The Preacher's Bride (Brides of Simpson Creek) (20 page)

Faith moaned in fear.
Oh, God, I put my trust in You again, and this is the result? One minute I’m singing and praying to You, full of joy, the next I’m trussed up like a slain deer? Is that what You meant to happen?

Faith heard a sound in back of her, and then fresh air swirled around her, tinged with the smell of wood smoke and some sort of gamey-smelling grease.
Someone had come in!
Quickly she shut her eyes again, seeking safety in feigning unconsciousness. She heard footsteps nearing her on the hard-packed earth, and then someone knelt beside her, bringing the smell of smoke and grease nearer.

She felt a nudge on her shoulder, then another and another. A voice shouted in her ear, a female voice, guttural and insistent. Faith fought the urge to flinch, maintaining her stillness by sheer effort of will. Maybe if she continued to pretend to be unconscious, they would leave her alone—at least until later. She was merely postponing her fate, she knew, but every moment she could buy was a moment she was not being tortured.

Without warning the nudge became sharp, and aimed at her ribs, and was followed by a slap so hard she could not help but recoil.

Faith’s eyes flew open, and she beheld an Indian woman’s coppery face, framed by short-cropped raven-black hair, just inches from hers, the obsidian eyes full of curiosity—and malice, too. She called something over her shoulder, and another pair of moccasined feet neared Faith. As they came to a stop by her, she noted the beaded design on the moccasins resembled some sort of dog or wolflike gray creature with an irregular black-beaded shape midway between his shoulders and forelegs.

The wearer of the moccasins—a huge, powerfully built brave—bent over and stared at her, his gleaming long black hair, warpaint and hideous grin sending Faith into another paroxysm of terror.

Lord, if You love me—if You ever loved me, please help me!

Chapter Twenty

H
er kidnapper spoke to her in Comanche, then leaned over and untied the leather thongs that bound her wrists and ankles.

Faith rubbed her wrists to bring back the circulation in her numb arms, never taking her eyes off the brave. She longed to rub her ankles, too, but dared not expose them to the big Indian, who watched her every move with avid eyes.

He said something to the woman behind him—his wife? Yet there was a similarity to their features, so perhaps she was his sister. The Indian woman stepped forward then, and Faith saw that she carried a leather pouch and a crude wooden bowl. She dropped the bowl in front of Faith, then upended the leather pouch over it. What fell onto the bowl looked like dried meat mixed with grease. She pointed at it, uttered another unintelligible word, then pantomimed picking up the stuff, putting it in her mouth and chewing it.

Faith’s stomach rebelled. It certainly wasn’t the savory-smelling meat she’d been smelling from the campfire outside. And even if she wanted to, she couldn’t eat with that grinning, evil-looking Indian man squatting inches from her and watching.

He barked what sounded like a command at Faith; then, when she just stared at him, he clenched a fist and boxed her left ear.

Faith straightened, feeling tears stinging her eyes, blurring her vision. The brave held a hunk of the meat mixture under her nose. He shouted the same word he had said before he’d hit her.

He was ordering her to eat, but was the meat poisoned? Would she feel it burning her throat as she tried to swallow, then double over in agony as the evil substance did its work?

He pulled a wicked-looking knife from a sheath hanging from the belt that held up his breechclout then, and waved it at her face. The message was clear—
eat or die.

Perhaps it would be a quicker death than the fire...

The meat mixture was chewy and greasy, but intensely sweet and surprisingly palatable. Faith suddenly realized she was hungry, and so she chewed the substance and reached for more. This must be pemmican, the meat and honey mixture that frontiersmen had learned to make from exposure to Indian ways, and indeed she realized now that
pemmican
was the word the man and woman had been saying to her.

The brave relaxed somewhat then, sitting on his haunches and watching Faith eat. The woman brought Faith a gourd full of water, and Faith washed down her food, then watched the brave warily.

He turned on his heel, said something to the woman whom Faith had decided was his sister and left the tepee.

Sister muttered something, then took hold of one of Faith’s hands, yanking her to her feet. She brandished a knife from her own belt, then indicated Faith was to follow her from the tepee.

Would she be tied to a stake and burned now?
The woman’s obsidian gaze was impenetrable and gave Faith no clue, but when she left the tepee, there was no gathered throng waiting for her. Comanche men sat eating, while half-naked children ran and played and women stirred pots. They looked up at Faith with mild interest, then went back to whatever they were doing.

Sister marched her out of camp into a clump of scrub, then barked something, pointing first to Faith’s riding skirt, then at the ground.

Faith finally understood she was to take care of her personal needs. Face burning with humiliation, she did so, and then Sister marched her back to the tepee and retied her, shoving her down on the buffalo hide she’d awoken on. She pantomimed closing her eyes, and left the tepee.

