Noble Savage

by Judith B. Glad

  "What in the world?" She looked around. "Oh, no!"

  The almost level top of the hill they'd climbed was scattered with rectangular piles of cobbles and small boulders, and mounds of frozen earth, planted with upright and drunkenly tilted boards. Off to Katie's left, a single rudely carved stone angel stood at the head of a small, sunken grave. Nearby was a new excavation, a shovel stuck in the pile of frozen soil beside it.

  The top of the hill was perhaps an acre across, gently rounding down on all sides. A rutted road led down the slope opposite the one they'd climbed, evidence of frequent visits to this lonely hilltop cemetery. Although Katie couldn't see the town over the brow of the hill, the rails entering and leaving Bear River City were shining double lines in the early morning light.

  She and Luke had traveled in a circle, and were less than a mile from where they'd started.

  The cemetery was almost ominous, with its unpainted, ill-made markers, the empty hole awaiting its occupant. In her imagination, she saw a gibbet silhouetted against the still-pink clouds. The sun, barely showing over the higher hill to the east, stroked long, bright fingers across the hilltop with its clumps of dry, bleached grass, with dark shadows growing from every upright grave marker.

  Katie shivered, and not simply with the morning's chill.

  Luke had caught up with Katie when he saw the three riders coming up the opposite side of the hill, their faces shadowed by wide-brimmed hats. "Shit!" He stepped in front of her. With the situation in town, the only men who'd be coming up here weren't likely to be going to a funeral.

  For the first time, he missed the Colt at his hip. His rifle was loaded, but seven bullets were scarcely adequate defense.

  "Who is it?"

  "Damned if I know, but I ain't ready to figure they'll let us be." That blaze-faced sorrel the skinny fellow was riding looked familiar. Luke wished he could see their faces.

  Katie stepped up beside him, fighting the catch on her fiddle case. "It must have banged against a rock. I can't get it--"

  "Never mind." Luke remembered where he'd seen the horse before. "Take cover," he told Katie. "Now!"

  "But Luke--"

  "Goddammit, Katie! Take cover!"

  "Wait! Who are--"

  He spun and grabbed her, forced her over behind a leaning, rough-hewn headstone. "It's the Breedloves. Now get down and stay there."

  Her face told him she'd stay about as long as it took him to turn his back. "Katie, do it. Please. Do it for me."

  Her eyes were dark with rebellion. "You can't face them alone."

  Luke glanced over his shoulder. They were less than fifty yards away. Quickly he knelt beside her, cupped her cheek in his palm. "Katie, love, if anything happened to you..." He swallowed, still not ready to say the words. "Just stay here. For me."

  She bit her lip, but nodded. "O.K. But if you get yourself killed, I'll never forgive you."

  "I won't." He kissed her. Hard. "Be safe."

  "Luke--"

  But he was on his feet and striding to meet the mounted men. Katie huddled behind the headstone, fighting to open her fiddle case. No matter what Luke said, she knew he'd need her shotgun.

  Whatever the case had banged against as she'd climbed the steep rock wall, it had hit hard. The clasp was battered flat and refused to budge. If only she had the small folding knife that was safely inside. She looked around her at the rock-strewn ground, but all she saw were cobbles and rounded pebbles. Nothing sharp or pointed enough to pry the misshapen metal pieces apart.

  Pausing in her struggle with the clasp, she peered around the gravestone. The man in front, on the sorrel horse, was the young, cold-eyed cowman--Somebody Breedlove--who'd helped Whitney capture her. The other two were strangers, dirty and dangerous-looking.

  Luke stood tall and strong between them and her hiding place. "A perfect target," she whispered, her mouth feeling full of cotton. "Oh, Luke--"

  "Stop right there, boys," Luke said, when they were about ten yards away. He held his rifle easy, but ready to aim and fire.

  "I've got no argument with you, Savage," the ghost of Japhet Breedlove said. "I just want Mrs. Whitney."

  "She's not--"

  Kiah Breedlove kneed his horse forward. "Howsomever, we'uns got plenty to say, Malachi, so you go ahead and take the gal and we'll chew us a little fat with Luke. Won't we, Moses?"

