Gone West (17 page)

She reached for her gown and pulled it over her head, hiding the fullness of her body which had not felt naked until this moment. Could it be Winslow? She peered through the branches of the cottonwood, toward camp. The women had continued to carry tales of him. He seemed always to be where least expected, least wanted, always when their men were busy elsewhere. And at moments like those, his eyes had not had religion in them.

Maggie peered around intently. The grasses, now almost thigh-high, could hide almost anything. The jackrabbits would be sleeping, and the snakes, too. Perhaps a fox? There was a sudden movement, but it came from behind her.

She spun around to stare into the face of an Indian.

The face was painted with long stripes across the cheekbones, and it took too long to distinguish it as that of Red Eagle. Maggie’s eyes widened with sudden recognition, sudden understanding. Her mouth opened to cry for help, but it was too late. A dark hand was clapped across her lips, and before she could bite that hand it was replaced by a ragged strip of rawhide, tied firmly behind her head.

Maggie was bodily hauled over a shoulder, kicking and scratching. When her silent protests began to annoy her captor she was tossed to the earth, to be dragged through the tall grasses by her long red hair, her passing marked only by a flattened strip of turf, a strip the soft breezes gradually righted.

Johnny was relieved at midnight. He strode quickly back to his tent, anticipating his wife and his rest, nodding to Winslow heading toward his own tent and wife. Unexpectedly, Winslow delayed him.

“You’d best put some fear of the Lord into that wife of yours, Stuart.”

Johnny stared without understanding. “What are you talking about?”

“It be indecent for a woman to be wandering around the camp and beyond at nights, dressed in naught but her nightclothes.”

“Meg?” He blinked, then raced to his tent to peek in. She wasn’t there. He sped to the book wagon, checking the children and the pup, all blissfully asleep. As a final shot, he ran to the white top, clambered in, and managed to crack both knees on the Ramage press. His exhaustion was suddenly gone, replaced by cold fear. Johnny returned to Winslow, grabbing at the man as he was pulling off his boots.

“Where is she, Winslow? Where’s my wife? Where did you see her last? When?”

Winslow shrugged out of Johnny’s grip. “But an hour past. Going to the spring to
refresh
herself.”

“You let her pass? And you said naught to me? Are you out of your mind, man?”

Johnny’s freed hands had balled up, and he was on the verge of doing severe damage to Winslow’s aristocratic nose. The preacher had the sense to look frightened before he pulled his dignity together.

“I am not the keeper of my brother’s wife. I gave her fair warning. If she chose to ignore it, as she has ignored my countless other words of Christian advice on her behalf, it is none of my business.”

“But she didn’t come back! Surely you would have looked for her return!”

“I was pacing a different area by then. I thought she had returned.”

Johnny wasted no more words. Instead, he flew to the spring, stopping short before reaching the damp area around it. He must calm down, look for signs.

He found them. There were scuffled footprints, partially his wife’s bare feet, partially a mocassined foot. There was also a feather. He picked it up, trying to distinguish its form in the night. It was long and full and could not belong to any ordinary bird of the plains. He would check it by lamplight, but in his heart Johnny knew it was the feather of an eagle.

The rising sun found Maggie astride an Indian pony, her hands tied behind her back, her body fettered from escape by an intricate system of ropes Red Eagle had used to chain her to the animal. She ached over every inch of her frame from the long dragging she’d endured during her abduction from the spring. It had seemed to last forever, but was perhaps for the course of a half mile~as far as the bluff which stood, outlined darkly against the night sky to the south of the wagons.

Hidden behind the bluff had been two waiting horses, and her captor had lost no time in placing her securely on her mount, then urging on both animals. At first he’d led the two horses at a walk. Sounds travel quickly over the empty night prairies. Soon he was prodding them into a steady trot. Too many miles had been covered in the distance between the midnight and the dawn.

Maggie sat astride her horse with as much iron in her spine as she could muster, but her whirring mind kept telling her that it was to little purpose. Red Eagle meant to have his way, and Johnny was too far to save her.

