“I’ll do what you want. There’s no need to keep shoving me,” Lou said, even thought she knew it was a waste of breath. She glanced at him and saw that he had taken Zach’s rope from its peg on the wall and brought it along.
The Outcast pushed her again. He was mad at himself and taking it out on her. He didn’t need her alive, but she was still breathing. It was the first weakness he had shown since the day that changed his world. He could remedy that by plunging his knife between her shoulder blades, but he thought of her belly, and couldn’t.
Lou would dearly love to know what his intentions were. To her knowledge, Indians rarely committed rape. Small comfort at best, since there were so many worse things they did. Mutilating enemies was common, and some tribes enjoyed torture. She prayed to God her captor wasn’t from one of them.
The Outcast paused at the tree line to look back. He gazed across the lake, and was taken aback to see a figure moving along the far shore. A woman, it looked like, and she was facing him. It had to be the Flathead.
Lou halted. She wondered why he had stopped. Having second thoughts, she hoped. But no, he shoved her again and barked at her in his own tongue, no doubt telling her to keep going.
The Outcast had seen the Flathead run toward her lodge. Either she was going for help or for a horse. Either way, she threatened to spoil everything.
Lou trudged angrily along. She was more mad at herself than the warrior; he was only doing what was natural. No, she was mad at herself for leaving the front door open and not keeping her rifle or pistols within easy reach. Most of all, she was mad because her carelessness might prove costly for the people she loved most in the world. They were bound to come after her, and her captor did not strike her as the type to die easily.
The Outcast was debating what to do. The important thing was to get away unnoticed. The woman across the lake might spoil that.
Lou tripped over a root and nearly fell. Her dress kept getting snagged on brush and limbs. She’d pull it loose, only to have it catch again ten steps later. She vowed that from here on out, she would only wear buckskins.
A whinny didn’t surprise her. She’d figured that the warrior had a horse. Few entered King Valley on foot. It was too remote, too far from the trails used by whites and red men alike. She rounded a thicket and beheld a pinto. A fine animal, if she was any judge. She seemed to remember Zach saying that some Indians were partial to pintos over all others. It had something to do with the bright colors, which Indians loved.
Her captor jabbed her in the back to get her attention, then motioned at the ground.
Lou gathered that he wanted her to sit. She did, and was roughly pushed onto her back. For a few anxious moments she feared her notion about being raped was wrong; but no, he made her lie on her side with her arms behind her, and he proceeded to cut short lengths from Zach’s rope to bind her ankles and wrists. She didn’t like it, but there was nothing she could do. She noticed that while he bound her tight, he didn’t do it so tight that the rope cut into her flesh. Then he reached for the hem of her dress.
“No!” Lou instinctively bleated, and the razor point of his knife flashed at her throat. All he did was prick her. A warning, she reckoned, and watched as he cut two strips. “Dang you. I sent all the way to St. Louis for this, and look at what you’ve done.”
Her anger puzzled the Outcast. Most women would be groveling in fear. But not this one. She was white, and she was an enemy, but she was gloriously brave. He caught himself and frowned. Gripping her jaw, he motioned for her to open her mouth.
Lou balked. It was bad enough being tied. But when he poked her in the ribs with that long blade of his, she did as he wanted, and the next moment her mouth was filled with a piece of her dress. “Wonderful,” she said, only it came out as “Unerful.”
The Outcast tied the other strip over her mouth so she couldn’t spit out the gag. Rising, he faced their back trail. In the distance hooves drummed. He went around the thicket until he was out of sight of the woman. Crouching, he wormed his way into it until he could see her without her seeing him.
Lou wondered where he had gotten to. She tried to rub off the strip over her mouth. Failing, she went to sit up and froze. Someone was calling her name. With a start, she recognized Blue Water Woman’s voice. She tried to yell, but the gag muffled her cries.
Blue Water Woman stopped shouting.
Lou wriggled toward the lake. She figured her friend was wondering where she had got to. Blue Water Woman wouldn’t know what had happened and might turn around and go back to her own cabin.
Then, to Lou’s relief, she saw her. Blue Water Woman, her rifle at the ready. Lou almost laughed for joy. She wanted to scream for Blue Water Woman to hurry and cut her free before the warrior came back. Her friend glided past the thicket—and a figure rose out of its depths.
Frantic, Lou shook her head and thrashed about, trying to warn Blue Water Woman before it was too late. She watched, aghast, as the warrior picked up a rock. Blue Water Woman started to turn. Lou thrashed harder but stopped at the thud of the blow.
Blue Water Woman fell to her knees. The warrior raised the rock to hit her again, but she pitched to the ground, unconscious.
The warrior threw the rock aside.
Relief washed over Lou, but it was short-lived. The next moment the warrior had her in his arms and threw her over the pinto. He swung up and lashed the reins.
She was being abducted.
From the heights to the west, the valley was a green gem rich with life, the lake blue turquoise at its middle.
The seven Tunkua gazed down at the brown dots that were the lodges of the invaders.
“We still have a long way to go,” Splashes Blood said.
Skin Shredder grunted and continued their descent. He did not care how far it was. He had come to avenge the death of his brother and nothing would stop him, save his own end.
They passed through ranks of tall firs, somber with shadows, and came on a grassy shelf and a spring. Skin Shredder hardly gave it a glance and was halfway across the shelf when Splashes Blood cleared his throat.
“We walked all day and we walked all night and now you would have us deny our dry throats?”
Skin Shredder stopped. “Drink if you want.”
“We have not eaten, either.”
“You have your deer meat.”
All of them had bundles of dried venison, which six of them now unwrapped. Splashes Blood bit into a piece and smacked his lips. “You are not eating.”
“I am not hungry.” Skin Shredder began to pace, his gaze on the lake and the lodges.
“You think of one thing and one thing only. It is not good.”
“When I want someone to tell me how I should think, I will ask them.”
Splashes Blood stopped chewing and frowned. “We have been friends since our mothers took us from our cradleboards, yet you talk to me with so little respect.”
Skin Shredder stopped pacing. He frowned, too, and then raised a hand to the scarred ridges on his face. “I am sorry. Killing the Bear People is all I have thought of for many sleeps now. I want them to suffer. I want them to suffer more than anything.”
“They killed my brother, too,” Splashes Blood reminded him. “We must not underestimate them. We must be rested and have our wits about us.”
“It is hard to rest when your heart burns with the need to slay.”
“You must try,” Splashes Blood insisted.
Skin Shredder slung his bow across his back. His meat was tied by a deerskin thong to his wolf hide belt. All of them wore such belts.
The Tunkua rite of manhood required three things of every warrior: that he scar his face with the symbols of their clan; that he fast for five days and five sleeps and have a vision; and that he hunt and slay a wolf and forever wear its hide.