No Other Man (27 page)

The men looked at one another, then all four painted faces
stared back at her.

She walked up to the one closest to her on the right, a
fellow with one feather stuck into his head of waist-length ink-black hair. He,
too, lifted a knife to her threateningly. She struck out with her palm, hitting
his arm with such force that she sent his knife clattering down to the rocks.
"I said I've had enough of this! I've had this game played on me once
before. I'm not afraid, and I'm not doing it again! You should all be ashamed
of yourselves. Just what do you think you're doing?"

They had been quiet, almost uncannily so. Now the fellow
toward the center with the most feathers started laughing at the brave whose
knife she had knocked away. The other two joined in, coming behind him in a
taunting circle.

"Fellows," Skylar said. "This is enough. You
were great; you looked wonderful. But I've had it. Now..."

She broke off with a startled scream. The single- feathered
warrior she had struck was now coming toward her, plucking up his knife and
walking with menace. "You take it any farther and I'll press charges,
whether you're a friend of Hawk's or not!" she warned. "I won't be responsible
for what I do to you. You could wind up hurt yourself."

Her threats didn't seem to carry much weight. The warrior
kept coming toward her. "Stop it—I mean it, now!" An arm snaked out
for her, dark fingers encircling her wrist and wrenching her forward. She let
out a loud shriek, slamming her free fist against the brave's face while
kicking him in the shin. The others continued laughing as the brave wrenched
her forward, then dragged her back toward the center of their group.

"Let me go, I mean it!" she cried out.

Then she heard her name called. The sound of pounding hooves
against the earth.

Hawk, bareback on Tor, burst into the clearing. He cried out
words she didn't understand. He leaped down from Tor, pulling his own knife
from a sheath at his calf as he faced the party of four, speaking again in an
Indian language.

"I've told them to stop it," Skylar said.
"I've told them that enough is enough, that the joke isn't funny—"

"It isn't a joke," Hawk said.

"But they're your friends—"

"Not even my acquaintances."

"But—"

"They're not Sioux, Skylar. They're Crow!"

"Crow?" she repeated.

She was wrenched around then by the Indian with the knife.
Hawk came flying across the ground, tackling the Crow brave who held her. Freed
from his touch, Skylar instantly backed up against the rocks. There were four
Crow Indians. And Hawk. Where were Willow and Sloan?

The two men on the ground rolled furiously in the dirt. She
heard a thudding sound. Both men were dead still. Then the Crow, who had been
on top, slid into the dust, blood staining his bare chest. Hawk leaped to his
feet. Even as he did so, Skylar let out a warning shriek. Two of the remaining
braves rushed him then, their knives raised high, aiming to take his life.

She leaped to her own feet, searching the area frantically
for a weapon. She found a heavy rock and lifted it, then threw it hard at one
of the braves Hawk had pushed away from himself. She'd aimed for his head, but
the rock hit him in the shoulder. He let out a bellow of pain, then struggled
to his feet with fortitude, staring at her. He no longer seemed interested in
the fight between Hawk and the other Crow. He lunged toward her.

She turned to run but tripped over the body of the dead Crow
warrior. She landed next to him, staring into his open, glassy eyes. She
shrieked out again in terror, trying to rise to her feet. The brave behind her
caught her around her waist. She struggled wildly, kicking, flailing,
screaming.

Nevertheless, she was dragged away.

The fourth warrior had apparently gone for the Crow ponies.
Skylar suddenly found herself thrown atop one, with the Crow leaping up behind
her. While Hawk continued in hand-to-hand combat with the Crow on the ground,
the other two warriors began to ride, with her draped over one of their horses
and her roan being led along. They paused long enough to try to steal Tor as
well, but Tor would have none of it. He reared with such violence that the
Crows quickly abandoned their attempt to take him.

Skylar screamed again as loudly as she could manage. She'd
been so determined to put some distance between herself and the men! Now there
was no one to help her. Hawk would be murdered, and she would be ...

Crow.

