Authors: Madeline Baker
She stood up as he rode toward her. It had all been for nothing.
* * * * *
Left. Right. Left. With dogged determination, Creed put one foot in front of the other.
Each step sent knifelike slashes of pain lancing through him.
Each step carried him that much closer to Jassy.
He squinted up at the sun. He’d been walking about two hours, although it seemed like two days. Every inch of his body ached. His throat was as dry as the dust beneath his feet. His stomach alternated between hunger and nausea, and still he kept going.
When he saw the stream, he thought it was an illusion conjured up by his thirst.
“It isn’t real,” he muttered, but he flopped down on his belly and buried his head beneath the water.
It was real. Cold and wet, sweeter than anything he had ever tasted. He drank slowly, only a small amount at a time, knowing he’d vomit it all back up again if he drank too much too fast. But, Lord, it was tempting, so tempting.
When he had taken the edge off his thirst, he stripped off his tattered clothing and sank down in the water, letting the current rinse away the dirt and the blood that covered him from head to foot.
He felt considerably better when he emerged from the stream.
He took another drink, rinsed the dirt and blood from his shirt and pants as best he could, then spread his clothes over a rock to dry.
Buck-naked, he stretched out on a scrawny patch of yellow grass and closed his eyes, basking in the heat of the sun.
It was late afternoon when he woke. His clothes were dry and stiff, and he groaned softly as he pulled on his pants, then shrugged into his shirt.
Damn, but he felt like the very devil, he mused as he dragged a hand across his jaw. His left eye was still swollen, the cut on his cheek throbbed with a dull ache, and his whole body felt like it had been stomped by a loco bronc.
But he was alive.
Alive and hungry.
And there were fish in the stream.
Stretching out on his stomach on the bank, he cupped his hands in the water, and waited.
Twenty minutes later, there was one less trout in the stream.
The Indians had taken his tobacco, but they hadn’t found his matches. In a short time, he had the fish spitted over a small fire.
A slow grin spread over Creed’s face as he stared into the flames. Now, all he needed was a horse, a gun, and a little luck.
“Hold on, Jassy,” he muttered softly. “I’m coming.”
* * * * *
She was tired and hungry and frightened out of her mind. Every minute took her farther away from civilization and deeper into the heart of Indian country.
She was keenly aware of the warrior riding behind her, of the heavily muscled arm that curved around her waist.
They rode steadily for hours, stopping only once to water the horses. Jassy needed to relieve herself, but the Indian didn’t offer her the chance and she had a terrible feeling that, if she wasn’t allowed a few minutes privacy, she was going to embarrass herself.
It was near dusk when the Indians made camp for the night.
Her backside was numb from spending so many hours straddling a horse, her back and shoulders ached. Her legs felt like rubber when her captor lifted her from the back of his pony. Desperate to relieve herself, Jassy stumbled into the bushes.
Squatting in the short yellow grass, she closed her eyes, fighting back the urge to cry. What good would crying do now? There was no one to hear her, at least no one who cared.
Totally dispirited, she stared into the gathering darkness, wondering if she dared risk running away again. But where would she go? She had no idea where she was. Still, it would be infinitely better to die in the wilderness than be ravished by savages.
She was trying to decide which way to go when her captor appeared, a knowing smirk in his deep black eyes as he gestured for her to return to their campsite.
Feet dragging, she did as she was told. When they reached the others, her captor gave her a shove, then leaned down and tied her hands together. She felt a surge of gratitude because he hadn’t secured her hands behind her back, and then she thrust the thought away. She wouldn’t feel anything for this man except hatred. She glared at him as he thrust a hunk of jerked meat at her.
It looked dry and old and decidedly tasteless, but she was too hungry to be choosy. Scowling, she reached for the jerky, wishing she had the nerve to throw it back in his face. She accepted the bladder he offered her, shivering with revulsion as she put her mouth where his had been but a raging thirst overcame her squeamishness and she took a long drink of the water, which was warm but still quenched her thirst.
Jassy gnawed on the jerky as she stared into the flames.
