Addie had stopped screaming. The madam was standing next to Julius, her hands still covering part of her face, as she stared down at White Eagle. Emily grabbed her arm. "What happened?" she demanded.
"I...I heard someone come in the door... When I came out of the office, he was there..."
"Looks like somebody hurt him real bad, Miss Emily," Julius said.
Addie took a deep breath, visibly regaining control of her emotions. "All right, we'll do what we can for him. Julius, the sofa in the parlor is the closest place. Can you put him there?"
"Yes, ma'am." Julius nodded. Gently, he slipped an arm around White Eagle's shoulders and another under his legs. The black man straightened and, grunting at the effort, came to his feet. He carried White Eagle into the parlor and laid him on the sofa.
Addie turned to Emily. "Get some water and cloths," she ordered. "We'll have to wash away the blood before we can tell how badly he's hurt."
"Shouldn't someone go get Dr. Keller?"
Addie hesitated. "Not yet," she said. "Pierre doesn't want to draw any more attention to this place than he has to. He's afraid Marshal Flint will try to close us down, especially after all the trouble we've had."
Emily stared in disbelief. "But White Eagle is his son. He's hurt! Surely Pierre would want us to help him."
"That's what we are doing," Addie declared, her voice sharper now. "Are you going to get that water?"
"I'll get it," Emily snapped, and struggled to control her anger.
She went to the kitchen and found a basin, then went outside to fill it at the pump. As she pumped the water, Emily glanced at the sky. The first pale streaks of dawn were starting to brighten the eastern horizon. A cool pre-dawn breeze made Emily shiver in her flimsy wrap.
By the time she returned to the parlor, Julius had removed White Eagle's buckskin shirt and pants. Emily gasped and almost dropped the pan of water when she saw the ugly bruises that covered his body. There was hardly an inch of flesh that wasn’t swollen and discolored.
Addie took the water and the cloths and knelt next to the scout. As she began to wipe away the dried blood on White Eagle's face, he moaned softly but didn’t open his eyes.
"Looks like someone beat him within an inch of his life," Julius said, and shook his head. "Several men must've jumped him without any warning. They couldn't have done this to Mr. Dandaneau any other way."
Emily stood watching, hugging herself and remembering the brutal touch of the sergeant called Hull. "I'll bet it was Hull," she said with a shudder. "He'd do this kind of thing."
Without looking up from her task, Addie said, "I think you're right, Emily, but now it doesn't matter who did it. From what I can see, he's in very bad shape." She turned and met Emily's worried gaze. "You'd better go tell Pierre."
"What?" Emily asked in surprise.
"I think you were right. White Eagle needs a doctor, but that's Pierre's decision. Like you said, White Eagle is his son."
Emily nodded slowly. "All right, if you think that's best." She hurried out of the parlor and started up the stairs. She hated to leave White Eagle, but the only way she could help was to do as Addie said. That would be the fastest way to get the medical help he desperately needed.
Unless she went against Addie's wishes and went for Rose Keller herself.
As the thought crossed her mind, she knew she couldn’t do it. She had followed Addie's orders for years, and it was too late to start defying her. Besides, Pierre Dandaneau had a right to know about his son's injuries.
Hurriedly, Emily began to dress in a simple outfit she seldom wore. Usually she preferred the gaudy garments most girls in her profession favored. While she dressed, she realized that the anger she had felt toward White Eagle the day before had vanished.
All she wanted was for him to be all right.
Once clothed, she went quickly down the stairs and paused at the entrance to the parlor. "How is he?" she asked.
Addie and Julius were still hovering over White Eagle. Addie had cleaned most of the blood off his face. Emily could see that the scout's nose was swollen and might well be broken. His breathing was rasping and labored.
"I don't know," Addie said honestly. "I've never seen a man beaten this badly."
"I have," Julius added. "It's not good, Miss Emily. But they don't seem to have beaten him about the head very much. If he makes it, his brain should be all right."
If he makes it... The ominous words made Emily shudder. "I'll be back as soon as I can," she said. She threw a shawl around her shoulders as she hurried to the front door.
