The Whippoorwill Trilogy

by Sharon Sala

  Their camp had been hasty, and as usual, poorly thought out. They’d made camp in a blind canyon. One way in. One way out. Just like the sack they’d put over Caitie’s head.

  Caitie was laying on the ground right where they’d dumped her. She could hear Milt circling her sacked body like a dog circles a skunk. She bunched her muscles, waiting for the opportunity to strike.

  Remembering the near-thrashing she’d given him yesterday, Milt wasn’t sure whether he wanted to let her go or just run like hell. In a flash of inspiration, he slashed the ropes around the sack that bound her arms to her body then jumped back on the defensive.

  She didn’t move.

  Game to go one step further, he grabbed for the sack and yanked. With two hard jerks, it came off.

  Seemingly lifeless, she rolled onto her side, as limp as an old man’s cock.

  Milt nudged her with the toe of his boot. She didn’t even moan. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and stared at the situation for a bit before he realized she was still bound and gagged. He bent down to cut the ropes from her ankles and wrists. They fell into the dirt with a plop and just as he started to untie the rag around her mouth, Art walked up behind him.

  “Is she dead?”

  Startled by the sound of his brother’s voice, Milt’s gaze shifted. It was the opportunity Caitie had been waiting for. She came up kicking and swinging, although her arms were so numb she had to look to see if she’d made a fist.

  “Gawdalmighty!” Art shrieked, and started to run. He’d already had more than his share of this shorn witch.

  “Get back here, you dog!” Milt yelled, and then went to his knees, retching from the damage her boot had done to his crotch and certain if he sneezed, his balls would come out his nose.

  Art hollered at Milt from behind a bush. “Just let her go! For Gawd’s sake, let her go!”

  “Hell no!” Milt said, then rolled on his back, his knees drawn up under his chin as he rocked in pain. “Shoot her before she gets away.”

  Art shivered as he pulled his gun. He’d never shot at a woman before.

  Caitie yanked at the rag covering her mouth then stumbled in the dark. As she did, she fell flat on her face. The swift taste of salt and a jolting pain was a good sign that she’d be sucking instead of chewing her meals for a while. Her tongue was on fire, but the fall saved her. Art’s shot went wild, whizzing over her head and hitting the tree in front of her with a splat. The gunshot echoed within the canyon walls.

  She was long gone before the last echo died.

  There Are None So Blind As Those Who Will Not See

  Sunrise came without warning. One minute Caitie was walking through grass and trees with moonlight for a guide, and the next thing she knew, the sun was in her eyes. It was the first time since her escape that she’d known what direction she was going.

  And while one direction was as good as another so long as the Bolins were somewhere else, Caitie would rather not have been in full view of the world with no place to hide. She paused on a rise and shaded her eyes with her hand, squinting them just enough against the new sun to get her bearings.

  To her left, a low line of blue-gray mountains broke the flat horizon. The distance, she knew, was deceiving. It would take days to reach the foothills. With no food or water, that way was out of the question. To her right, the ground rolled before her, falling away into an undulating sea of grass. A black mass moved upon it like a shadow upon the land. Caitie’s heart leaped in her breast at the buffalo ranging as far as the eye could see! She’d seen them before, but safely from the seat of a wagon. She didn’t want to be on foot anywhere near a herd that size.

  That left two options. What was before her and what lay behind. She’d escaped the Bolins twice now. Once, thanks to a gun-slinger with a sense of fair play, and the second time, pure luck. Having another run-in with them was more than she cared to try.

  Caitie looked intently at the landscape before her. The unknown held new appeal. Without hesitation, she started forward. The sun cooked her face, burning her eyes and her lips, which only added to the misery of an empty belly, and still she walked.

  It was hours later before she would top a rise that gave her hope. Legs shaking from exertion and hunger, she paused at the crest of a hill and looked down at the valley below. Trees dotted the landscape. Beyond the tops of the farthest trees, Caitie thought she saw…

  “Water! Blessed Jesus, tis water!”

