Fighting back a sob of panic, Major Lawrence Berton kicked his bay into a gallop, shouting over his shoulder, “We must find her before night. We must!” And he led the saddle-weary detail farther into the canyons and crevices where the terrain was so rough and forbidding, it would be possible to hide there forever.
He heard the distant neighing of a horse.
In a flash the Sioux was on his feet, the Winchester rifle in his hand. He cast a quick look at the woman. She was sleeping again, but he couldn’t count on her remaining asleep. If she wakened and cried out, they’d be discovered.
Peering warily out into the sloping green forest, he laid the weapon aside and went to the cot. Throwing a long leg over her, he straddled her, his knee resting on the bed beside her hip. Keeping one foot on the floor to support his weight, he leaned down and swiftly placed a brown hand over her mouth. His touch brought her instantly awake and a pair of terrified green eyes looked up at him.
“Don’t scream,” he said softly. “I’m not going to hurt you, but I want to make sure you’re quiet. I’ll have to put a handkerchief in your mouth for a while.” She shook her head violently and made soft mewing sounds, her eyes wild. He paid no attention. He drew a snowy white handkerchief from an inside pocket and quickly gagged her while she lay trapped beneath him.
“Now,” he said conversationally, looking down at her, “do exactly as I tell you and you won’t get hurt. Understand?” She glared at him. He slid his long, lean fingers into her hair at the side of her head. “I said, ‘do you understand?’” The fingers tightened, holding her head immobile. She nodded. “Good.” He released the hair and, reaching down, scooped her shoes from under the bed, slid down the length of her body, and deftly put the slippers back on her feet.
Then in one fluid movement he was off the bed and pulling her up and guiding her toward the open front door. When they reached it, he picked up the Winchester and walked out onto the shaded stoop, bringing her with him. He looked down at her, took her hand, and reading the puzzlement in her eyes, said, “We’re going to take a little walk.”
Was this it? she asked herself. Was he going to take her into the woods to kill her so he could bury her body away from his cabin. Her eyes darted to the gleaming rifle he carried under his right arm. Would he take her deep into the trees, lift the steel barrel to her temple and fire? Would her death be mercifully quick or would he rape and torture her first? Would he throw her down and tear the white silk dress from her? Would he rip her fine French underthings to shreds, then cruelly force himself on her again and again? Would he scalp her and tie the long, bloody locks to his belt?
Would she live to see another sunrise?
Her heart pounding so furiously it was painful, she died a thousand deaths on the way to what she felt sure were her final minutes on the earth.
They were climbing now, he leading her up a rocky, treacherous path that was so narrow, she had to follow behind. Hobbled by her tight skirts, she stumbled after him, her hand in his, her legs weak. She was jerked along and at times lifted when she couldn’t manage because of her dress. Out of breath, gagging on the handkerchief, she bumped into him when her captor stopped abruptly.
His arm coming back to hold her close, he turned his head and listened. Martay listened too, and heard the clanking of bits, the creaking of leather, and the whinnying of horses. She froze. More savages coming to join him? A celebration of some sort with her a part of their uncivilized entertainment? Dear God, no. Not that! Not the horror of being passed around among a dirty murdering band of Indians bent on doing unspeakable things to her before they finally tired of the game and burned her at the stake!
In seconds she heard men’s voices. The voices carried on the thin alpine air and Martay’s panic rapidly turned to relief as she heard a man’s deep, clear voice addressing a companion. “Captain,” he said, and she knew. It was the Army! They’d come for her. Her father had come for her. Thank God, oh, thank God! By suppertime she’d be safely back inside the Larimer Street mansion and this animal holding her would be dead.
She was pulled back from her pleasant reverie when her captor edged out farther onto the huge, flat boulder they had climbed. He halted then, moved her around in front of him, and crouched down on his heels, bringing her down with him. Her feet curled to the side, she was forced to sit between his spread knees and she ground her teeth when his fingers wrapped around her throat and he urged her head back against his chest.
Brushing her hair back, he put his lips against her ear and whispered, “Make one sound and it will be your last.”