Creed was dead. She couldn’t seem to think of anything but that. She’d never see him again, never hear his laugh, feel the touch of his hand, so gentle in her hair. She lifted her hands, fingering the beaded choker at her throat. It was all she had left of him now, that and her memories.
She remembered the way Creed had come to her rescue in the alley, the sound of his voice, so deep and soft, when he asked her name. She recalled how he had looked the following morning when she had gone to his hotel room to thank him for his help, the odd expression in his eyes when she had handed him a plate of cookies. She remembered staring at him, at his naked chest, at the gun he had shoved into the waistband of his trousers. He’d bought her a dress—the first new dress she’d had in years.
He had comforted her the day she buried her mother. No one else had offered her a word of solace, not the minister, who might have at least lied and said he was sorry. Not even Rose. Only Creed. He had held her while she cried, gently stroking her hair. He had kept her company when Rose went off to Denver with one of her customers. Like a guardian angel, he had always been there when she needed him the most. And now he was gone…
Steeped in sorrow and despair, she curled up on the ground, her cheek pillowed on her bound hands.
Creed was dead, and she felt empty and alone. She tried to cry, wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come.
Dry-eyed, she stared into the darkness. Creed was dead, and nothing else mattered.
Creed stared into the distance, wondering why he didn’t just lay down and die. He’d been walking for two days, quietly cussing himself for staying in Harrison when he should have gone to Black Hawk, cursing the Indians, the heat, the burning sand. He cursed Jassy for being young and irresistible and himself for not having the good sense to admit he was licked.
He was tired and hungry, sore from head to foot, and madder than hell.
And more worried than he cared to admit.
Two days. Anything could have happened to her in that time. She could have been raped. Killed…
He shook the thought from his mind, refusing to even consider such a thing.
He focused his attention on the pony tracks that stretched northward. Except for their trail, the Indians had left little sign of their passing.
A faint line of greenery promised water and Creed quickened his stride, one arm wrapped protectively around his midsection. When he reached the stream, he dropped to his knees, grunting softly as he jarred his bruised ribs.
For a moment, he just sat there, waiting for the pain to pass, and then he stretched out on his belly and took a long, slow swallow. When his thirst was quenched, he splashed water over his face and chest.
Closing his eyes, he rested his head on his forearm. From a distant corner of his mind came near-forgotten Lakota words of gratitude.
“
Pilamaya, Ate.
”
Thank you, Father. For the tall grass. For the clear water. For the warm sun. For the buffalo…
As a child, he had been taught to be thankful for so many things. What had happened to that gratitude, that sense of wonder that had filled his mind and heart when he was young?
Thank you, Father. For life. For wisdom. For a warrior’s strength and courage. For Jassy…
Jassy. She had restored his faith in people, given him a new sense of wonder. She had baked him cookies! The memory made him smile. What other woman would bring cookies to a hired gun?
He had taken her to the valley outside Harrison and seen it again, new and fresh, through her eyes. How long had it been since he’d taken time to appreciate the beauty of the wildflowers that bloomed in the valley, the way the sunlight danced and shimmered on the small blue pool, the stately grace of the trees that housed the birds and provided shade in the summer’s heat?
Jassy. In spite of her dismal upbringing, in spite of the fact that her mother and sister were whores, Jassy had remained untouched by ugliness, by bitterness, though she had every right to be bitter. Somehow, she had managed to hang on to her youth, her innocence, her faith that things would get better. He thought of her wearing the beaded choker his grandmother had given him.
His grandmother, bless her. Except for Jassy, Okoka was the only woman who had ever loved him wholly and completely, who had expected the best of him and refused to settle for less. Jassy, with hair like a dull flame and the spirit of a Lakota warrior. He couldn’t let her down now.
Eyes closed, he murmured a fervent prayer to
Wakán Tanka
, praying for the Great Spirit’s help in finding Jassy, praying for the strength to go on.
He took another drink from the river, savoring the sweetness of the cool water, and then he stood up, determined to find Jassy, or die trying. It was near dusk when Creed neared another water hole.
Covered with dust, his throat as dry as the ground at his feet, he almost spooked the horse before he saw it.
