by tiffy
Santiago stopped working and looked up at her, then gestured around him to all the women who were diligently field‐dressing the carcasses while the men sat back and ate their raw treats. ʺThey accept that whites do things differently and that their women are weak and useless, but it would be best if you helped with this task. Just for appearances. I donʹt know how many times I can appeal to No Earsʹ sense of religious tolerance before he simply decides all white men are crazy for keeping such worthless females.ʺ
She gritted her teeth and seized one of the skinning knives lying on the grass, wanting to use it more on Quinn than she did on the buffalo. ʺI do not faint at the sight of blood. Show me what to do.ʺ
By the time they had completed their task, sunset wrapped the shallow valley in a golden cloak. The decision to remain the night was made, and the women built cookfires after gathering wood, while the men cleaned their weapons and prepared them for further use.
Elise had never felt so filthy in her life. She was smeared with blood and dirt and soaked with sweat. The acrid odor of the buffalo clung to her skin, even to her hair. When two large spits had been constructed of green saplings and big chunks of meat set to roast on them, Talks With Fists directed several slaves to turn the meat and tend it. The women retired to a secluded copse of willow trees at one end of the valley where the stream formed a pool of clear water in a rocky-bottomed basin.
Soaking and scrubbing away the grime provided more than a physical cleansing.
Elise felt renewed, as if she had distanced herself from the repugnant scene on the prairie that afternoon. As she sat detangling her hair by combing her fingers through the wavy locks, a large silvery fish darted past in the water where she dangled her feet. Whimsically, she considered catching and eating it just to give that odious Spaniard and his Osage a taste of their own medicine.
Then the vision of Brenden knocking Santiago into the stampeding herd flashed into her mind, followed by a resurgence of her feelings when she had thought he was dead. Upon finding him alive and whole, she had almost flung herself into his arms like a lovesick schoolgirl. She had run to him with that clear intent written on her face. Only at the last second had her sense of reason prevented her from acting the fool. He wants me to come to him.
After Edouard, the thought of giving herself to any man had never even remotely occurred to her. Perhaps it was what made her such a good spy. She had always been impervious to masculine charm. At the same time, she gained a sense of power from manipulating men, using their vanity to achieve her own ends. How ironic that a renegade Spaniard who spurned civilized society to live like a savage should be the first man to sexually attract hera man with as little principle and loyalty as her husband.
ʺOnce this journey is over and Iʹm reunited with Samuel, things will look different,ʺ she murmured to herself, trying not to think of yet another night spent sleeping beside Santiago Quinn. Already the sun was gone and a damp chill hung in the evening air. Who knew what might happen if they were again to awaken entwined together? She vowed to sleep with her clothes on so that she would not be tempted to seek his body heat during the night.
A Pawnee Village
two hundred and fifty miles northwest
Samuel Shelby crouched low inside the scanty cover of a small tepee. Never had he felt so vulnerable as he did on this wide bowl of trackless plains. He had ridden with a half‐caste Osage for two days in search of this village. Along the way they had seen nothing but vast herds of bison on the flat grasslands. So unbroken was the land and so cloudless the sky, the two appeared to merge on the horizon stretching endlessly in every direction.
There was nowhere to run for cover and make a stand if the Spanish officer outside was told by the Pawnee that an American and his half‐French scout were inside the lodge. As he listened to the conversation in Spanish, his knuckles tightened on his Harpers Ferry pistol. He had pretended ignorance of the language and spoken only French with the chief. Now he would learn if he was being betrayed.
ʺI come from Colonel Alencastre, whom our friends the Pawnee know well. The great leader of the Spanish in New Mexico has been told of foreign invaders, Americans, who come to spy on us. The Spanish and the Americans will soon go to war.ʺ
Swift Horseʹs face remained impassive as he listened to the diatribe of the arrogant young officer, thinking of the American emissary hiding inside his lodge. He too had spoken of a war between the white men. Swift Horse cared nothing for the Spanish king or the Americans. Let them kill each other and leave the Pawnee to lead their lives as they had since the time of their ancestors.