His hand left her throat. He reached a long arm out and pulled back a leafy tree-branch. Slowly he leaned forward, the motion of his chest pushing her forward with him. She turned her head to look at him. His face was beside hers, his smooth dark jaw lightly touching her temple. The black, black eyes were scanning the mountain slope below. She knew by his fierce expression he had caught sight of the approaching soldiers.
She turned, held her breath, and looked out over the lowered tree branch. There, a hundred feet below and some fifty yards away, rode a half dozen blue-uniformed troopers led by a big, powerfully-built man on a bay stallion. His blond hair gleamed in the bright sunlight, and recognizing Major Lawrence Berton, she made a gurgling sound deep in her throat.
Instinctively she lunged forward, trying to call to him, praying she’d attract his attention, that he’d look up and see her there above. But a strong bronzed arm quickly came around her waist and jerked her back so quickly, her head rocked on her shoulders and she felt the hard muscles of the Indian’s chest bump against her shoulder blades.
And with both his long arms trapping her inside, the Sioux calmly lifted his Winchester, poked the barrel through the thick foliage, took dead aim, and waited.
10
M
artay’s heart stopped beating.
She couldn’t call to the unsuspecting Larry Berton and his troopers. She couldn’t jump up and wave her hands about. Trapped inside a pair of strong copper arms, she could only wait for the inevitable shot to ring out, ending Larry’s life, then the others’.
The mounted troopers had ridden closer; so close, they could have whispered and she would have heard them. They had halted below; their tired horses snorted and blew. Men coughed and spat. And a voice she’d last heard promising warmly to “be back in ten minutes with the punch” now sounded tired and distraught as Major Lawrence Berton said, “She can’t be up there. A horse could never climb those steep rocks.” He added, almost as an afterthought, “And neither could a man.”
“I agree, Major,” a soldier answered. “Let’s rest the horses here for an hour, then turn back southeast to rendezvous with the rest of the search party.”
Martay looked at the Indian’s face as the soldiers dismounted. In moments the weary men would be lying about on the ground, smoking, relaxed, rifles laid aside, forage caps pulled low, eyes closed. The silent Sioux could pick off the half-dozen men before they knew what had happened.
The Indian’s expression had changed not at all. Save the occasional flickering of his black lashes, his dark face might have been carved of the stone they sat atop. The raised rifle rested against his right cheek, its sight an inch from his eye. Martay’s gaze went from his face to his dark right hand. A long, lean finger was curled around the trigger, gently caressing.
Tensed, she waited. Waited for that deadly finger to gently squeeze. Waited for the firing to begin. Waited, mute and helpless, for the senseless slaughter of the tired troopers, and for her own end as well.
Long minutes passed.
The Indian neither fired nor lowered the rifle. Completely puzzled, Martay kept stealing glances at the impassive face as a terrible tension built. What on earth was he waiting for? She almost wished he would go ahead and fire, get it over with. Nothing was worse than this waiting. But he did not fire.
Staring at him, she noted a trickle of perspiration slipping out of his hairline and down over his left temple. She followed its slow, steady progress over the dark skin until it came to rest in the corner of his left eye. He neither reached up to brush it aside nor did he blink it away. It clung there, poised for an instant on a long, dark lash, glittering like a diamond in the sunshine, before falling directly into his eye. If it burned or bothered him, he gave no indication.
While Martay squirmed and twisted as much as possible within the encircling arms, the Sioux was completely motionless. Crouched there on his heels in what she was certain was a terribly uncomfortable position, he remained just as he was. And did not fire a single bullet at the dozing troopers.
Those were the longest, worst moments of Martay’s life. Imprisoned inside the parted thighs and powerful arms of a man who seemed less than human, she felt she’d been there for as long as she could remember; would be there forever. The blistering afternoon sun beat down on her uncovered head, turned her fair skin a flushed pink, and covered her bared arms and shoulders with a sheen of perspiration. Trickles of the tickling, salty moisture ran down her hot face, pooling behind her knees and between her breasts.
Her head ached dully and her neck, caught against the Sioux’s rock-hard shoulder, was growing stiff. Her lips were dry and bruised from the damnable gag, and her throat was parched and scratchy. She was in agony, both physically and mentally. She feared and despised the calm, nerveless Sioux beside her. Martay now knew what her father meant when he said Indians loved toying with their prey.