She struggled to rise, but the Crow were excellent horsemen.
The pony she'd been tossed upon was moving at reckless speed in the twilight,
running ridiculously hard over land that was rocky, uneven, rising, falling.

Her head slapped against the horse's haunches. She tried to
brace herself. She could see the ground moving, dust flying up from it. If she
fell, she'd die.

What of Hawk? If he died, she realized, she'd be heartbroken.
How insane! This had been his fault. Her fault, too. She'd left the camp.
Because of the stupid mule incident. His fault. He taunted her constantly. His
fault.
Because she couldn't quite manage to tell him
the truth.
He'd never given her the benefit of the doubt. But he had
been ready in an instant to risk his own life for hers.

Tears suddenly flooded her eyes. Was he dead? He had to be,
or he'd be coming for her now. How did she know that he wasn't?

As they approached a high outcropping of rocks, the Indians
reined in their horses. She heard voices, a number of them, excited voices. She
was dragged down from the pony. There were more warriors here. She tried to
count them. The two who had taken her and five more men. They encircled her and
spun her around to face each of them. They were mocking her, tormenting her,
she thought.

Yet she wasn't as terrified as she should have been. She had
known this fear once before. And strangely enough, she was now more worried
about what might have happened to Hawk than about anything that could befall
her.

One brave thrust her toward another, and then another. She'd
had enough. The next time she landed in a pair of arms, she kicked the brave in
the shins with all her strength. He howled, raising a hand to strike her down.

It didn't fall.

A warrior whose face was painted black across the eyes suddenly
grasped her. She struggled as he pulled her arms behind her back, tying her
wrists securely. He issued a few harsh commands to the others, then dragged her
behind the outcropping of rocks before thrusting her down. Though she could see
a great deal around her, the rocks would conceal her from anyone coming from
the east. She stared up at him belligerently. He made a sitting motion with his
hands. She realized that she was to remain where she was. For the time being.

She leaned against the rock, closing her eyes.

How long did she have?

She opened her eyes. The last of the daylight had gone. Night
had come. A full moon was rising, casting its glow over the beauty of the
landscape.

She looked around her. The Crows were not far from her, on
the flat stretch of plain on the westward side of the rock and cliff formation.
They sat around a small open fire upon which two spitted rabbits roasted.

One lone warrior stood closer to the rock, a rifle in his
hands. She strained to see what it was. It appeared to be a very old Enfield, a
weapon she knew well because it had been in heavy use during the Civil War. It
wasn't a repeater, but she had heard that soldiers good in the use of the
rifle had managed to get off several shots in a minute during the war. It wouldn't
compare with a six-shooter, she thought.

She wondered if he was waiting for his
friend to return— or if he was prepared for an attack.

She sighed, closing her eyes again. She couldn't just sit
there: she had to plan. Something. Anything. How could she plan? She was numb
with fear and pain and worry.

She had to plan. Things could become much worse. These
Indians might well decide to kill her. Torture her. Scalp her. At the very
least, she'd be scraping buffalo hides for the rest of her days for the men who
might very well have killed her husband.

Don't
think that way!
she warned herself.

She forced herself to watch the braves again. The two who had
abducted her, it seemed, were acting out what had happened. The Crow who seemed
to be the leader of their party asked questions. There seemed to be laughter,
then sorrow as well, and then amazement. The leader with the painted face
suddenly turned and stared at Skylar thoughtfully. He smiled in a way that
brought a new terror into her heart.

She had to escape. There was no reason she could not. She was
not tied to the rock; her wrists were merely tied together. If she could just
free them ...

Never. He had tied her with some kind of rawhide. It was very
tight, chafing. Perhaps if she worked the strip of leather against the rock . .
.

She did so. It was slow going, painfully tedious, but she
concentrated very hard on her work.

She realized suddenly that someone was near her. She went
dead still, slowly looking up.

