Sweetwater (40 page)

“You’ve ruined everything!” Holding her hands with one of his, he used the other to slap her hard across the face. “Bitch! Whore! Slut!” The next blow landed on her ear and her head rang as if a bell were inside.

He grabbed Jenny’s dress at the neck and jerked. Buttons popped off. The bodice opened to expose her camisole. In his frenzy to bind her hands, he ripped at the delicate voile, and Jenny felt the cold air sweep across her naked breasts. Panic consumed her. She screamed inside, kicked and tried to buck him off as they fell to the ground. He laughed as if he enjoyed her struggles, and tied her wrists together.

“I should show you what you’re going to get when we get away from here. You ought to be proud that you can get it this hard. Hell! I had to feel up that little Indian brat to get it hard enough to get on the fat cow. But we got no time for that now. He flopped her over and sat on her back facing her feet.

“You bitch! There was a stuck-up bitch like you back in Winona. She looked down her nose at me like you did that day at the school; like you were a queen and I was a dog. I took the starch out of her. I rammed her good. When her belly begin to swell, she jumped into the river.” He snickered.

He continued to talk as he tried to bind her thrashing legs. His weight kept her pinned to the ground. Her skirt was up around her thighs.

“Be still, damn you!” He reared back to look at them, then lowered his head and sank his teeth into the skin above her knee. Severe pain caused her to rear up in spite of his weight and grunts came from her throat. “I’ll not hurt you anymore if you’ll be still. Once we’re away from here, you’ll be glad—”

Dear God, I can’t bear this. What have I done that you’d let this insane man do this to me? Please help me.

Jenny looked up at the trees wavering, swaying and tipping dizzily. She tried to close her mind and think of something dear to her.

Dear, sweet, gentle Trell, so worried about the scar on his face—

She almost strangled on the gag jammed in her mouth and tears welled when she realized how helpless she was, bound hand and foot. Her eyes moved to her tormentor now kneeling beside her, and saw the maniacal smile on his face and the glitter of madness in his eyes. She feared that she would lose her sanity and prayed with a grim, terrible strength of will.

Please God. Help me. Don’t let him do this!

Somewhere from the darkness that began to float down around her came a piercing cry. A crushing weight dropped on her chest. The image that danced before her eyes before she sank into a black pit was of a snarling face, long black hair, a red headband, and the glimmer of a knife.

Whit had noted the disappointed look on the teacher’s face when she saw the children the shaman had sent for her to teach. They were ragged and dirty. This morning, knowing that the Indian women were required only to cook for them, and cared not how unkempt they were, he had taken them to the pond to wash. He carried with him a jug containing a liquid made from larkspur to rid them of lice.

The children protested long and loud when forced into the water. The two older girls, the one called Posy and the other, whose Shoshoni name meant Small Owl, helped Whit with the younger children. Both girls had eyes for Whit and wanted to please him. They wrapped the children in blankets, then combed and braided their hair. Back at the lodge they hung their wet clothes on sticks near the fire and waited for the teacher to come for them.

Whit stood beneath the thick sheltering branches of a spruce tree, wanting to go to the school, but also wanting to wait and go with the children and hear them greet their teacher. When the Indian known as Head-Gone-Bad loped into the camp, he went to meet him with a worried frown. The man was large and old and not very bright. He never ran. He was so out of breath when he reached Whit that he could hardly speak. The few words he managed to say caused Whit to fire a question at him. The Indian nodded his head vigorously and turned back into the woods.

Whit followed, snapping more questions.

Rain came down in earnest, but only a drizzle came through the thick canopy of tree branches. Running swiftly through the woods, Whit dodged trees and jumped deadfalls, putting distance between himself and his Indian friend.
Agent was hurting teacher!
How could it be that the teacher was in the woods with the agent?

He first saw the horse standing patiently, head lowered. Then he saw the couple on the ground. The teacher’s hands and feet were bound, her stockings were down around her ankles, her white thighs exposed. The man was slapping her hard across the face.

With a warrior’s scream of battle, Whit freed his knife from the sash at his waist and ran toward the pair. He sprang onto the agent’s back and grabbed a handful of hair. Alvin collapsed on Jenny, his arms reaching for the boy on his back. With a cry of rage, he bucked, trying to throw the boy off. They rolled. Whit’s back hit the ground, his legs wrapped around the agent’s waist, one hand locked in his hair, the other gripping the knife.

