Madeline Baker

by Prairie Heat

It was going to be a long night, Jess mused ruefully. The ground beneath him was hard and damp, and a cool breeze wafted across the land. His feet, badly bruised and bloody, hurt like the very devil. But, as bad as things were, he knew they would only get worse.

  The Comanche were a hard, cruel people. They had been the enemies of the Apache for countless generations. Someone had once compared them to wolves; indeed, McCord thought, they were like wolves, cunning and feral, though they were loving and loyal to their own. They delighted in torturing their enemies, and that, McCord thought bleakly, was what lay in store for him when they reached the Comanche village.

  The Indians were on the move again at first light. He was limping now. His feet were bleeding again, and so were the backs of his legs, thanks to the cruel prodding of the squat, barrel-chested warrior riding behind him.

  He stared ahead, his gaze focused on the bright blue-black sheen of Mattie’s hair.

  Mattie. When had he started to care for her? He bit back a groan as he stepped on a rock hidden in the sand. The warrior behind him muttered something in Comanche and jabbed his lance into McCord’s right thigh. Blood trickled from the shallow gash, warm and wet against his skin.

  Mattie. He didn’t care what the Indians did to him so long as they didn’t hurt Mattie.

  The Comanche stopped briefly at midday to rest their horses. The warrior guarding Mattie offered her a drink from a deerskin bladder and she drank thirstily, wishing she could offer Jess a drink, bind his bloody feet, but the warriors had made it clear she was to stay away from Jess.

  All too soon, they were riding again. She wondered how much farther they had to go, how much longer Jess could stay afoot, and what the Indians would do to him when he could no longer walk. And what they would do to her when they reached their destination.

  Her eyes were drawn to the scalps that dangled from the lance tips and war shields of the Indians. Some of the scalps were long and black and she guessed most of them were from other Indians. But some of the scalps were blond, and some were brown. One was red. She lifted a hand to her head, shuddering as she imagined her own long black hair fluttering from the end of some Comanche warrior’s lance. Would they kill Jess when his strength gave out, kill him and take his scalp?

  She glanced over her shoulder to where Jess was plodding slowly in the wake of the horses. His feet left bloody tracks in the dust, his chest was damp with perspiration, and sweat trickled down his bare legs to mingle with his blood.

  How much longer, she wondered, how much longer could he keep going?

  It was the last hour before dusk when Jess fell for the last time. The warrior riding behind McCord prodded him in the side with his lance, cursing him in Comanche, but Jess only curled into a ball, shielding his head with his arms, and lay still. Again and again the warrior poked him with his lance, but Jess made no effort to rise. He was on the brink of exhaustion, too weak from lack of food and water to care if he lived or died.

  Dismounting, the warriors gathered around him, talking rapidly back and forth, and Jess knew they were trying to decide whether to kill him on the spot or haul him back to camp and kill him there, slowly and with great care.

  The Comanches were still trying to reach a decision when a loud ululating cry brought everyone to attention.

  Matilda felt her heart go cold as what seemed like a hundred Indians rode into view, brandishing their weapons and shrieking like demons released from hell. In minutes, the Comanches were engaged in a frantic battle for survival.

  Miraculously, Matilda managed to make her way to McCord’s side unscathed. Grabbing him under the arms, she dragged him behind a clump of brush and held him close as hideous war cries and screams of pain filled her ears.

  The battle was over in minutes. Peering around the bush, she saw the Comanches had all been killed. She held Jess tighter as two of the attacking warriors came toward her.

  Please, God, let it be over quick, she prayed, and closed her eyes, wishing she had let Jess make love to her when she’d had the chance.

  She felt strong arms pull her to her feet and she began to tremble with fear. Now, she thought, now they would kill her.

  But nothing happened. Slowly, she opened her eyes. Jess was standing nearby, held upright by two warriors, while a third offered him a drink of water. Not daring to hope that they were going to be spared, she watched as several warriors moved quickly among the dead Comanches, gathering their weapons, while others rounded up their horses.

