Despite her intention to find the Indians, now that they were here, Rachel was quite frightened. What if they could not communicate with the Apache? What if the Indians killed them before they had a chance to explain what they were doing on Indian land?
She felt a glimmer of hope as she recognized one of the warriors who had been at Sunset Canyon that dreadful day.
She raised her hand in the sign Tyree had told her meant peace. “Friend,” she said, hoping the warrior could not detect the fear in her voice. She tapped her breast. “Tyree’s woman.”
Standing Buffalo stared at Rachel, then he smiled. Yes, he remembered Tyree’s woman. His disappointment had been keen that day in Sunset Canyon when Tyree had come to her rescue.
Rachel smiled back at the warrior. He recognized her, she saw it in his eyes.
The warrior spoke to the other braves and they all dismounted. In minutes, a fire was blazing in a shallow pit. The warriors sat on their heels, their eyes on Rachel. Only a few of them spoke English.
“Woman of Tyree, why are you here?”
“Tyree is in trouble,” Rachel said earnestly. “He told me that he had lived with the Mescalero, that you were his friends. I’ve come to you for help because I have no one else to turn to.”
Standing Buffalo frowned. “What kind of trouble?”
Quickly, Rachel explained about the mine. Standing Buffalo nodded. “Yes. Some of our warriors have been taken to that place. It is a bad thing, to keep men as slaves.”
“Then you’ll help me?”
“Yes. We will ride for Mexico at first light. One of my warriors will see that you get home safely.”
“No. I’m going, too.”
“No.”
“Yes. He’s…he’s my husband and I’m going with you.”
Standing Buffalo smiled. Truly, the woman with the yellow hair had the heart of a mountain lion. Tyree had chosen his woman wisely.
“The Mexican cannot come,” Standing Buffalo said flatly. “My people will not ride with him.”
Rachel did not argue. The hostility between the Mexicans and the Apaches was well-known, and dated back to the time when the Mexicans paid a bounty for Apache scalps.
They started for Mexico early the following morning. Candido was reluctant to leave Rachel in the company of thirty Apache warriors, but there was little he could do other than beg her to reconsider. But she would not change her mind.
The Indians took no thought of having a woman in their midst. Apache women were strong, some were warriors, some were medicine women. They treated her as a warrior, and expected her to keep up. She was tense and on edge the whole day, knowing it was only the fact she was Tyree’s woman that made her presence tolerable. She shuddered to think what would happen to her if she was not under the protection of Tyree’s name. Many of the warriors looked at her with desire in their eyes, a few glared at her in a way that made her know that, under other circumstances, she would have been killed and scalped the same as any other enemy.
By day’s end, she was sure she was going to die. She ached in every part of her body. Her red shirt felt glued to her skin, her tan riding skirt was dusty, the hem torn where she had snagged it on a spiny cactus. Her boots were covered with dust. Never could she recall feeling quite so dirty or so utterly bone weary. Muscles she had not known she possessed shrieked in protest every time she moved. She was certain her legs were permanently bowed from the hours she had spent in the saddle, the insides of her thighs felt raw.
Standing Buffalo handed her a strip of jerky, offered her a drink of water from a waterskin. “We will start again at first light,” he said. His black eyes studied her carefully. She had not complained once during the long trek. Perhaps, if Tyree were dead, he would keep the woman for his own.
Rachel felt her cheeks turn pink under the warrior’s continued gaze. What was he thinking? His eyes, as dark as the night sky, were unfathomable, his face impassive.
She took a long drink from the waterskin before returning it to Standing Buffalo. “Thank you,” she said, and looked away, unable to meet his gaze any longer.
The next day was the same as the last. They rode for miles across a land populated by little more than sand and cactus and an occasional reptile. Sweat poured down Rachel’s face and neck and back, making her feel sticky and uncomfortable. Her feet and hands swelled, and she found herself yearning for a bath as never before.
The Indians rode silently, oblivious to the heat and the long ride. They paused only once, shortly after noon, to eat and rest the horses.
