Capture the Sun (Cheyenne Series) Page 21

  Woodenly he began to throw a few simple items in his saddlebags. Now that he had given her his medallion, he , owned little else that he valued, save his guns. He would need those where he was going.

  For one fleeting moment he considered taking her with him, then rejected the idea. He cursed again as he dressed’ in the faint morning light, shaking his head and walking out of the room without a backward glance. He knew he would never see it again.

  Colt and knife strapped to his hips, rifle slung over one shoulder and saddlebags over the other, he strode noiselessly toward the corral. He could hear the hands stirring and knew he must hurry. Before he saddled Redskin, he walked quickly to the north end of the main bunkhouse where Kyle slept. Most of the men were eating breakfast in the big cook shed. Kyle often slept later and filched better fare from a softhearted Feliz at the house. Today was no exception. He snored blissfully, hat over his face and bare feet sticking out from the bottom of a thin blanket. Hawk stood silently at the foot of the bed and looked down at his sleeping friend, a faint grin on his lips.

  ”Ya gonna stand there admirin' my toes fer a hour 'er whut?” It came out on the expelled breath of one snore, without missing a beat.

  Hawk snorted. “I'm supposed to be the Indian no one can sneak up on. You sure you're not part Comanche?”

  “Naw, jist all desirin' o' keepin' my skin whole. Whut yew up ta, Longlegs? ‘Pears ta me yer fixin' to do yew some travelin’.” Kyle sat up, assessing his friend's clothes, weapons, and troubled look. He slid from bed and grabbed a rumpled pair of pants from a hook on the wall next to his bunk, muttering to himself as he dressed hastily, “Least ya might do if yer plannin' ta slope off so sudden like is give a body a decent warnin' so's he kin get his gear stowed. Shit!” He hobbled around, yanking fiercely on one recalcitrant boot that refused to slide on until he collapsed on the bed.

  “I'll saddle your horse,” Hawk said as he strode out the back door to the corral.

  “Don't suppose ya'd have time ta git a batch o' them sweet rolls from Feliz,” he called out hopefully after his friend's retreating form. “Naw, course not.” He swore a few inventive oaths and stomped the boot into submission on his foot.

  They rode for about an hour in silence while Hawk looked straight ahead toward the south. Kyle studied his friend's bleak countenance and held his peace.

  Finally he spoke. “Pears we're headin' back ta th' Nations, less I miss my guess.”

  “Or Texas, maybe. New Mexico Territory. I hear they have a dandy range war going on. Pay's tops for a gun.” Hawk's voice was cool and noncommittal. “You decide.”

  “It finally happened, didn't it?” He waited, but Hawk made no reply.

  “Yew 'n' Carrie—”

  “Yes,” Hawk snapped, “it happened, last night. Now it's over and done with, and I'm too damn sorry to talk about it. All right?”

  Knowing his friend's pain, Kyle understood, too, what Carrie must be feeling at that moment, what she would face alone now. “Mebbe ya shouldn't o' left her behind, Longlegs. Noah's mean. If'n he ever found out—”

  “He won't. It was just one night. That's why I left, before he did find out. You know I couldn't take her, Kyle.” He sighed raggedly. “Not that I didn't think of it. What kind of life would it be with a drifter like me, a man who lives every day one bullet from the grave? Only my life between her and a pack of animals who'd tear her apart if I were dead. Frank and Feliz love her. They'll watch over her. Anyway, she's my father's wife.” He ground out those last words in finality, as if trying to put a seal on his emotions once and for all.

  Kyle said in a stunned voice, “Thet's th' first time I ever heerd ya call Noah yer pa!”

  Darkly, Hawk said, “That's the only thing keeping him alive.”

  * * * *

  Carrie slept late that morning, trying to blot out the harsh reality of the day by reliving the incredibly beauty of the night. Finally, near noon, she forced herself to arise. I have to face my life, face Noah tonight. Oh, God, how can I sit at the same table between him and Hawk?

  Her thoughts skittered frantically from facing Noah to facing Hawk. How could she looked at her love and not give away her feelings? She could not endure Noah's crude, selfish touch, never again, not now. What answer could there be? He would only free her if she were barren and he was far from satisfied on that score. She shuddered. The only answer seemed to be flight. She would talk to Hawk. He must know what to do.

