The Angel and the Outlaw (6 page)

Maybe he wasn’t going to die, he thought. After all, if they were going to kill him, why bother to patch him up? He felt calloused hands exploring his side. He heard a voice, low and gruff, speaking a harsh, guttural tongue. Waves of agony washed over him and through him as someone probed the wound, digging for the slug lodged low in his left side.

Nausea roiled in his stomach, and then merciful darkness closed in all around him, dragging him down, down, into oblivion.

* * * * *

Brandy stared at the two women hovering over her, then lifted a hand to her head. There was a large lump on her left temple. She felt slightly sick to her stomach.

“Sister,” said one of the women. “You have returned from the land of shadows.”

The land of shadows. Brandy frowned. Had she been unconscious? She tried to remember what had happened after the horse went down, but her mind was blank. And yet she had a faint recollection of someone speaking to her in Crow. And she had answered, speaking her mother’s language as if it was her native tongue.

“Here,” said the other, handing Brandy a cup made of horn. “Drink this.”

Brandy smiled tentatively as she lifted the cup to her lips and took a swallow. The broth was thin and warm and tasted wonderful. She realized suddenly that she was famished.

“Slowly,” admonished the taller of the two women with a smile.

“Thank you,” Brandy said when she had drained the cup.

“Would you like some more?”

“Yes, please.”

When she’d finished the second bowl, the two women bathed her, then offered her an ankle-length tunic made from the hide of a mountain sheep.

While she dressed, Brandy surreptitiously studied the two women. They looked to be in their late thirties. Both had long black hair that was parted in the middle. The part had been dyed red. Both wore tunics similar to the one they had given her, although the dresses of the other women were both richly decorated with elk’s teeth and trimmed with ermine. Both wore soft-soled moccasins and leggings similar to those she had once seen in a museum.

“I am Apite,” said the taller of the two. “And this is my sister, Dakaake.”

Brandy smiled at the two women, then introduced herself.

“This will be your lodge,” Apite said.

“Thank you,” Brandy murmured.

“Can we get you anything else?” Dakaake asked.

“Do you know where they’ve taken the man who was with me? Is he all right?”

“He is well, for now,” Apite replied.

Brandy stared at the woman, worried by the ominous note in her voice. “Can I see him?”

The two Indian women exchanged glances.

“Why do you wish to see him?” asked Dakaake. “We know you were his prisoner.”

“How do you know that?” Brandy asked.

“Your spirit spoke while you were in the land of shadows.”

“What will happen to him?”

“It has not yet been decided. Some of the braves wish to test his courage.”

Brandy chewed on her lower lip.
Test his courage.
She didn’t like the sound of that.

“You still wish to see him?”

Brandy nodded. “Yes, please.”

Dakaake held the lodge flap for her, and Brandy stepped outside into the bright light of morning. The two women accompanied her across the village to a large tepee that stood apart from the others. Two warriors sat outside the lodge, their arms crossed over their chests.

One of the men stood up as the women approached. “What do you want?”

“She wishes to see the prisoner.”

The warrior considered it for a moment, then nodded.

“We will wait for you here,” Apite said.

Nodding that she understood, Brandy ducked into the lodge. The warrior followed her, stationing himself at the door.

It was cool and dim inside. J.T. was lying facedown on the ground, his arms and legs bound to stout wooden stakes driven deep into the hard earth, naked save for his trousers.

Kneeling beside him, Brandy placed her hand on his brow. It was warmer than it should have been, damp with perspiration.

She brushed the hair away from his face, her fingers trailing across his nape. At her touch, a hoarse cry rumbled in his throat and he began to writhe on the ground.

“No! Oh, God, no! Not again!”

Biting down on her lip, Brandy snatched her hand away.

Caught in the throes of a hideous nightmare, J.T. struggled against the ropes that bound him.

“J.T.?” Gently, she shook his shoulder. “J.T., wake up.”

“A year!” he gasped, his fingers clawing into the dirt. “Gideon, you promised me a year!”

“J.T., wake up!” She shook his shoulder again, harder this time.

“Brandy?” His eyelids fluttered open and he stared up at her. “Where are we? What the hell happened?”

“Don’t you remember?”

“No.”

“We’ve been captured by the Crow.”

He looked at her for a long moment, and then he nodded. He remembered now. Lifting his head, he glanced around the lodge, tugged against the ropes that bound him.

“Untie me.”

Brandy shook her head. “I can’t. There’s a warrior standing guard at the door.”

