Madeline Baker

by Prairie Heat

  A hum rose on the wind as Elias Kane was herded toward the clearing. Jess studied Kane’s face and wondered if he looked as pale and frightened as his enemy.

  The light-skinned warrior stepped into the fire-light. He held a long-bladed knife in each hand.

  “You will fight now, as we have agreed,” the warrior declared. He handed one knife to Jess and the other to Kane. “The winner will meet his fate at the hands of the women tomorrow night.” His gaze moved from Jess’ face to Kane’s. “If you refuse to fight to the death, I will slit your throats.”

  The warrior stepped back and Jess and Kane turned to face each other, their bodies already sheened with the sweat of nervous perspiration.

  Kane glanced warily at the warriors gathered around, as though weighing his chances of making a run for it, and then he directed his attention toward McCord, his jaw set, his eyes narrowed. Without warning, he lunged forward, his knife reaching for McCord’s belly.

  Jess pivoted on his heel, the faces of the watching tribe fading as he moved to parry Kane’s next thrust. He forgot that only death awaited him if he killed Kane, forgot the Indians, forgot everything but the driving need to sink his blade into the flesh of Elias Kane, to dip his hands into the blood of the man who had killed Kathleen and caused Mattie so much pain and heartache.

  Crouched, the two men faced each other. Jess was balanced on the balls of his feet, his knife arm outstretched, his chin tucked in, his body bent slightly forward. He had learned to fight with a knife long ago, and now the blade became a part of him, an extension of his hand.

  Kane took a similar stance. He was no stranger to killing with a knife. He had learned to wield a blade in the dirty back streets of Chicago and New Orleans. He loved the feel of a knife in his hands. He had never cared for guns, they were heavy and noisy, but a knife, ah, a knife was such a remarkable weapon. When you killed a man with a knife, you felt the blade penetrating flesh, felt the body convulse with pain.

  He met each of McCord’s thrusts skillfully, certain that victory would be his. No one had ever bested him with a knife. No one ever would.

  The Lakota cheered out loud as they watched the two men circle each other. Kane drew first blood, opening a long shallow gash in McCord’s left arm. Jess retaliated by slicing into Kane’s right side.

  As the seconds stretched into endless minutes, the tension grew stronger, more palpable. Blood and sweat covered both men. Their eyes were narrowed in concentration, their breathing was labored as they continued to strike and withdraw. The air rang with the sound of steel against steel as they moved together, then broke apart, each seeking a weakness in the other’s defenses.

  Jess shook the sweat from his eyes. He could feel himself weakening. The air stung his wounds, his legs felt like rubber, his arms and chest were damp with perspiration and blood. And he was tired, so tired. He stared at Kane, felt the hatred swell and grow within him as he reminded himself that this was the man who had killed Kathleen and Molly Coulter, the man who had caused Mattie to lose their child. He stared at the blood that coated his arm, and his blood became the blood of all the men and women Kane had killed.

  He saw the loathing in Kane’s blazing green eyes, saw the crimson drops of blood on the end of Kane’s knife, saw his own death in the depths of Kane’s eyes as Kane hurled himself forward. Jess held his ground until the last possible moment and then, pivoting on his heel, he drove his knife into Kane’s back as Kane lunged for a target that was no longer there.

  An audible gasp rose from the crowd as Kane staggered forward, then fell facedown in the dirt, the knife still clutched in his hand.

  Oblivious to everything but the man at his feet, Jess staggered forward. Dropping to his knees beside Kane’s body, he dipped his hands in the warm red blood welling from the killing wound in Elias Kane’s back.

  None of the Indians moved to stop him.

  Jess knelt there for several seconds, staring at the blood that covered his hands, feeling all the hatred drain out of him.

  It was over, finished.

  Elias Kane would never threaten Mattie’s life again.

  Kathleen had been avenged at last, and his son with her.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Mattie sat up, her own horrified cry still ringing in her ears. Blood. She had been dreaming of blood and death.

  Her husband’s blood.

