Midnight Star (28 page)

“Lady! You go inside! Chatca be angry if he find you outside.”

“Where is he? Where are the other . . . people?”

“Chatca’s brother, Ivan, in tent with his woman. He mean. You not let him see you.”

Ivan! Another bit of irony from a priest? Chauncey was on the point of slipping back into the lean-to when she saw another woman, this one older, fatter, and excessively ugly. Her single garment, which hung to her ankles, looked to be
made of incredibly filthy leather. It was held together over her massive breasts by a leather thong threaded through holes. The woman saw Chauncey and let loose a high wailing stream of guttural noises interspersed with English curses.

Cricket turned on her and screamed back at the top of her lungs. Chauncey shrank back at the vicious hatred in the other woman’s eyes.

“Get inside, lady!” Cricket shouted over her shoulder, her eyes still on the other Indian woman.

Chauncey eased back into the lean-to and eased down on the furs, sitting cross-legged. A moment later, Cricket entered carrying a wooden bowl of food. She handed the bowl to Chauncey, then with all the aplomb in the world drew out a wicked-looking dagger and wiped it off. Chauncey stared at her, her mouth open.

“Tamba crazy jealous,” Cricket said matter-of-factly. “I cut her ugly face next time.”

“Crazy jealous about what?”

“Chatca take me and make me wife. Old Tamba want him, but he only pull up her skirt when I sick. Eat now, lady.”

Chauncey stared down into the bowl. It was a thick brown mixture with chunks of meat floating in it. I have to keep up my strength, she thought, and dipped her fingers into the liquid. To her surprise, the meat was excellent. She couldn’t identify the flavor, but it tasted gamy.

She ate in silence. Finally she set the bowl down and said to Cricket, “Why am I here? What is going to happen to me?”

Cricket shrugged. “Chatca make deal and now big fight. Chatca say you demon woman and he want you. He no want to kill you now.”

Kill me! No, it was worse than that—he wanted her! “Delaney,” she whispered, and dropped her face into her hands. If he was all right, would he even care enough to try to find her? I’m going crazy, she thought, choking down her tears.

“You not blubber,” Cricket said in a stern voice. “You no demon woman.”

“No, I’m not,” Chauncey said, forcing her eyes to the other woman’s face. “I’m afraid, Cricket, very afraid. I don’t belong here. You must help me. You lived with white people. You know their ways. You know I cannot remain here.”

“Father Nesbitt nice man,” Cricket said, then added dispassionately, “Even when he beat me with stick, he tell me it is to purify my spirit. Chatca kill him fast. He good man too. I no mind to share him.”

“Cricket, listen to me. I am married. I already have a man, a good man. Please, you must . . .”

She broke off suddenly, fear curdling in her stomach at the sight of Chatca standing in the narrow entrance. In the dim light of the previous night, he had looked like a fiend from a medieval book of Satan’s followers. In the daylight, he looked worse.

“Demon woman eat,” Cricket said, her voice all sweet and submissive deference.

Chatca’s black eyes never left Chauncey’s face. She stared back at him, willing some feeling, some human reaction in him. He wore only filthy buckskins and leather boots that came to his knees. His chest was bare, devoid of hair, and covered with a greasy substance that gave off a revolting odor. His hair was glistening with the grease and hung in sticky strings to his shoulders. A dirty
band of leather held the hair back from his forehead. His face was hairless. Suddenly he was grinning widely at her, and she could imagine the stench from his yellowing teeth. She could not tell his age.

He turned his eyes to Cricket and said something sharp to her. Chauncey had thought Cricket had some spirit, particularly after seeing her confront the woman Tamba. But now her shoulders sagged and she bowed her head.

He is too strong for me, Chauncey thought, staring again at Chatca. He was not a large man, but his muscles were tight and sinewy, made more prominent by the shining grease covering them. He took a step toward her.

Chauncey jumped back and flung her hands out in front of her. Chatca growled something at Cricket.

“Lady,” Cricket said, “Chatca want you. He say he make you wife. He not kill you.”

“You’re his wife!”

“He take you and have three wives.”

Cricket frowned as she spoke. Not waiting for Chauncey’s response, she turned to Chatca and asked him what seemed to be a question. Chauncey blinked to see him raise his fist as he growled a long string of sounds at her.

“What is it, Cricket? What is the matter?”

