“I’ll saddle the horses while you fix breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry. And I can saddle my own horse. Let’s go.”
He understood her anxiety, and he didn’t waste time arguing with her. They could eat later. It took less than ten minutes to pack their gear, douse the campfire, and saddle the horses.
Marty tried not to think of her nightmare as they rode deeper into Apache territory, but she couldn’t shake the awful images from her mind. She would never forgive herself if anything happened to Dani and Cory. If she hadn’t been so openly opposed to their marriage, Dani wouldn’t have had to sneak out of the house in the middle of the night to meet Cory and they wouldn’t have been captured by Indians. Any harm that came to Cory or her sister would be all her fault. How would she ever be able to live with that on her conscience?
She looked over at Ridge. As always, he rode easy in the saddle, but she knew he was aware of everything around them. She could sense his tension, see the wariness in his eyes as he glanced from side to side. Time and again he checked their back trail, lifting his head to peruse the distant mountains. She felt safe with him, and yet he was only one man. If they were attacked… She thought again of all the horrible stories she had heard about what happened to Apache prisoners, how they were tied up and burned alive, or staked out in the desert with strips of wet rawhide tied around their heads and left in the sun. When the rawhide dried, it grew tighter and tighter, until…
She shook the gruesome image from her mind. There was nothing to be gained by dwelling on what would happen to them, to her, if they were attacked by Indians. Instead, she glanced at the surrounding countryside. Like the Apache, it could be a hard, cruel land, and yet there was a kind of raw beauty in the desert and in the jagged mountains that loomed ever closer. It called to something wild and untamed deep within her.
She was watching an eagle soaring on the air currents high above when a rising dust cloud caught her eye. And then a dozen braves materialized over the edge of a gully and thundered toward them, brandishing lances and rifles.
Marty stared at them in horror. Before she could think or cry out, the air was filled with the sound of gunfire.
Ridge hollered, “Grab your rifle and hit the dirt!”
Shaking with fear, she pulled her rifle from the boot, dismounted, and dropped down on her stomach beside him. Her horse bolted, head high, reins trailing.
Ridge fired a shot and the Indians pulled up out of range, then began riding in a circle around them, yelling what sounded like curses.
“Can you use that rifle?” Ridge asked.
“Of course.”
“All right. I’ll cover your back; you cover mine.”
She nodded and he scrambled around so that they were lying side by side, firing in opposite directions.
She stared at the Indians, knowing that all the savages had to do was wait them out. They had no food, no water.
“Why are they shooting at us?” Marty asked. “Aren’t they your people?”
“I haven’t been home in years. I doubt if any of these warriors even know me.”
“Can’t you tell them who you are?”
“I’m not sure they’ll stop shooting long enough to listen.”
Marty was afraid he was right.
The next few minutes were the worst of her life. The Indians taunted them, riding around them to draw their fire. She had to admire their horsemanship. Hanging over the far side of their horses, the Apache galloped toward them. Protected by the bodies of their horses, the Indians loosed arrows at them until Ridge shot one of the horses. The Indian rolled free and then shot an arrow into the air. Marty frowned, wondering at such odd behavior.
Then the arrow came down. Ridge grunted as it pierced his side.
Marty stared at him in horror, everything else momentarily forgotten.
In seconds, the Indians were on her. One grabbed her rifle. Another jerked her to her feet.
Ridge rolled onto his back, his rifle coming up, but he didn’t dare shoot for fear of hitting her. An Indian came up beside him and struck him alongside the head with the butt of his rifle.
The warrior reversed his rifle in his hand and sighted down the barrel.
Marty screamed, struggling to free herself from the warrior who held her.
Before the first warrior could fire, a second warrior wearing a white feather in his hair pushed the rifle aside. He said something in a harsh, guttural tongue as he knelt beside Ridge. Marty held her breath. Had that been recognition she had seen in the Apache’s eyes when he looked at Ridge?
