Delaney watched her moving about, at first stiffly, then more easily. She was as strong-willed and stubborn as a mule. When she returned to the camp, her arms loaded with small branches and twigs, he gave his full attention to making the coffee.
He laughed aloud suddenly, startling Chauncey, the horses, and the birds overhead. He realized he was trying to break her, for whatever reason. He laughed more deeply. If she broke, what would it prove?
“May I share your jest?”
“No,” he said. “Build the fire as I showed you. I’m going to pack up the horses.”
The coffee was black, bitter, and tasted better than any Chauncey had ever drunk. She gulped it down, burning her tongue. She sighed, shook out her tin cup, and rose.
“I’m ready,” she said.
He grunted, not looking up at her.
She studied his averted face a moment, smiling unwillingly at the growth of beard on his cheeks. His hair was tousled, his white shirt no longer clean. She thought he had never looked so handsome.
“I’m going to the creek to wash my face,” she said.
He nodded. “We’re leaving in five minutes.”
“Do you know, Del,” she said thoughtfully, her hands on her hips, “if you don’t make up your mind what you want, you will surely die of perversity.”
“Five minutes,” he repeated, for want of anything better to say. Damn her, but she was right, and he knew it.
Five minutes later, Chauncey eyed Dolores with misgiving. “Well, my dear,” she said as she stroked her mare’s silky nose, “there is no hope for it, is there? If you can keep going, so can I!”
The river wound away from them, snaking its way between narrow bluffs. Delany turned inland. The trees were so thick that the sun slashed through in narrow slivers of light. The silence would have been comforting had there been any conversation between them.
She wanted to ask him about the different kinds of trees she was seeing, but his face was closed. And the birds! So many of them, and she couldn’t identify a single one. She saw deer, rabbits, squirrels, even a fox. They seemed to regard her with some disdain. She was, she supposed, a trespasser in their kingdom.
The day dragged on. Chauncey could feel her muscles cramping and wished she could slip her blanket under her bottom. Tomorrow, she thought, no matter Delaney’s sarcastic, mocking comments, she would do it.
Delaney stopped in late afternoon, and Chauncey was momentarily surprised to see that there was another small creek near.
“You’ve come this way before, haven’t you?”
The sound of her own voice after so many hours of silence startled her.
“Yes,” he said.
He didn’t find fault with her fire and she didn’t eye with too much revulsion the plump wild partridge he’d shot. She was careful to turn the partridge continually on the spit, and the result was mouth-watering.
“Either this is the best food in the entire world or I’m starving,” she said.
“You’re desperate,” he said. After a moment he added, “I’ve always found that food cooked outdoors tastes better. Maybe it’s the clean air or the added taste from the open fire.”
“Goodness!” she exclaimed, eyeing him in astonishment. “So many words! And all spoken at one time!”
“You know, dear wife,” he said, “I find my natural good humor disappearing in your charming company. May I suggest that you try keeping your sharp tongue behind your teeth?”
“Death by perversity,” she muttered, and stalked away to lie on her bedroll.
Chauncey had fallen into a light sleep, having made peace with the hard ground, when she felt a hand clamped over her mouth. She jerked upright, struggling.
“Don’t make a sound,” Delaney whispered, tightening his hold on her. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”
She felt a cold lump of fear in her throat. Bears, she thought wildly. Weren’t there bears in forests? She pulled the blanket about her and stared toward the dark woods. Snakes? Could Delaney have heard a snake? Stop being a fool, she whispered behind her teeth. Snakes slither, they don’t walk and make noise.
She shot up at the sound of three rapid gunshots.
“Delaney!”
There was no answer, nothing! Only the deadening silence. Her derringer! She rushed forward on her hands and knees, grabbing for her valise. She threw her clothes about, and closed her fingers over the small pistol. A foot smashed down on her hand.
She screamed in pain and fright, and the derringer fell from her fingers. An arm closed over her throat and she was dragged back.
