Page 12 of Sweet Savage Love

12

S teve Morgan was hunkered back on his heels before an Indian campfire. He was stripped to the waist, and the kerchief he’d worn that morning was bound tightly around his arm, stained with his own blood. He wore a blanket around his shoulders to keep off the night cold, and his face, like those of the Indians who sat around the fire, showed no emotion at all.

The pipe came around, and when it was his turn for the ceremonial smoke he handled it respectfully, in the approved manner; drawing in the acrid smoke and letting it escape slowly.

He passed the pipe to the tall brave on his right. This was Mountain Cat, his new blood brother—the same warrior Steve had fought earlier, to prove he was still one of the Snake People and had not gone back to the safe, soft ways of the white man.

It had been a good fight. The older man, wearing the ceremonial headdress of a warrior chief, began to speak now, describing the fight, expressing his pride in the fact that one who had been a Comanche warrior never forgot that fact, no matter what trails might have led him away.

Steve knew that once started, the traditional, ceremonious speeches would probably go on for most of the night. The muscles in his heels and calves had already begun to ache a little, for it had been a long time since he’d squatted in front of an Indian campfire. But his face, carefully trained, showed no sign of strain.

Listening to the speeches with only a part of his mind, Steve found himself hoping that Paco had gone back to the wagons, and would start them rolling early, as he’d told him to do. If all went well, he’d catch up with them before they reached the pass, and by then, the Apaches who usually roamed this part of the country and were their greatest danger, would be out of the way—for the moment, at least.

Lucky for him this particular band of Indians happened to be Comanches. They usually did not come this far south, but in this case they were after a renegade band of Apaches, led by Flaming Arrow, a chief’s son. The war paint these Comanches were wearing was for the Apaches—who had raided their camp a week ago, making off with some of their younger, prettier squaws.

Following a hunch, Steve had trailed the Comanche war party for quite a way, and had ridden boldly and quite openly into their camp afterwards, greeting their chief, whom he had met once before—long ago, when he had been one of the People himself, his hair worn long and braided like the hair of the young warrior who sat beside him.

A good thing he hadn’t forgotten how to use a long knife—he’d had reason to be thankful for that when this same young warrior had challenged him to prove he was still a Comanche, and hadn’t grown soft from the white man’s ways.

The fight had been bloody. Small nicks and cuts on the chest and arms of both men showed redly to prove it. And Mountain Cat had drawn the first real blood, when Steve, beads of sweat falling in his eyes to blind him for an instant, had lowered his guard slightly.

The gash in his arm might have been worse, if he hadn’t moved quickly, turning his body out of the way. It had waked him up, made him vicious and less cautious. And, because of the blood he was losing, he knew he had to end the fight quickly.

Here the street-fighting days of the Louisiana docks, and all the other river towns, had helped. He’d learned some fancy footwork, as well as some tricks with a knife the Indian wasn’t familiar with. He’d pretended to trip, and then, moving fast on the balls of his feet, had thrown the knife from his right hand to his left. Mountain Cat, confused by this manoeuver and caught off-balance, had fallen, the knife spinning away in an arc.

Steve leaped for him like a cat, straddling his body, the knife now held against the Indian’s throat. He’d seen the glittering, fearless eyes stare upward, and knew suddenly what he had to do.

Deliberately, he’d gashed the warrior’s arm with his knife, just as his had been. This was the kind of cruelty, the kind of show that the Indians appreciated.

“Since I also am one of the people, I cannot kill my brother. But if you need more proof that I am one of the Comanche, I will help you kill Apache instead.”

The calculated bravado of his words had won a grunt of approval from the other warriors; and for Mountain Cat, who had fought well, there was no loss of face. Later, his father the chief had performed the ceremony that made them blood brothers—formally making Steve, who had been the “son” of one of his old and respected friends, his son as well.

Tomorrow, before dawn, he would put on war paint and ride with them to find the thieving Apaches. For tonight, there were still the rest of the speeches to listen to, and perhaps one of his own.

Stoically, pushing away the thought of pain from his throbbing arm, Steve settled down to wait the night out. The arm he could take care of, with herbs, and it would heal eventually, but he hoped it wouldn’t be too long before he was able to catch up with the wagons. He had a job to do—and he’d almost forgotten about it in the excitement of being back again in an environment which had once been his life.

