Cheyenne Captive (3 page)

“Why would you run away?” He looked deep into her eyes.

“My father was angry with me. He was sending me to live with his uncle, the Reverend Harlow! I didn’t want to go.”

She was lying, of course, and he would not be taken in. He took her in his arms and she struggled only a little in her weariness, and he kissed her deeply again, exploring the warmth of her mouth. She could not be a virgin; she wore no
nihpihist,
the chastity belt of his people. But then, he remembered, white people did not use that thong tied around a woman’s waist, and going down between her thighs to protect their untouched women.

Perhaps she was chaste!
The thought excited him even more, and as he kissed her he realized that she knew nothing or little of kissing or being kissed. He had a lot to teach her.

Very gently now, he cradled her in his strong arms as she trembled, and he buried his face in the yellow hair. The feel of her soft body brought back memories of this morning when he had seen her for the very first time, lifted her lightly to his stallion. He had thought of nothing else but possessing her completely all those long miles back to camp. He had known then, as he cradled her against his big chest, that at last he had found his woman. The one who would be to him like his right hand, like his beating heart was to him. This woman would possess his soul as he possessed her body. And finally she would carry on his lineage, bear many fine sons for him.

“Please, don’t!” She twisted away from him, seemingly too weak to do much else.

The hunger in him was almost uncontrollable now. “Be still, woman,” he commanded. “I shall be your first man and your last. I shall be very gentle and patient as I teach you, and you will want me, and moan my name in the darkness.”

But she wept more loudly, and he pressed her face against his bare chest, trying to muffle her sobs. “Hush!” he whispered roughly. “The whole camp will hear you crying and think I love you badly or that I beat you!”

She stopped sobbing and looked up at him uncertainly. “Please don’t rape me!” she begged.

Iron Knife winced at the word. He had not heard that white man’s word since that whore accused him falsely. The trauma of the word’s memory caused his manhood to go soft and his passion to fade. He reached up to wipe away a tear that overflowed the big, blue eyes and muttered silent, Cheyenne curses at his white heritage that could be so moved by a woman’s tears. Regretfully, he pulled her buckskin dress back down over her thighs with hands that shook.

“I will not take you tonight,” he announced. “I will wait until your hunger is as strong as my own. But do not tell the others. They would laugh at my softness!”

Summer pulled back and looked at him a long moment. “Would you help me get back to my people?”

He pushed her away roughly, and stood up. “I did not say that! The Council will decide your fate. Why should I do as you ask?”

He took the big blade from his belt, turning it over and over in his hands, remembering past battles against the whites, his thirst for revenge. The knife he had fashioned himself from the broken tip of a Bluecoat’s saber after he had counted coup on the man ...

“My father would give you a lot of money to return me.” She stood up, too, caught his elbow. “I would be very grateful.”

He shrugged her hand away. “I have no need of money and you are not grateful in the way I would wish.” He nodded toward the bed, and angrily thrust the big blade back in his belt.

“You will not help me, then?” She sighed and sank slowly down on the buffalo robes.

“I did not say that, either!” He snapped, torn by his conflicting emotions.
I love you, Summer Sky,
he thought, gazing at her.
I have loved you since the first moment I saw you, and risked my life to save you. Now, you spurn. me, and I care too much to take you by force. Until you come to me ... until you come to me . . .

“Then you’re not going to rape me?” She sat on the rumpled bed and looked up at him with that direct gaze that was not seemly for a maiden.
She was headstrong,
he thought,
headstrong and untamed like a fine, wild filly that could be ruined by too rough handling. But, oh the passion she could arouse in a man, and all the fury of emotion that could be released if she could ever be tamed and mounted as she was born to be!

“Here, lie down!” he commanded gruffly, afraid she would guess that he was the one who was a prisoner. He had captured her body, but she held in thrall his tasoom, his soul. “Lie down!” he said again, “You are very tired and weak. In the morning, we will talk more of what will become of you.”

She lay down hesitantly, the unspoken question in her eyes.

“No, Summer Sky,” he answered softly, sitting cross-legged by the fire. “I will not take you by force. There is pride involved here and something else . . .”

His voice trailed off, and with sudden clarity the grizzled face of Jake Dallinger, the army scout, came to his mind. Jake Dallinger with his cruel whip. The white man’s word, “rape” had brought back out all the old, half-forgotten memories like Mihn, the Cheyenne legendary monster arising out of the dark river....

“Sleep now,” he whispered to her, “Sleep and I will protect you all through the night.” He patted his knife hilt. “No one will dare to touch the woman of Iron Knife.”

He could see that she did not trust him, for she lay down on the buffalo robe but did not close her eyes, watching him intently as he squatted by the fire. She was very weary and weak from her wound. He watched her long eyelashes flutter as she tried to stay awake, but gradually they closed and she slept.

Iron Knife saw her tremble in the chill
Tonishi
night, that which whites called September. He watched the firelight flicker on the golden hair that tumbled over her small shoulders. No woman had ever made his blood run so hot. His hard hands clenched as he gently spread a buffalo fur over her, imagining how it would be under the cover holding her warmth against him.

He thought how it would feel to run his hands down to the warm wetness of her very being and taste her full, perfect breasts as she arched against him. He held his breath, imagining the feel of pumping his manseed into the deepest depth of her, his hard hands cupping her small hips as she wrapped her long, slender legs about him and begged for more against his lips.

Cursing himself for a soft fool, he stirred the fire and sat cramped and cold on guard by her bed. Her beautiful face was at peace now, the light flickering on the soft mouth, the stubborn chin as she slept warm and safe by the fire. His gaze never left her face, his eyes unable to drink in enough of her. But finally, toward morning, he, too, dropped off into a troubled sleep.

