Captive Travelers (2 page)

Clara shook her head, and she continued to try to convince Rebecca that Bobby had lied to her. The Indians had a different sense of justice concerning what they considered to be disrespect. Rebecca refused to believe the dark fantasy Clara persisted in telling her.

She escaped in the evenings to gaze out over the waving golden stalks of the farmers’ endless wheat field. Rebecca found the solitude of staring out over the whispering grasses, preferable to Clara’s frightening stories and warnings about the Wehali Indians. It gave her time to let her mind wander to believable reasons for this nightmare. Rebecca could not accept what Clara tried to tell her about the Eagle Tribe, yet she found herself nervously searching the tall stalks and imagining the savages hiding in the wheat.

As more time passed, Rebecca grew bored. There was no sign of the Indians; there was no sign of any visitors to break the monotony. There was only the constant work to accomplish the mundane chores that had to be completed each day. Rebecca began to relax into a routine, feeling safe. The thought of Indians seemed a remote threat, and her anxiety gradually faded with each passing day.

Rebecca considered the possibility that she had been in an accident. She tried to convince herself that, rather than believing in this world at the farm, a tragic misfortune, perhaps leaving her in a coma, explained her situation. She waited for the morning when she woke up in a Kentucky hospital, or maybe even in her room back home.

Every dawn Rebecca awoke to the rooster crowing, and another day of chores with Clara’s constant litany of warnings. Clara said she had known from the moment Rebecca walked up to the farm that the Indians would come for her. Clara was just as certain that she and Henry would not be able to stop the Wehali taking her.

The long days doing chores with Clara had helped Rebecca build up some muscle, and she had dropped several pounds. Still, she did not have the stamina for the grueling long walk behind the horses. She struggled to catch her breath, and her heavy legs quivered with the strain. They balked at the effort of lifting her sore feet, and they ached while she dragged them along the trail.

A violent jerk on the leash cut into Rebecca’s wrists and she winced. She had slowed too much, and the Indian scowled at her. Rebecca stared at the man and forced her legs forward. She hated his cruel, pinched smile, and her gaze dropped to her bound hands. There was still a light dusting of flour on them, and she thought of the farm again.

This morning, Henry left after breakfast to check the wheat. Clara had measured and prepared the dough for Rebecca before leaving for the garden. In the silence of the cabin, Rebecca sighed and kneaded the dough. Her mind wandered to thoughts of home, missing the conveniences. As the sun rose and the house warmed, Rebecca thought about the loss of her simple pleasure of curling up with a good book and a quart of praline vanilla ice cream.
Damn.

Rebecca continued to punch and work the dough, the way that Clara had taught her to. Her arms ached, but it was easier on her back than churning butter. Clara returned and she sat at the table across from Rebecca, chatting and peeling vegetables for the stew. Rebecca watched Clara rise and add another piece of wood to the stove. It was a simple affair, comprised of a small collection of stacked and arranged stones.

Clara had just returned to her seat when a loud crash battered open the door to the cabin. The two women stared at Henry lying sprawled on the floor. Rebecca’s initial surprise and shock turned into panic, and she screamed and backed into the wall. Everything seemed to slow down, and Rebecca just kept screaming while she watched Clara slowly put down her knife. Tears fell down Clara’s cheeks but she did not run to Henry. Rebecca watched him slowly push to his hands and knees, facing the wooden plank floor and panting.

Rebecca’s mind continued to hold things to a syrupy pace that made colors blur… maybe it was her tears… but when the Indians walked into the one room cabin, Clara’s terrifying stories jabbed Rebecca’s mind. They were every bit as savage looking as Clara had described. The sight of them filling the cabin snapped Rebecca back to the normal rhythm of the action around her.

The Indians were tall and remarkably quick. They dressed only in leather fringed leggings, breechclouts, and moccasins. Half naked, their bronzed chests and arms clearly outlined their tight, bulging muscles. All the Indians wore their shining black hair long, straight and hanging to their waists. They remained silent while they gazed around the room in a slow, sweeping motion. Their eyes were so intensely dark that they looked like black glass marbles. The expression they wore was bereft of any emotion, other than an arrogant confidence that was terrifying.

