"Good. Then we're headin' out."
"We don't want to get stranded too far out if it snows," Wiley said logically.
Cooper studied the leaden sky with trepidation. "I don't have much choice. I know she's out there and I'm not leaving her." He squatted beside the fire. "You can head back now if you want. It's probably the safest bet."
Wiley pulled a piece of jerky from his pack and bit off a chunk. "Nah. I'm goin' on. Couldn't live with myself if I left her out here somewhere without tryin'. She might not cotton to me romantically, but that don't mean I don't think she's something special."
Special. Somehow the word seemed too ordinary for Hallie. Extraordinary. Refreshing. Enchanting. Those were words for Hallie. Cooper almost laughed aloud at his own foolishness. What did a frontier man like himself know about describing women?
"There's something there, isn't there?" Wiley asked. "Between the two of you."
He'd denied it emphatically before. Denied it to Kincaid. Denied it to himself mostly. He was too cowardly to admit he cared for her and then have to withstand the rejection when she left. "Yeah," he admitted to himself. "There's something there."
Something that ate a hole through his gut when he thought of her hurt or afraid. Something that ripped his in-sides to ragged pieces when he dared think of the fate that could meet her out here in the desolate badlands. Something that drove him to reach inside himself and peel back all the layers of self-protection in order to use every ounce of strength and ability to find her.
And when he found her he'd hold her until he understood what that something was, until this gnawing fear left.
And he would find her.
* * *
Hallie's ribs hurt and her throat was raw from the cold wind. She rode before Last Horse, the buffalo robe pulled around her, his iron-hard arms on either side. He'd given her food. He'd waited for her while she made her necessary trips into the snow-laden brush. He'd never allowed any of the others near her, and for that she supposed she should be grateful.
Often the horses' feet exposed the bones of antelope or deer, but Hallie's mind feared they might be human bones and that hers would soon join them.
The beauty of the bleak countryside mocked her gritty eyes and despair tugged at her heartstrings. In those hours she relived an entire lifetime, hearing the voices of her parents and siblings, seeing her former surroundings and the contrast between her safe Boston home and this desolate windswept vista. Her own helplessness and the gloom of uncertainty settled on her heart like a boulder.
They stopped at noon and ate a cold meal, immediately pushing on afterward. Occasionally the riders before them whipped out their bows and arrows and shot a fox or a rabbit with amazing accuracy. By late afternoon Hallie's feet were numb in her inadequate kid boots and somehow she was dozing when the horses slowed. She opened her eyes and discovered a grouping of white-skinned tepees painted with animals and spirit signs. There were a dozen of them, in no particular order but all facing the same direction. Behind them, an evergreen forest protected the village from the force of the wind.
Dogs met them first, at least twenty of them, their tails wagging low, their ears thrust back and noses sniffing the air. None of the animals barked, however, and Hallie observed their silence with awe.
Men, women and children poured forth next, greeting them with enthusiastic cries. Their manner of dress was bizarre, versatile combinations of color and texture drawn from both white and red man's tastes. One man wore a silk vest upside down, his long black hair divided into two braids with a scalp lock on top of his head. His ears held brass wire rings, and several chains hung around his neck.
Many wore armlets of brass with strings of bears' claws and beads. Several wore what Hallie realized with a jolt were scalps. Her stomach turned and her own scalp prickled.
The Indians stared and moved closer to Hallie. They were straight from the stories she'd read. The harrowing newspaper accounts of whites tortured and slain hadn't seemed real until this moment. Even Cooper had admitted that some of the horrible stories were probably true.
Last Horse pushed her down from the horse amid the throng of villagers. The women crowded around her, pushing and poking. In terror, Hallie tried to draw away, but there were too many of them and they were too strong. One female knocked her backward and wrestled with her boots until she had them off. Another shoved Hallie's skirts up and unrolled her stockings.
