Reckless Heart (22 page)

When I wasn’t arguing with Colonel Crawford or visiting Shadow, I was with Joshua, begging him to please, please think of a way to save Shadow from hanging. The date of his execution was only two days away, and I was half out of my mind with worry. Already, the gallows had been built and a hangman selected.

“Can’t you think of some way to help Shadow?” I begged. “Please, Joshua, I’d be ever so grateful.”

An odd look passed over Joshua’s face as he said, “As a matter of fact, I have thought of a way that might work, but it depends entirely on you.”

“On me? Oh, Josh, I’ll do anything to save him. Anything!”

“Will you, Hannah?” Josh asked, and his eyes sparkled with an intense blue fire.

“Anything,” I repeated firmly. “Just name it.”

“I want you to marry me,” came his unexpected reply. “Tonight.”

“Marry you?” I exclaimed. “How will that help Shadow?”

“Once we’re married, I’ll arrange for him to escape.”

“But that’s blackmail!” I exclaimed, stunned that he would even suggest such a thing.

“Perhaps. But you said you’d do anything to save him. Here’s your chance to prove it.”

“How do I know you’ll really set him free?”

“You’ve got my word on it. Once we’re married, I’ll see him safely out of the fort.”

“And I suppose a dozen soldiers will be waiting outside, ready to cut him down.”

Josh laughed softly as he took my hands in his. “Hannah, trust me. I’ll see he gets safely out of the fort and into the woods. No gunshots, no soldiers waiting to ambush him.”

“How?” I asked, wanting desperately to believe him. “How will you do it?”

Joshua shrugged. “It shouldn’t be too difficult. There are a couple of men in my company I can trust. I’ll see to it they’re on guard duty tomorrow night—a lock accidentally left open, a horse waiting outside the back gate. All you have to do is marry me tonight, and the redskin goes free.”

“I don’t suppose you’d let me go with him?”

“Not a chance. We do things my way, or he hangs day after tomorrow at dawn.”

Shadow would be lost to me either way, I thought ruefully, but if I agreed to marry Josh, at least he would be alive and free.

“All right, Josh. I’ll marry you. But only after Shadow is safely out of the fort.”

“I’ve waited for you this long,” Joshua said cheerfully. “I guess I can wait one more day.” He threw me a crooked grin. “You know, I never stopped thinking about you. I’ve met a lot of beautiful women since I left Bear Valley, but none of them ever meant a thing to me. Only you.”

“I don’t know what to say,” I stammered. “I’m flattered.”

“You said you’d be my wife, and that’s enough.” Joshua’s hand was on the door knob when he said, “Just one more thing. When you see him tomorrow, I want you to tell him you’re marrying me because you love me. You’re not to mention our agreement in any way. Is that clear?”

Puzzled, I said, “Yes, but why? What difference does it make?”

“Just this. If he finds out you’re marrying me to save his hide from the hangman, he’s liable to stick around trying to get you back. Probably get himself killed after all. But if he thinks you’re marrying me because you want to, he’ll likely head back for Montana where he belongs.”

Josh was right. Shadow would not try to get me back if he thought I was in love with Joshua. His pride would not let him interfere. No real warrior wasted his time with a woman who did not want him.

“You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?” I said bitterly.

“I try,” Joshua answered curtly, and left me alone with my dismal thoughts.

In the morning, I went to see Shadow for the last time. I longed to run to him, to throw my arms around him and pour out my love. But to do so would be like putting the noose around his neck myself, and that I could never do.

Instead I said bluntly, “I’ve decided to marry Joshua.”

“I know,” Shadow replied quietly.

“You know?” I said, frowning. “How could you?”

“Berdeen came to see me last night. He loves you, Hannah. You will be better off here, with him, than you ever were with me.”

“Yes, that’s true,” I agreed, almost choking on the words. “He can give me a home and security.”

Shadow’s eyes probed mine. “Do you love him?”

“Yes,” I lied. “I guess I always have.”

Shadow nodded, his face impassive. I knew I was hurting him, and I wanted to die. He had always been able to read my thoughts. Why couldn’t he read them now? Surely he knew I was lying, that I had never loved anyone else. Only him.

“I hope you will be happy in your new life,” Shadow said coldly, and turned away from me as two heavily armed troopers opened the cell door and motioned for me to step outside.

