“No!” screamed Night Sun, and ran toward them, but the soldier was already rising, buttoning his pants. Grinning, the trooper swung back up into his saddle and wheeled the big horse away, leaving the battered, bruised woman to suffer.
Red Shawl lay naked in the snow. Blood was oozing from her open mouth, from her right ear, and from between her bruised thighs. She screamed anew when Night Sun fell to her side; then, as she recognized him, tears of relief slipped down her cheeks, and as he drew her discarded dress up over her abused body, she whispered to him, “Night Sun, kill me. Please kill me.”
“No,” he said, violently shaking his head. “You’ll be okay, Red Shawl. I’ll take care of you.” He patted her battered, freezing cheek.
“I don’t want to live,” she said tiredly, and as if on command, a soldier, riding past, shot her in the temple. “Thank you, Night Sun,” she said, smiled sadly at him, and died.
Knowing what a modest maiden Red Shawl had always been, Night Sun took time to redress his dead aunt, then he was again up and gone, searching for his grandmother.
The smell of gunpowder and blood and death strong in his nostrils, Night Sun raced frantically through the destroyed camp, desperate to find Gentle Deer. Soon, through the thick, drifting smoke, he caught a glimpse of her, not fifty yards away. Brave and resourceful to the end, she was herding a handful of terrified children to the safety of the trees at the camp’s edge. In her arms she was carrying a crying infant, which she handed to one of the older children when they reached the sheltering pines. Shooing the children from her, she turned and hurried back to gather others.
“Grandmother!” shouted a thankful Night Sun.
Hearing his voice, she turned, and it was then that a mounted trooper, his blond hair gleaming in the rapidly rising sun, rode close and fired, the bullet entering Gentle Deer’s right temple and exiting the left.
“Grandmother!” Night Sun shouted again, and raced to her side. She was on her knees in the snow, blinded but alive. Night Sun knelt beside her, wrapped his short arms around her, and told her not to worry.
“Night Sun!” she warned, hearing the hoofbeats of the returning trooper. He looked up to see the blond-haired soldier riding down on them. Pushing his blinded grandmother from him, he rose to his feet to shield her from further harm, shouting, “Stay away from her!”
The young captain reached the pair, pulled up on his mount, smiled, drew his saber, and placed its sharp point atop Night Sun’s right collarbone. Then, laughing heartily, his vivid green eyes shining, the soldier playfully slashed a bias line across Night Sun’s thin chest to below his left ribs.
While blood streamed and the officer laughed, Night Sun narrowed his black eyes and warned, “You better kill me, soldier. If you don’t, I’ll kill you.”
The green-eyed, blond-haired captain, laughing still, nodded, drew his revolver, and took dead aim. Night Sun, bare feet apart, eyes deadly cold, never flinched.
But before the trooper could squeeze the trigger, a senior officer, shouting to be heard, commanded, “Enough, Captain! Let’s go.”
At once the soldier holstered his weapon, said to Night Sun, “I’m going to let you live, Injun,” and rode away, leaving behind a blinded old woman and a bleeding young warrior who would never forget the face of a green-eyed, blond officer. From that moment, it was forever etched in Night Sun’s memory.
“But I won’t let you live, green eyes,” vowed Night Sun, calmly. “One day I’ll hunt you down and kill you. That I promise.”
15
“I
hope they let her live,” said an anxious General William Kidd, his face haggard, eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep. He rose from his chair to pace once more. “Who in God’s name would have taken her? And why haven’t we heard anything? It makes no sense. None.”
Senator Douglas Berton took another sip of brandy. It was past midnight. He had enjoyed a sumptuous meal alone with the mistress of the house, Regina Darlington. Afterward, she had shown him around the large estate, insisting they stroll in the moonlight, then share a drink in the study. At half past eleven, he had begged tiredness and climbed the stairs to his room. Seeing the light beneath the general’s door, he had knocked and entered to find General Kidd pacing restlessly, too worried to sleep, his dinner tray untouched.
“General,” he said, purposely keeping his voice level, soothing, “if someone has taken Martay, it would indeed make no sense for them to harm her. I’m sure the child’s quite safe.”
The general stopped his pacing. “Then why haven’t I been contacted? Tell me that.”