  A stoop-shouldered warrior approached Matilda. He was leading two horses and he offered her his hand, helping her onto the back of a rawboned chestnut mare. The two warriors supporting Jess lifted him onto the back of the second horse, a big bald-faced roan.

  Mattie glanced at McCord, wondering what was going on.

  “It’s all right, Mattie,” Jess said. “They’re Apache.”

  Apaches, she thought. They were safe then.

  The Indians were eager to quit the site of the slaughter and they rode hard and fast through the gathering darkness, leaving the ghosts of the enemy dead far behind.

  The moon was high in the sky when the warriors drew rein in a narrow gully that provided shelter from the rising wind.

  Two of the warriors helped Jess dismount. Quickly and efficiently, they washed the dried blood from his feet, smeared his soles with bear grease and bound his feet with strips of cloth. They washed the blood from the backs of his legs, daubed the shallow cuts with grease, then offered him a strip of jerky and a waterskin.

  It was then that Mattie saw Yellow Hawk. He was wearing a skull cap with four feathers on it and as she watched, he picked up a gourd and drank from it through a long tube. He saw her then and she waved to him, but he didn’t wave back, or acknowledge that he recognized her.

  “Jess, look, it’s Yellow Hawk,” Mattie said, wondering why the boy was ignoring her.

  McCord nodded. “I think he put in a good word for us.”

  “Why doesn’t he come over and say hello?”

  “He’s a novice. This might be his first raid.”

  “A novice? What do you mean?”

  “Apache boys must go on four raids before they’re considered warriors. That cap he’s wearing is a novice cap. You see those four feathers? The number four is sacred to the Apache. There are four directions to the earth, four seasons of the year. Things that are repeated are best repeated four times. That’s why a novice goes on four raids. He carries four arrows in his quiver. He wears the novice cap with four feathers—the feather of an oriole for a clear mind, eagle down to protect him from harm, the pinfeathers from a hummingbird for speed and quail feathers for help in surprising the enemy.

  “A novice can’t scratch himself with his hands while on a raid. Instead, he uses a scratching stick so his skin won’t become soft. He drinks only through a drinking tube. He eats only cold food. He must be solemn and show respect to the other warriors, and he does all the work. He can’t sleep until he gets permission. He talks only in ceremonial warpath language.”

  “Your people have some very strange customs,” Matilda remarked.

  Jess nodded as he recalled his own initiation. At the time, he had not questioned the reasons for the curious restrictions placed on a novice. He would have endured any hardship, submitted to any demands, to be a warrior.

  “Their customs may seem strange,” he mused, “but I’ve never been so glad to see anybody in my life.”

  “Amen,” Mattie murmured fervently. “Amen.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Elias Kane sat back in his chair, his handsome face impassive as he studied the cards in his hand. Four queens. Lady Luck was still with him. But then, he’d always been lucky with the ladies.

  Take prim little Matilda Thornton, for instance. She’d had every reason to hate him, yet all it had taken was a sad smile and a few well-chosen words and she was feeling sorry for him. He almost laughed out loud. He’d left her in the desert to die, and she’d felt sorry for him. It really was funny.


  He won the hand and raked in the pot, his gaze straying toward the tall, red-headed saloon girl standing at the edge of the ornately carved mahogany bar. Fancy, her name was. Fancy Randolph, and he’d been spending his nights with her ever since he arrived in Silver City. She was a buxom wench, ruthless, greedy and totally without morals or scruples. They were, he thought with a grin, a perfect pair.

  He picked up his cards as they were dealt to him, keeping a pair of aces and discarding the rest.

  Fancy had tried to rob him the first night he’d spent in her room, and it had earned her a black eye. But they understood each other now.

  Women. He found it interesting that two of the women who’d played important parts in his life were linked to Jess McCord.

  Kane added three new cards to his hand. He had a full house now, aces over treys. Lady Luck was with him tonight, and he wondered where she’d been hiding the day he robbed the bank in Lordsburg. It should have been an easy heist, and yet it had gone wrong from start to finish. First he’d had to shoot the banker, who’d thought more of protecting other people’s money than saving his own skin, and then a bullet meant for McCord had ricocheted and killed McCord’s wife instead. And then, to make matters worse, he’d trampled some damn fool kid on his way out of town. He’d vowed then and there that he’d stay away from banks. It was easier to rob a man at a poker table, like now.

