LaceysWay

by Madeline Baker

  Lacey was horrified when Matt remarked that he was going out with the war party.

  “You’re kidding, aren’t you?” she asked, aghast that he would even consider such a thing.

  “No. Red Knife has asked me to ride with him.”

  “But they’re going to fight.”

  Matt shrugged. “I’ve been in fights before.”

  “But not like this.”

  “It’s something I’ve got to do.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t either, not really.” Matt smiled at her, his eyes warm with love. “I’ll be all right, Lacey. Don’t worry.”

  “But you could be killed,” Lacey replied in a choked voice. “And for what? Please don’t go.”

  “I’ve got to go,” Matt said, taking her in his arms. “I’ve already told Red Knife I would accompany him. I can’t back out now. He’d think I was a coward, or worse—that you ruled our lodge.”

  Lacey nodded unhappily. She wanted to yell and scream and accuse him of not loving her enough to stay behind, but she knew it would accomplish nothing. Matt had made up his mind to go and nothing she could say would stop him.

  That night there was a war dance called haskegojital, which, Lacey learned, meant angriness dance. All the men who were going on the raid participated.

  The war dance, or angriness dance, was nothing like Lacey had expected it to be. The men sang softly, accompanied by the low beat of a drum. They never raised their voices, since to do so in battle meant certain death. Occasionally one of the warriors fired a gun into the air. None of the men wore paint. They wore only headbands, moccasins, and breechclouts.

  Four men started the dance, then the other warriors who intended to fight joined in. All the women at the dance were called White Painted Woman and were not to be called by their own names. The dance ended when the warriors had circled the fire four times. Four again, Lacey mused. There was a round dance after the haskegojital, and after that, a partner dance.

  Lacey tried to resist when Matt insisted she dance with him, but he ignored her protests and drew her into the circle. His insensitivity made her angry. She did not want him to go to battle, nor did she want to participate in the dancing, which would go on all night. And yet, he looked so handsome. Shirtless, his hair hanging to his shoulders, his face bronzed by the flickering flames, she thought he looked as much an Indian as any of the others. He looked wild and untamed, and her stomach quivered strangely at the thought that he was becoming more uncivilized every day. She wished he would forget about going to war and make love to her instead.

  Too soon, the night turned to day and it was time for the war party to leave. The men who were going on the raid gathered together. Most of them were armed with bows and arrows. The bows were made of mulberry wood because it was strong and durable, the arrows were made of cane that grew in the mountains or along the river bottoms. Some of the men carried spears made from sotol stalks or brandished war clubs. A few, including Matt, carried rifles.

  A silence fell over the assembled warriors as the medicine man joined them. Lifting his arms toward Heaven, the aged shaman beseeched the Apache gods to look with favor on the forthcoming raid. When he finished his prayer, he handed each warrior a small bag of pollen, and another of herbs.

  Abruptly High Yellow Cloud broke away from the other warriors. Running to his favorite war horse, he vaulted onto the animal’s back and raised his lance over his head.

  “Aiiieee!” he shouted. “Let us ride!”

  The other warriors ran for their mounts amid cries and shouts. Matt swung aboard his horse and rode to where Lacey was standing. Like the other warriors, he wore only a breechclout, knee-high moccasins, and headband. Leaning over his horse’s neck, he caught Lacey around the waist, lifted her off her feet, and kissed her soundly.

  “Pray for me,” he whispered, and was gone.

  Lacey stared after him until he was out of sight, and then she ran to their lodge. Inside, she dropped to her knees and offered an urgent prayer to God, begging Him to keep her husband from harm and bring him safely home.

  Never had a day passed so slowly. Her father and Blue Willow tried to keep her occupied, but time and again her thoughts strayed toward Matt and the war party. Had they found the Comanches? Had the fighting begun?

  Blue Willow told Lacey that she must use only one end of the fire poker to stir the fire until Matt returned. If she used both ends, something bad would happen to her husband. Lacey thought such a superstition was nonsense, yet she was careful to observe it. Why tempt fate? A wife prayed every morning for four days after her husband left on a raid, Blue Willow continued, and every time she took a pot of meat from the fire, she was to pray that he would be successful. Pregnant women were not permitted to handle weapons, or even step over them, for fear it would cause their owner to shoot crooked.

