“Yeah, I’ll have another drink,” he laughed, dragging her toward the blanket. “You know where I’m gonna drink it from? The hollow of your pretty belly!”
She looked around frantically for a weapon, some way of escape. She saw none.
He had both hands on her shoulders, pulling at her shift as he bent his head to kiss her.
She might submit and live or fight them and be killed. Either way, she didn’t stand a chance against three big, drunken men. But she would take some of their blood with her. A big steel fork lay by the flickering fire. It was almost as good as a knife if she could reach it. Even as she broke away, diving for it, Buck grabbed her arm and twisted it cruelly. “You little bitch!”
She was determined not to give him the satisfaction of a scream as the pain ran through her body, but she had to bite her lip to hold it back. Even as she fell, half fainting, she heard sudden shrieks in the darkness and painted faces and half-naked bodies rose up around the circle in the night, shouting and screaming as they rushed in.
Maybe in her terror, she was only imagining she was saved. She managed to raise her head, saw Hinzi in the middle of the firelit circle and the anger of his painted face was terrifying.
“Stay down, Kimi!” he shouted as he turned toward the wide-eyed Buck. “Stay down till it’s over!”
All around her, warriors were leaping into the circle, attacking the three traders.
Kimi struggled to raise up on one elbow, but she was dizzy and in pain. A blur of action and bodies seemed to swirl around her. Hinzi and the bearded one were locked in mortal combat near the small fire. She saw the sudden gleam in Buck’s eyes and realized what he was about to do even as he rolled Hinzi over and over toward the fire. “Look out, Hinzi!”
But Buck’s momentum carried them to the edge of the fire. By sheer strength, he tried to force the white warrior’s almost naked body into the scarlet and yellow flames. Even as he did so, Hinzi, reflexes quick as a cougar’s, threw Buck off balance and into the fire. Buck screamed as his beard flamed. Dropping his knife, he clawed at his face. Even as Buck dropped his knife, Hinzi raised his own blade and brought it down in one swift stroke, light from the fiery blaze reflecting off the steel. It caught Buck in the heart and went all the way to the hilt. He was dead even before his body hit the ground.
Cursing under his breath, Hinzi knelt and in two swift strokes took Buck’s scalp and then his manhood. He held both up triumphantly, shrieking a victory chant that sent shivers up Kimi’s back. Civilized he might be, but at this moment, he was a primitive savage, extracting vengeance against another for daring to take his mate.
She looked around. Lucky had disappeared, but One Eye threw his lance, pinned Tech against the ground, wiggling like a speared rabbit. The other warriors ransacked the camp, helping themselves to weapons and supplies.
“Kimi, are you all right?” Hinzi tossed his grisly trophies away, turned toward her, his magnificent body gleaming with perspiration and blood.
She suddenly realized she had been holding her breath. Exhaling abruptly, Kimi stumbled to her feet, ran toward him; hesitated at the sight of blood. “Oh, Hinzi, you’re hurt!”
He swung her up in his powerful arms, held her against him like a small doll. “It’s his blood. I’ve only a scratch or two. Did they–?”
“No.” She collapsed against his wide chest, safe now in his embrace and shaking with relief. “I’m all right. They were just getting ready to–”
“I saw. By Wakan Tanka, I’m sorry I killed him so quickly. I meant to make him beg for death!”
“Oh, Hinzi, I’ve been so scared!” She pressed her face against him, shaking as he smoothed her hair.
“Didn’t you know I’d come?” He looked down into her face. “What belongs to me, no man takes.”
Was that all she was to him, a possession like his horse or his gun? Like a mare in a stallion’s harem, she thought, along with the Pawnee girl.
One Eye strode over in the firelight, waving Tech’s bloody scalp. “He didn’t last very long. I meant to make him die slowly.”
Hinzi, still holding Kimi, looked around. “What happened to the third one?”
Gopher paused in going through a saddle bag, scratched his head. “I stabbed him myself and left him lying there.” He pointed to a blood smear on the edge of the darkness. “I was sure he was dead.”
Hinzi cursed under his breath. “Scatter out, see if you can find him and finish him off. We need to clear out of here and be far away by dawn; don’t want to run into an army patrol.”