  "You'll get your turn, Kiah," the one named Malachi said. "Just hold your fire." One hand held the reins loosely, but the other hovered just above the handle of one revolver. "Mrs. Whitney," he called, "you come out now and I won't let my cousins kill Mr. Savage."

  "Shit, Malachi! You never said--"

  "Kiah!" The word was like a whipcrack. Kiah's mouth snapped shut, but he still glared at Luke.

  "You have to the count of ten, Mrs. Whitney. One."

  Kiah loosened his six-gun in its holster. Luke wondered how many shots he could get off before they killed him. Wondered if he should save a bullet for Katie.

  He wouldn't give a rabid dog to Kiah Breedlove.

  "Two."

  "You promise to let Luke go?" Katie's voice was high, thin with fright.

  "I didn't say that. Three."

  The silence seemed to last forever.

  "Four," said Malachi. Behind him, Moses ran a caressing hand down the barrel of his rifle.

  "Five, Mrs. Whitney."

  "You said you wouldn't let them kill him."

  "Six. That's right. But they have a legitimate grievance with Mr. Savage. He killed their brother." His smile was a mere widening of his lips. "Seven."

  "Why won't you believe me? I keep telling you, I'm not--"

  Katie's words were drowned in a blast of gunfire. Pistol shots cut the cold air, drowned by the heavier sound of Luke's rifle. Katie heard the agonized grunt of a man shot, cautiously peered around the grave marker. Luke stood unprotected about thirty feet from her, rifle at his shoulder. Beyond him were two mounted men and a riderless horse. Low, monotonous cursing drew her gaze to where one Breedlove lay half hidden behind a wooden marker. She hoped he was badly hurt.

  Another rifle shot sounded, and as Katie looked back toward Luke, he staggered. Fell.

  "Luke!" she screamed. She scrambled to her knees, but stayed where she was when she saw the big Breedlove's rifle swing in her direction. He's alive. Thank God!

  "Savage?" Malachi Breedlove's voice was cold, precise.

  "Yo?"

  "Your fight with my cousins isn't mine. All I want is Mrs. Whitney."

  "She keeps tellin' you she ain't his wife!" Luke said, but his voice sounded strained.

  How badly is he hurt?

  "I've seen her marriage lines," Breedlove said. "Savage, don't sacrifice your life for her. She's not worth it."

  "If Katie says she ain't married to Whitney, I'm taking her word." He rolled to his knees and fired, but the bullet only glanced off the sorrel's saddle horn. "And even if she was lyin', I'd not turn her over to a polecat like him." He shot again, and Moses's rifle went flying.

  Katie's heart leapt into her throat as Malachi Breedlove dismounted and walked toward her. His holsters were empty, his open hands at shoulder height. "You won't shoot me, Savage. I'm unarmed."

  A rifle bullet plowed the ground at his feet. He kept walking.

  Luke cursed, lifted the barrel of his rifle slightly. It was scarcely six feet from Malachi Breedlove's belt buckle when Moses shot from the hip. Luke's body jerked and he crumpled to the ground. Blood poured from his head, just above one ear.

  "Luke!" Katie took one step, and was caught by arms as unyielding as iron bands. She twisted and kicked, but her arms were tight against her sides. She bit at Malachi, but her teeth caught only the slick leather of his coat. Rearing up, she tried to knock her head against his face, but only succeeded in clipping him lightly on the jaw.

  Moses dismounted and knelt beside Luke, rolling him over, taking the knife from its sheath at his belt.

  "Did you kill him?" Katie's captor asked.

&nbs
p; "Naw. He's just stunned." Dirty hands patted Luke's pockets, shirt and pants. "Wal, lookee here." He pulled a pouch free. "A nice fat purse." Bouncing it in his hand, "Real fat."

  The other ruffian hobbled out from behind a headstone, clutching his right shoulder. "Malachi, damn you, I'm bleedin' like a stuck pig. We got to git it stopped." He sat heavily on a boulder that marked a fresh grave with a crudely painted legend. "And then we're gonna kill that damn Savage."

  "You'll not die, Kiah. Moses, come over here and tie Mrs. Whitney's hands and feet. And make sure you do it well."