Sleep? How was she to sleep not knowing what her fate was to be? Gil, I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you sooner—then I wouldn’t have needed to go talk to Milly, wouldn’t have foolishly ridden out and back alone...

But maybe she’d been right all along about God,
that familiar voice hissed inside her. Hadn’t that been proven by her present circumstances? If God existed at all, how could He care about His people when He allowed this to happen to her right when she’d begun to come back to Him?

No one would likely ever know for sure what had happened to her. They’d speculate certainly. Perhaps they’d think she’d been caught by Yancey Merriwell, and redouble their efforts to find the Georgian scoundrel. She wondered if he was even in Texas anymore.

She wasn’t sure if the savage who had brought her here had been out by himself, or if he’d been part of a raiding party. When Sister had taken her out of the tepee, Faith had spotted a makeshift pen full of milling, restless cattle, so perhaps there had been a raid. She hoped it wasn’t they hadn’t struck Milly’s ranch after she had left or Caroline’s. Perhaps one or both of them had been killed defending their homes.

She heard the tepee flap lift again, and she stiffened, but this time it was only a boy who stood there peering at her. He leaned on a crutch, though both feet were planted on the hard-packed dirt floor at the entrance of the tepee. There was no threat in his gaze, only inquisitiveness.

“Hello,” Faith whispered. “Who are you?”

He murmured something in Comanche.

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand your language, any more than you do mine,” she said. Was he her captor’s son? But somehow she didn’t think so. He had probably only come to satisfy his curiosity about the white captive. He’d probably never seen a white woman before—or perhaps he had, and he knew what would happen to her. If only she could talk to him!

Was this the same band whose braves Gil had encountered? Had the same savage who had seized her from the road and struck her when she tried to resist been one of those who’d chased Gil?

Now she’d never get to tell Gil of her regained faith, never get to kiss him, never hold his child... She felt a tear trickle down her face despite her resolve to remain stoic in front of this boy.

“Oh, Gil...”
She was not aware of speaking aloud until she saw the spark of interest in the boy’s black-as-midnight eyes.

“Geel,” he repeated.
“Geel.”

Then the boy uttered a spate of Comanche words. He reached some distance above him, then leveled his hand, as if indicating height. He put his hands together, as if praying.

Faith’s jaw dropped. “Did you meet Gil?” she breathed. “Was he here?”

As if he could understand her. He was merely parroting her word.
You’ll have to learn English from someone else, child,
Faith thought.
I may not live long enough to teach you.

“Gil,”
she said again.

The boy stared at her, then made two circles with his thumbs and forefingers, and placed them over his eyes—like spectacles. He smiled at her.

“You’ve met Gil,” she said.
Had this boy ridden with the braves who had attacked Gil? Dear God...
Could she somehow get the boy to try to find Gil and bring him here? But how was she to convey that idea?

“I am Faith,” she said, pointing to herself.
“Faith.”

“Fait,”
the boy repeated. Perhaps they had no “th” sound in Comanche.

Before they could say anything more, however, the tepee flap was opened again and her captor reentered. As soon as he straightened, he saw the boy and snapped something at him, his voice both angry and scornful.

Without a backward glance, the Comanche boy scampered from the tepee.

* * *

It was dusk by the time Gil and Mr. Bennett reached the Brookfield ranch, only to be told that Faith had left the place hours ago and should have been home by midafternoon. The blood drained from Mr. Bennett’s and Milly Brookfield’s faces. Gil’s blood turned to ice in his veins.

Bennett groaned, “Merriwell’s caught her, then. What are we going to do now?”

“We don’t know it was Merriwell,” Gil reminded him, not wanting to panic the man or Milly Brookfield. “Perhaps her horse went lame and she had to stop in at one of the ranches along the way.”

But Faith’s father wasn’t willing to be reassured. “Dear God, no...”

“You think Yancey Merriwell took her?” Milly demanded. “While she was here, Faith told me what he’d done to that poor saloon girl.”

Milly took a fortifying breath, then continued. “I
told
Faith to let one of the men ride back with her, but she wouldn’t listen, said she wanted to be alone...we’d been talking, you see, and...” Her voice trailed off, and she darted an uneasy glance at Faith’s father, who looked as if he might pass out, too.

“Mr. Bennett, let’s go inside. Let me get you some water,” she said, firmly taking the older man by the arm. With Gil’s help, she shepherded Faith’s father inside the ranch house.

“Can I borrow a fresh horse?” Gil asked in a low voice, once they had Mr. Bennett sitting in an armchair with a glass of water.

“Of course,” she said.

