It was a woman’s hand, Tall Buffalo realized, amazed. There was no doubt about that. With a wordless grunt of surprise, he opened the coach door and dumped the first two bodies outside. The last corpse, that of an enormously fat man, required the combined efforts of both Indians, but at last they managed to heave the heavy body outside, only to stare in wonder at the sight of a female figure huddled at the bottom of the coach.
Her black hair was a snarled mass, her clothing was rumpled and stained with sweat and dust, and with the dried blood of her traveling companions. But it was her eyes that held their attention. They were the most incredible shade of vibrant blue, wild now with fear.
Bull Calf looked at his uncle. “What will we do with her?”
“Take her home,” Tall Buffalo decided, thinking aloud. “Your aunt might enjoy having a slave to help with the work, especially with a new baby due in the summer.”
“She has eyes like the sky at midday,” the boy remarked, gesturing at Katy.
“Yes.” Tall Buffalo’s mouth suddenly twitched into a smile. “I have a wonderful idea!” he exclaimed, pleased with what had occurred to him. “We will give the white woman to Iron Wing.”
“Iron Wing,” the boy muttered, unable to believe his ears. “He has always shunned the women of our village. He has vowed never to marry.”
“That is true, but the white woman is not of our village. She will not be his wife, but his slave.”
Bull Calf nodded uncertainly. Iron Wing was a strange warrior. Long ago, he had been badly mauled by a grizzly, and as a result, the left side of his face bore a long, thin scar. His left arm also carried the jagged marks of the bear’s teeth and claws. Shortly after Iron Wing had recovered from his ordeal with the grizzly, he had asked for Quiet Water’s hand in marriage, but she had refused him, boldly declaring she would not spend her life with a warrior whose face repelled her. Quiet Water’s parents had tried to make her change her mind. Looks were only skin deep. Iron Wing’s scars would fade in time, but a man’s courage lasted a lifetime. But Quiet Water would not be swayed. Iron Wing had been deeply hurt, for he was a brave man and a fearless hunter. Did he not wear the claws of the bear who had attacked him? Had he not counted coup on many enemy warriors? Nevertheless, Quiet Water married another and Iron Wing withdrew into himself. With time, the scars on his face and arm faded from bright red to the palest of silver streaks that were hardly noticeable, but the memory of Quiet Water’s rejection, and the reason for it, remained strong in Iron Wing’s memory. Never again did he court the comely maidens of the Cheyenne.
For all his youth and inexperience, Bull Calf had a feeling that Iron Wing would not be pleased with the white woman.
Katy offered little resistance as Tall Buffalo pulled her out of the wrecked coach and lifted her to the back of his horse. Only a small cry of alarm, and then she was silent as she drew great gulps of fresh air into her lungs.
Bull Calf stared at Katy. He had never seen a white woman before, and he was not much impressed with this one. Her skin was almost as white as his grandfather’s braids, and she did not seem to have much spirit.
Katy Marie rode in front of the tall warrior, her face and eyes empty of expression. So much had happened in such a short time, Robert’s death, the attack on the stage coach, the horses running out of control until the coach turned over, burying her alive beneath the bodies of Jake Cardall and his friends. She had struggled valiantly to free herself of their suffocating weight, then given thanks to God for the concealment they provided when she heard the Apaches prowling about the coach.
Fearful of discovery, she had squeezed her eyes tight shut and held her breath lest some sound betray her presence to the savages. It had taken all the courage she possessed to keep from screaming hysterically when she heard the coach door open. Fortunately, the Indians had assumed all the passengers were dead and not worth mutilating, for they had left the bodies untouched. Cowering on the floor of the coach, crushed by the dead weight of three bodies, Katy had listened to the shouts and war whoops of the Apaches as they unhitched the team and drove the animals away.
Hours passed. Hours that had seemed like years as a new fear entered Katy’s mind. She could not extricate herself from the bodies piled atop her, and it was getting harder and harder to draw air into her lungs. She was going to die trapped in the coach, either from starvation or suffocation, whichever came first, but until then she would have to endure the cloying smell of death and decay, which grew steadily worse as the day wore on.