  Lacey’s father told her that the Indians believed in inda ke’ho’ndi, which meant enemies against power. It was a war power that came from nayezgane, Killer of Monsters. In the beginning, Royce Montana said, Killer of Monsters went all over the earth seeking out and killing monsters, and he was the first one to use his power in doing this.

  Learning about Apache beliefs helped to pass the time, but it didn’t keep her from worrying about Matt. She spent a sleepless night. Every time she closed her eyes, nightmare images filled her mind, images of Matt lying dead in a pool of blood, images of Matt wounded, killed, scalped alive.

  She was up with the dawn. Dressing, she stepped outside and took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the cool, fresh air. Slowly the Indians began to stir from their lodges and the village came to life. Men went to the river to bathe. Women dressed their children and prepared the morning meal. The children ran through the village, playing hide and seek.

  As the morning turned to afternoon, Lacey’s fears grew with each passing minute. She was gazing into the distance, praying for Matt’s safe return, when she saw a warrior pause at the top of a rise some distance from the village. He reined his horse in a circle and then came thundering down the hill toward the camp, followed by the rest of a war party.

  As the rider drew near, Lacey saw it was High Yellow Cloud, and she let her gaze sweep past him, her eyes searching the returning warriors for Matt.

  And then, miraculously, he was riding toward her, sweeping her off her feet and onto the back of his horse. She started to ask if he was unhurt, but his mouth closed over hers in a fiercely passionate kiss that assured her he was well indeed. He drew rein at their lodge, kept Lacey into his arms, dismounted in an agile movement, and carried her into the privacy of their wickiup.

  “I missed you,” he murmured huskily, his lips trailing fire down the side of her neck to press against the bodice of her tunic.

  Lacey felt the heat of his lips all the way down to her toes, and then he was undressing her, his hands quick and eager, his eyes flame as his gaze lingered on her silken flesh. He was naked to the waist, and he shed his breechclout in a fluid movement, then dropped down on their blankets, drawing Lacey with him.

  He made love to her wildly, his blood hot with the need to possess her. The excitement of battle, the memory of how close he had been to death, gave him a renewed appreciation for life, a realization of how quickly it could be snuffed out. He caressed Lacey, his hands and mouth adoring her beauty.

  Lacey responded to Matt’s touch, not knowing what was driving him, but aware that his need for her at that moment was deeper than mere physical desire. He was wild yet tender, gentle yet masterful, a stranger and yet a well-loved friend.

  Later, lying in the warmth of his arms, she asked him about the battle.

  “It was short,” Matt replied. “Short and bloody.”

  “Did you kill anyone?”

  “Yeah.” He spoke the word softly, regretfully.

  “Oh.” Lacey stared up at the smokehole, her eyes fixed on the tiny patch of blue sky. She could not imagine taking a human life, not even to defend her own. “Were you
scared?”

  Matt laughed softly, humorlessly. “There was no time to be scared. We rode hard and caught the Comanche just before nightfall. They were making camp when we attacked.” Matt shook his head. “They fought like demons, but we had them outnumbered.”

  “They’re all dead?”

  “Yeah.” Matt heaved a sigh that seemed to come from his very soul. He had killed two men in hand-to-hand combat. He hadn’t been afraid at the time. His blood had been up, his heart pounding with excitement. All around him, men had been struggling, fighting for their lives, but he hadn’t been aware of them at the time. His own life had been on the line, and nothing else had mattered. It was only later, when the battle was over and the ground was covered with bodies and blood, that he realized how close to death he had been, realized how close he had come to never seeing Lacey again. The Apache had left the scene of the slaughter immediately, driving their ponies before them, eager to flee the vicinity of the newly dead.

  “Did you…did you scalp anyone?” Lacey asked tremulously.

  “The Chiricahua don’t take scalps,” Matt answered. “They fear the dead. To take an enemy scalp would be unthinkable.”

  “If they took scalps, would you have been able to do it?”