The wagons, moving before the first early light painted the sky, trailed snakelike over the plains, with the cattle lumbering slowly and complainingly along, still keeping about two miles west.

Sonya was still asleep, but this morning Ginny sat on the high wagon seat beside Tillie, who was holding the reins. She had a thick wool shawl wrapped around her shoulders, and her thick, pale copper hair hung in braids down her back.

She could see Paco Davis riding a short distance ahead with Pop, who was gesturing towards the mountains ahead.

“Mister Morgan ain’t back yet is he, Miss Ginny?”

Tillie’s soft voice broke into Ginny’s sleepy, half-dazed thoughts, and the wide, sea-green eyes looked troubled.

“I suppose not. I wonder where he is? But then, he’s such an unreliable, unpredictable man!”

Ginny and Tillie had slipped into a kind of companionable familiarity when Sonya was not around—a familiarity that Ginny, brought up in Paris where color was a matter of small regard, had been the first to encourage. Sonya was never rude, always invariably polite to her maid, but there was a distance between them that they both took for granted. With Ginny, on the other hand, Tillie found herself able to talk, almost as she would have to an equal. When she thought about it, she knew it was rather strange, but the Senator’s young daughter was only a year younger than Tillie herself, and she always acted natural and friendly, as if she really liked her as a person.

Now Tillie glanced rather slyly at the young woman who sat huddled beside her, still sleepy-eyed.

“You think he’s found those Indians yet? Maybe they found him first—although that Mr. Davis, now, he sure don’t seem worried.”

“I’m not even sure there are any Indians out there,” Ginny said sharply. “And if there are, I don’t think Mr. Morgan would be foolish enough to get too close to them. In any case, I’m certainly not worried about him!”

By the time they prepared to make camp on the evening of the third day, however, it was certain that everyone in the party was worried—for their own, different reasons.

Paco Davis was silent and grim-faced, and even Pop Wilkins wasn’t his usual garrulous self at mealtimes. Carl Hoskins complained at the pace they were forced to maintain, and warned that the cattle were losing too much weight—they had already lost two calves.

They were almost at the foot of the mountains now, and it was just as if a kind of sullen tiredness of mind and body had seized them all. During the day, Sonya had been unusually irritable, snapping at Tillie, who burst into tears—this unusual reaction on her part causing Sonya to cry also. And Ginny, who had appeared to be in high spirits during the past two days, was abnormally silent, hardly allowing Carl Hoskins more than a half-hearted “oh, hello, Carl” when he rode into camp for supper and found her staring at her untouched plate.

The men began to argue, as they had been doing for the past two nights, and Sonya, her eyes still red-rimmed, said sullenly that if that was all they were going to do, she, for her part, was going back into her wagon.

“And, Ginny, you haven’t even started to eat yet!” she said petulantly. “What in the world’s got into you?”

“It’s probably whatever’s got into everyone else around here,” Ginny retorted. “They can’t seem to make up their minds!”

Paco, it appeared, was for going on—taking a few men to scout out the approach to the pass early in the morning, and then pushing through.

Carl announced that he was concerned about the fate of the herd—it wasn’t likely that any Indians would molest a wagon train bristling with armed men, but would they pass up the chance to get themselves some cattle of a breed they hadn’t seen before?

Pop Wilkins, it seemed, was for “setting tight” another day—maybe trying to find another trail around the mountains.

The argument was growing more heated when someone spotted a small dust cloud just clear of the shadow of the hills.

Paco grabbed for his field glasses and squinted through them.

“Lone rider—” he said laconically. “Don’t do no firing. Could be an Indian or it could be Steve, comin’ back—we’ll wait and see.”

He lowered the glasses and Pop made a grab for them.

“Here, let me take a look. Mebbe I got gray hair, but my eyes are still bettern’ most young squirts!”

“If it’s Morgan, he has his nerve, riding in here after three days without a word or a sign!” Carl Hoskins said furiously, not noticing the strange, almost considering look that Ginny Brandon gave him.

“Looks more like an Injun to me—but it could be Morgan, I guess,” Pop said finally. “Hoss sure looks like his!”

As it finally turned out, they couldn’t make out who their impatient visitor was for dust until he had ridden his horse right into camp with a wild Comanche war whoop that made the women cringe with apprehension, and the men grab for their rifles.