Kimi slipped her arms around his neck, sighing with relief that her ordeal was over. “Hinzi, about the Pawnee girl; if you intend to keep her for a second wife–”
“You are mine and what a warrior does is not the concern of women.” Then he smiled gently, kissed her bruised cheek. “My jealous little butterfly. I never meant to keep the girl, I turned her loose last night. By now she should be back safe among her own people.”
“I’ve been such a fool!” She hid her face against him and wept. “I’ll be yours forever.”
He held her close and stroked her. “Nothing is forever, Kimi,” he murmured against her hair, “we will cherish whatever time Wakan Tanka gives us because who knows when it will end?”
Was he telling her something? Preparing her for what was bound to happen sooner or later when he went away? She didn’t even want to think about that now. It was enough to be safe in his arms, held tightly against his heart as he strode over to Scout and swung up onto the horse’s back. “Did anyone find the missing trader?”
A murmur of denials came from the men still walking around out in the darkness.
“Then hear me, warriors! Gather your spoils and ride out. We must not be seen close to a fort by dawn’s light.”
Gopher protested. “What about the missing man? He should not be allowed to escape.”
“Didn’t you say he was wounded?”
“Yes. I found blood.”
Hinzi shrugged. “Then he won’t last long out here in the heat of this trackless, barren prairie. He’ll die a more agonizing death than the other two; that is enough for me. We go now!”
As Hinzi turned his big stallion back toward the Sioux camp, Kimi nestled herself against his powerful chest, safe in his embrace. She thought about the missing man. There was a slight chance that an army patrol might find him if he were fortunate. Lucky. Maybe he would be. If the elements didn’t get him, maybe his fortune-teller would be right in her prediction. Maybe Lucky would finally meet his fate by a roaring fire with a chirping cricket, a pretty girl named Mae and a bottle of whiskey after all.
Fourteen
Lucky lay hidden in the brush, watching the Sioux war party kill his partners and loot the camp. Oh, God! They’d be looking for him next!
He burrowed into the dry buffalo grass as deep as possible, holding his breath, watching and waiting. He had a bad cut on his arm and across his foot where that squat-looking Injun had caught him with a tomahawk. He knew he’d left a blood trail. However, his wounds had stopped bleeding as he crawled off into the brush and for a few minutes the savages were too busy killing and scalping his partners and looting the supplies to even notice he was gone.
At least he was alive, even though his wounds throbbed with pain. He bit his lip to hold back a moan as he watched the Indians in the firelight. Was there the slightest chance he was going to live up to his name?
It was moonless and warm, Lucky noted, as dark as the inside of a buffalo’s gut tonight. That would discourage and hinder the braves if they began to search for him. He lay very still, his wounds aching. He tasted his own blood from his bitten lip, wished he had a bottle of whiskey from his packs. Only a few feet away, the rampaging savages were guzzling some of the whiskey and breaking the other bottles.
Both Buck and Tech had died fighting, knowing what the vengeful braves would do to them if they took them alive.
What was that the white warrior was holding aloft in the fire
light and singing a victory chant over? Oh, God, it was Buck’s ...
Lucky managed to keep from gagging as he looked away. Buck wasn’t gonna need it any more anyhow. He’d topped his last female. All because of a half-breed gal who belonged to a yellow-haired white man who spoke Lakota and acted like a Sioux warrior.
He lay watching that one-eyed brave scalp Tech and heard enough of the Sioux words to know they were wondering what had happened to the third man.
If they took him alive, they’d make him beg for death. Maybe he wasn’t so lucky after all, he thought, flattening himself out on the ground as they began to search the area for him. If he had a knife, he’d kill himself rather than be taken alive. Even a broken whiskey bottle would do; a scrap of metal, anything. The Sioux were searching the area while others wrecked the camp, took or destroyed supplies.