Wearily, Rachel loosened the cinch on the saddle, gave her weary horse a pat on the neck. She was glad she had left Morgana at home. This horse, a sturdy buckskin gelding, was much better suited to long hours and scant feed. He was a range bred horse, part mustang, part quarter-horse.
All too soon, the Indians were mounting up again. With a sigh, Rachel tightened the cinch and climbed into the saddle. Never, in all her life, had she spent so many hours on the back of a horse.
Later that afternoon, a handful of warriors broke away from the main group to go hunting. They returned at dusk with a wild turkey and several rabbits. Rachel’s mouth began to water as she looked forward to fresh meat for dinner that night.
And still they traveled across the land, heading due south. Across low hills covered with cat-claw and palo-verde, through deep gullies and narrow valleys, across a shallow river, and suddenly they were in Mexico.
Rachel had lost track of the days when one of the scouts rode into their night camp with the news that the mine was less than a day’s ride away. Rachel’s weariness vanished like snow beneath a blazing sun. Tomorrow she would see Tyree!
She could not sleep that night, not when they were so close. She closed her eyes and summoned Tyree’s image to mind, still clear even after all these months—the length and breadth of him, eyes that were the color of amber glass, a mouth that could be by turns warm and tender or fierce and demanding, hair as black as sin. Every nerve ending in her body seemed to come alive, yearning for his touch.
She was still awake when the Indians began to stir. They were unusually quiet as they moved about the camp. They did not eat breakfast. Small clay pots appeared and the warriors began to paint their faces for war. For the first time, it occurred to Rachel that there was going to be a fight, that men would be killed. Until that moment, she had not thought of the cost, only the joy of seeing Tyree again. But of course there would be a fight. They could not just walk in and pluck Tyree from the mine. There would be guards, warning cry, a battle. Tyree could be killed.
She shook the thought from her mind. She had not come this far to fail.
She glanced at the warriors moving around her, and was suddenly afraid. These men were savages, strangers. They were killers, delighting in butchery and torture. What was she doing here? Why had she trusted them? Even now, they might turn on her.
She uttered a small cry of fright as a hand dropped on her shoulder. Whirling around, she stared, wide-eyed at the warrior beside her, and then let out a sigh of relief. It was Standing Buffalo, his face hideously streaked with black paint.
“Will you wait here?”
“No.”
He nodded, as if he had expected her to refuse.
Ten minutes later they were riding toward the mine. Rachel’s nerves were taut. Time and again she patted the derringer in her skirt pocket. Would she have the nerve to shoot a man, if necessary? Could she bear to take a human life? Only time would tell.
It was dusk when they reached the valley that housed the mine. From her vantage point, Rachel stared at the wooden outbuildings that housed the guards, then swung her gaze to the big stone house where the mine owners lived. And then she saw a long row of cages. They were empty, she saw with dismay, but even as she watched, she saw dozens of men being herded toward the cages. She leaned forward, eyes straining, but she could not pick Tyree out of the line of shackled, bearded men. It was a pitiful sight, she thought, her heart aching. The gua
rds herded the prisoners like sheep, whipping those who did not move fast enough.
Tyree, Tyree. She could not bear to think of him being in such a dreadful place, could not stand to think of him suffering as these men were obviously suffering.
And then Standing Buffalo gave the signal and she was swept down the hill toward the mine, her horse carried along with the others as the Indians urged their ponies down the gentle slope and across the barren ground in front of the mine. A shout went up from the guard tower, and then the Mexican pitched over the railing onto the ground, an arrow in his throat.
The war cries of thirty Apache warriors filled the air as the Indians swarmed over the main house and outbuildings. Two-thirds of the Mexicans were killed in the first rush, taken completely by surprise.
The noise and the gunsmoke were overpowering, and Rachel felt as though she were living in a nightmare as she guided her horse toward the long row of cages, the derringer in her hand. Indians and Mexicans fought and died on all sides, but she rode through the midst of them, her eyes riveted on the cages ahead, a silent prayer in her heart that she would find Tyree.
