Authors: Madeline Baker
The image of Lacey living in High Yellow Cloud’s lodge and
sharing the warrior’s bed darted across Matt’s mind, bringing a sense of utter
rage. From somewhere deep inside himself, Matt summoned the strength to break
free of the warrior’s hold. Rolling away from High Yellow Cloud, he scrambled
to his feet.
High Yellow Cloud stood up, a satisfied smile on his face as
he observed the wounds he had inflicted on his enemy.
“Now you will die, white man,” the warrior crowed, “and your
woman will be mine. But do not worry. I will keep her too busy to mourn your
death.”
“Matt,” Lacey whispered brokenly. “Oh, God, Matt.”
Slowly, deliberately, High Yellow Cloud advanced toward the
white man. The fight would soon be over, and the white woman would be his. She
would give him sons, he thought smugly, many fine sons.
With a triumphant cry, the warrior lunged forward, his blade
driving toward Matt’s heart. Matt held his ground, and Lacey screamed in
despair as the Apache’s blade plunged toward his chest. At the last possible
moment, Matt pivoted sideways to avoid the warrior’s thrust, and as he did so,
he drove his knife into High Yellow Cloud’s back, piercing the Apache’s heart.
The warrior’s momentum carried him forward for several feet before he fell face
down in the dirt, his knife still clutched in his fist. A long shudder racked
the Indian’s body, and then he lay still, his dark eyes staring sightlessly at
the ground.
Lacey ran to Matt, her arm circling his waist as he slowly
sank to his knees.
“Matt, oh, God, Matt, don’t die. Please don’t die.”
“I’m not gonna die, Lacey,” Matt mumbled. “Not yet.”
She was crying now, her tears staining her cheeks as she
used Matt’s knife to cut her skirt into strips for bandages.
“Dirt,” Matt gasped. “Use dirt…to stop the bleeding.”
“Dirt?” Lacey repeated, appalled at the idea.
“Do it.”
Certain she was doing the wrong thing, Lacey took handfuls
of dirt and patted it over her husband’s wounds. Miraculously, the bleeding
stopped.
“Old Indian remedy,” Matt rasped.
Lacey nodded as she wrapped a strip of cloth around Matt’s
midsection.
“Lacey…go get our horses.”
“Horses? What for?”
“We’ve got to get out of here.”
“No. You need help, and you need it now.”
“Trouble,” Matt mumbled.
Lacey nodded. There would indeed be trouble when High Yellow
Cloud’s death was discovered, but right now Matt needed help. Her stomach
churned as she recalled the amount of blood he had lost. How much blood could a
man lose and still live?
“Rest,” Lacey said. “I’m going for help.”
Matt nodded weakly, and Lacey pulled her tunic over her head
and ran back toward the village and her father’s lodge. Royce Montana listened
gravely as Lacey told him what had happened.
“There’s going to be trouble, all right,” he muttered. But
they couldn’t worry about that now. Catching up his horse, he followed Lacey to
the river. Matt groaned as Royce lifted him onto the back of his horse.
“You’d better ride up here behind him,” Lacey’s father
advised her. “He’s liable to pass out and fall off.”
The journey back to the village seemed to take forever.
Lacey held onto Matt, knowing that each step the horse took was causing him
pain. Blood oozed from his side and lay warm and sticky against her arm. Matt’s
blood. It was all she could do to keep from vomiting.
Blue Willow did not waste time asking questions when Royce
carried Matt into their lodge. She quickly sent her husband after the medicine
man, and while they waited for the shaman to arrive, she began to wash the dirt
and blood from Matt’s side. He flinched each time the Indian woman touched him,
and Lacey flinched, too, her heart aching to see him in such pain. He might
have been killed, and it would have been all her fault.
The medicine man entered the lodge on quiet feet. He was a
short, stocky man with long gray braids and a weathered face that bespoke many
years of hard living, yet his deep-set black eyes were kind. He knelt beside
Matt, his hands moving lightly over Matt’s wounds, and then he laid out several
small pouches which contained the various herbs and poultices he used for
healing.
Lacey stood beside her father, helplessly wringing her
hands, as the shaman began to chant softly. He ground several leaves together
in a shallow bowl, added a small amount of water, and mixed the concoction
until it was a pasty yellow, and then he smeared the sticky salve over the
wounds in Matt’s side and arm. All the while he chanted softly, the words
melodic and strangely compelling.
