He motioned to the others to gather up the weapons and the two horses and bring them along. Wannie knew what they would do to her when they got her to their camp. Oh, Keso, where are you, she prayed silently. If he were here, no one would touch her—he’d fight to the death to protect her.
They galloped out to meet the others and she saw Cleve on the ground, begging for his life. He was too big a coward even to face death like a man, she thought. A big, ugly brave hit Cleve in the head with the butt of his lance and motioned for another to throw the unconscious white man across Blue’s back. “I Coyote,” he grinned at her, “your man offer you to us to save his life.”
Cleve wouldn’t do anything that selfish and cowardly, she thought, but said nothing. This was not the time to show spunk. She’d better try to make some plans in case she got a chance to escape later.
“We go to camp now,” Coyote said and grinned at her.
Her big captor held her close against his half-naked body, her breasts spilling out of her torn dress and brushing his chest as he held her against him in a possessive embrace. Then he nudged his palomino into a lope and the war party took off at a gallop across the rolling hills.
TWENTY
Keso wrapped Wannie in a buffalo robe, her face against his bare chest so that she could not see his face, gently cradling her against him. He wasn’t certain whether Cleve had recognized him or not, but surely Wannie did. With Coyote and the others riding close, he dared not speak to her. What could he do to save her?
He seethed with venom that the rotten Cleve had offered her to the warriors in exchange for his own safety. Keso had done his best to lead the Utes away from the pair, but that stupid Cleve had evidently gotten lost and made a circle so that the luckless pair was almost right back where they had started.
The thought came to Keso as they galloped away that he could have Wannie for his own now. She was his captive and all he had to do was stay among the Utes and make her his woman, whether she wanted to or not. As a white man, he could never have her; as a Ute, she was his possession.
Cleve? He didn’t want that dandy’s blood on his hands. Maybe he could convince Coyote and the others to turn the white man loose.
Wannie was too terrified to look up into the painted face in the growing dusk in that split second before the warrior wrapped her in the buffalo robe. Besides, her captor kept her face pressed against his naked chest. A silver ring hung around his sinewy neck on a thong, a woman’s ring. She felt both fear and anger that a helpless woman had been killed so this savage could possess it. Had the war party raped the woman before this virile Ute stole that ring? Was that to be Wannie’s fate?
She wanted to pound her captor on the chest, claw him bloody, break free and escape. She knew she dared not. She could feel the power and raw masculinity of this big male, and she knew she had no chance of escaping from his arms. If only Keso were here. No doubt he was dead; otherwise, he would never have left her on the prairie. Tears started and made crooked, silty trickles down her face. Her heart felt as if it had been torn from her body at the thought of Keso’s death. As much as they often squabbled and engaged in rough horseplay, she could not imagine a world without him.
The ugly leader led Spirit behind his own horse. Cleve had been tied and thrown onto old Blue. In the darkness, Cleve looked terrified and exhausted and he didn’t ride very well with his hands tied. The horses thundered away toward a string of low hills and she could see nothing else. She and Cleve both might have starved or died of thirst if this Ute war party hadn’t discovered them. As it was, they would probably be tortured to death.
She shivered at the thought and her captor pulled her even closer against his muscular body and patted her with a touch that was almost tender. Tender? No, of course not. It was a touch of hot desire and ownership, Wannie decided. In her mind, she pictured what the war party must have planned for her. Before death, no doubt her virginity was a prize that would be shared by all the warriors.
Oh, Keso, I need you so much, she thought and then bit her lip, remembering that he was no longer around to protect her as he had always done. Sophisticated, urbane Cleve couldn’t even take care of himself. All her fine jewelry glittered in the moonlight as she looked at it, realizing that among hostiles, it was worthless.
They must have ridden a long time, but the way she was being cradled by strong arms soothed her and she dropped off to sleep in spite of herself. Wannie awakened as the horses slowed to a walk, wondering for a split second where she was. She stirred, but the powerful arms still cradled her against his bare chest possessively. Oh God, what would happen now? She didn’t need to ask; she knew. That silver ring hanging around this savage’s neck told her what she could expect.
