When at last they came to a clearing, they were stunned at the sight that greeted them. Below, in the camp, black smoke billowed from burning wagons. The acrid odor drifted to them on the breeze. Abby heard a sound and couldn’t tell if it was a moan or the sigh of the wind.
Spurring his horse, Rourke cocked his rifle and yelled, “Stay here.”
“I’m going with you.”
His horse was running, but he managed to turn. “I don’t want you hurt.”
She hesitated, torn between wanting to do what Rourke asked and wanting to help if she could. These people were her friends. And more. They were all the family she had left. She had to go to their aid. Digging in her heels, she urged her horse into a run.
Holding the reins firmly, Abby forced her mount through the black smoke at the head of the train. It wasn’t until she was on the other side of the wagons, past the smoke, that she realized she was face-to-face with a band of Indians. While she looked on helplessly, four of them wrestled Rourke to the ground. When she saw one of the Indians raise a knife as if to plunge it into Rourke’s throat, she fired. The Indian slumped to the ground. Instantly two braves leaped at her, hauling her roughly to the ground. Enraged, Rourke leaped into their midst, shielding Abby with his own body. Several more braves attacked them, yanking Abby from his arms. Her buckskin jacket fell to the ground. As she was dragged away, her hat was knocked from her head and her hair tumbled about her face and shoulders.
While three Indians held a kicking, fighting Rourke, pinning him to the ground, the others stared at Abby in amazement. Who was this white woman, with hair like flame, dressed in men’s clothes?
One of the braves, shouting to the others, walked up to her and grabbed a handful of her hair. When he tugged on it, she slapped his hand. The others roared with laughter.
Angry, the brave slapped her back, then pulled on her hair again. With tears stinging her eyes, she kicked at him. Immediately he brought an arm around her throat, nearly choking her. As she scratched and bit, he tossed her to a second brave. The second one began making fun of her britches, then tore at the front of her shirt. When she tried to run, he caught her, then tossed her to a third brave, who ripped her shirt from her. She was indeed a woman, they laughed, pointing to her breasts. Wearing only a pale, ivory chemise, trimmed with ribbon and lace, Abby crossed her arms in front of herself and tried to evade their hands as they reached for her and tossed her back and forth in a circle.
Enraged, Rourke struggled with his captors until he felt the cold steel blade of a knife bite into his throat. Then he was forced to endure the agony of watching the woman he loved being tormented by savages.
The woman he loved. Rourke fought an overwhelming sense of despair. Why had he waited so long to admit his feelings? Now, when it was too late to tell her, he could finally admit what he had been fighting from the moment he first saw her. He loved her. Loved her as he had never loved any woman. And his punishment would be to watch as she was brutalized and killed. It was the cruelest irony.
At the loud voice of command, the Indians looked up from their sport. The command was repeated. Immediately the braves holding Abby released her.
Her britches had been cut away, leaving her only the cover afforded by the flimsy cotton chemise. She stood up from the dirt, clutching the torn fabric about her.
“Fire woman.”
At the sound of that name, she stared unbelieving at the brave astride the Indian pony. His face was garishly covered with war paint.
She continued to stare in horrified fascination. “Two Shadows?”
He urged his horse closer. At a low tone of command, the Indians holding Rourke released him and moved away. Free, Rourke stood, keeping his gaze firmly on Two Shadows.
“What have you done?” Abby cried, glancing around at the death and destruction.
“Your people brought death to my people,” he said simply.
“Death?” She shook her head in weariness. “I don’t understand.”
“Understand this.” He brought his horse nearer, until he could stare down into her face. “The kindness of you and the white-haired woman gave me back my life. The sickness that your people carried was carried back to my people through me.”
“Cholera.” Abby glanced at Rourke and felt tears spring to her eyes. “Oh, Two Shadows, I never dreamed I would be the cause of all this pain.” She spread her hands. “We didn’t know we carried that sickness. It killed many of our people too.”
“Many more of my people,” he said softly. “The sickness killed my father, the chief. I am now chief.”
“And you came here to avenge your father’s death?”
