by Karen Kay
Gray Hawk paused. Though he realized the sincerity of the white woman’s plea, she had overstepped the boundary when she had taken him captive. He could neither forgive her nor see her point of view.
He said, “The white woman offers many things grandly when there is little for her to lose. The white woman still remains free while I am captive. No, white woman of no honor, there is nothing you can do.”
She jerked her head away from him then, but instead of running away as she so often did at the end of their “conversations,” she took a step forward.
“I could make your stay with us shorter, so that you could return to your home sooner.”
Gray Hawk frowned, and picking up his stick, he began to drum. He ignored her.
“I could learn your language, if you will teach it to me, and I wish to learn your customs.”
He continued drumming. “For what purpose do you wish to discover so much about my people?”
“I…” She smiled and swept forward, coming down to kneel before him. “It is for my father. He has been commissioned to set down on paper and preserve all the customs of the Indians, so that all peoples of the world might know about them.”
He raised his gaze to hers. “Would all Indian tribes come to know of these customs?”
She grinned. “Yes, it is possible. Isn’t it wonderful?”
“Tribes like the Snakes, the Sioux, the Crow?”
Genevieve paused. “Yes, I believe in time that they might come to be interested in these things.”
“And the white woman wishes me to tell her of my people so that my enemies might hear of it? So that they might gain victory over us?”
“No, that is not the way of it. I—”
“Now you are on both sides of this thing. First you say yes, and then you say no. It cannot be both ways. I think that you lie.”
She sat back, her skirts flowing around her on the floor, and Gray Hawk made the odd observation of noting that they both wore the white man’s clothing: she because it belonged to her, he because Robert had forced it on him.
“No, you don’t understand,” said the white woman. “I can explain…”
The look he gave her did not allow for explanation.
“Wait, I can show you.” She sat up and was rising to her feet when the boat suddenly jerked to the right and to the left. Then, hurtling forward, it came to an abrupt halt.
She pitched forward.
Gray Hawk reached out to steady her, but both of them were thrown across the floor, she landing on top of him once, twice. She began to rise, but the boat started again and then stopped so suddenly that they were flung forward, first one, then the other, rolling over one another.
“Haiya!”
He landed right on top of her.
“What’s happening?” she asked.
He didn’t bother answering. He sprang to his feet and raced to the door. Amazingly, it opened to him on the first try.
People hurried down the companionway, and no one paid any attention to the Indian who stood at the doorway.
Gray Hawk grinned. Trained as a Pikuni scout, he had the ability to look at and note everything in his environment with no more than a solitary glance, that data to be remembered in perfect recall even up to several weeks later. It was expected of a scout, and it certainly was considered no unusual feat among his people.
Deciding that the white woman would not get far, Gray Hawk left her behind in the cabin while he sprinted down the companionway to where he saw the gathering crowd.
In a simple glance, he observed that the boat had become caught up in a jumble of river debris: logs and sticks and washed-away tree roots. He also estimated the time it would take to free the boat, noted the position of the sun and how many hours of daylight were left, checked each of the white men’s firearms and calculated the distance necessary to dodge bullets. In addition, he evaluated the state of the river for escape.
With a final glimpse, he noted that all the crewmen plus all the able-bodied men, including Robert and his bullies, were involved in handling the problem. He determined as well how long the men would remain occupied to the extent that they were oblivious to their surroundings.
He decided he had a chance. That was all.
Darting back to the cabin, he found the woman.
She backed away from him as though she knew his intent.
But it didn’t matter. He would have his revenge.
Ignoring her protests, he scooped her up in his arms and flung her over his shoulder.
She kicked out. She hollered.
It didn’t matter. No one was there to hear.
Stepping to the entry, he checked the companionway for traffic.
There was no one; everyone had gathered to one side of the boat.
Gray Hawk fled in the opposite direction, up the companionway to the railing, onto the railing itself, and then, with a final jump, down toward the swirling, muddy river. And never once had the white woman ceased her screaming.
Splash! Thud!
They hit the water, their fall taking them far below the surface.
A current tried to take hold of him. He fought it, endeavoring to swim forward at the same time. He won, kicking out to gain distance from the boat.
The woman had stopped struggling, and he wondered if she had remembered to hold her breath. He glanced at her. Her eyes were closed, and she appeared to be unconscious.
Haiya! What trouble.
He surfaced.
“Breathe,” he commanded her.
She opened her eyes, choked, sputtered and, taking a deep breath, looked as though she were about to scream.
He ducked back underwater, gliding through its murky depths to the shore.
He didn’t know how much time he had until they discovered him gone. And he knew that when he made it to the shore, he would have to keep moving.
They would send scouts after him.
He hit the shore and surfaced. She screamed.
It didn’t matter. Pulling her back over his shoulder, Gray Hawk emerged from the water and sprinted up the shoreline.
Luckily for him, this part of the river boasted a tree-lined shore, and he was able to seek temporary cover, if only to catch his breath.
