A Whisper In The Wind (11 page)

Chapter Nineteen

Major Jonathan Cathcart glared at the Indian
leaning negligently against the cell wall. He had been questioning the redskin for over an hour and all he’d learned so far was the bastard’s name and tribe.

Michael bit back a grin of satisfaction as an angry flush spread over the officer’s clean-shaven face. The major was about out of patience, and Michael wondered how much longer he could defy Cathcart’s authority before the man’s temper exploded.

“Where are your people?” Cathcart demanded. “What are they planning? Where’s Sitting Bull?”

“I don’t know,” Michael replied, his own anger rising. “And if I did, I sure as hell wouldn’t tell you!”

Jonathan Cathcart frowned. The prisoner looked like an Indian, he was dressed like an Indian, he even smelled like a damned redskin, but he didn’t talk like one. Not by a damned sight!

Cathcart took a step forward. “Who are you? And I don’t mean your name. Who the hell are you?”

Michael pushed away from the wall. Head high, shoulders back, he faced the major. “For the last time, my name’s Wolf and I’m a Cheyenne warrior.”

“Like hell! Who sent you here? What were you supposed to find out?”

“No one sent me,” Michael said, curbing his anger. “I got into a fight with a couple of Pawnee. One of them had a rifle and got off a clean shot.” He pressed a hand to his side, remembering the white-hot pain that had seared his flesh. “I came to a ravine and one of the Indians shot my horse out from under me and we went over the side.”

Michael paused as he tried to recall what had happened next. “I could hear the Pawnee trying to decide if my scalp was worth the climb down when one of your patrols rode up. I guess I passed out, because I don’t remember what happened after that. When I came to, I was here.”

Major Cathcart grunted. “You don’t talk like any Indian I’ve ever known.”

Michael shrugged. “I’ve spent a lot of time around whites.”

“Where?”

Michael stirred uneasily. Where indeed? “In California,” he replied at last. “I was raised by nuns.”

Cathcart laughed out loud. “A Cheyenne Indian raised by nuns in California! Do you really expect me to believe that?”

Michael shrugged again. “Believe what you want.”

“You’re an insolent bastard,” Cathcart remarked. “Perhaps we can beat the truth out of you. What do you think, Saunders?”

The sergeant standing at the major’s elbow grinned, revealing a row of crooked yellow teeth. “I guess it’s worth a try.”

Robert O’Brien slammed the door behind him as he stepped into the guardhouse. “You will
not
beat that prisoner, Major Cathcart,” he said curtly. “This man is still under my care, and he is not yet fully recovered from his wounds. If you dare lay a hand on him, I’ll go straight to General Crook.”

“You dare to threaten me?”

“You’re damn right, sir. This man hasn’t been charged with any crime that I’m aware of. In my opinion, you have no reason to hold him, much less flog him.”

“Damn you, O’Brien,” the major hissed. “You’ve been a thorn in my side since the day you arrived.”

“Yes, sir!” the doctor agreed. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m here to examine my patient.”

Face mottled with rage, the major stalked out of the cell.

Elayna chuckled softly as her father related the incident over dinner that night. How she would have loved to have been there, to have seen the look on the major’s face when her father challenged his authority.

“I’m afraid that Indian’s in for a rough time,” O’Brien mused as he helped himself to another serving of chicken and dumplings. “You know Cathcart. He won’t rest until he gets what he wants.”

“Do you really think he’ll beat Michael?”

O’Brien raised a bushy black brow. “Michael, is it? I thought his name was Wolf.”

“It is. Michael Wolf.”

“Strange name for a full-blooded Cheyenne.”

Elayna lowered her gaze to her plate, unable to meet her father’s questioning stare.

“Elayna. Elayna, look at me. You’re not becoming…” O’Brien cleared his throat. “You’re not becoming infatuated with this Indian, are you?”

“Of course not.”

O’Brien propped his elbow on the table and rested his chin in the palm of his hand. His daughter had always had a soft heart. As a child, she was always bringing home strays, nursing sick dogs and cats, hand-raising a litter of kittens when the mother was killed. She could not abide seeing another in pain, be it man or beast, could not abide cruelty or injustice. Despite her oft-professed hatred for Indians, he was afraid her sympathy for the prisoner would overrule her good sense.

“Perhaps it’s time you went back East for a while,” O’Brien suggested. “You could stay with your Aunt Mary. Visit your cousins. Do some shopping, buy some new clothes. I think it would do you a world of good to get away from here for a while.”

