No Other Man (39 page)

Skylar clamped her hand over her mouth, silencing a scream,
as she saw the warrior take aim at one of the white commissioners. But he never
fired a shot. Young-Man- Afraid, a warrior who had joined with the agency
Indians, rode through the crowd with a small group of his Indian police behind
him. He spoke very quickly, disarming Little- Big-Man before the indignant
warrior could fire at anyone.

"Thank God!" Skylar breathed.

"Trouble," Sloan said softly.

"But—"

Hawk had suddenly turned in the saddle to Willow. "Stay
with Skylar," he said.

And raced into the grouping of Indians, Sloan quickly
following behind him. Yet even as they rode, cries, tremolos, and shouts were
rising among the Indians. The sounds were menacing.

Thousands of Indians.

Only a couple hundred whites.

The
Sioux were raising their weapons. The shouts were growing more furious.

Hawk burst in among them, calling out.

"What is he saying?" Skylar cried worriedly.

Willow looked at her, not wanting to tell her.

"Willow!"

"He's
telling them that they must not murder the whites gathered here. If they do,
the whites will come by the tens of thousands and slaughter them all in turn.
They mustn't let violence happen today."

"Will they listen?" Skylar demanded.

"I hope so," Willow said.

Sloan
was in the midst of the agitated Indians as well. Young-Man-Afraid shouted to
them, crying out.

"I
should get you out of here, back to where we camped," Willow said.

"But—"

"Skylar,
don't make him worry about you in the midst of this!" Willow said.

She
nodded to his wisdom. She turned her horse and started to ride. But then she
heard a thudding sound. Willow gasped out. She turned back and saw him
clutching his head. "Ride!" he commanded her, then toppled down to
the ground. Just behind him, Skylar could see a mounted Indian—and on the
ground the heavy rock he'd cast at Willow.

She
didn't know what kind of Indian he was, but he was dressed in splendid regalia,
with all manner of paint on his face. He let out a cry and started toward her.

She
kneed Nutmeg, well aware that there was so much cacophony around her that no
one would notice a single Indian chasing after a single rider. Yet she realized
she would be best off racing toward the fray, rather than away from it. She
circled Nutmeg, with the rider close behind her.

"Help
me!" she cried out, but the din around her was too loud.

She
remained on the outskirts of the crowd. The Indian suddenly leaped from his
horse, bringing her down to the ground. She lashed out at him, shrieking. His
fingers closed around her throat. She didn't know if he was trying to silence
her...

Or kill her.

She heard the sudden whip through the air of a knife. The
Indian stared at her, falling toward her. She pushed his body from her person,
scrambling her feet in a desperate rush to avoid his blood. She looked behind
her, from where the knife had come.

Sarah stood there. Blessed Sarah. Skylar had had no right to
mock the woman—she'd seen the trouble and gone for Hawk regardless of the melee
around them. Hawk stood at her side. Hawk had hurled the knife. And now he
walked past her to kneel down and study the brave on the ground.

"Who is he?" Skylar demanded.

"Elk-Who-Runs. A Sioux from the Red Cloud agency."

"A Sioux?" she whispered.

He looked up at her, his green eyes veiled. When he spoke,
his words were deep and brittle. "Yes, an agency Sioux. This will not sit
well today."

"I've never, never seen anything like this!" Sarah
exclaimed. "Never. In the midst of something so important as this
council, a warrior trying to take down a woman!"

"Sarah, this isn't over," Hawk said. "Will you
go with Skylar back to the camp? Some of the soldiers will escort you."
They were ringed now by a number of men who saluted their agreement.

Sarah nodded. She came forward, taking Skylar's arm. The dead
Indian remained on the ground. Hawk remained kneeling by his side.

Skylar was hurt and humiliated. She'd never seen Hawk so
cold, and she didn't begin to understand him. But she went along with Sarah,
awkwardly smiling a thank-you to their impromptu guard. "I think you just
saved my life," Skylar told Sarah. "Thank you so much."

Sarah nodded in simple acknowledgment, not terribly impressed
with herself. "I saw what happened—I was

amazed.
I sent David to Willow and went for Hawk. Come on, let's get Willow ourselves
now and go back to camp."

