But he will, she thought. He’ll follow me to where I stopped for the night, and then …
Sweet God in heaven, why would Ash want to risk his life for her after what she’d done to him? Not once, but twice.
She glanced around cautiously. Last night she’d counted four uninjured Cheyenne. In daylight, she’d seen that she’d missed three more, making a total of seven. The wounded man was barely conscious, his shirt stained with blood. She supposed he was the one she’d wrestled with and shot, apparently in the side. But he was too weak to lift a weapon, so that made the odds against Ash seven to one. Not even Ash could fight off so many Indians. Could he?
When the sun was high overhead, the Cheyenne stopped to rest beside a cascade of tumbling water. Men slid down from their mounts to bury their faces in the foamy stream, and the horses eagerly drank deeply.
“Please, I’m thirsty,” she called to Buffalo Horn. “Loose my hands for just a minute so that I—”
In the bright sunshine, the paint on his face had smeared and faded, but his eyes were just as hard. Ignoring her plea, he turned to a companion and said something in Cheyenne that made the other men laugh. He seized her by the shoulder and dragged her from the horse.
Tamsin fell on one knee, then screamed as he shoved her back on the ground. “No!” Her head struck a rock, and for an instant the pain nearly overshadowed the realization that Buffalo Horn was tearing at her skirts.
Hysterically, she kicked at him and struck out with her bound hands. “No! No!”
Jeering, the others closed in around her as his weight pressed her down. Buffalo Horn’s hand clamped over her mouth. She twisted and sunk her teeth into his flesh, biting down until she tasted the salt of his blood.
Suddenly, Fancy shrieked a high-pitched whinny of fear, and the animals went wild. Shiloh plunged past, nearly crushing Tamsin and her assailant under his hooves.
A man shouted.
Buffalo Horn raised up on his knees as an enraged roar slashed through the pandemonium of kicking, rearing horses. Before Tamsin could draw another breath, the mountain lion leaped from an overhanging tree branch onto a brave’s back.
It seemed to Tamsin that time stood still. For an instant, Buffalo Horn, the other Cheyenne warriors, and the terrified horses were imprinted on her mind. Tamsin was certain she could smell and taste the sour scent of the big cat, the animal’s sweat, and the odor of wet leaves trampled underfoot. Even the colors seemed clear and distinct, the tawny yellow of the cougar, the white of the young brave’s eyes, and the intense blue of the cloudless sky.
Then the scene began to unravel as the cat’s claws and teeth rained blood on the scattering warriors. The dying man’s screams mingled with those of the fleeing horses and the puma’s snarls.
A rifle cracked, and Tamsin caught a final glimpse of ivory-yellow teeth and gushing red before the cat vanished into the underbrush. More guns went off, and the Cheyenne’s cries had turned to war whoops as they raced after the cougar.
Heaving dry sobs of terror, Tamsin got to her feet and backed away from the dead warrior. Stumbling, shaking with fear, she edged closer to the nearest horse, an Indian mustang.
He snorted, laid back his ears, and trotted away, still trailing a single rein. Tamsin strained at her wrist bindings. If her hands hadn’t been tied, she would have run after the horse, flung herself onto his back, and attempted an escape.
A brave’s grip on her arm dashed her hope. He spun her around to face him and glared into her face. “Demon Claw,” Buffalo Horn muttered. “Spirit cougar. You bring bad medicine. We go from this place quickly.”
Maybe he’s right, Tamsin thought as he put her on the trembling pinto. There was something eerie about the mountain lion. Maybe it hadn’t come for the Cheyenne. Maybe the big cat had come for her, seeking revenge for Ash’s killing the smaller cougar.
And for the space of a heartbeat she wondered if she wouldn’t have been better off if the beast had killed her. Even that death would be better than the rape and torture Buffalo Horn had planned for her.
Chapter 13
The Cheyenne rode until it was too dark for Tamsin to see her horse’s head. Then, when she thought they would go on forever in blackness, Buffalo Horn called a halt and ordered her to slide down off the pinto.
She winced as his knife slashed the leather bonds at her wrists. He pushed her roughly to a sitting position on the damp leaves, and she waited, rubbing her hands to bring back the circulation.
