Afterwards she cried and Mrs. Hetherington comforted her, telling the girl that it was always like that the first time.
‘It’s bad, girly, but there’s worse. Suppose it had been one of those heathens waitin’ out there for us! That would have been too terrible for you to imagine. That’s why we must all be strong and be prepared to kill ourselves rather than face such a fate.’
Crow had lain with Martha a second time, while the girl kept still, shrunken in her own misery. Touching herself and finding her fingers slick with her own blood, mixed with the evidence of their lovemaking. Lovemaking if that was what they called it.
Before the night was out Crow came to her again, and she cried out feebly, like a kitten that senses the imminence of drowning. But he was stronger and used his hand to force her legs apart, pinching the soft flesh on the inside of her thighs to make her accept him.
And … somehow … it was all so different.
The pain had eased to a numbness. A numbness that grew into a dull warmth. A warmth that became a glowing fire that tingled between her legs, spreading through her stomach like the wings of a fiery butterfly.
The earth moved for Rachel Shannon and it seemed that being loved by a wonderful man like Crow was the most marvelous thing that had ever happened to her.
All three of them had finally slipped into an exhausted sleep by a little after four in the morning.
The Shoshone made their sneak night attack just before five.
Chapter Ten
There were about ten of them.
The defenders could never be sure just how many as they knew some were wounded and managed to get away. There were seven bodies and the one prisoner.
The attack was finally beaten off but the cost had been high for the whites held within the circle of small, snow-covered wagons.
While Crow slept with his head nestling on the shoulder of Martha Hetherington, his left arm resting between the soft thighs of Rachel Shannon, the young warriors of Many Knives were creeping silently forwards over the iron-hard ground.
Covered in blankets bleached white by their women. Armed only with a pistol each and a knife. The idea of their chief was that they might be able to sneak quietly through the defenses and butcher the men before any of them were even awake.
It was unlucky for them that the soldier on sentry watch at that time was the careful and reliable Kemp.
Then again, it was even more unlucky for Pete Kemp.
The Trooper was dog-fired. The effects of the prolonged hunger meant that they were all growing weaker. With nothing to do except go for water every few days, they were becoming lethargic. Lying around all day in their wagons under blankets. Their thin bodies feeling the cold even more than usual. Hardly stirring from sunup to evening, occasionally exchanging a few words with their friends. But generally quiet.
Kemp was on guard with one of the older women. The wife of a soldier who they believed to be safe at Greenbriar Canyon. During all the time they had been trapped on the plateau, nobody had ever dared to whisper the fear they all had that the rest of the command might also have been attacked by the Shoshone days earlier.
Kemp was walking around the perimeter of the wagons, rifle at the trail, stamping his feet in the frozen slush to try and keep warm. There was a little moon and he kept glancing out across the snow. It was easier for the men to keep watch than it was for the women. The ladies all feared that the Indians would return, but none of them saw it as an imminent reality.
Every one of the men had lived and fought long enough against Indians to be certain sure that they’d be back. It wasn’t a question of “if’. Simply of “when”. The woman with him, Jane Golders, was exhausted. Twice she’d sat down on a wagon-tongue for a couple of minutes, not even realizing that she’d been falling asleep where she rested. The carbine she carried felt as though it weighed a ton and the Icy wind cut through the layers of clothes, turning the marrow of her bones to crystals of snow.
To pass the time she drew the knife from her belt and tried to cut a strip off the bottom of one of her skirts to tie around her sleeves. To check the screeching gale. from driving up her arms.
Sitting down on the seat of a wagon on the opposite side from Kemp, fumbling in the coldness, sawing away at the tough material, muttering curses under her breath.
The leading Shoshone brave was a young boy of eighteen summers called Man Who Sees Twice, on account of having a slight squint in the left eye. He had wriggled on his stomach for the hundred and fifty paces that separated the opening of the trail from the nearest rig. His knife gripped in his strong teeth, finally managing to get under the first of the Doughertys.
