The Preacher's Bride (Brides of Simpson Creek) (22 page)

Yes, the red-haired white woman would give him no trouble after this.

* * *

Gil thought he knew a little of what it was like for the Lord to wander forty days in the wilderness. He felt as discouraged as Jesus must have felt just
before
the devil showed up to tempt him power and worldly riches. Gil wasn’t being tempted with anything like that, of course, just to the possibility of giving in to despair.

Lord, can it be Your will that I don’t find Faith, even though I’m willing to give my life for her?
He couldn’t believe it could be so. Yet the sun was sinking and he had found no trace of horse tracks, no scrap of clothing clinging to a shrub, nothing.

With God, all things are possible.

And then the wind carried a snatch of sound to his ears—a sound so faint and so low that he couldn’t be sure that his mind wasn’t playing tricks on him, for it seemed to be coming from beneath the ground. A cadenced, low reverberation like the beat of a drum. He paused, listening, then inched the horse forward, his eyes scanning his surroundings for anything familiar.

Seek and ye shall find.

All at once he spotted a mesquite some fifty yards ahead of him and stared hard at it.
Yes
—he’d seen that scrubby tree, split down the middle by lightning, ahead of him before. While tied to the post in the middle of the camp, he’d spotted it perched right above the lip of the overhanging ledge that hung over the Comanche camp.

Now Gil could hear the drumbeat clearly, a beat echoing in the thudding of many feet and chanting voices keeping time to the drum’s throbbing. Wanting to see what was happening without being seen as yet, Gil dismounted his horse, hoping it wouldn’t stray far. He crawled the rest of the way on his belly to the lip of the canyon and peered over it.

At first he could make out nothing, for his eyes were blinded by the campfire, and then he spotted Faith, tied to the same post he had been not so long ago. Painted savages danced around her, the firelight reflecting off their skin.

He felt sick at the confirmation that she was exactly where he feared she would be. He was outnumbered perhaps forty to one. And that was just counting the young braves. There were as many or more women of various ages, and half as many older men, including one he guessed was the chief by his ceremonial headdress. Nowhere did he see Makes Healing or Runs Like a Deer. Had they been banished—or something worse—because the medicine man had aided him?

As Gil continued to watch, unable to decide what to do, he was horrified and enraged to see a Comanche woman lean in as she capered past, jabbing Faith with a stick. He saw her flinch back, clamping her teeth over her lip to keep from crying out.

He had to rescue her! How long before they would progress from torment to real torture? He had the will to do it, to ride in there and hope they would be willing to free her in exchange for him, but he had no reason to believe they would do anything more than laugh at him, then kill them both. Lord, why couldn’t he have been born to be a rough-and-ready cowboy or a soldier skilled in firearms? He’d left the pistol back in his saddlebag—he could get it, but what were six bullets against such a murderous horde below?

All David the shepherd boy had were five smooth stones. And he felled the mighty Philistine giant. I will go with you.

All right, then. There was nothing else to do but to attempt the impossible.

He turned, intending to crawl back to his horse, remount, then ride boldly into the camp. He knew now where the land dipped, several yards to the east of the lip of the canyon, forming a narrow trail into the camp itself.

He froze, for there were four Comanches standing just a couple of yards behind him, and a fifth holding the muzzle of his horse so the beast couldn’t nicker and warn him.

* * *

Faith had been so sure the only thing worse than the taunting and hideous pantomiming of her weaving, swooping captor and his dancing friends could be the time he would actually inflict a fatal wound or set her on fire with a burning brand. But the sight of Gil, his arms tied behind him, being pushed down the trail into the camp and into the circle of firelight was much, much worse.

“Gil!”

He heard her over the crackling flames nearby and the monotonous drumbeats, thumping feet and chanting, and raised his head. “Faith!”

She could see that they had beaten him. Even in the flickering light she could see one eyelid was reddened and would probably swell shut soon. They had broken his nose. A thin trickle of blood ran down over his lips and onto his chin.

Her captor had circled back around the pole and saw him now, too. He stopped in midstep, pointing at Gil and shouting a question at the Indians who had brought him into the camp.

One of them pointed at the overhanging ledge above the camp, indicating, Faith thought, it was where they had found him.

Rage suffused the hideous face of her captor at the interruption. Then, in a lightning change of mood, he laughed and pointed his wicked-looking knife right at Gil, calling out something to the others.