The warrior with the white feather in his hair spoke to the warriors closest to him, then turned his attention to Ridge. Grasping the arrow in the middle of the shaft, he broke it in two and tossed the feathered end away. Then, removing the red sash from around his waist, he wrapped it tightly around Ridge’s middle. After tying off the ends, the warrior rose to his feet and again spoke to the warriors gathered around him.
He sounded angry. If only she knew what he was saying!
Her heart sank as a horse was brought forward. Two burly warriors lifted Ridge and placed him facedown over the horse’s back. Oh Lord, was he dead?
A mounted warrior took the reins to her horse. The warrior wearing the white feather vaulted onto the back of his pony, then caught up the reins to the horse that was carrying Ridge. Without a word, the war party turned back the way they had come.
Marty glanced at the Indians, wondering if they were Apache. Wondering if they were the ones who had taken Dani and Cory. If they were Apache, why had they shot Ridge? He was one of them.
She stared at his back, willing him to move, praying that he was still alive. Her gaze was drawn to the blood smeared across the horse’s withers. The sight of blood had never bothered her before. She castrated cattle. She helped with the calving. She had treated gunshot wounds and even a rattlesnake bite without turning a hair. She had dug a piece of glass out of Dani’s foot, looked after one of the cowboys who had been gored by a bull, but the sight of Ridge’s blood made her sick to her stomach.
They rode all that day. Gradually the prairie fell away and they began to climb a narrow trail cut into the side of a rock-strewn mountain.
As they climbed higher, Marty’s fear for Ridge’s life quickly turned to fear for her own. It was obvious the Indians were taking her and Ridge to their stronghold. Marty had heard bits and pieces about the Apache rancheria hidden high in the mountains. It was said that the stronghold was almost impregnable, and that a small number of Apache could hold off a much larger force.
What would the Indians do with her once they reached the stronghold? What would Ridge’s fate be, assuming he was still alive? What if Dani and Cory were there?
She clung to that hope as the trail continued on, winding higher and higher. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, they reached a narrow entrance guarded by a single warrior. Marty glanced over her shoulder, amazed at the view. From this vantage point, the warrior could see for many miles into the valley below. A few well-armed warriors could easily defend the stronghold from attack.
Marty clenched her hands to still their trembling as they rounded a curve in the trail and the Apache camp came into view. Her breath caught in her throat when she saw the brush-covered wickiups spread before her. Men and women could be seen moving about, engaged in various activities. Children and dogs ran everywhere. A vast herd of horses grazed alongside a winding stream beyond the village.
Men and women ran forward to meet the returning warriors, the women obviously searching for their men.
The warrior leading Ridge’s horse moved through the throng, pausing when he came to a large wickiup. The Indian leading Marty’s horse followed him. When they stopped, he lifted her from her horse, then rode away, leaving her standing there.
The warrior she had come to think of as White Feather dismounted and rapped on the door of the wickiup.
Biting down on her lower lip, she glanced at Ridge, then at White
Feather, and then back at Ridge.
She was about to go to Ridge’s side when an old man stepped out of the wickiup. Body bent, his long hair almost white, he glanced at her briefly, then turned his attention to White Feather. The two men spoke rapidly for several minutes; then the warrior lifted Ridge from the back of the horse and carried him into the wickiup. The ancient warrior followed.
Marty stood there for several minutes, not knowing what she should do. No one seemed particularly interested in her, although she seemed to be the object of a good many curious looks, especially from a handful of boys standing nearby.
Tapping her foot, she stared at the wickiup. What were they doing in there? Did she dare go inside? She wished the boys would go away.
Feeling uncomfortable, and anxious to know what they were doing to Ridge, she took her courage in hand and ducked into the wickiup.
