The Pride of Hannah Wade (7 page)

T
HE BLOOD BAY GELDING WAS RACY AND SLEEK, L0NG-
limbed and fine-boned; its glistening neck arched under the stricture of the gloved hands reining on the bit. Hannah Wade sat balanced in her sidesaddle, one leg hooked securely on the rest and the other booted foot in the stirrup. Her long hunter-green riding skirt was to completely cover her legs, its matching short jacked darted to show the trimness of her waist. A small green hat with trailing ribbons was perched atop Hannah’s head, her darkly red hair coiled into a bun at the nape. Her gloved hands held a leather quirt, which she rarely had to use on her restive mount, more frequently needing its spirit curbed than encouraged.

The soft sand of the dry wash muffled the rhythmic thud of cantering hooves as Hannah moved with the rocking gait of her steed, a pace matched by the two riders accompanying her. Lieutenant Sloane was slightly
ahead, while the dark-haired, dark-eyed lieutenant Delvecchio kept his horse level with the bay gelding.

Here and there along the ever-widening banks, a scrawny, sun-bleached cottonwood leaned toward the sun. The high morning sky was sharply blue and still new enough to retain some of the night’s cool, making it pleasant weather for riding. The harsh terrain beyond the wash undulated in seas of bleached tans and clayey reds and yellows, bristling with barrel cacti, chollas, and cat-claw bushes, alive with scorpions and snakes.

When lieutenant Sloane’s horse stumbled in the heavy loose sand, the other two horses automatically slowed, breaking from the slow canter into a jarring trot, at which point their riders checked them to a walk, letting them blow. Hannah leaned forward and gave a rewarding pat to her mount’s neck, her gloved hand siding underneath the jet-black mane to the shiny red coat.

The brisk ride over the two-mile distance from the fort had stirred her blood, giving her face a glow of vitality and freshness. Her dark eyes sparkled with the joy of being alive. She was breathing faster, slightly winded by the exhilarating canter.

“It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” The remark was made to either of her companions who wished to comment.

“Yes, ma’am.” But lieutenant Mario Delvecchio had trouble keeping his eyes off her, fascinated by every little thing she did.

Dust was stirred up by the striding walk of their horses, the smell of the earth strong and pungent on this spring morning. Recent rains had brought a rare sprinkling of green to the desert, the source of the vigorous odors of fertile ground.

“A mile farther on there’s a rock ledge with a view of the entire basin. I’m sure your wife will enjoy seeing it, lieutenant Sloane.” Hannah felt rather like a guide, pointing out all the local sights.

The young lieutenant didn’t seem impressed. “Desolate country, isn’t it?”

She laughed, not denying it. “Someone told me once that every living thing in this New Mexico Territory either has thorns or bites. It’s a hostile land, but you’ll see some magnificent sights as well—sunsets that inflame the whole sky or stars that hang so low you swear you can reach out and pluck them like apples from a tree. God had a full palette when he painted this country.”

“You sound as though you love it.” His look was hesitant, questioning.

“I suppose I do.” She had never really thought about it—and didn’t now. “As long as my husband is assigned here, nothing good would come of hating it.”

“You will be good medicine for my Becky,” Lieutenant Sloane declared, letting some of his concern show. “She is homesick, I’m afraid.”

A speckled brown bird with a crested head raced past the three riders, its scrawny body leaning forward to lend speed to its black legs. Hannah’s horse pricked its ears at the roadrunner streaking down the dry wash ahead of them.

It rounded a bend where a stony bank jutted into the dry streambed and forced the watershed to change its course. Seconds later, the bird came racing back at them. Unconsciously, Hannah checked her horse’s walk at the desert bird’s erratic behavior, then let it continue forward.

“What do you suppose spooked him?” The almost idle question was spoken as the three of them, riding abreast, halted near the bend.

Action suddenly erupted in front of them. For a stunned instant, Hannah looked at the paint-streaked faces of the Apaches charging at them on galloping ponies and felt a sense of unreality.