Cricket turned angry eyes back to Chauncey. “Chatca want make you first wife. I tell him no.”

Chauncey closed her eyes for a brief instant. This was ridiculous, all of it! This simply couldn’t be happening! Dammit, she was an Englishwoman, a lady! Some lady! She opened her eyes
and looked a moment at her dirty hands. Her skirt was torn and soiled.

“Cricket,” she said finally, “please tell Chatca that I am married. Tell him that he must return me to my husband, to civilization. I’m not an Indian. I don’t know your ways.”

Cricket appeared to ponder her words, then turned to Chatca. What followed was as close to a screaming match as Chauncey had ever witnessed. She cried out, rushing forward when Chatca cuffed Cricket and sent her sprawling to the ground.

“Stop it, you miserable bastard! You damned savage, don’t you dare hurt her!”

Chatca grinned. “Demon woman,” he said, the words low and pleased and guttural. But she understood, and backed away again. She looked frantically about for a weapon, anything, but there was nothing.

“No,” she shouted at him, backing away until she was pressed against the flimsy skin wall.

“Demon woman,” Chatca said again, and strode toward her.

Chauncey let out a scream of fear and rage. Chatca’s hands gripped her upper arms, pulling her toward him.

“You damned savage!” She brought her arm up and sent her fist as hard as she could into his jaw. “How does that feel, you miserable bastard?”

He was laughing. Laughing! She flung herself at him, raking her dirty fingernails into his neck and shoulders when he threw his head back out of her reach. Suddenly he jerked her tight against him, trapping her arms between them. He bent down and began to nuzzle her neck. The smell of him and his awful breath made her gag. She tried to kick him, jerking and twisting back to give herself leverage.

It was no use.

Her blouse was torn off and her skirt quickly followed. She was sobbing, screaming at him all the curse words she’d ever heard in her life. He
took a step back, releasing her for a moment, a wide grin splitting his lips as he studied her.

Chauncey couldn’t move. She stood shaking and sobbing, dressed only in her disheveled dirty shift and her boots.

He was looking up and down her body with calm possessiveness. Suddenly he frowned and hurled out a string of the strange guttural sounds. He took another step back, a look of frustration on his face. He was shouting at Cricket now, pointing back at Chauncey.

Cricket answered him, then shrugged. Chacta’s voice rose and he gesticulated wildly. He stopped his invective for a moment, his lips curling with both anger and . . . disgust. Disgust! Filthy savage—she didn’t smell nearly as bad as he did.

Chatca strode from the lean-to without another word.

Chauncey stood still, wondering what the devil was going on. Why had he suddenly left her alone? “Cricket, I—”

“You bleed,” Cricket said flatly. “No good for man. Unclean.”

Bleed? Chauncey looked down, to see blood staining her shift. She wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. He’d left her alone because of her monthly flow! “Oh God,” she whispered, falling to her knees, “I can’t bear this.”

“No cry. You demon woman. I get cloths to stop blood. Chatca no make you wife until you clean again.”

Oddly enough, as she knelt on the ground, she felt a stab of disappointment that she wasn’t pregnant with Delaney’s child. She quietly, hopelessly, whispered his name.

* * *

“Please, Circket, you must let me bathe! Surely no one would mind.”

“Water cold and no good. You still bleed.”

“I’m filthy!” Chauncey picked up her thick braid and waved it at the impassive Cricket. “Filthy! I can’t stand it anymore. As for the . . . other”—she choked a moment in embarrassment—“I don’t care. It doesn’t matter.”

“I ask Chatca tomorrow,” Cricket said, and sat down on the dirt floor cross-legged.

Two days. Two nights. It seemed an eternity. Chauncey knew every mound of dirt on the ground of the lean-to, every seam in the animal skins. She was beginning to feel scarcely human. At least Chatca hadn’t come near her. Her only companion was Cricket. She’d heard Tamba’s loud, angry voice outside the lean-to several times, but she hadn’t seen the woman. She was allowed outside for only a few moments to relieve herself, then herded back inside.

“Cricket,” Chauncey said after a moment, “please talk to me. I’m going mad.”

“Chatca tell me no talk, just watch you.”

“Please. I can’t bear it. Please. Just tell me how many of you are here in this camp.”

“Only eight. No children. Three women.”

“Where are your other people? What tribe do you come from?”