The wind’s howling was enough to drown out the noise of his shuffling advance from Jane Golders. Just as it drowned out her whispered oaths from Man Who Sees Twice.
Her fingers turned to strips of iced meat by the frost, Jane nearly dropped the knife clean to the earth, just catching it on the seat. Bending to pick it up and then stopping, motionless. Jaw dropping. Every nerve in her body paralyzed with shock.
Only a couple of feet below her there was the body of an Indian buck. Half covered in a white blanket, his black hair wet with melted snow. A blade glittering in the pale light of the moon. Oblivious to her presence, still wriggling very cautiously forwards, his own eyes fixed on the shadowy figure of the patrolling Trooper on the far side of the circle.
The breath began to flutter in the woman’s throat with panic. Her only thought was that she must try and warn Trooper Kemp, even though her voice seemed locked away from her brain. She tried to climb quietly down off the wagon to run to the soldier.
And slipped.
Falling clean on top of the young Shoshone warrior, her heels digging into his back.
The first that Man Who Sees Twice knew of Jane Golders’ presence was a slight scraping noise and then a jagged pain as his right shoulder snapped beneath her weight. He was proud of the honor that Many Knives had bestowed on him by allowing him to lead the night attack, and he bit his lip to try and hold back a scream of pain.
The woman rolled over, half on top of him, unaware that she still held the knife in her hand. Rising to her knees, staring at where the Indian was struggling to get to his own feet, picking up his own dagger in his left hand, the tight arm trailing uselessly by his side. Shock was holding the tearing pain away from his mind and he was aware only of a dull ache.
Kemp heard the scuffling noise and immediately cocked the rifle, waiting a moment. Not wanting to rouse the camp for a false alarm. A night before, one of the women had slipped over the torn hem of a dress and knocked herself out against a wagon wheel, bringing -I everyone into the cold for nothing.
There was silence, and he could only dimly see a figure crouching on the ground.
Or were there two figures over the far side of the wagons?
‘Mrs. Golders?’ he called, softly.
But her brain was screwed down with blind panic an she hardly knew where she was or what was happening, able to see the hatred in the eyes of the young Shoshone boy, scarcely older than her own son, Paddy. The whiteness of his bared teeth. The silver of the knife.
He was shuffling towards her, eager to erase the embarrassment of being nearly beaten by a white woman on his first real attack.
‘Mrs. Golders? You all right?’
The rest of the Indians crawling in around the ring of wagons heard the voice and began to move in even faster.
Man Who Sees Twice grunted deep in his throat as the first bite of real pain eased in on him from the broken shoulder-blade. The woman was still watching him, paralyzed with terror. Not even realizing that he was badly injured.
Their orders had been to kill the men and bring the women back as captives for their enjoyment and to use as servants. The young boy had seen the white women around the wagons, watching them from the distant cliffs. Feeling the growing lust to have one for himself. Perhaps if all went well then Many Knives might allow him one to keep just for his own u
se as a reward for his cunning and bravery.
And the man in black. The tall one that Many Knives suspected was the white slayer caned Crow. He too was to be taken alive if possible for the squaws to enjoy. The man called Crow had been responsible for many empty lodges after that first disastrous attack.
‘Mrs. Golders!’ called Kemp. Swinging round as he heard the rustle of movement beyond the wagons. Firing off the carbine, and yelling at the same time. ‘Here they come!!!’
Man Who Sees Twice blinked as the wind blew powdery snow into his eyes. Rising and running clumsily towards the helpless woman, intending to bind her and keep her safe. But the claws of the broken bone bit deeper and he cried out and stumbled, grabbing at her as he nearly fell. The broad-bladed knife in his left hand jarring against the wooden side of the wagon beyond her.
Jane saw him and raised her hands to try and beat him off. Striking at his chest and stomach.
Forgetting that she too held a knife.
The blade sliced into his stomach, held point upwards. Piercing between the ribs and searching out the muscular walls of the Shoshone brave’s heart.
