Runaway (36 page)

Did it matter? she mocked herself. She was keeping all of her hair!

She had almost fallen asleep when the door creaked open. She bolted up, staring in that direction. Shadows were falling now. Late afternoon had come. For a moment all she could see was a dark-haired giant filling the doorway. She bit her lip, fighting the temptation to shriek out loud.

He
was back. He moved into the room. Behind him
the Indian girl peered at her, then came around the man. She carried a trencher and wooden cup and came to Tara with them. Tara stared blankly at what looked like gruel in the trencher.
“Koonti,”
the girl told her, but the word meant nothing to Tara. “It’s a root. We grind it and use it—for everything. Bread—umm—porridge. It will warm you.”

The half-breed towering in the doorway snapped out something. The girl with the beautiful hazel eyes seemed slightly aggravated with the situation, but it always seemed that she bowed to his commands. He was waiting for her to exit the one-room dwelling, and she turned to do so.

Tara leapt to her feet, thinking herself a fool, yet still frightened enough to show some reckless bravado. “Wait a minute! You can’t just keep me prisoner here! What are you going to do—”

The man interrupted her with a sharp spate of words. The Indian girl answered him, but he cut her off quickly as well. The girl turned back to Tara. “He says that perhaps you should be more worried about McKenzie than you are of him. You will do as you are told while you are with us. You remain in danger here. Yet perhaps there will be greater danger for you later! Elsewhere!”

With that she hastily turned and left. The half-breed spun in the doorway. For a moment his broad shoulders seemed to block out what remained of the fading red light. Then the door closed behind him, and she was cast into shadows and gloom.

In despair she threw herself back upon the pallet, but after a moment she remembered that her thirst was tremendous. She raised the carved wooden cup to her lips, and the water she sipped was sweet and pure. Her stomach growled and she stared at the trencher for a moment, wondering how on earth anyone bound such as
she was could manage to eat from it. She had been supplied with no eating utensils, no fork, no spoon. After a moment she realized that they must sip the gruel-like stuff from the trencher, and in a few more moments she realized she was hungry enough to try it.

To her surprise it wasn’t terrible. It seemed, oddly enough, to be flavored with pumpkin and honey. The texture was stringy, but she tried to ignore that, and she managed to eat most of it before gagging over a swallow and determining that she had had enough. She paced again, very much aware that soon, except for the faint light from the dying fire, she would be in total darkness.

She sat upon her pallet again, staring at the door. She could hear nothing. She inhaled raggedly, on something like a sob, trying to keep from remembering the vivid description she had heard of the Dade massacre. They had said that they would not hurt her. McKenzie might, but they wouldn’t. Was it the truth?
But she remained a prisoner here!

Eventually she lay down. The cabin was surprisingly warm; the air seemed clean and sweet. The bed of furs was far more comfortable than she might have imagined. She closed her eyes.

Seconds—hours?—later she awoke. She could hear giggling very near her.

In a wild panic she bolted up. She was ready to fight again.

But in the very dim firelight she saw the dark eyes of two children, the younger perhaps three, the older about five. Seeing that she was awake, the little one scurried behind her sister, but then peeked out at Tara again with a big smile. She was a beautiful child, with fine features, almond-colored and -shaped eyes, flashing white teeth, and soft copper skin.

“Hello,” Tara said.

They grinned and giggled again.

“Who are you?” Tara asked the children. Then she groaned. “What do I think I’m doing!” she reproached herself aloud, burying her face in her hands the best she could with the tightening rawhide. “They’ll not answer me …!”

“Hello,” came a soft reply.

Stunned, Tara looked up again. “Sweet Lord, you speak English! Or were you mimicking me? Did you understand me?”

The little girl started to answer but the door slammed open. He was back again, like a fire-breathing giant, filling the doorway. Tara started to shiver as he chastised the children with a few brief words. They quickly scampered away, the little one following the older one like a shadow.

He came into the room with a menacing step. Tara shrank back against the wall, a scream rising in her throat. A gasp escaped her when he came close and smiled slowly. He lifted his hands, as if showing her that he carried no weapons. Then again he turned and left her.

