by Jim Fergus
The one called Curly looked younger than the others and was dressed in cowboy attire, with chaps, high boots, and silver spurs. He had apparently been nicknamed with ironic intent, for when he took his hat off to wipe his brow with his shirt sleeve, his head was completely hairless and pink as a baby’s. Now he picked up our parfleches, one after the other, opened them, and dumped the contents on the ground, toeing through them with the tip of his cowboy boot. He picked up my ledgers and tossed them in the fire. They smoldered a moment before catching flame. Then he threw in the bows and arrows, and the clubs, and kicked our little skillet, our tin cups and utensils into the dirt off the rock by the fire upon which they were perched. We had been so proud of our few modest possessions … they made us feel rich, and while losing them to the fire was the least of our problems, it sickened me nevertheless to watch them burn.
Curly gathered the blanket from my sleeping place and raised it to his nose. “Sweet,” he said to me. “I can tell this one is yours, darlin’…” He looked at Wind … “’Cause I can smell the stench of a squaw a mile downwind.” He stuffed the blanket in my parfleche and handed it to me. “I’ll let you keep it,” he said, as if this were an act of great generosity on his part, “and the lariat, too. That way we’ll have a clean blanket tonight to snuggle up under together. And I’ll have an extra rope, in case I need to tie you up.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Curly,” said Three Finger, spitting another stream of tobacco juice to the ground. “She ain’t your property, son, you’ll have to get in line.”
“Sure, boss, I know that. And you, squaw lady,” Curly said to Wind, “you can take your blanket, too. But I ain’t gonna touch it.” She picked the blanket up, folded it neatly, and put it in her parfleche, which she affixed to her back as I did mine.
The gang trailed a string of six additional horses, two in use as pack animals, well laden with goods, no doubt stolen. They tightened lariats around our necks and had each of us mount one of the horses. Wild Man had finally regained his feet and now swung gingerly into his saddle, groaning painfully as he tried to settle himself into a seated position. “Goddammit,” he said, “I’ll kill you, I’m gonna kill you sure, you goddamn fuckin’ squaw bitch.” He held the other end of Wind’s lariat, while the one called Mad Dog was similarly charged with mine.
After all we had endured this past year, already kidnapped and violated once before by a band of rogue savages, our poor Sara murdered; the birthing of our infants; the nightmarish dawn attack on our camp, our friends and their babies killed; the running, the hiding, my wound, near death, and long recovery … after all this … I think I had never felt quite so helpless, so discouraged, so utterly bereft of hope, as I did now riding tethered at the neck behind a gang of outlaws, guided by Jules Seminole. I had no tears left to cry, could barely even summon the sense of terror I knew I should feel. All of that pain, struggle, loss, and heartbreak, only to come to this end. What was the point of it all…?
We rode for several hours before stopping so that the bandits could have something to eat. They offered us nothing, planning apparently to starve us into submission. I didn’t care, I had no appetite. I had already submitted, and was just waiting to be raped and beaten by one or all of them, and hopefully killed. I accepted the fact that this was to be our fate, and now I only wished to get it over with.
We rode on. I looked periodically at Wind. She held her head proudly, unbowed, and wore all day the same inscrutable expression upon her face that gave nothing away, even to me—no sense of fear, or discouragement, or even resistance. She simply looked as she always looked: calm, wise, imperturbable.
Later in the afternoon, they stopped, finally, to make their evening bivouac. They tethered our lariats to a tree while they went about the business of setting up camp. As we waited to learn what fate was to befall us, Wind whispered to me, blaming herself for our predicament. She said that when she mentioned Seminole in passing some time ago, she had conjured him up, alerting him to our presence and putting us directly in his path. I do not believe in such nonsense, or in sorcerers, and what difference did it make, in any case? The fact was, we were here, helpless captives of white men this time.
Three Finger announced that they would hold a poker game after dinner, and the winner would get to pick one of us as his private property for the first night, to do with as he wished, while the runner-up took the other. And this they would do every night, giving all a chance to share in the spoils.