  “I don’t think so,” Matt answered with a wry grin. “I don’t think I’ll ever be Indian enough for that.”

  There was a victory dance later that night, with singing and dancing and many retellings of the raid against the Comanche. High Yellow Cloud was lavishly praised for his part in the raid, commended for finding and defeating the enemy, and for bringing all his men safely home.

  Red Knife stood before the tribe and lauded Matt for his courage in battle. The white man had fought like an enraged grizzly, Red Knife exclaimed proudly, and was therefore worthy of an Indian name.

  “In the future,” Red Knife declared, “he shall be known as Iron Hand.” His speech ended, he took two eagle feathers from his hair and presented them to Matt.

  Lacey shivered as Matt accepted the long white plumes. Each feather represented a man killed in battle.

  The dancing and singing lasted all through the night. High Yellow Cloud was the hero of the moment and his name was on everyone’s lips. In addition to recovering the horses that had been stolen by the Comanche, the war party had returned with the Comanche ponies too, and these were divided among the men in the tribe, adding to their wealth.

  Lacey avoided High Yellow Cloud, but she could not avoid his eyes. Always he seemed to be watching her, a waiting expression on his swarthy face. Once, when their eyes met, he grinned at her, nodding, as if to say Soon you will be mine.

  It made her flesh crawl and she turned away, her heart pounding with fear.

  In the days that followed, High Yellow Cloud was ever on Lacey’s mind. No matter where she went, he was there. He never spoke to her, never approached her, but he was always nearby, waiting. He followed her to the river when she went after water in the morning, he followed her into the forest when she went after wood. If she sat outside her lodge, he took a place nearby so she was sure to see him.

  Her nerves grew taut. It was disturbing, having him watching her all the time, knowing if she went for a walk, he would be there. Even safe inside her own lodge, she felt that High Yellow Cloud was somehow watching her. It got so bad, she refused to go to the river or the woods alone, and she began staying inside the lodge unless it was absolutely necessary for her to be outside.

  She didn’t voice her growing irritation or concern to Matt for fear he would do something foolish, but she mentioned it to her father.

  Royce Montana advised Lacey to stay calm, certain that sooner or later High Yellow Cloud would stop his silly game of cat-and-mouse and go about his own business. Lacey admitted she was probably overreacting, but she couldn’t help it. She was afraid of the warrior, and all the wise counsel in the world could not change that.

  Things came to a head one sunny afternoon. Taking her courage in hand, Lacey left the wickiup and headed for the river to bathe. No Apache warrior ever accosted a woman at her bath, and she was certain that even High Yellow Cloud would not have the nerve to follow her to the place upriver where the women went to bathe.

  With a sigh, Lacey stepped out of her doeskin tunic and waded into the cool clear water. Closing her eyes, she drifted with the gentle current. It was good to be alone, to be able to relax and let her mind wander where it would. The sun was warm on her face, the water cool and refreshing. Tonight there would be a celebration to honor Crow Hawk’s oldest daughter, who had recently become a woman in the eyes of the tribe. There would be a feast and dancing, and Lacey looked forward to dancing with Matt again.

  Smiling with anticipation, she quickly washed her face and hair, soaped and rinsed her body, and started for the riverbank. Then she saw High Yellow Cloud. He was standing under a tree, her tunic in his hand.

  Lacey came to an abrupt halt, her arms crossed over her breasts, her heart pounding with fear.

  High Yellow Cloud smiled at her as he held out her dress.

  “Go away,” Lacey said. “You should not be here.”

  “I wish to talk to you.”

  “No. Go away and leave me alone.”

  “Come out,” High Yellow Cloud coaxed. “I will not harm you.”

  “I’m not afraid of you,” Lacey lied. “Now go away and leave me alone.”

  High Yellow Cloud laughed softly. “I am a patient man. Take your time.”

  It was then that Matt appeared on the scene. He took it all in at a glance: Lacey standing in the water, her arms covering her breasts, her eyes angry and afraid, High Yellow Cloud standing on the bank, Lacey’s tunic in his hand, a waiting expression on his face, naked desire in his eyes.