  Lovingly she fingered the heavy silver medallion and then took it from her neck. She must find a safe place to hide it until she could wear it proudly, openly. Where could the snooping eyes of Mrs. Thorndyke not find it? Not her jewelry case, certainly, nor any bureau drawer. Just then, her foot touched a squeaky board beneath the thick braided rug on the floor. Quickly she knelt down and tossed the rug aside, then pried up the loose piece of wood using a heavy shoehorn from her dressing table. There was just enough room to slide the lovingly wrapped piece of jewelry between the loose plank and the flooring beneath it. She carefully replaced the plank, then pulled the rug over it and stood on top of her treasure. The squeak was even gone!

  Too upset to eat, Carrie dressed for riding and went down to the corral after telling Estrella to inform Feliz that she was skipping lunch. When she approached the stable, her thoughts were still a jumble of confusion. Should she look for Hawk now or wait until tonight? Nervously she scanned the corral and was surprised to see Frank Lowery's lanky frame leaning against a post, talking casually to the mess cook, Turnips Benton.

  The minute he caught sight of Carrie, Frank sent Turnips off and ambled toward her, the tension in his body belying his casual pose. He had been waiting all morning for her, with her little mare saddled and ready. Since Noah was off for the day, he knew Carrie would wear her split skirt and ride astride.

  “Mornin’.” His toothy smile was disarming.

  Carrie forced a smile in return and then looked beyond him to Taffy. “You have her ready to ride. Sorry I'm so late. I overslept, I guess. Can you ride with me?” Her invitation was brightly given. She enjoyed Frank's easy company, but he seldom had free time to spend with her. It would be a rare treat if he could do so today.

  “Yep, figgered I would, if'n ya wanted,” he replied as he turned and gathered the reins of his sorrel and Taffy Girl, bringing them both from the corral.

  They rode the opposite direction from that which Noah had taken. It was always a tacit understanding between them. After desultory small talk about the warm fall, roundup, and other topics, Carrie worked up her courage and asked casually, “Have you seen Kyle or Hawk today?”

  “Fer a minute, this mornin' real early. They're gone, Carrie. Headed south.”

  She took a moment to digest what he said while the numb shock wore off. “You mean left for good—headed back to the Nations?” Her voice was queerly high and unsteady.

  Frank watched her anguish, and it tore at his vitals. Her hands clenched into fists as she sat rigidly on Taffy, staring straight ahead. He could see her swallow down tears. Dammit, I shoulda' knowed. He swore helplessly to himself. He had been watching the two of them since their first antagonistic encounters last spring. Perhaps it was inevitable, a beautiful young woman married to a bitter old man, meeting a fascinating loner like Hawk. He had sensed their attraction to one another almost from the start. They could have been so good, for each other, but it just was not in the cards, he concluded sadly, thinking of Noah's fury if he ever even imagined the possibility.

  Frank prayed they had not progressed past the initial stage of falling in love. Maybe that was why Hawk decided to leave, before things got out of hand. Of course, he had left awfully suddenly. Frank swore again silently, then said, “Mebbe it's better this way, honey. He couldn't stay. Ya know thet. Sometimes a quick stab heals better'n a slow tear.”

  “I'll never heal, Frank. How can I, after—” She stopped herself abruptly and seemed to cringe down on Taffy, then kicked the mare into a faster trot and took off.

>   Frank Lowery had his answer, and he did not like it.

  * * * *

  Noah poured a stiff whiskey and quaffed it as he contemplated Hawk's unannounced departure. Frank had told him that his son and Hunnicut packed up and left at daybreak. Just like last time. No word, no warning. Infuriating, irresponsible savage! He was angry for the loss of two valuable guns that tipped the balance in his contest against Krueger, but at the same time he was relieved that the major obstacle between him and K Bar land was now removed. When Caleb Rider arrived, they could get down to work He polished off the drink and placed the glass forcefully on the bar.

