Apache Caress (13 page)

Heavens
, suppose she was even now carrying his child? What does it matter? she chided herself as she stumbled forward. He’s not going to let you live long enough for him to know or care.

She fell again, sank to her knees.

“Get up or you’ll die right here.”

“Whatever you do to me, I ... I can’t walk any more.” She looked over her shoulder at him. The bloodstained bandage on his arm reminded her that she had failed, but she was glad she had tried. If only she hadn’t hesitated at the very last second, those steel blades would have gone deep into his back, maybe into his heart, killing him instantly.

She closed her eyes, waiting for the gun against her forehead. Instead he swung her up in his arms, hung her over his shoulder and began to walk. She felt like a sack of potatoes. The Apache must need a hostage bad to go to all this trouble to keep her. She’d reached such a point of exhaustion that she didn’t care whether she died, as long as she didn’t have to keep walking.

A cool breeze came up suddenly and thunderheads built along the horizon in the pink and lavender dusk. From a long way off, thunder rumbled.

Cholla set her on her feet. “We may get a rain, and it’s almost dark. We need to find shelter.” He looked around, gestured to a hill ahead of them. “There might be a cave over there, or at least a ledge we can get under to wait this out.”

The wind blew again, bringing with it the fresh scent of rain. Lightning cracked across the sky. Sierra needed no urging, she began to run toward the cliff ahead, Cholla right behind her. She stumbled and fell over a limb, and he pulled her to her feet and they kept running. Her face felt hot, was damp with perspiration, but the wind was cool on her skin. As she ran, the pins began to come out of her hair, and long locks blew free about her shoulders.

Cholla raced ahead of her, up into the rocks, looking around for shelter. The storm began as she ran toward him, a few drops at first, then more and more. The sky seemed to open up as she staggered onward, drenching her with wet, cold rain. She couldn’t make it. But even as she hesitated, he came dashing back, scooped her up easily, ran with her through the rocks, and took her under an outcrop that formed a shallow cave back into the side of the hill.

Sierra sat shivering and miserable, watching it rain as her captor built a small fire from the bits of wood and pine cones that had lain under the rock overhang. Then he stripped off his clothes, draped them on rocks to dry. She averted her eyes, determined not to look at his perfect, virile body.

He came over, knelt, untied her, began unbuttoning her dress. “Get those wet things off,” he ordered.

She slapped his hands away, then opened her backpack and discovered that in her haste, she hadn’t packed an extra dress. Undaunted, she went behind a rock, stripped off her wet things, laid them over the rock, and wrapped herself in her blanket before returning to sit by the fire.

He glanced up at her, didn’t say anything as he roasted the rabbit he had killed with the bow late in the afternoon. He had even salvaged the coffee and the little pot. When he held out a cup of the steaming brew to her, she took it in both hands and savored its warmth gratefully. “So now what happens?”

“Just like I said, Dark Eyes,” he tore off part of the crispy meat and handed to her, “I thought I heard a train whistle this afternoon, or maybe I only imagined it, but that would be the fastest way to travel.”

Sierra ate her meat and looked out at the pouring rain. “You really think you can do this, don’t you?”

“Do what?”

“Make it all the way back to Arizona Territory.”

“Maybe not, but I have to try. I’m not one to give up and be pushed along with the herd.”

If anyone can make it, he can, she thought, or he’ll die trying. Or kill anyone who gets between him and his goal.

When she looked up, he was staring at her. “I’ve had time to think,” he said, and touched his bandaged arm gingerly. “You hesitated at the last minute with those scissors–why?”

For some reason, the question angered her. “I’ve got bad aim. Believe me, I meant to bury them in your back!”

“Maybe so.” He stared at her a long moment, not saying anything. She wished she knew what he was thinking. “You’re a cold one, Dark Eyes, like a black widow spider, plotting to kill the male even as he mates with her. I thought you said you never took chances, that you always conformed?”

“Desperate circumstances call for desperate measures,” she retorted.

He raised one eyebrow at her. “You’re not such a mouse as you pretend to be. There’s a little flint to you after all.”

She was suddenly weary of being baited, of wondering whether he was going to kill her or just put her through such misery she would wish she were dead. Without another word, she stretched out on the dry pine needles and leaves.

“Don’t you want to come over here by the fire?”

