LaceysWay

by Madeline Baker

  Her hands were fumbling with the rope at his wrists when she heard an angry curse. And then Sun Beaver yanked her to her feet, his black eyes filled with wry amusement.

  “If you need a man, I am here,” Sun Beaver volunteered.

  Anger knifed through Matt as he struggled to his feet. “She is my woman,” he said through clenched teeth.

  Sun Beaver shrugged. “She was your woman. Now she is my slave.” Lazily he reached out and slapped Lacey across the face, hard. She reeled backward, tears stinging her eyes as she lifted a hand to her throbbing cheek.

  Matt stifled the hot words of protest that rose to his lips as he stared at the bright red handprint on Lacey’s cheek. He longed to strike Sun Beaver, to revile him for his harsh treatment of Lacey, but there was nothing to be gained by making the Apache angry.

  “Do not come near the white man again,” Sun Beaver warned. “If you do, I will have him killed. Do you understand me?”

  “I understand,” Lacey said quickly.

  With a last glance at Matt, the warrior grabbed Lacey by the arm and dragged her back to his lodge.

  Matt grimaced as a handful of Apache children clustered around him. He had hoped they would grow weary of making sport of him, but it seemed a futile hope. He was the enemy, a white man, and they delighted in harassing him. Now and then one of the braver boys would dash in and strike him on the leg or across the back, counting coup, then the other boys would shriek with delight. Their childish blows rarely hurt, but the blow to his pride was tremendous. It was humiliating enough, being tied up like a damn dog, without having a bunch of half-naked little savages mocking him.

  When at last the boys tired of their sport and wandered away, Matt’s thoughts turned to Lacey. He wondered how she was faring. He had only seen her a couple of times since the night Sun Beaver had caught them together, and only from a distance. She seemed well enough, but there was no way to be certain. He wondered if the Apache squaw mistreated her. And if the buck had taken her to his bed. The idea of another man, any man, laying hands on his woman, his wife, made the blood pound in his brain and filled his heart with a cold and bitter rage. Yet he was helpless to do anything about it. And that thought was the most galling of all.

  They had been in the Apache camp almost three weeks when a handful of Kiowa warriors rode in. There was a celebration of some kind that night, with a lot of singing and dancing. The women served food to the men, and when the men had eaten their fill, one of the warriors brought out a gourd of tiswin, which, Lacey had learned, was a kind of beer made from the heart of the mescal plant.

  As the night wore on, the warriors began to gamble. Lacey watched from the shadows, her skin prickling with apprehension when she saw Matt’s captor gesture toward Matt.

  Later, she summoned the nerve to ask Sun Beaver what had happened.

  “The white man has been traded to one of the Kiowas,” Sun Beaver explained brusquely. “He leaves in the morning.” The Indian fixed Lacey with a hard stare. “You remember what I said?”

  “Yes,” Lacey answered. “I remember.”

  Going to her bed, she crawled under the robes and wept softly all night long.

  The following morning, Lacey watched in helpless dismay as Matt’s captor handed him over to one of the Kiowa braves. Matt struggled wildly as his new owner tried to get him on the back of a horse. Lacey pressed her hand over her mouth to keep from crying out as four Kiowa warriors descended on Matt, striking him with their bows and lances until Matt was unconscious. The warriors laughed as they draped Matt over the back of a horse and tied his hands and feet together under the horse’s belly.

  She cried all that day, her heart aching with sorrow and loneliness. Being a slave in an Apache camp had been bad enough, but at least Matt had been there, too. Just knowing he was nearby, even though she was forbidden to talk to him, had made her plight easier to bear. And now he was gone and she was alone among an alien people.

  Wind Woman threatened and scolded and finally gave Lacey a couple of swats with a stick, but to no avail. Lacey continued to sob as though her heart would break. Her father was gone, and now Matt was lost to her as well. It was simply too awful to be borne.

  Lacey cried until she was dry and empty inside, and then, feeling as if she had lost all reason to go on living, she went out to gather wood for Wind Woman’s fire.

