Love in the Wind

by Madeline Baker

  Iron Wing lay motionless, his dark skin and clothing blending in with the shadows. In minutes, he knew he would surely be discovered. He waited until the outlaw was almost on top of him. Then, with a wild cry, he sprang to his feet and dragged the startled outlaw from the saddle. He killed the man quickly with a single stroke of his blade, then whirled around to confront the second man. The outlaw drew rein and brought his rifle up, squeezing the trigger as Iron Wing lunged at him. The outlaw’s horse reared as Iron Wing sprinted forward, spoiling the outlaw’s aim, so that the bullet meant for Iron Wing’s heart went high and creased the fleshy part of his right arm instead.

  Iron Wing stumbled, but his momentum kept him moving forward, and he reached out and grasped the horse’s bridle. With a twisting motion, he threw the gelding off balance so that it fell heavily.

  The white man rolled free. Scrambling to his feet, he jacked a shell into the breech of his rifle as Iron Wing let his knife fly. The heavy blade penetrated the outlaw’s heart before he pulled the trigger, and he died with a garbled cry of pain.

  Iron Wing sat down on his heels. Heart hammering, lungs burning, he pressed his hand against his wounded arm to stanch the flow of blood. When his breathing returned to normal, he scooped up a handful of dirt and pressed it over the wound.

  When the bleeding stopped, he rose to his feet and walked to where the outlaws’ horses were standing head to head. They shied away from him, spooked by the alien Indian smell and the scent of fresh blood. He did not chase them. Instead, he hunkered down on his heels and waited. Horses were naturally curious creatures. Before long, they would come to him.

  Iron Wing stared into the darkness, waiting. Twenty minutes later the horses moved slowly toward him, their nostrils flared as they reached out to sniff the strange-smelling man sitting, unmoving, on the ground.

  Moving swiftly, Iron Wing grabbed the reins of the nearest horse. Rising, he swung into the saddle and took up the trail once again. The loose horse followed behind, its head lifted to one side to avoid stepping on the dangling reins.

  Katy’s nerves were drawn tight as a bowstring by the time El Lobo and his men made camp for the night. All day, she had endured the broad leers and lewd comments of the outlaws. None had dared touch her, though they came close, making obscene gestures at her while their ribald laughter grated in her ears.

  Now, with her hands and feet tightly bound, she sat beside a small fire, too numb to think of anything but El Lobo’s threat to sell her to a brothel. And she had wanted to be a nun! Hysterical laughter bubbled in her throat, but she quickly swallowed it lest El Lobo hear it and slap her again.

  Pablo, Carlito, and El Lobo stood a little apart from the others, talking in muted tones. The two men El Lobo had sent to find Iron Wing had not returned. Pablo wanted to go look for his amigos, but the runty Carlito was of the opinion that they were dead.

  El Lobo agreed with Carlito. “Maximilliano would be here by now if he were alive,” El Lobo reasoned aloud. “Only death would keep him from his dinner.”

  Katy felt a little thrill of hope rise within her breast. Perhaps Iron Wing had not deserted her in the face of danger after all. Perhaps, even now, he was hidden somewhere in the shadows, waiting to rescue her. The thought made her smile, and then a niggling fear worked its way into her mind. Just because the two outlaws were presumed dead did not mean that Iron Wing was still alive. He, too, might be lying out there in the dirt, dead, or dying.

  Three days passed. El Lobo did not send any more of his men to look for Iron Wing. The outlaws rode in a solid front during the day, keeping Katy in their midst. At night half the camp remained awake and on guard while the other half slept. At midnight, they changed shifts.

  The constant chafing of the ropes binding her hands and feet made Katy’s skin sore and tender. Her thighs were rubbed raw where her bare skin grated against the saddle leather. And she was covered with so much dust she wondered how any of the men could possibly find her desirable.

  Carlito, that ugly monkey-like gnome of a man, managed always to be near Katy. He rode by her side, spread his blankets near hers at night. His eyes, close-set and hooded beneath shaggy brows, watched her every move until Katy thought she would scream. There was something eerie about the way Carlito stared at her, his mouth set in a lopsided grin, his yellow eyes as unblinking as a snake’s.