Loud whoops lifted from a score of throats at whatever he had said, and they seized Gil, dragging him past her to the post in front of her and binding her so they faced one another about ten feet apart. She guessed he hadn’t seen the scalps that so hideously decorated the top of the post, but he had only to look up and he would.

She had thought that she had lost every bit of moisture in her body, but impossibly, she felt a hot tear slide down one cheek, then the other. Was she going to be forced to watch him die before they killed her, too?

“What are you doing here, Gil?” she cried, when the whooping died down enough that he could hear her. “You can’t help me—they’ll kill you, too!”

Her captor apparently didn’t like her speaking to her fellow captive, for he ran at her with his huge palm open. His slap stung like a hundred red ant bites at once. He screamed something at her, his eyes bulging in his fury.

She looked beyond those fiery obsidian eyes to Gil’s face, and saw him shaking his head at her, warning her not to anger the Comanche further. Resolutely, she looked away—away from the face of the man she loved, away from her captor whose evil face was only inches from hers.

The drumbeat began again. Her captor whirled away from her and lunged at Gil, slashing with his knife. In a motion almost too quick for Faith to see, he jabbed at Gil, opening a diagonal slash in Gil’s right cheek. Pointing his knife, he screamed something to the men and women who had been dancing with him. He seemed to be trying to incite the others to do as he had just done.

No!
Faith wasn’t sure if she had shrieked aloud or silently inside, but the Indian in the headdress stood then and raised his ceremonial lance. The others paused, and the drumbeats halted.

He said something in that impenetrable tongue of theirs and pointed.

Riding down the narrow defile was yet another Indian, an older man like the chief, and following him on a smaller pony was the boy who had come into the tepee.

Chapter Twenty-Two

N
ow Faith saw frustration join the anger on her captor’s face, its focus shifting from her to the mounted older man riding toward them. The older Indian pointed toward them and shouted something that sounded like a command.

The younger Comanche’s face darkened still further and he clenched the hand not holding the knife into a fist at his side.

Now the chief barked something at him, and her captor went rigid. Jaw clenched, he sheathed his knife. He shouted something at the Indian on the horse, who by now had ridden down to the chief; then, raising a fist, shouting and gesticulating, he stomped over to the two older Indians. The other young warriors swarmed behind him, doing likewise, obviously enraged by whatever the mounted Indian had said.

Was the newcomer disputing her captor’s right to do with her as he willed? She watched, but could glean no hint of what was being discussed, so she turned to Gil. Who knew how long the Comanches’ attention would be diverted?

He felt her gaze and looked at her. “My darling Faith, are you all right? Have they—
Has he
—” he jerked his head toward her captor “—hurt you?”

“Not really,” she said. None of her cuts and bruises hurt now that he was with her, even though there was nothing he could probably do but die with her. “But you—your nose...”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I had to find you. I didn’t know if I could locate this camp again, or if they’d even still be here, but I had to try...”

“‘Locate the camp again’?” she echoed. “So you
have
been here. That boy knows you, doesn’t he?” She nodded toward the boy on his pony, who had followed the older man to the chief. He was looking over his shoulder at Gil now, worry etching his young features.

“Yes...his name is Runs Like a Deer. I’m sorry, Faith, I didn’t tell you the whole truth about my encounter with the Indians,” he admitted, shamefaced. “I found him in the hills. He’d fallen from his pony and his leg was broken. I had to find his people—I couldn’t just leave him out there alone and in pain... Then those braves found us, and attacked me. I was taken back here.”

She said nothing, just watched him steadily.
Who knew how long they would have to speak together before the Comanches turned on the again?

“Those young braves wanted to kill me that day. I was bound to the same post you’re tied to now. They would have, too, except that Makes Healing, there—” he indicated the older man who was now dismounting his horse “—stopped him. He’s the medicine man of this band, and Runs Like a Deer is his son. He was grateful that I had helped his son and interceded for me apparently, so they were forced to release me.”

“But why...”

“I didn’t feel I could tell anyone about this place,” he said, “because the cavalry would come down on them, and the medicine man and his son might well be killed. It seemed a poor thanks for the mercy he showed me.”

How like Gil to return gratitude and mercy—even to an Indian—for the gratitude and mercy he’d been shown.

