Bittner, Rosanne (3 page)

She
gasped when an arrow sang past the side of her face and embedded itself in the
wall behind her. One inch to the left and it would have buried itself in her
eye. "Abel! Abel, where are you!"

"I—I
can't find the bullets!"

"I
told you there
aren't
any! Get out here with that other rifle!"

She
heard it then, the sound of something on the roof. Numb with fear, she couldn't
even feel her hands as she nervously reloaded her own rifle. There was no time
to mourn her father, no time to go into the bedroom and argue with Abel. She
wished she'd known what kind of man he really was when she'd married him, but
the deed was done, and once a woman chose her man, she had to stick by him,
didn't she? That was what she believed. The trouble was, a wife ought to be
able to respect her husband, feel he'd protect her in times of danger.

She
should have stayed in San Antonio, married Les. But how could she let her
father come here alone to fight the dangers and the elements in trying to
rebuild his life? It still hurt to think of Les, leaving his offer of marriage
to come here, but then he in turn had not loved her enough to come along.

She
heard more footsteps above. What were they doing up there? Another arrow sailed
right through the window, and this one had something burning on the end of it.

Fire!
That was what they were doing on the roof! They were setting fire to the cabin!
Fire was her biggest fear, the one thing that still gave her nightmares. The
memory of their lovely little home back in Georgia going up in roaring flames,
her mother and brother still inside, was as vivid today as if it had just
happened. Would she die the same horrible death? She could still hear her mother's
last scream.

"Dear
God, please help me," she prayed. She turned and tried to fire the rifle
again, but it jammed. "Abel!" she screamed at her husband again.
"Abel, they're trying to burn down the house!" There came no reply.
She grabbed up a rug and began beating at the flames that were licking at the
wall where the burning arrow had landed. She managed to beat out the fire, but
things were already getting hazy from the smoke it had created. She heard a crackling
sound above her, and she looked up to see more flames crawling along one
section of the roof.

Anger
began to take over then. Life had been too unfair since the war. It had stolen
her chance at a normal childhood, ruined her father's life. This was not really
the fault of the vicious men outside. This was all because of the war that had
devastated the South and left her once prosperous family broken and homeless.
If they had not had to leave Georgia...

She
searched for something else to use as a weapon, and she grabbed up a butcher
knife still lying on the counter beside the rabbit she'd been cleaning when the
Indians began their raid. The fire on the roof was getting bigger. She couldn't
stay in here much longer. Which was worse? Dying by fire or dying at the hands
of the renegades?

"Abel!"
she screamed again. "My God, what are you doing in there?" She ran
into the bedroom and saw no one. "Abel! Abel, where are you!"

Outside
the outlaws screamed and whooped, their horses thundering closer now as they
circled the cabin. She heard the thud of more arrows hitting the small wooden
house, and she had no doubt they also were flaming arrows. If she didn't get
out soon, she would die the way her mother had. Her choice became obvious.
Maybe, just maybe, there was a chance for survival if she let the men outside
take her off with them. She had no doubt what that would mean, but nothing
terrified her more than fire. Nothing.

She
clenched her jaw against more tears that wanted to come. There was no time for
tears now. There was time only for thinking about how to survive. Pieces of
roof began falling in the outer room. She headed for the bedroom window, and
that was when she heard it, the sound of someone sobbing. It came from under
the bed.

"Abel?"
Still clutching the butcher knife, she bent down and lifted the blanket to see
her husband huddled under the bed, crying. Her stomach actually churned at the
sight. "My God, Abel."

"Don't
go out there, Tess," the man sobbed. "Don't go out there! Kill me.
Just kill me and kill yourself!"

Deep
anger and a stubborn desire to live overwhelmed her. "Abel Carey, you get
out from under there and face this like a man!"

"There's
too many! They'll kill us, Tess. Torture us first!"

"Not
me,
they won't! They want me alive!"

The
look in his eyes told her all she needed to know. He wanted her to go out there
and offer herself up to the enemy. That way, maybe he would live. "Abel,
if we both survive this, I'm divorcing you! You're a sniveling
coward!"
She jerked down the blanket and went to the window, raising it. Before she
could climb out, a near-naked, screaming warrior charged inside, grabbing her
by the hair. Using all her strength, Tess buried her butcher knife into his
side. She was not going to give up without a fight!

Another
warrior came barging in from the curtained doorway, another through the window.
She lashed out, and now everything seemed to be happening in a kind of
unreality, as though she were just having a nightmare. She thought she cut
another, but someone grabbed her arm and yanked the knife away. She heard screaming,
wasn't sure if it was her own. She heard Abel now, also screaming, begging.
Through the smoke that was filling the bedroom, she could see painted,
dark-haired, dark-skinned men dragging Abel out the window. Then she was being
shoved outside.

She
fought as viciously as she could, kicking, scratching, biting. Something hit
her hard on the head, and dizziness and blackness began to engulf her. She was
aware of being thrown to the ground, of her clothes being ripped away. She knew
then what they would do to her, yet strangely she felt nothing. Through blurred
vision she saw their faces, one coming closer now.

"Well,
my pretty, I will see how much you are worth, huh?"

Hands
were clawing at her legs, a man's weight was on top of her.

"I
am Chino. I will make you glad you are with us, no?"

