“How is he called?”
“He is known to us as Pale Buffalo.”
“What is his white name?”
The warrior shrugged. “It is of no importance to us.” His dark eyes moved over Lacey again. His own woman had been dead for two summers now, raped and then killed by soldiers who had attacked their village while most of the men were away. From that day forward he had vowed to take his vengeance on every white man and every white woman who crossed his path. His eyes swept over Lacey again. One way or another, he intended to have her, to hear her cry out with fear and pain when he took his pleasure between her thighs, as River Woman had undoubtedly cried out when the soldiers violated her. He smiled inwardly as he imagined the white woman writhing beneath him, and then he looked at Matt. “Is she your woman?”
Matt nodded. He had not missed the lust in the Apache’s eyes when he looked at Lacey.
“I will give you six ponies for her.”
“She is my wife,” Matt said. “She is not for sale at any price.”
“I would have her for my woman,” the warrior said flatly. And suddenly his rifle was in his hand, pointed at Matt’s midsection. The other warriors drew their weapons as well, waiting to see what would happen next.
“Matt!”
“Keep out of this, Lacey,” Matt admonished quietly. Hands clenched at his sides, he kept his gaze fixed on the warrior who seemed to be the leader.
The warrior grinned wryly. The white man was afraid, but it did not show on his face, only in his tightly clenched fists and in the sudden sweat across his brow. Killing him now would be too quick, too easy. Better to keep him alive, to let him wait and wonder when death would come, to torture him a little each day.
“We will go to the village,” the warrior decided, relieving Matt of his rifle and sidearm. “Perhaps I will be able to persuade you to sell me your woman. And if not…” The warrior shrugged.
If not, Matt thought, he can always kill me and take her anyway.
The warrior grinned at Matt. Wheeling his horse around, he headed for the Apache camp.
Lacey followed Matt into the Indian encampment, her heart pounding with fear as women and warriors quickly surrounded them on all sides. Matt was pulled from his horse and tied to a stout post in the center of the camp. When Lacey tried to go to him, she was grabbed from behind and led into a brush-covered wickiup.
“You will stay here,” the warrior instructed. “Do not try to leave.”
“What are you going to do to my husband?”
The warrior smiled. “I am going to persuade him that it would be wise to give me what I desire.”
“And if he refuses?”
The warrior smiled again. It was a decidedly cruel smile. “If he is wise, he will not refuse.”
“Please let us go. We mean you no harm.”
The warrior did not answer her. Instead, he turned on his heel and left the lodge.
Lacey stood in the middle of the wickiup, her mind reeling. What was going to happen to them? One minute she had been filled with excitement at the thought that they might have found her father, and the next she was in fear for Matt’s life. Dropping to her knees, she peered under the lodge flap. Immediately a moccasined foot appeared in her line of vision, and then another as someone paced back and forth in front of the lodge. So, she was being held under guard.
Rising to her feet, she began to pace the lodge, her thoughts chasing round and round like mice in a maze. What would happen now? She paced until her legs ached and then she sank down on a pile of robes, intending to rest for a moment. In seconds she was asleep.
Matt’s gaze wandered around the village, his eyes and ears absorbing the sights and sounds and smells of the Indian camp. His mother had been born and raised in a village like this one. He studied the women as they moved about. Had his mother laughed as those women were laughing? Had she loved Saul Drago, or hated him because he had been a white man? If she had lived, Matt might have been raised in a village much like this one. He might never have known any other way of life.
He watched several boys who were shooting arrows at a rabbit skin pegged to a tree trunk. What would it have been like to grow up here, to have been taught from childhood to hunt and track and fight? He glanced at his skin. He was nearly as dark as the Indians. His hair was black and long. Only his eyes betrayed the white blood in his veins.
His gaze strayed toward the wickiup where Lacey had been taken. Three hours had passed since their arrival, and no one had entered the lodge. He wished he could go to her, comfort her. He knew she must be frightened half to death. And rightfully so. They were in a hell of a predicament, there was no doubt of that. He wondered what his captors would say if he told them he was half Apache. Would they believe him, or accuse him of lying to save his skin?