  Another six days passed. Katy hoped they would encounter Indians, for life as a slave in an Indian camp was preferable to being a whore. And perhaps, if they were captured by Indians, she could find out if Iron Wing still lived. But they met no one, red or white.

  The land was changing a little each day. The flat plains gave way to rolling hills cut by dry sandy washes and slab-sided canyons. Trees and brush grew thick and green, providing shade and shelter from the sun.

  El Lobo’s men rode with their eyes and ears alert, even though there had been no sign of Iron Wing, or anyone else, for nine days.

  The next night, one of the outlaws went out to answer nature’s call. He did not come back. El Lobo found the man behind a bush, his throat slashed from ear to ear, his scalp gone. The man’s death, horrible as it was, brightened Katy’s flagging spirits. Iron Wing was still alive. And as long as he lived, there was hope.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Iron Wing followed El Lobo’s trail from a safe distance, waiting for the chance to pick off another of the outlaws, but the bandits were chary of him now and they rode warily, ever alert to the threat of an ambush.

  When El Lobo’s men made camp for the night, Iron Wing holed up in some secluded spot where he could watch the camp without being seen. And while he watched, he fashioned a short, stout bow of juniper wood, and made a dozen arrows. The tail feathers from a wild turkey provided the fletching; flat stones, painstakingly shaped and honed, provided arrowheads.

  And then the terror began. For six nights, just after sunset, Iron Wing’s arrows swished out of the darkness to strike human flesh.

  The outlaws spent hours hunting him, but it was like tracking the wind. Arrows left no telltale muzzle flash to follow, no echoing gunshot to indicate from which direction the arrow had come.

  El Lobo was seething. Nine of his men had been killed because of the white woman. It was a high price to pay. Too high. It would have to stop.

  The night after the sixth arrow had found its mark, the bandit leader built a roaring fire. Then, grabbing Katy by the hair, he jerked her to her feet and held her close to his side, a knife poised at her throat.

  “Indian!” El Lobo hollered into the darkness. “You have killed nine of my men. It is enough. If one more of my compadres dies, the woman will be killed immediately. Do you hear me, Indian?”

  The threat echoed and reechoed in the stillness of the night, but no answer came from the impenetrable darkness.

  Katy sighed as El Lobo boosted her into the saddle the following morning. She was weary to the bone. Weary of being constantly tied hand and foot, weary of riding day after endless day, weary of having her every movement watched. She was never left alone, not even to relieve herself, and that was the most humiliating of all. What could be worse than crouching in the dirt while a man stood by, his eyes mocking, his mouth twisted into a leering grin?

  Thus far, none of the outlaws had dared touch her, but they continued to stare at her, their lurid thoughts always visible in their swarthy faces and lust-filled eyes.

  Riding across the seemingly endless miles of prairie, Katy wondered how much longer El Lobo could keep his men under control, and how she would live with the shame if the outlaws raped her en masse.

  She thought constantly of Iron Wing, wondering where he was, and how much longer he would follow El Lobo before he gave up and went back to his own people. Soon the outlaws would arrive at their destination, and El Lobo would sell her to the man, Herrera. She would be lost then. Iron Wing would have to turn back, or risk being shot on sight by the first white man who saw him.

  Despair perched on Katy’s shoulders like a
hungry buzzard. Nothing in life had ever turned out the way she planned. She had expected to live out her days in happy contentment as Robert’s wife. But Robert had been killed by Apaches. She had yearned to bury her grief in the peace and solitude of the convent. But that had been denied her. She had found true happiness with Iron Wing after months of misery, and now he, too, was lost to her.

  Tears welled in Katy’s eyes and slid down her cheeks, coming faster and faster, until silent sobs tore at her throat. It was so unfair! Everyone she had loved had been killed or brutally snatched from her grasp.