When he finished spreading the salve over Matt’s injuries,
he sprinkled sacred pollen into the fire and then, still chanting in an eerie
minor key, he passed his hands over the fire, drawing the smoke toward Matt.
Lacey wanted to scream that pollen and smoke and endless
chanting would not heal her husband. He needed medicine, real medicine.
“I’ve seen old Blue Hawk work some real miracles, Lacey,”
Royce Montana said, squeezing her shoulder sympathetically. “Don’t be fooled
and think Indian medicine men are just a lot of hokum. They’ve lived out here a
long time. Some of those herbs are pretty effective.”
Lacey nodded, but she wasn’t convinced. When Blue Hawk left
the lodge a short time later, Lacey knelt at Matt’s side. He was breathing
heavily; his face and body were damp with sweat. The wound in his side was
deep, so deep. How could she bear it if he died?
Sensing her presence, Matt opened his eyes and smiled
weakly. “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “I’ll be all right.”
Lacey nodded, wanting to believe him, but was so afraid. She
stayed at his bedside constantly, refusing to budge, refusing to sleep. Blue
Hawk returned later that night with more sacred pollen and more chanting. He
applied a foul-smelling poultice to the wound in Matt’s side, nodded to
himself, and left the lodge. Outside, he sat near the doorway, chanting softly
all through the night.
Lacey added her own prayers to those of Blue Hawk,
beseeching the Lord to heal the man she loved. She would never forgive herself
if Matt died. She would never have begged Matt to help her find her father if
she had thought it would cost him his life.
The announcement of High Yellow Cloud’s death stirred a
great controversy within the tribe. His friends and family demanded that the
white man be killed immediately. The shedding of Apache blood by another Apache
was a strict taboo, and the penalty was death or banishment from the tribe.
High Yellow Cloud’s family demanded the death penalty.
Red Knife disagreed. All knew of High Yellow Cloud’s desire
for the white woman. The white man had done right to protect his wife from High
Yellow Cloud’s lust. Indeed, he had almost lost his own life in defending his
woman’s honor.
In the midst of all the turmoil, Lacey remained at Matt’s
side. Two days passed, and Lacey had not been away from Matt’s bedside for more
than a few minutes at a time. Now, late at night, she sat beside him, dozing
fitfully, afraid to sleep for fear she might not hear him if he should awake
and need her. It was after midnight when exhaustion claimed her and she fell into
a deep sleep.
It was quiet, so quiet. Wondering if he had died, Matt
opened his eyes and glanced around the lodge. Lacey was lying beside him, her
head pillowed on her arm. Her face looked drawn and haggard, and there were
dark shadows under her eyes, as though she hadn’t been getting enough sleep.
For a moment he lay still, just looking at her. The pain in
his side was a dull ache that could not be ignored. Life was funny, he mused.
He had spent four years in the Confederate Army and never got a scratch. Now,
in less than a year, he had been wounded more times than he cared to count.
He tried to shift his weight on the hide pallet, and swore
under his breath as the movement intensified the pain in his side.
His muffled oath woke Lacey instantly. “What is it?” she
asked anxiously. “What’s wrong?”
“You look like hell,” Matt rasped.
“Matt—”
“I’m all right, Lacey,” he said reassuringly. “Lie down
beside me and get some sleep.”
Too weary to argue, she stretched out beside him, careful
not to touch him lest she hurt him in some way, but Matt put his arm around her
and drew her close.
“I’ve missed you beside me,” he murmured. His lips brushed
against her cheek, soft and light as a butterfly landing on the petal of a
rose.
“Oh, Matt.”
“Don’t worry, Lacey. Everything’s gonna be all right.”
Lacey nodded, but in her heart she was afraid. High Yellow
Cloud’s death was still causing contention in the Apache camp. There were many
meetings in the days that followed. Lacey’s father was not permitted to attend,
but Red Knife kept them informed. The meetings were to determine Matt’s future.
Each warrior in the tribe was permitted to voice his opinion as to what should
be done with the white man who had killed High Yellow Cloud, and when all the
men had spoken, they would vote.
