Climb the Highest Mountain (19 page)

He had chosen the right words for a frightened girl who was in love. She felt flushed and confused, and her heart pounded furiously. “I… I don’t know what to do.”

“You don’t have to know anything. I’ll teach you. And I won’t hurt you, truly. I just… I want to make love to you, Margaret. I want you to be my woman. Don’t you want me to be your man? Don’t you want to make me happy, like your mother makes your father
happy? You’ve told me how much they love each other. We can be like that too. I ought to get your father’s permission before I marry you, and who knows when he’ll be back. I don’t want to wait that long. We can be one now, right now. And when your father comes back, we’ll be married. If he doesn’t get back within a month or so, we’ll just get married anyway.”

“Sam, I… I’ve thought about you … that way. But I felt ashamed of doing so.”

“Ashamed? Why? Don’t you love me?”

“You know I do.”

“Where’s the shame in that? We’ve been together almost every day now for better than six weeks, Margaret. It’s not like we’re strangers anymore. We’re good friends. I want to be more than that. I want to be lovers. You’re so beautiful, Margaret. You drive me crazy.”

He kissed her again, groaning suggestively.

“But, my mother—”

“Don’t worry about your mother. She’s grieving right now, Margaret. Don’t worry her about it. Don’t tell her. You’re a big girl. You can make your own decisions, and you know when you’re in love. Your mother can’t decide that for you.”

He kissed her again; then he reached down and picked her up in his arms, carrying her to his bed. She wanted to protest, tried to think of an argument against it but could not come up with a reasonable one, not when she thought about how much she loved him. It did not enter her mind that he still had not told her he loved her. After all, he had talked of marriage, hadn’t he? He had talked of needing her, of wanting to be her first man and her only man. He had been kind to her, never touching her wrongly all this time. He had stayed beside her through her sister’s last hours and through the funeral. How could she doubt his apparent fidelity
and love, ignore his gentle touches, his warm smile and his true blue eyes?

His hand moved up under her dress and fire leaped through her veins at his touch. She had never been touched this way, had never wanted someone to touch her this way. Yes, she wanted to forget her confusion and sorrow. How she wanted to forget! He touched her gently in that secret place no man had ever touched and she gasped with excited pleasure, her womanly instincts awakened for the first time.

She started to object again, and he cleverly and quickly took his hand away, being careful not to move too quickly and frighten her. Instead he stopped her objections with a kiss as he gently moved the hand over her tender young breasts. She was soon lost in him, for Sam Temple knew how to handle girls and he knew just the right words to use to get the ones who didn’t understand these things to submit. He was going to have a pleasant time of it, he was certain of it, for this one had never known a man. Slowly but surely he worked off her clothes and his own, and he smiled when she kept her eyes closed to his nakedness and tried to curl up to hide her own. In time she was letting him kiss her breasts, letting him touch that secret place that set her body ablaze. Her eyes widened in startled pain when he finally had his way with her and she started to push at him, but it was too late.

“Relax, honey,” he told her, bending down and meeting her lips. “It only hurts the first time, sweet Margaret. It’s all right. You’re going to be my wife, remember?”

Of course. A woman had to suffer these first pains when she gave pleasure to the man she loved. Her mother had explained some of this to her, but she had explained it from the standpoint of husband and wife, explained how beautiful this thing became once the
pain was over. Margaret believed that, but it didn’t help the pain she was feeling now. Perhaps it would feel better if Sam was her husband and she didn’t have to wrestle with pangs of guilt as well as physical pain. Yet she loved him so! She wanted so much to make him happy, to have this special moment, to feel alive and in love and unafraid.

It was soon over and she lay there in his arms, damp with perspiration, curled up against him.

“You all right, honey?” he asked her.

“I think so.”

He patted her bottom and hugged her close. “It’s always that way. You’ll get over that part of it. Every time we do this from here on, it will get better and better, and you’ll get more pleasure out of it than I get.”

She wondered for a moment how he knew it was always this way. How many other young girls had he done this to? She brushed away the thought. He was too kind, too true. This was her Sam.

“We … we shouldn’t do this too much, Sam, not before we get married.”