“You’re not very subtle, are you, Papa?”

“I guess not. But I still think it’s a good idea.”

“Whatever you say, Papa,” Elayna agreed. It was useless to argue with her father once he’d made up his mind, and she didn’t try. But she had no intention of leaving the fort while Michael Wolf was in the guardhouse.

It was a little after nine o’clock that night when Michael heard footsteps approaching his cell. He felt the short hairs prickle along the back of his neck, felt his stomach knot as Major Cathcart, Sergeant Saunders, and a rather portly trooper stopped outside the door. Saunders was grinning as he toyed with the heavy rawhide quirt in his right hand.

The trooper unlocked the cell door, then drew his sidearm and aimed it at Michael. Cathcart also drew his weapon, a sinister smile twisting his lips as Saunders entered the cell and removed the chain from Michael’s ankle.

“See that crossbar?” Saunders said, jerking his thumb toward the ceiling. “Reach for it.”

Michael stared at the heavy quirt in Saunders’ hand. Was it a bluff? Were they hoping fear would loosen his tongue, or did Cathcart really intend to let the sergeant beat the hell out of him? Damn! The mere idea made him break out in a cold sweat.

For a moment he thought of knocking Saunders aside and making a break for the open door and freedom even though he knew he’d never make it out of the cell alive.

He glanced at Cathcart. The major was watching him intently, his forefinger curled around the trigger of his pistol.

A beating or a bullet in the back, Michael thought. Not much of a choice. Muttering an oath, he reached for the crossbar above his head. He could feel Cathcart’s disappointment as Saunders lashed his hands to the bar. The major had wanted him to make a run for it, hoping for an excuse to gun him down. And Saunders and the other trooper would be there to testify in the major’s behalf. Yes, they would say, the Indian tried to escape and the major had to shoot him.

Michael’s hands curled around the crossbar. The iron bar was hard and cold, like the fear knotting in his stomach, and he wondered how many times Cathcart had done this. How many warriors had tried to run rather than take a beating? How many Indians had died here, in this ugly little cell?

He could feel his heart pounding wildly as Saunders walked back and forth in front of him, idly slapping the quirt against the palm of his hand. It was a wicked-looking thing, about two feet long, made of rawhide and leather. It reminded Michael of a miniature cat-o’-nine-tails.

Saunders walked behind Michael, slowly, deliberately, and Michael felt his mouth go dry as he waited for the first blow.

“Where’s Sitting Bull?” the major asked. “Why did he send you here?”

“Nobody sent me here,” Michael replied tersely, and it occurred to him suddenly that Cathcart didn’t give a damn about Sitting Bull. Asking for the Hunkpapa’s whereabouts was just a ploy, an excuse to mete out a beating to another Indian.

Cathcart let out a sigh of anticipation. “Sergeant.”

Michael’s hands tightened around the crossbar.
Heammawihio, help me.

The first blow came and it was almost a relief. The waiting, at least, was over.

“Why were you sent here?” Cathcart demanded. “What were you supposed to find out?”

“Nothing.”

Saunders laid the quirt across Michael’s back again, and then again. Michael gasped once and then clenched his teeth, refusing to cry out as the narrow strips of knotted leather bit into his back, splitting the skin.

“We can do this all night if you like,” Cathcart remarked. “Or we can quit now. It’s up to you.”

“Fine,” Michael replied sarcastically. “Let’s quit.”

Cathcart swore under his breath as he grabbed the quirt from Saunders’ hand and brought it down across Michael’s back. Michael began to shiver spasmodically as the quirt fell again and again, each blow seeming harder and longer than the last. Heat suffused him, a bright red haze born of pain and humiliation. He closed his eyes, felt the strength go out of his legs, and he wondered which was worse, the agony of the flesh or the slow destruction of his pride.

It took him a few minutes to realize the beating had stopped. Opening his eyes, he glanced warily over his shoulder. The cell door was closed. He was alone.

Vehemently, yet silently, he cursed Major Jonathan Cathcart, and then, in the same breath, he cursed his own stupid pride. He should have made up a lie about Sitting Bull’s whereabouts, he thought ruefully. Cathcart might have spared him a beating, though Michael knew the major intended to kill him sooner or later. He shuddered convulsively as he felt the blood trickling down his back, felt the wetness of it, the heat of it.

But the pain was not as strong as the insidious tentacles of fear that were slowly coiling around his insides. He was going to die here. He had seen his fate in the major’s hard gray eyes.