He paused a moment; then, with one final glance in the direction of the boat, he darted out from his cover and climbed to the top of the bluff. Never once did he stop. Never once did he falter because of the woman’s resistance, nor her screams.
On and on he ran, the woman still slung over his shoulder. He could have run without stopping for several days, but that was under normal conditions. Gray Hawk was encumbered.
His feet hurt him. The white man’s clothing restricted him. The woman’s kicking annoyed him. But he kept going.
He knew he dared not pause until evening, and even then he would stop only for a moment to refresh himself and tie a bit of cloth around the woman’s mouth.
He grinned. That last thought brought him a great deal of pleasure and helped spur him on.
Score two.
Chapter Seven
Drums kept pounding in her ears.
It was the savage. He was drumming; he was singing. Then he was running, sprinting toward her, then grinning at her.
She awoke with a start. She was being rattled all about; blood rushed to her head.
She opened her eyes. Dry brown prairie grass and dirty white shirt were all she could see.
And then she remembered: she rode on Gray Hawk’s shoulder, slung there and kept there by his superior strength. She squeezed her eyes shut, too numb even to weep.
A cold fear swept over her. This savage hated her, believed that she had heaped upon him the utmost in degradation. What, then, did he intend to do to her?
She lifted her head, if only to halt the flow of blood rushing there.
Dusk was upon them, red and pink still clinging to the western sky. How long had it been since the accident, and more importantly, how long had he been running?
&nb
sp; Had the others yet discovered their absence? And if so, when would she be rescued?
Rescue. It was her only salvation.
She only hoped the others were fast upon the savage’s trail. After all, how far could one man go, burdened down as he was with her?
She glanced up again at the western sky. She was certain it had been much earlier in the day when she had sought out the Indian aboard the steamship. That meant he had been running for quite a bit of time.
He had to be tired.
It gave her hope.
Letting her head flop back down against the savage’s back, she began to make some plans.
“O’ksoyi vai! Eat the raw food!”
Genevieve stared down at the dirty brown roots that Gray Hawk had dug up for dinner. Did he really expect her to eat this?
Gray Hawk bridled. “I do not have any weapons for killing fresh game, and I do not know when I will be able to stop again to dig roots for food. Eat now.”
She glanced up at him, the fear she felt a very real and live thing within her.
He caught her glance. “Mopbete! Behave! If I had wanted to kill you, I would have done so by now. Eat! There may not be food for some time.”
Genevieve said without thinking, “But it’s dirty.” She immediately bit her lip.
Gray Hawk rose to his feet. He meandered toward her, squatting down directly in front of her.
He picked up the root and wiped it off. He looked at it, then at her, and at last, clearly annoyed, he got to his feet and ambled down toward the stream.
With his back to her, Genevieve entertained the idea of leaving, but thought better of it. For one thing, she’d not get far, not after having witnessed the speed with which this man could run.
But also she remembered looking out from the boat, there witnessing wolves and bears roaming these plains—not to mention other Indians who might be out there, Indians who might be more hostile to her than this man. Better she stay with Gray Hawk until she could formulate some other plan for freedom.
“Annisa,” he said, coming to stand over her. “It should be all right for you now. I perform for you a woman’s task in washing off this food. I do it only because you are new to the prairie and do not know its ways yet. Know that I will not do so again. Now, eat.”
Genevieve reached up toward him for the root, her gaze not quite able to reach his. The root still didn’t look edible to her, but she took it from him anyway and said, “Thank you.”
“Eat the small bulb you see here at the bend. It tastes sweet.”
She nodded, and again, not quite able to look at him, she said, “Thank you.”
Silence fell between them until, after a while, gathering her courage, Genevieve said, “I do not understand why you bring me with you, Mr. Gray Hawk. Do I not burden you?”
He nodded. “Aa, yes.”
“Then why not leave me here? I’m sure a rescue party will be by soon, and if you leave me, you can get away so much more swiftly,” she said, not adding that she would ensure their coming after him when they did rescue her. She had to get this Indian back to St. Louis.
He shrugged. “You are not very heavy. I have often carried over my shoulders deer that weigh more than you. Besides,” here he sent her a gaze reeking of menace, “I have plans for you.”
She swallowed and opened her eyes a fraction of an inch wider. “I… Mr. Gray Hawk, didn’t you say you had no intention of killing me?”
“Saa. None,” Gray Hawk said, seemingly engrossed in eating his own food. “At least, not yet.”
She gagged.
“Why should I kill you when there is always the chance for torture?”
Genevieve gasped and dropped her food.
Gray Hawk chuckled. “Saahkayi,” he said, not feeling kindly enough to translate the Blackfoot, which meant, “I jest.” Nor did he bother to tell her that the Blackfeet, as a nation, did not engage in torture. He shook his head. “Come, come now, captive, if you throw away your food, how will I ever fatten you up?”
“Fatten me up?”
“Annisa, that is right.” Gray Hawk grinned. Getting to his feet, he began to peel away his shirt. “No one likes a bony captive. Come now, you had best sit up and eat before we prepare to go. We will leave here soon.”