The Indians spread along the wall with the door, blocking the only escape by merely standing against it with their muscled arms folded over their chests. From the corner of her eye, Rebecca saw Clara flinch each time a new man walked in and found his place. When one of the savages entered the room, Rebecca heard Clara gasp in recognition. Clara began to shudder and her hand quivered on the table.

Clara had told Rebecca to be calm if the Indians ever came to the farm. It was a useless warning. Rebecca’s hands were all ready clenching her long dress, her palms sweating with nervous fear and mixing with the flour, forming a paste. Her eyes darted around the one room cabin in panic and she began to tremble.

All but one of the Indians was tall and muscular. The last man to walk in was lean and wiry, with stringy muscles that proved his strength but remained ridged and roped beneath his skin. The savage had a cruel sneer, and he kept staring at Rebecca with cold black eyes that held neither the arrogance nor the confidence of the others.

Clara’s voice was low, and she quivered, “That is Tokala, the Fox. He is not as big or strong as some of them, though he may want to show you off.”

The lean Indian’s demeanor and presentation did not seem to belong with the rest of the group. In her old home, Rebecca would have thought he resembled a gang member, or maybe a junkie. She shrieked when the misfit walked up to her and grabbed her arm.

The rest of the attack was a nightmare blur. Through most of it, Rebecca squeezed her eyes closed and screamed. The brave holding her kept an arm wrapped under her breasts and pulled her tight against his chest. Another Indian bound her wrists with leather strips, locking them together. He knotted a long tether to them and handed it to the man holding her. The savage circled her neck with the leash, and he kept clucking excitedly against her ear. Whenever she struggled, he made a trilling sound and pulled on the strap and cut off her air.

Rebecca kept her eyes closed, and she sobbed and trembled violently at the sound of Clara’s screams. She was pleading with the Indian she had recognized, and Rebecca heard his guttural laugh in reply. A wail escaped Clara’s lips. The sound rolled into a bone-chilling shriek, and Rebecca’s eyes opened at the inhuman sound. She stared in stunned silence at what the Indian had done to Clara’s breast.

Rebecca slipped into petrified shock, neither making a sound nor struggling. Her feet shuffled slowly behind the Indian as she was walked outside. The noose around her neck slackened. She scarcely felt the taut, lean arm wrap around her again, pulling her back and holding her tightly against a bare chest.
God.
Rebecca felt him panting with excitement, digging his thin arm under her breasts and lifting their heavy weight and bouncing them. Rebecca was numb, unable to move or speak.

The farmers were brought out to the yard and Rebecca’s eyes were pulled to Clara. There was a slow moving commotion around her and, mercifully, her eyes drifted from Clara’s agonized face to Henry. He was running between two rows of the savages while they punched and kicked him. The farmer grunted, but he did not plead. He was running to Clara, and his soft brown eyes spilled tears while he tried to reach her.

Tocho continued to grip Clara’s arms, forcing her to watch Henry’s punishment. Tocho had approached Henry in the field, and the farmer lied. He tried his best to convince them that Rebecca was freeborn, and not a traveler. Tocho knew Henry was trying to deceive them, and he knew that Clara had convinced him to lie.

Tocho stared down at the woman. “Sahkyo, if you wish to stay with the farmer, you will not lie to me.” He turned and walked to the other Indians, without waiting for Clara to answer.

After the farmers’ punishment, the Indians mounted their horses. Rebecca was led behind the savages by the leash attached to her wrists. Tokala gripped the other end, pulling the tether tight and yanking her arms out in front of her.

Rebecca turned once, stumbling when the horse jerked her forward. She had one fleeting glimpse of Clara kneeling over Henry’s prone body. The sobbing woman was not even trying to close the bodice of her dress, and Rebecca could see the cornflower blue calico turning maroon from her blood.
Oh god… and poor Henry!
Rebecca watched until she saw him move. At least the farmers had not been killed because of her.

In front of her, Rebecca watched the straight naked backs and flowing black hair of the Indians. The proud bearing of the men escorting Rebecca and her captor made her feel like a helplessly trapped animal. Before they had traveled the length of the wheat field, her wrists were all ready chafing from the leather bindings.