With a sigh, J.T. lowered his head to the ground. The hard-packed earth felt cool beneath his cheek. “Do they speak English?”

“I don’t know, but I speak Crow.”

“You do?”

Brandy nodded. “My mother is Crow. We lived on the reservation until I was ten, and then my mom got a job at a hospital in Butte, and we moved.”

J.T. grunted softly. He had guessed she had some Indian blood in her somewhere. He closed his eyes for a moment, a faint amusement bringing a wry grin to his lips. No wonder they were always at loggerheads, he mused. The Crow and the Lakota had been enemies for generations.

“J.T.?”

“Hmmm?”

“Are you all right?”

“Thirsty.”

She found a waterskin among the pots and pans. Lifting his head, she held the waterskin while he drank. It was awkward for him to drink, tied as he was, and a good deal of water spilled into the ground.

“I don’t suppose you know what they’re gonna do with me?”

“No. One of the women mentioned that the young men wanted to test your courage.”

“Is that why they’re taking such good care of me? So I’ll be in good shape when they get ready to cut me up?”

“I don’t know.”

“Sister? Are you ready?”

Brandy glanced over her shoulder to see Dakaake peering into the lodge. “Coming,” she replied.

She looked down at J.T.. She couldn’t let him die. For all she knew, he was the key to getting her back to her own time. Time…she frowned as she recalled something he’d said.

“Who’s Gideon? What did you mean when you said he had promised you a year?”

“I said that?”

Brandy nodded. “You were talking in your sleep.”

“I don’t know. It was just a dream.” Just a dream, he thought ruefully, and wished to hell that’s all it was.

“I’ve got to go.” Rising, she stared down at him for a second, wondering what he wasn’t telling her. “I’ll see you again tomorrow, if they’ll let me.”

“Yeah.”

J.T. closed his eyes after Brandy left the lodge. So, the braves wanted to test his courage. He shuddered convulsively as images of what that might entail rose up in his mind’s eye, and then he laughed softly, bitterly. Talk about being caught between a rock and a hard place, he mused. He’d been given a year to redeem himself. Now, he’d be lucky if he lived another couple of days.

His sins sat heavy on his conscience as he contemplated returning to the light and confessing that, in the short time since his reprieve, he’d kidnapped a woman, stolen a horse, and cheated a handful of cowboys out of a couple hundred dollars at poker.

J.T. drew in a deep sigh and let it out in a long, slow breath. Why fight it? Sooner or later, one way or another, he was bound for hell.

J.T. woke slowly, aware of the hard ground beneath him, of the dull throbbing ache in his left side, of a terrible thirst made worse by the fever that burned through him.

He stared, unseeing, at the lodgeskins, listening to the sound of drumming that came from outside. Voices carried on the wind, together with the sound of laughter and the tantalizing scent of roasting meat.

With a sigh, J.T. closed his eyes, wondering what the Indians were celebrating. A birth? A marriage? A battle victory?

Lying there, drifting in a haze, he listened to the sounds of the village. He had grown up on tales of the Lakota and their way of living. All his life, he had harbored a secret longing to spend a summer with the Sioux, to hunt the buffalo, to seek out his maternal grandparents, though he doubted if they were still alive.

Time and again he had begged his mother to take him to the land of her birth, but she had steadfastly refused, too ashamed of what she had become to go back home, too proud to admit she had made a mistake.

At his urging, she had taught him to speak Lakota. He’d had little opportunity to use it since her death, but he had never forgotten it. Occasionally, when his mother had been drunk and feeling blue, she had reminisced, telling him of her childhood, of the white man who had married her mother, of the love they had shared. Though Sisoka never mentioned her grandfather’s name, J.T. knew his mother had hoped to find that same kind of love with Frank Cutter.

His mother had told him tales of Coyote, of
Iktomi
, the spider, of
Ptesan-Wi
, the White Buffalo Woman, of
We-ota-wichasha
, the rabbit boy. She had entranced him with stores of
Wakinyan
, the sacred Thunderbird. She had warned him to behave else
Waziya
, the Old Man, or his wife,
Wakanaka
, the Witch, would get him.

But she had never taken him home, and he realized now that they had never had a home. They had lived over saloons and in rented rooms, but none of them had felt like home.

Lost in thought, J.T. was unaware of Brandy’s presence until she laid a hand on his arm.

“J.T.?”

Bleary-eyed, he turned his head to face her.

“You’re burning up!” Brandy exclaimed. Grabbing the waterskin, she held it to his lips. “Here, drink this.”

