Cheyenne Captive

by Georgina Gentry - Iron Knife's Family 01 - Cheyenne Captive

The Comanchero swore viciously in Spanish as he reached out, caught her arm. “You bitch!” he swore. “You conniving bitch! I’ll make you wish you had never done that!”

  She tried to scream but he had his hand clasped over her mouth again, dragging her to the water. She fought with everything she had, knowing this time he was going to drown her and rape her dead body. But she weighed less than half his weight and she was like a broken doll in his grasp as he dragged her into the ankle-deep water.

  “Now, puta!” he swore. “I told you I’d do this. Didn’t you believe me?”

  He threw her down on her belly in the shallow water, knelt with one big hand on the small of her back, and threw his full weight on it so she couldn’t get away.

  “Aha! señorita.” He laughed gleefully. “I’m gonna put one boot on the back of your neck and put your face in that mud. After I hold you under a few more times, it’ll take the fight out of you, no? And if not, I will enjoy you every bit as much unconscious or dead!”

  She could feel his big boot on the back of her neck now. Her own terrified face reflected back at her in the dark water only inches from her nostrils with his ugly face looming in the background.

  His boot came down on her neck with his weight behind it and her own horrified image came up to meet her. She could feel the rough grit of the sand bottom on her tender cheek as he pushed her face under and she fought in terror to free herself.

  It seemed an eternity that she struggled and fought, feeling his hand on the small of her back, his boot on her neck as he pressed her face against the river bottom. She held her breath as long as she could before she had to breathe in and the water rushed into her mouth and nose.

  Never had she known such terror! Just as she was blacking out, he took his foot off her neck and she managed to raise up on her elbows, gasping and strangling as the life-giving air rushed into her heaving lungs.

  Summer tried to scream out but was too spent to give more than a weak cry.

  The man moved to mount her from behind. “And now, you bitch, I’m gonna take you like a wolf takes a bitch in heat and you’re gonna lay on your belly and take it without a whimper. Comprende?”

  Summer took another breath of air, almost too exhausted to struggle now. It was all she could do to lie on her belly, raising up on her elbows as the man lay his great weight across her hips. She could feel his hot, hard manhood against her naked bottom as he spread his length along her back.

  His clumsy hands reached around to grasp her full breasts and squeeze. “I like something to hang on to when I take a ride,” he chuckled close to her ear as he prepared to enter her.

  She was determined not to submit to him if she had to die for it! As he rose up on his knees to come into her, Summer struggled, again determined to fight her way out from under him. If she could ever break free and make it to the village . . .

  She couldn’t even get out from under him. He gripped her breasts so cruelly, she cried out and his mouth was on her ear, biting at the lobe. “Give up, whore. I’m gonna take you, and for this I teach you a lesson, sí?”

  His hands moved to the back of her head as he positioned himself again. “I’m gonna hold your head under while I’m enjoying you! If my pleasure lasts too long, you may be dead by the time I let up.”

  She was a scant inch from the water again, fighting to keep her face up as he positioned himself to take her from behind. She could feel him forcing her legs apart, panting with the pleasure and expectation of enjoying her.

  She was too tired, too weak to fight any longer, her aching body told her as he forced her face toward the water. It would be so much easier just to give up and die. Drowning was probably an easy death, she thought as he pushed her face into the water again. Just relax and breathe in and in seconds blackness will overcome me and I’ll be past terror, past pain, past anything but oblivion. But her spirit refused to give up. Even as he pushed her head under, she came up out of the water fighting while he swore and struck at her.

  “Iron Knife!” she managed to scream as she realized she was going to die. “Iron Knife, where are you?”

  Chapter Twelve

  And suddenly he was there, charging across the shallow water like an enraged buffalo bull, grasping El Lobo by the arm, throwing him to one side.

  The Indian was a tanned, avenging angel to her dazed eyes. She struggled up out of the water and heard his angry swear words. Then he lifted her dripping and gasping and carried her to the bank. Summer saw Pretty Flower Woman’s anxious face peering down at her as the Indian girl covered Summer with the buckskin shift.