Wannie peeked about. They were riding into an Indian encampment with tipis circled. In the center, a large fire burned. Horses and barking dogs, crying children and old people watched with dark, curious eyes as the war party reined in. Women came out of tipis to watch and greet the returning men. Why, these people were thin and ragged, she thought; what had happened to the annuity goods they were supposed to get? She didn’t need to ask; their thin, desperate faces told the story.
Nearby, Cleve’s face was pasty white as the big, ugly warrior pulled him off old Blue and threw him down in the dirt like a sack of flour. Immediately, the crowd pressed forward to have a look. Cleve groveled and begged for mercy as the silent Utes gathered around.
“I’m rich! I’ll give you money!” he babbled. None of the Indians said anything, only staring silently. Perhaps they did not understand what he was saying.
The big ugly one, Coyote, said something and the others all turned and looked toward her captor, still sitting his horse, his arm around her possessively. Wannie felt her heart turn over with fear. She let the buffalo robe fall open and took a deep breath for courage. They were all staring at her and with most of the men, particularly the big ugly one, lust burned hot in their eyes. She glanced down at her jewelry and suddenly it didn’t seem to be worth much—not nearly as much is their lives.
“I—I will give all this to free us!” She took off the diamond ring and the gold bracelets and held them out. “Do you understand? These are worth a fortune!”
The ugly one threw back his head and laughed. “Some of them do not understand your words, but no matter. Why do you bargain, white girl, when already we have both you and the jewels?”
“I can give you more, much more!” She was pleading, but the faces remained stoic.
Her captor dismounted, pulled her off the horse, and kept her in his arms. “The woman is mine.”
“Keso?” She hardly dared to hope, but the painted face stared down at her in the faint fire light with no sign of recognition. No, she must be losing her senses because of fear, grabbing at any slight similarity.
The ugly leader frowned, then leered. “You do not understand, son of Ouray. You will share this prize with those of us who rode the war trail.”
“I will not share her.” The voice was too cold and deadly to be Keso’s.
“Please!” Cleve babbled, running about the circle, offering up his bound hands in a desperate plea. “Keep the woman, enjoy her, but let me go!”
“Cleve!” she shrieked in disbelief, horrified that he would offer her to save his own neck.
The ugly Ute threw back his head and laughed. “You see, white girl? He would let all of us enjoy you to save his own cowardly skin. He is not worthy to mount any woman. Bind the white man.”
Two men rushed to do his bidding, quickly tying Cleve to a framework of crossed timbers where he writhed and begged in fear. Wannie cowered against her captor as the ugly Ute turned back to grin at her without mirth. “Let us share her among us, son of Ouray. Then you may keep her for your pleasure. Let the whites ransom her or we can sell her to the Comancheros. A pretty girl like that one will bring much gold to buy more guns and knives.”
She closed her eyes in horror at the thought of having to submit to the lust of Comanc
heros, ruthless renegades who frequented the Mexican border. She would be forced to pleasure any cutthroat who had the gold to buy her.
“No,” said her captor again and he pulled her even closer, his voice low and deadly. “I will not share her and I will not sell her.”
He sounded so much like Keso. She looked up into his dark, stone face, searching for a bit of recognition in the painted features, but saw none in the faint and flickering firelight.
The other strode into the circle, hands on hips. “We have a custom in this camp,” he snarled at her captor, “if more than one man wants a woman, they may fight for her.”
Her captor let go of Wannie and she fell at his feet in a tumble of torn calico and lace petticoats. She looked up at him as he pulled a big knife from his waistband. “I will take on any man who wants her and challenges me.”
She was too terrified to do anything except huddle against his moccasins and look around at the crowd. This couldn’t be happening. She, who had spent the last four years in Miss Priddy’s Female Academy, was about to be fought over like a wild filly by mustang stallions for the right to breed her.