But the American, Shelby, had promised that his leader Pike would bring presents. Might the Spanish do the same?
ʺThe Pawnee have long been faithful children to the Spanish father. We have learned your language. Look that we even fly your flag. We have heard rumors of these Americans.ʺ
Samuelʹs expression hardened as he exchanged a grim look with Baudare, his half‐caste companion in the lodge. Both men clutched their weapons, prepared to fight, although they stood no chance of survival with nearly a hundred Spanish cavalry surrounding the village.
The Spanish lieutenantʹs hard black eyes narrowed to slits. ʺWhat do you know about the Americans?ʺ
ʺDo you wish to kill them?ʺ Swift Horse asked.
ʺNo. I have been instructed to find them and escort them to Santa Fe. Governor Alencastre wishes to speak to them and learn why they have trespassed on Spanish land.ʺ
I was right. They know about Pikeʹs expedition. Wilkinson must have sent all the details to Governor General Salcedo in Chihuahua.
Samuel was enough of a geographer to know they were not yet on Spanish land, but still well within Louisiana Territory. However, the logical conclusion was that Pike intended to travel farther south and west until he was in disputed territory. General Wilkinson wanted him to be captured and taken to New Mexico, and Pike knew it.
Wryly, Shelby considered that such did not mean the haughty Spanish officer would quail at executing an insignificant American lieutenant and his halfcaste scout, especially when they refused to lead him to their main camp. Samuel would never assist Pike in creating an international incident which would lead to a war between Spain and the United States and allow General Wilkinson and the Mexican Association to carve out their own empire during the conflict. He attended closer to the Pawnee chiefʹs words.
ʺYou have brought presents for us? I have told you of the Americans. This will make them angry at us. For the risk, there must be reward.ʺ
The lieutenant scoffed. ʺYou have told me nothing yet. Where are they?ʺ
Samuel peered through a small slit in the bison hide of the lodge covering and watched Swift Horse gesture due north, the opposite direction from Pikeʹs location. He smiled grimly to himself. How fortunate Swift Horse doesnʹt know Pike wishes to be found!
Swift Horse continued to describe the friendship of the Pawnee, wheedling skillfully for gifts. Samuel watched as they walked toward the column of mounted cavalry and the lieutenant gave curt orders to several men. One dismounted and began to unpack trinkets and cloth, while another brought a dozen mules from their remuda and presented them to the chief.
A handsome offering indeed! Given the poorly equipped way Pikeʹs expedition had been forced to travel, he knew they could not begin to match Spanish generosity. That might bode ill for a force composed of barely more than twenty men. He knew the only reason Swift Horse did not betray him and Pike to the Spanish was the expectation of more presents.
ʺAccept these tokens of affection from your Spanish father across the waters,ʺ the lieutenant said to Swift Horse.
ʺI wish you success in capturing your American enemies.ʺ The lieutenantʹs eyes took on a steely gleam as he looked to the north. ʺI will run the American interlopers to ground and bring them to Santa Fe. I, Raoul Castal, swear it on my honor as an officer and a gentleman.ʺ
Chapter Fourteen
The Neosho River, September 1806
Heavy morning fogs were followed by sweltering, airless days when heat and humidity suffocated both horses and riders. Only the tough, foul‐tempered mules seemed impervious to everything.
Then had come torrential rain, so severe that Santiago had ordered their pack train to camp in the shelter of some shallow limestone caves. After that, the insectsswarms of black flies and mosquitoes brought on by the late summer rainsbegan their assault. At first they were only a nuisance, but this afternoon the mosquitoes were growing so thick, they actually made breathing difficult without inhaling and swallowing them.
Elise had followed the lead of the men and wrapped a scarf across her nose and mouth, but the painful bites still plagued her. The insects stung through the thin cloth of her blouse and britches.