  It was late, and his little wife awaited him upstairs. She had been pale and withdrawn at dinner tonight, almost listless. Lord, he was tired of her joyless, aggravating presence, mute and resigned one minute, willful and defiant the next. He must get her breeding. The more he considered that, and his woeful sexual performance in her bed of late, the more he decided he needed another drink. If only she could stimulate him like the women in Miles City he would be fine. He cursed and decided to forgo taking her tonight. There was plenty of time. Why punish himself?

  For the next two days Carrie went through the motions of being alive, like a sleepwalker, pushing the dread of Noah's looming presence from her consciousness. Sooner or later he must come to her once more. Each night she lay awake, her eyes rigidly fixed on his door. When would it open? When would he come to defile the beautiful memories her body had imprinted on it?

  By the time he did open that door, Carrie was so on edge with dread, she almost welcomed him. At least it would be over With and she would be back to the same deadening, degrading experience as before. In time she would forget what might have been. For the sake of her sanity, she must.

  When Noah came to her room late on the third night, after Hawk had gone, she had been unable to sleep and was reading, her lamp still lit. He looked almost satanic in the shadows by the door as she reached over to douse the light. He stopped her with an abrupt command.

  “Let it burn. Maybe if I can look at your delectable flesh, it may compensate for your coldness.”

  He strode over to her, pulled her from the bed, and roughly yanked the gown up over her head, tossing it across the floor. Then he stood back and stared at her.

  I will not cringe or cover myself. I will show him no fear. She held her head high and stood tall, breasts thrusting proudly, long legs gleaming sleekly in the flickering light. Her green eyes were cold and unflinching as she returned his stare.

  Angry at her passive defiance, he roughly pulled her to him for a bruising kiss, then changed his mind and pushed her abruptly back onto the bed. He quickly shed his robe, letting it drop heedlessly onto the floor, and moved over her on the bed. The minute his flesh made contact with hers, Carrie stiffened. How different he felt, flaccid and soft, not like—No! She must not compare, not think of Hawk. She forced her mind to go blank.

  Eliciting no response from her after that first flash of defiance, Noah found himself wishing perversely that she might fight him—anything but this resigned passivity.

  “What's this, so patient and dutiful? For a minute I thought you had some fire, wife!” He said the word like a curse. “Let's see if I can't stir you up just a bit.” He ran his hands over her, tweaking her nipples cruelly and rubbing her soft flesh with greedy, hurting pressure.

  She did not beg, did not even flinch. The degradations had gone on too long; it was too late to redeem anything from her travesty of a marriage.

  When he could get no further resistance from her, Noah spread her legs and thrust into her. In a few quick, frantic movements, he was finished. He withdrew, got off the bed, and turned from her. Dousing the light with one hand, he reached for his fallen robe with the other. After wrapping it around his shoulders, he vanished through the door to his room. She heard the latch click shut.

  Carrie lay still and tried to keep her mind a blank. Then, with a sudden rush, she leaped up and ran to the basin across the room where she was violently sick.

  * * * *

  Noah was relieved by Hawk's sudden departure, but Mathilda Thorndyke was ambivalent in her reaction. Ever since Bright Leaf had come and gone, the woman had covertly watched the shifting relationship between Hawk and Carrie. Although they no longer taunted each other, nor fought, neither did they act like covert lovers. The housekeeper's hints to Mr. Noah about that had gone unheeded. He seemed to treat the idea like an absurd joke, but still she had kept her vigil, hoping to catch them in some incriminating act so that she could present the evidence to her employer. If so, that vicious savage and that crafty hoyden would be dealt justice! But now, he was gone before she could prove anything, which left Mathilda Thorndyke still at Carrie's mercy. At least the Indian was gone—and good riddance!

  The housekeeper stewed and brooded as she went about the house inspecting the maids' work. As was her habit, she simply barged into Carrie's room without knocking. “Sorry, Mrs. Sinclair, I assumed you were out,” she muttered.

  Carrie was holding the white silk peignoir she had worn the night she and Hawk had made love. She ran her hands over its softness, lost in her bittersweet memories.

  “What's wrong?” Mrs. Thorndyke asked sharply. She snatched the gown from Carrie and said, “The orange ribbon that ties the neck is ripped off.”