His head dropped forward and he closed his eyes again, trying to relax, trying to separate himself from the pain that ebbed and flowed with each labored breath.

“Heammawihio,
help me,” he murmured.

The minutes ticked by, but he was unaware of the passage of time. His thoughts turned inward. Was this why he had been transported through time and space, he mused bleakly, to be humiliated by some strutting braggart who thought Indians were less than human, to die slowly, an inch at a time?

He tried to concentrate, to focus all his energy on home in the slim hope that the Great Spirit might take pity on him and send him back where he belonged, but the pain in his back made it impossible to think of anything else.

Time, he thought. Time had become his enemy.

He drifted in and out of consciousness, barely aware of his surroundings. When he was awake, a cocoon of pain engulfed him, as bright and red as the blood that coated his back.

Saunders came and cut him down and he fell heavily, grunting softly as he hit the floor. A fresh wave of agony jolted through him as Saunders dumped a pail of salted water over his back.

“Best get some sleep,” Saunders suggested with a malevolent grin. “The major’ll be wanting to question you again tomorrow night.”

Tomorrow…

Heammawihio, have mercy…

“Poor bastard,” Lance was saying. “Cathcart spent the better part of an hour trying to get that redskin to talk.”

“Is he…is he dead, then?” Elayna asked.

“Not yet.”

They were sitting on the porch step. Lance put his arm around Elayna’s shoulders, but she was hardly aware of his touch. She was picturing Michael Wolf, bound and helpless, while Major Cathcart questioned him. And whipped him. She had seen one of the Indians after Cathcart had questioned him. The man’s back had been cut to ribbons before he had been shot while “trying to escape”.

Would that be Michael Wolf’s fate?

She told herself she didn’t care. Michael Wolf was an Indian, perhaps the very Indian responsible for what had befallen Kelly North. Poor Kelly. He had left the Army a broken and bitter man.

Elayna was still sitting on the porch step an hour later. Lance had gone back to the barracks, but she had been too restless to go inside, too distraught to sleep.

She saw her father leave the hospital and head toward the guardhouse. Impulsively she stood up and followed him.

Chapter Twenty

Voices. The sound of a key in the lock. A bright
light. And then a new awareness of pain as someone probed his torn flesh.

“Relax.”

Michael recognized Robert O’Brien’s voice and took a deep breath, relieved that it was only the doctor and not Cathcart come to torment him again.

He looked past O’Brien and saw that the cell door was ajar and that the guard was standing inside the cell, a bored expression on his face.

Escape. Michael felt the adrenalin flow through his veins as he weighed the chance of getting past the doctor, overpowering the guard, grabbing his gun, and getting away.

Not good, he admitted. And yet this might be his only chance. The guard would no doubt replace the shackle on his leg once the sawbones had finished tending his back. And tomorrow Cathcart would return with more questions…

O’Brien had just finished bandaging Michael’s back when a woman’s footsteps sounded in the hallway. O’Brien and the guard both turned toward the sound.

O’Brien stood up, frowning. “Elayna, what are you doing here?”

Michael rolled to his feet. With the doctor’s attention distracted, this was the best chance he’d get. Ignoring the pain in his back, he drove his elbow deep into O’Brien’s belly, slammed his fist into the guard’s jaw as he whirled around.

“What are you doing?” Elayna shrieked as Michael jerked the guard’s service revolver from his holster, stepped out of the cell, and slammed the door.

She stared at Michael, her eyes wide, as the barrel of the gun swung in her direction.

“We’re leaving,” he said curtly. “Let’s go.”

“Leave her here, you bastard!”

“Shut up, Doc,” Michael said quietly. He gave Elayna a little push with his free hand. “Move it.”

“No.”

“I’m in no mood to argue,” Michael snapped. “You’d best do as you’re told.”

He did not threaten her father’s life. He didn’t have to. She saw the warning in his eyes and wondered how she’d ever felt sorry for him. He was nothing but a savage after all.

“Damn you!” Robert O’Brien roared. “Leave my daughter alone!”

“Shut up, Doc, or I’ll kill her here and now.”

Fear rose in Elayna’s throat, choking her, as Michael shoved her toward the door. She moved stiffly, aware of the gun aimed at her back, praying that another guard had arrived. But the room was empty.

“Wait.”

She stopped abruptly, waited, trembling, while Michael lifted an overcoat from a hook on the wall. He winced as he put it on, and she smiled, pleased by his pain. He found a bottle of whiskey in one of the desk drawers and slipped it into the pocket of his coat. He took a late model Winchester rifle from the wall rack and emptied a box of ammunition into the other pocket of his coat.