Cricket gave her what Chauncey had come to call her what-a-stupid-woman look. “Other Indians dig gold for white man. Many die. Chatca angry and come here to hide and live free.” Her chin rose a bit and a gleam of pride lit her black eyes. “We Nisenans, come from tribe of great
Maidu chief, Wema. White man steal lands from us, kill our game, ruin our rivers with . . .” She paused a moment, frowning.

“With their mining equipment,” Chauncey said.

“More yellow men now than Indians,” Cricket said. “Wema lose to great white father. Chatca save us.”

No, Chauncey thought. Chatca didn’t have a chance of saving anybody.

“Cricket, how did Chatca find us? Why did he bring me here?”

Cricket shrugged. “No matter. Ivan angry, but Chatca want you. Tamba make more trouble.” Cricket calmly began to pluck lice from her hair and crush them between her fingers.

Chauncey wanted to shake her in frustration. She wrapped her arms about her knees and lowered her face. She wondered dully if Delaney had ever killed an Indian. She felt swamped with grief at the thought of him. She felt tears burn her eyes and realized that dirt was making them sting. Some lady, she thought vaguely. An English lady sitting on the rough ground, thoroughly filthy and wearing only a bloodstained ragged shift! She could just imagine Aunt Augusta’s face if she could see her.

Delaney. He wasn’t dead. She sensed it. But where was he? Was she so desperate that she didn’t want to face the truth? What if Chatca had killed him? What if she had to remain here and be raped by the renegade Indian?

“I tell you demon woman no cry. Make Chatca mad.”

Chauncey’s head shot up. “You can tell Chatca to go to hell!”

“That better,” Cricket said complacently, and resumed her task with the lice.

Time passed in a blur. Chauncey ate and slept and dreamed of happier times when she was a child. And when she didn’t sleep, she plotted. I must escape, she told herself over and over. But how?

“Cricket,” she announced in a very firm voice a day and a half later, “I must bathe. I cannot stand my own stench.”

“Bath no good” was Cricket’s reply.

“I will grow sick and . . . die.”

That got the woman’s attention.

“You no die. Chatca not like.”

“I will die if I am not allowed to bathe and walk about outside in the sunlight. I will die if you don’t give me some freedom.”

“You no die,” Cricket repeated in her flat voice, but she rose and left the lean-to.

Surely I look like I’m about to die, Chauncey thought. She was thankful that there was no mirror. She would probably die of fright at the sight of herself.

When Cricket returned some minutes later, she was clicking her teeth, a disapproving look on her face. Chatca must have approved.

“You come. I walk with you. Sunlight and freedom.”

“What about my bath?”

“Chatca say tomorrow.”

Cricket bound her hands in front of her with a thin leather strap. Chauncey didn’t care. She followed Cricket docilely from the lean-to. She drew in a deep breath of the clean forest air. The
first person she saw was Tamba, standing in front of her, hands on her fat hips, a look of jealousy and scorn on her wide face.

Three Indian men were seated around a small fire handing about a rifle. She smelled rotting flesh and saw a dead deer lying some ten feet away, its belly split open.

She gagged.

“You smell fresh air,” Cricket said.

The men eyed her with no more emotion than they afforded the dead deer. Tamba muttered loudly to another Indian woman, but didn’t move toward her. The other woman was more a girl, Chauncey thought, but she was so thin, her hair so filthy and matted, that it was difficult to tell.

For God’s sake, Chauncey told herself, look around! You must escape! And she knew when she would try—when she bathed the following day. She realized with a calm born of utter despair that she would rather die than remain here a prisoner. She kept her head lowered, but she studied everything. There were three other lean-tos, actually wooden frames covered with animal hides. A couple of horses were tethered to a pine tree at the other end of the camp. They looked as tired and depressed as Chauncey felt. Her eyes widened. She couldn’t believe it. Her mare was tethered away from the other horses. Ah, Dolores, you’re my hope! She forced her eyes away. There was an assortment of white man’s pots and pans lying about, some woven baskets, and little else. Where was Chatca? she wondered.

The clearing was narrow and oddly long, the forest close on all sides. She could see rolling hills in the distance through the tall firs and
pine trees that soared upward around the camp. If she were going to be allowed a bath, there must be a creek nearby.

“Cricket,” she said, filling her voice with disinterest, “where is the river?”