  Matt kept a careful eye on the countryside as they rode across the trackless prairie, grateful that his captors had allowed him to sit erect when he regained consciousness. There were a lot of miserable ways to travel, and lying on your stomach across the back of a horse had to be one of the worst.

  His hands constantly worked the ropes binding his wrists in an effort to get free, but he only succeeded in making his wrists bleed and his arms weary. He shivered convulsively as the wind blew down out of the mountains, silently cursing the Indians for refusing to give him a shirt and leggings. Thorny bushes gouged his legs as his captors deliberately passed close to the spiny brush that dotted the prairie.

  The second day out, it rained for several hours. The warriors rode in comfort beneath shaggy buffalo robes and coats while Matt’s body was racked with chills. His temper, always volatile, was ready to explode at the slightest provocation. He was cold and hungry and bone weary, but, more than that, he was worried about Lacey.

  At noon the Indians drew to a halt in the lee of a high plateau. Dismounting, they huddled together, gnawing on jerky and pemmican, while Matt sat in the rain, his hands tied behind his back, his feet lashed to the stirrups. He glared at his captors, cursing them under his breath.

  Finally one of the warriors cut Matt’s feet free and pulled him from his horse. Shoving him to the ground, the Indian tossed a hunk of jerky into the mud. The message was clear: if he wanted to eat, he would have to eat from the ground like a dog.

  Matt gazed hungrily at the dried meat, his appetite warring with his pride. He had not eaten in two days, yet he could not bring himself to eat off the ground. He wasn’t an animal, by damn, he was a man!

  The Indians watched him, amused. The white man had spirit. It would be a shame to kill him, yet that would likely be his fate in the end. A man with spirit and courage did not make a good slave. Sooner or later he rebelled, and then he was killed.

  Matt sat back on his heels, his eyes blazing defiance as he glared at the warriors. And all the while his thoughts were on Lacey. She was a gently bred young woman, and though she had endured many hardships while they searched for her father, she was not accustomed to the hard work and rough life of the Apache. Would she be able to adapt to their harsh way of life? How long would it take to break her spirit? How long before some Apache buck took her for his wife? He groaned low in his throat at the thought of another man possessing her as he had possessed her, making love to her as he yearned to do, holding her close all through the night.

  Some minutes later, two of the warriors grasped Matt’s arms and thrust him up into the saddle. Matt lashed out with his foot as one of the Indians began to tie his feet to the stirrups. The heel of his foot caught the Apache high in the chest, knocking the wind out of him and sending him reeling backward. It was a foolish thing to do, and Matt regretted it immediately as four warriors dragged him off his horse and began to beat him with their hands and fists. He grunted with pain as the Indians rained blow after blow to his face and midsection. Blood was oozing from his mouth and nose and from a cut under his eye when they finally let him go. Reviling him in the Apache tongue, they threw him on his horse and lashed his feet to the stirrups.

  Matt rode limp in the saddle, his chin resting on his chest, his body aching from the beating he had received. He was covered with mud and blood and a growing sense of doom. Lashing out at the Indians had been stupid, he mused. So damn stupid. He had to do whatever they told him, pretend he was defeated. Crawl, if necessary. Beg, if need be, until they were certain he was no longer a threat. Then, and only then, could he dare try to escape.

  When they made camp t
hat night, Matt huddled against a tree, seeking shelter from the wind that cut through him like a knife. His hands were still bound behind his back; his feet, bound at the ankles, were tethered to the tree. He had not eaten for almost three days, nor tasted water, and he gazed longingly at the warm fire where the Indians sat, eating the rabbits they had caught earlier and drinking water from the bladder of a deer.

  Driven by a terrible thirst, he knelt on the ground and lapped at the muddy water that had gathered in a shallow puddle near the trunk of the tree. The water was gritty, but he drank it anyway, then felt the back of his neck grow hot as he heard the warriors laughing at him. One of the Indians tossed over a hunk of meat, and Matt forced himself to lean forward and pick up the meat with his teeth and eat it. Pride would not fill his empty belly, and he could not afford to let himself grow weak and sick from lack of food and drink. He had to stay strong. He had to stay alive. For Lacey’s sake if not his own.