“No, I’m doing fine back here.”

“You know, with autumn coming on, snakes are denning up for the winter–maybe even in the back of this cave.”

Sierra sat bolt upright. “Snakes hibernate?”

He nodded, then yawned and stretched before spreading his blanket by the fire. “You’re welcome to come over here.”

She got up, still holding her blanket tightly around herself, went over and sat down on a rock. Outside lightning still crackled and rain poured down, a sweet, clean scent blowing in to mix with the pungent smell of the burning pine cones. When she looked over at him, he had drifted peacefully off to sleep, but the weapons were under his arm so she couldn’t possibly get any of them without waking him.

Damn him anyhow. At least he hadn’t tied her up again. It occurred to Sierra that she could slip out of the cave and run. Where? It was dark out there and pouring rain. He had the weapons and the food. Even her ragged dress was hanging up to dry, and she didn’t know where in hell she was except somewhere in northeastern Indian Territory ... maybe. She wasn’t even sure of that. Tonight wasn’t the time to try another escape. Cold and cramped, Sierra lay down on the ground near the cave entrance and dropped off to sleep.

All too soon, it was dawn and she didn’t feel like moving, even though Cholla was up and dressed. “Sleep well?” he asked.

“You know I didn’t.” Her tone was pointed and sarcastic.

He seemed to ignore it. “I’ve been outside looking around,” he said as he poured her a cup of coffee. “The rain’s stopped, and I swear I heard a train whistle in the night. I think we’ll try to find the tracks, maybe catch a ride on a boxcar.”

She sipped her coffee and stared at him. “Haven’t you heard any of those stories about men trying to catch rides on freight trains. You can fall under them and lose a leg.”

“The other choice is to keep walking south.”

Sierra thought about it a long moment, looked down at her sore, blistered feet. “Let’s try for the train.”

“Here, I’ve been working on something for you. Remember that deer I killed a few days ago?”

Sierra nodded, wondering. Then he handed her a pair of butter-soft moccasins and a deerskin dress. Her clothes and shoes were ragged. She looked from the outfit, back to him. “Why, thank you.”

“It’s not much.” He looked a little chagrined. “I’m not used to doing woman’s work, but your feet looked sore.”

Even though she wouldn’t have admitted it for the world, she was touched that he had noticed. For a savage, he was showing a sensitive side she hadn’t realized he possessed. But then, she reminded herself fiercely, I wouldn’t be in this godforsaken place, footsore and ragged, if he hadn’t kidnapped me weeks ago.

Sierra went behind a rock, changed into the new, butter-soft things. Then she braided her hair rather than put it up in its usual bun.

He looked at her approvingly. “You look like an Indian girl now; you’re dark as one, too, what with the sun.”

The thought infuriated her and she would have unbraided her hair and taken off the deerskin dress, but he was hurrying her and she was afraid of his anger. Sierra packed their backpacks while he put out the fire. Then they started walking.

It must be at least October, she thought as they walked through the bright gold and orange of the trees. Gray fox squirrels chattered at her from the limbs of oak trees; redheaded woodpeckers hammered away on branches. And, from patches of sumac turning blood red in the chilly morning, shy deer peeked at her. If there was a prettier place than Indian Territory in the autumn, she wondered where it might be and said so without thinking.

Cholla nodded. “To me, there’s a prettier place; the Sierra Madre and the lonesome stretches of the Apache country. I miss it already; air so clear, water so cold. Game is plentiful. With a little salt and meal and coffee, a man could live there a long time without having any contact at all with civilization.”

He sounded so poignant, so wistful, her heart almost went out to him, but then she remembered that he was her enemy, her captor, and maybe in the long run her killer.

They kept walking. At midday he let her rest a minute while they ate some berries and a squirrel he’d brought down with his bow. Then they began walking again in the direction he indicated.

Her feet hurt and every muscle in her body ached, but she was determined not to whine about it. If he thought her a weak, whimpering mouse, she’d show him!

It was late afternoon when Cholla finally paused, his head cocked. “Listen.”

She paused, but all she heard was her own weary breathing and a crow’s coarse call somewhere nearby.

“A train whistle,” he said, “don’t you hear it? It’s coming this way.”

