Although women were allowed to give counsel, Bold Eagle eyed the woman in disbelief.
The chief glanced at Storm Rider and he nodded. “Permit her to speak.”
At Bold Eagle’s nod Anne-Marie began. “Noble Chief, I am a follower of the One Who Is Above.” She glanced at Creed. At his nod she continued. “I am here because God guided my steps to you.” She waited for confirmation.
The chief nodded.
“I believe that He will protect us—that I am here because He has so willed it.”
Bold Eagle turned his attention to Creed. “Do you agree with her words, my brother?”
“Yes,” Creed said simply.
Bold Eagle gave him a piercing look and then returned his gaze to Anne-Marie. Bold Eagle had a problem and he must rid himself of this problem; Anne-Marie had given him a way to do so without loss of face, and at little danger to his small band.
As the sun rose higher, Creed, Anne-Marie, and Quincy used their persuasive powers to convince the chief that the plan, though unorthodox, was sound, and there was no other viable solution at hand. “I am committed to respecting the ways of God,” Anne-Marie said, “even if my plan involves something forbidden. I am reminded of the story in my Bible when Jesus and His disciples ate grain while walking through a field on the Sabbath.”
Creed nodded. “This is true. I have read the story many times.”
Bold Eagle grunted with a heavy sigh. “Let it so be.”
In the early afternoon Bold Eagle gathered the council and explained, with Creed’s help, the steps needed in order to make the escape successful.
Horrified eyes shifted to Anne-Marie. Mutterings in the foreign tongue surrounded her.
The chief stood firm. “Bold Eagle does not like the plan but he will help his brother. It is the only way.”
“When?” one brash warrior asked. “When do we do stir up the spirits and bring evil and destruction upon our village?”
Bold Eagle’s chin lifted. “Sunrise.”
Groans filtered throughout camp and the disgruntled group dispersed, returning to their tepees with dragging moccasins.
When the sun next appeared, the plan was set into motion. Anne-Marie volunteered to be first. She lay down on the tepee floor and crossed her hands.
“I’m telling you, I don’t like this!” Quincy’s voice shook when squaws wrapped buffalo hides and strapped him onto a wooden rack. “Just the thought of being buried alive makes my skin crawl!”
“You’re not being buried. And the time will pass swiftly,” Creed assured from across the tent where Berry Woman and other women were swathing his body.
Quincy struggled to break free when the women cinched the straps around him tighter. “I can’t move my arms, Creed!”
Creed smiled. “You’re dead, Quince. Your arms aren’t supposed to move.”
Quincy took a deep breath and clamped his eyes shut. “How did I ever get myself in this mess?”
“You have the knife, don’t you?” Creed asked, a hint of humor coloring his voice.
“What good’s a knife gonna do me? I’m bound up like a Christmas goose, my body wrapped in buffalo hides, and ropes lashed so tight I can’t move.”
“You don’t hear Anne-Marie complaining.”
“Of course not,” Quincy snapped. “It’s her idiotic idea.”
“And a splendid one it is. You’ll see,” Anne-Marie noted.
“Well, I just want you to know,” Quincy’s muffled voice complained beneath the hides, “this is last time that I’m agreeing to anything that you suggest. Understand? The very last time—if we get out of this one alive.”
“Got it, Quincy.”
Quincy let out a yelp when his pallet was lifted onto the shoulders of two strong warriors.
Anne-Marie heard rather than saw Creed’s pallet being lifted and carried away. She prayed that he could sense the reassuring thoughts she sent his way. She closed her eyes and gave herself over to God. She knew He would protect them.
“Hey, looka there.” Ollie elbowed Butch near sunrise when activity in the camp picked up.
“What do you make of that?”
Cortes struggled to see through the cloud of activity that had suddenly enveloped the Indian camp. “The Injuns are leaving,” he grunted. They’d wasted days waiting for something to happen and now the redskins were pulling up and hightailing it out of here? Squinting, he bent for a closer inspection. Cortes’s eyes were getting old. Tiny blurs scurried around in the distance.
