Cutter wasn’t certain what sound it was that roused him. Normally he was a very light sleeper and came awake fairly alert, but not this time. His mind was still cobwebbed from an exhausted sleep. His ears strained to pick up sounds, but nothing was immediately discernible.
Still, his instinct told him someone was there.
He could smell the intruder’s scent in the rain-cleansed air. Despite the fact that he sensed the presence, knew it was there, when his eyes adjusted finally to the darkness, he was jolted to make out the expressionless face hovering so close above his and Elizabeth’s huddled forms.
Silver flickered in the moonlight, and he held himself still.
He knew at once that it was one of the three Indians he’d spotted along the bluff-top, and his eyes quickly scanned the area. He could make out the other two still mounted. They’d remained at least ten yards away, along with the dead Indian’s horse—silent watchers.
Though his adrenaline surged, Cutter resisted the urge to leap to his feet. He cursed himself for his recklessness. Hell, he’d forgotten the Indians were even there. And because of that fact, the advantage was theirs.
And they both knew it.
His gun wasn’t but a foot above his head, but if he dove for it now, he’d be wearing the Indian’s blade through his windpipe before the thought ever finished crossing his mind. Very slowly, Cutter removed his hand from under Elizabeth’s back, trying not to wake her in the process. It’d be better if he didn’t.
“Your woman makes you careless,” the Indian said matter-of-factly, in his thick Cheyenne tongue, admonishing Cutter with a careless wave of his knife.
“But she has fire in her spirit, and in her hands,” Cutter returned just as coolly, “and that is worth a dozen deaths to any man.” His gaze never left the Indian’s. He met the man eye to eye, leaving his thoughts open for the Indian to know.
The Indian nodded sagely, sheathing his knife suddenly. “I had a woman with fire once, but she was slain by the Ooetane.” Elizabeth stretched lazily beside him, and the Indian jutted his chin at her. “She knows the ways of our people,” he said, but it was more an astonished question than a statement of fact.
Inopportunely, before Cutter could reply, Elizabeth chose that moment to open her eyes.
Seeing the strange Indian hovering above them, Elizabeth choked back a terrified scream, but it remained to be seen in her eyes. The Indian’s face contorted.
Elizabeth understood nothing of the exchange between Cutter and the Indian. All she knew was that the Indian sounded irate. And suddenly Cutter turned to her, his look accusing.
“You put white sage on the tomb?”
“I—I what?” she stammered. Instinctively she gathered up the blanket to hide her nakedness. Cutter, on the other hand, sat facing the Indian, as naked as the day he was born. Elizabeth doubted he spared it so much as a thought. He appeared so calm, and it seemed incredible that he could remain so utterly composed when she herself was suppressing a bloodcurdling scream. Clutching her end of the blanket to her bosom protectively, she inched her way to Cutter’s back, taking refuge there.
“He wants to know about the sage,” Cutter repeated brusquely, without turning. “Did you put it there?”
A thousand tortures visited Elizabeth’s mind, every horrible tale she’d ever heard in reference to the Indians—ridiculous as they may have seemed when she’d first heard them. They cut out tongues, shaved scalps, kidnapped women and children, stole away their souls!
“Oh, God have mercy—not on purpose, Cutter!” Her fingers dug into his bare shoulders as the Indian gave her a skeptical look. “I swear it! I really meant no harm!” she declared to the Indian, panicking. “I—I just gathered a handful of blossoms without thinking!” His expression didn’t soften. “I—I didn’t know!” she insisted.
Cutter sighed impatiently, shaking his head. “Lizbeth.”
“What!”
“Shut up.” The command was no less convincing for the soft way it was spoken. Nor was it unkind. His cockeyed smile returned as he turned to speak to the Indian in his own tongue. The Indian nodded once, and responded briskly, then grinned broadly as Cutter added something, more. Suddenly the Indian burst out laughing, and stood to walk away.
“What did you say to him?” Elizabeth demanded at once.
“Nothing you care to know,” Cutter told her honestly, giving her a quick once-over. Satisfied that all her choice parts were well covered, he turned again to watch the Indian mount up and listen to his bantering with the others. At once all three burst out laughing, and glanced again at Elizabeth, all of them nodding appreciatively.