  Pretty Flower Woman looked worried. “I came down for water, saw what was happening, and went for help.”

  Summer smiled gratefully at the girl. Around her, Indians were running from all directions.

  But Summer’s eyes searched anxiously for only one face, one pair of eyes. “Iron Knife,” she gasped as she looked up into his face that was dark with fury, “I—I knew you’d come when I needed you most!”

  Iron Knife studied Summer’s pale, bruised face as he grasped the hilt of his big knife hard and turned toward the Comanchero who stood staring at him, his dripping clothes making a puddle on the dry sand of the riverbank.

  “You greasy son of a Mexican whore!” Iron Knife crouched and drew his blade. “For this, I kill you!”

  “Now, wait uno momento. Comprende?” The man made placating gestures with his dirty hands. “I didn’t hurt her none, I was just teasin’ her a little, huh, hombre? Listen, I’ve got a lot of trade goods with me. I’ll buy her from you and you can pick up another girl next time you go on a raid.”

  “No!” Iron Knife moved toward him as a circle of curious Indians formed. “My woman isn’t for sale and I’m going to gut you for the insult!”

  The Comanchero backed away slowly. “Si, I understand. You don’t want to sell her. Tell you what, El Lobo is a generous man.” He smiled and his wolfish teeth gleamed in his swarthy face. “I give you a good rifle, even some firewater just to use her a couple of hours this afternoon before we leave the camp. Now that’s fair enough, isn’t it?”

  Iron Knife had never felt such anger as he glared at the man and looked over to where Summer Sky shivered and coughed, holding the deerskin shift up against her bruised breasts. Even from here, he could see scratch marks and wounds on her fair skin.

  “You Mexican bastard, make ready to die!” He swore, and the veins stood out in anger and throbbed in his neck. “I’m going to spill your guts all over this riverbank!”

  He hefted the big knife from one hand to the other easily and saw sudden fear in the squint eyes as the Comanchero reached for his own long blade.

  El Lobo looked around the circle of faces desperately. “No fair, amigo, these are all your friends.” He gestured toward the circle of faces. “If I kill you and then they all attack me, I’m up against a stacked deck, no?”

  Iron Knife looked around the circle. The old chiefs had joined the growing crowd along with the visiting Comanche and Kiowas. His own cousins moved in behind the Mexican but Iron Knife shook his head warningly at them.

  “I want no help, no interference,” he ordered everyone. “To me alone belongs the pleasure of spilling his guts upon the ground and rubbing his face in them while he dies!”

  Scalp Taker nodded in agreement and spoke in a mixture of broken Spanish, Cheyenne, and sign language. “So much trouble over a woman! But young blood runs forever hot. This is between them over this blond one.”

  The old Cheyenne turned toward the Comanche and Kiowa chiefs. “Is this acceptable to you?”

  Bull Hump shrugged. “The Comanchero means nothing to us except that we trade with him sometimes. Let the two young stallions fight for the white girl and no one else interfere.”

  Little Buffalo and Aperian Crow nodded in agreement as did the other chiefs.

  The Kiowa, Aperian Crow, raised an eyebrow as he folded his arms. “This provides an interesting entertainment. The Comanchero has always made big
boasts about his bravery. I’ll wager a new blanket on his chances. And if he wins, I may try to buy the girl from El Lobo myself.”

  Iron Knife started to protest, realized the others were nodding in agreement with the Kiowa as bets were wagered. It seemed simple enough to all the watching men. Like any wild herd, the male who won got the privilege of mating the female. He could do nothing but agree. But he didn’t intend to lose.

  Glancing over at Summer, he realized by her strickened face that she had finally comprehended what was about to happen, that she was the prize in a fight to the death.

  The Comanchero was shorter but heavy and perhaps more powerful, Iron Knife thought as he watched the man pull out his own wicked dagger, heft it in his hand.

  The man seemed self-assured now and he sneered. “Okay, hombre, I’m the challenged one so I get to choose the way we fight. You know the Rio Grande way of dueling?”

  Iron Knife felt his stomach lurch. He had never fought Rio Grande style, but judging from the sudden cockiness of the other, El Lobo had.

