The Wildest Heart (22 page)

He shook his head infuriatingly, grinning meanly.

“You ain't got that right, lady boss. Todd Shannon hired me. An' I don't guess he'll fire me either, if he hears what I could tell him about the way you and that lawyer nephew of his been carryin' on.” His grin widened, showing tobacco-stained teeth. “But if you was to be as nice to me as you are to Mark, well, things might be different! I ain't a bad sort, once you get to know me. Always found it easy to be persuaded by a purty little gal.”

In some ways the situation I now found myself in was almost laughable. But I had begun to be frightened, although I would not show it. “If Todd Shannon ever finds out what you have been saying to me he'd kill you,” I said contemptuously. “You'd better start riding, Gil Pardee, and I'd ride fast, if I were you!”

His smile had been replaced by a tight-lipped leer.

“Think you're too good for me, huh? Mebbe you think I don't know enough to please a lady. But that little Flo gal didn't think so! Fact is, she was real happy at what I could give her. Came after me askin' for more. Now, what makes you think you'd be any different? You bin giving it to Mark so I guess you can spare some for me.”

His sudden, lightning-swift movement took me off guard. All the time he was talking, he'd been edging his horse closer to mine, and now he grabbed for the reins I held so tightly.

Dancer reared, almost unseating me. And I felt his leg brush mine. He had hold of the reins and was trying to control both Dancer and his own horse. I heard him cursing loudly.

And then I shot him. God knows how I contrived to pull the small gun from my pocket. I think I did it quite by instinct. He was so close, and I have always been a good shot. I hardly realized what I had done until I saw him start to fall, his mouth open, his eves staring wide with shock. There was blood all over his shirt. I had time to notice that before I let the gun drop, my hands full with trying to control my frightened horse.

I had killed a man. And I had never realized before how easy it was to kill. Mark said I was suffering from shock. He said that was why my body felt so rigid, my face and limbs so cold. And yet, shock or no, I had left Gil Pardee lying on his face in the dirt, with his blood slowly seeping out to form a puddle under him, and I had ridden on to find Mark.

“Does it make me a murderer? Should we send for the sheriff?”

In Todd's enormous study Mark forced me to drink brandy while he knelt by me, chafing my hands and saying soothing things that I scarcely heard. My voice sounded strangely cold in my own ears.

“I remember killing a charging wild buffalo once in India. I dropped onto one knee—there was scarcely time to take aim, you know. But my shot took him just where I had meant to, and dropped him only a few feet from me. My grandfather was very proud of me that day.”

“Rowena, you must stop thinking about it. You did what your instincts made you do. What you had to do. My God!” His fingers tightened convulsively over mine. “When I think of what might have happened! If you had not killed him, I think I would have. And of the other men here. You mustn't go on blaming yourself.”

“But I don't. And can't you see it, Mark? That is the worst part of all. I killed a man, and I feel nothing. Not even remorse. I think I hated him so much at that moment I wanted to kill him.”

The sheriff came and went, his face grim and serious. His attitude was the same as Mark's. I had been defending my honor, my virtue. I had merely saved someone else the trouble of killing the brute. No one reproached me for having been out riding by myself, in spite of all the warnings I had received. No one doubted my story.

I was perfectly calm, perfectly composed. Only Mark knew what the man had actually told me. He was worried about me.

“Pardee was a sick animal. After what he said about Flo… Rowena, you know Uncle Todd would never have believed him! Promise me you won't keep brooding about this.”

The brandy made me feel warm again and curiously light-headed, but I was still able to think clearly in spite of it.

“I think I must go away for a while. That invitation from Mrs. Poynter came at just the right time.”

“You mustn't run away! Rowena, no one blames you.”

“You mean they did not say so openly. But those other men—the Texans who were Pardee's friends. How do I know what they might not think?”

“You saw for yourself how angry they were! The man was a loner, they said. I don't think anyone liked him very well. He was a boaster.”

“He was a human being, and I killed him.”

“Rowena, don't!”

“I want to go away, Mark,” I said stubbornly. “I need to get away for a while. I shall write to Mrs. Poynter tomorrow.”