Man Who Sees Twice felt the force of the blow, but there was no sensation of being stabbed. Just the warmth gushing from him, across the front of his body and the instant weakness that told him the tale was done.
‘Nooooo!’ he roared, shame flooding him. To die in such a way.
Stabbed to death by a woman.
By a white woman!
He staggered a pace back from the horrified Jane Golders, who stood frozen, dark blood across her dress, running from her wrists and hands. Patches dappling her face where it had spurted out.
‘Nooooo!!!’ he screamed again, not even conscious that around him a furious battle was joined, with guns being fired and men shouting. Women screaming. All the young warrior knew was that he was mortally wounded.
All that was left was the bitter satisfaction of revenge. Clumsy with the knife in his left hand, Man Who Sees Twice closed in with Jane Golders, now on her feet and leaning back against the Dougherty. And lunged at her stomach. The thickness of her winter clothes nearly saved her but the dagger was keen pointed and it tore through her dress, pushed deep into the pit of her belly.
The brave felt her blood on his own hands and used the last fading remnants of his once great strength to tug the knife upwards, twisting the hilt as he did so. Ripping her open from just above the blood-matted triangle of pubic hair to the grating halt of the lower ribs. Tearing it sideways at the last so that he practically disemboweled the white woman.
They died together, tangled in a macabre embrace, she soaked in his heart’s blood, he smeared with greasy loops of intestine that snaked out of her torn body. They found them like that after the fight was all over.
Kemp killed two of the attacking Shoshone with his first five shots, blowing them away before they even got a toehold inside the wagons. And his warning gave enough time for Crow to kick his way out from between the two women, and for Muir, Gilbert and McLaglen to also grab their guns and jump down from the rigs where they’d all been sleeping.
But they weren’t in time to save the life of Pete Kemp. The carbine jammed on the sixth shot and while he was wrestling to free the action two more of the young warriors vaulted over the tongue of the nearest rig and came at him with knives. Pecking the life from him as he tried to dance away from them. Circling him and darting in and out like steel beaks.
As Crow emerged into the dim light of the moon another reason for forbidding any of them to have bright lamps in their wagons became obvious. From brightness to darkness meant that the defenders would have been almost totally blind against the Indians. As it was, Crow was able to take in the scene at a glance, immediately running to where he could do most good.
At that moment there were three dead Shoshone as well as Kemp and Mrs. Golders.
The two braves who had stabbed the Trooper to death were kneeling by his body, reaching for his scalp, when they looked up and saw the lean angel of slaughter dashing towards them. The stubby Purdey scatter-gun gripped in his right fist. Eyes blazing in the darkness like a wolf, a snarl of hatred bursting from his throat.
As they started to rise to meet his charge he squeezed the double triggers, sending both Shoshone spinning away into bloody tatters of flesh to lie mewing and scrabbling in the scarlet mud and ice.
Crow dropped the smoking gun and drew his pistol from the back of his belt. He had scarcely even been aware of how keen his reflexes were. That he’d heard the slight scuffling between Man Who Sees Twice and the woman before Kemp had realized what was happening. The tall man in black had even been pulling on his breeches before the first warning shot.
The other men were only partly dressed, springing out in their long combinations, belts strapped on and a brace of pistols each.
Followed out by most of the women. Only Mary-Lou Brittain remaining where she was, lying still under a mountain of blankets, her voice a keening squeal, like a pig being butchered.
The fight lasted barely four minutes, but the scream from the wagon never seemed to check or alter in pitch, as if the demented woman was able to carry on the cry without pausing for breath.
At the end of that four minutes there were a total of seven Shoshone dead or dying, and one unconscious with a lump on his temple the size of an apple.
But the cost had been very high.
First Kemp.
Hacked down by the two warriors at the beginning of the battle.
Then the rest of the war-party came whooping in, with no more need of secrecy, brandishing their knives, firing hand-guns at the defenders.