It took several moments for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. From what she could see, the wickiup was made from a round framework of long poles driven into the ground. The poles were laced together at the top with what looked like strands of yucca. Bundles of grass were laid out over the frame. She had seen from the outside that animal hides were laid over the grass. The door was also made out of hide. There were buckskin bags in various sizes hanging from the lodge poles, as well as a bow and a quiver of arrows. Besides those weapons, she saw a war club, a lance, and a shield. She saw a few clay pots, water gourds, and utensils to one side of the doorway. A small fire burned in the center of the lodge, its smoke curling upward to be drawn through a small hole in the roof.
Ridge was lying on a pile of furs located to one side of the wickiup. Someone had removed the bloody sash and undressed him. There was no sign of either the sash or his bloody shirt; his trousers and gun belt were in a pile in the back of the lodge. A blanket covered him from his hips down. Even in the dim interior of the wickiup, she could see the blood glistening on his skin, leaking from a ragged hole in his side. She pressed her hand to her mouth, her stomach churning.
The warrior who had carried Ridge inside spoke to the old man, then left the wickiup.
The old warrior ignored her. He moved about the lodge as if she weren’t even there, pouring a bit of this and a little of that into a cup that seemed to be made of some kind of animal horn, buffalo perhaps. Chanting softly, he mixed it all together, then sprinkled it into the fire. Sparks rose from the coals like fireflies. Sweet-scented smoke filled the air. Using a large feather, the old warrior drew the smoke over Ridge, chanting all the while.
Marty took a step forward. A fine sheen of sweat dotted Ridge’s brow and chest.
Glancing over his shoulder, the old warrior motioned for her to come closer.
She hesitated a moment, then went to stand beside him.
“Is he your man?” the old warrior asked.
Marty stared at him, startled that he spoke English. Should she say yes? Or no?
The old warrior nodded, apparently taking her silence for assent. “You must hold him still while I remove the arrowhead,” he said.
Taking a deep breath, she knelt beside Ridge and placed her hands on his shoulders. She turned her head away, her stomach roiling, when she saw the long, narrow-bladed knife in the old warrior’s hand.
Closing her eyes, she prayed it would be over quickly.
Ridge groaned, his body writhing in agony as the old warrior cut the arrowhead out of his flesh.
“It’ll be all right,” she murmured. “Don’t move. Please don’t move.”
He stilled at the sound of her voice, his head turning toward her. “Martha Jean?”
“I’m here.”
He opened his eyes, eyes that were dark with pain. She took a hasty look at the old warrior, swallowing the bile that rose in her throat as he withdrew the arrowhead from Ridge’s side. Blood flowed from the ugly wound.
Still chanting softly, the old warrior washed the wound and patted it dry. After smearing some greasy concoction over it, he wrapped a length of clean cloth around Ridge’s midsection, then helped him to sit up, supported by a willow backrest.
The old warrior rose and went to a pot suspended on a tripod over the coals. He ladled what looked like broth into a bowl and handed it to Marty, along with a spoon made of horn.
“He must eat,” the old warrior said, and then left the wickiup.
Marty sat cross-legged beside Ridge. Dipping the spoon into the bowl, she offered it to him.
He scowled at her. In spite of his sour look, she could see that he was hurting terribly. She could see it in his eyes, in the fine white lines etched around his mouth. His breathing was shallow, as if every breath caused him pain.
She lifted one brow. “You heard what the old man said. You’ve got to eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I know you’re not feeling well,” she said patiently. “Just take a few sips for now. It might make you feel better.”
“Who do you think you are, my mother?”
Marty blew out a sigh of exasperation. What was it about men? They were all such big babies when they were sick. She decided to try one more time. She took a taste and smiled.
“Come on, Ridge, it’s really good.”
“Then you eat it.”
The man would try the patience of a saint! “Listen, Longtree, you’ve got to eat if you want to get your strength back.”
“Dammit, Marty—”
Before he finished speaking, she dumped the spoon’s contents into his mouth.
His scowl deepened. “What are you trying to do, choke me to death?”