Men called out to her as she rode past, screaming for her to let them out of the cages, but she did not hear them, so intent was she on finding Tyree. A Mexican in a dirty blue shirt grabbed at her leg and she fired the derringer in his face, felt her insides heave with revulsion as his eyes and nose dissolved in a sea of blood.
And still she rode on. And then, near the end of the row, she saw him. He was standing at the door of the cage, staring at the fire that had started in one of the outbuildings some fifty feet away.
Rachel screamed his name as she jumped off her horse.
Tyree’s head swung around, and his eyes widened with stunned disbelief. “My God,” he thought, “I must be seeing things.”
“Tyree, stand aside!” Rachel had to shout to be heard above the gunfire and the roar of the flames.
She was real. He whispered her name as he stood to one side while she shot the lock off the door. And then she was in his arms, her sweet mouth pressed to his. But only for a moment.
“Come on, we’ve got to get out of here,” Rachel urged. “Get on my horse.”
“I can’t.”
“Damn!” She had forgotten about the shackles that hobbled his feet.
She was wondering what to do when Tyree dragged her down the row of cages to where a man lay face down in the dust. It was the man Rachel had killed, and she turned away, fighting the urge to vomit as Tyree began to search through the dead man’s pockets. At last, he found the key. Moments later, his hands and feet were free, and he tossed the key ring to the prisoner in the nearest cage.
Rachel heard Tyree mutter, “Good luck,” under his breath as he lifted her into the saddle of the buckskin and swung up behind her. She felt a surge of relief as they started out of the yard. Thank God, Tyree was safe.
She kicked the buckskin, urging the horse to go faster, wanting to get away from the mine and the misery it represented. She did not think about the men they had left behind, or the Indians who might have been killed, she thought only of Tyree, of his hands gripping her waist.
She was smiling to herself as they rode out of the yard, congratulating herself on a job well done, when the pain hit. Glancing down, she was horrified to see the side of her shirt was dark with blood. Feeling suddenly lightheaded, she grasped the buckskin’s mane with her free hand. They could not stop now, not until she was sure Tyree was out of danger. She could not lose him again.
Once, she glanced over her shoulder. The mine buildings were all ablaze. Prisoners were streaming out of the yard, running away from the flames. She saw a man rolling on the ground, his clothing aflame. And then the warriors came riding toward them, blocking everything else from sight.
She tried to smile at Tyree, but his face blurred before her eyes and she felt herself falling, falling, into nothingness.
Tyree swore under his breath as Rachel went limp in his arms. A sharp tug on the reins brought the buckskin to an abrupt halt. It was then Tyree saw the blood staining Rachel’s shirt.
“My God.” He breathed the words as he lifted her shirt. Blood oozed from a bullet wound just under her rib cage. With an oath, he pressed his hand over the ugly wound, felt her blood well between his fingers.
Taking Rachel in his arms, he dismounted and laid her gently on the ground. Only then was he aware of Standing Buffalo and the other Indians milling around.
“Is she dead?” The question came from Standing Buffalo.
“No. Get me some blankets and some water.”
“We will camp here,” Standing Buffalo informed the others. “Red Elk, see to the wounded. Five Bears, take some men and find us some meat.”
With quiet efficiency, the Indians began to make camp for the night.
Tyree took the blanket Standing Buffalo offered and placed it under Rachel. Removing his shirt, he ripped off a piece and began wiping the blood from her side. There was only a single entry wound, indicating the bullet was still lodged somewhere in her side. Gently, he probed the wound with his finger, but he could not locate the slug.
Rachel’s eyelids fluttered open. She smiled weakly as she saw Tyree bending over her. “You’re safe,” she murmured.
Tyree nodded as his hand caressed her cheek. “You damn fool,” he scolded gently. “What are you doing riding around the countryside with a bunch of savages?”
“I came to find you,” Rachel said thickly. “And I did.”
“Yes. Lie still now. Don’t talk.”
“Am I going to die?”
“No!”