  She crossed herself out of habit although she’d long since given up counting on anybody but herself, and started forward at a brisk walk. The impetus of moving downhill shifted the walk to a trot, and by the time she’d gained the level floor of the valley, Caitie O’Shea was in an all-out run. Still several hundred yards from the river, the smell of the water was already in her nose.

  Eyes Like Mole saw the white man. Several hundred yards away. Running toward him like a madman. And man is what he thought Caitie to be. His misconception rested upon the fact that she wore the pants of a white man and had chopped off her hair to match, but the closer she came, the more nervous he got.

  At a distance, his vision was fine. From where he sat upon his horse, he could see for miles in every direction. But up close to his prey—or his enemies—where survival often counted the most—navigation was accomplished with a combination of blurry images and keen ears, and the fact that his horse knew the way home. Eyes Like Mole couldn’t see his hand in front of his face.

  A squat man of little import within his people, the Arapaho, Eyes Like Mole had yet to take a wife when some of his friends had already taken a second. For the last three days he’d been on a vision quest, fasting and meditating, hoping that during his cleansing, the spirits of his ancestors would guide him on the right path. Now he wondered what this intrusion would mean. So he sat and he watched, even though the sun was hot upon his bare shoulders and sweat ran beneath his deerskin leggings and down into his moccasins. It did not matter. Soon a breeze would come by and he would be cool. Personal comfort was a small thing to consider for a man who could not see all that he should.

  His horse neighed softly as it, too, saw the oncoming stranger. Eyes Like Mole still sat—motionless—watching—and considering the stupidity of white man in general. An Arapaho child of four winters would know better than to wander away from camp, and yet as far as he could tell, the white man was alone.

  As the man came closer, Eyes Like Mole was forced to squint to adjust his eyesight, trying to distinguish between blowing bush and running man. When the man suddenly fell into the water and began flopping like a land-bound fish, Eyes Like Mole grunted. He’d located the white man’s new position by sound alone. He kicked his heels against the horse’s flanks and rode forward.

  Caitie fell to her belly on the river bank, thrusting her hands and arms into the water and then splashing her hot, burning face. With a sigh of relief, she dipped her head, drinking long and deep, teasing an empty stomach into thinking it was full. And when she had slaked her thirst, she jumped into the water, clothes and all, sluicing her hot, dusty body in an effort to wash away the grime.

  “Ah,” she moaned. “What I wouldn’t be givin’ fer a sliver of soap.”

  She’d never known it could feel so good to be wet. The current beneath the surface of the water was swift, but she felt no fear. And because she dared to let the river have its way, she missed seeing the Indian on the rise just above the bank. With a gentle kick, she bent her knees and relaxed as the river flow carried her out from the bank and into its depths.

  Then out of nowhere, pain ripped through her scalp. Flailing helplessly against the tow, she realized something had her by the hair. She shrieked and kicked, swallowing more than her share of the river as the water gave her up to a greater force. Seconds later, she hit solid ground with a rude thump, deflating her lungs upon impact. Gasping and choking, she crawled to her knees, struggling for breath. When she could finally breathe, everything came out in a screech.

  “Ye bleedin’ so
d!” She swiped hair and water from her face and eyes. “Were ye about trying to drown me?”

  Eyes Like Mole jerked and stared directly at Caitie. Not because he could suddenly see, but because the voice was female. His interest grew. So it was a white woman that he’d rescued! But her manner of speech was strange. She was from a tribe he did not know. He thought of his vision quest. Maybe she was the answer to his prayers. Maybe his ancestors had guided him to this woman from a far-away tribe. He thrust out his chest.

  “You did not swim.”

  Rage wilted into terror as Caitie looked up into the implacable copper face of the mounted Indian. With water streaming from her hair into her eyes, she dropped to her knees and made the sign of the cross. “Holy Mary, mother of God, help me now in me hour of need.”

  Eyes Like Mole frowned. The woman was strange in ways other than her mode of dress. Now that he’d saved her from the river, she was on her knees, talking to herself at a rapid pace, and in a tongue he couldn’t understand.