“You need to eat,” she said sweetly, and dipped the spoon in the bowl again.
“I’m not an infant. I don’t need you telling me what to do.”
“Then stop acting like a baby and eat this.”
“Dammit, I’ve been feeding myself for years and—”
She thrust the spoon into his mouth again. This time he did choke.
Setting the bowl aside, she patted him on the back.
As soon as he could breathe, he swore a vile oath, one even the cowboys hadn’t dared use in her presence.
Marty shot to her feet and stood glaring down at him. “Eat. Don’t eat. I don’t care what you do,” she exclaimed, and, turning on her heel, she stomped out of the wickiup.
Once outside, she came to an abrupt halt. What now? She didn’t dare go storming off. For one thing, she wasn’t sure the Indians would let her. For another, she was afraid to go too far for fear she would get lost. With an exasperated sigh, she sat down in the shade at the side of the wickiup.
All around her, she could see women working and caring for their children. She saw several little boys running a race, while others tussled on the ground like puppies. She frowned when she saw a handful of boys throwing rocks at each other. A strange game, if indeed it was a game. Off in the distance, she saw some older boys practicing with bows and arrows.
She saw little girls at play, as well. Three of them were making houses out of sticks and stones, and dolls from bits of buckskin. They looked her way from time to time, their dark eyes wide with curiosity.
The children, both boys and girls, wore only enough for modesty’s sake.
Across the way, she saw several men hunkered down playing some sort of game. She studied them covertly. Most of them were nearly naked, wearing little more than a breechcloth to cover their loins and moccasins that reached midthigh. Some of the men wore their moccasins pushed down below their knees. Most wore headbands made of flannel or cotton. One or two wore blue cavalry shirts. One wore a forage cap.
She watched a couple of women as they stirred something in a large, odd-looking pot. The women wore long skirts of deerskin and loose-fitting, cotton blouses. Their moccasins were different from those worn by the men, coming only a little above the ankle.
All too aware of the glances sent her way, both curious and distrustful, she rose, brushed the dirt from her skirt, and went back into the wickiup.
Ridge w
as still sitting up, though his eyes were closed. As far as she could tell, he hadn’t touched the broth.
She tiptoed across the floor, not wanting to wake him if he was asleep. She stood beside him and studied him. Was it the poor lighting, or did he look pale? His breathing was shallow, his brow dotted with perspiration.
Biting down on her lower lip, she placed her hand on his brow.
His eyelids fluttered open. “I’m still not hungry,” he muttered.
“You’ve got a fever.”
He grunted softly. “I feel like hell.”
“I’m not surprised.”
She poked around the lodge until she found a scrap of cloth and a waterskin. She eased him down on the furs, careful to keep the blanket in place.
After wetting the rag, she tore it in half. She folded one piece and laid it across his brow, then sponged off his arms and upper body with the other half. She paused when she came to the edge of the blanket. He caught his breath, waiting to see if she would remove it. She didn’t. Instead, she folded the bottom up, covering his loins with another layer of cloth, then dragged the cool rag over his legs. If he hadn’t been hurting so much, he would have teased her about being so modest.
In quiet amusement, he watched her through heavy-lidded eyes as she wet the rag again, and then again. The cool cloth felt like heaven against his fevered skin. It was his last thought before sleep claimed him.
Chapter Eighteen
Nettie Flynn blinked in surprise when she saw Victor Claunch framed in the doorway. What was he doing here again? she wondered, and then she recalled that he had mentioned that he would come calling on Martha Jean later in the week. “Hello, Victor.”
“Nettie.”
“I’m afraid Martha isn’t here.”
“That’s all right. I’m really here to see you.”
“Oh?” She couldn’t imagine why he would want to see her. With a sigh, she realized he was waiting for her to invite him inside. Taking a deep breath, she opened the screen door. “Where are my manners? Won’t you come in?”
Under Apache Skies Page 13