She strode quickly, almost ran, down Walnut Street and turned east onto Third. She could have hitched up Addie's buggy, but because she was inexperienced, that would have taken longer than walking to Pierre's house. As she dashed along the street, she watched the eastern sky grow brighter. In some of the houses she passed, she noticed lanterns burning. Some of Abilene's folk were early risers. There were no horses or wagons moving on Third Street as yet, and Emily was glad. Anyone who saw her would wonder why a prostitute was walking in this neighborhood.
She had never been to Pierre Dandaneau's house, but she knew where it was. Even in the pre-dawn shadows, it looked somehow wholesome, not at all like the home of a bordello owner. That had to be the influence of that mousy wife of his. A whoremonger—that was what some people would call Pierre if they knew the truth about him. Emily opened the gate and went up the walk to the porch. Pierre would certainly be surprised to see her, she thought. Hoping not to wake Katie Dandaneau if she could avoid it, Emily knocked softly on the front door. When no one answered, she rapped harder. White Eagle's life might be at stake, she thought. She decided not to worry too much about being polite at a time like this. As she pounded more loudly on the door, Emily felt her pulse hammering harder as well.
Suddenly the door swung open, startling Emily. A bulky woman with her hair pulled back in a bun glared at her. "Land sakes!" the woman exclaimed. "What's all that noise? Don't you know we've got a new mother and baby here?"
Emily's eyes widened. She knew that Pierre's wife had been pregnant, but she had heard nothing about the baby being born. She gathered her shaken wits and said, "I...I need to see Mr. Dandaneau."
"He's sleeping," the woman replied curtly. "I'm Mrs. Guthrie. I'm here to look after the missus and the baby." She sniffed disapprovingly as she took in Emily's appearance. "Is there anything I can do for you?"
"It's very important that I speak to Mr. Dandaneau," Emily insisted, trying to restrain her anger. This woman certainly had no right to judge her under these circumstances. "It could be a matter of life or death."
Mrs. Guthrie started to shake her head, but she stopped when heavy footsteps clomped in the hallway behind her. Pierre Dandaneau appeared in the doorway and shouldered Mrs. Guthrie aside. His head was cocked to one side, and he held a hand pressed against his temple. As he peered at the strawberry blonde standing on his porch, he winced.
"Emily?" he said in disbelief. "Is that you, gal?"
"You know this...this woman, Mr. Dandaneau?" Mrs. Guthrie asked, her voice dripping with contempt.
"Of course, I know her," Pierre snarled. He glanced at Mrs. Guthrie, then cast a longer, startled look at her. "Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my house?"
"Why, I'm Anna Guthrie. Marshal Flint and Dr. Keller asked me to come over and help you look after Mrs. Dandaneau and the baby."
Pierre's mouth opened and closed, but he didn’t speak. Finally, he managed to croak, "The baby?"
"That's right. Don't you know you have a beautiful daughter?"
Pierre shook his head and started to turn from the doorway.
Emily moved forward quickly, reached out, and grasped his sleeve. "Mr. Dandaneau, I have to talk to you!" she said urgently. "It's about your son White Eagle."
Pierre paused, then sneered disgustedly. "I don't have a son," he declared. "Didn't you hear this woman? I've got a child who's all white, instead of some damned trouble-making h
alf-breed whelp."
Emily, stunned by his callous attitude, gaped at him.
"What's the matter with the boy?" he asked harshly. "He come in too drunk to do you any good in bed? Those redskins never could handle whiskey."
"He's hurt," Emily said in a low voice that quivered with rage. "Someone beat him very badly."
For an instant, something like concern flickered in Pierre's eyes, visible even in the half-light of dawn. But then his expression hardened. "It's none of my business anymore," he snapped. "You go back and tend to him, whore. He's your lover, ain't he?"
Speechless, Emily felt the blood draining from her cheeks. It was all she could do not to hurl herself at the arrogant old man and claw his eyes out.
