Dakota Dream (30 page)

"But, sir—"

"That's an order, Private, and on this campaign, orders will not be questioned or disregarded. You will do as you're told, or you will be shot. Understood, Private?"

"Yes, sir."
Jacob snapped off another salute, then wheeled Hammerhead around and headed for one of the supply wagons. Although his mind resented the order, worked at finding a way out of it, his body longed for the relative comfort of a sack of grain. He and Drooping Belly had done a good job of making him look as if he'd been attacked by Indians—too good a job. It seemed as if every muscle in his body had been pulled or pummeled, scraped or torn. And the cut on his arm—his
right
arm, he grumbled to himself—felt as if a thousand bees were driving their stingers into it. Perhaps another day of rest would serve him and the Lakota purpose better than a journey back to the village.

Jacob slid down off the saddle and tied the horse to the back of the wagon. As he climbed and gingerly stretched out among the flour sacks, his thoughts returned to Dominique. She would have to spend another night alone in his tipi. He would have to spend another day hoping Gall had the patience and desire to keep her safe.

Most of all, he would have to pray the other warriors did not become overwhelmed with her golden beauty and force her to succumb to their demands. A white woman, especially one of any beauty, was a great prize, something to be shared among the most deserving of warriors. A woman like Dominique would be a very tempting morsel for even the
most lowly
of his brothers.

Jacob pounded a fist already sore with weeping wounds against the wooden floor of his prison.

Nearly twenty miles to the west, the Hunkpapa village bustled with activity. Buffalo had been sighted earlier in the morning, and now the women were hard at work processing the two bulls killed by their best hunters. Dominique, transferred to a larger tipi at dawn, sat huddled in a corner of her new lodgings, listening to the excited voices, wondering how long she would be left undisturbed and unmolested.

The answer appeared at the flap of her tipi in the form of a squaw who could no longer be called a maiden.
"On your feet, white devil.
We have much work to do."

Dominique glared up at the woman the others called Spotted Feather. "Leave me alone," she snapped, in spite of Jacob's warnings.

"So, the crazy one does have a tongue." Spotted Feather drew a knife from the folds of her dress and stepped inside the tipi.

Bolting to her feet, Dominique backed away from the squaw, threatening,
"
Stay away from me. I mean it
,.
You get away, or I swear, I'll—"

"You'll what, white filth? Fall on your knees and beg me to spare your stupid life? Or is it your plan to fight me?" She leaned her head back and howled with laughter, then sobered and said, "You are no match for me, stupid one. You are no match for a crippled sparrow."

With fright and her temper leading the way, Dominique snapped, "Get out. Get out and leave me alone this instant, you stinking savage."

"
Wi
witko
,"
the Indian raged as she flew at her. "You will die now and then I will boil your tongue for the dogs."

Dominique lunged to one side as the knife arced past her head. Spinning around, she flattened herself against the wall of the tipi, her eyes darting around for an avenue of escape. Spotted Feather circled, standing between her and the flap. She grinned, exposing her square blunt-edged teeth and the yellow gleam in her black eyes. And Dominique read the message. The woman not only meant to kill her—she couldn't wait to do so. Why hadn't she listened better to Jacob? Why hadn't she
believed
him?

Her hands still pressed against the buffalo-skin wall, Dominique edged toward the opening. "Look, I didn't mean a thing I just said, I swear. And really, I don't mind a little honest work. What do you want me to do? Just tell me. Wash the clothes? Cook a little? I'm not too good at sewing."

"Silence."
Spotted Feather gathered a mouthful of spittle and fired it.

Although she raised her hand and ducked, the wad spattered the side of Dominique's head and dampened her fingers. "Ugh," she complained, wiping at her hair and shaking the mess from her hand.

Taking advantage of her victim's disgust and the resulting distraction, Spotted Feather leapt across the short distance and knocked the unguarded woman to the ground. As the pair rolled across the dirt floor, the knife found a mark on its own.

"Ow,” Dominique cried out as the blade scraped the flesh between her ribs. "You stabbed me," she accused, incredulous. "You bloody heathen, you actually stabbed me."

Bent on her objective, Spotted Feather replied with a low
gutteral
laugh,
then
renewed her attack. She grabbed one of Dominique's sloppily plaited braids and jerked it hard, hoping to hear a rewarding crack of the woman's neck. Instead a foot stomped down on her fingers.

"There is no time for fighting," Gall said in a deceptively casual tone. "We are hunted and must do our work quickly and with little confusion. Come, prepare the meat that will fill our bellies and the hides that will keep us warm.''

"Yes, Father." Spotted Feather scrambled to her feet and brushed her hair out of her eyes. "I would ask that the crazy woman help us. We have much to do."

Gall narrowed his gaze, sending a message to the squaw, then said, "She is weak and not much good, but you may use her." His gaze shifted to Dominique, searching her for injuries,
then
he turned to leave. "See that she works, but return her to Redfoot's tipi if she falters. This one could slow us and interfere with our plans."

"I will see that she works quickly."

Satisfied, Gall stepped through the opening. Before Dominique had a chance to react, Spotted Feather grabbed her braids and jerked her to her feet.

