Dakota Territory
Spring 1876
Kaylee Matthews glanced over her shoulder as she pounded her heels against her mare's flanks. "Can't catch me!" she hollered.
"That'll be the day!" Randy Harris shouted back.
Kaylee laughed with excitement as Dusty surged ahead, flying over a rotting deadfall, jumping across a narrow section of the shallow river without breaking stride. "Come on, girl," she urged. "We're almost there!"
The fleet-footed bay mare laid her ears back and raced onward, scrambling up the sandy bank and galloping across the meadow to a narrow path that led into the woods.
Kaylee glanced over her shoulder again. Randy was lost from sight around a bend in the trail. This time, she thought, this time he wouldn't find her! It was a game they had played since they were children. In the beginning, Randy had always won, partly because he was older, partly because his father took him hunting and taught him how to track. But, just like a man, Randy had bragged and boasted about what he knew, and, just like a girl, she had teased and taunted him until he taught her everything he had learned.
Kaylee guided Dusty off the path, through a stand of tall timber. The trees grew so close together, she had to rein the mare to a walk. She rode for several minutes until she cleared the trees. Pausing, she glanced around. She couldn't remember ever having come this far before. Her stepfather would likely skin her alive if he found out she had crossed the river. It served as an unmarked boundary line, with the ranches on one side and the Indians on the other. No doubt her mother would be upset when she found out Kaylee had left her chores unfinished so she could go gallivanting with Randy again. Not that her mother didn't like Randy. It was just that her mother and her stepfather both hoped she would marry Garth Jackson, who was their neighbor to the south. Jackson owned the G Slash J ranch, which was the biggest spread in the territory. Garth was older and more settled, and Kaylee's mother and stepfather both considered him to be a better match. But Kaylee wasn't ready to marry anyone—not now, perhaps never!
Glancing around, she spotted some tall grass and wild berry bushes a ways off in the distance. It was the only cover in the immediate area, and while it was not the kind of hiding place she would have preferred, it would have to do.
The ground between the timber and the tall grass was hard and barren, too hard to hold a print, she hoped. In the cover of the berry bushes, she dismounted and pulled Dusty's head down and to the side, forcing the mare to lie down on her side. Kaylee lay across Dusty's neck to keep her from scrambling to her feet, then put one hand over the mare's nostrils so she couldn't call out to Randy's horse and give their hiding place away.
Grinning with triumph, Kaylee peered through the grass. Randy was just breaking through the trees. He paused at the edge, his gaze sweeping the area.
Kaylee knew he couldn't see her from there and debated whether she should stay hidden until he gave up, and then follow him back home, or jump up now and surprise him.
She was still trying to decide when she heard what sounded suspiciously like a groan behind her. Brow furrowed, heart pounding, Kaylee glanced slowly over her shoulder. She saw nothing, and she blew out a sigh of relief. Then she heard it again. Definitely a groan.
Sliding off Dusty's neck, Kaylee crawled around a pile of rocks located a little to her left. The mare immediately scrambled to her feet.
The groan came again, and then Kaylee saw him—an Indian sprawled in the grass.
She stared at him uncertainly. It had been drummed into her head that Indians were the enemy. Her first instinct was to run, even though she could see that she was in no immediate danger, at least not from him. He had been shot several times. Flies were crawling over the bullet wounds in his side, arm, and shoulder. She shooed them away, all the while glancing around in case there were other Indians lurking about.
"Found you!" Randy crowed. Brush crackled as he urged his mount in beside Dusty. The mare tossed her head restlessly, disturbed by the scent of blood. "Why didn't you keep your horse down? I never would have seen you if you'd just kept Dusty down the way I showed you."
Kaylee scrambled to her feet as Randy rode up beside her.
"What made you cross the river? Old Shaun will have a fit if he finds out. Have you forgotten this is Indian . . . ?" Randy's voice trailed off when he saw the wounded man. "What the hell! Is he dead?"
"No, not yet."
"Damn!" Dismounting, Randy dropped his horse's reins to the ground and drew his six-gun.
"What are you going to do?" Kaylee exclaimed.
"Hell, Kay, he's an Injun! What do you think I'm gonna do? They've been stealing our cattle, and yours, too. That's probably why he's here."