Pierre turned away. "I've got to go see my baby," he said softly as he staggered down the hall. Mrs. Guthrie glared at Emily, then slammed the door firmly in her face.
Emily stared at the closed door for a long moment. A shudder went through her, and she convulsively turned away.
Despite what Addie had said, Emily knew that only one course was open to her. She had to find Dr. Keller and bring her to the house herself. Addie and Julius would do everything possible for White Eagle, but he needed medical attention. If Pierre wouldn’t provide it, Emily knew she had to.
She rushed down the walk and hurried toward the heart of town. Surely someone would be out and about, despite the early hour, who could tell her where to find Rose Keller.
On the outskirts of Abilene, shadowy silent figures rode ever closer to town. As the riders reached the Smoky Hill River and forded it, the man in the lead headed the band toward a grove of trees and raised his hand to bring them to a halt. To maintain the silence, the renegade called Bear Knife motioned to the two dozen men to dismount and gestured to one to stay and watch the horses. The brave nodded grimly.
On foot, Bear Knife and his men slipped quickly into town, taking advantage of every bit of cover they could find. His scouts had told him that the yellow-leg soldiers were camped on the eastern edge of town, so sentries might well be on duty in Abilene itself. Avoiding the patrols to the south had been fairly easy. All that remained was to find White Eagle Dandaneau.
Bear Knife would kill the hated half-breed himself. Once that was done, he and his men would kill as many of the whites as they could before they themselves were cut down.
It would be a good way to die, Bear Knife thought, awash in the blood of his enemies.
Sergeant Harrison Hull's head was pounding. He roused from the half-sleep that gripped him and felt around for the bottle he had been drinking from earlier. The sergeant's fingers touched the cool, smooth glass, and he lifted the bottle with a sigh. Whiskey sloshed quietly inside it. Hull raised the neck of the bottle to his mouth and tipped it, swallowing the fiery liquid with relish, and then wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
He was sitting in the recessed doorway of a shop on Buckeye Street. The store wasn’t open yet, and as Hull blinked his eyes and peered around him, he realized that the sun had not yet risen. Gray shadows still cloaked the street.
He knew he was in trouble, but he didn’t care. The other troopers, as drunk as they had been, had finally realized that they had better return to camp. They had started back an hour or so after having their fun with Dandaneau. Private Woodard had tried to convince Hull to join them, but the sergeant had refused.
Once his score had been settled with that half-breed, Hull had given in to the thirst that had gripped him. He had poured whiskey down his throat until he was drunk. Going back to camp to be chewed out by Captain Winters was the last thing he wanted to do. Given the mood he was in, he thought he might never go back.
The others had slunk back to Winters with their tails between their legs. Hull had wandered the streets of Abilene, drinking until he had found this quiet little doorway. It had seemed like a good place to sit down and doze for a while, so that was what Hull had done.
Now it was nearly morning, and within an hour or so, Winters would have him down as a deserter. Somewhere in the fuzzy reaches of Hull's brain, he realized that he could still make it to camp in time to avoid that. He would certainly get in trouble, might even get busted and draw some time in the stockade, but that was better than being shot. He started to get to his feet.
The sound of footsteps hurrying, almost running, along the boardwalk made him look up suddenly. It would be just his lousy luck to run into that marshal or his hotshot deputy. Hull forced himself to his feet and shook his head to clear some of the cobwebs. He had a headache, and his stomach was a little queasy. Other than that, he didn’t feel too badly, considering how much liquor he had put away.
He huddled against the door of the shop, out of sight of whoever was coming along the boardwalk.
A young woman strode past, her face set in worried lines, her long strawberry-blonde hair in attractive disarray, like she had just gotten out of bed.
It was her, Hull realized, the whore from Addie Plunket's.
Dandaneau's whore.
Hull reflexively shot out his arm, and his big hand clamped on Emily Sweeney's shoulder. He jerked her around and pulled her closer to him. Leering at her, he clapped his other hand over her mouth to cut off the scream that she was starting to utter.