“I can’t,” admitted the senator. “Surely any day now …” His shoulders lifted; lowered. “Try to think, General. Who are your enemies? Who would have reason to … to … cause you grief? Whom have you so infuriated …”
“Nobody!” interrupted the general. Then, “Hell, lots of people. Show me a man who makes no enemies and I’ll show you an incompetent fool.”
The senator nodded. “That’s true. But I’m speaking of a person or persons who have such violent hatred of you, for deeds done or imagined, that they would kidnap your daughter.”
General Kidd dropped tiredly down into a chair, leaned forward, and raked his fingers through the thick, silvered hair at his temples. “I’ve never done anything bad enough to another human being to warrant this. I’m a bit abrasive and ambitious, God knows, but I’ve never … hell, I’ve never even killed a man except for Rebs in the War and the goddamned Indians, and that doesn’t count.”
“No. No, of course not.”
As the general and the senator talked together in the Darlington mansion on that warm August midnight, a bearded, big-bellied, half-drunken gold seeker was chasing a laughing black-haired woman around the red-walled boudoir of a Cheyenne, Wyoming, brothel. Big Benjamin Gilbert finally caught her, grabbing the hem of her revealing red satin gown, and together the laughing pair tumbled into bed.
Afterward, while the sated, loudly-snoring gold prospector lay spread-eagled atop that rumpled bed, the woman routinely went through the pockets of his discarded trousers. She found little of interest. No folding bills. No gold coins. Only an envelope with a shiny gold seal.
She lifted it close to the low-burning lamp. On the envelope was written: General William J. Kidd. The woman turned over the envelope, drew out the letter, and began to read.
General Kidd:
I have your daughter. I’m in a line shack exactly six miles northwest of Denver. It’s your life for hers. Come alone, within twenty-four hours or …
A stirring from the bed across the room caused the woman to look up. The big man was rousing. Hurriedly she stuffed the letter back into its envelope and shoved it back inside the trousers pocket, wondering why Benjamin Gilbert would have such a message and if it had any value. Answering herself, she shook her head and crossed to the bed. She’d never had a General Kidd as a customer; she would have remembered a name like that.
Raising a foot, she kicked the sprawling man. “Get up,” she shouted, “and get out of here. Other customers are waiting.”
Sputtering and snorting, the naked man got up and dressed. Grinning broadly, Big Benjamin Gilbert left the woman’s room ten minutes later, promising to see her again when he got back from Montana.
“I’ll bring you pockets full of gold nuggets,” he promised, giving her cheek a smacking kiss.
“Sure, sure,” she said, skeptical. Benjamin Gilbert had been bragging about his next big strike ever since she’d known him, and that had been for five years. “Don’t come back here without it.”
He laughed, slapped her on the bottom, and lumbered down the stairs and out into the night. Mounting a buckskin gelding, he rode out of town alone and was intercepted an hour later by a pair of roving, whiskey-drunk Crow braves. The Crows, furious that he was carrying no money to purchase more liquor, killed the big prospector and took from him a letter with a shiny gold seal.
But neither of them could read it.
Sometime after midnight, Night Sun pulled up on the reins, bringing the tired, lathered black to a stop beneath a sheltering conifer. The abrupt halt roused Martay, but she didn’t open her eyes. She snuggled more closely to Night Sun, burying her face against the warmth of his chest, inhaling deeply, on the verge of drifting back into deep slumber.
But a voice, far colder than it had ever been before, ordered, “Wake up, Miss Kidd. Now.”
Martay’s eyes flew open. She looked up at the dark-visaged Indian and felt her blood turn to ice. Night Sun’s expression was fierce; he looked at her as though he hated her, as though he might scalp her at any minute.
Roughly he took her arm and pushed her off the horse, then dismounted. Having no idea why he was so unreasonably angry, Martay stood there in the moonlight, trembling, wondering what he meant to do next.
Ignoring her, Night Sun unsaddled the exhausted stallion and drew off the bridle so the horse could crop the tall, sweet grass and drink from the cold brook that trickled down the mountain. Martay jumped when he took the pack and saddlebags and flung them at the base of the conifer.
Then Night Sun turned to her.
She waited for him to speak, but he said nothing. He took a step toward her and she cringed. He stood there towering over her. Fearfully she searched his face for some explanation, some indication of his intent. His black eyes held a fierce, murderous look that rendered her speechless and terrified.