"Oh, for goodness' sakes, Randy, put that thing away and help me get him on the back of my horse."
Randy stared at her. "What? Why?"
"He's hurt. We can't leave him out here. He'll die."
Randy shrugged. "One less Injun. One less thief."
She glared at him. He sounded just like her stepfather. "Are you going to help me or not?"
"Kaylee, this isn't a wounded fawn. You can't take it home."
She looked up at him. "Please, Randy? For me?"
Randy shook his head. "Don't look at me like that, Kaylee Marie. It won't do you any good. And there's no sense in me taking him home, anyway. My pa would shoot him on sight, same as yours."
The thought gave Kaylee pause. Like most of the men in the valley, her stepfather had no love for the Indians. Thieves and beggars, he called them. In the last month, the Double R had lost more than a hundred head of cattle. Her stepfather was certain the Indians were stealing them.
"Well. I can't just leave him out here to die," Kaylee said. She removed her kerchief and wrapped it around his arm to stanch the bleeding. Too bad she wasn't wearing a skirt and petticoats, she thought. A ruffle off one of her petticoats would have worked perfectly.
"Randy, give me your shirt."
"What?"
"You heard me. I need something to bind up his wounds."
Randy shook his head. "I'm not letting you ruin my shirt for no stinkin' Injun." He wrinkled his nose. "He smells like he's already been dead a week!"
Kaylee rocked back on her heels, one hand fisted on her hip. "Well, I can't very well use my shirt. And he can't help how he smells. Who knows how long he's been lying out here?"
With a huff of irritation, Randy took off his shirt and tossed it to her. He grimaced when she ripped it in two, using one half to bind the wound in the Indian's shoulder and the other half to wrap around the wound in his side.
"All right, you bandaged him up good." Randy glanced around, all too aware that they were on the wrong side of the river. "Now let's get out of here."
"I'm not leaving him," she said stubbornly. "I can't, and I won't."
"I don't know what else you can do, Kay."
"Me, either. Can't you think of something?" She looked up at him. "Please, Randy?" she asked sweetly.
"Well," he said thoughtfully, "there's no one staying in that old line shack up on Cedar Ridge. You could take him there."
"Of course!" she exclaimed. "Why didn't I think of that? Come on, help me get him on my horse."
Randy did a lot of muttering and complaining on the ride up to the line shack, but Kaylee was glad to have him along. There was no way she could have lifted the Indian by herself. He lay facedown over Dusty's withers, with Kaylee holding him in place so he didn't slide off. His skin was fever-hot beneath her fingertips. She had never seen an Indian up close before. She couldn't seem to stop looking at him, couldn't help noticing the dark copper color of his skin, the width of his shoulders, the length of his legs. He wore nothing but a breechclout made of what looked like deerskin and a pair of moccasins. His hair was long and black, glossy as a raven's wing.
Her stepfather hated Indians. Shaun Randall claimed the West wouldn't be a fit place to live until every last Sioux and Cheyenne had been shipped off to a reservation or, better yet, killed. Kaylee knew her mother didn't feel that way, but Emma Matthews Randall never argued with her husband. Shaun was a big man with a quick temper, and Kaylee had quickly learned to tiptoe around him. As a child, she had been afraid of him; as an adult, she wondered why her mother had ever married him.
When they reached the line shack, Kaylee slid from Dusty's back and hurried to open the door.
Randy swore softly as he slung the unconscious Indian over his shoulder and carried him inside, dropping him none too gently on one of the bunks.
"You'll have to tie him up," Randy said. "I'll find some rope."
"Tie him up!" Kaylee protested. "Why? He's hurt. Bleeding," she added. "Look." The cloth wrapped around his middle was red with his blood.
"He's probably gonna die anyway," Randy said. "We should have just left him for the coyotes."
"Randy Harris, that's a terrible thing to say!" She looked up at him, then down at the Indian. Randy was as long and lean and lanky as a year-old colt; the Indian was broad-shouldered and well muscled. Randy smelled of hay and well-oiled saddle leather; the Indian smelled of sage and woodsmoke and sweat.
"Well, it's true."
"How can you even think such a thing? He's a human being, too."
"Better not let your stepfather hear you talking like that," Randy muttered. "Not if you know what's good for you. Anyway, you'd best keep him tied up for your own protection. They're sneaky, them Injuns."
