“Mr. Jensen, I was wondering if you would let me deputize you while we go out to look for Malcolm,” Gilmore said.
Matt shook his head. “No need to deputize me,” he said. “I’ll just go with you as a private citizen.”
“Sheriff! Sheriff!” someone called coming in through the front door at that moment. Seeing Matt, Hendel stopped.
“Hello, Mr. Hendel,” Matt said.
“Mr. Jensen, oh, I am so very glad to see you here.”
“You know this fella, do you, Jensen?” Sheriff Williams asked.
“Yes, we came out together on the train and then on the coach. He works for Mr. Bixby.”
“Oh, yes, the man who is going to own the biggest ranch in Arizona,” Sheriff Williams said, his voice disclosing a bit of derision.
“What brings you to the sheriff’s office, Mr. Hendel?” Matt asked.
“It’s Mrs. Bixby,” Hendel said. Then quickly he corrected himself. “Of course, I mean Mr. and Mrs. Bixby,” he said.
“What about them?”
“They are missing,” Hendel said. “They rode out just after breakfast. I was certain they would be back by now, but they still haven’t returned.”
“Rode out?” Sheriff Williams asked. “What do you mean by ‘rode out’?”
“They rented a rig from the livery and rode out on Picket Post Road to look over land that Mr. Bixby intends to buy,” Hendel explained.
“Picket Post Road? That’s not good,” Sheriff Williams said.
“What do you mean ‘That’s not good’? Is there something about Picket Post Road that I should know?”
“There’s been some Indian trouble along Picket Post,” Sheriff Williams said.
“Oh, God in heaven,” Hendel gasped, putting his hand over his chest. “Something has happened to her—uh, them,” he corrected. “I just know it.”
“We’re about to go out and take a look,” Matt said. “I’ll make a special effort to find her.”
“I’m going with you.”
“Mr. Hendel, that might not be such a good idea,” Matt said. “There’s going to be some hard riding ahead of us and—no disrespect intended—the last thing I will need is to have to have someone slow me on the trail.”
“Mr. Jensen, I am quite capable of sitting a horse, sir,” Hendel replied, his tone petulant.
Matt laughed and held his hand out. “You have convinced me, Mr. Hendel. I’d be glad to have you come along.”
“Thank you,” Hendel said.
Cynthia mounted the horse they brought for her, and rode with the Indians back to a small encampment. Riding a horse was not a routine thing for a young woman from the city of New York, but she had taken riding lessons and it was something that she had always enjoyed. She was thankful for that, because her skill as an equestrian was serving her well now.
After riding hard for about an hour, they reached an Indian encampment, consisting of about fifteen or so structures. The encampment surprised her, because she thought all the Indians were on large and well-controlled reservations. This small village, if that was what it could properly be called, consisted of no more than a few small, temporary-looking structures. Two of the Indians took her into one of them, where they pushed her down onto the ground, then left her alone.
For some strange reason, she found being left alone to be more frightening than when she was in the midst of them. She sat there, wondering what was gong to happen to her. The shock that had allowed her to take her fate so calmly before was now wearing off and she felt the fear building. But if, as Delshay had suggested, it was her lack of fear that had kept her alive before, she knew that she could not give in to the cold terror that was beginning to overtake her.
After she sat alone for almost an hour, the Indian who had identified himself as Delshay stepped into the little structure. This was the Indian who had spared Jay’s life—the one with whom she had discussed Shakespeare. It was odd that he had actually quoted Shakespeare, while knowing nothing about the writer her English teacher had called “the Great Bard.”
Despite the relative youth of the Indian, there was about him an aura of dignity and authority.
“What is your white man name?” Delshay asked.
“My name is Cynthia.”
“Now you have an Indian name.”
“Yes, Mountain Lion Woman,” Cynthia said.
“Nalyudi does not approve of your name,” Delshay said.
“Nalyudi? Is that the big one?”
“Yes.”
“He has become my enemy, hasn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Why? I have done nothing to him.”
“He wants to take you as his woman,” Delshay replied. “But I have forbidden it.”
“You have forbidden it?”
“Yes.”
“Are you a chief, Delshay?”
“For some, I am a chief,” Delshay answered. “I am not a chief of the people who stay on the reservation.”
“If you are a chief, then you can tell me why I am a prisoner.”
“You are a prisoner because you were not killed. Would you prefer death?”
“I would prefer to be free,” she said. “You are a chief. Your people must do what you say. Order them to set me free.”
Delshay shook his head. “I think, for now, I must keep you as a prisoner,” he said.
“But why would you want to keep me prisoner? I am of no value to anyone.”
“You have value to the white man.”
“Ha,” Cynthia said with a bitter laugh. “You saw how much value I had to my husband.”
“Your husband is a coward and a fool,” Delshay said.
“Do not be so hard on him,” Cynthia said. “He was afraid.”
Matt, Ken Hendel, Marshal Gilmore, and Sheriff Williams found Bixby on the road less than four miles from Phoenix. He was bruised and his clothes were torn and dirty, the result of his having fallen several times. He had been running, and he was out of breath, and his face was red.