Trooper Gilbert was shot through the throat as he leveled his carbine at one of the Shoshone, the bullet tearing apart his neck so that he fell in the trampled snow, struggling for a last breath. Choking on the flooding crimson that swamped his lungs. McLaglen saw the Indian that shot his old friend and dropped to his knees, leveling his own gun at the brave. Pulling the trigger and whooping as he saw the Shoshone fall, clutching his shoulder.
His delight lasting for only a split fragment of time. A war-axe was thrown at him from halfway across the circle, by a warrior just in front of Crow. Its weighted blade hitting the soldier on the side of the face. Cracking his cheek, splintering the teeth in his jaw, cutting his tongue clean in half with its honed edge.
He tried to scream and fell on his side, both hands struggling to tear the tomahawk from his jaw, but it had bitten too deep.
While he rolled in the slush, another Shoshone came and kneeled behind him, slitting his throat from ear to ear as quickly and efficiently as a slaughterman in an abattoir.
The Irishman made a despairing effort to grab at his killer but his hands were slick with his own heart’s blood and slipped away from the greased skin of the young buck. But as the light faded away from his eyes the big Irishman was able to take a passing satisfaction with him to the dark shadows beyond.
Crow drew and fired his pistol in one fluid action, seeing the forty-five catch the kneeling Indian in the center of his back, ripping into his spine, sending him rolling over by the side of the dying Trooper, his knife falling from his fingers, lying there with legs kicking feebly like a landed fish as the reflexes fought to get him away from the searing pain. And failed.
With Kemp, Gilbert and Muir all dead or down and dying, Crow realized that the situation was becoming truly desperate. At least the women were rallying around, pouring in lead against the attackers. Though their aim might not have been that terrific, the volume of noise and smoke and fire was deterring the attacking Indians. For a moment the fight hung in the balance.
As he watched, Crow spun on his heel and pistoled a Shoshone who had been about to leap on his back from the seat of one of the Doughertys. Seeing the man falling kicking and screaming, holding his stomach, the tall white man had time to be grateful that the Shoshone chef hadn’t risked all on this night attack. If he had now sent in the rest of his warriors then victory would ha
ve been as certain as the silver moon travelling serenely, high above the battle.
‘Help meeeeee!!!’
The scream came from just beyond one of the wagons, in the darkness. Looking quickly around, Crow jumped back into his own wagon and grabbed a can of oil and the low-burning lamp. Reappearing a moment later, his pistol tucked back into his belt.
As he ran for the gap between the rigs a young buck came from nowhere and aimed a Colt at him. Pulling the trigger from point-blank range, the hammer clicking on a spent cartridge.
Without checking his stride Crow swung the heavy can at the Indian’s head, catching him a fearful blow across the temple, sending him spinning away in a tangle of arms and legs, like a discarded rag doll. Finishing up unconscious against a wheel of the Dougherty.
The screams were becoming more feeble.
Dodging another Indian coming at him with a knife, Crow vaulted over the wagon-shaft and found himself instantly cut off from the noise and death inside the circle. There was still enough light for him to see that the woman screaming was the blonde-haired Maggy Eklund. A solitary woman, widowed before the fall had begun. Her Corporal husband dying, at the Fort, crushed to death by an overturned gun-limber.
There were two Indians attacking her. Her clothes were cut off her clean down the front, and one of the young bucks was still between her spread thighs, while his comrade kneeled by the helpless woman’s head. Stopping her cries in a simple and brutal manner.
While Crow stood, poised for action, wondering whether it was possible to save the woman and still kill tile braves, events moved on and made his decision much easier.
The Indian spent himself into Mrs. Eklund with a juddering groan, raising himself from her and grinning at his comrade, his teeth white in the moonlight. At that moment the tormented woman must have used her own teeth on the other Shoshone as he gave a scream of pain and pulled away from her, blood black against his skin around his groin. Drawing his knife and stabbing her through the breasts several times in a frenzy of anger.
Worse Than Death Page 10