He moved a hand over her flat belly, then bent down to kiss it, and she felt a flutter of desire again. His lips moved to her breasts, then her lips. “I don’t think I can keep from doing this as often as we’re together, but don’t worry about that. We know we’re getting married, so what does it matter?” He kissed her gently. “You were wonderful, Margaret. I never felt like that before. You’ll make a hell of a wife.”

“Will I truly?” she asked, her innocent brown eyes searching his own.

“Do I look unhappy?” he asked.

She smiled. “No.”

He kissed her hungrily. “Let’s do it again, honey.”

“But it hurts.”

“All the more reason to do it again. The more we do this early on, the faster the pain will go away.” He moved on top of her, devouring her mouth and refusing to let her voice an objection. She wanted to resist, for she was afraid of the pain, but he was more insistent this time. She suddenly felt a wave of deliberate abuse, as though any concern for her own feelings had suddenly left him, but, loving him, she attributed that to his being a man, to his needs. It was a woman’s duty to fill those needs if she loved her man. She didn’t want to disappoint him, didn’t want him to think she wouldn’t be a good wife. She relaxed more and allowed him his pleasure in spite of the pain, for she did love him so. But she didn’t feel the same warmth from him that second time, and she felt strangely removed from her body, as though there were two Margarets. An intuitive voice deep within her was trying to tell her this was wrong, that there was something untrue about Sam Temple; but she refused to listen to that voice, for the damage had already been done and she loved him. She had to believe the best of him, for he had earned her trust and had said over and over that he would marry her.

The small wagon train headed slowly along the White River, the small band of emigrants from Minnesota making their way toward the Bozeman Trail for they were headed for the Montana gold fields. Wolf’s Blood and the others smiled at the stupidity of these white people, who thought that some Divine grace was going to keep them from harm, as though just being white would save them from the elements and the Indians. But wagon trains meant supplies, and they also meant more settlers moving through Indian
lands. They must be stopped. The war party waited on the ridge until they were spotted; then they laughed at the sight of the wagons quickly forming a circle and at the frantic shouts of the people preparing to defend themselves.

There were at least ten of them, all white, all men, all headed for the gold fields. The miners were the worst of the lot, Wolf’s Blood thought, the most notorious for ignoring treatries and invading Indian lands. Up to now he had only raided soldiers and forts, but this was something new and exciting. He let out a war whoop and joined the others in swooping down the ridge toward the train, his well-earned eagle feathers dancing in the wind at the base of his braids, his rifle in hand and ready to fire. He and the twenty Indians with him, including Swift Arrow, began to circle the wagons, yipping and firing, enjoying the fear in the eyes of the white men.

The Indians danced in and out of the range of fire daringly, sometimes riding behind rocks and dismounting to take better aim. Some shot flaming arrows into the wagon canvases, and soon two wagons were burning, their white tops turning to roaring orange, black smoke billowing high into the sky. It was not long before half of the white men were dead. With so few left to fight, there were now openings through which the warriors could break through the circle.

Wolf’s Blood, high on the thrill of the attack, was enjoying the chance to wreak more revenge on behalf of poor Morning Bird. He charged into the inner circle of wagons. He wanted a scalp today. He wanted to do something different, something to prove there was no white in him. It was then he spotted her, a young girl huddled behind one of the wagon wheels.

The rest of the Indians charged inside the circle and
busied themselves with killing off the rest of the white men and looting the unburned wagons while Wolf’s Blood urged his horse toward the girl, dismounting and walking over to stoop by the wheel and grin at her. Her eyes were wide and frightened, her hands clinging to the spokes to tightly that her knuckles were pure white. She was perhaps eighteen, with reddish hair and green eyes. Wolf’s Blood felt a sudden urge to take the ultimate revenge for being denied the warmth of his own Morning Bird, and he darted beneath the wagon, grabbing the girl about the waist and yanking her away from the wheel, a difficult task for she hung on for dear life. She began to scream so he grabbed her wrists and wrenched her arms behind her back, throwing his weight on top of her so that she could barely move. Then he kissed her, savagely, determined to do this one thing that would forever prove he had none of the gentleness of his own white mother left in him. When his lips left hers, she stared at him with pleading eyes from which tears ran.

