Judith E French (16 page)

“Reverend,” Sarah said.

Smiling, Henry clicked to the mare and drove on through the pouring rain.

The first light of morning found Tamsin and the war party riding up mountainsides and plunging into ravines that she wouldn’t have believed a goat could traverse. Low-hanging branches scraped at her skin and hair and
tore her clothing. Thirst plagued her, and it was impossible to forget Buffalo Horn’s threats of burning.

If she let her mind dwell on torture, she would lose all reason. She kept remembering the Indian she’d shot at the campfire and the stench of burning hair when he fell.

Since she was a child, Tamsin had heard horror stories of Indian captives burned at the stake. She didn’t want to die, but if there was no hope of survival, she would rather be shot in an escape attempt than to meet such a horrible fate.

Tamsin feared as much for her horses as she did for her own safety. Fancy and Dancer were thoroughbreds, unused to such rugged country. One misstep and either of them could snap a leg.

One of the Cheyenne braves rode Fancy, but none could stay on Dancer’s back long enough to make it worth his while. They’d dropped rawhide ropes over his head and wrestled him to the ground, but the big bay had fought them hoof and tooth. And after an hour’s struggle, the braves had given up and simply fastened a lead line to a loop around his neck.

As the hours passed and her thirst grew worse, she tried to fill her head with other thoughts. She tried to imagine what her new farm in California would look like. She built imaginary barns and paddocks and filled them with sleek mares and beautiful foals.

She could almost see Ash Morgan leaning on a split-rail fence and—Ash? How had he slipped into her innermost thoughts?

It was better not to remember how safe she’d felt with his arms around her … and better not to hope that he would come for her.

But he will, she thought. He’ll follow me to where I stopped for the night, and then …

Sweet God in heaven, why would Ash want to risk his
life for her after what she’d done to him? Not once, but twice.

She glanced around cautiously. Last night she’d counted four uninjured Cheyenne. In daylight, she’d seen that she’d missed three more, making a total of seven. The wounded man was barely conscious, his shirt stained with blood. She supposed he was the one she’d wrestled with and shot, apparently in the side. But he was too weak to lift a weapon, so that made the odds against Ash seven to one. Not even Ash could fight off so many Indians. Could he?

When the sun was high overhead, the Cheyenne stopped to rest beside a cascade of tumbling water. Men slid down from their mounts to bury their faces in the foamy stream, and the horses eagerly drank deeply.

“Please, I’m thirsty,” she called to Buffalo Horn. “Loose my hands for just a minute so that I—”

In the bright sunshine, the paint on his face had smeared and faded, but his eyes were just as hard. Ignoring her plea, he turned to a companion and said something in Cheyenne that made the other men laugh. He seized her by the shoulder and dragged her from the horse.

Tamsin fell on one knee, then screamed as he shoved her back on the ground. “No!” Her head struck a rock, and for an instant the pain nearly overshadowed the realization that Buffalo Horn was tearing at her skirts.

Hysterically, she kicked at him and struck out with her bound hands. “No! No!”

Jeering, the others closed in around her as his weight pressed her down. Buffalo Horn’s hand clamped over her mouth. She twisted and sunk her teeth into his flesh, biting down until she tasted the salt of his blood.

Suddenly, Fancy shrieked a high-pitched whinny of fear, and the animals went wild. Shiloh plunged past,
nearly crushing Tamsin and her assailant under his hooves.

A man shouted.

Buffalo Horn raised up on his knees as an enraged roar slashed through the pandemonium of kicking, rearing horses. Before Tamsin could draw another breath, the mountain lion leaped from an overhanging tree branch onto a brave’s back.

It seemed to Tamsin that time stood still. For an instant, Buffalo Horn, the other Cheyenne warriors, and the terrified horses were imprinted on her mind. Tamsin was certain she could smell and taste the sour scent of the big cat, the animal’s sweat, and the odor of wet leaves trampled underfoot. Even the colors seemed clear and distinct, the tawny yellow of the cougar, the white of the young brave’s eyes, and the intense blue of the cloudless sky.

Then the scene began to unravel as the cat’s claws and teeth rained blood on the scattering warriors. The dying man’s screams mingled with those of the fleeing horses and the puma’s snarls.

A rifle cracked, and Tamsin caught a final glimpse of ivory-yellow teeth and gushing red before the cat vanished into the underbrush. More guns went off, and the Cheyenne’s cries had turned to war whoops as they raced after the cougar.