  With a cry of rage, Matt lunged at the warrior. Catching him by surprise, he toppled High Yellow Cloud to the ground, his fists striking the warrior’s face. High Yellow Cloud recovered quickly, and the two men grappled wildly for several minutes until High Yellow Cloud slipped out of Matt’s grasp and reached for his knife.

  “Come on, white man,” the Apache taunted. “Feel my blade in your belly.”

  “Coward,” Matt jeered. “I have no weapon.”

  The warrior grinned triumphantly. Then, with a wild cry, he hurled himself at Matt, his knife arm raised to strike. Instinctively Matt threw his arm up to ward off the blow, and the blade drove into his left arm just below the elbow. Twisting, Matt wrenched sideways, jerking the knife from High Yellow Cloud’s hand.

  With a grunt, Matt yanked the blade from his arm and whirled around to face High Yellow Cloud. Now he was smiling. “Come on, Injun,” he taunted. “Feel my blade in your belly.”

  Lacey held her breath as the two men eyed each other warily. Would High Yellow Cloud charge, or would he simply wait until Matt grew so weak from loss of blood that he could no longer fight back?

  Matt seemed unaware of the blood dripping from his arm. His midnight blue eyes were alight with the need for vengeance, his lips pulled back in a feral snarl as he waited for High Yellow Cloud to make the next move.

  Abruptly Matt lowered the knife, and a soft laugh emerged from his throat. “I knew it,” he said in a mocking tone. “You are a coward.”

  A grin of triumph spread across High Yellow Cloud’s face as he pulled a skinning knife from inside one of the knee-high moccasins he wore. With the war cry of the people on his lips, he hurled himself at Matt, and the two men crashed to the earth in a tangle of flailing arms and legs as each tried to strike a fatal blow.

  Heedless of her nudity, Lacey emerged from the river, her face pale, her eyes clouded with fear as she watched the two men grappling in the dirt. This would be a fight to the death, she thought helplessly, and Matt was going to lose.

  She screamed with horror as High Yellow Cloud’s blade sliced into Matt’s right side.

  Lacey’s terrified cry echoed in Matt’s ears. He risked a quick look in her direction, his eyes taking in her nakedness and beauty and the
concern on her face in a single glance. If he lost the fight, his suffering would be over forever. Lacey would be the real loser.

  The image of Lacey living in High Yellow Cloud’s lodge and sharing the warrior’s bed darted across Matt’s mind, bringing a sense of utter rage. From somewhere deep inside himself, Matt summoned the strength to break free of the warrior’s hold. Rolling away from High Yellow Cloud, he scrambled to his feet.

  High Yellow Cloud stood up, a satisfied smile on his face as he observed the wounds he had inflicted on his enemy.

  “Now you will die, white man,” the warrior crowed, “and your woman will be mine. But do not worry. I will keep her too busy to mourn your death.”

  “Matt,” Lacey whispered brokenly. “Oh, God, Matt.”

  Slowly, deliberately, High Yellow Cloud advanced toward the white man. The fight would soon be over, and the white woman would be his. She would give him sons, he thought smugly, many fine sons.

  With a triumphant cry, the warrior lunged forward, his blade driving toward Matt’s heart. Matt held his ground, and Lacey screamed in despair as the Apache’s blade plunged toward his chest. At the last possible moment, Matt pivoted sideways to avoid the warrior’s thrust, and as he did so, he drove his knife into High Yellow Cloud’s back, piercing the Apache’s heart. The warrior’s momentum carried him forward for several feet before he fell face down in the dirt, his knife still clutched in his fist. A long shudder racked the Indian’s body, and then he lay still, his dark eyes staring sightlessly at the ground.

  Lacey ran to Matt, her arm circling his waist as he slowly sank to his knees.

  “Matt, oh, God, Matt, don’t die. Please don’t die.”

  “I’m not gonna die, Lacey,” Matt mumbled. “Not yet.”

  She was crying now, her tears staining her cheeks as she used Matt’s knife to cut her skirt into strips for bandages.

  “Dirt,” Matt gasped. “Use dirt…to stop the bleeding.”