With a wrench of the reins, she wheeled her horse
about and, keeping her balance in the sidesaddle, sent it leaping forward. She was vaguely conscious of seeing Lieutenant Sloane unfasten the flap on his holster and draw his pistol.

“Ride for the fort!” he ordered, and sawed at his horse’s mouth to keep it from racing after its departing companions.

A shot rang out from the army revolver. One fragmented part of Hannah’s brain recognized the bravery of his act, staying in the face of the Apaches’ charge to cover their retreat. Bending low over her horse’s neck, Hannah whipped the gelding into a flat-out run. Off to her right, the ardent young lieutenant was galloping beside her, his gun drawn.

Almost deafened by the thundering sound, the steady drumbeats of noise, Hannah couldn’t tell which was the thudding of her heart and which the pounding of hooves, her own horse’s, Delvecchio’s, or the Apaches’. She felt fear and shock, but little sense of panic.

Chancing a backward look, she saw the pursuing braves and a riderless horse, the stirrups of its McClellan saddle flapping against its sides. A cold finger touched her stomach. After that first shot, she hadn’t heard Lieutenant Sloane fire again. And they were two very long miles from the fort.

Three more Apaches appeared, sending their ponies down the embankment slightly ahead of the racing horses. They were being cut off. In a split-second decision, Hannah swung her horse toward the opposite side of the wash. Going cross-country to the fort would be a rougher but more direct route than the smooth-running bottom of this riverbed. The lieutenant guessed her intent and followed, firing from horseback at the new threat.

There was no opportunity for him to take aim at the moving targets, and a hit would be accidental. But the
sound of gunshots could carry a great distance in the stillness of the desert air. Hannah mentally clung to the knowledge that the guards at the fort would hear them and send out a patrol to investigate.

The high bank was before her. She urged the big-hearted horse at it and gave the animal its head to choose its own course up the steep, gravelly slope. Its lunging climb nearly unseated her. She had to grab for the saddle horn to keep upright as the gelding scrambled upward, finally making it over the top.

It stumbled, going to its knees, and Hannah was pitched off. She managed to keep her grip on the reins and had nearly made it back into the saddle when Delvecchio came over the top. He swung from his rearing horse to help her, the near edge of panic in his eyes.

Confusion wreaked havoc; the wild-eyed horses whirled away from them, dust flying amidst the blowing snorts and nervous whickers; desperation had them moving too quickly. Hannah tried to haul herself into the saddle before she had a good toehold in the stirrup, the long riding skirt getting in her way. Any second she expected to see or hear the first Apache pony following them up the embankment. Her lungs felt tight, her mouth dry. Fear was a lump in the pit of her stomach.

Delvecchio grabbed the bridle strap of her circling horse so that she could mount, then looked wildly around, hearing the drumming hooves but not yet seeing the horses. His gun was drawn, its black muzzle seeking a target.

Seconds. Everything was happening in seconds.

Twenty yards up the wash, the trio of Apaches rode over the top, the same group that had tried to intercept them. Delvecchio snapped off one shot in their direction. Then Hannah spied the pursuing band thirty yards down the embankment. Again they were being hemmed in.

“Lieutenant!” she warned him.

“We’re trapped.”

“What should we—“ She never finished the question as she looked at the young officer and found herself staring into the muzzle of his revolver.

A terrible look was on his face. “God forgive me, Mrs. Wade.” It was almost a sobbing plea.

“Have you gone mad?” She saw his finger tremble against the trigger and slapped at the gun barrel with her quirt, knocking it aside as it went off in a deafening explosion. She flinched from the sound, then watched in shock as he brought the muzzle around to bear on her again.

“I can’t let them have you.” It was an agonized appeal, for understanding.

Hannah suddenly realized that he intended to him her to save her from the Apaches. No more was’ it merely talk. As a last resort, the lives of the women and children would be taken before an army officer would let them be tortured by savages.