  Katy cried herself to sleep that night. And sleeping, began to dream… She was alone on a high plateau when suddenly Iron Wing stood beside her. He smiled at her, his dark eyes glowing with love. Whispering his name, she melted into his arms, her whole body singing with joy at his nearness. His hand touched her cheek, but when she looked up, Iron wing was gone and Carlito stood in his place. Wrenching out of the little man’s arms, she ran blindly into a building that loomed out of the darkness. Bright lights turned the night to day, and she gasped as she saw El Lobo standing there, a great sum of money clutched in his hand. A faceless man stepped out from behind El Lobo. It was Herrera, Katy knew, and she ran screaming out of the room. A door appeared before her and she quickly opened it and ducked inside, to find herself in a small room. There was no furniture in the room except a stained and lumpy mattress that stretched from wall to wall. The door closed, and Carlito was there. His arms grabbed her, crushing the breath from her body, while his mouth found hers. Helpless, she looked over the outlaw’s shoulder to see Iron Wing standing beside the door, his expression one of disgust. “Whore,” he sneered, and vanished from her sight…

  Katy’s scream was loud in the stillness of the night and she sat up, shivering violently, to find Carlito staring at her.

  Morning came at last. Preoccupied with her own unhappy thoughts, Katy did not notice when the outlaw known as Pablo stayed behind, on foot.

  Iron Wing continued to follow El Lobo’s trail, his face set in hard lines, his eyes alight with a burning need for vengeance. He had killed nine of the outlaws, but he would not rest until they were all dead and Katy stood by his side again. Never again would he leave her. They would face the future together, no matter what it held in store for them.

  Katy…the hard lines of his face softened when he thought of her, warm and willing in his arms, her lips parted in a shy smile, her sky-blue eyes shining with affection. She had filled his life with meaning, healed the scars Quiet Water had left on his soul, and his arms ached with the need to hold her close.

  It was just before noon when a sudden uneasiness caused the back of Iron Wing’s neck to grow taut. Reining his mount to a halt, he turned sideways in the saddle, his narrowed eyes probing every bush and shadow. He caught the faint glint of sunlight reflecting on metal just as the outlaw pulled the trigger.

  The heavy .44/.40 slug caught Iron Wing high in the chest, slamming into him with the force of a sledgehammer, so that he toppled over the side of his horse to lie stunned on the ground. Blinding white pain splintered down his right side, rendering him momentarily helpless. Moments later the sound of footsteps penetrated the mists of pain. Glancing sideways, he saw the outlaw walking purposefully toward him.

  Pablo smiled smugly. Slowly, deliberately, he pulled his sidearm, cocked the pistol, sighted down the barrel. Abruptly, he eased the hammer down and holstered the Colt.

  “No sense wasting another bullet,” the outlaw muttered to himself. “You’re a dead man already.”

  Laughing softly, the outlaw walked to Iron Wing’s horse and swung into the saddle.

  Iron Wing closed his eyes, listening to the sound of hoofbeats recede into the distance as the outlaw rode away. The pain in his chest throbbed monotonously. Clenching his teeth against the pain, he opened his eyes and rolled to his knees, then sprawled face down into the dust as blackness washed over him, carrying him down, down, into nothingness.

  El Lobo looked at his right-hand man impatiently. “Well?” he growled. “Is it done?”

  “Done!” Pablo said, patting Iron Wing’s horse on the neck. “That redskin won’t be giving us any more trouble.”

  Katy stared at the two men, her face paling as Pablo’s words sank in. Iron Wing was dead. It wasn’t true, she thought dully. It couldn’t be true.

  But it was. El Lobo was smirking with satisfaction as he congratulated Pablo on a job well done, laughing loudly with the others because Iron Wing’s silent arrows of death would kill no more.

  With a wordless cry of pain and hopelessness, Katy sank to her knees. She hurt deep inside, hurt as she had never hurt before. A hard lump rose in her throat, aching to be released in a torrent of tears. But the tears would not come. Guilt wrapped around her heart as she remembered all the times she had wished Iron Wing dead, the times she had screamed she hated him, would always hate him. Vividly, she remembered the night she had plunged a knife into his flesh. She had wished him dead a hundred times in a hundred ways, and now her wish had come true.

  She stared blankly at the dish of food El Lobo was holding under her nose. “Eat,” he commanded gruffly. Spearing a chunk of meat, he raised the fork to her lips, but Katy shook her head and turned away.