Two Shadows stared down at her without emotion. He leaned from his pony and caught a handful of her hair, pulling her close. For a moment he inhaled the woman scent of her, mingled with the undeniable scent of fear. “You would make a fine squaw for a Cheyenne chief.”
From his position, Rourke stiffened and instinctively reached toward his empty holster.
Two Shadows watched the fiery strands sift through his fingers. “Because of your goodness, you and this man will be spared. But do not pass through Cheyenne territory again. There is no more debt between us.”
He spoke rapidly to the others, and Abby and Rourke watched in silence as the braves gathered up their ponies and their dead and rode away.
When the last of the Indians disappeared into the woods, they turned toward the scene of the massacre.
As flames continued to devour wood and canvas, sending black, acrid smoke skyward, Abby and Rourke were left with the overwhelming task of searching among the charred ruins for survivors.
Chapter Twenty-eight
There were none.
Not a single survivor. The Cheyenne had been very thorough. Their revenge was complete.
Evelyn Coulter’s body was huddled atop little Jenny’s. Both throats had been cut.
Aaron Winters, alongside Evelyn’s wagon, died with his arms outstretched. Nearby, looking as if they had been wrenched from his arms, his son and daughter lay in a twisted heap.
Little Jonathon Peel had died holding a rifle nearly as big as he was. Beside him, his mother Doralyn lay face up, her sightless eyes staring at the heavens.
Choking back sobs, Abby followed Rourke from one wagon to the next, from one bloody scene of destruction to one even worse. Jed Garner had died alone, defending his wagon and team. Perhaps, Abby thought as she stared at his blood-soaked body, Nancy had chosen the better part of the bargain by staying with the crazed, desperate people in the foothills of the Sierras.
Beside the cook wagon, Parker lay with a butcher knife still in his hand. Behind the wagon, Mordecai, clutching his walking stick, lay in a pool of his own congealed blood.
“In my mind, he had become my father,” Abby whispered between sobs. “I thought it would be so wonderful to have a father like Mordecai Stump. He was all the things I admired in a man.”
Lying beside him was Thompson, his rifle still clutched in a death grip.
A sob was wrenched from Abby’s lips. “He died defending Mordecai. Oh Rourke, he gave his life for his friend.” Kneeling, she whispered, “You finally made it up to him, didn’t you, Big Jack?”
Rourke couldn’t speak. The rage that he had experienced earlier was replaced with a numbness as he went about cataloging the dead.
Throughout the afternoon, he and Abby dug into the frozen ground with picks and shovels, determined to bury each family in a separate grave. It was what Abby wanted. And though a common grave would have been simpler, he feared that she was near the breaking point. No matter how difficult the job, it was better than letting the grief overwhelm her. As long as she worked, she wouldn’t have time to contemplate what had really happened here.
Maybe it was what he needed as well. There had been too much killing, too much death.
By evening, the mounds were marked with crude crosses, made from charred pieces of wagons. In all, there were five family graves, containing thirteen bodies, and separate graves for Mordecai, Thompson, and Parker.
The Indians had not spared the livestock. Twenty-three oxen and eight mules had been slaughtered, along with two milk cows, a brood cow, and calf, and three goats. Even the horses had been killed. To ensure that they wouldn’t be eaten, the braves had burned the carcasses. The Indians had taken no chance that the white man’s sickness would be allowed to spread.
When darkness cloaked the land, Rourke took a blanket from behind his saddle. Huddled in the shelter of a rock, he built a fire with the charred remains of the wagons. Drawing an exhausted Abby into his arms, he held her until the trembling stopped and she fell into a restless sleep. With his back against the wall of rock, he placed his gun carefully beside his right hand, then, for the first time in hours, allowed himself to rest.
* * *
At dawn they left the place of death. Abby wore one of Rourke’s shirts and his old Union army pants, tied at her waist with a piece of rope. She’d managed to salvage her torn buckskin jacket and dirty cap from the dirt. Except for Rourke’s bedroll and meager supplies which were always tied behind his saddle, they had nothing. Fire had destroyed everything.
A light snow had started during the night. By morning, the snowfall had become thicker, with no break in sight.