Matt swore under his breath as the sun moved slowly across the sky. Sweat stood out on his brow and trickled down his back and arms and legs. He longed for a drink of water, but knew he was not likely to get one, even if he humbled himself enough to ask.
Another hour passed, and another, and now the sun was at its zenith. The village lay quiet. Warriors lounged in the shade of their lodges, gambling or chatting with their neighbors. Women put their babies down for naps. The dogs lay sprawled in the shade; the horses stood head to tail, idly swishing flies.
Matt closed his eyes against the sun’s burning brightness. His whole body was damp with sweat. His throat was as hot and dry as the desert in mid-July, and he thought he might easily sell his soul for just one drink of ice cold water. The heat made him lethargic, and he longed to lie down and sleep for just a few minutes. Resting the back of his head against the post, he dozed fitfully.
At sunset the women began to prepare the evening meal. Matt’s stomach rumbled loudly as the aroma of roasting meat tickled his nostrils. The Indians went about their business as though he were not there. Behind the village, a dozen young braves were engaged in a horse race. Several young girls made their way to the river for water, their dark eyes sliding curiously in his direction. Little boys chased each other around the wickiups, shrieking loudly, while doe-eyed little girls trailed at their mother’s skirts, or played with dolls made of corn husks and rawhide.
An elderly squaw carrying a bowl of stew made her way to the lodge where Lacey was being held. She, at least, would be fed, Matt thought with relief.
Later that evening the warrior who had captured Matt strutted into view. He looked well-fed and highly pleased with himself, Matt thought irritably, and steeled himself for whatever was to come.
“I am called High Yellow Cloud,” the warrior said arrogantly. “My bravery and wisdom are well-known among the People. I have counted many coup against our enemies. It is my wish to have your wife for my woman. I ask you once again, will you sell her to me?”
“And I tell you again, my answer is no.”
High Yellow Cloud nodded, but his eyes were dark and angry. “I will come again at this time tomorrow and see if you have changed your mind.”
“Don’t waste your time,” Matt retorted, but he was talking to empty air.
Lacey stared blankly at the entrance to the wickiup. The hours passed so slowly. She had seen no one all day except for the old woman who had brought her something to eat. Lacey had eaten ravenously, but that had been hours ago, and now she was hungry again. And thirsty. She wondered how Matt was. Were the Indians treating him well?
Rising, she began to pace the floor of the lodge again. It was awful, not knowing what was going to happen to them. She was contemplating whether it would be wise to try to leave the lodge when the old woman stepped inside. She carried a bowl of boiled meat and vegetables in one hand and a doeskin tunic and moccasins in the other. With gestures, she indicated that Lacey should eat and then change her clothes.
Lacey nodded that she understood, and the old woman flashed a toothless grin and left the wickiup.
The food was plentiful and tasty, and Lacey ate it all and wished for more. With a sigh, she laid the
empty bowl aside and picked up the tunic. It was made of cream-colored doeskin, incredibly soft to the touch. Somewhat hesitantly, Lacey slipped out of her clothes and stepped into the tunic. The bodice was a trifle snug across her breasts, the skirt fell past her knees. The moccasins were soft and comfortable.
She had no sooner changed clothes than High Yellow Cloud entered the lodge. His dark eyes moved approvingly over Lacey.
“You are very beautiful,” he said. “My people will be envious when I make you my woman.”
“Your woman!” Lacey exclaimed. “I’ll never be your woman.”
High Yellow Cloud smiled indulgently. He liked a woman with spirit.
“Where’s Matt?” Lacey demanded. “Where’s my husband?”
“He is well, for the moment.”
“What do you mean, for the moment?”
“Do not concern yourself with him,” High Yellow Cloud admonished. “Tomorrow I will have Sky Woman take you to the river so that you may bathe. Would you like that?”
“Yes,” Lacey answered sullenly. It had been on the tip of her tongue to refuse, but to do so would only deprive her of something she desired. And going outside might afford her a chance to see Matt.
“Good. Is there anything you need?”