Several of them examined her bare feet and cold hands and fingered her hair. Hallie cringed and backed away, confused at their treatment and horrified at their continued explorations.
Trembling, Hallie looked wildly around for Last Horse. She was rudely shoved and rolled about while the women fought over her blouse. She watched the scuffle in shock.
Someone noticed the pouch around her neck and pointed. They spoke rapidly, gesturing and talking about the stone.
They came at her again and tried to remove her skirt. This time Hallie fought like a wildcat, enduring scratches and even several punches to save the derringer.
"Enough! Enough!" she shouted, her panic-stricken voice breaking. "You have everything else! These are mine!"
In the fray, her petticoats were exposed and reluctantly she let them go, a scuffle immediately following. Hallie sat shivering in her chemise and skirt and, by some miracle, the Indian women seemed inclined to let her hang on to them.
They came at her in a blur of dark faces and black eyes, pinching her arms and poking her with sticks, touching the stone on her chest. She endured their abuse, vowing she would live through this so she could go home.
The cold seeped through her thin skirt. Hallie sat on the snow-packed ground, trembling violently. One by one the women lost interest. A few of the men looked her over. Finally Last Horse came for her. He guided her into one of the tepees. Teeth chattering, Hallie rubbed her sore arms and blinked at the dark interior.
"Start a fire," he ordered, startling her.
"Wh-where's the w-wood?"
"I will bring it."
She picked up the buffalo hide he'd left and wrapped it around herself. She watched the tent flap, praying the Indians respected one another's homes and that she'd be left in peace. The hide walls lent a superficial air of safety she was grateful for. Last Horse dropped wood and dried buffalo chips near the fire pit in the center of the tent.
Keeping the hide wrapped around her, Hallie knelt and arranged the wood. "Do you have a tinderbox or some matches?"
He scowled and knelt, lighting some dried moss with merely the friction of a stick twirled between his palms.
Hallie stared in amazement.
"Don't let it go out." He threw back the flap and left.
She got the blaze going well, but smoke backed up inside the tent. Hallie coughed and squinted at the opening above. After a few adjustments, she discovered the poles that opened the flap and arranged them so the smoke carried up through the hole.
The interior grew warm enough to cast off the heavy robe and replace it with a blanket around her shoulders. The shadowy back recesses of the tent were filled with crates and baskets, leather pouches and bags. Cautiously, Hallie inspected a few of them. Beads, crates of whiskey and tobacco, tinned goods and blankets filled the spaces.
She opened an enormous battered trunk that looked out of place among the more primitive belongings. Inside lay men's clothing, hats, boots and bandannas—items that white men wore. Where had they come from? What did Last Horse want them for?
She let the lid stand open and raised a wrinkled flannel shirt from the pile. Her gaze slid to the black hat and the red bandanna.
A shiver of awareness ran up her spine. She pictured Last Horse dressed in the shirt and trousers with the hat pulled low and the bandanna up over his face. His distinctive hair and features would be hidden. He'd look just like any other man. Like a white man.
Like the men who'd held up the stage.
Her mind rolled back to that day, to the men who'd or�
�dered the brides from the coach, searched their belongings and frightened the women to tears.
She recalled the man who'd knelt before her and demanded she raise her dress. His penetrating eyes had been black and unyielding. She'd kneed him and his hat had fallen off. His thick hair…had been black and shiny. Probably tied to conceal its length and covered by the bandanna around his face.
Last Horse had robbed the stage. Stolen her bracelet and money. Robbed all of Cooper's stages and freight wagons. And made it look like the white men he hated.
How very clever.
Hallie slammed the lid and backed away from the trunk.
He'd robbed his own brother…set fire to his barn! What would stop him from killing her? Or letting the others kill her?
She would.
She gathered her wits and hunched down beside the fire.
Last Horse had offered to make a trade for her. That meant in some warped way he was interested in her. He'd asked how it was done among her people.