He had come over by her, the one who seemed to be the leader
of the war party. He hunkered down in front of her, a piece of the rabbit in
his hand. He brought it near to her lips. Skylar stared at him and at the meat
and shook her head. She thought that he might insist on her eating, but he did
not. He smiled and shrugged, standing. He watched her curiously, then looked to
the others, shook his head, and started to laugh again. When he walked away,
she had the uneasy feeling that he would be back.

Hours crept by. The warriors continued to talk and laugh.

And wait.

Skylar kept working away at the rawhide bonds that held her.

She was very thirsty, but no one offered her water. Her
shoulders and arms cramped painfully. She glanced toward the warriors, who were
illuminated by the firelight, and saw that they all seemed very involved in
their conversation. She inched forward, getting into position, rising on her
bare feet. The earth was studded with pebbles, gravel, and stone. She wished
she'd never shed her shoes to go after the stupid mule. Then she felt hysterical
laughter bubbling inside her once again. She wished Hawk had never seen fit to
leave her with the damned mule. She wished she'd never been so determined to be
away from him. She wished that he was alive. Oh, God, she wished so badly that
he was alive.

She wished that she would live as well...

The Crows still talked, bragging, she thought, of their own
exploits, laughing at the expense of the man she had struck, then mourning his
loss as well.

She started to tiptoe away, heading for another rise of rocks
back toward an easterly trail, praying that there might be somewhere in the
formation of the rock and hill where she could hide. She had barely gone five
feet when she became aware of movement.

The Crows.

The man with the black-painted face leaped before her,
laughing still. He didn't seem to want to hurt her, though. He seemed far too
amused by her.

When she looked over her shoulder, she could make out two of
the other braves behind her.

She didn't want them to touch her.

She turned around and went back to the rock. One of the
braves stopped on his way back to the fire, crouching over her, touching her
cheek. The man with the black-painted face spoke to him. He shook his head in
disgust but left Skylar alone.

She leaned back against the rock in misery.
The warrior with the black-painted face stood before her, holding what looked
like a drinking gourd. Keeping her eyes on his, she accepted the water. So far,
they had not harmed her. Hawk had not come riding over hill and plain to save
her, but neither had the man he fought reappeared to join his war party. She
couldn't fall prey to despair; she had to have hope. She had to live and escape
these warriors. She needed water to live, and that was that.

The brave pulled the water gourd from her lips, tossing it
aside. For another few minutes, he studied her. Then, to her horror and
amazement, he suddenly grabbed her bare ankles, jerking her so that she was
drawn down to lie flat on her back in the dirt.

She started to shriek; he clamped a suffocating hand hard
over her mouth. With her hands still caught in the rawhide bands behind her
back, she was almost powerless to struggle. His weight and form were between
her legs, his hands were upon her, ripping her pantalettes. She tried
desperately to twist and squirm, since there was no denying the man's
intentions at this point. She could barely breathe; the pressure he put
against her mouth was great. When she tried to rise, his weight merely pushed
her back down. She could barely even kick or thrash, he had pushed her thighs
so far apart.

His hand slipped. She bit into his fingers with a fury that
drew blood and a curse. She saw his face lowering furiously before hers. He
raged at her in his own tongue, still keeping his voice low. She inhaled to
scream again, hoping that she might create trouble among the men, cause them to
fight each other and forget her. She never managed to scream. The side of his
hand clouted her head. She fell back, dazed, only very dimly aware that she was
nearly stripped of her pantalettes.

Then quite suddenly, she saw a flash of silver. She stared at
a knife. And that knife was set at the throat of the Crow on top of her. She
looked up at a hard, bronzed, merciless face.

"Hawk ..." She could barely form his name. No
matter. Something inside of her gave rise to a staggering happiness; he lived.

And even as the simple joy of that thought filled her, her
attacker was wrenched from atop her. The Crow faced Hawk, whipping out a knife
of his own from a sheath at his hip. For a moment the knives glittered in the
glow of the moonlight. Then there was no contest. Hawk moved like lightning.
Again, his knife flashed. The Crow still held his high. The knife remained high
in the air. The Crow fell forward, onto Hawk.