Clyde nodded. “Not a bad idea,” he drawled, stroking his jaw. “In fact, it’s a hell of an idea. A performing Injun will draw the people like flies!”
But Two Hawks Flying refused.
“What do you mean, you won’t do it?” Stewart exclaimed incredulously. “I’m not asking you. I’m telling you!”
“And I am telling you to forget it,” Two Hawks Flying snapped. “Because I will not do it.”
“And just why the hell not?” Stewart demanded angrily.
Two Hawks Flying remained mute. Rain dances and war dances were sacred to the Indians, not to be taken lightly or made sport of. But you couldn’t explain that to a white man, especially a white man of Stewart’s ilk. And why should he have to explain anything to Clyde Stewart anyway? Let Stewart rant and rave all he liked; he, Two Hawks Flying, would not perform any of the ceremonial dances or chants of his people before the mocking, disbelieving eyes of the whites. And if Stewart threatened to kill him, which was likely, so be it. Better to die than bring shame and dishonor to his people.
“I asked you a question!” Clyde snarled. “Answer me!”
Two Hawks Flying shrugged negligently. “I am tired of being made a fool,” he replied tonelessly. “If you want a Cheyenne war dance, do it yourself.”
The quietly spoken words sparked Stewart’s volatile temper. Anger flared in the blue eyes, making them glitter like chips of glass, as he bellowed, “Rudy! Barney! Hold him.”
Here it comes, Shadow thought dispassionately. And while Stewart rolled up his sleeves, McCall and the Swede grabbed Shadow’s arms, pinning him neatly between them. Scowling, Clyde planted himself squarely in front of Two Flying Hawks, flexing his hands and cracking his knuckles, his whole attitude one of impending doom.
“You gonna dance, Injun?” he asked softly.
Stubbornly, Shadow shook his head, adding fuel to the rage already blazing in Stewart’s eyes. With a snarl, Clyde unleashed a barrage of short, hard punches to Shadow’s midsection.
“How about it, Injun? Wanna change your mind?”
“No.”
Livid now, Stewart attacked again, driving his knotted fists deep in the Indian’s belly and throat. The last blow smashed into Shadow’s face, bloodying his nose and mouth.
“You had best change your mind,” Stewart warned, “or I’ll beat the shit outta ya with my bare hands.”
It was like Bear Valley all over again, Shadow mused ruefully. Only this time there was only one man attacking him instead of a handful of angry settlers.
“You do not scare me,” Shadow retorted recklessly. “I have been worked over by experts.”
Clyde Stewart uttered a vile oath. “I’m the boss here, you damned redskin!” he roared. “And you had damned well better know it!”
And so saying, he snatched Rudy’s knife from his belt and drove it into Shadow’s left shoulder.
“Clyde…”
“Shut up, Barney. This is your last chance, Injun,” Stewart growled. “Are you gonna dance or die?”
Shadow’s eyes narrowed under Stewart’s threatening gaze. He had no doubt that Clyde meant what he said, but he no longer cared. He was tired of captivity, tired of the long, empty nights and endless days, tired of being laughed at and stared at. Damn it, if he couldn’t be free, he’d as soon be dead.
“Get yourself another Indian,” he said wearily. “I quit!”
It was the last straw. Clyde Stewart’s face went purple with rage, and before Barney or the Swede could stop him, he plunged the knife into Shadow’s side. The Indian grunted and went limp as John Hansen entered the tent.
“What the hell’s going on in here?” the carny owner demanded. “We can hear you yelling and screaming down at the other end of the midway.”
“None of your business, Hansen!” Clyde snarled.
“This is my tent and that makes it my business,” Hansen retorted, “and I’ll not see a man cut to ribbons in my carny. Not even a godless savage.”
“Then don’t watch!” Stewart snapped.
“Now see here,” Hansen protested. “I don’t have to…”
“Shut up, old man!” Stewart bellowed, and taking a step forward, backhanded Hansen across the jaw.
The force of the blow sent the old man reeling. Unbalanced, he tripped on a stool and fell sideways. There was a sickening thud as his head struck the corner of an iron-bound wardrobe trunk; a taut silence ensued as McCall, Stewart, and the Swede exchanged uneasy glances.