They were both awakened at dawn by the stirring of the camp outside. Iron Knife stood and stretched, his muscles cramped and sore from his all-night vigil.

The blond girl looked up at him, puzzled, as if she did not know where she was. Then apprehension came into her eyes as she seemed to remember. “What will happen now?”

“I do not know,” he answered truthfully, glad to see a hint of the old fire and spirit he remembered from yesterday morning. “The old chiefs will decide tonight. Are you hungry?”

She nodded imperially. “My father will see that you are rewarded for taking good care of me.”

“You still do not seem to understand!” he snapped. “Your father’s money, if indeed he has any, is worth less than nothing here. You are totally dependent on me. I can feed you, or let you starve, even beat you to death, and no one in this camp will protest or try to stop me.”

She shrugged haughtily, and he thought it would be very hard for a man to break her spirit, and then wondered silently if he would desire her so much were she docile.

“Here. Let me see your wound.”

She held out her arm and he gently unwrapped and inspected it.
It looked bad,
he thought.
There were now red, angry places spreading around the wound. He would get the medicine man to say special prayers and sing songs for her well-being. . . .

He rewrapped the arm and said, “I will send Pony Woman to see after your needs.” And with that he went outside.

Nonuno,
the rainbow, hung in the clearing sky. The camp teemed with life: horses neighing, dogs barking, children running about between the tepees. He asked Pony Woman to look in on the captive, went by the medicine man’s tepee and promised him a fine pony if he would do ceremonies later to help Summer. Then he walked down to the river the whites called the Arkansas and the Indians called the Arrow Point.

The Cheyenne were a clean people and there were many of them in the shallows, splashing. He wanted solitude, time to sort out his thoughts. So he chose a deep, clear pool around the bend, out of sight of the others. Under towering pines, he stripped the breechcloth from his hard body and dived in, relishing the chill of the early morning. For a few minutes, he gave himself over to the enjoyment of the water and then turned toward shore at a sound of footsteps.

Gray Dove, the beautiful Arapaho girl who had caused him so much trouble in the past, posed on a big boulder at the water’s edge. Her ripe, brown body gleamed naked in the early morning light. She stood there turning about, displaying herself like a wanton.

He hissed in clipped Cheyenne. “Have you been eating the plant the whites call
loco weed?’ Someone will see you displaying yourself like a common whore!”

She laughed easily and dived into the water, surfacing near him.

“I wanted you to see again what it is that I have to offer.” She tread water and looked up into his face. “I hunger for you, Iron Knife. I have always hungered for you since our two tribes, the Cheyenne and the Arapaho, have shared camp grounds. I have waited long for you to offer ponies to my father for me.”

“Angry Wolf sent marriage ponies,” he reminded her, unable to keep his eyes off her body, clearly visible in the clear water. “The ponies stood in front of your father’s lodge two days before you finally sent them back.”

She was standing now in the chest-deep water so close that her large breasts brushed his chest. “I would not send back your marriage ponies,” she murmured.

“I have told you before, Gray Dove, I do not want you for a wife! Why is it you turn down a brave warrior like Angry Wolf, and flaunt yourself before me in front of the whole camp? Angry Wolf and I were once friends before you made so much trouble between us.”

She reached out and touched him beneath the water, and he could not control the rise of his manhood. Summer had built a fire in him last night that had not been quenched. Roughly, he pushed the Indian girl away.

She laughed knowingly. “So the pale blond captive that all the camp gossips about does not satisfy. I would satisfy you, I know from much experience all it takes to please a man’s body!”

She moved in closer, found his hands, and placed them on her hips. “I am Arapaho. We do not make so much of chastity as the Cheyenne do. Let us go lie on the warm sand of the riverbank,” she nodded toward the shore, “and please each other.”

She pressed so close, he could feel the heat of her breasts against him in the cold water. “Tonight,” she whispered, “tonight, tell the Council you have reconsidered; that you do not want the blonde one. Let them give her to Angry Wolf or trade her off to the Comanche. Give me a chance to make you forget you ever hungered for her.”

“You have the morals of a wolf bitch!” He pushed her away and waded toward the shore. “You are evil, Gray Dove, and will always bring trouble to any man who desires you. I do not want you for my woman!”

Hurriedly, he jerked on his breechcloth and returned to camp, ignoring Gray Dove’s calls behind him.

Inside the tepee, he marveled at Pony Woman’s handiwork. Summer was fed and washed, her yellow hair done up in braids in the Indian manner. He took a long look, drinking her in. “You are very beautiful,” he said simply.

She blushed at his words displaying proper maidenly modesty and touched his arm hesitantly. “I’m—I’m sorry I’ve been so rude when you have done so much for me! I want very much to go back to my people, to Fort Smith. Would you help me?”

Could he deny her anything?
He had struggled with his feelings all night, and he was angry with himself that her touch set the blood in his temples pounding.
Could he let her go?
He wanted her very much, but not against her will.

Suddenly, her happiness meant much to him, and although it would tear the heart out of him to lose her, he would do whatever he could to make her happy. “I will speak your part before the Council,” he answered stiffly, “then it is up to them.”

The medicine man came by in the afternoon and inspected Summer’s arm. He declared he would have to build a sweat lodge, purify himself, and go through other rituals before dealing with this. He would be back at dawn tomorrow.

Iron Knife spent the rest of the afternoon taking Summer about the camp, letting her look, letting the Cheyenne look at her. Now she seemed to feel safe in his presence and stayed close to his side. She did not seem to mind the women and children stopping to pat her yellow hair, inspect her white skin. She even stooped to play with a fat baby sitting in the door of its family’s tepee. Only Gray Dove gazed hostilely at her, but Iron Knife shook his head warningly at the dark girl. “Be careful how you treat my woman!” he warned in Cheyenne.