The Pride of Hannah Wade (11 page)

“For how long?” Captain Cutter asked.

“For sure, they was all together at that afternoon stop. My guess is they dropped off one at a time, each pickin’ a place where they’d leave few tracks and peelin’ off from the rest. Them ‘paches are experts at scatterin’ and meltin’ into the desert.”

“Would you care to take a guess whether Mrs. Wade is in front of us—or somewhere behind us, Mr. Hill?” Taut muscles stood out along Stephen’s jaw.

“I can’t rightly say, Major. If they’re still lettin’ her ride that big blood bay, then she’s behind us.” He was careful not to commit himself. “Nah-tay says the hoof marks of that bay gelding are no longer in this trail of ponies.”

“If we backtracked along our route, Mr. Hill, what are the chances of finding where Mrs. Wade’s horse left the trail?” Stephen unrolled a map of the area with
quick twists of his wrists and spread it out for his officers to study.

“We’d find it. Nah-tay and his Apaches could track a fly across this desert, but it would take time,” the scruffy scout reminded him. “We’d have to fan out, cut for sign, keep crisscrossing back and forth till we found it. An’ for all we know, she might not even be ridin’ it.”

“I have considered that. Therefore, tomorrow morning, Cutter, I want you to take Lieutenant Sotsworth and half the troopers plus Nah-tay and four of his scouts and continue on the trail of these hostiles. lieutenant Bones, Hill, and the rest of the men and scouts will accompany me while we retrace our route.”

One-Eye Amos Hill sucked in his breath and let it out in a long sound. Stephen gave him a sharp-eyed glance. He didn’t ask for anyone’s approval of his decision, but if a man had a point to make, Stephen preferred that he speak it aloud to his face. It was much easier to deal with dissension that way.

“It ‘pears to me there’s two possible reasons why them ‘paches have been slippin’ off,” Amos ventured. “It could be that they’re through raidin’ and they’re headin’ back to their wickiups with the loot—splittin’ up to go their own ways, so to speak. Or—“ He paused deliberately. “Or they’re doin’ it ‘cause they know we want the woman back. Maybe they did this a-purpose, guessin’ that you’d separate your force into two groups. It could be they’re settin’ a trap for us and usin’ Miz Wade as bait.”

“It could be,” Stephen conceded, undeterred. “In which case, we shall see whether your Apache scouts are willing to kill their own kind.” His glance swung to Jake Cutter. “First call at 4:45
A.M
., gentlemen.”

After the dismissal, Wade strode away from his officers, tap-tap-tapping the rolled map along the gold stripe on his pantleg. One-Eye Amos turned his head
so his good eye could watch the major leave, then swung back to look at Cutter.

“I reckon he’d like it if those ‘paches turned on us. It’s a cold-blooded killin’ mood he’s in.” He made a grimace, his mouth nearly disappearing into his whiskers. “Can’t say as I’d feel any different if’n it was my woman them bastards molested.” A long sigh of regret came from him. “When you’re trackin’ Apaches, mistakes are costly. I just plain caught onto their trick too late.”

No reply was forthcoming, so he simply lifted his hand in an absent farewell and moved into the night. Cutter noticed that he headed over to join the scouts; he was more comfortable with the Indians than he was with his own kind.

Beside Cutter, Sotsworth inquired, “Coffee?” A tin mug of the black, vile brew was extended to him.

“Thanks.” The lieutenant was considerably steadier of hand as he passed Jake the mug than he had been earlier. Sotsworth felt he was doomed to oblivion as a junior officer in a black company—and usually tried to drink himself to that point whenever he could. The smell of whiskey drifting in the rising steam from Sotsworth’s coffee didn’t escape Cutter’s notice. He said nothing. If every soldier who drank on duty was thrown out of the army, only a scant handful would be left to fight the Indians.

“What do you think tomorrow will bring, Captain?” Sotsworth wondered aloud as he stared at the tall shape of Major Wade standing at the fire, one leg cocked, a restless brooding quality about him.

“The sun, Lieutenant,” Cutter replied dryly.

