I need to draw his fire now.
Merril dove from one place to another. Jones fired one shot, and then another.
A sharp pain in his shoulder knocked him back. “Christ!” Merril raised his head and peered at Jones.
Jones stood, waiting. He raised the pistol and took careful aim. His thin lips pulled back from his yellow teeth into a grin. He squeezed the trigger. The hammer slammed into a spent cylinder with a click.
“Goddammit!” Jones yelled and holstered the pistol. “I ain't done with you, Shilo.” He reached for the rifle on his saddle but found his horse had shied away from the gunfire.
Merril rose and sprinted into the shelter of the bushes.
Shortly after, Jones's rifle sounded. “I’ll find you, Shilo,” Jones called. “You won’t get far—not with a woman.”
Merril emerged on the far side of the thicket and found Nichole seated on Midnight. “Stay low.” He pulled himself up behind her with a grimace. “We're gettin' the hell out of here.”
“You're hurt.” Nichole tried to look, but he stopped her.
“There's no time.” He wrapped his arms around her and urged Midnight forward. They fled east across the prairie.
The Highlands branding site lay behind them. The ranches were at equal distance north and south. Jones would catch them before they could turn and reach the safety of either home. He'd have to outdistance Jones and find shelter somewhere ahead.
The bullet wound in his shoulder sent sharp pains down his arm. With each jolt of Midnight's hooves, sparks of light flashed in his vision. He was losing too much blood.
The gunfire behind them ceased, but they would be followed. By how many men—Merril had no idea. Whatever they were going to do, it had to be soon. Loss of blood made him dizzy and nauseous. He saw a line of low brush and trees ahead.
That must be Box Creek.
They'd crossed the eastern edge of the Shilo-Highlands boundary. There was nothing ahead but renegades and rattlesnakes.
If we reach the trees, we'll have to make a stand.
* * *
Nichole Harris
The treeline grew closer as they raced across the open stretch of ground. Nichole cast a cautious glance around Merril's side. There was no one behind them, yet she knew Jones was still back there. On the rise, three riders appeared. They stopped for a moment, and then raced down the other side toward them. She looked over the sweat-soaked mane of Merril’s horse. The trees were close—they would be in them within minutes.
Merril's grip on her waist weakened, and he sagged, slipping to one side.
“Merril!” She twisted to gain a hold on him, but instead, her motion caused both of them to fall just short of the trees.
Branches snapped as Midnight continued into the brush.
“Merril, you need to get up!” She cried as she tried to pull him to his feet. “Oh, shit.” The right side of his body soaked in blood. His arm stretched out at a strange angle from his shoulder. He'd taken the full impact of the fall on his injured arm.
“Come on, Merril. Come on, come on.” She pleaded as his eyes rolled and focused on her frightened face.
“Go, Nic.” He pushed her away. “Find Midnight. Get the rifle. It's your best chance.”
“What do you mean my best chance? You've got to come.”
“No, just... go.” Merril shook his head, and his breath caught at the movement. “There's not enough time.”
“There's plenty of time.” She pulled at his belt and glanced up in fear as the riders drew closer. “Please. Try.”
“Do what I said. Bring the rifle back here as fast as you can.” He pushed himself up with his good arm.
His face bled of color, and she feared he would pass out. She waited, ready to catch him, but he opened his eyes and nodded. “Go. I'll try to make it to cover, at least.”
Nichole spun on her bare heel and raced into the trees.
Where was his horse?
She found Midnight not far from where he'd entered the bushes.
“Easy, now,” she soothed as she approached. She retrieved the rifle and raced back to Merril.
“Over here.”
She heard his call just before she broke the cover and sidestepped to him. “You made it.” She held out the rifle to him.
“My arm—I can't hold it.”
The hoofbeats of the approaching riders beat in her ears. They called to one another, but she couldn't make out the words. She looked down at the rifle in her trembling hands. “I can't shoot this.” Her chest tightened, and her breath came in short gasps.
“It's easy.” Merril smiled at her, his eyes dull and his face pale. “It has a lever action. Pull the lever down, then back—there, that's right. Just like that. Now, place the butt tight against your shoulder. Good.”
Nichole looked over at him. Her arms and legs were shaking. “I can't do this, Merril.”
“Sure, you can.” He gave her a weary smile. “We're out of choices.”
“Damn.” Nichole held the rifle and exhaled slowly. The entire barrel trembled.
The riders crossed the low field. Nichole watched in horror as all three men pulled rifles from their saddles. “Shit, oh shit.”
“Brace yourself between those trees. Stay down. Now, look down the barrel. You have one shot, Nicki, make it count.”
“One?” Nichole looked back at him, “What good is one fucking shot?”
“You take one with us.” He laughed, then groaned. “Or, they scatter. You might have time to pump the lever again. But try to hit one of them.”
She peered along the barrel at the one she believed was Jones.
“Wait,” he whispered.
As their faces became clear, Nichole pinned the tip of the sight on the closest man, then eased the trigger back. The recoil slammed her against the tree trunk. She had missed. Worse yet, Jones and his companions didn't scatter. Instead, they turned toward them and charged.
