Silver Belles and Stetsons

by Caroline Clemmons

  Gomda struck again, his cold metal blade carving out a narrow line beneath Elam’s ribs. Bright red blood streamed from the wound and stained the waistband of his sky-blue trousers.

  Sweet Virgin, show mercy.

  Faster than a cobra strike, Elam’s knife thrust upward through the air and caught the side of Gomda’s neck. The man’s hand flew to the rugged gash, not a fatal wound, but one intended to cause great blood loss. A look of shock crossed his eyes before he dropped to a knee.

  Now! Now is your chance, Elam. Take it.

  With the skill of a seasoned fighter, Elam’s free hand descended in a haze of speed. He pushed Gomda to the ground, drove a knee into his chest and held him immobile.

  The air hissed with silence. Catherine glanced to the warriors and then to Wayward One. His young, lean body taut with tension, his eyes narrowed, but he made no move to interfere.

  “His horse for his life,” Elam rasped.

  “No, Elam! You cannot mean it!” Panic laced Catherine’s word. “We will never be free as long as he walks the earth.”

  Before Elam could respond, Gomda nodded, and Wayward One spoke. “It is done. Take his horse, the woman, the boy and go.”

  “I want your word your warriors will not hunt us down.”

  “Wayward One gives his word. You are free to leave and we will not follow.” Elam removed his knee from Gomda’s torso and came to his feet. The chief’s son rushed forth, cut the leather thongs from their wrists and stood between them. “Go…now, white-eye.”

  A warrior sprinted toward Gomda, one Catherine recognized as an ally in camp. He handed Gomda a shredded cloth to stop the flow of blood from his wound. A shudder of fear pedaled through her when Gomda looked into her eyes. She knew at that moment that as long as the evil man lived, she would never find peace.

  Gomda plucked his lightning stick from the ground. The skies darkened, an eerie mantra drifted around the onlookers, and thick, black smoke rose around them. The heavens opened. Thunder tumbled across the sky and staffs of lightning speared the ground. The wind picked up a mordant howl and beside her, Wolf-dog launched into frantic frenzy.

  Terrified of the portent signs from above, the Kiowa clapped their hands over their ears and broke for the surrounding woods. Clutching her son, Catherine hustled toward Elam. “We must flee from here now.” And then she turned to face her tormenter one last time. “May your soul be brought before the frown of the Great Spirit. May he send it afar, into a barren, cold and desolate land. May you wander forever through thorns and among rocks, thirsty, hungry, and in pain.”

  Elam took her by an elbow and led her toward Gomda’s horse. “Can you ride?”

  She nodded and he held out a cupped hand to help her mount. He headed toward Bandit in the lean-to, mounted and signaled for Catherine to follow. Glancing over his shoulder as they rode away, he spied Gomda alone in the yard, his eyes like shards of black ice.

  ***

  After four hours of travel, Catherine struggled. The merciless sun beat down on her head; her bottom hurt, and juggling to hold the baby to her breast to feed while keeping Gomda’s stallion in check proved an arduous task. A silent sigh of relief left her lips when Elam stopped near a cluster of mammoth pines and dismounted.

  He dug through his saddlebags, produced a well-worn blanket and stretched out an arm to help her down. “Let’s see if we can fashion a rebozo for the boy.”

  “Rebozo?”

  “Yes. Mexican women use it to cover their heads from the sun or to carry large bundles. It works just as well for carrying a baby.”

  Catherine slid from the horse and prayed her legs would hold up against the hard ground. Elam spun her around and wound the blanket over her right shoulder. When his fingers brushed the skin near her nape, an involuntary shiver coursed through her. And not from revulsion. No, far from it. She attempted to assess the myriad emotions flooding her senses. Warmth and gratitude, surely, but another sensation surfaced, one she had trouble defining.

  No woman on earth could deny Elam was handsome, a man who exuded strength and compassion, but she held no illusions he would think of her in the same vein. Men didn’t want a woman who’d lived with heathens for years, much less borne a child by one. She couldn’t afford to go down that road; wasn’t sure she could handle pitiful looks from Elam.

