Arizona Gold (7 page)

“I’ll do the rest,” he said suddenly, taking the bowl away from her to pour the contents into the water. “Now get me a towel.”

She glanced around but did not see anything that even remotely resembled a towel. Actually the tent was sparse. There were no cooking utensils or pottery as in Pale Sky’s. A bow and some arrows were stacked to the side, along with a rifle. Other than a few animal skins piled about and a bearskin rug on the dirt floor, there was nothing.

“There,” he said impatiently and pointed. “The small woven blanket. I dry with it.”

She rushed to obey but, when she returned, he was standing, and her eyes locked on a scar she had not noticed before. It was shaped almost like a star, low on his abdomen.

He took the blanket from her and began to dry himself. Noticing how she was staring at the scar, he said, “I almost died when I got that. I suppose you wish I had.”

“Yes,” she said, matching his sarcasm, “along with all your people.”

He quirked a brow. “Really? My mother, too? I passed by her wickiup when the two of you were talking, and it seemed she was being unnecessarily nice to you. Why would you want her dead?”

“I…I don’t know.” Kitty felt her temples begin to throb. She was so tired, and it was hard to think straight. She should not have made such a terrible remark, because despite the horror stories she had heard about Indians, they could not all be savages. Then there were the children. She had seen them clinging to their mothers as she made her trek to and from the stream, eyes wide with curiosity but shining with innocence, as well. “I’m sorry.”

He continued drying himself, watching her thoughtfully as he did so.

Kitty folded her hands behind her back and stared at the ground. He was only a few feet away, still evoking emotions in her that she did not understand. What was wrong with her? She was his slave. He was her master. And here she was wondering what it would be like if he were to take her in his arms and—

“Go and fetch the
tulapai
from my mother.”

She had no idea what he was talking about but hurried to get whatever it was.

Pale Sky was waiting to give her a clay jug filled with something that reminded her of the way Tormey Rankin smelled the night he had attacked her in the barn. “Whiskey,” she said to herself out loud.

“It is called
tulapai,
” Pale Sky said. “Tomorrow I will show you how it is made. My son is one of the few warriors who can enjoy it without going mad.”

“That’s nice to know,” Kitty quipped. “He’s sure been mad enough at me tonight.”

Pale Sky smiled. “You will learn to please him, as all the slaves before you have done.”

“There are other slaves?” She had not seen any other white people around, but it would be nice to have company in her misery.

“Not anymore. Not since we were taken to the reservation. You are the first in a long time. I pray you will be the last. Now, hurry so my son will not again be mad with you. He likes the
tulapai
to relax him before his visits from the young girls.”

The
young girls
again, Kitty mused as she trudged back to Whitebear’s tent. Only now when she thought of them it annoyed her to feel a twinge of jealousy, and she told herself she was the one going mad—and she’d not had one drop of the
tulapai.
She did not care how many girls or women he had. All she wanted was to escape.

When she reentered the tent, Whitebear was just finishing shaving himself. He had wrapped something around him and between his legs, and, as she stared at it, he said, “It’s called a breechclout. It is what we men wear when we are not hunting or on a war party. Perhaps I can make one for you tomorrow.”

“No, no, I—” Kitty scolded herself for appearing upset, but if he made her wear one of those diaper-looking things it was all over. She was as dead as that bear he was lying on. “Thank you, but I prefer my own clothes.”

“For a time, I guess it’s all right.” He took a long sip from the jug, then gave a satisfied sigh. “Ah, my mother makes the very best.” He held it out to her. “Would you like some? It will make you sleep better.”

“I…I’ll sleep just fine,” she said, once more uneasy as she added, “wherever that might be.”

“You’ll sleep right outside. I might have need of you during the night. Take one of the skins and make your bed. And remember what I said about trying to run away.”

She did not have to be reminded, because there was no way she was going to try to get down out of the mountains till she knew the way. If wild animals didn’t kill her, a fall would—or leave her injured and unable to continue. No, she would just have to endure as best she could until the time was right. But at least Pale Sky was apparently not the cruel sort, and Whitebear would not mistreat her as long as she obeyed him.

The night was dark. There was no moon and not a star in the sky that she could see. The air was humid and smelled as if rain were coming, and she worried what she would do if it did. The only shelters were the tents and wickiups, and if Pale Sky did not invite her to hers, then she would just have to lie there and get soaked.

She found her way to the stream and took her bath quickly, then put her dirty clothes back on. With nothing to cover herself, there was no way she could wash them and leave them to dry. She walked back to the tent, made her bed as Whitebear had directed, and lay down in it.

