A Heart So Wild (3 page)

E
LROY Brower was at his most congenial. He'd never had so many people visiting his home since he'd built it. He hadn't gotten any work done yesterday, but he didn't mind. He didn't feel like heading back to Wichita for his plow, not with the hangover he'd woken up with the day before, but he didn't mind that, either. It did a man good to get drunk once in a while. He'd had lots of company, too, what with Bill Chapman and all the others bedding down in the barn night before last and breaking out whiskey flasks to celebrate their victory. Only the two Joes were absent, having ridden off directly south after the killing.

And then, yesterday, the doctor and his ladies and the doctor's cowhands had come by. Imagine that, ladies sitting down at his table for supper! And they were real ladies, too. He could tell that easily by their fancy traveling clothes and their manners. And their delicate white skin, of course. He'd even made the young one blush.

Elroy told himself he'd be perfectly happy if they wanted to stay a few days. His plow could wait. Chapman had paid to store it along with his oxen, and Elroy could fetch it when he had
a mind to. But the doctor said they'd be heading out this morning. He had insisted on going hunting at the crack of dawn to replenish Elroy's table. Well, shoot, nothing wrong with that. A nice man, the doctor, with real class. He had noticed the three scratches running down Elroy's neck and offered to leave him some salve.

When the scratches were mentioned, Elroy got a little flustered. Not that he was ashamed, because he wasn't. But you didn't mention such things in front of ladies, things to do with sex, and what had happened at the Indian camp. But the doctor didn't ask how he had gotten the scratches, and Elroy said nothing about it.

The retaliation had been a thrilling experience. It also eased Elroy's mind about having Indians so close to his home. Hell, they were easy to kill—easy to rape, too. He didn't know why he'd been so worried about Indians in the first place. He'd felt only a second's hesitation when he saw that the little savage who scratched him wasn't pure Indian. Those eyes that couldn't belong to a pure Indian looked up at him with such loathing. But he raped her anyhow. He was too excited by all the killing not to. Elroy didn't even realize she was dead until he'd finished. He didn't feel any guilt over what had happened, just irritation because he couldn't stop thinking about those eyes.

Elroy decided the ladies were probably up and dressed, so he could head out to the barn in a few minutes and invite them in to breakfast. The doctor and Dallas ought to be back soon, too. The other hand, Sorrel, was shaving out back by the well and probably spinning
more tall tales for Peter. That boy wouldn't be around much longer, Elroy feared. He was already talking about joining the 7th Cavalry so he could fight Indians. Elroy hoped he'd wait at least until after harvest.

Twenty yards from Elroy's log house was where his cornfield began. The tall stalks were swaying gently. If Elroy had noticed that as he went to the barn, he might have thought an animal was loose in the field, for there was no wind blowing, not even the slightest breeze. But he didn't notice. He was thinking that as soon as the Harte party departed, he'd head back to Wichita for his plow.

Courtney had been up for half an hour and was waiting for Sarah to finish her morning toilet. Sarah was pretty, and she always spent a great deal of time each morning making sure everyone would see just how pretty she was, fixing her hair just right, fooling with her powders and the lotion she had brought along that was supposed to prevent sunburn. It was Sarah's vanity that had them continuing this trip so late in the season that they'd be lucky to reach Waco before winter set in. Sarah had cajoled Edward into visiting her folks in Kansas City because she wanted to show off her husband, an important doctor, and let everyone in her hometown see how well she'd done for herself.

The farmer made a good deal of unnecessary noise outside the door before he stuck his head inside. “Bacon's done, ladies, and the eggs are ready to be whipped up if you'd care to come to the house for some breakfast.”

“How kind of you to offer, Mr. Brower,” Sar
ah said, smiling. “Has my husband returned yet?”

“No, ma'am, but I don't reckon he'll be much longer. There's plenty game around here this time of year.”

The farmer left. Hearing him making noises against the door again, Courtney shook her head at his strangeness. She knew why he'd done it when he arrived, but why now?

And then the door was jerked open and Elroy Brower fell inside, clutching his thigh. A long, thin stick was stuck in it. Now, why would he…

“Jesus God, there
were
more of 'em!” Elroy groaned as he got to his feet, breaking off the arrow shaft as he did so.

“What's wrong, Mr. Brower?” Sarah demanded, coming toward him.

Elroy groaned again. “Indians. We're being attacked.” Sarah and Courtney stood there staring at him, openmouthed, and Elroy said hoarsely, “Over there!” Pointing to what looked like a large feed box with a lid on it, he said, getting more agitated by the second, “I dug a hole for my wife for just this reason. She was a big woman, so it should be big enough for both of you. Get in and
don't come out
, even if it gets quiet. I've got to get back to the house where I left my rifle.”