The water was cool, so cool, easing the dryness of his throat. He drank deeply, thinking nothing in all the world had ever tasted so good, or been so welcome.

Setting the waterskin aside, she peeled the dressing from his side, gasping when she saw the wound. Though she knew little about such things, it was obvious that the wound was festering.

Rising, she ran out of the lodge, returning moments later with a man J.T. recognized as the tribal shaman.

The next half-hour passed in a bright haze of pain. Brandy sat beside him, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder, while the medicine man lanced the wound, releasing a thin stream of yellow-green pus and blood so dark it was almost black.

And then his body went rigid and all thought fled his mind as someone laid the flat edge of a heated blade over the gaping wound. A hoarse cry of pain was ripped from his throat and then he was drowning in a thick red mist, a shifting, churning whirlpool that carried him down, down, toward a fathomless black pit.

With a low moan, he closed his eyes and let the pain sweep him into the darkness of oblivion…

Crackling flames. The feel of a cool cloth on his brow. Soft hands stroking his hair. A woman’s voice, urging him to drink.

He tried to open his eyes, but the lids felt heavy, weighted. Someone lifted his head, and he felt a cool trickle of water at his lips. Greedily, he opened his mouth, sucking in the cool liquid, certain there wasn’t enough water in all the world to ease the dryness in his throat.

His body was on fire and he threw off the blanket that covered him, only vaguely aware that his hands were no longer bound, that he was lying on his back.

A woman’s voice spoke to him out of the darkness, the words soft, soothing, meaningless.

With an effort, he opened his eyes. Brandy was sitting beside him, a bowl of broth cradled in her lap. The light from the fire danced in the inky blackness of her hair and painted her cheeks with crimson.

“Here,” she said, holding a spoon to his lips. “You need to eat something.”

“Water.” His lips formed the words, but only a dry rasp emerged from his throat.

“In a minute. Eat this first.”

He wanted to argue, but he was too weak. She placed a couple of blankets beneath his head, then held a wooden spoon to his lips.

He stared at her for a moment, his male vanity writhing in humiliation at the thought of having to be fed like a child. He wanted to insist that he could feed himself, but he lacked the energy to argue, the strength to lift his hand.

The broth was thin and almost tasteless and after three or four spoonfuls, he pushed it away, begging for a drink of water, but she refused, insisting he had to eat first.

Her seemingly callous indifference to his thirst made him angry, but he had no choice but to do what she said. Filled with resentment, he finished the broth. And then she offered him a cup of water, admonishing him to drink it slowly. The water was cool and sweet, better than the finest whiskey.

Exhausted, his thirst quenched, he closed his eyes, not caring if he lived or died.

He was better the next day, and still better the next. Brandy came morning and evening to feed him. The medicine man also came twice a day to check on his wounds and see to his more personal needs.

On the sixth day, when J.T. was beginning to think he might like to live, after all, two warriors entered the lodge. Wordlessly, they took hold of him. Ignoring his futile struggles, they bound his hands and feet to the stakes again, then left the lodge.

It was the most concrete evidence of all that he was, indeed, getting better.

With a sigh of resignation, he closed his eyes. Damn, what a mess.

He was hovering on the brink of sleep when he heard Brandy’s voice.

“J.T.?”

He lifted his head and glanced over his shoulder to see Brandy standing in the doorway.

When she saw that he was awake, she stepped into the lodge and let the door flap fall into place behind her. “How are you feeling?”

J.T. lowered his head to the ground again, cursing the ropes that bound him. It was humiliating, demoralizing, being bound hand and foot, powerless in the face of his enemies. It was a new experience for him, one he definitely didn’t like.

His hands clenched into tight fists when Brandy came to sit beside him. He hated the pitying look in her eyes, hated having her see him like this. His helplessness ate at his pride; the knowledge that she was free to come and go as she pleased filled him with resentment. The fact that she looked prettier every time he saw her filled him with confusion.

“Are you hungry?” Brandy asked.

He wanted to say no, to tell her to get the hell out of the lodge, out of his life. But he couldn’t ignore the fragrant aroma rising from the contents of the bowl in her hands, couldn’t deny the loud rumbling of his stomach, or the fact that, whether he wanted to admit it or not, he was glad for her company.

He glared up at her as she offered him a piece of venison. Feeling like a pet on a leash, he obediently opened his mouth. The meat, which had smelled so good only moments ago, tasted like ashes in his mouth.

“Why are you doing this?” he growled.

“Doing what?”

“Feeding me. Taking care of me.”

“That should be obvious. You’ve been sick. You’re weak…”

“I’m tied up like a damn dog!”