“Leave? But I thought…” She chanced a quick glance in his direction, though she saw nothing more than the man struggling to rid himself of his shirt. She quickly looked away. “Aren’t we going to sleep here?”
“Saa, no,” he said, “too dangerous. Maybe not tomorrow night, either. The grandfather of all bears lives in this country. He is the kind of bear that eats up all white people who trespass over Indian hunting grounds.” He made a gulping sound. “And he eats them up in pieces, a little bit at a time, just like this—”
She snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Do you think I would make up such a tale?”
“Yes, I do.”
He grinned. “Perhaps I do…perhaps. But know that I speak true when I say it is not safe to sleep here.
“Now,” he continued, having just mastered the secret of the buttons on his shirt. He shrugged the whole thing off and then held out a hand toward her. “Poohsapoot! Come here!”
Genevieve gazed over toward him, and her eyes grew wide. She turned quickly away, although her mind insisted on replaying that image of his naked chest: those muscles, all that skin, his masculine nipples shimmering under the starlight. It all seemed to haunt her, though she looked elsewhere. And then there was his long hair, gleaming in strands over his shoulders…
She drew in her breath, and her pulse raced.
Gray Hawk noticed it at once. “What is it you fear, captive?” he asked. “Is it the grandfather bear? Torture? Me? Or,” he grinned, “does the white woman of no honor have other, more pleasurable things on her mind?”
Genevieve bridled and looked away from him. How dare he?
Yet what could she say, after all? All of the above? Of course not.
She remained silent.
She heard the sounds of tearing cloth, and, gazing back at him, she beheld him shredding his shirt, making neat, long strips out of it.
“What are you doing?”
He smiled. “I am making sure that my captive does not escape.”
She snorted. “Where would I go?”
“It makes no difference. You could do most anything, go most anywhere, and,” he paused and grinned, “I would make certain of your whereabouts. Now, come here. Poohsapoot!”
“No.” She folded her hands in front of her and sat her ground.
“Poohsapoot!”
“Humph!”
He grabbed her, pulling her up; all the while she wrestled against him, but in the end his strength won out over hers, and Genevieve found herself tied, bound and gagged. She couldn’t take a step, she couldn’t speak and she couldn’t pick up a thing; her hands were tied behind her back.
She swore the most unladylike oaths, but unfortunately they could not be appreciated. Her words came out only in mumbo-jumbo.
He smiled. His only reaction to her struggles was amusement.
Oh, what she would do to him.
She thought about it over and over, the contemplation of it pleasurable.
And just when she was beginning to gladden at the prospect of planning what course her revenge would take, she remembered that this was exactly what he was doing: seeking revenge. Oh, dear.
She quieted.
And this time when he slung her over his shoulder, she didn’t struggle.
She would conserve her strength. At least for now. She would need it.
This had not been such a good idea.
With her hands tied behind her back and her body flung over his shoulder like a sack, her hair teased his buttocks and her breasts rubbed against his back—his naked back. And in the dress she wore, with a good portion of her breasts most daringly exposed, it was the same as flesh meeting flesh. Hers all soft and feminine, his—
; His body reacted accordingly, and he grimaced as his pants became too tight.
This would never do. This was not his intention. He must do something about this. He couldn’t even walk in a straight way at the moment.
He stopped and, pulling her off his shoulder, settled her onto the ground, her green dress flowing out around her and her hair falling to her waist like a cascade of fiery liquid.
She sat stiffly, as though any other position but this would cause pain, and he stared at her for a moment, finally squatting down beside her.
“I am going to untie your feet and let you run behind me. It is not good to have blood rushing to your head so much.”
She didn’t reply, but then he hadn’t expected her to. She was gagged. She just stared at him with her large, doe-brown eyes.
“I am going to tie one part of this strip around your waist and the other part around mine. I will need you to run behind me, not walk. We are in the country of my enemies, the Sioux, and we must hurry through it or risk death. We cannot travel during the day, only at night. Do you understand? There is also a party behind us. Therefore, we must hurry. Can you do it?”
“Hmmmmmm.” She shook her head and stuck out her chin, indicating the gag.
“Saa, Little Captive. I cannot take away the gag. I do not trust you not to cry out to gain attention from your people if they should come close to us. Nor would I expect you to act calmly and be quiet if another warrior was near. I have no weapons with which to defend myself or you. I cannot allow you to make a ‘mistake’ or to make a sound, however intentional or unintentional that mistake is.”
“Ahhhhh,” she groaned.
“Come, we must hurry. Soon the moon will be rising, and then we will be exposed again. I cannot allow that.” He stood then, and, tying the cloth around his waist, he motioned her up.
And though he set a pace that might have been a little fast for her, he noted with some grudging admiration that she kept up with him all through the night.
Chapter Eight
She awoke to a sound of scraping.
She glanced around her with a start, not sure at first where she was.
Her bed beneath her felt stiff, grassy and unyielding; the wind whipped across her, making her shiver, bringing with it the smell of…blood? Rawhide?