She drew back, in this last second, wanting desperately to live.
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
Delvecchio was spun by some sudden force, the pistol spinning from his hand as he clawed at his back. Hannah saw the arrows stuck in him an instant before he fell backward. Her hand choked off the cry in her throat.

Driven by terror, she tried again to climb onto the sidesaddle. The rush of Apache ponies from all sides had her hot-blooded horse in a frenzy. It squatted close to the ground, its legs spread like a cat unsure which way to jump. That was all Hannah needed to gain a seat in the saddle. The reins were loose in her hand, giving her hardly any control of the gelding’s mouth.

A gap still existed between the sandwiching bands of Apache raiders, and Hannah used her quirt in an attempt to whip her horse through it. Her gelding sprang for the opening. Amid the terror and confusion,
she still carried the conviction that a detail from the fort was on its way. She simply had to reach them.

Her pounding heart felt as if it was in her throat, pumping madly, blood surging through her veins, her body fevered. The gelding slipped through the gap before it closed, but the Apaches were running along on either side. The blood bay gelding was fast, Hannah knew. Stephen had raced it once against the top racehorse in the regiment and been beaten by only a length. With her voice and her rawhide quirt, she urged her mount to an even greater speed. Its stride lengthened as the beast extended itself. But the small, wiry horses of the Apaches weren’t left in his dust; they kept pace.

With alarm, Hannah saw that the half-naked riders were drifting in, closing on her from both sides. One leaned over to reach for the reins, his lank black hair flying, and she struck his copper-skinned arm with her riding crop. But while she beat off one, the diversion gave the Apache on the other side a chance. Frantic, Hannah swung wildly at both. One grabbed the rawhide quirt and pulled; she had to let go of it or be jerked from the saddle. A second later, a yank of the reins deprived her of them as well.

The minute she lost control of the bay gelding, there was an immediate slackening of speed, as if the animal knew that the race was lost. The reins were in the hand of an Apache with blue lightning streaks on his high cheekbones, and he led the horse in a wide circle back over the same ground. The feeling of helpless, trapped terror was more difficult for Hannah to suppress now that her hands were empty—nothing to do and nothing to hold.

Until now, there had not been time to think, only to react; no time to wonder, only to run. As they rode up to the dry wash, Hannah saw two breechclouted Apaches on the ground by Lieutenant Delvecchio’s
body, A sob was somewhere in her chest, but her teeth buried in her lower lip to keep from making a sound as she watched them strip the dead officer of his cartridge belt and revolver and go through his pockets for anything else of value.

In every movement of the Apaches there was a darting swiftness, an efficiency of action and speed. The instant the plundering of the body was finished, they swung onto their horses. Some silent consensus had them ride down the embankment to the dry creekbed, Hannah barely managing to cling to her side perch during the ramp-sliding descent of her horse. In a controlled haste, they were fleeing the scene.

Because the fort was too close—the pony soldiers too near—the reason cried out to Hannah. In anguished hope, she looked behind them, straining to hear the clank of bridle chains and the groaning of saddle leather, or to see the raised dust of a cavalry detail.

Then she faced forward and eyed the Apache leading her horse. It was the first good look she’d taken at any of her attackers, their painted faces seeming like glowering masks of evil in some theatrical play, complete with stringy black wigs. A thin layer of dust lay over the brown skin of her captor’s broad, powerful shoulders, a sinewy toughness to his naked torso. Something in his profile seemed vaguely familiar.

A horse neighed, distracting her attention. The cavalry mounts of both officers were in the possession of two Apache riders who were waiting at the bend of the sandy wash. Their presence brought the number of the band to seven, now coming together in a single force. A thickset Apache, his fat a solid bulk, sat astride a narrow-chested roan horse. Hannah recognized the horse and rider as the same pair that had been at the desert trading post. Captain Cutter had identified the Apache as a Chiricahua leader named Juh.