  The rebozo draped over her shoulder, he moved to stand in front of her. Easing the baby from her arms he placed the child in the fold and then brought one end of the fabric to meet the other, securing it by winding the ends together. “What do you think?”

  She glanced up at him. “I think I’ll feel more confident about the giant beneath me.”

  Elam shook his head. “It is a big horse, but he seems to like you.”

  “I made a cradleboard for the child and had to leave it when I fled. If they noticed it gone, my plans would have fallen to ruin.”

  Brown eyes softened. “You planned to run for quite some time?”

  “Since the moment they brought me into camp. I never stopped thinking about escape. The least likely time they would expect me to run…when I was heavy with child.”

  “You’re full of surprises, you know that, Catherine?”

  “I know what you’re thinking; only a desperate, foolish woman would try such a thing, risking not only her life but the life of her babe.”

  “I stopped judging people long ago and their motives.”

  She touched his arm again, like she had back at the shack. “Thank you.”

  “Welcome.” Leading her to the trees, he flapped a hand toward the ground. “Rest while I see to the horses.”

  Wolf-dog settled in beside her when she slid to the ground. With a feeble nod, she put her head against a trunk and closed her eyes, thankful for the respite.

  She didn’t know how much time had passed before she felt a nudge to her shoulder. “Do you think you can ride again?”

  She took the hand Elam offered and nodded. “We should put more miles between them and us. Not that I think—”

  “He will come for his son. Do not be fooled into thinking he won’t. Wayward One’s word is good but Gomda never gave his word.”

  “I’ll just have to be ready then, won’t I?”

  Chapter Four

  Twilight breached the horizon by the time New Mexico’s rock-strewn landscape faded behind them and Elam halted his horse. He couldn't push Catherine to continue, not after giving birth twenty-four hours ago. Sure, he'd heard the stories about native women pausing along the trail to bring their child into the world, only to climb back onto the horse, or in many situations, resume the march, as if they'd stopped to eat. While Catherine had lived with the Kiowa long enough to know their customs, and no doubt endured the harsh conditions of all the Plains Indians, Elam sensed an unspoiled innocence about the woman. God knows, after studying her throughout the day, she was still a white woman, a very beautiful white woman. She didn't choose captivity and was old enough when the Kiowa took her to remember some of the ways of the white man.

  He looked at her again now. “We stop here for the night.”

  After grabbing a peek at her son snuggled against her chest, she met his eyes. “If you were riding alone, would you camp here?”

  “It's safe.” He nodded in all directions. “Foothills behind us; flat land in front, and I hear water running nearby.”

  She cocked her head and low-voiced said, “That's not what I meant.”

  “Are you asking me if I would have kept going if you and the boy weren't riding with me?”

  She nodded.

  “Likely not; but you are and I've come to terms with that. You look tired, and I get the feeling you’d rather die on the spine of that stallion than speak up.”

  “No one has asked me what I want, or don't want, for so long I forgot how to speak up.” He heard her laugh for the first time. It reminded him of a gentle rain dashing against a window.

  Elam dismounted and with reins in hand, walked toward her. Stretching out h
is free arm, he smiled up at her. “I suspect many things will change from here on out. I don't own you, Catherine. You can speak your mind.”

  She took his hand, swung her leg over her mount's back and, mindful of her baby eased her way to the ground. For the first time since meeting her, he noticed tears brimming in her eyes. “Seems as if all I ever do is thank you.”

  He nodded toward a copse of Gambel oak interspersed with lofty aspens. “Why don't you rest in the shade while I take care of the horses and set up camp?”

  “Why don't I gather wood for a fire while you see to the mounts?”

  “You sure, because—”

  “I'm sure. I’ll take that black kettle peeking out from your saddlebag though.” After handing her the cook pot, she pulled the knife from her knee-top moccasin and headed toward a slope of wild brush and tree scrub. She called out over her shoulder, “I'll find that stream you talked about and bring back water too.”