Something was not right. Indians never moved their camp until the grass was greener and the wind warm.
“See the black and the nun anywhere?” Rodrigo peered around the other men’s shoulders.
“Yeah, and the Indian?” Butch cut in.
“Cortes sees many Indians,” he snapped, “but he does not see the black or the woman.” Cortes saw nothing but blurs.
“What should we do, boss?” Ollie peered over his shoulder. “Looks like they’re breaking camp or something. Why would they do that? It’s ain’t full spring yet.”
“How should Cortes know? We watch… and wait to see which way they go.” He spat a stream of tobacco on the melting snow. “Our grit has finally scared them out into the open. We will follow the buckboard.”
“But, boss, I don’t see a buckboard.” Butch cupped his hands to his eyes and strained.
“No buckboard?” Cortes flared. “Do you not see the wagon?”
The three shook their heads negatively. Butch ventured. “Do you see it?”
Cortes straightened. “It is in plain sight. They would not leave the gold. They will take it with them, and when they do, we will follow and take it.”
Four pairs of eyes watched as the tribe went about striking camp.
“Boss’s right. They wouldn’t leave the gold,” Ollie said. “We’ll get it when they come out.”
The outlaws kept vigil, their eyes focused on the burial procession that slowly wound its way out of camp.
“Well, will you look at that?” Ollie whispered. “A bunch of ’em must’ve died off.”
“Could be that’s why they’re strikin’ camp, boss,” Butch said. “Could be there’s a sickness down there like the fever or something. The whole tribe is dyin’ off.”
“Perhaps,” Cortes mused, “or could be just some old people whose time has come.”
“I don’t think so,” Ollie said. “Warriors are carrying the dead. See?” He pointed to the medicine man who walked in front, carrying weapons. “Them’s not just old people.”
“So?” Cortes wasn’t interested in the burial details; what he was interested in was the buckboard, and right now all he could see were figures tearing down the lodges.
Ollie straightened. “You don’t suppose those Injuns could have took a notion to finish them three off.”
“Enough!” Cortes roared. “You are muy estúpido! And if it is the nun, the indio, and the black, good riddance. Cortes cares only for the gold.”
Frowning, Ollie’s gaze followed the slow-moving procession. “I don’t know—we might oughta check it out.”
Rodrigo’s eyes widened. “Are you loco? The thought of going into an Indian burial ground—I ain’t going. Period.”
“No es necesario,” Cortes stated emphatically. “The indio and the black are still down there. I have seen them just this morning. They are no fools. They would not leave the gold. Cortes wait. If they do not come out, Cortes storms the camp.”
Anne-Marie was beginning to have second thoughts. She lay nearly suffocating, listening to the wind keening through the trees. How long had she been here? One—two hours? Minutes dragged by. If she only had some water—and she then remembered that a buffalo stomach full of water was hanging just a few feet below her. Food was also left on her scaffolding to provide nourishment for walking the Hanging Road. The Indians had also secured ceremonial weapons to the scaffolding so that courageous warriors would be able to hunt for nourishment.
Right now all Anne-M
arie wanted was to leave this smothering cocoon, but she remembered Bold Eagle’s warning. They must not leave until well after dark, when the moonless night would effectively cover their escape.
She could barely hear the tepees being dismantled, but she could feel the wind that had sprung up. It swayed her scaffold and caused the buffalo stomach and parfleche to thump against the sides of the poles.
If a person were afraid of ghosts, this could be his undoing.
Creed lay quietly on his platform, awaiting the moment of escape. He counted each hour as time passed slowly. At least another five counts before he could safely escape his bonds. The pain in his thigh throbbed. He’d known, even before he’d accepted the plan, that it would take a toll on his wound. The leg was swollen, pressing tightly into the buffalo hides.
The sound of his rifle thumping against the pole was as comforting as the knife he held in his right hand. Laid to rest among the bones of his brothers. The sooner this was over the better.
Closing his eyes, he saved his strength for the ordeal that still lay ahead.