Releasing his hold on Two Hawks Flying, Barney scrambled toward Hansen. His face turned ashen as he noticed the unnatural angle of the old man’s neck and the thin trickle of blood seeping through colorless lips. Taking a deep breath, McCall felt for Hansen’s pulse. There was none.
“Not you’ve done it,” Barney hissed. “The old man’s dead.”
“Let’s get out of here,” Rudy whispered. “The Injun’s dead, too.”
Stewart swore. “Let’s make tracks!”
Working swiftly, the three men collected their trail gear and slipped under the rear of the tent. Outside, they mingled with the thinning crowd, then faded into the shadows. They were arguing which way to go when Rudy suddenly remembered he’d left his bankroll under the seat of the equipment wagon.
“Forget it!” Stewart advised crossly. “Let’s move.”
“Forget it, hell,” Rudy retorted. “I got better than two grand back there. You two go on ahead, round up some horses. I’ll meet you behind Fremont’s Hash House.”
“You’ve got ten minutes,” Stewart warned. “You take one minute longer, you’re on your own.”
For all his bulk, the Swede moved like a dark, silent shadow as he skulked along the deserted midway and bellied under the big blue-and-white-striped tent. The two bodies lay as before, still and ugly in death. An eerie stillness hung in the air, and Rudy shivered superstitiously as he stepped over the Indian’s inert form and rummaged under the wagon seat.
One of the bodies stirred slightly, turning just his head as he watched the Swede. Teeth clenched against the pain and nausea that threatened to render him helpless, Two Hawks Flying pulled the knife out of his side and stood up.
At the wagon, Rudy grunted with satisfaction as his searching fingers closed over his money pouch.
“California, here I come,” he muttered under his breath, and then froze as he felt the unmistakable prick of a knife just behind his left ear. A warm trickle of blood spilled down his neck as the blade nicked his flesh.
“Do not move,” warned a voice behind him.
“No. No, I won’t,” Rudy said quickly. “Listen, mister, if it’s money you want, I got plenty. You can have it all.”
“I do not want your money. I want the keys to these irons.”
“Injun?” Rudy gasped. “I thought you were dead.”
“Not yet. Give me the key.”
“Sure, sure,” Rudy said, delving into his pants pocket. “Here, take it.”
“Stewart,” Shadow rasped, taking the key in his free hand. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know,” Rudy said, and yelped as he felt the knife bite deeper into his flesh. “Wait!” he croaked. “I’ll talk. He’s in the alley behind Fremont’s Hash House. Him and Barney both.”
“You talking straight tongue?”
“I swear it!”
The Swede knew a moment of sweet relief as the blade was withdrawn, but it proved to be short-lived and he roared like a wounded bull buffalo as Shadow drove the bloodstained knife through his back. A great rush of blood jetted from the Swede’s mouth as he collapsed against the side of the wagon, still clutching his money pouch.
“One down and three to go,” Shadow murmured, and with one hand pressed against his bleeding side, he bent down and removed the chain from his ankle, then slipped under the back of the tent. Feeling lightheaded, he glided silently down a dark alleyway. He had not gone far when he spotted Stewart and McCall outlined in the darkness ahead.
“He’s late,” Stewart was saying.
/> “Let’s give him another minute or two,” Barney urged.
“Not me,” Clyde said, swinging aboard his black gelding. “I’m leavin’. You want me, you’ll find me in Abilene.”
McCall gazed uncertainly after Stewart. “Oh, hell,” he muttered, and started for his horse.
He never made it. Shadow’s knife swished through the air, silent as the finger of death as it caught Barney McCall high in the back, just left of center. With a grunt, McCall fell face down in the alley, hands clawing for the blade that was slowly stealing the life from his body.
The warrior’s moccasined feet made no sound as he approached the dying man and callously yanked the knife from his back.
Fighting to stay conscious, Two Hawks Flying lifted McCall’s gun from the holster and then, with teeth clenched and great beads of sweat pouring from his brow, he hauled himself into the saddle of Barney McCall’s dun gelding and urged the animal down the alley after Stewart.
