The Bride Wore Feathers (27 page)

Her hands still pressed against the buffalo-skin wall, Dominique edged toward the opening. "Look, I didn't mean a thing I just said, I swear. And really, I don't mind a little honest work. What do you want me to do? Just tell me. Wash the clothes? Cook a little? I'm not too good at sewing."

"Silence." Spotted Feather gathered a mouthful of spittle and fired it.

Although she raised her hand and ducked, the wad spattered the side of Dominique's head and dampened her fingers. "Ugh," she complained, wiping at her hair and shaking the mess from her hand.

Taking advantage of her victim's disgust and the resulting distraction, Spotted Feather leapt across the short distance and knocked the unguarded woman to the ground. As the pair rolled across the dirt floor, the knife found a mark on its own.

"Ow," Dominique cried out as the blade scraped the flesh between her ribs. "You stabbed me," she accused, incredulous. "You bloody heathen, you actually stabbed me."

Bent on her objective, Spotted Feather replied with a low gutteral laugh, then renewed her attack. She grabbed one of Dominique's sloppily plaited braids and jerked it hard, hoping to hear a rewarding crack of the woman's neck. Instead a foot stomped down on her fingers.

"There is no time for fighting," Gall said in a deceptively casual tone. "We are hunted and must do our work quickly and with little confusion. Come, prepare the meat that will fill our bellies and the hides that will keep us warm."

"Yes, Father." Spotted Feather scrambled to her feet and brushed her hair out of her eyes. "I would ask that the crazy woman help us. We have much to do."

Gall narrowed his gaze, sending a message to the squaw, then said, "She is weak and not much good, but you may use her." His gaze shifted to Dominique, searching her for injuries, then he turned to leave. "See that she works, but return her to Redfoot's tipi if she falters. This one could slow us and interfere with our plans."

"I will see that she works quickly."

Satisfied, Gall stepped through the opening. Before Dominique had a chance to react, Spotted Feather grabbed her braids and jerked her to her feet.

"You are fortunate, one who wears a coat of porcupine quills on her tongue. Next time you will not be so lucky." She smiled, then slowly licked her lips as she brought the knife between herself and her victim. "Next time, my knife will do more than prick your precious white skin. The next time you dare to speak to me, I will cut out your heart and dance upon it."

Raging inside, Dominique managed to keep her silence and therefore her life. She meekly hung her head and allowed Spotted Feather to drag her outside to a camp filled with activity.

"You will care for the hides," the squaw said as she led her captive through the village to the outskirts. There, four old women toiled over two bloody buffalo hides that were nailed to the ground by a series of pegs. With a none- too-gentle shove, Spotted Feather pushed Dominique to her knees. "These women will show you what to do. Do not move too slow or try to leave. You will die if you do either of these things."

Keeping her gaze pinned to the hides, Dominique pressed her lips together and nodded. Then the squaw spoke to the others in their native tongue. Once during this discussion, the women burst into laughter and murmured among themselves, pointing and waving at Dominique. Then Spotted Feather spun on her moccasin and marched off toward the cooking bags, leaving the hide-tanning group to themselves.

An old, especially wrinkled woman grinned, showing off her only front tooth, and tossed Dominique a scraper fashioned from a buffalo horn. Showing her new helper the movements, she began scraping the meat and fat off the hide, urging Dominique to mimic the maneuver.

Swallowing her revulsion, Dominique sat back on her heels and began to scrape the gruesome hide. She rocked as she worked, trying not to inhale the aroma of death and the stench of buffalo hair matted with mud and feces. When she thought her back might break from the exertion, the old woman reached over and snatched away her buffalo-horn tool.

Expelling a heavy sigh of relief, Dominique leaned back and stretched. Then she discovered her retirement was premature. The old woman tapped on her knee, muttering, "Work, Tongue with Many Quills. Work." Then she handed her a finishing scraper, this one made of stone, and urged her to continue.

Dominique spent the entire day in this manner, stopping only to nibble on a few strips of jerky and a handful of chokecherries. When evening came, she staggered off to Jacob's tipi and consumed a meal of broiled rabbit and persimmons. Then she collapsed for the night.