“Please don’t hurt me! Let me go!” she begged. “Please!”

He said something to her in the Sioux tongue, making her think he did not understand her language. In response she wriggled fiercely, trying to get away, but he held her tightly, kissing her again, moving his head to keep contact with her lips as she tried to wrench her mouth away from his, feeling his own excitement build as she struggled. Finally his lips moved to her neck.

“God no!” she wept. “Someone help me!” She went suddenly limp and wept pitifully, and much as he had tried to ignore it, the softer side of Wolf’s Blood began to assert it self, making him almost angry. He raised up and looked at her. This could be his mother—or one of
his sisters.

“Katam!”
he swore in the Cheyenne tongue. He raised up slightly, shifting her wrists which he had pinned beneath her into one of his strong hands to free the other. Then he grabbed the bodice of her dress and ripped, partially exposing one breast. She screamed again. He let go of her then, but stayed on top of her pushing on her shoulders. “Stay down!” he warned her. “They must think I abused you! It is important they do not know I let you go!” She stared at him in amazement, surprised at his good English. “I will take you back to camp with me and tell them you are mine. But somehow I will let you escape.”

She tossed her head and started to scream again.

“Shut up!” he ordered. “Do what I tell you and they won’t abuse you or kill you. Do what I tell you! I am trying to help you! It is the only way!”

She stared at him, her chest heaving in frightened pants. As he started to move off her, she bolted away, crawling out from under the wagon and wrenching her foot free of his hand when he tried to grab her. Then she ran, screaming like a maniac, and he cursed her stupidity as he scrambled after her, but it was too late. Another warrior had spotted her. Letting out a war whoop he charged up to her, grabbing her hair as he leaped from his horse and knocked her down. Three more gathered around her, but Swift Arrow held back, not interfering but not participating either. When he saw Wolf’s Blood running toward the men, he started to call out to the boy not to try to stop the warriors for fear of his own life, but there was no time. Wolf’s Blood charged into the men, drawing his Bowie knife, and to Swift Arrow’s surprise, the boy plunged it into the girl’s heart.

There was a moment of complete silence. The four warriors backed off in surprise, staring at Wolf’s
Blood, who knew he was in a bad situation.

“She was mine!” he told them, trying to sound authoritative. “I found her. I chose to kill her. I only want her scalp!” He bent down and deftly cut away part of her scalp, holding up the long hair. “Go and get your own scalps!” He walked boldly away and mounted his horse, tying the fresh scalp into his horse’s mane and riding out to Swift Arrow. Their eyes held, and Wolf’s Blood’s had tears in them. “I tried to stop her from going out,” he told his uncle.

Swift Arrow studied his nephew. “You were going to help her?”

Wolf’s Blood swallowed. “I was going to … use her for my vengeance, but something my mother had said stopped me.”

Swift Arrow smiled with understanding. “There is another side to you that cannot be denied, Wolf’s Blood.”

“I hate it!”

“But you cannot deny it, not fully. Do not feel ashamed. You are a proven warrior, proven in skill and bravery and in your knowledge of the Indian ways. You have suffered the Sun Dance, and you have taken soldier scalps. I will tell you something. I almost took my pleasure with a white woman once, but instead I helped her too. Because she looked like your mother. You see, I do not even have your mother’s blood in me, yet she has influence over me. That shows the power she can have on people.”

Wolf’s Blood gripped the handle of his knife and turned to look back at the dead and bloody body of the young girl. If she hadn’t been so foolish, he could have helped her. But she had run. So he had helped her in the only way he knew how, for he knew what the other men would have done to her. He did not blame them. They, too, had vengeance to exact. They had lost wives and
daughters to needless slaughter, and their blood was hot with anger. But he could not bring himself to watch them violate the frightened girl. He had simply and quickly put her out of her misery. Now he felt ill.

“I wish to be alone,” he told his uncle. He untied the scalp and threw it to the ground and rode away, suddenly longing to have his father to talk to.