Heaving dry sobs of terror, Tamsin got to her feet and backed away from the dead warrior. Stumbling, shaking with fear, she edged closer to the nearest horse, an Indian mustang.

He snorted, laid back his ears, and trotted away, still trailing a single rein. Tamsin strained at her wrist bindings. If her hands hadn’t been tied, she would have run after the horse, flung herself onto his back, and attempted an escape.

A brave’s grip on her arm dashed her hope. He spun
her around to face him and glared into her face. “Demon Claw,” Buffalo Horn muttered. “Spirit cougar. You bring bad medicine. We go from this place quickly.”

Maybe he’s right, Tamsin thought as he put her on the trembling pinto. There was something eerie about the mountain lion. Maybe it hadn’t come for the Cheyenne. Maybe the big cat had come for her, seeking revenge for Ash’s killing the smaller cougar.

And for the space of a heartbeat she wondered if she wouldn’t have been better off if the beast had killed her. Even that death would be better than the rape and torture Buffalo Horn had planned for her.

The Cheyenne rode until it was too dark for Tamsin to see her horse’s head. Then, when she thought they would go on forever in blackness, Buffalo Horn called a halt and ordered her to slide down off the pinto.

She winced as his knife slashed the leather bonds at her wrists. He pushed her roughly to a sitting position on the damp leaves, and she waited, rubbing her hands to bring back the circulation.

She heard the crack of flint and steel, and a spark came to life in the darkness. The flash of light extinguished but was quickly followed by another and another. In a matter of minutes, a tiny fire illuminated the faces of men crouched close around it.

Apparently one of the braves had slain a mountain sheep during the day. Tamsin watched as two of the youngest men built a fire and butchered the ram. They sliced the bloody meat into small pieces and suspended them over the coals on green branches. Soon the air was filled with the tantalizing smell of broiling mutton.

Tonight there was none of the laughter and camaraderie she’d seen between the men in the morning. They all seemed tense, keeping their weapons close at hand and nervously glancing over their shoulders at every night sound. Buffalo Horn’s face was taut as he chewed
every last morsel of flesh from a leg bone and tossed it into the bushes.

No one offered Tamsin a bite as the war party devoured the meat. She tried to keep her gaze averted, but she couldn’t keep from salivating. She was so hungry that her stomach growled and ached.

The Cheyenne had taken her higher into the mountains than she’d been before. A cold wind whistled down from the peaks, the temperature was dropping fast, and she was getting cold.

Tamsin edged closer to the fire. One chunk of fatty roast remained, clinging to a skewer. A brave on the far side of the hearth glanced at the meat and reached out to take it. Boldly, Tamsin snatched it first. Without worrying who had touched the mutton or whether it was done, she began to gobble it with as little propriety as the warriors had shown.

Juice dribbled down her chin, but she didn’t care. The ram was old and tough, but it was food. She’d gone too long without nourishment to be particular. She was nearly finished when she heard a loud cough from the trees behind the camp.

Instantly, a Cheyenne jerked up his rifle and fired in the direction of the sound. Tamsin jumped. Her heart pounded, and her chest felt tight.

Two men rose and rushed toward the aspen grove, but they stopped at the edges. Horses whinnied and stamped their feet. Tamsin heard Dancer snort nervously.

She stared into the darkness. Wind whistled through the branches, rattling leaves, and raising gooseflesh on her arms.

Tamsin looked around her at the startled men. She didn’t need to understand Cheyenne to know that they thought the cougar had come back, that it was crouched out there, watching, waiting.

Then, from another direction came the drawn-out hooting of an owl. A stout man with graying braids laughed nervously. The huge Cheyenne with the bones in his ears stood and paced, rifle ready.

Minutes passed without any unusual sounds. The moon rose, a pale crescent of ivory. Single stars winked on, one by one, and talk began to flow around the fire.

Tamsin shivered. Her face and front were warm, but fear of what might happen made her start at every stamp of a horse’s hoof or snap of a twig.

Then the owl hooted again.

The giant with the shaved head shouted angrily and leaped to his feet. Buffalo Horn put a restraining hand on the dissenter’s arm, attempting to argue, but the huge warrior jerked away and stalked into the woods followed by a second malcontent.