A long moment passed, the only sound the crackle of the fire and the whimpering of the terrified Cleve. Wasn’t he even going to offer to fight for her? Would they let him if he did? She could tell by his expression that at this moment, Cleve thought only of his own safety.
In that moment, most of the men seemed to regard the glittering knife and the strength of the man who wielded it. With a sigh and a shrug of shoulders, they stepped back, away from the challenge. None of them desired her body enough to fight her captor, she realized. Did that mean that this tall, virile savage was now free to carry her into his lodge and ravish her, she who was the chosen bride of the rich Brewster heir who wasn’t even offering a protest to this brave’s declaration of ownership?
The ugly one stepped forward, grinning down at her as she cowered against the legs of her captor. He spoke in halting English. “I seem to be the only one who wants to mate your pretty body enough to fight. Tonight, white girl, you will warm the blankets of Coyote and I will put my son in your belly.”
“No! She will bear no sons but mine!” She looked up into the dark, stormy face above her. “I will spill your blood, Coyote, and then I will breed the girl myself!”
An old man said words in their language. He must have translated her captor’s challenge, because a chorus of yelps and dancing went up around them, the news of the coming combat meeting with evident approval of the village.
Coyote’s face twisted with hatred. “It is too bad you didn’t die that long ago time. Very well, I will fight you, but it is not the custom to shed another Ute’s blood.”
“So be it!” Her captor tossed the knife away into the circle.
Immediately, two women came forward, grabbed Wannie, and pulled her to her feet. They made signs to her that she must come with them, then led her into a tipi on the edge of the circle and tied her to a framework of poles inside. Evidently, they wanted to make sure she didn’t escape while the people were distracted by the fight. Wannie had never been so terrified as she was now, watching through the doorway of the lodge. Her captor had his back to her and she marveled at the welts and marks of a whip, the strength and rippling muscles of his back. The challenger crouched on the opposite side of the big fire.
Her jewels lay in the middle of the circle, glittering in the firelight. A king’s ransom in gold and precious stones, she thought wearily, and no one even cared enough to pick them up.
On the edge of the circle, Cleve hung tied against a framework of poles, watching the proceedings with no expression save fear. He was only concerned with his own safety, Wannie thought. He didn’t care that one of these two big Utes would win her virginity and pleasure himself with her ripe body tonight. At this point, she would be happy to escape with her life—her virginity no longer seemed so precious.
Wannie pulled against the rawhide strips that bound her to the poles, but she could not break them. The faint hope she’d had of freeing herself and sneaking out the rear of the tipi while the Utes watched the fight faded and died. No, there was no chance of escape. She would be waiting here for the victor. Perhaps she could reason with the winner, convince him that the gold the Evanses or the Brewsters would offer for her safe return would be worth his while to forgo the momentary pleasure of her body. Certainly if she and Cleve did get out of this alive, Cleve wouldn’t want to marry her if she’d been used for the pleasure of some savage. Oh God, what was she going to do?
Out in the firelit circle, Keso kicked the expensive jewels to one side. To these simple savages, the girl’s body was more valuable than any gold. His own bowie knife also lay in the dirt, the firelight gleaming on it.
If only he could get word to Ouray, the elder Ute would ride back and stop these attacks against white men, but Ouray was not here. The Utes had been pushed beyond reason and no longer made calm, rational choices. Their desperation made them too eager to follow hotheads like Coyote.
Coyote grinned at him across the circle. “I have spent a lifetime wrestling, but you have not.”
“I make up in skill what I lack in practice,” Keso said, but inside, he felt less certain. The other man was taller and a little heavier. Moreover, he was certain Coyote would not hesitate to resort to trickery.
Word must have spread through the camp that the battle over the captive woman was about to begin. People were coming from all directions to watch the pair in the center by the roaring fire.