  His words galvanized Katie. She did her best to unman him, but he anticipated her move and all she did was bruise her knee against a rock-hard thigh. She did manage to stomp his foot, eliciting a sharp curse, quickly stifled. And she left tooth marks in his coat. But when all was said and done, her hands were cruelly tight behind her back and her legs were bound with a long leather strip that wrapped them from knees to ankles. When Malachi released her, she tottered and would have fallen, had he not caught her upper arm. "Damn you!" she spat. "How many times do I have to tell you I am not Whitney's wife. Why won't you believe me?"

  He shrugged. "Why should I?" With deceptive ease, he picked her up and, holding her with one arm, mounted his horse. Katie felt his warmth and the supple strength of his slim body as he pulled her across his legs. Again she fought his hold.

  "Be still, Mrs. Whitney, or I'll let my cousins kill him."

  "No! You can't--"

  "Yes, I can. Now sit quietly and you won't get hurt." He pulled her firmly across his thighs, kept his left arm tight around her middle. Turning his horse, he started it toward town.

  Katie leaned far sideways and twisted so she could look back over his shoulder. Moses Breedlove was still doctoring his brother's shoulder. Luke lay where he had fallen. "What will they do with him?"

  "My cousins didn't take kindly to Mr. Savage's killing their brother. Believing as they do in the Biblical concept of retribution, they feel it is their family duty to avenge poor Japhet."

  "But they want to kill him!"

  "I gave you my pledge, Mrs. Whitney, that if you would come willingly with me, they would let him live. I always keep my word. I have their solemn promise that they will do nothing more than, if you will excuse the crude expression, 'Beat the shit out of him.'"

  Katie flailed her tied-together legs against the horse's side. "Let me go!"

  "Sit still, Mrs. Whitney. If you struggle, I'll let you fall. And if I do that, I'll put a loop on you and lead you back to town like a stray horse."

  She believed him. "I'm not his wife," she repeated tiredly. This time her words didn't sound at all brave. Just desperate.

  Frightened as she never had been before, her belief in her own abilities all but destroyed, she sagged back against Breedlove's chest as he guided his horse down the steep hill. Twice she licked her lips, swallowed. Twice she found that she could not form words, could not find a voice to speak with. Finally, she said, in a hoarse, almost-whisper, "Where are you taking me?"

  "To your husband. He's waiting at the hotel."

  "He's not--"

  "Ma'am, he showed me proof, and you haven't. Now I hired on to do a job, and I'm doing it best I can."

  She knew what would happen, once Whitney had his hands on her again. "What if I offered you more money?"

  "I gave my word."

  His voice held such finality that Katie knew she would not be able to budge him from his purpose. She must bide her time, save her strength. Sooner or later a chance to escape would present itself. It has to!

  Behind them, Katie heard coarse laughter. She closed her eyes as she imagined the meaty sound of fists striking flesh. Fighting the powerful urge to struggle, she told herself, over and over: He's alive. That's all that matters. And they promised they wouldn't kill him. They promised their cousin they wouldn't.

  Malachi Breedlove frightened her far more than the other Breedloves, who were merely evil. He was hard. Cold.

  They descended from Boot Hill in silence. Katie would not give Breedlove the satisfaction of knowing how frightened she was. What Whitney intended to do with her was something she didn't want to think about.

  A man had one sure way to force a woman to marry him.

  Oh, Luke, I wanted you to be my first!

  Stop that, Kathryn Lachlan! You've always claimed to be able to take care of yourself. So do it. Think, girl!

  Although it was still very early, Bear River City was up and about. The street was busy with groups of gesticulating men, their voices blending into a clamorous rumble that seemed to reach into her very bones. "What's happening?" she wondered aloud, not really expecting an answer.

  "There's strong feeling against the Freemans, who've been publishing editorials advocating a Vigilance Committee in the newspaper." His voice was mild, conversational, as if the two of them were out for a peaceful Sunday ride. "They maintain it's the only way to deal with the lawlessness, and they haven't been shy about saying so in the Frontier Index." Breedlove guided his horse between clumps of men, straight toward the hotel. "Most folks don't take kindly to their idea. There's talk of burning the newspaper office."

  "Which would leave the town wide open to men like you." She wasn't able to keep the scorn from her voice, even knowing it was never a good idea to poke a stick at a snappish dog.

  "Violence is the last resort of ignorance," he said. "A Vigilance Committee would only inflame an already volatile situation. What is needed is for responsible men to take action to keep the peace."