Rachel smiled at him. Of course, he would lie to her, but it didn’t matter. He was alive and well. She did not care if she died, so long as it was in his arms.
“I’ve got to take the bullet out,” Tyree said.
“No.”
“It’s got to be done.”
Rachel shook her head violently from side to side. “No. Please, Tyree.”
“Hey, you’ve spent a lot of time looking after me. Now it’s my turn to take care of you.”
Rachel glanced up as Standing Buffalo came to stand beside Tyree. He had a waterskin in one hand, and a long-bladed knife in the other. Rachel stared at the knife in horror. She could not bear it, she thought frantically. She could not bear the pain of the knife probing her flesh.
“Take me home,” she pleaded. “Take me to Yellow Creek, Tyree. I want a doctor.”
“Yellow Creek is ten days ride from here,” Tyree replied.
“I don’t care.”
“Trust me, Rachel. That bullet has got to come out. Now. It won’t get any easier if you wait.” He took her hand in his and gave it a squeeze. “Trust me, Rachel. Just this once.”
She nodded, then shuddered as Tyree took the knife from Standing Buffalo.
Tyree stared at the long blade. How could he dig the bullet from Rachel’s flesh? He knew the agony it would cause her, knew he would rather cut off his right arm than cause her pain. Just thinking about cutting into her tender flesh made his palms sweat.
“Do you want me to do it, my brother?” Standing Buffalo asked quietly.
“No!” Rachel grabbed Tyree’s hand. “You do it,” she cried. “I don’t want anyone else to do it but you.”
Tyree nodded. “Here.” He wadded up a strip of cloth and handed it to her. “Bite on this. Standing Buffalo, hold her down so she doesn’t move.”
Rachel closed her eyes, her teeth biting hard on the rag in her mouth as Tyree began to probe the wound with the knife. Pain coursed through her side, worse than anything she had ever imagined. Blood flowed in the wake of the blade, hot and wet and sticky. She clenched her hands into tight fists, her nails digging into her palms. Her thoughts became confused. Sometimes it was Tyree who held the knife, probing her flesh, causing her terrible pain, and sometimes she was back in the past, reliving the day she had cut the bullet from his side. How had he stood the pain? How could she? When would it end?
She opened her eyes and saw Tyree’s face through a red haze of pain. His brow was furrowed, sheened with sweat, his jaw rigid. She groaned as the knife slipped deeper into her side, heard Tyree swear softly, and then everything went black.
“Thank God,” Tyree muttered. “She’s fainted.”
A short time later, he removed the slug from her side. He looked at it for a long moment, then tossed it aside. A little higher, he thought bleakly, a little higher and she would have been dead.
He washed the wound as best he could, packed the hole with tree moss to stop the bleeding, bandaged it with what was left of his shirt.
“The Mescalero will be at their winter camp by now,” Standing Buffalo remarked. “We can be there day after tomorrow.”
Tyree nodded. Rachel had lost a good deal of blood. Likely, she would soon have a fever. The doctor at Yellow Creek was too far away to do them any good, but there was a medicine man at the Apache camp. And he wanted a shaman close by, just in case.
Chapter Twenty-Three
She opened her eyes slowly, blinking as she glanced around. Where was she? A low fire burned at her feet, a domed roof covered her head. Frowning, she saw a war shield propped against the wall, a lance, several clay pots and jars.
Alarmed, she tried to sit up, only to fall back as a sharp pain lanced her side. It came back to her then, the ride to Mexico, the battle at the mine, Tyree. Where was Tyree?
A short time later, a withered old man dressed in fringed buckskin pants and a sleeveless vest entered the lodge. He gave Rachel a toothless grin as he gathered up several items from the back of the lodge. Muttering something to her in guttural Apache, he hurried outside again.
She was fretting over her whereabouts and the awful ache in her side when Tyree stepped into the wickiup. Just seeing him made her feel better. He had shaved and washed and trimmed his hair, and she thought he had never looked better, or more welcome.
“Where are we?” she asked.
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