Lawless Love

by Rosanne Bittner

  He got up and walked over to her, and she suddenly stiffened when he came near, ready to kick him, scream, and struggle the best she could. This man was not only responsible for trying to cut off Moss’s arm—and possibly for his death—but his treatment of her could very likely cause her to lose the precious life in her belly. She had begged with him, told him about her tender pregnancy, hoping it would touch something inside of him and make him take her back. But nothing had worked. She was more certain than ever that she was with child, and the thought of losing it was overwhelming, making her cry all the more—and making Duncan clobber her for her simpering. So long! So long she had tried to get pregnant! To have it end this way—to lose Moss, lose the baby, and to suffer the horrors of a house of prostitution—she could not help but wonder why God would allow her to suffer this way after all she had been through. She and Moss had found such happiness together. Surely God meant for it to last longer than this! Surely He would hear her pleadings.

  Duncan bent over her, his eyes glittering from whiskey and desire. She tossed her head, pleading with him with her eyes and mouthing the word no. But he only grinned and unbuttoned his pants. She closed her eyes, refusing to look upon another man, and she heard him chuckle. He viciously ripped open the front of her dress, and she kicked upward with her knee, managing to jolt him but not with much force. He raised up and punched her across the cheek with his fist, and everything began spinning. She heard more tearing and felt her body being exposed to the air. She knew she was screaming now, tortured at the thought of another man looking at her, wanting to fight him but too weak to do so. She kicked again, slamming her foot into Duncan’s middle and sending him reeling backward, surprised at the fight she had left in her.

  Duncan crawled back toward her, cursing and brushing dirt from his face. She felt a heavy weight on her stomach and smelled whiskey on the breath close to her face. Then there was a strange jolt and near her ear a terrible scream from the mouth of Lloyd Duncan. She felt more pressure on her, and she opened her eyes, looking beyond Duncan to a circle of renegade Apache Indians.

  She shook with worse fear than she had known to this point, thinking only of the horror stories she’d heard about Apache torture and rape. Moss had told her it wasn’t all true, but as she looked at the tangle-haired, dark-skinned and wild-eyed men who stood around her now, it was difficult for her to think otherwise. And it had been Apache who’d caused Moss to lose his arm.

  One of the renegades bent down and grasped Duncan’s lifeless body, throwing it aside. Amanda looked over at it and saw a tomahawk protruding from the man’s back. She let out a desolate moan and wept, praying at the same time.

  Now the Indian came closer. He remained standing at first, straddling her naked body and staring down at her with bloodshot eyes. His bronze, muscular arms glistened with oil and sweat. He wore only a loin cloth, and his legs and thighs were powerful. An apronlike piece of material hung at the front and back of his loin cloth, and a maze of silver and turquoise beads and necklaces draped the broad chest. He wore enough weapons for an army, and a red band was tied around his forehead.

  He went to his knees, his dark eyes capturing hers, filling her with the worst dread she had ever known. This man would not only likely rape her, but his friends would take their turns as well. What physical torture might they devise for her?

  Her devastation knew no bounds as he reached out and took her face in his hands; yet his touch was strangely gentle. He sat straddled over her belly now, and she expected him to drop the loin cloth and perform a hideous act, but he only pushed some hair back from her face.

  “You are…lovely,” he said in an unexpectedly gentle voice. Did he intend to try to seduce her, rather than beat her into submission? She trembled violently, sure she would vomit any moment if he touched any other part of her body. She automatically began to struggle, and he tightened his grip on her hair with one hand, while with the other he pulled out a huge, ugly-looking knife. Her eyes widened, and she made a sound like a wounded animal.

  “Don’t hurt me! Please don’t hurt me!” she whimpered.

  He laid the knife against her cheek and bent close to her face.

  “And do you think Apache bucks are cowardly like the white trash who was beating you?” he hissed.

  She just stared at him, not knowing what he wanted her to say, trying to think.

  “My husband…tells me the Apache men…are the bravest he has known,” she managed to choke out. “To take a woman against her will…is not being very brave.”