Halting in mid-stride, Creed held his breath while his gaze moved over the animal. It was an Indian pony, raw-hide tough, with a deep chest and wide, intelligent eyes. Extending one hand, Creed approached the horse, surprised that the pinto didn’t bolt, and then he saw the rope tangled around the horse’s forelegs.
Eyes wide, nostrils flared, the horse backed up, but the rope acted like hobbles, preventing the animal from running away. “Easy, girl,” Creed said softly. “Easy. I’m not gonna hurt you.”
The mare’s ears twitched at the sound of his voice, and then she lowered her head and sniffed his hand. Careful not to make any sudden moves, Creed patted her neck, a little awed by the mare’s unexpected appearance. A lucky coincidence, he mused, or a gift from the Great Spirit?
“Easy, girl.” Taking hold of the horse’s mane, he untangled the rope from her legs and fashioned a rough hackamore.
“
Pilamaya, Ate,
” Creed murmured and wondered how much better and simpler his life might have been if he’d adhered to his grandmother’s teachings, if he’d put his trust in
Wakán Tanka
instead of a steady hand and a fast draw.
But there was no point in rehashing the past or wondering what might have been if he’d followed a different road. It was too late to turn back now, too late to abandon the habits of a lifetime. He was a hired gun, and no fit company for decent people. If he’d remembered that sooner, Jassy’s life wouldn’t be in danger.
Gritting his teeth, he swung onto the pinto’s back. “I’m coming, Jassy,” he murmured. “God help me, I’m coming.”
* * * * *
Jassy pulled the blanket over her head. Three days had passed since the Indians had abducted her. Three days. And nights.
Tears stung her eyes. It had been the worst three days of her life. Worse than the day her father left home. Worse than the day her mother had been killed. Worse than having Rose run off.
She closed her eyes, and immediately Creed’s image rose in her mind, his hair as dark as the night, his eyes as deep and black as a bottomless pit—sometimes cold and unfathomable, sometimes blazing with desire.
Tears coursed down her cheeks. He was dead. She wished the Indians had killed her, too. At least then her troubles would be over and she wouldn’t be afraid anymore. And she was afraid. Horribly, terribly afraid. Of the Indian who had captured her. Of the look in his eye. Of what would happen when they reached their destination. So far, he hadn’t touched her. She should have been relieved, but for some reason, that only frightened her more. If he didn’t intend to rape her, what was he going to do with her? Visions of being cruelly tortured crowded her mind during the day and haunted her dreams at night.
They reached the Indian village late the following morning. Jassy stared at the numerous lodges and experienced a heart-stopping sense of fear. She tried to find comfort by reminding herself that Creed had been half Indian, but it didn’t help.
Black eyes filled with distrust and hatred stared up at her as they rode into the camp. A woman spat in her direction, others reviled her in a harsh guttural tongue, and Jassy realized that some words sounded the same in any language.
Her captor reined his horse to a halt in front of a large tipi. Vaulting from the horse’s back, he lifted Jassy to the ground, then shoved her into the lodge.
The inside was cool and dim. Jassy glanced around, her gaze resting on what she assumed was a pile of furs, until the pile moved and she saw two dark eyes staring at her and realized an old woman lay under the furs.
Her captor spoke to the woman for several minutes and then, using gestures and a few words of English, informed Jassy that she was to care for the old woman. For Jassy, the next few days were like something out of a nightmare. She was scorned and reviled by the Indian women whenever she left the lodge to fetch water or wood, or to try her hand at cooking in the huge iron pot that hung on a tripod outside the tipi.
Her days were spent looking after the cranky old woman—bathing her, cooking for her, feeding her, dressing her, helping her outside to relieve herself.
The old woman, who was partially paralyzed from the waist down, spent most of the day sleeping, which left Jassy with a great deal of time on her hands with nothing to do but sit outside and try to ignore the jeers and dirty looks that came her way, or sit inside the dusky lodge and lament her fate while she listened to the old woman snore.
Nights, she slept beside the fire, wrapped in a buffalo robe, afraid to close her eyes for fear her captor would try to molest her, though he had made no move to touch her in any way.