“Let’s go,” he ordered brusquely, and Elayna opened the door and stepped outside.

“Don’t try anything,” Michael warned. “I’ve got nothing to lose.”

She nodded, understanding completely.

Michael stood unmoving in the shadow of the guardhouse, pondering his next move. He needed a horse. Two horses, he amended. He perused the nearby buildings, smiled faintly when he saw two saddled horses hitched to the rack outside the subtler’s store.
Maheo
was with him.

“Start walking,” he told Elayna. “Nice and slow.”

Side by side, they crossed the ground toward the horses. Michael kept the rifle out of sight in the folds of his coat, all his senses on edge as they neared the store. All it would take was one cry from Elayna, he thought bleakly, one shout for help, and it would be all over.

He slid a glance in Elayna’s direction. Her face was pale, her movements wooden. Did she really believe he’d kill her? The thought made him angry, yet he knew he’d never get out of the camp alive unless she
did
believe it.

“Mount up.”

He slid the revolver in his pocket and took hold of both sets of reins while she climbed into the saddle, afraid she might try to make a run for it.

It was an effort to pull himself into the saddle, and then they were riding in the shadows toward the rear of the camp.

He had no answer when the sentry challenged him, and only a quick blow to the side of the soldier’s head kept the man from sounding an alarm. And then they were riding away from the camp, two dark silhouettes that blended into the night.

She was cold and hungry and tired. And scared. She glanced at Michael Wolf’s back and wondered how he managed to stay in the saddle. Surely his back was a constant, throbbing ache. Surely he would have to stop soon, to rest the horses if for no other reason.

But he did not stop.

On and on they rode through the dark night, moving like phantoms across the face of the land. She was shivering now, the cold air seeping through her clothing, chilling her to the bone. She gazed enviously at the heavy overcoat he wore. No doubt he was as warm as toast.

She saw his head drop, saw him sway in the saddle before he jerked upright, and she smiled knowingly. He was hurt. He had lost some blood, perhaps a lot. He couldn’t stay awake forever. Sooner or later sleep would claim him, and when it did, she would take the horses and ride for home.

It was dawn when he finally stopped. In the faint gray light, she saw that his skin was drawn and pale, his expression haggard.

“Get down.” His voice was flat.

She had been on the verge of exhaustion, but now she felt suddenly wide awake and alert as she slid from the saddle. He looked dead on his feet. Soon he would be asleep and she would make her escape.

“Sit down.”

She did so warily, her eyes never leaving his face.

With a sigh, he dropped down on his haunches. Taking hold of her skirt, he tossed it into her lap, then reached for the hem of her petticoat.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Elayna exclaimed, slapping his hand away.

“I’m going to tie you up so I can get some sleep,” he explained, reaching for her petticoat again.

“No, you’re not!” she shrieked, and bounded to her feet, pushing against his chest with both hands as she did so.

Knocked off balance, he fell, landing on his back, hard. Elayna heard his pain-filled curse as she ran for her horse. She screamed as his hand closed over her arm.

“Damn you!” he rasped, his eyes dark with pain as he halted her flight.

She whirled around, striking his back with her free hand while she tried to free her arm from his grasp.

“Let me go!” She kicked out at him as he imprisoned both her hands in his.

“You little hellcat. I ought to skin you alive.”

“Try it!” Fear gave her courage, and she lunged forward, her teeth closing on his right wrist.

He was tired and hurting and out of patience. Without thinking, without meaning it, he released her left hand and slapped her.

Elayna stopped fighting immediately, her brown eyes wide with fright, her cheek already turning red from his blow. She didn’t resist when he pushed her, gently, to the ground, nor did she offer any resistance when he tore the ruffle from her petticoat and used it to tie her hands and feet.

On the point of exhaustion, Michael removed his overcoat and spread it over Elayna, and then, his right hand fisted around the revolver he had removed from the pocket of the coat, he dropped to the ground, asleep.

She woke slowly, her body aching from lying on the ground.

Michael lay a short distance away, his back toward her. Dried blood stained the bandage swathed around his middle. She knew she had caused his wounds to bleed anew when she’d struck him the night before. Ordinarily she would have felt regret at causing another human being pain, but now, remembering how he had slapped her, she felt only satisfaction.