  He did not know that as Caitie had lapsed from English into Gaelic, she was swiftly calculating the distance between herself and the horse’s hooves, certain that if she tried to run, she could be squashed like a mouse underfoot. Believing her plight to be hopeless, she fell forward upon the ground in a weak, helpless heap.

  Shrieking aloud, she pounded the earth in anger and fear. “Sweet Jesus and Mary, dear mother of God, how dare Ye be lettin’ me live through hell on the streets of Dublin only to be bringin’ me here to this godforsaken land to die at the hands of a heathen.”

  Eyes Like Mole looked down at the shadow upon the ground, trying to squint past the blur to the woman beneath. It was no use. She was nothing but a vague shape with a loud mouth.

  “You not die,” Eyes Like Mole scolded. “I, Eyes Like Mole, saved you. Get up, woman! You do not cry!”

  Caitie choked on her last sob and lifted her head from the ground as reality sank in. He’s speaking the English tongue! Maybe there’ll be hope for me yet.

  “How are ye knowin’ the English?” she asked.

  “Scout for Army at fort. Know plenty about white man.”

  Caitie glared. He might know plenty about white men, but he didn’t know beans about white women or he wouldn’t have treated her so roughly.

  “So ye were draggin’ me by the hair of the head and out of me bath. To what purpose?”

  His answer was slow in coming. Taking a chance, Caitie got to her feet and took several steps backward for a better view. From where she stood, he looked to be only a few inches taller than she was. His body was as brown as the earth beneath her feet, and his long black hair was bound up in two hanks over his ears and wrapped with colorful cloth all the way down. His face was broad. His mouth was wide. And he stared down that hook of a nose at her like a bird of prey. But little did Caitie know that those small, dark eyes saw nothing of her person other than a shape.

  While Caitie had been surveying him, Eyes Like Mole had been doing some thinking of his own. She’d asked him a question. It was time to answer.

  He pointed at her with his chin. “You will come with me.”

  She took two more steps back and muttered. “Like hell! And why should I be comin’ with the likes of a heathen?”

  “I take you for wife.”

  His announcement was as plain as the small brown horse he was riding. But Caitie took it no better than the unwanted rescue.

  “Ye’ll be taking yer’self to hell and back first,” she screeched.

  “You come,” Eyes Like Mole repeated and swung his horse around, heading toward what he hoped was camp while motioning for her to follow.

  As was her bent, Caitie O’Shea reacted, rather than thought. She came forward all right, but not to follow. Eyes Like Mole only saw her move. He did not see her purpose.

  She raised her hand and slapped the horse’s rump with a sharp and vicious blow. It shot forward like a scalded cat, leaving chunks of sod and blades of grass soiling the air behind him.

  Eyes Like Mole wasn’t prepared for the jolt, or the runaway horse. Instinctively, his knees gripped the horse’s belly as he fought for control. A skilled horseman, he soon had his mount in line, but relocating the woman was a serious problem. He rode up to the crest of the nearest hill and turned to look at the view far below. Seconds later, he grunted. A smile slid into place as he kicked his horse and rode back down the hill.

  Caitie ran and never looked back. Her heart thundered in her ears and her lungs burned as she struggled for breath between each chop of her legs. And because she didn’t look back, she never heard the horse, or saw the Indian, until it was too late.

  Eyes Like Mole stared passively at the shape upon the ground. His horse grazed nearby.

  It was the scent of horseflesh, the sweet smell of grass being harvested by his horse’s teeth, and a shrill cry from a hawk overhead, along with the slow, even breathing of his woman at his feet that told him all was well. All were familiar sounds and scents he could identify. At that moment, he was satisfied.

  And then Caitie came to.

  “Wha’ happened?”

  She rolled her tongue around a mouthful of dirt and grass that was imbedded between her teeth, then crawled to her knees and spit. Everything came back in a rush as the moccasins on the Indian’s small feet, as well as his leggings and a breechcloth moved into her line of vision. She didn’t like to think what lay beneath.

  “You fall.”

  “Like hell. Ye pushed.”