“If I win the squaw,” said Wild Man, “an’ we get to do anything we want with ’em, like you say, Three Finger, well then I’m gonna kill the fuckin’ bitch. My goddamn nuts are swoll up so bad, I couldn’t get hard if I wanted to.”
“That is one thing you can’t do, Wild Man,” said Three Finger. “You may whup on her some if you like, as long as you don’t mark her too much. But you can’t kill her or rough her up so bad you ruin her for the rest of us. You understand me?”
“Yessir…”
“If I win the squaw,” said Curly, “I’ll rent her out to one a’ you boys. I cannot tolerate the stink of a savage.”
“Hell, I’ll take ya up on that, Curly,” said Mad Dog. “She ain’t so bad. Better than rough ole’ five-finger Mary pulls your lil’ baby weenie every night. I’ll just stake her arms and legs to the ground first and put a damn gag in her mouth. That way she won’t be able to touch me, kick me, or bite my balls off.”
“Ah, mais non mes amis,” Seminole protested, “Jules can tell you from his own intimate experience that the medicine woman is a wonderful lover, sweet and tender as sweetgrass. Bien sûr, our brief affair of the heart occurred many years ago, when she was just a little girl. She has a twin sister, and we shared an erotic ménage à trois, the two of them gentle and soft as a pair of spring lambs cuddling up on either side of Jules. Jules looks forward to winning her in the poker game.”
I looked now at Wind, and she revealed finally a different expression on her face, looking hard at Seminole with hatred and barely contained rage. I realized that he must have violated her and her sister when they were just children.
“Jules ain’t playing poker tonight,” said Three Finger, “or any other night. This game is for white men only. We ain’t sharin’ our valuable property with a half-breed.”
“Mais mon capitaine,” Seminole protested, “it was Jules who found them and brought them to you. Surely he deserves to be rewarded for this gift.”
“You heard the boss, Seminole,” said Curly. “It’s sure you’ve poked more lambs than you have women, and we ain’t gonna risk you givin’ everyone hoof and mouth disease.” And they all laughed. Except for Jules Seminole.
“You would be very surprised, cowboy,” he said, “very surprised at how many women of all ages have tasted the sweet nectar of Jules’ love juices. And, you can be assured, they always return for another taste.”
Now the Deacon knelt down before me. He was a tall, thin fellow, dressed in a black suit, as befits a preacher, with a hard, angular face and eyes as black and bereft of humanity as lumps of coal. “Well, well, well, missy,” he said in a low, deep voice. “Aren’t you just about the prettiest little thing? Our guide Seminole here tells us you were the wife of an Indian chief. That you bore his child. Is that true?”
I didn’t answer, and he slapped me across the face. “What kind of disgusting harlot are you, consorting with savages, bearing their nigger half-breeds? You are a disgrace to your race, an insult to God. You will burn in hell for your sins. I would not touch you.”
“Good, I am so glad to hear that.”
And he slapped me again.
“You should probably wash your hand,” I said, “because now you’ve touched me twice.”
“Whooeee,” said Three Finger, “she’s got spirit, this lady. I have to tell you boys, I am feelin’ very lucky tonight. I have a strong hunch I’m going to win the honor of bedding this sweet pea. So you leave her be, Deacon. She does not belong to you, and like I said, I do
n’t want the goods damaged. To tell you the truth, preacher man, we’re all just about full up with your God talk, anyhow. You don’t want her? Fine, we’ll leave you out of the game.”
“I never said I didn’t want her,” the Deacon protested. “I only said I didn’t want to touch her, not in the way you godless boys are talkin’ about, the way of filth and degradation of body and soul.”
“You just want to beat on her, right?”
“She needs a good whuppin’ to learn a lesson, to atone for her sins, and to beg forgiveness of the Lord.”
“Whatever gets you off, Deacon,” said Three Finger. “But we ain’t dealing to the Lord in this game, so you keep your hands off her.”
* * *
The men ate their dinner as the sun set, leaving us tethered to the tree, and still offering us nothing to eat. After they finished, they sat cross-legged in a circle in front of the fire, drinking whiskey sold to them by Seminole and playing hand after hand of poker, keeping track of their winnings using sticks as currency. When one of them lost all his sticks, he was out of the game and either staggered off to his bedroll or kept drinking by the fire until he passed out.