It was after midnight when he found Clyde Stewart sleeping peacefully beside a babbling brook. Leaving the dun ground-reined out of sight and downwind of Stewart’s mount, Two Hawks Flying moved soundlessly toward his quarry. The black gelding blew softly and pawed the earth as Two Hawks Flying materialized out of the darkness.
Stewart woke instantly, automatically reaching for the Winchester rifle that lay close beside him. He shrieked with pain as Shadow’s knife drove through the back of his hand, pinning it to the ground. In desperation, Stewart made a clumsy grab for his six-gun with his left hand, then hollered again as Two Hawks Flying kicked the gun from his grasp. He swallowed hard as he found himself staring into the unblinking eye of McCall’s Colt .44.
“If you know any prayers, you had better say them,” Two Hawks Flying suggested coldly.
“You!” Stewart breathed. “You’re supposed to be dead.”
“I will be, before too long,” the warrior allowed. “But not until I finish with you.”
“You can’t kill me!” Stewart cried shrilly, the pain in his hand forgotten as he gazed into the Cheyenne’s flat black eyes. “I saved your life. You would have died in the desert if me and Barney hadn’t come along when we did.”
There was no change in the Indian’s fathomless black eyes, and Stewart whined, “Injun, wait! Can’t we talk this over?”
Two Hawks Flying pressed his hand over the wound in his side. A warm, sticky wetness coated his palm. Slowly, he shook his head.
“No time for talk,” he said thickly.
A tiny flicker of hope sparked in Clyde Stewart’s blue eyes as he noticed the dark stain that was rapidly spreading down the Indian’s side. If he could just stall for a few more minutes, the redskin would be dead at his feet.
The warrior’s lips curled back in a wolfish grin as he read the thoughts scudding across the white man’s mind. Slowly, he thumbed back the hammer to full cock.
“You will die before I do,” Two Hawks Flying promised, and as Stewart’s face began to blur, he squeezed the trigger.
Clyde Stewart’s last terrified scream was swallowed up in the roar of the gunshot. The bullet took him squarely between the eyes, and his handsome face dissolved in a torrent of bright blood and bone fragments.
Two Hawks Flying knew a fleeting moment of satisfaction as he stared at the yawning maw that had once been a man’s face. He smiled faintly as he dipped his hands in the warm blood of his enemy.
And then there was only darkness as he pitched headlong into oblivion…
Chapter Twenty-One
He regained consciousness a layer at a time, vaguely aware that he was not alone, that he was lying on a bed, that his hands were tied to the bedposts. A cool cloth covered his eyes, blinding him to his surroundings. His throat felt tight and it was an effort to swallow, even to breathe. The faint fragrance of wildflowers hung in the air, mingling pleasantly with the aroma of fresh perked coffee. Fragments of a hushed conversation penetrated the mists of pain that held him fast, like a wolf in a trap.
“Pretty bad.”
“Good thing we found him when we did…”
“Lucky to be alive…”
“So much blood.”
Exploring hands touched his side, and he flinched involuntarily as scorching fingers of flame lanced through his right side.
“Mother, be careful!” a young voice admonished.
“I’m being as careful as I can, Beth,” Rebecca Matthews answered, “but I’ve got to see how bad he’s hurt. Bring that light closer, child. And hand me that pad. Then tear me a couple of strips from that old sheet”
Two Hawks Flying groaned as the woman covered the wound with a pad of soft cotton cloth, then wound several strips of cloth around his middle to hold it in place. He shuddered convulsively as his unseen benefactor sponged the dried blood from the shallow gash in his shoulder. Someone—the young girl?—wiped the sweat from his brow with a gentle hand.
“Well, that does it,” the woman said matter-of-factly. “He’s lost a powerful amount of blood but he looks strong and healthy. I reckon he’ll make it.”
“Can’t we untie him now?” Beth asked. “He looks awfully uncomfortable trussed up like that.”
“No, Beth, not until we find out who he is, and what he was doing lying out in the road.”
“But it seems a shame to keep him tied up when he’s hurt, like he was a criminal,” the girl argued.