  He tossed a double eagle into the pot. McCord. He had luck too, damn him!

  Minutes later, Kane collected his winnings and left the table. Fancy sauntered up to him, her hand sliding over his arm as she smiled a knowing smile.

  “Buy a girl a drink?” she purred.

  Kane chuckled softly as he followed her to the bar and signaled for a bottle and two glasses. “How ya doing, babe?”

  “Just like always,” she replied smugly. “How are you doin’?”

  Kane tucked a ten spot into her cleavage. “Lady Luck’s been good to me.” He took the bottle in one hand and her arm in the other and headed for the staircase that led to the bedrooms. “Now it’s your turn.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  They reached the Dragoon Mountains late the following afternoon. Matilda felt a growing sense of apprehension as they rode single-file up the side of the mountain and then entered a narrow, boulder-strewn gorge. She guessed it to be about six miles long, and when they reached the end, it opened onto a broad valley. It was like riding into another world.

  She glanced at Jess and felt her concern for her own safety evaporate. His face was pale and sheened with perspiration; a bloody discharge seeped from the wound in his right leg. The muscles tightened along his jaw as two warriors lifted him from the back of the roan and carried him into a large, dome-shaped wickiup. No one paid any attention to her and after a minute, she dismounted, wondering if she dared barge into the wickiup uninvited and unannounced.

  “Matilda?”

  “Yellow Hawk!” she exclaimed, pleased to see a familiar face. “I’m so happy to see you.”

  “Come. My mother wishes to meet you.”

  “Now?” She glanced at the wickiup where the warriors had taken McCord.

  “He will be all right,” Yellow Hawk assured her. “The di-yin will look after him.”

  With a nod, Matilda followed Yellow Hawk across the rancheria and into a large, brush-covered wickiup.

  Inside, a man and a woman sat on either side of a circular firepit. The woman was decorating a pair of moccasins; the man was wrapping a piece of wet rawhide around the wooden handle of a long-bladed skinning knife.

  Yellow Hawk spoke to the man and the woman in his native tongue, and then he turned to Matilda.

  “This is my mother, Corn Flower Woman, and this is my father’s brother, Eagle on the Wind. My mother says she will be forever grateful to you for helping me escape from the white man, and that you will always be welcome in our lodge. She asks that you sit down and eat with us.”

  Matilda started to refuse, then remembered that Jess had told her it was considered an insult to reject an offer of hospitality.

  “Tell your mother thank you for me,” Mattie replied, and sat down where Yellow Hawk indicated. “Mr. McCord said you are becoming a warrior.”

  “Yes,” Yellow Hawk answered proudly. “I have been on four raids, and now I am a man. No longer must I stay behind with the women when the men go out to fight.”

  Matilda nodded, then smiled at Corn Flower Woman as she accepted a bowl of soup. The broth was thick and flavored with sage and onions, and Matilda ate it all, surprised to find she was hungry after all.

  “How did you find your way home?” Matilda asked Yellow Hawk after she put her empty bowl aside.

  “I tried to run away when the Comanche attacked the stagecoach, but two of the warriors caught me. At first I thought they would kill me, but when I began to sing my death song, they laughed. One of them took me up on his horse and we joined the other warriors and rode to their village. They kept me tied up for several days. Sometimes they beat me with willow sticks.”

  “Beat you? Why?”

  “We are enemies,” the boy replied with a shrug. He lifted his chin with pride. “I did not cry out when they hit me, and after a long time, I was adopted by one of the warriors. I pretended to be happy there and when they stopped watching me, I ran away. I walked toward the mountains for many days until I came to a ranch, and then I took one of the white man’s horses and rode home.”

  He told his story simply and proudly, and then frowned. “You think it is wrong to steal,” he remarked. “But among my people, it is considered an honorable thing to steal from the enemy.”