“You damned fool! Good way to get your head shot off, riding in hollering that way,” Paco yelled in disgust as the man slid off his dust-covered black.

Ginny had come to her feet almost instinctively, and now she had to force herself to stand still, leaning against the wheel of her wagon as if his return hadn’t mattered to her one bit. She bit her lip in annoyance at herself for not being able to stop the sudden wild thudding of her heart. It was that yell, she told herself—he’d had no right to scare them all that way!

She had privately given him up for dead already, and here he was, having ridden into camp screaming like an Indian, blue eyes alive with impudence and excitement.

As she took in the way he looked, her lips tightened with anger. It was disgraceful! Couldn’t he have remembered there were women in camp? She certainly wasn’t about to go and join the others who crowded around him, laughing and asking questions.

Steve Morgan was bare to the waist—his face and chest still showing traces of Indian war paint, and he still wore a fancy, beadworked headband around his forehead, Apache fashion. His boots and shirt were tied to the horn of his saddle, and he wore moccasins on his feet. He was as brown as an Indian too—all over, Ginny could not help but notice.

She caught snatches of conversation as he hunkered unselfconsciously down on his heels by a fire, pouring coffee while Paco fired questions at him.

“What took you so damn long, anyhow?”

“They were Comanches—I rode into their camp to talk; got myself persuaded into joining them in huntin’ Apaches. Couldn’t think of a better way to find out where the ’paches are hiding out, and how many of them are around.”

“You bin out ridin’ the warpath with Comanches?” Pop’s voice sounded almost disbelieving, and Morgan grinned up at him.

“I used to live with the Comanches—long time ago. An’ they’re about the only tribe them Apaches are really scared of. We went after some squaws the ’paches had the bad judgement to steal—got ’em back too.”

“Do you mean to tell us you just met up with some of your old friends and took off with them—just like that? Leaving us here, not knowing what was going on?”

Carl sounded furious, and Ginny noticed that Pop Wilkins laid a warning hand on his arm.

“Now hold on Carl—”

“If there was any way of letting you know, I’d have done so—” Steve Morgan’s voice was deceptively mild, but steel underlay it. “As it is—” his eyes swept the circle of faces and went back to Carl. “We won’t be bothered by any type of Indians when we go through that pass. The Comanches are headin’ back to their own stompin’ grounds, and the Apaches will be lickin’ their wounds. Weren’t many of them left to make it back to their camp. They were Lipano, and a renegade band of ’em at that.”

“You got some scalps on yore saddle—you take ’em yourself?”

“Yeah—as a matter of fact I did. Old Comanche custom. Guess they won’t be in a hurry to mess with Comanche women again.”

Ginny felt sick—against her will her eyes had gone almost fearfully to the black’s saddle—but fortunately Zack had already led the horse away. How could he talk so casually about killing and then scalping men? He was worse than an Indian himself, and the matter-of-fact way he’d answered Pop’s question showed it, if his appearance didn’t!

“You got hurt—when did that happen?”

Paco asked the question, his voice sharp; making Ginny look quickly across the small distance that separated her from the group around the fire. Sure enough, the brown neckerchief he’d worn when he’d left camp was wrapped around his arm, still caked with dried blood.

“Knife,” Steve Morgan said shortly.

“Here, you’d better let me have a look at it, companero, ” Paco advised. “I know we got some medical supplies stashed away somewhere.”

There was a sudden spate of talk, with Steve protesting he’d put some herbs on his arm and it didn’t need anything else, Paco insisting the wound should be cleaned, and Pop Wilkins yelling for one of the men to fetch him the medical kit.

“You’ll probably end up with blood-poisoning—I don’t suppose Indian knives are the cleanest in the world,” Carl Hoskins said, swinging almost viciously on his heel as he walked away.

“We have emergency medical supplies in our own wagon. And since all you gentlemen seem so undecided and disorganized, perhaps you’ll allow me to attend to Mr. Morgan’s wound.”

Without being told, Tillie had already brought the small box of supplies that the Senator had thoughtfully provided, and Ginny found herself walking coolly towards the fire. She saw the look of surprise replaced by something else—something unreadable and almost challenging in Steve Morgan’s eyes as he came quickly and easily to his feet.