She was going to die. Her mind accepted the fact calmly. She was resigned to it, so that she didn’t even struggle when an unseen force began lifting the bodies of the men out of the coach. She was almost relieved when she saw the Indian gazing down at her. Soon it would be over. The fear, the waiting, everything would be over. A vague smile flitted over her face. Robert was dead, and soon she would be dead. Perhaps, in death, she would find him again.
But the Indian did not kill her, and now she was riding before him on his horse, lost in a quiet void where nothing could touch her.
Tall Buffalo and Bull Calf rode until nightfall, then sought shelter in a shallow draw out of the rising wind. They did not dare risk a fire with marauding Apaches in the vicinity. Bull Calf looked to Tall Buffalo for guidance when Katy refused to eat the chunk of pemmican he offered her, but Tall Buffalo only shrugged. When the woman was hungry enough, she would eat.
Katy Marie woke early the following morning, her mind clear, though for a befuddled moment she could not remember where she was. Then, in a rush, she recalled the nightmare events of the day before.
Turning her head, she gasped to find herself sharing a blanket with the tall warrior who had rescued her from the coach. For a breathless moment, she stared at him with mingled fear and curiosity. He did not look particularly frightening, and it occurred to her that he had a rather nice face, for a savage. His skin was smooth and unlined, perfect in every detail. A quick glance in the boy’s direction showed he was also sleeping, and it occurred to Katy that she might never have a better opportunity to escape.
With that in mind, she carefully slid out from under the buffalo robe. Gathering her torn skirts in one hand to keep from tripping on the hem, she tiptoed toward the horses. But the warrior’s mount, which had seemed like such a tractable beast the day before, snorted and rolled its eyes when she tried to grab hold of the bridle.
Katy was trying to calm the skittish buckskin gelding when a big brown hand closed over her arm. Startled, her cheeks flushed with guilt, Katy whirled around to find the tall warrior standing behind her. Surprisingly, he did not seem to be angry, even though he had caught her trying to steal his horse.
With a wordless smile, the warrior handed Katy a long strip of jerked meat. It looked quite disgusting, Katy thought, but hunger drove her like a cruel master and she gnawed on the tough meat as she followed the warrior back to his blankets. When he gestured for her to sit down, she did so with great reluctance. Now he would molest her, or kill her. She could not decide which fate she dreaded most. But he only handed her a skin bag of water and indicated she should drink her fill and then wash. It had never occurred to Katy that the Indians bathed.
The water was cool on Katy’s face, neck and arms, refreshing after the long, dusty ride of the day before. Still, it was embarrassing lo perform such a personal act with the boy and man watching her. The boy, especially, seemed fascinated with every move she made.
When she was finished, the warrior lifted her to the back of his horse, then agilely swung up behind her. Touching his moccasined heels to the buckskin’s flanks, they resumed their journey.
They rode all that day, stopping only once to breathe the horses and replenish their water supply from a brackish waterhole. The man and the boy talked companionably together, their looks and smiles including Katy even though she could not understand their words. They seemed quite friendly, almost like ordinary people, and not at all like ruthless savages.
The warri
or smiled at her often, his dark, luminous eyes always kind as he wordlessly reassured her he meant her no harm, and it occurred to Katy that, since she had the misfortune to be captured by Indians, she was lucky to have been taken by one who appeared almost civilized. He was quite a handsome man, probably in his early twenties. His forehead was high and unlined, his nose long and straight, his eyes a very dark brown. His shoulder-length black hair was adorned with a single white eagle feather.
The boy was tall and thin, about twelve years old, Katy guessed. He spoke very little, and listened intently to everything the warrior said. He wore his long black hair in braids.
Both the man and the boy wore deerskin breechcloth, leggings and sleeveless vests. The front of the man’s vest was decorated with vivid red suns and a vibrant yellow moon; the back carried the likeness of a buffalo outlined in black. The boy’s vest was plain.