“Always ready with the clever answer,” Sotsworth remarked into his cup. “Clever and never revealing.” He lifted his head to gaze again in the direction of their commanding officer. “I, myself, await the morning and
the sun. Nights are lonely, I find. It must be particularly difficult for Major Wade this evening.”

“Yes, I expect it is.” His curtness was an attempt to end this personal speculation on a topic that was none of their business.

“Knowing your wife is out there, alone with the Apaches. The mind can be a cruel organ, Captain,” Sotsworth stated. “He must be visualizing all the things they might be doing to her—“

“That’s enough, Lieutenant.”

Untroubled by the censure in Cutter’s voice, the lieutenant took a long swig of his coffee and gazed into the night with an expression of melancholy. “All this darkness makes a man remember the dreams of his youth, those wonderful nights when there was still plenty of time . . . for everything.” A couple of horses began to scuffle along the picket line, disputing territory. “Will we see action tomorrow?” He rephrased the first question he’d put.

“We’ve been on campaigns many times without seeing a single Apache.” One of the most difficult aspects of fighting the Apache was finding him. A cavalry company raised a lot of dust, which made it easy to spot. Even now, the Apaches knew the soldiers were on their trail. Their location was already known, so there was no need for a dry camp.

“But when we did see them, Captain, we were usually under attack,” Sotsworth reminded him. “I don’t relish the idea.”

“If you’re lacking courage, maybe you’d better take another swig of that coffee.” The suggestion informed his lieutenant that Cutter knew what flavoring was in his brew.

A flush darkened Sotsworth’s face. “It isn’t that I fear the Apaches, Captain Cutter.” A deep, burning resentment flashed across his face as he looked toward
the shadowy troopers, dark shapes against an even darker night. “I can’t decide which would be worse— the ignominy of dying in the oblivion of this company or the humiliation of having my life saved by one of these coloreds.”

Cutter emptied out the dregs of his coffee, a deft flick of the wrist splatting it on the rough ground. “If I were you, I’d worry about the Apaches . . . and staying alive.”

A prodding foot started the shooting agonies all over again, Hannah groaned, slowly raising her heavy eyelids partway and letting the soft gray of dawn fill her vision until it was blocked by Lutero’s looming figure as he kicked her again. Her second groan was louder and she opened her eyes fully. Further movement was made almost impossible by the rawhide that stretched out her legs and bound her hands above her head. The Apache bent down to free her feet.

No blanket had protected her naked body from the chill of the desert night, and it had seeped into her bones. Tied as she was, Hannah hadn’t been able to curl into a ball to conserve her escaping body heat. The minute her feet were loose, she ignored the scream of her sore muscles and tried to bend her body together to find some vestige of warmth.

The sight of her own nudity was not a shock to her anymore; the excruciating experience of having her dignity stripped away was gone. Now she was revolted by the bloody water seeping from the broken blisters and the worst sores. Her body was a mass of scabs.

The rank odor of the Apache came to her as he crouched at her head to loosen the rawhide strip tied to the base of the mesquite trunk. She shrank from him and from the memory of the violation she’d known by him. Some fierce burning inside—fear, hatred, pride,
or a mixture of all three—refused to let him see the primitive creature he’d reduced her to.

When he straightened, her wrists remained bound. As he walked away, Hannah realized that she was to stay tied. Dully she hunched over her drawn-up knees, shivering in the dry cold and aching endlessly. Her mouth was so dry there was no saliva in it. Just for a tiny moment she let herself wonder what was to become of her—whether she was to be killed when Lutero was tired of forcing himself on her or if he intended to keep her for his squaw.

Stephen was out there. She must remember that. She must remember that he was looking for her. Hope briefly lifted her flagging spirits.

A shadow fell across her as a shy sun peeped over a ridge and cast its new light on the Apache, throwing his dark outline onto Hannah. She looked up and saw him holding the water bag. This time she was wise and did not drink so much when it was offered to her. Even then it kept trying to come up, and she had to swallow at intervals to keep it down.