“But it seems I was wrong,” Gil went on sadly, “because if the cavalry had eradicated this camp, they couldn’t have taken
you.
Or attacked a ranch out near Lampasas. Faith, I’m so sorry.”

“You couldn’t have known this would happen, Gil.” The cattle she had seen penned up at the edge of the camp must have been from that attack. And so were the scalps hanging above him.

Both fell silent, for one of the warriors was returning to them now.

His face unreadable, the brave untied Faith, then retied the leather thongs behind her back. Keeping a hand on the binding between her wrists, he pushed her toward one of the tepees. Once inside, he pointed to a tanned hide on the ground, and when she had lain down, bound her legs, too, so she was once more tied and helpless as she had endured the night before.

A moment later he returned, pushing Gil ahead of him. He was followed by an older squaw who seated herself across the floor of the tepee. In moments Gil was bound just as she was and lying a couple of feet from her, facing her.

It suddenly seemed to occur to the brave that they might be thirsty. He offered water from a drinking gourd to first Faith, then Gil. They drank thirstily, as much as he would give them, even though it was awkward to drink in that position and much of it spilled.

As soon as the brave had left, Faith darted a cautious glance at the older squaw, but she seemed much more interested in the bowl of stew she had brought with her than in the captives she’d been set to guard.

“Gil, what will happen to us now?”

* * *

He hated to quench the flicker of hope he saw in her eyes.

He looked away. “When I was here before, Makes Healing told me if I ever returned he wouldn’t be able to save me.”

Her eyes widened. “He...he’d
let them kill you?
”

He was done with lies and half-truths. “He said if I ever returned I would die.”

Tears trickled down her pale cheeks once again.

“It’s all right, Faith, if that’s what must happen. But I’m hopeful I can persuade him, somehow, to let you go.” He had to find a way to do that, he thought, desperation squeezing his heart. He’d seen the way that brave with the red war paint had been threatening Faith. Gil would let them kill him a thousand times if it meant removing Faith from that monster’s clutches.

“We must pray that both of us are released,” she said then.

Something about the way her eyes shone with an extra brightness alerted him then.

“‘We’?” he repeated, his eyes searching hers.

“When I went out to Milly’s I asked her things about faith and—” She shut her mouth then, for someone was entering the tepee again.

What had she been about to say? Had she regained her belief in God?

It was Makes Healing, Gil saw as the older Comanche straightened.

“Gil Chadwick,” the man said. He assisted Gil to sit up, then lowered himself to his haunches next to Gil. His eyes gave nothing away.

“Hello, Makes Healing,” Gil responded.

“He speaks English!” Faith murmured in surprise.

“You should not have come,” the medicine man said, allowing Gil to see the sadness in his black eyes. “Did I not warn you?”

“Yes, but I had to try to rescue the woman I love,” Gil said. He nodded toward Faith, lying on the other side of him. “Makes Healing, this is Miss Faith Bennett, the lady I want to marry.” How surreal it seemed to be making an introduction as if they were sitting in a parlor, instead of in a Comanche tepee.

The Comanche nodded solemnly at her, and she at him.

“My son rode through the night to find the place where I sought a vision,” Makes Healing said. “He told me that she is your woman, but Black Coyote Heart took her for his slave.”

“What a fitting name,” Faith said tartly. Then she focused on what else the medicine man had said. “Then they weren’t going to kill me? But I’d rather die than be a slave!” she declared.

Gil saw Makes Healing transfer his gaze to Faith. “If a slave does not obey, she
will
die,” he told her. “A slave who obeys is given more trust and kindness, and in time may join the tribe. A woman slave can become the wife of her captor, or if another man gives horses for her, the wife of that man.”

“Never,” she said.

“Makes Healing, please, can’t you make them let her go as you did with me?” Gil asked. “I’m willing to pay the price for returning here, but she’s done nothing wrong. I kept faith with you—I told no one this camp is here.”

Makes Healing looked down at his hands for a long time. “You are a brave man, Gil Chadwick, for coming here to rescue her when you knew it meant death. Black Coyote Heart considers your woman his property, and the other young braves lust for blood. Panther Claw Scars, our chief, does not wish to always refuse them. I do not know if I can change their minds.”

“Please,”
Faith said. “I’ll stay here, if you can get them to release Gil.”