“It would be a bigger shame if he up and killed us while we slept,” her mother replied drily. “And for all we know, he might indeed be a criminal of some kind. You keep an eye on him now, while I go rinse the blood out of these rags.”
“Yes, Mother.”
There was the sound of footsteps leaving the room, then a faint squeak of springs as the girl sat on the edge of the bed.
Two Hawks Flying moistened his dry lips and rasped, “Girl?” in a barely audible whisper.
“Oh, you’re awake,” Beth observed, taking the cloth from his eyes. “How do you feel?”
“Like hell,” he croaked. “Where am I?”
“In my room,” Beth said, smiling. “Mother and I were on our way home from town when we found you lying beside the road.” Head tilted to one side, the girl stared at him curiously. “You’re an Indian, aren’t you? What are you doing so far from home?”
“It is a long story.”
“Oh. Well, maybe you’d better save it for later, when you’re feeling better. Why don’t you get some sleep now?”
“Could I…have some water?”
“Sure,” she said, and quickly poured him a tall glass of water and held his head up while he drank.
“Sleep now,” Beth suggested.
And he did.
When he woke again, it was night. A woman clad in a long cotton nightgown stood silhouetted against the window, facing out. Sensing his gaze, she turned toward him. The moonlight streaming through the parted curtains cast a faintly silvery glow around her, giving her a ghostly appearance as she padded barefoot toward him.
“Are you in pain?” she asked. “Can I get you anything?”
“Water,” he husked, and she poured him a glass from a bedside pitcher, carefully raising his head.
“Drink it slowly,” she cautioned. “Would you care for anything else? Some broth, perhaps?”
“No.”
In a gesture much like her daughter’s, Rebecca Matthews tilted her head to one side, took a step backward as she exclaimed, “You’re the Indian from the tent show! The one that killed Custer! And Beth wanted to cut you free. Oh my,” she murmured, and sank down in the rocker next to the bed.
“Listen, white lady, before you work yourself into a sweat, I did not kill Custer. And I do not go around murdering women and little girls either.”
“Surely you don’t expect me to believe that,” she retorted. “I read the papers. Two Hawks Flying was mentioned in the local paper as one of the chiefs at the Custer massacre.”
Two Hawks Flying smiled wryly. “I did not say I was not there. I said I did n
ot kill him.”
“That’s a mere technicality,” the woman countered.
“Maybe. But if Custer had stayed home where he belonged, he would be alive today.”
“Perhaps, but what about all the other people you’ve killed. Mr. McCall said you were responsible for killing hundreds of white settlers who had done you no harm.”
“McCall was a liar,” Shadow said flatly.
“Well, it doesn’t matter one way or the other. Tomorrow I’ll send word to the tent show that you’re here.”
“No.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Do not tell them I am here.”
“Why shouldn’t I?” the woman snapped, piqued by his impertinent attitude.
“Because I am tired of being stared at like I was some kind of freak.”
“Oh?” she replied coolly, but her expression mellowed somewhat as a hint of compassion rose in her eyes. “Just what should I do with you, then?”
“Let me go home,” he said quietly. “Or kill me if you are afraid to turn me loose, but do not send me back to that circus.”
Rebecca stared at him quizzically for a long time. He did not seem like the ferocious savage McCall and Stewart claimed he was, nor did he speak the way she had supposed an Indian would. In fact, he spoke better English than many of her neighbors. Still, he had admitted to being at the Little Bighorn, and even at this late date she could recall the horror she had felt when she read of the Custer massacre. Over two hundred men had died that day, scalped and mutilated by thousands of Indians.
“I’ll have to think about it,” she murmured, and left the room.
In the morning, Rebecca was still undecided. She warned Beth to stay away from the man, afraid that he might persuade the child to turn him loose. A soft-hearted child, Beth was easily moved by a sad tale or a wistful glance.
After Beth left for school and the Indian’s wounds were tended, Rebecca went into the parlor and picked up her mending, only to sit staring into the fireplace.
The Indian had again asked her to free him or kill him. Since she could do neither, he had asked her, with quiet dignity, not to notify the tent show of his whereabouts until his wounds were healed. Reluctantly, she had agreed.
Reckless Heart Page 26
