Dorothy Garlock (38 page)

“Ha! Yes, you are a silly mule. Apaches are gone. You see nothing, hear?”

“I did see it. Let go, Isabella. I get Burr!”

“You tell on your Apache brother? Ha! They skin you like a rabbit.” Isabella twisted his arm. “Burr beat you when you tell him lie.”

“I no lie. I see him hit Johanna.” Sobs tore at Bucko’s throat, but he choked them back.

“When Burr beat you I will laugh,” Isabella said spitefully and turned, blocking the boy’s view of the corral. “Go. Go tell the señor the lie. He go to the windmill.”

Isabella watched him run away with a gloating expression on her face. The days were short at this time of year. She glanced at the sky above the mountains to the west. Already it had started to darken. It would take many minutes for Bucko to reach the windmill and many minutes more to get back to the stone house. Isabella ran down the path toward her home. It mattered not if Bucko found the señor. The hair of the blond
puta
was already hanging from the Apache’s belt.

Bucko ran stumbling down the sandy path, tears streaming down his face. Why didn’t Isabella believe him? He didn’t lie! His ankle gave way and he went sprawling. He picked himself up and wiped the sand from his face with his hands and hurried on.
Oh, Johanna, if I was a man the bad Indian wouldn’t hurt you,
he cried silently. He came to the path that cut off toward the Mexican village and it occurred to him that it would take a long time to get to the windmill. He knew someone who would believe him. He turned down the path calling as loud as he could, “Rosita! Rosita!”

T
wenty-three

B
lack Buffalo stood over the unconscious woman. It had worked out better than he’d planned. Sky Eyes had caused the council to laugh at him and the chief to rule against him. He would do what Gray Cloud had failed to do: he would take the woman of Sky Eyes to be his slave and Sky Eyes would have to travel to their winter home deep in the mountains of Mexico to find her—there he would kill him.

A look of gloating satisfaction crossed his face. Once again he had outsmarted the white man. His first victory over the white man had been when he demanded and received six ponies for Sha-we-ne’s lame, weak son who was due to die soon. Sky Eyes had stolen the slave woman to replace her dead child, thinking he, Black Buffalo, would swallow his pride and allow his possession to be taken. He would show all the Chiricahua Apache that he was a man of pride, of vengeance.

Black Buffalo’s dark eyes gleamed. His long wait beside the stream had paid off. He was glad the dark woman had not come on down the trail; he would have taken her, and missed the chance to get this woman with hair like a cloud. How envious the other warriors would be when they saw his white slave. He pictured her in his wickiup. He would forbid his wives to mark her skin and make her ugly, but he would allow them to beat her until she cringed before him. He would fling her white body on the blanket and go inside her. She would give him many sons, all with eyes like the sky, to remind the Apache Nation of his brave and daring mission.

He nudged her with his foot. She would awaken soon. He had cut off her air for only a short time—time enough to stuff her mouth so that she would make no sound. He bound her hands with a thong, then looped the strong string of rawhide about her neck so that he could lead her.

Johanna was now conscious. Her eyes flew open and she found herself staring into the pockmarked face of an Indian. Her head throbbed viciously and the hide that bound her wrists behind her back cut cruelly into her flesh. Her heart pounded with fear. The sound was so loud that she felt sure the Indian could hear it. He didn’t move and she wished fervently that she had not awakened. Why hadn’t he killed her? If he was going to, why not now, and get it over with?

Several minutes passed. A frog croaked. Leaves crackled as a breeze stirred through the trees. The Indian stood as still as a statue, waiting. Johanna shifted about. Her throat was dry and her mouth foul, tasting of the filthy cloth stuffed in it. She desperately needed to swallow but was afraid she would strangle on the wad of cloth. She closed her eyes, feigning unconsciousness, but the Indian kicked her in the side, seized her by the forearms, and hauled her to her feet. He picked up her shawl and tied it tightly around her, binding her arms to her sides. He jerked viciously on the thong looped around her neck. It bit into her throat, and she frantically fought to breathe. He wrapped the end of the leash about his hand, then knelt and carefully removed all trace of his having been there with Johanna. When satisfied that such signs were erased, he tugged on the leash and jerked his head, indicating that she was to follow.