From somewhere too close for comfort she heard a howl. That, and other strange and unfamiliar noises coming from the woods, reaffirmed her decision not to run away just yet. And she was going to need a weapon when she did. Perhaps Whitebear would eventually take her out hunting with the warriors, and she could watch them with their bows and arrows and learn enough to use one herself. They did not look too terribly hard to make. She could work on it when no one was watching her, and—

She froze to hear voices from inside Whitebear’s tent.

Rising up on an elbow, she heard a girl talking but could not understand what she was saying because she was speaking Apache. Whatever it was, she sounded giggly and happy.

For a few moments, there seemed to be some kind of conversation going on, and the girl kept giggling, shrilly, sometimes. Then things got quiet, but only for a little while. Then the girl was making moaning sounds, and Kitty did not have to understand Apache to know what was going on then.

Yanking the deerskin from beneath her, Kitty wrapped it so she could burrow her ears into it and muffle the sounds.

And all the while she wondered why hearing them filled her with—what? Jealousy? Anger? She told herself she had no right or reason to feel either. Whitebear was nothing to her—except a savage holding her prisoner.

Still, she could not deny that she also thought of him as a man…a very desirable man.

But one she could never have.

Chapter Seven

In the days that followed, Kitty had little difficulty maintaining her ruse. The Indians, who at first had stared at her for the oddity she was in their midst, eventually paid her no mind. She was, after all, the slave of their leader, Whitebear, and he had made it clear that no one other than his mother was to have anything to do with Billy Mingo.

Fortunately for Kitty, Pale Sky seemed glad to take her under her wing. “To help you stay out of trouble,” she said.

But she had no intention of getting into trouble if she could help it, because she did not want to call attention to herself. She reasoned that if she appeared to surrender to her fate, no one would suspect she was champing at the bit to escape as soon as she could figure out how to go about it.

As for Whitebear, Kitty was thankful he had not asked her to bathe him since that first night. The experience of seeing him naked, touching him, had left her shaken.

She tried to avoid him as much as possible, which was not hard, for he kept to himself. He seemed to be brooding over something, and she knew it was probably over not having found Kitty Parrish. No doubt Opal Grimes had promised him a lot of money to get the job done, and since he had failed he could not collect.

Kitty did some brooding over Opal, as well, and it made her all the more determined to escape, so she could find out why the woman had wanted her abducted. But there was little time during the day to think about it, because, like all the Indian women, Pale Sky worked hard, and expected Billy Mingo to do the same.

“I know you probably hate woman’s work,” she said one day as Kitty watched the men ride out of camp to hunt. “But you cannot go with them. You are not a warrior.”

Kitty was pounding dirty clothes on a rock in the stream but paused to look at Whitebear, who rode in front of his men. “Whitebear could take me if he wanted. He’s the leader of the pack, isn’t he?”

“Pack?”

“Like a wolf pack. He’s the leader, true?”

Pale Sky chuckled at the comparison. “Yes, but I’ve never thought of the warriors as wolves, though I can see how a white man would. But why would you want to go? They won’t let you use a gun…if that is what you are thinking,” she added, eyes dark with suspicion.

“No, it’s not that. It’s like you said—I hate women’s work.” Kitty commended herself for quick thinking. She could not let Pale Sky guess her reason for wanting to join the men—to learn the countryside around her so that when she did escape she would know in which direction to go.

“You are not strong enough for men’s work. And he would not want to be bothered with you, anyway. He has other concerns just now and is content to leave you to me.”

Boldly, Kitty asked, “What kind of concerns?”

“None that are yours.”

“Well, I wish he’d consider letting me go. You said yourself I’m not strong enough for men’s work, and I’m not very good at this.” She pounded a warrior’s shirt against a rock, deliberately doing a sloppy job. After all, as a boy, she should not know about things like washing clothes.

“If he let you go, you would tell the pony soldiers about our camp.”

Kitty objected. “I don’t know where I am. How could I tell anyone else?”

“There are ways. You would make sightings on the trip out, and the pony soldiers would learn from them.”

“Then he plans to keep me here forever.”

“I do not know what he will do with you. As I said, he has concerns…worries. For now, he is not thinking of you.”

Kitty knew that for a fact. He ignored her, leaving her completely to his mother.

“He will be leaving soon,” Pale Sky said. “Then it will be my turn to worry.”