I stared at Shadow’s back, my heart breaking as I realized I would never see him again. He was lost to me forever now. Never again would I feel the strength of his arms around me, or know the joy of his touch, or hear his voice whisper my name.

I wanted to cry out that I loved him, that the only reason I was marrying Josh was to save him from the gallows, but I could not. Shadow’s life was dearer to me than my own, and I could not let him hang when I could prevent it.

I whispered, “Goodbye, Shadow,” and then one of the soldiers took me by the arm and led me away.

Chapter Seventeen

Restless as a caged tiger, Two Hawks Flying prowled the narrow confines of his prison, feeling as if he’d explode if he had to spend one more day locked up, feeling as if he’d go mad if he had to spend one more hour in the rank darkness. After a lifetime of living wild and free, the constant confinement, coupled with the unending darkness and the weight of chains, was almost more than he could bear. He had not been allowed to bathe, and he found his own smell almost as disgusting as the foul odor rising from the slop jar overflowing in the corner. His empty belly rumbled for food—real food, not the stale bread and tepid water he was served once a day.

Dark thoughts tumbled through the corridor of his mind as he paced the tiny cell. Anger and rage burned through him like slow poison as he pictured Hannah in another man’s arms. Not that he could fault her for marrying Berdeen. She should have married the arrogant paleface years ago and spared herself the miserable life he, Shadow, had given her. She had spent the better part of two years following him around the country, and what did she have to show for it? Nothing. Nothing but heartache and a dead child.

Grief welled in his breast as he thought of his son, a tiny corpse bundled into a dirty Army blanket and buried in a shallow grave on a lonely hillside.

Two years of fighting, and what had it accomplished? Perhaps nothing, he mused ruefully. And yet, had he known the ending from the start, he would have done it all again. He was part of the land, part of the sky and the rocks and the water. He could not have turned his back on all he loved and surrendered without a fight. Nor would he go peaceably to the gallows, or grovel before the hangman and beg for mercy. No, he would fight if given the chance. And if he did not take at least one white man with him, it would not be for lack of trying! And if there were no opportunity to resist, then he would go quietly, with dignity, and not like a dog with its tail between its legs.

Unbidden, the horse killer’s words came to mind. “Eyes bulgin’ and feet kickin’…that’s how you’ll go if I get to tie the knot!”

It was not a pretty picture.

Abruptly, he broke off his restless pacing and raised his arms in supplication.

“Hear me, Man Above,” he prayed in a loud voice. “Grant me the courage to meet death bravely, as a warrior should.”

He did not fear death itself, only the manner of his dying. The Cheyenne believed that the soul left the body with the last breath. But when a man was hanged, his soul was forever trapped in the body by the rope.

He scowled into the darkness. A warrior should die in battle with his weapons in his hand and a war cry in his lips. But hanging! It was a bad way to die, with hands bound and a rope around your neck. But even hanging would be better than spending another day in this awful place, and suddenly restless, he began to pace back and forth. Back and forth. Hour after hour. The heavy leg irons chafed his ankles, their infernal clanking wore on his nerves. But still he paced, choking back the urge to scream, to hurl himself against the door and beg for his freedom, to call the guard and ask if he could see Hannah one last time. But pride—the fierce, arrogant pride that burned in the blood of every true warrior—stilled his tongue, and a great loneliness settled over him as he realized he would never see Hannah again.

Murmuring her name, he stretched out on the ground, clutching the ragged blanket they had so recently shared.

He was lying thus when the door swung open and a whey-faced trooper handed him a tin plate piled high with roast beef and potatoes. And a water glass filled with whiskey.

“Enjoy,” the bluecoat muttered sardonically, and slammed the heavy iron door.

“The condemned man ate a hearty meal,” Two Hawks Flying murmured, then quickly wolfed down the first real food he’d been given in nearly three weeks.

The whiskey was like liquid flame as it burned a fiery path to his belly. Much better than the cheap trade whiskey he was accustomed to, he wished for another glass. Glass, hell, he’d like the whole damn bottle!

A sudden weariness enveloped him as the last drops of amber liquid trickled down his throat, clouding his vision and stealing the strength from his limbs. The glass fell from a hand gone numb, and he pitched headlong into nothingness…

He awoke, shivering. There was a sour taste in his mouth and a steady pounding, like two buffalo bulls colliding, inside his skull. Uncomprehending, he stared at the stars splashed across the sky for some time before he realized he was no longer locked in his cell, but outside in a wooded meadow.