Slowly at first, the Apache moved down the rocky bank, looking back often to see if they were leaving a trail. Johanna followed on shaky legs, keeping within the distance the leash allowed. She had no doubt that if she couldn’t keep up he would strangle her, leave her, and fade away into the distant mountains.

When they were some distance from the stream, the Indian increased his pace to a slow trot. Johanna staggered behind him, her lungs afire. She stood the pace as long as she could, then halted suddenly and let the leash jerk her to the ground. The Apache turned and kicked her in the side. Pain tore through her, and she felt herself sinking into darkness. When her vision cleared, she saw him standing over her with a knife in his hand. She closed her eyes in resignation as she felt the blade touch her cheek, then swiftly the gag was gone, and great gulps of air were coming in through her open mouth. The heaven of it! She breathed deeply, then looked up with pleading eyes. He placed the flat side of his knife over his mouth, indicating silence, then drew the sharp edge of the blade across her throat, plainly telling her what to expect if she made a sound. Johanna nodded and got to her feet, grateful that the foul rag was out of her mouth and she could breathe sufficiently to keep pace with the Indian.

Black Buffalo continued at a trot. They were in the foothills now. Grimly determined not to break stride, cry out, or fall, Johanna anesthetized herself with a rhythmic inner whisper of the name of the man whose arms would never hold her again, whose memory of her would not be with sweetness and love as Ben’s was of his Anna, but with bitterness and scorn. Burr . . . Burr . . . Burr.

In the cool of the evening, the emotional shock of the kidnapping wore off and Johanna appraised her situation. No one, she realized, would know that she was gone until she failed to appear at supper, and then they would think she had gone to visit Jacy. She had to believe that she would eventually be missed and someone would come looking for her. If not Burr, perhaps Luis, for Jacy’s sake, would search for her. She had to believe it.

Fatigue, physical and spiritual, struck when darkness fell. Each step was torture. Thirsty, hungry, and tired beyond her wildest nightmare, she doggedly held her pace. Her hair, pins long gone, streamed down her back and stuck to her sweat-covered face and neck.

Evening came quickly. In the semidarkness she stumbled often. She let herself imagine Burr’s face, but now, when she wanted to remember each and every detail, his image was hazy. Her eyes focused weakly on the back of the Indian and she trudged on. A night bird whistled shrilly, and she heard the swish of his wings as he left his perch. The wish to fly with him moved fleetingly across her mind.

When Black Buffalo stopped, Johanna’s mind and body were so numb that she didn’t register it and stumbled into him. He put his palm over her face and pushed hard. She tumbled over backward, falling against a tree trunk. Her head seemed to explode, and for a few moments she whirled in a black void. She lay exhausted against the mesquite trunk until her vision cleared. Her legs and ankles throbbed; her wrists were rubbed raw by the rawhide. Her stockings hung by threads to her garters, and she tried to cover her scratched and bitten legs by pulling them up and under the now ragged skirt of her dress.

They were not going to rest there; that faint hope vanished when the Indian jerked her to her feet and led her to a horse concealed amid the thick brush. He motioned for her to mount. She looked at him stupidly and then at the horse. There was no way she could get on the horse with her hands bound behind her back. She shook her head, holding out her bound wrists. He curled his lips scornfully and drew his knife. Johanna was sure he would kill her, but he sliced through the thong. Pain knifed through her shoulders as her arms fell to her sides. The Apache jerked on the leather looped around her neck, letting her know he could cut off her air if she caused him any trouble. He jumped on the horse, reached down, and hauled her up behind him. She emitted a quick shriek before she knew it was coming, then threw her arms around the oily, foul-smelling body to keep from tumbling off backward as the horse took off at a run.

Hours of riding, and pain that would have been insufferable had not nature provided her with that curious blanking of the mind that carries one through extreme suffering. Trees, sky, streams, huge boulders, the crackle of brush and leaves, cold night wind, the movement of the horse, the rocking motion—she was conscious of them all, but with the remoteness of an ill-remembered dream.

