“Oh, you couldn’t have!” she cried. “Tell me you didn’t!”
Cutter’s laughter bowled him over, and he fell back on the bedroll. Hooting hysterically, he peered up at Elizabeth. “‘Fraid so,” he told her, barely able to speak without breaking into chuckles.
Elizabeth shook her hands free and would have smacked Cutter yet again had the voice not startled her from it.
From somewhere along the bluff-top, the Indian’s disembodied voice resounded clearly in the night.
“Néá'eše!” he said with passion, and as he continued to speak, his voice sounded almost an eerie echo to her ears. It sent chill after chill racing down Elizabeth’s spine, though she had not an inkling what was being said. At the end of the pronunciation, all three Indians began to whoop. She searched for them frantically along the bluff-top, but could see nothing, could only guess at their actions.
They seemed agitated over something.
Cutter’s laughter stopped abruptly, and he, too, shuddered as their sounds faded in the night—only, not out of fear. Without warning he reached up, seizing Elizabeth passionately into his arms, feeling never more connected to someone in his life.
“What did they say?” she whispered anxiously, her lips so close to his that they could have been sharing the same breath.
For the longest moment, Cutter couldn’t respond, could only lie there feeling her heart throb against the beat of his own, his chest feeling near to bursting with pride. Taking a deep breath, he stroked her back reassuringly, and gazed into her expectant face. There was still the slightest twinge of laughter in his tone when he spoke again.
“He said thank you.”
“And?” Elizabeth prodded, knowing all those words couldn’t possibly have amounted to one simple phrase.
Cutter smiled, holding her tightly, anticipating her outraged reaction. “Yeah, well... he also said... Black Wolf, who is gone from among us, was my brother, but—” a quiver sped through him, raising the hairs on his arms “—she who claws at man’s back shall forever be called my friend.”
Chapter Seventeen
For long hours afterward, Elizabeth was unable to erase the sound of the Indian’s voice from her thoughts. Nor could she forget the tenderness in Cutter’s eyes as he’d loved her again afterward, the feel of his warm hands wandering possessively over her body.
Never had she felt more alive.
In the early hours of the morning, knowing that sleep was hopeless with the sun beginning to rise on the horizon, they dressed. She traded her blouse for one Cutter handed her: a white one with buttons down the front and frothy lace at the sleeves and collar. As distinct as it was, she recognized it at once as one of Jo’s. But despite Cutter’s disapproving look, she again donned her trusty old skirt with the tattered hem. She didn’t have the nerve yet to wear the men’s britches she’d bought, though soon she wouldn’t have much choice. Her skirt was literally wearing away!
The packing went swiftly, because they’d unpacked so little to begin with. At last Elizabeth mounted up, with Cutter’s help. But as Cutter turned to mount his own horse, the sound of riders approaching kept him from swinging his leg over his Palouse’s rump.
Sliding down once more, he turned to see who it was.
Two men dressed in Union blue reined in. The lead man wore a full beard, along with his filthy blues. His shoulder-length hair was wild and unkempt, though he might still have passed as handsome, with his well-chiseled features, if it hadn’t been for the coldness in his gray eyes. They were icy and unresponsive, lacking any emotion but for the flicker of malice he didn’t bother to disguise.
“McKenzie,” the man said in greeting, surprise evident in his tone. In spite of it, the word managed to sound profane coming from his severe lips.
If Cutter was surprised by their unexpected appearance, it didn’t show. He nodded, giving Elizabeth a quick glance, urging her without words to be silent. As though he’d not heard the man speak, he turned his back to the duo and mounted up. Once he was settled in his saddle, he turned to them again, tipping his hat. “Sulzberger,” he replied acerbically. He nodded to the other. “What blood you lookin’ to shed this far east, boys? War’s over, y’know?”
The man, Magnus Sulzberger, sprayed tobacco-yellowed spittle on the ground. “Always were a smart-ass, McKenzie... and you’re dead right... that war is over.” He’d emphasized the word “dead,” and now his grin widened, his lips tightening over the lump of tobacco beneath. And then his eyes narrowed again, gleaming with open hostility. “But there’s still a war goin’ on. Reckon you ain’t heard ‘bout Platte Bridge?”
“No,” Cutter affirmed. “And don’t reckon I care to either.”
Magnus carried on as though Cutter had never spoken. “Three, maybe four thousand of them redskin bastards drove in a cavalry detachment and wiped out a military supply train there.”
Cutter shrugged dismissively. “Ain’t my concern anymore.”
“Well, now, McKenzie... the way I hear it told... never was. At any rate, you ought to be remembering, when you go running your mouth and siding with them savages, that you no longer have government protection. These days, I reckon I might just watch who I was rilin’ if I were you.” Both of his brows rose abruptly. “You think?” His beard split and a demonic smile spread across his almost nonexistent lips.
Cutter grinned in return, but there was no benevolence in his expression. His eyes narrowed to dark, predatory slits. “If you were me,” he said pointedly, his tone low but carrying clearly. “But then, we both know you’re not.”
To Cutter’s way of thinking, any man who would run down a toddler in cold blood, spearing him with his bayonet as though he were a cold-blooded trout, was a coward of the worst kind, and Magnus had done that and worse at Sand Creek. Much worse. Had it been up to Cutter, the man wouldn’t be wearing his stripes at the moment, much less the cocksure smile he wore like a badge of honor. But it wasn’t up to Cutter, and there wasn’t a chance they’d take a half-breed’s word over a full-blooded white’s, not any day. And so he kept his damned mouth shut and watched his back.
Magnus’ smile vanished, and there was suddenly cold fury in his eyes.
Cutter tapped his hat out of his eyes with a finger and, in one smooth movement, reached down to flick open the leather thong that kept his revolver holstered. The fluidity of his gesture was a warning in itself. “State your business, boys, and move on,” he told them. “Oh, and Sulzberger... you’d do well to remember that that protection you’re talking about works two ways.” The faintest smile touched his lips, crept into his eyes. “Means I no longer have anyone to answer to.”