But he wasn't stupid. She couldn't make the mistake of thinking he was. Whatever she did and said it had to be believable. Her life depended on it.
Outside drums pounded and warbling singing echoed. A celebration was under way. Hallie fought off the terrors and sat wrapped in the buffalo hide.
It was full dark by the time Last Horse returned with a piece of cooked meat for her. She ate it beneath his glittering gaze.
She gathered her courage. "What do you plan to do with me?"
He didn't reply.
"Ransom is profitable. I don't know if Cooper would pay for my return, but my father would. He's a very rich man."
"You said he has no horses."
"He doesn't. No, no horses. When he wants to go somewhere he rents a carriage. Or takes the train. But he owns a newspaper. And a fine big house. He has stock in the railroad, too. My mother even has servants."
"He would trade for you?"
"Sure. I wouldn't be much use to you out here. I'm really not very good at cooking or sewing or anything. Chumani showed me enough to get me by, but I'm afraid I'm a city girl at heart."
He blinked.
"I can read and write." She glanced around. "So if you need anything read I can do that. I can figure, too. Back in Boston I'm a writer for my father's newspaper. That's why I came out here—to get a story. I was planning on going back in the spring, after Yellow Eagle knows how to read and write and do arithmetic.
"So you see, I'm not one of the throng of Easterners coming out here and crowding you off your land. I'll be going back."
"What kind of money does your father have?"
"What kind do you like?"
"Not paper."
"He has gold. Do you like gold? Actually, he has all different kinds of money. Whatever you'd like. It's all the same, really, you just take it to the bank and have it exchanged."
"Stop! Your words make my head hurt."
"Sure. I can do that." Hallie folded her hands in her lap and watched a column of smoke drift out the hole overhead.
Last Horse took out his pipe and smoked. Hallie sat quietly. Uncorking a bottle of whiskey, he took a long draw. He observed her the way an animal stalks its prey, his eyes hard and glittering.
Hallie couldn't bear the silence. Sitting beneath his penetrating stare drove her crazy. "I understand why you hate whites," she said at last.
"No. You do not."
"I do. I really do."
"You could not understand because you are not of The People."
"No, I'm not, but I can see what it's been like for your people."
"Can you?"
"Yes."
"Can you feel how it felt to leave our land and our hunting grounds? Can you feel what it is like to trust again and again and receive lies in return?" His ebony eyes bored into hers. "Do you know what my heart felt like when my father accepted a stranger more willingly than he accepted me?"
His stern words hung in the air between them. "I've never been driven from my home," she admitted. "And I haven't known many broken promises. But, yes, Last Horse, I do know what it feels like to have my father prefer a stranger over me."
He said nothing.
"I was hurt. And angry. And more determined than ever to prove myself to him. That's why I'm here—to prove something to him. Or to myself, I don't know."
"Running Elk took DeWitt as his son," Last Horse said. "Taught him the ways of The People. When we were driven from the land, DeWitt turned his back on The People and became just another white man."
"That's not true. Cooper has advantages that the Oglala don't have. He was able to buy land and start a business and earn money to help them."
"Money—ha!" He threw the empty bottle into the flames with such force it shattered and sparks burst upward. "The People don't need money. They need guns and horses and warriors. If we had more guns, Plenty Wolves would not have died."
Hatred distorted his angular features. "The People are outnumbered, Last Horse," she said softly. "That's plain to see. Cooper is helping The People with food for now and education for the future. Even Yellow Eagle sees that he can make a difference if he learns the ways of the whites."
"You want to teach them your language and make them just like you," he said.
"Maybe most do," she agreed. "I only wish none of you had to leave your land or learn to live where you don't want to. But I'm just one person, and a woman at that. I'm afraid what I think or wish hasn't made much of a difference in this world until now."
She stared across the fire and listened to her own words. "But I am one person," she said. "And I do have a voice— and an opinion. And if I get out of this mess, I'm going to use my writing to express those opinions and show the rest of the nation what it's really like out here."