A week passed. In that time, Jassy learned that the warrior who had captured her spoke more than a little English. She learned that his name was Chah-ee-chopes, that the old woman was his mother, that his wife and little daughter had been killed by soldiers in the same attack that had crippled his mother.
In stilted English and sign language, Chah-ee-chopes told her that he had been on a raid of vengeance when the war party found her and Creed. He had thought it a fitting form of revenge that the white man should be killed, and that a white woman should be forced to look after his mother, whose name was Oo-je-en-a-he-ha, since it had been a white man who had crippled her.
Chah-ee-chopes’ story touched Jassy’s heart and eased some of her fears. He hadn’t captured her to abuse her or torture her, but to care for his mother.
As the days passed, Jassy learned a little of the Indian’s daily routine. Early every morning, the herald called for the people to get out of bed, bathe, and drink all the water they could.
“Put water on your body,” he called. “Get up and drink your fill. Make your blood thin.”
Jassy questioned Chah-ee-chopes, and learned that the Crow believed that drinking plenty of water kept the blood thin, which would keep a person from getting sick. Thin blood wouldn’t clog, but ran freely through a person’s veins. A person who didn’t drink a lot of water wouldn’t live long.
She learned that when there was meat in camp, a man who was not concerned with joining a war party, or taking part in a ceremony, tended to idle away his days in his lodge. Jassy realized, of course, that, among the Indians, going to war and providing meat were a man’s main occupations. Occasionally, she saw men making arrowheads of stone or bone, but shafts and bows were made by experts. Only little boys used bows made of wood; a warrior’s bow was made of horn or antler with a backing of sinew.
Still, Crow men appeared lazy when compared to the women, who were never idle. They spent their days sewing, mending, drying meat, tanning hides, and cooking.
Now that she was no longer quite so afraid of him, she realized that Chah-ee-chopes was a handsome young man. She noticed that he was greatly admired by the Crow women, and that the men held him in high esteem.
One night, there was a large gathering in the middle of the camp. Jassy sat in the shadows, watching as the men danced. When the dancing stopped, Chah-ee-chopes stood up and began to speak. He would say something, then pause, and one of the drummers would strike the drum.
When Chah-ee-chopes sat down, another man stood up to speak. And then another.
Later, Jassy asked Chah-ee-chopes what he had said, and learned that at most large gatherings, the men enumerated their deeds.
There were four deeds of valor that brought special honor to a warrior. The first was counting coup on an enemy, the second was taking a bow or a gun from an enemy in hand-to-hand combat, the third was the theft of a horse picketed within a hostile camp, the fourth was being the pipe-owner or raid-planner. A man who could claim any of these deeds was called
arraxsi’wice
, or an honor-owner. To be a chief, a man must have accomplished at least one deed of valor.
“You must have done many brave things,” Jassy mused, remembering how many times the drums had beat.
Chah-ee-chopes nodded. “I have counted coup. I have captured a gun and a bow. I led a war party. I have raided the enemy for horses and scalps. I have been to war many times.”
Jassy nodded. He was, indeed, a warrior. And yet, for all that, he had treated her with kindness and respect.
That night, curled up in the warmth of a buffalo robe, Jassy offered a silent prayer, thanking God that she was still alive, that she wasn’t being mistreated, that the warrior who had captured her seemed to be a man of honor.
Lying there, listening to the faint sounds of the night, she prayed for Creed’s soul.
The tears came then, tears of grief because she would never see him again, never hear his voice murmuring her name, never again feel the touch of his hand.
Her eyes burned and her throat ached as she wept for the life they might have shared, a life that was now forever lost. As the last of her tears dried, Jassy vowed to stop feeling sorry for herself. Creed was gone and all the crying in the world would not bring him back.
Tomorrow, she would try to make the best of her life. She would endeavor to learn the Crow language. She would be nicer to Oo-je-en-a-he-ha. She would wear the doeskin dress, leggings, and moccasins that Chah-ee-chopes had provided for her.
A single tear trickled down Jassy’s cheek as she touched the beaded choker at her throat. It was all she had left of Creed. Ruthlessly, she wiped the tear away. The time for tears was past.