Cleve moaned and Keso glanced over at the cowardly white man, angry that he had been willing to give Wannie to any man who wanted her to save his own skin. Keso would die to protect Wannie, but Cleve would not; therefore, he did not deserve her. Keso must win this fight. He desired Wannie more than anything on earth, and he was no longer certain he wanted to return to the life of a white man. The wild life of a warrior was in his blood and bone. Perhaps he could find happiness and fulfillment living in the freedom of the Rockies and riding with his own blood, the Utes.
Coyote smirked at him. “Are you ready?”
Keso crouched and nodded. Fear tasted like a copper penny on his tongue. He must not lose even though he was at a disadvantage. The thought of Coyote taking Wannie and forcing himself on her and breeding her while she screamed and fought was more than Keso could bear.
Coyote crossed the circle in three quick steps and Keso knew suddenly where the man had gotten his name; he was cunning. Yet there was a reason the Cheyenne had called him Keso, the Fox. Keso braced to meet his foe even as the bigger man collided with him and they closed and grappled. Keso’s muscles bunched and bulged with effort as they struggled for the advantage.
He felt sweat break out on his body even as Coyote put his mouth close to Keso’s ear. “Tonight, I will take her virginity and you will stand outside and listen to her scream.”
“Never!” That terrible image gave Keso strength and he squatted suddenly—the other man’s pushing sent him over Keso’s mighty shoulder and into the dirt behind. The circled Utes set up a chorus of shouts of approval.
Quick as a rattlesnake, Coyote reached out and caught Keso’s ankle before he could move, jerking him off balance. The pair went down, rolling and fighting in the dust. They were both already drenched with sweat, causing the dust to cling to their straining bodies.
Using his superior weight, Coyote rolled Keso over until they were both on the edge of the campfire. The light reflected in his cruel eyes. “I tried to kill you when you were a boy,” he snarled through clenched teeth, “now I’ll finish burning you!”
Even as he said that, he caught Keso’s arm, trying to force it backward into the flames. Keso gritted his teeth at the heat singeing the hairs of his arm. He must not let his arm go back any farther; he could already feel the heat and had to fight to keep from screaming. He put a superhuman effort into keeping Coyote from forcing his arm down. For a long moment, they posed thus, Keso’s muscular arm trembling with m
ighty effort. He could smell his own flesh starting to burn and the agony was unbelievable. At that same time, Coyote was grinning down at him, eyes alight. “Yes, I will have her, you Cheyenne-raised dog! Perhaps I will put a brand on her hip like the white man puts on a filly. Now surrender and I will let you up!”
Never! No one would ever hurt Wannie as long as there was still breath in Keso’s body. The back of his arm was scorching; he could feel the fire. It would be so easy to admit his loss, anything to stop this agony. He closed his eyes, gritting his teeth to hold back a scream of pain. In his mind, he saw Wannie’s soft, defenseless face, and he knew he would never surrender, not even if Coyote killed him. With a mighty effort, Keso rolled to one side, throwing Coyote off balance and scrambling out from under him.
Coyote came to his feet, bellowing with rage like a rabid wolf. The crowd shouted with excitement, nodding their approval at these two stallions willing to fight to own the woman. While he swayed on his feet, Keso favored his singed arm, thinking he hadn’t felt such pain since he was a child and the jealous older boy, Coyote, pushed him into the fire.
He couldn’t out-wrestle this Ute—Coyote was too good, but Keso had brains and cold logic on his side. He would keep a cool head and outsmart this cruel savage. Before Coyote realized his intent, Keso stuck his foot out, caught the back of the other’s ankle, and brought him down like a dead buffalo bull.
But Coyote was far from dead. He reached up and caught Keso by the throat, grinning with pleasure as he choked off his opponent’s air. Keso began to see bright lights and his head whirled dizzily.
“You’ll wish you had given me the woman before I’m through with you!” Coyote hissed.
“You—you’ll have to kill me to take her.”
“That I am about to do.” Coyote squeezed even harder.
Warrior's Prize (Panorama of the Old West Book 15) Page 27