A surge of rage swept through Night Sun as he looked into Martay’s flashing green eyes. Eyes so like the ones of the laughing blond officer on that cold November morning back in sixty-four. Eyes he had never forgotten. Eyes that had haunted his dreams.
Eyes so like her father’s.
The hurt and the hatred still potent as ever, Night Sun felt himself losing the rigid control he had always prided himself on. He wanted to hurt her; had to hurt her.
Stepping forward, he wrapped his hands around Martay’s pale neck, fingers lacing together behind her head, thumbs meeting at the base of her throat. Martay’s own hands flew up to grip his strong wrists, her nails biting into the bronzed flesh.
She was certain he was going to kill her. The blood roared in her ears and she waited for the powerful brown fingers to tighten and choke the life from her. Too frightened to scream, she clung to his wrists and stared into his murderous black eyes, praying he would make it mercifully quick.
Seconds dragged by.
Blind hatred for this cruel animal mingled with her fear. Certain he was savoring this last bit of heartlessness, Martay had no idea of the war that was raging within him.
A part of Night Sun longed to do just as she feared, to slowly, cruelly, choke the very life from her beautiful body. Kill her and cast her aside as though she were a piece of refuse, just as the soldiers had killed and cast aside his mother. Or draw his pistol, put it against her temple, let her feel the cold steel barrel, then squeeze the trigger, just as her father had done to his defenseless grandmother.
He ground his teeth.
He couldn’t kill her. Murdering a woman was too abhorrent. He would rape her. Rape her as brutally as the soldier had raped his aunt, though this girl would not suffer as Red Shawl had suffered. Red Shawl had been an untouched virgin; this frivolous, fun-seeking “golden girl” had undoubtedly had lovers.
Night Sun’s hands left Martay’s throat and she swallowed convulsively, grateful for the reprieve. It was short-lived. His face still deadly mean, he grabbed her arm and jerked her up against his tall, hard body. His fingers went up into her hair, tangling there, tightening. Roughly he jerked her head back. Her face, eyes frightened, lips parted, was tilted up to his. Her hand lifted to push in vain on his ungiving chest.
Quickly Night Sun bent to her, his hard, brutal mouth covering hers in a kiss of such savagery, Martay whimpered her outrage at the harsh, intimate invasion. Mindless of her reaction, he deepened the kiss, his tongue thrusting forcefully, his hand holding her head rigid.
It was no heated kiss of passion; it was a cold assault of hatred. An act of aggression so blatantly hostile, Martay felt as though the long, intrusive kiss itself would kill her. He was drawing the very life from her; taking her breath away, violating her.
Martay screamed loudly when his hot, demanding lips finally freed hers. And louder still when that punishing mouth went to the side of her throat. She felt his sharp teeth graze her sensitive flesh and was afraid he would viciously bite her. That concern paled in comparison, when she realized his true intent.
“No!” she screamed as his dark head moved lower and his powerful lips and thrusting tongue covered bare quivering flesh. He was fiercely kissing the swell of her breasts, atop the low-cut dress. Pulling his hair wildly, Martay gave a strangled cry of relief when his head lifted just as his open, questing lips reached the straining silk of her bodice.
He stared at her, his black eyes burning with a near-demonic light, his lean body shaking with rage and desire. Again his hot mouth covered hers and Martay was powerless against such superior strength and fierce determination. Lustily he kissed her, grinding his passion-hardened lips against hers, plundering the deepest recesses of her mouth with his tongue, robbing her of breath and of sanity.
When, finally, after what seemed an eternity, his heated lips lifted, Martay gasped frantically for air and swallowed convulsively. But before she could speak or cry out, those merciless male lips were again on hers and he was expertly, effortlessly sucking her tongue into his mouth. And she was shocked and horrified to realize that his deep, intrusive kiss was stirring her own blood.
Dear God, what was happening to her?
Martay felt herself half responding to fierce kisses born of pure hatred. He hated her, this savage Lakota whose mouth held hers prisoner, and she hated him. Hated him! But his lips … those blazing hot lips … they were burning right through her, searing away logical thought and prudent reserve and valid fear.
Her eyes sliding closed, Martay swayed limply to him. And heard Night Sun moan as his lean, hard body pressed closer, his knee seeking entrance between her legs. The strong muscular arm that was wrapped tightly around her, holding her intimately close, loosened its grip, and before she knew what was happening, Night Sun had pulled her tight silk dress up so high, his knee could go between her own.