Kaylee made a sound of disgust as she pulled her shirttail out of her trousers. Her mother didn't like her wearing pants, but riding in a skirt just wasn't practical. Using the knife she carried in her pocket, she cut off a strip of material and slipped it under the bandage over the wound in his side, wondering how she would explain her torn shirt to her mother.
"Maybe the Indians are hungry," she said. "Maybe that's why they steal our cattle. Maybe if we hadn't killed off the buffalo and scared all the game away, they wouldn't have to steal."
"This is our land," Randy retorted.
"It was their land first," Kaylee said, suddenly wondering why she was arguing with Randy. She had never had any strong opinions about the Indians one way or another. Why was she defending them now?
Muttering under his breath about the stubborn foolishness of women. Randy grabbed the Indian's left wrist and tied it to the bed frame with a length of piggin string he'd found in a box on the floor. He secured the Indian's right wrist as well, then stood back, his arms folded over his chest, while Kaylee drew a dusty blanket over the Indian.
"I'll have to come back later and replace those bandages," she said, wiping her bloody hands on a grimy rag she had found in a bucket in the corner. "Mama's got some carbolic and some powders the doc left when she had a fever."
"I tell you, you're wasting your time."
Kaylee scowled at him. "Well, it's my time to waste."
"Reckon so," Randy said.
"You'll come back with me, won't you?"
He didn't want to. She knew that, just as she knew he wouldn't let her come out here at night alone.
Randy nodded. "But there's gonna be hell to pay if your stepfather finds out about this. Come on, we'd best be getting back. It'll be dark soon."
With a nod, Kaylee followed him toward the door. She paused once to look back, wondering if the Indian would still be alive the next time she saw him.
Blue Hawk woke slowly, aware of little more than the pain that throbbed through him. He opened his eyes, blinked several times. It took him a few moments to realize that he was inside one of the white men's dwellings, though he had no memory of how he had gotten there.
He tried to sit up. His wrists were tightly bound to the frame of the cot. Ignoring the pain that lanced through him with every movement, he spent several minutes trying to get free, then fell back on the hard, narrow cot, breathing heavily. A glance out the window showed that it was night. Was it the same night Mato had come to him, he wondered, or another?
Someone had brought him here and bound up his wounds. But who? And why?
He closed his eyes, his mind searching for answers where there were none.
His wounds throbbed. He had been a fool to trust the white men, but he had been desperate. Back on the reservation, his people were starving, waiting for promised government supplies that seldom came. Even when the supplies did come, there would be moldy flour, spoiled beef, and moth-eaten blankets. Wagon loads of decent supplies intended for his tribe were sold by corrupt government agents to other white men for personal profit.
The old ones among his people had turned their backs on life. Sunk in bitter despair, they refused to eat what little food they had so that the children might live. His warriors, once proud hunters and fighters, were hungry and without hope. The men would have gone hunting, but they weren't allowed to have any weapons except a few old bows. They had only a few scrawny ponies now, whereas they had once had hundreds. The buffalo, once as plentiful as the stars in the sky, were now few in number, having been slaughtered by the white man. Hunting was hard, for the surviving game had been spooked by the careless rifle fire of the wasichu .
The warriors hated life on the reservation, and yearned for their freedom. They had taken their families and left, finding refuge in the hills, preferring to die as free men rather than exist in misery on the white man's charity and lies.
Theirs was a small band. Their chiefs were dead, killed in battle. With no one else to lead them, the role had fallen to Blue Hawk. He was determined that they should have rifles. So he had gone alone to the white man's town, leading a string of stolen Crow ponies for trade. Clad in clothes he had stolen from some white woman's wash line along the way, he had gone into one of the saloons. He sat quietly out of the way and watched and listened until he heard talk of men with rifles to trade. Then he sought them out, promising to trade them horses for the guns his warriors needed for hunting. He should have known the wasichu could not be trusted. When had the White Eyes ever kept a promise, a treaty? The Grandfather in Washington had promised that the Paha Sapa would belong to the Lakota so long as the grass grew, but that promise had been broken when Yellow Hair discovered gold in the pine-covered mountain country of the sacred Black Hills. Thousands of miners had swarmed into the Hills, scaring off the game, raping the land and the rivers in search of the yellow iron.