Again, Tara didn’t know how much time had passed. The fire had burned very low, and she knew it was night. Despite her fear she found herself stretching out on the pallet and drifting again. The day had seemed incredibly exhausting, or perhaps it was the very scope of her fear that had so tired her, she could not be sure.

This time when she slept, she was very rudely awakened. The pretty Indian girl had arrived, carrying a large deerskin and a razor-edged seashell.

“He wants this tonight!” she told Tara in English.

“What?” Tara asked blankly.

“I’ll show you. Pay attention,” the girl said, and she began to work on the skin, rubbing away any little bits of
dried flesh that remained adhering to it, smoothing it out to an almost silken consistency.

“Now you. I don’t dare do more.”

“Me! Oh, no, I am not working for these wretches who are keeping me prisoner and planning on wearing my scalp!”

“No one will wear your scalp,” the girl said impatiently, thrusting the shell into her still-bound hands. “But you must work. Everyone works here. In the best of times we all work, or we starve.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then you will be sorry, because he will come after you. A woman must have some use.”

Tara wasn’t exactly sure what those words meant, but neither was she sure she wanted to find out. She lifted her wrists. “Will you untie me?” she demanded.

“You don’t need to be untied,” the girl said curtly, and left.

For long moments after the door had closed, Tara sat in the dark cabin. She swore out loud that she wasn’t going to do it; then, with a sigh, she clamped her lips together and started working on the skin the way the Indian girl had shown her. She wasn’t as nimble with her fingers, but neither was she incapable. She wasn’t sure when it was that she discovered herself giving the job her complete attention—perhaps when she realized that it would be much easier if she were untied.

She suddenly felt like a complete fool. She had the razor-sharp shell in her hands, all she had to do was slit the thongs that bound her wrists. She began to apply to that task her most earnest efforts, but it was the most difficult thing she had attempted, trying to twist her fingers to work the shell against the rawhide at her wrists. Her fingers cramped; sweat broke out on her brow.

Then, just when she about had it snapped, the door burst open. She tried to turn the shell quickly back to the deerskin, but it was too late. The frayed edge of her leather leash lay dangling from the support beam, and naturally, it was the half-breed who had burst his way back into the cabin. She screamed as she found herself wrenched to her feet, her wrists held tightly together. His eyes met hers in the darkness and he shook his head, greatly aggravated. He called out something and the Indian girl returned. She listened to his harsh words and met his eyes, then quickly scooped up the hide and the scraping shell, departing the cabin. Tara resisted anew, trying to struggle free while the Indian retied her wrists with a fresh strip of leather. She kicked him squarely in the shin, then cowered as he lashed out at her angrily with more words, his hand starting to rise. He seemed to check himself, a twisted smile curved into his lips, and shook his head. He didn’t touch her but completed his task, binding her once again to the beam.

A second later the girl was back. This time she had brought a large mortar and pestle and some curious stringy stuff in another bowl.

“Koonti,”
the warrior said. He was going to say more, but he broke off, allowing the girl to give instructions again.

“You will grind it to fine powder for baking,” the girl said.

Tara stood very tall and shook her head.

“He said you will do it—he has been ordered that you must work, or pay the price.”

“I’m a prisoner here, and I will not be put to work!” she insisted.

The girl looked to the warrior, as if she might have told him what Tara’s response would be. He spoke to her quickly, and it seemed the Indian girl gnashed down on
her teeth, but she obediently translated his words to English.

“It is not his order. It comes from someone with higher authority over you. And you are warned that you must be cooperative, or else—or else discover that you are asked to do things you find even more … difficult.”

Once again Tara felt her determination to fight wavering. Grinding
koonti
root just might be better than whatever else they had in mind for her.

She sat down, staring furiously at the both of them.

“May you all rot in a very special heathen’s hell!” she spat out. It was even harder to try to use the primitive mortar and pestle with her wrists tied than it had been to use the shell.

