LaceysWay (12 page)

Her hands were fumbling with the rope at his wrists when she
heard an angry curse. And then Sun Beaver yanked her to her feet, his black
eyes filled with wry amusement.

“If you need a man, I am here,” Sun Beaver volunteered.

Anger knifed through Matt as he struggled to his feet. “She
is my woman,” he said through clenched teeth.

Sun Beaver shrugged. “She was your woman. Now she is my
slave.” Lazily he reached out and slapped Lacey across the face, hard. She
reeled backward, tears stinging her eyes as she lifted a hand to her throbbing
cheek.

Matt stifled the hot words of protest that rose to his lips
as he stared at the bright red handprint on Lacey’s cheek. He longed to strike
Sun Beaver, to revile him for his harsh treatment of Lacey, but there was
nothing to be gained by making the Apache angry.

“Do not come near the white man again,” Sun Beaver warned.
“If you do, I will have him killed. Do you understand me?”

“I understand,” Lacey said quickly.

With a last glance at Matt, the warrior grabbed Lacey by the
arm and dragged her back to his lodge.

Matt grimaced as a handful of Apache children clustered
around him. He had hoped they would grow weary of making sport of him, but it
seemed a futile hope. He was the enemy, a white man, and they delighted in
harassing him. Now and then one of the braver boys would dash in and strike him
on the leg or across the back, counting coup, then the other boys would shriek
with delight. Their childish blows rarely hurt, but the blow to his pride was
tremendous. It was humiliating enough, being tied up like a damn dog, without
having a bunch of half-naked little savages mocking him.

When at last the boys tired of their sport and wandered
away, Matt’s thoughts turned to Lacey. He wondered how she was faring. He had
only seen her a couple of times since the night Sun Beaver had caught them
together, and only from a distance. She seemed well enough, but there was no
way to be certain. He wondered if the Apache squaw mistreated her. And if the
buck had taken her to his bed. The idea of another man, any man, laying hands
on his woman, his
wife
, made the blood pound in his brain and filled his
heart with a cold and bitter rage. Yet he was helpless to do anything about it.
And that thought was the most galling of all.

They had been in the Apache camp almost three weeks when a
handful of Kiowa warriors rode in. There was a celebration of some kind that
night, with a lot of singing and dancing. The women served food to the men, and
when the men had eaten their fill, one of the warriors brought out a gourd of
tiswin
,
which, Lacey had learned, was a kind of beer made from the heart of the mescal
plant.

As the night wore on, the warriors began to gamble. Lacey
watched from the shadows, her skin prickling with apprehension when she saw
Matt’s captor gesture toward Matt.

Later, she summoned the nerve to ask Sun Beaver what had
happened.

“The white man has been traded to one of the Kiowas,” Sun
Beaver explained brusquely. “He leaves in the morning.” The Indian fixed Lacey
with a hard stare. “You remember what I said?”

“Yes,” Lacey answered. “I remember.”

Going to her bed, she crawled under the robes and wept
softly all night long.

The following morning, Lacey watched in helpless dismay as
Matt’s captor handed him over to one of the Kiowa braves. Matt struggled wildly
as his new owner tried to get him on the back of a horse. Lacey pressed her
hand over her mouth to keep from crying out as four Kiowa warriors descended on
Matt, striking him with their bows and lances until Matt was unconscious. The
warriors laughed as they draped Matt over the back of a horse and tied his
hands and feet together under the horse’s belly.

She cried all that day, her heart aching with sorrow and
loneliness. Being a slave in an Apache camp had been bad enough, but at least
Matt had been there, too. Just knowing he was nearby, even though she was
forbidden to talk to him, had made her plight easier to bear. And now he was
gone and she was alone among an alien people.

Wind Woman threatened and scolded and finally gave Lacey a
couple of swats with a stick, but to no avail. Lacey continued to sob as though
her heart would break. Her father was gone, and now Matt was lost to her as
well. It was simply too awful to be borne.