“But why? You are well hidden here. The soldiers can’t find you. And you have sentinels everywhere, and—”

“It is not the soldiers that I worry about.” Kitty followed her gaze and saw that she was watching Coyotay as he rode by. He was staring back, but at
her
, not Pale Sky, and she could almost feel the heat of the anger shimmering in his black eyes.

“He hates me for shooting him,” she said quietly. “It is not only that. He is angry because my son took you from him.”

“And you’re worried he will make trouble when Whitebear leaves?” If Pale Sky was concerned, then Kitty knew she should be, too.

“I cannot be sure. He and my son have always been like brothers, but Coyotay was not pleased when the council chose my son leader over him, because he is only half-Apache.

“But that did not matter to the council,” Pale Sky continued. “They chose my son because he has proved he is a great warrior. But when he is away, Coyotay is the leader.”

Kitty felt a stab of apprehension. With Coyotay in charge, she could, indeed, be in danger.

“I will take care of you,” Pale Sky said suddenly, sharply.

Kitty looked at her and thought she saw the glimmer of tears in her eyes.

“You remind me so of my husband, when he was taken captive. He, too, was hardly a man, but he was so full of spirit, despite being mistreated. They even tortured him, because in those days none of our people were civilized, and they hated all white men. But he endured and won their respect…and my heart.”

Kitty dared ask, “What happened to him?”

“He is dead. Killed by one of his own. Come now.” She trailed out of the creek, the hem of her buckskin dress wet and dripping. “We must see to the
tiswin
.”

The tender moment had passed as quickly as it came, and Kitty said, as though disgusted, “You’re teaching me to cook something else? I hate cooking.” Always, she endeavored to maintain her pose of indignation over female tasks, and, so far, it was working.

“It is not food. It is drink. Like the
tulapai
you carry my son every night. But that is gone. And there is no more corn to make it. So I make
tiswin
from the cactus called mescal.

“My son does not mind that the
tulapai
is no more,” Pale Sky continued. “Coyotay and the others drink too much, and it makes them crazy. Besides, we need what corn we have for eating and baking. Food is scarce for us when we have to stay here, in the mountains, and cannot make camp where the land is more fertile, the game more plentiful.”

“How long will you have to hide?” Kitty could not help being curious over the Indians’ plight. Renegades, they fought to keep from being forced back to the reservation. But beyond that, she knew, and understood, nothing else about them.

“Soon we hope to make a new life elsewhere. Until then, we do whatever we must to survive. As you must do also,” she added with a sharp glance.

Kitty nodded.
That
, she understood.

Entering the sweltering wickiup, Pale Sky went to the big kettle that simmered constantly on the fire when she was not making something else. “I have been cooking the heart of the leaf clusters of the mescal,” she explained as she stirred the strange-smelling concoction. “Now it is only pulp, and we will pour it into jugs where it will ripen in a few more days.

“I do not worry about it making my son crazy,” she added with pride. “He knows how much to drink. Others are not as smart. They dance and fight and do bad things with the women, who sometimes also drink it and go just as mad. Sometimes, if it is winter and cold, a few will fall unconscious and lie outside, away from warmth. They get sick and die. But my son does not allow that to happen with his people. He has banned them from drinking it since Coyotay and some of the younger warriors hurt each other fighting. One was killed.”

“So you keep this well hidden from Coyotay?” Kitty wanted to assure herself.

“That is not necessary. Coyotay knows I make it only for my son and that it is forbidden to him. He will not disobey.”

“Let’s hope,” Kitty said under her breath. If Coyotay got drunk without Whitebear around, it could mean big trouble.

And
she
might be the one who wound up getting killed.

“I’m curious about something,” Kitty said. “Why do you always call Whitebear your son and never by his name?”

Pale Sky’s smile was tender. “It is the way of the Apache for a mother to do so.”

Emptying the kettle, Pale Sky had to scurry about and find more jugs, for she had made more of the brew than she had realized.

“Far too much,” she fretted. “I should have tended it better and poured some off, but I was busy with you and now I hate to waste it. Perhaps I should hide it, after all. If Coyotay were to see how much there is, he might be tempted to think he could take some, and it not be missed.”

Kitty was glad Pale Sky had changed her mind, until she saw where she was hiding the jugs—under a bearskin rug. Coyotay would have no trouble finding them, but, as Pale Sky pointed out, it was taboo to enter a woman’s wickiup without being invited. Still that was little comfort to Kitty, for Coyotay seemed the sort who did what he wanted when he took a notion. The more she thought about Whitebear going away for a spell, the more worried she became and the more determined she became to stick close to Pale Sky as much as possible.