It was when he tried to rise that he discovered, with some surprise, that he was spread-eagled between four stout wooden stakes, naked as the day he’d been born. Like an animal caught in the jaws of a trap, he struggled against the ropes that held him. But the ropes held fast, and his thrashing about only elicited pain from a new source as the ropes cut into his wrists.

Muffled footsteps sounded behind him. Seconds later two figures bundled in heavy coats materialized out of the darkness, and Two Hawks Flying grimaced as he recognized Hopkins, the horse killer, and the trooper known as Shorty.

“Looks like he finally came out of it,” Hopkins drawled. “I was beginning to think you’d cashed him in.”

“Naw, I didn’t give him enough to kill him. Now he’s awake, get on with it and let’s go. This wind’s colder than a whore’s heart.”

“Go on back if you want. I won’t be long.”

“I’ll wait.”

“Suit yourself,” Hopkins muttered, and hunkered down on his heels alongside the prisoner. “Just thought I’d let you know what’s goin’ on, case you’re wonderin’,” he drawled. “Ya see, it’s like this. The lieutenant, he promised Miz Hannah he’d help you escape. But then he got to thinkin’ you might not high-tail it outta the territory like you should. He figured you might just take it into your head to stick around and try to get your woman back. So, he told me and Shorty to dust you off. We was gonna shoot ya, but the lieutenant promised Miz Hannah you wouldn’t get hung, nor shot neither, so…” Hopkins shrugged elaborately. “Me and Shorty decided to carve you up a little and let the cold and the critters finish you off.” Hopkins’ face split in a malicious grin, much like that of a lobo wolf about to bring down a buffalo calf as he added, “Personally, I’d as soon be shot, but a promise is a promise.”

Chuckling, the horse killer drew a long bladed knife from the sheath of his belt. His eyes were as cold and flat as the weapon in his hand as he rubbed his nose, permanently misshapen since Two Hawks Flying had broken it.

“Time to get down to business,” Hopkins murmured ominously, and smashed his left fist into the prisoner’s face, bloodying his nose and mouth.

“Get on with it,” Shorty whined. “I got a bottle stashed in my bunk, and I could use a couple snorts to ease the chill in my bones.”

Grinning his shit-eating grin, Hopkins raised his knife. Two Hawks Flying tensed from head to heel as fear’s clammy hand took hold on his insides, but his face remained smooth and impassive as Hopkins made the first cut. The blade was razor sharp, and tiny rivers of red appeared each time the corporal dragged the blade across the prisoner’s broad chest and muscular thighs. A dozen times the knife met flesh, cutting just deep enough to draw blood.

With a grunt of satisfaction, Hopkins rose to his feet and sheathed his knife. “That ought to do it,” he allowed. “Iffen the cold don’t get him, the blood scent will draw the wolves down on him like ducks on a June bug.”

“Yeah, he’s finished,” Shorty agreed, “so let’s make tracks back to the fort.”

Minutes later Two Hawks Flying was alone.

Shivering convulsively, body aching, wounds stinging from the cold wind, he stared into the darkness. The minutes crept by on broken feet. A pair of wolves howled in the distance, and he tried not to think of pink tongues dripping saliva and yellow teeth lending living flesh. A third lobo answered the call of the others—and then they were there, not three feet away, their hungry umber eyes glinting fiendishly in the frosty moonlight, their hot breath rank and tantalizingly warm on his naked flesh. Warily, they stepped closer, growling as the scent of fresh blood grew stronger, only to flee as the Cheyenne war cry split the wintry night.

Two Hawks Flying grinned wryly. What was the use in prolonging the inevitable? Why not let the wolves finish him off now? Why fight for one more hour, one more minute? The cold was painful, and his body was racked with violent tremors as it sought to warm itself. His face ached from Hopkins’ vicious blow, and there was a cut across his left thigh, deeper than the others, that throbbed with steady precision. He felt himself sinking into darkness; he fought against it, knowing if he slept now he would sleep forever. And he was not ready to die, not yet. Not until he had dipped his hands in Lieutenant Joshua Berdeen’s blood. Not until he’d seen Hannah one last time…

Sleep snared him in its net, and he dozed fitfully until a low-throated growl roused him. Startled, he loosed the tribal war-whoop again, though what emerged from his throat was not a bloodcurdling cry but a harsh, raspy wail. Still, it spooked the wolves, and they scuttled for cover.