Although not invited to play, Seminole, nursing a grudge for having been excluded, was not prevented from drinking his whiskey. It recalled to me the night he had brought alcohol into our village, and got the warriors crazy drunk and they raped poor Daisy Lovelace. Little Wolf had banished him from the tribe then. Now, he staggered over to us, clutching a corked bottle, and fell to his knees before me.
“Ah, ma chérie,” he said, “Jules almost forgot to tell you my wonderful news. Your dear friends Martha and Jules were married in your absence. Had you not gone off like that, you would have been the maid of honor. Ah, oui, and such a loving couple we made.”
“What are you talking about, Seminole?” I said, “Martha and her child were placed in the care of Captain Bourke.”
“Ah, non … non, non, non, non … You see, she could not stay away from the embrace of her beloved. She was being sent back to Chicago, but she got off the train and came in search of Jules, and he found her. We were so happy together. Alas, she has been stolen away…”
“You’re insane. Leave me alone.”
Dragging his bottle in one hand along the ground, Seminole crawled on all fours over to Wind: “Ah, ma petite fille,” he said, “my darling little girl, such beautiful memories Jules has of you and your sister, my little kittens.”
The rage had again descended upon Wind’s face. The Cheyenne spoken language can be lovely in a certain intonation, but it can also be chillingly harsh. “One day,” she hissed, “one day I promise you, Jules Seminole, I will cut your heart out and feed it to the camp dogs. I have seen it in a vision, and so will it be.”
Seminole managed to stand again and began to stagger back to the fire. “Jules’ wife was stolen from him, kidnapped,” he mumbled. “But our love is too strong to keep us apart, oui, it will lead us back to each other. It always does.” He collapsed again behind the poker players.
“Mesoke,” Wind whispered to me. “You still have your knife strapped to your leg, do you not?”
Indeed, the outlaws had not yet discovered our knives beneath our deer hide leggings. “Yes, I do, Wind. I was thinking that while they’re drunk and distracted, we could cut ourselves free and sneak away.”
“No, the man Three Finger is not drunk like the others,” she said. “We would be caught again if we tried to run. Listen to me, and do exactly what I tell you. We wait until the last two men have finished the game, and come to us. We let them untie our ropes and lead us to their sleeping places. They will take us outside the light of the fire ring, so that the others do not watch them with us. And you and I will be apart. Go quietly with yours. Do not fight, do not struggle against him. Tell him he can do what he wants with you. Tell him you want him.”
“But I do not want him, Wind,” I said, repulsed by the idea. “I do not want any of these wretches to touch me. I’ve had enough now of this life and I would rather die than be violated again.”
“Listen to me, Mesoke,” she commanded. “Three Finger is going to win you, and you must pretend that you like him. When he takes his pants off and lies beside you, you touch him there. Do you understand me?”
“Oh, good God … yes … I think I do.”
“You touch him there the way a woman touches a man she loves. He will make noises of pleasure. Keep touching him until he spills his seed, and when he does, you kill him the way I showed you. Can you do this, Mesoke?”
“Yes … yes, I think I can. But what if he tries to mount me before he spills his seed? I will not let him enter me.”
“You kill him in the same way.”
“And then?”
“Do not move after you kill him, unless you must to free yourself. If any of the others wake, they will try to kill us, or worse. We wait until all is quiet and we are certain they are asleep. I will come to you. Watch for me. We will go to the horses. I will steady them so they do not give us away. Pick up your parfleche beside the log where they laid the bridles. Put it on your back. Then very carefully pick up a bridle, taking the bit in your hand so it does not rattle, and warm it. Go to the horse you rode today, he knows you. Put the bridle on him, and untie his lead rope from the picket line. Tie the end of the lead rope to the halter so it does not drag on the ground. Then begin to untie the leads of the other horses, as I will, and tie the ends to their halters. They will be getting restless now. We mount quickly, I will give the signal, and we ride. The other horses will bolt, most will follow us. Some of the men will wake but they will still be too drunk and too slow to rise to catch horses, and to catch us. Do you understand me, Mesoke?”