It was a man, and he smelled dreadful. She could hear his harsh breathing, hear him grunt in pain when her elbow lashed back into his stomach. He hissed something at her, but she couldn’t understand him. She was panting, struggling mindlessly. He jerked at her throat and she couldn’t breathe. Her screams became gurgles of sound, but she didn’t give up, even as her vision blurred. She kicked back, her boot connecting with the man’s shin.
He grunted in fury and jerked her about to face him. She saw him for only a moment before his fist smashed against her jaw. An Indian, she thought vaguely, and fell into darkness.
Her nose twitched. What was that awful smell? She moved restlessly, opened her eyes, and blinked. Her face was pressed against a man’s leg, and the filthy odor was from his buckskins. She tried to arch away from him, but a flash of pain went through her jaw, and she moaned softly.
She felt a hand press firmly against the small of her back, and her face fell again to his thigh. I’m going to vomit, she thought. She closed her eyes and swallowed.
The man was saying something to her. It was a string of low guttural sounds that had no meaning to her. She raised her chin, trying desperately to turn a bit so she could see him.
“Delaney,” she whispered, the sound of her own voice causing more waves of pain in her head. “My husband! Where is he?”
The man was talking again, turning slightly on his horse’s back, to speak to another man behind him.
Her nausea increased. She locked her teeth together. This is all a nightmare, she told herself over and over. This can’t be happening. It is a thing woven from rotten cloth. I am going to wake up now. Delaney will be here. He will be all right. Wake up, you fool! She did, with a vengeance. She reared up against the man’s hand, yelling a curse at the top of her lungs. For one instant she looked at him straight in the face.
Oh God! Even a nightmare couldn’t produce such a terrifying image. Matted black hair hung about his face. His eyes, flat black coals, were close-set, his nose nearly flat against his cheeks, and his lips were parted, showing wide-spaced yellowing teeth.
“No!” she shrieked, and scored her fingernails down his bare chest.
He struck her on the side of the head, and she slumped unconscious against his thigh.
“No, please . . . no! Make it stop. Please!”
Chauncey felt a cool wet cloth on her forehead. I am dead and in hell, she thought vaguely. I won’t open my eyes, not yet.
But she did. Kneeling above her was a young woman. Then her vision cleared and she stared at the woman silently. Her features were flat and heavy, just as the man’s had been, but her jet-black eyes held a measure of feeling, compassion perhaps. Her face was perfectly round, her thick black hair braided into two thick plaits that fell over her shoulders. She exuded the same noxious odor, and Chauncey’s stomach lurched.
“Where am I?” she whispered, swallowing convulsively.
“You be still, lady,” the woman said. “I take care of you.”
“My husband,” Chauncey said, her voice breaking. “Where is he?”
“Don’t know. Chatca no say,” the woman said, her voice as flat as her facial features.
“Who are you?”
“Father Nesbitt call me Cricket, after a famous white man. Father Nesbitt let me keep his house and teach me good English.”
A priest with a bizarre sense of humor.
“Father
Nesbitt dead because Chatca want me to go with him. You drink this, lady, make pain go away.”
Chauncey opened her mouth and tasted a thick vile liquid. She gagged and tried to spit it out, but Cricket held her head, forcing her to swallow.
“Chatca say you a demon.”
Chauncey fell back, her cheek touching a filthy matted fur. Some demon, she thought, hearing the admiration in the woman’s voice. Lying helplessly, unable to fight even another woman. Her mouth began to grow dry, and she stared up at Cricket. “Will I die? Did you poison me?”
“No, you sleep. When you wake up, you feel better. Chatca want you better.”
Chauncey slept dreamlessly. When she awoke, she was alone, and to her surprise, she did feel better. Her jaw still ached, but the ripping pain was only a dull throb in her temple. She pulled herself up on her elbows and looked about. She was lying on several filthy furs on a dirt floor. She was in a small lean-to of sorts, and it was dreadfully hot. The door wasn’t really a door, she saw, but rather a narrow opening covered with some kind of animal skin. There were several filthy blankets on the floor near her, some ancient tin plates stacked in one corner, and nothing else.