“It’s only a scratch, ma’am. And I’m afraid I’m not exactly sanitary—didn’t have time to take a bath—”

Did his voice hold the slightest trace of mockery? If it did she ignored it, just as she ignored the looks she received from the others. Sonya’s pale face showed amazement, and something like dismay, Pop Wilkins looked dumbfounded, and the glance that Paco Davis gave her was enigmatic.

“Mr. Morgan, none of us here is exactly clean after all that dust we’ve been riding through. If you’ll come with me please, I’m sure we ought to fix that arm up right away.”

The small medicine chest had everything in it that might be needed. Salves and bandages and raw spirits—even curved needles and catgut; and laudanum for pain. Everything the doctor in San Antonio had been able to think of.

Since Ginny had already turned to lead the way to her wagon, Steve followed her, shrugging.

When she gestured shortly he merely raised an eyebrow and sat obediently on the bare ground by the wagon, leaning his back up against the wheel. Without words, Paco handed him his shirt, helping him get one arm into the sleeve of the wrinkled buckskin garment.

“If you’ll excuse me for just a minute, Miss Brandon,” he said politely, taking the bottle Paco held in his other hand.

“Mr. Morgan!”

“Just a little whiskey, ma’am—to take the sting away.”

His eyes smiled impudently up at her, and her lips tightened.

“Ginny,” Sonya whispered from somewhere behind her, “are you sure that—I mean, have you ever tended a wound before? Sometimes it takes a strong stomach—”

“I can manage!” Ginny said tartly.

She took the small, sharp pair of scissors from its tray, and kneeling beside him, began to cut away the blood soaked neckerchief. In spite of her care, bits of it adhered to the skin, and Ginny bit her lip.

“Needs to be washed off, ma’am,” Paco offered, kneeling beside her. He grinned maliciously at Steve. “We’re runnin’ kind of low on water—try the rotgut. It’ll sting some, but it’s good for healing.”

“Well—whatever you two decide, gimme another drink first!”

Steve scowled at Paco, then tilted his head back, letting the fiery liquor wash down his throat until Paco snatched the bottle away.

“You aren’t serious?” Ginny stared at him questioningly, but Paco, after shaking the bottle, was already trickling whiskey over the bloody, open wound on his friend’s arm.

Steve gritted his teeth against the searing, burning pain, but apart from a hissing intake of breath he made no sound, sitting there as stoic as an Indian while Ginny, face pale, used her tweezers to pick pieces of silk from the wound.

She had to wash the wound out again with spirits afterwards, wincing as she did so, and this time he went white under his tan.

“Jesus!” he gritted. “It didn’t hurt this much getting that cut!”

“That’ll be enough swearing, Mr. Morgan, if you please,” Ginny said stiffly, although she was more than a little shaken herself. Surprising her, he apologized, turning his head to examine his arm as if it did not belong to him.

Drying the crimson, still-oozing knife cut with a piece of gauze, Ginny began carefully to apply some of the salve the doctor had recommended particularly for cuts, with Steve Morgan watching dubiously.

Ridiculous, she thought angrily to herself, that she should choose this moment to notice how long and thick his eyelashes were. Who cared what kind of eyelashes a man possessed?

Her fingers faltered, and suddenly his eyes were looking right into hers, their strange blueness reflecting the leaping firelight.

“Hold still—it’s difficult to see now that it’s so dark,” she said unnecessarily. But why had she said that? And why did they suddenly seem to be alone?

She saw his lips curl in a slightly mocking smile and said quickly, surprising herself, “Why did you live with the Indians? Long ago, I mean. Were you kidnapped?”

“I was fifteen, ma’am—a mite old for them to want to kidnap!”

“You haven’t answered my question. Is it because you don’t want to?”

The smile left his face, and he seemed to look at her strangely.

“I lived with the Comanche because I chose to. But it’s a long story, ma’am, and you’d get bored.”

Exasperated, Ginny glared at him.

“Why couldn’t you be honest enough to tell me you didn’t want to talk about it? And by the way—I ought to remind you that you forget far too often to use bad grammar for your rough frontier scout act to be very convincing!”

He burst out laughing until she yanked on the ends of the bandage she had begun to wrap around his arm; and then he said “ouch!” and looked at her reproachfully.

“You’re—”

A shadow fell across her shoulder, and Ginny looked up startled to see Carl Hoskins standing there with an ugly look on his face.

“Looks like our gunfighter went out to play Injun and got his gun hand crippled, doesn’t it?”