And then he was gone. Neither Sarah nor Courtney wanted to believe him. This was not happening. It couldn't be.

Hearing a rifle shot, quickly followed by another, Sarah felt sick. “Get into that box, Courtney!” Sarah cried as she ran for the box.
“Oh, God, this can't be happening, not now, not when everything's been going so well.”

Courtney moved mechanically toward the low box and crawled in after Sarah. There was no bottom to the box. The hole had been dug two and a half feet into the ground, enough room for both to crouch down without their heads reaching the top of the box.

“Close the lid!” Sarah snapped, her gray eyes round with fear. Then, “We've got nothing to fear. They won't find us. They're just stupid savages. They won't even look in here. They—”

Sarah's words stopped as they heard a scream beyond the barn, a horrible scream filled with terrible pain. What followed was even worse: many sounds, animal sounds, getting louder by the second. And then there was a high-pitched howling just outside the barn door. Courtney snapped out of her trance and pulled the lid closed, enclosing them in blackness that was terrifying in itself.

“Sarah. Sarah!”

Courtney began to cry when she realized Sarah had fainted. Even with the warmth of the woman's body slumped next to her, she felt alone. She was going to die, and she didn't want to die. She knew she would die shamefully, would scream and plead and then die anyway. Everyone knew Indians had no mercy.

Oh, God, if I have to die, don't let me beg. Let me find the courage not to beg
.

Edward Harte had heard the first shot and raced back to the farm, Dallas close behind him. But when they were near enough to see what was happening, the younger man turned tail and rode away. Dallas was not a hero.

Edward didn't know he rode the rest of the way alone, for all he could think about was his daughter and saving her. He approached from the side of the farm and saw four Indians surrounding the bodies of Peter, the young farmhand, and Hayden Sorrel. Edward's first shot scored, but immediately afterward an arrow was embedded in his shoulder. It had come from the front of the barn, and he fired in that direction.

It was his last shot. Two more arrows found him, and he fell from his horse. He didn't move again.

The eight Comanche braves had accomplished what they'd come for. They had followed the tracks of thirteen horses to this farm. They'd seen that only eleven horses had gone on from the farm. That left two men at the farm, two of the thirteen the warriors wanted. One of those two was already dead. The huge farmer was not.

The farmer had only one wound. He had been cut off from reaching his house, cut off from returning to the barn. Four braves played with him now, taunting him with their knives, while the other Comanches searched the house and barn.

Two Comanches entered the barn. One climbed into the wagon, tossing out its contents as he searched. The other scanned the building for hiding places. His eyes took in everything with deadly thoroughness.

His face revealed nothing of his thoughts, but he was filled with an awful, wrenching grief. He had gone into the Comanche camp yesterday and found the nightmare left behind by the white men. His entrance into the camp was his
first visit to his people after three years' absence, and he had returned too late to save his mother and sister. Revenge would never make up for their suffering, but it would help to ease his own pain.

The footprints in the dirt caught his attention, and he walked slowly to the feed box. In his hand he gripped the short, razor-edged blade he used for skinning animals.

Courtney hadn't heard the two Indians enter the barn. Her heart was pounding so loudly she could barely hear all the noises out in the yard.

The cover of the feed box flew open, and Courtney barely had time to gasp before her hair was seized in brutal hands. She squeezed her eyes shut so she wouldn't see the death blow coming. She knew her throat was going to be cut, for he forced her head back, exposing her neck. Any second now, God, any second…

She wouldn't open her eyes, but he wanted her to be watching him when he killed her. The other woman was slumped over in the hole, passed out, but this one was aware and trembling. But she wouldn't look at him, not even when he twisted her hair as hard as he could around his hand. He knew he was hurting her, but still she kept her eyes squeezed shut.

And then through the haze of rage, he began to look her over. He realized that she didn't fit in here. Her clothes were fine, neither calico nor faded cotton. Her skin was too white for a farmer's wife or child, nearly translucent, barely touched by the sun. Her hair was like silk against his fingers, not brown or blond, but a blending of the two. Looking at her carefully,
he realized she couldn't be more than fourteen years old, perhaps a little more.

Slowly, he looked from her to the wagon and saw the many dresses Crooked Finger had tossed out. He let go of the girl's hair.

Courtney was too terrified to keep her eyes shut any longer. Too much time had passed and no blade had touched her throat. Once she was released, she didn't know what to think. But when she did open her eyes, she nearly swooned. Never had she seen a more frightening sight than the Indian.

His hair was long and black as pitch, worked into two braids. His bare chest was streaked with paint the color of watered blood. Paint of several colors divided his face into four parts, camouflaging his features. But his eyes, locked with hers, struck her strangely. Those eyes didn't seem to belong to him. They weren't at all threatening, not like the rest of him.