“Yes, I do, Wind. I understand you perfectly.”
And so we waited for the end of the long poker game. It is cold still at night this time of year, and we were tied well beyond the warmth of the fire, nor had they given us our blankets. The last two men left in the game finally finished, and approached us. Wind was right, Three Finger knelt beside me and held his mutilated hand up to my face.
“My darling, I know they are not real pretty to look at,” he said, wiggling the three remaining fingers, “but when these little piggies crawl into your secret places, they will give you all the pleasure you ever dreamed of.” He untied my rope from the tree. “You look cold, sweetheart, but we will soon take care of that.”
Wind was won by Mad Dog, the one who had said he would gag her and stake her to the ground. He yanked her roughly to her feet. “Do what I told you, Mesoke,” she said in Cheyenne, as he began to lead her drunkenly back to his bedroll. He was a full head shorter than she, and she put her arm around him to support him. “No need to be rough with me, sir,” she said in English. “I will take very good care of you under the buffalo robes, and you may do with me whatever you wish.”
“Thata girl,” he answered. “That’s what we like to hear. Didn’t I tell ’em you ain’t so bad? Come on, my squaw lady, you may stink like a savage, but I’m so goddamn drunk I don’t give a damn, you and me got a night a’ love ahead of us.”
I did as Wind had told me, and as Three Finger was leading me to his sleeping place, I told him that I had been hoping he would win the game, that I found him very attractive, and that I would not resist his advances. “I want to make you happy under the blankets, Jack,” I said. “So that we can travel together as a couple.”
“I was thinkin’ just the same thing, May,” he said. “Hell, this is my gang and I ain’t gonna share you with those bums. I used to play cards for a livin’, and I cheated them so I’d win you.” At his place, Three Finger removed his topcoat, vest, and necktie, folded them fastidiously, and placed them on the ground. He then took off his bowler hat and set it gently upon the clothing. Finally, he sat down and pulled off his boots.
“It is too cold for us to undress here,” I said. “Let’s get under the blanket, and I’ll take your shirt off there. I want to touch you, Jack,
I want to get to know your body.”
“Oh, yeah, darlin’,” he said huskily as we covered ourselves. “Yeah, my darlin’, this is just how I imagined it would be. Three Finger Jack don’t need to take a girl by force.”
“I know, Jack, you are far too much of a gentleman for that.”
And so we lay beside each other under a thick Hudson Bay blanket. I unbuttoned his shirt as he fumbled clumsily beneath my buckskin shirt, trying to get at my breasts, which he finally managed to do, his fingers, indeed crawling across them. I unbuttoned his suspenders. “Pull your trousers down, Jack,” I said, a little breathlessly, as though I were aroused. “I can’t manage it alone, and I want to touch you there now, I want to make you happy.”
“Oh yeah, my darling,” he said. “Yeah, let me do that.” Though not as drunk as the others, he had been drinking, and he struggled with his pants, finally managing to pull them down over his knees but not bothering to free his legs. As he did so, I drew my knife from the sheath and placed it on the ground beside me.
“Now you lie back, Jack,” I whispered to him, “you lie back and let me take care of you. First I’ll touch you, and then I’ll take you in my mouth if you want.”
“Oh, yeah, darlin’, yeah, darlin’,” he kept repeating. It happened much faster than I thought it would, for just as I had unbuttoned the fly of his long johns and fished his erect member out, he convulsed with a moan, spraying his revolting discharge, his hips bucking beneath the blanket. “Oh yeah, darlin’,” he said, “that’s good, yeah, that’s so goddamn good.”
I picked up my knife and drew it across his throat in one motion and with all the pressure I could summon, just as Wind taught me to do. A gust of whiskey-scented air escaped his severed windpipe, and a faint gurgling noise issued from his mouth as the blood flooded from his throat, his eyes in the moonlight wide in terror. “It was good for me too, Jack,” I whispered, as his eyes went dead.