Apparently satisfied after a moment, the half-breed left again, the girl following swiftly behind.

Tara’s eyes began to burn with tears. She wondered what time it was. Late! Two or three in the morning, she thought. And she was so damned tired. Dead. No! She wasn’t dead, dead was what she would be if …

They had said they wouldn’t hurt her!

But she was hurting. She was exhausted. Her hand suddenly cramped so badly that she cried out with the pain of it, then drew blood biting down upon her lower lip, not wanting the Indians to hear her. She tried to start working again. The fire in the room had all but burned out. She was cold, as well as exhausted and cramped.

The next time a pain struck in the center of her hand, she let her fingers curl around the stone mortar and tossed it hard across the room. Ground
koonti
spewed everywhere. “I won’t do it, I just won’t do it!” she cried out loud.

She was sorry, for the door opened again. She leapt to
her feet, wary, as the Indian girl came upon her. Her eyes fell over the strewn
koonti
and the upturned bowl.

“Now you’ve done it!” the girl said, and to Tara’s surprise she came into the cabin, sweeping up the bowl, trying to gather together the
koonti
root.

But the warrior suddenly burst into the room behind her. He looked from the girl, to the
koonti
, and then to Tara. He snapped out something and turned and left. The girl remained on the floor for a moment, her head bent. She looked up at Tara.

“Now you must come with me.”

Tara shook her head. “No.”

“You must come with me, or they will simply send others for you.”

“I will not come willingly.”

The girl stood with a weary, unhappy sigh. She walked to the doorway, stepped out, and started to yell for someone.

“Wait!” Tara said. She lifted her chin. “Where am I going?”

“To the small cabin.”

“The small cabin? Why? What small cabin?”

“This is my home,” she said softly. “You will not sleep here, not tonight.”

“Then …?”

“You are to sleep in the small cabin!” the girl said with just a bit of exasperation.

“Please!” Tara whispered suddenly. “Don’t let them—” She broke off.
Don’t let them what?
she wondered herself. The children slept here, she would not. Was she just being taken to a different prison?

What did they have planned for her?

Did it matter? Had she any choices here? If she tried to run, others were waiting. Warriors were waiting. A multitude of them. Well-honed men who would drag her
wherever they wanted to take her. Who could so very easily overpower her, slice her throat …

She had to fight them. If she was going to die, she was not going to do so meekly.

And yet the girl had said that she was just going to a different cabin. Maybe there was a time to fight—and a time for quiet dignity as well.

Tara exhaled slowly, standing still as the Indian girl came to the leather leash and quickly slit it with a long-bladed knife she kept in a pocket of her skirt. She wrapped the end of the leather thong around her wrist. “Come.”

Tara followed the girl, her heart barely seeming to beat as they exited the cabin.

A fire was still burning in the center of the yard. Late as it was, there were a number of men seated in council around it. Lances and rifles were stuck in the ground at their sides. They passed a gourd of some drink, swallowing from it.

Watching her.

The Indian girl paid them no heed as she led Tara around the circle, toward a copse of trees and a cabin that stood a ways off. As she walked, Tara could feel the men watching her. They were dressed in a number of fashions, some in white men’s trousers, some in breechcloths and heavy leggings. Some wore cotton shirts with lines of distinctly designed colors, while a few were shirtless, their bronze flesh darkened by the dance of the central fire that rose high in the midst of them.

Some wore painted faces and caps or headbands that held brightly colored feathers. Silver jewelry adorned their necks, wrists, and headdresses.

They watched, betraying no emotion. The fire rose to join with the moon and stars and cast down a strange gold glowing light into the night.

Tara squared her shoulders, determined not to look back at the men as the girl walked her by them.

Yet strangely, as they left the warmth of the fire and headed toward the smaller cabin in the copse, she felt increasingly afraid.

A light burned within the cabin; she could see the glow of it filtering out through narrow windows and slits within the log structure. Again, a chimney opening to the night sky toward the rear of the structure. A trail of gray smoke rose above it, disappearing into the velvet of the sky.