Pausing on the crest of a hill, they looked back. Smoke still drifted from several charred wagons. But already the mounds of earth marking the graves were being covered by a blanket of white. If the snow continued for another day, there would be no trace of the carnage.
“All those hopes and dreams,” Abby whispered.
Glancing away from the despair in her eyes, Rourke nudged his horse into a trot. “Come on. We’re going to have to keep moving if we hope to beat this blizzard.”
They rode for hours, hoping to put as many miles as possible between themselves and the snow. Instead, they seemed to be heading deeper into it. The horses, picking their way between rocks and crevices, often lost their footing and slipped. Finally, Rourke and Abby were forced to plod on foot, leading their exhausted mounts.
When the snow became too deep, they took shelter in a cave. While Abby rubbed down their horses, Rourke went in search of firewood. Dragging a small pine through the opening, Rourke chopped it into small pieces and soon had a roaring fire going. Setting his blackened pot over the fire, he melted snow and added some precious coffee. Filling two cups, he turned to offer one to Abby. She was slumped against her saddle, sound asleep.
He covered her with his blanket and knelt beside her for long minutes, watching her while she slept. If it were possible, he would absorb all her pain and suffering. If it were possible, he would spare her all that they had yet to endure. If it were possible …
He sat down beside her, with his back against his saddle, and drank the steaming coffee, feeling the warmth envelop him. Though he struggled to stay awake, his body betrayed him. He, too, fell into an exhausted sleep. The fire slowly burned to embers. And outside, the wind howled and the snow continued to fall, covering the Sierras with the first real blizzard of the season.
* * *
Sometime in the night, Abby awoke. Confused, she stared around the darkened cave. Except for the red glow of ashes, the cave was completely black. A horse stomped and she jumped in alarm, then turned to stare at the darkened shadows of the two horses at the rear of the cave. As her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, she could make out the figure of Rourke nearby, lying with his head resting on his saddle.
Outside the wind sighed and moaned and Abby shivered and drew the blanket around her. She noticed that Rourke had hung his saddle blanket over the mouth of the cave to keep the wind from blowing in. Though the ashes from the fire still gave off some warmth, the cave would soon be as cold as the snows that lay outside their door.
Spotting a pile of pine branches, Abby threw several on the ashes and watched as they leaped into flame, casting wild shadows on the walls of the cave.
Somewhere in the darkness a tree split and crashed to the ground. Hearing it, Abby nervously pulled her saddle beside Rourke’s and spread her blanket over both of them. Lying very close to him, she tried to convince herself she wasn’t afraid. Even though he was asleep, Rourke was here. He wouldn’t let anything happen to her. He sighed in his sleep and rolled over, flinging an arm across her hips. She lay very still, afraid to move, afraid even to breathe. As his slow, steady breathing continued, she began to relax. It wasn’t wicked to lie so close beside him. It was necessary for survival. But she was so achingly aware of him. Aware of the strength of the arm that lay, loose and relaxed, across her body. Aware of the faint scent of tobacco on the breath that mingled with her own. Aware of the warmth of his body, and the musky, male scent that was his alone. Lying this close to him, she knew she would never be able to fall back to sleep. But gradually the sighing of the wind and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat lulled her. She drifted into a gentle, dreamless sleep.
* * *
As the first streak of gray light pierced the cave, Rourke began to awaken. Despite the wind keening down the mountains, he was warm. His arm encircled a slender waist and his palm was open against warm flesh. He came fully awake and opened his eyes. Abby was asleep in his arms. She was facing him, her eyes closed, her breathing slow and steady. Sometime during the night his hand had found its way under her chemise. The skin of her back was the softest he’d ever felt. He studied the spill of fiery hair across the saddle. She was so incredibly beautiful.
Needs pulsed through him and he toyed with the idea of kissing her awake. She would be warm, and willing. Utterly defenseless.
He had no right. He, of all people, knew better. Cursing himself, he stood and pulled on his boots. Drinking the last of the lukewarm coffee, he threw several logs on the ashes and fanned them until the flame started. Then, picking up his rifle, he led his horse from the cave.