He knelt. His eyes sparked. “What kind of courage does it take for four grown men to capture an unarmed boy who is all alone, and tie him up and stake him out and carve him up, then watch the ants crawl into his raw flesh?”
She was gasping, unable to breathe.
“There was no skin left on his chest,” Jack said. “Even his face was crawling with ants—his eyes, nose, his mouth.”
She sucked in her breath, and it sounded like half a sob.
He leaned closer. “That pig will die—slowly. In great pain. Just like the boy was dying.”
Her voice was very faint. “It’s wrong.”
“Vengeance is our way.” He stood. His bare chest was rising and falling rapidly.
Candice pushed herself up into a sitting position. “That doesn’t make it right.”
He turned his back on her and started toward the black.
“Oh, God,” she moaned, and got to her feet, her eyes tearing. She brushed the moisture away and stumbled to one of the dead men. More moisture came, blinding her. She was weeping. She took a revolver out of one man’s limp hand. It weighed more than any gun she had ever held, and it was cold, so very cold, in her grip. She stumbled toward the dying man. She had to brush at her eyes so she could see.
“Please.” The words were so faint, barely audible, with a gurgling quality.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and raised the gun. Her hands were snaking uncontrollably. He was dying and in great pain—she had to do it. But she couldn’t pull the trigger. Her hand fell against her leg and she fought to control tears and to find the strength to put the man out of his pain.
Hard hands grabbed her from behind and sent her stumbling out of the way. She looked up just as the shot rang out. Jack turned to her with a black, murderous expression as he slammed his gun back into its holster. He reached out, pushing her toward the black, sending her stumbling forward. His footsteps, usually soundless, were hard on the ground behind her.
CHAPTER EIGHT
He didn’t look at her—he didn’t trust himself to.
He was aware of her stumbling behind him, then running doggedly to catch up, but he didn’t slow his long, hard strides. The sun was very high now, and blazing in its intensity. It was late September, probably a hundred degrees, and without a cloud in the sky. There was no shade offered by the saguaro that was giving way slowly to juniper and chaparral as they ascended the foothills. He heard her fall. He didn’t stop.
He didn’t know what was happening to him. She was revolted by him and all his “kind, yet he had been moved enough to give in to her will and show mercy to the dyingpindah. As he well knew, the man did not deserve mercy. Vengeance was preached by Usen, and he had been reared in it. He had never enjoyed torture, few men did—it was left to the women, as was right. He inflicted torture only in vengeance, which was also right. Even then, it was not something he did lightly or enjoyed. It was something that had to be done, like leaving the man in his agony to be broiled by the sun, craving water, eaten by ants, and bleeding to death inch by slow inch.
But Jack had put him out of his misery.
He wasn’t sure if he was furious with himself or her, or both of them.
They covered another mile, the ascent getting rocky, pinyons joining the juniper to offer shade and respite. He heard her fall again and stiffened himself against her. But she didn’t cry out, didn’t ask him to wait. She got to her feet and continued to stumble after him.
Hours later when the sun was starting to touch the mountain ridges, turning heavy and orange, he stopped. He didn’t look at her, and he didn’t have to, to know what she was doing. She sank gasping onto the ground. He untied the bundled corpse and removed it from the black, very gently.
The boy had recognized and called him by name, asking Jack to send him into the other world. Jack, of course, could not refuse. For one, it was not the Apache way. And also, the boy had called him Niño Salvaje, and the Apache never called each other by their names unless it was a special or dire occasion. At such a time, the person named could not refuse whatever was asked of him. Jack had been only too glad to obey.
He hadn’t recognized the boy.
It was three years since he had last seen his people, but that wasn’t why. It was because the boy was unrecognizable.
He had left the People—nnee—so he wouldn’t have to take part in the killing or the White Eyes. Now he had only just returned, and it was the same vicious cycle. This time the killing had been just, but the lesson was old, weary, and blatant. He was a fool to have returned.
As Jack slowly unrolled the blanket, Candice found herself watching. She was badly out of breath, and her feet hurt terribly—her boots were fashioned for riding, not walking. But she watched as his big, callused hands moved over the dead body. His touch was whisper soft and very gentle, as if he were handling china. She didn’t understand now he could handle the dead boy like that after killing so many in cold blood.
She stood. There was a stream nearby, and she was desperately thirsty. He hadn’t offered her water, and just as she hadn’t asked him to slow his pace, she hadn’t asked him for a drink, either. She stumbled to the bank and sank down, tossing the hat aside. She drank unabashedly with her hands, then rinsed her face the best she could. She dried her skin on the edge of her shirt, then turned slightly, too tired to get up, to see what he was doing now. She stared.
He had shed his pants and moccasins, his guns and knife belt, and was wearing only a loincloth and the turquoise and silver necklace. For a moment she couldn’t move, or even breathe. He was bending over the corpse, doing something. She watched his body, the powerful thighs, the flat stomach, the bulging biceps in his arms. Then she went very red and looked at her feet. What in God’s name was he doing?
She consciously averted her gaze, until she saw his bare feet moving past her silently. She looked up and realized he was carrying the corpse, which was now naked, into the stream.
“What are you doing?” she said.