  Katie heard his words but had trouble believing he meant them. "You censure violence. A kidnapper? A shootist?"

  He pulled his horse to a halt. "I am neither, Mrs. Whitney." Again without apparent effort, he lifted her from the saddle and set her down on the hotel porch.

  She wobbled, but before she could tip over, he was holding her upright.

  "I am merely a man with a job to do." He picked her up gently, carried her through the doorway into the hotel. Hamilton Steens Whitney III sat at a table, the sole occupant of the dining room. He rose when he saw Katie, as if she had swept, gowned and coiffeured, into a ballroom, instead of being carried in like a trussed pig.

  "Ah, good, Breedlove. You may take her to my room. Muldoon stay here. Warn me if the situation worsens." His smile, never attractive, was so...so predatory that Katie recoiled. His voice was like a diamond scratching on glass. "This time, my dear, you will not escape."

  Heaven help her, she believed him. Her resolve to wait for an opening evaporated. She yelled, she kicked, she wiggled as best she could with her arms and legs tied and Breedlove's arms like steel bands around her. Again she tried to bite him, and this time she caught his collar. For all the good it did.

  Breedlove merely stood still until she had run down, like a clockwork toy, and then he said, "Do you prefer I carry you over my shoulder like a sack of oats?"

  She lay quiet in his arms without further resistance as he mounted the stairs. "Why are you doing this?" she asked him as they waited for Whitney to unlock the door. "If what you said...what kind of man kidnaps a woman and calls it 'just a job?'"

  "What kind of woman runs away from her husband and her child?" he said with a sneer, as he pushed her through the doorway.

  "Wait! I didn't--" She bounced hard on the narrow bed, face down. Before she could do more than catch her breath, hard hands caught her and turned her over.

  Her arms twisted beneath her, hands bent backwards against her spine. The leather thongs dug into her skin, shooting pain to the tips of her fingers. She would not loosen these bindings.

  "I believe I can take care of everything now. Thank you for your help."

  "You hired me to catch her, Mr. Whitney. You're sure you'll be able to handle her?"

  "Of course."

  Katie heard the soft clink of gold as Whitney handed Malachi Breedlove a fat leather purse. When he turned and went out the door, closing it gently behind him, Katie almost wanted to call
him back. He would only hurt her if necessary. Whitney was unpredictable. Dangerous.

  She bit her lip, Waiting. Wondering.

  Whitney caught the neck of her dress and jerked her upright, snapping her head backwards. He shoved his long, horsey face right into hers and said, "Now my dear, I've had just about enough of your nonsense. Give me any trouble, and I will hurt you. Badly." He shook her, then flung her down again.

  Quickly he caught her feet and tied them the foot of the iron bedstead. "If you try to get away this time, you will have to drag the bed with you."

  Once again she remembered her pa's advice. Katie drew a deep breath and screamed fit to shake the rafters.

  The next thing she saw was stars, as his slim, aristocratic hand slapped her head sideways.

  "Your screams will do you no good. Everyone believes you are my runaway wife. No one will take pity on you."

  The second slap made her whole head ring. Eyes closed, Katie tasted blood behind her lips.

  * * * *

  A gentle nudge roused him, but Luke refused to come awake. If he did, he'd have to acknowledge the pain that wracked his whole body.

  A woman's lips drifted over his face. A woman's hot breath warmed his icy cheeks. Luke groaned. "Not now, swe'heart. I'm tired." He tried to roll to his belly, but something hard was wedged against his side.

  The lips parted and teeth nipped at his nose.

  Luke tried to open his eyes, but for some reason they were stuck shut. "Go 'way. Le'me sleep."

  He'd never been this drunk before. God! What had they doctored that whiskey with, anyhow?

  A hand tugged at his coat, pulling it from his shoulder. Even that small motion made the world spin about him. "Dammit! Le'me 'lone." He raised a hand to push the woman away, and found that his arm would not obey him.

  The lips returned, as well as more hands. They tugged at his pants legs, at his feet. He got a whiff of the hot breath and it smelled of hay.

  Hay?

  With every ounce of will at his command, Luke forced one hand to obey him. His fingers, swollen and stiff, seemed incapable of bending, so he turned his hand and wiped at his eyes with the back.