Sierra strained to hear, wishing she had his keen ears. Then she heard it too, echoing through the wooded hills. It sounded miles away.

“Come on,” Cholla ordered. “I think it’s heading this way.”

He threw aside the axe, grabbed her hand and forced her to run. Once she fell and he caught her hand, pulled her to her feet, and they ran on. But she was already tired, and after a few minutes, her lungs seemed on fire. “Go on!” she gasped. “I can’t make it, just leave me and go on!”

He turned and looked to the north anxiously. The thin puff of smoke from the engine drifted over the crest of the horizon. “If I leave you, you’ll never find you way out of here, and I’ve got the weapons and food. Come on!”

She staggered and almost fell. “I’d just as soon sit down and die rather than try to catch that train.”

He grabbed her hand and dragged her along with him, “No, we’re both getting on it. I need you too much to lose you now!”

With him pulling her, she could either run or be dragged. Her feet began to move forward again, her heart pounding hard, her breath coming in gasps. She didn’t say anything, didn’t argue, that took too much energy. With his strong hand clasping hers, she couldn’t stop unless she fell, and she didn’t want to be dragged. Sierra kept running.

Cholla gave a triumphant cry and pointed. Coming over the crest of the hill like a long black snake, the freight train inched along the track, blowing steam and smoke. Sierra measured the distance with her eyes as they ran. They couldn’t make it. They might come close, but the train would be gone before they could reach the tracks.

“It’s no use,” she shouted, but Cholla seemed to pay her no heed and because he held on to her, there was no way she could stop running. They were close enough now to see the engine passing and some of the cars. It was a long train. Cattle cars with mooing steers rattled along the track as the two ran toward them.

The train was passing now, the cars whizzing by. We will come close, but we won’t make it, Sierra thought. She didn’t stop running. Cholla stumbled, dropped the rifle, but he didn’t break stride to retrieve it.

The rifle
. We need that rifle, Sierra thought, how can we manage with nothing but a bow and a butcher knife? But she didn’t slow down. Her attention, like his, was focused on that all-important train.

Cholla gave a glad cry, looked over his shoulder, gesturing. She saw the cause of his excitement; an empty cattle car, its big door ajar, almost at the end of the train. If we manage to get aboard, we won’t have to walk for a long time, Sierra thought, and her speed picked up as they ran alongside the train. Gravel crunched under her feet, cinders blew back at them, along with the smell and smoke of the engine. The noise was deafening.

The Indian was ahead of her, running strongly with long, powerful legs. Then one of his big arms reached out, caught the side of the empty car, and he swung himself up. For a split second, he hung in the air, and Sierra wondered if he would end up falling under the thundering train; then he was in the door of the car, reaching back for her.

“I can’t make it!” she screamed at him but the noise drowned her out. He shook his head and leaned far out of the car, reaching for her hand as she ran alongside. If he isn’t careful, he’s going to lose his balance and fall under those giant steel wheels that will cut him in half, Sierra thought. Abruptly she saw herself being left behind to fend for herself in this untracked wilderness, and she was more afraid of that than she was of him.

His hand caught hers, locked around her wrist. Then he lifted her. For a heart-stopping second, she hung between heaven and earth, the ground whizzing past. She grabbed his muscular arm with her other hand, knowing that if he couldn’t lift her she would be pulling him to his death under the roaring wheels. He seemed to realized it, too, because sweat broke out on his bronzed face as he held her. Then, with sheer, brute strength, he lifted, and her feet felt the sudden safety of the wooden floor of the cattle car.

“Safe!” she gasped as she clung to him, and both turned toward the darkened interior of the car with its scent of hay. “We’ve made it and we’re safe!”

“I wouldn’t bet on that, sweet thing!” said a drunken voice.

Sierra turned slowly. Two cowboys lolled on bales of hay in the corner, one had a pistol; the other a half-empty bottle of whiskey.

Sierra stared at the two men sprawled in the shadows of the boxcar. A tall, lean one with ice blue eyes, a shorter, more powerful one. Unshaven and tough-looking, they reeked of whiskey.

She glanced out the open door of the boxcar. The train now being on the straightaway, jumping was a good way to get killed. She looked up at Cholla, he gave her just the barest shake of his head.

“Hey, Slim,” the short one said, “lookie here! Two Injuns! And one of them a purty squaw.”

