by Shirl Henke
Samuel took the knife, testing its weight and feel in his hand as he eyed the big rawboned man who moved with such surprising grace. As they began to circle each other cautiously, the ring of spectators spread out, away from what everyone knew would be a no quarter contest between two deadly men.
A number of the Osage placed bets among themselves. Micajah quickly slipped over to where Olivia sat watching in spellbound horror. He cut her free and assisted her to her feet.
“You have to help him, Micajah. Pardee’s vicious,” she whispered.
“Sam’l beat him once’t. I reckon he kin do hit agin. I’ll jest make sure th’ odds don’t change,” he said as his eyes narrowed on Bad Temper, who watched the contest with avid interest. Another knife had now magically appeared at his waist in lieu of the one he had tossed to Pardee.
Pardee made the first move, testing Samuel’s reflexes and his own reach, which was several inches greater as his arms were abnormally long in proportion to his body. Shelby parried the thrust but not before Pardee opened a superficial cut across his collarbone. The Englishman waited, grinning, for his foe to make the next move. “I’m going to skin you, Colonel, flay you alive...inch by bloody inch,” he taunted, still waiting.
“The only way you’ll kill me, Limey, is to talk me to death.” Samuel knew he had to compensate for the disparity in reach but Pardee was lightning quick as well as longer armed. He would just have to be trickier. Everything depended on it. Olivia. Micajah. His mission. Peace along the Missouri. He feinted high, then came in low, and drew Pardee’s blood from a long, shallow furrow down his left arm. The Englishman had only one weakness. The swelling around his right eye impaired his vision slightly, a reminder of the beating the American had given him. Now, could Samuel use it to his advantage?
The two men circled, feinting, thrusting, parrying as the firelight reflected the sheen of their sweat soaked bodies, casting the rippling play of muscle, bone and sinew in shadow and light. Olivia stood at the sidelines, afraid to breathe as she watched the deadly ballet being played out before her horrified eyes. Although both combatants were white, they seemed far more savage in expression than the Osage who surrounded them. When Pardee again nicked Samuel, she bit down on her lip to silence her cry.
Both men were well bloodied now, hungry for the kill. Suddenly Pardee lunged, his blade arced high, coming in for a throat slashing kill as his body weight slammed into Shelby. The American seized his foe’s wrist, halting the descent of the blade as they went down, rolling on the ground. Each had a death grip on the other’s knife hand as they rolled across the dusty earth near the fire. When they were close enough to feel its heat, Pardee used the impetus of the last roll to smash Shelby’s knife arm against one of the rocks ringing the fire pit.
Samuel felt his hand go numb, almost losing purchase on his blade. Gritting his teeth, he held on, using his left shoulder to roll them over again. This time he came up on top. His blade drew nearer and nearer Pardee’s throat. In a contest of sheer brute strength they were well matched.
From the sidelines Micajah watched Bad Temper move stealthily nearer as it appeared Shelby might break Pardee’s grip and plunge his blade into the Englishman’ s throat. Moving with amazing speed, Johnstone seized the dagger poised in the Osage’s hand. Bad Temper jerked away, caught by surprise as several onlookers saw his dishonorable act and murmured in disgust.
“Jest yew let ‘em fight man ta man,” Johnstone said, shoving him into the waiting hands of several of his angry tribesmen who held him fast.
Although sweat broke out anew across the Englishman’s brow, he held Shelby’s deadly blade at bay. Suddenly he arched up, rolling them both on their sides, jamming his knee between his foe’s legs. Samuel caught the blow to his groin partially on his thigh but the pain was still blinding. He dove away from Pardee and rolled onto all fours struggling to regain the breath that had been sucked from him.
Quick as a snake, the Englishman was up, coming at him again. Shelby barely had time to rise to his feet and parry the deadly slash that could have gutted him. Again they circled, panting, their wet bodies now covered with a thin veneer of mud as the dust from the earth clung to them.