Now the betrayal had come again. His honorably stolen horses had been stolen by the whites, and he had been left for dead in a pool of his own blood.
He opened his eyes and stared out the window. He had to get out of here, had to get back to his people. They were waiting for him, trusting him, and he had let them down. He groaned low in his throat, discouraged by his failure. His people were waiting for him to return, and he was—where?
He went suddenly still when he heard sounds outside the cabin. Heavy footsteps, a white man's booted heels. And a lighter tread that he could not immediately place. Voices that seemed faintly familiar.
There was a rush of cool air as someone opened the door, and he saw two figures silhouetted in the doorway.
He closed his eyes and waited.
"Randy," Kaylee said, "light the lamp. I can't see a thing."
There was the sudden smell of sulfur as Randy struck a match, and then the room filled with light.
Randy set the lamp on an overturned crate. "Is he still alive?"
"Yes." Kaylee breathed a sigh of relief, though why she was so concerned about the Indian's survival, she couldn't say. Perhaps it was just a feeling of responsibility because she had found him. Or maybe it was the same instinct that made her carry home the small birds and animals she sometimes found, some deep inner need to comfort anything that was hurting. Or maybe it was just heredity. Her mother was a natural-born healer.
She studied the Indian's profile as she laid out the bandages and medicine she had brought from home. It was a very masculine face, starkly handsome with high cheekbones, a strong jaw, a straight nose. His brow was damp with perspiration. She drew back the blanket so she could check his wounds, her gaze moving over him in frank feminine appreciation. Such a broad chest, tapering to narrow hips and long, long legs.
Randy took up a position near the hearth and ostentatiously loosened his big Colt in its holster.
With an impatient shake of her head, Kaylee turned back to the task at hand. The Indian seemed to be unconscious. Surely no threat in his present condition, she thought. Lifting the lid on the basket she had brought from home, she rummaged around inside until she found what she wanted.
The wound in his side was the worst. After removing the blood-soaked bandage, she poured water from a canteen into a bowl, added a small amount of carbolic acid, and washed the wound and the surrounding area as carefully as she could. Patting it dry, she made a compress, soaked it with carbolic, and placed it over the wound. She tied it securely in place with a length of clean cloth.
She frowned when she saw fresh bloodstains on the bandage around his shoulder. Had he been thrashing around in his sleep?
"Randy, untie him."
"Why?"
"I need to examine his arm and shoulder."
With an irritated sigh, Randy loosed the Indian's wrists, then stood hip-shot near the foot of the bed, one hand resting on his gun butt.
Kaylee shook her head. "Honestly, Randy, what do you think he's going to do? Jump up and scalp us? He's lucky to be alive."
"I'm not taking any chances. I've never met a redskin yet that you could trust." He jerked his chin in the Indian's direction. "You just fix him up. Don't worry about me."
"Just how many 'redskins' have you met?" Kaylee asked, growing more exasperated by the minute.
"Never mind." A dull flush crept up his neck and into his cheeks.
Randy had wanted to join the Army to fight Indians, but his father was in poor health and his mother had begged him not to go. Knowing that his mother needed his help to run the ranch, he had stayed home.
"Just do what you have to do," he said gruffly, "and let's get out of here."
Well, that was good advice, Kaylee realized. If she got caught sneaking into the house at this time of night, she would have a lot of explaining to do.
Removing the bandage from the Indian's shoulder, she tossed the bloody cloth into the bucket.
"That used to be one of my favorite shirts," Randy muttered.
"I'm sorry, Randy, truly. I'll make you a new one."
"Forget it," he said with a lopsided grin. "I've seen your needlework. I can do better myself."
She made a face at him, then smiled and turned her attention back to her patient, glad to see Randy's good mood had been restored. She treated the wound in the Indian's shoulder the same way she had treated the injury to his side, glad that she wasn't squeamish about the sight of blood, the way her stepfather was. She had often wondered why her mother had agreed to marry Shaun Randall. He was a big brute of a man, so unlike Kaylee's father. What had Emma seen in Shaun to convince her to marry him, to leave their pretty little house and their friends in the East and move to the untamed frontier?