Courtney watched as he looked away from her then at her again. She dared to look at the rest of him, scrutinizing him. She got no farther than the hand holding the knife pointed at her.

He saw those catlike golden eyes widen at the sight of his knife, and then she fainted. He grunted as she collapsed beside the other woman. Stupid Eastern women. They hadn't even bothered to arm themselves.

He hesitated, sighing. With her rounded baby cheeks, she was too much like his sister. He couldn't kill her.

He quietly closed the lid on the feed box and walked away, signaling to Crooked Finger that they had wasted enough time.

E
LROY Brower cursed the fates that had seen fit to put him in Wichita the day Bill Chapman rode through. He knew he was going to die. But when—when? He and his captors were miles away from his farm. They'd ridden north, following Chapman's tracks, and hadn't stopped until the sun was directly overhead.

It took nearly all of them to overcome Elroy once he realized what they were going to do to him. But in a moment, Elroy was staked out on the hot ground, spread-eagled, stripped, feeling the parts of his body that had never seen the sun slowly burn under the noon rays.

The goddamn savages sat around watching him sweat. One tapped a stick against the arrowhead embedded in his thigh, one tap every five seconds, and the pain shot through him in waves that didn't have time to recede before the next tap.

He knew what they wanted, had known since they indicated the three dead men on the farm. Patiently, they had made themselves understood, holding up two fingers, pointing to him and then at the three bodies. They knew two men who had participated in the Indian mas
sacre were on the farm, and they knew he was one of them.

He tried to convince them he wasn't one of the ones they wanted. After all, there were two extra bodies, so how could they be sure? But they didn't believe him, and each time he didn't give them the answer they wanted, they cut him.

He'd had a half-dozen small wounds before he pointed to Peter's body. What did it matter? The boy was already dead and couldn't suffer anymore. But Elroy suffered, watching what they did to Peter's body. He puked all over himself when they castrated the corpse and stuffed the piece of flesh into Peter's mouth, then sewed the lips shut. The message would be clear to whoever found Peter's mutilated body. And only Elroy would know that it hadn't been done while Peter was still alive.

Would he be as lucky as Peter? He figured the only reason he was still alive was that they wanted him to take them to the others involved in the massacre. Yet, the longer they kept him alive, the more he would suffer. He could offer to tell them all he knew if they would put an end to it, but what good would that do if the bastards couldn't understand him? And, Jesus, he didn't know how to find most of the others. Would they believe that, though? Of course not.

One of the Comanches bent over him. Elroy could see only a black shape because of the sun. He tried to raise his head, and for a moment he got a glimpse of the Indian's hands. The man was holding several arrows. Were they finally going to get this over with? But no. Almost gently, the Indian probed at one of Elroy's wounds. And then slowly, excruciatingly, an
arrowhead was embedded inside the wound, not straight in but sideways, into the fatty muscle, and oh, God, they had put something on the arrowhead to make it burn. It was like a hot coal dropped on his skin and left there. Elroy gritted his teeth, refusing to scream. Nor did he scream when his other wounds were treated the same way. He held it in. He only had six wounds. He could stand that much. Then they would leave him alone for a while, letting his body absorb the pain.

Elroy tried to will the pain away. He thought of the ladies who had been unfortunate enough to stop at his farm. He was grateful he hadn't seen what had happened to them. And then, suddenly, he saw those haunting eyes again, looking up at him with loathing. Raping that Indian girl hadn't been worth this. Nothing could be worth this.

Finally, Elroy screamed. It didn't matter that the Indian had run out of wounds. He cut a new wound and embedded another arrowhead, and with that Elroy knew they wouldn't stop until his body was completely covered with arrows. He couldn't bear it anymore, knowing there would be no letup in the pain. He screamed and cursed and shouted, but he was cut again, and the burning turned to fire.

“Bastards! Goddamn bastards! I'll tell you what you want to know. I'll tell you anything!”

“Will you?”

Elroy stopped screaming, the pain forgotten for a split second. “You speak English?” he panted. “Oh, thank God!” Now there was hope. Now he could bargain.

“What is it you would tell me, farmer?”

The voice was soft, pleasant, confusing Elroy. “Let me go, and I'll give you the names of the men you want, every one of them. And I'll tell you where they're likely to be found,” he gasped.

“You will tell us this anyway, farmer. It is not your life you may bargain for, but your death—a quick death.”

Elroy had been straining forward with hope. Now he sagged back against the ground. He was defeated. All he could hope for was that it would be quick.

He told the Indian everything, every name, descriptions, and all the likely destinations he could think of. He answered every question thrown at him quickly and truthfully, ending with, “Now kill me.”

