Reckless Heart (24 page)

On the way east, before joining up with Hansen’s Tent Show, Clyde and Barney had exhibited him in bars, in schoolhouses, on street corners. Even at a church social. Always for a price, of course.

He had been poked, prodded, mocked, ridiculed, spat upon. And even shot at. Once by an eight-year-old brat with a toy bow and arrow, and once by an enraged father whose son and daughter had recently been killed and scalped by Apaches.

They had been in a little Iowa town at the time. Stewart and McCall had outdone themselves that night and sold tickets to just about every soul in the community. Barney had just started his spiel about Clyde’s unequaled bravery in capturing Two Hawks Flying, the scourge of the West, when one of the men in the front row sprang to his feet and let go a round from a fancy derringer. The bullet plowed a shallow furrow the length of Shadow’s left forearm.

Before the grief-stricken father could adjust his aim for a second shot, Two Hawks Flying whisked McCall’s knife from its sheath and let it fly, and the would-be assassin squealed like a stuck pig as ten inches of solid steel bit deep into his right shoulder.

There was a moment of utter silence, and then all hell broke loose. Women and children screamed. Several men pulled concealed weapons. A matronly lady fainted dead away in the aisle, while another stood up, sobbing hysterically, until her husband slapped her face.

Unleashing a string of profanity, Stewart had hustled Two Hawks Flying out of the room, leaving Barney to handle the uproarious crowd. It had taken a lot of fast talking on McCall’s part to get the audience calmed down again. And a fat bribe to soothe the local law. But for all that, it had taught Stewart and McCall a valuable lesson. Thereafter, they left their weapons off stage, and Stewart took to loading his Peacemakers with blanks, trusting Rudy’s marksmanship to keep the chief in line.

One other incident stood out in Shadow’s mind, and even now just thinking about it sent shivers down his spine. It, too, had taken place before they joined up with the tent show. This time they were in St. Joe, in a saloon. They were just leaving the stage when a high-pitched voice called, “You there! Hey, you in the big hat. Hold on a minute.”

Clyde turned warily toward the bar. Rudy turned at the same time, the ready-cocked Winchester aimed in the general direction of the crowd at the rail.

The speaker displayed upturned hands in a gesture of peace. He was a ruddy-faced individual, duded up in an expensive Eastern-style suit. He held a thick black cigar in his left hand.

“Whoa, now,” he admonished the big Swede. “I ain’t aimin’ to start any trouble.”

“Just what are you aimin’ to start?” Clyde posed, noting the diamond stick pin in the man’s silk cravat and the rings on his fat fingers.

“A friendly wager is all,” the stranger assured him. “I was quite fascinated by your partner’s tale, especially the part about the Indian’s cunning and purported indifference to pain.” He nodded at the bartender as he added, “Charlie, here, says you can whip a redskin to within an inch of his life and he’ll never utter a sound. I say that’s a lot of hogwash.”

“So?”

“So I’ve got a thousand dollars says that there Injun will holler ‘uncle’ just like anybody else when he feels Charlie’s blacksnake dancin’ across his back.”

A thousand dollars! Heads turned. The piano went silent. Rudy smiled greedily. Barney took a firmer hold on Shadow’s arm.

Clyde grinned broadly. “Well, now, Mr…?”

“Smith. Homer Kennsington Smith.”

“Well, Mr. Smith, just how much of a lickin’ do you have in mind?”

“Forty lashes seems fair,” Smith suggested.

“Not to me,” Stewart replied affably. “After all, this here Injun is my livelihood. I can’t take a chance on seeing him killed, or permanently tore up. You understand?”

“To be sure, to be sure. Shall we say thirty?”

“Shall we say fifteen?” Clyde countered, his eyes wandering from Smith’s face to the solid gold watch fob that spanned the fat man’s belly.

“Shall we say twenty?” Smith posed in the same agreeable tone.

“Done!” Stewart said with a grin and held out his hand.

Shadow’s face had remained impassive while the two men haggled over how many strokes would be a fair test of his courage under the lash. Now, as Stewart and Smith shook hands, he felt his stomach knot with dread. Damn Stewart’s greedy black soul to hell! He really meant to go ahead with it.