“Delaney,” she whispered. The enormity of her situation hit her hard, and she fell back, sobbing softly. He couldn’t be dead, he couldn’t! She heard again the three sharp gunshots. Had one of them robbed him of his life? She shook her head violently, as if her denial made it true and kept Delaney safe.
Get a hold on yourself!
She drew a deep breath. Indians. She wondered how many of them there were. Why had they taken her? What did this Chatca want with her? She remembered Delaney’s words that the Indians were a rather helpless lot. Well, Chatca didn’t act at all helpless! She felt a trickle of sweat curl down between her breasts. The cramped lean-to was like an oven. Slowly she pulled herself upright, then onto her knees. There was no surge of pain in her head. Gingerly she rubbed her fingers over her jaw. It was sore, but nothing she couldn’t bear.
Get up, Chauncey. You’ve got to see where you are and how many Indians are outside.
She placed her hands flat in front of her and eased herself upright.
“You better, lady. I tell you so.”
“Cricket,” Chauncey said, weaving dizzily where she stood.
“You hungry, I bet. I bring you food. You sit down, lady.”
“No, wait! I must know where I am! You’ve got to tell . . .”
But Cricket was gone. Chauncey walked slowly to the entrance and pulled back the animal skin. The sun was high in the sky. Oh God, she thought, how much time had passed since Chatca had taken her?
She forced herself to look about her. There were only three more crudely built lean-tos spaced in a small circle. In the middle of the circle was a good-size fire with a rusted iron pot hung from a hook. The odor of the food, whatever it was, made her stomach lurch. She saw Cricket emerge from the trees surrounding the camp and walk to the pot, slop some of the thick food into a wooden bowl, then straighten.
“Lady! You go inside! Chatca be angry if he find you outside.”
“Where is he? Where are the other . . . people?”
“Chatca’s brother, Ivan, in tent with his woman. He mean. You not let him see you.”
Ivan! Another bit of irony from a priest? Chauncey was on the point of slipping back into the lean-to when she saw another woman, this one older, fatter, and excessively ugly. Her single garment, which hung to her ankles, looked to be made of incredibly filthy leather. It was held together over her massive breasts by a leather thong threaded through holes. The woman saw Chauncey and let loose a high wailing stream of guttural noises interspersed with English curses.
Cricket turned on her and screamed back at the top of her lungs. Chauncey shrank back at the vicious hatred in the other woman’s eyes.
“Get inside, lady!” Cricket shouted over her shoulder, her eyes still on the other Indian woman.
Chauncey eased back into the lean-to and eased down on the furs, sitting cross-legged. A moment later, Cricket entered carrying a wooden bowl of food. She handed the bowl to Chauncey, then with all the aplomb in the world drew out a wicked-looking dagger and wiped it off. Chauncey stared at her, her mouth open.
“Tamba crazy jealous,” Cricket said matter-of-factly. “I cut her ugly face next time.”
“Crazy jealous about what?”
“Chatca take me and make me wife. Old Tamba want him, but he only pull up her skirt when I sick. Eat now, lady.”
Chauncey stared down into the bowl. It was a thick brown mixture with chunks of meat floating in it. I have to keep up my strength, she thought, and dipped her fingers into the liquid. To her surprise, the meat was excellent. She couldn’t identify the flavor, but it tasted gamy.
She ate in silence. Finally she set the bowl down and said to Cricket, “Why am I here? What is going to happen to me?”
Cricket shrugged. “Chatca make deal and now big fight. Chatca say you demon woman and he want you. He no want to kill you now.”
Kill me! No, it was worse than that—he wanted her! “Delaney,” she whispered, and dropped her face into her hands. If he was all right, would he even care enough to try to find her? I’m going crazy, she thought, choking down her tears.
“You not blubber,” Cricket said in a stern voice. “You no demon woman.”
“No, I’m not,” Chauncey said, forcing her eyes to the other woman’s face. “I’m afraid, Cricket, very afraid. I don’t belong here. You must help me. You lived with white people. You know their ways. You know I cannot remain here.”