Cutter smiled, sharing a rare moment with his mother’s people—not his mother’s tribe, but it didn’t matter. The connection was still there. He watched their easy camaraderie with a mixture of envy and pride—felt their unspoken grief for their friend. Not one of them looked back to the travois where the dead man lay, but their body movement told Cutter that they were more than aware of him, and their voices were subdued, as though in deference to his eternal sleep. Even their laughter held a note of sorrow.
As they turned away, Elizabeth started to see the crudely constructed cradle hitched up behind the riderless horse. A dark form lay there unmoving, swaddled in rags, and her heart wrenched painfully. She clasped the blanket more tightly to her bosom. It was the dead Indian, she knew without being told.
They’d come to claim him.
“You did them an honor,” Cutter told her. “The white sage purifies. By placing it upon the tomb, you have kept the wicked shades at bay until they could prepare him for his journey to Seyan.” His gaze held hers briefly, then skittered back to the Indians. “They separated in the storm.” His Adam’s apple bobbed, and then his eyes, glittering strangely, returned to meet hers. “They know you tried to save him, when you didn’t have to.”
Elizabeth didn’t know what to say. She could sense the profound emotion bottled so deeply within him. Though she felt compelled to, she didn’t look away. “Seyan?” she asked huskily, her voice sounding strange.
“The place of the dead,” Cutter replied softly. “Those who die follow the Hanging Road above to Heammawihio.”
Not about to attempt a pronunciation of that one, Elizabeth nodded. Shuddering, she watched as Cutter threw his head back and scanned the heavens, reminding her of a lone wolf baying at the moon. And the moon—she couldn’t help but follow his gaze upward—it was so big in the sky tonight, yet appeared so solitary. Like Cutter. Bigger than life, yet despite his infuriating nonchalance, there was an inherent loneliness about him that struck at her heart. “Hanging Road?” she asked in a whisper.
“The Milky Way,” Cutter clarified with another quick glance her way.
Elizabeth’s brow furrowed, and she nodded. “Oh.” In silence they watched the trio make their way to the bluff, their horses picking their way expertly in the darkness. “And where are they taking him now?”
“Home,” Cutter answered gruffly. “They’re taking him home.” And a part of him grieved over that place he’d never know. That he’d never known.
“Did they explain how it was that he was wounded?” Elizabeth ventured again.
“No.” Cutter’s eyes never shifted, though by now the trio was no longer visible through the blackness. “Didn’t ask.”
“Well, what did they say?” Recalling their strange words, the length of their conversation, she was dying of curiosity over them.
As Cutter turned to her, the shadows disappeared from his eyes. He grinned slowly, his teeth gleaming white in the night. “He wanted to know why you spoke so sharply in their presence—did you hate them for the color of their skin?”
“Of course not!” She choked on her shock. “W-What did you tell them?” To her mind, it was certainly nothing to grin about!
Cutter chuckled. “I told them no—that you didn’t.” His glittering eyes gave him away.
“That’s not all you told them,” she accused him, slappi
ng at the back of his head wrathfully. “What else, Mr. McKenzie?”
“Damn, woman, if you ain’t heavy-handed!” he said. And then he held out his hands to ward her off. “I told them you always spoke so sharply,” he said quickly, “and that you made love like a yellow-eyed she-wolf… and that if they didn’t believe me, they could check out the mile-long marks on my back—stings like the devil!”
Gasping with outrage, Elizabeth mustered enough indignity to smack Cutter again, this time a bit harder. He caught her wrist effortlessly. “You didn’t!” she protested breathlessly, her face heating fiercely. A reluctant smile trembled on her lips.
Cutter’s shoulders began to quake, and then he laughed outright.
“Oh, you couldn’t have!” she cried. “Tell me you didn’t!”
Cutter’s laughter bowled him over, and he fell back on the bedroll. Hooting hysterically, he peered up at Elizabeth’s, “‘Fraid so,” he told her, barely able to speak without breaking into chuckles.
Elizabeth shook her hands free and would have smacked Cutter yet again had the voice not startled her from it.
From somewhere along the bluff-top, the Indian’s disembodied voice resounded clearly in the night.