She heard the crack of flint and steel, and a spark came to life in the darkness. The flash of light extinguished but was quickly followed by another and another. In a matter of minutes, a tiny fire illuminated the faces of men crouched close around it.
Apparently one of the braves had slain a mountain sheep during the day. Tamsin watched as two of the youngest men built a fire and butchered the ram. They sliced the bloody meat into small pieces and suspended them over the coals on green branches. Soon the air was filled with the tantalizing smell of broiling mutton.
Tonight there was none of the laughter and camaraderie she’d seen between the men in the morning. They all seemed tense, keeping their weapons close at hand and nervously glancing over their shoulders at every night sound. Buffalo Horn’s face was taut as he chewed every last morsel of flesh from a leg bone and tossed it into the bushes.
No one offered Tamsin a bite as the war party devoured the meat. She tried to keep her gaze averted, but she couldn’t keep from salivating. She was so hungry that her stomach growled and ached.
The Cheyenne had taken her higher into the mountains than she’d been before. A cold wind whistled down from the peaks, the temperature was dropping fast, and she was getting cold.
Tamsin edged closer to the fire. One chunk of fatty roast remained, clinging to a skewer. A brave on the far side of the hearth glanced at the meat and reached out to take it. Boldly, Tamsin snatched it first. Without worrying who had touched the mutton or whether it was done, she began to gobble it with as little propriety as the warriors had shown.
Juice dribbled down her chin, but she didn’t care. The ram was old and tough, but it was food. She’d gone too long without nourishment to be particular. She was nearly finished when she heard a loud cough from the trees behind the camp.
Instantly, a Cheyenne jerked up his rifle and fired in the direction of the sound. Tamsin jumped. Her heart pounded, and her chest felt tight.
Two men rose and rushed toward the aspen grove, but they stopped at the edges. Horses whinnied and stamped their feet. Tamsin heard Dancer snort nervously.
She stared into the darkness. Wind whistled through the branches, rattling leaves, and raising gooseflesh on her arms.
Tamsin looked around her at the startled men. She didn’t need to understand Cheyenne to know that they thought the cougar had come back, that it was crouched out there, watching, waiting.
Then, from another direction came the drawn-out hooting of an owl. A stout man with graying braids laughed nervously. The huge Cheyenne with the bones in his ears stood and paced, rifle ready.
Minutes passed without any unusual sounds. The moon rose, a pale crescent of ivory. Single stars winked on, one by one, and talk began to flow around the fire.
Tamsin shivered. Her face and front were warm, but fear of what might happen made her start at every stamp of a horse’s hoof or snap of a twig.
Then the owl hooted again.
The giant with the shaved head shouted angrily and leaped to his feet. Buffalo Horn put a restraining hand on the dissenter’s arm, attempting to argue, but the huge warrior jerked away and stalked into the woods followed by a second malcontent.
Minutes or an hour later—Tamsin couldn’t be certain—the bald man returned alone. Buffalo Horn questioned him. He shrugged and looked worried.
Buffalo Horn glared malevolently at Tamsin. “You are a witch.” He rose to his feet and came toward her.
Shuddering, she leaped up and backed away.
“Did you bring Demon Claw?” he
demanded, snaking his knife from the sheath at his side.
“No,” she protested. “I—”
Something huge, dark, and braying broke from the trees. Men and horses scattered as a mule burst into the center of the clearing, trailing a ball of fire. Shots exploded wildly. Coals and sparks sprayed in all directions.
Buffalo Horn whirled and dived for his rifle. Tamsin didn’t wait to see what he would do. She ran for cover amid a volley of frenzied shots, shouting men, and stampeding horses.
An Indian mustang galloped toward Tamsin, trailing a rope. She seized a handful of mane and tried to pull herself up, but the animal shied sideways and lashed out at her with his teeth.
She caught a glimpse of Buffalo Horn taking aim at her with his rifle, and she dived for the earth. A squealing bay horse leapt over her and careened into the darkness.
Tamsin tasted dirt and rolled, shielding her face with her arms. A rifle cracked, and a limb shattered over her head. She started to crawl away, then heard another horse bearing down on her.