  Her husband’s death.

  Slipping out of bed, she went to the window and stood staring out at the night. The sky was a clear indigo blue. A million stars lit the pathway to eternity.

  Eternity… Jess had told her the Chiricahua believed the spirits of the dead lived just under the surface of the earth. The idea made her shudder with revulsion. How dreadful, to be forever trapped in darkness.

  Turning away from the window, Mattie walked through the house. It seemed empty, so empty without Jess. He had been so big, so strong. His presence had filled each room, and now he was gone and she was alone, so alone.

  She never should have left him. No matter what the future held, she wanted to be there to share it with him. Wasn’t that what she had promised the day they wed? For better or worse, until death…

  She shivered, the dream of death still vivid in her mind. She studied each room as she wandered restlessly through the house, looking at the furniture, the painting over the fireplace, the curtains she had made, the rugs on the floor, and knew that, as much as she loved the house, it would never be home without Jess.

  Tears welled in her eyes. If only she had not freed Kane! But for her, Jess would be here now, safe beside her, and their child would not be buried beneath a lonely tree in the middle of a wild and untamed land.

  “Jess, oh Jess.” She murmured his name, remembering how tenderly he had cared for her when she lost the baby, how gentle he had been the first time he made love to her. She felt lost without him, desolate and alone. She had gone to work in Stella Coulter’s restaurant the week before, waiting tables and helping with the baking, because she needed something to fill the long lonely days, and because Stella Coulter needed her help and support. Mattie had been shocked at the change in Molly’s mother. Stella had always been a plump, jovial woman, forever singing as she worked, smiling and joking with her customers. Now she was painfully thin. And she never smiled anymore.

  “Be glad you lost your little boy before you got to hold him in your arms,” Stella had once remarked, “before you had a chance to know him, to love him.” She had stared at Mattie, her grief plainly etched in her face, and then burst into tears, sobbing brokenheartedly for the loss of her only child.

  Mattie stared at the bedroom that was to have been her baby’s nursery, her arms aching to hold the son she had never seen.

  She sighed heavily, her own grief a heavy burden. Elias Kane was a fiend, and he deserved whatever he got.

  She shivered a little as she remembered how Jess had looked when he said he was going after Kane. His eyes had been dark and filled with bitterness, his expression grim and determined, and she knew that he didn’t intend to bring Kane back for trial, not this time.

  She sat down on the sofa, her heart aching, filled with fear. She had no doubt that Jess could beat Elias Kane in a fair fight. But when had Kane ever fought fair? The man had no scruples, no morals. He had shot Jess in cold blood and left them to perish in the desert. He had killed Molly Coulter, and Kathleen McCord, and some woman in Silver City. He had killed a banker in Lordsburg, and trampled a little girl. He didn’t deserve to live. Surely, if there was any justice in the world, then Jess would be the victor. But good didn’t always triumph over evil. And Kane probably wouldn’t fight fair.

  Rising, she walked through the dark house again, and suddenly she couldn’t stand to be within its walls any longer. The house was too big, too empty, without Jess. She couldn’t spend another night prowling around in the dark, remembering how happy she had been here with Jess, wishing he were there beside her, wondering if he were dead or alive.

  It was simp
ly too much to bear. Tomorrow she would find another place to live, some place that wasn’t a constant reminder of happier times.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Jess didn’t offer any resistance when two warriors grabbed him by the arms and dragged him back to the tree, quickly lashing his hands to the branch above his head. He was utterly drained, weary to the bone.

  The minor cuts he had received from Kane’s blade stung like the very devil, his skin felt hot and sticky, covered as it was with blood and sweat. But none of that mattered now. All he wanted was a drink of water. Just one drink. He wondered if they’d allow him to quench his thirst before they killed him.

  He rested his head against the tree trunk and closed his eyes. He was tired, so tired. Even death seemed welcome if it meant rest, a cessation of hunger and fatigue.

  Kathleen had been avenged. She could rest in peace now. And Mattie… He began to fight the rope that held him. He had to see Mattie again, hold her in his arms just once more.