Brandy stifled a grin. “That’s another reason.”

“Are they making you look after me?”

“No. I volunteered.”

He looked skeptical. “Why?” He glanced at his bound wrists, remembering the times he had tied her hands, remembering how she had begged him not to. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“If you must know, I’m taking care of you because I’m afraid I won’t be able to get back to my own time without your help.”

“My help?” J.T. glanced pointedly at the ropes that bound him. “What the hell do you expect me to do?”

“I don’t know! All I know is that I touched you, and I ended up here. I can’t help but think that I’ll never get back home without you.”

J.T. nodded. It made as much sense as anything else.

“Are you hungry?” she asked again.

“Yeah.”

Placing the bowl on the ground, Brandy placed a robe under J.T.’s head, then offered him a spoonful of broth.

He stared at the spoon for a moment, then, feeling like a helpless infant, he opened his mouth and let her feed him.

Sensing his discomfort at being hand-fed, Brandy remained silent. When the bowl was empty, she took her leave, knowing, somehow, that he needed to be alone.

A short time later, three burly warriors enter the lodge. J.T. knew a quick sense of foreboding as the Indians converged on him, and then they were untying him, pulling him to his feet, dragging him outside.

Men, women, and children turned to stare as the warriors dragged him across the camp toward a tall wooden post set in the dirt.

Rough hands jerked his arms behind his back and looped a horse hair rope around his wrists. The loose end was secured to a notch near the top of the picket. With a nod of satisfaction, the warriors left him.

J.T. watched the Indians walk away, then he dropped down on the ground, his back resting against the rough wooden post. He had a terrible feeling that his courage was about to be tested in ways he couldn’t begin to imagine.

* * * * *

Brandy sat on a pile of furs outside her lodge, putting the finishing touches on a pair of moccasins as she absorbed the sights and sounds of the village. It still seemed unbelievable, totally impossible. And yet, unless she was having the longest, most vivid, most fantastic dream of her entire life, she was actually in a Crow village, observing a way of life that had been gone for over a hundred years.

Sitting outside the lodge next to her was an old man with long gray braids. A half-dozen children sat in a semicircle around him, their faces rapt, as he related the story of how the Crow came to be. It was a familiar tale, one her mother had told her long ago, and she listened, smiling.

“When all the world was young,” the old man was saying, “there was a great flood. All of Mother Earth was covered with water. Only one man was saved. He was wiser than all the others. He was called Old Man. Old Man made a new earth, and then he made a man and a woman. They were blind, this man and woman, but they had many children, who were also blind.

“One day, one of the men pulled one of his eyes open. He saw the earth and the mountains and the hills. He pulled his other eye open, and he saw the sky and the animals.

“He ran to his wife and pulled her eyes open. They told their children what they saw, and all their children opened their eyes…”

Only half listening now, Brandy watched a women instruct her two young daughters in the proper way to tan a hide, and how to fashion the finished leather into moccasins and tipi covers and clothing.

Since the Crow followed the maternal clan system, women were the central figures in family and clan relationships. All the children in the family took their mother’s clan name. With the Crow rule of descent, a child could belong to the father’s clan only if its mother married a man of her own clan, a practice which was customarily forbidden.

Women owned the lodge and its belongings, reared the children, and guarded their husbands’ shields.

Young boys were taught to track and hunt; at an early age they were encouraged to hunt birds and rabbits. Often, they brought the rabbit skins to the girls to tan. The boys played at war, learning stealth, patience, and endurance.

As in most societies, there were those who did not conform. There were women who rode with the warriors, and men who shunned war, electing to stay in camp with the women and perform household tasks.

There were a few men, called
bate
, who preferred to dress and live as women. They were revered by the Crow, who believed that the
bate
had a special tie to
Akbaatatdia
, the Creator.

Her ready acceptance by the Crow filled her with a warm sense of belonging. The women went out of their way to speak to her, the unmarried men treated her with respect.

With a sigh, she gazed into the distance, hoping someone was feeding her stock, wondering who was teaching her class. And yet, in spite of how much she wanted to go back home, she couldn’t deny a certain excitement at being where she was, at seeing, firsthand, the way her mother’s people had once lived. It was a chance of a lifetime, and she wanted to explore it all before she went back home… Ah, she thought, there’s the rub. What if she couldn’t go back?

She glanced up at the sun, judging the hour, anxious to see J.T. again, to make sure he was all right. She knew he hated being tied up, knew he was embarrassed to have her see him “tied up like a damn dog”, but she didn’t care.