Lacey cried until she was dry and empty inside, and then,
feeling as if she had lost all reason to go on living, she went out to gather
wood for Wind Woman’s fire.

Matt kept a careful eye on the countryside as they rode
across the trackless prairie, grateful that his captors had allowed him to sit
erect when he regained consciousness. There were a lot of miserable ways to
travel, and lying on your stomach across the back of a horse had to be one of
the worst.

His hands constantly worked the ropes binding his wrists in
an effort to get free, but he only succeeded in making his wrists bleed and his
arms weary. He shivered convulsively as the wind blew down out of the
mountains, silently cursing the Indians for refusing to give him a shirt and
leggings. Thorny bushes gouged his legs as his captors deliberately passed
close to the spiny brush that dotted the prairie.

The second day out, it rained for several hours. The
warriors rode in comfort beneath shaggy buffalo robes and coats while Matt’s
body was racked with chills. His temper, always volatile, was ready to explode
at the slightest provocation. He was cold and hungry and bone weary, but, more
than that, he was worried about Lacey.

At noon the Indians drew to a halt in the lee of a high
plateau. Dismounting, they huddled together, gnawing on jerky and pemmican,
while Matt sat in the rain, his hands tied behind his back, his feet lashed to
the stirrups. He glared at his captors, cursing them under his breath.

Finally one of the warriors cut Matt’s feet free and pulled
him from his horse. Shoving him to the ground, the Indian tossed a hunk of
jerky into the mud. The message was clear: if he wanted to eat, he would have
to eat from the ground like a dog.

Matt gazed hungrily at the dried meat, his appetite warring
with his pride. He had not eaten in two days, yet he could not bring himself to
eat off the ground. He wasn’t an animal, by damn, he was a man!

The Indians watched him, amused. The white man had spirit.
It would be a shame to kill him, yet that would likely be his fate in the end.
A man with spirit and courage did not make a good slave. Sooner or later he
rebelled, and then he was killed.

Matt sat back on his heels, his eyes blazing defiance as he
glared at the warriors. And all the while his thoughts were on Lacey. She was a
gently bred young woman, and though she had endured many hardships while they
searched for her father, she was not accustomed to the hard work and rough life
of the Apache. Would she be able to adapt to their harsh way of life? How long
would it take to break her spirit? How long before some Apache buck took her
for his wife? He groaned low in his throat at the thought of another man
possessing her as he had possessed her, making love to her as he yearned to do,
holding her close all through the night.

Some minutes later, two of the warriors grasped Matt’s arms
and thrust him up into the saddle. Matt lashed out with his foot as one of the
Indians began to tie his feet to the stirrups. The heel of his foot caught the
Apache high in the chest, knocking the wind out of him and sending him reeling
backward. It was a foolish thing to do, and Matt regretted it immediately as
four warriors dragged him off his horse and began to beat him with their hands
and fists. He grunted with pain as the Indians rained blow after blow to his
face and midsection. Blood was oozing from his mouth and nose and from a cut
under his eye when they finally let him go. Reviling him in the Apache tongue,
they threw him on his horse and lashed his feet to the stirrups.

Matt rode limp in the saddle, his chin resting on his chest,
his body aching from the beating he had received. He was covered with mud and
blood and a growing sense of doom. Lashing out at the Indians had been stupid,
he mused. So damn stupid. He had to do whatever they told him, pretend he was
defeated. Crawl, if necessary. Beg, if need be, until they were certain he was
no longer a threat. Then, and only then, could he dare try to escape.

When they made camp that night, Matt huddled against a tree,
seeking shelter from the wind that cut through him like a knife. His hands were
still bound behind his back; his feet, bound at the ankles, were tethered to
the tree. He had not eaten for almost three days, nor tasted water, and he
gazed longingly at the warm fire where the Indians sat, eating the rabbits they
had caught earlier and drinking water from the bladder of a deer.