"You are fortunate, one who wears a coat of porcupine quills on her tongue. Next time you will not be so lucky." She smiled,
then
slowly licked her lips as she brought the knife between herself and her victim. "Next time, my knife will do more than prick your precious white skin. The next time you dare to speak to me, I will cut out your heart and dance upon it."

Raging inside, Dominique managed to keep her silence and therefore her life. She meekly hung her head and allowed Spotted Feather to drag her outside to a camp filled with activity.

"You will care for the hides," the squaw said as she led her captive through the village to the outskirts. There, four old women toiled over two bloody buffalo hides that were nailed to the ground by a series of pegs. With a none- too-gentle shove, Spotted Feather pushed Dominique to her knees. "These women will show you what to do. Do not move too
slow
or try to leave. You will die if you do either of these things."

Keeping her gaze pinned to the hides, Dominique pressed her lips together and nodded. Then the squaw spoke to the others in their native tongue. Once during this discussion, the women burst into laughter and murmured among themselves, pointing and waving at Dominique. Then Spotted Feather spun on her moccasin and marched off toward the cooking bags, leaving the hide-tanning group to themselves.

An old, especially wrinkled woman grinned, showing off her only front tooth, and tossed Dominique a scraper fashioned from a buffalo horn. Showing her new helper the movements, she began scraping the meat and fat off the hide, urging Dominique to mimic the maneuver.

Swallowing her revulsion, Dominique sat back on her heels and began to scrape the gruesome hide. She rocked as she worked, trying not to inhale the aroma of death and the stench of buffalo hair matted with mud and feces. When she thought her back might break from the exertion, the old woman reached over and snatched away her buffalo-horn tool.

Expelling a heavy sigh of relief, Dominique leaned back and stretched. Then she discovered her retirement was premature. The old woman tapped on her knee, muttering, "Work, Tongue with Many Quills.
Work."
Then she handed her a finishing scraper, this one made of stone, and urged her to continue.

Dominique spent the entire day in this manner, stopping only to nibble on a few strips of jerky and a handful of chokecherries. When evening came, she staggered off to Jacob's tipi and consumed a meal of broiled rabbit and persimmons. Then she collapsed for the night.

The following morning found her jerked from her sleep in much the same manner.

"Get up, Many Quills," Spotted Feather barked through the opening in the tipi, "The hides await you."

In no condition for a repeat of yesterday's battle, Dominique struggled to her feet and followed the woman out into the morning sunlight. Again she was led to the outskirts of camp, and again she was instructed to kneel at the edge of a hide. This time, instead of scraping the hides with tools, however, she was ordered to spread a gelatinous substance on the buffalo skin.

"Get to work," Spotted Feather ordered. "You will rub this mixture into the hide with your hands."

Dominique leaned forward and sniffed. When the foul odor assaulted her nostrils, she forgot her vows and grimaced, blurting out, "What in bloody hell is this stuff?" She instantly regretted the impulsive comment, but when she glanced up at Spotted Feather expecting to receive a blow of some kind, the Indian surprised her with a grin.

"This is good stuff, Tongue with Many Quills. You will like what it does for your white skin." She laughed and pointed. "See the old women? See their pretty hands?"

Dominique looked at the other workers as they held up their gnarled fingers, and gasped. Stretched over the crooked bones was skin dry enough and tough enough to stand on its own.

Laughing, Spotted Feather explained. "Pretty, are they not? You, too, will have such hands after smoothing the hides with this magic we make with cooked brains, liver, and urine."

"Oh." Dominique wrapped her arms around her stomach and leaned away from the hide. She fought the retching, struggled to retain some measure of her pride, but her senses were too offended. She collapsed in the dirt, heaving up the remnants of last night's supper.

In her misery, she could hear the women's mocking laughter, their cruel taunts, but Dominique no longer cared. She wished only to die, to have the ground swallow her and take her to the bowels of hell if necessary. It had to be a better place than this.

"Get up, weak-hearted one." Spotted Feather grabbed a handful of her captive's wool serge dress and pulled her upright.
"Enough of this nonsense.
Work now. Do not stop until the old woman says you can." She released her, and although wobbly, Dominique remained sitting. With another laugh, Spotted Feather went on her way.

Her stomach finally resigned to the sickening odor, Dominique fought tears of despair instead of nausea as she worked into the late afternoon. When the old women released her, she stumbled back through the village, her eyes downcast, her ears barely hearing the taunts and remarks the warriors made as she passed by. No longer caring what they said or thought, she continued on her way.
One particularly randy warrior reached out, tugging at her skirt, and grabbing at his crotch.
Beaten, she paid him no heed and staggered on toward the tipi. Back inside the shelter she walked to the far wall and sank cross-legged onto the rug.

Dominique stayed there in a trancelike state, her eyes glazed, for an hour before her troubled mind slowly directed her back to the present. After reviewing her predicament she let her shoulders slump. Tears pooled in her eyes. Her bottom lip began to quiver uncontrollably. Dominique took a breath that was more of a sob just as the flap to the tipi opened and someone stepped across the entrance.