The following morning found her jerked from her sleep in much the same manner.

"Get up, Many Quills," Spotted Feather barked through the opening in the tipi, "The hides await you."

In no condition for a repeat of yesterday's battle, Dominique struggled to her feet and followed the woman out into the morning sunlight. Again she was led to the outskirts of camp, and again she was instructed to kneel at the edge of a hide. This time, instead of scraping the hides with tools, however, she was ordered to spread a gelatinous substance on the buffalo skin.

"Get to work," Spotted Feather ordered. "You will rub this mixture into the hide with your hands."

Dominique leaned forward and sniffed. When the foul odor assaulted her nostrils, she forgot her vows and grimaced, blurting out, "What in bloody hell is this stuff?" She instantly regretted the impulsive comment, but when she glanced up at Spotted Feather expecting to receive a blow of some kind, the Indian surprised her with a grin.

"This is good stuff, Tongue with Many Quills. You will like what it does for your white skin." She laughed and pointed. "See the old women? See their pretty hands?"

Dominique looked at the other workers as they held up their gnarled fingers, and gasped. Stretched over the crooked bones was skin dry enough and tough enough to stand on its own.

Laughing, Spotted Feather explained. "Pretty, are they not? You, too, will have such hands after smoothing the hides with this magic we make with cooked brains, liver, and urine."

"Oh." Dominique wrapped her arms around her stomach and leaned away from the hide. She fought the retching, struggled to retain some measure of her pride, but her senses were too offended. She collapsed in the dirt, heaving up the remnants of last night's supper.

In her misery, she could hear the women's mocking laughter, their cruel taunts, but Dominique no longer cared. She wished only to die, to have the ground swallow her and take her to the bowels of hell if necessary. It had to be a better place than this.

"Get up, weak-hearted one." Spotted Feather grabbed a handful of her captive's wool serge dress and pulled her upright. "Enough of this nonsense. Work now. Do not stop until the old woman says you can." She released her, and although wobbly, Dominique remained sitting. With another laugh, Spotted Feather went on her way.

Her stomach finally resigned to the sickening odor, Dominique fought tears of despair instead of nausea as she worked into the late afternoon. When the old women released her, she stumbled back through the village, her eyes downcast, her ears barely hearing the taunts and remarks the warriors made as she passed by. No longer caring what they said or thought, she continued on her way. One particularly randy warrior reached out, tugging at her skirt, and grabbing at his crotch. Beaten, she paid him no heed and staggered on toward the tipi. Back inside the shelter she walked to the far wall and sank cross-legged onto the rug.

Dominique stayed there in a trancelike state, her eyes glazed, for an hour before her troubled mind slowly directed her back to the present. After reviewing her predicament she let her shoulders slump. Tears pooled in her eyes. Her bottom lip began to quiver uncontrollably. Dominique took a breath that was more of a sob just as the flap to the tipi opened and someone stepped across the entrance.

Jerking her head up, Dominique tried to shield her eyes from the setting sun, but she could only identify the fact that her visitor was a man—a savage who wore only a breechclout. The exposed parts of his body—his massive chest and long muscular legs—glistening in the eerie glow of sundown, threatened and fascinated her at once. But, more frightened than anything, Dominique opened her mouth and screamed.

"Hush, now," he soothed, "there is no need to act the crazy one now. It's me, Jacob."

She'd just filled her lungs for another bloodcurdling scream when she realized what he'd said. Scrambling to her feet, she peered through the rays of the sun. "Jacob? Is it really you?"

"Yes, Dominique. You have no need to be afraid now."

"Oh, Jacob," she sobbed, stumbling across the buffalo rug and throwing herself into his arms. "I swear, I can't stand another minute here. Please, please," she cried, her arms outstretched. "I beg you to take me away. I'll go anywhere, do
anything,
but you've got to get me away from these savages."

"Hush, now," he said into her tangled hair. "It can't be that bad."