“It isn’t just up to Lame Bear,” Royce Montana explained to
Lacey. “He’s a chief, but he isn’t the only chief. Each man in the village has
a say in what goes on.”
In the end, it was decided that High Yellow Cloud’s death
should be avenged, and that Matt’s life would be forfeit. He was half Apache
and he had shed the blood of a brother. Had High Yellow Cloud killed Matt, the
penalty would have been the same. Lacey would be permitted to stay with her
father, if that was her wish, or she could leave the village and return to her
own people.
Lacey felt her heart turn to stone as her father recounted
the council’s decision.
“No.” She shook her head, refusing to believe that Matt was
going to die. They had been through so much already. Surely they deserved a
chance at happiness.
“Lacey.” Royce Montana’s voice was soft and sympathetic as
he placed his hand on his daughter’s arm.
“No!” she cried. “He isn’t even well yet.” Her eyes filled
with tears as she looked up at her father, silently pleading with him to make everything
right.
Royce Montana drew a deep breath, then cleared his throat.
“You’re going to have to be strong about this, Lacey,” he said sternly. “If you
try to interfere, you’ll only put your own life in danger. There’s nothing you
can do.”
“He’s right, Lacey,” Matt said. “Do what your father says.”
She was still trying to comprehend the terrible turn of
events when two warriors burst into the lodge and took hold of Matt. Jerking
him to his feet, they dragged him outside.
Lacey started to run after Matt, but her father laid a
restraining hand on her arm.
“No, Lacey.”
“Let me go!”
“You can’t help him now, daughter. Face it.”
“Please, Papa, do something.”
“There’s nothing to be done,” Royce Montana said heavily.
“I’m sorry, honey.”
Matt didn’t resist as the warriors tied him to the tree in
the center of camp. To do so would only anger the Indians further, perhaps
goading them into harming Lacey and her father.
His gaze wandered around the village. How much time did he
have left? What kind of death did they have planned for him? Something quick
and merciful, or something long and lingering and painful? He swallowed hard,
wondering if he had the guts to die like a man, or if he’d go out screaming and
kicking and begging for mercy. How did a man know how much he could take until
he had to face it? It was said the Indians never showed fear or pain in the
presence of an enemy. How did they manage to exert such iron control over their
emotions? Could he do the same?
Matt twisted his head around so he could see his lodge.
Damn. If only he’d been able to make love to Lacey one last time. If only his
side didn’t hurt so damn bad. If only he’d met Lacey in another time, another
place…
* * * * *
Lacey stared into the empty darkness of the lodge, her
cheeks damp with tears, her heart aching. Matt was going to die unless she did
something to help him. Courage had never been her strong suit, and now, when
she needed it more than ever, she could feel it ebbing away. Somehow she had to
free Matt, even if in so doing she would be risking her own life. It was a
frightening thought. And yet, what else could she do? She could not sit quietly
by and watch while Matt was killed. She simply could not. Nor could she ask her
father for help. Royce Montana would try to stop her, of that she had no doubt.
At any rate, her father had made a good life for himself here with the Apache.
She could not ask him to jeopardize that, could not put his life in danger,
too.
Rising, she made her way to the lodge flap and peered
cautiously outside. The camp was dark and quiet. A lone warrior sat near a
small fire, guarding Matt. The Indian seemed to be dozing. She would never have
a better chance.
She quickly gathered their belongings and stuffed them into
one of Matt’s saddlebags. Picking up one of the rocks that shaped the firepit,
she took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and then stepped outside. Carefully
she made her way toward the warrior, the rock clutched in her fist, her heart
pounding so loud she was certain it would wake the whole camp. Quietly, step by
wary step, she crept up on the warrior.
Matt woke abruptly, unaware of what had roused him. Lifting
his head, he saw Lacey stealing toward the warrior on guard, a rock in one
hand, his saddlebag in the other. He shook his head vigorously, trying to warn
her away. He had come to terms with his own death, had accepted it because he
knew Lacey would be safe with her father. Now, because of him, she was putting
her own life in jeopardy.
Lacey did not look at Matt. She had eyes only for the
warrior, her whole attention focused on what she was about to do. Her hand was
trembling visibly as she lifted the rock and brought it down on the back of the
Indian’s head. There was a muffled thud as the Apache toppled sideways to the
ground.