The bridled horses were all packed with his stolen goods when Lutero led them from the grassy area. He untied her hands, hoisted her onto the bay horse’s sweat-caked back, and tied the reins to the brushy tail of his horse. Hannah had not eaten since breakfast the previous morning. She didn’t know if Lutero had eaten anything, but he’d given her no food.

Walking, trotting, always moving, they went up canyons, across ridges, along rocky defiles, and through narrow gullies. To Hannah, it was endless motion, another ache, another hour in the merciless sun. Again it was near sundown when Lutero stopped to make camp for the night. Hannah collapsed onto the ground. He tied her hands to a tree, then staked the horses in a hollow depression close by. He looked at Hannah.
After a second’s hesitation, he took the water bag and slipped away into the brush, as soundlessly as a lizard.

Feverish and exhausted, she shut her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, mauve shadows cast an odd tint over everything—and Lutero hadn’t returned. The half-light was fading quickly, and she strained to listen for any sound that might signal his approach. The wild thought occurred to her that she’d been tied to this tree and left here to die. She started tugging and gnawing at the rawhide strip with her teeth.

A low voice cursing in Apache burst into her hearing. Hannah ceased her efforts and looked around just as he kicked her in the back, knocking the breath out of her. For a long while, she lay there struggling for air. Vaguely she was conscious of Lutero moving about and of a warm, unusual odor in the air. Finally, she pushed herself up into a sitting position, wary of him as he approached.

“Eyanh.
Eat.” He held something out to her, but in the dark she couldn’t see what it was.

“What is it?” she asked, then remembered to use Spanish. His answer was a word she didn’t understand. The thought of any food turned her stomach, but she knew she had to eat if she wanted to regain her strength. She held out her bound hands and something warm and wet slid into them. Its softly firm texture and slick feel made her uneasy as she brought the roundish object to her mouth.

The smell of blood hit her, and Hannah nearly gagged at the discovery that it was raw. She started to shove it away, but Lutero stopped her, roughly forcing her hands, with their object, back to her mouth.

“Eat,” he ordered again in Spanish.

He pushed it between her teeth, making her tear a chunk from it. Hannah knew at once that this thing wasn’t meat, but some part of the viscera. Lutero held
her mouth closed and tipped her chin high until she had to swallow. The instant he released her, Hannah vomited. Lutero shoved the regurgitated chunk, down her throat again and Hannah threw it back up. The process continued until she kept it down; then he made her eat the rest.

T
HE STEEP-WALLED SIDES OF THE ARROYO PROVIDED A
respite from the hot, stinging wind, laden with the gritty dust it churned up and blew across the barren and broken land, Hannah, sagged on the-horse, relieved to be sheltered from the whip of the wind lashing her sore and festering skin.

Her fingers were twisted into the horse’s dingy white mane, her wrists still tied. Her head drooped forward, bobbing from side to side in rhythm with the walking horse, matching the swing of its spotted face. She rode Lutero’s spotted pony. The bay had quit on her about midmorning, stumbling to its knees and collapsing. Nothing in its soft, grain-fed life had conditioned the once-flashy bay gelding for this ordeal.

But Lutero had pulled Hannah clear of the fallen horse, then mounted it and forced it onto its feet. He rode the sweat and dirt-caked horse now, always pushing it farther than it believed it could go. Hannah
understood that feeling. Many times over the last three days she had reached the limits of her endurance and gone beyond them. It would be so easy to fall off the horse and simply die—and it was so much harder to stay on. The rare times she was capable of stringing thoughts together, Hannah wondered at all she had endured. Last night, he’d come to her again while the nauseating taste of that raw animal organ and her own vomit were fresh in her mouth. She had been as powerless as the first time. Not satisfied, Lutero had assaulted her twice more, but Hannah had retreated into that corner of her mind that disassociated Itself from her body.

A rock defile marked the beginning of the arroyo, which was narrow and strewn with boulders. Ahead of Hannah, the bay horse stumbled over the rough ground and the heavy hand on its reins jerked on the bit, keeping the staggering gelding on its feet. If there was a single thought that kept Hannah going, beyond the sheer will to survive, it was the certainty that there must be an end to all this. It couldn’t last forever.