If Anne-Marie’s plan proved sound, they only had a few more hours before nightfall and he could cut his way free of the bindings. A squaw had placed a sharp knife in his right hand and left plenty of room for him to cut the straps. Then he would rescue Anne-Marie and Quincy, and the three would be long gone by daylight, the awaiting gang left in their dust. The plan left ample room for failure, but he prayed that Anne-Marie’s assurance that God was with them proved true.
For God was now their only hope.
Twelve
Four riders sat atop a rise, their eyes riveted on the deserted land. Horses shifted, snorting.
“Well, that’s the last of ’em,” Ollie mused.
“Yeah, that’s the last of ’em all right,” Butch said.
“We cannot be so sure,” Cortes snapped. “We have not seen the wagon carrying the gold. Where is the wagon?”
“It ain’t come out, boss,” Ollie said. “If you ain’t seen the blasted wagon, how are we supposed to have seen it? We’ve been watching for hours, and that buckboard ain’t left that camp.”
“He’s right,” Rodrigo put in. “We watch mucho close.”
“Well, it’s got to be down there somewhere.” Cortes spat on the ground and then wiped his mouth on his coat sleeve. “Buckboards do not disappear into thin air.” Spurring his horse forward, the boss headed toward what had been a camp only a little while ago. The other three men halfheartedly reined in to follow.
When the outlaws rode into the deserted campsite it was hard to imagine that over a hundred people had lived there not three hours before. Not one scrap of debris was seen. Several horse tracks, as well as two-pole tracks, led off to the southwest, but there was no evidence of a buckboard.
If Cortes had not seen it with his own eyes, he would not have believed that there had once been a buckboard, but he grudgingly trusted the eyesight of the idiots that rode with him.
“Spread out and check every inch of this ground,” he ordered as the men sat astride their horses, looking at a loss as to what they should do.
“Maybe they burned the wagon,” Butch offered.
“Estúpido!” Cortes exploded. “This is what we must find out! The wagon, it had iron to hold it together, no? Iron does not burn. If we find iron that is not burned, then we know our eyes do not play the tricks upon us.” He pointed to several mounds of smoldering ashes and his eyes leveled on Ollie. “You and him”—he motioned to Rodrigo—“go sift through the ashes.” Turning to Butch, he ordered, “You, I want you to ride to where they buried their people and look for any sign of buckboard tracks. The Apaches are trying to fool Cortes.” His eyes formed wrinkled slits. “This they cannot do.”
Butch stared at him vacantly. “Buckboard tracks?”
Cortes spat on the ground, hard. “No, brilliant one, monkey tracks.”
“But, boss,” Butch argued, “we didn’t see anyone go near that place once those dead people were put on those platforms—”
Taking a deep breath, Cortes lowered his tone to a threat. “The carro couldn’t have vanished into thin air. Go!”
Reining his horse, Butch rode toward the burial ground, but his stiff posture told Cortes that he did not like the order.
The sound of approaching hoofbeats startled Anne-Marie. Stay calm. You’re perfectly safe, she thought. No one, not even those outlaws, would dare desecrate a grave. She couldn’t be certain who the riders were; perhaps Bold Eagle had left a couple of warriors to check on their needs until Creed freed their bonds. The chief had been most agreeable once the escape plan was underway. Bold Eagle would surely look after them until they were well away from danger.
Slowing his horse, Butch shaded his eyes with his hand and studied the tall platforms. There were too many to count, some very old and weather-worn. His gaze focused on the three new structures. Wind kicked up dust, swirling around the high stands.
“Rodrigo? Is the wind making the platforms shake like that?”
“I don’t know.” His compadre glanced toward the narrow path leading away from the burial ground. “I don’t like this one bit, Butch. We got no right to be messin’ with the dead.”
“We got no choice. Do you want your share of the gold?”
“Sure I do, but this is insane—Cortes is loco.”
“Keep your voice down. He’ll hear you.”
Butch started when something dropped to the ground. The noise ricocheted like a shotgun blast in the eerie silence.
Every tooth in Butch’s head startled to rattle. “I’ll never see my sweet Prudy again. My babies won’t ever have their papa bounce ’em on his knee or tell ’em bedtime stories.” The prediction came out in a parched whisper. He focused on the platform directly above him, and then froze in place. “Rodrigo?”