  “You are foolish to struggle. Even if you should get your hands free, you could not escape.”

  Jess glanced over his shoulder to see the light-skinned warrior watching him, a bemused expression on his face.

  “You fought well,” the warrior remarked. “You have avenged the life of your woman. Tomorrow night we will see how well you die.”

  Jess swallowed hard. Tomorrow night.

  The warrior grinned as if reading his thoughts. “The time will pass slowly as you wait for death. You will have many hours to think on what lies ahead.”

  Jess nodded. It was in his mind to ask the warrior for a drink of water, but he was certain the man would refuse. “What manner of death has been chosen for me?” he asked instead, pleased when his voice came out clear and steady, revealing none of the gut-wrenching fear that was building within him.

  The warrior shrugged. “It has not yet been decided. Some are arguing to have you skinned alive. Others want to wrap you in a green hide and let it squeeze the life from your body. A few wish to use your body to feed the ants.” The warrior grinned broadly. “Have you a preference?”

  “Yeah,” Jess replied. “I’d prefer to go home.”

  The light-skinned warrior chuckled softly. “You are different from the other white man. I think your tongue is straight.”

  “I’m not a white man. I’m a half-breed.”

  Interest flickered in the warrior’s eyes. “Who are your people?”

  “Apache.”

  “I have heard of the Apache. They are said to be a fierce people, more warlike than the Pawnee and the Crow.”

  Jess nodded. “Like you, they are fighting a losing battle against the whites.”

  “And where do your loyalties lie?”

  “With my woman.”

  “She is white?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she does not care that you are half Indian?”

  “No.”

  “She will grieve for you when you are gone?”

  Jess nodded slowly. “Yes.”

  The warrior drew his knife from his belt and took a step forward. Jess felt all his muscles grow taut as the warrior placed the tip of the blade against his throat.

  “I have the power to kill you now, quickly, but I might spare your life if you plead for mercy. Will you beg me for your life, wasichu? If it pleases me, will you crawl on your belly like a snake and beg me for your life?”

  Jess held his breath, the vague promise of freedom making his heart race with excitement even as the point of the blade nicked his flesh. An Apache would have nothing but contempt for a man who begged for his life. Did the Lakota feel the same?

  “Will you crawl on your belly, white man?”

  Jess swallowed hard. Fear was a cold knot in his belly. Would freedom be his if he pleaded for his life? Or would he only incur the warrior’s contempt?

  “What is your answer, white man?”

  “No.”

  The warrior lowered his knife to McCord’s chest and raked the point across his torso. A narrow river of red flowed in the wake of the hungry blade.

  “Do you know how many cuts it takes to drain the life out of a man?” the warrior asked. “Do you know how awful the pain would be?”

  “No.”

  “I will show you, white man. You should beg me for mercy before it is too late.”

  Slowly, Jess shook his head. “I have avenged the death of my woman. I am ready to meet the Wise One Above. Do with me what you will, I will not cry out.”

  The warrior smiled. It was a big friendly smile. “I think you truly have courage, white man,” he said, and lifting his knife, he cut Jess free. “Come, we will go to my lodge. My woman will tend your wounds and give you food and drink.”

  “Pilamaya,” Jess said solemnly. “My thanks.”

  “No thanks are necessary between brothers, Tall One.”

  “I am called McCord.”

  “McCord,” the warrior repeated. “My people call me Tashunka Witko.” He smiled with quiet pride. “Your people know me as Crazy Horse.”

  “Crazy Horse,” Jess murmured.

  “You have heard of me?”

  “Yes, I’ve heard of you,” Jess replied with a wry grin. Everyone had heard of Crazy Horse. He’d led a group of Indians in an attack on Platte Bridge back in July of ’65; he had been involved in the Fetterman Massacre in ’66. And in the spring of ’68, he had been in on the attack at Horseshoe Station. Yes, everyone knew of Crazy Horse.