His eyes had taken on a subdued glaze, whether from her chattering or the liquor she wasn't sure. He shook his head. "Go to sleep!" he ordered.
Hallie moved to her robe and lay down, pulling the fur around her. She didn't know what prompted her to do it, but she signed good-night.
His black brows shot into his hairline and he looked away. Hallie couldn't draw her apprehensive gaze away. His arms and legs were as muscled as Cooper's, but his chest was not quite as broad nor was his appearance as handsome. His skin glowed copper in the firelight, arm bands enhancing his strength and power.
He hadn't harmed her the night before. He hadn't let any of the others harm her. But they were alone now. Alone and in his village. Whatever he'd brought her here for, she was at his mercy.
He put his pipe away and spread pelts behind her.
Grunting, he stretched out. The robe moved and his hand touched her bare arm.
Hallie jumped.
"You are afraid of Last Horse?"
"No." Her heart pounded, confirming his words rather than hers. She reached up and held the stone. "I don't think the spirits are happy about you touching me."
"How do you know this?"
"My sicun grows warm when the spirits are active."
He flipped her to her back and touched the pouch at her throat. His eyes widened with an obvious look of fear, and he released her. "This is so! You have powerful spirits!"
Hallie wished she knew more about his beliefs. Apparently, even though he didn't look on anything else the way Cooper and Running Elk did, he had a strong belief in the spirit gods.
"Tomorrow I will make a sacrifice to please them."
"What kind of sacrifice?"
"Tobacco. A dog."
She grimaced in the darkness.
He rolled back on his pallet, and Hallie turned the other way again. Clenching the stone in her fist, she closed her eyes, but slumber eluded her. Where are you, Cooper? she intoned silently, and wondered if she would ever see him again.
Cooper lay on his belly in the snow and observed the darkened village. He knew which lodge was Last Horse's. Hallie would be inside. He couldn't wait until morning. It might be too late.
Simply sneaking in a
nd carrying her off as Last Horse had done would be of no use. Last Horse would follow and await his chance to recapture her. Cooper knew it as well as he knew the sun would come up in the morning.
He would have to take her with a show of strength in front of Last Horse's band. The way these people understood and respected.
He slid backward and ran to where Wiley waited with the horses. "She's there," he said.
"Now what?"
"Now I go in for her."
The moon barely shed any illumination. A light snow had begun to fall, and here next to the woods and the buttes the wind wasn't fierce.
"You should wait here," Cooper said. "I can't promise you'd be safe down there."
"Have you asked your spirits for safety?" Wiley asked.
Cooper nodded.
"Then I'll take my chances with them," he decided.
Cooper swung up onto his gelding. Wiley followed, and they rode out in the open toward the village. A dog whined and several ran toward them.
A flap was thrown back and an Indian carrying a torch came out. He whistled, and several more braves appeared in the dim moonlight.
Cooper rode directly to Last Horse's lodge and called out. "My brother!" he shouted in Oglala.
Last Horse flung back the flap and straightened, rifle in hand.
"You have the woman that belongs to me!" Cooper challenged. "You will give her back."
Many torches had been lit and carried to the front of Last Horse's lodge, illuminating his angry features. "The woman is mine," Last Horse announced. "If you want her, you will have to take her."
Cooper climbed down from his horse and drew his knife. "That's what I'm here for."
Chapter Sixteen
Hallie didn't recognize the words, but something about the familiar voice brought a sob to her throat.
Last Horse had leapt from the pallet of furs and grabbed a rifle before disappearing. She ran toward the opening and was nearly knocked flat when he barged back in. He tossed the gun on the furs, anger flushing his skin and making the veins on his neck and shoulders stand out. He drew an enormous knife, studied the sharp edge in the dwindling firelight and replaced it in its sheath, securing the holsterlike belt at his waist, the only thing he wore besides his breechclout.
Badlands Bride Page 23