A rolling gasp moved through the saloon as Charlie the bartender dropped an eight-foot rawhide whip on the bar top. It was a formidable weapon. Even coiled and at rest the thing looked deadly, and Shadow knew a moment of genuine gut-wrenching fear. A whip like that, wielded by an expert, could gently tap the ash from a cigarette, or cut a man’s back to ribbons.

Shadow’s initial panic settled into a hard, cold lump in his belly as he glanced surreptitiously around the room, looking for a way out. Stewart and Smith were discussing the terms of their agreement, trying to decide whether a groan from the Indian would be considered a cry of pain, thereby signaling defeat for Stewart. Rudy was standing beside the swinging doors, the rifle cradled lovingly in the crook of his arm. So the door was out. The side window then, he decided, and twisting out of McCall’s grasp, he sprinted for the open window and freedom.

“Stop him!” Barney screamed, and four men jumped up from their seats and tackled the fleeing warrior.

Shadow struggled briefly, but to no avail. The four men obligingly held him immobile while the last bets were made and the terms of the deal agreed upon. That done, the four men holding Shadow wrestled him outside and spread his arms along the crossbar of the hitch rack in front of the saloon.

Using rope supplied by a couple of cowhands, who had stopped to see what was going on, Barney and Stewart secured Shadow’s wrists to the rough, wooden pole.

Under pretense of checking the ropes, Stewart bent down near Shadow’s head. “Not a sound, Injun, if you value your hide,” Clyde warned ominously. “If I lose this bet, I’ll carve you up an inch at a time.”

Rising, Stewart joined Barney on the sidelines. “Remember, no blows to the face,” Stewart reminded Smith, and the dude nodded as he shook out the whip.

Shadow felt the sweat bead across his brow, felt every muscle in his body grow taut as he waited for the first blow.

The crowd counted out loud. “One…”

It was worse than he expected, and before he recovered from the first stinging kiss of the whip, the second and third were already striking home.

“Four…five…six…”

The force of the last drove the breath from Shadow’s body, searing his flesh like liquid fire.

“Eight…nine…ten…”

His back was a solid sheet of flame. Blood and sweat coursed down his shoulders and back, dripping onto the dusty, sun-baked ground at his feet.

“Eleven.”

“Hold on there!”

Lash in midair, Smith pivoted on his heel, his face an angry frown as he snapped, “Mind your own business!” then added, sheepishly, “Oh, sorry, Padre.”

“What is going on here?” Father Senteno demanded. “Why is this man being flogged?”

“To, uh, settle a bet.”

“A bet!” the priest exclaimed incredulously. “I insist you cut that poor man loose at once. A bet, indeed! I have never heard of anything so barbaric!”

“Sorry, Padre,” Smith replied. “But I’ve got a thousand bucks at stake here, and I don’t aim to quit now.”

“A thousand dollars? Surely a man’s life is worth more than that.”

“A man’s, maybe,” Smith allowed with a crooked grin. “But not a redskin’s.”

“We are all the same in the eyes of God,” Father Senteno said with quiet dignity.

“This is none of your business,” Stewart said, taking his place beside Smith. “This is between Mr. Smith and myself, and I suggest you stand aside. I ain’t never hit a preacher man yet, but if you don’t step aside, you’ll likely be the first.”

The priest was a small man, barely tall enough to reach Stewart’s shoulders, but there was no fear in his face. He swelled up like an enraged rooster, ready to launch an attack if necessary, but before he could make a move, two burly men in bowler hats stepped out of the crowd and strong-armed the indignant priest out of the way.

The ensuing silence warned Shadow that his would-be rescuer had failed, and he sucked in his breath as the whip whistled through the air.

“Twelve…thirteen.”

Breathing was suddenly painful, and his chest heaved with the effort required to draw air into his lungs.

“Fourteen…fifteen…”

Shadow’s legs refused to hold him upright any longer, and he went to his knees. The wood of the hitch rack was cool against his burning cheek as he rested his head on the crossbar and closed his eyes. His throat ached with the strain of holding back any cry of rage and pain that pleaded for release.