So, you want to use your knees, eh, Pardee? Samuel drew near, daring the deadly arc of his foe’s blade. If only that right eye really was impaired enough. Maybe he could help it along. He took another slash of Pardee’s blade across his chest to achieve his end as his left fist connected with the injured eye, rocking the Englishman backward with a snarled oath of pain.
When Pardee’ s eye began to seep water, running in a muddy rivulet down his cheek, Shelby smiled. They closed again, each holding the other’s blade at bay but this time as they maneuvered, Samuel butted his opponent in the damaged eye and his left foot swept out, catching the back of Pardee’s knee and hooking it forward.
With a grunt of surprise, the Englishman’s leg buckled and he lost his balance, stumbling backward. With his balance broken, Pardee’s strength slackened. Shelby drove his blade into the Englishman’s belly, ripping upward to the breastbone.
Pardee teetered on his knees, eyes wide, glazed with disbelief as Shelby stepped back and said, “No, Englishman. I fight like the Osage. You fight like a white man.”
Stuart Pardee toppled lifelessly onto the dusty ground.
Samuel stood over him, his cold blue eyes moving from man to man around the campfire. In spite of his blood smeared body—or perhaps because of it—he held their attention riveted when he began to speak, once more, in Spanish.
“This man deals in death and now death has claimed him as one of its own. He brought whiskey and weapons to you, promising that with help from his king you could drive out the Americans. I tell you this was a lie. The guns of the English king will never drive out my countrymen who are as numerous as blades of grass or grains of sand along the bank of the Father of Waters. The English king’s whiskey will destroy you for it robs great warriors of their reason and sickens the strongest among you. The Osage and the white father in Washington have touched the feather, pledging friendship and peace. I ask you to honor the word given by your elders. What say you to this?” Samuel asked, turning to Chief No Ears and the two elders from Pawhuska’s village.
“I have seen you defeat the father king’s man in an honorable fight although one of our own sought to bring dishonor on it,” one tall old man said, casting a look of pure loathing on Bad Temper, who stood stoically under restraint, his mouth pressed closed in silence.
Then one of the elders from Pawhuska’s village stepped forward. “We hear much about this war that is to come between the Long Knives of the seventeen fires of the Americans and the Long Knives of the father king across the great waters. I say it is no fight of ours. My Chief White Hair has already pledged peace with the American Long Knives. I say we should honor it. If children of the two Long Knife leaders wish to kill each other, that is their concern. All is finished here.” He gestured to Pardee’s body.
Another and then another of the Osage leaders stepped forward to speak. They were in favor of holding to peace with the Americans. Several of the young warriors were displeased, but none dared speak out with their English comrade lying dead at the hands of this American.
Finally, Chief No Ears stood up. The squat little man had a powerfully broad and muscled chest and an air of imposing command about him in spite of the disfigurement of his marred ears, cut off while he was a prisoner of the Kiowa in his youth. “It is true we cannot rely on the English. The Long Knife is right. They live far across the great waters and the Americans are here. But the Americans take our land and give us promises. Then they break them. We cannot rely on them either. What are we to do then? Be swept aside like the dust that settles after a herd of buffalo has raced across the open prairie? Be no more a nation?” His keen black eyes pierced into Samuel’s soul.
“I do not know an answer to give you. What you say is true. My government has not been able to prevent settlers from overrunning Osage h
unting grounds. But the father in Washington—Madison—wishes peace and prosperity for the Osage. I can only tell you what I do know. And I do know that allying with the English against us will cause more destruction for your people than holding the peace. In time we may learn to live side by side and respect each other’s rights. I ask now only that you give us all that time.”
Samuel waited, holding his breath. Hell, he was a soldier and a spy, not a damned diplomat! Quinn should be here. The White Apache knew how to communicate with these people far better—had lived among them all his life.
Just then Micajah stepped forward for the first time.