  Elam watched her walk away, and emotions he thought long dead surfaced. She moved with the grace and agility of a cat, a sleek, long-limbed cat with long ebony hair and narrow hips. All the young bucks of the tribe must have wanted her for a mate. And Gomda, at least fifteen years her senior, won the honor with horses. In his opinion, Catherine was worth a herd of horses, hell, an entire country of wild mustangs. He wasn’t accustomed to wondering about anyone’s past, or their future. The longest thought he had about the future was surviving another day. When she disappeared from view, he turned his attention to the mounts, mumbling under his breath, “You're going soft, Elam. Be careful; you don't even know this woman.”

  By the time Elam unpacked the horses, removed the saddle from his and staked them to a small crop of bunch grass to graze, Catherine had returned. The black pot, water splashing over the sides, dangled from one wrist and in the other arm, she cradled a stack of wood. Good thing he’d fashioned a rebozo for the child.

  She set the kettle down, dropped the wood onto the ground and began stacking it to build a fire. From the pouch at her waist, she laid a small pile of tinder next to the stack and then struck two hard pieces of stone together. Within seconds, a spark flashed and caught the tinder. Caught up in watching her perform the menial task, he forgot to remind her he had matches in his pack. Guess he'd have to learn to speak up too now.

  Grabbing his rifle from the scabbard on the saddle, he looked over at her. “Off to scare up some supper.”

  A moment of panic flitted through her eyes.

  “You know how to shoot a pistol?”

  She shook her head.

  He motioned her forward and held out his army-issued Colt. “You ever shoot a gun?”

  “Oh yeah,” she said and made a sound reminiscent of a snort. “The Kiowa always give their captives guns.”

  “You have never forgotten your language, even after all these years.”

  “No,” she said with a far-off look. “My mother was a school teacher, made sure we learned our letters at a young age.” Turning those liquid violet eyes on him, she continued. “When I first came to the village, they punished me with sticks when I spoke my language. Over and again they insisted I use the Kiowa word for eat, water or,” she glanced at Wolf-dog, “for animals.” With her lips pursed she met his eyes again. “Every chance I got I used my words, when there was no one around, of course.”

  Again her resilience and courage shone through, traits he couldn’t help but admire. “Let’s see if you’re as determined when it comes to shooting.”

  “What?”

  “Take the pistol.” He nodded toward his hand. “It’s loaded. Aim and fire.”

  “Right now?”

  “Yep.”

  She took it from him, holding it as if the piece of metal might bite her.

  “See that trio of cactus?” He pointed beyond the length of his arm. “Aim for that.”

  “Oh, I don’t think….”

  “You can do it. Here,” he said, turning her in the right direction. “Plant your feet and spread them a little. Extend your arm and close one eye if that works for you.” She followed his directions and focused on the cluster of plants he’d pointed out. “Grab the pistol tight, as if you mean to use it. Now go ahead, fire.”

  Wolf-dog gave a series of cowering yips and took off running with his tail between his legs when she pulled the trigger. Moments later, she rewarded Elam with a broad grin when a clump of cactus flew through the air. “I hit it!”

  “Yes, you did. See, nothing to it. Now, stay by the fire and keep the pistol on the ground beside you. You won’t need it but you’ll feel safer knowing it’s there.”

  “I feel safer knowing I can shoot now.”

  Elam chuckled. “I s’pect your dog will return when his ears stop ringing.”

  She looked left and then right. “He can’t have gone too far, poor thing. After all he’s done for me, not the best way to show my gratitude.” The baby began to wail. “Speaking of supper, it’s time for his.”

  Elam gave her a last look and a nod and with rifle in the crook of his arm, headed toward the foothills behind camp. If luck trailed him, he’d bring back a wild turkey, or at least a rabbit.

  He walked up hill for several minutes and then took up a post behind a thick-trunked oak. On the way up, he’d spied tracks and droppings from numerous critters. He’d learned long ago the game would come to him if he kept his impatience in check. Dropping to a knee, he scanned the terrain, and smiled when a plump hare stopped twenty feet to his left to nibble on wild parsnips. He brought the rifle up, took aim and jumped when the retort from a gun echoed through the air. And not from his gun.

  In the distance, he heard Bandit’s frantic whinny and deep-throated barks from a dog. A sense of trepidation hounded him as he sprinted toward camp.