It would have been a pleasure to give voice to his agony and see Stewart lose the bet. For a moment he considered it and then put the thought away. Stewart’s threat meant nothing, but the strong, stubborn, arrogant pride of the Cheyenne warrior ran hot in his veins—stronger than his hatred, stronger than his contempt for the growing circle of bystanders, stronger than his fear of Stewart’s retaliation.

He would show them how a Cheyenne warrior withstood pain. He would show them all! And summoning every ounce of his strength, he struggled to his feet, fighting the urge to vomit as the whip seared his flesh like a relentless flame.

“Twenty!”

Smith put his whole arm behind the last blow, and it landed with the sharp crack of a gunshot, gouging a fair-sized hunk of meat out of Shadow’s tortured back. Blood sprayed from the cruel wound, glinting like tiny red jewels in the sun’s harsh glare.

There was a long silence as Smith dropped his arm to his side. The men in the crowd stared at Shadow’s back. A few felt sick to their stomachs. A couple made jokes to cover their embarrassment at participating in such cruelty. Now that the fun was over, they were ashamed.

Turning away, they quickly forgot about their revulsion as bets were paid off and they returned to the saloon.

Smith paid Stewart with a sickly smile. Tossing the whip to the bartender, he stormed into the saloon to mourn his depleted bankroll.

Clyde Stewart was grinning with satisfaction as he cut Shadow free. The Injun’s back was pretty messed up, he mused. Not so bad he would have to stay in bed, or miss the next show, but he’d be sleeping on his belly for some time to come. But what the hell—he was strong and healthy and would soon heal. And in the meantime, they were a thousand dollars richer.

A polite cough drew Stewart’s attention, and he glanced over his shoulder to find the padre standing at his elbow.

“If you’ll permit me, I have some herbs and bandages at the parish house,” Father Senteno offered.

“Forget it, Padre. I’ll take care of him.”

“Yes, you’re doing a good job of that,” the priest retorted with uncharitable sarcasm. “Of course, if infection sets in, you won’t have to care for him much longer.”

Stewart’s brow furrowed as he considered the priest’s words. “Say, Padre, on second thought, maybe I could use a little help.”

Remembering, Shadow sighed. Thanks to the little man’s excellent medical attention, his back had healed beautifully, though he still bore the scars of the whip. Since then, Stewart had treated him pretty decently, all things considered. But that didn’t make captivity any easier to bear.

At last the show was over, and he was alone in the tent, his leg iron securely locked to one of the heavy, iron-rimmed wheels. Stretched out on his back on a pile of straw, he lay motionless, his thoughts bleak. There had to be a way out, he mused bitterly, and if he hadn’t found it yet, it wasn’t for lack of trying.

Again and again he had tried to escape. Of necessity, all his attempts had been made during performances, since that was the only time Rudy wasn’t breathing down the back of his neck, the only time he was free of the restricting leg iron. And even then his hands were shackled and the Swede’s long gun was leveled at his gut, tracking his every move.

Nevertheless, he had made a dozen, ill-fated bids for freedom, gambling that Rudy would not shoot to kill. The first time he’d tried to run, he’d made it out of the tent, only to be apprehended by a policeman who happened to be patrolling the midway at the time. Another night, McCall roped him from the stage. More than once, men in the audience had cheerfully blocked his path.

He had tried again just last week. Would have made it but for some fool dude in a white suit and spats who tripped him just before he made it through the doorway.

Enraged by his repeated attempts to escape, Stewart had threatened to hamstring him the next time he bolted from the stage. But all the threats in the world would not stop him. He would try again and again and again, until he gained his freedom or perished in the attempt.

He scowled into the darkness. He had been Stewart’s meal ticket for the better part of three months, he thought bitterly, though it seemed longer. Much longer.

The sound of someone crawling under the heavy canvas reached his ears. Curious, he swung his head toward the noise and frowned as a young girl slipped under the back of the tent. Dusting off her long blue skirt, she stood still for several moments, letting her eyes adjust to the tent’s gloomy interior.