Everyone turned expectantly to him. He had the advantage of being able to speak their own language, as he said, “You all know me. You know my heart.” He pounded his chest with one massive fist. “It is not in the cities of the white men which I left long ago. It is here in the woodlands, on the prairies, in the land of the Osage where I have lived in peace as a brother. Like you, I do not want the white men to come among us. But the Long Knife speaks true. They will come. You can stop them for a little while, but for every one you kill, they will send many, many more from the seventeen fires across the Father of Waters. In the end it will be the Osage who are destroyed. Peace with the Americans is the only chance for your children and your children’s children. It is a wise thing to give the Long Knife the time he has asked.”
As Micajah finished speaking, several of the men nodded, including No Ears. Finally, after conferring among themselves, the Osage leaders faced Shelby once again and No Ears spoke. “We will carry your words back to our winter camps where our warriors hone their weapons—not for war—but to hunt the buffalo. We will tell our young men that the Englishman is dead and there will be no more whiskey from him. We ask that your government send one to hold talks with us—one we know and can trust—the one we call the White Apache, a Spaniard you call Santiago Quinn.”
Samuel smiled. “The White Apache is my brother, the husband of my sister. He will come. I promise it.”
All the while the men spoke Olivia stood in the shadows, absorbing what went on, much relieved at the resolution. Two young warriors took the gory body of Stuart Pardee off to dispose of it and a pipe was lit as the leaders assembled at the fire. Samuel’s mission had been accomplished, she thought wistfully. If only there were some resolution to their personal problems. A lump tightened in her throat. Samuel was engrossed in talking with the Osage, setting up a place for his brother-in-law to meet with their leaders. It was Micajah who came to see that she was all right and to bring her some food from the cook pot on the campfire.
“You should let me check that wound. You look awfully pale, Micajah,” she said, noticing he winced as he sat down.
“Th’ Osage medicine man fixed hit up right ‘nough. Bullet passed clean through. Chipped my shoulder blade. Thet’s th’ part whut hurts somethin’ fierce, but I done had worse. Lucky fer me I got Horse Whisperer and Water Bird ta back me when I come bustin’ in here.”
“Samuel said you’d gone to get Dirt Devil. Is he—”
“Thet ole rascal’s livin’ high as a Georgia pine ‘bout now back in th’ Injun camp. After I got ambushed, my friends lugged us both back there. He took a pretty considerable o’ a hit on his skull, but hit’s thick.”
“Did a bear really save your life like you said?”
“Shore did. Took out after them renegades jest afore they wuz fixin’ ta’ lift my scalp. Hit wuz a she-bar, too.”
“Do you think it was the same one you rescued me from?”
He scratched his head consideringly. “Thangs got a way o’ commin’ ‘round. I ‘spect it wuz. Wouldn’t hit be justice?”
“Yes, Micajah, it would,” she said, bemused, then dug into the stew. “I’m so grateful you saved us, and grateful she saved you.”
He watched her eyes stray again and again back to Shelby as he sat at the fire with the Osage leaders.
“What will happen to Bad Temper?” she asked him, not having worked up her courage to discuss the issue really preying on her mind—her relationship with Samuel.
“Prob’ly nothin’. He’s been shamed in front o’ his own. Ain’t nobody goin’ ta listen if he starts talkin’ war now. Hit’ll be a ways afore he kin make up fer whut he done.” He studied her with shrewd eyes, then said softly, “Yew ain’t inter’sted in thet Injun. Whut’s got th’ burr up yore rear is smokin’ a pipe over yonder.”
“He’s accomplished his mission. Now he can go back to Washington for his next assignment from President Madison.”
Johnstone harrumphed in disgust. “ ‘N leave his wife behind? I purely doubt hit.”
She lifted her chin stubbornly. “It’s me who’ll be doing the leaving. He doesn’t want a wife and I won’t stay where I’m not wanted. Besides, I love my life at the cabin. I want to go back with you.”
He sighed. Durn fool young ‘uns. “Whut yew love is a tall, purty-faced soldier boy—’n he’s got feelin’s fer yew, too—jest too pig stubborn ta admit hit ta hisself. But he will ‘n then he’ll tell yew. Meanwhile, yore married afore man ‘n God. I ain’t comin’ betwixt yew.”