Yet, aside from the flailing of her limbs through the grasses, the Pawnee had been surprisingly gentle. He could have taken advantage of her by the bluff, or anywhere since. His strongly smelling, alien body could have used hers, then cast her aside, to wander back to the camp to face the degradation newly befallen her.

Why hadn’t he taken advantage? Did he really mean to marry her? She gazed at his back wonderingly as he finally slowed both horses. Red Eagle pulled hers up next to his and pointed from the rise on which they stood.

“My village.”

Below them was a circle of huts, low and rounded, made of mud and wattles. Even though she saw her future staring bleakly back at her, Maggie couldn’t help being taken by the sight. It was foreign to everything she knew, yet still fascinating. Unable to speak, she concentrated on counting the huts. The numbers kept her mind from straying to what must come next, kept her from praying the same prayer for deliverance that had focused her mind through the night’s dark ride. There were twenty distinct `houses’, one somewhat larger than the others. He saw her eyes rest on it.

“My lodge.” He said it with pride. “My wives will be waking now, preparing my food.”

Maggie swallowed, hard. She tried to focus on the few straggly dogs she saw stretching in the dry dust around fires that would soon be rekindled.

How many other wives had he? How would they respond to her? Would they have children, babies, like her own? And who would feed Charlotte in her absence? She’d been struggling with that question all night, mixing it in with her prayers. And each time she thought of her daughter her breasts would tighten and throb, ready and more than willing to do their job.

Maggie glanced away from the village, down to her soiled and torn nightdress. Her breasts were still decently covered, but small ovals of moisture spread out from them in concentric circles. Her milk was coming down again. Red Eagle followed her eyes.

“Soon more babies.
Mine
. Many babies to feed. Not miss other one.”

Tears came to Maggie’s eyes, but she could not brush them away. He took small pity on her and released the gag from her mouth.

“What do you want with me?” Maggie whispered.

“As before. Wife. Book of Great Spirit is good, but now I have both. Is better. My medicine will be very strong. When I returned from hunt~hunt for you~my village is displeased. They think I go for making war. Before I leave with all the many horses they sing war song over me.” He looked over the village, into the slowly lightening skies to the east, and slowly chanted:

“`Is this real,

this life I live?

Gods, is this real,

this life I live?”’

He turned to her again. “War makes life real. When doubt comes, it is time to go on the path of war once again. But my village was displeased with my return. No new scalps of honor. Even the Book did not make their minds to change.”

He paused in thought. “But me, I do not need to prove myself a man in war yet again. I have done so many times. I want only a new wife. One that will give me children with hair like the sun, eyes like fire of the summer storm. They will be strong and brave, our sons.”

Maggie could hardly believe his words. In his own way, the Indian was making love to her. She couldn’t pull her eyes from his strong face, even though she knew it was inappropriate by his standards and an insult to those left behind at the camp. Feeling like a traitor, she cast her eyes away, but not before they’d locked with the Indian’s.

He grunted at the look, then sang out something softly in his own language. The words were sharp, yet musical. Maggie raised her head again.

“I sing thus:

‘I think,

oh, I think

I have found

my lover at last.

I think it is so.”’

He slid off his horse, undid the bonds of her hands and body, then mounted again. “You will enter my village as my wife to be. Not as a common slave. Come.”

He kicked his horse and lead her down the slope.

Johnny had returned to the wagons like a madman. He woke his friends selectively, but soon the entire camp was up, creating a scene more frenzied than the night of Hal Richman’s death. He’d woken the Krellers first, begging Hazel’s mercies to look after Jamie and nurse Charlotte in his absence. Bleary-eyed and disbelieving, Hazel had sworn to care for his children like her own. That settled, Johnny had gone to saddle Dickens and Miss Sally. Max had stopped him.

“Those dray animals have the stamina but not the speed you’ll be needing, Johnny. Take my stallion, and one of my mares for Maggie. I’ll follow along with another horse.”

“No! I must do this thing alone!”