Driven by a terrible thirst, he knelt on the ground and
lapped at the muddy water that had gathered in a shallow puddle near the trunk
of the tree. The water was gritty, but he drank it anyway, then felt the back
of his neck grow hot as he heard the warriors laughing at him. One of the
Indians tossed over a hunk of meat, and Matt forced himself to lean forward and
pick up the meat with his teeth and eat it. Pride would not fill his empty
belly, and he could not afford to let himself grow weak and sick from lack of
food and drink. He had to stay strong. He had to stay alive. For Lacey’s sake
if not his own.

Amused by the sight of the white man eating in the mud, the
Indians threw him another hunk of meat, and then another, and Matt ate it all,
swallowing the meat along with his pride, for pride was a luxury he could no
longer afford.

That night, while the Indians lay warm around the fire, he
shivered in the mud with only his growing hatred to keep him warm.

Three days later they reached the Kiowa camp. It was a small
village situated between the narrow walls of a canyon. He counted only about
twenty lodges. The women and children ran out to see the naked white man who
was covered with mud and blood. They chattered excitedly as they gathered
around Matt, pointing and laughing and making jokes.

The Indian who had traded three horses for Matt dropped a
rope over his neck and led him to a small lodge at the far end of the village.
Tying the rope to a high branch, the warrior went inside the lodge.

Alone at last, Matt sank to the ground, his back against the
tree. Closing his eyes, he forced himself to relax. He would need to rest and
gather his strength for whatever lay ahead.

Lacey curled up on her buffalo robe bed and closed her eyes.
She was weary, so weary, but sleep would not come. Matt’s image filled her
mind, his dark eyes smiling at her, assuring her that everything would be all
right. Where was he now? Was he still alive? Why was life so unfair? First her
father had been taken from her, and now Matt.

Lacey sniffed as self-pity washed over her. She hated being
a slave. She did all of Wind Woman’s work, leaving the Apache woman with little
to do but care for her child and visit with her friends, who all envied her
because she had a white slave. Lacey was forced to cook the meals, tend the
small garden behind the lodge, wash and mend the clothes, wash the baby’s dirty
clouts, and tidy the lodge. It wasn’t fair, Lacey thought unhappily, and began
to cry, even though crying was a waste of time and energy and left her eyes red
and her throat sore.

She yearned to go home, and yet she had no home. She yearned
for Matt, but Matt was gone, perhaps dead. She yearned for her freedom, but
there was only Wind Woman and her constant demands on Lacey’s time.

Despair sat on Lacey’s shoulder like a carrion crow. There
was no hope in sight, she thought morosely, none at all. The best she could
hope for was that some Apache warrior would eventually marry her. At least then
she would have a lodge of her own, perhaps a child to love.

The thought brought little comfort. She wanted a wood house
with a stove and a white fence not a hide lodge. She wanted Matt to be the
father of her children not an Apache warrior who would never understand her,
never love her as Matt loved her.

Staring into the darkness, she made no effort to stem the
tears that washed down her cheeks.

Chapter Eight

Matt groaned softly as he sat up and stretched his legs. His
shoulders were stiff, his wrists sore from the constant chafing of the rope
that held his hands behind his back. Two weeks had passed, and in all that time
he had not been freed of his bonds for more than a few minutes each day. The
hours passed slowly, and he fretted at his captivity, and at the inactivity he
had been forced to endure. Twice each day his captors offered him food and
water, and twice each day Matt swallowed his pride and lapped up whatever was
offered, eating it off the ground while his captor watched, openly amused.

Matt was a curiosity in the camp. The Kiowa had seen few
white men up close, and they came daily to gawk at Matt, marveling at the
whiskers sprouting on his jaw. The Indian men plucked the hair from their
faces, and a beard was a novelty.

Scowling blackly, Matt watched the sun rise over the distant
mountains. The sun. Its warmth chased the chill of the night from his body even
as it chased the darkness from the sky.