Now it was Micajah’s turn to look stubborn. Olivia sighed, knowing argument was as useless as it had been that day at the cabin when he found them together. He had some fool romantic notion that she and Samuel were destined to love one another.
If only it were true.
Samuel finished talking with the Osage, then stood up, moving his aching shoulders gingerly. Not an inch of his body was unbruised, most of it cut or at least sticky with blood, both Pardee’s and his own. His eyes swept the camp searching for Olivia. His wife. The words did not sound so alien now. Grinning, he decided perhaps he was getting used to the idea. She and Micajah were seated in the shadows, talking intently. When he drew near they stopped. Olivia rose and walked up to him as the old man studied him with those unnerving dark eyes of his, saying nothing.
“You’re hurt. I’ll need to clean off that dried blood before I can see how badly,” she said, touching the crusty dark smears on his arm.
He smiled at her. “I appreciate the wifely concern.”
Her cheeks felt warm under his scrutiny. “Come with me to the stream so I can wash you. Micajah, we’ll need something for bandages and some herbs to—”
“I got everthin’ yew need in my possibles sack,” he said. Picking up the buckskin pouch tossed on a nearby rock, he began to root through it, then handed her a jar of salve and a roll of clean white cloth. “Jest go git cleaned up. Moon’s full ‘nough ta see down by th’ river. After all thet’s happened, I ‘spect yew two cud use a minit or two alone ta talk.”
“Yes, I expect we could,” Samuel echoed, taking Olivia’s hand in his, pulling her into the trees, headed toward the soft hum of the rushing water.
Chapter Twenty
When they reached the river’s edge, Samuel finally broke the silence. “Back there in the beaver lodge, before Pardee and his renegades found us...you asked me a question. I never had the opportunity to answer it.”
Olivia wished desperately that she could see his face more clearly, not shadowed and dappled by moonlight as it was. “And now...? What will we do about this marriage? You were forced—”
“We both were forced,” he interrupted softly, “but that doesn’t mean that things haven’t changed since our wedding night.”
“You acted as if you blamed me because I was what I had always been—as if you wanted me to be no better than you expected.” The pain of his angry guilt still stung bitterly. “Then you left me alone.”
“So Pardee could abduct you when it was my place to be there, to protect you.” The guilt over that bit deeper than the guilt he felt for misjudging her innocence. “I was out getting drunk to drown my own filthy conscience.”
The words seemed dragged from him, as if he were revealing a piece of his innermost soul to her and it was incredibly painful. She leaned toward him and her palms pressed against his chest, f
eeling the harsh slamming of his heartbeat. He was tensed like a mountain lion in a cage—a cage she and Micajah had unwittingly wrought. “I don’t want your guilt or your sense of duty as an officer and a gentleman, Samuel. You know who I am now. If that’s not enough, then no vows spoken before a priest will ever make it good enough for me to stay with you.”
“And what would make it good enough, Livy?” he asked, reaching up to caress her cheek and cup her stubborn jaw, tilting her chin up so he could look into the dark fathomless depths of her eyes.
She did not answer in words but her lips parted slightly and her hand seemed to move of its own volition, small and pale over his larger, dark one, covering it, pressing it more firmly against her face, drawing nearer to him, begging to be kissed as he ached to kiss her.
Samuel, too, answered without words as his mouth brushed hers, softly rimming the sweet bow of her upper lip with the tip of his tongue, tracing the plush full outline of the lower, then gliding along the moistened seam between them to skim over her teeth, before he deepened the kiss. Slowly, savoringly, he plunged inside to ravish her with languid sweeps, drawing her total response as she opened to him, her own tongue twining with his, tasting of him and hungering for more, so very much more.
They held each other that way, their hands cradling each other’s faces, kissing slowly, deeply, communicating in the poignant caress what neither had been able to say aloud. Then, gradually he ended the kisses, pulling his mouth from hers like a man denying himself the gates of paradise.
Murmuring against her mouth, he said, “Oh, Livy, Livy, stay with me, be my wife. I need you—I love you.” He shook his head ruefully, then met her eyes. “I swore an oath I would never say that to another woman as long as I lived.”