“Run.” Merril urged, trying to push her away.
“To where?” Nichole searched Merril’s eyes for an answer. Jones and his men were almost upon them. There was no place to run. A gunshot rang out, and Nichole buried her face in Merril's uninjured shoulder.
“Nic, look.” Merril poked Nichole’s arm. “They got him.”
“Who? Who got who?” Nichole raised her head and looked through the bushes.
“Someone shot at Jones and his pals. Whoever they are, they got one of his friends.”
Jones turned his horse, yelled at the fallen rider, and gestured toward the line of trees.
Another shot rang out.
Jones dug his spurs into his horse and galloped away with one man, leaving the other on the ground.
“The coward,” Merril murmured and closed his eyes.
“Who fired the shots?” She lowered the rifle to the ground and curled beside Merril.
“We’ll find out soon enough.” He leaned his head against the spindly tree behind him.
They waited in silence. Nichole had nothing to stanch Merril's wound except her hands, and they were filthy. Her chemise was no cleaner. The injury looked bad. His shoulder—either dislodged or broken—was swelling.
“What should I do?” she whispered.
Merril opened his eyes and stared straight ahead. “Don't move.”
The urgency in his voice held her and made her stomach drop. Despite his command, she turned her head, inch by inch, in the direction of Merril's gaze and drew in a short gasp.
A tall, dangerous-looking man gazed down at them from his great height. Muscular brown arms folded across his massive chest, and his dark straight hair hung past broad shoulders. Colorful paint decorated his face and chest.
He grunted a command, and Merril nodded. “He wants us to come with him,” Merril told her.
“You speak his language?”
“Yes. He's Cheyenne.”
“Tell him we're the good guys.”
“He probably knows that already.” Merril laughed, then grimaced.
“Why else would he have shot Jones and not us?”
The Cheyenne grew impatient. He reached down, grabbed Nichole by the arm and hauled her to his side.
She yelped and struggled against his tight grip.
Merril spoke to the brave who grunted a reply and released Nichole's arm.
“What did you tell him?” She rubbed her arm and stepped away from the big man.
“I said you were my wife and I was blood brother to the Cheyenne people.”
“He believed you?”
Merril chuckle turned into a cough. “He's taking a wait and see attitude.”
The brave spoke again, and two more dark-haired men appeared. They talked for a moment, and then the two men linked arms beneath Merril's legs and back. They lifted him from the ground.
“It's all right, Nicki,” Merril said through clenched teeth. “They're taking us to their chief.”
“Their chief's here too?” The big one gripped her arm and led her through the trees.
“Somewhere close. These are renegades, hiding from our army.”
There was so much bitterness in his voice when he spoke of the army, Nichole looked back at him in confusion.
“Don't make them mad,” Merril warned.
“Don't worry,” she called over her shoulder. “I don’t want them to go all Blackie Jones on us.”
They followed a path through the brush. The small thicket became darker as the sun dipped lower in the sky. When they drew close to the encampment, Nichole could smell the smoke from a campfire and hear the movement of their animals, but she saw no sign of life, aside from the three who accompanied them. No one spoke. The big Indian had made that clear from the start.
Nichole studied him as they walked. He made no sound as he moved through the trees, only her footsteps were audible in the silence. Her unshod feet became bruised and tender.
The tall warrior wore no shirt but had trousers of light brown animal skin. The other two wore dark blue army pants. Each carried a quiver of arrows and a bow strapped to their backs. Her massive captor held a rifle in his hand, decorated with feathers and leather strips.
Nichole glanced back at Merril. He sat motionless as the Indians carried him, seated upon their locked arms.
The foliage parted, and their group stepped into a clearing. There were three small cook fires. A dozen Indians sat around the fires and spoke to each other in soft voices.
When the big one led them to the center of the camp, the quiet conversations ceased. Her captor made a short speech, motioned for Nichole to stay put, and then entered a conical shelter covered with different types of animal skins.
The men put Merril down near a tree. He gasped in pain at the slight movement.
The braves, who had grown silent at their arrival, muttered to each other as the wait stretched. A few of them rose and approached Nichole. She backed up and bumped into the man who stood guard over Merril. The Indian said something short and forceful to the approaching braves and drew his knife from its sheath.
His point made, the other Indians turned away. The guard looked hard at Nichole as he sheathed his blade, and then turned his cold, dark eyes away from her in disgust. Her attitude changed from one of gratitude to one of fear.
He doesn’t want my thanks. He'd just as soon let those men have me.
She shivered as much in apprehension as with chill. The temperature dropped as soon as the sun set and her chemise offered little protection from the cold. She moved to where Merril lay, sat down beside him and wrapped her arms around her legs.
There was something altogether wrong about being here with Indians. She rubbed at the gooseflesh on her arms and looked down at her bare feet.
What was it?
More than once, she'd experienced a sense of displacement. As her memory came back, she'd been beset by conflicting ideas—this is right, no—this is wrong. But not this time. She did not belong in her undergarments in the middle of a bunch of Indians. She tried to shake off the dull ache that began at the front of her head.
Indians.