“Néá‘eše!” he said with passion, and as he continued to speak, his voice sounded almost an eerie echo to her ears. It sent chill after chill racing down Elizabeth’s spine, though she had not an inkling what was being said. At the end of the pronunciation, all three Indians began to whoop. She searched for them frantically along the bluff-top, but could see nothing, could only guess at their actions.
They seemed agitated over something.
Cutter’s laughter stopped abruptly, and he, too, shuddered as their sounds faded in the night—only, not out of fear. Without warning he reached up, seizing Elizabeth passionately into his arms, feeling never more connected to someone in his life.
“What did they say?” she whispered anxiously, her lips so close to his that they could have been sharing the same breath.
For the longest moment, Cutter couldn’t respond, could only lie there feeling her heart throb against the beat of his own, his chest feeling near to bursting with pride. Taking a deep breath, he stroked her back reassuringly, and gazed into her expectant face. There was still the slightest twinge of laughter in his tone when he spoke again.
“He said thank you.”
“And?” Elizabeth prodded, knowing all those words couldn’t possibly have amounted to one simple phrase.
Cutter smiled, holding her tightly, anticipating her outraged reaction. “Yeah, well… he also said… Black Wolf, who is gone from among us, was my brother, but—” a quiver sped through him, raising the hairs on his arms “—she who claws at man’s back shall forever be called my friend.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
For long hours afterward, Elizabeth was unable to erase the sound of the Indian’s voice from her thoughts. Nor could she forget the tenderness in Cutter’s eyes as he’d loved her again afterward, the feel of his warm hands wandering possessively over her body.
Never had she felt more alive.
In the early hours of the morning, knowing that sleep was hopeless with the sun beginning to rise on the horizon, they dressed. She traded her blouse for one Cutter handed her: a white one with buttons down the front and frothy lace at the sleeves and collar. As distinct as it was, she recognized it at once as one of Jo’s. But despite Cutter’s disapproving look, she again donned her trusty old skirt with the tattered hem. She didn’t have the nerve yet to wear the men’s britches she’d bought, though soon she wouldn’t have much choice. Her skirt was literally wearing away!
The packing went swiftly, because they’d unpacked so little to begin with. At last Elizabeth mounted up, with Cutter’s help. But as Cutter turned to mount his own horse, the sound of riders approaching kept him from swinging his leg over his Palouse’s rump.
Sliding down once more, he turned to see who it was.
Two men dressed in Union blue reined in. The lead man wore a full beard, along with his filthy blues. His shoulder-length hair was wild and unkempt, though he might still have passed as handsome, with his well-chiseled features, if it hadn’t been for the coldness in his gray eyes. They were icy and unresponsive, lacking any emotion but for the flicker of malice he didn’t bother to disguise.
“McKenzie,” the man said in greeting, surprise evident in his tone. In spite of it, the word managed to sound profane coming from his severe lips.
If Cutter was surprised by their unexpected appearance, it didn’t show. He nodded, giving Elizabeth a quick glance, urging her without words to be silent. As though he’d not heard the man speak, he turned his back to the duo and mounted up. Once he was settled in his saddle, he turned to them again, tipping his hat. “Sulzberger,” he replied acerbically. He nodded to the other. “What blood you lookin’ to shed this far east, boys? War’s over, y’know?”
The man, Magnus Sulzberger, sprayed tobacco-yellowed spittle on the ground. “Always were a smart-ass, McKenzie… and you’re dead right… that war is over.” He’d emphasized the word “dead,” and now his grin widened, his lips tightening over the lump of tobacco beneath. And then his eyes narrowed again, gleaming with open hostility. “But there’s still a war goin’ on. Reckon you ain’t heard ‘bout Platte Bridge?”
“No,” Cutter affirmed. “And don’t reckon I care to either.”
Magnus carried on as though Cutter had never spoken. “Three, maybe four thousand of them redskin bastards drove in a cavalry detachment and wiped out a military supply train there.”
Cutter shrugged dismissively. “Ain’t my concern anymore.”