Nothing he could say was able to change my mind. Perhaps I was running away. Perhaps all I needed was a change. Too much had happened in too short a time, and a holiday would do me good.

A young soldier from nearby Fort Thorn brought me Mrs. Poynter's reply, and within a week I was ready to leave.

Mark went with me as far as Rincon, where I boarded the stage that would take me to Fort Selden, a little less than a day's ride away. We had a small escort of soldiers from Fort Thorn.

Our small escort of soldiers was in high spirits. Most of them were young, except for an older man wearing sergeant's chevrons. There were four other passengers. Two men; one of them a small rancher, a young army wife, going to join her husband, and another woman, a rather hard-looking female of indeterminate age, who kept to herself, her big, flower-decked hat shielding her face.

Mark leaned forward and kissed my cheek, his unusual demonstrativeness surprising me.

“Come back soon, Rowena. And take care of yourself.”

The driver cracked his whip meaningfully and spat a long stream of tobacco juice into the dust. A last-minute passenger, a short man with a round moon face, shouldered past Mark and climbed in, puffing noisily, slamming the door behind him. And then we were off.

I was fortunate enough to have a window seat, and I leaned forward, waving my gloved hand at Mark. The young woman seated next to me smiled shyly.

“It's hard to say good-byes, isn't it. Mama cried all night before I left, and I couldn't sleep a wink myself, although I'd been so looking forward to seeing Johnny again.”

“I'm not going to be away for long,” I said. “I'm only going for a visit.” I believed it then. How sure I was!

I had chosen to wear a discreet, dove-gray dress for traveling, its bustle not quite as pronounced as on some of my other, more fashionable gowns. Trimmed with blue, it had long, tightly fitted sleeves and a high neck, with tiny blue buttons down the front of the fitted basque.

I had coiled my dark hair at the back of my head, in the Spanish fashion, and the small, modish bonnet that matched my gown sat forward on my head, with wide blue ribbons down the back. I wore no jewelry except for tiny sapphire studs in my ears.

I saw the men eye me, and then turn their eyes away. I was Todd Shannon's woman and half owner of the huge SD ranch. I think everyone in the territory knew it by now. How many of them also knew that I had killed Gil Pardee?

The young woman next to me was friendly. The round-faced man fixed his eyes on the disinterested-looking woman with the large hat, who continued to stare steadily out of the window. The rancher, for the most part, stared down at his boots.

We were an ill-assorted collection of people, I suppose, but I had grown used to that, after all the traveling I had done already.

The young woman, who said her name was Emma Jensen, apologized for asking me so many questions. But once she learned that I had already visited Fort Selden before, she wanted to know as much as she could about it.

“Johnny warned me it wasn't goin' to be easy. I mean, the heat, and the Indians, an' being cooped up an' all. But I didn't care. Johnny and I hadn't been married long when he was transferred out here.” She blushed. “I guess I miss him something terrible!”

The rancher lit a cigar, after asking politely if any of the ladies would object. The round-faced man, fixing his small eyes on the tall woman at the opposite window, asked if she was going as far as El Paso.

“Goin' there myself. Have lots of friends there. You know Dan Sutherland? Owns the Matador Saloon.” I could not help admiring her self-possession. Taking her eyes from the scenery outside, she looked him over without seeming to, responding coldly that she didn't think so.

“I hardly think we'd have friends in common, mister. And I'm not making this trip to make new friends.”

He scowled, deflated. I think he would have said something else if he hadn't noticed the unfriendly looks that Emma Jensen and I directed at him.

We traveled on in silence, while the sun grew hotter as it rose higher in the sky. There was a shotgun guard beside the driver because we carried silver on the coach. I could hear the voices of the soldiers calling to each other occasionally. I had traveled this road before and as it had been the first time, everything seemed peaceful. We were following roughly the course of the Rio Grande, the river that seemed to cut New Mexico Territory in two sections. This was cattle country too, the same kind of scenery I had grown accustomed to in our valley. I looked forward to arriving at the fort, to changing my clothes. I remember feeling thankful that I had not worn corsets in this heat. Why did women force themselves to put up with such discomfort in this climate? Perhaps I was fortunate that I was slim enough so that my figure did not actually need the tight constriction of whalebone and stays.