His captor stepped from his lodge and dropped a hunk of
venison on the ground at Matt’s feet, together with a bowl of water.

Obediently, Matt began to eat. The meat was hard and cold,
but he ate it anyway, knowing he would get nothing else until nightfall. He was
taking a drink of water when the warrior drew a knife and cut him free.

Matt glanced at the warrior in surprise as the ropes binding
his hands and feet fell away.

“Get wood,” the warrior said curtly, and turning on his
heel, he disappeared inside the lodge.

Matt stood up, flexing his arms and shoulders, rubbing his
chafed wrists. So he was to be a slave after all.

With a sigh, he started toward the grove of trees that grew
at the west end of the canyon. Several Indian women were already up and
searching for wood. They stared at Matt, their dark eyes curious and resentful.
He was a white man. The enemy.

Ignoring them, Matt began picking up whatever sticks and
twigs he could find. He could hear the Indian women laughing at him as he
walked along. Imagine, a man, even a white man, doing women’s work. It was so
amusing.

He had a good-sized armful of wood and was about to return
to camp when he saw the gray-haired white man hobbling toward the river.
Curious, Matt followed the man, noting that he limped badly and that he seemed
in ill health.

The gray-haired man grimaced as he bent over to fill the
waterskin. The cold weather must be hell on his old bones, Matt mused. The man
turned at the sound of footsteps, his eyes showing surprise as Matt hunkered
down beside him.

For a moment the two men studied each other. Then the older
man smiled ruefully. “Welcome to hell, friend,” he said, offering Matt his
hand. “Been here long?”

“About two weeks,” Matt replied, taking the older man’s
hand. “How about you?”

The elderly man shrugged. “I’m not sure. I’ve lost track of
the time. A year. Perhaps two. What difference does it make?”

“Makes a difference to me,” Matt said. “I don’t aim to stay
here that long if I can help it.”

The old man laughed softly. “That’s what I thought when they
first captured me,” he said bitterly. “I was determined to escape. I stayed
quiet, kept my eyes open and my mouth shut, memorized the routine of the camp
so I’d know the best time to make a break for it.” He laughed again, a cold,
hollow sound with no hint of amusement. “They whipped me the first time I tried
to escape. Beat me with a club the second time. Cut the hamstring in my right
leg the third. Now I can hardly walk, let alone run. And the same thing will
happen to you, you’ll see. There’s no way out of the canyon except through that
narrow entrance. And they keep that guarded day and night.”

Matt frowned. The Indians seemed to have a penchant for
high-walled canyons. “I don’t give a damn if the whole tribe sits up there day
and night,” he said fervently. “I’ve got to get out of here.”

The old man nodded, his brown eyes filled with compassion.
“Well, good luck to you, friend,” he said as he stood up, the waterskin slung
over his shoulder. “It was nice talking to you.”

“The name’s Drago. Matt Drago.”

“Tom Claymore.”

“Claymore!” Matt exclaimed.

“Does the name mean something to you?” Claymore asked,
surprised by Matt’s reaction.

“Yeah. Old Smoke Johnson used to talk about you all the
time, about the shining times, he called them.”

“Smoke!” Tom Claymore grinned. “Is that old buzzard still
prowling around?”

Matt shook his head. “No. He was killed at Chickamauga.”

“Well, there’s no fool like an old fool,” Claymore mused
with a shake of his head. “He should have had sense enough to sit that one out.
War’s a young man’s game.”

Matt smiled. “Yeah, but he loved the South. He was proud to
die for it.” Matt slammed his fist into his palm. “Dammit, I’ve got to get out
of here. Soon.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a woman waiting somewheres,”
Claymore opined, chuckling.

“Yeah. She’s a captive, too. I’ve got to find her before it’s
too late. Before…”

“Before one of the bucks takes her to bed,” Claymore said
knowingly.

“Yeah.”