"Willow is—"

"Hurt
with a terrible headache and a gash against his temple. His pride is wounded to
the core. Let's go."

"Oh,
God, I'm afraid to leave!" Skylar said, turning back. Hawk was gone—the
dead man was gone. The Indians were still shouting, moving about on their
horses in a menacing way.

A Sioux was dead. A man who had attacked her.

"The men are still in danger—"

"The
men will do their jobs. Our job is to let them do theirs."

And to worry, Skylar thought. Worry sick ...

Yet as
Sarah urged her away, it seemed ...
seemed...
that
the situation was coming under control. Young-Man- Afraid was speaking again.
He was surrounded by his police, Hawk, Sloan, and others who were desperately
urging peace.

"Why
would a Sioux have attacked me?" Skylar whispered.

Sarah
sighed. "Dressing up in buckskin doesn't make you Sioux. Please, Skylar,
please come on."

Skylar remounted Nutmeg and rode with Sarah.

She was in her own tent, curled up in the camp bed when Hawk
finally came back. She'd waited and waited and half dozed. When he came in, she
forgot how cold he had been to her before. She leaped up and threw herself into
his arms.

"My God, you're back! I was so frightened—"

"What the hell is going on?"

He was
shaking, she realized. His voice was harsh, furious.

She pulled back from him. "I was worried—"

"You
were attacked again! Willow was struck, injured. And you were nearly
throttled."

"Perhaps I shouldn't have been where I was."

"Skylar, what the hell is going on?" "I don't know what
you mean!"

"What
have you done? What were you running from when you met my father?"

She
pulled away from him completely. "Not the Crows, I can assure you!"

"That man was Sioux!"

"I
did nothing to
any
Indians.
You
attacked me, as a matter of fact. Add that to
the number of attacks I've suffered in the Dakota Territory!"

He was
suddenly on top of her, shaking her. "You could have been killed."

"You
could have been killed!" she retorted. "We could all have been
killed. It was an explosive situation!"

"And
it's still a damned explosive situation!" he assured her.

"Hawk, shush! The entire camp can hear—"

He
lifted her by her upper arms, throwing her back down upon the cot. "You
could have been killed. And I was nearly helpless to do a damned thing about
it. If Sarah hadn't come for me ... Tomorrow—tomorrow we head back to Mayfair,
and so help me, Skylar, so help me! You're going to tell me what's going
on!"

"I don't know what's going on!"

His
fingers squeezed her arms painfully. His features were dark, constricted, his
eyes gleaming with a furious green fire. He looked as if he longed to throttle
her himself.

"Damn you, Skylar!" he hissed.

His
hold upon her eased. Then he rose, swearing heatedly.

He walked out of the tent.

Skylar
tossed. Turned. Lay awake. Tossed and turned again. Where was he? Why wasn't he
coming back? Why did he think she could possibly have an explanation for the
strange behavior of Indians?

At
last, in exhaustion and misery, she dozed. Then she slept deeply.

No monsters troubled her dreams.

No monsters. Her dreams were sweet. She felt his touch.
Featherlight. Erotic. Sensual.

His
fingers ... along her thighs. Palms, cradling her breasts. His hps upon her
bare nape. Lower. His hands again, smoothing around her hips. Pressing
downward. Stroking. His lips, lower against her back. Lower. His touch, turning
her. His lips. The fiery hot liquid stroke of his tongue . . .

She moaned. Writhed. Awoke ...

He was no dream.

She
remembered to be angry. Too late. He had taken his time seducing her from
sleep. He took his passion quickly. She couldn't deny her response.

But when it was done .. .

She turned her back on him.

She
simply didn't have the answers he was demanding.

And he ...

He was refusing to believe.

"You can't do this!" she choked out to him.

He was quiet a moment. "I did do this."

"You can't do this to me!"

"Skylar,
you do not know what you have done to me," he told her.

And he turned his back on her.

The next morning, the army doctor said that Willow could travel.
He'd have a bump on his head for a few weeks from the rock that had knocked him
senseless from his horse, but other than that, he seemed fine.