“Oh, thank God!” he said when saw the four riders coming toward him. “You have come to save me! I knew you would!”
“Where is Cynthia?” Hendel asked. It did not escape Matt’s notice that he called her by her first name.
“Water!” Bixby said. “Please, give me water!”
Sheriff Williams handed Bixby his canteen and Bixby turned it up to his lips, then drank long and deep.
“Mr. Bixby, where is Cynthia?” Hendel asked again, more forcefully this time than before.
“They took her,” Bixby said. “The Indians took her.”
“How did you get away from them?” Marshal Gilmore asked.
“The axle broke on the buckboard we had rented, leaving us afoot. The Indians came upon us shortly after that. I fought them,” Bixby said. “I fought hard, but they captured us. Later, I managed to get away. I tried to save Cynthia as well, but I couldn’t, so I figured that the best thing to do would be to come back here for help.”
“That was probably the best thing for you to do,” Sheriff Williams said. “If you had gone back a second time to try and save her, you would have gotten yourself killed, and maybe her as well.”
“Yes, yes,” Bixby said, shaking his head. “That’s exactly what I was thinking. I see you brought no conveyance. Hendel, I shall require you to return to that accursed corral and secure another buckboard. But, as the first one broke down, I refuse to pay another cent for the replacement.”
“Mr. Bixby, you are within easy walking distance of town,” Hendel said. “I really feel that I should go with these men to look for Mrs. Bixby.”
“Nonsense. You are in my employ, your obligation is to me. Now I am directing you to return to Phoenix, rent a conveyance of some sort, and return for me. If you do not do that, you may consider your employment terminated.”
Matt could tell by the expression on Hendel’s face that he was about to tell Bixby what he could do with his job. But because he didn’t want Hendel to act hast
ily, he spoke up.
“Ken, if she is still there, we will find her,” he said. “I promise you, I’ll let you know what is going on. Why don’t you do as Bixby says.”
Hendel took a deep breath, then nodded. “Very well,” he said. “Mr. Bixby, I shall be back within the hour.”
“Leave me your canteen,” Bixby said.
Hendel took his canteen and handed it down to him.
“Mr. Jensen,” Bixby said as he took the canteen from Hendel. “I find it odd that you say you will keep Hendel posted instead of me. She is my wife, after all.”
“Of course I will keep you posted, Bixby,” Matt said.
Chapter Twenty-three
Phoenix
It was after dark when Matt and the others returned to Phoenix. Matt went to the hotel, intending to give his report to Bixby and Hendel, but when he stepped into the lobby, the clerk called to him.
“Mr. Jensen?”
Matt, who was carrying his .44-40 Winchester in his left hand and his saddlebags across his shoulders, walked over to the front desk.
“Hello, Mr. Peters,” Matt said.
“Did you find Mrs. Bixby?” Peters asked.
“No.”
“That’s too bad.”
“I’m just about to give the report to Bixby and Hendel. Do you know if they are in their rooms?”
“No sir, they are not,” Peters replied. “Mr. Hendel told me to tell you when you came back that he and Bixby are taking their supper over at the Maison Doree Restaurant.”
“Thanks,” Matt said. He held up his rifle. “I’ll just get rid of a few things, wash up a bit, then join them.”
Maison Doree Restaurant
Hendel and Bixby were sitting at a table near the back wall. Hendel was drinking a cup of coffee, which was the only thing in front of him. Bixby had a full plate of food, which he was attacking with some gusto. When Hendel saw Matt approaching the table, he got a quick look of apprehension.
“Did you find her?” Hendel asked.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Oh,” Hendel said, the word coming out like a slow hiss of steam.
“I didn’t think you would,” Bixby said. He picked up a knife and started spreading butter on a biscuit. “More than likely, she is dead and buried.”
“You don’t seem terribly troubled by that,” Matt said.
Bixby used the knife as a pointer, pointing to Matt as he spoke.
“Who are you to judge me?” he said. “Don’t forget, Jensen, I’ve seen you in operation. I saw how you killed three men in cold blood and now, because I am too civilized and, I might add, controlled to sit here wailing and gnashing my teeth over the prospect of my wife being killed by wild Indians, you think I am a man with no feelings.”
“She’s not dead,” Matt said.
“I mean, when I escaped from them, I knew the chances were—”
“She’s not dead,” Matt said again, interrupting Bixby in mid-sentence.
“Oh, thank God!” Hendel said.
“How do you know she’s not dead?”
“Because we didn’t find her.”
“If she’s dead and buried, you aren’t likely to find her.”
“The Apache don’t bury their dead—at least, not in the sense that you think of being buried. They put their dead in natural tombs—caves—depressions in the sides of mountains—then cover them with rocks. But that is an honor that they only do with their own. If they had killed Mrs. Bixby, we would have found her body—just as we found the bodies of Mr. Malcolm and the six miners that were killed.”
“Oh,” Hendel said. “Here I was being happy that you did not find Mrs. Bixby’s body, while you did find seven others. That was terribly insensitive of me.”
“No, it wasn’t,” Matt said. “It is only natural that you would be concerned more about Mrs. Bixby than the others.”
“You are sure that Cynthia is still alive?” Bixby said.