Tom Claymore nodded. “I’ll help you, son,” he said
resolutely. “Just let me know what I can do.”

Matt nodded, and the two men shook hands again.

“Well,” Claymore said, straightening his shoulders, “back to
work. The old crone who owns me swings a mean stick when she gets mad.”

Matt grinned ruefully. “Woman’s work is never done,” he
muttered, and, picking up his load of firewood, returned to his captor’s lodge.

He lay awake a long time that night. Two men just might be
able to make their way out of the canyon. It would take a lot of planning and
more than a little luck, he mused. Only he didn’t have a plan. And he was
afraid his luck had run out.

The days that followed were difficult. It was hard to be a
slave, hard to obey, hard to be hungry and dirty all the time. He was still
clad in nothing but a deerskin clout, still compelled to sleep outside, huddled
in the dirt. The only bright spot was that he was no longer tied to a tree like
a damn dog. He was grateful for that, and then angry. Damned Indians! Why
should he feel gratitude because he was no longer tied up like an animal? What
right did these savages have to keep him in captivity? Dammit, he’d never done
anything to any of them.

Matt laughed hollowly. Anger was a waste of time and energy.
In the days that followed, he found himself doing the same things Tom Claymore
had done. He stayed to himself, keeping quiet, drawing no attention to his
person. He watched everything that went on around him, noting what time the
Indians rose in the morning, when they went to bed at night, how they spent
their days. He paid close attention to the entrance of the canyon, memorizing
where the guards stood to keep watch, what time the guard was changed.

Daily, he did whatever chores he was ordered to do, and
daily the fact that he was a slave ate deeper into his soul, festering like an
open wound. But, more than that, his concern for Lacey nagged him constantly.
How was she? Was she well? Sick? Had she been abused? Raped? The last thought
drove him wild. His dreams were rife with images of Lacey being forced to
submit to another man’s desires. The thought haunted his days and tormented his
sleep, and when he could stand it no longer, he vowed to escape before the next
full moon.

He had no plan in mind, only a burning desire to see Lacey
again, to touch her, to reassure himself that she was still his. In the end, he
decided he would simply wait until the Indians were asleep, and then head for
the canyon entrance. With luck, he would be able to slip away, undetected.

Lacey stood at the cookfire, listlessly stirring a large pot
of venison stew flavored with sage and wild onions and a few vegetables. She
had been a prisoner in the Apache camp for over a month now, though it seemed
more like a year. She had come to understand the Indians a little, and she
realized they were not the godless monsters she had once thought them to be.
They were just people struggling to survive the best way they could in a
hostile land. The women laughed and cried and complained, the men provided food
and protection, and men and women alike adored their little ones. Apache
children were never spanked or slapped, but ran carefree through the village,
learning by the example of others how they were expected to behave. Only when
they came of age to begin the task of becoming warriors or women were the youth
of the tribe subjected to discipline.

Lacey gazed into the distance. She had never worked so hard
in all her life as she had worked in the past few weeks. She was up at dawn and
did not retire to her bed until late at night, rarely finding more than a few
minutes each day to call her own. Her hands were rough and red, the nails
broken and uneven, the palms calloused. Her fair skin had been reddened by
constant exposure to sun and wind. Her hair had lost its luster, but she no
longer cared about her appearance, or anything else, for her worst fear had
come to pass.

His name was Sky Runner. He was of medium height, with
deep-set black eyes and a ready smile. He had been smitten with Lacey from the
moment he first saw her, and he came to Sun Beaver’s lodge every night bringing
gifts, a pair of rabbits to sweeten the stew pot, a fine red blanket to turn
away the cold, a necklace made of shells, a deer hide that had been tanned to a
softness like fine velvet.