  If not for his fierce, unkempt look, she could have sworn a smile passed over his lips.

  “You are clever with your words, white woman,” he said in a near whisper, still straddled over her belly. “And perhaps…” He looked down at her breasts. “Perhaps you only say you have a man, and you only speak highly of the Apache because you think it will save you.”

  “I never lie,” she found herself saying, wondering where she was finding the courage to speak at all. “My God does not allow me to lie…as yours does not. And you’ve…heard of my husband. He’s considered a brave white warrior by the Apache. His name is Moses Tucker…and he has only one arm. One of your own kind…planted a hatchet in his other arm five years ago and he lost it.”

  He ran one hand over her breast and she grimaced.

  “I know of Moses Tucker. We allowed him to go free once. And he is brave. But he is also white!” he spit out through teeth that seemed extra white against his dark face. “The Apache nation is dying because of the whites! Why should I do him another favor by not harming his woman!”

  She swallowed. “Because if you rape me…and hurt me…you would be just like that white man over there,” she said in a stronger voice, glancing at Duncan’s body. She felt as though someone were putting the words in her mouth. “Is that what you want? To become the kind of man you detest? To be like a cowardly white man?”

  This time a very faint smile crossed his lips, and he ran the knife lightly under her chin and down her chest, not cutting her but just frightening her.

  “And,” she went on, “because my husband is not like that man…and he respects the Apache…and because I am with child.”

  Her breath came in short gasps as the fear that had waned momentarily began to grow again when he casually circled her breast teasingly with the tip of the knife. When she spoke the last words, he moved the knife away from her skin and leaned closer again.

  “I am Chano—what the white man calls a renegade. And I like the way you speak. I think maybe you are as brave as your one-armed husband. Another white woman would have screamed and kicked and spit in my face, called me names!”

  “I would not fight something my God sent to me.”

  He frowned, amused.

  “I prayed to my God…for help. And you came. Would my God send me someone who would turn around and harm me?”

  He snickered, sitting up straight again, still straddling her. He turned and said something to the band of renegades who rode with him, and they all chuckled. Then he barked some kind of order. One of the men ran off, and Chano bent over Amanda again. He studied her closely with flashing, dark eyes, resting the knife on her nose, then grinning a little. Amanda wondered why she didn’t faint.

  “We will take you to our camp and we will decide there what to do with you,” he told her. He leaned farther forward and in one quick flash he cut the leather straps that bound her wrists. She closed her eyes and breathed a sigh of relief for at last having her hands free again. He cut the straps completely off her wrists and rubbed them gently, barking another order. Another man ran off.

  The first man returned with a blanket. Chano moved off of her and laid the blanket over her, and she broke into tears at the relief of finally having their eyes off her naked body.

  The second man returned with a pouch, and Chano dipped his fingers into it, coming out with something greasy looking on them. He rubbed the substance onto her wrists, and though it smelled bad, it made them
feel much better. He pulled her blanket up a moment and rubbed some onto the scratches and cuts on her legs. She was too weak to object. He rolled her onto her stomach and rubbed more onto her thighs and buttocks and back, then wrapped the blanket completely around her and picked her up in his arms.

  “You shouldn’t cry. Your God sent us, remember?” He laughed again, but it was not a cruel laugh. He seemed to be more amused than anything else. He hoisted her up on his spotted horse and eased his way onto the horse’s back in one swift motion. He barked another command, and they were off, to what destination or fate, she did not know.

  “No! No!” Miles Randall screamed, writhing on the floor. Moss Tucker’s knee was in his gut and the man’s .45 jammed against his throat. “Get him off me!”

  Tucker men, a few Landers’ men, and miscellaneous ranchers and townspeople alike stood around in the lobby of the hotel, where Tucker had thrown Randall to the floor after rousting him out of bed and kicking him down the stairs. It was now two o’clock in the morning, and the sleepy Miles Randall was at first confused, just now beginning to realize what must have happened. Moss’s arm ached furiously, and his side was still bleeding through the quick bandage job Pappy had done.