The shorter, heavier brave walked slowly out toward him through the grass. Lucky lay very still. It almost seemed to him that the man might hear the scared pounding of his heart. He felt sweat break out on his face, run down in his eyes. All over a woman, a damned woman, Lucky thought, as the brave walked close enough to touch his moccasin. Lucky should have kept the Pawnee girl and left the green-eyed one alone. Women were his weakness, had always been. He resolved as he lay there, that if he survived this, he’d change his ways. He’d spend his energy at gambling and drinking.
He must have fainted for a long moment from the agony, because when he came to, the Sioux had evidently given up the search. They were burning the camp, taking what they wanted. Lucky watched the white warrior embrace the small half-breed beauty and swing her up into his powerful arms. The way she clung to him left no doubt about her feelings for the man.
A yellow haired, blue-eyed Sioux, that’s what he was; spoke pretty good Lakota. Probably a boy carried off by them a long time ago after some raid on a ranch or wagon train. Lucky had heard stories like that.
Lucky watched the pale savage carry her to his buckskin horse. The others, under the orders of that one-eyed brave in the shirt decorated with enemy hair, finished ransacking the camp, taking what they needed and burning the rest. Would they see him in the firelight? Lucky lay as still as he could, pressed against the rough dirt, the stiff buffalo grass. They acted as if they were in a big hurry to get moving, no doubt afraid an army patrol might be in the area.
The fort. That thought gave Lucky hope. He didn’t know how far it was; maybe five or ten miles. There was always a chance an army patrol might be around close. Probably that had occurred to the Indians too. They acted as if they were in an all-fired hurry to leave. He drew a breath of relief. Lucky had been afraid they might stay until dawn to search him out in the daylight. The savages finished mutilating his partners’ bodies and gathered up most of the supplies, even taking the pack mules. Then they mounted up and rode out, headed back the direction they had come. The girl clung to the white warrior as he swung her up on his horse, nudged it, and started out of the camp. The others followed.
Lucky lay still, the moments ticking with each beat of his heart. The loss of blood had made him thirsty. He ran his tongue over his dry, crackled lips, thinking about whiskey.
The dying fire reflected off some object in the ravaged camp. A glass bottle. One bottle of whiskey that had escaped the Indians’ notice lay near the small fire. But when he crawled to it, his hopes were dashed. The cork was gone, the liquor soaked into the dirt.
The fort. That’s where he needed to go. It might be a long way, but that was his only chance. Hell! His name wasn’t Lucky for nothing. The scudding clouds drifted some, and dim stars came out.
Lucky began to crawl on his belly across the endless prairie. With that injured foot, he wasn’t sure he could walk and anyway, he was leery of being outlined against the black sky should the moon suddenly show itself. Those Sioux had eyes like eagles.
He crawled maybe a half mile or even a mile on his belly, the rocks cutting into his hands, the dry buffalo grass scratching his face. He heard small things scurrying in the darkness as he disturbed them, and he didn’t even want to think about what they might be–rattlesnakes, big spiders, maybe scorpions.
Before he could stand, he needed a crutch. All he found searching around in the darkness was a gleaming white bone. When he found the skull, he realized it was what was left of a man: white or Indian, he couldn’t tell. A man’s leg bone. He could use it as a cane. Lucky wasn’t superstitious. He finally mustered the strength and courage to pull himself to his feet and stagger on across the endless prairie, using the bone to help him. His flesh was a mass of pain, but that was nothing compared to his terror. Suppose the warriors decided to come back? Suppose he ran into one of their other bands or some of their allies, the Cheyenne or Arapaho?
“Remember your name is Lucky,” he reminded himself as he swayed on his feet. “You aren’t going to be killed by Indians or you’d have died that way long ago. Remember the fortune teller. Somewhere, there’s a gal named Mae and a cheery fireplace with a cricket chirping away.” He saw himself as an old man in a rocking chair by that fire. He’d be old, but Mae would be young and full-figured, sitting on his lap naked. The thought cheered him.
Thus encouraged, he stumbled on toward the fort. The night had gradually turned cool as the hours passed and he shivered from the cold, wishing he’d dug through the wreckage for a blanket or a jacket. Probably the avenging warriors hadn’t left anything like that behind. All they had left was two dead men and one who was certain to die out on the trackless prairie.
He didn’t waste any regrets or sympathy on his two partners. He was only pleased they were the dead ones and not himself.