“Where are you going?” demanded Bennett, still looking too pale for Gil’s comfort. “I’m coming, too. It’s my daughter—” He winced then and placed his open palm over his chest.

“No, you’re not, Mr. Bennett, you’re obviously exhausted. I can go faster without you,” Gil said kindly but firmly. “You can ride back in the buggy in the morning.”

“But it’s pitch-black out there,” Milly said. “At least wait until first light.”

“There’s a moon. I can follow the road well enough if you’ll lend me a lantern, too, Miss Milly,” he told her. “By the time I get home, check on Papa and let Mrs. Bennett know her husband is resting here, it’ll be dawn. I’ll leave word at the jail that we didn’t find Faith here, but that you’re all right. Better bring your men in close because we really don’t know what happened.” Gil knew from the look in Milly’s eyes that she’d already intended to do just that.

“And then what? You’ll join a search party?” Bennett asked.

Gil nodded. There was strength in numbers. He’d kill Merriwell himself if he’d harmed a hair on Faith’s head.

* * *

Runs Like a Deer stood outside the tepee, wondering what to do. He’d heard enough of Black Coyote Heart’s boasting to know that he considered the white eyes woman his to either keep as a captive or kill, as his whim dictated. Being a captive, one who might eventually marry a warrior and became one of the people herself, would not be a bad fate for a woman, he mused. There was no finer life than that of the People—free as the wind, moving from place to place as they wished, at one with nature and the Great Spirit... He’d seen male captives in this band and others on the staked plains become Comanches, too, some of them fiercer than their adopted tribe.

But he also knew Black Coyote Heart’s spirit—it was as dark as his name. He would not treat the white woman fairly, rewarding obedience with increasing trust. He would abuse her, and on a whim, kill her if it suited him. He’d heard the other braves egging Black Coyote Heart on to tie the woman to a pole and do the scalp dance.

Panther Claw Scars would not intervene, even though the boy knew the chief preferred that his band not take captives from the whites. Mexican captives were safer—their people would not ride over the Big Long River to save them for fear of the Texans. But the taking of captives was a long, honorable tradition among the people, and in any case, the boy suspected the old chief was a little bit intimidated by Black Coyote Heart in the absence of his medicine man, Makes Healing. He would not forbid Black Coyote Heart to do as he wished with the white woman.

This woman knew Gil, the white holy man. Perhaps she was even his woman. And Gil had been kind to him, speaking in a fatherly tone and courageously helping him return to his tribe—at his own expense, as it turned out. Gil would not want this woman to be tortured and killed. He would want her back.

But Runs Like a Deer did not know where to locate Gil, the white holy man. He wouldn’t be able to find him even if he was brave enough to ride his pony into the closest white eyes’ town, and they might take him captive and torture
him.

He had to go get his father to intervene. Makes Healing was on a spiritual retreat, and he had not disclosed where he would be meditating. In all likelihood he hadn’t even known himself when he’d left. But it didn’t matter. Runs Like a Deer would have to find him.

He would mount his pony and leave at dawn, telling no one where he was going.

* * *

His father was already sitting in the kitchen with his Bible in front of him when Gil arrived back. Quickly Gil explained that Faith wasn’t at Milly’s, so he was going to find the sheriff and form a search party to look for her.

The old man seized Gil’s hand and stared up with that keen, penetrating gaze of his, and for a moment father and son just stared deeply into one another’s eyes. Then his father pulled downward on Gil’s hand, and Gil knew his father wanted him to kneel.

He felt his father’s hand on his head. The old man’s prayer was silent, but Gil knew the old man was praying for his son’s protection and success in finding Faith.

“Thank you, Papa,” he said, when the hand was lifted from his head. “Try not to worry about me.”

The old man shook his head and smiled faintly. “No...I pr-pray.”

Gil straightened. “Where’s Mrs. Bennett?”

His father pointed toward the parlor. “Sleep.”

Gil strode into the parlor and found her asleep on the horsehair sofa, covered with her shawl. Gently he woke the woman, wishing he had better news to tell her.

The woman sprang awake at his light touch. “I can’t believe I dozed off, Reverend. You didn’t find Faith with Milly?” she said, her eyes desperate and wild.

He shook his head and explained he was going to form a search party. “Your husband is spending the night at Mrs. Brookfield’s ranch,” he added. “He was done in, so I suggested he wait till morning to drive the buggy back.”

“But—”

“I’ll look till I find her, Mrs. Bennett,” Gil promised. “We’ll ride out as soon as it’s light.” A glance outside the window revealed the first faint graying of the dark. That wouldn’t be long, and he had to get a fresh horse.

“Please, Reverend,” Mrs. Bennett begged, fresh tears streaming down her face. “I can’t bear to think of what that monster Merriwell might do to my little girl!”