The taller, lean one grinned at her. He looked mean as a bobcat with a sore foot. These are not ordinary cowpokes, Sierra thought, with a prickle of fear.

“Hey, sweet thing,” Slim drawled, and he gestured. “Come on over here and I’ll give you a drink of my whiskey.”

Sierra didn’t move. She shook her head slightly, backed up against Cholla’s big body.

“Pete, you was wrong about our bad luck.” Slim grinned and took another drink. “Losing our pokes and horses in that card game in Coffeyville was bad, but if we hadn’t hitched a free ride on the train, we wouldn’t have come across these two.”

Pete frowned, put his hand on his pistol. “I don’t know about the buck. He don’t look like he intends to share her.”

Slim stood up, held out the bottle. “‘Course he will. Pete, you just don’t know nothin’ about Injun bucks.” He motioned to Cholla. “You, Injun. You got heap nice squaw. Me’n Pete use her a little, you know?” He winked. “I give you heap big drink firewater.”

Sierra backed against Cholla, shaking her head. “I ... I’m not Indian,” she said. “The law is looking for me, and–”

“Sure me trade,” Cholla broke in, as if he suddenly realized both men were well armed and could help her if they understood her story. “Me trade time between woman’s legs for big gulp whiskey–both you, two drinks whiskey.” He held up two fingers as he echoed the drunken gunslinger’s pidgin English.

Sierra whirled on him, surprised and angry. “Now wait just a darned minute, I have some say in this, and–”

“Squaw, hush.” Cholla grabbed her roughly, pushed her toward the men. “Do as I tell you.” Then, to the men, he said, “For whole bottle, you can have squaw until you get off train.”

Slim laughed, and his tense frame relaxed. “Sounds okay by me, Injun. I better warn you it’s quite a few miles, we don’t get off ’til the nearest station to Younger’s Bend.”

Sierra stood there, frozen with horror, as Cholla accepted the bottle, pushed her toward them. “Make white men happy, woman, while I drink firewater.”

Protesting and struggling, Sierra was dragged over to the corner while Cholla stood in the middle of the car, gulping whiskey, letting it drip down his chin.

Pete looked at him, scowling. “Disgusting!” he growled. “Damned disgusting the way them Injuns lap up booze.”

Slim struggled with Sierra. “Forget the buck,” he growled under his breath. “After he’s drunk, we’ll kill him and take whatever’s in the bedrolls, plus keep the squaw.”

“No!” Sierra fought him. “No, I’m a white woman, I tell you; the law’s looking for me!”

“For us, too, sweet thing!” Slim laughed and dragged her up against him, kissing her, forcing her mouth open. His breath reeked of sour, cheap whiskey.

Pete said, “I don’t know about this, Slim the boss won’t like us bein’ seen in Coffeyville, and then draggin’ home some female–”

“I expect to have my fill of this one before we get back to the hideout,” Slim snarled, struggling with Sierra. “Then we can throw her off the train, too.”

Sierra screamed, but the whistle of the train drowned her out, and anyway, Cholla appeared to be staggering drunk now as he lurched about, turning up the bottle and letting whiskey run down his chin.

“At least we don’t have to worry about him,” Pete said, turning his full attention to the girl. “He’s so drunk, he won’t know or care what happens.”

Sierra fought the pair with all her might, but the two were strong. Both had laid aside their weapons as they struggled to force her down on her back in the straw. Cholla slumped in a corner of the car, drinking whiskey, ignoring her screams as the men gradually pushed her to the boxcar floor. In the desperate struggle, Sierra’s shift fell off one shoulder, revealing the swell of soft breasts even as her skirt inched up her thighs.

Slim’s eyes looked hard as pale blue glass as he stared down at her. “Who gets her first, Pete? You or me?”

“Hit don’t make me no never mind,” Pete hiccoughed, his eyes fixed on Sierra’s body as he helped Slim hold her down. “As long as I get her several times before we reach Younger’s Bend.”

“Well, it matters to me,” Slim grinned without mirth as Sierra writhed and struggled to get away. “I never got me no whore before I lost all my money at cards, so I feel hard enough to ram it through a fence post.”

Sierra managed to turn her head and bite his wrist.