  He shrugged. Arguing with a woman was not something an Arapaho warrior should have to do. Eyes Like Mole started toward his horse.

  “We go.” He felt for the dragging reins of his horse and once he’d located them, vaulted onto its back in one smooth leap.

  “I’ll not be goin’ anywhere,” Caitie argued, and then choked and gasped at the tug of the rope around her neck. She couldn’t believe it! While she was lying unconscious, he had hog-tied her like a pig being led to slaughter.

  “We go,” Eyes Like Mole repeated, and nudged his horse forward, giving the woman no time to escape.

  As an honorable Arapaho warrior, he might make a mistake now and then. A man was allowed a few in his lifetime. But he knew better than to let this woman get too close again. Keeping her on the far end of a long rope would serve his purpose nicely. The farther away she was from him and his horse, the better he could see her. And once they were on the move, she’d be too busy trying to save herself from being dragged to cause trouble.

  Pheasant flushed from their nests as the odd duo passed. Eyes Like Mole turned often to check behind him, making certain that his woman was still at the end of his rope.

  Caitie O’Shea was there, and almost at the end of a rope of her own. Blind with exhaustion and weak from hunger, she felt her legs giving way.

  “Stop!” she begged, and tugged on the rope with both hands. “I cannot be runnin’ another step.”

  Eyes Like Mole reined in his horse and frowned. His ancestors had sent him a woman as he’d asked, but she seemed to be weak in the ways that counted.

  “You come?”

  Caitie dropped to her knees, heart pounding—head aching.

  “I’d be delighted,” she muttered, and tried not to cry.

  They entered the Arapaho village to the tune of barking dogs and shrieking children. All work stopped as the people ran out to gaze at the unbelievable sight. Eyes Like Mole was riding in with a white man in tow. It took the second, and then the third look before the people in the village realized it was a woman and not a man tied at the end of Eyes Like Mole’s rope.

  Chief Little Deer was torn between admiration and shock. Eyes Like Mole had never been able to accomplish much past being a good, long-distance scout. To see him riding into camp with a prisoner in tow was quite a feat. On the other hand, it was a white woman that he’d captured. At this time, the Arapaho had a peaceful relationship with the white man and wanted to keep it that way. This could cause a great problem.

&nbs
p; Chief Little Deer ran forward. “Eyes Like Mole! What have you done?”

  Eyes Like Mole dismounted, trailing the rope in the dust as he swaggered toward the sound of his chief’s voice.

  “I have had a vision. The spirits of my ancestors sent a woman to me. I will take her as my wife.”

  Caitie groaned and sat down in the dust, eyeing the tepees, the barking dogs, as well as the suspicious glares of the Arapaho women with total disgust.

  “And here I’ve been thinkin’ this couldn’t be gettin’ worse.”

  “She speaks with a strange tongue,” Chief Little Deer said, noting, as Eyes Like Mole had, the odd catch to the white woman’s voice. “And if the spirits sent her to you, why is she tied?”

  “She does not come willingly.”

  Chief Little Deer frowned and felt compelled to add, “It is difficult to keep a woman who does not want to stay.”

  Eyes Like Mole thought a bit before he answered. He’d given that point some thought on his own.

  “I believe it is because she did not hear the spirits voices as I did.”

  Chief Little Deer felt obliged to warn him while taking careful note of the fact that Caitie O’Shea did not look weak and distraught. In fact, when their gazes had collided moments earlier, he’d had the distinct impression that he’d just faced an insurmountable foe.

  And then Caitie got her second wind. “Ye’ll be untying me now,” she said, and yanked the rope from Eyes Like Mole’s unsuspecting fingers.

  He spun, staring glassy-eyed in the direction of her voice, but all he could see were the vague outlines of the people surrounding him. He couldn’t distinguish Caitie from any of the others.

  The sudden shock and then fear that swept across his face startled her. What the hell could he possibly be afraid of? She couldn’t outrun several dozen people, even if she tried.

  “I’ll be wantin’ food… and water… and a place to sit down.”