What did she know about American Indians that evaded her?
Nichole swallowed the lump in her throat and blinked at the annoying tears in her eyes. She was confused, afraid, and thoroughly sick of not having answers. The flap on the conical shelter opened. Nichole came to her feet.
Tall and Ominous was back. He stepped out of the structure and stood to his full height, arms folded across his broad chest.
She held her breath and waited.
Another man followed through the opening and stared solemnly at Nichole. He was a hard, lean man with multiple scars on his dark, hairless chest. He approached and stopped in front of her, studying her in silence.
She returned his stare, afraid to show the fear that overwhelmed her, but too frightened to look away.
The warrior, or chief, she presumed, glanced briefly at Merril then back at her. “Who are you?” he asked, startling her with his excellent English.
“Nichole Harris.” She gestured to Merril. “This man is Merril Shilo—”
“I know his name,” the chief interrupted. His expression didn't change, and he never looked away from her eyes. “What are you doing here?”
“We were chased—”
“I know you were pursued,” he interrupted again.
“If you knew, then why—”
“Be silent.” His tone was angry.
Nichole's words died, and her mouth snapped shut.
He motioned to another man who stood in the group of observers.
“This man will see to my brother.” The harshness left his voice when he spoke of Merril. It came back when he regarded Nichole. “You will come with me.”
The chief turned and disappeared into the shelter.
Nichole hesitated before following him between the flaps.
So, Merril is related to the Cheyenne.
If the chief hadn't been so irritable and grim, she would have questioned him about their relationship. It was doubtful he’d welcome her curiosity.
A small fire burned in the center of the shelter. It warmed her chilled flesh when she entered. Soon, however, the heat became uncomfortable.
Another man, older and smaller, sat cross-legged on the other side of the tent. He only glanced up as she entered, and then returned to his trance-like meditation on the fire.
“Sit.” The chief motioned to a place near the door. Nichole sat as he moved around the fire and took a seat beside the old man.
“Why have you come?” Both men stared at her across the flames.
“I'm not sure I understand your question.” Stay calm. “Three men chased us to the creek. Your men saved us. They brought us here.”
The chief shook his head and turned to the white-haired Indian. They spoke in their language for a few moments. When the conversation ended, the chief turned to Nichole again.
“My great and noble grandfather wishes me to tell you more about why I ask this question.” His attitude became courteous. “The spirits smile on White Eagle and tell him many things. They told him you would come. They told him you are searching. For what do you search?”
She had no idea what the spirits meant.
What do I say?
How could White Eagle know they would end up here? What was she searching for? Her past? Her memories? How could he know about that? Nichole shivered despite the heat, and gooseflesh rose on her arms. The silence stretched, and they continued to stare at her, waiting for her answer.
“Your grandfather's spirits are wise.” She bowed her head to White Eagle. “I do search, but I don't think I'll find what I am looking for here.”
The white-haired man addressed his grandson.
The chief nodded. “White Eagle says you have lost yourself, that you are lost. Tell me how can this be?”
“Um.” She swallowed. “It's hard to explain.”
Both men watched her and waited.
Her face heated, and she shrugged. “I had an accident. I hit my
head.” She raised her curls and showed them her scar and stitches. “I injured the part of my brain that keeps my memories. Now I can't remember people or things that happened before the accident.”
The chief spoke to White Eagle. Nichole assumed he translated what she had just said. White Eagle shook his head.
“My grandfather does not accept your answer.”
“That’s the only answer I have.” Nichole's breath hitched, and panic fluttered in her chest.
“Silence,” he commanded. He raised his hand and pointed two fingers at her. “The words you speak are false, yet you believe them true.”
White Eagle again spoke to his grandson. The chief's face was puzzled as he turned to Nichole. “You are not from here, yet you are here,” he translated. He looked from Nichole to his grandfather, and then back at her.
She wanted to laugh, or cry, or even scream, but she fought it down.
White Eagle began to rock back and forth where he sat. A strange, low chant filled the tiny enclosure with its haunting melody.
“We must go.” The chief rose to his feet. “My grandfather desires to learn more. Come.”
Chapter 22
Nichole Harris
The chief left the tent and Nichole followed close behind. She had no desire to stay and watch White Eagle converse with his spirits.
Outside, a breeze rustled the leaves on the bushes and trees. It chilled the sweat on her skin, and she gulped at the cool air. The chief stalked away and left her to wonder where she should go. She turned, and the big guy stood beside her. He motioned for her to follow and strode away.
She struggled to keep up. The campfires were shielded, and she didn't want to lose him in the dark. None of the men looked up as she passed, their attention diverted with eating or mending equipment.
Tall and Ominous stopped beside a small army pup tent and pointed at a blanket on the ground. She looked from the woven covering to her guide, but he'd walked away. Her stomach growled. When had she last eaten? Breakfast? No—it had been dinner, last night.
I wonder where they’ve taken Merril.
She lowered herself to the blanket and rubbed her feet. The refreshing coolness had worn out its welcome, and the chill of evening descended. Hungry, cold, and no way to ask about Merril.
Passage (Soul of the Witch Book 1) Page 18