I remember thinking all these things while the sun rose higher overhead and even the swaying, jouncing motion of the coach seemed conducive to drowsiness.

One moment I had begun to nod, trying to ignore the perspiration which had already begun to bead my forehead. The next minute there was a loud thud against the side of the coach, which began to sway even more violently.

Almost simultaneously we heard shots and the shouts of the soldiers.

“What the hell!” the middle-aged rancher leaned forward to look out of the window, and I heard him give a strange choking sound. His body seemed to be flung backward, and Emma Jensen screamed, her mouth open. An arrow protruded from his throat, his eyes stared, and he continued to make those horrible, strangling noises for a few seconds longer.

“Better get down on the floor!” the older woman said and, hardly thinking, I dragged Emma off the seat, to crouch down as best we could in the cramped space.

The round-faced man was muttering to himself in a loud, wailing voice. “'Paches! Oh my God, my God!”

“No use prayin'—why don't you get your gun out and start shootin'?”

It seemed as if the only calm and practical person in the coach was the woman who had been so silent.

Emma was still screaming; in fact I think she would have attempted to throw herself from the coach, which was now creaking and jouncing from side to side quite alarmingly, if I had let her. I tried to keep her still by throwing my body over hers, and now the other woman practically reached over and slapped the poor girl's face.

“Only way to stop hysterics, and it ain't going to help us any, her screamin' her head off.”

I felt dazed myself. Meeting her eyes, I saw her give a slight shake of her head.

“Feel how fast we're going? An' the sound of shots is droppin' back. Better brace yourself real good, because I think we ain't gonna make the next turn in the road.”

“Woman, you don't know what you're talkin' about!” the fat man panted, his eyes round with terror. “We're gettin' away from them!”

The dead man rolled off the seat onto him, spewing blood, and he screamed with fear.

“God!”

I think his voice was the last thing I remembered clearly for some time. One wheel must have hit a rock, or some other obstruction on the trail, for suddenly we were all bounced into the air, rolled helplessly against each other, and the next moment the coach tilted alarmingly. There was a tremendous crash, and I felt myself falling, rolling, screams echoing in my ears. The horses? Emma? Or had they been my own screams? I was never to know.

When had I closed my eyes? Why did my head ache so? Why hadn't the screaming stopped? When I opened my eyes to a steady, monotonous screaming, I looked into a brown, expressionless face with painted stripes of black and white across it. I thought I was having a nightmare, and that if I closed my eyes again everything would disappear.

Someone said something in a deep, guttural voice, and even though I could not understand what he said I knew it was a command. And then there was another voice—female, urgent.

“For God's sake, wake up! And try to pull yourself together, or they'll kill you!”

I opened my eyes again and looked into the small black eyes of the Apache. His hair was black and lank, hanging to his shoulders. He wore a red headband. I noticed all this without taking my eyes from his face.

He said something to me and made a jerking movement of his head. I realized, even in my present dazed state, that he was telling me to get up. How many bones had I broken? I knew that I had fallen and had rolled for a long distance after the door of the coach burst open.

But I was alive. Why didn't Emma stop screaming?

“Get up!” It was that other woman again. Why did she sound so angry?

I struggled to my feet somehow, feeling my hair slip heavily down over my shoulders. Oh, God—now they would scalp me. The Apache made a grunting sound and grabbed at my arm. Had they scalped Emma already? Was that why… and then, turning my head, I saw that it was not Emma who screamed in that terrible, animal fashion. Poor little Emma Jensen would never see her Johnny again. They had left her lying where she had been thrown, with a broken neck. But I would not—could not—believe what they had done to the men, two of whom were not yet dead.

I was thrown onto a horse, the Apache warrior who claimed me as his prize holding me with one arm around my waist. He had tied my wrists in front of me and I could smell the rank smell of his sweat and the oil he had used on his body.