Tess
heard his grunting sounds, heard others talking and laughing, some in a strange
Indian tongue, some in Spanish. Would the one called Chino kill her once he was
through with her? She could still hear Abel screaming. What were they doing to
him?

Through
a haze she saw smoke and flames. Maybe it was her mother she heard screaming.
Her little brother. Yes. They had died in a terrible fire. The war. Maybe this
was still the war. It seemed life had been filled with hardship ever since that
terrible day when she'd lost her precious mother. She had to think about that,
painful as it was. She usually blocked it out of her mind, except when the
horror revisited her, unwanted, in her nightmares. Now she had to deliberately
think about it. That was the only way to bear what the one called Chino was
doing to her now.

Finally
it ended. Someone rolled her over and trussed her wrists behind her back. She
was moved around more, sensed she was being wrapped in a blanket. Someone
picked her up and threw her over a horse. A man mounted the horse, and she
could see one of his bare legs from where her head hung over the side.

Don't
think about what is happening,
she told herself.
Think about
something else.

She
noticed how perfect the beaded-star design was on the toe of his moccasin. How
could someone work beads that perfectly? The fringes on the moccasin were quite
long, hanging a couple of inches longer than the sole of the shoe.

Comanche!
She'd learned enough about them to know this was the type of moccasin they
wore. She remembered a soldier telling her father once about the extra long
fringes of a Comanche moccasin and the unique prints such moccasins left
behind. She thought about how hard it was for her father to have to be cordial
to the Army units who rode through occasionally, but much as he hated to admit
it—and he hated those Yankee uniforms—the fact remained they had felt safer
with Fort Bliss only a day's ride away.

But
that had been no help today. She was alone. Totally alone. How could she avoid
the awful reality of it? She grunted with pain as the horse over which she was
draped took off at a near gallop. Where were they taking her? To their camp, to
rape her again? Maybe the next time they would all take turns. Maybe they would
torture her. She told herself she must not panic. She had to keep her wits
about her, hope to find a way to escape. Dying in Texas backcountry or maybe
down in Mexico was better than being tortured and raped, maybe sold off to some
sadistic person who would make a slave of her. At least alone in the wilds she
would have a chance of survival.

Yes,
that was what she would think about. Escape! Or maybe someone would come along
and see the ruins of her farm, find her father's body and Abel's, and figure
out she'd been taken off. Maybe the Yankee soldiers would find and help her.
She had to cling to any hope she could.

One
thing was sure, she, by-God, was not going to show these men any fear! She
would not cry in front of them. She would spit in their faces when she got the
chance! She was Theresa McDowell Carey! She'd been through the Civil War, the
loss of her mother and brother, a complete change in her style of living. She
had gone from the moderate wealth of a family who lived on a prosperous farm in
the gentle South, to struggling for survival on a ranch in the wild, rugged
country of west Texas. She had fought Indians before this and helped run them
off. This time it didn't work, and she had seen her father murdered. There was
no doubt in her mind that Abel was dead, too. For some reason she had been
spared, and she would use that to her advantage. She would damn well get
herself out of this mess! No one was going to make Theresa Carey cringe and
beg! The memory of Abel cowering under the bed only made her more determined
never to behave that way herself.

She
would start by concentrating on anything that took her away from the horror of
her situation. She would start with that moccasin, that pretty, perfect star
design. Such a contrast it was to the brutal savage who wore it.

"Hey,
look there, Hawk. Somebody's been burned out."

John
was already studying the scene below, the smoldering ruins of what appeared to
have been a house and outbuildings, broken-down fences, a buckboard wagon, also
partially burned. A troop of soldiers was milling about, two of them digging a
grave, one farther off bent over. It looked to John as though he was vomiting.

"Comancheros,
maybe?" Ken commented.

"Most
likely. That's mostly who's responsible for the raiding in these parts. About
the only Comanche running free are those with Quanah Parker, and lately he's
been trying to show how civilized he can be, putting on a show of being a
leader and a diplomat."

"The
Apache are up at Bosque Redondo or over in Indian Territory," Ken said,
"and the Comanche haven't been doing any raiding in these parts for a long
time."

John
lit a thin cigar. "Let's go down and have a look before we report
in."

Ken
got his horse in motion. "You're just puttin' off havin' to tell Captain
Booth you blew up Briggs and his men."

John
grinned, keeping the smoke between his lips. "Booth will understand."

"Long
as you don't mention the real reason you wanted them dead."

John
did not reply. Rape was something that set off his fuse more quickly than any
other crime. He was himself the product of rape, and when he was older, yet
another man had tried to rape his mother. He'd only been fourteen then, but
he'd killed that man. It seemed his heart had been full of hatred and a need to
kill ever since. He figured he could kill his own father if he ever found the
man.

They
made their way toward the burned-out ranch, having already returned the cattle
and horses Briggs had stolen to two ranchers farther east. The cut on John's
lower right side still pained him, and he still got headaches from the lump
he'd taken in the explosion, but he'd decided that one day's rest after the
incident with Briggs was enough. Briggs and his men were buried in one mass
grave, and he and Ken had given away their horses and personal possessions to
the ranchers from whom the livestock had been stolen. There was virtually
nothing left of Briggs and his men now. It was as though they had blown away in
the Texas wind. That was fine with John Hawkins. Good riddance.