  “Come,” the warrior said, and Jess followed the Oglala war chief through the village and into his lodge.

  After donning a pair of leggings and a shirt, he sat in the place of honor while the wife of Crazy Horse tended his wounds, then offered him a bowl of strong soup and a cup of black herb tea.

  When Jess finished eating, Crazy Horse lit his pipe and after offering it to Mother Earth and Wakan Tanka and the four directions, he handed it to Jess.

  The tobacco tasted strong and wild and Jess puffed it with pleasure, filling his lungs with smoke before handing the pipe to Crazy Horse.

  “These are not good times for our people.” Crazy Horse remarked. “The buffalo grow few in number. I fear the white man will not rest until he has driven my people from the land of their ancestors.”

  “It is the same with the Apache,” Jess said. “I think the time will soon come when there will be no more Indians living free. I think they will be forced to live on the reservation, or they will be killed.”

  “Ai,” Crazy Horse agreed. “But I will never surrender. I will fight so long as Wakan Tanka gives me breath.”

  Jess nodded. “I wish you good fortune, my brother.”

  “You are weary,” Crazy Horse said. “My woman has prepared a bed for you. Tomorrow, I will give you safe passage from our land so that you may return to your woman.”

  “Until tomorrow then,” Jess replied.

  *

  In the morning, Jess found his weapons lying beside his bed. Rising, he drew on his moccasins, strapped on his gun and stepped outside.

  He found Crazy Horse sitting cross-legged near the door of his lodge, an empty bowl in his hands. “Ho, brother,” the warrior said warmly. “Will you eat?”

  Jess nodded, and Crazy Horse’s wife, Black Shawl, brought him a bowl of thick soup and a slice of venison.

  “Your horse is saddled and waiting,” Crazy Horse remarked.

  “I have nothing to offer my brother in return for his kindness. Nothing to equal the value of my life.”

  “Nothing is required.”

  “It is customary among my people to give a gift for a gift. Perhaps you will accept my rifle as a token of our friendship.”

  Crazy Horse chuckled. “I would be pleased to accept such a fine gift. Truly, I was tempted to keep it.”

  “It is yours.”

  “Pilamaya.”

  “No thanks are necessary between brothers,” Jess replied with a grin.

  An hour later, Jess bid Crazy Horse goodbye.

>   “I wish you safe journey, Tall One,” the warrior said, clasping McCord’s forearm in a strong grip. “I hope all is well in your lodge when you return home. And perhaps we will meet again, if not in this life, then in the Land of the Sky People.”

  “It is my strong wish.”

  “And mine. Farewell, Tall One.”

  “So long.”

  Swinging into the saddle, Jess reined the big buckskin toward home, and Mattie.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  It was well after midnight when Jess reached Abilene. He had ridden hard and the buckskin was almost played out. Just another mile, he had told himself as the night wore on, just another hour and then he would stop for the night and let his horse rest. But one hour became two, and then three. He had been so eager to get home, to see Mattie again. And now he was here.

  The house was quiet and dark. Dismounting, he unsaddled the buckskin and quickly rubbed the gelding down before turning it loose in the corral.

  Tired as he was, his steps were light as he climbed the back steps and entered the kitchen. Dropping his saddlebags on the floor, he padded quietly toward the bedroom, smiling as he anticipated how surprised Mattie would be to see him.

  But the bedroom was empty.

  Frowning, he rummaged around for a box of matches and lit the lamp on the bedside table. A quick check of the room showed him that all Mattie’s things were gone. Had she left him then?

  He sat down heavily, his arms dangling between his knees as he stared at the floor. She was gone, but why?

  He searched his mind for reasons. Had she decided he was dead? Or had she simply decided to go back East, back to people and places that were more civilized, more familiar?

  He refused to believe she no longer loved him, and yet that was the only answer that made sense.

  He swore softly as he fell back on the bed, one arm across his eyes. Mattie was gone, and he was alone again.

  *

  He went to the jail first thing in the morning and was surprised to see Robert Guilford sitting behind his desk.