“Tamsin!”
Ash’s voice cut through her terror. She looked up to see him pounding across the clearing on Shiloh. Behind Ash, Buffalo Horn whooped a war cry and threw himself onto the nearest Indian pony.
One chance, she thought. I’ve got only one chance. She waited, frozen, as Ash galloped closer and closer.
Then he leaned from the saddle and snatched her up. His arm clamped around her as she shut her eyes and scrambled to find something solid to grab on to as they plunged into the trees.
Before she could get a grip on Ash or the saddle, Shiloh reared and skidded on the loose stones. Ash dropped her on her feet.
“Take cover!” he yelled.
“Don’t leave me!”
He reined the gelding around and spurred back the way they came. Tamsin heard the crash of underbrush and saw Buffalo Horn galloping toward him.
Two rifles barked as one.
Ash stiffened and wheeled his horse in a tight circle. An Indian pony trotted past. Buffalo Horn clung to the animal’s mane for a few yards, then fell forward to sprawl on the ground.
Tamsin started toward the riderless horse.
“No,” Ash said. “Get up behind me.” He offered her his hand again and kicked loose his stirrup. She thrust a foot into it and accepted his help to mount behind him.
Ash urged Shiloh on, pausing only to slap the barrel of his rifle against the Indian horse’s rump. The animal squealed and charged off in another direction.
“What about the cougar?” Tamsin whispered as Ash slowed his gelding to traverse a steep stretch of gravel.
“Me,” he replied. “I wanted to make them nervous.”
“It worked.”
A branch tangled in her hair and scraped her back. “What about my horses?”
“I cut them loose,” he grated. “Right now, I’d like to worry about my scalp.”
She could hear the Indians behind them, and the cry of anger when they discovered Buffalo Horn. She buried her face in the back of Ash’s shirt and held on with all of her strength as they reached a break in the undergrowth and galloped pell-mell down the wooded incline.
All night they played cat and mouse, following rocky streambeds and rugged coulees. Often they heard shots, and once they dismounted so Ash could hold Shiloh’s nose to keep him from whinnying as two Cheyenne rode by.
At dawn they discovered a small clearing with a mule and three horses grazing there. “Dancer! Fancy!” Tamsin cried hoarsely.
“Shhh, keep your voice down. Wait to—”
The stallion raised his head and nickered. Shiloh returned the greeting. Tamsin dismounted and found she was almost too stiff to walk.
“Fancy! Here, girl,” she called softly.
The chestnut snorted and trotted over, followed by an Appaloosa mare. Murmuring endearments, Tamsin stroked Fancy’s soft nose and neck.
“She’s safe,” she said to Ash. The Cheyenne hadn’t even bothered to unsaddle her. Her bridle was missing one rein, but Ash used several pigging strings from his saddlebag to make up for it.
“Mount up,” he said tersely when Tamsin had tied the rawhide together to make another rein. “We need to put distance between us and them.”
Too weary to question his orders, she pulled herself up onto Fancy’s back and fell in behind Shiloh. Dancer, the Appaloosa mare, and the mule followed. The mule had scratches along his sides and singed spots on his rump.
“Poor thing,” Tamsin murmured. “What did you do to him?”
“Tied a Texas tornado to his tail. Lit brush and a few cartridge shells.”
“That’s cruel,” she replied.
“I figured the rope would burn through before the fire got to the mule. It must have, because he looks a hell of a sight better than you do.”
She nodded. She wanted to thank him for saving her life, but she knew if she said one word, she’d choke up and lose her nerve. She’d given Ash every reason to abandon her, but he hadn’t. He’d risked his life for hers. He was still risking it.
“How long will they follow us?”
He shrugged. “I wounded one at the campfire and killed that brave that came after us. That’s bound to make them mad.”
“One Cheyenne went off into the woods, after the owl hooted, but before—”
“Where do you think I got the rifle?”
“You killed him?”
Ash didn’t answer, and she felt foolish. Of course he’d killed him. Tears welled up in her eyes and wet her cheeks. She wiped them away, but more trickled down.
He glanced back at her. “Why are you crying now?”
“I don’t want to die.”