  “I see.”

  “I think you do not understand or approve,” Yellow Hawk said candidly, and then shrugged. She was only a white woman, after all. Still, she had been kind to him and he did not want her to think badly of him. He decided to change the subject. “What happened to the other white man?”

  As briefly as possible, Matilda told Yellow Hawk everything that had happened after the Comanche attack, how Kane had shot McCord and left the two of them without food or water, and how she had turned him loose at Vittorio’s camp.

  “He is a coward, and a man without honor,” Yellow Hawk said with disdain.

  “Yes,” Matilda agreed, “but I couldn’t let the Indians kill him.”

  “White women are soft,” Yellow Hawk retorted. “Such a man should be staked out over an ant hill, or skinned alive.”

  He sounded remarkably like Jess McCord, Matilda thought, and shuddered to discover a predilection for cruelty in one so young.

  “Please thank your mother for her hospitality,” Matilda said, rising. “I must go look in on Mr. McCord.”

  “Come,” Yellow Hawk said after relaying Matilda’s message to his mother. “I will take you to Dee-o-det’s lodge.”

  She found Jess lying on a thick black buffalo robe. A gray-haired man with wrinkled, copper-hued skin squatted on his heels next to a small fire. The medicine man nodded briefly in Matilda’s direction, then drew an eagle feather fan through the drifting smoke so that it wafted in McCord’s direction. The air was thick with the scent of sage and sweet grass, with the odor of bear grease and sickness.

  On tiptoe, Matilda made her way to McCord’s side. His face was sheened with sweat, his eyes were closed, his breathing labored.

  “Jess?”

  His eyelids fluttered open and he smiled faintly. “Mattie.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah. Dee-o-det’s taking good care of me.”

  She stared at the smelly poultice wrapped around his right calf. “Your leg…”

  “He worked some of his Apache magic on it.”

  “Does it still hurt?”

  “Like hell,” he admitted gruffly.

  Dee-o-det stood abruptly. “I go,” he said, and left the lodge.

  “Where’s he going?” Matilda asked, startled by the medicine man’s sudden departure. “Is he mad?”

  “No. It
’s just his way. He’s going to stay with his brother while we’re here.”

  “Oh.” She felt her cheeks flush as she contemplated sharing a lodge with McCord again. It was such an intimate thing, living in a lodge, just the two of them. There was no room for privacy, no place to be alone. They would sleep under the same roof each night, with only a few feet of hard-packed earth between them.

  “I saw Yellow Hawk,” she remarked, forcing her thoughts into a new direction. “He’s a warrior now.”

  “Good for him.”

  “But he’s so young.”

  “Indians grow up fast, Mattie.”

  “I guess so,” she replied, remembering that the man who had been exhibiting Yellow Hawk had said almost the same thing. “But why is he in such a hurry to be a man? He’s only thirteen.”

  “Apache men are proud. To be a warrior, to provide food and protection for your loved ones, that’s important to Apache men. Most boys don’t become warriors until they’re fifteen or sixteen, but Yellow Hawk apparently feels it’s his duty to look after his mother now.”

  “His uncle could do it.”

  McCord shrugged. “A man with pride doesn’t like to see someone else doing a job he feels should be his.”

  She could understand that, at least a little.

  Pain flickered in the depths of McCord’s gray eyes and she forgot all about Yellow Hawk. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  Jess shrugged. “I guess so. My leg hurts like the very devil, but I don’t think there’s anything to worry about.” He grinned ruefully. “I don’t imagine all that walking helped any.”

  “How long do we have to stay here?”

  “A couple of days at least. I don’t think I could fork a horse right now if my life depended on it. But don’t worry, I’ll get you to Tucson as soon as I can.”

  Tucson. In her concern for Jess, she had forgotten all about Josiah Thornton.

  *

  Jess spent the next day in bed, resting, and Matilda remained inside the lodge, unwilling to venture outside alone. Jess had assured her she’d be perfectly safe, but still she preferred to stay inside, near him.