  Amused by the sight of the white man eating in the mud, the Indians threw him another hunk of meat, and then another, and Matt ate it all, swallowing the meat along with his pride, for pride was a luxury he could no longer afford.

  That night, while the Indians lay warm around the fire, he shivered in the mud with only his growing hatred to keep him warm.

  Three days later they reached the Kiowa camp. It was a small village situated between the narrow walls of a canyon. He counted only about twenty lodges. The women and children ran out to see the naked white man who was covered with mud and blood. They chattered excitedly as they gathered around Matt, pointing and laughing and making jokes.

  The Indian who had traded three horses for Matt dropped a rope over his neck and led him to a small lodge at the far end of the village. Tying the rope to a high branch, the warrior went inside the lodge.

  Alone at last, Matt sank to the ground, his back against the tree. Closing his eyes, he forced himself to relax. He would need to rest and gather his strength for whatever lay ahead.

  Lacey curled up on her buffalo robe bed and closed her eyes. She was weary, so weary, but sleep would not come. Matt’s image filled her mind, his dark eyes smiling at her, assuring her that everything would be all right. Where was he now? Was he still alive? Why was life so unfair? First her father had been taken from her, and now Matt.

  Lacey sniffed as self-pity washed over her. She hated being a slave. She did all of Wind Woman’s work, leaving the Apache woman with little to do but care for her child and visit with her friends, who all envied her because she had a white slave. Lacey was forced to cook the meals, tend the small garden behind the lodge, wash and mend the clothes, wash the baby’s dirty clouts, and tidy the lodge. It wasn’t fair, Lacey thought unhappily, and began to cry, even though crying was a waste of time and energy and left her eyes red and her throat sore.

  She yearned to go home, and yet she had no home. She yearned for Matt, but Matt was gone, perhaps dead. She yearned for her freedom, but there was only Wind Woman and her constant demands on Lacey’s time.

  Despair sat on Lacey’s shoulder like a carrion crow. There was no hope in sight, she thought morosely, none at all. The best she could hope for was that some Apache warrior would eventually marry her. At least then she would have a lodge of her own, perhaps a child to love.

  The thought brought little comfort. She wanted a wood house with a stove and a white fence not a hide lodge. She wanted Matt to be the father of her children not an Apache warrior who would never understand her, never love her as Matt loved her.

  Staring into the darkness, she made no effort to stem the tears that washed down her cheeks.

  Chapter Eight

  Matt groaned softly as he sat up and stretched his legs. His shoulders were stiff, his wrists sore from the constant chafing of the rope that held his hands behind his back. Two weeks had passed, and in all that time he had not been freed of his bonds for more than a few minutes each day. The hours passed slowly, and he fretted at his captivity, and at the inactivity he had been forced to endure. Twice each day his captors offered him food and water, and twice each day Matt swallowed his pride and lapped up whatever was offered, eating it off the ground while his captor watched, openly amused.

  Matt was a curiosity in the camp. The Kiowa had seen few white men up close, and they came daily to gawk at Matt, marveling at the whiskers sprouting on his jaw. The Indian men plucked the hair from their faces, and a beard was a novelty.

  Scowling blackly, Matt watched the sun rise over the distant mountains. The sun. Its warmth chased the chill of the night from his body even as it chased the darkness from the sky.

  His captor stepped from his lodge and dropped a hunk of venison on the ground at Matt’s feet, together with a bowl of water.

  Obediently, Matt began to eat. The meat was hard and cold, but he ate it anyway, knowing he would get nothing else until nightfall. He was taking a drink of water when the warrior drew a knife and cut him free.

  Matt glanced at the warrior in surprise as the ropes binding his hands and feet fell away.

  “Get wood,” the warrior said curtly, and turning on his heel, he disappeared inside the lodge.

  Matt stood up, flexing his arms and shoulders, rubbing his chafed wrists. So he was to be a slave after all.

  With a sigh, he started toward the grove of trees that grew at the west end of the canyon. Several Indian women were already up and searching for wood. They stared at Matt, their dark eyes curious and resentful. He was a white man. The enemy.