Afterwards, Ginny could not remember seeing any movement, but Steve Morgan’s gun, drawn from his left holster, suddenly lay against his thigh, pointing casually at Hoskins.

“Ain’t nothing wrong with my other arm though—in case it worried you, Hoskins,” he drawled. Ginny saw Carl’s face go pale, and then, shrugging, Steve holstered the gun.

“Couldn’t resist the chance to show off, could you?” Carl said bitterly. He glanced once at Ginny, and then, as if he controlled himself with an effort, turned and walked away towards the fire.

Ginny saw Sonya follow him quickly, putting her hand on his arm as she talked to him softly and urgently.

“What on earth is the matter with Carl?”

Morgan, his face unreadable again, had begun to slide his bandaged arm into the sleeve of his shirt.

“Could be he’s jealous,” he said shortly.

In some inexplicable way his curt observation annoyed Ginny all over again.

“That’s ridiculous!” she said quickly. “I don’t belong to Carl Hoskins, and besides, there’s nothing to be jealous of.”

“No?”

Her eyes widened slightly, and unconsciously, her tongue moistened her lips.

Streaks of bright paint stood out on his brown body, thrown into relief by the dancing firelight, and none of the angry, sarcastic words she wanted to use on him would emerge from her suddenly-dry throat.

“I don’t understand,” she said at last, the words sounding soft and hesitant.

“I think you do,” he said abruptly, and the look in his eyes went through her like a jolt, making her heart pound dizzily.

Ginny was hardly aware that somehow, she was on her feet, his hands holding hers. He was thanking her, his voice polite and suddenly rather remote. Was he going to leave her? And why should the thought that any minute now he would turn around and walk away from her upset her so?

He had dropped her hands, and was frowning at her. She should say something, do something, but what? What is wrong with me, her mind cried out, and she felt mesmerized by his closeness, by the strange man-smell of him, the lean face with the whisker-stubble filling out all the hollows. She knew him and she didn’t know him—and at this moment she neither knew nor understood herself. She had the almost irresistible impulse to sway against him, to feel his arms around her, touch the long, curling hair at the back of his neck.

“Better go back to your wagon, Miss Brandon,” he said suddenly, harshly, breaking the spell that seemed to have seized them both for an instant. “Because if you don’t I’m liable to grab a hold of you and kiss you—and they’re all watching. Better go—before it’s too late.”

“Are you afraid of something Mr. Morgan? You? ”

From a distance, Ginny heard her own voice, mocking, lightly teasing, and she knew instinctively that she’d said the right thing, for his eyes began to crinkle with appreciative laughter.

“And I was beginning to wonder if you’d lost your claws!”

“I sheathe them sometimes.”

Deliberately, she let her eyes sparkle provocatively at him, and he laughed out loud.

From his place by the fire, Carl Hoskins glared angrily at them, his handsome face twisted with hate.

“Hadn’t you ought to do something about that, Mrs. Brandon? Look at them—laughing together, flirting like none of us were here! I ought to—”

“You’ll do nothing, Carl Hoskins,” Sonya said sharply, although her face too looked troubled. “Please,” she added more softly, “we mustn’t have any trouble, not now! And you mustn’t worry, Ginny’s a sensible girl, she’s only being friendly.”

“It’s him I don’t trust! Morgan—a half-breed killer like him, he should keep his distance. His kind doesn’t know how to act around decent women, doesn’t she know how dangerous he is?”

“I’ve told you, there’s nothing to worry about! Why, Ginny doesn’t even like him, she’s told me so.”

“That’s not the way it looks right now, though. Look at her, what’s gotten into her?”

Dismayed, Sonya followed Carl’s eyes and saw Ginny reach her hand up, running her fingers lightly over the paint streaks on Steve Morgan’s bare chest.

“And what does that look like?”

Carl Hoskins’ voice sounded muffled with rage and frustration, and Sonya herself could not repress a gasp of exasperation. Carl was right, what on earth was Ginny thinking of?

It was with a feeling of relief that Sonya saw Steve hold Ginny’s wrist firmly, moving it away; saw his dark head bend towards her as he said something. Ginny was shrugging, but whatever it was he had said to her had some effect, for a few seconds later he walked away with a rather ironical bow, and Ginny, lifting her skirts without a backward glance, disappeared into the shadowy interior of the wagon.