“Injun bitch!” Slim struck her hard across the face. “Now you lay still and let us do it, you hear? Maybe if you make us both heap happy, we’ll see you get whiskey, too.”

“Lordie”–Pete had his hands on her legs–“did you ever see a body like hers? Lookie at the color of that skin, Slim. Maybe she is white.”

“Then she’s a whore nobody cares about nohow,” Slim snarled. “No white woman travels with an Injun buck. She deserves this if she’s been lettin’ him top her.”

Both stared down at her half-naked, writhing, struggling body. Only Sierra, looking up as she fought, saw Cholla looming behind the pair.

“What the–?” At the look in her eyes, Pete half turned, reaching for his pistol, but he had taken it off and laid it aside.

“Get your dirty hands off her, you white bastard!” Cholla grabbed him, slammed him against the wall. Both gunfighters dove for their weapons, but Sierra caught Slim’s arm, held onto it as he struggled to get his gun. He cursed and slammed her up against the wall, but she hung on like a small snapping turtle as Cholla and Pete fought.

Pete looked powerful, like a seasoned saloon brawler. But the gunslinger was no match for the giant Apache who lifted him up over his head, slammed him against the wall of the swaying boxcar, then crashed down on him.

Pete managed to crawl to his gun, pull it from its holster, even as Cholla fought him for it. Sierra hung onto Slim’s arm for dear life, sinking her teeth into his hand as he slammed her around, trying to shake free to go to Pete’s aid. Despite Sierra, he did manage to grab his own pistol.

The Apache and the white man were fighting in the doorway of the moving, swaying boxcar now. Any wrong move and both would go out. Cholla managed to wrench the pistol from Pete’s hand even as Pete stood up, ready to charge again. The gun roared amid the smell of burnt powder. Pete clasped his chest, and staggered backward, fell out the door.

Cholla shouted, “Get out of the way, Sierra!”

But Slim had her up against him, using her for a shield. “Throw the pistol out of the boxcar, Injun, or I’ll blow a hole in her back!”

Sierra had never been so scared as she was now, feeling the cold steel of the gun barrel in her back. Slim’s other arm was around her, his flesh burning through her shift. He held her against him so tightly, she felt the buttons of his shirt against her back, the bulge of his manhood against her hips.

Cholla hesitated.

“Do it, Injun,” Slim growled. “I’ve killed before, I don’t have no regrets about doin’ it again!”

Very slowly, the big Injun walked across the swaying floor, tossed the pistol out the door.

“Now you jump out after it.”

“It’ll kill him!” Sierra protested.

“So?” Slim’s voice sounded as cold as his ice blue eyes.

Cholla hesitated in the door of the car.

“Jump, Injun, or watch me blow your woman’s guts out and then get you next.”

She saw the indecision on the rugged, dark face. “How do I know you won’t kill her anyway?”

“Kill her?” Slim laughed softly against her hair. “Waste what this sweet thing has to offer a man? Maybe later . . .”

If she had to choose between the two men, Sierra would rather be Cholla’s captive. Emotion overcame her good sense, and she shoved her elbow back, catching Slim under the ribs.

With a groan, he let go of her, doubling over as she managed to break free.

“Get out of the way, Sierra!” Cholla dove for the man and caught him around the legs. As Slim went down, the pistol tumbled from his hand and slid across the jolting floor.

While Cholla and Slim struggled, Sierra grabbed for the gun. She had it. The two men rolled over and over in the hay as they fought. She pointed the pistol at them, unsure what to do. If she pulled the trigger, she might hit either one. “Stop it! Stop it, you two! Get your hands up!”

Because of the roar of the clacking wheels or because they were too intent on their life-and-death battle, they didn’t stop or look up as they fought. They rolled near the open door of the boxcar.

It occurred to Sierra as she pulled the hammer back that she ought to shoot them both, push the bodies out the door, and telegraph for help at the next station.

While she hesitated, the two men struggled in the door of the boxcar. If it swayed suddenly, one or both of them would go out. The fall might or might not kill them, depending on where they landed alongside the tracks.

Sierra saw the glint of steel, saw that Slim had Cholla’s big knife. She had only a split second to act as the blade flashed down, and she pulled the trigger without taking time to aim.