Sluggishly, Two Hawks Flying moved his head from side to side. Unblinking yellow eyes stared back at him. They had not gone far this time. Next time they would not run. Summoning the last reserves of his strength, Two Hawks Flying raised his voice in prayer.

“Hear me, Man Above,” he called hoarsely. “Give me strength to survive this night.”

Again and again he whispered his plea, until his voice was gone and he only mouthed the words.

Stillness filled the night. Then a rush of mighty wings filled the air as a dark shadow crossed the moon and a pair of red-tailed hawks appeared out of the murky darkness.

Mighty wings outstretched, they floated lightly to the ground. Alighting on either side of the stricken warrior, they spread their wings over his body, warming him with their feathers and shielding him from the wind’s icy breath.

“Be strong,” the male admonished. “Be strong and you will yet conquer your enemies.”

“Be brave,” the female admonished. “Be brave and all you desire will yet be yours.”

All you desire… Whispering Hannah’s name, he slept.

He awoke to the sound of heavy wings beating the air. He opened his eyes to thank his special helpers, the hawks, and came face to face with an enormous black vulture. Wings extended, the ugly creature stared at him through unblinking black eyes, occasionally taking a clumsy hopping step toward him, its funereal clothed body awkward and ungainly on the ground. As it drew nearer, its hooked beak opened to tear at his bloodied face.

Frantically, Two Hawks Flying rolled his head from side to side, hoping to ward off the advancing bird, but to no avail. Like the shadow of death, the hulking creature loomed over him, poised to strike. The curved beak was darting forward when a gunshot flatted across the early morning stillness. The vulture toppled over backwards as if struck down by an invisible hand. Moments later two riders emerged from the trees.

They were white men. The one on the left was in his mid-thirties, with a handsome boyish face, blue eyes as cold and clear as a mountain stream, a fine straight nose, and hair the color of new wheat.

The second man was older—perhaps forty, perhaps fifty—it was hard to tell. He had thinning brown hair, washed-out green eyes, and narrow sloping shoulders.

Both of the
wasicuns
smiled, as if they found it terribly amusing to come across a naked Indian spread-eagled in the middle of nowhere. The older man spoke first.

“Well, Clyde, what do you make of that?” he queried in a deep, resonant voice.

The man called Clyde shrugged. “Why, right off hand, Barney, I’d say he must have made an enemy of two somewhere along the line.”

“Yeah, and they caught up with him!” Barney chortled.

Clyde’s blue eyes glinted, and his mouth twisted into a mirthless grin. “Well, my ma always taught me that animals should be put out of their misery,” he remarked, raising his rifle to his shoulder, “and this here beat-up buck looks as miserable as any I’ve seen.”

“Hold on a minute,” Barney said. “Let’s see who he is and where he’s from. Might be he’s an Apache. Might be he could tell us where that there Apache gold mine is we heard tell of in Tucson.”

Clyde grunted and lowered his rifle. “You, Injun, you an Apache?”

Almost imperceptibly, Two Hawks Flying shook his head.

Clyde’s rifle thudded against his shoulder a second time. And again his companion stayed his hand.

“Don’t be so all fired hasty to kill him,” Barney admonished. To Shadow he said, “What’s your name, Injun? What tribe you from?”

With as much pride as he could muster, the prisoner rasped, “I am Two Hawks Flying of the Cheyenne.”

“Two Hawks Flying? There’s something familiar about that name,” the older man murmured thoughtfully, then slapped his thigh. “I’ve got it! Two Hawks Flying—one of the war chiefs at the Little Big Horn. The last fighting chief on the plains. Hot damn! Clyde, put that gun away. We’re going to be rich!”

Clyde Stewart frowned. “Rich?” he asked irritably. “What the hell are you talking about?”

A faraway look spread over Barney McCall’s weathered face. “I can see it now,” he purred in a silky tone. “You—all duded up in a fancy suit, billed as Clyde Stewart, Indian scout and plainsman, the man who captured Two Hawks Flying, the last fighting chief on the plains! Clyde, don’t you see? It’s a natural. If we take this redskin east, the dudes will come from miles around to get a look at him. Imagine, a live Indian! One of the chiefs responsible for Custer’s death. Why, those city slickers will pay a fortune to get a look at him.”