“Yuba over there,” Cricket said, pointing vaguely off to Chauncey’s left.

“Then Downieville is there?”

Cricket nodded, then frowned starkly. “You no ask questions.”

No, Chauncey thought, no more questions.

She smelled him, and whipped around.

Chatca stared at her with that same complacent look of possessiveness. He grunted some words at Cricket, then tossed Chauncey a bundle of clothes. She clutched the frayed cotton skirt and white blouse. At that moment they were more precious than the finest velvet gowns.

“Chatca exchange your boots for clothes,” Cricket said.

There had to be white people near—women! She felt a thrill of hope.

“Tell Chatca that I am grateful,” she said.

She watched them converse a moment, then felt the hair rise on her neck at Tamba’s furious scream.

The woman was on her before Chauncey could move, tugging at her filthy braid until her eyes watered, clawing at the clothes in her arms.

Chauncey’s hands were tied and there was nothing she could do.

Chatca bellowed in fury and cuffed Tamba, sending her reeling into the dirt. The other Indian men laughed.

Chatca kicked her fat bottom, sending her scampering off on her hands and knees.

“She angry because you get clothes,” Cricket said.

“Oh God,” Chauncey whispered.

“Chatca want you wear new clothes. White woman’s clothes.”

Chauncey drew a deep breath. “Tell him, Cricket, that I’ll wear the new clothes once I’ve bathed away all the filth. Tell him I must have soap.”

For a terrifying moment Chauncey believed she’d gone too far. Chatca’s face reddened as Cricket spoke to him, and his black eyes grew even darker. Chauncey forced herself to stand straight, her shoulders back.

Cricket turned back to her. “He get soap. You wear clothes tomorrow. He make you his woman then.”

Dear God, she thought, had he been counting the days? Evidently he had.

The next morning, Chauncey, her hands bound again, followed Cricket from the lean-to. The sky was overcast, the air chilly. She didn’t care. She looked about the camp. Tamba and another woman were cooking over the open fire. There was no sign of the men. Dolores was still tethered at the edge of the clearing.

“I watch,” Cricket said when they reached the narrow creek.

“Fine,” Chauncey said, and thrust out her hands.

Cricket looked undecided.

“I can’t bathe with my hands bound,” Chauncey said.

Cricket untied her hands.

Chauncey looked about, half-expecting to see Chatca lurking in the trees. It didn’t really matter, she thought, and stripped off her filthy shift.

She stepped gingerly into the water and gasped at the shock. It was frigid. She clutched the thin sliver of soap and waded in deeper. The creek was only knee-deep at the middle, and Chauncey sat down, gritting her teeth. All I’m washing, she thought, is the gooseflesh!

As she soaped her hair, she kept an eye on Cricket. I am strong enough, she told herself over and over, like a litany. I’ll cosh her on the head and get to Dolores.

When she came out of the water, Cricket handed her a thin piece of cloth to dry herself with.

At least it smelled clean. Chauncey dried herself thoroughly and donned the skirt and blouse. They felt heavenly. She sat down on a rock and began to comb out her wet hair with her fingers.

“You come now,” Cricket said after watching her for a moment.

“No, not yet,” Chauncey said, and continued calmly with her task. She plaited her hair into a thick braid.

“Now,” Cricket said, holding out the piece of leather.

Like hell I’m going to let you tie me up again!

She smiled at Cricket and slowly rose to her feet. “Thank you, Cricket,” she said, and held out her hands.

Cricket grunted and bent over to tie the leather about Chauncey’s wrists. Chauncey brought her fists down on Cricket’s temple. The woman gave
a small surprised cry and slumped forward to her hands and knees.

“I’m sorry,” Chauncey whispered, picked up a small rock, and hit her on the back of her head. Cricket fell in a heap, unconscious.

Chauncey heard a shout of laughter and whirled about to see Tamba standing quite near, a rifle in her hands.

“You kill,” she said. “Good. Now you leave.”

Chauncey stood frozen to the spot. “I didn’t kill her!”

“No matter. You leave. I no get blame.”

“Yes, yes, I’ll leave.” Chauncey darted back to the camp, skirted the perimeter, and eased up to Dolores. At least her mare still wore her bridle. Saddle be damned! She swung up onto the mare’s back, clutching at her thick mane. She realized suddenly that the only means of escape was through the center of the small camp.