  “Help me! Somebody help me!” Randall whimpered, staring at the wild-eyed man who held him down.

  “You’re gonna talk, Randall, or, by God, you’re gonna suffer!” Moss growled, ramming his knee harder into Randall’s belly. Randall whimpered.

  “Where’s Ralph? What have you done with Ralph?”

  “Your lover’s dead, Randall! And you’re gonna be dead if you don’t tell me what Duncan’s done with my wife! And tell these people I didn’t kill the sheriff!”

  Randall’s face paled and tears welled in his eyes.

  “Ralph’s…dead?” he asked.

  Moss smiled. “You break my heart, Randall!”

  “But he…” The man choked in a sob. “He loved me!”

  “My God!” someone muttered. A few others gasped and some left the room. Sooner turned purple with rage at the thought of the simpering Miles Randall being partially responsible for what had happened to Amanda. He grabbed one of Randall’s arms and yanked it over flat against the floor, stepping on the man’s wrist with one foot and stomping on the palm of his hand with the heel of his boot.

  Randall screamed out in the terrible pain, and a few men had to look away. But not a single Tucker man averted his eyes or even winced. Sooner knelt down at Randall’s head and grasped the man’s hair tightly, while Moss continued to hold the .45 to his throat.

  “Mister, you talk fast ’cause I’m half Indian, and it would do my heart good to slit off your balls and cram them in your mouth—after I scalp you!” Sooner hissed. “And then it would still be Moss’s turn to have his piece of you! Now you tell these people here who shot Sheriff Tillis!”

  “Ralph! Ralph shot him!” the man screamed out. “He did it to frame Tucker! Please! Please don’t hurt me again!”

  There were murmurs in the crowd, and their anger began to build.

  “And where’s my wife!” Moss growled.

  Randall’s breath came in short, terrified gasps.

  “D-Duncan—he was supposed to…kidnap her and take her to…a whorehouse in Tucson!”

  Moss began to tremble, and the room quieted.

  “Which one?” Moss asked in a desperate whisper.

  “I—I don’t know! He said the owner—he buys young women and drugs them until they’re broken in! I—I don’t know which house—I swear!”

  Moss was visibly shaken, and sweat broke out on his forehead. He suddenly and viciously slammed his gun barrel across Randall’s face, splitting open the man’s cheek. Randall screamed in horror as blood spilled over his face and down his throat. Moss got up off the man and turned to look at the crowd.

  “You do what you want with him. My name’s cleared. I’m headin’ for Tucson.”

  He stumbled and grasped the reception desk, enveloped in the horror of what Randall had told him. Even if Duncan didn’t make it to Tucson, he was susceptible to being caught on the way by outlaws of the wrong nature—or by renegade Apache. Either way, Amanda’s fate could be nothing but torture and death. If she did make it to Tucson, the humiliation of what would happen to her there would break her completely. And what of Duncan himself? He was an angry and jealous man. It was likely he would use Amanda for some of his own revenge.

  “Let’s hang him!” someone shouted.

  The crowd began to mumble among themselves, and more agreed with the first man. Sooner let go of Randall’s hair and the man began trying to crawl away, crying, weeping, and begging with the crowd. Someone grabbed him and jerked him up, then shoved him over to another man, who shoved him to another and yet another. They began taking turns at hitting and kicking the man, while another went for a rope; Randall screamed and pleaded with them. Minutes later they were dragging out a bloodied Miles Randall to string him up to the nearest rafter, and Moss enjoyed the man’s screams.

  Outside there was a din of voices now, and even laughter, mixed with shouts of anger and vengeance. Some of the Tucker men remained inside with Moss, who took out a telegram he discovered had been sent him that very day, and that still lay at the telegraph office.

  “Where are you?” it read. “No reply from you. Have searched everywhere for Amanda. Becky okay now. You’re the best tracker in these parts. Need you.” Moss wadded up the telegram and threw it to the floor.

  “When’s the next train?” he asked Pappy in a strained voice, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette.