“Father Nesbitt nice man,” Cricket said, then added dispassionately, “Even when he beat me with stick, he tell me it is to purify my spirit. Chatca kill him fast. He good man too. I no mind to share him.”
“Cricket, listen to me. I am married. I already have a man, a good man. Please, you must . . .”
She broke off suddenly, fear curdling in her stomach at the sight of Chatca standing in the narrow entrance. In the dim light of the previous night, he had looked like a fiend from a medieval book of Satan’s followers. In the daylight, he looked worse.
“Demon woman eat,” Cricket said, her voice all sweet and submissive deference.
Chatca’s black eyes never left Chauncey’s face. She stared back at him, willing some feeling, some human reaction in him. He wore only filthy buckskins and leather boots that came to his knees. His chest was bare, devoid of hair, and covered with a greasy substance that gave off a revolting odor. His hair was glistening with the grease and hung in sticky strings to his shoulders. A dirty band of leather held the hair back from his forehead. His face was hairless. Suddenly he was grinning widely at her, and she could imagine the stench from his yellowing teeth. She could not tell his age.
He turned his eyes to Cricket and said something sharp to her. Chauncey had thought Cricket had some spirit, particularly after seeing her confront the woman Tamba. But now her shoulders sagged and she bowed her head.
He is too strong for me, Chauncey thought, staring again at Chatca. He was not a large man, but his muscles were tight and sinewy, made more prominent by the shining grease covering them. He took a step toward her.
Chauncey jumped back and flung her hands out in front of her. Chatca growled something at Cricket.
“Lady,” Cricket said, “Chatca want you. He say he make you wife. He not kill you.”
“You’re his wife!”
“He take you and have three wives.”
Cricket frowned as she spoke. Not waiting for Chauncey’s response, she turned to Chatca and asked him what seemed to be a question. Chauncey blinked to see him raise his fist as he growled a long string of sounds at her.
“What is it, Cricket? What is the matter?”
Cricket turned angry eyes back to Chauncey. “Chatca want make you first wife. I tell him no.”
Chauncey closed her eyes for a brief instant. This was ridiculous, all of it! This simply couldn’t be happening! Dammit, she w
as an Englishwoman, a lady! Some lady! She opened her eyes and looked a moment at her dirty hands. Her skirt was torn and soiled.
“Cricket,” she said finally, “please tell Chatca that I am married. Tell him that he must return me to my husband, to civilization. I’m not an Indian. I don’t know your ways.”
Cricket appeared to ponder her words, then turned to Chatca. What followed was as close to a screaming match as Chauncey had ever witnessed. She cried out, rushing forward when Chatca cuffed Cricket and sent her sprawling to the ground.
“Stop it, you miserable bastard! You damned savage, don’t you dare hurt her!”
Chatca grinned. “Demon woman,” he said, the words low and pleased and guttural. But she understood, and backed away again. She looked frantically about for a weapon, anything, but there was nothing.
“No,” she shouted at him, backing away until she was pressed against the flimsy skin wall.
“Demon woman,” Chatca said again, and strode toward her.
25
Chauncey let out a scream of fear and rage. Chatca’s hands gripped her upper arms, pulling her toward him.
“You damned savage!” She brought her arm up and sent her fist as hard as she could into his jaw. “How does that feel, you miserable bastard?”
He was laughing. Laughing! She flung herself at him, raking her dirty fingernails into his neck and shoulders when he threw his head back out of her reach. Suddenly he jerked her tight against him, trapping her arms between them. He bent down and began to nuzzle her neck. The smell of him and his awful breath made her gag. She tried to kick him, jerking and twisting back to give herself leverage.
It was no use.
Her blouse was torn off and her skirt quickly followed. She was sobbing, screaming at him all the curse words she’d ever heard in her life. He took a step back, releasing her for a moment, a wide grin splitting his lips as he studied her.
Chauncey couldn’t move. She stood shaking and sobbing, dressed only in her disheveled dirty shift and her boots.