Katy soon grew tired of the constant hours in the saddle. Her back and shoulders began to ache and she closed her eyes, wishing she could soak in a hot bubble bath and wash her hair. The rocking motion of the horse lulled her to the brink of sleep and her head lolled back against the warrior’s chest, returning her to full awareness with a start. But the warrior did not seem to mind, and he drew her back against him, his arm resting lightly around her waist. With a little sigh, Katy closed her eyes and fell asleep.
They spent that night camped in the shadow of a high plateau. Again there was only jerky and pemmican for dinner. Katy grimaced with distaste as she accepted a strip of dried meat from the warrior, and he shrugged apologetically.
When Katy woke the next morning, the warrior was gone. Katy looked anxiously at the boy, but he seemed unconcerned by the man’s absence. With a shrug, Katy combed her fingers through her hair, wincing as her fingers encountered a snarl. Never had she been so dirty! Her hair, her clothing, her skin, all were covered with dust. Her skirt was stained with Jake Cardall’s blood.
She was wishing she could ask the boy where the warrior had gone when suddenly he was there, a fat brown rabbit clenched in one hand.
Tall Buffalo handed the rabbit to Katy, then sat cross-legged on the blanket, an expectant smile on his swarthy countenance.
Katy stared at the furry little carcass and then at the warrior, struck by the realization that he expected her to skin the creature and cook it. Katy’s shoulders sagged in dismay. She had never so much as boiled water, let alone prepared any kind of a meal. She was, after all, a lady of means. Servants did the work. Servants did the cooking. Servants cleaned the house. They set the table and washed the dishes. They scrubbed the floors and polished the silver. They washed and ironed her clothes and put them in her closet so that she had only to decide which frock to wear.
The boy quickly interpreted the situation. Shaking his head with disgust, he grabbed the rabbit from Katy’s hand, skinned the carcass, skewered it on a slender stick, and roasted it over a low fire.
Katy Marie glanced apologetically at the tall warrior, then frowned. Why should she feel embarrassed because she didn’t know how to skin and cook a rabbit? She was a white woman, not an Indian squaw.
The meat was good, lightly brown on the outside, pink and tender inside. Katy ravenously ate all the warrior gave her and greedily licked the juice from her fingers.
When Tall Buffalo and Bull Calf finished eating, they left Katy alone to wash up and relieve herself and then they were riding again, always heading northeast toward the territory of Wyoming.
Katy studied the tall warrior from beneath the dark fringe of her lashes as they made their way across the vast wilderness. She had never heard of any nice Indians. Everyone knew they were vicious killers, totally without morals or scruples. Hadn’t they proved it time and again by slaughtering innocent pioneers and settlers? She had hated them all ever since the Apaches killed her father. Yet she did not feel hatred for the warrior or the boy. The man continued to treat her with kindness and respect, and the thought crossed Katy’s mind more than once that he might return her to her mother if she could only make him understand what she wanted. Again and again she had tried to ask the warrior to take her home, but no matter how she gestured, she could not pantomime the simple question, “Will you take me home?”
Katy soon lost track of the days as they traveled across great stretches of barren wilderness. She was so weary of riding, of sleeping on the hard ground, that she began to think even life in an Indian tepee would look good to her until the day they crested a wooded ridge and she saw what looked like a hundred conical hide lodges spread across an emerald green valley. Horses of every color grazed in the shade of tall pines and firs. Thin columns of blue-gray smoke spiraled skyward from countless cook-fires.
The boy whooped with excitement as he raced his fleet-footed paint pony down the hill, weaving in and out of the trees and bushes that grew along the hillside. His noisy approach drew the attention of the entire village and Katy felt her blood run cold as Indians swarmed around the boy and the warrior, all talking a mile a minute and pointing at Katy as if she were some kind of sideshow freak.
Katy’s eyes darted nervously from side to side. Tepees surrounded her on every side, looming over her like mountains, their tops blackened from the smoke of many fires. Large animal skins were pegged to the ground. Long strips of red meat hung on drying racks. There were dogs everywhere, and they all seemed to be barking at once.