  Near the fire, a pair of gray wolves had Catherine surrounded. Wolf-dog was in life and death combat with the alpha, and another flew through the air with an anguished yelp after Bandit delivered a well-placed kick to his ribs. Catherine clutched her son to her chest and raised the pistol. Time stalled on a surreal precipice.

  Elam aimed the rifle at the one circling her from behind and yelled out for her to take out the one preparing to launch. “Shoot the gun, Catherine! Shoot him!”

  The scene played out in slow motion—Wolf-dog conquering his enemy, and bleeding from the neck, turning toward Catherine to take on another who threatened her. Elam fired and dropped the one behind her, and Catherine finally fired. Too late to stop the mass of gray fur flying through the air. White fangs gleamed beneath the setting sun. A scream rent the air when the wolf sank his teeth into her outstretched arm. Elam fired again. The wild canine released his hold and limped off, bleating like a lamb taken to slaughter. Catherine folded like a leaf and floated to the ground, her injured arm held out before her to break the fall.

  Elam was beside her in a heartbeat. He knelt down, glanced quickly at the baby and then yanked the bandana from his neck.

  “I froze; couldn’t shoot the gun.”

  “Shush, no matter now, they’re gone.”

  She tried to raise her head. “Wolf-dog?”

  “He’s here, licking his wounds, but he took down their leader.”

  “He tried to warn me, knew they were coming.” The baby wailed, drawing their attention at the same time. “Is he hurt?”

  “No, no. Stunned, I think, but he’s fine.”

  “God, it hurts. I’m trying not to cry…or pass out, but not sure I’ll win either of those battles.”

  A sense of helplessness washed over Elam. He had no choice now; had to get them home to the ranch. The old Indian would know how to tend her wounds. “Catherine, we have to keep moving. I’m going to build a travois for you and Wolf-dog.”

  “Am I going to die?”

  “Hell, no. Not if I have anything to say about it but….”

  “But?”

  “The one that bit you got away, and I couldn’t tell if he was—”

  “Dear, God…rabid.”

/>   “I don’t think he was.” He scanned camp, trying to find the right words. “It’s unusual for them to attack humans. They will if they’re starving.”

  “Or rabid.”

  He slapped a hand to his forehead. Why had he left her and the baby alone in camp? What was he thinking? “No, the whole pack couldn’t be rabid. Either they have a den nearby with cubs or they came in looking for food. It doesn’t matter now. We have to move out.”

  “The bite is bad.”

  It wasn’t a question. “I’m not going to lie. It’s deep and I’m not sure how to treat it. We had an army doctor, but Hiamovi will know and that’s why we can’t stay here.”

  “Hiamovi?”

  “The old Indian. It means whirlwind in Cheyenne. Hell, if we ever needed a whirlwind to carry us home, it’s now.”

  “Go, Elam; build the travois. I don’t know how much longer I can stay conscious.”

  “You hang on, you hear me?”

  He started to rise until she whispered his name again. “Put the baby to my breast before you go. He needs to fill up now in case I can’t feed him later. If I pass out, you’ll have to do it again when he starts fussing.”

  “Catherine….”

  “Lift up my shirt and put him to my breast. He’ll find what he needs.” With her uninjured arm, she clutched his. “Don’t let him die. No matter what happens to me, find a way to keep him alive.” Her voice clouded by pain, she gripped him tighter. “Promise me.”

  He lifted her doeskin shirt and placed the baby to her breast. Relief flooded him when he heard the child taking nourishment. “We won’t lose him, Catherine, and I-I won’t lose you either.”

  Elam’s horse staggered through the dark, his only light a pale crescent moon. Behind him, the travois and Gomda’s horse cut through the hard-packed earth and skimmed over rocks and pebbles. He stopped once, after four hours of steady riding, to check on Catherine and her son. His hand burned after touching her feverish forehead, and even beneath the thin moonlight, her face had gone deathly pale. Her arm had swelled to twice its normal size, and a string of rambling words fell from her lips. The only consolation to the morbid situation was the child who seemed to be none worse for the wear after all that had happened.