“Reckon them Cheyenne didn’t either. It was just a game to them, until things went the wrong way.”
“You shouldn’t have come for me,” she said, urging her mare up beside Ash’s weary horse. “After what I did to you … Why did you—”
“Don’t ask. You might not like the answer.”
She bit her lower lip and tried to control her emotions. “Thank you,” she whispered.
He didn’t say anything for a long time, not until the sun was high overhead. Then he looked back at her, and she noticed how gray and gaunt his features looked.
“You know I can’t let them capture you,” Ash said.
She roused herself out of a stupor. “What?”
“I can’t let the Cheyenne take you prisoner.”
Her lips were cracked. Her mouth was almost too dry to speak. “What are you saying?”
“I’ll keep you safe, Tamsin.”
His words were meant to be comforting … but somehow, they only made her more afraid.
No longer making any effort to hide their tracks, Ash kept the pace at breakneck speed. They crossed rocky gullies, scrambled down bare slopes, and galloped across alpine meadows knee-deep in blue-green grass and wildflowers.
They raced down canyons and led the horses along goat paths too narrow to ride where the threat of rock slides made Tamsin breathless. And then when the boiling sun was directly overhead, they stopped on a high ridge to spell the horses. Ash shaded his eyes, looked back the way they had come, and swore softly.
“Look there.” He pointed to a string of horsemen that spilled across an open hollow.
“Cheyenne?” Tamsin shivered despite the midday heat.
“Too far off to say for certain.”
“It’s them, isn’t it?”
“Switch your saddle to the Appaloosa.”
Tamsin shook her head. “I’ve never ridden her. I’d feel safer on Fancy.”
“Save her for an open stretch. That’s a Nez Percé pony. They don’t breed tougher horseflesh anywhere. I don’t know where Buffalo Horn’s bunch got hold of her, but I’d trade both thoroughbreds for her any day. She’s fast and surefooted, and she’s got a heart as big as these mountains.”
“Why don’t you ride her? Your Shiloh’s worn out.”
“I’ll ride the devil’s whelp,” he s
aid.
“Dancer?” She was too exhausted to do more than shake her head. “You can’t ride him. You’re not used to an English saddle, and he’s not trained to a western.”
“You put a rope on him and tie him to a tree. I’ll ride the bastard or know why.”
“He’ll kill you,” she warned. “I can barely ride him.”
“If I don’t kill him first.”
It took the best part of ten minutes for her to coax the stallion near enough to slip a bridle over his head and switch the supplies to Shiloh’s back. Then she mounted the Indian horse. She didn’t bother to put a lead line on Fancy. She’d follow, and if Shiloh didn’t, having him on a rope would only endanger them all.
Ash took Dancer’s reins in one hand and put his foot in the stirrup. The stallion squealed with fury and reared, nearly throwing them both off the edge of the mountain.
Tamsin stifled a scream as loose rock crumbled and Ash flung his weight forward and lashed the horse’s rump with the ends of the leathers. Dancer’s white-rimmed eyes rolled as he fought to regain his balance.
“Please, God,” Tamsin groaned.
The big bay’s front feet found solid ground, and he lunged forward onto the narrow trail. “Yaaah!” Ash yelled, driving his heels into the animal’s sides.
Dancer reared again, scraping the sky with flashing hooves, slammed into the earth, twisted sideways, and jackknifed. Ash rode him up and down, sticking to the English saddle with the tenacity of a greenbrier.
Unable to stand the tension any longer, Tamsin slapped the Appaloosa’s neck. “Get up!” she cried. The mare leapt forward, rounding the bend, scrambling up the last rise, and plunging down the far side with Ash’s gelding and Fancy hot on her heels.
Dust rose in swirls as the Indian pony’s hooves churned up the twisting trail. It was all Tamsin could do to hold on and pray that her mare’s bone-jarring flight wouldn’t hurl them off the path and into the abyss. She couldn’t think about Ash, couldn’t take time to wonder if he and Dancer had survived.
Tears streaked Tamsin’s dirty face, blinding her to everything but the mare’s head and neck and the sheer rock wall flashing past. One misstep, one gap in the weather-carved track, and her life would be over in a split second.
Judith E French Page 13