  Iron Knife could not back down now and only spilling this man’s blood would cool his anger. “I have lived among the whites, I know how it is done. Yes, I will fight you this way.”

  He saw the sudden frown on his uncle’s stern countenance and the worry on his cousins’ faces. An excited murmur ran through the crowd as those who knew the method of dueling whispered it to the others.

  Even Summer glanced around, obviously picking up the bits and pieces of Cheyenne words.

  “No!” she protested, staggering to her feet as she clutched the buckskin shift around her naked body. “No! I won’t let you—”

  “You can’t stop me,” Iron Knife said quietly, his anger still making the cords stand out on his neck as he looked at her bruises. She ran to him, clutched him imploringly.

  “No!” she wept. “I don’t want you to risk your life over me!”

  She clung to him and he looked over her head at his aunt, signaled her with his eyes. Pony Woman came over, unclasped Summer’s hands, and dragged her kicking and fighting to the edge of the big circle.

  Old Blue Eagle walked with much pomp to the center of the circle, a strip of rawhide in his hands. “Come forward, both of you!”

  Iron Knife took one more look at the weeping, injured girl to fuel his anger as he stalked to the center. The Comanchero came to the old chiefs other side. Blue Eagle commanded, “Your left wrists!”Both men slowly extended their left arms, each holding his wicked blade in his right hand.

  Blue Eagle bound the two men’s wrists together securely with the rawhide strip. “This is a fight to the death,” he announced to the crowd. “The winner cuts himself loose from the other’s dead body and takes the girl!”

  A murmur ran through the crowd and Iron Knife knew what they were all thinking by looking around the circle of worried faces. On horseback, armed with a bow and lance, a Cheyenne Dog Soldier had no equal in the world. But afoot, armed with a weapon more familiar to the Spanish, Iron Knife was at a distinct disadvantage.

  Iron Knife felt a quiver of excitement and danger run over him as he studied the old scars on El Lobo’s arms and face. No wonder he had chosen these rules. Iron Knife voiced his thoughts impulsively. “You have fought this way many times?”

  The other threw back his head and laughed as the old chief finished binding the two together, tested the rope for sturdiness. “You betcha, you loco red hombre! I’ve killed four men in cantinas this way and cut the ears off three more!”

  A murmur ran through the crowd as Bull Hump and Little Buffalo translated his Spanish boasts so that the crowd could understand him.

  Blue Eagle held each of their right hands in his hands so neither could make a sudden first lunge. “Are you ready?”

  Both nodded eagerly. On the sidelines, Summer struggled in plump Pony Woman’s arms and tried to protest.

  Pony Woman frowned and held on to her. “Be quiet, white girl. You humiliate my nephew with your protests. Besides, when men fight, they pay no heed to women’s cries.”

  A hush fell over the crowd as the old chief disengaged slowly from the pair, backed to the edge of the circle. Now the two faced each other in a fighting stance, big, sharp blades in each right hand, the length of their two left arms between them.

  Nervously, Iron Knife hefted the knife in his hand. The sun glinted off the bright blade, momentarily blinding him as he took the measure of the other. Very slowly, they moved in a tight circle, tightly bound at the left wrists.

  He could see by the other’s frown that he was taking Iron Knife’s measure also and not liking the odds. They circled warily, each with his knife ready. It was a war of nerves and a man who was easily panicked could be hurried into making the first move, slashing in too fast and getting sliced open by an opponent with steady nerves.

  Iron Knife felt slightly unsure of himself, never having fought this white man’s way before. He did not feel easy about being tied to an opponent so that he could not dodge and attack, using his lightning reflexes to best advantage.

  The sun reflected off his blade again and he glanced past his opponent’s shoulder and saw a dragonfly hovering in the background over a wildflower. Steel cold calm descended on his being because his spirit animal had sent a sign. When the right moment came, the dragonfly would tell him what to do; help him. He sent a silent prayer of thanks toward the spirits as he moved with renewed confidence. The dragonfly, he thought. It will tell me.

  But the other caught him unaware, jerking suddenly on the tied wrists and with powerful muscles pulled Iron Knife off balance and to his knees.