Minutes or an hour later—Tamsin couldn’t be certain—the bald man returned alone. Buffalo Horn questioned him. He shrugged and looked worried.

Buffalo Horn glared malevolently at Tamsin. “You are a witch.” He rose to his feet and came toward her.

Shuddering, she leaped up and backed away.

“Did you bring Demon Claw?” he demanded, snaking his knife from the sheath at his side.

“No,” she protested. “I—”

Something huge, dark, and braying broke from the trees. Men and horses scattered as a mule burst into the center of the clearing, trailing a ball of fire. Shots exploded wildly. Coals and sparks sprayed in all directions.

Buffalo Horn whirled and dived for his rifle. Tamsin didn’t wait to see what he would do. She ran for cover amid a volley of frenzied shots, shouting men, and stampeding horses.

An Indian mustang galloped toward Tamsin, trailing a
rope. She seized a handful of mane and tried to pull herself up, but the animal shied sideways and lashed out at her with his teeth.

She caught a glimpse of Buffalo Horn taking aim at her with his rifle, and she dived for the earth. A squealing bay horse leapt over her and careened into the darkness.

Tamsin tasted dirt and rolled, shielding her face with her arms. A rifle cracked, and a limb shattered over her head. She started to crawl away, then heard another horse bearing down on her.

“Tamsin!”

Ash’s voice cut through her terror. She looked up to see him pounding across the clearing on Shiloh. Behind Ash, Buffalo Horn whooped a war cry and threw himself onto the nearest Indian pony.

One chance, she thought. I’ve got only one chance. She waited, frozen, as Ash galloped closer and closer.

Then he leaned from the saddle and snatched her up. His arm clamped around her as she shut her eyes and scrambled to find something solid to grab on to as they plunged into the trees.

Before she could get a grip on Ash or the saddle, Shiloh reared and skidded on the loose stones. Ash dropped her on her feet.

“Take cover!” he yelled.

“Don’t leave me!”

He reined the gelding around and spurred back the way they came. Tamsin heard the crash of underbrush and saw Buffalo Horn galloping toward him.

Two rifles barked as one.

Ash stiffened and wheeled his horse in a tight circle. An Indian pony trotted past. Buffalo Horn clung to the animal’s mane for a few yards, then fell forward to sprawl on the ground.

Tamsin started toward the riderless horse.

“No,” Ash said. “Get up behind me.” He offered her his hand again and kicked loose his stirrup. She thrust a foot into it and accepted his help to mount behind him.

Ash urged Shiloh on, pausing only to slap the barrel of his rifle against the Indian horse’s rump. The animal squealed and charged off in another direction.

“What about the cougar?” Tamsin whispered as Ash slowed his gelding to traverse a steep stretch of gravel.

“Me,” he replied. “I wanted to make them nervous.”

“It worked.”

A branch tangled in her hair and scraped her back. “What about my horses?”

“I cut them loose,” he grated. “Right now, I’d like to worry about my scalp.”

She could hear the Indians behind them, and the cry of anger when they discovered Buffalo Horn. She buried her face in the back of Ash’s shirt and held on with all of her strength as they reached a break in the undergrowth and galloped pell-mell down the wooded incline.

All night they played cat and mouse, following rocky streambeds and rugged coulees. Often they heard shots, and once they dismounted so Ash could hold Shiloh’s nose to keep him from whinnying as two Cheyenne rode by.

At dawn they discovered a small clearing with a mule and three horses grazing there. “Dancer! Fancy!” Tamsin cried hoarsely.

“Shhh, keep your voice down. Wait to—”

The stallion raised his head and nickered. Shiloh returned the greeting. Tamsin dismounted and found she was almost too stiff to walk.

“Fancy! Here, girl,” she called softly.

The chestnut snorted and trotted over, followed by an
Appaloosa mare. Murmuring endearments, Tamsin stroked Fancy’s soft nose and neck.

“She’s safe,” she said to Ash. The Cheyenne hadn’t even bothered to unsaddle her. Her bridle was missing one rein, but Ash used several pigging strings from his saddlebag to make up for it.

“Mount up,” he said tersely when Tamsin had tied the rawhide together to make another rein. “We need to put distance between us and them.”

Too weary to question his orders, she pulled herself up onto Fancy’s back and fell in behind Shiloh. Dancer, the Appaloosa mare, and the mule followed. The mule had scratches along his sides and singed spots on his rump.