“Yes, I…” Lacey’s cheeks turned scarlet. She badly needed to relieve herself and there were no facilities for such a necessity inside the lodge.
“What is it?” High Yellow Cloud asked, frowning.
“I need to…to go outside.”
“Ah.” Comprehension dawned in the warrior’s eyes. “Come, I will take you.”
“You?”
“I will not look,” High Yellow Cloud assured her.
“Very well,” Lacey agreed doubtfully, and followed the Apache warrior out of the lodge. She quickly glanced in Matt’s direction. He was still tied to the tree in the center of the camp. His chin was resting on his chest and he appeared to be asleep.
“Come along,” High Yellow Cloud said curtly.
“Can’t I speak to my husband?”
“No.”
There was no point in arguing with that tone of voice, Lacey thought resentfully, and followed High Yellow Cloud away from the village toward a small copse of scrawny trees.
“I will wait for you here,” the warrior said. “Do not be long. And do not try to run away. The white man will suffer for it if you do.”
With a nod, Lacey walked several yards further into the darkness. Where was the white man the Apache had spoke of? Oh, if only it was her father!
Later, back in the lodge, Lacey stretched out on the robes and closed her eyes. What were they going to do? Why did High Yellow Cloud want to marry her? She was not Indian. She would never be Indian. Why would he want to marry a stranger? And Matt. What would happen to Matt if he refused to sell her? Lacey laughed hollowly. What would she do if Matt did sell her to High Yellow Cloud? But he would never do that. And where was her father…
Matt Drago lifted his head. Morning. Somehow he had managed to sleep through the night, but he still felt weary. His arms and legs felt heavy, his mouth was like cotton. And he was hungry. So damned hungry. And thirsty enough to drink the Missouri dry.
He frowned as High Yellow Cloud approached him.
“Did you sleep well, white man?” the warrior asked with a wry grin.
“Yeah,” Matt answered sarcastically. “I slept like a baby.”
“Have you decided to sell your woman yet?”
“No.”
High Yellow Cloud nodded. “I am a patient man. But not too patient. You would be wise to give me what I want.”
Slowly, stubbornly, Matt shook his head. “No.”
“You cannot win,” the warrior said confidently. “In the end, she will be mine.”
“Never,” Matt muttered as High Yellow Cloud walked away. “Not so long as I live.” And that, Matt thought sourly, was High Yellow Cloud’s ace in the hole. If Matt continued to refuse to give the warrior what he wanted, all the Apache had to do was end Matt’s life and Lacey would be a widow. She would have little choice but to marry High Yellow Cloud or become a slave.
The sun rose in the sky and Matt’s strength waned, leeched away by the heat and the sweat that poured from his body. He gazed longingly at the narrow ribbon of blue that zigzagged behind the village, deeply envious of the women and children who played at the water’s edge or sought relief from the heat in its clear, cool depths.
His legs grew weary of bearing his weight, yet there was no relief in sight. He could not sit down, but could only stand there hour after hour. He dozed fitfully, his dreams haunted by images of Lacey caught up in the arms of another man.
At sundown the warrior came to see Matt once again. “I want your woman,” he said. “I will give you your freedom, food and water. What say you?”
“No.”
High Yellow Cloud nodded sadly as he withdrew his knife from the buckskin sheath on his belt. Walking to a nearby cook-fire, he heated the blade until it glowed red-hot, then returned to Matt. Lifting the white man’s shirt, he laid the hot metal against Matt’s stomach. A sickly-sweet odor filled the air as the blade seared Matt’s flesh.
Matt gasped, the pain driving the breath from his body as his flesh recoiled from the heat of the blade.
Wordlessly High Yellow Cloud heated the blade a second time. Matt stared at the glowing steel, his insides shrinking with fear as the Indian came toward him again.
“Your woman,” the warrior said.
“No.” Matt hissed the word from between clenched teeth as the heated blade touched his flesh. “I don’t care if you burn every inch of my flesh from my body,” he snarled angrily. “She’s my wife and I won’t give her up.”