Once he tripped and fell. He lay there a long minute, shivering and breathing hard. It would be so easy just to close his eyes and lie here forever. But no, he hadn’t escaped the Sioux only to die of exhaustion and exposure out here in the wilderness. There were still a lot of hot women he hadn’t mounted.
He had to grit his teeth against the pain to force himself to his feet and stagger on through the chill darkness. Thirst began to plague him and he wished he had a canteen. Right now, he’d almost rather have water than whiskey. He had neither As the hours passed and the night deepened, the cold became almost unbearable and his teeth chattered. Even though he’d be easy to spot walking across the prairie in the daylight, he began to wish for dawn. At least with the sun out, he wouldn’t be so damned cold.
Don’t think about it, he told himself and kept walking. Think about something else. Think about being warm. Think about something you really like. Women. In his mind, he saw the little Pawnee girl the night he had taken her virginity. Brown Sugar. Such a little, trusting fool. What white man in his right mind would want an Injun girl permanently? Yet she had been stupid enough to believe him. He remembered how warm and smooth her naked body had felt against him, how her breasts had tasted and the scent of her hot skin. Yep, that was the way to keep warm, all right.
Finally the sun came up after a forever of cold blackness. Lucky stumbled on, not knowing or caring anymore how much time had passed or how far he had come. He wasn’t moving very fast and he had to keep stopping to rest. All that mattered was that he could finally see where he was going so he wouldn’t keep tripping and falling, and that he was finally going to be warm again.
Within hours he was cursing the sun and praying for darkness. The sun beat on him, making sweat run down his body, stinging where it ran into a scratch or wound. His tongue had begun to swell so that it was difficult to swallow.
Water. That was what he thought about now: not whiskey, not women. Before this was over, he might wish he were dead. Lucky paused, swaying on his feet, and looked around. He felt like the only living thing on this trackless, treeless prairie. The sun hung like a fried egg in a faded blue denim sky; the heat so intense that little waves seemed to rise up off the ground and blur his vision. In his suffering, he pulled off his shirt and threw it away.
Lucky kept walking. His lips were so dry and cracked t
hey bled, and he found himself sucking the moisture of his own blood. The salt of it only made him thirstier. Too late, he regretted having thrown away his shirt. He felt the sun cooking his bare back and he had no defense against its relentless rays. He thought of nothing now but water. He imagined plunging his face into a cold spring and drinking deep, the drops running down his face and onto the shaggy hair of his chest. He imagined that half-breed Sioux girl naked, her body covered with droplets of cold water that he licked off slowly while she writhed at the touch of his tongue.
Snow. As his back cooked from the sun and his feet began to swell in his boots, Lucky thought about Michigan snow where he grew up. He was running naked through the swirling storm with a faceless whore named Mae. Together they rolled in the icy white flakes and it felt good, oh, so good. Mae broke off an icicle that hung from a tree branch and licked it slowly, provocatively. He kissed her and her mouth was cold on his, and he relished the cold on his tongue. Mae laughed and lay down in his lap and her mouth found something else to run her tongue over, slowly, teasing.
They made torrid love, the snow melting under her beautiful, naked body as he rode her. Yeah, first cold water, then a woman, then a big steak and a bottle of whiskey. Yeah, that’s what he’d have when he finally made it to the fort. Lucky kept the image dangling in front of his mind like a carrot before a pack mule to force his swollen, bloody feet to keep moving forward.
By late afternoon, he couldn’t always remember who he was or why he was out here. He only knew that to stop moving forward was to die and he wasn’t meant to die out here alone. The fort, oh, yes, the fort. He looked at the sun, slanting like a fireball not far above the horizon. If he didn’t get help soon, he wasn’t sure he could last through another night without water. His feet were so badly swollen, he took off his boots. Then couldn’t get them back on so he abandoned them and kept walking. Within a hundred yards his feet began to bleed and he regretted leaving his boots, but couldn’t seem to produce the necessary energy to go back to get them. No, he must keep moving forward. His tongue had long ago swollen to the point that he could no longer swallow.
Sioux Slave Page 21