The opportunity came when Alvin lowered his arms to unlock the boy’s legs. The sharp, steel knife slashed a path across his throat so deep it grated against bone. A gush of blood followed and Alvin’s lifeless body became deadweight. Whit rolled out from under it and sprang to his feet. He looked down. The agent’s head was almost severed from his body. Still feeling rage, Whit kicked him viciously in the side and then spit in his face.

He went to Jenny, pulled her skirt down over her legs and untied the scarf that held the gag in her mouth. She lay limp and unmoving. At first he feared that she was dead. He placed an ear over her heart and heard its steady beat. She had swooned. Knowing that white women were embarrassed by their nakedness, he covered her breasts with her torn bodice and quickly cut the bonds on her hands and feet.

Whit felt helpless. He couldn’t leave her to go get the women. Head-Gone-Bad was concerned only for the horse; he stood beside it patting its face. Not knowing what else to do, Whit got behind the teacher, gripped her under the arms and dragged her out from under the tree branches. The cold rain pelted down soaking her hair, her dress, and mixed with the agent’s blood running down Whit’s arms and diluting the blood on his shirt.

Jenny came out of her swoon and was instantly alert. She looked up into the boy’s anxious face.

“Whit? Am … I all right?” Her voice was ragged, her throat dry.

“Yes, teacher.”

“He didn’t … he didn’t—”

“No.”

“Thank God!” She looked fearfully around. “Did he go away?”

“He is dead. I killed him.” The boy spoke as calmly as if telling her he had killed a rattlesnake.

Chapter Twenty-six

“You
killed
him! Oh, Whit!”

Jenny pushed herself to a sitting position and realized her bodice was open. She held it together as she gazed at the boy’s expressionless face.

“How did you know I was here.”

“Head-Gone-Bad come to tell me.”

“What will we do?” She rose, with Whit’s help, avoiding looking at the body on the ground. “You must go!” Her voice rose to a near-hysterical pitch when she realized what this would mean for Whit when it was learned that he had killed the agent. “Give me the knife. I will say that I did it.”

“No! I no hide behind teacher.”

“Please, Whit. They won’t do anything to me when I tell them he was trying to kidnap me.” She grasped the boy’s hand. “You have become very dear to me. I can’t let them … hang you for saving me.”

“You owe nothing. I do same for Moonrock or Posy.”

“I know.”

Jenny began to cry. Tears mingled with rain on her face. Hair was plastered to her cheeks; her wet dress clung to her body. She was so miserable that she didn’t even feel the cold.

Head-Gone-Bad came to talk to Whit. They spoke rapidly in their native tongue. After a minute or two, Whit nodded, and the Indian went to untie Alvin’s horse.

“We know place where agent won’t be found. It is far from here. We put saddle in hole with him. Head-Gone-Bad will take horse to our people in the north. I would go, but if I do that, Sweetwater people think they not find agent because of me.”

Jenny took his hand and held it in both of hers.

“I don’t know how to properly thank you. Havelshell wanted me to go away with him. He wouldn’t have let me live after I refused him.”

“It is done. We will not speak of it.” His set face was beautiful. It showed his proud Indian heritage and maturity beyond his years.

“All right. I want you to come with me to tell Trell what happened. We will tell no one else.”

“I come, but first I go with Head-Gone-Bad.”

Whit stood in the rain and removed his calico shirt. He spread it on the ground while he rubbed his arms and shoulders and chest to rid them of the agent’s blood. He picked up his shirt, wrung it out, and slipped it back over his head.

Head-Gone-Bad brought the horse to within a few feet of Alvin’s body. The animal, smelling blood, danced nervously.

“I want the satchel, Whit. He told me he had papers that would prove Reverend Longfellow was stealing cattle from the reservation.”

“It is true.”

“You knew?”

“Of course. Elders knew but could do nothing because of agent.” He untied the leather bag.

“Something will be done now.” Jenny said firmly and took the satchel from his hand.

Head-Gone-Bad was strong. While Whit held the nervous horse, he lifted the dead body and flung it facedown over the saddle. Whit spoke to his friend, and Head-Gone-Bad led the horse into the dark, rain-soaked forest.