  El Lobo shrugged indifferently. If the woman did not want to eat, so be it. Herrera liked his women on the skinny side, and if the white girl lost a few pounds, so much the better.

  The moon was high when Iron Wing regained consciousness. He gazed up at the sky, gathering his strength. Then, with teeth gritted, he got to his hands and knees. Head hanging, body sheened with sweat, he fought against the urge to lie down, to close his eyes and slip away into the warm darkness that hovered all around him, waiting to claim him forever.

  With an effort, he lurched to his feet. The world spun crazily out of focus, a sharp pain exploded through his chest, spreading waves of agony down his entire right side, but he stood fast until the world stopped spinning.

  Lifting his head, he studied the moon and the stars and then he started walking, his slow footsteps carrying him west in the general direction El Lobo had been going.

  He had gone less than a mile when he spotted the faint glow of a campfire. Pausing, he sniffed the wind. You could always smell coffee boiling in a white man’s camp. But now he smelled only roasting buffalo and he continued forward, hoping he was not walking into a Crow camp.

  The warriors sitting around the fire rose to their feet, their eyes showing surprise at seeing a lone man stumble into their camp in the dead of night.

  “Ho, brothers,” Iron Wing mumbled hoarsely, and collapsed at their feet.

  When he woke, he was laying on a buffalo robe near the fire. Three Sioux braves hovered over him. One held a thin-bladed knife in his hand.

  “The bullet in your chest will have to come out,” the warrior holding the knife said.

  Iron Wing nodded. He stared past the warrior’s left shoulder, his eyes fastened on a distant star as the knife probed his flesh, penetrating deeper, deeper, until, with a final twist, the warrior extracted the slug from Iron Wing’s chest.

  They let the wound bleed a minute, until the blood ran bright red and clean. Then one of the warriors withdrew a flaming stick from the fire and laid it over the wound. Iron Wing’s body went rigid as the smoking brand touched his flesh. And then merciful darkness closed in on him once more.

  When Iron Wing regained consciousness, it was dawn. One of the warriors offered him a cup of weak broth and he drank it slowly, feeling its warmth strengthen him. When the cup was empty, he asked for more.

  The warrior who had removed the bullet from his chest hunkered down beside him. “I am Standing Bull of the Lakota,” he said politely. Holding to Indian custom, he did not ask for the stranger’s name.

  “I am Iron Wing, of the Cheyenne.”

  Standing Bull nodded. The name Iron Wing was known to his people. It was rumored he would be the next chief of the Cheyenne. “Have you been long from t
he lodges of your people?”

  “Many days. I am trailing some white men who took my woman from me.”

  “Then you do not know of Pahaska, and how he was slain in the valley of the Greasy Grass?”

  Iron Wing regarded Standing Bull in awed silence. So, Custer had been killed at the Little Big Horn.

  “The vision of Sitting Bull was a true vision after all,” Iron Wing murmured.

  “Yes. The Sioux and the Cheyenne, together with our brothers, the Arapahoe, killed Custer and all his men. It was a great victory for our people. Now we are on our way back home.”

  Iron Wing grunted softly. General George Armstrong Custer, that pompous, glory-seeking Indian fighter, had been defeated in battle. At last, the spirits of all those who had been killed that cold winter morning at the Washita could rest in peace. Their deaths had been avenged. No more would Yellow Hair bring terror and death to the lodges of the Cheyenne.

  Iron Wing sighed heavily. He would have liked to have been there to see Yellow Hair wiped out. It would have been good to go to battle against the Seventh Cavalry, good to see soldiers dead on the field of battle. But there was no time for regret now. There would be other encounters with the whites. There would always be war with the white man so long as one Indian remained alive and free.

  Iron Wing rose unsteadily to his feet. “I must go.”

  “You are in no condition to travel, or to fight,” Standing Bull remarked. “Why not come home with us until you are stronger?”

  “I cannot,” Iron Wing answered. “I cannot take a chance of losing the trail of the white men who took my woman.”

  “Take my horse, then,” Standing Bull offered generously. “He is fast as the wind, as sure-footed as the goats who live in the mountains.”