The kick of the Colt knocked her backward. Choking on the acrid scent of gunpowder, she fell, but she saw Slim clutch his shoulder, drop the knife, stagger backward. Cholla slammed into him, knocked him out the door of the boxcar, staggered, almost went out himself.

Sierra still had time to pull the trigger, kill the big scout. She’d be free at last. But she hesitated, and Cholla staggered across the boxcar, took the pistol from her, then flopped down beside her, breathing hard. “Much obliged, Dark Eyes.”

How stupid I was, Sierra thought with a sigh. He has the gun now, and things are back as they were. “I didn’t do it to help you.” She leaned against the hay bale and closed her eyes. “I did it to keep from being raped.”

“I didn’t intend to let the bastards rape you.” His eyes flashed with anger as he looked toward the open door.

“You couldn’t prove it by me,” she snapped. “The way you were guzzling that whiskey.”

“Do I look drunk to you?”

It dawned on her suddenly that it had been a trick. Up against two men with guns, he could only use deception to get the upper hand. “You think they’re dead?”

Cholla shrugged, put the knife in his belt, and lay down on the hay next to her. “Who knows? I think I got Pete, but if Slim lit in a soft place, he might live to stop a sheriff’s bullet.”

“Let’s see if they had any food.” Sierra dug through the cowboys’ things, found some dried jerky and some bread. They still had the one pistol, but both men had been wearing their gun belts, so there were no extra cartridges. Cholla had lost the axe and the rifle getting on the train, and she had dropped the bow.

“Great!” Cholla said. “All we’ve got is one pistol with its five shots and the knife.”

“We’re still alive,” she said, “and I didn’t get raped. I’d call it a fair day’s work.”

Cholla looked at her and grinned. “Maybe I misjudged you when I thought you were such a shy mouse. I think Tom would call you ‘sassy.’”

“Who?”

“My friend, Tom Mooney.”

Sassy or not, I’m no better off, Sierra thought. She was still the Apache’s prisoner. She should have shot him when he stood in the doorway of the boxcar, but she just didn’t have the guts for killing. Then she remembered that she had pulled the trigger on Slim with no hesitation. Maybe at the next railroad station, she could manage to escape from Cholla or signal a railyard worker.

It began to rain again. Cholla got the cowboys’ blankets and wrapped them both around her when she began shivering. Then he handed her the bottle of whiskey. “This should warm you a little.”

“Aren’t you cold?” she asked.

“No.” However, she noticed he hunched up a little in the straw and wrapped his arms around himself. “The weather’s beginning to turn bad,” he muttered. “If we don’t get farther south–and soon–we’re going to be caught in some snow, or at least sleet and a cold wind blowing down from the north.”

She didn’t even know what month it was for certain, much less which day. It had been several weeks, maybe more, since this whole ordeal began, but the constant traveling, and everything else that had happened, had made time unimportant.

Sierra smiled suddenly and took a sip of the whiskey, handed him the bottle. “It’s bound to be October. They’re dedicating the Statue of Liberty this month.”

He looked at her blankly and took a drink.

“One of our countrymen, Jozsef Politzer, who started out with the St. Louis newspaper, was a major fund raiser for the pedestal for the statue. I understand it’s going to have some poem on it about: ‘Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free. . . .’ ”

“Does that apply to Indians?” He glared at her and handed the bottle back. “What is this thing? This statue?”

“Everyone’s talking about it.” Sierra tried to explain. “It’s a statue of a lady holding a light to guide immigrants to freedom in America.”

“So they can build houses on Indian land?” He raised one eyebrow. “Doesn’t it strike you as ironic and dishonest that at the very time they’re putting up this statue dedicated to freedom, your government is throwing Indians in prison in Florida and stealing their land?”

She had never thought about it before, and she didn’t like the uneasy feeling it gave her. “On the other hand,” she said boldly and took a long drink, “what about all those people starving in Europe or crowded into filthy tenements in big Eastern cities? Is it right for them to suffer while the Indians have millions of acres and only use the land to roam on?”

He frowned, then conceded that perhaps she might have a small point. “I suppose in the long run the Indians will either conform or be caged or killed.”

She looked at him. Was there any black or white to this? She couldn’t see someone like Cholla being a faceless part of the masses. He was too much a rugged individualist. The times were going to change whether people like the Indians suffered or not.. “White women aren’t treated any better in our society than red men,” she said.