Candice was beautiful, blond, and a female—which meant she had been spared and taken prisoner. Unless—Usen—unless in the bloodlust of the battle she was mistakenly hurt.
Jack was already out the door and heading for the livery. It no longer mattered what had happened between them the last time they’d met. He’d already buried that encounter in cheap whiskey.
There was still plenty of light left. Keeping the black to a tireless lope, Jack rode out of town. Hours later he found the buckboard.
By then the sun was dipping low past the mountains’ jagged edges, and twilight was settling in. He’d almost missed it. The wagon was lying still and horseless between stands of mesquite and yucca. He approached, reining in.
Jack studied the terrain, squinting hard. The story unfolded. He could see that Candice had fallen, or jumped, out of the wagon, and run a short distance—only to be captured by one of the Apaches. He grimaced.
The thought of Candice at one of the brave’s mercy unnerved him, despite the fact that women and children were rarely harmed and usually well cared for, eventually absorbed into the tribe. Only adult male prisoners were taken alive to be tortured and killed by the kin of the warrior being avenged. Now she was the property of the brave who had captured her, to do with as he wished, or give to whom he pleased.
The good news was that the Apaches did not rape. But if Candice did not obey and behave, she could be severely beaten, even killed, A terrible fear rose up in him, and he breathed a quick prayer to Usen and White Painted Woman for her protection. He began to call too on all the gans, the Mountain Spirits, for their help. Then he trotted the black away, toward the mountains, following the tracks of the war party.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Candice no longer wondered what would have happened to her if she couldn’t ride. Her captor had mounted her on one of the team, bareback, her hands tied tightly behind her back. They had ridden all that afternoon and all that night, stopping only once to water the horses. Candice wasn’t blindfolded, and at first she had tried to memorize where they were taking her, but it was impossible in the dark. All she knew was that they were heading up, into the Catalinas, endlessly, all through that first night.
There was another prisoner. A lithe, terrified vaquero, only a few years older than Candice, whom she didn’t think she recognized. He had a bandaged shoulder. He knew her. Once, as their eyes made contact—his imploring, desperate—he mouthed her name. Candice understood his fear. The Apaches rarely took prisoners. She had heard all kinds of stories about how they mutilated and tortured their captives. She was too frightened for herself to be frightened for him.
When the sun came up she saw they were traveling in a northwesterly direction. By then she was freezing, the thin silk of her dress providing no warmth, and it was hours before the sun was strong enough to warm her. By midday her face and the top of her chest were burned. She had never spent any time outdoors without some kind of hat, even in the mountains.
Her captor led her horse, never once looking at her. They trailed the rest of the war party. No one seemed to notice her, or care that she was first freezing, then burning, now dying of thirst—her thighs sore and her whole body aching from the endless riding. She was weary to the point of falling asleep, and by the time the sun was past mid-sky, she did, dropping over the horse’s neck.
She awoke on the rocky ground, on her back, her shoulders aching unbearably, her wrists raw and bleeding. Her captor was yanking her to her feet, and for the first time she really got a look at him. He was above average height, wearing nothing but buckskin breeches and thigh-high moccasins. He had a quiver of arrows and a bow slung over one huge shoulder. His shoulders were broad and oversized for his height, his chest massive, his thighs huge. He was an extraordinarily muscular man, just short of being fat. His face was round, high-cheekboned, and flat-nosed. He wasn’t ugly, just very Indian. His eyes snapped at her.
“Please,” Candice begged through swollen, split lips. “Please, untie my hands.” She made a whimpering sound. “I won’t run away, I promise.” He regarded her diffidently. “There’s nowhere for me to go to. Please!”
His hands clamped around her waist, and he threw her back on the mare. Then he turned, about to leap on his own pony.
“Water!” Candice cried. “Please, water!” And because many Apache understood Spanish, she added,“Agua! Por favor, agua!”
He was astride, trotting off, leading her and her mount. Candice felt tears of pain and despair trickle down her face.