“I believe you,” High Yellow Cloud said. He gazed at Matt with grudging admiration. “You are a brave man. Brave, but foolish, I have only to kill you to take what I want.”
“If you kill me, she’ll hate you forever.”
“I do not need her love,” the warrior retorted. “I want only to bend her will to mine, to plant my seed in her belly. I think she will give me sons. Many sons.” He nodded to himself. “Prepare to die, white man. I have left you alive long enough. Tonight, she will be mine.”
Matt let out a long breath, fear for his own life swallowed up in his concern for Lacey. He struggled against the ropes that held him to the post, his only thought to get free, to kill the man who spoke of impregnating Lacey as though she were nothing more than a brood mare, someone to be used and abused. And then, out of the blue, an idea formed in his mind. Squaring his shoulders, he glared at High Yellow Cloud.
“You shame our people,” he said with as much dignity as he could muster under the circumstances.
High Yellow Cloud frowned. “What do you mean, our people?”
“I carry the blood of the Dineh in my veins,” Matt declared haughtily.
“You lie!”
“I speak the truth. My mother was a daughter of the Chiricahua. She was called Hummingbird.”
“The name means nothing to me,” High Yellow Cloud retorted. “But since you claim to be of our blood, I will fight you for the woman.”
“Suits me,” Matt said.
High Yellow Cloud grinned wolfishly. No one in the village was more skilled than he with knife or lance. “We will fight,” he said arrogantly. “And you will lose.”
“Maybe,” Matt replied. “Maybe not.”
“We will fight now,” High Yellow Cloud decided. “Tonight she will warm my bed.”
“I haven’t had anything to eat or drink for two days,” Matt remarked. “How about giving me thirty minutes to get something to eat and stretch my legs?”
“As you wish,” High Yellow Cloud agreed smugly. “But it will not make any difference.” The warrior cut Matt loose and said, “I will have one of the women bring you something to eat. Do not try to see your woman or leave this place.”
Matt nodded, and High Yellow Cloud went to his lodge. Alone, Matt beg
an to stretch his arms and legs. The burns on his belly ached dully, but were of little consequence now. He walked back and forth for several minutes, and then an old woman brought him a half a dozen slices of cold venison and a small gourd of cold water. Sitting against the post, Matt ate the meal slowly, sipped the water. There was no point in gulping it down and having it sit like a hard lump in his belly.
He ate only half the meat, drank half the water, then emptied the gourd over his hands and face. That done, he rested his head against the post and closed his eyes, willing his muscles to relax.
Fifteen minutes later High Yellow Cloud dropped a knife in Matt’s lap. “Get up, white man. It is time.”
With a low groan, Matt stood up. All he wanted to do was sleep. He thought briefly of asking High Yellow Cloud to postpone their fight until tomorrow, but he knew the warrior would refuse. Better to hold his tongue and retain his pride than ask a favor and be refused.
Glancing around, Matt saw that most of the Indians had gathered near the center of the camp to watch the fight. He felt his heart skip a beat when he saw Lacey standing off to one side, flanked by two Apache warriors. Of course, Matt thought with a wry grin, High Yellow Cloud would want her to be there to see his victory.
“Now,” High Yellow Cloud said, and dropped into a crouch, his chin tucked in, his knife hand held out in front of him.
Automatically Matt took a similar stance and the two men circled each other. High Yellow Cloud made several sharp passes in Matt’s direction, testing the white man’s reflexes and finding them fast and accurate. Wary now, he moved more cautiously.
Lacey watched, mesmerized by the sight of two men fighting to the death. She knew they were fighting over her, like two dogs over a bone, and the idea filled her with revulsion. How could she live with herself if Matt was killed because of her? How could she bear it if he had to kill a man? She longed to look away, yet she could not draw her gaze from the two men who were even now lunging at each other, knives flashing in the firelight like angry fangs. High Yellow Cloud was perhaps two inches shorter than Matt, but he was solid and strong. His dark eyes were fierce, his face set in determined lines as he lashed out at his opponent. He was clad in a loincloth and moccasins, nothing more.
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