Not that Kaylee didn't like the West. She loved its vastness, its endless blue sky that seemed so much bigger and bluer than the sky in the East. She loved the prairie, the hills, the horses, the cattle, the ranch itself. She had taken readily to life on the frontier. She was more at home in a shirt and a pair of pants than in frilly dresses and petticoats, preferred riding roundup with cowhands to sewing and cooking. She helped with the branding and the calving and loved it all. But she had never developed any love for her stepfather. He was a hard man, one who had wanted a son to carry on his name. Three times her mother had endured the pains of childbirth. Three times Emma had borne sons. Three times the infants had been stillborn. Now her parents slept in separate rooms.
When she finished bandaging the wound in the Indian's shoulder, she removed her kerchief from the wound in his right arm. It was the least serious of his injuries, but, wary of infection, she treated it as carefully as she had his other wounds, then wrapped it in a strip of clean cloth.
She thrust the thoughts of her mother and stepfather to the back of her mind as she poured water from the canteen into a tin cup and stirred in one of her mother's headache powders. Sitting on the edge of the cot, she lifted the Indian's head, held the cup to his lips, and dribbled some of the liquid into his mouth. She was pleased when he swallowed it.
Slowly, his eyelids fluttered open. Dark eyes, filled with pain and distrust.
He stared at her for a long moment.
Then he drank again, thirstily. When it was empty, she refilled it. "Drink it slowly," she cautioned, wondering if he could understand her words.
Perhaps not, because he drained the cup, sighed, and closed his eyes.
She lowered his head to the pillow and wiped the perspiration from his brow with a cloth. She let out a shriek when his hand closed tightly over her wrist.
"Turn her loose!" Randy's gun was in his hand, hammer rocked back to full cock. "Turn her loose or I'll put a hole through you that even she won't be able to fix."
Kaylee stared at the Indian's face, her heart pounding, her insides fluttering wildly as if a million hummingbirds were beating their wings inside her chest. The Indian's grip was like iron, every muscle in his arm taut and clearly defined.
"We're trying to help you." She spoke slowly and distinctly, still wondering if he even understood what she was saying.
"Turn her loose!" Randy repeated curtly. "Now!"
The Indian's gaze held Randy's, his eyes filled with implacable hatred. Then, slowly, he released Kaylee's arm.
She stood up and moved away from the cot, rubbing her wrist.
"Tie him back up, Kay."
She didn't want to get near the Indian again, but she did as Randy said. She could see the wisdom of tying the Indian up now. Like a wild animal, he struck out at what he didn't understand. Still, she wished it wasn't necessary.
The Indian watched her intently as she tied his hand to the cot. There was no hatred in his eyes when he looked at her, no censure of any kind, only a quiet understanding that disturbed her on a level she couldn't comprehend.
Randy checked the ropes when she was through. "Let's go."
"Wait. I brought him something to eat."
"Dammit, Kay, he'd as soon cut your throat as look at you. Don't you know that? They can't be trusted, none of them. They're nothing but savages."
"Go on home, if you want. I'm not leaving until he's had something to eat."
"Damn stubborn woman," Randy muttered. "I'll wait for you outside." He stopped at the door, turned, and shook his finger at her. "Mark my words, Kaylee Marie. No good will come of this day. No damn good at all." He sent a last withering glance at the Indian, then left the shack.
Lifting another canteen from the basket, Kaylee poured some broth into a cup. She hesitated a moment, afraid to get too close to the Indian even though his hands were again securely tied. He met her look with fathomless black eyes, his expression closed to her. She wondered what he was thinking. He wasn't afraid. Not of Randy, and certainly not of her. She was sure of that.
"It's beef broth," she said. "Do you want some? You must be hungry."
He didn't answer, just continued to stare at her. She had the feeling that even if he were starving to death, he wouldn't admit it. Even if he couldn't understand her words, he must know that she was trying to help him.
With a sigh, she eased herself gingerly onto the very edge of the cot and silently offered him the cup. He stared at her for another long moment, then lifted his head and took a swallow, and then another, and another.
She refilled the cup twice before he sank back and closed his eyes.
She studied him carefully, her gaze lingering on his face. His lashes were short and stubby and thick. He was a handsome man. Even as the thought crossed her mind, she knew it was wrong to think so. He was the enemy. As soon as he was strong enough to travel, she would turn him loose, and he would be gone from her life.
The thought saddened her more than it should have.