Santiago watched her scratching and swatting. Obviously she was in abject misery, yet she neither complained nor slowed them down. He kicked True Blood into a canter and pulled up beside her. ʺTonight weʹll have a solution to this plague.ʺ
She eyed him with disbelief. ʺWhat? Can you buy suits of armor from the Kaw Indians?ʺ
ʺNothing so cumbersome. Just be patient a small time longer.ʺ
They reached the southernmost bend of the Kaw River, which ran wide and shallow, filled with muddy gray silt from the rains. The banks were covered with thick black mud. To Eliseʹs amazement, the men leaped from their horses and began to roll in the muck, coating their entire bodies with it, even smearing it on their faces.
ʺHave they been driven out of their senses by mosquito and fly bites?ʺ she asked Santiago.
ʺThis is the solution to your misery. Mud. It seals the skin and provides protection better than any sort of clothing.ʺ He, too, dismounted, adding with a grin, ʺSome Indian tribes distill a highly noxioussmelling bear grease that performs the same function, but itʹs considerably more difficult to obtain and to remove once the insects abate.ʺ
ʺMud!ʺ She clasped her long fat plait of hair and thought of it hardened with river muck. Then a black fly landed on her head and bit through the part in her hair. She slapped it and cursed.
Santiago laughed. ʺSurely, anything is better than this. Youʹll have no blood left by the time we reach New Mexico if you donʹt try the mud.ʺ He let his bay trot to the waterʹs edge to drink with the other horses while he began to cover himself with mud.
ʺSamuel, when I find you, Iʹll kill you with my own bare hands for leading me into this hell!ʺ she gritted out as she dismounted. Kneeling in the mud, she scooped up a glob of it and began to smear it up her arm. It reeked of rot and dead fish. She persisted, rubbing it all over her torso until it penetrated her thin shirt and undergarments, coating her skin. After her entire body had been treated, she took another fistful and raised it to her face. Nearly gagging from the ghastly stench, she covered everything but her eyes. The mosquitoes swarmed like black clouds around her, but none could penetrate the muddy barrier.
Santiago worked along with his men, coating the horses and mules with the same mud protection. As he finished working on Ladybug, he looked at her mistressʹs transformation and listened to her swear some remarkable oaths. A few were picked up from the rough company she was traveling in, but others had obviously been acquired over the years spent in Europe.
The enigma of her personality was compounded by her background. Was she French or American? Why had she chosen the dangerous life she led? Somehow it all related to her dead husband. He was certain of that. Someday, he vowed, the elusive widow would tell him everything.
ʺWeʹll follow this stretch of the Kaw River for several days,ʺ he said to her. ʺIf the weather drys out, the mosquitoes and flies will stop swarming. Until then, we can at least replenish our muddy armor at regular intervals along the way.ʺ
She looked at him and bared her teeth, which were startlingly white against her mud‐blackened face. ʺWhat happens if the weather does not dry out before we reach the place where we must leave this river?ʺ
He grinned back. ʺThen we crack.ʺ
She muttered an unintelligible oath and mounted Ladybug after once more adjusting a muddy scarf over her mouth and nose. Even if they could no longer bite, the mosquitoes were still dense and tiny, and the danger of breathing them in remained. Like a pack train of bandits, the blackened riders set out, heading southwest.
Mercifully, by the end of the week, the hot clear sun finally dried the air and the insects abated. Since they had been forced to leave the river to move south the preceding day, everyone was in itchy misery as the mud literally did harden and crack, falling off in small chunks, leaving behind a grimy film of filth. The only one who seemed impervious to the intense discomfort was the big Creek who had not used the mud. Elise asked him why.
ʺMy people lived in the swamps of Georgia for generations past. There is something about us, perhaps our skin is tougher. I do not know.ʺ
ʺDo you use bear grease?ʺ she asked, never having detected any unpleasant odor about Spybuck.
He laughed. ʺThe tribes on the plains do, but Muskogee do not. I did notice when I came to live among white men that I grew somewhat more susceptible. I concluded the perfumed soaps were to blame. Now I use nothing on my body but clean sand from fresh running water. I am little bothered.ʺ
ʺI would give all the gold in the French treasury for some of that clean water and sand. If I do not get this crust off my body soon, I shall rip my own flesh away,ʺ
she said, scratching her neck with dirt‐encrusted nails. ʹʹWe will reach the cold springs tonight.ʺ
ʺCold springs?ʺ she echoed.