Lacey had tried to avoid Sky Runner, but he was always
nearby, waiting for a chance to catch her alone. He fell into step with her
when she went to the river for water, his dark eyes gazing at her with
adoration. He never touched her, for it was taboo for a warrior to accost an
unmarried woman, but he made it known in many ways that he found her desirable,
and after a remarkably short time, he offered Sun Beaver six fine ponies for
Lacey’s hand in marriage. Such a generous offering was unheard of for a woman
who was a slave, and the Apache women talked of it for days.

Lacey tried to explain to Sun Beaver and to Sky Runner that
she was already married, but it didn’t seem to matter. Her marriage to a white
man who was, in all probability, dead was of no importance to the Indians.

Wind Woman came out of the lodge, her face set in angry
lines, her shrill voice breaking into Lacey’s thoughts. Where was Sun Beaver’s
dinner, the Apache woman demanded. What was taking so long?

With a shrug, Lacey dished up a large bowl of stew and
handed it to Wind Woman. Perhaps marrying Sky Runner would be a blessing in
disguise, she mused, for after she was married she would no longer have to
endure Wind Woman’s shrewish tongue and nagging ways, though how she would
endure living with a man she did not love and hardly knew was beyond her
comprehension.

Lacey filled a bowl for herself and sat down in front of Sun
Beaver’s lodge to eat. She could see Sky Runner in the distance. He was engaged
in a game of skill with three other warriors, and Lacey could hear them
shouting and making jokes as they tried to outmaneuver one another.

Sky Runner glanced at Lacey, and when he saw she was watching
him, he began to try harder to win, wanting to show off his skill with bow and
arrow and lance in hopes of impressing the woman he hoped to marry. He knew she
did not care for him in the way a woman cared for a man, but that would change
in time. He would woo her gently until she overcame her fear of him. The other
warriors chided him for desiring to take a white woman for his wife when he
could have his pick of the Apache maidens. She was a slave, after all. For the
right price, he could likely buy her from Wind Woman and bed her as he pleased
until he tired of her, and then sell her to someone else. But Sky Runner
refused to demean Lacey in such a way. She was young and lovely, and he did not
wish to shame her. Indeed, he wanted her for his wife, the mother of his sons.

Lacey lowered her gaze to the bowl in her lap. Sky Runner
was a decent sort, for a savage, but she did not love him and she never would.
How could she let Sky Runner make love to her when it was Matt whose touch she
craved, Matt’s lips and hands she desired?

If she had doubts and misgivings, Sky Runner did not. He was
building their honeymoon lodge in a secluded glen some distance from the Apache
camp. Ordinarily the bride and her mother built such a hideaway, but Lacey was
not of the Apache and ignorant of their ways, so Sky Runner had taken charge.
His sister, Singing Woman, was helping him. Lacey and Sky Runner would spend
ten days in the honeymoon lodge alone, so they could get to know each other
better. The thought filled Lacey with dread. Ten days alone with a stranger.
How could she endure living with a man who did not even speak her language? How
would they communicate? What if she displeased him? Would he sell her to
another warrior? She had a terrible vision of being handed from warrior to
warrior until, in the end, she was cast out into the prairie to die, old and
alone…

Tom Claymore shook his head in disbelief. “That’s it?” he
exclaimed. “That’s your plan? You’re just going to try and walk out of here and
hope for the best?”

“Something like that,” Matt admitted sheepishly. “Unless
you’ve got a better idea.”

“Just one,” Claymore replied.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Then why the hell are you still here? If you’ve got such a
great idea, why didn’t you use it long ago?”

“The idea just came to me last night,” Claymore admitted.
“Listen, here’s what we’ll do.”

“How’d you get in on this?” Matt asked, frowning. “You can
hardly walk.”

“Maybe so, but I can still ride.”

“Okay, I’m listening.”

“Good. There’s only a quarter moon tonight. Just before midnight
I’ll sneak two horses out of the herd and pussyfoot it down to the canyon
entrance. You start a fire behind one of the lodges at the far end of camp.
Make it a big one. While everyone’s busy putting out the fire, we’ll make a
break for it.”