Rebecca roused from her tormenting thoughts and she watched a tumbling web of sagebrush bounce by. They were leaving the trail beside the wheat field, and heading down the dusty path bordered by boulders, scrub brush and patchy grass. Her shock was slowly receding, the numbness leaving, until her mind began to shift back to the frightening aspect of the present.

The first time she was aware of the rip in her bodice was when her jarring steps caused her breasts to sway into view while she trudged behind the horses. They bounced while she struggled to keep up, and the lean Indian guiding her kept turning around and staring at them. Each time he did this, he would lick his lips and give a quick trilling war whoop of victory.

Tokala might not have had the imposing build of the other five Indians, but there was an unmistakable cruelness in his eyes. Rebecca had seen this before in the faces of people who teased and made fun of her. Rather than shining, lustrous hair waving down his broad back like the other savages, Tokala’s hair looked dry and caked with dust.

For the most part, Rebecca’s mind was now consumed with the irrational hope that Henry could somehow manage to save her. Too many changes had occurred in the past few weeks… and Rebecca’s mind was shutting down. It was becoming difficult to reel in memories to distract herself because they all brought her back to the farm; back to Henry and Clara… and back to the Indians.

Rebecca had been far too stunned by the ferocity of her capture to consider the rawhide binding her wrists and all ready cutting into her tender pale skin. She was slowly becoming conscious of the stiff, sawing edges. The women of the Wehali tribe had chewed on the bleached strips tied to her wrists, until the buffalo gut was gummy and flexible enough to hold securely. They wasted no time tanning or oiling the hide to make it soft and pliable.

Although the Indian women may not go on the raids, the constant aggravation of the abrasive lashings assured them that their presence was known to the prisoners. One of the first torments the travelers suffered was the rough leather restraints. Depending on the captive’s infraction, burrs and thorns were occasionally embedded into the strips.

The afternoon wore on, and Rebecca focused solely on trudging behind the Indians’ horses.
Don’t you fall. No, no, no, Rebecca. You just keep on walking, and don’t you fall.
She had given up trying to think of the farm, and she could no longer picture a single fantasy from any of the hundreds of novels she had read. The singsong litany to keep moving ran over and over through her mind.

Rebecca’s fear dulled her mind to a different shocked numbness. Tenuous threads connecting her to her old life or the farm stretched and slowly pulled free. Her thoughts hid in dark corners, peeking out and frightening her until all she could manage was to silently ramble different chants that meant safety.
Lift that foot, or you’ll kick a stone. Keep on walking. You know what happens if you fall, Rebecca. Your dress will tear on the rocks. Walk, Rebecca. Just keep walking, and don’t you dare fall.

Yanked forward by erratic tugs from the leash Tokala kept gripped in his fist, her exhausted body was quivering. Her legs were dead weight, dragging her forward in lurching shuffles. The only thought she could comprehend was being petrified of falling and having the cruel man drag her behind his horse.

Occasionally, the savages would talk their Indian language. Clara had assured her that they could all speak English but they preferred not to when they were speaking with each other. She said it made them superior to be able to use the true speech. They never let whites learn it…
only the words we need to know to obey them.
Clara’s voice echoed through Rebecca’s chanting.

They stopped well after dark, and Rebecca was pulled into a small clearing surrounded by boulders. She collapsed in exhaustion, the ripped hem of her dress sliding up and exposing the damage to her feet. Tokala walked over to her and pulled on the leash until she was forced to stand again. Her sluggish movements were robotic, and he jerked on the leash until she faced him.

The sight of his black eyes, inches from her own and ripping through the shock, caused her to shake her head and begin crying, again.
Not real. Oh, god. This can’t be real.
Rebecca trembled and looked at the other men for help. The savages stood, leaning against their horses, amused.

Tokala ran his hand down her side, and Rebecca flinched and tried to pull away from him. Her shriek was muffled by the gag, and he laughed at her fright and continued to paw her. She prayed to return to the shock that had managed to numb her mind and keep her from being so afraid.

He slid his hand over her hip and she screamed. An overwhelming terror washed through her. She felt his fingers grip a fat cheek of her bottom and dig into her flesh. “Ganali,” he stated, in a guttural growl. In the background, Rebecca heard the other Indians laughing. The man clutching her said something Rebecca did not understand to them, and they laughed again.