They rode on through the night. At first the pain had been excruciating, but now her legs were numb. Her head hung forward, lolling and jerking, but she had not the strength to straighten her neck. She had, hours ago, passed the desperate need to lie down. She would go on forever like this, there would be no end—

Johanna was not aware that the horse had stopped until the Indian slid to the ground and jerked on her arm. She fell in a heap at his feet and lay there. He grunted with disgust, moved the horse away, and tied it to a downed log. When he returned, he stood over her while she pushed herself up into a sitting position. Then he took a pouch that hung from his belt and with his eyes on her face lifted it and squirted water into his open mouth. Johanna’s tongue was swollen and her mouth felt as if it were stuffed with cotton. More than anything she wanted a drink of water, and he clearly wanted her to beg for it, but her pride would not allow it. She curled her lips scornfully and looked away. However, she was not so brave on the inside, and she silently murmured a prayer.

Oh, God, whoever and wherever you are, please help me! Don’t let me lose my mind and plead with this savage for a drink of water. Help me, God! If you must take my life, do it now while I have some dignity left.

She lay back, pride doing battle with thirst and her aching body. There would be no compassion and no water for her, she knew that now. Perhaps it was just as well: her ordeal would be over all the sooner.

With his wiry fingers the Indian rebound her wrists, checked the loop about her neck, and twisted the leash about his hand to shorten it. The rancid smell of the man sickened her. He settled himself with his back to a tree, but his eyes remained open and staring. Johanna struggled to sit erect, to keep her leaden eyelids from closing. Pain knifed through her back, hips, and legs. The insides of her thighs were raw and bleeding. Weariness crawled through her veins, and she was stricken with terror that he would kill her while she slept. If only she could stay awake. Perhaps if the Indian slept she’d have a chance. Minutes seemed hours. She imagined she could see his burning black eyes gleaming in the dark. Finally fatigue conquered her mind, her fear, and her body. She lay down in the grass and surrendered to sleep.

Johanna stirred in her slumber; sometimes she stayed half-awake for a few seconds, then dropped back into unconsciousness. Sometimes she stirred and imagined faces staring down at her. She saw Burr’s face close to hers, willing her to get up; the next instant his face was far away, his voice calling her name. A man with bright beady eyes and a face like a rat was trying to pull Jacy away from her. She screamed and the shadowy figure of Luis loomed against the sky and enfolded Jacy in his arms. She dreamed that her papa and her mama were walking around her, wondering why she was lying in the grass. She tried to get up off the ground, but she drifted back into darkness again.

She was in old Mack’s room. He had locked the door and his back was to it. He was young and quick and his face was evil. The look in his eyes told her plainly what was in his mind. She backed away; the room seemed enormous, and she kept backing away, farther and farther away. Still he continued to stalk her, never letting his eyes leave her face. His mouth moved, spouting silent obscenities. She had her back to the wall, and huge clawlike hands were reaching for her. She eluded them and ran down the hall of the stone house, trying to reach the door that seemed miles away. She heard Luis’s voice. Was he cursing old Mack? Killing old Mack?

There was a struggle beside her. She opened dazed eyes and saw the Indian grasp his chest, a look of startled anguish on his face. His eyes bulged and gurgling noises came from his throat. The thong about her neck was jerked cruelly; she fought for air, then blackness came rushing up to envelop her.

Someone was holding her tenderly and lovingly, cradling her against his chest. She wasn’t afraid. Her eyelids lifted, but she saw only darkness.
I’m still dreaming,
she thought tiredly. But, no, her hands were free. She tried to raise her arms, but they fell lifelessly to her sides. Her face was wet and her mouth was full of water, delicious water. It was running down her parched throat. She wasn’t dreaming, because she could taste the water and smelled a familiar tobacco smell. She heard a beloved voice crooning to her. Burr’s voice!

“Johanna! Johanna! Open your eyes. Oh, darlin’ girl, I thought you were dead!” His hoarsely murmured words were whispered against her face. The strength of the arms holding her reminded her of the fierce strength that was in him. Was that his heart thumping against her breast? He was kissing her hair, her lips, her face, and wiping the dirt from her eyes.

She pulled back to look at him, but her eyes were flooded and she couldn’t see.

“Don’t cry. You’re safe now. You’re safe with me and Luis.” His voice was strained, but soft and amazingly gentle.