  Carrie's cheeks flooded with mortification as she recalled how roughly Noah had torn the gown from her body. “I, er, must have forgotten to ask Feliz to restitch it. It was coming loose. It's probably somewhere around here. I'll look later on.”

  The housekeeper harrumphed. “I'd take better care of such beautiful things if I was you. Think what this must have cost Mr. Noah.”

  Carrie sighed exasperatedly. ‘If he paid for it, then I guess he can tear it off me if he wants to!” With that, she whirled and departed, leaving a beet-faced Mrs. Thorndyke standing agape in the middle of the room.

  * * * *

  Hawk and Kyle drifted as far as the north fork of the Canadian River, through a nameless host of squalid settlements, bizarre mixtures of tents and prairie mud houses, smattered with grimy saloons where dusty cattlemen stopped on their way to the railheads in Kansas. Life was fast, cheap, and violent. It suited Hawk's mood. Outlaws from Wyoming to Texas, New York to California, fled to the isolated island of no-man's-land known in 1880 as the Indian Nations. No one tribe owned it, and no government, federal or local, kept order. It was not an organized territory as were Montana or Arizona, but a vague jurisdiction that was contested by Indian tribes, Texas cattlemen, Kansas farmers, and eastern railroad barons.

  A scant handful of U.S. marshals from Fort Smith in Arkansas were assigned the impossible task of keeping order in a wide open land without form or law. In one year alone, over sixty of them died for their trouble. In any given year of the past decade, hundreds of thousands of Texas cattle traversed the Nations' length to the railheads of Abilene, Hayes, Ellsworth, and finally Dodge City in Kansas. Men lived violently and died suddenly.

  The farther south they rode, the quieter Hawk became, seemingly fixed in his misery. Kyle, who had observed his friend over several rough weeks, was finally moved to speak.

  “I got me a habit when I wuz a tad, Longlegs. Eatin'. We be near outta cash money. Looks ta me we better git us a job o' work. Right soon.”

  “You particular what?” Hawk looked at Hunnicut levelly.

  “I 'spect yew ain't, thet's fer sure. Havin' a downright dislike fer drovin' cows er any other hard work, I figger we cud see if' n them whiskey runners down on Cashe Creek need shotgun guards.” He waited for a rise out of Hawk.

  And got one. “They sell to Cheyenne, Arapaho, even Cherokee! I won't help that scum kill any of them with rotgut. Let's head to Sill. Always something shaking around there.”

  Kyle smiled, assured Hawk still felt a few things were worth living for. He grunted. “Sill it is,’ then.”

  Fort Sill in 1880 was assigned the impossible task of keeping order amidst the chaos of reloc
ated Indians and cattle-trail drivers, as well as controlling the depredations of trespassing sodbusters and wandering outlaws. Often, it was difficult to tell who was who in the cast of characters. An army outpost, Sill attracted more than its share of camp followers and hangers-on, red and white. If various, post commanders over the years looked the other way while whiskey runners and whores peddled their wares, those were the least of sins in the Nations, a place the manifest, destiny of civilization neatly bypassed on its headlong rush to the Pacific.

  Hawk and Kyle settled in at the garish frame building that passed for a hotel and headed to the nearest saloon, the only one actually made of wood, the others being tents and mud houses. Despite its construction, it had little to recommend it but rotgut whiskey and even less savory women.

  One girl looked younger and less used than the rest. She had long, dark hair that was reasonably clean and huge chocolate-brown eyes. Perhaps it was the sad eyes that caused Hawk to forget her thickly rouged cheeks and carmine-coated mouth. She smiled in greeting, then, uninvited, sat down at the rickety table.

  “Howdy. Yer strangers. I kin tell. Know all th' reg'lars. Shore is hot out fer fall. Buy me a drink?”

  She looked at Hawk, who was reclining against the rough plank wall, his long legs stretched beneath the table, hat shading his face. He did not move, but Kyle responded.

  “Shore thing, pretty lady.” It had been a long time since Miles City and the cathouse there. He needed a woman and so did Hawk, but Hunnicut knew better than to get mixed up in his friend's business. He would simply take care of his own.