Spybuck smiled. ʺTheir waters will prove very refreshing. Endure one last day.
You have done well. I think Santiago is proud of you.ʺ
She stiffened and raised her chin pugnaciously. ʺThat arrogant lout only lives to laugh at me. But I thank you for giving me something to look forward to.ʺ
An oasis from an Arabian fairy tale could not have appeared more heavenly than the sight that greeted Elise late that afternoon. Tall stands of cottonwoods and elms were visible across the flat, sun‐baked landscape, which had been unbroken by a single tree since they left the Kaw River. The springs seemed to simply bubble up from the earth in a random series of fountains, cascading into small streams that meandered around the stands of timber.
Horses were drinking and the men splashing each other, laughing and talking with more animation than they had shown since the buffalo hunt with the Osage.
Even the Indian women had squatted in the water, letting the blessed cool flow over their parched bodies in the same silent acceptance with which they endured everything else. Entranced, Elise slid from Ladybugʹs saddle and started to follow the whooping men into the water.
ʺIf you would allow me, I can show you a more private place for your ablutions,ʺ
Spybuck said.
Nodding in gratitude, Elise seized a pack with clean clothes in it and followed the big Creek. They walked around a dense stand of locust trees and down a twisting path barely visible for the thick underbrush that clogged the way.
Finally, when they were out of earshot of the others, he stopped and pointed ahead. ʺDown there is a small pool where you may bathe and wash your clothes in privacy. I will remain here and see that no one disturbs you.ʺ
Since her sleeping arrangements during the stay with the Osage had marked her as Santiagoʹs woman, no one was likely to disturb her. Nonetheless, she was grateful for the Creekʹs concern and told him so, then dashed toward the lure of clean water and blessed relief from her mud‐caked prison.
Santiago had ridden ahead to check for signs of Pawnee just before they reached the springs. After an hour of tracking, he found a small group of hunters peacefully skinning several buffalo they had killed. They were not painted for war. Relieved th
at the often hostile Indians were no threat, he rode for the springs. He could hear the hoots of laughter and good‐natured oaths as he approached.
He turned True Blood away from the direction Of the noise toward the other side of the springs. The solitude of the pool appealed to him. Slowing the big bay, he dismounted by one rippling rill, allowing the horse to drink while he removed the saddle. He dug out some soap and his razor, then began to climb down the steep side of the hill toward the pool, which had always been his private place for rest and refreshment.
He had not gone far when the sounds of splashing and soft laughter made him freeze. Eliseʹs voice! Knowing he should turn around and go back the way he had come, he stood frozen for several moments. Then the enticement of the water nymph frolicking ahead won out. He walked through the high, marshy grass and climbed a large rock formation, which overlooked the deep, clear pool. The sight below robbed him of breath.
Elise lay floating in the water. Her ebony hair fanned out like a gossamer web on the poolʹs clear surface while her milky‐white breasts with their rose‐brown nipples bobbed impudently as she lazily kicked a long sleek leg, moving with languorous grace atop the water. He could see every inch of her slender body, even the dark curly thatch at the juncture of her thighs. Her face and arms were sun‐gold, while the rest of her skin was luminescently pale, a startling contrast to her dark hair.
If he had been hot and miserable before, now Santiago was burning up. His mouth went cotton dry and a fiery, insistent throbbing radiated from his groin.
Without further rational thought, he began to tear off his clothes.
A clean, hard splash sounded a few feet from where she was dozing blissfully.
Eliseʹs eyes snapped open. She rolled over and began treading water, looking all around her. Suddenly a head broke the water in front of her, followed by a pair of bronzed shoulders. His hair was darkened by the water, but without even seeing his face she recognized Santiago before he shook his head, sending water flying in every direction.