The platform began to rock as though the spirits were peeling their way through the thick bindings.
“Sí?” Rodrigo’s answer was a mere squeak now.
“Gold or no gold, I ain’t gonna tangle with one of those heathen spirits for anyone—Cortes included. I’m headed home!” Wheeling his horse, Butch whipped the animal’s flank and beat it out of the burial ground.
Glancing at the wavering platforms, Rodrigo did the same.
“See anything?” Cortes asked when Rodrigo’s horse thundered to a stop in front of him.
“Nothing, didn’t see a thing—just some weapons dangling off them spooky-lookin’ platforms. Butch cut out on us. Said he was heading home.”
“Coward!” Cortes snatched off his hat and flung it on the ground. “No sign of the carro?”
Rodrigo looked him straight in the eye. “I looked everywhere. No buckboard, just dead Injuns.”
Cortes centered on the deserted campsite. “Well, now, you just ride back up there and help yourself to those weapons. No sense in letting good arms go to waste.”
“You talkin’ about them spears and stuff tied on those platforms?”
“Sí. Cortes can sell them, or put them to use.”
“You go yourself. I ain’t cuttin’ out on you, but I ain’t going back in there.”
Cortes glanced up. “What do you mean, ‘You go yourself ’? ” He thumped his chest authoritatively. “Cortes gives the orders.”
“I ain’t going back up there.”
Cortes stomped his foot. “Cortes gives the orders!”
Reining his horse, Rodrigo gave the boss an unsympathetic look. “If you want those weapons, you go get ’em.”
When the three riders rode past the burial platforms, Rodrigo crossed himself.
“Uno momento.” Cortes swerved his horse and urged it up the incline to the entrance of the burial ground.
Ollie groaned under his breath. “He’s gonna make us go after those weapons.”
“I ain’t going near those platforms,” Rodrigo vowed. He spat on the ground. “A team of wild boars couldn’t drag me back in there. If the boss wants those spears, he can get ’em himself.”<
br />
“You! Men! Get up here!”
Anne-Marie slowly became aware of riders approaching. Or was it only one rider? She couldn’t be certain. She willed her heart to remain in her chest. It’s only the braves or warriors coming to check on us. Lie still. Her dry mouth cried for water. The canteens were tied on the outside. There was no way to drink until her binds were freed. She made her mind oblivious to the suffocating blackness. Only a thin shaft of air penetrated the casing. It had to be dark now. It had to be—she’d been in this shell for days, weeks? She swallowed back the urge to scream. What if the plan failed? What if Bold Eagle’s warriors rode away and Creed was unable to free his binds? Abigail and Amelia would never know what happened to her—not ever. Nor the mission sisters…
She silently began to recite the Lord’s Prayer. Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name…
“See, such fine weapons, men. They make Cortes very happy.” Something was being cut loose from her platform.
“I wouldn’t touch those if I were you!” A second man’s voice drifted to Anne-Marie. “Those Injuns will come back and relieve you of your scalp.”
The outlaws were back, stealing from the dead. Was there no limit to their audacity? Closing her eyes, she set her jaw and began to squirm. It was a risky move, but suddenly the thought of freedom appealed more than the thought of dying in this horrible place. She would be in the outlaws’ hands, but that was a thought for another hour. What had she been thinking? The plan was too risky. She would free Creed and Quincy, and they would give the desperados what they wanted: the gold. No amount of it was worth their lives. Better to admit defeat than to die a suffocating death on these poles.
Scoffing at his friends’ taunts, Cortes continued sawing. “See, rifles, and knives with long shiny blades, and—”
He glanced up to see one of the bundles shaking. His eyes grew wider as the body started to jerk back and forth, looking for all the world like it was trying to free itself from the platform.
“See,” his voice trailed off lamely, “such nice knives… ” He fell silent when a wailing moan came from the bundle.
My Heart Stood Still (Sisters Of Mercy Flats 2) Page 12
