materialized out of the shadows. Sky Runner stared at her for a moment, baffled by her reaction, then, realizing she was staring at something behind him, he whirled around.
It was then that Matt grabbed for the knife sheathed on the Indian’s belt. Grabbed for it, and missed.
Sky Runner pulled the knife free of the beaded
buckskin sheath, his black eyes glittering savagely as he advanced toward the white man who had dared to defile the lodge he had built for his bride.
Keeping his eyes on the Indian’s face, Matt backed out of the wickiup. Outside, he cast about for a weapon and found none, and then there was no more time to worry about a weapon, for the Indian was there, his swarthy countenance fierce to behold, his lips drawn back in a feral snarl. The two men circled each other warily, then Sky Runner lunged forward, his knife searching for Matt’s heart. Pivoting on his heel, Matt darted out of harm’s way. Again and again, Sky Runner attacked, and each time Matt managed to avoid the deadly blade.
Lacey watched the two men, her heart pounding like a wild thing. Sky Runner’s fury made him fearless, and only Matt’s agility and surefootedness saved him from being cut to ribbons. Minutes passed, and she wondered how much longer the fight could last. How much longer could Matt stay out of reach of Sky Runner’s knife?
With a harsh cry, the Apache caught Matt in a bear hug, the knife in his hand glancing off Matt’s rib cage. With a grunt of pain, Matt drove his knee into Sky Runner’s groin, and when the Indian stepped back, doubled up with pain, Matt drove his fist into the warrior’s jaw. Sky Runner stumbled backward, his dark eyes glazed with pain, and before he could recover, Matt hit him again. Sky Runner dropped like a pole-axed ox.
Matt jerked the knife from the Indian’s hand, then took a step backward, his free hand pressed against his side.
“Lacey,” he panted. “Find something to tie him up with.”
Lacey quickly did as bidden. In moments the unconscious warrior was bound hand and foot.
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