With
very little conversation between them, Skylar and Hawk started home with Willow
and Sloan.

The
meeting had yielded what they had feared it would.

Nothing.

 Twenty-three

Sloan
knew that he would have been welcome at May- fair, but his mood was too
volatile for him to feel comfortable in the company of friends.

He was due back in the next few days at Fort Abraham Lincoln,
but he was glad as well that he wasn't due tonight—the Sioux half of him was
warring away in his soul. There were too many army commanders he would like to
scalp at the moment.

He rode into Gold Town alone, taking a room at the Miner's
Well. Like most of the town, it offered whatever might be desired; the
respectable wives, daughters, sisters, aunts, cousins, and lovers of army
personnel and prospectors might take rooms here and find them clean and neat.
There was a huge, warm dining room where home-cooked meals were served. Baths
were available in room, there was a pleasant downstairs library, and the plump,
matronly Mrs. Smith-Soames was available to direct nice young ladies around
town.

For those of a more adventuresome nature, the Ten- Penny
Saloon sat just out back, the work yards of each establishment being next door
to one another, with side doors and servants' entrances facing one another.
Though all the food served in Mrs. Smithe-Soames' dining room was excellent,
food and liquor could be ordered from the Ten-Penny at off-hours and discreetly
brought in by the side entrance to appease the hunger of late-arriving guests.

Other hungers could be appeased as well
from the Ten- Penny. Even more discreetly so. An order merely needed to be
placed at the saloon, and a soft tap would come upon a man's door. It was all
quite smoothly arranged. As they were located in Gold Town, the saloon and the
inn catered to whatever tastes their clientele might have nurtured, be they the
most chaste—or the most decadent.

Sloan had never been much of a drinker—he was far too aware
of the way whiskey had been used by the red man across the continent, and too
often, how it had taken a great warrior, set him upon agency land, and eaten
into both his soul and his guts, leaving him a sad creature to wallow in the
mud of uselessness. Not that whites couldn't become pathetic drunks as well;
they could, quite easily. But the Indians just seemed to have more strikes
against them to begin with.

Returning from the travesty at the Red Cloud agency had left
him feeling not just volatile but depressed as well, with a slow simmering
anger within him that threatened to become explosive. It didn't help to remind
himself that though it had actually been tradition that had sent him to West
Point, it had been his choice to remain in the cavalry in the West. He'd spent
four years going to war against his classmates, instructors, and friends, and
now he was taking part in a crusade to annihilate his own people, and it didn't
matter that he tried to stand against the tide, to bring some honor and justice
to the Sioux. He was a candle against the wind, a flame burning bright, yet
unable to illuminate any paths that could take his people out of the way of the
onslaught of the storm.

After he bathed and changed his clothes, he decided a few
drinks seemed to be in order before retiring. Once he got some rest, he hoped
he'd regain the control that allowed him to slip between worlds and remain true
to them both.

With the dust of the trail bathed away and himself decked in
civilian attire, he took a walk across the yard to the Ten- I'enny.

Joe, the short, round barkeep, supplied him with a bottle of
his best whiskey, just in from Tennessee. Sloan shuddered as he swallowed the
first shot. The second one went down more slowly.

Dusk had come; darkness was settling over the town. In a few
hours, he thought, the place would be crawling with miners and travelers and
the' unattached menfolk in the area who were looking for a good time. For the
moment, a few wizened old prospectors played a game of cards, cackling now and
then at an exceptionally good hand.

He was on his third shot of the whiskey when Loralee,
proprietess of the establishment along with Peg-Leg Jack Cleat, came to quietly
stand beside him.

"You look plum tuckered, hon," she said softly. He
glanced over at her, smiling wryly. She was a very attractive woman, probably
nearing fifty, but capable of being every bit as sensual as the youngest of her
girls. Her blond hair was turning gray, but she had a beautiful face, soft
amber eyes, handsome bone structure. Her waist was min- iscule, her breasts,
more than bountiful. She had a nice way about her as well. She was a shrewd
businesswoman, charmingly pleasant, and strangely enough, incredibly sincere.
"Plum tuckered, and mad as a hornet," she continued.