"Howdy, gal," Hull said. "Good to see you again. Sure didn't expect to run into you."
She flinched, her eyes wide with terror and revulsion. Her reaction only added fuel to the fire blazing inside him. Hull tightened his arm around her and ground his groin against her belly.
"Been lookin' forward to meetin' you again," he went on. "I figure it's time you learned what it's like with a real man, 'stead of Injuns and fellas who have to pay for it."
Emily sank her teeth into the palm of his hand. As pain shot up his arm, Hull yelped. Instinctively, he jerked his hand away from her mouth, the flesh tearing as he did so. Drops of red spattered the boardwalk as he shook his wounded hand.
"Damn bitch!" he growled. He saw her open her mouth to scream, and his bloody hand flashed up. It cracked across her face and knocked her head to the side.
Hull balled his fist and hit her in the stomach. Emily gasped for air, then retched. Hull whirled her around and slammed her against the side of the doorway. With his injured hand, he grabbed her neck, smearing the soft white skin with crimson. Then he tightened his grip, choking her, while his other hand roamed over her body. His fingers dug cruelly into her breasts.
"I'll show you," Hull panted, swept up in a frenzy of lust and hate. "Show you and that damn half-breed both—"
It had to be quick, he thought. People would be moving on the street soon. But he still had time to have his way with her, then slit her throat with his clasp knife. What sweet revenge that would be! When it was done, he would hurry back to camp and trust to luck that he wouldn’t be connected with the killing. His luck had to turn.
Emily's knee slammed into his groin. As pain shot through him, Hull uttered a high-pitched, keening wail. When he started to double over, Emily twisted frantically in his grasp and almost slipped away.
Still bent in agony, Hull caught the collar of her dress and flung her back again, smashing her against the wall once more. In a red haze of pain and fury, he fumbled in his pocket and found the knife. Jerking it out, he flicked it open with one hand.
Muttering incoherent curses, Emily swatted at him with both hands. Hull straightened from his crouch and swept her futile blows aside. Then he thrust the hand that held the knife at her.
The blade ripped into her stomach.
Emily sagged back against the wall, her mouth gaping in a soundless scream as Hull tore the knife from her body. Her hands clutched at the wound as blood oozed between her fingers. Her eyes were glazed, her skin ashen.
Seeing the blood on her dress, Hull suddenly was aware of the weight of the knife. He stood numbly staring at her, stunned by what he had done. He had intended to kill her, but not until he had used her for his pleasure. He had cheated himself of that.
Hull's mind began to reel. He had to make sure she was dead before he left, or she might tell someone who had done this to her. He stepped closer, his grip tightening on the handle of the knife. One quick slash across the throat would do it. He would just reach out, grab that thick mane of hair, and yank her head back, exposing her throat—
From the expression on her face Hull could tell that Emily knew what he was going to do. He would have to move fast to prevent her from screaming.
She didn’t try to scream. Instead she lunged forward, finding the strength somewhere to scoop up the whiskey bottle he had dropped earlier. She stood up and slashed furiously at him with the bottle.
Hull was taken by surprise. He flung up an arm to ward off the blows, and it happened to be the hand that held the knife. The bottle cracked painfully against his wrist. The blade slipped from his fingers and skittered away on the boardwalk.
Emily kept striking at him with the bottle, driving him out of the alcove. The thick glass clunked against Hull's skull, staggering him. His vision blurred, and he almost fell. As he caught himself against the wall of the store, he saw Emily drop the bottle and turn to run.
He wondered how she could move so quickly, as badly wounded as she was. But he had seen men shot to pieces in battle who were still standing long after they should have been dead. A few of them had even miraculously survived.
Hull couldn’t let that happen. The whore had to die. He ran after her.
He paid no attention to where he was. All he could think about was murder and vengeance. He saw Emily duck into an alley and pounded after her.
Hull never reached the alley. Suddenly a figure loomed in front of him in the early morning shadows. The maddened sergeant had only a split second to see the stranger, the bright slashes of paint across his swarthy face, the buckskins the man wore...
Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 94