“Faith, no!” Gil exclaimed. “You must not make such an offer!”

Makes Healing gave Faith an approving look. “Your woman loves you and is a woman of spirit. But it would never work. Your people would do anything to save a captive white woman. We would be hunted.”

“That’s true,” Gil said. “So it would be best for the tribe if she was released. The cavalry would ride in and rain destruction down upon your people. Perhaps they would kill Runs Like a Deer,” he added, hoping he was not going too far.

Makes Healing’s eyes narrowed dangerously. But Gil knew he was bargaining for Faith’s life, and he was willing to risk it. After all, he was going to die anyway.

The medicine man rose to his feet. “I will speak to the chief. He will decide what is to be done. I will not return tonight. You will be told at sunrise of the chief’s decision. He must seek the will of the Great Spirit.”

“The Great Spirit is your name for the Lord,” Gil said boldly. “His Son, Jesus, wrote in the Good Book which our people read, ‘Blessed are the merciful.’”

Makes Healing looked at him for a long minute. “Do not try to escape,” he said. “There are braves outside the tepee standing guard. If you try, they will not be merciful or wait for the chief to decide what to do with you.” He left the tepee.

“As if we could,” Faith said, jerking her head to indicate the leather thongs that bound both of them hand and foot, and the squaw who now watched their every move with beady black eyes that missed nothing.

Gil nodded ruefully, although he couldn’t help but remember how both Peter and Paul had been loosed from jails in the book of Acts.

He wanted to distract Faith from her worry, so he asked her what she had been about to say when the medicine man came to the tent.

Her eyes brightened again in the fading light. “It was all so clear after I spoke to Milly. She said I only had to have faith the size of a mustard seed, and it would be enough. I still have questions of course, but I am a believer once again, Gil!”

“Thank God,”
he breathed. “I’m so glad, Faith.” At least if he wasn’t able to buy her freedom with his blood, Faith was a child of God.

“Your coming here to save me, offering your life for mine, is like Jesus coming to the world to save us,” she said solemnly.

“No sacrifice I could make could equal what Jesus did for all of mankind,” he said. “But yes, he died to ransom us.”

“But we’re going to pray for a miracle,” she told him. “God is a God of miracles, isn’t he? If He wills it, He can save both of us.”

Gil nodded.
If God only chose to save Faith, that would be miracle enough for him.

They prayed for their miracle then, first Faith and then Gil, both of them ignoring the suspicious eyes of the Comanche woman across from them. Faith also prayed for her parents and for Gil’s father.

Lord, wouldn’t she make a wonderful preacher’s wife now?
Gil thought.
Maybe You could find some other young preacher for her to marry if I don’t make it through this.

Faith fell asleep after that, but Gil lay awake for a long time, listening to the crackling of the campfire and the occasional murmur of the braves outside the tepee.

Simpson Creek Church would go on without him, as it should. He prayed that Faith and his father also would be able to. Gil hoped she would be able to report he died bravely, and prayed God would give him the courage he would need so that it would be the truth.

Thy will be done, Lord.

* * *

At dawn the squaw left the tent, returning minutes later with food. One of the braves—not Black Coyote Heart, she was relieved to see—removed their wrist bindings so they could eat.

Faith was given only water and more pemmican, but Gil was given a hunk of roast venison and a bowl of boiled mashed corn with his water. He tried to share with Faith, but that seemed to upset the Comanche woman, so Faith insisted that he eat all he’d been given. Her stomach felt as if it was too full of grasshoppers for her to be hungry anyway.

Makes Healing returned to the tepee in the morning shortly after they finished their breakfast.

“You have eaten well, Gil Chadwick, and that is good, for you will need every bit of strength you have.”

Gil raised an inquiring eyebrow, but waited in silence for the medicine man’s explanation.

“I have persuaded Panther Claw Scars to give you a chance to win your freedom and that of your woman, Faith. It is not much of a chance, for you are a holy man, not a warrior as Black Coyote Heart is. But being a holy man gives you strong medicine, Gil Chadwick. You are to fight Black Coyote Heart to the death.”

Gil was pale, but Faith saw him nod resolutely. “If I win, Faith goes free and we leave here together,” he said.

“It is so,” Makes Healing said. “But if you do not win, your woman will die. It is clear to the people that she would never be content to live among us. If you die, she will die, too, to honor your death.”