She had hoped, at first, that she would be rescued. Now, exhausted, aching, thirsty, and weak, she was afraid of her fate, afraid she would never see her home again, never see her brothers and her father.…
She thought about Jack Savage. He was half Apache. She thought about how he had cared for her when he had found her dying in the desert. He hadn’t treated her like this. Was it possible—and she prayed—that he would know her captors? That she might see him? That he would free her?
But then she couldn’t avoid the most important question of all, the one that terrified her. What were they going to do to her? She released a sob. The brave was impervious to it.
They traveled on, through another night. So those stories were true too, about how Apache braves could ride for days at a time without food, water, and sleep. Candice rode in a semidozing state. Every time she fell asleep she jerked herself awake, afraid of falling off. Now they were riding along a narrow path. To her right, rocky cliffs soared, covered with pine, fir, and oak. To her left, it was thousands of feet straight down the mountain into a deep, fathomless canyon, and one fall would be her last.
Another sunrise came, and to her surprise, she realized they were heading down now. They had crossed the Catalinas! This thought gave her new hope. Maybe, one day, when she had her strength back, she could escape and find her way back to Tucson. She had never been a quitter. She would find her way back.
She was dozing again when she realized that her mount had stopped. She forced herself to open her eyes as she sagged low over the pony’s neck. There were all kinds of sounds around her, voices, laughter, children. Candice focused. Hide-covered gohwahsgreeted her, perhaps fifteen or twenty. A creek ran along the farthest edge of the camp. A few deep ovens were smoking. Near-naked children ran screaming playfully, a few pausing to point and laugh at her. Women clad in buckskin skirts and shirts were running out to greet their men, then they too turned to stare at her. Her captor had dismounted and was talking to a husky, square-faced squaw. They both turned to regard her, the squaw talking now, animatedly, gesturing, Candice couldn’t understand a word they said. The brave came over, pulling her off the horse. Candice crumpled at his feet.
He pulled her up, and she tottered precariously, then he shoved her back and she tumbled in the direction he was pushing, until she came to agohwah. He gushed her through the opening, and she fell on her face. She couldn’t move. Someone cut her ropes, and she sobbed in relief, trying to bring her paralyzed arms to her sides, trying to move her hands. Whoever had cut the bonds left. Candice closed her eyes, falling into a deep sleep.
She didn’t know how long she had been asleep when she awoke. For an instant she didn’t know where she was, and then the horror of her situation came back to her. She lay in pain in the darkness, her body stiff and throbbing, her face burning—so thirsty, she wanted to die. From beyond thegohwahshe could hear singing, laughter, drums, and rattles—they were celebrating. She managed to sit up.
She sat very still for a long time, fighting tears of despair and depression and pain, listening to the noises from outside, too numb to think. She began rubbing her sore muscles methodically, despite the discomfort. The hubbub from outside the gohwahincreased. Movement was difficult, but not impossible, she found, as she stretched tentatively. Her wrists were scabbed and blistered. She realized that she was hungry.
She crawled toward the uncovered entrance of thegohwah, hesitant and cautious. Lying on her stomach, she peered out.
A group of Apache women were dancing wildly, exultantly, with the young vaquero—surrounded by the singing, celebrating tribe. Some of the women were fully clad in buckskins, but three wore nothing but tiny loincloths and their naked bodies and full breasts gleamed in the firelight. The vaquero no longer seemed afraid and, in fact, was dancing rather avidly with one particular slender, near-naked squaw. Their bodies spoke an unmistakable sexual attraction as they swayed and weaved toward and away from each other. The men were watching and drinking and smoking and singing, some occasionally joining in. It seemed harmless enough.
Candice watched the gyrations of the dancers and became mesmerized by the fluid, graceful movements of the squaws.
After a while the slender squaw led the vaquero away, and Candice wondered if they were going to make love. Then she realized that the other women were following in their direction, and her puzzlement increased. Now the braves were dancing, even more wildly than the women, with much shouting and laughter. They had shed their buckskin pants and were naked except for their traditional breechcloths. Candice became fascinated with the display of their naked, gleaming bodies as they pranced and leapt about the firelight.