“You be out of your mind, Stuart,” threw in Josh Chandler as he pulled on the boots he’d hand carried to Johnny’s wagon. “It’s a posse we’ll be needing.”

Sam nodded gravely in the background, while Irish stood moving his weight from one unshod foot to the other nervously.

“We don’t even know which direction they’ve gone.” Irish’s voice was plaintive in its fear.

“It must be south. Crossing the river would have alerted Winslow and I. They came afoot, but could only leave horses hidden near that bluff.” Johnny pointed at the shape in the night. I must start by the bluff and track them.”

“And what books are you thinkin’ll save you this time, Stuart?” Chandler’s eyes had fury in them by the lamplight. “Nothing’ll get you out of this one but bullets.”

“No guns. No bullets. My wife could be hurt.” Johnny finished saddling the stallion and mounted. “You rest tomorrow, which is to the good. If we have not returned by the next morning you’re to go on without us. We’ll catch up.” And he was gone.

“Ready your horses,” Chandler ordered the men around him. “Let him get the half mile to the bluff and we’ll follow behind. He’ll be blessing us for our support if he don’t get himself killed first.”

The group of men nodded in agreement and sprang into action.

The village came alive as Maggie entered it. A low murmur in a foreign tongue surrounded her. Naked children scampered from their huts to be followed by their mothers, and finally by a frightening array of braves. The men stood, arms folded and sullen, sternly contemplating Red Eagle’s folly, while the women buzzed around the captive who would bring excitement to their village. All but two.

Maggie noticed the two Pawnee women standing by the entrance to Red Eagle’s lodge. They were arrayed in plain, short buckskin dresses, simple moccasins on their feet. His other wives. They were both darkly attractive, the taller, older one with a face that would have been lovely had it not been ravaged by the smallpox, the younger one perhaps no more than fifteen. Their faces were not sullen, as they could have been. They were frightened.

Frightened of what
? Maggie wondered to herself. She glanced upon them again and saw the looks they gave their husband, next to her. Suddenly Maggie understood. They were frightened of losing him. They both loved him. This discovery made Maggie feel even worse. Not only was she dragged here against her will, but she would now become~helplessly~a thorn in Red Eagle’s family and tribal relations. Were she unable to escape, she would have to fight not only Red Eagle’s advances, but also what would surely grow into the unbridled enmity of his senior wives.

The tableau remained unchanged for a few seconds. Before they could dismount, however, one of the braves stepped forward. Maggie gasped as she recognized Bacon’s attacker. His eyes pierced hers with unbridled lechery which quickly changed to hatred as he confronted his chief. He addressed Red Eagle with little deference, showing his displeasure in every body movement. Red Eagle listened, finally turning to Maggie.

“This man is Snake Who Bites. He is trouble. Stay away.”

With no further ado, without even pausing to answer the grievances of Snake, the chief dismounted. He helped Maggie down, and led her, stumbling, to his lodge. He spoke briefly to his waiting women before turning to explain.

“These are my wives.” He thought a moment, trying to translate their names. “This,” he nodded to the taller of the two, “is Corn Girl, and this,” looking at the shorter, younger one, “Evening Star.” They will clean and prepare you for the marriage feast. It will be tonight.” He turned away. “I go now to hunt for the feast. Should we travel more than I hope the ceremony will wait for my return.”

Maggie was led by the two women into the dark, smoky interior of the hut. She gazed around her in dismay. On a raised ledge to one side were piles of buffalo robes, still reeking of the animals who had once worn them. They must be the beds. Aside from the ledge, there were occasional baskets strung up around the wall, dried meats and vegetables, and not much else.

She stared into the small central fire, not knowing what would be expected of her next. Sounds of gathering horses filtered into the lodge from outside. They galloped off, out of the village. She had an urge to run after them, to beg Red Eagle not to leave her alone here. Her aching breasts brought her back to reality. It was past Charlotte’s morning feeding time.

What was to be done? What would become of her, of her children, of her husband? Close to despair, Maggie sunk onto her knees on the hard-packed dirt floor, buried her head in her hands, and prayed.