  Using his own great strength, Iron Knife recovered quickly; jerking the man about and dodging as the other flashed in for the kill and missed, but left a bloody cut along Iron Knife’s ribs.

  Summer screamed and there was a murmur through the crowd as the opponent drew first blood.

  The Comanchero leered triumphantly. “This is going to be easier than I thought! I should have wagered more than just the mating of your female!”

  The Spaniard was goading Iron Knife. He could feel the anger rising in him, struggled to keep his calm. A man enraged is a man too quick to attack, too eager to think straight.

  Iron Knife smiled in challenge, feeling the warm blood dripping down his naked body from the cut. “You greasy, one-eared offal.” He raised an eyebrow archly. “You cross between the lowest puta and a mangy, rabid coyote!”

  The other’s face flushed dark red and his eyes blinked rapidly as he swore in Spanish. “I’ll kill you for that, Injun, do you understand? Then I’ll slice your ears off and your woman’s, too. What I intend to enjoy on her, she don’t need ears for.”

  The Comanchero was roaring mad. It was visible in the way his nostrils flared and the way he charged in recklessly. Iron Knife sidestepped easily and cut the Spaniard’s arm open to the bone as they gripped each other’s knife hands and struggled for supremacy.

  The other roared in pain and rage like a wounded bear and jerked hard on his own left wrist, taking Iron Knife off center with sheer strength. Iron Knife fought for balance but went to one knee and threw his right arm up to ward off the other’s downward thrust. They poised thus a long, heart-stopping moment as they struggled before Iron Knife managed to throw the other’s knife arm away from him and the other lost his balance and went down slashing. The momentum of his fall took Iron Knife down with him and they meshed and rolled over and over in the circle.

  He heard Summer’s cry of warning and threw his hand up in time to grip the other’s wrist. His opponent used sheer weight to battle to the top.

  Sweat dripped from both of them and dust clung to their bodies. The Comanchero laughed viciously as he tried to bring his knife down for the kill. The pain of the long cut on Iron Knife’s ribs stung as sweat and dust covered the raw flesh. His life was slowly draining out of him through the slash. If he didn’t finish this soon, he would lose consciousness and his life. He could smell the rotten breath and the ran
k sweat of the Spaniard as they struggled.

  Gritting his teeth, Iron Knife held the other’s knife wrist and the man’s warm blood ran down both their arms. The other grinned down at him. “Think! You red bastard, you son of a white whore who would mate with even the cannibal Tonkawa, think how tonight I will enjoy lying between the legs of your woman while you lie here on the sand with your spilled guts crawling with blue flies!”

  White-hot anger at the image gave Iron Knife new strength and he jerked suddenly on the other’s arm and flipped him over his head. For a split second, they scrambled in the dust, each jerking on his left wrist to throw the other off balance and slashing with his right hand. Iron Knife could taste bitter fear and revulsion at the image the Comanchero drew of Summer’s fate. Dirt and sweat ran down his rugged face and into his grimacing mouth as they struggled to their feet and crouched again in a fighting stance.

  He was dizzy and faint from the heat of the autumn sun that shone like a gold coin in the pale blue sky and the loss of the carmine blood that slowly dripped down his side.

  The other’s arm showed white bone where Iron Knife had slashed it open. Both men’s blood dripped between their feet, making mud for the combatants to slip in.

  They feinted slowly, cautiously, each realizing they were both tired, both almost to the end of their endurance. There were only one or two good moves left in either of them, Iron Knife thought, taking a deep breath as they circled warily. He knew now why the Comanchero had wanted to fight this way. He was the best with a blade Iron Knife had ever challenged; maybe even better than himself.

  But Iron Knife knew he had one thing in his favor, one thing that gave him extra strength and purpose the other didn’t have. Iron Knife glanced at the sobbing blond girl. Iron Knife was fighting for love; to protect his woman. The other fought for lust and the sheer joy of murder. The first gave Iron Knife a spiritual advantage. But he was tiring fast, he knew, even faster than the Comanchero. He jerked El Lobo off his feet and they rolled over and over again, then staggered slowly to their feet.