After what seemed more like an eternity than only one hour, the soldiers began to stir. The Indian waited until he knew they had mounted and were departing. Only then did he move, and Martay instinctively shut her eyes against the horror that was about to happen.
But no shots rang out, and finally, opening her eyes just a little, she was shocked to see that the Indian had lowered his Winchester. He had pulled back a heavily-leafed tree limb and was looking after the departing troopers, his black eyes calm. And he allowed the mounted troopers to ride away unharmed.
Swallowing with difficulty, Martay looked after the soldiers too. Watching Larry Berton trotting away, his blond hair gleaming in the Colorado sunshine, she was at once relieved that his life had been spared and angry that he’d left her behind with a dangerous savage. He might have tried a little harder. He had given up too easily. He’d assumed no horse nor man could scale the steep cliffs, but the Indian, carrying her, had made it up by the light of the moon.
Her heart sinking, she watched until the soldiers were out of sight; then, sighing wearily, she turned to look at her captor. His glance touched, then dismissed her. At last he laid aside the Winchester, sat down on the flat rock, stretched out his legs, and untied her gagging handkerchief.
Coughing and spitting, Martay turned around to face him. “Why did you do that?”
“Untie the gag? You want it back on, I’ll be …”
“That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it!” Suddenly realizing she was still sitting between his legs, she scrambled up on hands and knees and crawled over him, anxious to be as far from him as possible. “Why didn’t you shoot the soldiers?”
Shrugging, he said, “Should I have?”
Martay ground her teeth. “They’ll be back, you know. You won’t get away with this! My father is a powerful general and he loves me very much.”
“I’m counting on that,” said the Sioux, and agilely rose to his feet. Reaching up behind his head with one hand, he jerked the hot elkskin shirt up and off.
Frowning, Martay shaded her eyes and looked up at him. He stood there in the unfiltered sunlight, his smooth, hairless chest gleaming with sweat, and the thought skipped through her mind that what they said was true. Indians really didn’t have any hair on their chests. And she innocently wondered, Was the rest of their bodies hairless as well?
Her gaze was drawn to a scar that began at his right collarbone and slashed a path across his brown flesh to below his left rib cage. The scar was starkly white against his dark skin, and smooth and wide, as though it was very old and had grown as his body had grown. Obviously he’d been viciously cut when he was a child.
Her eyes climbed to his face.
“Get up,” he said, and reached out to help her stand.
Ignoring the offer, she rose to face him. “Never doubt that my father will save me, Indian. You’ve picked the wrong captive this time!”
The Sioux slipped a hand into the waistband of his low-riding buckskins. Sliding long brown fingers inside the tight pants, he rested his palm against his flat, bare stomach and said, “You’re the right captive, Captive.”
His flip reply was lost on Martay because he’d unconsciously drawn her attention down to his naked abdomen. Eyes helplessly pulled there, Martay couldn’t keep from noticing how the buckskin trousers fell away from his firm, flat belly, exposing his naval and two inches of a line of heavy black hair leading downward from it.
As her eyes flew back up to his face in embarrassment, the guilty thought raced through Martay’s head that her earlier question had just been answered. Indians certainly did have hair on their …
“Yes! You’ve picked the wrong one,” she said, her voice shrill.
“You’re repeating yourself,” he said, and in his gleaming black eyes she detected a brief flash of amusement that she found highly irritating and insulting.
“Are you making fun of me, Indian?” she snapped, hands going to her hips.
His answer was a blink of his hooded eyes and a hand on her shoulder. “Let’s go, Captive.”
She tried to shrug from his grasp but was unsuccessful. His long fingers wrapped tightly around her arm and in minutes he had firmly guided her back to the cabin. Pausing on the stoop, he said, “I know you’re hot and uncomfortable. There’s a small snow-fed stream just up the slope. Would you like to bathe?”
Skeptically she eyed him. The thought of a refreshing bath sounded wonderful. She could almost feel the cold, clear water on her heated, itchy flesh. “Where would you be?”