“I’m reasonably sure, yes,” Matt said. “If they didn’t kill her when they first captured the two of you, then in all probability she will still be alive.”
“What will they do with her?”
“They’ll make her their prisoner.”
“No, you don’t understand the question. What will they do with her?” Bixby asked. “Will they—uh—will they—”
“Are you asking if they will rape her?” Matt asked.
“Yes.”
Matt shook his head. “I doubt it.”
“You doubt it? But you don’t really know, right?”
“There is a possibility they could force her into marrying one of the warriors,” Matt said. “Maybe even Delshay himself, since his own wife and children were murdered by whites. But that’s not the same thing as rape.”
“I’d like to know what that is if it isn’t rape,” Bixby said. “In your own words, you said she would be forced to marry Delshay.”
“The Indians have a very strong sense of honor,” Matt said. “We may have a difficult time understanding their sense of honor, given that they have done some terrible things, such as raiding ranches and killing entire families. But forcible rape would not be an honorable thing. Marriage, on the other hand, is honorable, even if it is forced upon the woman.”
“So you are saying my wife might be forced into a marriage, but it is all right because that would be honorable,” Bixby said.
“No, I’m not saying it would be all right,” Matt said. “I’m just trying to give you a look at their sense of honor. However, I don’t think it is anything you need to worry about right now. As she was just captured, and they know you are still alive, a forced marriage would not be something they would do right away. Here is that word honor again, but the Indians respect an honorable enemy, and that the fact that you were captured, but had the skill and courage to escape, will extend over to the way they will treat Mrs. Bixby.”
“What do we do now?” Hendel asked.
“There is nothing more I can do tonight,” Matt said. “But tomorrow, I will gather what supplies I need. Then I’m going after her.”
“I will go with you,” Hendel said.
Matt held out his hand. “Please, no,” he said. “I know you mean well, and I don’t mean to denigrate whatever contribution you might make, but the more people there are out there, beating the brush to find her, the less likely I am to succeed. It would be a little like putting a bell on the collar of a cat, if you understand my meaning.”
“Yes, I understand. I would very much like to go with you, but if you feel the chances are better for finding her if you are alone, then I will gladly stay behind.”
“You are a good man, Mr. Hendel.”
“I’m going to have some dessert,” Bixby said. “What about you, Jensen, could I treat you to dinner? Dessert perhaps?”
“No, thank you,” Matt replied. “I’ll need to get some things together tonight, if I’m going out after your wife tomorrow.”
Shortly after Delshay left, Cynthia looked around and saw that there was a bed of sorts, made from animal hides. She moved over to lie on it, surprised by how soft and comfortable it was. Before she realized it, she had fallen asleep.
When she awakened sometime later, even before she opened her eyes, she was aware of someone near. When she looked up, she saw an Indian standing over here. She recognized him as one of the ones who had captured her, and also as one of the ones who had helped her to her horse.
“You have rested, Mountain Lion Woman?” the Indian asked. His English was exceptionally good.
“My real name is Cynthia Bixby.”
“That is your white man name,” the Indian said. “But now your real name is Mountain Lion Woman.”
“Mountain Lion Woman,” Cynthia repeated.
The Indian squatted down to place a wooden bowl and a wooden plate beside her. There was water in the bowl, and some sort of meat on the plate.
“Eat,” he said.
“Thank you,” Cynthia said. She reached for the piece of me
at, picked it up, and raised it to her mouth, then hesitated just before taking a bite.
The Indian, realizing that Cynthia was afraid to eat, smiled at her hesitation, then reached for the piece of meat and took a bite.
“Eat,” the Indian said. “You will like it. It is very good. I cooked it myself.”
“What is your name?” Cynthia asked.
“I am called Chandeisi. It means Broken Nose.” Even as he explained the name, he ran his fingers across a nose that Cynthia could see was misshapen.
“You speak English very well.”
“I attended the white man’s school when I was a child,” Chandeisi explained.
“Then you have an education? How wonderful,” Cynthia said.
“I went to the white man’s school,” Chandeisi said. “I know the capitals of all the states. I know how to add and subtract, but what good is that for someone who has left the reservation to go on the warpath?”
“Why did you leave the reservation?”
“I left the reservation because the white men killed my wife and children, and killed Delshay’s wife and children,” Chandeisi said with a sense of bitterness in his voice. “I left the reservation with Delshay and the others.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Cynthia said.
“It is all right. You did not know.”
“What is this thing called?” Cynthia asked, taking in the structure with a broad wave of her arm. “This—house.”
“It is called a wickiup,” Chandeisi explained.
Cynthia looked toward the opening of the wickiup. “May I look outside?”
“Yes.”
When Cynthia looked outside, she saw no one.
“Where did the others go?” Cynthia asked.
“They have gone to make medicine.”
“Medicine? What kind of a medicine do they make?”
Chandeisi laughed. “It’s not a medicine, it is simply medicine,” he said. “It is hard for white people to understand, but it is something the warriors do before they go to battle. A powerful medicine gives them strength and courage.”
“You are a warrior, but you did not go with them.”
Matt Jensen, The Last Mountain Man Savage Territory Page 17