As always, Kitty was exhausted by mid-afternoon, but Pale Sky had much she wanted to teach her. “It is time you learned to tan the deerskin. My son will likely bring in another today, so we must work on the one I have had buried.”

Kitty did not understand what she was talking about but quickly found out. Pale Sky had buried a deerskin in moist earth several days earlier. After digging it up, she had soaked it in warm water, then stretched it over a pole, fur side out.

Dried in the sun, it was ready to be worked into a supple material. Pale Sky gave Kitty a clay pot and told her to rub its contents into the skin with her hands.

Kitty sniffed the pot and immediately gagged. “What is this?”

“The brains of the deer. Now, busy yourself, Billy Mingo. I will be watching to see that you do it properly.”

Kitty got down on her hands and knees, fighting nausea as she worked the bloody pulp into the deerskin. After a while, she became used to the odor and could not help but marvel at how the concoction actually did make the skin softer, pliable. She could understand and see why it was necessary, because it made the skin compliant for sewing into clothing.

“You learn quickly, boy.”

Kitty, down on her hands and knees, working hard and fast to get the distasteful job done and over with, had not noticed that the warriors had returned. Nor was she aware that Whitebear was standing watching until he spoke.

She paused for only a second but did not look up, then continued working.

“My mother says you obey her and give her no trouble.”

Still she did not speak.

“She says you want to go hunting with the men.”

Kitty stopped then to peer up at him through the hair stringing down over her face. “Yes. I would. This is”—she made her tone mocking—“women’s work.”

“Which is all you are good for—puny as you are,” he said with a sneer. “But perhaps it will be good for you to see what it is like with the warriors, and then you will be glad to serve my mother.”

“I…I like your mother.” She felt the need to make clear. “She has not been unkind to me.”

“You’re lucky that you remind her of when my father was a slave. You’re also fortunate she is somewhat educated and more civilized than the others.”

“Yes, I realize that.” She went back to working the skin, uncomfortable because he was staring at her so intently.

“I was going to leave in the morning but saw some elk as we were returning just now. I’d like to get one so my mother can be curing the meat while I’m away. I’ll take you with me and clean it where I kill it so I won’t have to bring the whole carcass back.”

She gulped and swallowed. She knew about such things. She had grown up watching pigs slaughtered, cows butchered, and chickens cleaned, but had never done it herself.

“Well, I don’t know how,” she said lamely, looking at her blood-slick hands and wanting to wrap them around Opal Grimes’s throat for getting her into such a mess. “And I don’t know if I can.”

“You can, and you will,” he said sharply. “I think maybe my mother is being too kind to you. She makes you soft. Well, tomorrow, you will get a taste of what it’s like to be a man. And by the time you gut an elk, cut his head off, and haul his meat on your back for a few miles, you won’t look so pale over the sight of blood as you do now.”

Kitty felt anger rising and told herself to calm down. So far, she had managed to hold her temper and had to continue to do so or risk a beating—and she had to keep him from touching her, lest he find out the truth.

She was exhausted, aching from head to toe. It was nearly dark, but she had to keep working the skin until Pale Sky told her to stop. Then there would be supper, and she was starved. Afterward, when everything quieted down, and no one could see, she would go to the creek and wash. Only then could she fall into her miserable bed on the ground and sleep.

“When you finish that, you can prepare my bath. I have blood all over me, and I want hot water.”

In that instant the red Kitty saw before her eyes was not entirely the blood from the brains she was rubbing into the deerskin. The thought of hauling heavy buckets of water from the creek to the stove to Whitebear’s tub was overwhelming. She was not sure she could do it.

Hearing splashing sounds, she turned to see several of the warriors had stripped naked and were running through the creek to rid themselves of blood stains from the hunt. She knew it had nothing to do with cleanliness, for few Apache bathed. It was because of the biting gnats and flies that came after the blood that they wanted to rid themselves of it.

Suddenly, Kitty flashed with rebellion. She was tired, damn it. Her hands were blistered and raw from washing clothes and rubbing deer brains into the hide all afternoon, and just thinking about hauling all those buckets of water to the stove and then to the tub made her back hurt all the worse. Neither did she relish the idea of soap in the broken skin on her fingers.

“I am tired,” she said, teeth clenched and jaw set. “Too tired to haul bucket after bucket of water when you can go splash off with your friends, and—”