My skirts were torn and bedraggled, I had lost my hat, and there were great splotches of blood all over me. Jewel was as badly off as I was, and she had a long scratch down the side of her face.

Shock has a dulling effect on the senses. I had learned that before. I did not move, I did not cry out, and perhaps it saved my life. It was a long time before I was able to
feel
sufficiently to care. For the moment, I found my numb mind trying to fasten itself on small things. The direction in which we were going, doubling back for part of the way over the trail we had traveled. The still, scattered bodies of the laughing young soldiers who had been so alive this morning, looking like ungainly, broken puppets in their blue uniforms.

The sun was unbearably hot, but we were moving towards the mountains whose shadows seemed to reach out menacingly toward us. Jewel was as stiff and silent as I was.

The ride became a nightmare in itself. The Apaches appeared to feel neither heat, nor weariness, hunger nor thirst. The horses became lathered, their breathing labored, and still they made no attempt to stop and rest them. Their faces were blank and ugly looking. They did not talk, and their silence was all the more unnerving.

I knew only that we were riding through what appeared to be a desert of desolation. Later I was to learn that this was the Jornado del Muerto: journey of death, literally translated from the Spanish. Had I known it at the time it would have made no difference to me. Perhaps death would have seemed preferable to thinking of what might happen to us when the Apaches finally halted for the night.

We had reached the forbidding-looking San Andres mountains when the first horse dropped in its tracks, its rider skillfully flinging himself from its back before the unfortunate animal fell. Our captors butchered the animal immediately; some of them stuffing hunks of raw meat into their mouths, chewing it, and then spitting it out.

From here on we were supposed to walk. Jewel and I were roped together and dragged over the rough, stony terrain, not daring to stop or to complain. “They'll kill either one who couldn't go on,” she warned me in a low voice, and their faces and attitude toward us led me to believe that they would indeed do so.

The surviving horses were also led, with the remains of the huge steaks the Indians had carved out of the dead animal wrapped in hide and draped across the light blankets which served as saddles.

I cannot remember how far we walked, or how often I stumbled; my captor turned around to scowl and mutter fiercely at me whenever this happened. My feet, in shoes hardly meant for walking, were blistered and swollen. Each step was agony, and still I knew that I had to go on. My lungs labored for breath, my hair hung in damp, straggly strands around my face. Nothing mattered except taking one more step forward, and then one more.

The trail we followed was tortuous and rocky, sometimes a deep cleft in the side of a mountain, and often a narrow indentation in a wild-looking, weirdly formed outcropping. There were times when we could not walk two abreast, and Jewel dropped behind me. I heard her breathing in great, heaving sobs.

We made camp for the night in a narrow, oddly shaped canyon with steep walls wider in the middle than at both ends. It was an easy place to defend, but who could possibly find us here? We had crossed a virtual desert, and these ancient volcanic mountains were composed mostly of rock and shale where the hoofs of the unshod ponies the Apaches rode would leave no tracks. No, both Jewel and I were lost, perhaps in more ways than one.

How could this have happened to me? How could I have been so unprepared for the violence that lurked beneath the surface of even the most beautiful morning?

Jewel and I had been made to understand, by gestures and guttural grunts, that we were to perform the duties of squaws. We were shown what kind of twigs to gather. When the small, smokeless fire was lit, we were given the horsemeat to cook. Jewel, half-crying, looked helpless. Thankfully I remembered how our cooks had prepared meals in India, when we had gone on tiger hunts. I had the strangest impression that my captor was rather proud of me when I showed Jewel how to sharpen a twig against a stone and skewer the meat on it.

The smell of cooking meat turned my stomach, and I had to bite down on my lip to keep from retching. It brought back the memory of the soldiers, skewered with arrows to hold them down, the terrible smell of burning human flesh. I knew that Jewel was thinking of the same thing, and we dared not look at each other.

The Indians ate, watching us covertly. I gathered that we would be allowed to eat what was left when they were through.

“We have to eat!” I whispered fiercely to Jewel. I was the stronger one now, I was younger, and she looked half-dead with exhaustion.