“I show you way back to school, then I get pony and go with Head-Gone-Bad.”

“I can’t go there. The children—”

“They at lodge. No go to school till teacher come for them.”

“I didn’t know … I had to go get them.” Jenny looked at the young boy helplessly, while holding the two halves of her bodice together to cover her breasts. The teacher was suddenly waiting for him to take the lead.

‘Take papers to McCall.” Whit pulled his shirt off over I his head, took the satchel from her hand and handed her the shirt. “Put this on.”

Without hesitation Jenny slipped the shirt on over her head.

“Come.” Whit picked up the leather bag and trotted through the woods toward the school.

Jenny had difficulty keeping him in sight. She was breathless by the time she reached him at the back of the school.

“Wait,” he said, and darted around the corner of the building. He was back a minute later. “I see no one. Go.”

“Whit. You may not like it, but I’ve got to do this—” She put her arms around him and kissed his cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I’ll always love you.”

He stepped away, but not as quickly as she expected. His hand lingered for an instant on her arm.

“Take bag and go. I not be back today.”

He waited as she ran down the path to the homestead and disappeared through the door of the bunkhouse. There was something he didn’t want her to know and worry about … yet.

Sneaking Weasel had been watching while the body of the agent was put on the horse.

Trell appeared to be sleeping when Jenny came into the bunkhouse and closed the door behind her. She thanked God for the rain that kept the girls in the house with Granny. Trell sat up, and alarmed at her appearance, swung legs over the side of the bed.

“What’s wrong? Jenny, honey—”

Jenny dropped the bag at the end of the bed and hurried around to drop on her knees and wrap her arms around Trell’s waist.

“Trell! Oh, Trell!”

“Honey, you’re wet to the bone!”

She sprang back. “I forgot I’m wet!”

“I don’t care!” He pulled her back into his arms. “What’s happened, sweetheart.” He lifted her face with gentle fingers and looked into her eyes. He touched her bruised cheek and the swelling beneath her eye. “What the hell happened? Did someone hit you?”

“I thought I’d never see you again.” She burrowed her face in the curve of his neck.

“Who hurt you?” He grasped her shoulders and held her away from him. “Who hurt you, Jenny? Isn’t that Whit’s shirt?”

Jenny’s teeth began to chatter so badly, either from cold or from nervous reaction, that she couldn’t talk. With her squatting between his knees, Trell pulled Whit’s shirt off over her head. When he saw her torn bodice, he took a deep breath and muttered a string of curses. He pulled the blanket from the bed.

“You’re shaking like a leaf. Get out of those wet clothes. I’ll hold the blanket up, then wrap it around you. Hurry now.”

“It was so awful, Trell. I just wanted to get back here to you.” Her teeth clicked as she spoke from behind the blanket. She first untied and pulled off her shoes, then her wet stockings. Her dress and camisole came next.

“Sweetheart, are you all right? Who hurt you? Tell me!”

“I’m not … hurt, but … I’m not … all right. I never thought … anything like this would … happen to me.”

“Get the other blanket off the cot, honey. Wrap yourself in it and come here.”

Later, wrapped in the blankets and nestled in his arms, Jenny told him everything.

“Oh, God! Honey—” He held her tightly. “This was happening to you while I was lying here in this damn bed! The rotten … son of a bitch! If Whit hadn’t killed him, I would have!”

“I was sure he was going to kill me! Suddenly someone was there. I remember seeing a face, hair and a knife. I didn’t know it was Whit until I came out of my faint. He had taken the gag out of my mouth … and covered me. There was blood on his shirt and arms. He’s just a boy, Trell. He’s just a boy and he’s killed a man, cut his throat to save me.”

“Whit’s more of a man than most I’ve met. Reasonable men would not want him punished for what he did. The trouble is I’m not sure who the reasonable men are here in Sweetwater. And Whit is an Indian. That clouds men’s judgment. It was good that he had someone to help him hide the body.”

“I almost forgot the bag. Mr. Havelshell said he had papers that would prove the preacher was stealing reservation cattle.”

“We’ll get to all of that later. Are you warm, honey?” He spread kisses over her face and smoothed the damp hair back from her forehead. “I don’t want you getting sick.”