Katy stared at the Indians. They all had black hair, dark eyes, and copper-hued skin that ranged from light brown to dark bronze. Most were tall. The women wore ankle-length deerskin dresses decorated with beads and quills and fringe, or colorful calico skirts and loose peasant blouses; the men wore clouts and leggings and buckskin shirts. A few of the warriors wore colorful cotton shirts with the tails hanging out. Most wore feathers or bits of fur in their hair. The children gawked at her from the protection of their mothers’ skirts.
Tall Buffalo was laughing as he reined his horse to a stop before a medium-sized lodge located in the center of the village.
“Iron Wing,” he called as he dismounted. “Come out and see the fine prize I have brought you from the land of the Apache.”
Almost immediately, the lodge flap opened and a tall, well-muscled warrior stepped outside. A cold chill, almost like a premonition, slithered down Katy’s spine as she looked at him. He was taller than the warrior who had rescued her from the coach, wider through the shoulders and chest. A faint white scar ran from the outer corner of his left eye across his cheek and down the side of his neck. The warrior was naked to the waist, and Katy saw that the crooked scar ran along his left shoulder and ran down the length of his left arm as well.
“Here,” Tall Buffalo said, lifting Katy from his horse and pushing her toward Iron Wing. “She is for you.”
Iron Wing’s black eyes narrowed ominously as he glanced from Katy to his lifelong friend. “Is this a joke?” he asked gruffly.
“No,” Tall Buffalo assured his friend as he placed Katy’s delicate white hand into Iron Wing’s calloused brown one. “She is for you.”
Iron Wing stared at the white woman. Her head was bowed and her hair, every bit as long and black as his own, hid most of her face. A heavy blue cloak covered her from neck to heel, making it difficult to determine if she were fat or thin.
Katy stared at the ground, wishing she could understand the harsh, guttural words passing between the two men. She shuddered when Tall Buffalo placed her hand in that of the scar-faced warrior. No words were needed to understand that she was being given away, and there was no mistaking the fact that the scar-faced warrior did not want her. She felt her cheeks flame with humiliation.
Lifting her head, Katy threw a pleading glance at the warrior who had rescued her, mutely begging him not to abandon her, but he was smiling fondly at a pretty, young Indian woman who was very, very pregnant. His wife, no doubt, Katy thought absently. No wonder he didn’t want her. Oh, it wasn’t fair! If she had to be a prisoner, why couldn’t she stay with the warrior who had broug
ht her here? He seemed a pleasant sort, not at all arrogant and frightening like the warrior who was scowling down at her. Katy tried to pull away, but the warrior’s fingers tightened around her wrist in a grip like iron.
Lifting his eyes from the white woman’s face. Iron Wing’s icy gaze touched the face of each man and woman gathered around his lodge. He did not want a woman, and everyone knew it. But to refuse a gift, any gift, was a grave insult. To refuse a gift given before witnesses could lead to bloodshed, even between very old and very good friends.
So it was that Iron Wing murmured, “Thank you for your generous gift, old friend.”
Tall Buffalo smiled broadly as Iron Wing accepted the girl. Giving Iron Wing a woman was a good joke.
Iron Wing’s acceptance of the girl, however reluctant it might have been, drew a collective sigh from the Indians, together with a few ribald remarks from some of the young men as the crowd broke up.
Eyes narrowed with impotent anger, Iron Wing watched his people wander back to their own lodges before he pivoted on his heel and ducked inside his dwelling, dragging the white woman behind him.
Inside the dusky lodge, Katy jerked her hand out of the warrior’s grasp and retreated to the opposite side of the tepee where she stood watching Iron Wing, her eyes wide with fear. There was no softness in this warrior, she thought frantically, no compassion. He looked as hard as flint, as unyielding as stone. Something that might have been pain flickered in the depths of the warrior’s fathomless black eyes, then was quickly gone.
“Sit,” he said. He gestured toward a crude willow backrest covered with a thick tawny hide.
Surprise momentarily replaced the fear in Katy’s eyes. “You speak English!” she exclaimed.
The warrior nodded curtly. “Sit. I will not hurt you.”
Katy tossed her head defiantly, causing her hair to swirl about her shoulders like a thick black cloud. “I’m not afraid of you!” she lied bravely.
Love in the Wind Page 3