“Like you killed our wives and mothers and sisters?”

The Indian who spoke such clear, precise English moved down to stand at his feet. Elroy could see him clearly now, his face, his eyes…Oh, Lord, they were
her
eyes, looking at him with the same blazing hatred. Then Elroy knew this man had no intention of letting him die quickly.

Elroy licked his lips. He didn't know where it came from, but he managed to say, “She was good. Not much meat on her, but she pleasured me real well. I was the last to have her. She died under me, with my—”

The howl came from deep in the warrior's soul, cutting off Elroy's taunt. One of the others tried to stop the young warrior but couldn't. The pain was minimal for Elroy, bringing to a crescendo all the rest of the pain. It was the shock of seeing the severed flesh he had been
about to mention raised high in the Comanche's hand that killed him.

 

Three miles away, Courtney Harte stared dismally at the scattered contents of the wagon, ripped clothes, smashed china, food staples ruined. She couldn't cope with deciding what to salvage. She couldn't cope with anything right now, unlike Sarah, who was looking through their goods as if nothing much had happened.

To Courtney, just being alive was a shock. Worse, her father was gone.

Berny Bixler, Elroy Brower's closest neighbor, had seen the smoke from Elroy's fired house and come to investigate. He found the two dead bodies behind the house and Sarah and Courtney in the feed box. There was no sign of Dallas, Elroy Brower, or Edward Harte. But Courtney's father had been there because his horse was in the cornfield and there were spots of blood on it. Had Edward been wounded?

“Would've seen him if he'd got away and headed toward Rockley for help,” Berny told them. “More like the Injuns took him and the other two away. Probably felt a couple of strong captives wouldn't hurt to have around till they can find another tribe to live with.”

“What makes you say that, Mr. Bixler?” Sarah demanded. “I thought women were the ones usually taken captive.”

“Beggin' your pardon, ma'am,” Berny said. “But if an Injun looked at you and the youngun here, he'd figure you wouldn't last long on the move.”

“On the move? You keep seeming to know what these Indians plan to do,” Sarah snapped.
“I don't see how you could know. It's just as likely they have a camp near here, isn't it?”

“Oh, they did, ma'am, they surely did. That's just it. This weren't no livestock raid. Lars Handley's boy John come tearin' into Rockley two nights ago, telling how he and Elroy and Peter joined up with some Wichita men to wipe out this band of Kiowas down south of here that was plannin' to attack Rockley. He claimed we wouldn't have no trouble now, 'cause they killed every last man, woman, and child. Well, looks like they missed a few. The bucks who struck here must've been out huntin' or somethin' and come back to find all their kin dead.”

“Pure supposition, Mr. Bixler. Kiowas can't be the only Indians around here.”

The farmer showed his annoyance enough to say, “John Handley also bragged about what he done in that Indian camp—somethin' I can't mention to ladies.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake,” Sarah said, sneering, “So they raped a few squaws. That doesn't mean—”

“You go on out there and take a look at Peter's body if you want to know what it means, lady,” he said hotly. “But I wouldn't recommend it. What they done to that boy ain't pretty. Didn't touch that other fellow at all. His wound was clean. But I'm likely to have nightmares for a long time 'bout what they done to Peter. And I reckon we'll find Elroy somewhere hereabouts, done up just as ugly. It don't take a smart man to know they was only after them two and why. You'da been took if they was interested in women. No, it was revenge and nothin' else.”

“You see if John Handley don't take off from
this area real quick too, 'cause it ain't over. Them Injuns won't stop till they get every last one of the men they're after.”

He stalked out of the barn, saying they'd better be quick about gathering their belongings 'cause he didn't have all day. He had been so sympathetic and kind to begin with, but Sarah had brought out the worst in him and now he was impatient to see them to Rockley and off his hands.

Elroy Brower's body was found a week later by soldiers who were searching for the marauding Indians. John Handley left Rockley for parts unknown, as predicted. His father never heard from him again. There was news from Wichita that a homesteader near there had been hit by Indians too, but that was the last story of Indian attacks heard in the area. Probably unrelated was the killing of a rancher named Bill Chapman farther north, though some said he was the man who had led the attack on the Indians. Chapman had been found brutally slain in his bed, and some said it was an Indian killing, some said not. The killer might have been one of the men who worked for Chapman, for many of his hired hands took off right after the killing.

No sign was found of Edward Harte or Dallas. Sarah Whitcomb Harte considered herself a widow. It was inconceivable that a wounded man could have survived as an Indian captive, especially a captive of Indians on the run.

Courtney was too numb to think at all beyond the possibility that her father was alive.

Sarah and Courtney were now stuck with each other, a most aggravating circumstance for both.