Sitting up, she worked her hands back and forth, trying to loosen her bonds, but the knots held and she hurled silent curses at Michael Wolf’s back, hating him for his rough treatment, for taking her away from her father, and Lance.

Lance. Her mood brightened with the realization that Lance would be looking for her by now. They’d hang Michael Wolf for kidnapping her, and she’d be there to watch when it happened!

Michael groaned softly as he woke up. The long ride, followed by sleeping on the cold ground, had left him stiff and sore in every muscle. His back throbbed without letup.

He sat up slowly, grimacing with the effort. The thought of spending the day in the saddle filled him with dread, but there was no help for it. The Army was probably already in pursuit. If he wanted to stay ahead of them, it was time to move.

Gritting his teeth, he stood up. Elayna was eying him warily and he let out a heavy sigh. He had almost forgotten about her.

He untied her feet, but one look into her defiant eyes convinced him to leave her hands bound. The look she gave him was cold enough to freeze all the fires of Hades.

Shrugging into the overcoat, he walked the horses to where Elayna stood waiting, her back ramrod straight, her head high. Damn, she was a feisty one, he thought ruefully.

“I feel like hell,” he said, “and I’m in no mood for any of your little tantrums, so I’m warning you here and now, if you try biting me or kicking me while I boost you into the saddle, you’ll find yourself walking.”

Elayna took his warning to heart and meekly accepted his help as he lifted her into the saddle.

“I’m hungry,” she said petulantly.

“So am I,” he retorted, and reined his horse west, toward home.

“They’ll be after you, you know,” Elayna called after him. “Lance will hunt you down and then you’ll hang!”

Michael nodded wearily. “No doubt you’ll have a seat in the front row.”

“I’ll spring the trap if they’ll let me,” she replied, and then shuddered at the mere idea.

He was made of stone, Elayna thought bitterly. An inhuman, unfeeling monster. It was hot, so hot. Sweat poured down her face and back, collecting between her breasts, making her clothes stick to her skin. She was hungry and thirsty, her thighs felt raw, her backside was numb from so many hours in the saddle.

And still he did not stop.

She stared at his back. He had removed the overcoat and she studied the blood-stained bandages wrapped around his middle, wondering how he had reacted to the beating he had received. Had he screamed in pain? Had he finally told Major Cathcart what he wanted to know?

She cocked her head to one side. No, she decided, he would not have cried out. And he would not have betrayed his people, of that she was certain.

She tried to imagine what the pain had been like, and then she realized that the humiliation would have been worse than the pain of the whip.

And then she wondered why she cared.

Hours passed, and still he did not stop.

Tears of impotent rage and self-pity stung her eyes. Did he intend to ride forever, until they both died of thirst?

He reined his horse to a halt so abruptly she almost toppled out of the saddle as her own mount stopped beside his.

She stared at him blankly as he lifted the rifle to his shoulder and fired. Only then did she see the deer that had been flushed from its cover by their approach. Her mouth began to water at the thought of food.

Dismounting, Michael draped the deer carcass over his mount’s withers, then swung into the saddle and put his horse into a trot.

Elayna was about to beg him to stop, at least for a few minutes, when he reined his horse to a halt in the shade of a sparse stand of timber. She gazed with longing at the shallow stream that seemed to appear out of nowhere.

Climbing eagerly from the saddle, she ran toward the stream and buried her face in the cool water.

“Drink it slow,” Michael warned, dropping down beside her. “No sense having it all come back up.”

Water, Elayna thought, when had anything ever tasted so good! She splashed her face and plunged her arms into the stream, cooling her heated flesh, and then she drank again.

Rising, Michael began to rummage around in the saddlebags tied behind his saddle. He grinned as he withdrew a skinning knife and a mess kit.

“Ne-a’ese, Maheo,”
he murmured as he discovered a box of matches as well. The gods were still smiling on him.

A search of the second set of saddlebags yielded a bag of tobacco, a pipe, and a set of hobbles, as well as another box of matches.

He left Elayna splashing in the water while he built a fire, then sliced a couple of thick steaks from the deer carcass. While the meat cooked, he cut several thin strips of meat from the haunch to be cooked now and eaten later on the trail.

Sometime later Elayna left the stream, drawn to the fire, the scent of roasting meat making her mouth water.

She sat across from Michael, her hands folded in her lap. She studied his profile as he turned the steaks, trying to find fault with his fine straight nose, the high cheekbones, the thick, dark lashes that shaded his eyes. She wished he was ugly. It would be so much easier to hate him if he was ugly.