"Oh, but it is," she insisted, renewing her outburst. "You can't believe what they made me do, what they made me
eat.
Oh, Jacob, I don't even know what it
is
they've been feeding me, but I've been sick since you left me here."

"As I've been sick since joining the cavalry," he said, stroking her hair.

Something snapped. Dominique jerked out of his arms. "That's hardly the same. I mean I've really been sick. Why, if you knew the things I've done. My hands—" She held them out, palms up, for his inspection. "Just look at that."

Jacob took her hands in his, his brow creasing as he studied the cracks and welts in her shriveled skin. "What have you been doing?"

"Rubbing some horrid stuff into buffalo hides, sticking my hands in it all day long."

"You have been tanning hides?" he said, incredulous.

"I guess so. All I know is that the stuff I had to work with made me sick to my stomach, but that squaw, the mean one, made me do it anyway. Oh, and she tried to kill me, too. She stabbed me right here." Dominique raised her arm and pointed to a tear in the fabric of her bodice. "If it wasn't for my corset, I don't know that I would have survived."

She cut off her diatribe when she realized she was discussing her undergarments with a man. If she hadn't been so upset, she might have laughed when she realized that man had been raised by Indians and probably had no idea what she was talking about. "Well," she sputtered instead, "it really doesn't matter. What does matter is that I'm here and I hate it. I really must demand you take me back to the fort."

"You know I can't do that," he said softly, wondering which squaw had attacked her, pretty sure if he guessed Spotted Feather, he would have the correct name.

"But, Jacob," she cried, panic edging into her voice, "you've just got to. I'm
begging.
Please take me back. I swear by all that's holy I'll never tell a living soul about you being a spy. Not one person. You can trust me, really you can," she added, her brown eyes round and pitiful. "Please, Jacob?"

"You are very convincing, but I'm afraid the answer must be no. Taking you back to the soldiers or to the fort is impossible. You must remain here with me."

"With
you?"
she spat, twisting away from him. "This is all your fault." She drew her arm back, preparing to slap him with all her might, but as she swung around, he caught her wrist in midair.

"Careful, crazy one. Hitting me, or any Lakota, is not a good idea. You will be repaid for such an insult in ways that would pain me to describe."

Jerking her hand free, she jutted her chin out. "What do you care about me? You've hit me with your fist, not once, but twice. I'm the one who owes you pain."

He raised his brows, then shrugged. "Perhaps you are right." Dropping the bundle he carried, he spread his legs and placed his hands on his hips. "Go ahead. Hit me twice. You deserve to have your vengeance."

Grumbling deep in her throat, Dominique curled up her fist and pulled her elbow back, but as she stared up into his deep blue eyes, her anger melted to reveal a core of despair.

"Oh, Jacob," she sighed, dazed, "I don't want to hit you. I want to go home." Her arms dropped to her sides and her chin trembled. "All the way home to Michigan. I want my papa." Then tears began to sprinkle the front of her dress.

Unraveled by a sight a Lakota warrior rarely witnessed, Jacob felt his brave stance waver, leaving him rigid and awkward. "Please, Dominique. Don't do that. I cannot help you if you do that."

"What?" she sobbed.

"This crying." He wiggled a finger at her damp cheeks. "I do not like this. Stop it at once."

"Stop crying?" she said, amazed at the request. "First you kidnap me, and nearly break my jaw. Then you force me to live like an animal with these heathens, and now you tell me I can't go home or even cry about it?" Her anger grew as she spoke, and she damned the tide of tears that fell without her consent. "Why, you miserable, you clabber-headed—"

"Nincompoop?" he supplied, hoping to lighten her mood.

"You're a nincompoop, all right, but you're worse, too. You're the scum of the earth, a two-bit no-good lousy—" She struggled to think of a word bad enough to describe him, yet filthy enough to wake up God and make him take notice of her dilemma. She finally came up with one. "You're a no-good
bastard,
Jacob Stoltz Redfoot whoever- the-hell-you-are. And what's more, I hate you, and I'll hate you until the day my uncle Armstrong shoots a hole through your thick head."