  Ignoring them, Matt began picking up whatever sticks and twigs he could find. He could hear the Indian women laughing at him as he walked along. Imagine, a man, even a white man, doing women’s work. It was so amusing.

  He had a good-sized armful of wood and was about to return to camp when he saw the gray-haired white man hobbling toward the river. Curious, Matt followed the man, noting that he limped badly and that he seemed in ill health.

  The gray-haired man grimaced as he bent over to fill the waterskin. The cold weather must be hell on his old bones, Matt mused. The man turned at the sound of footsteps, his eyes showing surprise as Matt hunkered down beside him.

  For a moment the two men studied each other. Then the older man smiled ruefully. “Welcome to hell, friend,” he said, offering Matt his hand. “Been here long?”

  “About two weeks,” Matt replied, taking the older man’s hand. “How about you?”

  The elderly man shrugged. “I’m not sure. I’ve lost track of the time. A year. Perhaps two. What difference does it make?”

  “Makes a difference to me,” Matt said. “I don’t aim to stay here that long if I can help it.”

  The old man laughed softly. “That’s what I thought when they first captured me,” he said bitterly. “I was determined to escape. I stayed quiet, kept my eyes open and my mouth shut, memorized the routine of the camp so I’d know the best time to make a break for it.” He laughed again, a cold, hollow sound with no hint of amusement. “They whipped me the first time I tried to escape. Beat me with a club the second time. Cut the hamstring in my right leg the third. Now I can hardly walk, let alone run. And the same thing will happen to you, you’ll see. There’s no way out of the canyon except through that narrow entrance. And they keep that guarded day and night.”

  Matt frowned. The Indians seemed to have a penchant for high-walled canyons. “I don’t give a damn if the whole tribe sits up there day and night,” he said fervently. “I’ve got to get out of here.”

  The old man nodded, his brown eyes filled with compassion. “Well, good luck to you, friend,” he said as he stood up, the waterskin slung over his shoulder. “It was nice talking to you.”

  “The name’s Drago. Matt Drago.”

  “Tom Claymore.”

  “Claymore!” Matt exclaimed.

  “Does the name mean something to you?” Claymore asked, surprised by Matt’s reaction.

  “Yeah. Old Smoke Johnson used to talk about you all the time, about the shining times, he called the
m.”

  “Smoke!” Tom Claymore grinned. “Is that old buzzard still prowling around?”

  Matt shook his head. “No. He was killed at Chickamauga.”

  “Well, there’s no fool like an old fool,” Claymore mused with a shake of his head. “He should have had sense enough to sit that one out. War’s a young man’s game.”

  Matt smiled. “Yeah, but he loved the South. He was proud to die for it.” Matt slammed his fist into his palm. “Dammit, I’ve got to get out of here. Soon.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got a woman waiting somewheres,” Claymore opined, chuckling.

  “Yeah. She’s a captive, too. I’ve got to find her before it’s too late. Before…”

  “Before one of the bucks takes her to bed,” Claymore said knowingly.

  “Yeah.”

  Tom Claymore nodded. “I’ll help you, son,” he said resolutely. “Just let me know what I can do.”

  Matt nodded, and the two men shook hands again.

  “Well,” Claymore said, straightening his shoulders, “back to work. The old crone who owns me swings a mean stick when she gets mad.”

  Matt grinned ruefully. “Woman’s work is never done,” he muttered, and, picking up his load of firewood, returned to his captor’s lodge.

  He lay awake a long time that night. Two men just might be able to make their way out of the canyon. It would take a lot of planning and more than a little luck, he mused. Only he didn’t have a plan. And he was afraid his luck had run out.

  The days that followed were difficult. It was hard to be a slave, hard to obey, hard to be hungry and dirty all the time. He was still clad in nothing but a deerskin clout, still compelled to sleep outside, huddled in the dirt. The only bright spot was that he was no longer tied to a tree like a damn dog. He was grateful for that, and then angry. Damned Indians! Why should he feel gratitude because he was no longer tied up like an animal? What right did these savages have to keep him in captivity? Dammit, he’d never done anything to any of them.