“Well, now, McKenzie… the way I hear it told… never was. At any rate, you ought to be remembering, when you go running your mouth and siding with them savages, that you no longer have government protection. These days, I reckon I might just watch who I was rilin’ if I were you.” Both of his brows rose abruptly. “You think?” His beard split and a demonic smile spread across his almost nonexistent lips.
Cutter grinned in return, but there was no benevolence in his expression. His eyes narrowed to dark, predatory slits. “If you were me,” he said pointedly, his tone low but carrying clearly. “But then, we both know you’re not.”
To Cutter’s way of thinking, any man who would run down a toddler in cold blood, spearing him with his bayonet as though he were a cold-blooded trout, was a coward of the worst kind, and Magnus had done that and worse at Sand Creek. Much worse. Had it been up to Cutter, the man wouldn’t be wearing his stripes at the moment, much less the cocksure smile he wore like a badge of honor. But it wasn’t up to Cutter, and there wasn’t a chance they’d take a half-breed’s word over a full-blooded white’s, not any day. And so he kept his damned mouth shut and watched his back.
Magnus’ smile vanished, and there was suddenly cold fury in his eyes.
Cutter tapped his hat out of his eyes with a finger and, in one smooth movement, reached down to flick open the leather thong that kept his revolver holstered. The fluidity of his gesture was a warning in itself. “State your business, boys, and move on,” he told them. “Oh, and Sulzberger… you’d do well to remember that that protection you’re talking about works two ways.” The faintest smile touched his lips, crept into his eyes. “Means I no longer have anyone to answer to.”
Magnus’ mouth took on a mocking twist. “I hear you,” he drawled, readjusting his wad of tobacco before spitting it out. “I hear you, McKenzie.” He gave Elizabeth a bone-chilling sidewise glance. “Hafta wonder, miss, if you know who it is you’re keepin’ company with?” His gray eyes glittered with unconcealed malice as he took in her lamentable state of dress.
Elizabeth averted her gaze, and Magnus laughed harshly, the sound obscene. “Well, hell, darlin’, maybe you do,” he said cryptically.
There was no doubt in Elizabeth’s mind that the man was trouble, and she suddenly couldn’t wait to be away from him.
“Anyhow,
” he carried on, “ain’t lookin’ for trouble with you, McKenzie. Happens we’re out hunting a pack of renegades. Raided a camp about thirty miles east of Fort Riley. Swiped some food and supplies.” He glanced again at Elizabeth, and the look he gave her raised the tiny hairs on the back of her neck. “Stuck one of my men as they were leaving,” he continued with loathing, tipping his head in the direction of the youth beside him. “O’Neill here spotted your smoke last night and… Well, anyhow, you ain’t them. Ain’t happen to’ve seen ‘em, have you?” There was unconcealed suspicion in his question, as though it really didn’t matter what Cutter said. He already clearly disbelieved him.
Cutter was silent a long moment.
“And what if I have?” Cutter asked casually, one brow lifting in challenge.
Magnus responded with a slow sneer. “Well then… I reckon you ought to say so.”
One side of Cutter’s Ups lifted contemptuously. “Yeah?” His wintry smile crept into his eyes. “And you say they stuck an officer?” He hoped it was one of Magnus’ colleagues, and he found himself feeling sorry for the kid at Magnus’ side. Sulzberger knew the art of intimidation only too well. Likely he’d have the whelp dancing over bullets for his kicks and believing it was his lucky day for being able to do so.
“That’s right,” Magnus drawled.
Cutter gave him a nod. “Well, now, seems I do recall they went that way.” He pointed halfheartedly in the direction the Indians had, in fact, gone. “Came through yesterday, late afternoon. Four of ‘em.”
Elizabeth’s breath snagged, and her eyes widened. She couldn’t believe Cutter had actually given them away! Didn’t he realize what these vile men would do if they caught up with them? She didn’t find it so difficult to believe that the Indians had perhaps killed a man. They’d seemed perfectly capable, but for some strange reason, she felt connected to them, even grateful. And some little voice in the back of her mind told her that they wouldn’t have killed for sport, that it was perhaps hunger… or even revenge that had driven them, for even in Sioux Falls she had heard tales of Sand Creek. Still, she refrained from saying anything to refute Cutter, only because she knew it wouldn’t help matters even if she did.
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