  “About six hours yet,” the man replied.

  Moss lit the cigarette and took a deep drag, and the others stood around nervously, wishing they knew what to say to the man.

  “String him high!” someone shouted outside. More screams from Miles Randall. Moss looked toward the doorway. His revenge toward the man who had once embezzled his little fortune was not as sweet as he thought it would be. The price had been too high.

  “Don’t forget you’ve got Becky,” Pappy spoke up. “She loves you, Moss.”

  Moss stared at him with bloodshot, tired eyes.

  “Man like me can’t raise no daughter alone. She needs…” He swallowed. “She needs a woman.” He took another deep drag, almost choking in his efforts not to break down in front of the men. “The E.G.—it’s mine now.” He smiled sadly. “That’s a laugh, isn’t it? What the hell do I care about the E.G.! What good is anything without her!”

  The last words were growled, and he kicked viciously at the bottom portion of the boxlike reception desk, knocking a hole right through it.

  “Take it easy, Moss, you’re wounded, you know,” Darrell Hicks spoke up.

  “Who gives a damn!” he roared. “If I don’t find her—or even if I do and Duncan has done what he said he’d do, or if the Apache got her—it’s not gonna make a hell of a lot of difference if I have one arm or no arms, or if I’m alive or dead!”

  “You don’t know nothin’ for certain,” Lonnie Drake reminded him.

  “Well, what kind of odds would you give her! Duncan was jealous and mad! And the Apache! Jesus Christ, there’s no way to predict what an Apache renegade will do! If they put a mind to torturin’ her…” He closed his eyes and leaned over the desk top, covering his eyes with his hand. “Jesus!” he whispered. His shoulders shook.

  The others sighed in anger and frustration, looking at each other, each hoping the other would know what to say. Finally, Johnny Pence walked up and hesitantly put a hand on Moss’s shoulder.

  “You’re forgettin’ a few things, Moss. You’re forgettin’ there’s somethin’ special about her that shines right through, somethin’ that could even make an Apache think twice. She’s braver, now that she’s been around you so long—learned from you, and she’s stronger—and she’s a smart woman, Moss. Maybe even smart enough to fast-talk her way out of a bad situation. You know the Apache better than any of us. If she gets caught and stays calm, te
lls them who she belongs to and all…” He shrugged. “Who knows? You shouldn’t be thinkin’ the worst. And remember the faith of hers. You think that God of hers is gonna let somethin’ bad happen to her twice?”

  Moss rubbed his eyes, then wiped at them with his shirt-sleeve.

  “I don’t know what to think any more. All I know is the Apache are as unpredictable as the wind. You can put two of them together and reason with one, while the other one is plannin’ how long he’ll take to cut your guts out while you’re tied to stakes. There’s no way in hell to be sure what they’d do. And there’s no way in hell to be sure what Lloyd Duncan would do, but I’ve got a pretty damned good idea! Let alone that whorehouse!”

  Miles Randall’s screams were louder than ever now, and were followed by a strange gagging sound. The crowd had quieted, and for a moment there was no sound at all.

  “Let’s all get a drink!” someone finally shouted. “Maybe we can get some law and order back in this town after tonight. And to hell with our debts to Miles Randall!”

  There was more cheering, and most of the crowd wandered away, leaving a strangled, dangling Miles Randall, whose feet were still kicking.

  The rest of Moss’s men came inside the hotel lobby, along with the owners of two ranches that adjoined the E.G. One of them stepped up to Moss and removed his hat.

  “Mr. Tucker, uh, I know things didn’t all work out too good. We, uh, the others and I—we hope you find your wife and all. And we’re sorry about Etta Landers.”

  Moss studied him a moment, then looked away and paced.

  “You had no hand in what Lloyd Duncan has done,” he told the man. “And you had every reason to hate Etta Landers.” He turned to face the man. “The E.G. is mine now. Whether or not I come back to it depends on what’s happened to my wife. But if I sell it, I’ll be sure that water rights are a stipulation.”